Ghosts of Winter (30 page)

“What’s that?”

“I’m pregnant again. Madeline’s going to have a little brother or sister, due in August.”

“That’s wonderful, Jeanne! I’m so happy for you.” And I was. It wouldn’t have been my choice, to be pregnant with my second child before I reached twenty-six, especially while trying to hold down two jobs, but I could hear the joy in my sister’s tone.

“I want Madeline and the new baby to know their Auntie Ros. I think they could learn a lot from you.”

“Do you really?” My heart pulsed with unexpected excitement and happiness.

“Yes. Anyway, why the hell are you in County Durham?”

“I don’t think you’ll believe it.” I told her about Winter. My nervousness returned briefly, at the notion I’d had such good fortune from a family friend and she had not, but Jeanne did not seem in the least envious. She didn’t remember Auntie Edie at all, and told me she thought I was “incredibly brave” for taking on such a project. I didn’t admit the decision hadn’t seemed at all brave at the time, but had rather offered me an escape route. I understood, as we talked, that for my sister, being happy in her own life made it very simple for her to be happy for me. Her contented marriage and children were everything to her, and with such a blissful existence, she wanted the best for me as well.

And I realised my own lack of contentment, with Francesca or with my chosen career path, had always made it difficult for me to feel happy for anyone else, and made me fear their judgement of me. I could deal with my sister now without intimidation or resentment, and I could understand her way of looking at life. If I could resurrect my relationship with my sister, it made me wonder what I could achieve with Anna too.

 As though she’d tracked my thoughts, Jeanne changed the subject. “Do you ever hear from Francesca?”

The tension returned slightly. “No.”

“Oh, I just wondered...I saw her in town the other day.”

“Really?” It was difficult to hide my interest in this information.

“Yes. She’s had her hair cut, so I didn’t recognise her at first, but she said hello as we passed.”

“She did?”

“Yes.”

“Did she look…happy?” I asked, fearing the answer.

“Well, the thing is, Ros…” Jeanne’s voice trailed off as though she didn’t want to reveal something.

“Yes? Look, just tell me.”

“Okay, she was with someone. A woman. I’d say they were more than friends.”

My heart stuttered, and I wasn’t sure quite how my body was reacting to this news. “You think?”

“They were holding hands.”

“I’d say you were right then. Did she look happy?”

“Yes. They both did actually. I’m sorry, Ros.” It was Jeanne’s obvious sympathy that made me comprehend I didn’t need it, the news was good. I wanted to know Francesca had moved on and found happiness. I felt a twinge of sadness, maybe even a lingering trace of jealousy, at the thought of another woman holding hands with my Francesca. But now I found I could let go of her. In fact, I knew I already had done.

“Don’t be sorry,” I told my sister. “I’m glad she’s happy.”

“Oh!” Jeanne sounded surprised. Then she asked, in a new tone, “So, is there someone special up there?”

My mind flew instantly, irrevocably, to Anna. But I could lay no claim to her. “No,” I replied. “At least, there was someone I was interested in, but I think I fucked it up with her.”

“How did you manage that?” I was briefly transported back to our younger years when, now and again, we’d shared sisterly chats. The urge to confide in her had left me by my late teens, when the age gap between us had seemed widest and the differences in our personalities and aspirations had become more marked. But now, on the other side of those turbulent years, having come through so much, I was compelled to rekindle some level of intimacy with her. I wanted to tell her the story of what had happened with Anna. At the same time though, I didn’t want to give Jeanne an excuse to begin to pity or lecture me again.

“It’s a long story.” I decided to risk it. “Things were going really well. But I sort of freaked out. She’s so perfect. I suppose I thought I had nothing to offer someone like that. Not until I felt a bit more...secure.”

“Oh God, Ros, you’ve got so much to offer!” Jeanne’s tone was enthusiastic, and I appreciated the reassurance from someone who had often been my harshest critic.

“I’m beginning to see that now. But it might well be too late.”

 “And you let this get in the way of what was happening with this girl?”

“Her name’s Anna. And yes, I suppose I did. Big time, actually.”

“Can you try again with her?”

“I don’t know. I think she’s dating someone else.” Even saying it was painful.

“Maybe she wants you to fight a bit harder for her.”

“Do you think?” I didn’t want to cling to false hopes, but it wasn’t such a far-fetched idea.

“I don’t know, but if you like her, it’s worth trying, isn’t it?”

“You’re right.” I smiled even though she couldn’t see me. “Thank you.”

“I guess this is what sisters are for.”

“I’ve not been a very good sister.”

“Neither of us has, Ros. We’re going to change that.”

“Yes, we are.” I replied with conviction. “Are you going to come up and visit sometime?”

“Of course. And you must come down here soon. And get yourself online so we can be in touch more often.”

“I will. I promise.”

“I better go now, Madeline’s trying to pull the phone out of my hands.”

“Go on. I probably ought to be making cups of tea for the workers by now.”

“Talk to you soon, Ros.”

“Yes. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I ended the call and stared at the phone as though it had worked some kind of miracle. In some ways it had. I understood I’d never really known my sister before, and I felt sadness for the years we’d missed, combined with a little thrill at what the future held. I really wanted to be friends with Jeanne.

Her advice about Anna made sense too. Buoyed by the conversation with Jeanne, and the prospect of a much brighter future, I decided the workmen could wait a little longer for their morning tea and coffee and instead scrolled through the phone until I found Anna’s number. I dialled before I could think twice about it.

I listened to the rings, wondering what I was going to say when she answered. The phone rang for much longer than it usually did. Then the voicemail answered. I’d never known Anna to be far from her phone. “Anna, it’s Ros. I want to talk to you. I’ll call again later.”

