Seas of Snow Read online

  ‘I’ve been reading some poetry again. Perhaps you could read a little out loud for me? I’m not sure what I am in the mood for today …’

  Billy had never been one for poetry, but he remembered once in English, in between the Wordsworths and the Shakespeares and the Byrons, there was a little Rilke poem tucked away that he’d been given as homework. It didn’t make much impact on him – he much preferred a nice old traditional sonnet by one of the greats. Especially because the homework piece was part of a series of letters from one unknown poet to another random young poet who he’d never heard of. But he did remember that somewhat obscurely, Rilke had been a favourite of Gracie’s. Why she had latched onto him, he wasn’t sure. But something about it gave her comfort and solace. And that can only be a good thing.

  When they were at school, she’d told him she and her Mam used to read one of the pieces out loud, like it was a prayer or a wish or something.

  Much later in his adult life, he came across a reference to Rilke and felt inspired to find out a little more about him. It reminded him of Gracie, and anything that bonded him to her was special in his book.

  His mind drifted off as he recalled what he’d learned. Born in Prague, at the time of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Rilke lived through a terrible childhood. Peculiar, it was. He’d been forced to wear little girls’ clothes to compensate for his mother’s earlier loss of a baby girl. Although he would become known as Rainer Maria, his mother instead called him Sophia. He went on to become – said the article – one of the world’s greatest lyric writers. Wrote in German, apparently.

  Rilke had eventually died, so people said, from an infection he’d contracted after pricking himself with the thorn of a rose.

  A sad life, but an unusual one. An artistic adventure, threaded through with love and passion and withdrawal. Critics said his writing was imbued with such wisdom, mystery, depth and longing.

  Much to his surprise, Billy recalled a quote of his:

  Surely all works of art are consequences of having been in danger, of having gone to the very end in an experience, to where man can go no further.

  Where was that place? Where man can go no further? He suspected Gracie had known – had been there.

  He remembered the job in hand. ‘How about those Rilke letters?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes, I love the letters.’

  He remembered Gracie telling him as she got older, the joyous past time of blowing bubbles together with her Ma was gradually replaced by soothing, happy times together sitting and reading. Gracie had loved reading poetry out loud to her mother, and had developed a real passion for both Wordsworth and Rilke she wanted to explore and talk about. She told him how much she treasured those times, talking her Ma through her interpretations of poems. How her Ma had told her when she was a little girl, she used to like reading, too, but that she had never got the hang of poetry. Gracie thought that was funny, and in her knowing way would say that poetry held the Secret Key.

  There was a particularly long period Gracie had told him about when Joe had disappeared for ages, and the two of them had pored over a book Gracie had discovered on a dusty shelf in the library. The Rilke. In a strange kind of way, Gracie had told him, they had taken such comfort and succour in the words, had almost lured themselves into thinking maybe this time, he wasn’t coming back.

  It wasn’t to be.

  He scanned the bookshelf and spotted the small, familiar volume. Its dark brown cloth cover well worn over the years, the colour of tobacco. He felt the gold lettering etched into the spine.

  Billy turned to the page with the floral bookmark. An old, creased cardboard strip printed with a cascade of white roses. Why roses? he mused, a memory stirring somewhere …

  How should we be able to forget those ancient myths

  That are at the beginning of all peoples,

  The myths about dragons

  That at the last moment turn into princesses …

  His mind drifted back to a sunny day when he’d invented a new game for his little friend. He knew Gracie adored him. It made him feel important, big, brave.

  He would spend hours plotting clever new ideas they could play out together. He’d draw inspiration from fairy tales. But he wanted something better than mere stories, he’d wanted something real. He wanted to create a dream world where the two of them could escape for hours, perhaps losing themselves forever.

  It would be one way to keep the nightmares at bay. Every evening, as darkness fell, he would feel the familiar beat of his heart. He’d fret about war. He’d anxiously worry about his Da. He’d think what would happen to his family, if there was another war. He’d feel sick, wondering whether one day he’d be called to fight.

