A Week in Winter: A Novel

by Willett, Marcia

  She thought: Why? Why can’t I be nice to Selina? Why can’t I manage it even for a few seconds? I didn’t have to tell her about Moorgate when she was so upset.

  Maudie picked up the Cottage magazine, read an article about Teignbridge District Council’s plans to introduce Pay and Display charges in Bovey Tracey’s free car park, and put it down again without having taken in a single word of it. Was it really true that Patrick had given in his notice and was leaving Selina? And, even if he had, surely she, Maudie, could have managed a genuine word of sympathy or shown some compassion? The trouble was that she’d never quite understood how Patrick had managed to live with Selina for nearly thirty years in the first place. It was only because he was so utterly self-effacing, so blessed with humility, that he’d been able to cope with her at all.

  ‘It would be a mistake,’ Daphne had once said, ‘to believe that Selina is a strong character. Her aggressiveness and desire to control is rooted in fear. My anxiety is that Patrick will not help her to grow. He will simply acquiesce whilst protecting her from herself

  Maudie groaned aloud. It seemed as if all that were about to change.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The café in the Mill was quiet on this cold, wet Saturday afternoon. Thick grey cloud obscured the higher slopes of the moor and the rain drummed relentlessly in the valleys. Riding was out of the question but Hugh had suggested tea, instead.

  Posy thought: He probably heard the desperation in my voice. Dear Hugh. He is so kind.

  Maudie had dropped her at the Mill before going on to have tea with her friend, Jean Serjeant.

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ she’d said. ‘I’d assumed you’d be riding, anyway.’

  For some reason Posy had been quite unable to bring herself to relate to Maudie this latest instalment in her parents’ drama. She’d found it impossible to tell anyone, yet; probably because she couldn’t sort out her own feelings. She edged her way along, looking at each step carefully, from all angles, lest she should be unjust or selfish. Sometimes, briefly, she allowed herself to be both at once but it was surprisingly difficult to come to a mature conclusion. What might seem reasonable from her father’s point of view looked quite different through her mother’s eyes. Her thought processes described frustrating circles until she thought she might scream aloud.

  Hugh was watching her.

  ‘I met a really nice girl in here a couple of weeks ago,’ she said quickly, randomly. ‘We sat by the window and talked about the birds …’ And about being married for thirty-five years with five children, she might have added—but she could not bring herself to say that out loud to Hugh. Suddenly she was bathed in a hot tide of self-consciousness and she remembered how she’d felt like this years before when she’d imagined herself in love with him. She buttered her scone with great deliberation but it remained uneaten on her plate.

  ‘So how are things at home?’

  Posy heaved a huge, silent sigh of relief. In her anxiety she’d begun to feel it impossible to talk even to Hugh about it.

  ‘Terrible,’ she said—and fell silent.

  ‘Were we wrong about your father?’

  ‘Yes. No.’ She pushed her hands through her hair, straining it back from her face. ‘Sorry. I mean that the affair, if it was one, doesn’t matter any more. Dad’s decided that he’s had enough. He’s giving up his job and leaving Mum and he’s going to work with an organisation called L’Arche. They have houses, communities, all over the world and they help people who have learning disabilities and have been marginalised by society. You get your board and lodging and a bit of pocket money, from what I can gather …’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard about L’Arche. A friend of mine put in a year after university. Wonderful places.’

  She stared at him. ‘But you don’t think it’s a bit bizarre? Like, giving up your job and abandoning your family at fifty? I agree, it’s great if you’re just out of university, but don’t you think it’s a touch weird when you’re middle-aged? Not to say irresponsible?’

  ‘You’re angry with him?’

  Posy closed her eyes—and then she laughed. ‘Yes. Yes. I am angry with him. I admit it. I’ve been trying to be very fair and sensible about it but I can’t get my head round it.’

  ‘Perhaps you should do the angry bit first? Get it out of your system? Then you can be very cool afterwards.’

  ‘It’s not funny,’ she said crossly.

