‘Its name shows that it’s at the edge of the moor,’ she’d said, as they’d pored together over the map, ‘so it’s got to be within this small area. It should be obvious.’
It might have looked obvious on the tourist map but here, in the twisty, secret, unmarked lanes it could just as easily have been a maze. Nevertheless, she was enchanted. There were primroses growing, luminously pale, on the steep banks beneath the trembling catkins, and violets clung, sweet-scented, amongst woody roots. She drove slowly through a small hamlet, granite cottages huddling about a grassy triangle with a stone cross set in it, and plunged once more into a deep, narrow lane which curved sharply left, uphill, and opened suddenly upon a grove of trees to the right. To the left was the house. It was set back a little from the lane, settled well in, comfortable, solid; an old farmhouse washed a deep, warm cream with—surprisingly—dark red painted window frames and gutters. It should have looked odd but to Melissa’s fascinated gaze it looked wonderful. The ‘For Sale’ board leaned a little drunkenly against the low stone wall.
She edged the car in close to the wall and switched off the engine. Silence. Presently she became aware of the cawing of rooks and, further off, the plaintive bleating of lambs. She stepped out of the Polo and stood in the sunshine, looking across the roof of the car at the house. It wasn’t particularly large or architecturally beautiful, just a stone and slate farmhouse, but she felt, quite simply, that it was hers. The front garden was tiny, but crocus and daffodil were growing in the narrow beds beneath the windows and jasmine climbed the porch. There was a small gate in the wall, which closed the garden off from the yard to the left, and the flagged path led across to the lawn which spread away to the right of the house, encircled by tall shrubs. The outbuildings had been restored and the yard was empty.
Melissa closed the car door quietly and strolled to the wrought-iron gate. ‘Moorgate’—the legend was painted in black on a small wooden board attached to the gate. Moorgate. The gate to the moor. She glanced up the lane, which curved to the right and wound out of sight. There was no reason to believe that the moor was not just around the curve. She laid her hand upon the gate, pushing it gently, and passed into the garden. It was a matter of a few steps to the front door but she chose, first, to walk upon the springy turf of the lawn and to look more closely at the tall, flowering shrubs. Here, hidden from the lane by azalea, weigela and lilac, out of the wind’s touch, it was warm, and she moved slowly, looking up at the shrubs, noting the buds already formed. After a while she returned to the path and stood looking at the house. Her whole instinct told her that it was empty but, simply to prove that it was so, she rang the bell. No one came hurrying to answer it. Gently, very gently, she turned the door handle but the solid oak door remained firmly closed. Cupping her hands about her eyes she looked through the windows, into the rooms on either side of the porch. They were similar: large, heavily beamed, with great granite fireplaces and shelved recesses. Both were full of sunlight, newly painted and quite empty of furniture.
She wandered back along the path, round the corner of the house and stopped short with a tiny cry of amazement. The moor, stretching as far as the eye could see, flowed like some great ocean up to the very house. The path finished in a cleared turfed square, enclosed by a ring fence, and beyond it she could see the lambs with their mothers and, beyond again, ponies grazing. Outcrops of granite burst haphazard from the peaty earth and she could hear the sound of water singing in some nearby coomb which was hidden by the folded brown cheek of the moor. The ponies, disturbed by something she could not see, skittered together, prancing and whinnying, so that the sheep raised their heads, crying to their lambs who raced on springy legs to press against reassuringly warm, rough, woolly flanks. Here on the north side, out of the sun, the air was icy and, pulling her ruana more closely round her, Melissa turned her back on the moor and gazed up at the house. A huge glassed porch enclosed the back door and once again she went to peer in at the windows. On either side of the porch, the windows let in to the same room: a huge kitchen with a range. There was a door at either end and one opposite the window which almost certainly led into the hall. Standing on tiptoe she could see the sink unit directly below the window and imagined herself standing there, washing up, preparing vegetables, gazing out at the moor.
