The Boy Made of Snow
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Synopsis
In a sleepy English village in 1944, Annabel and her son Daniel live in the shadow of war. With her husband away, Annabel withdraws ever deeper into long-ago memories of happier times.
When Mother and son befriend Hans, a German PoW consigned to a nearby farm, their lives are suddenly filled with thrilling secrets.
To Annabel, Hans is an awakening from the darkness that has engulfed her since Daniel's birth. To her son, a solitary boy caught up in the magical world of fairy tales, he is perhaps a prince in disguise or a mythical woodchopper. But Hans has plans of his own and will soon set them into motion with chilling consequences.
Release date: November 2, 2017
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Print pages: 320
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The Boy Made of Snow
Chloe Mayer
‘A testament to the power of stories, The Boy Made of Snow had me compulsively turning the pages to find out the fate of Daniel and his mother. A haunting and thrilling read. I absolutely loved it’
Kate Hamer, author of The Girl in the Red Coat
‘In 1944, a young boy obsessed with fairy tales, and his troubled mother, both befriend a German POW – with heartbreaking results. Your jaw will drop at the dramatic events’
Good Housekeeping
‘Original and unsettling – and just a little bit heartbreaking’
Rachel Rhys, author of Dangerous Crossing
‘The novel wins through on both the evocation of the period and the setting, brilliantly capturing the isolation of mother and son, making the awful inevitability of what follows extra affecting’
Fanny Blake, Daily Mail
‘Heartbreaking, chilling and beautifully written, The Boy Made of Snow will stay with me for a very long time’
Laura Marshall, author of Friend Request
‘When a young mother falls for a German POW, she sets off a train of events that will shatter lives. The period and her son’s imaginary world makes this special’
Woman & Home
‘An evocative and stunning debut from an exciting new writer’
Jane Harris, author of Sugar Money
‘Calling upon classic fairytales – in their original, not Disney-fied versions – this is a beautiful and evocative debut’
Stylist
‘The Boy Made of Snow is an evocative and haunting story with moments of heartbreaking poignancy. This dark and compelling tale, of wartime austerity and one boy’s vivid imagination and its devastating consequences, is an assured and beautifully written debut’
Amanda Jennings, author of In Her Wake
‘There is much to admire in this ambitious debut, primarily Mayer’s handling of Annabel’s unsettling descent into a slothful haze’
Antonia Senior, The Times
‘This story is unlike anything I have ever read. Some books move you – and this is one of them. I absolutely loved it’
The Sun
‘Exquisitely imagined … chilling and poignant and at times, utterly heartbreaking. Daniel is a carefully crafted masterpiece, and his innocence shines through, even when his actions bring about the most tragic and horrendous consequences’
Anne Cater, Random Things Through my Letterbox
‘I loved The Boy Made of Snow and feel so sorry I’ve finished it. I should have slowed down, but just couldn’t. A magical novel from a fabulous writer’
Elisa Lodato, author of An Unremarkable Body and The Necessary Marriage
‘Dark and compelling and will have you frantically turning the pages to discover the protagonists’ fate’
West Essex News
‘Absolutely captivating … I highly recommend it’
The Quiet Knitter
‘A stunning debut from an exciting new author, with Mayer writing characters beautifully and using Daniel’s love of fairy tales to marvellous effect … excellent, complex characters help drive the story to an unforgettable conclusion’
Dorset Echo
‘The characters are beautifully drawn, their emotion and feelings leaping from the page … It is hard to believe that this is a debut, so confident and assured is Mayer’s writing’
Amanda Duncan, mybookishblogspot
‘It excels in its tense, acute rendering of Annabel’s deteriorating mental state’
Sydney Morning Herald
‘A breathtaking, haunting, and heartbreaking story that will stay in your mind long after you turn the last page … If you buy one book this Christmas, make it this one’
Linda Green, Books of All Kinds
All right, we will start the story; when we come to the end we shall know more than we do now … There once lived a poor little girl and a poor little boy …
From The Snow Queen
When she was twelve years old, the enchantress shut her into a tower, which lay in a forest and had no stairs or door. There was only a little window, right at the top …
From Rapunzel
Annabel was gathering magnolia petals from the front lawn when she first saw the strange procession making its way down the lane.
She couldn’t abide the sight of the stray blossoms; they were beached on the grass in the watery spring sunshine like a school of dead white fish. So she had come outside as usual – as she did every day of the tree’s brief season – to tidy away the fallen flowers.
And it was then, while she was clutching fistfuls of the tough fabric-like petals outside her cottage, that she glanced up to see the gang of men heading down the street towards her.
She stared for a moment or two but quickly regained her composure and hurried towards the house so she could watch properly – unobserved – through the bay window.
As she crossed the lawn, she kept her gaze fixed on the approaching men. There were seven of them and they were still in their uniforms. Nazi soldiers, just walking down the lane.
They were being escorted by two British officers, so she assured herself this wasn’t an invasion. She knew from the wireless that most towns had a Prisoner of War camp on their outskirts now, and she’d heard that the village, or rather old Mr Dawson’s farm, had been selected as such a site. But Annabel wondered why this first batch of Germans was arriving on foot.
She rushed through the open front door and into the sitting room where she positioned her body flat against the wall by the window. Then she leaned over, partly hidden by the wall and partly obscured by her net curtains, to peek out into the lane.
The soldiers were still a little too far away for her to scan their faces, but she squinted against the sunshine to make them out. An intoxicating mix of fear and excitement made her heart thump painfully in her chest. She felt furtive, as though she were doing something wrong, but she was desperate to catch a glimpse of the captured prisoners as they passed by.
