THE VERY DEAD OF WINTER

by MARY HOCKING

  The people of the kind for whom Florence had made her preparations appeared to accept the presence of the ruder forest dwellers with equanimity, indeed seemed on conversational terms with them. Several gathered round a mauve-faced bundle of bones with a cough like heavy artillery fire, commenting with every semblance of sincerity on how s; much improved she was. The old satyr had an immediate audience for gossip of a scabrous nature about a man renowned for his campaign for the preservation of the forest, whom Florence had hoped might be among those invited.

  ‘ ’Course ’e won’t stand for no encroachment. Don’t want anyone else springing o’ ’is traps, do ’e?’

  ‘Up to his old tricks again?’ This from a man who had emerged sleek and pearly grey from his storm wrappings; a man to whom Florence would unhesitatingly have entrusted her legal affairs.

  ‘Mary Plunkett.’

  The satyr’s listeners considered Mary Plunkett as if tasting her ripeness. A dishevelled old crone, who smelt of urine and leaf mould, asked, ‘Where you ’ear that, then, Jem?’

  ‘ ’Eared it and see’d it.’

  Florence said to a reasonably refined-looking woman who was standing on the fringe of this group, ‘I hope no one from the Plunkett family is here?’

  ‘Particularly not Mary, by the look of her – else there’ll be a baby in the crib this Christmas Eve.’

  Florence gave her a glass of egg nog, which she was pressing on people she did not much take to. The whisky she held in reserve. The rustics were mostly content with ale, although she had an idea the satyr had his eye on the whisky bottle.

  Florence prowled around, looking first in one room, then another. The herding instinct was very strong in her. ‘There are far too many people squashed into the hall while the sitting-room is half-empty,’ she reported to Sophia, whom she found sitting on the stairs, comforting Tobias.

  ‘What fools these mortals be,’ Sophia whispered in Tobias’s ear. She seemed to think the disposal of her guests to be no concern of hers. In her jaunty beret and velvet brocaded jumper suit she was more Florence’s idea of Dick Whittington than a hostess at a formal, adult party.

  ‘And there are some very odd people here,’ Florence persisted. ‘I suppose they were all invited.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think there would be many chance passers-by today,’ Sophia answered indifferently.

  ‘It’s going to be very difficult for people to get to the toilet in this crush. I only hope they’re all continent.’

  ‘There might be the odd near miss, I suppose.’

  ‘You do this deliberately,’ Florence said, feeling about fourteen. ‘You always have had an irresistible desire to break up any sign of conformity.’

  ‘Incontinence is an infirmity not a lack of conformity.’

  ‘You set up a conventional social occasion, like a Christmas party, then proceed to wreck it.’

  Sophia, a provocative elfin child again, tickled Tobias behind the ear. ‘She set it up, didn’t she? T’weren’t us. That lady set it up.’

  ‘You provided the people.’

  ‘They are my neighbours; they provided themselves.’

  There was knocking on the front door and Florence turned, her kilt swinging as she moved. Tobias stretched a lazy paw and pulled several threads from the seat as she walked away.

  The new arrivals were a Mr and Mrs Prentice, who seemed much aggrieved at having been asked out on such a morning and firmly of the opinion that the snow had been sent particularly to annoy them. ‘Something awful always happens to us at Christmas,’ Mrs Prentice declared, including Florence’s imposing figure in the present calamity. ‘You look splendid, I must say, but then you haven’t had to go out today.’

  By the time Florence had divested the Prentices of their protective layers, the party had formed into groups. What Florence persisted in calling the crudities were still in possession of the hall; those whom she designated artisans (the man who delivered Sophia’s logs, a jobbing builder and two motor mechanics) had moved into the dining-room and were working their way steadily through the cheeses uninhibited by Anita’s attempts to cube and strip; the professional people were in the sitting-room, talking knowledgeably about the economic situation and obviously one step ahead of the Chancellor. Florence, who found the conversation of professional people lacking in spice, regretted the absence of members of the business community.