Once again Melissa stepped back, staring up at the windows on the first floor. There were five bedrooms altogether—and what views the rooms on this north side of the house must have! Whoever lived here, however, must choose to wake to the morning sun or to breathtaking views; must decide between moonlight or the shadowy moorland. She crossed the turf behind the house and entered the yard. Logs were piled in the corner of an open-fronted barn next to a loosebox and a washing line was strung between two sturdy poles. Leaning for a moment on the five-bar gate, she watched the rooks. Noisy, acrimonious, but sociable, they congregated in the tall trees across the lane; the beginnings of bulky, twiggy nests conspicuous amongst the bare branches.
Melissa thought: How wonderful to live in a place where the only sounds you can hear from your front gate are made by rooks and lambs.
She let herself out, closing the gate carefully behind her, climbed into the car and drove slowly up the lane.
Chapter Eighteen
Later that same day, arriving home from Newton Abbot, having seen Posy off on the train, Maudie was just in time to snatch up the telephone receiver.
‘Yes?’ she said, in her usual faintly peremptory manner. ‘Hello?’
Selina sounded slightly breathless. Maudie’s telephone manner always irritated her but this evening she could not allow herself the luxury of irritation.
‘Oh, Maudie,’ she said brightly. ‘How are you? Is Posy with you?’
At the other end of the line Maudie smiled evilly to herself It was a good ploy but she knew a trick worth two of that.
‘Long gone, I’m afraid, Selina,’ she said cheerfully. ‘So sorry you’ve missed her. You’ll catch her later on this evening, I expect.’
The finality in her voice, the implication that she was about to replace the receiver, hurried Selina into speech.
‘Oh, right. OK. I’ll do that. But how are you, Maudie? Have you had a nice weekend together?’
‘Very nice. It’s such a treat to have Posy to stay.’
Even if it means having to put up with Polonius. The sour words rose to Selina’s lips but she bit them back.
‘It was good of you to take Polonius.’ She couldn’t resist a tiny, tiny dig; a hint that she knew exactly why Maudie had given a home to the wretched animal.
‘It was a ruse on my part.’ Maudie had no intention of letting the insinuation go unremarked. ‘He’s my bribe. But you suspected that, didn’t you?’
Selina gritted her teeth together. ‘Nonsense.’ She laughed lightly. ‘You’ve never needed bribes where Posy’s concerned. She’s always adored you.’
‘Extraordinary, isn’t it?’ Maudie invited Selina’s bafflement. ‘And in the face of such determined opposition, too. Anyway, never mind all that. What can I do for you, Selina?’
Selina, who had hoped to work round to Moorgate by degrees, having invoked Hector’s memory and passed on to happy holidays and family loyalty, glared at the telephone receiver.
‘I was thinking about Moorgate.’ She abandoned any hope of subtlety and went straight to the point. ‘I’m really serious about buying it, Maudie. I’m hoping you’ll be prepared to talk terms with me.’
‘Are you selling the London house?’
Selina frowned at such a blunt question. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I … We did think about it but decided against it. No, we want to keep Moorgate as a holiday home. As it was for us when we were children.’
‘But it wasn’t, Selina. Not as we think of holiday homes now. When your mother was alive the tenants were prepared to let you use it for a few weeks each summer and later on there was a gap between long-term tenants. Moorgate has never been a holiday home. You know very well that if it
’s not lived in it will be damp and uninhabitable in a matter of months. Anyway, forgive me for being impertinent, but how on earth could Patrick afford to buy it and run it on his salary?’
‘It would be difficult,’ said Selina stiffly, ‘we realise that, but we think it’s worth the sacrifice.’
‘Whose sacrifice? His or yours? What sacrifice will you be making, Selina?’
‘I really don’t see that it’s any of your business. I’m simply asking if you will take it off the market while we get our act together. I don’t think that it’s too unreasonable given that really you have no right to it at all.’