The war seemed to have made government officials suddenly aware of the existence of the village. First a steady stream of evacuated children were sent to Bambury and now Jerries were being transported here. Should she be afraid of them? With Reggie away fighting, she was alone in the house with their nine-year-old son. And Dawson’s farm wasn’t far from her cottage. She wondered if the old man was worried about having a load of Krauts just a short distance from his farmhouse, where he too lived alone since his wife had died of the cancer.
There were some rumblings in the village, of course. Fears of Germans escaping, biding their time until they were free to slit dozens of throats in the dead of night as the villagers slept. But there was surprisingly little opposition as the first few Nissen huts were erected a couple of weeks ago. Perhaps people were being patriotic; just another sacrifice that had to be made.
Annabel hadn’t paid much attention to the chatter, but now she was transfixed.
They were approaching … yes … any second now …
She realised she was holding her breath; they were going to walk right past her front window!
Straining to get a better look, she watched as the blur of their faces gradually hardened into distinct features.
They were passing by now, just feet away from where she hid. The two British officers seemed relaxed, arms swinging at their sides. She wasn’t sure what she thought she would find written in the Jerries’ expressions, but their faces betrayed no emotion and a couple of them were even chatting nonchalantly. None of them wore handcuffs.
She fancied she would have been able to tell they were European, even if they weren’t in uniform. Something about the slant of their jaws, their eyes, their manner, seemed foreign, exotic somehow. Men with strange names from faraway places. Their grey tunic jackets could almost have passed for normal blazers, were it not for the bottle-green shoulder epaulettes, and they wore them open as though they were simply out for a pleasant stroll.
One of the PoWs – taller than the others and with dusky blond hair – happened to glance casually about him, and Annabel darted back behind the wall and flipped around to face the room.
She’d wait for a second or two before resuming her observation. Were the other women watching this, hidden behind their own net curtains?
Her heart was still hammering. She felt strangely unmoored and tried to anchor herself by looking at her very ordinary surroundings, as though her nice sitting room – the sofas, the bureau, the drinks cabinet – could serve as docks that would safely tie her down.
Unable to wait any longer, she turned back to the window. The Germans had passed by. She stared with a sort of repulsed fascination as the men continued to the end of the road, turned the corner, and disappeared from view.
Daniel must have come into the room behind her at some point, and when he spoke he made her jump: ‘What are you doing?’
She glanced at him then turned back to the street. The boy was always creeping up on her.
‘Nothing. Some PoWs arrived and just walked by. They’ve gone now.’
He ran to the window with a cry and pulled a net curtain wide. But he could see as well as she could; the street was empty, no sign at all that anything extraordinary had just happened in Bambury. Just innocent little cottages dotting the country lane, pretty and bland as the drawing on a box of fudge.
‘There’s no one there,’ he said, disgusted, dropping the net.
She looked down at the child, his face pale beneath his brown hair, his wide blue eyes staring up at her with accusation in them.
Annabel leaned back against the wall – as shaky as if she’d been running. She realised she was still clutching the magnolia petals, now crushed and sweaty in the palms of her hands.
She was beautiful but made of ice … neither rest nor peace was to be found in her gaze.
From The Snow Queen
I followed her as she left the sitting room and headed outside to the dustbin. These were the questions that were bouncing around in my head like rubber balls in a box:
What does PoW stand for again? Are they really Nazis? How were they caught? Have they killed people? How long will they stay? Do they know Hitler? Can they speak English? What will they do here? Are they dangerous? Where will they live? When will they be sent back?
‘Mother?’
But she snapped, ‘Not now, Daniel,’ as she scraped a white pulpy mess from her fingers into the bin. Then she went into the kitchen to wash her hands at the sink. So I was left staring at the back of her pretty flowery dress and the brown curls of her hair about her shoulders when she said I had to either (a) go outside into the garden or (b) go upstairs to read a book, but either way I mustn’t be (c) getting under her feet.
Normally I’d read a story, but today I went into the back garden so I could climb the big tree in the hope being higher up might let me spot a gang of Jerries heading who knows where. It didn’t. I wasn’t really all that high to be honest.
She came out after a while and looked up at me and said, ‘Don’t worry about those PoWs. Because, well, there’s nothing to be afraid of. All right? So then, let’s hear no more about it.’
I was just going to reply that I was nine so was most certainly NOT afraid, when she turned around and went back inside, pulling the door shut behind her.
So I sat there trying to think up a plan for quite a long time until eventually I went inside to tell her I was going to play out. She was sitting on the sofa with a glazed look on her face. The wireless was playing a Tommy Dorsey song and a magazine lay open across her lap. There was a cigarette burning in her hand and a glass with soda water turning oily from one of her special drinks sat on the side table. And enough time must have passed – or she’d completely forgotten about the PoWs – because she didn’t even reply.
It was good because, even though it was after school, there was still quite a lot of afternoon and evening daylight left. And we didn’t really have mealtimes in my house any more.
I walked in the direction she’d been looking, which must have been the way they’d gone. But the lane was empty so I circled back and headed up to the hill, where I might be able to see more.
On the way, I didn’t see anything interesting apart from a soldier trying to fix a broken-down army jeep that must have brought the PoWs to the village. I thought about stopping to ask him where I could find the prisoners, but decided it’d be more fun to find out for myself.
It was cloudier than it had been and a quick spring shower sprinkled some light raindrops down on me, but it wasn’t chilly. I just had little pinprick-sized dots of water showing up as dark blue on my light-blue school shirt.
When I was at the top of the hill, I thought I could hunt dragons at the same time as looking for PoWs. So I found a branch that would make a perfect sword. I picked it up from the grass and watched as the wood turned into a sharp piece of silver with a golden handle studded with rubies. No dragons seemed to be around today though, and before long I could tell that my sword had turned back into a stick again. Then I used it to swipe at the long grass growing by the side of the path that led over the little hill above the railway.
It really was rotten luck to have missed the PoWs.
