Footsteps - Pete Norman
December 2010
‘I am . . . a famous person . . .’ Steve began. His words were slurred and he paused dramatically as he looked around the table, ‘Anyone ready to guess yet?’
Seven of them were gathered around the long table in John’s conservatory, the remains of the Christmas Day buffet heaped at one end, the Christmas cake still untouched at the back. A piece of red tinsel had come unstuck and was dangling over the mince pies. A Christmas card depicting a drunken snowman had fallen into the trifle.
‘Ok, I was born in 1933 . . .’ he drained his Stella and reached for another handful of dry roasted peanuts as he grinned at the circle of faces staring blankly back at him.
He continued, ‘I have been nominated for Academy Awards in every decade since the sixties . . .’ a longer pause, then, ‘Now, not a lot of people know that . . .’
‘Michael Caine!’ Eddie shouted out, a fraction of a second before Marie could say it.
Steve laughed, raised his thumb and slid the card back under the pile, ‘I was going to say, ‘You were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!’ but I thought that might have been too obvious!’ he said as Eddie shook the dice.
‘But that wouldn’t have been what’s written on the card.’ Marie said, clearly annoyed.
Steve grimaced at her and said, ‘It’s only a game M, it’s only a game . . . I’m going to get another beer . . . anyone else?’ Chairs were pulled noisily in towards the table as Steve tried to squeeze behind them, his hand sliding along the condensation obscuring the conservatory glass.
On the end of the table were three empty cans and he shook each one hopefully, before stumbling through to the fridge where he pulled out a new one. As he made his way back, snapping the ring pull from his can, a shadow passed across the window. Curious, he stopped and rubbed his hand across the glass, smearing a streaky clear patch through the mist. Outside, the snow was still falling heavily. It was thick – deep and crisp and even, as the carol goes – their first white Christmas for years. He rubbed his cold hands down his jeans, pressed his knees against the cosy warmth of the radiator and peered outside at the cold white world.
The light from the conservatory windows, together with the almost full moon, lit up the garden like day, though the snow had obscured everything in a thick white blanket, featureless with the exception of the four tall poplars silhouetted against the dark sky. There was nothing else out there – just the snowman they had built earlier at the bottom of the garden; in fact, it was a snow-woman he chuckled – a snow woman who had even got up during the evening and gone for a walk around the garden, he could see its footprints slowly becoming blurred by the fresh snowfall!
‘Are you still playing?’ John asked, as Steve stared absently through the glass, beer froth oozing out from the can and down his wrist. ‘Sit down or we’ll carry on without you.’
Steve took a long swallow of the amber nectar and said, ‘You carry on . . . I’m going for a pee.’ He took another puzzled glance through the glass, then giggled, ‘Who’s been out there molesting the snow-woman?’
There was no response from the table, they were throwing the dice to start another game. He turned, tripped over his own foot and landed heavily on the cold white tiles, cold lager frothing around his head like a halo.
‘You’ve got the choice: Eggs Benedict or Smoked Salmon . . . and a nice glass of Champagne, of course! . . . How about it?’ Steve leaned heavily against the kitchen door and rubbed his thumbs into his temples, ‘I’ll . . . I think I’ll skip breakfast.’ He slumped into a pine chair, ‘I could go a cup of tea, though.’
John dropped another egg into the water, ‘You were slaughtered last night, mate – totally out of it.’ He grinned, ‘You need a good brisk walk in the fresh air – that’ll perk you up!’
‘My head hurts.’ Steve said, as he rubbed the bruise above his left ear and winced.
He cupped his cold hands around the mug of hot tea and walked out into the conservatory where Marie was spreading mats around the table. He rubbed his hand across the glass; the picture postcard scene was still perfect, the snow-woman stood alone on the expanse of smooth and unbroken white.
While the others enjoyed their special breakfast, Steve sat at the end of the table, far enough away that he couldn’t smell the champagne. The conversation went on largely without him, his only contribution being to occasionally say, ‘I’m all right, thanks.’ in response to a sympathetic question. He was on his second mug of tea and carefully nibbling at a piece of lightly buttered toast. His head was still sore and his stomach was churning - but, so far so good.
After the breakfast table had been cleared up and the dishwasher loaded, Marie asked, ‘Are you up to a little walk, Steve? I’m sure it would do you good.’
Steve tried to grin, but the effort produced a sharp pain above his ear, the grin disappeared again, ‘I’ll give it a go, M, so long as it’s not too far.’
As they walked up the drive, Marie hooked her arm through his and he patted her hand gratefully. At the end of the road they turned left and followed the pavement for a hundred yards until they reached a wide lane with a green sign depicting a lady on a horse and the word, ‘Bridleway.’ There had been at least two inches overnight and the tree-lined lane was almost completely white-out. The only sound was the soft rhythmic crunch of their boots as they stamped their impressions deep into the virgin snow. Their breath clouded briefly around their faces in the still air.
Branches of the overgrown hedgerow, weighed down by a thick layer of snow, dangled across their path, narrowing the lane so that they were forced to walk in single file until they reached the low stone wall into which was set a dilapidated wooden gate, stained green with moss, one of its bars rotted and hanging uselessly down.
‘Hold on a minute.’ Steve gasped, leaning against the gate and holding his stomach. He could feel the bile stirring and closed his eyes. For a few moments he stood, uncertain, but eventually the feeling subsided and he straightened up again, ‘Sorry, folks, thought I was gonna . . . ’
He burped, grimaced and then smiled happily, ‘False alarm!’
‘That’s our place there.’ Marie said, pointing to the four poplar trees lining the far end of the small field beyond the wall.
Steve moved away from the fragile gate, which was creaking threateningly under his weight and supported himself on the low wall instead. The field was empty except for a collection of anonymous snow-covered lumps gathered around a small wooden hut. Its windows were securely boarded, the door was secured with a heavy padlock, and the shape of a cross was carved into the eaves above it.
‘That’s the smallest church I’ve ever seen.’ he said.
‘St Giles.’ Marie said, taking his arm, ‘There used to be a leper hospital here, 15th Century; there’s nothing left of that now, but there’s a preservation order on the church.
Steve looked once more at the anonymous snow-covered lumps, there had to be at least . . . he counted thirty or more. He shivered at the thought, ‘Let’s move on, shall we?’ he said, casting one last glance at the row of poplars. The covering at that end of the field was lighter as the thick hedgerow had kept most of the snow at bay.
In the otherwise pristine layer, beside the largest anonymous lump, were the smudgy remains of a short row of parallel prints, disappearing between the trunks of the poplars . . .
