Free A Spell of Snow by Jill Rowan

I kicked a stone and watched it skitter over a pavement
slick with wetness, and then turned with a shiver to head towards my auntie’s
house through a damp wind and stuttering drizzle.
         So this was the
British winter. It certainly didn’t live up to its reputation. Was it always like this in January? Where were the several feet of snow, the hot toddies, the
snowmen, and above all, the magic? The air should have been icy, dry, and crisp
like chilled wine; not this clammy, dispiriting cold that seemed to pervade
everything with its gloom.
         The cheerless
terraced house in which I now lived loomed ahead, and I opened the front door
with a scowl. The carpet runner was threadbare, the green paint on the skirting
board chipped, and the peeling wallpaper appeared to be two hundred years old.
Everything about England seemed so grubby somehow.
         I thrust intrusive
thoughts of my old life to the back of my mind as I headed to the kitchen to
grab a snack. Auntie Cheryl wouldn’t be home for another two hours, but I was
used to fending for myself. I checked my mobile phone as I made cheese on
toast: no missed calls, no texts. My friends back in Australia were already
dropping away, one by one.  
         I sniffed a little
as I took my snack into the living room and turned on the TV. By the time the
closing credits of Home and Away had gone up I was in fully-fledged sobs, and
when my auntie banged in through the front door I had to grab a tissue and wipe
my eyes quickly.
         ‘Tilly, are you in
there?’ she called out.
         ‘Where else would
I be?’ I shouted back, irritated.
         ‘Well, can you
come into the kitchen?’ she said, her tone impatient. ‘I want to talk to you.’
         I got up
reluctantly from the sofa. Any kind of talk with Auntie Cheryl was likely to be
bad news.
         She was clattering
saucepans, her face pink and her blonde hair wet from the rain. ‘It wouldn’t
hurt you to cook something, you know,’ she said. ‘You used to cook for your
mum, didn’t you?’
         I shrugged. ‘That
was different. Anyway, I’ve had some cheese on toast.’ I couldn’t help adding,
‘I didn’t realize you just wanted me to come and live here to be your skivvy.
What d’you expect, dinner on the table when you get home?’
         She reddened. ‘It
would be nice, just once in a while. It’s not as if you’ve been doing your
homework, is it?’
         I lounged
awkwardly against the kitchen worktops. I didn’t want to talk about boring
homework.
         She threw beans
into a saucepan with some force. ‘I had a letter from the school this morning.
Apparently you show no interest in class and you haven’t handed in a single
piece of homework since you started there.’
         I raised my hands
in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘What’s the point? I’m not interested in all that
rubbish, and besides, I don’t know where I am with these GCSEs – they’re not
what I’m used to.’
         ‘I know it’s
hard,’ she said, stirring the beans, ‘but you’ll adjust if you work at it.
Maybe it’s partly because you missed a lot of schooling back in Australia.’
         ‘I don’t want to adjust to it,’ I said with feeling. ‘I just want to go home. I hate the
school and I hate it here. Why’d you even agree to take me? They’d have let me
stay at the homestead if you hadn’t put your oar in. I’d have been looking
forward to a barbecue in the sunshine right now, and I wouldn’t have
lost the horses, and...’ I choked back a fresh sob.
         She flushed even
more brightly. ‘Look, Tilly, it’s hard enough without you constantly harking
back to what you’ve lost. I’m trying my best, but you’re just determined to
stay miserable, as far as I can tell.’
         ‘I’m not determined to stay miserable,’ I protested. ‘It’s only six months since Mum
died. Do you really think I should have got over it that