Winter Solstice (31 page)

Francesca was twelve. Lucy was fourteen.

“Will he want me?” she had asked.

“Won’t it be awful for him, having a person of my age around the place? Do you think he will hate me?”

Carrie had smiled and given her a hug.

“I said that to Elfrida, on the telephone. And she spoke to Oscar about it, and he was quite adamant that we have to go for Christmas. And it’s his house we’re going to stay in, so he is our host, and he has invited us. And nobody could ever hate you.”

But still, it was all a bit complicated and daunting. Right now, Lucy could do without complications. She had enough of them in London.

Now, quite suddenly, there was a feeling of the seaside. Duney hillocks on either side of the road where grew stunted pines and clumps of heather, and a certain light that reflected off the sea. She rolled down the window and caught the smell of salt. The road ran downhill, and ahead of them was the little town, and they were in the main street almost before she realized it. And it wasn’t grey and sombre like the other villages they had come through, but built of golden sandstone that seemed to reflect the glow of the thin winter sunshine. Houses on either side stood back behind walled gardens, and there were handsome buildings, and trees, and an unexpected impression of prosperity and space.

Carrie hadn’t said much during the course of the drive, but now she spoke.

“How extraordinary. It’s like the Cotswolds. Like a Cotswold town.”

Alec smiled.

“A lot of visitors make that observation. But I have never been to the Cotswolds.”

“Golden stone. Wide streets. And the gardens …”

“What many people do not realize is that we have, because of the Gulf Stream, a climate similar to Eastbourne. There can be rain storms boiling in the hills, and we play golf or walk on the beach in the sunshine.”

Lucy said, “A sort of mini-climate.”

“Exactly so.”

The street widened out into a square, in the middle of which stood a large and lovely church and an old graveyard, all enclosed by a stone wall. The church had a tower crested by a golden weathercock, and gulls and jackdaws wheeled about overhead. The gulls made a noise like summer holidays. The tower clock pointed to twenty-five minutes past twelve.

“We have made good time,” Alec observed. He drove, at stately pace, right around the churchyard wall, and drew up at the pavement’s edge.

“Is this it?” Lucy asked.

He switched off his engine.

“This is it.”

They got out of the Subaru, but before Alec could even unlatch the gate, there came the sound of frantic barking, and the next moment the front door of the house was flung open, and down the path came Elfrida Phipps and her vociferous dog.

“Carrie! Oh, my darling girl.” She flung her arms around Carrie.

“You’re here, you’re here. I’ve been so looking forward … so excited … could hardly wait…”

Lucy, standing aside, watched. Elfrida was very tall and very thin, and she had a lot of rather wild hair the colour of marmalade. She wore trousers of some particularly garish tartan and a huge, thick grey sweater. Her eyelids were very blue and she wore a lot of lipstick. Lucy could understand instantly why Gran didn’t approve. Kissing, she had left lipstick on Carrie’s cheek.

Carrie said, “Elfrida, you look wonderful. Scotland clearly agrees with you.”

“Darling, it’s bliss. Bitterly cold, but bliss.”

“You have to meet Lucy.”

“But of course.” She laughed.

“Isn’t this ridiculous, Lucy? We’re relations, and we’ve never set eyes on each other. But your grandfather was my most favourite cousin and we used to have wonderful, wild times together.” She put her hands on Lucy’s shoulders.

“Let me look at you. Yes, I thought so. Pretty as paint. This is my dog, Horace, who, I am pleased to say, has stopped barking. He’s been looking forward to meeting you because he hopes you’ll take him on long walks on the beach. Oh, Alec, you’ve got the suitcases. Is that all? Would you be a saint and carry them upstairs for us? Come along, everybody, and we’ll go into the house out of the cold, and you can meet Oscar….”

They all streamed up the path and into the house in single file, Elfrida leading the way, then the dog, then Carrie, Lucy, and finally Alec, laden with luggage. He kicked the front door shut behind them, and they went down a long hall and up a wide staircase. Lucy liked the feeling of the house. Solid and secure, with sturdy banisters and a thick stair carpet. And the smell of old polished wood and well-worn furniture, and the faint suggestion of something delicious cooking in the kitchen.

Elfrida was still talking.

“How was the flight? Not too bumpy? Thank goodness there isn’t a howling gale.”

