Byker Books

It was dusk when Elizabeth arrived home from work. It had briefly been a wondrous January sunset, but the light had faded and a chill had set in. A single light glowed in the silhouette of her moorland cottage. The distorted branches of the windswept oak that some optimist had planted in the garden, perhaps when the house was new, shimmered grey and blue. Not the kind of night to be out in the open she thought as she tucked the car into the garage. Not the kind of night to be trapped indoors either, the way things were. She paused at her front door and listened to the rural stillness. She could hear the cold air sinking down into the valley, the first crackle of frost, the water crisping into ice. She drank in the cold splendours of the evening sky, so much sharper, deeper than an urban sky, listened to each ringing star as it revealed itself.

 

She loved winter's spectacular transformations, but she also feared its deathly embrace. Just last week she had found a robin frozen solid on her doorstep and a trapped fox hard as iron in the hedgerow at the bottom of her garden. She breathed deeply the pure air and shivered as she turned the key in the lock. As she entered she heard a shrill red cry, piercing, close at hand in the dark as some animal met its doom. She closed the door, hung up her coat and then noticed that the hallway was blue with cold. 'Not again!' she sighed.

Elizabeth turned the thermostat up and climbed the stairs. Her mother was in bed wearing her woollen hat, scarf and gloves.

'Are you trying to polish me off?' she demanded. 'It's like an ice box this house. Like a deep freeze.

It's criminal what you're doing to me. Don't know why we had to come and live in this godforsaken dump in the middle of a field in the middle of nowhere. Where've you been anyway? It's late and I've had nothing since breakfast.'

'Didn't Debbie give you anything? What do you mean nothing since breakfast?'

 

'I told her to sling her hook. I don't want socialist workers looking after me. I've got a daughter haven't I?'

 

'You keep switching the thermostat down. I've shown you how to use the thermostat. If I've shown you once I've shown you a thousand times.'

 

'It was too hot. It's either too hot or too cold in this house. It's never right.'

 

'Have you really had nothing to eat all day?'

'That's what I said didn't I?'

 

'And if I ring Debbie she'll tell me the same story will she?'

'You'd believe her before your own mother wouldn't you?'

'Oh I can do without this. I've had a hard day and I can't go through this nonsense again. I'll do a meal and you can either come and eat it or you can wallow in your self pity. It's up to you.'

Downstairs Elizabeth checked the dishwasher to see if the carer had given mother her midday meal and sure enough the dishes were there. She put a lasagne in the oven to cook and took some broccoli and sweetcorn from the freezer. She poured a glass of red wine and started to drink it too quickly as she tried to stifle the guilt welling inside her. She knew that if she were a good daughter she would stay at home and look after mother, but she didn't want to give up her job. It wasn't just the money, it was more a question of self worth.

 

She was good at her job, valued and liked. With mother she felt imprisoned, victimised, even despised. It wasn't her mother's fault, it wasn't her own, it was just one of those tragic combinations of personalities, circumstances and fate that led to people tormenting each other in a mutually destructive relationship. Of course it would have been different if her father had not buggered off to Australia, if she had not been an only child, if her mother had not started to lose her marbles, if she'd stuck with Sandy and not lost him through some misplaced sense of duty. If, if if. No point in lamenting one's misfortune. Every obstacle was an opportunity as she kept telling people at work.

'Aren't you ready yet?' It was mother standing at the kitchen door. She had her coat on over her nightdress.

'It'll be another half an hour yet. I've only just put it in.'

'Put what in? You're talking gibberish again.'

'I'll have your tea ready in half an hour. You said you hadn't eaten all day.'

'Don't be ridiculous! I've been stuffing myself all day. I need some exercise now. People eat far too much these days. Look at you. You need to lose a couple of stone. Look at the belly on you. You'd think you were pregnant.' She started to laugh. 'Pregnant! You!'

Elizabeth put her glass down on the kitchen bench and took her mother by the arm. 'Now why don't you just take your coat off and sit down and watch the television until your tea's ready? ' knowing that it wouldn't work.

'Get your hands off me you upstart you! I'll not be molested by a commoner! Television indeed. I have acquaintances to meet. Do that again and I shall call for help.'

 

As mother headed for the front door Elizabeth recalled the frozen robin on the doorstep. She wondered how long it would take for an old person to die from hypothermia. There was almost a certain dignity in being frozen solid, for freezing is a kind of preservative she thought as she tipped out some broccoli and sweetcorn into a bowl. The old Eskimo women knew how to do it. Once their teeth had rotted, so that they could no longer perform their economic function of chewing (and thereby softening) seal skins, they simply walked out to their deaths in the icy wilderness. But we are far too civilised for that, she thought.

Elizabeth put the frozen vegetables into the microwave as the front door slammed. She slurped her wine rebelliously. Then the bell rang.

'Somebody's playing tricks. The whole street's disappeared. There's nothing but white what do they call the stuff... countryside out there. I can't think what's happened to the Brennans. They had a large conservatory. It will have something to do with immigration, mark my words. Is the tea ready yet? Oh this house is like an ice box! I'll have to keep my coat on. I'll have my tea in the front room, Elizabeth dear, if you can be bothered.'

