A Winter's Child (42 page)

‘Well – shall we say the danger existed. And one simply could not let it get out of hand, could one, Edwina my darling?'

She shook her head and taking her large, jewelled hand he gave it a companionable squeeze. ‘Ah well – let's put it down to old age, shall we? I was forty yesterday. A difficult time of life, they say. And I really think my sister-in-law has suffered enough. She ought not to be involved for too long with a man like me. I thought I'd better see to it.'

Returning the pressure of his hand she kissed him lightly on the cheek, realizing that in their ten years of casual lovemaking she had never felt so close to him before.

‘Benedict – how
devilish
of you.' Brave too, although she knew better than to tell him that. And generous. He had made the girl suffer now in the hope that, in the long term, she would suffer less. Noble, really. One would never have thought of it. It had taken a great deal out of him too. Really – how very tired he looked.

‘Do come to dinner, darling,' she said. ‘Next Thursday, perhaps?' She felt fairly certain that Lois would be over by then.

He was smiling as he drove out of the inn yard and up the narrow moorland roads which were already disappearing beneath the snow; the afternoon fading into a damp, misty grey.

‘Nice women, those two,' he said.

‘Nice?'

‘Obviously you didn't think so.'

‘Well – a little – elderly – weren't they, Benedict.
Passée,
in fact, it rather seemed to me.'

He laughed, not pleasantly, but as if her remark had given him satisfaction.

‘My dear child – don't underestimate the appeal of the older woman. And don't believe all she has to offer is gratitude. Enthusiasm, perhaps. Certainly expertise, which counts for a great deal.'

‘I've never had much to do with older women, Benedict. So I'll leave you to judge.'

‘Very wise.'

He allowed a mile or two to go by.

‘What time,' he enquired politely, ‘would you like me to take you back to town?'

She smiled at him sweetly, as she had smiled at Edwina a little while before, her whole body ice-cold.

‘Oh,' and she sounded very nonchalant ‘if we call at the farm to get my bag, you can take me now.'

The farmhouse was warm and very quiet. Her bag was ready, neatly packed by Mrs Mayhew, and she picked it up, her hands quite steady. She would not be coming here again. Whether he had decided that in advance or had simply taken the opportunity of Lois and Edwina as it came, she did not know. But the result was the same. It had happened sooner than she had wanted. It was happening in a manner which, she knew, when she relaxed her control, would give her pain: a manner which would remove every vestige of her pleasure in him, every shred of illusion. She probably would not like him very much after today. But, since it had to happen eventually, perhaps it would be easier to remember him with Lois, with Edwina, to remember him as they knew him, as she had seen him for the first time and – she hoped – the last time, today.

Catching sight of the lily bowl sitting serenely on an inlaid table by the fire she was not sure whether she wanted to snatch it up into her arms and protect it or smash it into pieces against the hearthstones.

‘Goodbye, Mrs Mayhew. Thank you.'

She got into the car. Very soon now it would be over. The sooner – for so many reasons – the better.

‘I suppose they are your standard types, are they, Benedict – Lois and Edwina?'

He smiled. And once again she felt that she had given him a cue.

‘I suppose they are. But I diversify, of course, from time to time – as you know. Everyone should.'

‘Oh – should they? I'll remember that.'

‘Yes, do. But you haven't found your type yet, Claire. One always goes back to it.'

‘And for you that's Edwina, or Lois. Or both.'

‘Not both together, darling. They have their principles.'

He had never called her darling before. And inserted into that deliberately suggestive phrase it offended her. No, she didn't like him. Not like this. And if this was the truth of him, which she had looked so hard to find, then he had used her very coolly, very finely, very cleverly indeed. She didn't blame him. She blamed herself.

It was conveniently dark when they reached Mannheim Crescent and leaning across her he opened the door, an indication of haste, no time to spare in leave-taking.

‘Here we are, Claire.'

‘Yes.'

And, this being the moment when they usually made their arrangements to meet again, there was an awkward pause.

‘What shall we say then, Claire?'

‘I don't know. Anything you like.'

‘Perhaps it had better be lunch on Sunday at High Meadows – don't you think so?'

‘Yes. I think so.'

She got out, and he drove away.

‘You're back early,' said Euan. ‘How did he like his lily bowl?'

