When Nights Were Cold (26 page)

But Parr also seemed to say that she had made some sort of attempt to save Hooper and this was not true. Neither was there any mention of the rope. The night before the accident, Parr had not even wanted to give up the blanket for Hooper. I replaced the bookmark and pressed the journal to my face. I thought it through. Parr had been ill too, that night, and needed warmth. Giving the rug to Hooper would have made no difference in the end.

Parr returned looking pleased with herself.

‘Did you like it?'

‘This – this is not quite how I remember it.'

‘I have lived the moment again and again.'

‘But—'

‘You were in front. You didn't see.'

‘I know but Locke said—'

‘
Locke
.' Parr spat out the name like a bad almond and glared at the wall. ‘What did she say? It was always you two against me, wasn't it? Your hours of giggling and sniping at my expense, silly girls in your bedrooms with your cocoa and stories. But she's a damned coward if she needs someone to blame for an accident. Let Locke write her own account. She doesn't understand the mountains and she never did. It was something for her to show off about to her theatre friends.'

I nodded. ‘I rather wish nobody would write anything at all. It haunts me, Parr. Does it not haunt you? Please let me come to South America so that I can have somewhere to go.'

‘Farringdon, you seem very agitated and it's concerning me.'

‘I'm not ill. I find myself in a difficult situation this evening and now this—'

‘Your hands are shaking. You look – you don't look right.'

‘I'm cold and wet.' I clasped my hands together. I could not tell whether or not they were shaking, but my whole body pulsed and I craved fresh air. ‘I'll leave. I'm sorry to have disturbed you.'

‘If the doctor wants to examine you, you must let him. A stay in hospital might seem frightening but, if the point of it is to treat you and make you better, it is a good thing.'

‘I'm leaving.'

‘Your family don't know you're here, do they? Have they got a telephone?'

Her voice was cold, malicious, as though she thought she knew best for me when she could not know anything. I took my case and stumbled for the door.

‘No, they haven't. And don't you dare, Parr. Don't you dare try to have me locked up. I came here for help.'

Parr followed me outside. She stood on the doorstep, arms akimbo, and shook her head as though bemused by my strange behaviour.

‘You threw yourself at this man who clearly only wanted one thing and now you're running through the streets of London, trying to escape to South America. You really must get a grip. If you can't, then you must get help. And if you can write a better account of our climb, then you are free to do so but this – ' she waved the journal in front of my face – ‘this is the truth and it is what the public and Hooper's family want to know.'

‘Thank you for all you did for me. I'll manage by myself.' I remembered the axe and unbuckled it from my case. ‘I'd like to return this to you.'

‘Keep it.'

‘I don't want it.'

‘I won't take it. You're not being reasonable.'

I struck the axe against the wall of the house, not particularly hard, but a loose piece of brick fell and hit the doorstep. Parr jumped back with a shriek.

‘Did you come here to kill me?' She pulled the door to her face, peered through the gap. ‘I should call the police. Get away from me.'

I dropped the axe, bewildered.

‘Parr? I wasn't going to touch you.'

I play solitaire with Father's old marble set. It was under the settee and I had forgotten about it. A layer of dust has turned it grey. There were mouse droppings in the hollows. I tipped them onto the floor and kicked them into the grate. The poker is by my feet, but the sounds from the kitchen don't worry me now. Somebody is getting on with his business and it is a comfort to hear. It must have been Mr Blunt after all – perhaps I lost sight of time and he came in once not twice – and is having a little bread and butter before bed. It can be nothing else and I find that I am almost disappointed that there is, really, little possibility of anything worse than my lodger. I make the marbles jump quickly, easily, soon plucking out the jumped ones, filling the ridge around the edge of the board. I remember all the moves from childhood. It is too easy. And there, the last one is out and I have won.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The waiting room at Paddington was almost empty. I sat in a corner with my suitcase and my ticket for the night train to North Wales. Trains screeched and hissed, guards whistled and bellowed as though the world were coming to the end. I felt as though the asylum had already come for me and screaming inmates were attacking me. I pulled my hat down over my ears and kept my head bowed in case they were following me. Dr Sowerby, Parr, Frank, nurses from the asylum, even my mother could be waiting in the shadow of a pillar.

