A Spell of Winter (23 page)

‘It’s coming, it’s coming,’ said Kate, and I felt it come through me in a slithering rush, and out of me. There was more blood, then nothing but quietness inside me. It was gone. I lay back and there was a round stain on the ceiling that matched a pattern in my brain. I must have been staring at it all the time, without knowing it. I lay there flooded with something like happiness, though it was not happiness. The thing was gone and I was alive. I turned my head and saw Kate standing over a bucket. There was a slow, creaking noise coming from it, as if rust had a voice.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘Nothing. It’s nothing,’ said Kate, her face hidden from me as she bent over the bucket.

‘Don’t look at it,’ I said. I didn’t want Kate to see what it was like.

‘It’s nothing to be frightened of,’ she said. ‘It was a girl.’

The creaking noise had stopped. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘A little girl.’

‘Let me see. Show it to me.’

She stood between me and the bucket. ‘Lie still, or you’ll start yourself bleeding again.’

‘Show it to me. Kate, show it to me.’

I wouldn’t have known what it was if she hadn’t pointed. Head. Arms. Legs. It was a curled up thing, top-heavy and dark as a skinned rabbit. It squirmed slowly, but that was only the movement of the bucket as it swung from Kate’s hand. Slowly my eyes settled and the little creature became what it was. It was tied to a bloody sac but you could see its hands, its feet, its big, noticeable sex. It was a little female thing. It was not moving.

‘You were further on than we thought. I’ll take it away now,’ said Kate.

She would not tell me where she buried it. When I was better I went looking for it, first of all in the garden, then farther afield, in the woods, the orchard, the quiet corners of the kitchen garden. When I saw fresh soil I crouched down and paddled my fingers through it, but it was only where John had been digging. I looked under the silver birches where we had buried our pet finches long ago, but Kate had been too clever for me and it was not there. I had to sit for a long time with my back against the cold trunk of the birch before I had the strength to go back to the house.

*

I did not let Rob come to me at night any more. The surgeon in town had given him exercises to do, to strengthen his leg, and I sat and watched him do them. He swung his leg up and round, up and round.

‘Wasn’t that farther, Cathy? Wasn’t that farther than I got it yesterday?’

I nodded. The leg jerked as if it had a life of its own. I could not imagine touching my brother. He hopped and swung, hopped and swung. His leg would be as strong as a spider’s soon.

‘We’ll have another dance!’ panted Rob. His eyes were brilliant. ‘As soon as I’m better. You and me and Kate, like we did before. You’ll like that, won’t you, Cathy?’

I sat with my hands folded. I was neither thin nor fat now; I was nothing. Blood seeped rustily out of me, into the wad of cloth between my legs. I thought I would never stop bleeding.

‘Kate!’ I whispered from the bottom of the stairs. It was moonlight. The light fell slant through the deep little window at the turn of the stairs, on to the drugget. I was barefoot. I whispered again but she didn’t hear, and I could not bring myself to go up the stairs.

‘Kate, where did you bury her?’

I would find her. I would kneel by the grave and eat the soil from it. I would make roses grow from the grave of my girl, but they would be slim, narrow-petalled yellow roses, not the fat red ones my father had spilled all over me.

‘Kate, where did you bury her?’

I only whispered, but I heard footsteps. When we were little she had told us, ‘Don’t shout. You only need to whisper and I’ll come to you,’ and the big bag of the night had been full of whispering. She was at the top of the stairs now, in her long white nightgown with her plait of hair slipping forward over one shoulder. Her face was swollen with sleep, not my Kate’s face.

‘What is it? Are you ill?’ she asked me.

She was here but now I could not ask my question. I stared up at her, at her feet curling on the edge of the drugget and the strong column of her body. She blocked the way up.

‘Wait, I’ll come down,’ she said, and she pushed back her plait. She didn’t want me to come upstairs. It was her place, and Eileen’s, never ours. Behind her the floor creaked as if there were someone walking behind her.

‘Is Eileen there?’ I asked. ‘Can I see her?’

‘You’re not awake yet, are you, Catherine? You’re half in your dreams. It’s years since Eileen went. Come on back to bed,’ and she started down the stairs towards me.