The trains weren’t running properly any more, but I’d heard my teacher Mr Finlay say there was a Skeleton Service. I hoped I’d see the skeleton driver and the skeleton conductor through the windows if a train whizzed by.
It would be fun to watch my stick being crushed by the wheels. Maybe I could conduct experiments by placing other objects along the tracks too. A penny, a pebble, a worm. A worm! A worm!
These thoughts cheered me right up.
The grassy verge was steep in places and I had to sort of slide down. I clamped the stick between my teeth and tried to raise myself up on my hands a bit to protect the bottom of my short trousers. Although mealtimes had stopped, and upstairs housework, Mother did still do the laundry – since other people would notice if our clothes were dirty – and she would box my ears if she found grass stains smeared into the fabric.
My stick was now a worm-finder, and I used it to turn over rocks, and leaves, and prod through the grass. I had expected to find dozens of them – rain equals worms – but I couldn’t find a single one. Jumping over the metal lines, I walked down the middle of the tracks to continue searching.
I could see the red brick tunnel cutting through the hill up ahead. It was actually also a bridge because a road ran along the top of it. But the street was one of the quieter roads out of the village and didn’t lead to London or anywhere exciting like that. Sometimes I liked to look down from there like a king surveying his kingdom.
Perhaps there would be worms on the other side? I would run through it; I’d never done that before.
The ground was gravelly with small pale rocks beneath my shoes and I watched where I put my feet because it would be bad luck to step on a patch of pebbly ground instead of the wooden sleepers. One foot per sleeper, that was the rule.
Step, sleeper.
Step, sleeper.
When I looked up, the gaping mouth was suddenly in front of me and I noticed how dark it was in there. Maybe I should climb back up the verge, cross the bridge, and scramble down the other side to avoid the tunnel? Wooden stairs had been built into the hill nearby so railway crews could get up to the road, so it would be easy to climb up and over.
But I was right at the entrance now and I didn’t want to be a scaredy cat.
‘I’m no sissy!’ (But I whispered it, so the echo wouldn’t steal my words and throw them back at me as if a ghost were repeating what I’d just said.)
Another step, another sleeper.
And I was inside.
I thought the tunnel would suddenly turn pitch black. But it didn’t, not yet anyway. I had only just stepped inside, and the day was still strong and bright behind me. Also, I could just about see the hole further down at the other end, opening up to the sunshine outside.
Still, as I took that first step, I knew that I’d crossed over into a different sort of world. It felt a bit colder as I moved into the tunnel, and even the sound changed somehow.
But I’d said aloud that I wasn’t a sissy, so what else could I do? I kept walking, forgetting to check my feet only touched the sleepers; forgetting about the bad luck.
I didn’t like the sound my footsteps made, and I didn’t like the feeling of dark dampness on my skin. I sped up, hurrying to get to the tunnel’s exit. It was strange, but I was too nervous to run. It felt like admitting I was frightened would be a big mistake. If I started to run, then something would chase me. That was the reason I couldn’t go back the way I’d come in, because if I turned around I’d see what was waiting for me in the dark. I was just approaching the halfway bit of the tunnel now; I was as far as I could be from both ways out.
That was when I saw the nest.
I was so shocked that I actually stopped walking. It was beside the tracks, right up against the curved brick wall. It was dark, but I could see it well enough.
That nest was like the darkest horror from the darkest nightmare. Part of it was made up of human things – a dirty tattered eiderdown, some blankets and pieces of wood, empty bottles, a few scraps of clothes, and greasy newspapers that reeked of food going bad. But the rest of it was all animal. The dirt … the smell. Toilet smells. Vomit smells. Rotting smells.
A nest. Half human, half animal. Under a bridge.
Oh! I knew what it was that lived there.
I was standing in a Troll’s lair.
The autumn before, not long before I turned nine, I’d come across a dead baby bird. The pink, featherless chick was naked on the cold concrete walkway underneath the church hall’s roof, round at the back of the building. It must have fallen from its home in the rafters. It had huge black bulging eyes, this chick, and its tiny yellow beak was open, open, open. Its skin was so thin it was almost see-through and I could see the darker red of its tiny veins and organs packed beneath it. I stared at that little baby bird for a long time. In fact, I squatted down to get a better look at it. I was so disgusted by the sight of it, its obvious deadness, but I couldn’t tear myself away.
That was how I felt when I found the Troll’s nest. The fear I’d felt since walking into the dark turned solid in my belly as I suddenly realised what it was that lived in there. But I’d stopped walking to study the nest the same way I’d studied every horrid detail of that dead little bird.
My heart thumped faster and my breathing became ragged and uneven. I tried to hold my breath; I didn’t want to break any sort of spell, and I didn’t want that smell up my nose and in my head. I just wanted to have a look.
Already I was thinking how I’d tell my best friend Harry all about this – even though he lived a long way away and I wasn’t sure when I’d see him again. I was pretty sure I’d come off looking amazingly brave, well, a hero really.
With those thoughts making me even braver, and even more hero-like, I stepped away from the tracks, closer to the stinking nest. I pinched my nose between my fingers. If I hadn’t been so busy thinking about how far away the exit was, I would probably have smelled the nest before I saw it.
I wondered if any of the train passengers ever looked out of the window at this spot. Or if, as the train exploded into the blackness of the tunnel, they always turned away from the glass thinking there was nothing to see. When they were going through really fast, would they even notice this dark mess of rubbish, pushed up against the walls? And if they did see something, none of them probably realised what it meant. Most grown-ups never thought about Trolls.
Probably, they had enough to worry about, seeing as how they were taking their chances with the Skeleton Service, not to mention the fact there was a war on. I shivered, and remembered again to listen for the tell-tale chugging of the ghost train.
I still had my long stick with me and – with the fingers of my other hand squeezing my nose tightly shut against the stink of the Troll – I began to prod at the nest with a funny mix of delight and horror.
