A Week in Winter: A Novel

by Willett, Marcia

  She’d been quite hysterical with joy and relief. The second time round it was another girl, just like her beautiful mother, but Daphne’s reaction had been exactly the same. Maudie had teased her about it but Daphne was unrepentant.

  ‘You have no idea how happy I am,’ she’d said. ‘Darling Emily …’ and she’d burst into tears.

  The third occasion had been quite different—but by then Tim was dead, killed in a car accident—and Emily was left with three children to support. They’d been living in Canada for ten years, by then, and Daphne had rushed out to be with her. This baby was unplanned, the other two already in their teens, and there was no joy in Daphne’s voice when she’d reported his premature birth. The long distance call had been marred by crackles and Maudie had suspected that Daphne was crying.

  ‘Daphne. Oh, Daphne, I’m so sorry.’ She was almost shouting into the receiver. ‘Oh, if only you weren’t so far away.’

  Hector had been standing beside her, his face creased with anxiety, and she’d shaken her head at him, indicating that she couldn’t hear properly. He’d taken the receiver from her.

  ‘Daphne,’ he’d said. ‘It’s Hector. Don’t cry, my dear. Try to be calm and tell us exactly the situation so that we can help you …’ and Maudie had gone to pour herself a drink, comforted by his calm strength, knowing that Daphne would feel it, too, however serious the news.

  Emily and small Tim had survived, however, although Maudie had never seen him. There was no money for trips to England, although Daphne and Philip flew out to see them all every year.

  ‘Why doesn’t she come home?’ Maudie had asked—but Daphne had shaken her head.

  The older children were settled in school and Emily was afraid that another upheaval, so soon after Tim’s death, would be too much for them. Perhaps, later on … Then Philip had died and Daphne had broken the news that she intended to go out to Canada, to make her home with Emily.

  Now, as moorland gave way to farmland and small villages and the clouds began to clear away, Maudie recalled the sense of desolation with which she’d listened to Daphne’s plans.

  ‘I know it’s selfish of me,’ she’d said later to Hector, ‘but I can’t bear it. I shall miss her so much. It was bad enough when Emily went but I can’t imagine how I shall manage without Daphne. We must go out and visit them.’

  Not long after, however, Hector had become ill and the visit to Canada never happened. Daphne had flown home for the funeral and they had wept together, mourning not only for Hector’s passing but for their own pasts, their youth, friendships, hopes. Memories flooded back and they’d talked long into the night, remembering.

  ‘Dear Hector,’ Daphne had said at last, swollen-eyed from tears and weariness. ‘He was such fun. I’m so glad he had you, Maudie. You made him laugh and Hector loved to laugh.’

  ‘We had some difficult moments over the girls,’ sighed Maudie. ‘I wish now that I could have been more tolerant but it hurt when he used to take Selina’s side.’

  ‘At least you’ve got Posy,’ smiled Daphne, recalling Posy’s almost aggressive protectiveness towards Maudie at the funeral. ‘What a sweetie she is.’

  ‘She’s so like Hector. Black hair, brown eyes, not like her brothers at all, but they look just like Patrick. I think Selina is irritated that none of her children looks like her. Odd things, genes.’

  Afterwards, when Daphne had returned to Canada, Maudie had felt truly alone—yet, in another way, strangely relieved. During the eighteen months of Hector’s illness he had become withdrawn, difficult, morose. She had struggled to remain cheerful and positive but it had been a strain. In the last few months he had become confused, his memories muddled, and at the end he had not known who she was. It seemed that he was reliving the years when he and Hilda were young and the girls were children. He became querulous, irritable, and occasionally tearful. When Selina came, he thought that she was Hilda and he’d mumbled, ‘Forgive me, my dear. Forgive me,’ over and over, until Maudie could bear it no longer and went down to the kitchen to make some tea.

  Selina had come downstairs looking smug. ‘Poor Daddy,’ she’d said. ‘Of course, Mummy was his first, true love. I think he felt guilty quite often actually, for betraying her memory,’ and Maudie, worn out with disturbed nights, frustrated and unhappy, had lost her frail hold on her temper and had shouted at her. ‘Don’t be so bloody dramatic!’ she’d cried—and Selina had raised her eyebrows and gone away without her tea.