  Nicholas was out in the garden playing with the child, Andrew, and two young women, one of whom was presumably Frances. Two toddlers of indeterminate sex were watching them and crying in a desultory way. Anita was moving from room to room, peddling sausage rolls and mince pies and urging people to help themselves to what remained of the cheese and French bread. Florence noticed that the satyr was impressed by her and that she seemed genuinely amused by him, replying quite saucily to his sallies. She had the trick of being on terms with a variety of people, an attribute of which Florence had not previously been aware.

  ‘Egg nog,’ Florence said, advancing on the Prentices, who had nudged their way into the sitting-room. They demurred, but she thrust glasses at them so firmly they had no choice but to accept. In the far corner of the room, edged between the pearl grey man and a pearl grey woman who must surely be his wife, Florence saw a man who was definitely a whisky candidate. She could not imagine how she had come to overlook him – perhaps he had arrived while she was disrobing the tiresome Prentices. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had the erect bearing of a man who has looked after himself well. A good head, Florence noted, and the confidence to let it be – what hair he had was close cropped. Florence liked a good head on a man. She liked, too, slightly slanting eyes, the flesh crinkled with humour. He looked at her in amusement as she swept his companions to one side to introduce herself. He must have been finding things very dull and was no doubt glad to come across a lively woman.

  ‘I am Florence Müller, Sophia’s sister,’ she said, thrusting out her hand and holding her bosom high.

  He gave a little bow. ‘Thomas Challoner.’

  ‘Ah, our near neighbour,’ she said, dismissing whatever claims his companions might have with fine disregard. ‘You haven’t a drink; we must remedy that. Come with me.’

  He raised his eyebrows in apology to the pearl grey people, but suffered himself to be led away.

  ‘I am sure you prefer your whisky unadulterated,’ Florence said, flashing a smile over her shoulder.

  ‘I do, indeed.’

  ‘Into the kitchen, then.’

  He seemed unperturbed by the chaos of the kitchen. Florence hoped this indicated some lack in Frances’s housekeeping; she did not like men who were incapable of perturbation.

  ‘A very mixed bunch here,’ she said in the loud, jolly voice which had gained her attention in many a club bar.

  ‘A truly catholic community,’ he murmured.

  ‘Really? I hadn’t realised,’ she said, pouring whisky. ‘Some of them look distinctly Protestant to me.’

  He accepted the glass, smiling at some joke he was not proposing to share with her. They talked for a few moments about the weather. She noted a certain reserve in his manner and hoped he was not the sort of man who always stands back, observing others with amused toleration and never giving away anything of himself. Then she remembered that there had been tragedies in his life. Obviously it would not do to speak of the son – Florence could think of no gloss which could be applied to suicide; but some mention of the death of the wife would be quite permissible, particularly in view of her own situation.

  ‘Sophia told me about your wife,’ she said. Perhaps one should just establish knowledge of the demise; after this length of time sympathy was hardly called for from a new acquaintance. As he showed no inclination to develop the theme, she said, ‘As you probably know, my husband is very ill.’

  ‘Yes, I had heard. How is he today?’

  ‘Asleep, I think.’

  He looked more amused than ever, but a little startled, too, as if she had told a doubtful joke.


  ‘I am very upset, of course,’ she said, experiencing an uncharacteristic need to defend herself. ‘It is difficult to imagine a future with no one to care for.’ Her heart gave a little lurch; this was the first time she had posited a future alone. ‘I am a very active person. What shall I do?’

  ‘If my own experience is anything to go by, there are always reasons for activity,’ he said kindly. She had hoped this was going to lead to a personal exchange, but he went on to talk about fences to be repaired and all the work arising from being a Commoner.

  ‘But what do you do with your spare time?’

  ‘I paint.’

  This was a gift which Florence accepted eagerly. ‘How splendid. Flowers? Landscapes?’

  ‘Landscapes, mostly.’

  ‘Oh, I should so like to see them.’ She clasped her hands to her breast. ‘I love landscapes – places I recognise. I like to know where I am in a painting.’

