In The Grip Of Old Winter Page 3

  When is he going to tell me about the girl at the window? So much has happened today, but I don’t think he’s forgotten, because he believes me. And I must tell him that I saw her in The Hall, too.

  Aunty Almina sat at the table and dunked a thick slab of bread into a large bowl of leek and potato soup. “We have to get to know each other, Peter. I’m sure there’s plenty we can talk about. Goodnight, sweet prince.”

  Peter didn’t know what to reply. He didn’t want to reply, for though Almina smiled, her eyes gazed deep into his and he glanced away, fearful that she might read his mind. “’Night,” and he followed mum out of the kitchen. The stairs creaked as they climbed to his bedroom on the first landing.

  The house is bigger. In the dark, it grows. And watches. It knows what happens and waits.

  His stomach tightened, but after his bath, in bed, his body relaxed into the soft mattress. The candle burned on his bedside table and he fell fast asleep.

  ***

  He woke with a start. The candle smoked, the flame extinguished. Round the edge of the window there shone a dull grey light.

  Sometimes, he woke after a bad dream and cried out and sweated and mum came to soothe him. He listened to his own breathing and stared into the dark, determined to dismiss the thought that the girl might be in the room. He banged his head against the pillow. That made it certain that she wasn’t!

  He didn’t remember having a bad dream either, in fact he didn’t remember having any dream at all, although there flickered, somewhere on the edges of his mind, the memory of his name being called. His hands didn’t feel sticky from sweat.

  No difference in the room, nothing moved or spoke, though he wished for some matches to re-light the candle.

  Strangest of all, though wide awake in the dead of night, the fear he experienced at these times didn’t happen. No desire to call for mum, but instead a building curiosity to look out of the window. Was it still snowing? Think how deep it might be by morning. If he looked now, then imagine the excitement tomorrow when he ran outside.

  He pushed the blankets away and climbed out of bed. The large furry rug that covered the floorboards from his bed to the window tickled between his toes and the air chilled his hands and face. He parted the curtains just enough to peer through and then he swept them aside.

  The snow still fell, though the wind had dropped, and reached at least a foot above the windowsill. He rubbed away at the diamond-shaped panes as they steamed up under his breath. No bush or shrub showed above the snow’s surface, there might be nothing in the world but snow, except the shadows between the distant trees.

  Just the shadows and - a light? At first he thought a strange-coloured flake glowed brighter than the others, except this one didn’t fall. It shimmered as it appeared and then disappeared behind the tree trunks. A yellow light, that hovered just above the ground, though sometimes it went higher, yet it never ventured farther than the tree line. It didn’t look bright enough to see by and yet the way it shifted from side to side and then up and down suggested that something or somebody searched. He didn’t believe that granddad still collected logs, not this late at night.

  Peter shivered and at the same moment the light went out. He stared hard, waiting for its re-appearance and he thought the yellow gleamed several times, but his eyes watered with cold and the spot where he looked went fuzzy and the shadows stayed dark.

  He half-drew the curtains, dived back into bed and pulled the blankets right up to his chin. His teeth chattered with cold. The hot water bottle no longer scalded when he wrapped his feet around it, though he wished it might be warmer.

  He re-gained heat, his mind wandered and he drifted towards sleep. Who or what searched in the woods? Who or what did it in the dead of night, in the snow? Tomorrow called for an investigation.

  “Hello.”

  In an instant, all drowsiness fled and he opened his eyes. No mistaking or dreaming, someone in the room spoke.

  The tightening in his stomach clenched hard and the panic that built with frightening speed threatened to erupt into a scream.

  “Hello, Peter.”

  He half-rose, the blankets clenched in his hands and saw, across the room beside the window, the girl. She held a flickering candle that burned white and though the flame was small, her pale face shimmered in its light. A nightdress covered her from neck to feet and that too gleamed, and her long hair, that tumbled over her shoulders, held no colour. Even her eyes showed more white than dark.

  Peter’s scream teetered, ready to fly and once released might never stop. He gulped to keep it at bay and his breath came in shallow gasps.

