Heart of Ice(Victoria Pearson) The Doctor waited patiently at the door. She rang the doorbell twice to be sure her patient had heard and reluctantly pulled her scarf down from her face a little. Practical though a hat and scarf were for February mornings like this, it wouldn’t do to approach an 87 year old with suspected dementia looking like something off of Crimewatch.

The door was opened less than a little, a suspicious eye glaring from the crack. Several door chains glinted in the gloom. The Doctor wracked her brains, trying to remember if they had any record of the patient being burgled. She could think of none. The notes had been pleasingly sparse, the odd chest infection, one sprained wrist when she had slipped on ice a few years ago. Nothing major.

“Who are yer? Whaddayer want?” the woman’s voice was surprisingly strong.
The Doctor held out her credentials.

“I’ve come from the surgery, Mrs Frost.” She said “We had a call saying that you might be in some difficulty,”

“I aint in no difficulty” The patient retorted, “I’m just fine. Your lot can leave me be.”

“No-one’s saying that you can’t look after yourself, Mrs Frost,” Said the Doctor, her voice taking on the calm, tranquil tone that people use to placate geriatrics and mental patients. “But I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t see you for a bit of a chat. People heard you screaming. I need to make sure you are alright. That’s all.”

The eye stared at her a while, unblinking, ice blue. “Wait” she said at last, and then abruptly shut the door. The Doctor strained for the sounds of the door chains being removed, but instead the old bat shuffled off inside. The Doctor sighed and leaned against the door frame. It was so cold that what was left of the snow had frozen solid, dappling the path in a lethal pattern. The Doctor’s teeth chattered. It was times like this she really missed smoking.

After an eternity the door was opened again, this time free of its chains. The woman before the Doctor was not the mad harpy she had expected, but a respectable and neat looking old lady. The house didn’t even smell that much like old lady, but it was freezing. Maybe Mrs Frost had been airing the rooms out?

It was gloomy in the entrance hall, and space was tight. Dark coloured curtains lined the walls but, curiously, didn’t cover the doorways. Some distant appliance hummed intrusively. The two women stood in an awkward silence.

“Shall we?” the Doctor asked to break the tension, turning the nearest doorknob.

“No!” cried Mrs Frost, tottering forward, too late, too slow and frail, the Doctor was already in the room. She took in the scene in a moment, but couldn’t comprehend it.

The large patio doors were flung open to the garden. The room was devoid of any furniture at all really, unless you counted the freezer units. They were large, the kind that held displays of ice cream and frozen food in supermarkets. One stood open and unplugged in the middle of the room. It was open, with a heap of blankets on the floor in front of it. It was angled away so she couldn’t see inside. Four electric fans were trained into it, and running on full. Two of the freezers were running. And occupied.

“Mrs Frost,” she turned, and then had to step back into the room, because the old woman was much too close. Tears were streaming down her face.

“It’s ok” she started again, “really it is.”

“I know its ok!” Mrs Frost snapped. “I keep telling everyone it's ok. My sexuality is none of your business!” the Doctor took another step back and her foot caught a tool, a long chisel of some kind, sending it spinning across the polished wood floor.

“I’m sorry Mrs Frost, your sexuality? I don’t understand?”

The old woman sighed, as if bored by the situation. “Your lot never do understand. Social workers, Doctors, interfering, all of ye! I’m doing no-one any harm!”

The Doctor’s confusion must have shown on her face for the old woman sighed again, impatiently now.

“Come into the other room.” She said, “It’s cold in here.”

They went back into the gloomy hallway, and the Doctor casually swiped at the curtain as she followed Mrs Frost. The humming wasn’t coming from a distant appliance at all, yet more commercial freezers were running behind the curtains. The Doctor started the mental checklist for dementia.
The living room seemed surreally normal after what the Doctor had just seen, with chintzy furniture and every available surface crammed with photographs and knick knacks. Mrs Frost favoured snow globes as her ornaments, fitting really, considering her name.

Mrs Frost bustled at the kitchenette, giving the Doctor time to look at the photos more closely. She picked up the nearest, squinting to make out the sepia image. A young girl, perhaps thirteen, stood proudly next to a snowman bigger than her.

