A Spell of Winter by Helen Dunmore Page A

the soft brush from me and worked gently at her eyes. But the dirt was frozen in.
    ‘Her left arm’s damaged,’ he said. ‘Look where she holds the arrows.’
    It looked as if someone had done it deliberately. The bronze was badly dented, spoiling the smooth swell of muscle and fall of cloth the sculptor had planned.
    ‘It can all be restored,’ said Mr Bullivant. ‘Stand back, then you can see her properly.’
    We crunched backwards over the snow. The brushed bronze gleamed strangely. Diana’s head was up, the hair bound back hard from the beautiful brow. The dogs hung there, caught in mid-leap by her command.
    ‘There,’ said Mr Bullivant, ‘what do you think of her?’
    His face was closer to mine than it had ever been. I’d never noticed the difference in the colour of his eyes before. The right one had a stain of brown in its green. It was only the heavy lids that made his eyes look sleepy. They were sharper than the smell of narcissi, the pupils pinpointing as he looked at me against the whiteness of snow. We were much too close.
    ‘You’re cold,’ he said, noticing my shiver. ‘We’ll go into the house.’
    ‘No, I’m not cold. I like it here.’
    ‘You like the snow, don’t you? It suits you.’
    ‘Yes.’ I looked around. The sun was small and red now, hazed as if there was more bad weather coming. The trees were black as rooks. As soon as we went indoors night would leap to the windows, blotting out everything beyond. Out here it would stay half-lit by snow for hours, while rabbits and deer limped through the icy garden and gnawed bark from the young trees.
    ‘I always think of you outside, in the woods or in the garden,’ said Mr Bullivant.
    ‘Do you?’
    ‘Yes, why do you sound so surprised?’
    ‘I suppose – I don’t believe that people think of me, when I’m not there.’
    ‘That’s rather sad. Why wouldn’t they? Thinking of people when they’re not there – it’s one of life’s great pleasures, isn’t it? You must do it?’
    ‘It’s not a pleasure for me,’ I said instantly. I hadn’t known I was going to say that. Our parents were rarely mentioned by our neighbours now. They had been fed enough fictions to fill the silence. My mother was abroad for her health, in the south of France. My father had died in a sanatorium. Conveniently, my grandfather could not bear to speak of either of them. This certainly avoided the risk of questions. My grandfather had turned my parents into shadows, and, as far as I knew, everybody had agreed to it.
    Mr Bullivant looked at me and his face changed. ‘I’m sorry. Call me a clumsy idiot. I forgot about your father and mother.’
    ‘Oh! I wasn’t thinking of them.’ I stared at the cold graininess of the statue. A garden in winter, no scent, no flowers. But in my head there was the sickening smell of roses. It made me not able to breathe. I had my father’s arms around me, squeezing.
    ‘Tea,’ said Mr Bullivant. ‘D’you like Lapsang Souchong? And muffins with crab-apple jelly? And there’s a chocolate cake for Rob.’
    There was a fire lit, as well as the central heating. It was a pale, shining fire and the shadow of its flames flowered on the Chinese carpet. There were three bronze looking-glasses on the walls, and in them the room was secret and brilliant. It was quiet apart from the little shift and stir of the coals. I didn’t feel like talking. It was enough to sit and breathe the warm, sweet, pent-up air. Outside it was growing dark, but Rob was still in the stables.
    ‘I’ll send a message,’ said Mr Bullivant, and he stretched out his hand to the bell but did nothing. Warmth crept through us, flushing my face. I watched his hand. The nails were cut square, very strong-looking and smooth. I had taken off my things in the hall and I thought how dull my dress was against this room. The watery green silk that covered the sofa was finer than anything I’d ever worn. I wished I wasn’t sitting opposite a