  “Hello,” the girl repeated. Her voice, soft and light, held no menace. She spoke as any child might, one to another.

  Peter stared and whispered back. “Hello.”

  The girl moved closer to the window, or glided, for her long white dress didn’t ruffle with the natural shifts or creases of one who walks. “Do you like this room?” Her gaze lingered on the outside world.

  “Yes.”

  “I do too.” She lifted the candle and her face reflected in the diamond-shaped panes, so that as she looked out, she also looked in.

  Peter’s ears thumped from his beating heart and he swallowed to wet his dry mouth. “You - you live here?”

  “Of course. Though it’s not the same.” Her reply didn’t come with surprise or anger that he asked such a question, more matter-of-fact and to be taken for granted.

  “But-” Peter didn’t understand. “You can’t - because you’re only a girl.”

  She lifted the candle higher and her reflection blurred, so that another image of her face appeared in the panes, though less clear than the first. “What do you mean?”

  Peter’s eyes hurt from staring. “Grandma - and granddad are - very old. Mum was born a long time ago and you - you’re not as old as mum.”

  She lowered the candle and faced him. “I’ve lived in this forest for a long time. I’ve always lived here.”

  “Are you -” Peter’s heart thumped. “Are you a ghost?”

  Her expression didn’t change, yet she tilted her head as if she didn’t understand. “My name is, Leonor.”

  Peter replied, because he didn’t know what else to say. “My name is, Peter.”

  “I know. I heard it.” She picked up a fold of her white dress, lowered her head and curtsied.

  No girl had ever curtsied to him before. Nobody ever curtsied in real life, only on television when important women met the Queen. “You heard it?”

  “Of course.” She stood straight. “The fire burned so bright and warm tonight.”

  “I - I saw you when the lights went out.”

  Leonor glided away from the window and closer to the bed. Peter gripped the blankets tight and cowered as she approached. Her milky-white eyes gazed into his. “You’re frightened of me. Why?”

  Peter gulped, he didn’t want to scream, though it threatened, like waiting for a loud noise that frightened and thrilled at the same time. “It’s - it’s night and dark and - and - you’re not real.”

  Is this the bad dream? If she touches me, I’ll wake up and the scream will be so loud. Peter’s breathing panted like a runner’s after a race.

  Two dark shadows trickled down her cheeks and Leonor’s face dissolved.

  She’s going to change into a hideous monster!

  He didn’t dare look, but he didn’t dare not! He watched through squinted eyes, but nothing horrible happened and with a jolt he understood that what he saw were ghost tears.

  “Why... why are you crying?”

  The flame on Leonor’s candle wavered and when it dimmed her body diminished and her outline frayed, like mist that evaporates in the early morning light.

  “I don’t want you to be frightened.” Her voice no longer sounded clear. “I’m all alone and I need your help.” She glided away. “I felt sure that you’d been sent to help me. Perhaps I was mistaken, but when I saw you looking at me from outside, then
I hoped that you knew what must be done.”

  This didn’t make sense. “Help you? How can I help you?”

  She faced him and the candle burned brighter and her body drew together again. “You’re a special boy. And only a special boy can help me.”

  Peter jumped when he heard the word that mum used. “What do you mean? That’s just - that’s just playing.” He didn’t like Leonor using that word. He and mum enjoyed ‘special’ together, in private. It was not a word for sharing. “You shouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations. That’s rude.”

  Leonor tilted her head again, though her expression never changed. “I didn’t listen on purpose. I promise.”

  “Then how did you know?”

  “The house - the house, that’s how I heard.” She gazed towards the ceiling, lost in some distant thought. “The house - that’s right.”

  Peter shivered. The house frightened him because of its difference. Did it really live? Did it listen? Is that what Leonor meant?

  She faced him. “And you saw the flame in the woods. Just now, you did, didn’t you?”

  Peter nodded.

  “You are special, you see. Very few people see that flame. You can help me.”

  Then, with a rattle and a creak that made Peter shout with fear, his bedroom door opened. At the same moment, his candle ignited and burned with a steady yellow light.

