The Big Snow

by David Park

  ‘I don’t live too far,’ she said. ‘I’ll get a bus at the stop.’

  And then she was gone, clutching the long box under her arm ever tighter, as if at any moment the falling swathe of sky might reach down its nipped and blanched fingers and try to wrest it from her grasp.

  She wasn’t sure what time it was but she knew it was early and she was glad. The time was precious – there wasn’t a moment to waste, not with so many things to be done. Everything had to be right, just everything. She took the brush from the side of her bed and started to brush her hair. Soon her mother would come and take it from her hands and start those long patient sweeps and she’d whisper to her as she smoothed and separated the beautiful tresses. She’d always had beautiful hair – her crowning glory, that’s what everyone said and she’d smile and blush at the words. Almost a pity to hide it under the veil, but it, too, was beautiful – so light and fine that she could almost forget it was there and when the silver comb caught the light it looked pure as ivory. Careful, Mother, there was no need to rush, for didn’t they have plenty of time. Time enough. And it was sad for both of them, too, that they would never do this again, never share these moments of intimacy. But they said nothing of this to each other and there was only the swish of the brush and the whisper of her mother’s voice in these secret moments.

  Her mother had already checked the weather, and everything was just the way she had imagined it. Nothing was going to spoil this day – she could feel that knowledge flow through her and the strength of his love course and pulse in her veins. Her mother’s incessant babble started to irritate and frustrate her because now she felt the need to be alone with the words he had written to her the night before. The letter lay on the table beside her bed, its careful folds hiding the strength of his love. Words came so easily to him and in the rattle of her mother’s gossip she constructed a little clearing and wove the words that meant so much more to her.

  Of course it hadn’t been easy for her father – to him she would always be his little girl and giving her away would be the most difficult thing he had ever done. She knew that and so she was glad and grateful that finally he had given her his blessing. A blessing in his own way and so not in words, but when she looked into his eyes she no longer saw the stern refusal to countenance a rival. And she knew that love could be expressed in many different ways. Don’t worry, Father, there’ll always be a place for you in my heart, she’d say. A special place. And when you see me in the dress you’ll be so proud.

  She walked to the wardrobe door and stood in front of the mirror. It seemed misted and she peered more closely at it, then stretched out her hand and squeaked the glass. But it didn’t clear. She felt tired, as if she hadn’t slept. She stared back at the bed but couldn’t remember if she had made it or not. What time was it? There was something she was supposed to remember but it wouldn’t come to her. What time was it? Maybe it wasn’t as early as she had first thought, and she felt the first beat of panic. Lifting the cardigan she had worn the night before, she started to scrub and polish the glass, desperate to see her face in it, and panic rushed through her as she searched to see the face she remembered. Too many faces and all of them falling into a crazy spiral and slipping further away from her. She stretched out her hand and tried to grasp one and pull it close but her fingers touched only the coldness of the glass. Someone was calling her name. She spun round and there in the light of the open doorway was her father standing waiting for her. The light flickered on the silver spokes of the bicycle and for a second she thought the wheels were spinning but then she saw the rigidity of his arms and the immobility of his face. Maybe she had been too long in the dance, maybe she had made him wait too long for her, but she knew that she was one of the first to leave and that as always she was missing the final dances – the ones where invitations were offered and promises given. I’m coming, Father, I’m coming now. His face is glazed and pinched by the cold moonlight. He turns away before she reaches him, and begins to push the bicycle, and in her head mix the whir of the wheels, the clack of his heels and the fading flutter of the fiddles in the hollow of the hall. They walk in silence and the silence is the price she has to pay for something about which she isn’t sure.

  She went to the window and looked out. There was something strange about the world. Something she didn’t understand. Was it the wash of moonlight? Was it the silvery blossoms of the hedgerows as she followed her father home? Maybe if she hurries on and walks beside him he’ll speak to her and ask about who was at the dance, but as she skips her steps he strides on and there is only the angry glare of the dynamo and the whir of the wheels.

