Season of Secrets

  “You are seriously weird,” says Hannah. “I think you should know this.” She gives this big theatrical sigh and gets up. “If he’s not in his house, we’re not going looking for him, OK?”

  “OK.”

  I follow her downstairs. She barges through the kitchen door.

  “Me and Moll are playing in the snow,” she says. “Where’s the torch?”

  “Oh—” says Dad. “Well—” You can see him not wanting us to go out in the dark and not wanting to stop us playing together. “It’s—” He stops. “Don’t go far, will you?”

  “Course not,” says Hannah. She gives him her best look of withering scorn.

  It’s very cold. I stick my hands in my pockets and edge closer to Hannah.

  “This way?” she says. She switches on the torch and it sends a fuzzy beam of light about a metre forward.

  “This way.”

  “Come on, then.”

  The snow is still falling. Now it’s started to settle on the ground. I imagine it settling over my man and I shiver.

  The night feels strange. The trees are rustling, making noises. Like voices, whispering. I move closer to Hannah and bump into her.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Where are we supposed to turn?”

  “There’s a gate in the hedge.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s here somewhere – there!”

  I grab Hannah’s hand and swing the torch round. Hannah makes this little exasperated noise and stamps off towards it. I run after her.

  “How do you get it open?”

  “You climb over. Hannah – the trees—”

  “Ow! It’s got snow on it. I can’t see anything.”

  Behind me, I hear something that sounds like laughing.

  “Hannah—”

  “Come on.”

  The gate is already covered in snow and it’s icy. I slip coming down and land in the frozen mud. It hurts.

  Hannah’s already ahead of me, a dark shape behind the light of the torch.

  “What’s that?” She sounds frightened. Hannah never gets frightened.

  “What?”

  “There – there’s something there.”

  “It’s his house. Remember?”

  It’s very dark in the barn. Snow has settled on the ground and on the black shape of the tree and on the sacks in the corner.

  There’s no one there.

  “Happy?” says Hannah. “Can we go now?”

  Snow is spattering on the roof. It blows against my back.

  “Hello,” I whisper.

  Nobody answers.

  “He’s probably at a party with the fairies,” says Hannah. “Come on.”

  I go to his end of the barn. It’s pitchy-black. I bump against something lying on the ground.

  “Moll?”

  I kneel down. He’s lying on his back. There’s snow all over his legs and his stomach. His eyes are closed. He’s shivering so hard that I can actually hear his teeth chattering.

  I touch his arm. It’s as cold as ice.

  “Hannah,” I say quietly.

  And then she sees him.

  For a long, long moment she doesn’t say anything. Then she goes mad.

  “You stupid, stupid little girl.”

  I stare.

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone he was here? He could have died! Why didn’t you call an ambulance or something?”

  “I did! I told you! I told Dad and Grandpa—”

  “You didn’t tell us he was real.”

  She runs out of the barn. I run after her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Where do you think I’m going?”

  “Don’t leave me here!”

  “Do you think,” says Hannah, “I care about you?”

  She runs forward through the snow and frozen grass. I follow after, as best as I can.

  Everyone’s in the kitchen when we burst through the door.

  “There’s a man in the snow,” says Hannah.

  Grandpa half-stands up. “In the snow? Is he hurt?”

  “I don’t know,” says Hannah. Now we’re inside she isn’t angry any more. She starts to shake.

  “He’s alive,” I say. I run over to Dad and tug on his hand. “We need to go and rescue him.”

  “Where is he?” says Grandma. “Slow down and tell us properly, Moll.”

  “Should we call an ambulance?” says Dad.

  “Have you girls still got the torch?” says Grandpa.

  “It’s Molly’s man,” says Hannah.

  Everyone stops talking.

  “Molly’s man?” says Grandma.

  “He was there all along,” says Hannah.

  “Molly? You were talking to a real person?”

  “Of course I was,” I say. “I told you.”

  “Hang on,” says Dad. “What – who are you talking about? The invisible man who makes flowers grow? He’s real? You’ve been visiting a real man in the woods?” He looks at Grandma. “And you’ve been letting her?”

  I pull on his hand. Clearly we’re suddenly Dad’s responsibility again, but I haven’t got time to work out what that means. Something’s changed, I know it has. Nobody could see him before. So how come they can now?

  “Hurry up,” I say. “Come and see.”

  Storm

  We all go. Grandpa and Dad and Hannah and me.

  The night’s darker now. The snow’s falling thicker and the wind’s begun to blow.

  Dad and Grandpa didn’t want me to come, but I wouldn’t stay behind. Something’s shaken Dad out of his don’t-fight, don’t-talk mode. He was angrier than I’ve ever seen him.

  “You don’t talk to strangers,” he said. “Never. What part of never don’t you understand?”

  “He’s not a stranger!” I said. “We’re friends.”

  “No,” said Dad. He slammed his hand down on the table. “Christ, Molly! Don’t you know how important that is?”

  I started to cry.

  “Hey,” said Grandpa. “Hey, Toby.” He put his hand on Dad’s arm. “Let’s wait and see, eh? See what’s there.”

  But Dad pulled his arm away.