  “Peter, are you all right?” Mum sat on his bed and wrapped her arms around him. “I heard you talking in your sleep. Was it a bad dream?”

  Peter held her tight, for Leonor had vanished.

  ***

  Peter remembered holding mum and she must have stayed with him until he fell asleep, for when he awoke, grey daylight revealed, on the other side of the room, the large wardrobe and the chest of drawers. The drawn curtains made the light around the window glow much brighter. The wick on the candle had burned out. He checked his digital watch and it flashed seven forty-five.

  He pushed back the blankets, ran to the window and swept the curtains aside. Still snowing! The mound on the sill now reached up to his chest. Nothing stirred on the white landscape, no mark from an animal or a bird ruffled the snow’s surface.

  Imagine if I was the only person alive and this was the first day of a new world.

  The thought buzzed with excitement in his head and its pleasure increased, because not being alone in the old house made it feel safe.

  He dressed fast to keep warm and as he pulled on his sweater, he thought of Leonor. Strange, daylight made it difficult to remember. She said odd things, but thinking about what she was made his heart pump. He didn’t know if he believed in ghosts, but if she was one she didn’t behave as he’d imagined. Ghosts on television always went ‘whoooo’ and scared everyone on purpose. They didn’t talk like normal people; they didn’t ask to be helped. Ghosts didn’t need help, they just haunted, so why was Leonor different? He didn’t want to tell mum, because this secret was his and he wanted to know more.

  The wooden staircase creaked as he went downstairs and halfway down, he looked up. The bannisters crossed and re-crossed above him and the empty space between them stretched high into the shadows. There must be so many rooms in this old house and the thought of their emptiness made him shiver, though it might be exciting to explore and discover what was in them. Was Leonor in one of them now, looking out of the window? Or perhaps in the small house above the battlements? He’d already seen her once in daylight, something else that was different about her, for on television ghosts only haunted at night.

  In the kitchen, grandma hugged him. “There you are, my love, did you sleep well?” She wore an apron covered in bright flowers and, like yesterday, she smelled of flowers too. On the AGA, frying pans sizzled and saucepans bubbled and the smell of crispy bacon and hot toast made his mouth water.

  “Yes, thank you.” It wasn’t a bad lie, just an easy reply to a difficult question.

  Mum and dad sat at the kitchen table and he pulled up a chair to sit between them.

  Dad thumbed through the pages on his mobile. “Hopeless. Dead as a dodo.”

  Mum sighed. “Try outside.”

  Dad dropped the mobile onto the table where it landed with a clatter. “Later.”

  Grandma lifted bacon from the pan and arranged the rashers on to three plates. “Granddad’s clearing the path. I hope he’s not overdoing it. It’s so difficult with the phone out. I suppose we could walk down to Farmer Brunt and ask him to bring his tractor, but he’ll be snowed in too.”

  Mum stood up to help. “I’m sure Richard will lend granddad a hand. Why doesn’t he wait until after breakfast? We can all help. You’d like that wouldn’t you, Peter?”

  Grandma lifted the lid off the poacher. “I must get the fires going in the bedrooms. Almina can’t stand being cold.”

  Mum opened a drawer and picked out a small knife. “It’ll be exciting having a Christmas like the old days.”

  Grandma slid a saucepan off the hob. “Would you like some mushrooms, Peter?”

  “Yes please.”

  She scattered several onto each plate. “It’s been years since the weather’s been so bad.”

  Mum eased an egg from the poacher with the small knife. “I’ll just give Richard one. The doctor says he has to watch his cholesterol.”

  Dad groaned.

  “Oh shame,” said grandma. “It’s Christmas. Let him have two, as a treat. I’ve cooked plenty. You’ll have two won’t you, Peter?”

  “Yes please.”

  Mum slid the eggs one at a time onto the plates. “Is Almina coming down for breakfast?”

  Grandma laughed. “Goodness no, we won’t see her ‘til mid-day. Granddad took her up a cup of tea earlier.”

  Dad said, “She must be exhausted after last night.”

