The Winter Visitor
In the village, winter darkness comes early, and during a snowstorm, it arrives even faster than usual. By seven oclock, nothing could be seen past the window except a white curtain and snow sticking to the glass, slowly slipping downwards.
I was seated at the table, editing a manuscript.
The work wasnt urgentdeadline was the second of Januarybut Id grown accustomed to finishing things ahead of time. And anyway, what else is there on New Years Eve if youre alone, with the nearest town forty miles away and a television you havent switched on in a decade?
I bought the cottage in Ashfield with my husband twenty years ago. At the time, it seemed a place for summer, for weekends away, for air. Then James died, and I found the city unnecessary. I shifted here for goodwith my laptop, my manuscripts, and with Molly the cat, who was now asleep atop the radiator, oblivious to the storm outside.
The neighbours understood at firstfor the first couple of yearsbut then stopped. They got used to me. Anna Greeneditor, lives in the house with the blue doors, pops to the post and the shops every third day, bothers no one, expects nothing. A fine neighbour.
A printout lay rustling on the table. On the front: R. Lake. Eight months Id worked on this novelediting, arguing over email, receiving replies with accepted or declined scrawled in the margin, and sitting back down to the text. I didnt know the author. Only surname, only initial, and three hundred and eighty pages about a person walking a long wrong path, until he realised it.
A good novel.
Ive edited all sorts and know the difference. This one was genuine. There was a living voice herenot fabricated or forced. You either have that voice or you dont, and it cant be taught. The author knew it, and, I sensed, was afraid of knowing it.
The phone rang around half-past seven.
Anna, any chance youll ever hand in? asked Lauren from the publishing house, sounding sheepishcalling on a holiday and knowing it.
On the second.
Oh, come on. You could hand in after the tenth! Its the holidays.
The second, I repeated.
Lauren went quiet. She knew arguing was useless.
Youre by yourself again, arent you?
Mollys here.
Anna.
Lauren.
She laughed and hung up. I returned to the manuscript, hunted for the page thatd troubled me three days now.
Page one hundred and seventeen, third paragraph. There was a phraseI sensed it was misplaced but couldnt decide why. Not the words, not the meaningthe rhythm. The phrase was long, and the text sagged beneath its weight. Id tried five alternatives and deleted each in turn.
The sixth time, it landed right.
Satisfied, I jotted it down, reread, closed my laptop. Two hours remained until the knock.
I heard the knock around half past nine.
Not on the windowon the door.
At first, I thought it was the wind. But the wind wails and presses, it doesnt knockthis was three knocks, then two.
Molly opened one eye and shut it again.
I rose, moved to the window, drew the curtain and peered out onto the porch. There stood someone. Alone, without a carjust snow stretching endlessly around him, and him in a once-warm coat. The lamp at the gate swung gently, and in its golden circle I could see he wasnt a threatmerely frozen, standing with nowhere else to go.
In the village, one always opens the door. Especially if its snowing.
I threw on my jacket and went to the door.
Evening, he said from the threshold. His voice was quiet and slightly hoarse. Terribly sorry at this hour. My phones dead, cars in a ditch, and I noticed your light.
I looked him over. Tallnearly brushing the top of the frame. Plaid coat, soaked through. In one hand, glasses; in the other, nothingno bag, no rucksack. Lenses steamed up, so he held them like that.
Do come in, I said.
He entered, unhurried and careful, as if acutely aware he was trespassing and tried to take up as little space as possible.
Car far? I asked as he unwound his scarf.
About two hundred yards down the lane. Wrong wheel tracksI didnt notice, got stuck. He paused. Left my charger at home, phones eaten every last bit.
I see.
While he hung up his coat, I put the kettle on. When I returned, he was still holding the glasses, the lenses fogged. Only when theyd warmed in his palm did he put them on.
Hang your coat here, please. I gestured to the hook by the mirror.
Thank you. He hung it up, finally put on his glasses. Richard.
Anna. I nodded towards the kitchen. Lets have a seat.
In the countryside, everyone knows everyone. The next hamletLittle Wrenburywas four miles across the fields, just a handful of houses. Summer folk in summer, almost no one in winter. An old woodland separated us and one poor road.
Are you from Little Wrenbury? I asked as he sat down.
Yes. Bought a cottage in the autumn, decided to visit in winter for the first time. He gave a short laugh. Didnt realise its a different story in winter.
Didnt check the forecast?
Did. Said light flurries.
Light on a motorway or a country lane are worlds apart.
Ive noticed.
I placed a mug before him. Hot tea, no questions. He cupped it in his hands and sat like that for a moment.
The car doesnt worry me so much, he said. Itll be towed, as long as I can call.
Use my charger. I nodded at the plug by the fridge. Cables there.
