A Week in Winter: A Novel (39 page)

‘Not a bit. Can you wait until we get home? It will probably be quicker than fighting our way into the city centre. Or we could have one here?’

Daphne closed her eyes. ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘No more rail company liquid masquerading as tea or coffee, thank you. I can wait.’

‘It’ll only be twenty minutes,’ promised Maudie. ‘Let’s get going.’

The journey was occupied with an exchange of news but they were both relieved to pull into Maudie’s drive, glad to be home.

‘It’s so peaceful,’ remarked Daphne, stretching luxuriously, looking up at the trees. ‘I’d quite forgotten how beautiful it is here. Oh, Maudie! It’s been much too long.’

Maudie smiled at her across the top of the car. ‘Much too long,’ she agreed. ‘Aha! The kraken wakes. Here’s Polonius to meet you.’

Polonius, who had been taking a long and refreshing nap in the woodshed, came yawning into the sunshine and was brought up short by the sight of a stranger on the other side of the fence. Daphne stared at him for a moment and then turned to Maudie.

‘I feel very slightly overawed,’ she admitted. ‘He’s rather impressive, isn’t he? He reminds me of Georgio Bartolucci. Remember him, Maudie? He was the Italian Ambassador when we were all in Rome. Polonius has that same cynical and disillusioned eye combined with the gravitas of an elder statesman. Does he mind strangers on his patch?’

‘He’s learning,’ answered Maudie grimly. ‘The hard way. He’s not barking, which is a start.’

‘Dear old boy,’ said Daphne caressingly, approaching the fence. ‘What
is
she saying about you?’

Polonius immediately flattened his ears, assuming a rather cowed
appearance. He wagged his tail, his wrinkled face bearing a sad, yet noble, expression.

‘Does he have a melancholic disposition?’ asked Daphne, stretching out a tentative hand and stroking his head. ‘Or is that impression inevitable when your skin’s too big for your face?’

‘My skin’s been too big for my face for some years now,’ said Maudie, hauling out the suitcase, ‘but nobody has accused me of being melancholy. Not yet. Don’t be taken in by him, that’s all. Come on in and we’ll have that cup of tea.’

Daphne began to gather up her belongings. ‘There’s so much to catch up on. I’m longing to hear about Selina and Patrick,’ she said, following Maudie inside and pausing for a proper greeting with Polonius. ‘Where am I? In here? Oh, it’s so pretty, Maudie. I shall be very comfortable here.’

‘Are you longing for a bath?’ asked Maudie, putting down the suitcase, lingering in the doorway. ‘Or shall I make the tea?’

‘Tea first,’ said Daphne at once. ‘A bath would be wonderful but tea must come first.’

‘Well, I’ll leave you to get yourself sorted out while I get the kettle on. Shout if you need anything.’

The door closed behind her and Daphne sat down on the bed and stared at the vase of hawthorn blossom. Alone for the first time for several hours, her body relaxed and her expression grew thoughtful. This visit was not simply a holiday; there was another far more serious purpose behind it. How to approach it without damaging the relationship she had with Maudie? How to solve one problem without creating others? Instinctively she recoiled from the thought of it. Surely there was time for some fun, first; a few days, at the very least, to see exactly how things stood with Maudie? There was so much to remember, to share. Perhaps a right moment would come: a time for confidences and explanations which could be accepted and understood.

‘Tea!’

Maudie’s cry echoed along the passage and round the bedroom. With a conscious effort at relaxation Daphne took a deep breath. She stood up and went out, closing the door behind her. Polonius was waiting for her, tail wagging, and she bent to stroke him.

‘You are a very handsome fellow,’ she told him. ‘How my Emily would love you.’

Polonius sighed deeply. He was convinced that a great many people would love him if only they were given the chance. It wasn’t his fault that he was extraordinarily large and had a tendency to enthusiasm on first acquaintance. He felt that this stranger within the gates understood and appreciated his position and he padded after her, wondering if her sympathy might be matched by a generosity with cake.

The table was set by the open French doors and Daphne exclaimed with pleasure. Whilst Maudie poured the tea, Daphne wandered out on to the veranda. Afternoon sun slanted across the lawn so that the still, dark water glinted, and secret, shadowy corners were briefly lit. Pretty ‘Nelly Moser’ flowered riotously over the small toolshed, her flowers big as tea plates, and the heady scent of lilac drifted in the warm air. Beyond the hedge, in the wood, the yaffle was laughing. Daphne stretched luxuriously.

