July in South Africa and the first time that Lucy and Tim have seen snow. Catherine
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watches as they press their little snub-noses hard against the window, captivated by the
swirling whiteness outside. Catherine has been trying, vainly, to watch Wimbledon on
television, the incongruity of lawn tennis on an English summer’s day not
lost on her. She cannot harness her wandering thoughts, though, and repeatedly loses
track of the score.
“Why can’t I go out?” Lucy whines for the umpteenth time.
“Because yesterday you both had a fever and the last thing you need today is to go
outside in sub-zero temperatures,” Catherine says, mechanically.
“But it looks so nice. Please? Just for one minute?” Timmy tugs at her skirt.
“I said no,” repeats Catherine, “and no means…oh, alright then. Just for five minutes.
Go on, get your coats, gloves, hats and scarves. Your wellies are by the front door.”
“Yippeeeeeeee!” shrieks Lucy and both children are gone from the room in an instant.
Catherine turns off the television and switches on the lamps in the darkening room. What
did it matter, really, after all? Surely the chance to experience snow for the first time is
more important than recovering from the flu? Pulling on her own hat and gloves, she
joins Tim, who is already struggling with the latch of the front door. “Remember, only
five minutes,” Catherine warns them, gasping as the door swings open onto a world of
whiteness and the chill takes her breath away. Lucy is already off, slipping and sliding
down the garden path, whooping and laughing. Every now and again, Catherine sees her
stop and scoop up a handful of snow, hold it to her face, sniff it and eat it.
Leaving the children to their own delights, Catherine walks, feet crunching warily,
around the side of the house to the back garden. Silent, surreal, it has been
waiting for her. The snow has started to drift now, up against the sides of the house and
the trunks of trees. Branches are heavy with it and the sculptures of birds made from
scrap metal by local boys have taken on strange, unfamiliar shapes. It is a monochrome,
twilight world, the startling blue of the swimming pool luminous as it reflects the
patches of yellow light cast from the windows of the house. The children’s gleeful cries
are muffled now. Looking through to the front of the house, Catherine can see that
Tim has started to make a snowman, Lucy’s hat, scarf and gloves already sacrificed to the
cause.
Turning to retrace her steps, Catherine stops in surprise. Amazingly, there are still some
oranges on the tree by the wall; bright, golden orbs of colour, like little pentecostal
flames on the snow-covered branches. How long is it, Catherine wonders, since I really
looked at this garden? Her thoughts begin to slide northwards to another hemisphere,
another garden, another time. She can see the terraces of wild orange and olive trees,
branches drooping heavily with their fruit, sloping down to a hidden lane. She sees a
tartan blanket spread on the dry, crumbly earth, smells the wafts of lavender and
rosemary, hears the drone of cicadas and bumble bees. She feels the presence of
someone beside her, knows again the sensation of being entirely content, her whole body
liquid and weak, her skin burning with pleasure and with shame. How long since she
has allowed herself to remember such things? Even less feel them?
Another memory crowds in, unbidden. A cool, dark, stone-flagged kitchen. Other
oranges on a scrubbed wooden table, the tea-brown pages of an old recipe book at her
elbow. Marmalade in a saucer; difficult to achieve a ‘set’. Firm, tanned arms enclose her
from behind, encircling her. Her knowledge that she can just lean into them, lean back…
Aching and lonely inside, shivering with the cold, she makes her way back up the path
and in at the back door, scraping her boots against the doorstep to remove the snow and
mud. She is about to knock on the window, tell Lucy and Tim that their time is up,
when, too soon and too close, there is the grating of the key in a lock and the front door
opens. He comes in, banging his snowy feet on the doormat.
“Daddy, Daddy,” yells Lucy, appearing from nowhere and entwining her body around
his. “We made a snowman! Come and see!” He raises his eyebrows at Catherine, a
smiling statement, silently saying Isn’t this wonderful, our family? Then he turns, with a
laugh, to go out into the snow again with his daughter.
Catherine hears her own voice, rasping and bitter, saying “I’ll make some tea”. Who is
she talking to? There’s no-one there. She moves from kettle to sink and back to hob,
performing her familiar dance. The kettle on, she goes to the window and peers out, but
not at her family, playing in the snow. In an unconscious echo of her children’s pose,
she presses her nose against the cold wetness of a window that faces the other way. One
more glimpse of the oranges, and then she will draw the curtains, slowly and deliberately,
steeling herself against the encroaching darkness.
I am 51 and live in Alnwick, Northumberland with my ten year old daughter, Palesa, Zara, a very attention-seeking chocolate Labrador, Twilight, a rescued tabby moggy and Bluebelle, an extremely beautiful and knowingly-superior Ragdoll cat. I returned to England in 2008 after spending a decade teaching in Lesotho, Southern Africa and then a year in Jordan as a non-working spouse. I first started to write in my final year in Africa when I was forced to stop work due to ill health. My main themes are the theatre, Africa and fictionalised autobiography. I am currently writing a memoir of the ten years I spent in Africa. My husband still works in Jordan and visits us when he can. This leaves me plenty of time – supposedly – to get on with the things I love doing: writing, cooking and theatre. I am currently directing a show for Alnwick Stage Musical Society, ‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood’ which is a comedy based on the unfinished novel by Charles Dickens. I write in my garden in a recently-erected blue and cream-painted summer house – the idyllic environment!