A large anticyclone had settled over Russia and easterly winds were blowing in icy air from Siberia. The weather forecasters were predicting it could be the coldest winter since 1947. Elizabeth rang home from her office. Debbie the carer answered. Everything was fine. Elizabeth's mother had had her breakfast and a hot bath and was having her hair done.

So what's this all about? The old witch is just putting it on. Mother hadn't wanted to move, but Elizabeth had decided to put her own needs first for once. She had the chance to work for a small firm of solicitors in a beautiful Dales village and live in a house in a spectacular setting. As she was pushing fifty it seemed too good to miss. Mother would settle, eventually. She might even appreciate it with a bit of luck. Enough said? No, the guilt still kept on prodding her like an icy shard. A daughter's duty. An only daughter's inescapable burden. What if her mother didn't settle? She'd lived in that large Victorian house in Gateshead all her married life. Perhaps it was cruel. Too much of an upheaval. At eighty three! But then some old people get a new lease of life when they embrace change. So perhaps ... The phone rang and Elizabeth got down to business with some relief.

'You've got lovely soft hair, you have, Martha. I bet you was a stunner when you were young.'

'Just be a bit more gentle with the brush will you, er... what's your name?'

'Debbie, Mrs Potts, short for Deborah. I'm saying I bet you was a stunner when you were in yer twenties. I bet you broke a few hearts. You don't mind if I call you Martha, do you?'

'I keep forgetting names. There was a different girl looked after me in Leeds. She was called... you see I've forgotten. What were you saying?'

'I bet you have loads of fellers after you. Eh Martha? You've got a lovely bone structure. What colour was yer hair?'

'I didn't want to come here you know. I was happy in Low Fell. The Brennans lived next door, you know. But I don't suppose you know them. I didn't deserve it. I'd done nothing wrong. It was my daughter, you see. She wanted to punish me.'

'Punish you? Whatever for?'

'Misdemeanours, minor misdemeanours. Do you know you've got cold hands, Deborah?'

'Oh I'm sorry Martha. Perhaps I should warm em up. But now you come to mention it, the house is cold. Have you got the central heating on?'

'Cold as ice your hands. Colder than a daughter's heart.'

'The thermostat's been turned down Mrs Potts. That's why it's a bit nippy. You shouldn't have turned it right down when there's a cold spell on. Your pipes could freeze. There, I've turned it up to twenty. Your daughter says you shouldn't mess about with the thermostat, just leave it.'

'You've been talking to her, have you?'

'She rings me to see how you're getting on.'

'I do not deserve this. Incarcerated for no good reason. In the Fell I could walk to the shops. There are no shops here, just flaming countryside. I told her I was happy but she ignored me, put her own self first. And because I'm a hindrance she has me locked up.'

'I think you're being a bit harsh, Martha. Your daughter loves you like a good daughter should love her mother. She really does.'

'Oh for goodness sake, woman, spare me the sentiment. I think I know my own daughter.'

Martha shivered. Debbie brought a basin of warm water from the kitchen.

'The cold kept me awake last night,' said Martha.

 

'It was minus ten according to the news.'

 

'I could feel it in my bones. In my head.'

 

'Maybe you need an extra blanket.'

'It came in through the window.'

 

'Through the window?'

 

'It stuck its knives into my joints, into my wrists, my hips, my ankles. Sharp, stabbing pains. Then it infiltrated my brain. It started scuffling around like a, like a... demented rat. So I thought I'm not having this. I haven't come this far to let a bit of cold snuff me out. So I gave it what for.'

'You gave it what?'

 

'I thought stuff this for a game of soldiers.'

 

'You gave it what for?'

 

'I got up, donned my dressing gown, went downstairs and unlocked the door. I went outside and I told it.'

 

'You told it?'

 

'Good and proper. About intruding into people's lives. Invasion of privacy. It's in the Magna Carta, apparently.'

 

'I've never really understood about the Magna Carta. Would you like a hot drink while I'm doing your feet?'

 

'I doubt if hot drinks are permitted outside meal times.'

 

'Oh Martha, come on. You've got a lovely house. I wish I lived in a house as nice as this one. It's not a prison.'

 

'I can't stand the noises here.'

 

'Noises? But it's ever so quiet out here surrounded by fields. No traffic.'

 

'There's always things killing each other.'

'How do you mean?'

'Birds of prey. You can see them from my bedroom window. A big bird with a curved beak and talons pecking the guts out of a mouse. A big black and white bird trying to peck the eyes out of a wounded pigeon.'

'Well that's nature innit? Survival of the fittest.'

'That's why she's brought me here. She's going to peck my eyes out, then eat my innards.'

'I think you need a nice cup of tea Martha. I'll just go and put the kettle on. Fancy a mince pie?'

'As long as you don't forget my feet.'

Elizabeth was visiting a client some seventy miles from home when she heard the severe weather warning. A cold front bringing a band of heavy snow was sweeping in from the east. 'You'd better make tracks,' he'd said when she expressed anxiety. She was particularly concerned about the steep hill from the village to her home. It was a low priority for the gritters. The snow was already falling as she closed the car door and made for the A1. Elizabeth drove faster than normal. She'd have to make it home. Mother could not be left alone.