“Is this you Mrs Frost?” she asked as the old woman set tea cups down on the coffee table.

“Yes, me and my husband. It’s him I’m looking for you see. There may have been other lovers, but I was looking for him, the whole time.”

“I don’t-“

“You don’t understand. I know. Perhaps I’m not telling it properly” she sat down abruptly, tears springing back to her eyes. She took a breath.
“I was fifteen when I found him, my love. I say found him, but it was my hands that shaped him. I was so lonely that Christmas, with mother sick and father gone. I just wanted company, you see? It started so innocently. I didn’t set out to fall in love.” She took a sip of her tea, fixing the Doctor with her eyes. The Doctor waited, silently for her to continue. “It was what they call a harsh winter, that one. We had almost a month together. I felt his soul enter him as soon as I placed his eyes in to finish him. He was magnificent; the picture really doesn’t do him justice. He was tall and strong but he was also kind. I could talk to him for hours. I did talk to him for hours, taking my thermos and blanket. The more time we spent together, the more I fell for him, do you see?”

“Did he talk back to you Mrs Frost?”

“There is no need to take that tone. Of course he talked back. Anything with a soul can communicate, you just have to listen. Telepathically. Anyway, you wanted to know why I cried out this morning didn’t you? We’re getting off the point.” The Doctor fell silent again, putting her listening face on. “Anyway, so we fell in love, quickly and deeply. You feel things so much more when you are young, don’t you? It was so hard for me to stop myself touching him all the time, but I had to, you see? I didn’t want him to melt. I wanted to be with him forever.”

She took a sip of her tea again, and the Doctor remembered hers. She gulped most of the delicate cup’s contents in one. The tea was sweet and cold.

“It was his idea to get married, of course. I was too young, I knew that, but I didn’t want to lose him. I wanted to be his wife, even if it was only for a few days. I made the vicar; he was nothing really, not compared to my Jack. Barely human shaped, and short, I’d not much snow left to make him with. I built him facing my jack and he married us there and then. He knew how much we meant to each other, you see. He didn’t ridicule us. He understood. Of course, with the vicar staring at us the whole time, we didn’t have much of a honeymoon. Bit of a passion killer really. But it was worth it, I never regretted becoming Mrs Frost.
I think Jack knew when the end was coming, he must have been able to feel himself becoming less substantial, but he didn’t mention anything to me. I think he didn’t want me to worry, didn’t want our final days to be coloured with sadness. I knew what was coming though; I could see the vicar dying in front of me. He was out of the shade of the fir tree, you see. In direct sunlight. His features blurred until he was nothing but a sad little heap on the floor. I could see my Jack becoming smaller, soon he barely reached my waist. I still loved him though, I always would. It wasn’t just a physical thing you see.”

The old woman was far away now, the Doctor wasn’t even sure Mrs Frost was still aware of her presence. Her eyes were distant, and once more misted with tears.

“He came to me in a dream, the night before. He’d never done that, before or since, so I knew it was serious. He told me that his body was almost gone, but as long as I kept a part of him close, his soul would go on. He promised me he would come back to me. He promised. He would never break his promise.” She took a few swift hiccoughing breaths, steadied herself and continued. “I ran to him there and then, heedless of the cold; I didn’t even stop to put something on my feet. I was too late of course. There were just his eyes, and his clothes, and a grubby little pile of snow. I sank to my knees and wept. I was inconsolable. I just wanted to lie on the frosted grass and die with him. But instead I did what he had told me to, carried out his final wish. I dug my fingers into the centre of what was left of him, and took it into myself. His heart, you understand? I was still eating the snow when mother pulled me back inside. She was livid, worried what the neighbours would think. I didn’t care. I had his heart inside me; he would find his way back.”

The Doctor carefully maintained her blank face. The woman’s story was unusual, yes, but she didn’t seem like a danger to herself, or to anyone else.