‘Very much. It was a great success.' She was friendly, very calm.

‘Thank God you're back,' said Kit, ‘Clarence'really does have the ‘flu.' And look here, Claire, I'm sorry about yesterday – making you late and being a swine generally …'

‘That's all right, Kit. I wasn't late. And it wouldn't have been that important anyway.'

She was cheerful, friendly, calm.

She saw no point in being otherwise. She would not allow herself to be otherwise until, returning the following evening from the Crown, she found waiting on her doorstep a stiff, florist's arrangement of hothouse flowers, expensive, impersonal, even a little ostentatious, bearing a glossy white card with the printed name ‘Benedict Swanfield'and a scrawled message which might have said ‘In Memoriam' but, actually read ‘Good luck. Many thanks.'

And, gathering up the innocent, overbred, overpriced blooms in savage hands she took them into the backyard and murdered them, shredding them one by one into the dustbin and then rammingon the lid, holding it down so that no particle of anything she had ever felt, or thought she had felt, about Benedict Swanfield could ever escape.

Thank God it was over. Thank God. She had been on the verge of falling in love with him. And now she could only regard it as a disease from which she had been cured just in time. A terrible disease. And what stung – what scorched – was what a gullible, romantic fool she had been.

Polly Swanfield set out, deliberately and exuberantly, on New Year's Eve to create a sensation; to drink more champagne, eat more Russian Caviar or
foie gras
or anything else that was rare and expensive, to steal more kisses, arouse more desire in the loins of men and more jealousy in the breasts of women than anyone else in Faxby. Wearing a slip of orange satin covered in gold and silver butterflies with a transparent overskirt of gold-spangled orange tulle, her long bare arms jangling gold bracelets from wrist to elbow, a rope of gold beads swinging wildly around her neck, the stroke of midnight found her on the little postage stamp dance floor of the Crown Hotel, dancing alone with a circle of men around her, improvising her own tipsy ballet to a blare of smoky jazz, her eyes glazed with alcohol and an inner vision of her own glorious, still virgin body as it bent and swayed to each man in turn, her movements amorous and coy both together; ‘making an exhibition of herself'thought Miss Sally Templeton from the table where Roy Kington had once again abandoned her; ‘looking for trouble'thought Miss Adela Adair from her piano stool; ‘quite likely to find it'thought Claire from behind the bar where, the whole raucous night long, she had been assisting MacAllister with his cocktail shaker.

‘Happy New Year.' Polly flung her arms into the air in a gesture that cried out ‘Look at me. Look at me', paused a moment under the light so everyone – absolutely everyone – could see the sparkle of her gold butterflies, the rich sheen of the satin as it clung to her splendid, supple – still virgin – limbs, the daring, audacious new tint of her hair, bleached several shades lighter by some ‘miracle of nature'according to Miriam, and then fell into the arms of her admirers one after the other – Rex and Roy Kington, Roger Timms, a trio of Peters and Anthonys and Stephens, even MacAllister, the barman and Arnold Crozier emerging spider-like from his corner – giving them all long, noisy kisses, biting ear-lobes, throwing back her sensational, platinum head and listening to her own laughter.

Tonight she wanted to be kissed. For whatever one happened to be doing on New Year's Eve as the clock struck twelve one could expect to do all year – wasn't that so? – and 1920 was to be just not
her
year but a pattern for the years to come. Kisses, new clothes, everybody being kind to her, a wedding ring. And if she had not precisely made sure of Roy Kington yet – what with Sally Templeton still running after him in her shameless fashion and putting about rumours that he was thinking of going off to Ireland to join the Black and Tans – she was relying on 1920 to take care of that.

‘MacAllister darling – why aren't you a millionaire instead of a barman and then I could fall in love with you? No, Mr Crozier, I suppose you
are
a millionaire, but I won't come up to the Tangerine Suite, thank you very much. Roger – I
did
ask you to look after my bag. Now just stop that, Anthony – or Roy?'

‘She's ripe for it, that one,' said MacAllister, the barman, to Claire as they watched Polly convert the ritual of Auld Lang Syne into a scramble to hold her hand, ‘begging for it. And, by God, if she were to ask
me
–!'

