Frozen
by
Hugh Vaughan

Pulling the frozen net curtains off the window, I drew a circle on the thin ice with my finger and moved the melting water to the bottom of the window. Outside, the frost hung in the air, a gleaming white-out, everything in the crescent wore a glittering coat, from the road, right up to the shiny sloping roofs and beyond that, all a silvery sheen. I felt as if the wished-for Christmas had come again on seeing the magical sight, instead of the usual dull drip of rain. My frost-free view was big enough to see the crescent, the bulbous cul-de-sac. Two houses, on our side and the same opposite bordered the cul-de-sac, a hawthorn hedge, on the left,  shrouded in mist, gave refuge to the Big House that once dominated the surrounding fields and cottages.  
The owner, a squat man stood at a gap in the hedge, fixing the barb wire fence he had erected to keep out the hoards of boys intent on filling their jumpers with russet apples from his autumnal orchard. Hoary white on vacant trees and crisp under boot, he checked a section of his defense. His boots, laced to his thick tartan socks pulled over his trousers, and his tight fitting jacket of purple hue was buttoned up with black discs. His red cheeks contrasted the pale face. Holding a white handkerchief, he wiped a dripping nose while his gloved left hand gripped his other glove. The face was not unfriendly as he scanned the crescent before moving off unseen into his garden. 
As I watched through my little porthole someone, opposite pulled their red curtains, giving no sight of a body, just movement through their opaque window. Otherwise, all windows in the crescent were covered within and nothing moved without. Steps led to their green doors, with little white gardens and a centerpiece shrub. Small walls of concrete bordered the footpath overgrown with privet hedges. Our corner garden led alongside a path, otherwise most gardens were similar; the hedge ran from our front gate to a side gate, the entrance into our back yard. 
I crossed the chill lino-covered landing to my bedroom. It had two beds, a double and my single which was covered in several heavy blankets, crowned with a deep navy quilted eiderdown and the multi-coloured sheets trailed onto the floor. Sliding my feet under the covers to find some warmth and kneeling up to look into the back yard through the damp window, the hanging frost still gathered at the eaves. Below, the shed occupied half of the yard and on its flat bleached roof lay a broken bicycle and pieces of discarded white-encrusted timber. A wooden green gate led into a narrow vegetable garden, empty of produce, clay turned in the drills, allowing the frost to do its work. Down the centre ran a cinder path, with a washing line above, hung from the shed to a pole at the bottom of the garden. Its benumbed white line dividing the garden, a solitary tea towel, suspended, fixed in space, solid and unmoving. The washing line was supported by a proud pole shaped from a branch and smoothed by my father’s efforts. The natural fork for hooking the line was a shared delight when my father brought it home. Edging the garden and path was a wire fence, at its foot a hawthorn hedge, barely newborn. 
Beyond the back garden lay a tract of open ground, muddy and pallid, a winding path on its way to town, hugging the houses’ back gardens. A huge hump lay up against a thick hawthorn hedge shielding a primary school. That hump was the remnants of the workhouse. We played there, rolling and hiding in drier summer months, playing Cowboys and Indians, reenacting the latest film or television series, cowboys always winning. Lee Enfield rifles carved by penknives into discarded lumps of wood or bow and arrows made from sinewy branches. Some Dads reenacted their own childhoods by detailing rifles; smoothing handles, sandpapering barrels and curving triggers. Many battles were fought, won and lost on that humpy hill. The Hump, as we called it, was now smoothed by a white blanket, barely noticeable. No one liked to stay on the mound for too long. We preferred the long grass, hiding, looking at the clouds swirl slowly overhead, the birds gathered in couples or v-shaped jets as us ground dwellers jealously watched their freedom. Those were the long summer days, today, a white haze hung over the mount, glittering in a weak sun, attempting to drain the chill from the air. Here, stood part of the workhouse, a last addition, where the inhabitants were taught sewing, laundry skills or carpentry, depending on their sex. However, not long after the workshop was built, the dilapidated workhouse had completed its life’s purpose, and became the local council’s store.  One stormy night, the roof disappeared causing its demise and the building was stripped of anything useful. It stood empty and barren, a local landmark, providing the path with its name, initially called the Workhouse Path and finally known as the Work Path and finally the Path. Over the years, the stone walls were tumbled and used for other buildings.  During one operation, the basement floor unearthed a darker past, numerous bones. It was rumoured that the manager housed more occupants than desired, claiming additional funds and hastened the death of the poor unfortunates, their remains buried in the basement cellar. It was a quiet scandal and like the workhouse poor, buried quickly. Many locals’ relatives unceremoniously went there, and so, by guilt or neglect the townspeople scrubbed the unpleasantness in communal amnesia.
