Seas of Snow Read online

  Gracie made her way across the floor, her feet tap-tap-­tapping against the lino. She went up to her mother’s head and knelt down beside her, the tears beginning to prickle again in her throat.

  ‘Wake up, Mam!’

  Her thoughts were willing the sleeping figure awake but she remained silent. That beautiful face looked so serene in this light, she almost didn’t want to tell her, to disturb this calmness. But then, a trickle of black blood glinted up at her. She realised with a sudden shock that her mother wasn’t just sleeping, but had been hit and was bleeding.

  All thoughts of her own misery floated into nothingness as she tried to rouse the grown woman lying in front of her.

  ‘Mam, wake up! Wake up! Mam!’ she said out loud this time.

  The first stirrings of recognition flickered across her mother’s forehead. Slowly, she began to squint and open her eyes. One of them was crusted with blood.

  ‘Are you badly hurt?’ asked Gracie, her small hands trying to wipe away the blood.

  ‘I’m alright, pet, I’m alright. You’re a canny bairn. I’ll be alright.’

  She tried to sit up and shuddered from the pain.

  ‘Should I go and get someone? Do you need help?’ the little girl wondered.

  Her mother looked at her – the pain a heavy veil hanging over her eyes.

  ‘No, pet, I’ll be alright. Run along, dear. It’s late. Why don’t you go to bed and I’ll clear up here …’

  It was sometime later that Gracie learned Joe had struck her mother on his way out of the house, just after he’d abruptly left the bathroom.

  Gracie supposed she had been in too much of a dazed state to hear or see. She remembered feeling as if time was in suspension. All she was conscious of were the petals of the flowers, and the ripples in the water as her heart beat with a continuous, butterfly rhythm. All sounds were banished in this slow-motion world. And it wasn’t long before her vision was likewise relegated into oblivion.

  She had no idea how long she had been in this neverland. A minute? A day?

  She remembered realising that Joe had definitely gone as her eyes refocused, bringing noise and sight back into the real time world.

  At that moment, she could not comprehend what had taken place, couldn’t explain the hunger in his eyes, his grunts of – what were they? Pain? Or pleasure?

  And she had no idea at all why he had put his hand inside his trousers.

  She had no idea why he had looked at her as if he almost wanted to devour her – a famished man hungrily surveying his first sight of food. The wildness darting in his eyes made him look like a mad animal.

  She felt a pang of despairing regret as she thought perhaps Joe had lashed at her mother because he was angry with her.

  She still didn’t understand why her mother had somehow allowed him to come upstairs and enter the bathroom when she was in there. That just wasn’t allowed, wasn’t right. There was a lot Gracie didn’t understand.

  Storybook notions of good and evil were beginning to come to life for real – she sensed something very bad was happening.

  The sad truth was that Gracie’s Mam was beginning to sense the attention Joe was paying her daughter. Saw hunger in his eyes for her. How the violence in him brimmed up and spilled over time and time again, rage erupting at the slightest thing. Sometimes even without anything apparently causing the explosion. It was scaring her.

  She had become accustomed to being beaten by him, and the look of disgust in his eyes he’d scarcely bother to hide when he looked at her. Paralysed with panic, she didn’t know what to do. Would he lay a finger on Gracie? Would he dare? She took the beatings time and time again in a desperate hope that somehow she would be enough for him, enough to satiate that hunger for physical brutality he seemed to have. How had life come to this?

  Once, Joe had been her big brother, her hero. It wasn’t always like this, was it?

  Memories of how he was floated into her consciousness. His smile, his charm. His persuasive boyishness. His green, sanguine eyes. That gorgeous voice. That commanding profile. His confidence. His charisma.

  She sighed. The knack he had of getting his own way, no matter what.

  Then she remembered it wasn’t all that long before the hero big brother had shown a darker side. She saw with her own eyes how he began to take pleasure in ripping wings off insects and drowning mice. She wasn’t sure if that menacing under-current had always been there or not. He either hid it well, or something had happened to provoke it. But once it started, it was as if he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, stop.

