A Week in Winter: A Novel

by Willett, Marcia

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ She’d tried not to feel worried. ‘Rob lights the fire in the sitting room sometimes to keep the house warmed. He’d probably left it in. It would be quite safe in that big grate.’

  ‘As long as you’re happy about it. Just thought I’d mention it.’

  ‘Did the client make his presence known?’

  Ned Cruikshank had laughed rather self-consciously. ‘To tell you the truth, he said it was so eerie up there in the dark that he didn’t want to get out of the car. It is a bit isolated, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just a bit,’ she’d answered. ‘I can’t say I blame him but we can assume, I imagine, that he won’t be buying the house.’

  Now, as she listened to the World Service, her uneasiness increased. She could imagine Moorgate, standing dark and empty at the edge of empty rolling moorland, and remembered Rob’s question about ghosts.

  ‘Rubbish!’ she exclaimed aloud. ‘Utter rubbish!’ But she was oddly glad of Polonius, snoring loudly in the kitchen.

  Chapter Nine

  Selina pushed her coffee mug aside and laid the newspaper flat on the kitchen table. Patrick had just left for school and she sat for a while staring sightlessly at the headlines, elbows on the table, chin in hands. She’d forgotten how big a part anger played when it came to jealousy; forgotten the overwhelming, obsessive need to possess. So it had been when Maudie arrived on the scene more than thirty years ago. She could remember quite clearly that, in replacing their mother, it had seemed that her father was rejecting her, Selina—and Patricia—too. That he could bring this stranger into their home, allow her to use their mother’s things, and not be able to see it as a betrayal had been utterly beyond belief. Patricia had been less affected by it. She’d been too preoccupied with boyfriends and parties to enter into her sister’s feelings but she’d been shamed into a certain amount of rebellion. Even now Selina’s lip curled as she thought about Patricia’s feebleness, her readiness to give in and accept the stranger within the walls.

  ‘Daddy’s still quite young,’ she’d said defensively. ‘He’s very attractive too. All my girlfriends say how dishy he is. You just have to face facts.’

  What a shock it had been to see him in that light; the light of a lover. How cruel of Patricia to force her younger sister to see her father as someone who was capable of wanting a relationship outside his family. With their mother gone, it should have been enough to devote himself to his daughters—his daughters and his friends. Goodness knows, he’d had enough friends! Selina stirred restlessly. She’d often resented the great army of people who moved through the house, requiring attention, distracting her parents from her own needs.

  ‘You mustn’t be selfish, dear. Your father is a popular man who likes his friends about him.’ How often darling Mummy had soothed and comforted. She was never too busy to have time for her children; with Mummy, she and Patricia had always come first. How safe Mummy had been; how constant. Her dying had been a betrayal in itself.

  ‘How could you die,’ Selina had demanded, weeping bitterly, night after night, ‘when you knew how much I needed you?’

  Nobody had warned her about death and its terrible, unimaginable finality. How many mornings she’d woken, almost weak with joy and relief, thinking that the whole thing was a terrible dream, only to have to live through the pain of it all over again. Yet nobody seemed to understand or care.

  ‘Of course they care,’ Daphne had once said, attempting to comfort her. ‘The trouble is that Patricia and your father are attempting to cope with it too, you see, and so they are unable to help you as much as you feel they should. It’s hard, very hard, Selina, but you must be as brave as you can. I’m always here if you need me.’

  Oh, she’d been trying to help. Selina shrugged, remembering, but she hadn’t wanted Daphne’s help. Daphne was kind enough and Mummy’s best friend too, but it was Daddy that she’d needed then. He’d been shocked and desolate, true enough, but not for long. Barely nine months later Maudie had been with him when he’d arrived at Granny’s one afternoon. Granny had been polite but cool, Daddy had been doing that bluff, hearty sort of act, which was an attempt to cover his embarrassment, and Patricia had been avidly curious about Maudie.

  ‘You have to admit,’ she’d said afterwards, ‘that she’s rather attractive. Quite sexy in a kind of casually indifferent sort of way. Lovely long legs.’

  Selina could recall that she’d stared at her, baffled, frightened. ‘What do you mean?’