Sliding the tip of the branch underneath the greasy-looking eiderdown that was spread out on the ground, I flipped the corner over, and marvelled at the faded flowery pattern now caked with grime. Using the point of the stick, I scooped up some of the clothes then flung them to one side when I caught the sharp whiff of stale sweat and the tang of whisky, like in the decanter at Grandpa’s house.
I jabbed at the pile of blankets and prodded again, much harder. Horrible, dirty things! Finally I raised my stick and hit the pile in disgust.
But the stick snapped into two pieces at precisely the same time as a roar of pain, or surprise, or fury rose up from the mound. The howling bounced off the slick brick walls of the tunnel and filled my head with the terrifying bellows of the beast. It had been hiding beneath those blankets the whole time.
It sat up and its terrible black eyes were swivelling round trying to find what had attacked it. I was standing directly in front of it but it was as though it wasn’t able to see me at first. I stumbled backwards in fear, still holding onto the shard of stick I’d hit it with.
It was trying to pull itself into a standing position. I gasped as it began to draw itself up on its hind legs; it was turning into the monster it really was. Surely it would catch me and eat me.
‘AAAAAGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!’
The screaming hadn’t stopped. I was whimpering as I tried to back away from it. I could move, but realised I couldn’t seem to move quickly. It was like the dreams I had where I couldn’t run away from danger. But this was real life and I was just shuffling backwards, as slowly as if I were wading through quicksand.
Then I was falling and the stick slipped from my hand as I grasped uselessly at the air. At first I thought it had somehow managed to trip me up, or was even using some kind of evil magic, but then I realised I had tripped over the metal tracks behind me. Now I was lying flat on my back, staring up at it helplessly, as it lurched from side to side. It was holding its head in its hands.
As I began to try to pull myself away, it took its hands down from its hairy face and suddenly seemed to see me for the first time. It took a step towards me and I was flipping over and I was up and I was scrabbling to get away. I was running I was fleeing I was never looking back it was behind me I knew it was behind me it was going to chase me and get me and kill me—
‘SODDING KIDS SODDING KIDS SODDING KIDS—’
I could hear the words now, the ones buried in the roaring that had got even louder since it saw me. A new higher-pitched scream joined the furious booming of the Troll and I realised it was me.
But I could see the light ahead; the day was still there outside the tunnel as though nothing had happened. I knew I’d be all right if I could only get out of the dark.
A rock landed in front of me, and shocked me so much I nearly stopped running, but then I understood. The Troll had grabbed a stone from the tracks and thrown it at me.
Another one whizzed past my ear, and another, and another. One bounced off my shoulder and I screamed again – I thought it was the Troll’s hand grabbing me. I couldn’t hear its footsteps following me any more, but the echoes made it hard to tell how far away it was.
Get to the light, just get to the light. It was all I had to do to be safe.
When I finally burst out into the sunshine, I kept running.
When the burning pain in my lungs became too much, I stopped on the tracks and turned around. I bent over, resting my hands on my knees, and panted. The Troll was there, but it hadn’t left the hole of the tunnel’s mouth. It had one arm up against the sloping brick wall. I thought it might be afraid of the sun, like Count Dracula. But maybe it was just catching its own breath too. Hadn’t I seen it somewhere before? That’s it – in the village once – begging for change. How had I never realised it was a Troll?
We stared at one another, assessing each other’s power. I’d seen it in daylight before, so it could follow me outside if it wanted. But it seemed tired, so I didn’t think it would.
After a moment or two, I was able to stand again, and I rested my hands on my hips as my heart and breathing slowed down. I had escaped death by Troll and I began to laugh because I’d outwitted it. I had whacked it with a big stick and now I was safely out of its reach.
It saw me laughing and began roaring again. ‘SODDING KIDS!’
It was enough to wipe the grin from my face and I immediately left the tracks to climb up the hill towards the path that would lead me home. I knew its eyes were on my back because of the horrible prickling sensation I felt there, but I kept running and its screams gradually faded to silence behind me.
‘… it shall not be death, but a deep sleep of a hundred years into which the princess shall fall.’
From Briar-Rose (Sleeping Beauty)
‘Could the Snow Queen come inside, right into our room?’ asked the little girl.
‘Let her come,’ said Kai. ‘I will put her right on top of the stove and then she will melt.’
From The Snow Queen
Annabel gazed blankly at the sky outside the window as it gradually turned to navy and made the room blue. The gin was all gone and inside her head felt smooth.
She was thinking about the PoWs in their Nissen huts. What were they doing now? It must be strange sleeping in a foreign country as a prisoner. Were they frightened? Or were they plotting escape and retribution?
The sound of the front door made her snap to. She hadn’t realised how late it was, or noticed when the sun went down, for now she found herself sitting in the chair in the dark. She turned off the wireless on her way to the kitchen where she found the boy eating pilchards from a tin with a spoon. She pulled down the blackout blind and they both blinked when she turned on the light. She wasn’t at all sure what time it was. The clock in the kitchen had stopped working long ago.
‘Bedtime …’ she said. Her voice slipped around a little as the word left her mouth.
‘Yes.’
She heard the scrape of his chair on the lino and the thump of the tin in the bin.
He followed as she led the way upstairs to his bedroom. The blackout blind was permanently down in here, and she flipped on the yellow tasselled lamp in the corner before scanning the books on his shelves. So many fairy tales.
He climbed into bed – yes, he still had his clothes on, but he could change into pyjamas later when she’d gone; or not, if he wanted to save the effort and wake up to go straight to school already dressed. Was it a school day tomorrow?
She ran her finger along the books and pulled out Sleeping Beauty. She sat on her chair, over in the corner.
‘Once upon a time—’
‘First …’ the boy interrupted her, shyly.
She looked up.
‘First, can you tell me about your Darlings?’
She sighed.