  He told her that once, he’d tried to drown a cat but had to abort the mission because he was interrupted. And then she started hearing whisperings in the neighbourhood. About her own brother. There were rumours about a boy Joe had beaten so severely that he broke his jaw, his nose and his collar bone. That poor boy couldn’t speak or eat solids for months.

  Later, as other men were preparing for war, Joe was fighting his own battles – most involving alcohol. It wasn’t long before he was sent to prison, where he’d been for the last few years until he showed up that night when Gracie was five.

  Nobody seemed to know why he’d been locked up – and nobody dared ask. But that was the problem with Joe – nobody dared challenge him on anything, anything at all. He always found a way of threatening people, to hurt the thing most precious to them.

  So Gracie’s mother knew she had no choice. She felt she had to sacrifice herself to try to save her little girl. And to try to keep her mother safe. But if he wanted Gracie, she would do what she could to stall it. But she didn’t know if she would be able to stop it.

  Going to the police seemed futile as he would find a way to explain things, like he always did. And there was always that threat in the air, that he would find a way to punish her in ways she could not imagine.

  That time when Mr Harper had tried to step in and stop him, Joe had broken his arm and told him he would break every bone in his children’s bodies if he didn’t stop interfering. Mr Harper was about as tough and capable as they come. Seen horrors beyond mention in the War. Witnessed the extremes human beings can go to. Experienced the worst of man. But there was something about Joe that stirred in his nightmares. An evil that seemed to reek from him like a bitter odour. A jut-faced rage that would punch its way through anyone and anything.

  It was obvious that Mr Harper could have fought him, if he’d wanted to. A muscular, brave man like that. But Mr Harper told her there was something else. Said that he had to protect his family, too. And had muttered something about Joe threatening not just his children but something else. Something else precious and important.

  Gracie’s Mam had a sense what that might be and wasn’t sure what to say. She felt powerless if even big, strong Mr Harper had decided it was better not to confront him. So what could she do?

  But by accepting Joe into their home, she was also accepting the vile, poisonous darkness he brought with him. By tacitly standing by, she was allowing an unknown horror to be unleashed on her family. By watching silently, she would put in motion whatever fate awaited them.

  Masks

  So you must not be frightened

  If a sadness rises up before you

  Larger than any you have ever seen.

  Her eyes drifted back into focus and she realised she must have been daydreaming. The book was comfortable in her lap, where it had sat a thousand times before. Its faded old cover feeling familiar in her hands – she could trace the veins of the leather and smell the faint cinnamon ancientness of the pages.

  She looked at the words, her eye drawn to the turning point in the verse. How many times had she read and reread this poem, seeking solace in its wisdom and comforting embrace …

  She felt the sadness welling up inside her again, the familiar, gut-wrenching lurch that would overcome all other emotions throughout her life.

  Sadness was a wretched, raw, overwhelming sensation that would drown her in its misery, suffocating her b
reath and smearing her eyes in its salty waters. It would constrict her heart, leave her skin cold and damp one moment, hot and sticky the next.

  It made her head hurt. Swirling around in its bleating despair, carrying with it the beckoning of death, the joylessness of existence. It was as if the lights shone dimmer, the colours faded and the air grew airless.

  Sometimes she could taste the physical presence of absence.

  That loneliness would grip her – an isolation so deep and so true it tore into the core of her being. Sounds would become extinguished – as if life itself was shutting her out, cruelly. She would grow deaf and blind yet all her other senses would sharpen, agonisingly. Sheer pain would surge through her body – not just rising up before her, but rising up inside of her.

  I wandered lonely as a cloud …

  It was that inner feeling of contentment she was missing. She knew others her age did not face such struggle, such torment.

  Of course, the picture she presented to the world was a mask. What choice did she have?

  She had thought those thoughts more times than she cared to remember. The beginning, the middle and the end of the story. Her story.

