The boathouse looks like the witch's cottage in Hansel and Gretel: all sparkling and iced like a Christmas cake. It looks warm out there, she thinks: like swan's feathers. If I could only get out of here, run down there, roll myself up in it. If only…
She hears the key in the door at the bottom of the stairs. Oh, God, she's coming. She crosses the room at a scuttle and dives beneath the bedcovers. She does this to hide what she is wearing, though frankly Blakemore's gone so gaga she probably wouldn't notice if Lily were wearing pearls and a tiara. Since winter set in in earnest, the attic rooms have been enveloped in a cold so deep it makes you feel as though your limbs will snap. And, since she was confined to quarters, chamber pot in the corner and a weekly bath-break, Lily has spent a lot of time in bed as a basic survival technique. At least Blakemore hasn't got round to taking the others' bedclothes away, and she can pile them high over and under her. I'd have died of the cold long since, else, she thinks. Not that she'd care.
I would set fire to the whole place, she thinks as she huddles beneath layered blankets and listens for Blakemore's approach, if I could get hold of some matches. At least I'd be warm for a bit. And if the place burned down, they couldn't make me stay here then, could they?
She shifts beneath the blankets. They still retain some residual heat from when she got up, at least in contrast with the air in the rest of the room. Yesterday, she actually had to crack the ice on the surface of the water jug before she could drink from it. She's found a one-bar electric fire in the other attic, but doesn't dare bring it through in case it is found and the secret of the unlocked door uncovered. Instead, she creeps through when it seems the coast is clear – it is clear most of the time – and huddles in front of it on the chaise longue, wrapped in an old eiderdown which leaks goose feathers in matted clumps onto the dusty floor.
She needs that door to stay open. She would die of the boredom as quickly as the cold, otherwise, staring at the sloping ceilings and waiting for something to change. As it is, after three weeks – she has counted the days by making scratches in the plaster of the wall behind her bed – she has long since run out of new things to look at, is reduced to going over and over the crumbling albums in which long-dead ancestors hold stiff and fearful poses for long-dead cameramen. She sleeps, a lot. Dreams of Portsmouth and her vanished mother. Makes up tales in her head to drive out the dread of what might be to come.
Blakemore is on the stairs, now. She moves slowly these days, like a wounded beast: hampered by downtrodden slippers and hundred-year-old whisky. I'd better hope she doesn't trip and take a purler one day, thinks Lily, and land on her head. I'd never get out of here. They'd find my starved corpse God knows when. Lily huddles down, pulls on the sleeves of her jersey to make sure it's covering the floor-length silk dress underneath. Silk is surprisingly warm. Warmer, certainly, than the knee-length skirt and school blouse she was locked up in.
The door scrapes open.
Mrs Blakemore has been putting on makeup this morning. It doesn't help: makes things worse, if anything, for the powder and lipstick have gone on over skin that hasn't been washed in weeks. Despite her own dubious hygiene, Lily can smell her from across the room: stale sweat, hair grease, something faintly cheesy. Grownups “take” smells more than children, she's noticed that before. It's like our new skins have self-cleaning properties, she thinks: like they can shrug dirt off as though they've been waterproofed.
Lily sits up in bed, careful to keep her lower half under the covers. Mrs Blakemore shuffles across the floorboards and deposits the tray she carries on the chest-of-drawers by the chimney breast. Craning, Lily sees that her daily ration today consists of a heel of bread, meanly slathered with marge, what looks like a dish of leftover mashed potato, mixed up with the dark leaves of winter greens. God, she could at least have fried it up a bit: made a spot of bubble-and-squeak. A single apple and a glass of milk sit by the bowls, and – oh, the luxury – a mug, from which steam rises in the frigid air.
“I've made you a cup of tea,” says Mrs Blakemore. Imitates, gruesomely, the actions of a smile. Her thick scarlet lipstick has bled into the lines on her upper lip, smeared across her upper incisors. She looks like she's been eating small animals, raw.
