The Big Snow Read online

  He stood for a second, then set off, glancing back at the house from time to time. None of the windows was curtained and the yellow light yawned out sleepily at the night. When he reached the first great spruce with its layered canopy of hanging branches, he hurried inside its darkness and stood very still. There was a heady rush to his breathing, a rasping dryness in his throat. He felt the glaze of the cold brush his cheekbones, touch his eyelids, seep through his hair. Looking up through the thick spokes of the tree he was able to see the broken, pitted moon and the whole night felt stretched and tautened by something which couldn’t be seen and couldn’t be touched, but which felt as if it sprang from somewhere inside him.

  He thought of Meaulnes listening for his long-lost music. But the only sounds now were the shiver and fret of the tree as it stirred in the strengthening wind, and the ghostly echoes of her voice. There was something in her voice he had never heard before, something that drifted in the spaces between the words. Something light that carried the words but he didn’t know what it was. He stared at the house and tried to capture it for his memory but just when he thought it was secure it slipped away again, leaving him with nothing but the flung fistful of stars and the rising whimper of the wind.

  * * *

  His father was worried, had already made two phone calls to the council office. Only that the grave had been dug earlier, there’d have been no chance. No chance at all. For better or worse they’d have to go ahead. The arrangements had all been made. Her sister was coming over from Scotland. They’d just have to make the best of it, hurry it along with decent haste. Her parents weren’t in the flush of youth either – they couldn’t be let stand in the snow for too long.

  ‘Surely to goodness McCance’ll keep it short,’ his father said, toasting his hands at the fire as if trying to build up a store of heat in anticipation of tomorrow’s cold. ‘Surely to goodness he’ll not ramble on, take the mourners to Hell and back like he usually does. The bare minimum with a bit of respect – surely that’s the ticket tomorrow. If he does the full works he’ll be speaking to a line of frozen bodies. Take more than a cup of tea to thaw them out.’

  ‘I heard McCance isn’t doing it – hasn’t been asked,’ his mother said. ‘But then I don’t think they were in the church from the day they married. Poor child, the nurse says at the end she was skin and bones, the flesh just fell off her. And him a widower and couldn’t be even forty yet.’

  ‘Sold a few wreaths yesterday,’ his father said. ‘But if McCance isn’t doing it, who is?’

  ‘No idea, but give your flowers in life – that’s what I say,’ his mother answered while she pressed her feelings into the weft of the cloth.

  ‘I’m glad everyone doesn’t think like you, for you need flowers at a funeral. A few wreaths, like. No flowers is like a table without a cloth or . . .’ but he tried in vain to think of another comparison and as if to compensate for his failure lifted the poker and let air into the fire. A tongue of flame pushed through the widened mouth of slack. His father squirmed his back into the chair and felt on the floor for the paper he’d been reading earlier, its front page big with the news of some Belfast murder. ‘Is it still coming down, Peter?’ he asked.

  As he prised open the curtain, he could feel the seep of cold through the glass. He knew already that it was still snowing; he had started to think he could hear its thickening silence. Pressing his face against the glass, he peered outside and saw the steady stream of flakes.

  ‘You’d think somebody’d turn off the tap,’ complained his father. ‘If it goes on like this much longer we’ll be snowed in, trapped like Eskimos in our igloos. But it’ll probably turn to sleet soon and then the rain’ll wash it away like soapsuds.’

  ‘It’s a couple of feet deep in the yard already,’ his mother said. ‘I had to take the shovel to it to get the coal shed open. My feet were soaking by the time I’d finished.’

  ‘Aye and I hope you changed into dry stuff. I don’t want you laid up like you were last year.’

  ‘You needn’t worry,’ she said, as she sniffed and folded a pillow case. I’ve two pairs of your old socks on and I won’t be going over the door again without wellies. And last year was something else entirely, as you well know.’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ his father said, pulling the paper about his face. ‘But if it gets any deeper it’ll be no laughing matter driving over there to collect the body and then up to the church. The roads’ll be mustard, and I bet you there won’t be a snow plough to be seen for love or money.’