  She wondered whether life really was holding her in its hand, whether she was not forgotten. She looked around the dull ­lavender walls, eyes briefly alighting on the MDF dressing table with its distinctive perfume bottle, and the ceramic pot of dying freesias. Their scent still clung faintly.

  She still had Billy. Dear, dear Billy. He visited when he could. She was always amazed by his sprightly manner and cheerful chatter. He looked so strong and solid. Her body felt frail – a mere husk. She found the efforts she made to wear her mask harder than ever these days. Especially as the physical pain that twisted inside her overwhelmed her, made her breathless.

  But having Billy helped – knowing he was there for her, that he still cared, still forged a link for her to their shared past.

  Billy had never married. She often wondered why – whether it was because of what had … happened? Or whether he simply hadn’t found the right person? Or perhaps he was too busy with work – running your own business must be time-­consuming at best and exhausting at worse – and the stress! She did wish, though, that he perhaps had someone special he could talk to – about the ups and downs of the day – and the fierce imaginings of his heart. What a pity that Billy Harper didn’t have children. She couldn’t think of anyone in the world who built better dens, came up with better games, or told better ­stories …

  The day after Gracie found her mother bleeding in the moonbeams, she resolved to tell Billy about what life at home was really like these days. She wasn’t quite sure how she would find the words, but she felt too scared and too young to do anything else. It wasn’t as if Mam was doing anything.

  She thought about her mother. So sweet smelling – she always used Lux soap and had a wonderful fresh almondness about her. Her hands were soft and her cheeks were powdered pink and pretty. She had lovely deep-green eyes which looked like ponds in a wood. Lately, they had lost their sheen, and her voice – which had once been bright and full of laughter – had gone quiet and tremulous.

  Some things remained the same. Ma had one or two luxuries that Gracie wasn’t allowed to touch. She only once dared to dip into the magical Ponds Cold Cream and tried to copy what she had seen her mother do a hundred times, but it made her shudder with cold – it was icky and horrible and felt freezing cold on her skin. She had thought it would be an extraordinary feeling – something special and wondrous and grown-up. Instead it was shockingly cold and frankly, her mother was ­welcome to it.

  The other luxury was a small bottle of a French fragrance – which of course had to be sophisticated purely and simply because it was French. Nina Ricci’s L’Air du Temps sat prettily on the dressing table. It was a beautiful, delicate bottle, topped with two birds either kissing or pecking each other – Gracie could never be sure – as a stopper. It smelt like heaven, and as a special treat sometimes she would be allowed to have a very small dab on her wrist.

  Gracie wasn’t sure what her Ma did to get money, but she knew it was something to do with the buses. She thought maybe a conductress? She certainly came back most days with stories of all the different passengers and had lots of stories of the Yanks on the buses during the War. One time one of those Yanks had a pack of peanuts – monkey nuts all in the shell. Gracie’s Ma told him they were her favourite food – but she hadn’t had them since before the War. To her complete surprise, he gave her the whole bag! It was things like this that made working on the buses such fun – she could meet people and natter. But she was only small so she had to come across as important or she wouldn’t be able to do her job properly. She would tell Gracie how she used to love standing up to the rowdy lads and putting them in their places – a weensy five footer like her.

  Gracie observed that she wasn’t much good at standing up to Uncle Joe. She may well be able to tackle a bunch of misfits on a bus, but she didn’t seem to know where to begin about her own brother.

  Gracie wondered about Joe. Why hadn’t her mother ever mentioned him before? Where had he been all these years? Why was he living with them now? What did he do to get money?

  She preferred it when Billy’s Da used to come around and help fix things and sort things out. He was really nice to her, and really nice to her Ma, too. She would wish she and her Ma could be part of Billy’s family. Everyone got on with each other and were the best of friends. Even the grown-ups. Although Mrs Harper was always too busy doing her own chores to come over much. But Mr Harper often did, mending things that broke and doing painting and things. Sometimes Gracie would catch sight of him giving her Ma a little tickle to cheer her up. He was so, so nice. Once, she even saw him give her Ma a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Can I go out and play, Mam?’ Gracie had said.

