Winter Solstice (12 page)

It rained for most of that weekend, but Monday morning was dry, with even a few clear patches of sky blinking in and out beyond the sailing clouds. After watching a soggy football match on Saturday, organizing a long wet walk in Richmond Park on Sunday, and playing a Monopoly marathon after tea-time, Neil inspected the clear morning, said, with faint bitterness, “Sod’s law,” and left for work.

The children were next to go, picked up by a neighbour and taken to school. A wonderfully black Jamaican lady appeared to push the vacuum cleaner around the house, and Janey went off to shop.

“Do you want a key?” she asked Sam.

“I’ll be in after four o’clock.”

“In that case, I don’t need a key.”

“When will you be back?”

“No idea.”

“Well.” She smiled up into his face, gave him a quick kiss.

“Good luck.”

Sam was not far behind her, suitably attired for the important occasion, buttoned into his overcoat and armed with an umbrella of Neil’s, in case of unexpected downpours. He closed the front door on the strains of the Jamaican lady singing hymns as she scoured the bath. At twenty-five past twelve, he walked up Saint James’s Street, presented himself to the porter at Whites, and asked for Sir David Swinfield. Sir David was in the bar, he was told, and expecting a guest.

It was three-thirty before they emerged from the club, descending the steps to the pavement where Sir David’s car and driver waited. Sir David offered a lift, which Sam politely refused. They parted, and he stood and watched as the great black saloon slid out into the stream of traffic and disappeared in the direction of Piccadilly.

Sam turned and set out to walk, at least part of the way, back to Wandsworth. He went by way of Green Park, and Belgrave Square, Sloane Street, and the King’s Road. By now, the day had died and the street lights had come on. Shop windows shone and glittered with all the paraphernalia of Christmas decoration and seductive consumerism. He found himself astonished by this. He had been so turned in upon himself that he had forgotten about Christmas. The months, lagging in some respects, had shot past in others. Christmas. He had no idea where he would be for the holiday, and could think of no person who would be expecting a present from him, which was a bleak truth and brought no credit upon himself. However, the thought of presents galvanized him into action, and he went into a flower shop and bought a huge bouquet of white lilies for Janey; a little farther on, he paused at a wine shop and purchased there brandy and a bottle of champagne for Neil. Burdened, he thought about the children, Daisy and Leo. They should have presents, too, but he couldn’t think what on earth they would like. He would have to ask them. Having already spent two days in their company, he was pretty sure they would know.

By World’s End, he had expended his energy and it had started to rain again. It was now nearly five o’clock and the traffic at its most dense, crawling along at the pace of a snail, but after five minutes or so he picked up a cab and gave the driver the address. It took an incredibly long time to get across the Wandsworth Bridge, and when they finally trundled up the length of Beauly Road, he saw the lights shining from behind the drawn curtains of number fourteen and felt welcomed, as though he were coming home.

When he rang the bell, Janey came to let him in.

“There you are. I thought you’d got lost.”

She wore her jeans and a red pullover and her dark hair was bundled up and fixed with a tortoiseshell clip.

“I’ve been taking exercise.”

Janey closed the door.

“One would have thought a wet Sunday in Richmond Park might have lasted the week. How did you get on? Lunch with the Chairman, I mean.”

“It was all right. I’ll tell you but not at this moment.” He handed her the lilies.

“These are for you. A house present for a kind hostess.”

“Thank you. You didn’t have to bring me flowers, but I’m glad you did. And lilies. They make the whole house smell like heaven. Come into the kitchen and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Pausing to take off his coat and hang it up on a peg along with a lot of small overcoats and anoraks, he followed her, hefting the carrier-bag with the bottles. He put the brandy into Neil’s wine cupboard and the champagne in the fridge.

“Champagne.” Janey was filling the kettle, plugging it in.

“Does that mean a celebration?”

“Maybe.” He pulled out a chair and sat with his elbows on the table.

“Where are Daisy and Leo?”

“Upstairs, watching television or playing computer games. They’re allowed to, once they’ve done their homework.”

“Delicious smells in this kitchen.”

“It’s dinner. I have gloomy news. We have another guest.”

“What’s so gloomy about another guest?”