  Patricia had rolled her eyes. ‘Grow up, can’t you? He’s going to marry her. He’s in love with her. You could see it a mile off.’

  Now, Selina balled her hands into fists. How well that expression suited Patrick and Mary. ‘He’s in love with her. You could see it a mile off.’ Her father’s expression when he had looked at Maudie, the lingering hand clasp and the reluctant parting of flesh had been repeated that night of the party; oh, the signs were clear enough. Clear and appallingly familiar Familiar as the upsurge of rage; the obsessive need to cling and hold; the crushing humiliation of a man’s disloyalty.

  ‘He doesn’t love you less, Selina,’ Daphne had insisted. ‘Love is not a finite commodity. You did not love your father less because you loved your mother or Patricia. Your father doesn’t love you less because he loves Maudie. Be generous, my dear.’

  It was a concept which had remained foreign to her. Even with her own children she’d needed to be first. Patrick was their father, the provider and protector, but it was to her they brought their triumphs and disasters. She must be first in their affections. The boys had always complied quite readily—but Posy’s disloyalty had enraged her. Her boys had always responded quickly when she pointed out how hurtful it was when their girlfriends attempted to displace her but Posy had remained unmoved. Even Selina’s own friends couldn’t understand why she’d felt so betrayed; couldn’t see how destructive it was to one’s self-esteem to discover that someone else was preferred; or how humiliating to imagine the victor’s private triumph. And that it should be Maudie of all people had been an especially bitter pill.

  Yet even the enormity of Posy’s defection paled beside Patrick’s. Mary’s image rose in Selina’s mind and she felt a suffocating, impotent fury. How the wretched woman must be laughing, enjoying the knowledge that it was she whom Patrick had chosen, that for her he had rejected and betrayed his wife. Selina willed down her rage, subduing it, knowing that it must not be allowed to cloud her judgement, aware that subtlety was more effective than cheap gibes or a show of contempt. Her wars against her father and against Posy had not succeeded but this time she would win. As yet nothing had been said. Patrick had gained control of his emotions and was playing it very calmly and carefully. He’d even mentioned a weekend away in Oxford, something to do with school, he’d said. Later he’d talked about it in detail, describing some seminar and lectures, but she was not deceived. He hadn’t looked at her, and his guilt was almost tangible, but she hadn’t dared speak. She’d hardly been able to contain herself at the thought of them together. Hot, spiteful, beastly words had filled her mouth, acid as bile, and hatred for Mary had been so strong that she’d felt almost frightened.

  ‘I hate her,’ she said aloud to the quiet kitchen. It was some kind of relief to say the words. ‘The little cow is going to be truly sorry.’

  She knew that Patrick was equally to blame but he could be dealt with later. Suddenly Selina remembered a line from some film or play she’d once seen. The wife had said sweetly to her husband, ‘Don’t torture yourself, darling. That’s my job.’ She laughed suddenly, good humour almost restored. Somehow she found the thought a comforting one.

  ‘She knows,’ said Mary. ‘Of course I realise that. But if you deny it what can she do?’

  ‘God knows.’ Patrick spoke quietly, not wanting to wake Stuart. ‘But at least we’ll get our weekend.’

  ‘It’s so risky.’ Her small face was drawn and tired. ‘Honestly, Pat, I’m a bit worried to tell you the truth. I’
m not sure we should take the risk.’

  ‘It’ll be OK,’ he insisted. He couldn’t bear to forgo the weekend. He’d lived on the expectation of it for weeks; it was almost the only thing sustaining him. ‘Why are you worried now? Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘Oh, yes it has. I’ve met her now.’ Mary shook her head. ‘She’s a formidable lady, Pat. She doesn’t look like she gives in easily and I’ve a lot to lose.’

  ‘Please, darling,’ he said urgently. ‘Please don’t give up. We want to be together, don’t we? Properly, I mean. Not just occasional evenings and a weekend here and there. I want to look after you both. I need you.’

  ‘I know.’ She shifted a little, turning away from him as much as the small sofa would allow. ‘It’s just that it seems so much more difficult than I first thought.’

  ‘You’re tired,’ he said tenderly. ‘You look frazzled to death. Leave it all to me. It’s just that I don’t want you hurt on the way through, so I have to be careful.’