  ‘You would certainly know with mine,’ he said wryly. ‘But I’m afraid they are not very good. I do it to amuse myself.’

  ‘And to give pleasure to others, surely?’ She looked at him roguishly. She was not a believer in the subtle approach; subtlety, in her experience, was wasted on most men, who only wanted someone to show an interest in them. ‘I know something about paintings. After all, I have lived with them around me. My husband paints.’

  ‘Really?’ His eyes told her he knew exactly what she was about.

  ‘Very odd paintings, nothing I feel comfortable with. A friend once said they were good.’ Beneath his amused, sceptical gaze she felt a need to establish her position as a lover of art. ‘He knew a man who owned a small gallery and I took one of Konrad’s paintings to this man, Konrad would be hopeless about selling himself, let alone a painting. The gallery man spent some time looking at the painting. He was as puzzled by it as I was, I think. He said it was very strong and original.’

  She felt that enough had been said about Konrad’s painting, but Challoner seemed interested. ‘What was the painting?’

  ‘Well, that was the problem.’ She screwed up her eyes, remembering the gallery, Konrad’s picture propped up on a table, the man standing back, looking at it, walking around it, talking in what she had considered a rather showing-off way: ‘Here, in the foreground, we have the figure seated in the chair by the electric stove, sewing, the light from a standard lamp spilling over the bent shoulder; the face is intent, perhaps the eyes are a little strained, but it is the task which holds the woman’s attention. All that seems to matter to her is the next stitch. And outside in the street we see light flashing in the sky and rubble falling, people running past her window. The far window shows a scene where there is no light from the explosion – a dark street, the outline of a woman’s body, the glint of a knife held in an upraised hand by an attacker masked in shadow.’

  Florence, assembling her memories, managed to convey something of this to Thomas Challoner, who asked, ‘And what did he think of it as a painting?’

  ‘He said it was beautifully executed, but that it didn’t hold together. Obviously, it was about violence, chaos . . . Look, you can’t really be interested in this.’

  ‘But I am.’

  ‘Oh, very well, then. He went on to talk about the instability of life and the fragility of our peace, that sort of thing. But he didn’t find it particularly chilling, certainly not apocalyptic.’

  ‘Did you find it chilling or apocalyptic?’

  ‘Well, you don’t like to think all this is going on in the head of someone you know; but the picture itself didn’t chill me, though I did think it was rather disagreeable.’ Florence was pleased that the conversation was turning more towards herself and her understanding of art. ‘I thought the woman herself was rather dull for someone occupying centre stage. And as for the people running past the window, I couldn’t believe that one of them wouldn’t have banged on the door if something had been really wrong. My friend said they were people living in parallel worlds, but I think he was a bit bothered about the woman. He said he thought perhaps she should have been scaled down.’

  ‘And the colour? His use of colour is particularly striking – at least, so I have heard.’

  ‘You can’t have heard anything about Konrad’s paintings, he is quite unknown. You must be thinking of someone else.’

  ‘Yes, of course. It was just that your description of the painting reminded me of someone, I can’t think who.’ He put his glass down. ‘This is disgraceful of me. I’m keeping you from your guests.’

  Florence, who was rattled by his comment about colour, allowed him to escape. A few minutes later Anita came in. ‘Oh, shit. Mother! What are you doing lurking in here? The Prentices are emitting leaving noises and we need to make the most of it. Some of these people are taking root.’

  ‘I have told you I don’t want to hear that word used over Christmas. Do you think it’s possible your father has ever exhibited without our knowing?’

  ‘Exhibited what?’

  ‘His paintings, of course.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘But his paintings are colourful.’

  ‘So? Which are the Prentices’ coats, do you remember?’

  ‘They’d better come and find them.’

  ‘You’re not concentrating on this, are you? They’re only considering the possibility of leaving. I can’t very well frogmarch them out here.’ She selected a few garments from the top of the pile. ‘I’ll try these on them. At least it may turn people’s minds homewards.’