  ‘Don’t take any notice,’ Daphne had pleaded, when Maudie told her. ‘He’s away with the fairies. It means nothing. He’s far too confused and sick to remember anything sensibly. You simply mustn’t let it upset you, Maudie. Selina will make the most of it, of course. Oh, how upsetting this must be. If only I could be with you.’

  ‘He talks about you,’ Maudie had said, ‘and Emily, too. He remembers everyone but me.’

  ‘Oh, darling.’ Daphne had sounded near to tears. ‘Oh, Maudie, don’t be hurt. I simply cannot bear it. Not being so far away. Please don’t.’

  ‘No, no I won’t.’ Maudie had tried to contain herself. ‘It’s just that wretched Selina enjoying every minute of it. I’m fine, honestly …’

  What a comfort Daphne had been, even three thousand miles away, but the fact remained that it was difficult to forget those terrible months, to remember the earlier years with Hector.

  ‘I must not be bitter,’ she muttered, turning the car on to the Moreton-hampstead road. ‘I must try to be balanced about it. If only I could understand his guilt. Why feel guilty about marrying again once Hilda was dead? Of course, Selina was the real problem. The mistress of emotional blackmail. She kept his guilt alive. And what happened to that money? Damn! I will not do this.’

  Deliberately she brought to mind the happy times before he was ill: dinner parties when Hector was at his sparkling best; holiday foursomes with Daphne and Philip; quiet days at The Hermitage. She delved further back: nights of love; snatched weekends away from the crowd; dinner for two at their favourite restaurant. It had been so easy to distract him, then, to make him laugh, to create a shared intimacy. She’d been confident that she could hold him, that his love could withstand Selina’s undermining, and it wasn’t until the boys were born that the cracks began to appear. With Patricia so far away, Selina held all the cards in the grandchildren game—and Hector liked children. Selina was quick to take advantage.

  ‘Darling, don’t touch Maudie’s skirt with those sticky fingers, you know she doesn’t like it.’ ‘Could you hold Chris, Daddy? He’ll be off to sleep in a minute and I know Maudie’s so nervous with babies.’ ‘Paul couldn’t help spilling his juice on the sofa, Maudie. He’s only three, after all. Don’t cry, Paul, Maudie’s not really cross. She just doesn’t understand little boys.’

  She wouldn’t have minded if Hector could only have seen through it, realised it was simply the latest version of the feud. Her lightest remarks, however, were greeted with a cool silence and the boys, growing noisy, spoiled, demanding, were encouraged to treat Maudie as an outsider. She had few defences, no natural ease with children, no maternal instinct: not until Posy.

  It was Patrick who had brought Posy over one Saturday afternoon, whilst Selina and the boys were at a party. He’d dumped her into Maudie’s lap and gone off with Hector to look at some painting or book. Posy had lain contentedly, crooning to herself, staring up at Maudie with wide honey-brown eyes: Hector’s eyes. Her dark hair crisped about her head in peaks, like Hector’s when he’d just come out of the shower. She made unintelligible Posy noises and smiled happily.

  Sitting there, with the hot, heavy child in her arms, Maudie had felt an extraordinary sensation: warmth radiating from her heart; a breathless wonder; a nameless longing. Carefully she’d drawn the child closer and, bending her head, kissed Posy’s cheek. The child had chuckled delightfully, showing two tiny white teeth.

  ‘Hello,’ Maudie had said, feeling foolish. ‘I’m Maudie. Hello, Posy. You are beautiful and I wish
you were mine.’

  ‘Any chance of tea, darling?’ Hector had suddenly appeared, Patrick behind him. ‘I’ll look after Posy, won’t I, my poppet?’

  ‘No,’ Maudie had insisted, holding on firmly. ‘I’m looking after Posy. You make the tea’—and so it had started.

  Maudie stretched herself, shaking off thoughts of the past, easing her shoulders, glancing at her watch; nearly half-past four. She’d made good time and was looking forward to a cup of tea. It was a long drive to Moorgate, but worth the effort. Rob had made a splendid job of the old place. Settling herself more comfortably, switching on the radio, Maudie found herself wondering what could have happened to those keys.

