A Week in Winter: A Novel (21 page)

Polonius thumped his tail obligingly, relieved that the storm was passing
and that he was not the cause of it. Maudie shut the stove doors and he lay down in his usual position on the rug. She stared down at him, still feeling dissatisfied with herself.

‘Honestly,’ she muttered, ‘my good intentions didn’t last five minutes. The trouble is that Selina and I are simply incompatible. We all knew that on day one. How she disliked me!’

As she went back to the kitchen to make some tea she recalled a scene some twenty years before when Hector had been told that he was to receive a knighthood. He’d attempted—unsuccessfully—to hide his delight by joking about it, explaining the system.

‘It’s easy enough to remember,’ he’d said. ‘CMG stands for Call Me God. KCMG is Kindly Call Me God. And GCMG is God Calls Me God.’

Selina had been beside herself with pride and she’d made sure that everybody she met knew about it: ‘That was just before Daddy was K’d …’ ‘Oh, well when Daddy was K’d …’ Somehow she’d managed to drag it into even the most unlikely conversation but to Maudie she’d been unable to contain her resentment.

‘You don’t deserve it,’ she’d said furiously. ‘It’s Mummy who should be Lady Todhunter, not you. It isn’t fair.’

‘My dear child, I couldn’t agree with you more,’ Maudie had answered. ‘I promise you I find it utterly embarrassing to be called Lady Todhunter. The whole thing is quite ludicrous.’

It had infuriated Selina even more to learn that Maudie wasn’t overwhelmed by such honour and her rage had become quite coruscating in its vehemence. Once more Hector had been obliged to intervene and Daphne had privately taken Selina aside and pointed out that her sulks were spoiling her father’s pleasure in his achievement.

‘Although I have to say,’ she’d said later to Maudie, ‘that you are being quite unnatural about this. We’d all give our eyeteeth to be Lady Whatever and you’re behaving as if it’s simply rather tiresome.’

‘It just seems so utterly unreal’ was all Maudie had answered, though she’d tried to be thrilled for Hector’s sake.

Maudie carried her tea into the living room and sat down at the table, still remembering. Her attempt had never really come off and she knew that Hector had been well aware of the sardonic gleam in her eye when people ‘sirred’ him.

She thought: I made him uncomfortable and he was never really able
to luxuriate in his glory when I was around. Poor old Hector. What a cow I am!

Yet she knew that she was right about Moorgate. It would be disastrous for Selina to buy it and she could only hope that Patrick was not submitting to emotional blackmail and would stand firm. Maudie picked up the envelope from the Scotch House, tipped the pieces of tartan cloth on to the table and shuffled them absently. She needed a buyer; someone who would make an offer and put a stop to Selina’s nonsense.

‘Who was it?’

Selina whirled round on her chair, caught in the act, already mentally inventing a reason for slamming down the receiver.

‘It was … I was just …’

‘It was Maudie, wasn’t it?’

She watched Patrick warily. He seemed to have passed beyond her reach and even now was regarding her with a polite indifference which was oddly unnerving. For the first time in their married life he was untouched by her anger, her scorn or her wheedling. Now, of all times, when he should be desperate to make reparation, he was unmoved.

‘Yes, it was Maudie,’ she said quickly. ‘I was talking to her about Moorgate.’

‘Oh, Moorgate. You never give up, do you, Selina?’

His amused, casual reaction increased her anxiety. ‘I still feel we could buy it if we made an effort. Especially now …’ Her voice died under his puzzled scrutiny.

‘Especially now? I think not. If you want to sell this house and move to Cornwall that’s fine. As far as I’m concerned this house is yours and you can do what you like with it. You could sell it, buy Moorgate and have a bit over and then it’s up to you.’ He shrugged. ‘As for me. Well, I think I’ve had enough.’

‘Enough? Enough of what?’ Fear made her shrill. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve had enough of you. Of married life. Of being dull old Patrick Stone. I’m going to pack it in. Go off somewhere. Live a bit before it’s too late.’

