When Nights Were Cold (13 page)

‘She's enjoying herself,' I said.

‘Then why does she scream? We are not children.' Parr's face creased into a frown as Locke and Hooper paddled in the stream. I ran to join them.

Locke crouched on a boulder at the water's edge and dangled her feet into the flow. I sat beside her and took off my boots. My feet were blistered and hot. I dipped them into the stream and let out a moan of relief as the cold water rushed round my ankles.

‘Imagine,' said Locke, ‘if you came up here all alone with just a tent and a few warm clothes, a bit of food. You could camp out on the hills for weeks and no one would know where you were. I wonder what it would be like at night.' Her eyes glistened as they roamed the landscape. She grabbed my wrist. ‘Think of the wind and the darkness, no one in the world but you.'

‘And the sheep.' I watched my feet whiten under the water's surface. Pink streaks marked the places where my boots had rubbed.

‘I don't think I could spend a night out here alone, but a little part of me wants to try. I'd bring some paper and try writing under the stars. No, but I'd freeze.'

‘You could if you had to, if you lost everything else and had nothing but your tent and boots. You'd just wander on and on through the hills, come down when you ran out of food.'

Locke swished her feet in the water, kicked them gently.

‘I'd rather do it with friends at my side. Less likely to go mad.'

‘Or we could all go mad in the mountains together.'

‘This is good. It's like washing something away, some grubbiness or scum from normal life.'

Hooper was in her boots again, walking away with Parr.

‘We'd better catch them up. Parr never waits.'

We were back at Ael y Bryn, but now the windows under the gables were open and cheerful voices called from the hall.

‘Girls, welcome back. We've been looking forward to meeting you. Are you all right? Come in now out of the rain.'

A small, slender woman bounced down the porch steps. She was in her forties or fifties, I guessed, with the same heavy eyelids as her niece, but a softer countenance. She wore a pretty white blouse and a full skirt, which trailed in the shallow puddles and made her seem unsuited for the outdoors. She reminded me at first of my mother and the comparison made me wonder at the difference between them. This feminine figure who had stood on the summit of the Matterhorn was a mountaineer disguised as a housewife.

I hobbled in my stockings, boots in my hands, across the muddy front garden. The blisters on my heels were now torn and bleeding.

‘We're just back. Mr Taylor has had a wonderful trip to Bolivia and then we spent a few days together in London while he took his research to the university. You must be Miss Farringdon.'

I was too tired to say more than
How d'you do
and smile.

Mr Taylor appeared behind her and bit on his pipe as we introduced ourselves. He was a wiry man of forty-five or fifty with hair that sprouted up from his head as though freshly blown in the wind. His eyes were intense and interested. His eyebrows came almost to meet each other in the middle then curved up and away at the sides like fish tails. The couple welcomed us into the house and we tumbled through the door as though we were in our own homes.

As we washed and dressed, they kept up a friendly interrogation by calling upstairs.

‘Was it all right on Tryfan? Not too much mist?'

‘Did you see old Evan Jones with his sheep when you went down the lane?'

‘Have you eaten well? Has Ruth looked after you? We have good meat and fish up here. You must tell us if you haven't had the best of everything.'

One by one, we went downstairs and gathered in the hall, where Mrs Taylor looked us up and down, smiling and nodding.

‘Now, Mr Taylor has been in Bolivia collecting samples of weeds and all the way from London has been telling me how he wished he were at home in Wales all along.'

‘No, I was delighted to be in Bolivia, my dear. I merely said how much I looked forward to being back in Wales. And I wasn't collecting weeds—'

‘Ah, quite right. You did tell me, didn't you? Not weeds but ferns.'

‘No, not ferns, dear, types of grass—'

‘Dearest, have you told them about their visitors? Why don't you tell them now? We might go to Dolgelley to take tea, if the young ladies aren't too tired. Were they staying at the George, dear, or the Royal?'