  ‘I know.’ She hunched her shoulders, attempting to withdraw her hand, which he continued to hold tightly. ‘Only … Well, I’m not sure I’ve been thinking straight, Pat. It’s really good, you being around and … well, having a man in my life again. It’s almost like being on holiday. Something different and fun. But now I’ve met Selina it’s become real.’

  ‘I know,’ he said eagerly. ‘I know just what you mean. I felt exactly the same after the party. But that doesn’t mean we have to give up on it, Mary. It might mean a bit of a fight but isn’t it worth it?’

  ‘I’ve done fighting,’ she said flatly. ‘Been there, seen the film, bought the T-shirt. I’m tired of fighting.’

  He stared at her, hurt and frightened. She looked away from him. His expression made her feel guilty and she could almost feel the weight of his love settling lightly but irrevocably over her shoulders. She was very fond of him, and their brief moments of love, as well as the relief and comfort of physical passion, had been a tremendous boost during a drab, exhausting period in her life—but things were changing. She was in control again, working, earning money, independent…

  Mary thought: Do I really want an insecure middle-aged man with family problems rotting up my life for me?

  The thought made her feel ashamed. Patrick had been very kind to her and she’d been too grateful, too ready to try to repay his kindness. She’d believed him to be a man who’d been neglected by his wife and was looking for a little comfort. She’d gone along with him, dreaming their little dream, but not taking it too seriously and imagining that he was doing the same. The expression on his face showed her that she was wrong.

  ‘Look,’ she said gently. ‘Your wife looked like a lady who has no intention of being left. She’s not going to lie down quietly so that we can walk over her, off into the sunset. I can’t afford any mess or muddle, Pat, you know that. Stuart has to come first. He’s vulnerable and weak. He’s settling down really well at school and I think that it’s because he’s feeling secure for the first time since the accident. No one’s going to take that away from him, Pat. No one.’

  ‘I know,’ he said wretchedly. ‘Of course I know that. But she doesn’t really want me. I’m sure of that. If I make sure she’s well provided for—’

  Mary laughed. ‘You’re kidding,’ she said. ‘You know your wife better than I do but I simply wouldn’t count on that, I really wouldn’t.’

  His look of despair made her feel guilty and ashamed. He’d been so sweet, so generous.

  ‘Look,’ she said, giving in, ‘of course, we’ll have our weekend. We’ve got it all planned now, so why not? We’ll talk everything through then but please leave things just as they are until afterwards. Don’t rock any boats or we might find everything ruined. Promise?’

  He promised. Of course he did. She knew just how important the weekend was to him. After he’d gone she went in the small bedroom to look at Stuart. She kissed him lightly, moved by a fierce protective love for him. Nothing must hurt him further; nothing and no one.

  Walking home, Patrick tried to pin down his ideas. He must work through this sensibly, positively, but he was aware of the dangers. He could not protect Mary and Stuart, although he wanted to think that he could. If Selina chose to spill the beans to the school governors it was likely that he or Mary—or both—could suffer. It was possible that nobody would give a damn but he couldn’t take the chance. So how could he work through it? If only he had enough money to set Mary up in her own place, where he could join her when the dust settled, then at least she would have a certain security. It would be unforgivable to damage her—yet he needed her; needed her desperately. Life would be intolerable without the thought of her in the background. Her little flat, plain and poor though it was, had become a haven for him. On these evenings, when Selina was at her bridge club and imagined him to be having supper at the pub, he and Mary were always together. He’d buy a takeaway and a bottle of wine which they’d share at the small rickety table and afterwards they’d make love. Oh, how long the summer holidays had seemed; how interminable. No school and the bridge club closed for six weeks had cut their opportunities considerably. It was the memory of those endless weeks which had made him determined to force things to a conclusion. Yet, this evening, he’d felt a drawing back on Mary’s part; a reluctance.