  Inventing games was one way he used to run away from his night fears. He would try to banish the thoughts by thinking up new things he’d be able to play with Gracie. He’d remember the story of Hansel and Gretel, and wonder if he could come up with something where a boy and a girl would find themselves in a wood. He’d remember the stories he’d heard – ancient legends and myths where dragons would turn into princes and princesses, and plot how to make them real.

  The first time they played dragons and princesses had ended with terror and tears. It started off well enough. Beautiful sunshiny day, Gracie chuckling with pleasure.

  They started the game, and the two of them were having the time of their lives.

  He let Gracie advance further into the woodland, to prepare the secret surprise of the game.

  He sneaked away in silence, so that Gracie wouldn’t see. He knew she would be pottering along, happily running onwards, away from the dragon. He wanted to surprise her with a collect­ion of flowers. This was the big surprise – he wanted to impress her with his magic – how he’d transform the dastardly dragon into a perfect prince, and to prove it, present her with a suitably royal posy of white roses. It’s not the kind of thing he would have dreamed of playing with his brothers, of course. The very idea of pretending to be a prince! They’d have never let him live that one down. But with Gracie he was free. He could be anything for her, and she would love him for it.

  He meandered back out to the edge of the glen where the pathway was strewn with rose bushes. He reached out with chubby fingers and carefully twisted then snapped the flowers from the bases of their stems. He was very pleased with himself – she was never going to guess. He heard her chuckling away in the distance, calling his dragon name in delight.

  He got lost in his thoughts for a moment, wondering whether to just collect white roses or to mix them up with other flowers. He was aware of the stillness of the air and the darkness of the shadows of the trees. He realised it was getting late, so decided he’d better hurry back to the cosiness of the wood and reveal to her the magical transformation from dragon to prince.

  Suddenly, he heard her call out with a terrible scream. ‘Billy!’ The sound of it momentarily stopped the blood pumping to his heart. His ears filled with nothingness, as sheer, black fear gripped him. A primal fear as old as time itself.

  ‘Gracie! Gracie!’ he called, running in the direction of her voice. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t see anything. In front of him was a hazy rushed blur of green and brown. He was stumbling over roots and looking wildly around, unseeingly.

  ‘Gracie!’

  The trees were closing in on him and the sky became darker. The wind began to whistle above, as a shadow swept over the trees.

  Nothing but branches and leaves. Nothing but mud. Nothing but silence.

  At last, he saw her tiny body lying on the ground.

  His worst fears rose up inside him. What had happened to her? Had she fallen? Had something frightened her?

  Then, slowly … The most terrible question of all … was she dead?

  He hurried to her side.

  ‘Gracie! Are you alright?’ She began to stir. He bent down to her, watching her as she opened her eyes. A sigh of relief overwhelmed his whole being.

  ‘What happe
ned?’

  She was curled up as if she had been asleep. Her face had that sleepiness about it everybody has when they’ve just woken up.

  He stood up, looking around. He pondered what on earth could have happened. And he wondered what he could do to make things better.

  He looked at her frightened face, and had no idea what to do. He always panicked when he had one of his nightmares, the ones where your heart races fast and you wake up with your hair sticking to your forehead. She looked how he felt after one of those night terrors. He searched his mind for something to say.

  ‘Is this some new kind of game, where The Princess goes hiding away from The Dragon?’

  He tried to keep his voice nice and normal, and even managed a little laugh, as if he was teasing her. All he wanted was to make her feel better. To stop her being frightened.

  He couldn’t make any sense of what she was saying. Something to do with a bird and hurting hands.

  He did his best to cheer her up, and they began to make their way home. As they walked back through the woods, he spotted the tangle of flowers he’d picked for her in a clump where he’d dropped them. They didn’t look nearly as pretty anymore. Just a jumble of fading colour meshed with brown muddiness. Their freshness broken into crumples. What pe­­culiar thing had happened here today? He decided to leave the flowers be.