‘Visitors?' Parr looked up. ‘We weren't expecting anyone.'

‘Two young men. Now what were their names? They were students. They said they'd written to tell you they'd be in the area so we thought you would know, but then we looked on the hall table and saw the letter. It must have arrived after you'd left for Llanberis.'

‘One of them was Wilfred,' said Mr Taylor after some thought. ‘And I don't remember his surname, not for the life of me. He was the shorter one, wasn't he?'

We stared at each other. Apparently, none of us knew a Wilfred.

‘Are you sure they came to see us?' asked Parr.

‘Oh yes. And the other was Frank something. They were from Oxford and so very polite. Aren't they your friends, Miss Farringdon? I thought that they were. I'll have Ruth bring the letter in.'

‘I know a Frank who is at Oxford but not a Wilfred. I'm sure it's not the same Frank, though. I haven't seen him for a long time and he won't know I'm here.'

Then I realized. It must be Frank Black and it was no coincidence at all. Frank had talked to Mother and that was how he knew. Now he would find out, and might tell my family that this was not quite the gentle holiday I had described to them.

Mrs Taylor passed me the envelope. ‘I don't see why we shouldn't all meet for tea.'

‘I should like that.' I had better see Frank and talk to him directly. I opened the letter.

So my mother had had no hand in the matter and hadn't sent him to find me. Still, it seemed an exceptional coincidence and I suspected a deeper motive. Perhaps Frank and Catherine had met but – I began to create the story in my head – Catherine had been aloof and shy. He had come to enlist my help and find out whether there was any possibility that she still loved him. Or had she lost her sense of decorum and was writing sad love letters to him which he wanted her to stop? No – and this was better – they had become close again, perhaps attended a piano recital or two together, but Catherine refused to fall in love because her duty was to take care of Father. Frank wanted me to persuade her to change her mind.

‘How exciting of you, Farringdon,' said Locke. ‘I knew that the wilderness would lead you to some passionate encounter.'

‘But Frank is hardly of the wilderness. He's my neighbour in Dulwich.'

‘And you are both in the wilderness now.'

‘Stop it, Locke. It is not at all what you are thinking.'

It was agreed by the Society that, though tired and ragged, we were not altogether done in and would be delighted to take tea with Frank and Wilfred. We cleaned and bandaged our feet, buttoned and hooked ourselves into dresses, put combs in our hair and became ladies again.

I kick away a slipper, peel off a stocking to inspect my foot. It would wear me out to walk far now and the foot looks appropriately innocent. The skin is very white, soft around the toes, just a little cracked under the heel but I have no blisters or corns, no bunions. Who would suspect this long lily of a foot of having been anywhere but genteel, civilized places? I run my hand along the bone, rub my toes. But on the heel and inside the arch are darkened places, the faded stains of ancient blisters. They have a quality of rust. There's a tiny scar on the sole where I once trod barefoot on a blade of flint. I put my fingertip over the scar. It's just a little bump, a pimple, but I still remember the scream I let out.

The hotel burned bright on the edge of the estuary. Slate-roofed houses piled up on the hill behind, snagged up in pink strands of sky. I thought that Frank was lucky to be able to paint all this onto a canvas and take it home with him in his trunk. We walked onto the bridge and watched the Barmouth train as it pulled out of the station.

‘A perfect evening,' sighed Hooper. ‘Teddy would love this part, if not the climbing. I don't think he has been to Wales.'

Mr and Mrs Taylor led us to a cosy lounge with a large fire, thick carpets and deep chairs. Frank Black and a tubby dark-haired man were seated at a large table by the window. Frank was pointing to something outside. When he saw me, he jumped to his feet and said something to his friend, who looked at us all then settled his eyes on me as though he had been trying to guess. I gave Frank a smile that felt shy and uncomfortable.