Around me families talked of journeys, friends and luggage. A young man and his sweetheart whispered tense and serious words, but when the girl leaned over to fiddle with the lock of her case, he tried to catch my eye. I pretended not to notice. My dress and suitcase were rather smart and I looked quite ladylike, I was sure, despite my damp hair and shawl. People must think that my chaperone was just around the corner somewhere. Yet I had in my case a knife, a tent and a strong pair of nailed boots. I ached for the mountains and the rough air, nothing else, not even Frank.

I slept well on the train, was woken in the early hours by the guard knocking on compartment doors, shouting that we had arrived in Shrewsbury. I made my request to stop at Ruabon, where I would change for my next train. Shrewsbury was far from home yet still too close. The land wrinkled into thick green hills. Time slowed as the wheels clacked on, and the train curved upwards through fields and forests.

I emerged into a mild, damp day. The edges of the sky blurred the mountains with soft fog. I drew deep breaths as I looked in each direction and wondered where I should go. A few herring gulls stalked the street around the station entrance. I left my suitcase in the station hotel, giving a date for my return but not being at all sure about it. I sent a postcard to Catherine and Mother telling them that I was well and would come home soon. With my knapsack on my back and wearing a long skirt over my mountain clothes, I headed for the hills and the sea.

Was it possible that I was truly alone and could go anywhere I wished? It didn't take long to reach the wilderness. I walked and scrambled all afternoon, slipping sometimes with carelessness but not minding as I became muddy and ragged. I went quickly, as though running to save my life. My breaths were fast and shallow, and seemed to come from somewhere outside me. Sometimes I had to stop still to reassure myself that nobody was running after me.

When the sun began to drop and the rocks and grass lost their edges, I found a spot with a clear view of the coastline, the mountains, of Anglesey. With the land spread beneath like a map, I was in no danger of getting lost and it didn't matter if I did. I pitched my tent in a sheltered spot and I sat on a flat rock, rough with lichens of white and green. Sheep wailed from each direction, and I watched the world slip down into darkness.

I have never been sure but I think I spent a little more than a week in the mountains. I pitched my tent away from the beaten track and met few people on my way. I listened to the bubbling call of curlews, watched ravens play in the sky, sat on stones with sheep around me and I probably talked to them. When, occasionally, I passed other hikers, I nodded and walked quickly on so that they would not stop to talk or wonder what I was doing out there alone. I had biscuits, small pots of jam, and ate these sparingly. I picked wynberries and chewed them as I walked. I boiled up water for tea. If thoughts of Frank, Catherine or my mother entered my head, I sang to myself until I had banished them.

On the second or third morning, camped up on Y Garn, behind the Devil's Kitchen, I saw a party of boy scouts, winding round the mountainside directly towards my tent. By the time I spotted them, it was too late to move or hide so I gave them a cautious wave as they passed. They regarded me with a certain curiosity but continued on their way. I crawled into my tent to put on more clothes as it was a cold morning, and soon heard childish voices outside. I stuck my head out. Two boys had left the pack and were coming towards me.

‘May we see inside your tent?'

‘Have you seen Mr Lloyd George? He comes walking round here, we heard, but we haven't seen him.'

They were thin, cheerful boys, both freckled and smiling under their wide-brimmed hats.

I couldn't find my voice at first so my answers came out jumbled and perhaps did not make much sense, but I climbed out and allowed them to crawl in and investigate.

‘Do you ever go into the village to have a hot bath?'

‘What do you eat in winter?'

I shook my head and laughed. ‘I don't live here. No, I live in London, but I just came to think about things and decide what to do for the best.'

‘You're on the run, aren't you? Have you killed your husband?'

The boy's eyes glittered and I was tempted to say yes, to satisfy him.