  Rob finished clearing up in the yard and looked about him. The morning had deteriorated into a dank afternoon, the mizzle settling into a steady rain. Soon it would be getting dark. He went into the house and passed through each room, pausing to look carefully about him. In the sitting room he stood for a moment, gazing down into the fireplace, frowning thoughtfully. On a sudden impulse he stepped across to the window and closed the heavy wooden shutters, making them fast. He crossed the hall and went into the smaller living room. It was empty except for the wood-burning stove in the granite fireplace. Here, too, he closed the shutters before returning to the kitchen. He pottered for a while, clearing away the tea things, washing the mugs, and presently he locked the back door and drove away in the pick-up.

  Fog rolled down upon the moor, filling the valleys, creeping amongst the trees. It muffled sound and covered the low-lying ground with a thick grey blanket of cloud. No one saw the figure emerge from the darker shadow of the thorn hedge below the house, slip round to the side door and disappear inside.

  Chapter Five

  Patrick Stone sat at the kitchen table, arms folded, staring at a mug of cooling coffee, listening to his wife talking on the telephone in the room beyond the arch. He’d guessed at once to whom she was speaking. Only to Maudie did Selina use that brittle, cool voice; the almost insolent tone which made him feel strangely uncomfortable, nervous. It was many years now since he’d realised that Maudie was not the cruel, selfish stepmother, the manipulative schemer, described to him by Selina. Well, he’d been young, then; young and passionately in love. They’d met in Winchester when she was nineteen, and at Miss Sprules’ Secretarial College, and he, at twenty-four, had just embarked upon his first teaching post at a local school. He’d noticed her first at Evensong at the cathedral and a few days later at the Wykeham Arms. Selina was with a group of young people, one of whom he knew slightly, and soon he’d been integrated into the cheerful crowd. They’d paired off very quickly and before long she’d begun to confide in him: how unhappy she was; the terrible loss of her mother; the arrival of Maudie. How moved he’d been by her plight; how touched by her unhappiness.

  Patrick snorted derisively and picked up his mug of coffee. How easy it had been, under the blinding influence of passion, to be moved, shocked by her stories; to long to rescue her. How assured and confident he’d been in convincing her that they were born for each other; how eloquent in persuading her father that he could make her happy. Oh, Young Lochinvar could have taken his correspondence course and learned a trick or two, no doubt about it. How long had it been before he’d learned that Selina was as vulnerable as an armadillo and about as sensitive as an ichneumon wasp? A year? Two, maybe? He shrugged, swallowing back the lukewarm liquid. What did it matter? By the time the truth had penetrated even his stubborn, resisting mind the boys had been born and there was nothing for it but to carry on, working hard, concentrating on his children, hoping for promotion.

  Now, he was over fifty years old and the children were grown up and gone. His responsibilities were surely at an end? Selina had lied to him, manipulated him and nearly beggared him with her requirement for amusement, constant entertainment and selfishness for nearly thirty years. Now it was his turn. Now there was Mary; warm, cheerful Mary who suffered bravely, coming to terms and dealing with real hardship. She had an eight-year-old child who had been paralysed in an accident, whose father had abandoned them, and elderly parents who looked to her for a great deal of support. She had worked for just over a year now at Patrick’s school as a supply teacher, on those days when her child was at the Care Centre, and friendship had grown up between them. As headmaster he was able to smooth her path a little, giving her extra hours, being as flexible as possible, and soon the friendship had grown into something deeper. It was she who held him in check. He talked of leaving Selina, throwing caution to the winds, seizing this chance of happiness, but Mary refused to let him do anything he might regret.

  ‘Let’s give it a bit longer,’ she’d insisted. ‘You must be absolutely certain. It’s such a big step and there’s so much to think about. Please, Patrick, don’t tell Selina about us, not yet. I know you think she doesn’t love you but that doesn’t mean that she’ll want to lose you. Wait a little longer.’

  ‘There will never be a right time,’ he’d said despairingly, putting his arms around her, and she’d held him tightly, anxiously.

  Patrick raised his head as the telephone receiver went down with a click and Selina came into the kitchen.

  Patrick thought: she walks as if she is subduing the earth beneath her feet. Stamp, stamp, stamp …

  ‘You’ll never believe this,’ she said, her jaw tight with suppressed fury and shock. ‘Maudie is selling Moorgate. It’s already up for sale, apparently, without a word to me. Oh, this is the end. The absolute end.’

