Winter Solstice (6 page)

“What about your career?” Jeffrey had asked.

“Oh, bugger my career,” Elfrida had said, and collapsed into laughter. He had never seen her so happy, so beautiful, so utterly fulfilled.

When his own unhappy marriage was falling to bits, Elfrida was always there at the end of the telephone, ringing him up, ready with all sorts of advice, both good and bad, but, most important, endlessly sympathetic. Once he took Serena to meet her, and she rang the next evening and said, “Jeffrey, darling, she is too sweet… cut your losses and concentrate on her.”

“What about my daughters?”

“Grown up and self-supporting. You must think of yourself. Bite the bullet. Don’t dither. There’s not time. Only one life.”

“Dodie … ?”

“She’ll manage. She’ll bleed you white for alimony. She’s not going to give up her creature comforts. Let her have the lot and go and be happy.”

Go and be happy. He had done just that.

Five o’clock on a grey October evening. The wind was getting up. He had done the hens, gathered in the eggs, shut away the clucking creatures in their small domestic wooden houses. It was growing dark. Inside Emblo Cottage, Serena had turned on the lights, and small yellow windows glowed out into the dying light. It was a Thursday, the day when the wheelie bin had to be trundled down the lane in order for the weekly dustbin lorry to empty it in the morning. A wind had got up, blowing in from the sea with an edge to it that tasted and smelt of salt. In this wind, the gorse-bushes jigged and rustled along the tops of hedges. Over its whine, he could hear the water of the stream bubbling its way down the hill and along the edge of the lane. Because it felt cold, he went indoors to get a thick jacket. Serena was stirring something at the stove and the children were busy with their homework at the kitchen table.

He said, “Wheelie bin.”

“Oh, clever man, to remember.”

“Back in five minutes.”

“I shall watch out for Elfrida.”

He trundled the bin down the rutted lane and set it in its place on the verge of the road. Across the road was a wooden gate which led into another field, and Jeffrey went to lean against this. Like any old countryman, he felt for his cigarettes, and lit one with his old steel lighter. The day was dying. He watched the sky darken, thick with cloud. The sea was the colour of slate, flecked with foam. A rough evening. Breakers boomed at the foot of the cliffs and he could feel the damp of sea mist on his cheeks.

He thought of a poem once read, long forgotten.

My room is a bright glass cabin, All Cornwall thunders at my door, And the white ships of winter lie, In the sea roads of the moor.

He stayed until his cigarette was finished, then threw away the stub and turned to go home. And, at that moment, saw the headlights, approaching from the east, blinking as the road twisted. He leaned against the gate and waited. After a bit, an old blue Fiesta appeared, cautiously taking the last narrow bend before the Emblo turning. He knew, instinctively, that it was Elfrida. He stepped into the road, waving his arms, and the car stopped, and he went and opened the door and got in beside her. He smelt her familiar perfume, the scent that she had always used, that was part of her.

He said, “You mustn’t park here. This is the main road. You will be struck by a tractor or a German tour bus. Turn into the lane.”

Which she did, and then stopped again.

She said, “Hello.”

“You made it.”

“Five hours.”

“Found the way?”

“Such a splendid map you drew for me.”

“Who’s this in the back?”

“Horace, my dog. I told you he had to come.”

“How wonderful that you are here. I kept steeling myself for a telephone call to say that you’d changed your mind.”

“I’d never do that,” Elfrida told him. And then became practical.

“Is this your front drive?”

”It is.”

“Dreadfully narrow, darling.”

“Wide enough.”

“Forward, then.”

He began to laugh.

“Forward.”

She put the car into gear, and they lurched forward up the narrow tunnel that was the lane.

“What sort of a journey did you have?” Jeffrey asked.

“All right. I was a bit nervous. It’s years since I’ve done such a long drive; unknown motorways and thundering lorries I find a little unnerving. This car isn’t exactly a Ferrari.”

“Good enough.”

As they approached the cottage, an outside light came on. Serena, clearly, had heard them grinding up the lane. The light illuminated an open space backed by a tall granite wall. The road continued towards the distant farm, but Jeffrey said, “Park here,” and so she did. At once two sheepdogs appeared from nowhere, bounding towards them and barking their heads off.