  Grandma put on her oven gloves and opened the AGA’s oven door. “I’ve never known her be an early riser. Would you like a sausage, Peter?”

  “Yes please.”

  “Well, actors work late so they need a lie in,” said mum.

  Grandma tutted. “I suppose.”

  Dad spun his phone with his finger and thumb. “Don’t actors learn their lines in bed?”

  Grandma laughed. “That sounds like a good excuse. I just hope we’ve got enough food. I’m sure the snow won’t last for long, it never does.”

  Mum carried two full plates to the table and gave one to Peter and one to dad. “We’ll have to eat berries.”

  The breakfast steamed with delicious smells and Peter started straight away.

  “This is great, ‘ma.” Dad called grandma ‘ma.’ “Just what the doctor ordered.”

  Mum gave an exasperated sigh.

  Grandma wiped her hands on the oven gloves. “At least we don’t have to worry about keeping things cold.”

  Dad paused with a large slice of sausage inches from his mouth. “That’s a point. The fridge must’ve gone off.”

  Mum sat down with her breakfast. “They don’t have a fridge.”

  Dad frowned. “Really?”

  “Really,” said grandma. “We have a special secret.”

  Mum picked up her knife and fork. “There’s an ice house behind the barn.”

  “Really?” Dad sounded surprised.

  Peter had never heard of an ice house. He wanted to see, but first he wanted to eat and as he chewed, he peered at the sideboard and the wolf that crouched upon its top shelf.

  “He’s real,” Granddad told him yesterday. “But stuffed. We found him in one of the rooms upstairs, under the floorboards, when I was doing some re-wiring.”

  The open mouth showed rows of curved teeth, like small knives, and the eyes glistened, wet and yellow. When Peter rubbed his hands along its back, the stiff bristles scratched his skin.

  After breakfast, everyone wrapped up in coats, scarves, hats and gloves and grandma found some old wellingtons for Peter to wear. They didn’t fit very well, his feet slipped around inside, so mum stuffed some newspaper into the toes an
d that made it easier to walk.

  Grandma opened the back door and Peter’s heart jumped. So much snow! It lay in broken banks that lined the path where granddad had shovelled it aside, though a new thin layer already covered the stones.

  Grandma exclaimed. “Oh, my goodness. Would you look at it?”

  “A real white Christmas,” said mum.

  Opposite the kitchen door stood the barn where granddad parked dad’s car.

  Dad huddled into his coat. “There’s a lot of snow on that old roof. It might give way. Have you got a ladder and I’ll clear some?”

  Grandma pointed. “Oh yes. There’s a long one inside the barn. Do be careful though, Richard.”

  “I’ll help with the fires,” said mum. “Richard, can you carry the logs upstairs before you start on the barn? Is there a shovel for Peter to give granddad a hand?”

  “Yes, he left a couple here.” Grandma picked up a wooden-handled shovel that stood propped beside the door and shook the snow off. “That’s the lighter one, he said,” and she gave it to Peter. “If you follow the path, you’ll soon see him. Don’t be cold now. There’s some sausage rolls in the oven that are nearly done and I’ll make us all a hot drink, too.”

  Peter stepped onto the path and the falling flakes stuck to his anorak and gloves and even the toes of his wellington boots. A bush by the corner of the house bent under the weight of snow that lay heaped upon its twigs. Ahead, granddad’s back stooped and straightened as he heaved the snow off the path and to the side and Peter ran to catch him up.

  “There you are.” Granddad wiped his forehead with his jacket sleeve. “Whew! Hot work shifting this lot, must be at least a foot deep.”

  Peter lifted his shovel. “I’ve come to help.”

  “Good lad.” He peered ahead and squinted. “You see that gap in the trees?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s where the track goes down to the lane.” He took off his woollen hat and shook the snow away. “I’m thinking you run down there and start clearing towards me.”

  Peter glanced back at the house. His bedroom window faced out to the left of the track and when he looked back towards the trees, he guessed that the yellow flame he’d seen in the night must have appeared over to the right.