Part of me was elated with relief and optimism. But somehow the situation with Anna seemed worse for it. I wanted to share my new happier mindset with Anna. I wanted her to see the progress at Winter. I wanted her to meet Jeanne. And now she wouldn’t even take my call.

*

Thankfully, I was occupied for most of the afternoon, going from room to room with the electrician, who wanted to confirm things such as the placement of light switches with me. Towards the end of the afternoon the chimney expert arrived to check the fireplaces and chimneys. He told me as soon as they’d been professionally cleaned, they would be perfectly safe to use. The thought of lighting a fire in one of the grand fireplaces, warming the room with the glow of dancing flames, and seeing smoke billow from the chimney, gave me a real thrill. Winter was gradually getting its life force back. I knew then how connected I felt with my home, and despite everything, I smiled. I couldn’t wait for Jeanne to see Winter.

The work on the house had to stop once it grew dark, which, this being mid-January, was still before five o’clock. As twilight deepened and, the house empty once more, I grew accustomed to the silence again, Winter and I relaxed together. I switched on a lamp for the sake of the warm, yellow glow and heated a pan of vegetable soup on my camping stove. At some point in the next week I had someone coming to the house to tell me whether the old range in the downstairs kitchen was suitable for renovation. I looked forward to being able to cook a meal for myself other than the soup or pasta that I could manage on my camping cooker.

Eventually, I found relaxation gave way to restlessness. The satisfaction resulting from my conversation with my sister was with me still, but it was at war with thoughts of Anna. Not being able to talk to her on the phone left me hovering in a vacuum. I didn’t know whether to begin the difficult process of trying to forget about her and the potential between us, or whether I could still hope, making it worth planning a way to fight for her affections. Hoping for a resolution, I grabbed the phone and dialled her number again. It rang, rang some more, then went to voicemail again. I knew Anna wouldn’t be at work at this time. She was ignoring me. The thought hurt more than it should have done. “Anna, it’s Ros again. Please can we talk?”

So much had happened. I was at the beginning of a relationship with my sister that promised to be better than anything we’d shared before; I had a real sense of my mother being proud of me; Winter was progressing nicely, as the lingering odours of varnish and cut wood told me; I’d met, and spent the night with, a phenomenal woman. And yet here I was, in a quickly darkening room, on my own, longing for something I couldn’t have. A lot had changed from when I’d come here in November, but my life appeared to be in much the same shape. Was this going to be the perpetual state of my existence for the rest of my time? However optimistic I felt, it was all for nothing if I couldn’t translate the feeling into the way my life played out.

Unable to sit still and contemplate this for any longer, I decided it was time to have a look around the house and inspect what work had been done today. I found it a comforting ritual, going from room to room, taking stock of the progress bringing the house into the present century. I left my hideaway in the Blue Drawing Room and headed upstairs. The old, mouldering carpet had been removed, and the steps looked rather sorry for themselves stripped bare. I had a meeting with an interior designer next week, another friend of Anna’s, who was an expert on period properties. The prospect made me a little nervous, for I had the impression interior designers were used to far more savvy and artistic clients than I was. I still found it hard to understand I even had the money to pay for an interior designer, having never been able to afford more than a pot of paint and a brush when it came to decorating in my previous homes. Auntie Edie’s money was dwindling gradually, but I was surprised by how much was left. I saw it as Auntie Edie’s money for Winter, not mine, but it still kept the roof over my head and provided me with my meals. I would be forever grateful for the chance she had given me, the honour of bringing Winter back from its decline.

The landing at the top of the stairs was as bare as the stairs themselves, the floorboards naked and partially sanded. Some work was being done to the windows here, and one had been removed and boarded over. I opened the door ahead of me and peered into the Red Bedroom. The old bed was still there, draped in dustsheets. I intended to keep what scant furniture there was in the property, and consult an antiques restorer when the timing was appropriate. Some of the floorboards had needed to be replaced in this room, and I saw this work had been completed. There was a layer of white dust coating everything, the consequence of the electrician chiselling at the plaster. His channels were still open, and the new wiring was visible, tucked neatly inside. I still had power for the time being, as the electrician had left most of the old system in place for me while he fitted the replacement circuit. He promised I wouldn’t be without electricity for more than a day, for which I was grateful.

It had grown completely dark outside, and the first floor was a shadowy place with the few working electric light bulbs illuminating it. I’d planned to go up to the attics and see what had been done up there, but something about the deepening night deterred me. The dark corners and passageways of Winter did not frighten me, but they were still not wholly familiar.

At night, I always felt I was exploring someone else’s house. My knowledge of the long period of time the house had stood empty made that feeling even worse. The last people to call this their home had lived here in the early 1930s. Life had been so different in those days. I had a very good grasp of the events of that time, of what the people who lived here might have worn, but they were so far removed from me, so very different, that any traces of themselves left in this house might as well have come from another world. Winter had never seen truly modern life, and I never felt it more than when I wandered around its empty rooms in the evening.

I wasn’t unwelcome here, I was just a surprising and unexpected chapter in a story that had seemed to be over. The missing pages of that story made it difficult to follow and I felt oddly connected to and yet separate from Winter’s history. If there had been such things as ghosts, I imagined they would gather round and inspect me curiously, trying to understand what I was doing in their house. Sometimes I felt they were there, the spirits of Winter’s past, unsettled by my presence. Maybe I would burn some bundles of sage in the rooms to rid the place of negative energy. Or perhaps I should embrace the lingering energy of times past. Its influence was not necessarily negative. Good things were happening to me here. Perhaps the spirits were helping me.