  Silence is important. He tells her that. Asks her if she understands. She nods while she looks up into his frightened eyes. There is no need – she doesn’t think she will ever use words again. No sounds can shut out what she has heard – the storm of his breathing, the grunt and then something that sounds like his sobs. Strange, broken little gasps that fill her ear and stream into the broken splay of her hair. Silence is important. It’s so important that he tells her again and again, and she believes him because he is a man who says things only once. And when he leaves her he pats her on the head as if she’s been a good girl, so she can’t spoil anything by letting him hear her cry and so she hugs the pain in the silent embrace of her tears.

  Now it’s time that’s slipping away and her mother returns from her stay in hospital and everything is the way it always was, but sometimes she gets confused and when she looks in the mirror it’s her mother’s face looking back at her. And it’s her mother’s voice now telling her to hurry, that she’s got no time to dilly-dally, so she turns away from the window and begins to get ready. When her mother goes quiet, she thinks she knows the secret, but nothing is ever said and the moment fades again into the rush of words and work to do. When you’re dirty your mother tells you to wash your face but she does this without being told – scrubs and scrubs until the flesh is red and raw. Her mother tells her to hurry again and it’s as if she understands, understands that only something as pure and white as this will take away the stains.

  The dress is spread carefully on the bed – it is the beauty she will put on, it is the love that time has finally brought. He will be waiting soon and when she walks towards him on her father’s arms he’ll turn to see her and she’ll smile at him. She must hurry – she is determined not to be late. Her mother has gone to help her father and it’s better that this moment should be hers alone. So she stands at the mirror and lets her night-clothes slip to the floor and in the mottled and frosted glass looks at her body, which only her father has wanted to love. She cries a little as she caresses the withered emptiness of her breasts, then traces the ragged and ridged girdle of her ribs. The grey strands of her hair are brittle to her touch and she shivers a little as she stretches out her fingers and brushes the reflection of her face. Then, turning away, she looks again at the dress and a voice whispers that she is beautiful, that everything will be all right. This is her face. This is her face, untouched by the hand of time, and she sees the milky clearness of her skin and the lightness of love in her eyes.

  Everything is ready now. Impatient voices are calling to her. She must hurry. The sheath of the dress is cool and clean against her skin – it fits her as perfectly as she knew it would. It salves and burnishes her as she takes her first careful steps. There are no shoes – she will wear only the blue-veined whiteness of her feet. This is the moment. She descends the stairs slowly, her hand on the banister steadying herself, her father and mother, eyes wide with wonder, unable to find any words. Her fingers fumble with the lock on the front door for a few seconds. There is no time to lose. She must hurry.

  She almost gasps as the whiteness of the world dazzles her. It holds out its arms to her and at first she hesitates, then she steps towards it, knowing that for the first time she is part of its beauty, part of its untainted purity. So it is love that calls her now, and as she hurries towards it the sky opens again and
turning her shiny eyes to look, her veil flutters behind her in the breeze and the snowflakes dance about her like confetti.

  Against the Cold

  Terence Peel was not happy to see two dozen or more of his pupils arrive for school. He considered it most unreasonable behaviour under the circumstances and he greeted their arrival with an appropriate expression of wordless exasperation. It irritated him even more to see how they smiled up at him as if to claim his commendation for having struggled through the snow. But when he inspected those who had turned up, he saw not an admirable parental enthusiasm for the fruits of education, but rather a despicable desire to pass the responsibility for their children on to him. And what could he do with them? The only other members of staff who had turned up were Mildred Lewis and the caretaker, Norman. He should have felt grateful to her but he took her presence for granted: she lived only a few streets away and was the type of person who, if an atomic bomb had just been dropped, would have turned up to see if the floor needed mopping or shelves tidying.

