The Ice is Singing (19 page)

She stared at me with such contempt I did not know what to say. She was not afraid of death. Her bladder control was impaired and she used to cry when she wet herself. She couldn’t bear
the indignity.

I tried being bright and cheery. I tried ignoring her. Then I shouted at her and told her to stop being such a self-pitying cow when we were all trying to help her and make her happy. I told her
she was selfish and that she was ruining Dad’s life.

Nothing worked. We knew each other too well.

‘How would you feel?’ she said. I begged her not to kill herself, and she laughed at me.

I don’t know why Ruth first came with me. For a while I refused to take the girls because I didn’t want them to see her like that, to hear her saying those things. But one day, for
whatever reason, thirteen-year-old Ruth came with me. I packed Dad off to chop some kindling, and got a brief progress report from him, outside the back door. When I went back into the house Ruth
was sitting by Mum’s bed reading to her from an exercise book. I went into the kitchen to make a stew for Mum and Dad’s tea, and left the door open. It was a history essay about the
First World War. When Ruth finished Mum said:

‘Don’t they teach you anything these days? What happened to English grammar? I suppose you’ve never heard of a split infinitive, have you?’ She went back over the essay
correcting points of style and grammar – I heard Ruth interrupting her and standing up for her own version a few times. Then they started talking about the war. Mum was telling her about her
father, Grandpa Poyser who I never met, who survived being gassed in the trenches when Mum was three years old. I finished making the stew, made a pot of tea, and took them a cup each. They were
still chattering busily. So I took my tea outside with Dad’s, and sat with him on the step.

On the way home Ruth was very perky. She told me she had to do an oral history project, a tape of an old person talking about the past. She was going to use Grandma. She would ask her about the
Second World War, or her education – or fashion, what did I think?

Next time I went she came with me and offered Mum a choice of subjects. They finally decided together on
A woman’s place in World War Two
, and Ruth interviewed her for hours. She
found out about land girls, munitions factory workers, evacuated chidren, shopping and cooking on rations, clothing coupons and wartime fashions – a vast ragbag of information which took them
days to unearth. A book was added to the tape; Mum made Dad go through trunks and cases to find old photos, recipes and newspaper cuttings. For two months, Mum did not talk of dying. One night on
the way home I said to Ruth,

‘What are we going to do when this project of yours is finished, Ruthie? How are we going to keep Grandma out of mischief?’

She laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll invent something else.’

When Mum died that summer it was clean and quick, the second stroke killed her outright. She was happily occupied writing her childhood memoirs, at the time, with pen and ink illustrations by
Ruth.

Sat. March 8

The snow has retreated. Mainly thanks to rain, which sullenly washed it away over days; since Thursday, the rainfall has been interrupted by spokes of steely sunlight, which
shine icily from a white sky into puddles, wet roads, sodden hills, and make eyefuls of splintered glass. The remains of the snow are dirty white patches which glint on moortops, and grey decaying
mounds (which I have twice mistaken for dead sheep) by the roadsides. It’s done for, at last.

I went for a walk today, around the nearby reservoir. It is one of three flooding the valley between the moors; edged by a neat Waterways road and, to one side, a sloping hillside divided into
empty faded fields. On the other side the ground rises steeply to the moor, with overhanging rocks and loose stone, sharp dark shadows. Leached of colour, the land appears dead, sparsely covered by
sodden washed-out tufts of last year’s coarse grass. I walked towards the water. Most of the surface is still covered with sheet ice, but it is broken near the shore – it’s come
adrift from the land. The sheets are cracked in places, and jostle each other uneasily on the moving water.

Near down by the shore, there is a continuous sound of ice tinkling. I tried to think what it sounded like: windchimes, tiny bells, the noise icicles would make if tapped together. But what it
sounds most like, of course, is what it is: lumps of ice chinking together and melting in liquid. A thousand well-iced glasses of gin and tonic simultaneously raised and gently swirled – the
clear tinkle of cube against cube and cube against glass. All across the reservoir, and amplified in the clear still air of the valley, the edges of the ice floes are cracking and exploding as they
melt, in a wide chorus of gentle chinks and tinkles. The ice is singing.

At the farther, more sheltered end of the reservoir the sun is bright, the ice-tinkle distant. Small waves lap brightly on the shore. There is a steep man-made slope down to the road below, and
a flock of sheep stand motionless in the sunshine, each one fixed to the spot by a small dark shadow falling to the left; as if some careful child had glued them in place, and left a pressure thumb
print.

I shall go home. That is, back to the twins. For the following reasons (and let me be clear about this, clear-eyed and certain that there is no self-deception involved):

Because there is no alternative.

Because I am tired of driving about, and staying in other people’s rooms, and having my meals cooked for me.

Because the twins are my children. Ruth and Vi were instantly precious, and then so burnished and gilded by my love that their value became terrible. I wouldn’t change that – even if
it was wrong, even though it was wrong. I’ll pay for it. I must, as best I can, make precious the twins. Dare to make them something terrible to lose. There is no alternative. The alternative
is emptiness – nothing.

Because I don’t want to die.

And (be clear. Be honest, Marion, be steady) these are not reasons for returning:

I am not returning with joy or hope in my heart, thinking it will all be different. I am not thinking the twins will let me sleep, or think, or live. I am not returning thinking Ruth and Vi will
come home. I am not thinking of Gareth. I am not returning under any illusion that anyone will be pleased about what I’ve done. I am returning apologetic for the upsets I have caused by my
sudden, irresponsible absence.

I am not returning home because it will be spring and my heart and sorrows have melted with the snows. The poor battered land shows no signs of spring, encourages no such thought. The forecasts
speak of more snow before March is out. Spring will come, but two seasons later, so will another winter, just as cold. The earth won’t stop turning for me.

I am returning because I am not a story. There is no controlled shape – beyond the circle my journey away and back will describe. That is a freedom. My life goes on, shapelessly, raggedly,
from day to day. I don’t know what will happen. But my life goes on.