second helping from the casserole and basking in her sense of a job well done when a wind rushed down past the Sterling house, so cold it penetrated the warmth of the kitchen and so fierce it made the window creak.
It sounded as if a tree was outside the cottage. Mabel held onto the edge of the thick stone sink and peered out of the window. All she could see was her lawn dotted with worm-casts and bordered by earth in which her flowers were hibernating, and the night leaning on her restless privet hedge. She finished her meal as A Christmas Carol came to an end, and then she switched the radio off, despite the dripping of the tap, and lit a cigarette. She waited for the mince pies and gazed towards the lightless Sterling house, and at once her memories began to race.
She had never resented the Sterlings, as many of the townsfolk had. In her childhood she'd found them somewhat unnerving; whenever their large dusty black car, which made her think of a hearse, crept past the garden the sight of them had given her a shiver even on the hottest days, the men with their thin sharp faces and startlingly pale hair, the women who seemed to be growing to resemble them. Once Mabel grew up, however, she'd decided they were just decayed gentlefolk. If they had spent Edward Sterling's legacy on planting the forest in accordance with his last wish, as a memorial to him around the grove where he had died, what was wrong with that? Most of the townsfolk seemed to disapprove of them for having acquired so much money without working, but now both men taught philosophy in Leeds. Considering Stargrave's attitude to them, it was hardly surprising if the family were aloof. Their lives were no business of Mabel's — or so she had thought until Ben Sterling's grandmother had begun to patronise her shop.
Charlotte had seemed to sum up the seedy grandeur of the Sterlings. That February day she had been wearing an ankle-length black coat of corduroy so thick that her arms had looked twice as plump as her frail wrists. She'd unwound several lengths of a black scarf from around her head and let it flap from her shoulders as she'd stalked up to the counter. Her grey hair had been restrained by heavy combs above a long pinched face of tissue-paper skin. "Some spools of green thread, the most expensive, if you please," she'd told Mabel with regal politeness. "Are these all? In a stout bag, thank you. Please don't trouble," she'd added when Mabel had reached for her change, a few pence. She'd flung the scarf around her ears and had swept out, leaving Mabel too amused to be furious.
Some weeks later Charlotte had come back. "Have you replenished your stock? I should have made myself clearer. I shall need a regular supply of your finest green thread. Meanwhile, please show me your white."
"You must enjoy sewing."
"So it appears," Charlotte had responded curtly. This time, however, she had accepted her change, which was a start. As she had continued to visit the shop she'd unbent very gradually, letting slip a compliment about Mabel's dress one day, another time remarking that a shopkeeper such as Mabel must see all manner of people to talk to. Thus encouraged, Mabel had eventually asked "What are you sewing with all this thread?"
Charlotte had stared so hard at her that meeting her gaze had made Mabel's eyes sting. At last the old woman had said "When it's finished I'd like you to see."
Mabel shivered and went to the oven to pull out the trays of mince pies. She slid in the last tray and stood close to the oven, hugging herself. Translucent flames of frost were spreading imperceptibly up the window. She hurried upstairs to put on a heavier cardigan before sitting with her back to the kitchen window and the dripping tap. She wouldn't be driven out of her kitchen, but while she was remembering the Sterlings she preferred not to face their dark house and darker woods.
A little more than a year ago Charlotte had brought in her sewing, producing it from a
It sounded as if a tree was outside the cottage. Mabel held onto the edge of the thick stone sink and peered out of the window. All she could see was her lawn dotted with worm-casts and bordered by earth in which her flowers were hibernating, and the night leaning on her restless privet hedge. She finished her meal as A Christmas Carol came to an end, and then she switched the radio off, despite the dripping of the tap, and lit a cigarette. She waited for the mince pies and gazed towards the lightless Sterling house, and at once her memories began to race.
She had never resented the Sterlings, as many of the townsfolk had. In her childhood she'd found them somewhat unnerving; whenever their large dusty black car, which made her think of a hearse, crept past the garden the sight of them had given her a shiver even on the hottest days, the men with their thin sharp faces and startlingly pale hair, the women who seemed to be growing to resemble them. Once Mabel grew up, however, she'd decided they were just decayed gentlefolk. If they had spent Edward Sterling's legacy on planting the forest in accordance with his last wish, as a memorial to him around the grove where he had died, what was wrong with that? Most of the townsfolk seemed to disapprove of them for having acquired so much money without working, but now both men taught philosophy in Leeds. Considering Stargrave's attitude to them, it was hardly surprising if the family were aloof. Their lives were no business of Mabel's — or so she had thought until Ben Sterling's grandmother had begun to patronise her shop.
Charlotte had seemed to sum up the seedy grandeur of the Sterlings. That February day she had been wearing an ankle-length black coat of corduroy so thick that her arms had looked twice as plump as her frail wrists. She'd unwound several lengths of a black scarf from around her head and let it flap from her shoulders as she'd stalked up to the counter. Her grey hair had been restrained by heavy combs above a long pinched face of tissue-paper skin. "Some spools of green thread, the most expensive, if you please," she'd told Mabel with regal politeness. "Are these all? In a stout bag, thank you. Please don't trouble," she'd added when Mabel had reached for her change, a few pence. She'd flung the scarf around her ears and had swept out, leaving Mabel too amused to be furious.
Some weeks later Charlotte had come back. "Have you replenished your stock? I should have made myself clearer. I shall need a regular supply of your finest green thread. Meanwhile, please show me your white."
"You must enjoy sewing."
"So it appears," Charlotte had responded curtly. This time, however, she had accepted her change, which was a start. As she had continued to visit the shop she'd unbent very gradually, letting slip a compliment about Mabel's dress one day, another time remarking that a shopkeeper such as Mabel must see all manner of people to talk to. Thus encouraged, Mabel had eventually asked "What are you sewing with all this thread?"
Charlotte had stared so hard at her that meeting her gaze had made Mabel's eyes sting. At last the old woman had said "When it's finished I'd like you to see."
Mabel shivered and went to the oven to pull out the trays of mince pies. She slid in the last tray and stood close to the oven, hugging herself. Translucent flames of frost were spreading imperceptibly up the window. She hurried upstairs to put on a heavier cardigan before sitting with her back to the kitchen window and the dripping tap. She wouldn't be driven out of her kitchen, but while she was remembering the Sterlings she preferred not to face their dark house and darker woods.
A little more than a year ago Charlotte had brought in her sewing, producing it from a
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