  ‘Who said it was?’ Hugh drank some tea. ‘But it’s always best to allow yourself to react. No good pushing it down so that it can erupt later.’

  ‘But what I feel doesn’t really matter, does it? As Dad says, I’m grown up now, I’m hardly ever at home. Why shouldn’t he do what he wants for a change? He’s done all the right things for thirty years and Mum’s made his life hell. Now it’s his turn.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable. How does your mother feel about it?’

  ‘She won’t talk to me,’ said Posy moodily. ‘She thinks I’ll be on his side and she’s just sarcastic all the time. I tried to say that I thought it was a bit much but she wouldn’t let me get a word in.’

  ‘It sounds as if he’s just come to the end of everything, doesn’t it? Perhaps the girl was a kind of catalyst. Whether he had an affair or not, she was the one that brought things to a head.’

  ‘Mum probably wishes he’d had an affair after all. It would have fizzled out and things would have gone back to normal.’

  ‘You think your mother would rather have an adulterer for a husband than one who gives up everything to help disadvantaged people?’

  ‘Well …’ Posy hesitated, frowning. ‘I don’t know. Sounds a bit crass when you put it like that. Either way it’s selfish, isn’t it? Leaving someone after nearly thirty years.’

  ‘It sounds selfish. But I think it depends on what’s gone on during those thirty years. If your mother’s been the selfish one then perhaps it’s time your father had a turn. How will she manage without him?’

  ‘There’s not a financial problem. He’s leaving everything for her—the house and their savings and stuff. She’ll be OK. He’s suggested that she sells the house and downsizes, which won’t have pleased her, but she won’t starve.’

  ‘Perhaps it might even be good for her.’

  ‘Good for her?’

  Hugh shrugged. ‘You can never tell. Life ought to be about growing. Letting people walk all over you isn’t good for them. It might be a blessing in disguise.’

  ‘And I thought you were going to be sympathetic’

  He smiled at her. ‘Do you need sympathy?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘I needed tea and sympathy and you’ve been … realistic’

  ‘Sorry.’ He poured more tea. ‘Shall we start again?’

  ‘No.’ She pushed her cup over to be refilled. ‘No, it’s OK. I can hack it.’

  ‘After all,’ he said, ‘you’ll still be seeing him, won’t you? He hasn’t stopped caring about you.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘I know all that. It’s just that there are special family moments …’ She paused again. Times like weddings, she wanted to say, and when babies are born—but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words to him. ‘Just moments,’ she finished lamely. ‘Moments when you want them there, being a proper family.’

  ‘Well, of course, in an ideal world that’s what we’d all like. Unfortunately we don’t live in an ideal world. Our expectations are not always attainable. People don’t Uve up to our requirements. Siblings are selfish and quarrelsome. Parents are argumentative and tiresome and get ill and need to be looked after. Sometimes they even die, usually at inconvenient moments.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ she said—but she was laughing now. ‘I wanted to have a good whinge not a lecture.’

  ‘Well, that just proves my point,’ he said comfortably, starting on his cake. ‘Your expectation was unattainable. To begin with, you don’t even know whose side you’re on. Or was that what you wanted to whinge about?’

&nbs
p; ‘I don’t know what I wanted,’ she admitted. ‘I still don’t, really. But I feel better about it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Hugh. ‘Splendid. I have to say that this cake has absolutely lived up to my expectation of it and I intend to have some more. Want to try some?’

  ‘Why not? Thanks.’

  Feeling happier she began to eat her scone. The couple at the window table began to gather up their belongings and Posy wondered whether to make a dash for her favourite seat. The rain was slanting down, the sky heavy and dark, and she decided that it wasn’t worth the effort, but as she ate her scone she remembered the girl and how she’d told her about Hugh. There had been something special about her, something indefinable.

  Posy thought: I wonder where she is now?

  Rob drove into the yard, climbed out of the pick-up and felt in his pocket for the keys. It was odd that, now everything was in train, survey done, mortgage agreed but documents yet to be signed, he had no desire to continue his clandestine visits to Moorgate. Ever since Melissa left, it had seemed rather pointless; in fact he sometimes wondered whatever had possessed him in the first place. Even thinking about it could make him feel rather foolish until he remembered Melissa saying, ‘I would have done exactly the same myself’ She had understood his obsession; had been ready to behave in the same reckless way. What a week it had been!