Lily remembers her manners and stammers out her thanks. The jailor ignores her, picks up yesterday's tray with its scraped bowls, and begins to make her way silently back the way she came. She won't be back for another day. Twenty-four more solitary hours. I have to try again. At the very least, I'll get to hear the sound of another human voice for a few moments more. Sometimes I feel as though my own has vanished. That the only sounds I hear when I speak are inside my own head.
“Mrs Blakemore,” she ventures, “please. Can I come out of here?”
Mrs Blakemore stalls in her progress, stands with her back to her, thinking. “I don't think that would be a good idea,” she says, eventually.
“But Mrs Blakemore,” says Lily, “it's snowing outside. There's no heating. I'm cold. I'm so cold.”
“Nonsense,” says Mrs Blakemore. “You've plenty of blankets. That's the trouble with you young people these days. You never think to put enough clothes on. Wrap up, girl. Or get a bit of exercise. That'll warm you up.”
Lily looks round the attic room: the bare floorboards, the empty beds crowded about under the eaves. I could run on the spot, I suppose. Do press-ups. But she doesn't even have shoes. The heat will leach out of her feet as fast as she generates it. “Please, Mrs Blakemore,” she says again. “Please. I've learned my lesson. I won't be any trouble.”
She turns back to face her, the ghastly grin back on her face. “Now, where have I heard that before?”
She's gone doolally. Totally flipped. It's not as if I didn't know that already, but she's not going to let me out of here. I'm going to be shut up here forever, 'til I'm big enough to fight my way out, if I have the strength by then.
“Please,” she says again. “I can't… just stay here forever. It's… there's nothing to do. I'm freezing cold. I'm lonely.”
The grin again. “Well, we're all lonely, dear,” she says. “God knows, I'm lonely myself. Still. It's nearly time for the Christmas holidays. Then we'll have company. I daresay he'll even find time to give you some company himself.”
Chapter Fifty-four
There's a huddle of parents at the school gates by the time he gets there: the ancient rite of arriving early to swap the juice before the young descend. They stamp on the pavement, clap their hands together, shrug deeper into anoraks and coats, pull scarves up to half-cover mouths. The wind has changed during the day, is blowing straight down from Siberia, and the air cuts the lungs as it goes in: he's glad of the heater, gladder still of the tint on his windows as he sees her pull up and exit the car, shivering exaggeratedly as she crosses the road, pulling on her gloves as she goes.
“Nice weather for it,” says Penny Tremayne. She's wearing a car coat of cerise leather and a striped bobble hat. Very townie, but she's allowed, being as how they trade in the arts.
Bridget glances at the sky. It's only five to four, but it feels as though night is just around the corner. Dark clouds hang above them, sluggish and replete; the fading evening light doesn't stand a chance of getting through such heavy cover.
“It's going to snow tonight,” says Justine Strang.
“Looks like it,” says Bridget.
“Haven't had snow down here in ages,” says Penny. “I hope it lies this time. I'm a real kid when it comes to snow.”
“Me, too.” Justine slaps at her upper arms with her leather mittens. “Can't wait to get out in it. Dave says I'm more of a kid than the kids are.”
“Yasmin's never actually seen proper snow,” Bridget tells them. “We had one big fall, when she was three, but by the time I got her out to Brockwell Park it had all gone to mush. Lasted about three hours.”
“Oh, poor little mite,” says Justine. “I thought they were deprived enough down here in the subtropics, but I suppose it's even worse in the citi
es. You'd better make the most of it, then.”
“She'll be happy enough just getting the day off school,” says Penny. “There's no way you're getting up your hill in that car if we have a proper storm.”
Chris Kirkland, tweed coat and fake-fur tippet, rubs her hands together as she walks over from the shop. “I hear there's snow on the way. My sister says they've already got two inches down at Truro.”
“Amazing,” says Penny. “The Met Office actually got it right. They said it was going to be a hard winter, and it's actually coming true.”
“Well I suppose,” says Justine, “that even wild guesses have to be right once in a blue moon. You got enough food laid in, Bridget? Tins and that?”
“Good grief,” says Bridget. “It's not the Arctic.”
“Well, yes, but you'd be surprised how cut off you can be down there. Half a mile uphill through snow can really take it out of you, and your freezer's not going to be much help to you if the electricity goes down. They got snowed in a couple of times down there, and no-one saw anything of them for a couple of weeks.”
