The Winter Folly (13 page)

She felt a sudden bond to this other woman who had come here so many years before, to the same place, the same furniture, the same park and gardens. So little had changed, according to the
photographs. Had A shivered in the freezing rooms in winter, as well? She’d probably slept in the same four-poster bed, its grandeur muted by the orange hangings that hadn’t been
replaced since midway through the previous century. Had she run along the corridor, wide-eyed and frightened, desperate for the light of the bedroom to banish the dark emptiness all around, just as
Delilah did?

But the pictures seemed to show that the house had been full of people and parties then. Perhaps A hadn’t been afraid of the silence and the unoccupied space.
Parties might be the
answer
, she thought.
Noise. People. Life.

She sighed. Well, that was the end of that. Unless the name was spelt most unusually with A, John’s mother was definitely not Elaine. She closed the album. Now she was curious to know what
John’s mother’s name was. Surely there must be clues elsewhere.

There were other photograph albums, but on impulse she turned instead to the visitors’ books, pulling them out to examine. There were three of them, covering a period from the middle of
the nineteenth century, with long lists of names and addresses in faded but exquisite copperplate hands, the roster of guests reading like a society comedy: Lady This and Sir Someone That and the
Duke of Wherever. She flicked through the pages, wondering what the house was like when it had been so full of people, bustle, chatter and endless meals. That was what this place had been designed
for – not for two people rattling around alone, gradually being squashed by the weight of the past.

The final visitors’ book was the saddest. The house parties stopped abruptly after the advent of the Great War, and did not start again for over five years. When they did, the grand
country weekends were gone forever. These house parties were smaller and less extravagant, although they picked up towards the end of the twenties. When the Second World War began, the names kept
coming for a while, but now there were Colonels, Lieutenants and Captains visiting the house, and then the parties clearly stopped. Delilah remembered John telling her the house had been
requisitioned for a while in the war, as a convalescent home for soldiers. The visitors’ book had not been brought out again for a long time because it was only in the late fifties that the
names began to appear again.

The titles and double or triple-barrelled surnames of the past all but disappeared. Now there were first names alone, or signatures like ‘Jimmy J’, and instead of addresses guests
scrawled comments: ‘Great party, Nicky! Like your gaff’ or ‘Unforgettable time here at the fort – wine, women and rock ’n’ roll, oh yeah!’

On they went, the parties stretching into the next decade, and then she saw it: ‘We had a marvellous time thanks to the wonderful Nicky and beauteous Alex – see you both very soon!
Gareth and Rita.’

So that was John’s mother’s name. Alex.

She said it out loud, and then glanced up quickly as though afraid she might have summoned a ghost by speaking the name. The library was still and silent around her.

It’s a pretty name
, she thought. Knowing it made her more real somehow.

She flicked over more pages, looking for further clues, but now she had the name she wanted, there was nothing more to discover. She kept alert for an Elaine but there was none that she could
see. And then, abruptly, after eight years, the parties stopped. There were no more names in the book at all. The rest of the creamy pages were empty.

Why did it all stop there?
she wondered. She went back to where she had first seen Alex’s name. The date was 1966. And then, in 1974, it finished, just like that.

That must have been when she died
, she thought.
I suppose Nicky didn’t feel like having any more parties after that . . . ever, by the looks of it.

A sense of melancholy drifted over her. How sad it was that John’s mother had died; she’d been so young, and so pretty and with so much to live for. Had she known she was going to
die? Leaving a child behind must be a terrible agony . . . She imagined Alex, pale and thin, lying back on the pillow in the four-poster upstairs, having John brought to her so she could say
goodbye, and then breathing her last. It gave her a morbid shiver. Had John’s mother died in the bed where she slept?

Stop letting your imagination run away with you
, she scolded herself.
You’ve no idea. Perhaps it was an accident. In a way, I hope it was – something quick, without
suffering.

It occurred to her that it was odd she didn’t know this fact of how Alex had died. She felt as though they were linked over the years: both marrying Stirlings, both living at this great
house. There had been Vanna in between, of course, but Vanna had not managed to cope with this place. Delilah imagined she probably lived now in something modern, light and perfectly decorated,
with lots of beige and white, spotless sofas, glass, silver and mirrors. It would be the antidote to this place, with its shabbiness, dust and decay.