I could not perceive any obvious change in Frank and yet, without Catherine nearby, or his parents either side of him, or Dulwich Park spread out behind him, he was not the Frank Black I knew. Perhaps he seemed taller than before, or his hair was darker. He had a small, rather modest moustache, which was new and very handsome. Perhaps my mother's enthusiasm for his physique had opened my eyes a little to his attractiveness.

It mattered little, for Mr and Mrs Taylor interrogated them over tea and scones. We learned that Frank and Wilfred had climbed Cader Idris that day and would have a few more days of walking and sightseeing before returning to Oxford. Frank and I were at the end of the table so were able to converse by ourselves for a few minutes as Wilfred attempted polite engagement with Parr and was met by her usual haughty indifference. Locke and Hooper rescued him by answering questions on Parr's behalf and regaling Wilfred with our adventures.

‘And what have you been painting, Frank?' I asked.

‘Landscapes, mainly. I've painted some scenes in Oxfordshire recently, but they're very poor. I'm not nearly ready to try selling them yet.' He garbled this sentence, a little uncertain of himself. ‘You're all scientists, aren't you? Is that why you're friends?'

‘We're in a Society together at university.'

‘We're all members of the Antarctic Exploration Society. In fact we are the whole Society, we four.'

I wished that Hooper had not said this. I remembered evenings in Dulwich with Frank as Wilson and myself as Shackleton and I felt foolish.

‘Ah.' A smile played around his eyes.

‘The purpose of the Society is to conduct serious research,' I said. ‘We're following Scott's preparation for his next expedition and learning from past ones.'

‘But we have a lot of larks, really, don't we?' Locke elbowed me.

I smiled. ‘Well, there'd be no point in doing it if there were no pleasure in it, would there? But we have serious intentions too.'

‘For me there'd be no pleasure in that at all,' said Wilfred. ‘It would give me nightmares, that landscape. North Wales is as wild as I like it and a little bit more. In fact, I like the world best like this, observed from a table in a hotel with hot tea.'

‘Grace, your father must be – very – ' Frank looked at me and stopped. I knew that he was remembering the incident with Catherine and the piano. He widened his eyes into a question as though I was supposed to talk about my father's condition in front of everyone.

‘He's very well indeed, thank you. And Catherine, she is enjoying—'

Locke clapped her hands. ‘Why don't you gentlemen come with us tomorrow? It's our last day and we're only going to have some fun. They can come with us, can't they, Farringdon?'

Mrs Taylor took a bite of scone and waved her hand to indicate that she had a good idea.

‘I thought it might be fun to take the train to Barmouth and have an easy day at the seaside all together,' she said. ‘What do you say? If you two would like to accompany us, we'll have a fine time.'

We arranged to meet at the station the following day. Frank slipped out to wish me goodnight.

‘Grace, I must tell you how good it is to see you again. I want you to know that I'm very sorry if I caused your family any distress with regards to Catherine. I wanted to be her friend still but we just – she just didn't seem to like me much that night. Anyway, I'm sorry for it, if there was any misunderstanding.'

‘Catherine liked you, Frank. She used to tell me so.'

‘But it was not to be.'

‘None of it was her fault.'

‘You know, if you're an artist you don't just say: very well then, I give up. The point is that you can't do anything else and I don't believe that Catherine
could have
done anything else. My father doesn't want me to be an artist, but I'm taking no notice of him and am all the more determined to succeed. I cared for Catherine, Grace, but it would never have worked. It was as though she just lost herself, and wanted to lose herself. She might have shown some courage.'

‘Perhaps you didn't try hard enough to understand. Your father doesn't want you to be an artist but he didn't stop you going to Oxford. I believe he was rather enthusiastic about it.'

‘Yes. And look at all the young women who are rebelling against their families and doing everything they can, Grace. The scientists and suffragettes and mountain climbers. Well, for goodness' sake, look at
you.
You've got so much more spirit than your sister.'

‘Please don't talk about Catherine that way.'