‘I can see her behind you,’ I said. Of course Eileen was there. The night ruffled and parted, showed her for a second, then closed over itself like water. If I walked round the house I would see everyone. I would find my mother sleeping in her white room, on her pile of pillows. This time she would turn her face to me as I eased open the door. Her face would shine out from its cloud of hair. I was her daughter. She would not hurt me.

‘She would never hurt her own daughter,’ I said, but the darkness squirmed and I saw the little female thing in her dress of blood.

‘Kate, where did you bury her?’ I asked, but Kate was already going backwards as if a strong arm was pulling her up and away, away from me.

Sixteen

The next day Mr Bullivant brought over a letter for me. It was a thick cream envelope with unfamiliar black writing slanted across it.
Miss Catherine Allen
, it said. I love the sight of my name on an envelope. It looks so definite, so sure that I really exist. I fingered the envelope, wondering who had sent the letter and why it had been delivered to Ash Court. I’d open it later, when I was alone – but here was Mr Bullivant, planted as if he meant to remain. This time I’d have to ask him in, never mind what Kate thought. Every day the stepping stones I had to jump were wider apart. What did Kate think, what had Miss Gallagher seen, what did Rob guess? A forest of eyes watched me as I moved around the house, my body stiff with the stiffness of someone trying to look at ease. The stones rocked under my feet, half sunk in water which was rising fast.

Kate was feeding logs on to the fire as we went through the hall. She sat back on her heels and stared at us. She was seeing the man who had brought that long bloody night on us, not the one who really walked beside me. I thought of how we had made Mr Bullivant into a sort of ghost of himself, and wished we had not. I should have made her believe it was someone else. Her long eyes would have frightened me if they’d been turned on me with that look in them, but of course he knew nothing of what was in Kate’s mind.

‘A fine morning,’ he said to her.

‘I dare say. I’ve not been in it to find out,’ said Kate.

He raised his eyebrows at me. ‘What’s eating her?’ he whispered.

I felt myself colour as I looked back over my shoulder at Kate. I wanted to stay in the daylight world with Mr Bullivant. He had the fresh smell of morning on him from his ride, and I stood close to him, loving the smell which was like the smell of innocence. I was so tired. Kate stared straight at me, one of her hands flat on the floor, the other holding a log. I wondered what she saw. She was too sharp. Could you tell by looking at two people what lay between them? There was not enough between us, the air was thin. And there was Kate showing in her face that she remembered everything I’d said the night before.

‘I wasn’t really awake,’ I wanted to say to her. ‘I was imagining things, that’s all.’ But Kate believed in ghosts, and that they came when they were wanted. If I’d seen Eileen, it was for a reason.

I took Mr Bullivant into the conservatory. It was faintly warm, though the day was sunless, and the dusty smell of indoor soil was stronger than the smell of the orange trees.

‘I’ll ask Kate to bring you a glass of madeira,’ I said, but he shook his head.

‘I only came to deliver your letter.’

‘Strange that it was sent to you. They don’t often make a mistake, and it has my name written on it clearly.’ I looked at the address again. The writing was certainly clear, and beautiful.

‘Not really strange at all. There’s something I should tell you. It was posted inside another letter, and sent to me on purpose. If it had arrived here with that writing on it, you would never have had it. Your grandfather knows your mother’s writing.’

I was still looking at the black lettering with its smooth downstrokes and delicate slanting upstrokes. As I looked the strokes flexed themselves like the glossy wings of a blackbird. It was my name, written by my mother. She’d sat at her desk in a window looking over the sea, an open window with flowers growing in it, and she’d blotted her sheet of paper swiftly, reached for an envelope, dipped her pen and written my name. She had written the word that was me, making my name as she’d made me long ago. I touched the ink.

‘Why is she writing to me?’

‘She didn’t tell me what she was going to write. She just said she wanted to write to you, and would I make sure the letter reached you.’

‘Why? What’s made her write after all this time? Have you been telling her about me?’

He was crisping leaves in his fingers, not noticing that they were crumbling to pieces. It was dry here, the soil in the pots was dry as sand. ‘Nothing you would mind.’

‘You had no right. And nor has she – she has no right to know anything about me.’

‘Hasn’t she?’

