Winter’s Children: Curl up with this gripping, page-turning mystery as the nights get darker

‘Why do you make so much?’ Evie asked.

‘To sell on the Women’s Institute stall and to give to my friends. Home-made puddings are always favourites. This is my very own recipe. Have a taste,’ said Mrs Snowden, finding a teaspoon and dipping it in the goo. Evie sipped it cautiously. It was sweet and spicy, but something rubbery was sticking to the roof of her mouth so she wasn’t sure.

‘When they’re steamed properly, you can take one home for your mum. Then you can help me make some mince pie mixture,’ said Mrs Snowden. ‘It has to soak for a while yet so all the flavours settle down.’

‘I like your kitchen.’ Evie stared at the shelves full of jars, the bunches of dried herbs and the cauldron bubbling on the stove. It was a witchy kitchen. ‘But why do you have two kitchens here?’ she asked, knowing Mr Grumpy had his own big stove.

‘This was once the dairy room, but it suits me fine. I can do all my baking and read a book at the same time. My son has the big one. It’s handy for the yard and all his mucky clothes. I expect you’ve noticed farmers get very muddy. Come and fill the pound pots,’ she said, not looking at her but offering her another spoon.

‘We don’t do pounds and ounces. We do grams and kilos,’ Evie announced proudly as she shovelled the gloopy mixture into the bowl.

‘Well, I’m too old for all that newfangled stuff. My scales are imperial, not metric. Does your mummy do any baking?’ the old lady asked. Evie wasn’t sure how to answer. She was a bit frightening, like a stern teacher.

‘We cook pasta and rice and noodles and stir-fries,’ she answered.

‘No, I mean real baking: cakes and pies, scones and biscuits.’

Evie shook her head. ‘We buy all our stuff from Sainsbury’s. Mummy says sweet things are bad for my teeth. I’m only allowed pudding on Saturdays, so we have fruit yoghurts and fromage frais.’

‘I’m sure it’s all very healthy, but there’s nothing like a bit of home baking to warm your ribs on a cold day.’ The lady paused and gave her a smile. ‘When I was a little girl, we used to buy the flour in sacks, and a tub of treacle and sugar too. We stored eggs for winter and churned our own butter and milk. There was nothing my mother didn’t make on a Thursday. That was baking day, and I used to run home from school just for the smell coming through the kitchen door; bread, floury barm cakes, oven-bottom loaves, scones, tarts and pastries. You get very hungry on a farm.

‘It was a sight to behold, and if we were having company then there were even more to put away in tins until Sunday. Sometimes we’d be snowed in for weeks so we had to have plenty in the larder to tide us over. Who bakes your Christmas cake?’ The old lady was plopping round circles of paper and lids onto the bowls.

‘We buy a small one, because Daddy doesn’t eat cake. Nanny says he’s away on business and he can’t live with us now.’ Evie remembered she wasn’t supposed to talk about Daddy. ‘I only eat the icing but Mummy likes the marzipan.’

‘I shall have to show you how to bake a cake then.’ The cooking lady nodded. ‘I don’t suppose you have cooking lessons yet.’

Evie shook her head. ‘I can put topping on a pizza base.’ They carried on filling the bowls and she wondered what Mummy was doing.

‘Mrs Snowden …’ she paused uncertain whether to continue, ‘who’s the lady on the stairs?’

‘In the painting? That’s Jacob’s wife, Tom’s grandfather … Now she was a real baker and very proud of her kitchen. I’ve got one of her old recipe books. Would you like to see it?’ She wiped her fingers on her apron and pulled an old leather-bound book from a cupboard. The notebook was full of spidery brown writing. ‘Look, this is Agnes Snowden’s ginger parkin, and I still make it to that recipe – I brought you some the other day – and her Christmas pudding is the mixture I’m using now. She was supposed to be a bit of a fortune-teller and a tartar to her servants.’

Mrs Snowden was sniffing. Nanny Partridge never sniffed like that when she was talking.

‘She looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth but it’s said she ruled this place with a rod of iron.’

‘Why does she live on the stairs?’

‘I don’t understand … no, just in the portrait on the wall. What stairs, Evie?’ she asked, curious.

‘I saw a kind lady at the bottom of the stairs with a big white collar round her neck and a long black skirt. She looked very busy.’ Evie watched as the old lady brought down her spoon.

‘When did you see her?’

Evie pointed to the back of the house. ‘I think I saw her looking out of the window this morning but she was there when we went to see Mr Grumpy … your farmer … and he showed us round the house. I saw her again coming to you and she walked right through the wall. But no one will believe me,’ Evie added. ‘Is she a nice ghost? She had a bunch of feathers in her hand.’

‘I think she must be, but I’ve never seen her. It sounds like Mistress Snowden. I heard tell that she’s never left the old place. My little girl used to see her sometimes … They say old houses gather spirits like dust. She must love this place to hang on for hundreds of years with her goose-feather duster. My mother used to have one of them too. They got right into the corners … We never wasted anything in the olden days … not like today. Goose feathers made pillows and eiderdowns.’