“Not to worry,” Jeffrey assured her, “they’re mine. Tar-boy and Findus, and they don’t bite.”

“Not even Horace?”

“Least of all Horace.”

They climbed out of the car and let Horace free, and there was the usual small skirmish as the three strange dogs met and circled and smelt, and then Horace disappeared into the thicket of a handy bush and, gratefully, lifted his leg.

Jeffrey was amused.

“What breed of a dog is Horace?”

“Unknown. But loyal. As well, trouble free and clean. He can sleep with me. I’ve brought his basket.”

He opened the boot of her car and heaved out a battered suitcase and a large bulging paper carrier-bag.

“Have you brought your own supplies?”

“That’s Horace’s food and his bowl and stuff.” From the back seat of the car she hauled his basket and another bulging carrier-bag. Doors were slammed shut, and Jeffrey led the way up a slate path and around the corner of the house. The wind from the sea pounced upon them, and yellow squares of light, from windows and a half-glassed door, lay upon the cobbles. Jeffrey set down Elfrida’s suitcase and opened the door. She went through into the kitchen, and the two children looked up from the table. Serena turned from the stove and came, aproned and open-armed, to greet them.

“Jeffrey, you actually found her. So clever, he went down with the wheelie bin and came back with you. What a perfect bit of timing. Did you have a frightful drive? Would you like a cup of tea and something to eat? Oh, and you haven’t met the children, have you? Ben. And Amy. This is Elfrida, ducks.”

“We know,” said the boy.

“You’ve been talking about her for ages.” He was dark and his younger sister blonde. He got up from the table and came to shake hands, his eyes scanning Elfrida’s luggage with some interest. He was expecting a present but had been told not to mention this fact in case none was forthcoming. He had his father’s eyes and olive skin, and a thatch of heavy dark hair, and Elfrida guessed that in a few years’ time, there would be a clutch of broken girlish hearts in the surrounding neighbourhood.

His father came through the door behind Elfrida and dumped the suitcase at the foot of the stairs.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, Ben. Finished your homework?”

“Yep.”

“Good man. And Amy. You done, too?”

“I finished mine ages ago,” Amy told him smugly. She was shy. She came to her father and buried her face in his leg, so that all that showed of her was her long flaxen hair, pale as milk, and the faded blue of her dungarees. Elfrida had always known about Ben and Amy, but, seeing them now, marvelled that they were actually the children of Jeffrey, although young enough to be his grandchildren. She decided that they were beautiful. But then Serena was beautiful in her own individual way. Her hair was pale as Amy’s but twisted up into a chignon and fastened with a tortoiseshell clip. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, and her thin face dusted with freckles. She wore slender jeans, which made her legs look endless, and a blue pullover, and she had knot ted a silk scarf around her neck. Because of the cooking, she had tied the striped apron around her waist, and now made no effort to remove it.

“What’s the form?” Jeffrey asked, and Serena told him.

“I’ll make a cup of tea for Elfrida if she wants one. Or she can sit by the fire; or go up to her room and unpack; or have a bath. Whatever she wants.”

“When’s dinner?”

“Eight, I thought. I’ll feed Ben and Amy first.”

Amy emerged from her father’s legs. She said, “Sausages.”

Elfrida frowned.

“Sorry?”

“Sausages for our tea. And mashed potatoes and baked beans.”

“How delicious.”

“But you’re having something else. Mum’s been making it.”

“Don’t tell me, and then it will be a wonderful surprise.”

“It’s chicken and mushrooms.”

“Amy! ” her brother yelled at her.

“Don’t tell.”

Elfrida laughed.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m sure it will be delicious.”

“Now,” said Serena, raising her voice slightly over the squabblings of her offspring, “would you like a cup of tea?”

But other treats that had been mentioned were more tempting.

“What I’d really like is to go upstairs and unpack and have a bath. Would that be inconvenient?”

“Not a bit. We only have the one bathroom, but the children can go in after you. There’s plenty of hot water.”

“Bless you. Then that’s what I’ll do.”

“How about Horace?” Jeffrey asked.

“Does he need to be fed?”

“Yes, of course he does. Are you offering to do it for me? Two scoops of biscuits and a half-tin of meat. And a bit of hot water.”