  He watched her shepherding the children into the closest classroom, heard her trying to shush their excited squeals of anticipation of a day which promised them a release from the straitjacket of predictable pattern; then returned to the sanctuary of his office. The other staff had already phoned in to excuse their absences, blaming the conditions for their inability to get to work. Mrs Armstrong had even claimed that the radio had told people to stay at home unless it was absolutely necessary to venture out. He had listened to all their calls with the same neutrality, neither bestowing his approval or criticism. When Mrs Foster had enquired about whether they would have pay deducted for their absence, he had declined to offer a personal opinion, saying that it would be up to the department, although he did mention to Miss Morgan, who in his view took days off at the drop of a hat, that he believed it was the department’s policy that in such circumstances teachers should endeavour to report to their nearest school. He took pride that this would take some of the shine off her unexpected holiday but the sudden image of her snuggling down under her eiderdown, with only her pert little nose and dark brown eyes visible, stirred a shimmer of pleasure which determined him to punish her for it by inspecting her lesson plans on her return and criticizing her for them. He went to the open door of his office and watched Miss Lewis collecting a couple of new arrivals and was struck by the question why useful, dependable things in life were never as attractive as the flighty and unreliable. A bit like medicine, he thought, mostly unpalatable but necessary for the body to function properly. She was wearing a red woollen jumper which seemed to have increased her bosom to twice its normal size, a heavy brown skirt and grey calf-length fur-lined boots. Her hair was pinned up in a beehive, held in place by a plethora of shiny pins. He supposed, with some reluctance, that due consideration must be given to the climatic conditions but wondered if she couldn’t have found clothes that did more for her shape.

  He tried to phone the Board again but it was still engaged. He supposed every school in the city was on the line trying to get instructions. It was also important to him that those in power should know that he was at his post, that he had walked five miles through the snow-filled city to reach his desk and that he was there, in his normal dark suit, ready for their orders. As he stood at the phone he stared out at the white playground where only a narrow ribbon of scuffed and printed snow revealed that children’s feet had tramped to the front door. This reminder of the children refreshed his sense of irritation. If the snow got any worse they’d never get them back home again. And just what was he supposed to do with them? He’d no staff, the heating and the electricity could go off at any moment, and a journey outside to the toilets took on the arduousness of a trek to the Pole. A sudden bang made him jump as it echoed through the empty corridors. Clattering the phone down, he charged into the corridor and caught a glimpse of red hair about to vanish up the stairs.

  ‘Thomas Blain, come here!’ he shouted and then repeated it even more stridently. Two boys emerged from the stairwell. ‘Ah, Leeman as well.’ There was a vague smell of caps. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, rising on his toes as the two boys reluctantly drew closer. ‘So it’s not enough for you that we have problems with the snow but you think you’ll take advantage and act like a pair of hooligans.’ The two boys glanced briefly at his face, then at the tiled floor as if unable to understand what he was talking about. ‘Give me the caps, Blain,’ he said, extending his hand towards the boy’s face.

  ‘I don’t have any caps, sir,’ the boy said, assuming a look of pained innocence, his shoulders almost rising into the impression of a shrug.

  ‘Give me the caps,’ he said, but this time his voice menaced into a sharp whisper and, after waiting a few seconds for its effect to sink in, he grabbed a tuft of hair above the boy’s ear. ‘Now!’

  ‘They’re not mine,’ Blain said, as if this plea might diminish his guilt, then squirmed a small round packet out of his pocket. The top was off and they coiled in a pinky-red spiral, like a spotted snake.

  ‘And the gun.’

  ‘Don’t have no gun, sir.’

  He repeated the demand and simultaneously twisted the tuft of hair.

  ‘Honest, sir,’ Blain protested, pulling out his pocket linings with the smooth skill of a seasoned suspect.