“This one’s a pain.”

“Why ask him?”

“I didn’t. He asked himself. He’s an old acquaintance of my parents, and he’s in London on his own and he’s at a loose end. He telephoned and sounded pathetic, so I felt I had to invite him. I’m really sorry, because I wanted it to be just us three. I’ve already told Neil. I rang him at the office, and he’s livid, but he’s going to try to get home a bit early, to do the drinks and lay the table and light the fire.”

“I could do all that for you.”

“You’re the guest. You have to go and have a shower and a rest and make yourself beautiful.”

“I suppose, to impress your unwanted friend.” Janey made a face.

“Come on, what’s so gruesome about him?”

She had found a large flowered ewer, filled it with water, and was now engaged in arranging her lilies.

“He’s not really gruesome. Just a bit boring. Likes to be thought of as an old roue. When he’s around, one instinctively whisks one’s behind out of reach of his fingers.”

Sam laughed.

“One of those.”

“You could say so. He’s been married three times, but he’s on his own right now.”

“Where does he come from?”

“I think he was at school with my pa. But now he lives in the Bahamas or Barbados or somewhere. He’s been out there for ages.”

“What’s he doing in London?”

“Not sure. En route for France, I think. He’s going to spend Christmas in Nice.”

“He sounds interesting.”

“He isn’t. There. Those look lovely. Thank you again. I’ll put them, pride of place, in the sitting-room.” The kettle boiled and she reached for the teapot.

“I’m longing to hear about today, but I can’t concentrate when I’m cooking, and I’ve still got to make a pudding.”

“It can wait.”

“It was all right, Sam? It was good?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Too exciting. I am pleased.”

He drank his tea, and then, shooed out of her kitchen by Janey, went upstairs. He found Daisy and Leo in their playroom. They had switched off the television and were sitting at a battered table littered with sheets of paper, which they seemed to be in the process of cutting up. As well as scissors, they had assembled tubes of glue, felt pens, a ball of coloured string, and a few scraps of gauzy ribbon. Some form of handcraft was clearly taking place.

They looked up.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Hi. What are you up to?”

“We’re making Christmas cards,” Daisy told him importantly.

“My art teacher showed us today, and I’m teaching Leo. You paint glue, and then spill glitter and it sticks. But we’ve got to draw something first.”

“Like what?”

“Well, a Christmas tree. Or a stocking. Or a house with lighted windows. The only thing is it’s a bit messy, and the glitter gets everywhere. Leo calls it tinkle. Now, Leo, you fold the paper like this, very neaterly…. It mustn’t be all skew-wiff….”

It was made obvious that they were in no need of his help. He left them and went to his room, stripped off his clothes, and took a shower.

Have a shower and a rest and make yourself beautiful. He had brought The Times upstairs with him, and after his shower he put on the to welling robe and collapsed on his bed, intending to read it. But concentration drifted, and he let the paper slip to the floor and simply lay, staring at the ceiling. Sounds emanated from beyond the closed door. The children’s voices; a telephone ringing; Janey’s footsteps as she went to answer it.

“Hello,” he heard her say. He caught the mouthwatering smell of dinner being prepared, and later heard taps turned on for the children’s bath.

It was a long time since he had been embraced into the bosom of a proper family, and felt so cherished and wanted. Investigating this line of thought, he realized that Deborah’s withdrawal had started months before her announcement that she was leaving, but Sam had been too preoccupied to notice the gradual erosion of their relationship. The breakup of a marriage, he knew, could never be one partner’s fault. The other half, one way or another, had to shoulder some part of the blame.

He found himself remembering Radley Hill, because the atmosphere of this ordinary London house, where Neil and Janey were raising their children, brought back secure and comforting memories of the place where Sam had spent his boyhood. Always the welcome, the lighted fire, the scent from the kitchen of delicious and robust food. Boots on the porch, tennis rackets littering the hall, the voices of the youngsters who were his friends, the sound of their footsteps clattering down the stairs. He wondered if he would ever achieve such a haven of family life. Up to now, in that respect, his efforts had met with failure. He and Deborah could have had children, but she had never been particularly keen on the idea, and he was reluctant to force the issue.