“Yes, dear,” says Chris. “That'll be, when? During the war and the winter of '63, yes?”
“Well, all right. But it's happened, hasn't it?”
She stamps her feet hard against the road. “I wish I'd remembered to put some socks on. You forget, don't you? I've never understood. This global warming thing. One minute they're saying we're going to be living in a desert and the next we're heading into the New Ice Age.”
“Got to cover all the bases,” says Penny, “to keep the government on their toes. Can't have something as inconvenient as a spot of weather spoil a good theory. And besides. Can't have a load of redundant environmentalists walking about. You never know what they'll get up to next. Seriously, though, Bridget. It drifts, on your hill. Get a few inches, and you'll be a few feet under, on your track. And with your power lines still running above ground, you can get cut off quite easily. Best to be prepared. You could be shut away in there for a few days before they get the ploughs round your way. Specially given the number of snow ploughs in Cornwall. I've got a little camping stove, if you like. Runs off Butane. It won't keep you warm, but at least you'll be able to make a cup of tea.”
Bridget laughs. “Sweet. Thanks. That's dead kind, but really. We've got fireplaces. I can roast Yasmin on one of those if I get desperate.”
“Only if you've got enough redcurrant jelly to go with her,” says Chris. “We've got some in the shop.”
“I'll go and buy some, just in case.”
“I would if I was you. It can be a powerful long haul, locked up alone.”
“Tell you what,” jokes Bridget, “if we don't turn up after the weekend, send out a search party.”
“I will,” says Chris. “There's a bloke over Lanivet breeds huskies, of all things. I'm sure he won't mind lending us a few.”
“What time is it?” asks Penny. “My feet are going to fall off, in a minute.”
“Just gone four,” says a voice. They all turn, smile. “Hello, Mark,” says Chris. “Didn't know you were on pick-up duty. Where's Tina?”
“Dentist,” Mark replies, looking at Bridget, holding the look. She feels herself blush, wishes he would look away. Wishes he wouldn't. “How's Yasmin, Bridge?” he asks. “Got over her wazz?”
“Yes,” she says. He's still not torn his eyes away. She looks down, can't bear the heat of his scrutiny. “Thanks. We had a talk on the way down this morning. I think she's forgiven me.”
“Good,” says Mark. “Glad to hear it.”
She looks up again. He's gazing off at the playground, hands deep in pockets, and his expression is disappointed. No, she thinks, no, Mark, it's not that… it's just, in front of all these people… I can't…
“You were a real help,” she says gently. “Thank you. I don't know what I'd've done without your advice.”
“Yasmin been playing up, has she?” asks Chris. She's glancing between the two of them, curiosity on her face.
Bridget pulls herself together. “Yes,” she says. “I had to call Mark for a bit of buddying.”
“He's good at that,” says Chris, acutely.
“Yes,” says Bridget. “Yes, he is.” And looks Chris straight in the eye.
Chris turns away, a slight smile playing on the edge of her mouth. It'll be all over the village now, thinks Bridget. Oh, God.
“It was nothing,” says Mark. “Any time.”
“It must be tough, sometimes” says Penny, approvingly. “Everyone needs someone to turn to every now and then.”
She feels the blush return. Fixes her eyes on the school door. “Maybe we should start a lone parents’ group,” she jokes.
“Got one of them already,” says Justine. “It's called the pub.”
They all laugh.
Kieran, watching from the shelter of the car, shifts in his seat. Weaves his fingers together, cracks his knuckles.
Chapter Fifty-five
She wakes to find her mother stroking her face. Gently, with the back of her fingers. Whispering into her hair. “Wake up, darling. Good morning. Good morning, my love.”
Yasmin stretches, squeezes her eyes closed, then opens them. Slips an arm round her mother's neck and allows herself to be held and loved. The morning ritual: she doesn't know it, but she will remember it all her life; those days when waking was a warm thing, a grateful thing. Look. We have survived the night.
“Guess what?”
“What?”
“No school today,” says Bridget. “Get up and see. You won't believe it.”
