by Rachel Joyce
‘No, thank you. We are too old for parks. But you go. I’ll wait.’
‘I can’t possibly leave you on your own.’
‘I’m eleven. Mum leaves us all the time.’ Owen lowered himself beside the tree with his knees tucked beneath his chin and his hands touching his feet. He gazed at the presents. ‘Four of them seem to be for me,’ he said. His mouth hoisted into a beautiful smile like the curve of a new moon.
It was just getting light. The streets were still empty, only bin bags collecting in piles. To the east, a silver light had crept into the sky, and buildings were beginning to take shape through the dark. Henry entered the park gates and made his way towards the bandstand. He walked because it would be less noisy than running, but his head wanted him to run. He had no idea why he’d lied to the boys about snow. Yes, it had started as a joke, but it had become a way of saying all sorts of other more complicated things like I love you and I am sorry I messed up and I miss you. Of all the promises to make, why had he chosen one he couldn’t possibly fulfil? He thought of those sledges wrapped under the Christmas tree and groaned out loud.
Henry was visited by one of those memories that prickle the skin. He saw himself as a child, asking his mother whether Father Christmas was real. He watched her pucker her mouth and stare at her shoes and admit briskly that no, he wasn’t. ‘What about the tooth fairy?’ he had asked a while later, still hopeful of a yes in that department. No, not the tooth fairy either. Jack Frost? (Did he seriously believe in Jack Frost? his mother laughed. Yes, he did. He had even seen pictures: a tall man dressed in white with a spike-frozen beard and fingers like claws.) The man in the moon? Was he real? ‘Get away with you,’ she’d said. What about God, then? he’d asked, feeling more and more shaky. Angels? Jesus? His mother reached for a cigarette and snapped her lighter. ‘Run along now,’ she said. ‘This is getting plain silly.’ It was like walls toppling down, first one truth and then another, until there was nothing left but grown-up wasteland. The world seemed an entirely more prosaic place and also one without any hope of salvation. Henry felt bereft. He had watched Bea open her Christmas stocking. ‘Isn’t Father Christmas wonderful?’ he’d asked, as if she alone held the cup of make-believe now and he might drink a little, if she would only let him. Bea had tossed him a scornful look. ‘Don’t you know?’ she’d said. ‘Father Christmas is not real. I saw his hat in my piano teacher’s car.’
Across the park, the large Georgian mansions with gardens that backed on to it stood moored like battle ships, their lights sparkling. They were so vast and beautiful and immovable; their certainty made Henry feel even more insubstantial. He imagined the people inside. All those clever, wealthy people, who never made mistakes, who never had breakdowns, or failed in their marriages, or lost touch with their sons. Henry crossed the grass and then walked around the pond, until he was standing only fifty metres from the gardens. He stopped.
At first he believed it was some kind of nasty joke. He turned to see if anyone was watching, but he was alone, not even a dog-walker in sight. Henry closed his eyes. He counted to twenty, calmly, and breathed deeply, just like it said in those books his sister was always giving him. He opened his eyes and wanted to shout. Where the other gardens showed barren black branches and scribbles of twigs, with barely a leaf in sight, there was one garden, just one, that was completely different. Henry looked up at the sky to check he was not mistaken, but no – the dawn was pale grey, a few rogue stars still shining, the moon no more than a muzzy smudge. Turning back to the garden, Henry felt a low flutter of dread.
It had snowed. Yes, in one garden alone, it had snowed. And not just a little drift, not just a sprinkling. It was a proper snow scene, an almost exact replica of his picture in its clip-on frame at the flat. No matter how many times Henry rubbed his eyes and poked them with his fingers, no matter how many times he shook his head, it didn’t go away. He saw snow, snow, nothing but snow.