  ‘They can’t be everywhere,’ his mother said.

  ‘Everywhere?’ his father repeated. ‘Nowhere’s more like the case. This country’s not cut out for snow – that’s the long and short of it. We’re just not cut out for it. Now if this was Canada they’d laugh at this – it’d be a spit in the ocean to them, for they have all the gear, all the machinery.’ The lights flickered. ‘Peter, there’s no way there’ll be buses running to Belfast tomorrow, so if you’re stuck here you might as well help with the funeral.’ The lights flickered again, throwing thin spasms of darkness. ‘Here we go,’ continued his father, ‘candles at the ready.’

  The electricity shuddered finally. Only the fire whispered light. There was the scratch of matches, a bleb of flame, and then the room became a little shrine of shivering light.

  ‘They’d laugh themselves silly at this in Canada. They’ve so much snow there they could sell it. And life doesn’t collapse into chaos like this shambles.’

  ‘Be able to sell plenty of candles tomorrow,’ his mother said, giving a little snigger.

  ‘You may laugh but tomorrow’s going to be no joke. Driving the hearse in this, making sure the coffin doesn’t slide about, and then carrying it to the graveside – what a nightmare!’

  His father lapsed into silence, pondering the potential disasters that might befall him, while the light from the candles silvered and thinned his hair, darkened the shadows under his eyes. He watched the constant flick of his eyes, the way his lips suddenly moved as if he was speaking silently to someone, then the silence of the snow sifted dreamily into the room, drifting into the corners and crevices, soothing but separating them into their own stillness. The thin waver of flame from the fire was edged with blue. His own hands raised to his hair were the fluttering wings of a bird on the wall.

  The sudden clatter of the front door made them all start. ‘Holy heavens!’ his mother said, her hand holding the iron just above the board as if frozen in space. None of them moved. The tattoo of blows rumbled again, then fell silent.

  ‘Who in the name of God is out on a night like this?’ his father asked, then, bending down, lifted the poker out of the fire. Its tip glowed red in the wavery shadows.

  ‘I’ll go,’ he said, while his father stood motionless with his back to the fire.

  ‘Be careful, Peter,’ cautioned his mother. ‘George, go with him.’

  He lifted one of the candles in its saucer and, cupping his hand round the snuffling flame, walked slowly into the hall. He heard his father’s shuffling behind him and, smelling the frizzling heat of the poker, said, ‘For goodness sake, Da, watch that poker and don’t be branding me.’

  ‘Aye, aye. Lead on, Macduff, I’m right behind you.’

  Then as he placed his hand on the front door his father’s voice rang out, demanding to know who was there. He had deepened and roughened it, so it sounded strange as he struggled with the lock, his other hand trying to ensure the candle stayed upright. When the door opened, a thin flurry of snow coughed into the hall and the candle flickered. The man standing on the doorstep was dressed in a snow-spattered dark overcoat, his shoulders draped in a white cape. A yellow scarf hung limply round his throat, and as he stepped towards the light they could see the scowl of bruising on his cheek.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ he said, ‘but I’ve come off the road back there about half a mile, and I wondered if you could tell me where I can find some help to get her out of the ditch.’


  ‘Anyone hurt?’ his father asked, slipping the poker behind his leg.

  ‘No, I’m the only one in the car. Just got a bit of a smack to the face, that’s all,’ he said, fingering his cheek as drops of water ran down from the plastered mesh of his hair.

  ‘Where you going to?’ asked his father, clearly determined to find out as much as he could before committing himself to any course of action.

  ‘I’m on my way to The Lodge. My name’s Brian Richmond. I should have stayed in Belfast; never thought it was going to get as bad as this.’

  ‘Aye, it’s bad, all right. So you’re in the ditch, then.’

  ‘I lost the road just after the last bend and the next thing I knew I was sliding sideways into the hedgerow. It’s in a kind of drain or culvert. Is there someone who might be able to help?’