  After a few moments Florence followed her. As she came into the hall there was a noticeable dying down of conversation among the crudities. Never one to let curiosity go unsatisfied, she went up the stairs and paused on the landing, where she was rewarded by hearing the satyr declare that ‘ ’er will make a fine widder wumman’.

  Anita had made her point and the party was breaking up. The front door had been opened and cold air brushed Florence’s cheek. She went to the small landing window and saw the Prentices stumble out, heads butted into the storm. Then Thomas Challoner appeared on the doorstep and beside him, the boy, Andrew, face upturned and shining in the light of a coloured lantern which Sophia had hung there. Challoner bent down to listen to the boy and then put an arm round his shoulders. They, too, went down the path, the boy darting here and there in excitement but always returning to the sheltering figure of the man.

  In the hall, someone had had the idea that the party should conclude with a carol and voices took up the strains of ‘Oh come all ye faithful’.

  No one in the world could be less guilty of wanting to be a hero, Terence thought as he abandoned the car. So why had he allowed this to happen to him? He should have let Anita go on her own. It was unlikely that she would find anyone else while spending Christmas surpervised by her mother. There were several people who would have taken pity on him; he could by now be sitting comfortably in Thelma Armitage’s centrally heated flat in Balham, or he might even have accepted the invitation in Amanda’s eyes. So little was he instructed in the landscape of heroism that he thought of a walk in a blizzard only in terms of catching a bad cold. The trees, massed as distinct from hedgerow, suggested that he had reached the forest, but, this apart, he had no idea where he was. The trees would provide some shelter from the wind and presumably there would be clearings with human habitations. Florence had talked about the forest dwellers she remembered in her youth and Terence, town-bred and a country hater, imagined they would have been fruitful and multiplied since then. Succour would be available, if required.

  After a struggle, his fingers as cold as the lock, he managed to open the boot and immediately cut his hand on an icicle. Snow had found its way inside and a thin layer of ice had formed in the linings of his boots. His scarf was thick as a board. The Burberry Anita had bought him last Christmas was very cold but had at least been folded so that the inside remained dry. As he did not know where he was it seemed unlikely that he would find his way back to the c
ar today, so he decided to take his overnight bag with him. He was fastidious and the thought of using someone else’s toothbrush – or having no toothbrush at all – was repellent.

  He had been walking for some time, becoming increasingly alarmed, when he came to a sign. Staggering up to it, he wiped away the snow only to be greeted by the injunction: beware of deer. By now he was very cold, exhausted and desperately hungry. After an hour reminiscent of those nightmares where striving limbs make no progress he found himself back at the car. He sat on the bonnet, panting and snivelling, before setting out again. The possibility occurred to him that he was going to die. This thought gained hold as, some twenty minutes later, he found himself slowly, painfully, rising to a level with the branches of trees. Looking up, he saw that the snow had stopped and above was a pale blue sky towards which he was agonisingly making his way. The trees stood back on either side, like a guard of honour watching his progress. Then, suddenly, out of this blueness, a great chariot appeared and descended upon him. He was flying through the air to the accompaniment of a chorus of astonished angel voices and the last noise he heard, as consciousness deserted him, was a prolonged howl as of a celestial air raid warning.

  ‘Two broken ribs and a broken leg,’ the voice informed Sophia over the telephone.

  ‘Your grand-children, Mrs Carteret, were they . . .?’

  ‘Oh, just a few cuts and bruises, and, of course, they were very upset at first, but he took the full brunt of the impact. It was quite amazing watching from the window; I couldn’t think what had happened. The toboggan seemed to explode and everyone floated around it, including Benjamin, who did a double somersault and landed flat on his back with all four paws in the air – a terrible indignity for which he has not yet forgiven us . . . Of course there is no question of his being moved . . . My dear, it is the least we can do . . . In rather a lot of discomfort, I’m afraid, but the doctor has promised to look in again tomorrow with a further supply of painkillers . . . No, no messages. I got the impression he doesn’t quite know what he wants to say at present.’