  ‘Give me the gun, Leeman,’ he said and this time his voice assumed a weariness that said he was now bored with the escapade and it would be best if it were over quickly. Leeman gave an apologetic glance to his comrade, before handing over the small black revolver. ‘So it’s the Lone Ranger and Tonto, is it? Well, it’s “Away, Silver”, and get yourselves home: tell your mothers that the school has to close and they’ll have to look after you.’ The boys’ eyes lightened into smiles before extinguishing again in the glower of his face. ‘And if I ever find you in school with caps again, I’ll be warming your hands so much that you’ll never need to wear gloves again.’

  Still holding the tiny gun he escorted them to the front doors and in his own mind stood like a sheriff escorting two desperadoes out of town. Blain looked at him for a second as he thought of asking for the return of the weapon but he answered the unspoken request by a slow shake of his head and a point of his arm into the snowy distance. As the two boys rode away he raised the gun and shot them off their horses, then slowly blew the smoke away from the barrel. He liked cowboy films. He thought of John Wayne in Rio Bravo, of The Alamo. This was his Alamo and he’d been called to defend it against impossible odds. This was where people of character showed their mettle, what they were made of. He closed the front door and went back to the phone – it was important that Academy Street knew he was here and in control.

  As he stood listening to the engaged tone he heard the caretaker’s kettle whistle and knew he was brewing up yet another cup of tea in his cubby-hole which passed as a store. For a second he thought of going down and instructing him to clear a path from the school gates to the front door, but, knowing the man’s reluctance to assume responsibility for any task that wasn’t laid out in black and white in his schedule of duties, decided that it wasn’t worth the probable dispute. He looked at the tiny gun still in his hand and envied the world of films where a raised eyebrow, or the glisten of sun on the slowly uncovered handle of a pistol, was enough to accomplish whatever was needed. He thought of his staff’s desertion, of Academy Street’s indifference, and suddenly he felt emasculated, stripped of his sheriff’s badge, and after flinging down the phone he set off to bully Miss Lewis.

  His footsteps hammered the anvil tiles of the corridor and echoed round the almost empty building in a way he found vaguely disconcerting. Pausing at the open door of her room he inspected the pupils clustered round the desks in varying age groups. She had given out paper and crayons but there was little sign of concentration or serious industry. She sat on the radiator at the window, her black hair suddenly blacker against its frame of white. The room smelled of wax and wet. Little puddles formed on the f
loor under the pupils as if they had wet themselves, while at the tables heads bobbed up and down like seals. He straightened himself to make his entrance, irritated that he couldn’t formally announce his arrival by the sudden opening of the door. When he did enter, only Miss Lewis acknowledged his arrival by standing up and although he glanced meaningfully at the pupils he could detect no frisson of apprehension or interest, no matter how hard he strained.

  ‘Miss Lewis, did you allow Blain and Leeman out of the room?’ he asked, fixing his stare at her eyes. Then without waiting for a reply: ‘I’ve just taken a cap gun off them and sent them home.’ Her face hadn’t changed expression. He tried again. ‘They’re not the sort of boys we can let wander round the school.’

  ‘No,’ she said, holding the end of a strand of hair, ‘they’re not indeed. Blain and Leeman? They haven’t been in here this morning.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘No,’ she said, twirling the strand as if it was a piece of string.

  ‘Right,’ he said, unable to think of a suitable riposte, then turned to face the children as if the conversation hadn’t taken place. Some of the older ones were looking at him now as if he might be about to announce something really important but the younger children continued with their play. For a moment he entertained the idea of turning this siege, this crisis, into something special, something that the children would remember all their lives, something that Miss Lewis would recount to all the other staff and they would be eternally afflicted by regret at having missed it. He would gather the children about him as if round a campfire, and he would give them a series of lessons they would never forget. He’d take them down the paths of history and geography, on perilous journeys to foreign countries where he’d regale them with tales that would make their eyes pop wide with wonder. He’d lead them in a campfire sing-song that would keep spirits up whatever blizzards raged outside, and when it was time to go home the children would cling to him and ask if he’d come back tomorrow.