Winter Solstice (8 page)

The tears receded. Ridiculous. She was sixty-two, snivelling like a young girl who has lost her lover. But still she stayed, staring at the picture, wanting it. Wanting to share her pleasure. Wanting to give.

The idea occurred to her that she could buy it for Oscar Blundell. But Oscar was not simply Oscar. He was one half of Oscar and Gloria, and Gloria would be completely bewildered by such a gift…. In her head Elfrida could hear Gloria’s voice. Elfrida! You can’t be serious. It’s just a lot of shapes. A child of four could do a better job than that. And which way up is it meant to be? Honestly, Elfrida, you are a hoot. What possessed you to put down good money for a thing like that? You‘ve been robbed.

No. Not a good idea. Reluctantly, she turned from the window of the gallery and walked on, and left the streets behind her, and set out on a path that climbed, in zigzags, to the top of the grass promontory that divided the two beaches. As she climbed, the wind became blustery, and when she reached the shallow summit, she found herself surrounded by ocean and sky, the whole blue curving rim of the horizon. It felt a bit like being at sea. And she came to a bench and sat upon it, huddled in her sheepskin jacket and with her packages set about her, like any old pensioner exhausted by shopping.

But she was not any old pensioner. She was Elfrida. She was here. She had survived. Was moving on. But to what? A seagull, scavenging for crusts or some edible picnic titbit, swept down out of the air and landed at her feet. His eyes were cold and acquisitive, and his aggression made her smile. And she found herself longing for company. Specifically, for Oscar. She wanted him to be with her, just for a single day, so that when she returned to Dibton, they could talk about the wind and the sea and the gull, and remember, and marvel at the magic of a special moment.

Perhaps that was the worst of all. Not having someone to remember things with.

When the day came to return to Dibton, Elfrida could scarcely believe that she had been at Emblo for a month, so swiftly had the weeks sped by. They tried to persuade her, of course, to stay.

“You are welcome for as long as you like,” Serena told her, and Elfrida knew that she was totally sincere.

“You’ve been the best. A lovely mixture of mother, sister, and friend. We’ll miss you so dreadfully.”

“You’re sweet. But no, I must get back. Pick up the thread of life again.”

“You’ll come again?”

“Try and stop me.”

She had planned to set off as early as possible, so that she could reach Dibton before darkness fell. At eight in the morning she was out of doors, with Jeffrey loading her car. The little family stood about her, and Amy was in tears.

“I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay.”

“Guests don’t stay forever, Amy, my pet. It’s time to leave.”

Horace, too, showed a disloyal reluctance to depart. Every time he was put into the car, he jumped out again, and finally had to be dragged by his collar, deposited on the back seat, and the door shut behind him. He gazed from the window, his furry face doleful and his dark eyes agonized.

“I think,” Ben observed, “that he’s probably going to cry as well.”

Neither Amy nor Ben was yet dressed, and they looked bizarre with padded jackets and gum boots pulled over their pyjamas. When her brother made this remark, Amy’s tears welled up once more, and her mother stooped and picked her up and held her on her hip.

“Cheer up, Amy. Horace will be fine once he’s on his way.”

“I don’t want anybody to leave us.”

The parting had gone on for long enough. Elfrida turned to Jeffrey.

“Dear man, thank you a thousand times.” He had not yet shaved, and her cheek grated against the stubble of his dark beard.

“And Serena…” A swift kiss, a hand over Amy’s flaxen head, and she got firmly in behind the driving wheel, slammed the door, turned on the ignition, and drove off. They stood and waved until the car was lost to view, but she had a pretty good idea that they didn’t go back indoors until the little Fiesta had turned out onto the main road and she and Horace were truly on their way.

Not the time to feel lonely and bereft. The goodbye was not forever, because she could return to Emblo any time she wanted. In a year, maybe, or sooner. Jeffrey and Serena would always be there, and Ben and Amy. But that was the poignant bit, because Jeffrey and Serena would remain more or less unchanged, while Ben and Amy would be taller, thinner, fatter; growing street-wise, losing front teeth. She would never know Ben and Amy again as the small children she had come to love during this particular period of their lives. Like the holiday that was over, those children would be gone forever.