  Letting himself into the kitchen Rob was aware of the now-familiar secret warmth. That fusion of chemistry was so incredible, so unlikely, that he longed to telephone her; to hear her voice and confirm her existence. She was such an extraordinary girl, so beautiful, so funny, so vulnerable, yet so brave, that he was not yet quite able to believe his luck. He needed regular contact. Trying to resist the urge to telephone her he went from room to room, checking that all was well. Now that the weather was warmer he’d stopped trying to keep the sitting-room fire alight but trusted to the Esse and the woodburner to hold the damp at bay.

  Upstairs in the big bedroom he sat down on the window seat. He often telephoned her from this vantage point; listening to the rooks, recalling how they’d made love. In his mind’s eye he saw her standing at the window watching the snow; asleep, dreaming, with the moonlight on her face; her passion for chocolate and the way she wrapped herself in shawls, always cold. Unable to resist, he took his mobile telephone from his jacket pocket and pressed the buttons. Her voice was slow, dreamy, preoccupied.

  ‘How are you?’ He always asked this question.

  ‘Busy.’ He could hear that she was smiling. ‘I’m checking proofs. Concentrating.’

  ‘Proofs?’

  A little pause. ‘Yes. You know. Contracts and things. Where are you?’ She always asked this question.

  ‘In the bedroom.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s true. It is the best place for a signal inside the house.’

  ‘Oh, Rob.’ She was laughing now. ‘Our lovely air bed and those wonderful hot-water bottles.’

  ‘I was thinking about that, too. We’ll keep it and use it on every anniversary.’ A much longer silence. ‘It won’t be long now,’ he said urgently. ‘We’re getting on, aren’t we? The mortgage’s arranged and Jenny’s being fantastic. I had no idea things could be moved along so quickly.’

  ‘There are no chains. Nothing to hold it up.’ Her voice sounded as if she were tired.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Not overworking?’

  ‘Probably, but never mind.’

  ‘I wish I could see you. Are you sure I couldn’t come up, even for the day?’

  ‘No, honestly, Rob. It would be such a muddle. Now the flat’s sold I haven’t anywhere to put you up. It’s horrid being homeless and having to stay with friends. And I don’t want us to be roaming the streets in the rain. I know it sounds crazy but I want to think of you there. At Moorgate. It won’t be for much longer.’

  ‘I know. I’m just being selfish, really. We had so little time together.’

  ‘Oh, Rob, I know. I love you so much. Look, I really must go.’

  ‘Sorry to distract you. I just needed to hear your voice. What’s that noise? Sounds like a baby?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. A colleague’s brought her new baby in to show us. Take care, Rob. I’ll phone this evening. About eight? Love.’

  He thrust the mobile back into his pocket. He felt all the frustration of their separation, yet the brief contact had comforted him and there was the evening call to anticipate, to hold as a talisman throughout the day. He went downstairs, planning a message to send to her later, hoping she might send him one. Now he was never parted from his mobile and it was never switched off, just in case. Whistling quietly to himself, Rob began to feed logs into the woodburner. He’d spoken to his mother the previous evening, told her that he was buying a house. She’d sounded quite pleased in her usual laconic manner.

  ‘That’s good then. So what’s it like, this house?’ And when he’d told her, described Moorgate, ‘Not taking on more than you can chew?’ she’d asked shrewdly. He’d felt the age-old antagonism rising but had been quite unable to tell her about Melissa. He knew that it would be impossible to explain to his canny, pragmatic mother the effects of that magic week or how he felt. She would be horrified to hear that he was buying a house with a girl he’d known for barely five days. The thought of her reaction made him nervous—though he hated to admit it to himself—made him wonder if he’d taken leave of his senses. At these times he absolutely required contact with Melissa. Only the sound of her voice could restore his confidence.

