Lost: Part 10 - The Final Instalment

On the green, Winter lit his third cigarette of the day. His phone call to Dan Rogers had gone well, he thought. His old colleague seemed happy enough to talk and to meet, but his voice was frosted with caution. He knew that Winter had never been in the habit of making social calls.

            ‘Anything in particular you wanted to talk about, David?’

            ‘Aye well, I’ve been thinking about the Coxon girls. Just thought it would be good to talk about the case. You were with me on that from day one.’

            There was a silence down the telephone line that seemed to ripple and swell.    

‘Can’t let it go, eh?’ Rogers said finally. ‘I hear that. I think about them too. More than I have ever cared to admit. Retirement just makes it worse.’

            When Winter offered to drive up the coast that afternoon to meet, Rogers had agreed eagerly. Winter remembered that his wife had died of cancer less than six months after he retired, and that his daughter had emigrated to Australia with her family. He felt a twang of guilt that he had not stayed in contact with the man who had been by his side for so many years, had shared so much. He needed to be better at that relationship stuff, he thought, not be so neglectful. He needed to keep people closer, stop them from getting lost. The phone call was a start. 

            The clouds had cleared. He looked at the coastline curling to the north and south. In the shifting sea, white caps frothed and tumbled. The horizon was a sharp blue line etched into the sky. He found he was looking forward to the drive north. The journey would take him past shipyards and grey concrete towns, through fishing villages preserved as if in amber and dry, quiet fields sleeping after harvest. He was eager to get started. 

            ‘He’s back, Mr Winter. I found him! I found him!’

            It was Nell. She swooped past, whooping as she zig-zagged down the gentle slope of the green. Her arms were outstretched as if she were flying. Winter heard himself laugh. It was a huge, walloping laugh that shook his whole body. For a second, everything seemed possible, everything full of light and hope. After all, Nell had found a fox that did not even exist. 

            He was still smiling to himself when his quiet contemplation was interrupted. 

            ‘Here you go, Mr Winter. My apologies for the door slipping out of my hand yesterday. I can’t think how that can have happened. Gust of wind . . . possibly.’

Turning, he found Annie Hart standing next to him holding out a parcel. He had not heard her approach either. Stealth, it seemed, ran in the family. 

            ‘Ginger biscuits. My own recipe, I’ll have you know.’ The old lady thrust the brown paper package into Winter’s hands. He had the unshakable sense that he had been rebuked for something, but he could not imagine what his crime had been. 

            The fragrance of the biscuits was sublime. It was as if the essence of Christmas and bonfire night and Halloween had been distilled and wrapped it tidily in brown paper.

‘Why don’t you try one while they’re warm?’ It was an order, her sensed, not a request. 

 Winter unwrapped a biscuit and took a bite. A shower of ginger shards crumbled down the front of his shirt. 

‘Bit of a mess, you’ve made there,’ Annie noted, her tone approvingly disapproving.

            ‘God, that’s good,’ he mumbled, his mouth full of crumbs. ‘Thank you.’

            Nell was sitting in the shade of the rowan tree, her back resting against its silvery trunk. She was chattering as she turned the pages of her notebook, pointing to items of interest, gesticulating wildly with her hands. She was explaining to her fox how she found him, he thought. She was talking him through the numbered steps she’d written. He could almost hear the ringing chime of her voice, ‘Well, first you see a detective establishes the last confirmed sighting. . .’          

            ‘Someone seems happy,’ the old woman remarked. ‘Thank heavens for that.’

            ‘She does, doesn’t she?’ he regarded Annie Hart. In the sharp midday light, her face was as pink and powdery as a marshmallow. He wondered how old she was, sixty, seventy, eighty maybe. It was quite a thing to take responsibility for a child at her age. He had encountered many ladies like her in his time: well-upholstered, capable. Soft but steely: women whose strength and goodness could shift continents.

            ‘Ferdinand must be back,’ she said. 

The comment was made in such a breezy, matter of fact tone, Winter had to turn to check he had heard correctly. His understanding had been that Annie did not know about Nell’s fox. The woman’s face was inscrutable.

            ‘Ferdinand is Nell’s fox. An imaginary friend, I suppose. Been with her since the first day she came here.’ Annie Hart wrapped her arms across the roundness of her body. She had a story to tell, he recognised. He listened. He was used to listening. Sometimes listening was all that could be offered. Often it was enough.

             ‘I’m not Nell’s grandmother. Not really. I am a great, great Aunt on her father’s side. Let me tell you, the less said about him the better; that’s the truth. He’s wicked. Always was, always will be.’ She nodded to herself, as if to authenticate the truth of her statement. ‘At first, I thought I was told old for all of this business, looking after a child. Never had any of my own, you see. Although I suppose, in a way my whole life has been children. I was a domestic science teacher for thirty-six years.’

            The old woman kept her eyes on the sea, its shimmering, rippling movement, its light. It was to be a beacon to her as she strayed into the darker corners of the past. 

            ‘When I heard what she’d been through, what had been done . . . well. I couldn’t let her go to strangers. You’ll know. You’ll know about these things. The horrors of the world.’

            Winter nodded. He did know. He had lived it. It had seeped into him like ink bleeding through white cotton.

            ‘She was such a scrap. Such a tiny scrap. Looked more like a four-year-old than a seven-year-old. Right from her first morning, I started to notice the fox. She would draw him on everything she could get her hands on, on the newspaper, on the walls, on the backs of my bills and letters. I learnt quickly to keep her well-stocked in pencils and notebooks.’