Yasmin sits up. Her bedroom is dark, but the light seeping in round the curtains is a blinding white. Her Mum's crept in while she slept and plugged in the fan heater, so the air is toasty. She's laid out jeans, thick socks, a sweater on the bed, and she looks – different today. Sort of excited; like she's lit from the inside.
“What?” asks Yasmin. “What's happened?”
“Get dressed and I'll show you.”
She's got Yasmin's beanie hat in her hand, her purple gloves with the pom-poms. “Hurry up,” she says. “We don't want to miss a minute.”
“Has it snowed?” she asks.
“Yes, dizzy! Yes, it has!”
Yasmin swings out of bed, dashes to the window.
In the night, the world's turned white. As far as her vision extends; blinding, enveloping white. There's snow on the windowsills, snow weighing down the branches of the yew tree. Bushes are mere lumps beneath swansdown blankets, the only demarcation between farmland and moorland the black meanders of the beck.
Over by the wood, by the boathouse, a deer steps from cover. Dainty, elegant, russet. She can see its huge brown eyes from all this distance. It pauses at the edge of the lake and raises its head to look about it. Ten steps, light as a ballerina, across the unbroken waste. It vanishes into the dark.
She is beside herself: can feel the prickle of excitement course up and down her spine. Lets out an actual shriek, turns to her mother with her hands digging into her hair. And she sees for the first time ever what her mother must have looked like herself, as a child; bright eyes, lips thrown wide so all her teeth are showing.
“What are you waiting for?” she says.
It's like Christmas, she thinks. More like Christmas than Christmas was. My mum's more Christmassy than she was then: she's gone all pink and shiny.
The snow has a crust, like sugar icing. It snaps beneath her Wellington and her foot plunges down, down, surprisingly far down, 'til the snow hovers at the very top of her boot.
“It's amazing,” says her mum. “I know you see it on the telly, but you don't actually think this sort of thing happens overnight. What do you think, dwarfy?”
Yasmin squats down, scoops up a handful and throws it in her face. Bridget screams. Surprise and delight. “You little – you cheeky monkey!”
She swipes at the rhododendron which grows by the scullery door, flings an armful of snow, sparkling through the air. It cat
ches Yasmin on the side of the face: shockingly, exhilaratingly cold. Sharp and wet. And now they're running, wading, their shouts filling the sunshiney morning as they plunder the pristine crust on the lawn. Yasmin's head is filled with light; her cheeks sting and her fingers go numb. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.
Bridget is quickly puffed out. Throws herself onto the ground, face up. Calls “look, baby!” and flails her arms and legs. “An angel!”
Doesn't look like an angel to me, thinks Yasmin. Just looks like a big mess in the snow. But her mum looks so happy, so pleased with herself, that she co-operates, claps her hands and congratulates her. You've got to keep the grown-ups happy, sometimes. Help them feel they're doing well.
Bridget sits up. “Come on. You have a go.”
“Okay,” says Yasmin, because, though the finished product is rubbish, making it looks like fun.
She lies down. Feels the cold suck at her, like a living entity, wrapping itself around her, dark and greedy. She doesn't like it. It feels as though a cloud has passed over the sun.
Suddenly she is sitting up, shivering, looking up at the cloudless sky. Lily, she thinks. I know how it felt. Her teeth rattle in her head, and her whole body seems to be consumed with shaking.
“What's up, baby? You cold?”
Her mum is crouching over her, eyes wide with concern.
Yasmin nods, swallows.
“Oh, it's okay,” says Bridget. Wraps her in her arms, rubs hard at her back. “It's okay. We should have dressed you up more warmly. Silly. I'm silly. Come on. Let's go back to the house. I'll make you some hot chocolate. How would you like that? Some hot chocolate?”
She nods again, the shivering beginning to recede. She feels safe, now, enveloped in her mother's presence. The sun is coming out again. Round the side of her mother's arm, she sees Lily, standing by the boathouse, hands hanging by bony hips, rat's-tail hair, watching. I understand, now, she says to her, silently. I know what it was like.
“Poor you,” whispers Bridget, kisses her on the hairline. “My poor darling. I do love you, you know.”
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