A Week in Winter: A Novel (44 page)

The line went dead and Posy stood for some time, eyebrows raised, staring at nothing in particular. After a moment she dialled another number and was eventually put through to Patrick.

‘Hello, love,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve had your letter. It’s great news, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, Dad,’ she said, gratefully. ‘Do you think so? You’re not… well, upset or anything?’

‘Upset?’ He sounded surprised. ‘Why should I be upset?’

‘Well, it’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?’

‘Falling in love is a sudden business,’ he answered. ‘What else would you expect?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, pulling herself together. ‘I mean I’m being stupid. I’ve just been talking to Mum.’

‘Ah.’ His voice was guarded. ‘Problems?’

Posy began to laugh. ‘Not really. That’s the point. She took it quite well and invited Mike home to meet her the weekend after next. But she sounded a bit odd.’

‘In what way odd?’

‘Tired,’ said Posy after a moment’s thought. ‘Like she was too exhausted to care much, really. Dad?’

‘Mmm?’

‘I wish you were going to be there next weekend.’

‘Oh, Posy, so do I. Well, in a way. I’m sorry, darling.’

‘It’s OK. But I want you to meet him.’

‘So do I. Of course I do. Just tell me when he’s got some time spare and I’ll be there. He sounds a nice chap and a very interesting one. I’ve bought his book.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’ Posy was near to tears. ‘Thanks for … understanding.’

‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget to let me know when we can all get together.’

‘Of course I will. Thanks, Dad.’

She replaced the receiver, pushing back her hair, sighing with relief Climbing the stairs to her room, she wondered how Rob and Mike were coping at Moorgate.

Selina wandered round the house, checking for the twentieth time that all was in order for Daphne’s visit. So lonely was she that she was longing for the older woman’s arrival, despite her own bitterness at Daphne’s faithlessness. After ten days with Maudie it was only to be expected that Daphne knew all about Patrick and the situation which had led up to his departure. It was humiliating to think about it: Daphne and Maudie, sitting together, discussing her private life and, no doubt, enjoying themselves at her expense. Yet she needed company. It was so difficult being with her friends, keeping up appearances, pretending that Patrick was simply on a long course—she’d said that it was for a year, so as to give herself space—and acting as if nothing had changed.

She’d heard nothing more from him after the postcard and she swung between hoping that he might suddenly telephone to say that he was coming home and deciding that she must do something positive: get a job or sell the house. The problem was that these last initiatives needed energy, they required enthusiasm, and she was so tired. She slept the heavy, dreamless sleep of the depressed person, waking unrefreshed, dreading the prospect of another day ahead. Her stomach churned with terror for no apparent reason and she was beginning to feel the stirrings of panic at the least thing—the telephone ringing or the sight of the letters lying on the mat. It was a major task deciding what to wear and the ordinary household jobs were a dreary drudgery.

She knew that she must make an effort to pull herself together, but she
did not know how, and now Posy’s news was yet another anxiety for her to bear alone. She’d hardly been able to take it in and, after a while, her brain had refused to function properly. It was easier to give in and agree to meet this Mike; less effort to agree to it than to fight it. Nevertheless, it was another addition to her load; another terrible worry. Her only daughter thinking about marrying a divorced man with a small child! And what on earth did Posy mean when she said that he’d bought Moorgate? Surely the child was raving? Selina groaned aloud. She needed a drink. Since Patrick had gone, she tried not to start drinking before seven o’clock in the evening, but just lately it had been very hard to stick to her rule. She glanced hopefully at her watch and, as she did so, the doorbell rang.

Hurrying out into the hall, she flung open the door and stood staring. In all the years she’d known her mother’s old friend, Daphne seemed hardly to have changed: tall, fair, pretty, she smiled at Selina as she’d smiled at her when she was a little girl, when Mummy was alive and Daddy had been there, handsome and strong and devoted.

‘Selina, darling,’ said Daphne, holding out her arms. ‘My very dear child. How are you?’