  “You have no right to say anything in this conversation,” he said to Grandpa. “Nothing! I haven’t even begun on what I think of you.”

  Once I’d started to cry, I couldn’t stop.

  “He’s sick,” I said. I wouldn’t look at Dad. “He’s sick and he could be dying and all you’re doing is fighting.”

  So now here are, walking through the snow.

  The trees are making noises, like voices.

  Hurry. Hurry, or it’ll be too late.

  I’m so frightened I can hardly breathe.

  Hurry, say the trees. Hurry.

  I have this huge, wrong feeling. There’s something strange about tonight. The world doesn’t quite fit on top of itself. The edges are shifting. If we don’t get there soon, something terrible will happen.

  Hurry, say the trees.

  Dad and Grandpa are fussing with the gate. Grandpa’s opening it. How odd that all that time I’ve been climbing over it, it was openable after all.

  I run through into the field.

  “Hey, Moll—” calls Grandpa, but I can’t stop. I stumble through the snow to the barn.

  Now.

  There’s a crack. Thunder. Lightning tears the sky in two. We’re the centre of the storm again.

  I fall through the door, into the barn. Lightning flares and for a moment it shows a picture – two men, one tall and horned, standing, the other lying face down on the ground. The standing man has his fist raised in the air. There’s something unnatural about his stillness, and the way the other lies. And then the lightning’s gone and the barn is empty, save for the boom of thunder around us.

  I know, without the tiniest piece of doubt, that my man isn’t here any more.

  I am filled with terror.

  And then the storm comes.

  Blizzard
br />   I’m surrounded by whirling snow. Snow is above and below and around me, like fog.

  Too high, you can’t get over it.

  “Man!” I shout. “Man! It’s me! It’s Molly!”

  There are voices on the wind, and shapes. Black figures towering over me, then blowing away into nothing. Things with wings and eyes.

  Too low, you can’t get under it.

  “Man!”

  Too wide, you can’t get round it.

  “Come back!”

  I know where he is.

  “Please!”

  I was too late.

  He’s dead.

  It’s my fault.

  I’m crying now and shaking. There are dark shapes all around me, laughing in the wind. It’s the horned god, the Holly King, or something worse. The things that Miss Shelley said came through when the barriers between worlds are weakened. Ghosties and ghoulies and long-leggety beasties and things that go bump in the night.

  Other voices are calling.

  “Molly! Molly!”

  There’s ice in my lungs. I can’t breathe.

  “Molly! Where are you?”

  There’s torchlight, and shapes in the darkness.

  I stumble forward, blind in the night. Things are laughing on the wind, catching at my coat and scratching my hands with grabbing fingers. The air is thin tonight.

  Things are coming through.

  “Molly!”

  I pull away from the grabbing things and they tear at my hair. I stumble forward, but now something else is twining through my fingers. It’s twigs. Tree-hands, their branches reaching down and holding me.

  “Moll! Where are you?”

  I am held and rocked in the arms of the trees. Dark hands reach down and touch my face. I don’t move. I hardly breathe. The snow and the cold are gone. Here and now, I am safe and untouchable.

  “There you are!”

  The tree-arms are gone. I fall and land face forward in the snow. I’m crying and crying.

  “Molly, my love, what’s the matter?”

  It’s Dad. Big and dark and anxious.

  I’m crying so much I can hardly see him.

  “Mum!” I cry. “I want Mummy!”

  “Moll, Molly, my love—”

  His arms go around me. I twist out of them.

  “I want Mum!”

  “Molly-mop—”

  I lean back as far as I can. I scream and kick.

  “No! I want Mummy! I want Mummy!”

  He lifts me up and carries me away through the night.

  The End of the World

  It’s the very middle of the night. The policemen have gone. They found nothing, not even footprints in the fast-falling snow. I told Grandma they wouldn’t, but she called them anyway. It’s very late. Everyone’s asleep except me.

  Humphrey and I are in Hannah’s bed. Hannah’s in my bed, where Dad’s supposed to be, and Dad’s on my mattress on the floor. That was Grandma’s idea.

  “The child needs her dad,” she said. “Clearly.” And she dumped Dad’s suitcase at his feet. Dad didn’t argue. He sat with his arms around me, chin resting against my head, holding me so tightly I could feel the rim of his watch digging into my side.

  Everything’s back-to-front and topsy-turvy.

  Dad’s asleep on the floor by my bed. He’s got his back to me but I can hear him breathing.

  It’s dark. The only light is from the lamp on the bedside table. There’s this pool of soft, orange light; long orange-and-grey shadows on the wall and blackness out of the window.

  The wind is still blowing and the snow’s still falling. I think it’s raining too, if you can have snow and rain at the same time.

  It’s like being in the middle of a blizzard.

  It’s like the end of the world.

  I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking.

  What if he wasn’t Miss Shelley’s god after all?

  What if he was just a man?

  Hannah said I should have done something. Something to save him. If I was older – if I was better – if I was Mum or Dad or Hannah or Grandpa—

  If I was any one of those people, I would have done something.

  If I was anyone but me, I would have saved him.

  He didn’t have anyone else.

  He had me, and I did nothing.