  He stirred, straightening his back. ‘It’s her house, after all.’

  ‘Oh well, I’d expect you to be on her side.’ She sat down suddenly at the table. ‘I don’t think I can bear it.’

  He watched her dispassionately, attempting to call up some shred of sympathy. If Selina had ever really mourned the passing of her mother, any genuine grief had been buried long since beneath her almost pathological dislike of Maudie.

  ‘I expect she needs the money.’ He tried to introduce some kindness into his voice, along with some reason. ‘You haven’t been to Cornwall for nearly fifteen years so I expect Maudie feels that it can’t be that important to you. She only has an annuity, after all. Let’s face it, you and Patricia got the lion’s share. To be honest, I think old Hector was in the wrong there. He could have been fairer.’

  She stared at him. ‘We were his children. Some of the money came from Mummy’s side. Why should she have it? Even Moorgate came from Mummy’s family, not Daddy’s, and now she’s going to sell it. What right does she have to sell my mother’s house?’

  ‘We’ve been through this so many times,’ said Patrick wearily. ‘You’d have preferred Maudie to be left with nothing, wouldn’t you? After more than thirty years of marriage you’d have liked her to have been cut out of his will altogether. Good grief. What sort of man do you think your father was? He tried to be fair, despite your efforts, and you can’t complain now if Maudie needs some cash. You of all people should understand. You spend enough!’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Oh, take it any way you like. Your father left you well provided for, one way and another. Let Maudie do as she pleases with what’s legally hers.’

  ‘You know how I feel about Moorgate …’

  ‘Do I not!’ He got up abruptly. ‘I’m going down the pub for a pint. Don’t wait up.’

  The door closed behind him but Selina remained seated, her face blank, distracted for a moment from her grievance. This going down to the pub after some small scene or other was becoming a regular occurrence. A trickle of suspicion wormed its way into her mind and her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Patrick had been touchy of late; unsympathetic, uninterested in her problems. Now, with Posy away at college, it was as if something—some commitment, perhaps?—had reached its end and he’d become withdrawn, indifferent. It might simply be that he was missing Posy, of course. She’d always been his favourite and it was odd—and certainly very quiet—without her. Nevertheless …
Suspicion, once roused, was not to be too easily dismissed. Patrick had always been careful, alert to his wife’s moods, anxious to placate, to soothe. Selina frowned. There had been precious little soothing this evening. Patrick knew very well that Moorgate was her own vital link to the past; the place of happy holidays with her parents.

  She shifted restlessly, folding her arms beneath her breast, hunching her shoulders. It was thoughtless of him to leave her at a time like this when he might have guessed that she’d want to talk. Patrick had once been very sympathetic; very ready to try to understand what it must be like for a girl, hardly out of childhood, to lose her mother; and then to have her replaced by a sharp-tongued woman with no maternal qualities or sensitivity. Since there was nobody to observe, to react, Selina saved herself the trouble of tears. Her thoughts were with Maudie again, with Moorgate, and her face grew sullen. Somehow the sale must be prevented. She would speak to Patricia, to the boys; surely, between them, something could be done? If everyone contributed then maybe they could buy the place themselves. Selina brightened, picturing the scene. What fun it would be to own the old house; to use it for holidays and to invite the gang for weekends. Of course it was rather a long drive from London but it could be managed—and how impressed they’d be. It was a pity that Patrick had insisted that part of her share of the house in Arlington Road must be used to pay off their mortgage but there was a little left, enough to put down as a deposit perhaps.

  A sound of whining, a scrabbling at the back door, broke into these pleasant plans and her face grew surly again.

  ‘Shut up,’ she muttered. ‘Bloody animal.’ She raised her voice. ‘Be quiet!’

  The whining ceased for a moment, to be replaced seconds later by a deep-throated bark which rang round the courtyard and echoed up the quiet suburban street.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ She hurried across and opened the door. Polonius barged past her, padding into the kitchen and through to the living room, looking for Posy. He ignored Selina’s shouted order to sit until, satisfied that Posy was not at home, he subsided on his rug in the corner, his mastiff’s wrinkled face sad.