            ‘I suppose lots of little girls love animals. She must love foxes.’

            Annie shook her head, ‘Not foxes. Not any old fox. It was always the same fox. Exactly the same. Two black legs, a heart-shaped white chest, strange, flashing eyes that she seemed to be able to make glitter even if all she had was a black crayon. It was uncanny. I am telling you, I could identify Ferdinand from a police line-up of foxes!’ she chuckled wheezily at her own joke. ‘Then I’d hear her talking to him. She would read him bed time stories, ask him questions, have whole conversations. After every meal, I sweep away a pile of titbits from under the kitchen table. She feeds him, you see? Thinks I don’t see. Oh, I see. Always have done.’

            Nell was watching them through her binoculars, Winter noticed. 

‘She knows we are talking about her, I think.’        

            ‘She’s a deep one,’ Annie turned to Winter. Her face was open, etched with concern and love. ‘Should I be worried, Mr Winter? I don’t know what I am doing, really. She won’t go to school and I won’t make her. She’s healing, see? The do-gooders keep on at me about it, but it doesn’t feel right to force her.’ She looked distrustfully over her shoulder her as she spoke, as if a ‘do-gooder’ might be lurking in the tangle of hollyhocks by the cottage door. ‘I want so much to do right by her. But this fox thing, is that normal? I worry about that too.’

            ‘I think Nell is quite remarkable, Mrs Hart,’ as soon as Winter said it, he knew it was true. He allowed the silence to linger, for the constant sea to shift and heal. ‘I mean, I don’t know whether an imaginary fox is normal. At the moment though, it’s normal for Nell. Maybe Ferdinand helps her. Like you say, she’s healing. The world has not been a kind place to her, from what you say. Ferdinand comes from a place of safety. He helps her cope. He helps her heal. Gives her courage, maybe.’           

‘Yes, yes, I think he does all of those things. And school?’

            ‘I am no expert. No kids of my own either, Mrs Hart. Maybe just let her grow at her own pace. Maybe she is not ready yet. Let her be safe and happy and loved. School will come, I am sure. From my chats with her she seems as bright as a button.’

            ‘Yes, she certainly is that. Runs rings round me and not eleven years old yet!’

Annie nodded brusquely and rubbed her hands together as if she was brushing away flour. It was a sign. She was not used to asking for help, for showing vulnerability. She was relieved to move on to safer, easier topics. When she next spoke, her voice was breezy and light. ‘Look at that little madam scrutinising us with her binoculars. Nothing gets past her. Wouldn’t surprise me if she could lip read and knew every single word we had said.’

‘And it will be all recorded in her green notebook, no doubt.’ Winter observed. His thoughts turned momentarily to the notebooks piled on his own kitchen table, to the shadows they contained.

‘I’m about to call her in for lunch. I’ve got a quiche cooling, crab and leek, care to join us, Mr Winter? Or I can send a slice round to you for later? We won’t bother you, we won’t impose, that’s not our way. I appreciate you listening, all the same.’

‘Sounds lovely, but you really don’t have to feed me, you know.’

Annie wagged her finger, ‘Young man, I think you’ll find that it is my job to feed everyone. It is what I do.’

‘Well, I’ll maybe take a slice for later. I’m heading out now. Work.’

The old lady’s glittering eyes sharpened, ‘Work, I thought you were retired?’

Winter shrugged. Behind them, the church bells chimed twelve. The silver sound sliced through the morning. 

‘Church bells, they don’t sound the hour usually, do they?’ he asked, relieved to steer the conversation away from his retirement.

‘Oh, it’s the rector. He likes to keep us on our toes. Says a little reminder of God’s presence every now and then can’t hurt. He must be pottering in the church.’

Winter was suddenly glad he lived in a place where church bells rang, rectors pottered and little girls played with imaginary foxes. There was light everywhere, he realised, light as well as darkness.

 At the sound of the bells, Nell had sprung to her feet and was scrambling towards them.

‘You haven’t let them go, have you? Those two darling girls from the colliery?’ 

Winter lowered his eyes, he could not find the words to construct an answer. 

‘Why else would you be here?’ Annie Hart asked gently. She placed her hand on Winter’s shoulder. Her touch as soft as the pink pad of a kitten’s paw. She turned back to the cottage, leaving Winter to reflect upon her final question. 

‘Race you, you silly old fox,’ Nell’s voice rang out, ‘First to the door wins.’ 

Winter kept his eyes on the sea as the bright little girl with the sharp black bob sprinted past.

‘See you later, Mr Winter,’ she called.

He raised his hand in response. Annie Hart’s words rang in his ears.

Why else would you be here?

Winter looked at the square village green with its jumble of brick and stone cottages. He saw the berries on the rowan glowing as if lit from within. Behind him he sensed the grey church’s noble presence, its high, square tower watching over the village. 

When he turned home, he saw the little girl racing, running towards her future, towards all that was good and warm and safe. Just a step behind her, as bright and fierce as a comet, he saw a flame of brilliant red. Like a player leaving a well-lit stage, the girl disappeared into the cool dark cottage. The red fox paused. He turned to look at Winter. The man saw the radiant black-gold of his eyes and the heart-shaped blaze of white on his chest. The fox seemed to grin for a second, a crooked, toothy grin. And then he was gone, following his girl into her future.

Winter breathed deeply. The air was sweet with hay and harvest and sharp with the salt tang of the sea. 

It is possible, said to himself. 

It is possible. 

No longer hollow, he felt the richness, the fullness of the life that surged all around him.