He got up, plugged in, and returned with the mug, warming his fingers.
Have you lived here long? he asked.
Five years permanently. Summers and weekends before that.
Never feel drawn back to city life?
No.
He didnt press for my reasons, and I quietly appreciated it.
His phone was oldone theyd stopped making three years ago. Small, battered at the corners. It would climb from zero to five percent in forty-odd minutesI knew; mine was the same.
Meaning, he wouldnt be leaving for a while.
I lifted my mug and asked,
Have you eaten lately?
This morning.
This morning.
I thought Id be gone just a few hours.
There was some leftover lentil soup in the fridgeI set it to warm. He didnt protest with dont fuss or dont trouble yourself; he just sat and waited. That too was right.
We were both silent while the soup heatednot awkward, just quiet. The wind shrieked its one long note beyond the glass; Molly sighed softly atop the radiator; the kitchen light was gold and gentle. Odd, I thought, how the presence of a stranger in your kitchen could feel so natural, so undisturbed. Usually, it doesn’t.
I put the kettle on again after half an hour.
Out the window, the storm didnt ease. We ate soup and spoke littlebecause there was no need to hurry our words.
Its very quiet here, he said.
Always, except for the wind.
No, I mean inside. He nodded towards the sitting room. No radio, no television.
Theres a radio. A little one, on the sill. I switch it on occasionally.
I see. He paused. In London, I cant work without my headphones. Still hear footsteps, voices through the walls. Distracting.
Work meaning writing?
Yes.
What do you write?
Prose. He peered into his mug. For the past two yearsa novel. Its slow going.
That happens.
I finished it in the autumn. Now I dont know what to do.
I recognised that feeling. Not my own, but Id seen it through eight years editing: when the manuscript leaves, an emptiness remains, and its unclear what to do with it. Some begin something new straight away, some wander lost for a month, and some walk away entirely. Each their own way.
It passes, I said.
I know. Not yet though.
Molly descended from the radiator, sniffed his hand, and padded away. Richard watched her go.
A good omen? he asked.
Neutral. If she stays by you, its a good sign.
Ill work on it, he replied, dead serious.
I laughed.
A question? he ventured a moment later.
Go on.
Why hand in on the second?
I didnt follow.
Deadline, he explained. You said on the phonethe second. But its New Years Eve. You could have waited two more days. Why now?
A sharp observation, too sharp for someone fresh from a blizzard, supposed to be worried only about cars and rescue.
Habit, I answered.
What sort?
Never put off whats close to being finished.
He gazed at menot so much doubt, as if hed spotted honesty incomplete.
Also, theres no reason to wait here, I added. I dont really celebrate New Years. Its better to work than watch the clock.
Makes sense, he said, with no pity, just absorbing it.
And that too felt right.
We sat silent. Outside, the wind rattled the shutters on the empty house next doorthe Bakers had left for the city in November and wouldnt return till spring. The noise irritated me, but tonight it sounded louder still.
You were working when I knocked, Richard saidnot a question, an observation.
Yes.
What do you do?
Im an editor. Literary.
Interesting.
Usually.
He studied me longer than most.
Do you mind working with someone elses words? Doesnt it weigh on you?
I thought for a moment.
When the writing is bad, yes. When its good, the opposite. You want to polish it. I suppose its rather like restoration. The structures thereyou only clear away the excess.
He noddedquietly, to himself, lost in some thought.
And you dont mind your own work being edited? I probed.
Noonly if they cut something essential.
And how do you tell?
If it stings when its cut, it was necessary. If not, it could go.
I looked at him. It was a clever answerprecise and deeply writerlythe sort that comes from hard-earned experience.
Have you had bad editors before?
All sorts. A slow smile. My first book was edited so little remained. Once about an old fisherman and the sea, turned into an office and a manager. I exaggerate, but thats the gist.
You agreed?
I was twenty-nine. I thought theyd know best.
And after that?
Understood that knows best doesnt mean is right. Theyre not the same.
I nodded. That was true enough. An editor might know the craft better than the author but be deaf to their voice. The second is more important than the first.
***
It was full night by thenno lamps glowed, the snowstorm thickened, and the porch lantern barely cast a puddle of light.
Richard drank a second cup of tea. Molly descended again, crossed past him, untroubled. I saw he didnt try to call herthat was right; she didnt like being summoned.
Do you mind? He glanced at the bookshelf by the window.
Of course.
He got up, browsed in silence. Three shelvesdetectives on their own, literary fiction by itself, everything else mixed up. He read the spines, didnt touch. Then returned.
Plenty of detective novels, he remarked.
I read them for relief. Everythings resolved there.
Not in life?
Less often.
He lifted his mug.
Tell me about the novel, he said.
I didnt understand which he meant at first.