‘No, old chap,' swinging around on his bar-stool, Toby Hartwell, who should not have been there at all, fixed MacAllister with a cold eye, an unusually pugnacious set to his jaw, ‘I wouldn't think of it – really not – if I were you.'

‘Just a passing remark, Mr Hartwell, sir.'

‘I dare say. Not one I'd repeat though old chap! Goodnight, Claire. Happy New Year.'

‘Goodnight, Toby. The same to you.'

‘Quite the Sir Galahad,' shrugged MacAllister as Toby, having kissed Claire's cheek, slid off his stool and walked away; and she smiled and nodded, thinking how well the role of Knight Errant might, in other circumstances, have suited Toby.

Eunice Hartwell spent the evening at home nursing a heavy cold, feeling feverish and plain and thoroughly miserable because Toby had gone out and left her. Naturally she had told him to go. They had received half a dozen invitations to ‘see the New Year in'with friends, and she knew how much Toby loved this annual parade from house to house, a drink at every punchbowl, ‘first foot'over half a dozen thresholds, so much more fun than Christmas, which was always dominated for him by High Meadows. No reason, therefore, to spoil
his
enjoyment because
she
had a cold. Naturally, she had meant what she said the moment she said it. Naturally – to begin with – he had said ‘Wouldn't think of it, old girl'and had offered to give it all up and stay at home. Naturally, she had insisted. And now, sitting alone in the house they had bought to suit Toby's notions of what a family home should be – enormous – she was thoroughly wretched. She had no idea where he was. Not that she suspected him of intrigue or even of flirtation. She just wanted his company, wanted him to want hers, would have liked, for once, to be alone with him.

She had no idea where Justin was either, nor Simon, only where they had told her they were going – a milk-and-water party at a schoolfriend's house – which had not even sounded true. She could telephone, of course, and find out. In fact she knew quite well she ought to have telephoned earlier in the day to make sure. But if she had done that and had discovered that there had been no party, what then? If she had forbidden the boys to go out she was no longer sure they would obey her. The last time she had attempted to exert her authority and had confined Justin to his room, he had simply climbed out of the window and broken his ankle and a great deal of guttering besides. And, apart from the danger and the expense, his defiance and the fact that she seemed unable to do anything about it, had wounded her deeply. How did one discipline a boy of that age? She wished she knew. Scolding was no use. Nor pleading. She had tried both and he had either laughed or walked away. How could one punish him? She could neither slap him nor in any way physically compel him. She had stopped his allowance once and he had simply helped himself to money from her purse or taken it by force from his younger brothers. It had taken her a long time to recover from the shock of that. In fact, she never had got over it. And now, to stop it from happening again and to avoid the horrifying possibility that he might steal from somebody else who might inform the police, or Benedict, all she could think of to do – against her better judgement, well aware that she had lost her nerve – was to give him money whenever he asked for it; as much as he asked for; often a great deal.

What else could she do? Could Toby have done better? She had no idea because she had never asked him. Knowing how deeply Justin's pilfering would have shocked and sickened Toby, she had kept it to herself. She did not want Toby to know that his son was a thief. She did not want him, with his old-world notions of courtesy and honesty, to bear that burden. Toby might give things away, in fact he frequently did, and was often far too ready to pay the bill in restaurants and to stand round after round of drinks so that people took advantage, but he would never take a penny which did not belong to him. Ardently, she believed in that. And she had flown at Benedict like an angry cat, not too long ago, when he had suggested that by taking his lengthy lunches, his trips to York and Doncaster for the Races, his golfing afternoons, Toby was stealing time – which was the same as money – from Swanfield Mills. How that remark had incensed her. She had been so beside herself with fury that she had shrieked all manner of things at Benedict which she would not have dared otherwise to mention. She was angry about it still. How dare he? For Toby was a gentleman. His standards were finer, more complicated, different. She had always been impressed by his social superiority, although Toby himself never made much of it. But it was there. Good breeding. A heritage of good manners, a tendency – which had always charmed her – to think it only natural that one ought to rule the world. And she had never ceased to marvel at the innate superiority which had made Toby's gentle, scholarly, penniless father think of her own father – the great Aaron Swanfield – as a tradesman, in no way different from a grocer or a haberdasher except that he had more money.