  Ladybirds

  It was months later that Gracie found out the truth about some quite important things. It hadn’t been very long since she had had to spend the night round at Billy’s. That marvellous, fun-filled night when she learned a thing or two about anatomy.

  Some time later, she overheard a conversation that perplexed her horribly.

  ‘I lost the wee bairn,’ she was hearing Mam saying. ‘Probably for the best – it’s all God’s will. It would have been difficult for Gracie if it had survived – and Lord knows it’s hard enough providing for both of us on the buses.’

  Gracie had been dawdling on her way home from school, and had got distracted by some ladybirds which looked as if they were trailing after each other. Ladybirds were elegant, pretty little creatures, with perfectly formed dots on shiny red backs. Part of the beetle family, she knew that, and, she thought with a chuckle, she knew they did yellow poo from the times that she had held them in her hands. She loved the way they puttered about on their short stumpy legs, then at a moment’s notice could fly into the sky in a haze of red fuzziness.

  The ladybirds were dallying through the grass outside number 12, the Armstrongs’. Mam’s friend Ivy, Mrs Armstrong, lived there with Mr Armstrong and three little Armstrongs. Gracie wasn’t terribly keen on the three little Armstrongs – they were the sorts of kids that stared a lot and didn’t say very much. They were either very very clever, or very very daft, and Gracie hadn’t made her mind up which was right.

  The door to number 12 led straight into the kitchen area, and Mrs Armstrong was leaning on the Formica counter with a cup of tea in her hand. Gracie’s mother couldn’t be seen from outside, but the strains of her voice fluted onto the air and drifted outside.

  Gracie looked up from the ladybirds, and listened.

  ‘You poor, poor thing. Here, give us a cuddle,’ she heard Mrs Armstrong saying. She heard her mother muffling into Mrs Armstrong’s arms and stifling a tear.

  ‘It’s alright, you can cry, you can cry pet.’

  And with that, she saw the door push slowly shut, and the story hung in the air.

  The ladybirds were continuing on their way, apparently unabashed by what had just been said. Their shiny coats blazed in the sunshine and their grassy path was a jungle of adventures. They ploughed on unawares.

  Gracie, on the other hand, was forced to sit herself down. She squished into the green tufts, taking care to avoid any ants and dandelions. She knew her mother hadn’t been looking after any other children at home, so she couldn’t have lost one there. She contemplated the possibility that she’d been tasked to look after someone on the buses and had managed to lose him or her there. But why would that have had anything to do with Gracie – and why was Mam saying it would have been hard on her ‘if it had survived’? It was all a complete mystery.

  Later that evening, as Gracie began helping clearing away the tea things, she thought she would broach the subject.

  ‘Ma, when did you lose a wee bairn?’

  Her mother looked at her, barely disguising the surprise she felt. ‘What do you mean, pet?’ she asked, gathering her thoughts.

  ‘I was looking at the ladybirds and heard you saying you’d lost one. And that it was for the best. So I wondered what had happened?’

  Gracie’s mother sat down at the dining room table. The old lace cloth looked rather tired and worn these days, its crochet holes looping rather too large in places. The dark wood grain underneath felt solid and warm, as old as time.

  Gracie watched her Ma glance around the room. She followed her gaze. The orange walls were suddenly too bright, too bold, and as for the curtains … She suddenly hated their floral pattern. Why were things feeling so strange today?

  ‘Oh Gracie, pet. As you know, I’ve been growing a baby inside my tummy. We were going to have a little brother or sister for you, pet. But God decided it wasn’t the right thing to happen, so it didn’t happen. That’s all. Now come and give me a hug.’