‘No. Not any more.’

‘But at least read the letter. It may explain.’

‘It’s too late for that,’ I said. I wanted the morning world which he’d brought with him, but it had gone. He was in with us now, dragged into the story. I was never going to get away from it. My fingers were sweating. The ink was blurred on the smooth cream-laid envelope. I itched to destroy it. But I would wait, and do it where no one could watch me. I’d given away too much already.

‘She writes such good letters, too,’ he said, half-teasing, as if I were a child.

‘Does she,’ I said. ‘Well, I’ll have to take your word for that.’ Anger spurted down my fingers and I ripped the envelope across, then again the other way, and again. It was hard to tear because there were several thick sheets of paper inside, folded together, but I did it. I ripped up the black writing as if I were choking off a voice. Little pieces fluttered onto the black-and-white tiles and into the pots, and Mr Bullivant stooped down to gather them.

‘Don’t bother,’ I said. ‘I’ll pick it up later.’ I looked at the straw-coloured scattering of my letter. Some of it had fallen into a big tub where the earth was black and freshly turned. I touched it. It was moist. Someone had been digging in the tub.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Mr Bullivant. ‘You look ill. I heard you’d been ill. Come, sit down over here.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Pick the paper out of the tub. You do it. Please.’

‘Do you want to piece it together? We could have a try, but it might be a bit tricky. Still, I’m your man when it comes to restoration. Here you are, these are all the bits, I think. No, hang on, there are more under that seat.’

‘It’s no good,’ I said. ‘Don’t bother. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Of course it does. You look awful. Shall I fetch someone?’

‘Not Kate. Get Rob.’

He was gone. I sat on the edge of the tub and closed my eyes. Kate had not gone out of the house that night. She had buried my baby here, where no one would ever look for it. It was here to feed the orange trees my father had planted. Next year they would have oranges on them like lamps. Fruit and flowers together, twining out of the bones of the little female thing. Grains of faintness hissed in front of my eyes and I heard voices swinging towards me.

‘She doesn’t look at all well.’

‘We’d better get Kate.’

‘No, it was you she wanted.’

I opened my eyes. There was fresh black soil on the edge of my skirt, like a mourning border.

‘I’ve got you,’ said Rob.

He had got me. The hunt was over. Our baby was just where we sat, as close to us as his arm was around my shoulders. If he looked down and ran his fingers through the soil, he would see it too. We’d made her, and Rob didn’t even know she had existed.

‘You mind that orange tree,’ said Rob, rocking me gently. ‘Grandfather’s only just repotted it. He did it himself, you’ve never seen such a performance. Soil everywhere, Grandfather cursing, the roots up in the air. I’ll be a Dutchman if it doesn’t die on us.’

‘That tub?’ I asked stupidly. ‘That one behind me?’

‘Yes, of course. Can’t you see it’s fresh soil? Grandfather thought if the tree was in a larger pot it might fruit. But I don’t believe he’s packed down the soil. There’ll be air bubbles and the roots will rot.’

‘I thought it was Kate.’

‘Kate? Catch Kate lugging these tubs about. She’s got more sense. Of course it won’t fruit. All it ever grows is those wizened little things the size of marbles. But you know how Grandfather’s got a bee in his bonnet about these trees. All right now, Cath? You look better.’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’ He was talking to distract me, the way he did with horses when they shuddered all over, ready to shy. I knew it, but I liked it too, just as the horses did. My hands had gone slack in my lap. Rob was right, of course he was. It was my grandfather who had lifted the tree with its ball of roots and buried it in fresh black earth. The white roots – I shivered. Kate’s story was there: it had never gone away. The arm. The roots of it where it came off. My dream of the arm, its roots flowering like white violets. Let me not think of it. Let me not think of bad things. But there they were, jostling to come in like night at a window. Rob would not let me be hurt. He loved me. He had killed the boy in the wallpaper for me when he came peeling from his frieze, leaping lightly on to the floor to stand and mock me. It was not our baby in the orange tub. The little female thing had gone.

‘I am her mother,’ I thought.

A poem danced in my head. It was about a woman whose baby died after birth. The baby was gone, but the mother who had also been born that night could not die.

A mother, a mother was born.