Then she closed the book, folded her hands across it, and leaned back in the wicker seat. He was asking her to tell a story about her childhood – but really he was asking her about the fairy tales.
‘When I was a little girl,’ she began, ‘I had a lovely collection of dollies. Oh, rag dolls and baby dolls and china dolls, which I used to scoop up in my arms and carry about with me. And I called my dollies: my Darlings.’
She heard the boy let out a long breath as he settled back against his pillows.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Why, you’d never see me without at lea. . .
Kate Hamer, author of The Girl in the Red Coat
‘In 1944, a young boy obsessed with fairy tales, and his troubled mother, both befriend a German POW – with heartbreaking results. Your jaw will drop at the dramatic events’
Good Housekeeping
‘Original and unsettling – and just a little bit heartbreaking’
Rachel Rhys, author of Dangerous Crossing
‘The novel wins through on both the evocation of the period and the setting, brilliantly capturing the isolation of mother and son, making the awful inevitability of what follows extra affecting’
Fanny Blake, Daily Mail
‘Heartbreaking, chilling and beautifully written, The Boy Made of Snow will stay with me for a very long time’
Laura Marshall, author of Friend Request
‘When a young mother falls for a German POW, she sets off a train of events that will shatter lives. The period and her son’s imaginary world makes this special’
Woman & Home
‘An evocative and stunning debut from an exciting new writer’
Jane Harris, author of Sugar Money
‘Calling upon classic fairytales – in their original, not Disney-fied versions – this is a beautiful and evocative debut’
Stylist
‘The Boy Made of Snow is an evocative and haunting story with moments of heartbreaking poignancy. This dark and compelling tale, of wartime austerity and one boy’s vivid imagination and its devastating consequences, is an assured and beautifully written debut’
Amanda Jennings, author of In Her Wake
‘There is much to admire in this ambitious debut, primarily Mayer’s handling of Annabel’s unsettling descent into a slothful haze’
Antonia Senior, The Times
‘This story is unlike anything I have ever read. Some books move you – and this is one of them. I absolutely loved it’
The Sun
‘Exquisitely imagined … chilling and poignant and at times, utterly heartbreaking. Daniel is a carefully crafted masterpiece, and his innocence shines through, even when his actions bring about the most tragic and horrendous consequences’
Anne Cater, Random Things Through my Letterbox
‘I loved The Boy Made of Snow and feel so sorry I’ve finished it. I should have slowed down, but just couldn’t. A magical novel from a fabulous writer’
Elisa Lodato, author of An Unremarkable Body and The Necessary Marriage
‘Dark and compelling and will have you frantically turning the pages to discover the protagonists’ fate’
West Essex News
‘Absolutely captivating … I highly recommend it’
The Quiet Knitter
‘A stunning debut from an exciting new author, with Mayer writing characters beautifully and using Daniel’s love of fairy tales to marvellous effect … excellent, complex characters help drive the story to an unforgettable conclusion’
Dorset Echo
‘The characters are beautifully drawn, their emotion and feelings leaping from the page … It is hard to believe that this is a debut, so confident and assured is Mayer’s writing’
Amanda Duncan, mybookishblogspot
‘It excels in its tense, acute rendering of Annabel’s deteriorating mental state’
Sydney Morning Herald
‘A breathtaking, haunting, and heartbreaking story that will stay in your mind long after you turn the last page … If you buy one book this Christmas, make it this one’
Linda Green, Books of All Kinds
All right, we will start the story; when we come to the end we shall know more than we do now … There once lived a poor little girl and a poor little boy …
From The Snow Queen
When she was twelve years old, the enchantress shut her into a tower, which lay in a forest and had no stairs or door. There was only a little window, right at the top …
From Rapunzel
Annabel was gathering magnolia petals from the front lawn when she first saw the strange procession making its way down the lane.
She couldn’t abide the sight of the stray blossoms; they were beached on the grass in the watery spring sunshine like a school of dead white fish. So she had come outside as usual – as she did every day of the tree’s brief season – to tidy away the fallen flowers.
And it was then, while she was clutching fistfuls of the tough fabric-like petals outside her cottage, that she glanced up to see the gang of men heading down the street towards her.
She stared for a moment or two but quickly regained her composure and hurried towards the house so she could watch properly – unobserved – through the bay window.
As she crossed the lawn, she kept her gaze fixed on the approaching men. There were seven of them and they were still in their uniforms. Nazi soldiers, just walking down the lane.
They were being escorted by two British officers, so she assured herself this wasn’t an invasion. She knew from the wireless that most towns had a Prisoner of War camp on their outskirts now, and she’d heard that the village, or rather old Mr Dawson’s farm, had been selected as such a site. But Annabel wondered why this first batch of Germans was arriving on foot.
She rushed through the open front door and into the sitting room where she positioned her body flat against the wall by the window. Then she leaned over, partly hidden by the wall and partly obscured by her net curtains, to peek out into the lane.
The soldiers were still a little too far away for her to scan their faces, but she squinted against the sunshine to make them out. An intoxicating mix of fear and excitement made her heart thump painfully in her chest. She felt furtive, as though she were doing something wrong, but she was desperate to catch a glimpse of the captured prisoners as they passed by.
The war seemed to have made government officials suddenly aware of the existence of the village. First a steady stream of evacuated children were sent to Bambury and now Jerries were being transported here. Should she be afraid of them? With Reggie away fighting, she was alone in the house with their nine-year-old son. And Dawson’s farm wasn’t far from her cottage. She wondered if the old man was worried about having a load of Krauts just a short distance from his farmhouse, where he too lived alone since his wife had died of the cancer.
There were some rumblings in the village, of course. Fears of Germans escaping, biding their time until they were free to slit dozens of throats in the dead of night as the villagers slept. But there was surprisingly little opposition as the first few Nissen huts were erected a couple of weeks ago. Perhaps people were being patriotic; just another sacrifice that had to be made.