They had reached the first-floor landing. The pleasing staircase rose on, to the upper floor. On the far side of the landing a door stood open through which streamed a shaft of sunlight.

Elfrida raised her voice to call.

“Oscar! Here they are!” And then, in her ordinary voice again.

“He’s in the sitting-room. You two go and say hello, and I’ll show Alec where to put the suitcases. Carrie’s in here, Alec, and then Lucy’s upstairs. Can you deal with another climb … ?”

Carrie looked at Lucy, and smiled reassuringly. She took Lucy’s hand in her own, which was comforting, and, hand in hand, they went through the open, sunlit door into a beautiful sitting-room, white-walled, not over-furnished, but filled with light. A little fire was burning in the grate, and a tall bow-window faced out across the street, and the church was so close, you felt you could reach out a hand and touch it.

He was waiting for them, standing with his back to the fireplace. He was as tall as Elfrida, but not so thin as she, and he had a fine head of silvery hair, and a quiet and kindly face, not rugged, but strangely unlined. His eyes were hooded, and drooped at the corners. He wore a checked shirt and a woollen tie, and over these, a blue Shetland sweater.

Carrie said, “Oscar. How do you do? I’m Carrie Sutton.”

“My dear….” He came forward to greet them, and Lucy thought he must find himself a little astonished to be welcoming a guest as sensationally glamorous as Carrie. But pleased, as well.

“How good to see you. Have you had a peaceful journey?” They shook hands.

“Perfect,” Carrie told him.

“No problems.”

“And Alec found you all right? Elfrida’s been mad with excitement all morning, rushing to the window to see if you had come.”

“It’s so good of you to have us.” Carrie looked about her.

“And what a marvelous house you have.”

“I own only half. I am part-owner.”

“That doesn’t make it any less special.” She let go of Lucy’s hand, and put an arm around her shoulder.

“This is my niece, Lucy Wesley.”

Lucy swallowed her nervousness. She said, “How do you do?” He looked down at her, and she willed herself to meet his eyes. For what seemed a long time, he said nothing. She knew that he must be thinking of his own daughter, twelve years old, and now dead. She knew that he must be comparing her with Francesca, and was probably swamped by mixed emotions, including pain. She hoped that she compared favourably. There wasn’t much else she could do. And then he smiled at her, and took her hand between his own, and his clasp was warm and friendly, and after that she wasn’t nervous any longer.

“So you are Lucy?”

“Yes.”

“And you are going to have to sleep in the attic.”

Carrie laughed.

“Oscar, you don’t make it sound very tempting.”

“Attics never do sound tempting. Old trunks and the heads of defunct moose. Don’t worry, Lucy. Elfrida has made it entrancing for you.”

“Now.” He let go of Lucy’s hand and looked out of the window, at the clock on the church tower.

“It’s half past twelve. Why don’t you both go and find your rooms and get settled, and then we’ll have a drink, and then lunch? Elfrida has spent much of the morning concocting a shepherd’s pie.

She thought you would need something heartening to eat after your long journey.”

Lucy’s spirits rose. The worst, the initial encounters, were over. Elfrida was funny, and Oscar was kind. And Elfrida had said she was as pretty as paint. And they were going to eat shepherd’s pie for lunch.

They ate in the kitchen.

“We’ve got a dining-room,” Elfrida explained, “but it’s so dark and gloomy, we never eat there. And there isn’t a hatch through from the kitchen or I would spend my time scuttling to and fro with dishes.”

“Much nicer in here,” said Carrie, and Lucy agreed with her. A long table, a gingham cloth, unmatched wooden chairs … all comfortably informal. It wasn’t a smart kitchen. Dodie, Lucy knew, would die if she were asked to do anything under such oldfashioned conditions. For one thing, it was rather dark and lightless, facing out onto the wall of the neighbouring garden. And there were bars on the windows, to keep out intruders, or possibly to stop overworked cooks and kitchen-maids from escaping. And yet, like the rest of the house, it had a pleasant, settled feel about it, and there was a big sideboard, painted dark green, with an assortment of china displayed, and hooks for jugs, mugs, and cups.