To cheer herself up, Elfrida looked ahead, in positive fashion, which she had always found a reliable method of dealing with a sense of loss. She was going home. To her own little nest, filled with her own possessions. The small and humble refuge that she shared with Horace. She would open doors and windows, inspect her garden, put a match to the fire.

Tomorrow, perhaps, she would telephone the Grange and speak to Gloria. And there would be cries of delight that she was back again, and an instant summons to come and see them immediately. And when she went Elfrida would take the book with her to give to Francesca. The Island of Sheep. I chose it specially, because I loved it so much when I was your age, and I’m sure you’ll love it, too.

But first, of course, before even reaching Poulton’s Row, Elfrida knew that she must do some shopping. There was no food in the cottage, and she had cleaned out the refrigerator before she left. So her first port of call must be Mrs. Jennings’s mini-supermarket. She began to make a mental list. Bread and milk. Sausages, eggs, and butter. Coffee. Biscuits and some tins for Horace. Perhaps a tin of soup for her supper. Something sustaining, like Cullen Skink …

Half an hour later, she joined the motorway that led upcountry. She switched on her car radio and settled to the long drive.

The Dibton church clock stood at half past two as she drove into the main street of the village. Outside Mrs. Jennings’s slouched the usual gang of louty youths, and a little farther on, she spied Bobby Burton Jones trimming his privet hedge with a pair of shears. Nothing much seemed to have changed, except that most of the trees had shed their leaves and there was a definite wintry feel to the air.

She parked the car, found her bag, and went into the shop. It seemed to be empty. She picked up a wire basket and moved up the aisles, taking what she needed from the shelves. Finally, she presented herself at the counter, where Mrs. Jennings was doing sums on the back of an envelope and had not heard her come in.

But now she looked up, saw Elfrida, laid down her pencil, and took off her spectacles.

“Mrs. Phipps. Well, what a surprise. I haven’t seen you for weeks. Have a good holiday, did you?”

“Wonderful. Just back. Haven’t even been home yet, because I had to buy some provisions.” She put the wire basket on the counter and reached for a Daily Telegraph.

“You won’t believe this, but I haven’t read a newspaper for weeks. To be truthful, I didn’t miss it.”

Mrs. Jennings made no comment on this. Elfrida looked up and saw that Mrs. Jennings was staring at her, biting her lip and looking much troubled. Elfrida put the newspaper on top of the basket. After a bit, she said, “Is anything wrong, Mrs. Jennings?”

Mrs. Jennings said, “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“You haven’t heard?”

Suddenly Elfrida’s mouth was dry.

“No.”

“Mrs. Blundell.”

“What about her?”

“She’s dead, Mrs. Phipps. A car smash at Pudstone roundabout. She was bringing the little girl home from a fireworks party. November the fourth, it was. A lorry. Heaven knows how it happened. She couldn’t have seen it. It was a dreadful night. Pouring with rain…” Elfrida, stunned by shock, said nothing.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Phipps. I thought you might have heard.”

“How could I have heard? I never read a paper. Nobody knew where I was. Nobody knew my address.”

“A tragedy, Mrs. Phipps. We couldn’t believe it. None of the village could believe it.”

“And Francesca?” She made herself ask the question, dreading the answer.

“She died, too, Mrs. Phipps. And the two little dogs who were in the back. You couldn’t believe the photograph in the paper. That great car, smashed and flattened to bits. They didn’t stand a chance. Only good thing was the police said it was instant. They couldn’t, any of them, have known a thing.” Mrs. Jennings’s voice shook a little. She clearly found it almost impossible to speak of what had taken place.

“You hear of things like this happening, but when it happens to folk you know….”

“Yes.”

“You’ve gone white as a sheet, Mrs. Phipps. Would you like me to make you a cup of tea? Come into the back shop….”

“No, I’m all right.” Which she was, because she was numb, quite calm and cool, shocked beyond horror. She said, “A funeral?”

“A couple of days ago. Here in the village. A huge turnout. A real tribute.”

So she had missed even that chance to mourn and comfort. She said, “And Oscar. Mr. Blundell?”

“Hardly seen him. At the funeral, of course, but not since then. Kept to himself. Poor gentleman. It doesn’t bear thinking what he’s been through. What he’s going through.”