The one youre editing.
Why?
Curious. He shrugged. You said good editing is restoration. I want to know how you see it.
It was a strange conversation. Not a bad onejust strange. A stranger at my kitchen table, cup held in warm hands, asking about my work. When was the last time anyone had askednot from politeness, not for lack of things to say, but out of genuine curiosity?
The storys about one man, I began. He does what he feels is right for a long time, but eventually realises hes just been afraid of doing otherwise. Its about habit versus choice.
And the ending?
He leaves. Not from peoplefrom his old self. For this story, thats the only proper ending.
Richard was silent.
You like that ending?
Yes, though the author wanted another at first.
Which?
A return. The protagonist comes back to what he left.
Did you persuade him?
I left a note; the author chose on his own. I pushed my mug aside. Thats how it should be. I can only suggest. The work is his.
He put his gaze to the table. A silence of weight and thought, not politeness.
Why do you feel leaving is the better ending? he asked.
Because returning answers where to?, while leaving answers who am I?.
He looked at me.
Your words or from the novel?
Mine. In the comments.
He lapsed into silence again. I didnt hurry him.
Have you edited for long?
Eight years.
And always thought this about endings?
Not always. Only with honest stories. Dishonest stories can end any which wayno one believes them. An honest story draws towards the only possible ending, and the editors job is not to ruin it.
Richard gazed out through the window. For a long time. As if weighing something.
Its hard, isnt it? he said.
What?
To read for someone else, not yourself.
I considered.
Sometimes. If the author resists, or cant see what hes made. But not this one. This one heard.
This one?
Yes.
In what way did he hear?
I clutched my mug and considered the best answernot the plot, Id already explained it. Something else; what had hooked me personally.
For instance, theres a phrase, I said. I altered it, the author agreed. But I still wonder if it was right.
What was it, originally?
About the snowstorm. The authors was long, and it messed with rhythm. I cut it downcleaner, but something was lost.
What was lost?
Im not sure. Something aliveintangible.
Read what you made of it.
I looked at him. A strange requestbut not a foolish one.
The snow chooses nothing. It remains once all else has gone.
Richard said nothing.
Not just a momentseveral, long enough for a change, not in the room, but in him. He stared at the table, and by the way his mug was heldtoo steady, too stillI knew he wasnt just weighing my words. He recognised them.
Is something wrong? I asked.
No. Pause. I wrote it differently. The snow doesnt choose where to goit simply knows only what braves the cold remains.
I lowered my mug, slowly, careful, thinking.
That phrase was in the manuscript. That very manuscript on my desk in the next room. Page one hundred and seventeen, third paragraph. I knew it, Id wrestled with it for days before finding a replacement. That new phrase had been seen by no one but me and the publishing team. The original? Only the author and me.
The novel wasnt published. The phrase was nowhere but there.
Youre R. Lake, I said.
Not a question.
He met my eyes.
Richard Lake, he said. Yes.
I didnt know what to say. It was strange and also not so strange; Id sensed something from the beginning, not knowing what it was. Wed sat at this table two hours, gone over endings and emptinessId edited his novel, hed written that novel, and wed never met, not truly, despite our eight months of shared work.
Ive edited your novel, I said. Eight months.
I know. The publisher called you A. Green. He hesitated. I never knew your name. Just an initial.
A. Green.
Anna Green. Me.
Wed known each otherthrough text, notes, accepted and declined scrawled in red. Hed taken my ending, rejected my changes to chapter four, and wrestled over act two at my insistence. All our greatest disputes had unfolded in that novel, yet wed never seen each others face.
And suddenly I realised, I knew him. Not the person at the table, but the voice on the page. He wrote in long sentences when nervous, short when certain. He needed time to consider editorial changesnot out of stubbornness, but thoughtfulness. He could say declined and not explain why.
He knew nothing of me but a single initial.
That was, in a way, unfair.
But then hed come, in a blizzard, and knocked on my door.
***
Why didnt you say so straight away? I asked.
What? He seemed puzzled. I didnt know you were my editor. I only said I write.
And I only said editor.
Yes. He nodded. We both left things unsaid.
He was right. I hadnt named my publisher; hed not named his editor. Both of us people who hate to explain what doesnt need explaining. And so here we were.
That snowstorm phrase, I said. I shortened it, because it weighed down the passage. The rhythm failed.
I know. I agreed.
But yours was better.
He looked at me.
Do you think so?
Yes. Mines crisper, but yours truer. Sometimes truth matters more than precision.
He paused for a long moment.
May I restore the original? he asked.
Its with the publisher already. I thought a moment. But if you ask them, theyll give it back, and I can restore it.
No. He shook his head. Leave yours. Youre right, the rhythms important.
I said nothing more. But it mattered hed asked.