  The two adults jumped slightly – they seemed to have forgotten she was there.

  ‘Of course, pet, be good,’ her Ma had murmured.

  Gracie had skipped out to join Billy.

  Hours later when she came home exhausted, after building dens which turned into castles and squealing with delight when Billy kept catching her in tag, she found Mr Harper was still there. He must have got very hot with all that plumbing, because he was just pulling up the braces of his dungarees as he was coming down the stairs.

  ‘Bye then, little one,’ he said to Gracie, patting her on the head, ‘the pipes are all sorted now,’ he added, glancing backwards as Gracie’s mother came down the stairs after him.

  ‘Bye you,’ he said to Gracie’s Ma.

  Creatures

  The lavender could be oppressive after a while. Fleeting scents of a past life would wash over her, at times soft and sweet, at others fugging and constricting in her throat. And the walls would smother her with their neat rigidness. So sterile, so ­clinical. A memory would swell up inside her – something to do with a small, tight room where all around were the silhouettes of pencils. But that was another time, another place.

  Here, today, the detergent acidity of freshly mopped floors and a lingering odour of old skin in the corridors wafted into the lavender room. There was scant comfort outside today. Breezes of apple blossom discarded their snows across the lawn. Pretty, delicate, reminiscent of a fragility she had inside. For some reason the petal snowflakes conjured up a darker, more brutal thought. She let her eyelids droop slightly and allowed the focus of her watery irises grow to fuzz. The seas of snow blurred against the window pane and a misty whiteness caressed her to sleep.

  The door slammed open and the fierce light flooded in. Gracie, startled into alertness, hovered at the top of the stairwell to see what was happening.

  A stumbling Joe crashed into the hallway and smashed the console to the ground. A yellow china vase splintered across the floor, a trickle of water seeping slowly out, bleeding quietly onto the lino. A single white rose scattered its petals in a slow motion flurry through the air and suddenly – he stoppe
d, as if he felt someone’s presence.

  She could smell him from up here. That familiar treaclish odour revolted her – ash mixed with a sour sweatiness, reeking into the air around him.

  A cold clamminess gripped her. She could see he couldn’t steady himself, and that frightened her. The orange walls downstairs had never looked so sickly. The incongruous, floral backdrop of a mad man. A nightmare unfolding before her very eyes.

  Beneath the dark, intense brows, his eyes stilled and settled. As if he had found his quarry, the predator savoured the moment. He found himself compelled by an overwhelming need to penetrate her gaze.

  He could see her lashes, fronding her languid eyes, and kiss curls of blondness framing her sweet, angel face. Her rose-cheeked softness and milky skin called to him, barely perceptibly. That citrus, lemony scent lingered in the air between them, teasing him. She was begging him to go to her, he could see that. She had a look of yearning in her, and he could tell that her heart was beating in anticipation, like a small, woodland creature. If he stilled to a perfect pause, he could see the urgent rise and fall of her breathing beneath her cotton dress. A still boyish chest with the trace of pink nipples poking softly under the whiteness of the fabric. The faint outline of her waist … He allowed himself a glance at those tawny, sun-kissed legs. A downy velvetness catching the light, waiting for his touch. He felt the moment and let it hang in the air. Aware of a primal deepening of his own core, he relished knowing what was to come next.

  As a boy, the instants that stayed with him were the transitory moments between recognition and fear, desire and relent. When the fly would give up the struggle and relax into defeat. One wing, two. Crushed and squidged between chubby, toddler hands. But nothing as satisfying as that moment just before – when the prey would collapse into submission, seemingly aware that resistance was futile. The moment the tiny insect would stop and sigh – preparing itself for the agonies to come. The moment it relented and, tacitly, acknowledged this was what it wanted, too.