Last Christmas, I Gave You my Heart

1911. Snow. A rarity in the likes of Pensbydale. Snow, topping the empty schoolhouse like fresh icing straight out of the packet. Snow, crinkling and crunching in its soft, raspy whisper. Snow, a clean white sheet covering the grounds, the building a stencil to guuide it. Snow, swallowing the grassy pavements of Rushton Road, cut at the curb like flour with a silver blade, its off-cuts of icy slush discarded at the sides of the road, and the snaking river of snow and slush dividing at the end of Market Street.

A woman holds her child's hand, their footsteps breaking the snow's single, crispy bone. A pair of neat, evenly spaced steps are elegantly planted into the snow, followed by a set of tiny prints of irregular little pot- holes tottering through the drifts. And a small pit where the little tyke had fallen in!A dapper gentleman strolls across the street, his top hat lightly dusted with snow, and his hands clenched tightly inside his pockets whee the wind had bit them as punishment for forgetting his gloves. Snowflakes drift and saunter from their beds n the sky and fall upon each other, each so unique, yet so miniscule in its own patterns and traits that it is shrugged thoughtlessly off shoulders and brushed from the fine, long coats of bystanders. The town is oblivious to their wallowing cries of self-pity as they fall.

The wind picks up and whistles a lullaby through the eaves of The Punchbowl, and snow sleeps upon its roof in packs, awoken only by the occasional loud man's laugh after another pint. A cart trundles past, the snow inviting it hard, wooden wheels with a crunch. Little white fragments dive from the horses' blinkers in tiny mounds on the floor, until they are compressed by a hoof or wheel. Huge clumps plummet to the ground as the cart grinds to a halt before a group of giggling flower girls. Snow rests peacefully on the bouquet of crimson roses and slides off the white, sating ribbon that binds them as they are handed over to the driver, much to the delight of the girls, for a whole half-a-crown.

Snow lies on borders of winter aconite and gorse, and plays with their colours to turn even the starry, yellow flowers of the winter jasmine to a frosty white. It playfully disguises them as snowdrops - but nobody is fool. It restlessly knaws at a middle-aged woman's stubby fingers and melts on the brown paper bags which she is laden with, and then cackles at her misfotune as her groceries fall near spoilt on the floor. Snow dusts itself proudly on Pensbydale Town Hall, piling itself in tiny drifts on window ledges and sprinkling itself atop the roof like powdered sugar on fairy cakes.

Turning the corner, all is cold. Empty. Still. There is no warmth and buzz of life. The snow lies tranquilly in shadows. It catches itself in trees, and with a rustle of leaves from a dark coat or black hat, sinks solemnly. It pads its way up the road, never looking back; just lying, waiting to be trodden into itself. It has no fingers to bite here; no roses to trim; no Town Hall to touch; no slepy ale-houses to rest on. It radiates a blue aura, a silent stillness sweeping down from the sky. It rises and falls like a ragdoll in the wind, and settles upon graves to freeze the blackest moss of which they are thickly encrusted in. It falls inch by inch upon the path. It winds up to a door. The church door opens. And clad in blackness emerge two blue eyes. Two blue eyes which could freeze colder than the bitterest snow. Two blue eyes which did not freeze. Two blue eyes of a certain Miss Scarlett Goulcher.