Spirit Read Free

and stared, and said nothing. Because it
was
a window – a window through which Elizabeth could look down into another world, dark and dreadfully cold. A window through which she could see her drowned sister Peggy, her skin as white as milk, her eyes wide open, her lips pale blue. Her curls floated and the fur trimming around her hood floated, languid and slow, as if they were weed, or Arctic sea-anemones.
    Most poignant of all were Peggy’s little hands, in their pink woolly gloves, which were clasped together, up against her chest, as if she were saying her prayers.
    The more it snows (tiddely pom)
.
    Her father had reached the edge of the pool. She could hear him, but she didn’t turn to look at him. If she turned to look at him, she knew that she would have to obey him.
    â€˜Lizzie!’ he called. ‘Is Peggy there? Where’s Peggy?’
    Elizabeth didn’t know what to say.
    â€˜Lizzie, sweetheart, is Peggy there?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Elizabeth. Her voice was deadened by the snowflakes.
    â€˜Jesus,’ said her father. He stepped out on to the pool, andbalanced his way towards her. His circular glasses were partially fogged-up, and his grey fisherman’s sweater sparkled with snowflakes. A thin, brown-bearded man in his late thirties, intent on rescuing his drowned daughter.
    â€˜Lizzie, where is she?’ he barked. ‘Come on, Lizzie, for God’s sake!’
    Beneath the ice, Peggy smiled and slowly revolved. Elizabeth knew for certain that she was dead. She felt an intense pang of sorrow – so painful that it almost doubled her up. Peggy’s face was so near, just inches below the ice; yet she was already so far away. For her, it would always be five past three on Friday, 23 February 1940, and never any later.
    Peggy’s face was directly below her. Elizabeth paused, and touched the ice with her fingertips. Then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the frozen surface of the pool, just above her sister’s lips.
    Her sister stared at her, but didn’t blink. The snow fell all around her, as if it wanted to lay a blanket over her, as if it wanted to cover her up.
    â€˜
Lizzie
!’
    Her father was picking her up by one arm, swinging her around. She felt her shoulder socket being wrenched.
    â€˜Lizzie, get off the goddamned pool and back in the house!’
    She stepped back, just as her father started kicking at the ice with his boot heel; but she didn’t climb out of the pool. She stood close behind him, watching him in helpless anguish as he kicked and kicked and kept on shouting, ‘Peggy! Peggy! Hold your breath, darling! Keep holding your breath! Daddy’s here!’
    It took him only a few seconds to kick out enough ice to reach her. He caught hold of her sodden fur coat and swirled her into the slushy water where the ice had first broken. Her body circled and dipped, one of her arms floated free. ‘Come on, Peggy, come on honey,’ he told her, and managed to pull her halfway out of the water, and then roll her on to the ice.
    â€˜Blankets!’ he roared. ‘Somebody get me some goddamned blankets!’
    He picked Peggy up, cradled her, balanced himself, and somehow managed to skate and slither to the edge of the pool. He heaved himself up on the ladder. He groaned, ‘Oh, God!’ Peggy’s arms flopped and swung, and water dripped glittering from her fingertips. Her face remained buried in her father’s sweater, as if she didn’t want anybody to look at her, because she was dead.
    Elizabeth’s mommy was running from the house, her white baking-apron flapping. ‘
Peggy
!’ she was shrieking. ‘
Peggy
!’
    Elizabeth climbed rigidly out of the frozen pool. Her shoulder hurt where her father had swung her around. Her father was already surging through the snow, back to the house, with Peggy in his arms. Mommy hurried close behind him, crying ‘Peggy!’ over and