‘Out of the way man!’ Aunt Charlotte blustered. She looked terrifyingly Brynhildr-esque.
‘Madam, I simply . . .’
She fixed her gaze on him. ‘You, sir, will not deny me my spiritual enlightenment. Now, move or I will move you.’
Angel bowed his head like a dog backing down. ‘Let me escort you, Madam.’
‘If you must, Lurch.’
We listened to Angel knocking hard on the door and shouting, ‘Another guest wishes to hear the predictions of Madam Zizi.’
I choked back a laugh.
‘She must be deaf,’ Mother said quietly. ‘Sounds like he’s trying to raise the dead.’
There was another theatrical pause, before a small voice called, ‘Who will question the powers of the spirits now?’
And then we heard Aunt Charlotte call back, ‘It is I, Charlotte.’
A large door creaked in the distance as if the BBC sound department had taken up residence.
I turned to enjoy the moment of farce with Mother, but she was already whispering on the sofa with Mirabelle. The smile slid from my lips. This is one of the most hateful things people do to each other. They exclude. Don’t get me wrong, I have always felt excluded, so it doesn’t usually hurt, but sometimes, just sometimes, it nettles me.
Aunt Charlotte was gone for an inordinate period of time during which we had nothing to do. I watched Mother and Mirabelle whispering and giggling, and I felt the old familiar jealousy gnawing deeper and deeper. I ground my fingernails into the palms of my hands. Just once, I wanted her to hold me, like I saw other mothers hug their grown-up daughters. I wanted her to laugh with me and say easy words like ‘We just love hanging out together. We’ve always been really close. We’re best friends.’
As with all fantasies, they only make reality seem worse. Mother hasn’t even responded to my friendship request on Facebook and it had been her idea in the first place that I go on social media to try and find some friends.
Mother and Mirabelle gradually began to slip into vague intoxication, their conversation dissolved into the occasional observation about a mutual acquaintance followed by some noises in agreement. Mirabelle’s head began to nod as she drifted in and out of sleep. Angel had disappeared again — he just seemed to evaporate without anyone noticing, presumably due to the constant stream of requests for drinks.
We sat in uncongenial silence, the fire gently highlighting Mother’s brooding face. Just as she was about to launch into another catalogue of my failures, Aunt Charlotte returned, uncharacteristically quiet and pale.
‘Charlotte?’ Mother stood.
Aunt Charlotte perched on the edge of the frayed arm of the sofa — a perilous decision for such a broad woman. She rocked and stared into the fire. ‘Interesting.’
‘Charlotte, what on earth is the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’
‘Aunt Charlotte?’ I asked. ‘What did the woman say?’
She flickered from her trance and managed a half-hearted smile, but corpses have looked better. ‘Nothing much really,’ her voice had an uneven quality to it. ‘She wittered on about meeting a dark stranger. She did say something rather strange. Something about “Who will be your sister’s keeper?” I’m afraid I didn’t really understand and that was about it, really. I’m fine,’ she waved a hand weakly, ‘just a little tired. Certainly takes it out of you, all this spiritualism! No wonder Less looks so drained all the time.’
Mother still looked concerned. She began to tinkle the dreadful little bell to call Angel again. It had been used so much that evening that it began to sound like a crazed cat was loose in a room full of birds. ‘You need a stiff drink, Charlotte. Brandy, that’s what you need.’
‘No, no. I think I’m just going to take myself off to bed. I’m tired and this place is as cold as a tomb.’
The fire was raging.
Without a sound, Angel was at my shoulder again. I couldn’t even hear him breathing now.
‘Ah, be an angel, Angel, and bring a brandy for Madam.’ Mother smiled at her attempt at humour.
Angel did not. From the look on his face, I presumed Mother wasn’t the first to hit upon the idea that his name might be a source of dry wit.
‘No, really, Pandora. I’m going to take myself off to bed. I want to enjoy tomorrow.’
‘Suit yourself. Might as well bring the bottle,’ she called after Angel, before he disappeared again.
Aunt Charlotte slipped away quietly. Interest in the fortune teller’s tales had dwindled to nothing on the basis that it was, in Mother’s words, ‘utter horse shit’. Mirabelle stirred and said she’d go and sort it out.
‘I’ll pay, darling.’ Her hand lizard-like on my mother’s arm. Mirabelle always mentioned when she was paying for something — twice to my recollection.
She left me to watch Mother polish off the brandy and fall into snoring beside the fire. The flames dwindled and a dense, burnt air settled in. Eventually, I left her there. When I’ve attempted to move her in the past, it has ended badly.
As I walked up the dimly lit staircase, I heard Angel whisper softly from below, ‘Have a good night,’ in such an ominous tone I imagined him adding, ‘If you can!’ and laughing maniacally.
The house fell into a corrupted sleep that night, our heads thick with fire smoke and stale brandy. I half-heartedly fought sleep, knowing it would come for me, knowing what waited on the other side. I held the open Bible and shakily drank the brandy, trying hard to fix my mind on a day, just one day, when I hadn’t felt anxious or scared, where the day hadn’t ended with my lonely, wide eyes staring into a frightening world. The memory of those days grows loose, the details faint no matter how frequently I go over them, like lines in a play.
The darkness here was so complete, it blindfolded us. But with one of my senses completely dead, others were heightened. The smallest sounds were magnified and all I could do was listen as the windows chattered like old ladies’ teeth. The soft insistent patter of the snow against the glass sounded like small fingers padding at the windows. The minutes were being tapped out for us.
Rule 7: Don’t go out into the snow alone.
ISOLATION
We woke to a childhood world thick with snow. A layer of fine icing had encased the crumbling carved face of the house until it bore more than a passing resemblance to Miss Haversham’s cake.
Our isolation had a perfection to it, a pureness that was almost beautiful. But isolation can often lead us on to dark thoughts.
When do we stop embracing the need to run out into the snow? Dad would take me sledging knee-deep in icy cotton-wool drifts. We’d wade to the top of the hill and catapult ourselves into oblivion. We’d pretend to be dragons breathing out smoke and we’d shoot straight through the white trails of our own breath. A snowbound world was not a silent one then. It was filled with shrieking voices, the slice of plastic on snow and the crunch of feet racing on to the next excitement.
When I abandoned childhood, snow brought stillness. It hindered movement. I couldn’t get to college, the shop, anywhere. It wasn’t something to speed through anymore. It was another enemy.
Snow holds everything in a freeze frame of silence. It preserves.