Snow In The Suburbs

The weather gives time for contemplation in this atmospheric short story by Marcia Lingard.

With the world at a standstill, Larch Street’s residents had a lot to consider . . .

IT had been snowing all night, and the inhabitants of Larch Street woke that February morning to a strangely silent world. The usual morning sounds of traffic were hushed, and there was no noise of high heels clattering along the street on the way to the station and some high-powered job in the city.

Even the birds seemed shocked into silence, or maybe they were disorientated, for under their blanket of snow all the gardens along the street looked the same.

There was no difference to be seen between Mr Palmer’s carefully manicured lawns, Ethel Morris’s gravel and containers or the untidy front garden of the rather dilapidated semi where the Watson family lived.

The snow gave all the gardens the same anonymity and the same unearthly beauty.

But not all inhabitants of Larch Street noticed that beauty as they looked out of their windows on that early winter’s morning.

Some of them regarded the snow as inconvenient at best and a dangerous problem at worst. It certainly was not greeted in every house with the same rapturous delight as that displayed by young Jack at number seven.

As usual he was awake early, and he clambered on to the stool by the window and opened the curtains.

His joy at seeing the white world beyond the window was unbounded, and he quickly grabbed his dressing-gown ready to run into Mum’s room and ask her to help him to build the biggest snowman ever.

Ellie wasn’t his real mum. Jack couldn’t remember his own mum, who had died in an accident when he was only two.

Ellie Watson was the latest in a series of foster mothers. But she was kind to him; Jack was sure she’d take him out in the snow.

Then he remembered. Yesterday he had been naughty. As naughty as he had been the time they sent him away from the foster mum before Ellie.

He had even seen Ellie crying – something that hadn’t happened before.

She had sent him to bed early but, unable to sleep, he had crept back downstairs. That was when he’d heard her on the telephone.

He heard the name Ranwood and his heart had missed a beat.

Mr Ranwood was the man at Social Services.

As he thought about the call he’d overheard, Jack felt like crying. He knew that if he was sent away it would be his own fault.

He stood by the window looking out at the snow, his joy in the white wonderland forgotten.

* * * *

Ellie Watson sat with a rapidly cooling cup of tea downstairs.

She was getting too old for this kind of worry, she thought to herself. Jack was the thirteenth boy she had fostered and he was turning out to be more trouble than the rest of them put together.

She’d known that he had a lot of problems before he arrived, but she had thought that she could help him. He needed loving. All these boys did.

She had lots of love to give; all the love that would have been given to her own baby if he had lived. But it seemed that this time love would not be enough.

Now she was having to foster these boys on her own. How she missed Jim. It had been so much easier when there had been the two of them to share the work and the worry.

But Jim had gone to work one wintry

morning and never returned. The car had skidded on ice and he hadn’t stood a chance.

She had continued fostering her boys. They filled the empty house and gave her a purpose in life. But this time it was proving too difficult.

She sighed and put down the cup. It was no good. She would have to admit defeat and send Jack back.

All at once she noticed the date on the calendar. It was 20 years to the day since Graham, the first of their foster boys, had arrived.

It had been snowing then, too, she remembered. He had been a poor little scrap of a boy, but he had thrived with their love and care.

As she sat there, her mind wandered down the years, seeing the faces of the boys they had cared for.

Most of them kept in touch with her, and she was proud of the way they had turned out, especially Graham, who was now a captain in the Army.

She felt that their success was in part due to her, and she was proud of that.

At that moment the door opened quietly and a small, anxious face peeped round.

“Mum,” he said hesitantly. “I’m sorry.”

Ellie looked up, startled. It was the first time he had called her Mum.

He crept into the room and stood by her chair, waiting. She sat quietly for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision.

It was much too soon to give up on him. She would ring Mr Ranwood and tell him she had changed her mind. Jack was staying.

“Have you seen the snow, Jack? Shall we make a snowman?”

The child’s radiant smile was her answer and he ran off to get dressed, longing to be out there in the wonderful white playground that had appeared overnight.

* * * *

Across the road at number ten, Ethel Morris drew back her curtains and looked in dismay at the white world outside.