  ‘You’ll not get anyone at this time of night,’ his father said.

  ‘We can help,’ he said, looking closely at the caller. He was older than her. Too old, he thought. To save himself the embarrassment of more questions from his father, he offered to come as soon as he got his coat. When he turned to find it, his mother’s voice rang out from the end of the hall.

  ‘In the name of goodness, don’t leave Mr Richmond standing out there freezing to death. Bring him in. Bring him in to the fire.’

  She came towards him down the hall, waving him forward, and he nodded and offered his thanks as he followed her into the living room. ‘Sit yourself down there and warm yourself by the fire,’ she urged, directing him to the chair where her husband had sat a few moments earlier, while she pushed the newspaper under it with her foot. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? she asked, staring at the seam of bruising.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, ‘just got a bit of a smack on the face. Nothing to worry about. Could I put you to more trouble and use the phone? Just to let my wife know what’s happened.’

  He stood with his father in the doorway of the living room and watched him dial the number while they both tried to look as if they weren’t listening to his call. He was suddenly conscious of how small the room looked in the candlelight, of the smell of food and wet clothing that infused it. Maybe ten years older than her, even twelve, he was tall, well-built, his black hair shiny with water, and when he spoke to her his voice was reassuring but businesslike. The call lasted no more than thirty seconds. When he had finished, his mother handed him a towel and a cup of tea. She had used her best china. He balanced it on the arm of his chair and patted his hair and face.

  ‘Maybe Mr Richmond would welcome something a bit stronger,’ his father said, the poker still in his hand. But he said no, tea was just fine, and apologized for putting them to such trouble.

  ‘No trouble at all,’ his mother said, ‘and isn’t it that what neighbours are for. George and Peter will have you out of that ditch in no time and on your way again.’

  He apologized for not knowing their names and his father introduced them all, telling him that they’d already met his wife in the shop. He nodded but showed no sign of recognition. When he’d finished his tea he stood up and pulled the yellow scarf more tightly, tucking the ends inside his coat. Having been conscripted, his father took a torch, went out to the garage and returned a few moments later with two spades and a length of rope, and thus armed they set off down the road. Almost immediately the wind-blown pelt of the snow forced them to bow their heads, reducing vision to a few yards and making conversation almost impossible. The white world swept about him, and took what he thought he knew so intimately and changed it into something that mocked and played games with his senses. Like some staid and predictable maiden aunt gone crazy, it wore a painted face that disavowed its previous existence and it danced about him with an abandon that left him dizzy but unable to turn his eyes away in case he missed part of it. Sometimes the snow slanted in towards them, at others it seemed devoid of any direction, and as they plodded on it plashed their faces and filled the prints they left in their wake.

  About ten minutes later they saw the car. It was already covered in fresh snow and at first glance looked like a buttress or extension of the hedge. It was a green MG sports car and with its nose in the ditch it looked even smaller and more fragile than normal, like the discarded toy of some child too lazy to bring it inside at night. Richmond examined the wheels, crouching down on his hunkers until he had satisfied himself that they were OK, and then, taking the rope, attached it to the back end of the car. But when they attempted to pull it out they couldn’t find firm footholds, and when the rope squirmed and slithered through their hands they collapsed into each other like shuffled cards. Then Richmond suggested that they should both push from the front while his father pulled on the rope, so they slid into the ditch and positioned themselves at each of the headlamps and tried to brace themselves for the push. The headlight at his side was broken and tiny shards of glass gleamed like teeth. ‘We should be able to do it,’ Richmond said, but he wasn’t sure if it was an encouragement or an attempt to convince himself. ‘If we push together, we should be able to get it out – it’s not that heavy a thing.’ And then he counted as if starting a race and all three of them took the strain, their groans blending with each other’s and their faces lifted skyward despite the incessant fall of the snow. The car moved forward a couple of feet and then slipped back a little, but just when it seemed they would lose it Richmond gave a great shout of determination and while he, too, pushed with what strength he had left, he looked sideways and saw the momentary ugliness of Richmond’s face as it buckled and creased with the strain and he thought of that face coming close to her face and a knot of sickness tightened in his stomach as the car finally shuddered out of the ditch.