Slicks of soft white clung to the bare trees. The grass was a thick white duvet. A sagging canopy of clematis had clearly become unmoored by the weight of new snow, and icicles hung like glass fingers from the railings. There was even a criss-cross of slim iced shards above a drain where water had frozen as it spewed from the pipes. Snow sat on the ironwork of a bench and outlined every detail of its pattern in a thick crust. At the far end of the garden, where it met the house, the snow was overhung with shadow and glowed a pale whitish-blue. From a top window a light fell upon the snow garden like a yellow lantern. When he thought he caught a stab of red up there, as if someone had noticed and was looking down, Henry couldn’t bear any more. He fled.
Throughout the morning, Henry’s mind kept returning to the snow garden. It couldn’t have been real. No other garden had snow and there was no snow anywhere else in the park. It made no sense, and yet he had seen it. He didn’t dare mention the garden to his sister when she rang to check how he was getting on. He certainly mustn’t breathe a word of it to the boys; Debbie would never forgive him. Every time he thought of it, he felt sick with nerves.
‘Can we open our presents now?’ asked Owen.
Even though the boys had opened their presents in five minutes (‘What is this, Henry?’ ‘It’s a polar bear, Owen.’ ‘Cool,’ said Owen. Conor said nothing), and even though Henry’s present from his sister was another self-help book (Learn to Relax and Enjoy Life Again by Embracing Stress and Fear), the rest of the day went better than Henry expected. He carved the turkey into slices, just like he used to do in the old days, and he served Christmas lunch to the boys with his new plates and cutlery. He drank one small glass of wine and after lunch he played a board game with Owen, while Conor tried out his new computer game. Owen told Henry about the gifts they had received back at home. Nike trainers and a new phone for Conor; Owen had received a jambox and an iTunes voucher.
‘I bought the new album by X,’ he said.
‘What is X?’
Owen laughed. ‘Do you really not know?’
‘X is only the most famous person ever,’ grunted Conor.
‘X is a person?’ asked Henry. Once he had known everything about his sons, but now there seemed to be so much about their lives he couldn’t grasp, as if a child’s development required the simultaneous diminishing of the parent.
Owen said, ‘X does the Christmas song that goes with your picture. He’s number one all over the world.’
At the mention of the snow picture, Henry’s pulse began to beat so hard he could hear it. He affected a laugh, only it came out sounding tinny. ‘I’ve never heard of X,’ he said.
‘By the way, this is for you.’ Owen produced from his pocket a small, flat parcel, wrapped in crumpled paper with pictures of reindeers. ‘I made it at school.’
Conor flumped impatiently from one side of the sofa to the other.
It was a photograph of the two boys, mounted in a homemade paper frame. Owen had drawn pencil Christmas trees and sledges, laden with splodges of snow. In the photograph the two boys sat side by side, not quite touching, neither of them smiling. They seemed uncertain and very much alone.
‘Well, gosh,’ said Henry. He would keep it for ever.
Henry returned to the park early the following morning. He’d barely slept. In the middle of the night it had seemed frighteningly clear that he had imagined the garden as a result of the snow picture and that he was on the verge of a possible relapse. And yet he also knew that over the past two days he had felt more alive than he’d felt since moving into the flat. He found himself dressing quickly in the dark – and then floundering at the last minute, unable to make the simple choice between a brown wool hat and a blue one. As he fastened his coat, his fingers trembled around the buttons. He eased open the door to the boys’ bedroom, but they were asleep.
The sky was too clouded for stars. The buildings were tall, dark shapes in the gloom. Faint sounds came from them as he passed – a telephone ringing, someone playing music. He was glad to see a few lights in kitchens and bedrooms. They ma
de him feel not quite so alone, though he was relieved to be the only person entering the park. As Henry reached the bandstand, he was aware of a jumping and realized it was his blood. He pictured the boys asleep in their bunk beds, he pictured the photograph Owen had given him, and he found himself running. Just one check that the snow garden was not there and he would hurry back to the flat before they woke.
The garden was exactly as he remembered, only more so. If anything the snow seemed deeper and more perfect. It glowed in the blue dawn light, so soft and pale it could be made of feathers. When a back door opened and a woman stepped out in a red coat, Henry felt his body grow weak. His hands seemed to hang from his arms on string. He walked away, trembling hard. It was everything he could do to stop his teeth from chattering. He took himself for a coffee in order to collect his thoughts, but every time he let his mind drift he saw the snow garden and the woman in her red coat. It was only when the waitress asked if he was waiting for someone, because actually she needed the table, that he realized she’d already delivered his drink and it had gone stone cold.
