The Ice Maiden

That Winter was a hard one and no one was prepared for it. Previous Winters had been busted flushes. They flattered to deceive. There was a pattern to it all, if anyone cared to look. History was the original Google. But it never got the hits. The hardest Winters took their time coming and the longer they prepared the harder they were. They were the payback for all the good, soft times.

The news of my Father’s death was unexpected. As far as I was concerned he’d been dead for a long, long time. There was a fork in the path of our lives and we went our separate ways before I hit my teens. After that all he was, was Mr Blame. Whenever Mother and I fell upon hard times we always knew who was responsible. He was the absence in a room we could ill afford to heat. He was the basic, repetitive meals on our plates. He was the shadow of the bogeyman. A spiteful absence in our lives.

So to be contacted by his solicitor was a surprise. The bigger surprise was the inheritance. He gave me everything even after all those years of embittered estrangement. I was intrigued at this twist in the narrative of my life. The result going against the run of play. The man who deprived me of so much giving me everything. That was a punchline to a bad joke. I wanted to get it. But I couldn’t. My heart really wasn’t in it. Never had been.

His house was modest but somehow familiar. Familiar even in its temporary snowy garb. The winter took that place and held it in stark relief. I found that fitting. This was no sugar coating. This was a monochrome picture that spoke to me of a past long lost.

Walking up the path to the front door I couldn’t help but look for the imprint of his body in the snow. He’d ventured out in the freezing cold to put the bins out. Never made it to the end of the path. His heart had given out. Dead before he landed upon the snow pillow that was his resting place for the best part of the day. School children on the bus home spotted him. I suppose if you’re going to see a dead body, a frost covered man from the far end of the supermarket freezer section is a good starting point. He was made unreal by the harsh weather. For me, he was always unreal. A cautionary tale we told on long Winter nights.

As I ventured into his house I had a strange moment where at thirty three years of age I realised that I was an orphan. My Mother passed several years ago. They say she died peacefully in her sleep. My take on that is that they always tell us that story to spare us the reality of the convulsions and desperate fighting in those final moments for just a little more time living. I can’t relate to anyone giving up on life easily. That makes no sense to me. We’re survivors and we fight. Right to the bitter end.

The house was cold, so I automatically went about heating it. None of the utilities had been cut off. There was money in the old man’s account and the bills were being paid. All the same, it was cold in that house. I could see my breath as I wandered down the hallway and got used to my surroundings.

I found an open fire in the living room. There were logs piled at its side and all the accoutrements for a man to make fire. I applied myself to the task and as I look back on everything I think that was the point at which I was hooked. I slipped into one of my father’s habit and filled his boots. In that moment, I was being him. Doing as he did. An echo. A repeated pattern. We all dance to that music whether we acknowledge it or not.

As the flames danced seductively, I experienced a warmth I was intent upon rejecting. My mission statement had been that there was nothing here for me. All I was about was taking inventory. Already I was a guest in this house.

Making tea sealed the deal. I sated a thirst that rose up in me as I considered further exploration. There were thoughts of the kitchen and that was when I visualised a mug steaming in the same way as my breath had. There was no milk but the black tea was no hardship. As I wandered the rest of the house with mug in hand I imagined my Dad doing likewise. A simple affectation that spoke of a well of experience and a quiet industry. I was getting to know the old man as I followed in his well-worn footsteps.

There was intrigue in the heating settings. A timer set to the bare minimum. Not enough to keep the house warm, but neither would it freeze. Later, when I enquired with the solicitor as to whether anyone else had visited the house, they confirmed that no one had. So my Dad had dropped the settings down to a point that made the house uninhabitable.

Now I revisited each room to look for a life in progress. There was little to support this theory of mine. Affairs were in order. The house had been left as though the occupant was going on holiday. No dishes in the sink. No mess and no clutter.