  ‘I’m thirty-five,’ he’d tell himself, irritated by his weakness. ‘I don’t need my mother’s approval.’

  He’d told her that he knew what he was doing, had everything under control, and she’d replied—brightly—that she was glad to hear it. Afterwards he wondered why, since they were not particularly close, she still had the power to get under his skin. No, he had not been able to talk to her about Melissa. She would have asked searching questions, demanded to know the date of the wedding. It was odd that he and Melissa never actually talked about commitment. It seemed implicit in all that they were planning that their lives were bound together. He imagined that this was why he no longer needed to camp at Moorgate. Soon they would be here together, doing it for real; there was no need, now, for pretence.

  Melissa pushed back her chair and went to Luke, where he lay sobbing quietly to himself in his playpen. He’d managed to pull himself up, so as to fling one of his toys over the bar, and then had tumbled backwards. He was surprised rather than hurt, wanting the toy which now lay beyond his reach, and Melissa leaned over to lift him out so as to comfort him. She staggered a little beneath his weight, feeling suddenly weak, and was glad to fall into the roomy armchair beside the French window. Luke stretched out his hand, yearning towards the toy, a plush golden lion, which lay nearby on the floor, and she bent down to pick it up.

  ‘Boh, boh, boh, ba,’ he murmured contentedly, taking it in both chubby hands, and she lulled him with a wordless little tune, rocking him.

  She thought: He must have put on weight. Or maybe it was the way I picked him up.

  Fear plucked at her heart and her throat and she held Luke closer, willing away her private terror with the comfort of his warmth. As Luke became sleepy she concentrated on thoughts of Rob, of Moorgate. Closing her eyes, she saw again the sweep of moorland and Rob, climbing the slope in the shadow of the thorn. She relived their first supper; Rob in the deckchair eating the steak and kidney pie; talking about furnishing the kitchen, buying china for the dresser.

  ‘Treasured pieces that go together,’ she’d said, ‘because they’re loved and because you simply couldn’t live without having them. Do you know what I mean?’ she’d asked and he’d said, ‘I’m beginning to think I do,’ and had raised his glass to her. How hard it had been to hide her confusion, to pretend that she had the right to embark on this magic, incredible affair. Holding Luke tightly she wrestled with the guilt which threatened to diminish her happiness. Was it merely delusion to imagine
that Rob would forgive her deceit; would understand once he knew the truth? She must write the letter before it was too late; too late for the memories to be clear, to explain exactly why she’d misled him. And he would have Moorgate …

  Luke’s warm, heavy body, his regular breathing, relaxed her and presently she, too, slept, her cheek turned against his soft hair and small round head.

  Mike found them thus when he came down for lunch. He stood inside the door watching them, painfully aware of Melissa’s thin cheeks, the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the terrible transparency and frailness of her slender form. In contrast the child seemed to bloom, exuding vital, sturdy life, even in sleep. Despair seized him; the powerlessness and inevitability of it, numbing and weakening him. Melissa smiled and murmured in her sleep.

  ‘Can you hear the lambs?’ she asked.

  He turned away, then, going out into the shadowy hall where his tears might not be seen, standing for a moment, leaning against the wall. After a moment he went back, noisily enough to disturb her, to give her time to collect herself.

  ‘Lunchtime,’ he said. ‘How have you been getting on with the proofs?’

  He took the heavy child from her and they smiled at one another, each knowing the effort the other was making; the knowledge making it possible to endure what lay ahead.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Mum?’ said Posy. ‘Are you there, Mum? Look, I know you don’t really want to discuss this with me but I want to know what you’re going to do?’

  ‘Do?’ Selina, still smarting from the embarrassment of overindulgence, sounded frostier than usual. ‘I suppose you mean about your father? Why should I do anything?’

  ‘So you’re just going to carry on like nothing’s happened?’ Posy tried not to let irritation creep into her voice.

  ‘I don’t have much choice. I’m certainly not going round telling everyone, if that’s what you mean, and I’d be pleased if you could make an attempt at discretion.’