‘Oh, not that again, please,’ said Maudie wearily. ‘The answer is no. If you haven’t been able to sort yourselves out since last November I can’t see why you should now. And I have no intention of allowing you to drive yourselves into the ground with such a burden round your necks. Your father would never have approved of it. If you want to sell up and live on the edge of Bodmin Moor that’s one thing and I can’t stop you. If you do, then you shall have every opportunity to buy Moorgate. Otherwise you’d be committing financial suicide and you know it. Or if you won’t accept it, Selina, I’m sure Patrick knows it.’
‘So you won’t help us?’
Maudie sighed. ‘I thought that that’s exactly what I was doing. Very well. I’d like to speak to Patrick.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Patrick’s the breadwinner. I want to hear how he plans to finance this operation. I want to see figures before I consider it. Is he there?’
‘No,’ she answered sulkily. ‘Anyway, I speak for Patrick.’
‘Oh, I know you do,’ said Maudie. ‘But just this once I want to hear him say it and I want to see how he plans to achieve it. Your father would have needed to be certain before he was a party to this, Selina, as well you know. So ask Patrick to call me when he gets in, will you?’
She winced as Selina slammed the receiver on to its rest and replaced her own rather thoughtfully.
‘I behaved badly,’ she told Polonius remorsefully. ‘I intended to be much nicer to Selina but she always rubs me up the wrong way.’
As she hung up her jacket, filled the kettle with water and opened the stove, she remembered her good intentions. Posy’s feelings about Patrick had opened her eyes to the way the young Selina might have felt and she couldn’t quite shrug off her feelings of guilt, despite Daphne’s words of comfort. Whether Hector was a widower or not, Selina had probably found the whole idea of his relationship with Maudie quite repugnant and it was specious to be sympathetic to Posy’s reaction without giving some retrospective thought to Selina.
‘Oh, guilt! Guilt!’ she cried angrily, thrusting logs into the glowing embers. ‘How tiresome it is to feel responsible for people.’
Polonius watched her anxiously. He’d grown used to a peaceful tenor to his life and Maudie’s sudden burst of frustration reminded him of earlier, unhappier days. Sensing his anxiety, she paused to pull his ears.
‘I’m a selfish old woman,’ she told him. ‘I like to have my own way. Well, who doesn’t? But I was going to be nicer. I was going to be friendly to Selina. To try to make up for being thoughtless all those years ago. But now I see that it was doomed to failure and I feel mortified by my lack of will.’
Polonius thumped his tail obligingly, relieved that the storm was passing and that he was not the cause of it. Maudie shut the stove doors and he lay down in his usual position on the rug. She stared down at him, still feeling dissatisfied with herself.
‘Honestly,’ she muttered, ‘my good intentions didn’t last five minutes. The trouble is that Selina and I are simply incompatible. We all knew that on day one. How she disliked me!’
As she went back to the kitchen to make some tea she recalled a scene some twenty years before when Hector had been told that he was to receive a knighthood. He’d attempted—unsuccessfully—to hide his delight by joking about it, explaining the system.
‘It’s easy enough to remember,’ he’d said. ‘CMG stands for Call Me God. KCMG is Kindly Call Me God. And GCMG is God Calls Me God.’
Selina had been beside herself with pride and she’d made sure that everybody she met knew about it: ‘That was just before Daddy was K’d …’ ‘Oh, well when Daddy was K’d …’ Somehow she’d managed to drag it into even the most unlikely conversation but to Maudie she’d been unable to contain her resentment.
‘You don’t deserve it,’ she’d said furiously. ‘It’s Mummy who should be Lady Todhunter, not you. It isn’t fair.’
‘My dear child, I couldn’t agree with you more,’ Maudie had answered. ‘I promise you I find it utterly embarrassing to be called Lady Todhunter. The whole thing is quite ludicrous.’
It had infuriated Selina even more to learn that Maudie wasn’t overwhelmed by such honour and her rage had become quite coruscating in its vehemence. Once more Hector had been obliged to intervene and Daphne had privately taken Selina aside and pointed out that her sulks were spoiling her father’s pleasure in his achievement.
‘Although I have to say,’ she’d said later to Maudie, ‘that you are being quite unnatural about this. We’d all give our eyeteeth to be Lady Whatever and you’re behaving as if it’s simply rather tiresome.’