Annabel hadn’t paid much attention to the chatter, but now she was transfixed.
They were approaching … yes … any second now …
She realised she was holding her breath; they were going to walk right past her front window!
Straining to get a better look, she watched as the blur of their faces gradually hardened into distinct features.
They were passing by now, just feet away from where she hid. The two British officers seemed relaxed, arms swinging at their sides. She wasn’t sure what she thought she would find written in the Jerries’ expressions, but their faces betrayed no emotion and a couple of them were even chatting nonchalantly. None of them wore handcuffs.
She fancied she would have been able to tell they were European, even if they weren’t in uniform. Something about the slant of their jaws, their eyes, their manner, seemed foreign, exotic somehow. Men with strange names from faraway places. Their grey tunic jackets could almost have passed for normal blazers, were it not for the bottle-green shoulder epaulettes, and they wore them open as though they were simply out for a pleasant stroll.
One of the PoWs – taller than the others and with dusky blond hair – happened to glance casually about him, and Annabel darted back behind the wall and flipped around to face the room.
She’d wait for a second or two before resuming her observation. Were the other women watching this, hidden behind their own net curtains?
Her heart was still hammering. She felt strangely unmoored and tried to anchor herself by looking at her very ordinary surroundings, as though her nice sitting room – the sofas, the bureau, the drinks cabinet – could serve as docks that would safely tie her down.
Unable to wait any longer, she turned back to the window. The Germans had passed by. She stared with a sort of repulsed fascination as the men continued to the end of the road, turned the corner, and disappeared from view.
Daniel must have come into the room behind her at some point, and when he spoke he made her jump: ‘What are you doing?’
She glanced at him then turned back to the street. The boy was always creeping up on her.
‘Nothing. Some PoWs arrived and just walked by. They’ve gone now.’
He ran to the window with a cry and pulled a net curtain wide. But he could see as well as she could; the street was empty, no sign at all that anything extraordinary had just happened in Bambury. Just innocent little cottages dotting the country lane, pretty and bland as the drawing on a box of fudge.
‘There’s no one there,’ he said, disgusted, dropping the net.
She looked down at the child, his face pale beneath his brown hair, his wide blue eyes staring up at her with accusation in them.
Annabel leaned back against the wall – as shaky as if she’d been running. She realised she was still clutching the magnolia petals, now crushed and sweaty in the palms of her hands.
She was beautiful but made of ice … neither rest nor peace was to be found in her gaze.
From The Snow Queen
I followed her as she left the sitting room and headed outside to the dustbin. These were the questions that were bouncing around in my head like rubber balls in a box:
What does PoW stand for again? Are they really Nazis? How were they caught? Have they killed people? How long will they stay? Do they know Hitler? Can they speak English? What will they do here? Are they dangerous? Where will they live? When will they be sent back?
‘Mother?’
But she snapped, ‘Not now, Daniel,’ as she scraped a white pulpy mess from her fingers into the bin. Then she went into the kitchen to wash her hands at the sink. So I was left staring at the back of her pretty flowery dress and the brown curls of her hair about her shoulders when she said I had to either (a) go outside into the garden or (b) go upstairs to read a book, but either way I mustn’t be (c) getting under her feet.
Normally I’d read a story, but today I went into the back garden so I could climb the big tree in the hope being higher up might let me spot a gang of Jerries heading who knows where. It didn’t. I wasn’t really all that high to be honest.
She came out after a while and looked up at me and said, ‘Don’t worry about those PoWs. Because, well, there’s nothing to be afraid of. All right? So then, let’s hear no more about it.’
I was just going to reply that I was nine so was most certainly NOT afraid, when she turned around and went back inside, pulling the door shut behind her.
So I sat there trying to think up a plan for quite a long time until eventually I went inside to tell her I was going to play out. She was sitting on the sofa with a glazed look on her face. The wireless was playing a Tommy Dorsey song and a magazine lay open across her lap. There was a cigarette burning in her hand and a glass with soda water turning oily from one of her special drinks sat on the side table. And enough time must have passed – or she’d completely forgotten about the PoWs – because she didn’t even reply.
It was good because, even though it was after school, there was still quite a lot of afternoon and evening daylight left. And we didn’t really have mealtimes in my house any more.
I walked in the direction she’d been looking, which must have been the way they’d gone. But the lane was empty so I circled back and headed up to the hill, where I might be able to see more.
On the way, I didn’t see anything interesting apart from a soldier trying to fix a broken-down army jeep that must have brought the PoWs to the village. I thought about stopping to ask him where I could find the prisoners, but decided it’d be more fun to find out for myself.
It was cloudier than it had been and a quick spring shower sprinkled some light raindrops down on me, but it wasn’t chilly. I just had little pinprick-sized dots of water showing up as dark blue on my light-blue school shirt.
When I was at the top of the hill, I thought I could hunt dragons at the same time as looking for PoWs. So I found a branch that would make a perfect sword. I picked it up from the grass and watched as the wood turned into a sharp piece of silver with a golden handle studded with rubies. No dragons seemed to be around today though, and before long I could tell that my sword had turned back into a stick again. Then I used it to swipe at the long grass growing by the side of the path that led over the little hill above the railway.
It really was rotten luck to have missed the PoWs.
The trains weren’t running properly any more, but I’d heard my teacher Mr Finlay say there was a Skeleton Service. I hoped I’d see the skeleton driver and the skeleton conductor through the windows if a train whizzed by.
It would be fun to watch my stick being crushed by the wheels. Maybe I could conduct experiments by placing other objects along the tracks too. A penny, a pebble, a worm. A worm! A worm!
These thoughts cheered me right up.
