When Nights Were Cold by Susanna Jones

thin blouse, but when I held it up and saw her neat little stitches, the fine cream buttons chosen with care and sewn tightly into place, I pressed the fabric against my face and imagined her putting on the identical version, fastening her pearls around her neck and checking herself in the mirror. I wore the blouse with a heavy skirt and hoped for the best.
    I still have the glove. It is in the cellar with my axe, but I shall probably leave it there. To think of showing it to Catherine and explaining how I came about it makes me blush, even now. I have filled the kettle and placed it on the coals. I reach for the biscuit tin on the mantelpiece.
    One for you, Father? I offer him a ginger nut. His countenance softens. I have noticed, over many years, that I can make his expression change. I can make him severe and stubborn, or wise and tender, just by wanting it. Now I have made him hungry and he tries to eat the biscuit with his eyes.
    I shall ask Mabel to have the piano tuned, tomorrow if possible. We used to have a blind man from Gypsy Hill, but the last time he came was probably when Father was still alive and now the tuner must be dead too. I’ll have Mabel dust the strings and give the wood a good polish. Not only is the piano more than a semitone out, but three keys are stuck and so it is irritating to play. I tinkle the notes a little most days, but the sound is shocking and I have to go at it for a long time to reach a state where I hardly notice. One of the bad keys is top B so it is of no consequence, but middle F sharp and the A below that are also stuck. I try to sing the missing notes into place when they are essential to the melody but, as I am never quite ready when the moment comes, it sounds frightful. It is for Catherine, not for me, that I want the piano working again.
    I shall leave her old sheet music on the lid and let her notice it. If she does not, I shall only have to drop a hint or two while we talk of Mother and Father, our childhood, the war and all. I will offer her a bag of sherbet or some peppermint lumps – Mabel will go out in the morning and fetch them – and she’ll soon play herself into the past. She’ll begin with Bach. I smile as I see her hands working busily together, following the intricate patterns and stitch of the music, and she will knit her way through the evening until we and our house are all one fabric again and cannot be undone.
    I have a photograph, a long, curled-up thing. I unroll it, grasp the corners. I move my arms back and forth to get it into a position where I can read the words on the back.
    Candlin College Hockey Team, 1909–10
    (left to right) C. Parr (captain), B. Bright, H. Grime, E. Jones, E. Thomson, J. Vause, F. Mitchell, C. Halford, G. Farringdon, L. Corkell, C. Nelson, K. Boddy
    There are more names but too faded to read.
    Catherine will not want to see this. She was never interested in hockey or anything to do with running around. I imagine that she and George had a quiet life together. I have the feeling that she is thinking about me at this very moment. If I shut my eyes and concentrate, I believe I can almost reach her thoughts and pull them to me. I want to believe that I can. We used to play at this sort of thing, reading minds and sending messages. Once I sat in my bedroom, Catherine in hers, and we imagined Freddie into the attic so that the three of us could have a conversation by telepathy. I thought I heard a lot of noise from both of them but nothing that sounded like voices and, though I wanted it to be true and longed to hear words from Freddie, I knew that it was nonsense.
    Catherine. Catherine. Can you hear me? Where are you? Listen and you’ll know I’m here and have something to tell you. Cicely Parr – she – you never met her but I’m trying to explain. I can’t get rid of her. I need you at my side now.

Chapter Seven
    The Antarctic Exploration Society held its first meeting. I woke early