Forgetting her accusations of duplicity, her fears of betrayal, Selina flung herself upon the tall figure and burst into a noisy fit of weeping. Taken by surprise, her own terrors temporarily put to one side, Daphne led the howling Selina inside and closed the door firmly on the surprised and interested looks of a passer-by. Her instinct leading her unerringly to the kitchen, Daphne dropped her bag on the floor, her other arm still about Selina, and saw the bottle waiting invitingly on the dresser.

‘A drink,’ she said, relieved. ‘We both need a drink. Now sit down while I forage.’

Still sobbing, Selina allowed herself to be lowered on to a chair and Daphne hastened to find glasses and to pour the wine—a very nice Australian red, she noticed—which had been open and waiting for some time.

‘Now that’s what I call thoughtful,’ said Daphne approvingly, pouring cheerfully. ‘We’ll feel better after one of these.’

Selina took her glass, her sobs gradually diminishing, and smiled feebly through her tears.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It was just seeing you there like that. Time swung backwards.’ Her face creased up again. ‘It was as if I was a child again.’

‘Poor darling,’ said Daphne, somewhat insincerely but ready to encourage
this softened, malleable Selina for her own ends, ‘what a terrible time you’ve had.’

Selina groped for her handkerchief, her sense of injustice renewed by Daphne’s ready sympathy.

‘It’s been awful,’ she agreed, a tissue to her eyes. ‘I expect Maudie told you …?’ She began to cry again, remembering her fears of humiliation.

‘Only a little,’ lied Daphne diplomatically. ‘She felt that it was better that you should tell me yourself.’

‘Oh.’ Surprise dried Selina’s tears. She hadn’t expected such consideration from her stepmother. ‘I imagined she’d tell you all about it.’

A sulky note had crept into her voice and Daphne made haste to discourage it.

‘No, no. We had rather a lot of other things to talk about. Anyway, I want to hear it from you.’

‘I’m absolutely desperate.’ Tears were threatening again. ‘And now, on top of everything else, Posy’s dropped this bombshell.’

‘Posy?’ Daphne’s surprise was quite genuine. ‘What’s Posy been up to?’

Selina took a large swig of wine. She was beginning to feel very slightly better.

‘Don’t tell me Maudie doesn’t know? She’s fallen in love with a divorced man with a child of nine months. He’s some kind of writer. She phoned again just now to say that she’s thinking of marrying him and says that they’ll be living at Moorgate.’

Daphne was silenced for a moment. She glanced round the kitchen, wondering how many empty bottles might be lying about, and took a firm grip on the situation.

‘I simply can’t believe it,’ she said, with the air of one who was only too ready to be convinced. ‘But I want to hear about everything. Now, I’m going to take off my coat, put my bag in my room—no, no, don’t get up, I’m sure I’ll find it—and then we’ll have a good old session. I shan’t be long.’

Selina finished her wine and poured another generous glassful. By the time Daphne returned a second bottle was waiting temptingly beside the first.

‘Excellent,’ said Daphne. ‘Now where shall we start?’

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ Selina said, nearly two hours later. The second bottle of wine was half empty, supper had been hastily assembled and disposed of, and Daphne was still trying to decide if Selina should know the truth. So far the conversation had related mainly to Patrick, his affair with Mary and his ultimate defection, with diversions into Posy’s ingratitude and disloyalty which inevitably included Maudie’s insensitivity and selfishness. As she watched and listened, Daphne was struck by Selina’s likeness to Hilda and, as she nodded, sympathised, expressed disbelief, she was trying to remember how she’d felt towards Hilda after the affair with Hector. Surely she must have been consumed with guilt? She knew that finding herself pregnant had tended to absorb her utterly but it was difficult to recall her feelings at the time. There had been an impregnability about Hilda, a smiling, unemotional façade. Discussions about events, whether disasters or celebrations, seemed to slide and drift about her, neither denting her consciousness nor evoking her compassion. Nothing seemed capable of jolting her out of a serenity which appeared to be rooted in indifference rather than achieved by any hard-won personal discipline or spiritual awareness.