“Is Horace a dog?” asked Ben.

“Well, he’s certainly not my husband.”

“Where is he?”

“Outside. Making friends-I hope-with your dogs.”

“I want to go and see….”

“I do, too…. Wait for me….”

They were away, out into the dark garden, without extra sweaters, gum boots or any wails of protest from their mother. The door was left swinging open, letting in gusts of cold air. Jeffrey went quietly to shut it, and then once more picked up Elfrida’s suitcase.

“Come,” he said, and led the way up the creaking wooden stair.

He showed her round, said, “See you in about an hour. I’ll give you a drink,” and left her, closing the door behind him. The door had a wooden latch. Elfrida sat on the bed (a double one) and realized, all at once, that she was dreadfully tired. She yawned enormously, and then looked about her at the charming room, minimal to the point of sparseness but marvellously tranquil. A bit like Serena. White walls, white curtains, rush matting on the floor. A pine chest of drawers, draped in white linen and lace. Wooden pegs and a clutch of colourful hangers for a wardrobe. The duvet cover was blue gingham, and there were books on the bedside table and new magazines and a blue pottery mug in which sat a single hydrangea head, blotting-paper pink.

She yawned again. She was here. She had not lost the way or broken down, nor been involved in any accident. And Jeffrey had been out there to meet her at the end of the lane, leaping out from the side of the road like a footpad and waving her to a halt. If he hadn’t been so instantly recognizable she could well have been frightened out of her wits, but there could be no mistaking that tall, lanky figure. Still lithe and active, despite his advancing years, and in all likelihood kept that way by the company of his youthful wife and little children. Most important, he looked content. He had done the right thing. His life seemed to have worked itself out, which was exactly what she had always wished for him.

After a bit, she got off the bed, unpacked, and set about the place her few belongings, turning the simple room into her own. Then she undressed, wrapped herself in her old robe, and went next door to the little bathroom, where she soaked for a little in a scalding bath. When she got out of the bath she had stopped yawning and felt tired no longer, but active and cheerful and all ready for the evening ahead. She dressed again, in velvet trousers and a silk shirt, gathered up her carpet-bag, which was filled with presents, and went downstairs, feeling like a sailor descending a gangway onto a lower deck. In the kitchen she found the children eating their sausages, while their mother whipped up egg whites in a bowl with an electric beater. As Elfrida appeared she looked up to smile, and said, “Go and be with Jeffrey… he’s in the sitting-room. He’s lit a fire.”

“Can’t I help? I’m not much of a cook, but a dab hand at scouring saucepans.”

Serena laughed.

“Not a saucepan to be scoured.”

“Will I see Ben and Amy again?”

“Of course. They’ll come and say good night after their bath.”

“I had a wonderful bath. Rejuvenating.”

Ben said, “What does rejuvenate mean?”

“It means make younger,” Serena explained.

“She doesn’t look any younger.”

“That’s because I’m so old,” Elfrida told him.

“Be sure to come and say good night, because I’ve got something for you” she raised the carpet-bag-“in here.”

“Can we look now?”

“No, you can look later, by the fire. A bit like Christmas stockings.”

She found Jeffrey in the little sitting-room, ensconced like any old gentleman by the fire, and reading The Times. As she appeared, he tossed this aside and rose cautiously to his feet. Cautiously because in this room, for some reason, the ceiling was exceptionally low, and Jeffrey was clearly aware of the dangers of bashing his head on one of the white-painted beams. He was particularly vulnerable because he was bald, his head burnt chestnut-brown by the sun; but the remaining hair which circled his collar was still as dark as it had ever been. Laughter lines fanned out over his thin cheeks, and he wore a navyblue sweater with a red bandanna knotted around his neck in lieu of a tie. Elfrida bad always had an eye for a good-looking man, and it was gratifying to discover that her cousin Jeffrey was as toothsome as ever.

He said, “How dashing you look.”

“Clean, at least. Heavenly bath.” She dumped down her carpet-bag, lowered herself into the other armchair, and looked about her appreciatively, seeing pictures that were familiar, others that were not. A blazing fire, jugs of dried grasses, family photographs in silver frames, a few pieces of pretty old furniture. There wasn’t room for much more. She said, “You have made an enchanting house here.”