A cold feeling ran over her. Vanna had left before time, and so, in a way, had Alex.

Will I be overwhelmed by it too? Is it fate?

A shiver of nasty apprehension shook her shoulders. She was already oppressed by this place, and the way it was governing her marriage.

No
, she thought resolutely.
I’m strong enough, I know I am. I can help John through it, and survive it myself. I can make it a success.

She put the books back carefully, making them look as undisturbed as possible.

Over lunch, Delilah felt a dull pull of pain in her abdomen and her spirits sank. She tried to keep up a cheerful exterior, but she knew that another month had gone by
unsuccessfully, and when afterwards she was sure, she went to find John and tell him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, as he took it in. ‘There’s always next month.’

‘Yes.’ He looked away to hide the disappointment in his face. ‘There’s always next month.’

To break the dismal silence that followed, she said, ‘You haven’t forgotten that Susie invited me to that exhibition in London, have you? I thought I might go. It’ll mean going
away for a few days – if you don’t need me here.’

John looked back her, expressionless now. ‘No, no. You go. I don’t need you.’

The way he phrased his answer seemed bleakly pointed and it hurt. ‘All right,’ she said, trying to smile. She remembered her fear in the library that she might not be up to all this,
and reminded herself of her resolve to stay the course. ‘If you’re sure it’s all right. It’ll be such a short time away, I’ll be back before you know it. I’ll
ring her now and tell her I’ll be up on Monday.’

As she went to find her phone to call Susie, she was depressed to think that the delightful bond they had shared that morning had entirely vanished.

1965

The address was a mews house down a tiny cobbled deadend road just behind a smart Belgravia square. The door was opened to Alexandra’s knock by a pretty blonde girl in
cropped black trousers and a long black knitted jumper that hung to her thighs. She stared at Alexandra before saying ‘Yes?’ in a faintly hostile way.

‘I’m looking for Nicky Stirling. Is this the right address?’

The girl said nothing and a male voice behind called from the depths, ‘Who is it, Polly? Is that her?’

‘Just finding out!’ the girl threw back over her shoulder. ‘What’s your name?’ she demanded, facing Alexandra again with her cold gaze.

‘Alexandra Sykes.’

‘You’d better come in then.’ She turned and retreated into the house, and Alexandra followed her into the gloom, finding herself in a tiny sitting room, furnished eclectically
and full of interesting objects. Beyond she spotted a small kitchen, but was immediately distracted by a pair of long legs in black trousers descending the stairs and the next moment Nicky had
appeared, tall and rangy, and he was hurrying over to kiss both her cheeks.

‘You came!’ He was smiling, his eyes bright. ‘You’ve met Pols, of course. She’s my assistant. She helps me.’

‘You mean, I do all the work,’ Polly responded tartly.

‘Some of it. You should be grateful, you little hoyden.’ He turned to Alexandra and said confidentially, ‘I found her working on the broken biscuit counter in Woolworths. She
owes everything to me, don’t you, sweetheart?’

‘Hardly,’ replied Polly.

‘Be nice, you devil. You’ve met Mrs Sykes. She is charm incarnate and she’s going to have a picture taken. Make her a cup of tea, will you? Come on, Alex, let’s go
upstairs.’ Nicky headed back up the staircase, Alexandra following behind, feeling shocked at being called Alex. He had used to call her that, she remembered suddenly, and no one had since.
She felt that strange buzzing sensation again, the one of being connected almost physically to the past; it was so strong, she had to concentrate on climbing the stairs, in case she toppled over
under its force. They gained the first floor where a ladder led up through a hatch in the ceiling.

‘This way.’ He climbed up and when he’d clambered through the hole, his head reappeared, framed by the hatch. ‘Come on, it’s easier than it looks. I’ll help
you.’