‘I hope you don’t mind if I say that you sound like a corny character in some third-rate melodrama.’

If she’d hoped to sting him into a defensive stance she was disappointed. He laughed.

‘I don’t mind what you say. I’m past caring what anyone says. I just thought you should know where you stand regarding Moorgate. Count me out.’

‘Don’t be such a fool—’

‘Oh, but I
am
a fool, Selina,’ he cut in quickly. ‘Nobody should know that better than you do. I’m going down to the pub. I’ll get something to eat there so don’t wait up.’

She heard the front door close but she seemed unable to rise from her chair. Of course, it was ridiculous and he didn’t mean a word of it, she told herself. He was trying to make himself interesting, hoping to distract her from his unfaithfulness. Nevertheless, a tiny, panicky voice was asking what she would do if he were serious; how she’d cope if he’d really had enough? She had no answer, however, and presently she got up and went into the kitchen to pour herself a drink.

In the pub, Patrick ordered a pint and stood waiting, staring reflectively at nothing in particular. Ever since Christmas an odd kind of lassitude had been growing in him; an apathetic indifference. Even the pain of seeing Mary at school had lost its keen edge of misery and lately he’d felt merely sad. It was worrying—or it would be if only he could make that much mental effort—because it was rather unpleasant, this lack of emotion. At least his desperation had carried with it the comfort of feeling alive; these days he simply felt detached.

He paid for his pint, remembering other evenings; marking time until he could go out to the telephone and speak to Mary. How vivid life had seemed then, how charged with excitement. She’d made him feel necessary; given a purpose to his existence. Now there was nothing. Nobody needed him and he was important to nobody.

Patrick swallowed some beer. Well, at least there was a freedom in that; an opportunity to begin something new. The important thing was not to feel sorry for himself.

‘The world is my oyster,’ he announced suddenly—and caught the surprised glance of the young barman. He took another draught, suppressing a rising desire to laugh, and almost choked. As he set his glass down on the
bar, still trying to control the urge to giggle foolishly, he wondered whether he might be having a nervous breakdown.

Travelling back to Winchester, Posy was thinking about Hugh. She’d had a massive crush on him when she was fourteen, which even now embarrassed her when she remembered it. Fortunately, Hugh had handled it with such tremendous tact that she still wasn’t quite certain whether he’d really been aware of it. She reminded herself that she’d been so sensitive about it, so anxious lest she made a fool of herself, that it was perfectly reasonable to believe that Hugh had noticed nothing. Being at school in London, only able to visit Devon occasionally, the infatuation had soon dwindled for lack of sustenance but she’d retained an affection for him. Perhaps it was the romantic setting which kept him at the forefront of her mind, especially now with all the upheaval going on at home. To live in the country with dogs and horses had always seemed like heaven and, just lately, she’d felt that she and Hugh were growing closer. He always seemed so pleased to see her, to really care about her, and he’d been so sweet when she’d poured out her fears about her father. Knowing that Hugh was very reserved when it came to personal matters, she was secretly very proud that he’d told her about his guilt over Charlotte’s death as well as describing the way he’d felt about Lucinda. It had strengthened the bond of friendship between them, enabling her to confide in him.

It was already dark outside and Posy stared thoughtfully at her reflection in the window. Of course, it was silly, really, to imagine anything romantic happening between them. After all, he was nearly fifteen years older than she was. To him, she must still seem like a kid. For some reason Posy found herself thinking of the girl she’d met at the Mill on Saturday morning. How marvellous to look like that; to have those wonderful cheekbones and green eyes, and that clever way of twisting her scarf round her head. She’d had such style, such confidence. Of course, she was probably twenty-six or seven, had some brilliant career in the City and a host of admirers. Posy sighed enviously, dragged her book from her holdall and settled down to read.

The agent was already waiting for Melissa. His hatchback was in the yard and he was standing by the gate in the cold, bright sunshine. He raised a hand to her, swung wide the gate so that she could drive in, and then hurried round to open her door for her. She smiled at him as she climbed out, noting the fresh, newly scrubbed complexion and floppy fair hair. He wore a Barbour over his dark suit and his silk tie was adorned with dancing polar bears.