  Gracie stared at her mother. Her tummy was still much more round and big than normal, it had been gradually swelling as the baby grew. The little girl felt torn between feeling horribly sad for her Ma, who was clearly devastated about this ­reve­lation … and feeling incredibly sad and confused on her own behalf. Where had this new baby brother or baby sister gone? What happened? And why? Then – a panicked thought – did her Ma lose the baby because God thought Gracie wouldn’t want it? She walked slowly towards her mother, twisting with guilt and upset and empathy.

  They hugged for the longest time. Silence embraced them, bringing them close and snug. Mam buried her face into ­Gracie’s soft skin and they sat there, Gracie curled into her lap, each drawing comfort from the other.

  After a while, her mother began weeping hard, jagged sobs, breaking down with dreadful, noisy inhalations, gulping for air between tears. She stayed buried in her daughter’s warm, milky neck, her mind filled with untold memories and sadnesses.

  ‘Is that what happened to Violet, I mean Mrs Sherwood, Ma, you know, when her baby went to Heaven?’ Gracie asked, ­quietly.

  At that, her mother collapsed into deep, uncontrollable retches, and she was rendered helpless and speechless.

  Gracie couldn’t think what to do, so she just sat there, holding on tight, stroking her mother’s hair as gently and softly as she could.

  Something in the back of her mind was joining the dots between all the adults in her life; and the notions of Heaven and joy, life and death. She wasn’t sure what to make of any of it, but she realised it was a terribly sad thing when God decided not to let you have a baby after all.

  It made her think about the day they had sat outside, blowing bubbles. The day she had learned Mam had a baby growing inside her tummy.

  She knew now that she would never meet the baby after all.

  Moonbeams

  The bath water was beginning to feel cold. Gracie began to focus on the room again. The flowers sat reassuringly in their vase; the stumpy ceramic pots were in their place. The door was slightly ajar. But other than her, the room was empty. She breathed out.

  Gracie touched the top of her head gently, water droplets trickling down her arms. He’d only stroked her softly, but it felt as if he’d left gouges of scent – almost something physical of himself, tangled up with her hair.

  She plunged deep into the water, scrubbing herself fiercely with the Lux soap. Only when her skin had become pinkly raw did she stop. She realised she was crying.

  She stepped out of the bath and wrapped herself tightly into a towel. The mirror – only a small, tarnished old thing – showed a little girl with fear in her eyes. And those e
yes were red with tears.

  Gracie bent to let the water out of the bath and waited, listening until the very last dribbles swirled out. The snowy foam had long melted, but the lingering aroma of lemon soap bubbles hung in the air. Mixed – tainted – with the dirtier smell of a man’s sweat and breath. Something profound had happened here today – even the air knew it.

  She went into her bedroom and began to dress into her nightie. It was white cotton with small, pink bows sewn into the neckline, had short puffy sleeves, and went all the way down to the floor. A modesty she appreciated somewhere deep in her being on this day, even if she couldn’t quite articulate why.

  She plonked herself on top of the bed and reached for her beloved knitted rabbit. Baby Victoria was looking up at her from the cradle on the floor, but Samson was more cuddly. More than anything right now, Gracie wanted a cuddle.

  She wanted to go and snuggle into her mother’s arms, but she didn’t want to see Uncle Joe again, and she wasn’t sure what she should say to Mam about why she was so upset.

  She peeked around the doorway and listened. The house felt silent. Making her way to the top of the stairs, she risked a glance over the banisters. She couldn’t hear Joe snoring, which is what he seemed to spend most of his time doing, but she also couldn’t hear anything else.

  The silence hummed and buzzed in her ears as she waited and wondered. Everywhere had got dark. The blood pounded noisily around inside her, as she willed her own body to be quiet. Even her own breathing seemed loud.

  She began to work her way down the stairwell, wincing at each and every creak. She passed the plates mounted on the walls, their gilded rims gleaming in the moonlight. She was aware of the intensity of the darkness, and the brightness of the moonbeams casting fierce light in streaks around the lounge.

  To her relief, there was Mam, sprawled across the settee and sleeping. No wonder she hadn’t stopped Uncle Joe – she was asleep.