‘If you have killed someone,' said his friend, ‘we won't tell anyone. We could help you live as a runaway and bring you food and things.'

‘No. I haven't killed anybody. It's much duller than that. You see . . . Well, isn't it marvellous here?'

‘You could shoot birds and cook them, if you can't go back home.'

‘Or sheep.'

‘Or boy scouts,' I said.

‘They soon ran off back to their pack, impressed. I realized how much I had enjoyed their company and that being alone was to inhabit an entirely different sort of world, one with no edges and no ripples.

It was that evening, a particularly cold night, that I began to hallucinate. I took my veronal, drifted off to sleep and when I woke I thought that I was outside the tent, trying to get in. I went round and round the tent, pulling at it, searching for the opening. When I managed to get inside, I expected to see myself in my sleeping bag but the tent was bigger and it was not mine. There were three men lying in different positions in this large, cold tent. As I stepped closer I saw that their fingers were black, their beards and whiskers were twists of ice.

All the next day I was certain that I had visited the Antarctic during the night. Somehow I had transported myself there and I persuaded myself that this was the power of the mountains. There were moments of clarity, when I laughed at myself for thinking this way and, in these moments, I thought it perhaps best if I did not stay here much longer. Then something would catch my eye – a raven turning upside down in flight or a mountain ash twisted by the wind – and my mind flicked back into its strange state. The following night the vision came again, but there was more detail in it. I could reach out and touch the men, their stiff clothes, frozen books, a torch, a cup. I walked among them, breathed gently onto their faces and tried to coax them back to life. I wanted to talk to them, you see. I wanted it badly. I asked them if they had seen Hooper anywhere because I could not find her. Their skin softened and warmed. The men began to breathe but they did not wake up.

During the days I continued to cross miles of grass and moss, scramble over rocks and along ridges, all the time trying to keep my head clear of home, Frank and my family. At night, the mountains of the Ogwen Valley and beyond became a sort of sea I had to cross in my boat – the tent – to reach the mysterious places where real explorers journeyed and to which I always returned, rocking and cowering in the wind. Daybreak brought me to land at the end of my rough journeys and someone was always there to help me to my feet and embrace me. Sometimes it was Catherine and sometimes it was Locke, Frank, or even Parr. I thought that one night I would use up the whole bottle of medicine in one go – it might be enough to take me on the full journey – but I never reached that night.

Then, one morning, I woke shivering in pale sunshine and knew that I must leave. I didn't know where I was, but I had a clear view over fields of rooftops and a chapel. I had no food left and I didn't want to travel alone any more.

As I rose to my feet to head for the village, and then whatever station was nearest, I began to form a plan. By the time I had retrieved my suitcase and boarded the train to Paddington, I knew what to do. It was a simple plan and it was not exciting but when I thought of the house in Dulwich, the three of us stuck there, miserable and half insane, I knew it would work.

A human being has just snored in my kitchen. I'm certain of it. I tiptoe into the hall, past the stairs and push open the kitchen door. A small, plump man is asleep with his head on the table. He snores again, a rumbling that ends with some chewing and a smack of his lips. Dribble trails from his mouth to his wrist. A half-full teacup stands on a pile of papers. He has grey hair and wears a suit and dark overcoat. Beside his polished black shoes is a small, brown suitcase. I watch as his back rises and falls. The air between us wobbles.

I watch him for a moment, wondering whether to fetch Mr Blunt or the poker. The snoring settles into a low purr, and I find that I want to lean forward and stroke my visitor's neck. He seems so tired. I shan't wake him yet but I must find out who he is. I step into the kitchen, reach for his suitcase but it is heavy. He catches the movement. His head lifts, turns, and he squints at me. I draw back.

‘Miss Farringdon?' He is hoarse. He swigs the cold tea and clears his throat. ‘Please – please don't call the police.'

He has a foreign accent – German, perhaps, or Dutch. I don't know how to tell.

‘What . . . ? Who . . . ?' I'm not sure which question to ask first, so I stop and wait for him.