 

She tried not to feel resentful, but it was hard. She chilled at the thought of the cold house, the battle over the thermostat, the complaining old lady stuck in bed with her stupid hat on, the criticism, the moans, the eccentricities, the sad predictability of it all. Why could she not love her mother? Had she ever loved her? She had this strong sense of duty, constant naggings of how she ought to feel, how she should behave; but really oughts and shoulds shouldn't come into it. There was another 'should' falling like a silent snowflake. She should be grateful that her mother had endured the dangers of childbirth to give her life, she should be thankful for the care and protection that had nurtured her through childhood. There were all those illnesses, for instance. And then her mother had tolerated, after a fashion, all her teenage petulance and irresponsibility. Yes she was grateful; but there was nothing that you could call love.

 
As the falling snow thickened, she switched the wipers on to full speed.

Martha tipped into the bin the sandwiches which Debbie, as she liked to call herself, had prepared for her before she had left early so as to be able to drive down the steep hill to the village before the snow was too bad. That's her story!

It wasn't sensible to prepare food after tending to someone's feet. They should teach hygiene to these social workers. Oh but Elizabeth would not like that. She was not a social worker, certainly not a socialist worker. She was a private something or other from an agency. Well she might have been but she wasn't a daughter.

Martha looked out of the window at the white wilderness outside. The snow was trying to suffocate her, trying to force its way through the window, blocking the doorways, sneaking down the chimneys. And the house was getting colder. It was probably on the same side as the snow. The were in cahoots with each other, collaborating in order to squeeze the warm breath out of her. Then the noises started up, the scratching inside her head, like rats scrambling to and fro. She started to put her coat and hat on for bed when the phone rang.

'Mother?' Are you OK? I just got a text from Debbie saying she had to leave early, but she left you your tea.'

'She can't do feet that socialist worker. She's no chiropodist. In Low Fell I used to have that Mr Bailey come round. He could do feet a treat.'

'Look I'm rushing to get home, but I just wanted to know you're alright. Is the house warm?'

'It's either too hot or too cold. It's never right.'

'Have you turned the thermostat up? It should be on eighteen at least.'

'The snow's trying to get in and the house is turning into an ice box. You'll have to get it all seen to when you get home. You shouldn't be away from home. You are neglecting your filial duties. I missed having a son but I thought at least if I had to put up with a daughter, she'd be around to look after me when I grew old. I saw that as some sort of compen...'

'Look I've got to go now, start driving again. I just wanted to know you were OK. Just wrap up warm, get a hot water bottle, go to bed and I'll see you as soon as I get home.'

'Not if I see you first you won't.'

The snow had passed and the frost was beginning to bite as the clouds cleared. It formed ghostly fronds on Martha's bedroom window, it started to penetrate the bark of the old oak tree in the garden. It held streams at icepoint, stopped waterfalls in their tracks, froze foxes' breath. Martha lay and listened to its crackling encroachment. 'Godforsaken place this is,' she muttered to herself as she lay waiting for the attack. It would weasel its way in through the window frames and use its icicles to prod and poke her. It would needle into her joints, stinging and stiffening. Her knuckles, her wrists, her knees, her hips would harden and lock her with pain. Then the scuffling inside her head would begin... There was a loud crack like a rifle shot as the frost split the trunk of the windswept tangled oak in the garden and Martha decided she would not be a passive victim. She would confront the enemy on its own territory.

Elizabeth's car slithered at the first sharp incline on the steep hill to her home. Four times she attempted to climb the one in five gradient, four times she slid back, until she ended stranded in a ditch. From the boot she took her winter walking shoes, a torch and a spade and set off up the steep and treacherous road. There was no response to her phone calls and as she struggled through the deep snowdrifts she grew more and more concerned about her mother. If she'd come to some harm, how the hell would she get help to her? An ambulance would never make it. Elizabeth castigated herself for being preoccupied with her job. There'd been plenty of warning of the snow and she knew there might be travel problems. She should have cancelled a couple of appointments and made sure she was never more than an hour away from her house. If anything had happened to her ...

When Elizabeth reached the top of the hill she paused for breath and wrapped her scarf more tightly round her neck. The moon spread a ghostly grey-blue light which was reflected by the virgin snow. The catch on the garden gate was jammed with frost and she had to kick the thing open. There in front of the tree was the outline of her mother with her long fur coat and hat. What the hell was she thinking about, coming outside on a night like this? The woman was impossible!

 

Elizabeth approached quietly for fear of startling her. The old woman was intrigued by something near the tree. As she neared, Elizabeth could see that in fact it was the tree itself that held her attention. Its trunk had been split asunder by the frost. 'It's time to come inside mother,' she said gently and put her arm around her shoulders tenderly. But mother did not respond. She was stiff and cold, bitterly cold, stone cold. She had become a statue, frozen to the spot.

Elizabeth stared into the black, lifeless eyes and saw a reflection of a perfect full moon.

 

This was why she'd moved to the country.