She put her handbag strap over the crook of her arm and grasped the ladder. Nicky’s hand reached down, his palm broad and open for hers. She climbed up, took his hand and he pulled her
into the space beyond. The loft had been boarded and painted black, but bright sunshine poured in through three skylights. A fan whirred in the corner, to counter the stultifying effect of the heat
rising from below and the fiery sunlight beating through the glass above. Around about was scattered photographic equipment: tripods, lights, reflective discs, paper backgrounds plain and painted,
boxes spilling wires and plugs, and the cameras themselves.

‘My studio,’ he explained. ‘For now, anyway.’

‘Why is it black?’ she asked, looking around. ‘I thought photographers needed light.’

‘We do. But these days it’s easy to make light’ – he nodded towards the great lamps on their tripods – ‘and it’s much harder to take it away. But when
the blinds are down it’s pitch dark in here. That way I can get some good effects.’

‘It’s terrifc,’ she said. He seemed to know what he was talking about and the set-up looked very professional.

Nicky seemed pleased by her praise. ‘Of course I need a better way to get here – I can’t exactly ask Laurence Olivier or Dame Edith Evans to climb a ladder to my
loft.’

‘Have you photographed Laurence Olivier?’ she asked, impressed.

‘Um – no, not yet, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. So we’re going to take your picture up here. I’ll use the white backdrop and keep the blinds open.
I want natural light, plenty of it, to show off your rather stunning complexion.’ He gazed at her in a way that showed he was now looking at her with an artistic, appraising eye.
‘I’m glad you’re not wearing that orange stuff. You barely need a scrap of make-up – it’s extraordinary. But of course we’ll put something on you or you’ll
be washed out. There’s a particular look I want, very fresh and now.’ He bent over the hatch. ‘Polly! Where are you? Get up here, and bring the kit! And the tea!’ He looked
back up at Alexandra, smiling and shaking his head. ‘What on earth am I supposed to do with that girl?’

She smiled back, suddenly enchanted by him as he stood there, tall and rather skinny, his hair tousled, his shirt open at the neck. His face was too round to be classically handsome and yet he
gave the impression of being very good-looking. Perhaps it was the way his grey eyes stared out from under his black brows, their colour intensified by his tan. He had long lashes too, almost like
a girl’s, although he was anything but feminine. His mouth entranced her: it was wide and generous and expressive and gave the impression that he was voracious for everything in life. She
could see the boy she once knew, but changed into a man whose vivacity and energy made him fascinating to her. And he looked so modern with his black leather trousers and suede shoes. They were
strange objects to her and yet on him they looked wonderful. He seemed so free and so unencumbered by the kinds of things that imprisoned Laurence: the army regulations, the dress codes, the
endless rules and traditions that dictated everything.

‘Now,’ he said softly. ‘What shall we do with you, eh?’ He frowned. ‘It’s very strange, Alex, but you look so . . . just like that little girl. I feel very
odd when I’m with you – as though everything that happened since I last saw you is a kind of dream and the only things that are real are you and that time when we were kids.’

‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘That’s how I feel too.’

‘Isn’t it peculiar?’ he said conspiratorially. ‘I mean, we haven’t seen each other for so long, we’re virtually strangers. But you seem so
familiar.’

She stared back at him, nervous but excited, her fingertips trembling with the anticipation of something, though she had no idea what it might be. An adventure of some sort, perhaps, some
knowledge or something she was going to learn . . .

‘I’ve been thinking about it since we met in the park,’ he murmured. ‘About what happened back then.’

There was a sudden clatter as a tray appeared on the floor by the hatch, pushed through by an unseen hand and followed by Polly’s fair head.

‘Ah,’ exclaimed Nicky, ‘here she is with the tea. She’s a deft hand with that tray, aren’t you? Lots of practice. Now, Pol, I need you to put some war paint on Mrs
Sykes – what we discussed earlier.’ He turned back to Alexandra. ‘I’m just going to sort out some bits and bobs while Polly gets you ready.’

When he went, clambering away down the hatch, it was as though all sense of life had gone with him and she was left bereft in the hot airless space. Polly took a bag from over one shoulder and
emptied pots and brushes on to the floor. Then she looked over at Alexandra and said coldly, ‘Don’t be flattered. This is what he does with all the girls.’