  ‘Well done, men, well done!’ but despite Richmond’s pleasure it sounded in his ears as if his words had turned them into employees and while he pondered whether money would now be offered to them, he was conscious for the first time of the pain in his hand and, when he stared at his glove, saw that a thin shard of glass had pierced it. He started to take it off but stopped when he saw the first drops of blood spot the snow. His head felt suddenly light and as he clasped the wrist of his cut hand to give it support, his legs buckled and he almost fell. He felt a fool and when his father and Richmond closed in on him, kept repeating that he was all right but as his father’s arm tightened on his shoulder, he sensed that he was going to faint and, leaning against his father, lifted up his face to the cold dampness of the sky and let its snowy compress shock him into consciousness. The glass had penetrated his palm like the stab of a knife and the slither blinked in the light of his father’s torch like ice. Inside his glove was a sticky, searing mess which was already oozing through the black wool. He wanted to pull the glass out but Richmond urged him to leave it and then told him to get in the car and he would drive him the short distance to The Lodge, telling his father that he would take good care of him and fetch the doctor if need be. His father nodded, and Richmond promised to phone with news.

  His father helped him slip into the passenger seat of the car and wordlessly patted him on the shoulder. He felt as if he was sitting just above the snow about to sledge over it, and as the car growled into life he raised his good hand and waved to his father. Sometimes as they drove along the road he could feel the wheels churning and spinning the snow and then Richmond would swear quietly to himself and slow his speed to a crawl. The snow squalled and rushed headlong into the one headlight beam and watching it made him dizzy again. Richmond was talking to him, asking how he was, but the words seemed to mingle with the frantic slant of the snow and he heard himself repeating that he was all right, over and over again, as if saying it would make it so. He wanted the glove off his hand; not being able to see the cut made it worse and he could feel the blood seeping between his fingers and sticking them together.

  They managed half a mile. The Lodge was only round the next corner but they couldn’t make it – the snow was beginning to drift and bank and gradually the car came to a co
mplete halt, its nose barely above the top of the snow. ‘Time to bail out,’ Richmond said, clambering out of the driver’s seat. ‘We’ll just have to leave it here, maybe push it over to the side a bit so it doesn’t block anything else trying to get through.’ But despite both their efforts they were able to move it only a few feet and although Richmond pushed his back against it, and heaved with all his might, the thickness of the snow prevented further progress.

  They set off with the snow streaming into their faces but he was glad to be out of the car and the cold helped to clear his head while their muffled tread tramped through the thickening fall. Neither of them spoke but occasionally Richmond looked back to check that he was still following, before digging his chin into the shelter of his chest again. He watched the broad shape of the man in front contract into himself as he struggled against the wind-driven fury and suddenly it felt that the world had made them small, paltry stick-figures struggling in the face of the blizzard. He glanced towards where the sharp slope of the fields met the road and only the hump of the hedgerow marked where one began and the other ended. It felt that they were being funnelled through a mountain pass where at any moment suffocating tumbles of snow might slide over them. But it wasn’t that thought which hurried him on.

  He paused to scoop a handful of snow and press it lightly against the pain in his hand in the hope that it would ease it and thought of her waiting in the house. The image quickened his step and he was glad of the pain. It was his ticket of admission. After all, he’d got it helping her husband. He tried to remember the timbre of her voice, the way her eyes smiled, the flow of her body, but everything got mixed into the welter and confusion of the snow and the struggle of his journey and then there was only an unsustained glimmer of memory glinting like haws in the hedgerow. He could only conjure elusive little shimmers of her physical presence – the colour of her hair, the way she held her cigarette, her hand moving through the air as she spoke – and they tantalized and drifted softly about him before being blown into the night.