By the time Henry returned to the flat, the boys were sitting at the table with a packet of sliced bread and a jar of peanut butter between them. They stared up at him as if they’d been waiting for days. ‘Where have you been?’ asked Conor peevishly, but his eyes were sore as if he had rubbed them too hard and Henry’s heart lurched.
‘Mum rang,’ said Owen.
‘What did she say?’
‘She said, “How’s it going?” Then she said, “Where’s Henry?”’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, “He is wearing his blue hat.”’
‘Why did you say that, Owen?’
‘I saw you leave. I was trying to keep you out of trouble.’
‘Are we in your way or something?’ snapped Conor.
Yet despite the awful beginning, the day passed smoothly. Henry made no mention of the snow garden or the woman he had imagined in her red coat. Owen fetched his jambox and played the album by X he had bought with his voucher. He told Henry about the Christmas song that went with his picture – X was one of those very special singers that everybody liked, he said. Even grannies.
‘What? Even Conor?’ asked Henry, and to his surprise Conor laughed.
‘Mum fancies X,’ giggled Owen.
In the afternoon, Conor asked if Henry would like to play his computer game, and when Henry suggested that later they could go for pizza and the cinema, the boys agreed they would prefer to stay in and eat leftover turkey. Before they showered, he bought nit treatment. Afterwards he helped them wash it out and combed their hair with a special long-toothed comb. Catching sight later of his two boys, their wet hair flat against their scalps, their backs to him as they watched the television in their pyjamas, Henry paused. Suddenly he experienced the feeling that he had done everything he could and he saw that it was enough.
That night, once he knew Owen was asleep, Henry leant his head against the railing of the top bunk and told his son about the snow garden. He just wanted to describe it, that was all. He needed to get the words and pictures out of his head. In a soft voice, he detailed the trees laden with white and the icicles on the gutters and railings, and as he did, he watched Owen’s sleeping face. It had been years since he’d felt the way he had in the past few days – so alive and energized. The boys were his first thought every morning and his last thought every night. Even in his sleep they seemed to come to him in strange dreams where he played board games with them and listened to their music, or told them about his childhood. In fact, had he ever felt this way? Maybe he had forgotten over the years, but it seemed to him this contentment was all new.
He leant over to kiss Owen. It was only as Henry walked away that he realized he had told his son he loved him. The words had just come and they were easy, that was the thing. They were soft as falling snow.
The next day was the boys’ fourth with Henry. It was hard to believe they were already over halfway through their visit. Briefly he wondered about the snow garden, but told himself he could not go back again; there was no excuse. It was not there and the woman in the red coat was an illusion. His boys, on the other hand, were real. He mustn’t blow what he had begun to find with Conor and Owen. Once he had returned them safely to Debbie, he would make a doctor’s appointment. He would admit he had started to see things again and face the consequences.
And so it came as a shock when the door swung open and the two boys appeared in anoraks, a woollen bobble hat on Owen and a beanie hat in Conor’s hand. They had their new sledges. Owen held his proudly. Conor carried his under one arm, like something that he had picked up without really noticing. He couldn’t look at Henry and kept jutting his chin as if he were embarrassed but still wanted to be there.
‘I thought you could take us to see that garden,’ said Owen. ‘The one with snow.’
‘Oh no,’ said Henry, getting up quickly. ‘I couldn’t. I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s … private. You know? It would be trespassing. I can’t.’ He could feel his skin turning clammy, his pulse racing.
In silence, Owen unzipped his anorak and pulled off his bobble hat. His hair stuck out in a static halo, so blond it was practically white. It was too much. Henry should never have mentioned the garden, just as he should never have promised snow in the first place. He should never have bought the picture—
‘Fucking crap!’ shouted Conor, throwing down both the beanie and the sledge. ‘What’s the fucking point of snow if you won’t show us?’