The grassy verge was steep in places and I had to sort of slide down. I clamped the stick between my teeth and tried to raise myself up on my hands a bit to protect the bottom of my short trousers. Although mealtimes had stopped, and upstairs housework, Mother did still do the laundry – since other people would notice if our clothes were dirty – and she would box my ears if she found grass stains smeared into the fabric.
My stick was now a worm-finder, and I used it to turn over rocks, and leaves, and prod through the grass. I had expected to find dozens of them – rain equals worms – but I couldn’t find a single one. Jumping over the metal lines, I walked down the middle of the tracks to continue searching.
I could see the red brick tunnel cutting through the hill up ahead. It was actually also a bridge because a road ran along the top of it. But the street was one of the quieter roads out of the village and didn’t lead to London or anywhere exciting like that. Sometimes I liked to look down from there like a king surveying his kingdom.
Perhaps there would be worms on the other side? I would run through it; I’d never done that before.
The ground was gravelly with small pale rocks beneath my shoes and I watched where I put my feet because it would be bad luck to step on a patch of pebbly ground instead of the wooden sleepers. One foot per sleeper, that was the rule.
Step, sleeper.
Step, sleeper.
When I looked up, the gaping mouth was suddenly in front of me and I noticed how dark it was in there. Maybe I should climb back up the verge, cross the bridge, and scramble down the other side to avoid the tunnel? Wooden stairs had been built into the hill nearby so railway crews could get up to the road, so it would be easy to climb up and over.
But I was right at the entrance now and I didn’t want to be a scaredy cat.
‘I’m no sissy!’ (But I whispered it, so the echo wouldn’t steal my words and throw them back at me as if a ghost were repeating what I’d just said.)
Another step, another sleeper.
And I was inside.
I thought the tunnel would suddenly turn pitch black. But it didn’t, not yet anyway. I had only just stepped inside, and the day was still strong and bright behind me. Also, I could just about see the hole further down at the other end, opening up to the sunshine outside.
Still, as I took that first step, I knew that I’d crossed over into a different sort of world. It felt a bit colder as I moved into the tunnel, and even the sound changed somehow.
But I’d said aloud that I wasn’t a sissy, so what else could I do? I kept walking, forgetting to check my feet only touched the sleepers; forgetting about the bad luck.
I didn’t like the sound my footsteps made, and I didn’t like the feeling of dark dampness on my skin. I sped up, hurrying to get to the tunnel’s exit. It was strange, but I was too nervous to run. It felt like admitting I was frightened would be a big mistake. If I started to run, then something would chase me. That was the reason I couldn’t go back the way I’d come in, because if I turned around I’d see what was waiting for me in the dark. I was just approaching the halfway bit of the tunnel now; I was as far as I could be from both ways out.
That was when I saw the nest.
I was so shocked that I actually stopped walking. It was beside the tracks, right up against the curved brick wall. It was dark, but I could see it well enough.
That nest was like the darkest horror from the darkest nightmare. Part of it was made up of human things – a dirty tattered eiderdown, some blankets and pieces of wood, empty bottles, a few scraps of clothes, and greasy newspapers that reeked of food going bad. But the rest of it was all animal. The dirt … the smell. Toilet smells. Vomit smells. Rotting smells.
A nest. Half human, half animal. Under a bridge.
Oh! I knew what it was that lived there.
I was standing in a Troll’s lair.
The autumn before, not long before I turned nine, I’d come across a dead baby bird. The pink, featherless chick was naked on the cold concrete walkway underneath the church hall’s roof, round at the back of the building. It must have fallen from its home in the rafters. It had huge black bulging eyes, this chick, and its tiny yellow beak was open, open, open. Its skin was so thin it was almost see-through and I could see the darker red of its tiny veins and organs packed beneath it. I stared at that little baby bird for a long time. In fact, I squatted down to get a better look at it. I was so disgusted by the sight of it, its obvious deadness, but I couldn’t tear myself away.
That was how I felt when I found the Troll’s nest. The fear I’d felt since walking into the dark turned solid in my belly as I suddenly realised what it was that lived in there. But I’d stopped walking to study the nest the same way I’d studied every horrid detail of that dead little bird.
My heart thumped faster and my breathing became ragged and uneven. I tried to hold my breath; I didn’t want to break any sort of spell, and I didn’t want that smell up my nose and in my head. I just wanted to have a look.
Already I was thinking how I’d tell my best friend Harry all about this – even though he lived a long way away and I wasn’t sure when I’d see him again. I was pretty sure I’d come off looking amazingly brave, well, a hero really.
With those thoughts making me even braver, and even more hero-like, I stepped away from the tracks, closer to the stinking nest. I pinched my nose between my fingers. If I hadn’t been so busy thinking about how far away the exit was, I would probably have smelled the nest before I saw it.
I wondered if any of the train passengers ever looked out of the window at this spot. Or if, as the train exploded into the blackness of the tunnel, they always turned away from the glass thinking there was nothing to see. When they were going through really fast, would they even notice this dark mess of rubbish, pushed up against the walls? And if they did see something, none of them probably realised what it meant. Most grown-ups never thought about Trolls.
Probably, they had enough to worry about, seeing as how they were taking their chances with the Skeleton Service, not to mention the fact there was a war on. I shivered, and remembered again to listen for the tell-tale chugging of the ghost train.
I still had my long stick with me and – with the fingers of my other hand squeezing my nose tightly shut against the stink of the Troll – I began to prod at the nest with a funny mix of delight and horror.
Sliding the tip of the branch underneath the greasy-looking eiderdown that was spread out on the ground, I flipped the corner over, and marvelled at the faded flowery pattern now caked with grime. Using the point of the stick, I scooped up some of the clothes then flung them to one side when I caught the sharp whiff of stale sweat and the tang of whisky, like in the decanter at Grandpa’s house.
I jabbed at the pile of blankets and prodded again, much harder. Horrible, dirty things! Finally I raised my stick and hit the pile in disgust.
