A Winter Visitor
In the village, winter darkness sets in early, and with a blizzard, it comes even earlier. By seven in the evening, the world outside my window was nothing but swirling white, snow plastering the glass and slowly sliding down in thick, uneven lines.
I was sat at the kitchen table, working through a manuscript.
The job wasnt pressingthe deadline was the second of Januarybut Ive always liked to get things done early. And in any case, what else is there to do on New Years Eve when youre on your own, the nearest town is forty miles away, and you havent even bothered owning a television for the last decade?
I bought the cottage in Farley Green with my husband twenty years ago. At the time, it was meant for summers, for weekends away, for fresh air. And then Simon died, and I found I no longer needed the city. I moved here for goodwith my laptop, my papers, and my tabby cat, Molly, who was now asleep on the radiator, blissfully unaware of the storm outside.
The neighbours were understanding during the first two years, and then they grew used to me. Nadine Bell, the editorlives in the place with the blue shutters, pops out for post and groceries every few days, keeps to herself, doesn’t bother anyone nor wait for anyone. An ideal neighbour.
A printout lay on the table. On the top: E. Lawrence. Id spent eight months with this novel. Eight months editing, arguing through the publisher, receiving replies marked accepted or declined, and heading back to the text. I didnt know the author. Just a surname, an initial, and the manuscriptthree hundred and eighty pages about one person who spent a long time heading down the wrong path before finally realising it.
A good novel.
Ive edited all sorts, and I know the difference. This one was genuine. It had a living voicenot contrived, not rehearsed. Its something you cant fake or be taught. The author clearly knew it, and seemed a little afraid of it.
The phone rang at half seven.
Nadine, loveare you still on track with that hand-in? asked Kate from the office, her voice apologeticits New Years, and she knows.
Second, I said.
Oh, come on. No one expects it before the tenthits the holidays.
Second, I repeated.
She paused, realising there was no point arguing.
So youre really alone again, arent you? she said.
Molly keeps me company.
Nadine
Kate
She laughed and said goodbye. I turned back to the manuscript, found the page, and stared at a paragraph that had bugged me for three days.
Page one hundred and seventeen, third paragraph from the top. The sentence felt out of place; not the words or meaning, but the rhythm. It was too long, and the text sank beneath its weight. Id tried five different edits, and erased them each time.
On the sixth try, it worked.
I wrote it out, read it over, felt satisfied, and shut the laptop. Another two hours till the knock.
I heard the knock at about half past nine.
Not at the windowat the door.
At first, I thought it was the wind. But it was definitely a knockthree times, then another two.
Molly flicked open one eye, then closed it again.
I stood up. Peered through the curtain out towards the porch. A person was standing there. Alone, no carjust snow all around and him standing in the middle of all that whiteness, overcoat soaked through. The lantern at the gate swung in the wind; in its light, I could see he wasnt a threatjust very cold, with nowhere else to go.
In the country, you dont ignore a knock, not in a blizzard.
I pulled on a jacket and went to the door.
Good evening, he said quietly from the doorstep, his voice hoarse. Sorry to barge in so late. Phones run flat, cars in a ditchI saw your lights.
He was tall, near enough to brush the doorframe with his head. A checked overcoat, drenched. In one hand, a pair of glasses; in the other, nothingno bag, no rucksack. The glasses fogged over, so he just held them.
Come in, I said.
He stepped over the threshold carefully, making himself small, as if conscious of occupying someone elses space.
Is your car far? I asked while he unwound his scarf.
About two hundred metres down the road. Took the wrong trackdidnt spot it under all the snow. Left my charger at home, sat-nav ate through the battery.
Right.
While he hung up his coat in the hall, I put the kettle on. When I returned, he was still holding the glasses. He only put them on after warming the lenses in his hands.
Hang it here, I nodded towards the hook by the mirror.
Thank you. He hung up his coat and finally donned the glasses. Eddie.
Nadine, I motioned to the kitchen. Come through.
Everyone knows everyone around here. The nearest proper village is Longwick, four miles across the fields: a few homes, a handful holiday cottages in summer, but nearly deserted now. A neglected woodland divides us and a single, poorly-kept lane.
Youre from Longwick? I asked as he sat.
Thats right. Bought the cottage in autumnthis is my first winter visit. He gave a short laugh. Didnt realise itd be so different now.
Did you check the weather?
I didit said light snow.
Whats light on a motorway isnt light crossing fields.
I see that now.
I handed him a mughot tea, no questions. He clasped it with both hands and stayed there for a moment.
The cars not the end of the world, he said. Theyll tow it out. I just need to call.
Theres a charger by the fridge, I said. Plug in there.
He got up, plugged in, sat again, and sipped his tea.