‘Mr Cruikshank.’ She shook his hand as he beamed at her. ‘What a fantastic morning.’

‘It’s simply perfect, Mrs … er, Miss Clayton.’

He hesitated questioningly but she made no attempt to clarify the matter, leading the way through the smaller gate into the front garden whilst he followed, fumbling with the keys. She waited impatiently as he fitted the key into the lock, opened the door and stood back for her to enter.

‘I’m not too good at the official bit,’ he told her. ‘It always seems a case of stating the obvious, so I tend to let the client decide which room he’s looking at, if you see what I mean.’ He glanced at some papers he held. ‘You’ve brought the details with you?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She was looking down the hall, noting how the stairs were placed. ‘I do agree with you, actually. It’s so irritating to be told what a kitchen is. Or a bathroom.’

He looked pleased, flattered that she agreed with him so readily. ‘Well
then. I’ll simply say that the whole place has just been thoroughly renovated. No expense has been spared. New wiring and plumbing …’

She went before him into the sitting room, pulling the scarf from her hair, and stood rapt with delight, imagining a huge log fire burning in the massive granite fireplace.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ he remarked, but when she didn’t answer he mistook her silence and began to speak about gas fires. ‘They can look quite real, you know, and they’re frightfully efficient. Removes the back-breaking bit and cuts down mess…’

She glanced at him absently and, with a last look about the room, crossed the hall to the study. He followed her, watching as she wandered about. She touched the woodburning stove and snatched her hand away quickly, frowning.

‘ … quite sensible to install a woodburner,’ he was saying now. ‘More economical. Perhaps that would be a good idea for the sitting room …’

‘Is this the way to the kitchen?’ Melissa asked, striding down the hall, flinging open a door. ‘Ooooh …’

Mr Cruikshank stood at her shoulder. ‘Breathtaking, isn’t it? Imagine looking out at that every morning.’

Melissa felt obliged to contribute something; to reassure him. ‘It’s utterly wonderful,’ she said sincerely—and he gave a sigh of relief.

‘The stove is fantastic,’ he said, happy now that he’d had a positive reaction. ‘It heats the water too, and supplies a heated towel rail in the bathroom and a radiator in the master bedroom. Lady Todhunter very sensibly keeps it alight so as to keep the house aired.’

‘It feels very warm.’ She glanced round the huge kitchen. ‘It’s north-facing, isn’t it?’

‘Wonderfully cool in summer,’ he said quickly. ‘This slate floor is a masterpiece. Now, at this end there’s the old dairy which has been converted to a larder and utility room. The other side, over here, is the office and a loo and a storeroom. Plenty of space. Did you say you had a family, um, Mrs Clayton?’

‘Oh, yes. I have a family,’ she answered airily, looking into the office. ‘May I see upstairs?’

‘Of course,’ he said quickly. ‘Back into the hall. Lovely old original oak staircase.’

She ran up lightly before him. The staircase turned to the right and opened into a passage with a room on each side. On she went; up two steps, round a corner, down three steps. She stopped, enchanted. There was a wide landing and a big window with a deep seat, where one could sit and stare out at the moor.

‘ … five bedrooms,’ he was saying as he caught her up. ‘One’s very small but the biggest room has windows both east and south. Here we are …’

‘No
en suite
bathroom?’ she asked idly, teasingly, as she followed him into the large, sunny room.

‘Rob Abbot stuck his heels in.’ He sounded almost vexed. ‘And Lady Todhunter agreed with him. She said it was a farmhouse not a hotel.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Melissa, strolling over to the window and staring down into the lane. ‘But there are two bathrooms?’

‘Oh yes,’ he replied quickly. ‘One’s tiny but it’s there.’

The rooks were still busy in their tree, their raucous cries ringing in the peaceful, icy air. She leaned her forehead against the pane of glass, aware of a deep happiness.