In the Falling Snow Read Online Free Page B

eventually tripped off, and she lowered her head and closed her tired eyes as the kitchen fell silent.
    On the train journey to Wiltshire few words were exchanged between mother and daughter. Annabelle was relieved when her mother finally stopped sobbing, but as they left London behind, and accelerated out into the countryside, she had to fight hard to keep her memories of this journey from overwhelming her. She smiled to herself as she recalled schoolgirl Saturday outings spent browsing the trendy, but overpriced, shops along the King’s Road, followed by clandestine meetings with boys in Chelsea pubs, before hurriedly dashing to the tube so that they could get to Paddington and catch the eight o’clock train back home. It had all been very innocent, even the time she went off with an Italian boy and they sat together on the sofa in his parents’ London flat and listened to Duran Duran while he tried, and failed, to roll them both a joint. In the end they settled for a menthol cigarette, and later in the day, when she met Gemma and Lisa at the train station, they didn’t believe her when she said that nothing had happened. In fact, nothing happened until she went off to university and introduced herself to Richard Coombs at the university drama group’s stall at the freshers’ fair, and he asked her if she’d ever written any sketches. She lied and said ‘yes, of course’, and three days later she trekked up Crowndale Road to his digs and the pair of them sat on the floor while she read out a spectacularly unfunny piece about Chaucer manning the gates of heaven and choosing not to admit various people from
The Canterbury Tales
. Richard Coombs was a third-year, and well known in university circles as somebody who was probably going to end up at the BBC. Apparently there were rumours that he had already been approached by a script editor from Birmingham’s Pebble Mill studios. When he laughed at her unfunny jokes she felt grateful, but as she continued to read, and self-consciously switch voices, she could feel herself turning crimson. Then she felt his hand on her leg and she heard him say ‘put down the script,’ which she did. She raised her arms above her head so that he could peel off her jumper, and then she lay back on the scatter cushions and closed her eyes. It was over in minutes, and he hurriedly asked her if she would like to use the bathroom first. ‘No,’ she said, ‘you can go ahead.’ Once she heard the door close she sat up and was relieved to see that there was only a small trace of blood on the inside of one thigh, and it was possible that he might not have even noticed. It had hurt, but at least it was over, and she already knew that it was unlikely that Richard Coombs would ever contact her again. All she had to do now was negotiate the awkward conversation about her sketch, and then endure his clumsy request for the phone number of her hall of residence, and that would be it. In fact, that was it with boys and sex, until the end of the academic year when she found herself sitting in the next seat but one to an awkward-looking boy at a semi-professional production of
Sweet Bird of Youth
.
    As the train pulled into Ashleigh station she scanned the platform for any sign of her father, who she expected to be waiting eagerly for them. Her mother seemed to have retreated further into herself as they drew closer to ‘home’, so Annabelle decided not to ask her how best to handle the forthcoming encounter. She assumed that if her mother knew then she would have said something, but the silence between them was eloquent and so she opted to leave her mother to her reverie and resigned herself to dealing with the situation as it unfolded. There was a single taxi waiting outside the small country station, and she was surprised to see that the driver was an Indian. She looked around and blinked slowly, in an owl-like fashion, as she took in the full reality of where she was. ‘Magnolia Cottage’,