They ate the shepherd’s pie, which was delicious, and then a pudding made of stewed apples and meringue, and there was a jug of cream, and after that Carrie and Elfrida had coffee. But Oscar did not want coffee. Instead, he looked at his watch and said, “If Horace and I do not set out for a walk now, then we won’t be home before darkness falls.” He looked down the length of the table at Lucy.

“Would you like to come with us?”

“For a walk?”

“We could go on the beach. And then you will know the way.”

She felt very gratified to be invited.

“Yes, I’d love to.”

“Perhaps, Oscar,” said Elfrida, “you could wheel her round the town first and show her where the shops are. It won’t take more than five minutes, and then you can head for the dunes.”

“Certainly, if that’s what she’d like. Have you got a warm coat, Lucy?”

“I’ve got my new jacket.”

“And a warm hat. The sea-wind can freeze your ears off.”

“Yes, I’ve got that, too.”

“Then go and get ready, and we’ll set off together.”

“Shall I help to clear the table?” Lucy asked.

Elfrida laughed.

“How well brought up you are. Of course not. Carrie and I will do that when we’ve finished our coffee. Off you go with Oscar before it gets too cold.”

Five minutes later, they set off together, the elderly man, the girl, and the dog. Horace wore his lead, and Lucy held its other end in her gloved hand. She had pulled a thick woollen hat down over her ears, and zipped herself into her new jacket. Oscar wore a heavy wind-proof with a checked lining, and a tweed hat which she thought suited him, and made him look distinguished and handsome.

As they went through the gate, “We’ll do the town first,” he told her, and so they did. Down the street, all around the church wall. The gift shop, the chemist, the bookstore, the butcher, the news agent.

“This is where I come to pick up the morning papers. If I want to be lazy and lie in my bed, then you can do it for me.”

The petrol pumps, a shop displaying knitted sweaters, a small hotel, a window full of beach toys, the supermarket. Beneath a leafless tree, Lucy paused to look through a wroughtiron gate, up a flagged path, to where a side door of the church stood open.

For some reason, she longed to go inside. She could see a porch, stoutly door matted and then an inner, closed door.

“Is the church open?” she asked.

“Always. Just this side door. For visitors, I suppose.”

“What’s it like inside?”

“I don’t know, Lucy. I have never been.”

“Can we go now? Just for a moment….”

He hesitated.

“I…”

“Oh, do, let’s. Churches are so nice when they’re empty. Like empty streets. You can see their shape. Just for a moment.”

He took a deep breath, and for a moment she thought he was going to refuse, to say, There’s not time. Or, Another day. But he let it all out in what sounded like a deep sigh.

“All right,” he said.

Lucy opened the gate, which squeaked on its hinges, and they went up the path. Inside the porch, they found a notice.

VISITORS WELCOME, BUT PLEASE, NO DOGS.

So they tied the end of the lead to the handle of the outer door, and left Horace sitting on the doormat. He did not look pleased.

Inside, the church was empty. Their footsteps rang on the flagged floor and echoed up into the roof. Sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows, and three of the arms of the cruciform shape were lined with pews, all facing the central aisle, so that it was a little like three churches. The walls were stone, and the arched ceiling soared upwards, high above them, the plaster between the curved beams painted the blue of a summer sky.

Lucy wandered off to investigate. She read the words on old memorial slabs, people from another age who had been true servants of God and regular worshippers. There were a lot of noble and titled names, as well as ordinary people. It was all much larger than she thought it would be, and by the time she had inspected everything, from the ornate font to the kneelers, each handsomely upholstered in hand-stitched needlepoint, Oscar had tired of standing, and was settled comfortably in the front pew, waiting for her.

She felt a bit guilty and went to sit beside him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“For being so long.”

“I am pleased that you are interested in such things.”

“Carrie told me that you were an organist. That you taught music.”

“That’s true. I was choirmaster as well.” He looked down at her.

“Do you play the piano?”

“No. I’ve never started to learn. Mummy said it would take too much time out of lessons and games and homework and things. Anyway, there isn’t a piano in my grandmother’s flat.”

“Would you like to play?”

“Yes, I think I would.”

“It’s never too late to start. Do you listen to music?”

Lucy shrugged.

“Only pop and such.” She thought about this.

“Except sometimes, at school, we get taken to concerts. We went to an open-air concert in Regents Park this summer. There was a huge stage and a proper orchestra.”