‘This is perfect,’ she sighed. ‘It’s so quiet. Like the secret garden in the book. I could never really like Mary Lennox, could you? Nor the spoiled Colin. Such a tiresome child. But the garden itself was something else. No wonder you left London for this, Maudie. I really can’t blame you.’

‘Most of the gang think I’ve gone quite potty but I was never a London person. Especially not without Hector.’

‘No,’ said Daphne, after a moment. ‘No, I quite see that.’

‘Hector was so good at all those things: exhibitions, concerts, first nights, the best restaurants. He had a kind of instinct which led him to the best seats, the best bars. Oh, I don’t know. It was just Hector’s way.
You
know what I mean.’

‘Yes, love. Very well indeed. He had a knack of making people feel pleased to oblige him.’ Daphne came back into the living room and sat down at the table. ‘But it wasn’t a heartless thing. He didn’t use people, did he? Hector was naturally generous. He liked people to be happy.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’ Maudie smiled reminiscently. ‘He certainly had a huge capacity for fun.’

‘Exactly,’ said Daphne. ‘Just that. Dear old boy!’

‘Oh, it’s good to have you here,’ said Maudie impulsively. ‘I’ve got things out of proportion lately and I’ve sometimes wondered if I’m going quite mad. You’ll get me back on the rails again. I’ve been so bitter, Daphne.’

‘Yes,’ said Daphne quietly. ‘Yes, I know you have, love. It hasn’t been easy for you since Hector died.’

‘I’m a jealous cantankerous old woman,’ said Maudie remorsefully. ‘We
were so happy together, Hector and I. We enjoyed some truly blissful times and we were very good friends. Yet I could never quite get the wretched Hilda out of my system. I had long spells of peace but at the end all the bitterness came back. When Selina used to come to see him and he used to apologise to her over and over again for marrying me I thought I’d kill him. And her. Of course, it wasn’t her fault. He thought she was Hilda—Selina looks just like Hilda from what I can gather from the photographs of her—and he’d hold her hand and drone on and on. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Selina loved it, of course. And then there was the business of his stocks and shares. Oh, hell and damnation, Daphne. I didn’t mean to start on all this so soon. Let’s forget it. Have some scones and some jam and clotted cream. A proper Devon tea.’

‘It sounds delicious. Yes, please.’ Daphne hesitated but Maudie had clearly decided to change the subject.

‘And now there’s been the great drama with Patrick,’ she continued, ladling cream on to her scone. ‘I cannot imagine what Selina is going to do without him.’

‘It’s quite extraordinary.’ Daphne decided to accept the change of direction, not without a certain relief. ‘I know you’ve kept me informed but it’s not the same by telephone. Start from the beginning and tell me again properly.’

In Winchester, Posy lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, her work forgotten.

‘I don’t suppose you get back to London very often,’ he’d said casually and she’d answered that, just now, she went home quite often. She’d said that her mother wasn’t too good at present, that there were a few problems and that she needed company. She’d been kneeling on the broad window-seat on the landing, looking out over the moor, whilst he’d leaned beside her.

‘I’m going up next weekend,’ he’d said. ‘I have to see my agent. Maybe we could meet up?’

She’d felt a tiny shock of surprise at the invitation—even anxiety—but rather flattered, too.

‘That would be good,’ she’d replied, very calm, very cool.

‘Well, then.’ He’d shifted his weight. ‘Perhaps I’d better have your telephone number.’

‘Oh yes.’ She’d turned quite naturally, frowning a little. ‘I think I can remember it. Or do you mean the London number?’

‘I mean both.’ He was smiling. ‘Hold on a moment.’

He’d gone into the room he was using as a bedroom and returned after a minute with a pad and a pencil. She’d been able to give him both numbers and had watched whilst he tore out the page and tucked it into his wallet.

‘Great,’ he’d said. ‘Thanks. We’ll talk, then. I don’t like to leave Luke overnight if I can help it but perhaps we could have lunch?’—and she’d nodded, suddenly shy.

It was odd how, from the beginning, she’d had a special feeling about the day, a certainty that something really good might happen, but this was rather beyond her experience. After all, this was Mike Clayton, the playwright and novelist who had caused a sensation with
Changing Places.
She’d been given tickets for her eighteenth birthday, when she was deciding that her future lay within the theatre. His wife, a beautiful, dazzling, sophisticated woman, had been playing the leading role and Posy had been utterly enraptured by the play. It seemed unbelievable that this was the same man, who’d joked with Maudie and was so sweet with his baby son.