I refused to believe that he’d known that his time was at an end. That made no sense to me. He’d collapsed in his front garden. There was no planning in that part. Unless of course his plan included the bins. His meticulous planning thwarted by an early curtain call. I smiled at the thought of his intending to climb into one of those bins. The black one. It had to be the back one. No fuss. No nonsense. Everything in its right place. I should have cautioned myself at that gallows humour, but it seemed to work and I had a notion my Father would also have smiled at the image of him clambering unceremoniously into the wheelie bin. Taking a final look around him before closing the lid on his life. If this was how he was, I could imagine his last word being bugger, a smile on his lips as he was cheated of his final comedy moment. Despite everything, I liked him for that.

By the end of that first day, my overnight bag seemed sparse and inadequate. My own planning insufficient. I slept in the spare room, not wanting to intrude. As I turned the light out it dawned on me that this would have been the room I’d have slept in had I visited my Dad when he was alive. That thought should have kept me awake, but instead I drifted into a deep and uninterrupted sleep.

The following day I headed to the local shop. I wanted milk in my tea and I was hungry. The basket I’d picked up at the shop entrance was soon filled to the gunnels. I hefted it at the till with a minor grunt. I had to buy two carrier bags to pack everything away. Eyeing my provisions curiously, I placed them in the passenger footwell of my car. I gave them another suspicious glance as I lowered the handbrake. I’d bought enough for the best part of a week. My flying visit had been grounded.

Wandering a house is all very well. It gives a flavour of the occupant but little more. I sensed my Dad’s presence, but that was as far as it went. The truth lay buried just as he would be once the ground thawed enough to allow his grave to be dug. I began gently. Opening kitchen cupboards and drawers. Wishing there was his food in the fridge. The cupboards only gave a partial story.

Next was the living room. I had a feeling that he regularly took his pile of read books to a charity shop. The few books on the shelfs were not part of a coherent collection. More those bought on a whim or with good intentions. The authors he loved were not here. No books that must be read soon. Another sign that he knew his time was nearing. The fabric of his life had been neatly cut.

I had a hang up with his bedroom. This was his inner sanctum. A private space that should not be defiled. I was not ready for that room. Had barely seen it other than a sweeping glance from the doorway. The box room was a different matter. There was a desk here. This was where he conducted his business. Whatever that was. There were box files with labels. I started with them. There was the usual paperwork. Bills mostly. It was when I got to his bank statements that the ground upon which I stood shifted. The old man was old school. The bank statements went back years, but there were recent ones despite the banks pushing for everyone to go paperless. From the spend documented, he lived frugally. One regular monthly payment jumped out on me and wrestled with long embedded preconceptions. It would. It had my name on it.

I sat at his desk and stared out at the white world beyond the window. The evidence before me spoke of a reality that did not match my own. The man I knew had walked out on me and my Mother without so much as a backward glance. He’d left us high, dry and struggling to make ends meet. According to his bank account though, he’d been paying my Mother a handsome sum throughout my life all the way up until the day he died. I couldn’t fathom this. I had no idea this account existed. Wondered what my Mother had done with the money accumulating in it. Other than lying to me about its existence and the motives of the man who provided funds meant for my upbringing and our life together.

I didn’t know what to do with this incongruous information. So I went and made another mug of tea. And as I sipped at the hot brew, my hunger made itself known. Making my first proper meal in his house made it even more homely and brought me closer to him. For the first time since visiting I had a pang of loneliness. Found myself thinking of how things could have been. Wishing for a meal with the man himself in this environment that had been his home. Washing the dishes gave me pause for further thought. This was my old man’s home. He lived here alone. I wondered whether he was ever lonely. The child in me protested at this state of affairs. It needn’t ever have been like this. We could all have been together. The older part of me understood why this could not be so and it wasn’t down to Mr Blame. He was never to blame.

Returning to his office, I carefully opened each desk drawer. I started from the top as was right to do. The first drawer was no surprise. It contained stationary. The next one down had important documents. I spotted a V5 and checked the details of the car in question. Smiling at the old boy’s taste. I hoped the Land Rover was in the attached garage. Another space I had yet to explore, but of course it could be almost anywhere covered in a blanket of snow yet ready to roll as soon as I started it.

The bottom drawer was where the treasure lay. As soon as I opened it I knew. On the top of a sizeable pile of white folded papers were a few paintings and crayon drawings. Art I’d produced when I was tiny and wee. I carefully extracted the contents of that drawer and placed them on top of the desk. Withdrawing the uppermost folded paper I flattened it and read.