She thought of Francesca, laughing and teasing her father, playing duets with him on the piano, curled up in his big armchair and the two reading a book together. And I blotted the image from her mind, because it was unbearable to remember.

She said, “Is he at the Grange?”

“Far as I know. The boy’s been delivering milk and papers and so forth. Suppose he’s just gone into himself. Natural, really. The vicar went to call, but he didn’t even want to see the vicar. Mrs. Muswell goes up to the Grange each day, just like she always did, but she says he just stays in his music room. She leaves a tray for his supper on the kitchen table, but she says most times he doesn’t even touch it.”

“Do you think he would see me?”

“I wouldn’t know, Mrs. Phipps. Except that you and them were always friends.”

“I should have been here.”

“Not your fault, Mrs. Phipps.” Someone else had come into the shop. Mrs. Jennings put her spectacles on again, in a brave attempt to be business-like. She said, “I’ll put these things through the till, shall I? It’s nice to see you back. We’ve missed you. I feel I’ve spoilt your homecoming. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you for telling me. I’m glad it was you and not anybody else.”

She went out of the shop and got back into her car, where she sat for a moment, feeling as though the day, her life, had been snapped into two pieces; it could never be repaired and would never be the same again. She had moved from the laughter and happiness of Emblo into a place of loss and unthinkable pain. And what upset her most was the fact that she had had no knowledge of the tragedy, no inkling, not a suspicion. For some reason, this made her feel guilty, as though she had reneged on responsibilities, stayed on at Emblo when she should have been here. In Dibton. With Oscar.

After a bit, heavy-hearted, she started up the engine and moved on. Bobby Burton Jones had finished clipping his hedge and disappeared indoors, which was a relief because she didn’t want to stop and talk to anybody. She drove down the main street of the village, passed by her own turning. As the houses thinned out, she came to the great gates of the Grange, the house that had been Gloria’s. She turned in, up the drive, and around the curve where grew the huge cedar tree grew. She saw the elaborate face of the house, and outside the front door, a large black limousine upon the gravel.

She parked a little way off and got out, and saw that behind the wheel of this impressive vehicle there sat a uniformed driver, wearing his cap and reading a newspaper. Hearing her, he glanced up, acknowledged her presence with a nod of his head, and then went back to his racing results. He clearly was not expecting conversation. She left him there and went up the steps, and through the open doorway into the familiar tiled porch. The half-glassed door was closed, and she did not ring the bell, but opened this and went inside.

It was tremendously quiet. Only the lock of the long case clock, snipping away at the passing seconds. She stood for a little, listening. Hoping for comforting, domestic sounds from the kitchen, or a thread of music from upstairs. Nothing. The silence was suffocating, like a fog.

To her right, the drawing-room door stood open. She crossed the hall, thick carpets blanketing her footfall, and went through. At first she thought the room was empty, and she alone. And then saw that a man sat in the wing-chair by the empty fireplace. Tweed trouser-legs, polished brogues. Not much else was visible.

“Oscar,” she said softly, and moved forward, to look down at him, and experienced the second stunning shock of that dreadful day. For here was Oscar, aged beyond belief, all at once an old man, bespectacled, wrinkled and hunched in the padded chair, a gnarled hand clenched over the ivory handle of an ebony stick. Instinctively, her hand went to her mouth, to stop a scream, or perhaps to conceal her despair.

He looked up at her and said, “My word,” and instantly such relief flooded through her that she thought her legs were going to give way. Swiftly, before they did this, she sat with a thump on the padded leather seat of the club fender. They stared at each other. He went on, “I never heard you coming in. Did you ring a bell? I’m a bit deaf, but I’d have heard the bell. I’d have come to the door….”

He was not Oscar, aged beyond belief, just another person resembling him. Maybe twenty or so years older than Oscar. An old gentleman well into his eighties, and speaking most courteously with a strong Scottish accent. His voice reminded her of a well-loved old doctor who had looked after Elfrida when she was a small child, and for some reason this made everything much easier to deal with.

“No,” she told him.

“I didn’t ring the bell. I just walked in.”

“You’ll forgive me not getting up. I’m a bit stiff and slow these days. Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. I am Hector McLennan. Oscar is my nephew.”