He’d telephoned on Tuesday afternoon at about three o’clock—a time which she’d suggested. She couldn’t have borne hanging about downstairs, dashing out every time the phone rang, making a spectacle of herself. She had no lectures on Tuesday afternoon and knew that she’d have the house to herself. He’d telephoned just after the hour and she’d willed herself to let it ring twice, thrice, before suddenly snatching up the receiver in a panic lest he should ring off.

He’d been jokey, happy, amusing, and she’d fallen in with his mood, talking, listening, utterly happy until he’d had to go because Luke had woken from his after-lunch nap.

‘See you on Saturday, then,’ he’d said.

She closed her eyes, imagining him, frowning slightly. He reminded her of someone; someone she’d met recently. Ever since last Saturday she’d been racking her brains, cudgelling her memory, but it eluded her. She shook her head, suddenly seized by a mixture of anxiety and anticipation, and, rolling off her bed, turned her mind deliberately to her work.

Rob washed up his supper things, rinsing them, setting them on the draining board. He performed the task mechanically, his thoughts elsewhere, the slow almost rhythmical movements bringing a small measure of peace to his unquiet mind. The serene beauty of the evening beyond the window for once had no power to soothe. The deep, overarching bowl of blue trailing the last flaming banners of a glorious sunset, the golden flowering furze, the evening shadows stealing along deep-sided coombs, all these things merely increased his melancholy. Here, looking across the huddled grey roofs, over neatly parcelled fields towards the sea, he was aware of his isolation. Before Melissa he’d sought out this seclusion; happy to be alone after a busy day, glad to go apart. This had been part of Moorgate’s charm: set on its own, looking over the surrounding countryside, splendidly detached. Climbing up from the field below, he’d pause to gaze up at the house, rooted, secure. Once inside, closing the shutters, lighting the fires, he’d felt a strangely peaceful contentment. Perhaps this contentment was the first temptation to which the recluse succumbed. Others would follow: a growing unwillingness to communicate, to make an effort; the inability to become involved.

He’d been aware of these tendencies growing in him: a relief when the working day was over, a reluctance to join his friends down at the pub, an indifference to the affairs of the world beyond his gate. Solitude had begun to be an ideal to be sought, worked for, treasured—and then Melissa had arrived, demolishing the illusion with her vital presence. Strange that she,
who was so near death, had been so full of life. Her absolute need for warmth, her passion for chocolate, her amazed delight at the small miracles—the rooks building their nests and the lambs crying at their mothers’ heels—had shocked him back to life. Love had unfolded, flowering, growing, bursting out of him, smashing the protective shell which had been gently but ineluctably enclosing his heart.

Rob removed the plug, letting the water rush away, and reached for the tea cloth. He knew that this love, which now included Mike and Luke in its embrace, must not be forced back. It should not be labelled ‘Remembrance’ and pressed down into a small space, cold and narrow as a grave. He could not understand why he should have discovered this loosening of love, this new awareness, a greater capacity for compassion, only to be left without the one upon whom he longed to shower it, yet some instinct warned him that he must let Moorgate go. He knew he must resist the gentle path of melancholy, the tempting comfort of retrospection, the dulling, numbing company of self-pity. Even the sharper, more painful emotion of bitterness was more welcome than the indulgence of self-pity.

As he put away the plates he considered the possibility of Mike buying Moorgate. He had no fears for Mike. The solitude would be a balm to Mike after the company of the characters who filled his imagination and with whom he spent so many hours. Mike needed privacy and peace but, once refreshed, he would seek out company with a friendly ease which would guarantee him companions. And then there was Luke. Luke, as he grew, would keep Mike in touch with his own small world. Rob pushed the kettle on to the hotplate, wondering if he’d imagined the attraction which had flared between Mike and Posy last Saturday. His own heightened emotions had made him unusually aware and he’d felt that the whole day was building towards some climax which was yet to be fulfilled.

Now, as he made some coffee, he was visited by an odd sense of well-being although his heart was heavy. He was waiting for something; some word or sign. Perhaps it would be Mike’s agreement to buy Moorgate, perhaps something else which would release the weight of the pent-up pain in his breast into simple, ordinary grief.