His phone gave a polite beepfifteen percent battery. It could make a call now. Richard stayed put.
Did you read the novel through? he asked.
Three times. The editor reads three times: first for comprehension, second for feel, third to work.
How did it feel?
I set down my cup, looking squarely at him.
Like the person writing it had spent a long time understanding somethingand at last, understood.
He glanced away.
About right, he said, quiet.
Its a good novel, I added. I dont say that aloud often. Its real.
He said nothing, but I could tell that it mattered, even if he didnt know how to say so. Maybe never had.
Again we sat in a silence, but this time easya kind of stillness trailing something important said, now needing room.
Have you always been alone? he asked softly.
I knew what he meantnot today, but in general.
No. My husband died five years ago.
Im sorry.
Dont be. I shook my head. The stings gone. Just different now.
He didnt say I understand. People do, and its almost always a lie. He stayed quiet and asked something else:
Why Ashfield?
Its quiet here. And we were here together, once. So hes always a little present.
Richard nodded, slowly.
And why Little Wrenbury for you? I asked.
I divorced two years ago. Flat in London, empty now. He paused. Bought a cottage instead. So the emptiness wouldnt be quite the same.
I laughed, unexpectedlyhe had put, exactly, what Id never been able to explain to others who questioned why Id need a whole cottage to myself.
Exactly, I said.
You understand?
Entirely.
He smileda faint, private thing, but this time I noticed more.
You cut the monologue in chapter four, he said.
I did.
Why?
The protagonist was saying what the reader already knew. It was superfluous.
I was sorry to lose it.
I know. You wrote that in the margin.
And you replied: I understand, but no.
Because I did understand, and still, no. I looked at him. Caring for your text is natural. But affection isnt an argument.
He drew a small breath.
You were right, he said. Its better without. I realised after.
Always after.
Does it bother you?
What?
That people only thank you afterwards. Rarely straight away.
I thought.
No. The main thing is making a good book. When its published, I say to myself, accepted, and thats enough for me.
Richard watched me. For a long moment, not as you watch a stranger, but as someone youve come to know, in some roundabout fashion.
I always thought editors were faceless, he said.
We ought to be. The books not about us.
But youre not faceless.
Thats a predicament, I smiled.
No, he said simply. No.
***
Eleven forty-five.
New Years in fifteen minutes, observed Richard.
I know.
Out the window, the snowstorm stilledjust quiet flakes on glass, no wind. The porch lamp no longer swung. The snow fell now thick and soft, as if even the storm wanted to be indoors.
Anything stronger than tea? he asked.
Wine. Open since Christmas.
Is that all right?
I think so. White.
Perfect.
I fetched the bottle from the fridge, found two plain tumblersI keep no wineglassesand poured us each a little.
To what shall we drink? he asked.
The new year, I said.
Too broad.
Thento honesty. Sometimes more important than precision.
He looked at me, andfor the first time all eveningI didnt look away, though more than once Id caught myself nearly doing so.
All right, he said.
I heard the radios chimes from the kitchen windowsillsmall, ancient, unmoved since James had perched it there our first summer. Id never taken it down, only changed the batteries. At midnight, it always murmured the echoes of someone elses celebrationsbut this was different.
We clinked glasses. Drank in silence. Molly shuffled on the radiator, yawned softly, and drifted off again. Outside, the snow slowedlarge flakes, almost no wind.
The phone beeped againthirty percent.
Richard glanced at it, then out of the window, then at me.
The towman wont come by night, he said.
No. Not before morning.
Somewhere I could sleep?
I nodded.
The study sofa. My manuscripts there, but Ill shift it.
Leave it, he said. I wont intrude.
Wont intrude. Not Ill be quiet, not wont trouble you. Precisely: wont intrude. As if he understood what space meant to me, and wouldnt trespass.
All right, I agreed.
I rose to put the kettle on againnot because I wanted tea, but to have something to do with my hands.
Anna, he called.
I turned.
Im glad my car went off the road.
I gazed at him. He sat there, both hands around his glass, saying simply what he thoughtwithout a smile, without embellishment, directly.
Im not sure I am, I admitted.
I know. He nodded. Thats all right.
The kettle boiled.
I poured out hot water into both mugshis and mine. Set his before him. He murmured thanks, picked it up.
Outside, the snow drifted slowly down. The blizzard had ended.
But he did not leave.
And I didnt ask when he planned to.
The manuscript lay in the next roompage one hundred and seventeen, third paragraph. There sat his phrase, in my edit, while somewhere in his head was the original. Both about the same thing: what remains, when all else fades away.
Perhaps that was the truth.
I sat at the table, mug in hand, Richard across from me, and outside the storm had passed. Only gentle snow, and a new year, just begun.