She had a hospital appointment to keep and if she had to cancel it, goodness knows how long she would have to wait to get another.

If only I hadn’t quarrelled with Sally, she thought miserably, I wouldn’t be having to attend these appointments by myself.

She was worried about the unexplained symptoms she’d noticed a few weeks earlier and she needed the help and support of her only child.

Just about a year ago, Sally had met a young man who, in Ethel’s opinion, was totally unsuitable for her clever, pretty daughter.

When Ethel, who was never able to hide her feelings, let her know what she thought of him, Sally had been furious and stormed out of the house. There had been no contact since.

Thinking about her daughter, Ethel let her mind drift back to the February day when Sally had been born. It had been snowing then.

The ambulance had nearly not made it in time through the snow drifts and Ethel smiled to herself as she recalled the panic in Bill’s eyes.

She was the one who had stayed calm, even as Sally put in an appearance just as the ambulance drew up at the hospital door.

The longed-for brother or sister for Sally had never arrived, but they’d been a happy little family, the three of them.

They had lost Bill to a heart attack when he was just forty and she and Sally had grown even closer. Until the quarrel.

A tear slid down her cheek and she brushed it aside.

“What a fool I am,” she said to herself. “I only have to ring and apologise.”

She had just spent a lonely Christmas and the next day would be her daughter’s birthday. She hoped Sally would accept her heartfelt apology. It was time to build bridges.

She picked up her mobile and keyed in the familiar number.

* * * *

In a squalid bedsit on the other side of town, Sally Morris heard her mobile buzz. She hoped, as she did every time it rang, that it would be her mother.

Her mother had been right, of course. Gary had proved to be as unreliable as her mother had said he would be. When she’d told him about the baby, he had disappeared altogether.

How Sally had wanted her mum and her calm reassurance that everything would be all right. But Sally was proud. Too proud to pick up the phone and call her mother.

The phone buzzed again and she answered it.

Tears pricked Sally’s eyes as she heard the familiar voice.

“Mum.” She gulped. “I have missed you so much!”

She had so much to tell her. She smiled through her tears as she felt a strange fluttering in her tummy.

A girl really needs her mother at a time like this, she thought.

* * * *

In the immaculate kitchen of number thirteen, Eric Palmer made toast and coffee.

Earlier he had opened the blinds and tutted with annoyance at the sight that met his eyes. Today of all days!

He had an important meeting in Holborn and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the trains, if they were running at all, would be disrupted. But it was his lunch date with Veronica that he really didn’t want to miss.

It was the usual story of an affair with a girl in the office. Well, it wasn’t an affair yet, but she had left him in no doubt that was what she wanted.

But was it what he wanted?

He had been aware of the possibility for some time, ever since Veronica arrived as PA to the managing director. He had even tried to convince himself that he would be justified in having an affair.

He and Clare seemed to be drifting apart. Clare had her own career and a host of friends and could manage, financially and socially. She didn’t really need him. At least, that was his excuse.

Life with Clare was staid and predictable and he was ready for a bit of excitement. Veronica was an affair waiting to happen – if he wanted it to.

He looked out of the window again and noticed the sun glinting on the snow. Deep in his subconscious, it triggered a memory.

It had been snowing the day he first met Clare at university, many years ago now. He remembered how a group of duffel-coated students had built an enormous snowman. Clare had been one of the crowd.

They had been casually introduced by a mutual friend and had been together ever since.

He thought about his wife, several pounds heavier after the children and beginning to go grey; and he thought about Veronica: tall, leggy and blonde and about 20 years younger than Clare.

He remembered the winter evenings playing board games with the family and the snowy days he’d shared with Clare and his children, and suddenly his decision was made.

He made two telephone calls: one to the restaurant where he was to have met Veronica, to cancel the reservation, and one to the florist to deliver a dozen roses to his wife.

He texted Veronica and told her he could not get into town.

He made himself another coffee, silently giving thanks for the overnight snow that had prevented him getting into the city.

It had snowed overnight. Big soft flakes had twirled down over Larch Street. Flakes that had covered up all the imperfections and made the world look beautiful again.

The End.