My Dear Aiden, if you’re reading this then the chances are that I am dead and you are going through my belongings. Hopefully you do so with an open curiosity that may afford me a posthumous place in your life. That is my hope and my everlasting wish. That we are in some way reunited and the pieces of you cohere in this unity.

I would guess that you are top to bottom kind of guy. In which case you are reading this letter first. There’s a few to get through. You might want to make yourself a brew, but if I were you I might want something stronger. If that’s the case, there’s a single malt tucked away in the tall kitchen cupboard. Top shelf behind the olive oil. I’m sure you’ve already found the tumblers.

By the way, the key for the Land Rover is in the second drawer down from the cutlery. You’ll also find a set of keys for the garage and a safe which I’ll let you find in your own time. I won’t ruin that particular treasure hunt for you. I’ve already given up my liquid gold.

Your ever loving Dad x

[And I was you know. I want you to know that. But you’ll see that for yourself if you look a little further.]

I was trembling as I carefully folded that letter and put it back in the pile. Lifting the paintings as I did so. Only as I walked downstairs to search for that whisky did I think about him writing all those letters. Each and every time he did so, he would see those paintings of mine. Their placement was deliberate. The ceremony clear. He thought about me. He remembered me. He celebrated a son that he never stopped loving.

I sat heavily at the small dining room table. My legs almost giving out at the enormity of this revelation. My world had been turned upside down. For some inexplicable reason my Mother had lied to me about my Dad. Isolating us all in a needless exile. It should never have been like this. I wouldn’t have chosen this state of affairs. Dizzied as I was. I launched myself upwards. Collected a glass and looked for the bottle of single malt. I took the bottle with me back upstairs, poured a generous measure and then read each and every letter from the most recent back to the very first of them.

At some point I started crying. Gentle tears of joy. The joy of a discovery that would forever change me for the better. From time to time I would pick one of the artworks and examine it for more meaning. Every time I saw something new. The context of the letters gave fresh perspective. Each one filled me with more love.

When I finished reading it was dark and the whisky bottle was half full. I raised my glass and toasted my Father. Then for good measure I toasted my Mother too. As my love for Dad grew, my love for my Mother did not diminish. I would never know what it was that drove her to do what she did, but she was my Mother and she loved me throughout our lives together. She brought me into this world and she stood by me through thick and thin. I wouldn’t turn on her. And my Father wouldn’t have wanted that. His desire was for unity. For me to be reconciled and whole at last.

That night I slept upon his bed. I felt closer to him in doing so. There was a warmth in his bedroom that filled me and healed wounds so they were no longer wounds and in the morning I saw the world anew. I saw it with a joyous wonder. Running out onto the front lawn and giggling like the child my Father had last seen. The snow had thawed overnight and everything was different. I was different. I span around and around drawing in my surroundings. Breathing them in. And when I came to rest I was looking upon the house I’d inherited and all I saw was the home that was always meant for me. This was the place where I belonged.

I retrieved the keys from my jeans pocket and opened the garage door. The Land Rover stood waiting for me. A car I had coveted since I was a small boy. Now I had one. The first Land Rover experience awaiting me was the flat battery. There was always something with that vehicle. Having a Land Rover was never just about driving it.

As for the safe. I’ve yet to find it. I’m in no rush, but I still have this sneaking suspicion that my old man had a slightly perverse sense of humour. I’m sure this theory of mine will be confirmed if I ever open that safe. Besides, I already found my lost treasure. As the ice of that hard Winter thawed, so too did the ice around my heart. That Winter took my Father away from me, then it gave me the chance to know him and understand that he always loved me.

I am loved and I will be forever warmed by that love.

And do you want to know something? Once I read those letters I remembered my Dad way back when we were a family. I remembered it all. The warmth of his smile as he span me around and threw me in the air. I always knew he’d catch me. I was safe even in the midst of the thrill of adventure. He was always there and he caught me all those years later. He waited patiently with his arms outstretched. He never failed me. Not once.