Now, as she listened to Selina, Daphne began to recognise the same symptoms. Nothing was Selina’s fault, this much was clear. The irritation, aroused in the past by the mother, was beginning to be created by the daughter and Daphne stirred restlessly. Advice, here, was pointless. Selina would stare at her blankly and immediately return to her first standpoint. The best she could do—and she owed this much to Hilda, surely—was to attempt to help Selina out of the maze of her apathy.

‘Had you thought of anything that you might do?’ she asked lightly. They were still in the kitchen—the women’s workplace being from time immemorial the room for confessions and the sharing of secrets—sitting comfortably at the table, the bottle between them.

Selina looked helplessly at her. ‘I’m feeling so tired, you see. It’s simply not like me to be doing nothing. I’ve always been the organiser in this family. Patrick’s useless, of course.’

‘So you haven’t had any ideas.’

It was a statement, as if Daphne were drawing up a debit sheet, and Selina frowned defensively.

‘I wouldn’t say that. It’s just my options are a bit extreme.’

‘Are they?’ Daphne looked interested.

‘Well, the obvious one is to sell the house.’ Selina paused, waiting for
Daphne to protest, to say how unfair it was that she should have to consider such a step, but Daphne merely refilled her glass and waited. ‘I could move to a smaller place,’ she said rather sulkily, ‘and invest the money. When Daddy died we had enough to pay off the mortgage so I could do quite well, I suppose.’

‘And would you move out of London?’

‘I don’t want to move anywhere,’ snapped Selina, resentful at Daphne’s lack of sympathy.

Daphne pursed her lips. ‘That sounds reasonable. So what are the other options? Can you afford to stay here?’

‘Probably not. I’m living on savings at the moment but when they’ve gone I’ll have to do something drastic’

‘Like what?’

‘Get a job, I suppose.’

Daphne did not look horrified at this proposal, there were no cries of ‘At your age? Oh, how unfair, it shouldn’t be expected of you!’ She simply straightened in her chair, her face alert.

‘What could you do?’ she asked brightly.

Selina stared at her. That first impulse to throw herself upon Daphne, to become a child again, seeking comfort and reassurance, was passing. Pride was reasserting itself.

‘I don’t know,’ she answered coldly. ‘It’s nearly thirty years since I was in the marketplace. I can’t imagine that there would be many openings for a woman of my age.’

‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Daphne, with an almost offensive heartiness. ‘Emily works, you know. She had to when Tim died. She had no choice.’

‘Emily’s younger than I am,’ said Selina sullenly.

‘She was when she started,’ agreed Daphne thoughtfully. ‘But she enjoys her work. The children are older, now, which makes it easier, but it was very difficult with the girls so young and Tim a baby.’

‘But she cooks, doesn’t she?’ Selina was reluctant to admire Emily too openly lest it invited unfavourable comparison. ‘She works from home.’

‘She started like that,’ said Daphne, ‘but she’s out much more these days, doing lunches and dinners and all sorts. She loves it but then Emily always got on very well with people.’

‘Of course it’s almost easier if your husband dies than if he leaves you, isn’t it?’

Daphne was silent. How like Hilda this was: it must always be easier for
the other person, whatever their situation.
Their
terrors, disasters, anxieties must always be less dire,
their
triumphs less praiseworthy. Only Hilda—and now Selina—ever truly suffered. ‘Isn’t it typical!’ was their cry. ‘Isn’t it just my luck!’

‘I can’t quite see why,’ she answered at last, ‘unless you’re talking about pride. Naturally it’s embarrassing to admit that your husband—or wife—has left you, isn’t it? It suggests an inadequacy on your part. Is that what you mean?’

‘Inadequacy?’

Daphne raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Wouldn’t you say so? Why else should he—or she—go? Nobody walks out of a happy, loving relationship voluntarily.’

‘Are you suggesting that it’s my fault that Patrick’s gone?’

‘Well, isn’t it?’

‘But I told you about Mary. That’s when all this started.’