Gerrard - The Winter House

PENGUIN BOOKS

The Winter House

Praise for Nicci Gerrards novels:

Beguiling, poignant, wonderful Sunday Express

Acutely observed, this is modern relationship territory with a twist Elle

Unpretentious and page-turning Independent

Truthful and wise this is a fine anti-romance Daily Mail

A quietly impressive novel that isnt afraid to take on the big themes of life, love and the inescapable influences of families Guardian

A skilfully observed book about grief, sibling relations and first love Company

A thoughtful tale of love, sibling rivalry and family secrets Vogue

A moving and perceptive insight into deception and renewal Sunday Mirror

A heartening story of a woman betrayed by her husband who slowly realizes she has her own passions and dreams to follow Good Housekeeping

Nicci Gerrard writes for the Observer and is the co-author, with Sean French, of the bestselling Nicci French thrillers. She lives in Suffolk with her husband and four children. Her novels Things We Knew Were True, Solace and The Moment You Were Gone are all published by Penguin and received rave reviews.

NICCI GERRARD

PENGUIN BOOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS

Published by the Penguin Group

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First published 2009

Copyright Joined-up Writing, 2009

All rights reserved

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

ISBN: 978-0-14-195794-4

To Jackie, Tim and Kate

The phone call came at a quarter to eight, when it still wasnt fully light outside; a chilly drizzle spattered the window-panes and spread a fine gauze over the skyline, so that nothing was entirely clear and rooftops and trees acquired a blurred, mysterious air. Marnie hesitated. Her slice of bread was under the grill and already done on one side; her coffee was brewing in the cafetire; a newspaper lay open on the table beside the plate and the jar of marmalade. This was her peaceful time of the day. She had already been out for a run and taken a shower. Now she was wearing her dressing-gown, scrubbed and virtuous, the pleasurable ache of exercise in her limbs, in a kitchen that smelt of toast, detergent and the basil that grew in a pot on the window-sill, which she watered every morning. Eva and her boyfriend would be asleep for hours, the door shut on the unimaginable squalor of their room. The unblemished day lay ahead of her. Reluctantly, she picked up the phone.

Hello? Marnie here.

Marnie? The voice, overlaid by a static crackle, was not one she immediately placed, though it was oddly familiar and, as certain smells can, awoke a powerful but elusive memory.

Yes, speaking.

This is Oliver. Oliver Fenton.

Oliver? She frowned, and her grip tightened on the phone. The morning tipped into strangeness. But I mean, what ?

I know this is unexpected. Im calling about Ralph.

Wait, said Marnie. Please hold on for just one moment. She put the phone down carefully, noticing that her hands were shaking slightly, and went to turn off the grill. The toast was just beginning to burn, its crust singeing. She poured herself half a cup of coffee and picked up the phone again, turning her back on the ordered morning she had prepared for herself and looking instead out of the window. In the flats opposite, a man in boxer shorts was eating cereal straight out of the packet. Sorry, she said. I had to Ralph, you said?

You need to come and see him. The voice bounced, losing syllables. It sounded as though Oliver was shouting through a high wind.

I need to come and see him, she repeated stupidly. I dont understand.

Hes dying. A young woman in combat trousers carrying a polystyrene cup of coffee was passing beneath the window now; Marnie gazed down at the straight white parting in her sleek black ponytail. She walked very gracefully, like a dancer. Marnie?

Im still here.

Im sorry.

I cant hear you very well.

I said, hes dying. And he wants to see you.

But I

Hes in his cottage in Scotland. Ive booked you on a flight to the nearest airport. Its about sixty miles from here.

Hang on. I cant simply as if

The plane leaves at three twenty this afternoon. From Stansted. You just need to show your passport.

I have to go to work today.

Someone will meet you there, continued Oliver, as if she hadnt spoken.

Youre breaking up.

I said, someone will meet you there. OK?

Oliver, wait! You have to tell me I mean, why?

I cant do it alone, he said. Or she thought he said, through the crackle.

Wait! The wind blew down the line at her and she shuddered, imagining she could feel its cold breath against her skin. How long for? she shouted against it. Hello? Oliver? Are you still there? Can you hear me? Damn.

Frowning, she returned the phone to its cradle. Her hands were no longer trembling, but she felt cold and oddly heavy. She took a gulp of coffee, but it was tepid and bitter, so she poured it down the sink. She threw the toast into the bin. Put the marmalade back on the shelf. Folded the paper so the headline (Family die in fire) was no longer showing, and sat at the table, shutting her eyes and resting her head in her hands. She wanted to think but for a while no thoughts came, no images, even, just a voice in the darkness repeating words that made little sense. Its Ralph Hes dying

When she lifted her head again, the room seemed suddenly unfamiliar to her, as if she had already left it, and it had receded into her past, like a story that was over: a small, well-lit space; four chairs pushed against the wooden table she had rescued from a skip and restored; well-stocked cupboards; shelves lined with herbs; the calendar on the wall turned to December a bare tree spreading its boughs across an empty winter landscape. There was a small whiteboard on the door, items to remember written on it in red felt-tip. Milk, Bin bags, Phone council, Bday cards to Claire, Martin and Anna. It was snug and functional, like a cabin on a great liner. Returning from work in the evening, she would look up at her illuminated window, and it would seem to her that her flat was bobbing in the buoyant darkness above.

Perhaps she would simply ignore the phone call, pretend that it had never happened. Then her life could continue on the same tack, a steady course that over the last months had consoled her. But even as she thought this, imagining herself going smoothly through her unchanged day, she was making plans. She heated up a second cup of coffee in the microwave and made a list in her head of all the things she needed to do, her mind skittering across the icy surface of the news and trying not to break through into scary waters. Pack a few clothes it would be cold in the north of Scotland in December. Walking boots and thick sweaters, gloves, thermal socks. Layers: that was what her mother had always counselled whenever Marnie was packing, and she seemed to have been packing for most of her life. Ralph was dying at least, Oliver had said so, but it didnt feel true or even possible. Passport, although it was only a domestic flight. A couple of books. Her notebook. Travel light how long would she be gone, anyway? A day? Two? More? For a moment, Ralphs face flashed into view, vivid with life, youthful with time unaccounted for, smiling at her as she sat befuddled in her kitchen. She felt a vicious pinch of panic. He couldnt die. He couldnt leave yet. Tampons, toothbrush, makeup, migraine tablets. She hadnt asked how he was dying. Had he been hit by a car? Or perhaps a stroke, so now his mobile face was slack and lopsided. Would she even recognize him?