Which, the way things had turned out, was just as well. But the house on East Seventieth Street, with just the two of them, had never been more than simply a place to live. True, the living-room had been the envy of all their friends, so immaculately decorated in cream and beige, with modem sculptures and cunningly lighted abstracts on the walls. And the kitchen was a marvel of modern convenience, but nothing much had ever emerged from it except a slice of melon or a microwaved pizza. Deborah, partying, preferred to entertain in restaurants.

Radley Hill. Looking back across the frantic, pressurized years of urban life-the wheeling and dealing, the late nights, the long days, the smells of subways and car fumes-he remembered Yorkshire, saw the solid stone unpretentious house, the terrace, the lawns, his mother’s rose borders. He thought of the little town where stood his father’s mill, where the wind swept aslant the smoke of chimneys, and the river, flowing down from the hills, slipped along between the tree-shaded streets and under curved bridges. The sound of water running over rocks was so familiar, so part of his life that one-simply stopped hearing it. He thought of the surrounding countryside, and long Sunday hikes with his father; of fishing in the remote dark tarns that lay cupped in the moors, where the air was cold and clean, and the empty spaces were pierced with the cry of curlews…. Outside, in the street, a car drew up beneath his window. The front door was opened and slammed shut. He heard Janey’s voice.

“Neil? Hi, darling.” And he knew that his friend was home.

He heaved himself off the bed, shucked off the towel robe, and proceeded to dress himself in a suitable fashion for the evening which lay ahead. Pressed chinos, a clean shirt, a navyblue cashmere sweater, no tie. Cream socks, polished loafers. He brushed his hair, splashed on a bit of aftershave, went downstairs. The sitting-room door stood open, and he went in and found Neil, in shut-sleeves, engaged in polishing up some glasses to set out on the drinks table. The room looked festive, prepared for entertaining. Magazines and books squared off, cushions fattened, the fire lighted. The lilies Sam had given Janey stood in their jug on a round, polished table, surrounded by an arrangement of Battersea boxes. Their scent, in the warmth, already filled the air. The clock in the middle of the mantelpiece stood at a quarter past seven.

He said, “Hi.”

Neil turned from his task.

“There you are. Did you have a good kip?”

“I should have been beavering away, helping you.”

“Not at all. Sneaked home early to perform my hostly tasks.”

“I gather we have company for dinner.”

Neil pulled a face.

“Stupid old bugger. Janey should have put him off, but she’s got too kind a heart.” He gave a final swipe at the last glass, set it neatly down, and tossed the tea-towel aside.

“There, that’s it. All done and dusted. Let’s have a drink, and sit down for a peaceful moment. I want to hear all about everything before our guest arrives and we have to start listening to him. Scotch? Soda or water? Or on the rocks? You see, I have all the right phraseology, in case you’ve forgotten how to speak the language.”

“Soda sounds good. Where’s Janey?”

“Whipping cream.”

“And the kids?”

“In bed, I hope. Reading books. If not, there’ll be trouble.” He poured their drinks, added ice, and brought the tumbler over to Sam. Then, with a relieved sigh, he thumped himself down into one of the comfortable chairs that stood at either side of the fire.

“So, tell me, how did the lunch go?”

Sam sat himself down in the opposite chair.

“All right, I suppose.”

“Nothing gruesome? No kindly suggestion of redundancy?”

Sam laughed. It was a good feeling to have someone come straight to the point, to be with a man he had known for most of his life, and from whom he had never had a single secret.

“The very opposite.”

“Really? A new job, then?”

“Yeah.”

“In the States?”

“No. Here. UK.”

“Whereabouts?”

Sam did not answer at once. He took a slug of his drink, cold and crisp and smoky on his tongue, and then set down the glass on the low table alongside.

“Ever heard of McTaggarts of Buckly?”

“What-the tweedy people in Sutherland?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Well, of course. Any country gentleman worth his salt wears a shooting suit made of Buckly tweed. My father had one, or should I say has. Built like a bloody suit of armour.” He chuckled at the thought.

“Don’t tell me they’re in trouble.”

“Have been. But Sturrock and Swinfield bought them out a few months ago. I’m surprised you didn’t pick it up, but perhaps you don’t read The Financial Times”