Evie was relieved that someone else had seen her.

‘Where’s your little girl?’ Evie was busy licking the bowl.

‘Gone to live with Jesus and the angels, like your daddy,’ Mrs Snowden sighed, looking out of the window and shaking her head. ‘She was only lent to us for a season … too good for this world.’

‘My daddy’s gone away to work but he’ll come back for Christmas. I’ve asked Santa and he can do magic. Have you ever seen an angel?’ Evie asked.

‘Not as I can rightly think of, Evie. I don’t believe in angels with wings flapping. I think they come in other disguises to trip us up.’ Mrs Snowden was shaking her head again and Evie noticed she had a stray whisker on her chin.

‘I saw a white lady in your wood with silver hair. Do you think she is an angel too? She waved to me,’ she added, but the old lady wasn’t listening, just scowling.

‘It’s about time you went to school, young lady. You’ll like it at Wintergill. I’m sure they dress up as angels for the Christmas play. You’ll make lots of friends in the village, not imaginary ones. I think your mother reads you too many fairy stories,’ Mrs Snowden replied. ‘And don’t go wandering off on your own in the wood. I don’t want you messing up Nik’s hard work. This isn’t a play park. It’s not for kiddies, do you hear?’

Evie made her grumpy face. She didn’t want to think about school.

‘If you stay here I’ll show you how to make angel cakes with wings. They have to be as light as feathers, and you can make the butter cream,’ said Mrs Snowden looking at her watch. ‘I thought your mother might be coming for coffee. You go and rescue her from my son’s witterings and I’ll put the kettle on. You can tell Mistress Snowden to go and haunt him!’

When Evie had gone Nora sat down suddenly drained. That poor bairn was old before her time. Angels and ghosts indeed! Oh, to be a child again when her own world was full of such dreams. For all she was a town-bred kid, sophisticated beyond her years, there was something reassuring about her daydreams, but Nora was uneasy about a child around the place.

How strange she could see old Hepzibah with such clarity, as Shirley did all those years ago. Nora felt the old ache in her heart. It was coming to that season when Shirley was always uppermost in her mind. She didn’t want another girl in the house to remind her of what she had lost, especially a little girl of the same age.

Nik was a good lad in many ways but he was no substitute for Shirley … What a dreadful thing to admit to yourself, she thought. He’d never replaced her firstborn in her heart and he’d always been Tom’s favourite.

This child was different, reddy fair like her mother, bright-eyed, sharp-faced, and it was hard to ignore her. They shouldn’t have let a barn to a family with a child. It had so many secret memories, that barn at the end of the yard. Changing its name, reshaping it would never change what had gone on there all those years ago. No point in going back over it, old girl.

Everyone who mattered then was long gone and she must think only of better times: Shirley riding Bess, her plaits hanging under her riding hat, her plump thighs, black wellies and gaberdine school mac. Now she was frozen for ever in black and white photographs. You never get over the death of a child, not ever. Nothing could compensate for her loss, not even Nik. He was always shielded from the truth of those post-war years, the tragedy was never mentioned in his hearing. No one spoke to children in those days about such events. You got on with life and made no show of grief. And no amount of flowers laid around her grave would bring her back to them. Now, she chose to live at the front of the house away from the back yard memories. It was the only way. She was glad she had no pious belief to fight this lifelong bitterness.

Yet stone by stone she’d built a wall between herself and her son. She feared to love what might be snatched away. Life was no longer safe. The worst had happened and it could happen again. Nik was always Tom’s ally against her. Two couples living in one house was never easy and warring factions made everyone jumpy. Nik’s wife had sensed these tensions and rivalries, and she herself had done nothing to help the girl cope with this new life. No wonder Mandy left them to get on with it all. She’d seen Nik’s pain and done nothing to soothe it, knowing better than anyone the loss of hopes and dreams. If only she could make a bridge between them, but it was too late now.

She wondered if Evie could also see Shirley playing in the Far Meadow, throwing her ball against the west wall, chasing the chickens? It would be such a comfort to know her daughter’s spirit was roaming free in the fresh air, not cooped up in a little box in Wintergill churchyard.

Nora slumped down, her heart beating wildly. This won’t do! She blew her nose and wiped her eyes. Thinking only made things worse.

Anona Norton, 1653 (#ulink_af986280-daca-5374-a3d9-178131f4a2ee)

Hepzibah’s Brawn

Half a pig’s head, cleaned out

Water and vinegar, salt and pepper

Chopped onion

A bunch of herbs: sage, bay leaves, marjoram, 12 peppercorns, 4 cloves

Teaspoon of allspice, mace, parsley

Soak head in water and vinegar for an hour. Re-soak in clean salted water for another half-hour.