  Inside Outside

  I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling.

  I can hear noises against the window. Snow hitting the glass, wet and heavy.

  “Mum,” I whisper, but she isn’t here. I know she isn’t, but if I close my eyes I can almost imagine that she’s close – in the next room, maybe, or on the floor beside Dad. Tonight, everything is so strange. Perhaps if I say exactly the right words or do exactly the right thing at the right time, she’ll come back.

  I climb out of bed, taking the horrible old-fashioned quilt and wrapping it round my shoulders. The stairs make noises as I creak down them – creak, creak, creeeak. I feel for the walls with my hands, so I don’t fall.

  The kitchen tiles are cold, even through my socks. I go to the back door and look out of the window. All I can see is black and whirling snow, for ever.

  “Moll?”

  It’s Hannah. Her face is red and white in the darkness.

  “What are you doing?”

  She comes over to where I’m standing.

  “Watching.”

  It’s very dark in the garden. The trees are moving in the wind; you can hear them creaking.

  Tonight is the longest night of the year. The absolute middle of winter.

  “Moll,” says Hannah. “It’s cold. Come back upstairs.”

  But there is something different about tonight. The Green Man is gone and that changes everything.

  “Let’s go,” says Hannah. “Come on.”

  I don’t move.

  “What was that?” Her voice is high and frightened. “Molly!”

  I can hear it too.

  There’s something there.

  There’s a new sound; not the snow, not the wind, something else, sort of whispery. And light too – not torchlight, fainter. What is it? Is it—

  “Moll,” says Hannah. “There’s something coming!” She tugs on my arm, but I pull away.

  And see her.

  She’s standing in the snow, clear as anything. She doesn’t look like a ghost. She looks absolutely real. She looks so real that I wonder if we should open the door and let her in.

  She stands there smiling at us, normal as anything, just smiling at us through the glass.

  Then she’s gone.

  Quiet

  Outside, the world is quiet. Inside, we’re curled up together in my bed, cold toes pressed against cold legs, arms around each other, buried in a pile of every quilt and blanket we can find.

  “Did you see her?” says Hannah, again.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Was it real?” says Hannah. “Was it Mum?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I think so.”

  We’re quiet, thinking. Hannah moves beside me, under the quilt.

  “Molly?” she says.

  “Mmm?”

  I’m watching the shadows of the curtains on the wall. Is a shadow something real? Is a ghost?

  “Don’t you mind?” says Hannah.

  Does it matter?

  “Mind what?” I say.

  What about cold? I’m thinking. Is cold something real? Or night? You can’t touch them. But they’re there.

  “Living here. With Grandma.”

  “Of course.”

  “You never say,” says Hannah. I think about it.

  “We can’t go back and live with Dad,” I say at last. “Even if he wanted us, we couldn’t.”

  Hannah pulls the quilt up over herself.

  “Other dads do,” she says. “And mums. Mum would’ve, wouldn’t she? He could’ve. If he’d really tried, he could. He just didn’t want to.”

  I’m tired, suddenly. I’m tired of Mum being gone, and Dad living aw
ay and everything being so complicated. I’m tired of trying to understand it all. I rest my head against her shoulder.

  “Is that really true?” I say.

  Hannah doesn’t answer for the longest, longest time.

  “Hannah?”

  She twists around and rubs her head against my cheek.

  “No,” she says. “Not really.”

  We’re quiet.

  It’s the longest night of the year.

  We lie together there in the bed, waiting for the day to come.

  Dad (Almost) Talking to Me

  “Moll,” says my dad, kneeling on the floor beside me. “Are you listening? Moll?”

  I’m sitting under a blanket in Grandpa’s big chair. I’m watching A Muppet Christmas Carol and eating cheese on toast and tomato soup. It’s like being ill, the same heavy feeling.

  “Was—” he stops, then starts again. “Was there really someone in the snow?”

  I nod. “My man.”

  “Moll. . .” Dad stops again. You can see him fighting to get whatever it is he wants to say out. “I don’t think your man was that sort of real,” he says eventually. “Was he? Hey? Not real like—” He looks at me like he wants me to say it for him, but I’m saying nothing. “Real like Father Christmas is real,” he says eventually. “Or the Easter Bunny. Hey?”

  “Real’s real,” I say.

  “Yes,” says Dad. “I know. But . . . the policemen looked last night, Moll. There wasn’t anyone there. I think—” He stops. “It’s . . . like a story,” he says. “It feels real – but it doesn’t really happen.”

  “But it did,” I say, hopelessly. “It did.”

  I expect him to argue. Mum would have argued. Grandma would have dismissed me. Grandpa would kiss me and tell me he loved me anyway. But Dad just opens his mouth and shuts it again, like he can’t think of anything to say.

  Christmas Day

  It’s very, very early. It’s still dark.

  It’s Christmas morning and the stocking on the end of my bed is full; I can see it. I want to know what’s in it, but I’m scared to look. I’m scared that Dad doesn’t know how Christmas stockings work, like Mum did. Does he know there’s supposed to be an orange? And nuts in shells? And chocolate money and a selection box? Does he know there’s always a book and a soft toy?