 ‘Are you ready yet? Come on down for your breakfast’’, called my mother.
I scrambled on my brown corduroy trousers, new for Christmas, and taking off my pajama jacket at the bathroom sink I speedily wiped my face and neck with the pink facecloth. The chill bathroom, with its frosted, now doubly opaque window unclothed,   Wearing my mother-knitted Aran jumper, taking two stairs down at a time, I was sitting at the table by the window in the warm back room, in front of the open fire, the only source of heat in the house. Draped by diamond-shaped net curtain, I lifted the corner as the sun cast a pearly shadow over the garden, the sky revealed hints of pale blue. I heard the clink of plates from the kitchen and went out to get my bowl of steaming porridge. Taking it back to the table and placing it on a mat of Scottish mountains and flowing streams, I sprinkled sugar across its stagnant top. Then, poured the doorstep-icy creamy topping from the milk, forming a circle around the edge of the bowl.  My plan for eating started there and working inwards, until milk and porridge mixed. Eventually, mixing the lot together into a smooth paste, and spooning it up. My mother arrived with tea and thickly cut bread, the large toasting fork sat by the fire. She forked the bread close to the crust and watched me holding the bread close to the roasting embers and within minutes, both sides browned and I was thickly buttering it.
‘Eat up, we’ll not be going for a while’, said she
‘Can I go out for a while’?
 ‘Just for five minutes and don’t dare get your clothes dirty’’.
I scoffed the warm food before dashing to the under-stairs cupboard. There, my duffle coat hung amidst larger, musky, darker coats. My welly boots stuck deep inside and I had to go on my hands and knees into the dank air to retrieve them. Just as, I placed my hand on the oval black knob of the back door, my mother breathed into my ears;
‘Where are your gloves?’
‘Dunno’ 
‘Find them; I think they might be on top of the knitting basket, behind the sofa’.
The round cane knitting basket with its waist of red and blue beads contained my mother’s current knitting project, on top a cane-saucer lid with its corded loop handle. Various balls of wool, of sizes and colour from past projects littered its bottom. Beside it, stood a brass, much-dented vase filled with grey knitting needles of various lengths and thickness, crowned with numbered discs or knobs. And, of course on the knitting basket were my grey knitted gloves. Suitably assembled, I stepped out onto the back door mat, crunching its layer of soft snow.
Leaving virgin foot prints behind, I followed the stream of engraved prints down the Path’s centre. At the bottom of our garden, the path took a left turn following the edge of houses. I could see someone ahead disappear into the mist. The sun was shining on the mound, it rays reflecting off the haze, but I knew it was too weak to shift the white mask. Little icy wells spread across the lumpy ground and I went in search of more pools with an icy topping.  I found one, a hard window into the water-filled hollow, and taking off my glove I poked it with my finger, and it didn’t break, it hurt. At its edge, I repeated my attempt and crashed into the bleak murk.  Finding a stick and prodding the ice until it shattered, shards twisted and I plunged my stick into every icy hole I could find. Running my fingers through the top of the frost encrusted grass I scooped some of the white stuff and enjoyed the cool melting water on my tongue. The sun’s ray fell upon the hump. Wanting to get my share of its warmth I ran to the sun spot, sure enough, little rays warmed my face. I surveyed the surrounding landscape, gaunt trees, and misty house- blocks, their white borders edging the path. I puffed out and saw the cloud form and swirl in front of my nose, I did this a couple of times, breathing in the sharp air and expelling a cloud. Suddenly two people came into view, at the corner of my garden. I instantly recognized the swaddling figure, head nodding in conversation with her chatting partner.
It was Aunt ‘must go’ Kate, she wore her winter caramel coat, with brown fur collar and black boots. Around her neck, a mother-knitted green scarf with matching hat. She passed our house, down the Path most days, to visit her aunt. As always, she met some other traveler and enjoyed their company as they wandered to their respective duties.  ‘Must go’ Kate got the name because she fled to the toilet on entering our house, uttering the words ‘must go’ on her way. As she busily chatted with her companion, I called to her from the top of the mound through the chill air, but she continued chattering. I called to her at the top of my voice again and again but still she continued down the path in conversation, taking no notice of me. It would only take a minute to run over and touch her, to be beside her but she didn’t take any heed of me. Why isn’t she listening? Can’t she hear? She was getting away from me, so I dashed off the mound and yelling her name she immediately turned to me and looked with amazement into my face. Running and jumping into her arms, I nearly toppled her, her walking companion reaching out to steady her.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, where were you hiding? Oh, my goodness, what’s wrong with ye, you look as you’ve seen a ghost’!