But the stick snapped into two pieces at precisely the same time as a roar of pain, or surprise, or fury rose up from the mound. The howling bounced off the slick brick walls of the tunnel and filled my head with the terrifying bellows of the beast. It had been hiding beneath those blankets the whole time.
It sat up and its terrible black eyes were swivelling round trying to find what had attacked it. I was standing directly in front of it but it was as though it wasn’t able to see me at first. I stumbled backwards in fear, still holding onto the shard of stick I’d hit it with.
It was trying to pull itself into a standing position. I gasped as it began to draw itself up on its hind legs; it was turning into the monster it really was. Surely it would catch me and eat me.
‘AAAAAGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!’
The screaming hadn’t stopped. I was whimpering as I tried to back away from it. I could move, but realised I couldn’t seem to move quickly. It was like the dreams I had where I couldn’t run away from danger. But this was real life and I was just shuffling backwards, as slowly as if I were wading through quicksand.
Then I was falling and the stick slipped from my hand as I grasped uselessly at the air. At first I thought it had somehow managed to trip me up, or was even using some kind of evil magic, but then I realised I had tripped over the metal tracks behind me. Now I was lying flat on my back, staring up at it helplessly, as it lurched from side to side. It was holding its head in its hands.
As I began to try to pull myself away, it took its hands down from its hairy face and suddenly seemed to see me for the first time. It took a step towards me and I was flipping over and I was up and I was scrabbling to get away. I was running I was fleeing I was never looking back it was behind me I knew it was behind me it was going to chase me and get me and kill me—
‘SODDING KIDS SODDING KIDS SODDING KIDS—’
I could hear the words now, the ones buried in the roaring that had got even louder since it saw me. A new higher-pitched scream joined the furious booming of the Troll and I realised it was me.
But I could see the light ahead; the day was still there outside the tunnel as though nothing had happened. I knew I’d be all right if I could only get out of the dark.
A rock landed in front of me, and shocked me so much I nearly stopped running, but then I understood. The Troll had grabbed a stone from the tracks and thrown it at me.
Another one whizzed past my ear, and another, and another. One bounced off my shoulder and I screamed again – I thought it was the Troll’s hand grabbing me. I couldn’t hear its footsteps following me any more, but the echoes made it hard to tell how far away it was.
Get to the light, just get to the light. It was all I had to do to be safe.
When I finally burst out into the sunshine, I kept running.
When the burning pain in my lungs became too much, I stopped on the tracks and turned around. I bent over, resting my hands on my knees, and panted. The Troll was there, but it hadn’t left the hole of the tunnel’s mouth. It had one arm up against the sloping brick wall. I thought it might be afraid of the sun, like Count Dracula. But maybe it was just catching its own breath too. Hadn’t I seen it somewhere before? That’s it – in the village once – begging for change. How had I never realised it was a Troll?
We stared at one another, assessing each other’s power. I’d seen it in daylight before, so it could follow me outside if it wanted. But it seemed tired, so I didn’t think it would.
After a moment or two, I was able to stand again, and I rested my hands on my hips as my heart and breathing slowed down. I had escaped death by Troll and I began to laugh because I’d outwitted it. I had whacked it with a big stick and now I was safely out of its reach.
It saw me laughing and began roaring again. ‘SODDING KIDS!’
It was enough to wipe the grin from my face and I immediately left the tracks to climb up the hill towards the path that would lead me home. I knew its eyes were on my back because of the horrible prickling sensation I felt there, but I kept running and its screams gradually faded to silence behind me.
‘… it shall not be death, but a deep sleep of a hundred years into which the princess shall fall.’
From Briar-Rose (Sleeping Beauty)
‘Could the Snow Queen come inside, right into our room?’ asked the little girl.
‘Let her come,’ said Kai. ‘I will put her right on top of the stove and then she will melt.’
From The Snow Queen
Annabel gazed blankly at the sky outside the window as it gradually turned to navy and made the room blue. The gin was all gone and inside her head felt smooth.
She was thinking about the PoWs in their Nissen huts. What were they doing now? It must be strange sleeping in a foreign country as a prisoner. Were they frightened? Or were they plotting escape and retribution?
The sound of the front door made her snap to. She hadn’t realised how late it was, or noticed when the sun went down, for now she found herself sitting in the chair in the dark. She turned off the wireless on her way to the kitchen where she found the boy eating pilchards from a tin with a spoon. She pulled down the blackout blind and they both blinked when she turned on the light. She wasn’t at all sure what time it was. The clock in the kitchen had stopped working long ago.
‘Bedtime …’ she said. Her voice slipped around a little as the word left her mouth.
‘Yes.’
She heard the scrape of his chair on the lino and the thump of the tin in the bin.
He followed as she led the way upstairs to his bedroom. The blackout blind was permanently down in here, and she flipped on the yellow tasselled lamp in the corner before scanning the books on his shelves. So many fairy tales.
He climbed into bed – yes, he still had his clothes on, but he could change into pyjamas later when she’d gone; or not, if he wanted to save the effort and wake up to go straight to school already dressed. Was it a school day tomorrow?
She ran her finger along the books and pulled out Sleeping Beauty. She sat on her chair, over in the corner.
‘Once upon a time—’
‘First …’ the boy interrupted her, shyly.
She looked up.
‘First, can you tell me about your Darlings?’
She sighed.
Then she closed the book, folded her hands across it, and leaned back in the wicker seat. He was asking her to tell a story about her childhood – but really he was asking her about the fairy tales.
‘When I was a little girl,’ she began, ‘I had a lovely collection of dollies. Oh, rag dolls and baby dolls and china dolls, which I used to scoop up in my arms and carry about with me. And I called my dollies: my Darlings.’
She heard the boy let out a long breath as he settled back against his pillows.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Why, you’d never see me without at lea. . .
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