How long have you lived here? he asked.
Five years full-time. Before that, just weekends.
Dont you miss the city?
No.
He didnt press. I appreciated that.
His phone was ancienthadnt seen the likes for years. Small, battered corners. Itd take it nearly an hour to get from nought to five percentI knew, because mine was the same.
He wouldnt be leaving soon.
I picked up my cup. Have you eaten?
Not since morning.
Nothing since then?
I thought Id only be out for a couple of hours.
There was some vegetable soup left in the fridge from yesterday. I set it to warm. He didnt say no need or dont fuss, just sat and waited. That was right, too.
We were both silent while it warmed. Not awkwardjust quiet. The storm drew its song against the windows, Molly snored on the radiator, and the kitchen was lit with a soft yellow glow. It was strange but pleasant: a stranger at my table, and the quiet felt untroubled. Thats rare.
I put the kettle on again after half an hour.
Outside, the blizzard showed no sign of stopping. We ate quietlynot for lack of things to say, but because there was no need for hurry.
Its peaceful here, he said.
Always is. Unless its windy.
No. Inside, I mean. He nodded at the sitting room. No radio, no telly.
Ive a little radio on the sill. Rarely turn it on.
Right. He waited. In London, I cant work without headphones. Still, I hear everyone through the wallspeople talking, moving about. It gets to me.
Workmeaning writing?
Yes.
What do you write?
Prose. He looked into his mug. Spent the past two years on a novel. Been hard work.
Happens.
Sent it in last autumn. Now I dont know what to do with myself.
I recognised the feelingnot mine, directly, but have seen it often in authors: once the manuscripts gone, theres a hole, and nobody knows what to do with it. Some start another project instantly, others drift for weeks, and some leave altogether. Each their own way.
It passes, I said.
I know. But not yet.
Molly hopped down from the radiator, sniffed his hand, and retreated. Eddie watched her.
A good omen? he asked.
Medium. If she stays, its good.
Ill work on my reputation then, he said, deadpan.
I laughed.
May I ask something? he said a moment later.
Go on.
Why the second?
I didnt catch on straight away.
Deadline, he clarified. Over the phone earlieryou said youd have the manuscript in for the second. But its New Years tonight, two days left. Why now?
It was a sharp question. Sharper than Id expect from someone whod just crawled in from a blizzard, concerned with cars and breakdown trucks.
Habit, I said.
What kind?
Not putting off whats nearly done.
He looked at me. Not as if he thought I was lyingjust that he knew that wasnt all of it.
Andwell, theres nothing to wait for here. I dont much celebrate New Year, so better to be working than just watching the clock.
I see, he said. No pityhe simply registered it.
That was good, too.
We fell quiet. Outside, the wind rapped the shutters on the empty house next doorthe neighbours had left in November, not to be back till spring. The noise was insistent; I was used to it, but today it sounded particularly loud.
You were working when I knocked? Eddie remarked, more of an observation than a question.
Yes.
Whats your job?
Im an editor. Fiction.
Interesting.
It usually is.
He watched me a shade longer than is typical.
Do you enjoy working with someone elses writing? Isnt it overwhelming?
I thought for a second.
When its bad writingits a strain. With good writing, its the opposite. I want to help make it the best it can be. Its like restoration, I suppose. The structure is there; you just clear what doesnt belong.
He noddedquietly, to himself.
Would you mind being edited? I asked.
Mind?
If I cut your words, made changes.
Oh. He considered. Not unless you cut what matters.
How do you know what matters?
If something aches when its crossed out, it matters. If it doesnt, it could go.
That was a wonderful way to put it. Very writerly, the sort of thing you only come up with after living through it many times.
Youve had poor editors before?
All sorts. He paused. One editor rewrote my first book so much there was nothing left. It began as a story about a fisherman and the sea; it ended up about an office manager and his emails. I exaggerate, but the ideas the same.
And you let them?
I was twenty-nine. Thought they knew best.
And then?
I realised knowing best wasnt the same as being right. Theyre not interchangeable.
I nodded. That was true. An editor may be more skilled with technique, but if they cant hear the authors voice, it means nothing. The voice matters more.
***
Night had fully set inno sign of light anywhere, just the blizzard, thicker than ever. The gate lantern barely cut through.
Eddie nursed his second cup. Molly drifted past him, inspected, and went on her way, not breaking stride. I noticed he didnt call her. Goodshe never liked to come when beckoned.
May I? He gestured towards the bookshelves by the window.
Of course.
He wandered over; three shelvesdetective novels to one side, fiction in the middle, the rest a jumble. He just read the spines, not touching, then returned.
A lot of mysteries, he observed.
Good switch-off reading. Everything gets solved in the end.
Life less often does?