‘It just seems so utterly unreal’ was all Maudie had answered, though she’d tried to be thrilled for Hector’s sake.
Maudie carried her tea into the living room and sat down at the table, still remembering. Her attempt had never really come off and she knew that Hector had been well aware of the sardonic gleam in her eye when people ‘sirred’ him.
She thought: I made him uncomfortable and he was never really able to luxuriate in his glory when I was around. Poor old Hector. What a cow I am!
Yet she knew that she was right about Moorgate. It would be disastrous for Selina to buy it and she could only hope that Patrick was not submitting to emotional blackmail and would stand firm. Maudie picked up the envelope from the Scotch House, tipped the pieces of tartan cloth on to the table and shuffled them absently. She needed a buyer; someone who would make an offer and put a stop to Selina’s nonsense.
‘Who was it?’
Selina whirled round on her chair, caught in the act, already mentally inventing a reason for slamming down the receiver.
‘It was … I was just …’
‘It was Maudie, wasn’t it?’
She watched Patrick warily. He seemed to have passed beyond her reach and even now was regarding her with a polite indifference which was oddly unnerving. For the first time in their married life he was untouched by her anger, her scorn or her wheedling. Now, of all times, when he should be desperate to make reparation, he was unmoved.
‘Yes, it was Maudie,’ she said quickly. ‘I was talking to her about Moorgate.’
‘Oh, Moorgate. You never give up, do you, Selina?’
His amused, casual reaction increased her anxiety. ‘I still feel we could buy it if we made an effort. Especially now …’ Her voice died under his puzzled scrutiny.
‘Especially now? I think not. If you want to sell this house and move to Cornwall that’s fine. As far as I’m concerned this house is yours and you can do what you like with it. You could sell it, buy Moorgate and have a bit over and then it’s up to you.’ He shrugged. ‘As for me. Well, I think I’ve had enough.’
‘Enough? Enough of what?’ Fear made her shrill. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve had enough of you. Of married life. Of being dull old Patrick Stone. I’m going to pack it in. Go off somewhere. Live a bit before it’s too late.’
‘I hope you don’t mind if I say that you sound like a corny character in some third-rate melodrama.’
If she’d hoped to sting him into a defensive stance she was disappointed. He laughed.
‘I don’t mind what you say. I’m past caring what anyone says. I just thought you should know where you stand regarding Moorgate. Count me out.’
‘Don’t be such a fool—’
She heard the front door close but she seemed unable to rise from her chair. Of course, it was ridiculous and he didn’t mean a word of it, she told herself. He was trying to make himself interesting, hoping to distract her from his unfaithfulness. Nevertheless, a tiny, panicky voice was asking what she would do if he were serious; how she’d cope if he’d really had enough? She had no answer, however, and presently she got up and went into the kitchen to pour herself a drink.
In the pub, Patrick ordered a pint and stood waiting, staring reflectively at nothing in particular. Ever since Christmas an odd kind of lassitude had been growing in him; an apathetic indifference. Even the pain of seeing Mary at school had lost its keen edge of misery and lately he’d felt merely sad. It was worrying—or it would be if only he could make that much mental effort—because it was rather unpleasant, this lack of emotion. At least his desperation had carried with it the comfort of feeling alive; these days he simply felt detached.
He paid for his pint, remembering other evenings; marking time until he could go out to the telephone and speak to Mary. How vivid life had seemed then, how charged with excitement. She’d made him feel necessary; given a purpose to his existence. Now there was nothing. Nobody needed him and he was important to nobody.
Patrick swallowed some beer. Well, at least there was a freedom in that; an opportunity to begin something new. The important thing was not to feel sorry for himself.
‘The world is my oyster,’ he announced suddenly—and caught the surprised glance of the young barman. He took another draught, suppressing a rising desire to laugh, and almost choked. As he set his glass down on the bar, still trying to control the urge to giggle foolishly, he wondered whether he might be having a nervous breakdown.
A Week in Winter: A Novel Page 16