“That summer passed so slowly. I can’t tell you how excited I was when I heard that snow was forecast. As soon as it lay I was outside, building. I tried to get it as close as possible to how he had been, but as soon as I put in his eyes I realised that the soul inside was someone else. George was lovely, don’t get me wrong, kind and understanding, but it wasn’t my Jack. I took his eyes back out, but felt bad leaving George sightless, so I gave him different ones. He was a good friend to me that winter; he made me understand that Jack would still be looking for me, that he would never give up. So neither must I. I grew very close to George that year, but it wasn’t love. He was a good friend and I pined when he had gone, but he didn’t set my soul on fire. There was no spark between us.”

Mrs Frost kept glancing at the Doctor, looking for a reaction, a sign she had confessed too much. The Doctor remained impassive, allowing a ghost of a smile to dance around her lips in encouragement. Mrs Frost seemed almost grateful to tell her tale, uninterrupted and in her own words.

“So that was the pattern for the next few years, summer passing in an infuriatingly slow manner, winter going all too fast. Each time I created a body I would let hope build, plant in his eyes. The desolation each time when it wasn’t him! I would wrap his dear eyes back in their muslin, return them to their box.” she paused here, her hand touching a small wooden treasure chest type box on her coffee table.

“I had affairs with some of them. It was lonely waiting for Jack, you see? I’m sure he, too, has found a way to pass the time. But it was never quite right, they would always be second best. In the end I decided the pain of losing lovers year after year was too much. I stopped building them, for a long time.”

“What got you started again?”

“Well, money has never really been an issue for my family. We’ve always had more than was good for us, you understand? Well a few years ago I was shopping, online if you don’t mind, I’m fairly modern now. I came across my first commercial freezer. Never looked back after that really.”

Mrs Frost looked at the Doctor expectantly, waiting for a reaction. The Doctor’s mind raced.
“You haven’t told me about the screaming” she said to buy time. She was stumped for the first time in her career. She didn’t think this was dementia, by the patient’s account this had been going on too long for that. She vaguely remembered something in the paper about people who fall in love with objects. According to the article, Mrs Frost was right. Object sexuality was considered a sexuality, rather than a mental disorder. She dimly recalled something about a woman who married the Berlin Wall.

“I was upset, ok?” Mrs Frost snapped back to the hostile figure that had greeted her at the door. “They forecast more snow last night and they were wrong. Again! And I was so sure he’d be back this year. So sure I’d found him this time.” Now her face held such naked hurt that the Doctor swallowed a sudden lump in her throat.

“May I see them? The others?” she asked.

Mrs Frost looked at her, as if assessing. She nodded, just once, and walked back into the hall. The walls were indeed lined with curtains, attached both on the floor and ceiling; it was too dark for the Doctor to see how.

Mrs Frost started pulling back the curtains. light, bright and artificial, slayed the gloom. When her eyes adjusted the Doctor saw that the room was lined with commercial freezers, like the frozen food section in the supermarket. In each freezer stood a single, sullen looking snowman.

It took a few moments to adjust to the situation. They were quite threatening in a way, but also quite forlorn. The Doctor had a sudden urge to giggle, but she’d no idea why. She coughed instead. “This is quite some collection.” She managed.

“Come.” Mrs Frost took her hand and led her to the front door. “This is the first man I’ve kept.” She said “Bertie. I lived with him, exclusively for three years, but the need to find Jack was too strong. I have his heart in me, you see? Jack’s heart. He will come back to me.” She led the Doctor along the row, reeling off names. “Of course, I was only with Tommy here for a day or two. We just didn’t gel, you know? Sexually I mean. I tried for Jack again the same week.”

The Doctor shuddered involuntarily. The one she called Tommy had no eyes. Mrs Frost had not seen fit to give him new ones after she had revoked Jacks. Then she noticed the next snowman.

“I made David after I had done some training. Like I said, money has never been a problem for my family, and I’m all that’s left now so I can fritter it away any way I like. So I went to college. Learned to ice sculpt. What I’ve done here isn’t the same of course, he is made of compacted snow, not ice, but much of the techniques are the same.” She looked at the Doctor, and beamed at her expression. “Beautiful, isn’t he?”

“Beautiful.” The Doctor could only agree.