  He pushed the thought away from him. After all, it was perfectly reasonable that she should feel nervous. That meeting with Selina had put the whole thing on a different footing and it was unreasonable to hope that Mary would be unmoved by it. She had so much to lose that it was only natural that she should have moments of panic. Their lovemaking had been as good as ever, the weekend away shimmered temptingly ahead, and he felt refreshed and confident again. Somehow he must make it work. As he opened the gate and felt for his key, he glanced up at the smart little terraced house. Simple though it was it was a great deal better than most of his colleagues could afford. This was thanks to Hector’s generosity, of course, and Patrick knew that it was incumbent upon him to make certain that Selina did not suffer financially either. He must be fair to them both, but how was it to be done?

  A quick glance round showed him that Selina was not yet home. Relieved, Patrick hung up his coat and hurried up the stairs. With luck he might be in bed and feigning sleep before she arrived back.

  Chapter Ten

  Polonius sat on the veranda watching Maudie rake the leaves from the lawn. Each time she turned to look at him he sat up, his ears pricked, hopeful that she might allow him to join her—but Maudie refused to be moved by his eager expectancy. The long sheltered lawn with its high, thick hedges was approached only from the French windows of the bungalow and it had a secret, magical quality, rather like the gardens described in fairy tales. Beneath the hedge the first tiny snowdrops would appear, piercing the frozen earth, their pale, delicate heads drooping on green stems. These ‘fair maids of February’ were often to be found just after Christmas in this mild climate and Maudie always felt a glow of joy when she saw them gleaming bravely on a dull, cold winter morning. As spring approached primroses could be seen amongst the wet grass, growing with clumps of sweet smelling violets, and Maudie would wander contentedly along the winding paths, greeting these long familiar friends, waiting for the first showing of the daffodils’ bright trumpets and the dainty lady’s smock. She had no intention of allowing Polonius’s huge paws to crush these fragile plants and, whilst he was allowed to roam freely around the back of the house and in the woods, here, in this little sanctuary, he was confined.

  Maudie leaned the rake against the wooden seat and looked down into the still, quiet water of the pond. This was the natural pond where frogs and toads returned each year to breed so that, later, the water would be seething with wriggling tadpoles. In summer, around its edge, yellow stonecrop would flower amongst the slates and campanula would tumble, nodding at its trembling image in the cloud-reflecting water. The white blossoms of the weeping cherry would float and drift amongst the weed whilst abov
e them dragonflies would hover with shimmering wings. Even now, on this chill, dank November morning, a pink primula blossomed bravely in its terracotta pot and the leaves of the azalea were greeny-bronze.

  In the lower pond Maudie could see the hint of gold and the flick of a tail in the shadowy depths. There were goldfish here although it was difficult to see them. In this boggy corner, hidden from the sun except at the height of summer, the tall yellow flag Iris pseudacorus and handsome bulrushes made their home alongside the pretty Butomus umbellatus, with its rose-pink blossoms, and the gay yellow marsh marigold. Between tall stems and lush wet grasses, below the spongy leaves of the water dock, tiny froglets made their slow progress away from the safety of their pond, protected from the greedy eyes of predators. Here great toads squatted in magisterial comfort, watching for slugs, blinking lazily at the small red damselflies which flitted restlessly around them.

  Maudie straightened up. Those warm, languorous days were yet far ahead; first came Christmas. As she trod the path back to the veranda she allowed herself a moment of sheer, childish thrill. Another card from Posy had arrived this morning.

  ‘How would you feel about me spending Christmas with you,’ she’d scrawled, the words wedged between all her news.

  It was impossible, of course. Coming on top of the news about Moorgate it would be the final straw for poor Selina, yet how to refuse? How could she bring herself to resist such a delightful treat? Pausing to pat Polonius, who had watched her approach with great eagerness, she stepped over the low chain which was slung between the supporting posts and kicked off her gumboots. Presently she would go into Bovey Tracey to do some shopping but first a cup of coffee would not go amiss. As she put water in the percolator and spooned coffee into the filter she was remembering Christmases with Hector. For him it was a time of parties, theatres, dinners, and he was never happier than to be dressing for some formal event; wandering between the bedroom and his dressing room, white shirt-tails dangling, his legs long and elegant in knee-length black socks, bending so that he might peer into her looking-glass whilst he tied his bow tie. His face would appear beside her own, frowning in concentration, and she would pause in the application of her make-up to look at him.