‘Since when did you swear at home?’ asked Henry, taken aback.
‘Since when did you become a prick?’ said Conor.
Henry strode at such a pace the boys had a struggle to keep up. Their sledges kept getting in their way, but he didn’t care. He wanted his sons to suffer a little because it would be nothing compared with the disappointment they had coming. Then he noticed a woman on a street corner staring hard at the boys in their winter woollens and carrying their new sledges, when it was so mild, and Henry felt a flash of indignation. He slowed right down.
‘Do you need help, boys?’ he said.
‘We can manage,’ said Conor.
‘Thank you,’ added Owen.
They turned into the park.
The grass shone blue in the dawn light. The trees were dust against the sky. It was only over to the east, where the sun rose, that the cloud had ripped open to reveal a single streak of henna red.
If only the walk would last longer. Even from the gates, Henry could see the lights of the Georgian mansions sparkling in the distance. As he led the boys past the bandstand and then the pond, Henry felt his limbs begin to weaken and that low feeling of dread in his chest. His breath seemed to be on the verge of stopping altogether. He couldn’t look up any more. He could only stare at his feet.
‘I see snow!’ That was Owen.
‘Jeez Louise!’ That was Conor.
So there it was, the snow garden. Exactly as Henry had remembered, and exactly as he had seen in his picture. A fairy-tale world, the trees adorned with thick pillows of white, the ground a smooth blanket of bumps and humps. The icicles poked from the railings in transparent points, and drops of frozen moisture clung to the stems like glass beads. And in the middle of it stood a woman in a red coat. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, the two things seemed so joined up. He felt light-headed. He was afraid he might faint.
Catching sight of Henry, the woman lifted her arm and waved. ‘I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?’ she called. Her voice was surprisingly slow and deep. She moved closer to the railing, her shoes making no sound in the snow except the occasional creak. She was older than Henry had expected, her skin very soft and creased, her silvering hair swept into an elegant pleat, but something about the way the snow shone up into her face made her appear both beautiful and bold. Now that he was close to her, he could see that her coat was more of a fleece jacket, with a little log
o of an X sewn in silver just below the lapel. She’d pulled the zipper up to her chin.
‘Do you actually know her?’ whispered Conor.
‘Hello there,’ piped up Owen.
‘These are my sons,’ explained Henry. His voice seemed thick in his throat. It was hard to get the words out.
‘Would they like to come in?’
Henry faltered. ‘I don’t think so. I wouldn’t want to trouble you …’
‘Yes,’ interrupted Conor.
‘Yes, please!’ sang Owen. He glanced over his shoulder at Henry and beamed.
The woman took a key from her jacket pocket and slotted it into a section of the railing. A gate opened smoothly.
‘Do come in,’ she said.
Conor nodded his thanks and shuffled through, followed by Owen. They clutched their sledges close to their stomachs like floats. Henry stayed on the park side, watching.
‘Go ahead,’ said the woman in her red coat. ‘You enjoy it. No one else has. It was done for a photo shoot and then the record company changed their minds and cancelled. It’ll be gone soon. They’re coming with giant vacuums to suck it up.’
The boys walked carefully at first, unsure whether the ground beneath them was solid or only ice. Turning, they looked back at the prints their feet had made and laughed. They reached out their hands and tentatively touched the cottony domes of snow on the branches. They knelt to scoop it in their hands and as they grew in confidence they dared to throw it at one another in handfuls that drifted through the air like furry tufts. Owen picked up a small sprig and lifted it to his mouth.
‘Don’t eat it!’ yelled Henry.
The woman in her red fleece laughed. ‘It’s completely safe. Apparently it’s made of the same paper they use for cigarettes. Some batches even taste of menthol. They’re nice boys. I’m glad you told them about my garden. It’s good to see them playing here.’
Henry nodded. What was this strange bubbling feeling in his belly? ‘You may not understand,’ he said, ‘but this is a major result.’ He began to laugh and once he started he couldn’t stop.