I smiled. Much less often.
He picked up his cup.
Tell me about the novel youre editing, he said.
I hesitated.
The one youre working on now.
Why?
Id like to know, he shrugged slightly. You said editing a good story feels like restoration. I want to see it through your eyes.
It was a curious conversation. Not unwelcome, but oddstranger at my kitchen table, mug warming his hands, asking about my work. I couldnt remember the last time Id been asked thatgenuinely, not out of politeness, but because someone actually wanted to know.
Its about a man who spent years doing what he thought was right, but really just couldnt make a different choice, I began. Its about the line between choice and habit.
What happens to him in the end?
He leaves. Not the people, but his old self. I think thats the best ending it could have had.
Eddie thought about that.
You liked that ending?
Yes. The author wanted it different at first.
How?
A returngoing back to what hed left behind.
And you changed his mind?
I left a note. He changed it himself. I set down my cup. Which is how it should be. I can only suggesthe makes the call. Its his story.
He glanced at the table. His silence was full, weighing somethingmore reflective than polite hesitation.
Why do you think leaving was the right ending? he asked.
Because returning is about where. Leaving is about who.
He watched me.
Is that yours, or is it from the book?
Mine. From my notes on the book.
He went quiet again. I let him.
How long have you been an editor?
Eight years.
And you always care about endings this much?
Not alwaysonly when the storys honest. If it isnt, the ending doesnt matter. But if its truthful, it draws towards the only real conclusion, and the editors job is not to spoil it.
Eddie looked out into the dark. Thoughtfully, as if weighing something.
Must be hard, sometimesreading someone elses work, for their sake rather than your own.
Sometimes. When the author resists; or doesnt know what theyre writing. But not this one. He listened.
This current author?
Yes.
How did you know he listened?
I sipped my tea, weighing what to saynot about the plot, but the thing that held me.
Theres one sentence, I said. I changed it; the author accepted. But I still wonder if that was for the best.
What was in the original?
The snowstorm. It was written long, and it changed the beatI trimmed it. Its sharper now, but I feel like something was lost.
What was lost?
I dont exactly knowsomething alive.
Read me your version, he said.
I glanced at hima strange request, but not absurd.
The snow doesnt choose. It simply stays, when everything else goes.
Eddie fell silent.
Longer than a second or twoa real pause, during which I felt something shift. Not in the room, but inside him. He was staring at the table, gripping his mug just sotoo still, too poised. I suddenly realised: he wasnt just thinking about the line. He recognised it.
Is something wrong? I asked.
No. A pause. I wrote it like this: The snow doesnt decide where to goit just knows only what endures the cold can remain.
I put my cup down, carefully, heart thudding. That line was in the script Id been editingthe paragraph that had troubled me for days. My change had been seen only by myself and the publisher. And the original? Only by the authorand me.
The manuscript had not been published. The line was nowhere else.
Youre E. Lawrence, I said.
Not a question.
He looked at me.
Edward Lawrence, he said. Yes.
For a moment, I didnt know how to reply. It seemed surreal, and yet not, as if Id suspected this from the very start. Wed been sat for two hours talking about endings and emptiness, while all along Id been reading his novel, and hed been writing itand our collaboration spanned eight months already, unbeknown to me.
Ive been editing your novelfor eight months, I managed.
I know. The office only ever said N. Bell was my editor. He paused. I never got your full namejust the initial.
N. Bell.
Nadine Bell. Me.
We had known each otherthrough the work, through margin notes, through yes and no on the edge of pages. Hed chosen my ending; rejected my cut in chapter four. Id asked for a rewrite in part twohed agreed, eventually. We argued plot and prose back and forth, and never once faced each other.
And suddenly, I realised I knew himnot the man at my table, but the voice on the page. I knew he wrote long sentences when nervous, short ones when sure. I could tell he needed time to accept amendmentsnot stubborn, but considered. I knew he resisted bad edits, but without feeling the need to explain why.
And all he knew of me was a pair of initials.
A little unfair, really.
And then, in a blizzard, hed come to my door.
***
Why didnt you say? I asked.
What, that I was your author? He seemed surprised. I didnt know you were my editor. Only that youre an editor.
And I only told you that much.
We both dropped the rest.
He was right. Id never said whose publisher, he never mentioned his manuscript at Malverns. Were both the sort who avoid unnecessary explanations. This is what comes of that.
That line you wrote I said, I changed it because it was too long for that spot. The rhythm got lost.
I know. I agreed.
Your version was better.
He looked at me.
You think so?
Yes. Mine was sharper, yours truer. Sometimes the truth matters more than precision.
He paused a long while.
Can we restore the original draft? he asked.
Its already with editorial. I thought. But if you tell them you want it back, theyll send it on. Ill amend it.