“We still enjoy a close relationship, from time to time. When he isn’t mad at me.”

“They get angry with you? Why?”

Mrs Frost shrugged. “I guess some guys are just the jealous type. It must be hard to live with your ex and all her exes I guess.” She quickly waved the Doctor on, saying names again, or rather making introductions. The Doctor wasn’t listening. She was mesmerised. The snowmen told their own story now. They were beautiful, like the best of sculptures. Then they were frenzied, chisel marks left on their skin, like the artist was getting frustrated. The next few had gone right back to basics; fat bellied with carrot noses. The next was different, like a blend of the two styles, humanoid but plain, not adorned with muscles and cheekbones and surprisingly accurate… anyway. The snowmen told of Mrs Frost’s journey, her quest to find the man she loved. It felt like art.

“Why do you keep them? If it is awkward for them I mean?”

“What else would I do with them? I gave bodies to these souls, gave them life. I can’t just leave them outside to die!”

“You could sell them to an art gallery?” she said it like a question. Mrs Frost looked scandalised.

“You don’t just sell people, Mrs Doctor Lady. You think of yourself as a good person, don’t you? Could you sell your friends?” she tutted suddenly, started drawing curtains again. It took a few moments, so the Doctor’s eyes adjusted well.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“It’s fine. It wasn’t you. To be honest sometimes I shut the curtains in here just to shut out their complaining.”

The Doctor opened the other door. “So you work in here?” she asked.

“I do.”

“I’ll pop in on my way home later,” the Doctor said, “drop in some leaflets about keeping warm in winter. It wouldn’t do you, or Jack, any good if you die of hypothermia trying to build him. Who moves the freezers once they are occupied?”

“I have a man that helps with that, if and when I need it. I pay cash, he doesn’t ask questions. It’s a long term arrangement. I think he thinks it's art too. Of course, he doesn’t know what they are to me.”

The Doctor nodded, thoughtfully. “You wear gloves?”

“Yes and take regular breaks in the other room, and wear blankets and have a hot water bottle shoved up me jumper.” Mrs Frost smiled.

“Then I really don’t see a problem. I’ll leave you my number in case you need anything. And when I drop in the leaflets about keeping warm – no don’t look like that, I have to. It’s my job – I’m going to give you the card of a friend of mine. If ever you, or any of your men, decide they want to go into the art world so to speak, she can help you. She is an Agent.”

“An agent?” the distrustful appraising glare was back.

“She usually works with people with learning difficulties. I’m not saying you have learning difficulties” the Doctor quickly clarified, “but I know she will be understanding of your needs, and will treat you kindly.”

Mrs Frost glared at her a moment too long. “Thank you.” She finally said.

When the Doctor returned later that evening the house was dark, and no one answered her knocks on the door. She posted the pamphlets about the risks of hypothermia through the letter box, along with her card and that of her friend, the agent. Later that night, she was restless in her bed, worried about whether she should be worried.

It was two years later and the Doctor had all but for gotten the ‘Mrs Frost encounter’. The snowdrops had come out in force this year, the harshest winter they had known in years was finally waning and the Doctor was feeling light at heart as she flipped through the papers that morning. Then she saw Mrs Frost’s obituary. She had held on to that card, it seems, and contacted my friend. She sold the entire collection, for a grand sum as well, on the understanding that when she died, her body would be placed in the freezer with her favourite ‘snow sculpture’ a snowman she named Jack. Their freezer was unique to all the others, in that whilst the other works were in display freezers that stood them upright, the artist’s body and that of her sculpture were to lay entwined in a chest freezer. There was hot debate about whether it should be allowed to be shown to the public. The curators argued that it was no different from displaying mummified remains, except there was documented proof that this exhibit consented to being an exhibit. The dispute was, as yet unsettled.

The Doctor closed the paper. Her bubbly mood continued, unabashed. Mrs Frost had found her Jack after all. He had come back to her after all those years, and she died happy. It didn’t matter if that happiness was real or imagined.

The Doctor allowed herself a smile of satisfaction before going to wash up the breakfast dishes.

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