No. He shook his head. Keep yours. The rhythm was right.
I didnt argue, but I was glad hed asked.
His phone finally beepedfifteen percent charge. He could call for help now, but didnt move.
Have you read the novel all the way through? he asked.
Three times. An editor reads three timesfirst to understand, second to feel, third to work.
And how did you feel?
I looked at him.
I felt the person who wrote it spent a long time figuring things out. And finally did.
He looked down.
Thats about right, he said softly.
Its a good novel, I added. I rarely say that aloud. But its honest. Real.
He said nothing, but I noticed that to him, it mattered, even if he lacked words to show it. Maybe he never had the words.
We sat quietly again. But this silence was comfortablea kind that follows when something essential has been spoken, and needs space.
Have you always been alone? he asked.
I understoodhe didnt mean tonight. He meant life here.
No. My husband died five years ago.
Im sorry.
No need. It hurts less now. Just different.
He didnt say, I understand. People often do, but they almost never do. Instead, he asked something else.
Why Farley Green?
Its peaceful. And we lived here togetherso in a way, hes present.
Eddie nodded slowly.
And youwhy Longwick?
Divorced two years ago. My London flatjust empty. He hesitated. So I bought a place, to have a different kind of emptiness.
His words surprised a laugh out of me. Hed put into words something Id never managed to explainto those who asked why I kept a house alone in the countryside.
Exactly, I said.
You get it?
I really do.
He smiled, quietly, for himself. This time, I noticed it better.
You cut out my monologue in chapter four, he remarked.
I did.
Why?
Because the hero says things the reader already knows. It was unnecessary.
I missed it.
I know. You wrote as much in your notes.
And you answered, I understand, but no.
Because I understood, but it was still no. I looked at him. Its normal to be sentimental about ones text. But sentiment isnt a good enough argument.
He pondered this.
Youre right, he said. The chapters better without it. I realised, afterwards.
They always do.
Does it bother youthat the thanks come late? Never straight away.
I thought about it.
No. As long as the work is good, thats enough. If its good in the end, that’s all that matters.
Eddie looked at me, longer than beforenot as a stranger, but as someone who felt familiar.
I always thought editors were faceless, he said.
Were meant to be. The storys not about us.
But youre not faceless.
Its a bit of a problem, that.
No, he said. It isnt.
***
Quarter to midnight.
Fifteen minutes to the new year, said Eddie.
I know.
Outside, the wind had almost died with itjust a gentle settling of snow on the panes. The lantern no longer swung. Still snowing, but tiredly, as if wishing itself home.
Do you have anything besides tea? he asked.
Ive wine. Opened at Christmas.
Thats all right?
I think so. White.
Perfect.
I fetched the bottle from the fridge, found two plain tumblers (I dont keep wine glasses), poured us each a little.
What shall we toast? he asked.
The new year, I replied.
Thats a bit broad.
All rightto honesty. Sometimes it matters more than accuracy.
He looked at me. I held his gaze, for the first time that night truly meeting his eyes.
All right, he said.
The radio, perched on the sill since Simon placed it there our first summer, crackled through the midnight chimes. Id never moved it, only replaced batteries now and then. Most years, its distant songs of other peoples parties were just background.
Tonight, it sounded different.
We clinked glasses. Drank in silence. Molly stirred on the radiator, yawned softly, settled again. The snow outside slowedthick flakes, no wind.
His phone pingedthirty percent charge.
Eddie glanced at it, then at the window, then at me.
No breakdown service coming tonight, he said.
No, not till morning.
Is there somewhere I can bed down?
I nodded.
Sofa in the study. Manuscripts there, but Ill clear it.
Dontplease, leave it. I wont get in the way.
Not Ill be quiet, not I wont disturbbut I wont get in the way. As if he understood I had a space that was mine, and knew not to push.
All right, I said.
I got up, put on the kettle againmore out of instinct than thirst.
Nadine, he said.
I turned.
Im glad my car went off the road tonight.
I looked at him. He was sat at my table, fingers curled around the tumbler, clear and direct, no smile or softening.
Im not sure I am, just yet, I admitted honestly.
He nodded. Thats fair.
The kettle boiled.
I filled both our mugs, set one in front of him. He thanked me, took a sip.
Outside, the snow drifted quietly now. The storm was over.
But he didnt leave.
And I didnt ask when he would.
The manuscript sat in the next roompage one hundred and seventeen, third paragraph from the top. His sentence, in my edit; and somewhere in his mind, his own untrimmed line. Both about the same thing: about what remains, when all else passes.
Perhaps thats the truth.
I sat at my table, mug in hand, Eddie opposite me, and outside there was no more stormjust gentle snow and a new year, already begun.
