A Week in Winter: A Novel

by Willett, Marcia

  ‘You know, it’s really amazing how many people here don’t have the least bit of interest in our family life. What you and Dad do isn’t exactly of global significance, if you know what I mean.’ Posy grabbed at her temper and bit her lip. ‘Sorry …’

  ‘Oh, don’t bother to apologise. I don’t expect anyone to empathise with me.’

  ‘Oh, please. Can we just have a normal conversation? Dad says he’s leaving a few days before Easter and I thought I’d tell you that I’ll be home for the holidays then. If it’s any help—’

  ‘I might not be here,’ said Selina airily. ‘I’m thinking of visiting Patricia.’

  ‘You’re going to Australia for Easter?’

  ‘I might. Why not? There’s nothing to keep me here, is there?’

  ‘No,’ said Posy, after a moment. ‘No, I suppose there isn’t.’

  ‘I have tried to reason with your father.’ Selina shuddered as she remembered her weak, drunken weeping when Patrick had arrived home early and found her well into the second bottle of wine. How could she have abandoned her pride and self-respect so far? Begging him to stay, clinging to him … ‘He is completely selfish,’ cried Selina angrily, ‘and I am not only resigned to his going, I positively welcome it.’

  ‘Right,’ said Posy. ‘Fine.’

  ‘I have no doubt that he’ll be back,’ said Selina viciously, ‘with his tail between his legs. Your father is an idealist’—if she’d called him a serial murderer she could have hardly sounded more disgusted—‘and it won’t be the first time that I have been asked to pay the price for his flights of fancy. One of us has to hold things together.’

  ‘OK,’ said Posy. ‘Well then. As long as you’re happy.’

  Selina laughed. ‘When have you ever worried about that?’

  ‘Look,’ shouted Posy. ‘It’s not just you. He’s leaving all of us. You, me, the boys. We’re all feeling pretty shaken up about it. He’s my father—’

  ‘Well, perhaps you should have thought about that sooner. If you’d behaved like a normal natural daughter instead of rushing off to Maudie whenever you could—’

  ‘Oh, it was bound to come back to Maudie, wasn’t it? It’s all my fault because I happened to want a perfectly ordinary relationship with my grandmother.’

  ‘Step-grandmother,’ hissed Selina. ‘She is no relation to us whatever. She is a cold, calculating cow.’

  ‘Grandfather didn’t think so, did he? He adored her.’

  There was a click and a buzzing noise. Posy took a deep breath and put down the telephone receiver.

  ‘Sod off, then!’ she muttered and felt a foolish, childish desire to burst into noisy, luxurious weeping. She went upstairs, into her room, and sat down on the bed, pushing her hands through her hair.

  ‘I will not feel guilty,’ she told herself. ‘I won’t.’

  She stood up and wandered over to the table which was littered with books, papers and other evidence of study. She stood for a while, staring down, picking up sheets of paper, glancing at one or two textbooks. After some moments, she sat down on the small upright chair, pulled a book towards her and tried to concentrate on her work.

  Shopping in Bovey Tracey, buying some Sharpham cheese at Mann’s, chatting with David Pedrick about the price of lamb, Maudie was thinking about her conversation with Patrick.

  ‘Thanks for phoning,’ he’d said. ‘She’d got herself a bit worked up. Everything’s fine now.’

  ‘Is it?’ Maudie had chuckled a little. ‘Really? Are you sure?’

  ‘Well,’ he’d sounded somewhat embarrassed. ‘Given the circumstances.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Maudie had taken him up on it at once. ‘Given that you’re leaving her, you mean?’

  ‘Maudie,’ he’d said warningly, ‘don’t push your luck. I came home and sorted things out and I’m glad you telephoned. Selina shouldn’t have been alone, I agree, but I’m not open to emotional blackmail. I’ve been there, done it and I have a whole wardrobe of T-shirts.’

  She’d raised her eyebrows, surprised by his cool, calm determination. ‘Fair enough. So when are you off?’

  ‘Just before Easter.’

  It was clear from his brevity that he’d had no intention of confiding in her, nor had he allowed any room for cross-questioning. He’d also wisely refrained from requesting her to look out for Selina—thus opening himself up to criticism. Maudie had wished him luck and hung up. All the same, she couldn’t simply forget about Selina.

  ‘The G-word,’ she muttered as she drove home; turning out on to Monk’s Way, diving off to the left by the thatched cottage and bumping down the narrow lane. ‘The G-word is raising its ugly head again. Selina has always made it painfully clear that she’s never accepted me as a member of her family, so why should I care what happens to her?’

  She thought: Is it because Selina is Hector’s daughter? Or because she is Posy’s mother? Or is it simply because I could have made more of an effort to reach her when she was a child? I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about and it was terribly difficult to love someone who disliked me as blatantly as Selina did. But she was a child. I shouldn’t have expected her to make all the running. I was old enough to know better. The truth of it is that I was jealous. I can see that now. Trying to compete with the perfect Hilda, crazily in love with Hector, resenting anything that came between us. I still do. I still hate it that he apologised to Selina at the end for loving me. She had the last laugh. Oh, hell and damnation, shan’t I ever be rid of it?

  She passed between the two stone plinths which had once supported the railway bridge, feeling depressed and old, trying not to hate both Hilda and Selina. Quite suddenly she recalled a conversation with Daphne, years before. They’d been talking about shoes; discussing Maudie’s long, narrow feet and the difficulty about finding anything that fitted really comfortably.

  ‘Hector always said that Hilda didn’t have toes,’ Daphne had said, chuckling. ‘He said that she simply had serrated edges to her feet.’

  ‘Really?’ Maudie had felt the usual unworthy delight in any disloyal confidence about Hilda. ‘When did he say that? Was it in front of Hilda? Did she mind?’

  ‘Oh.’ Daphne had looked nonplussed for a moment, probably feeling rather guilty. ‘I can’t remember. No, Hilda didn’t mind. At least, I don’t think so. You know Hector. He likes a joke. Better not remind him, though. He’s a touch oversensitive about her now.’

  ‘Of course I won’t,’ Maudie had agreed—but she’d felt complacent, after that, about her long elegant feet.

  Now, passing over Wilford bridge, turning into the drive, she felt a huge sense of relief at the thought of Daphne’s impending visit. She needed Daphne; a detached but loving spectator who would sort them all out, bringing her humorous, calm wisdom to bear on this emotional muddle. As Maudie lifted out her shopping she called to Polonius, who was baying a delighted greeting on the other side of the gate. She’d considered it too warm, on this sunny spring morning, to cram him into the car but as soon as she’d put away the shopping she would take him for a walk through the woods. The prospect filled her with pleasure and her depression receded a little. The sun was almost hot, there was delicious cheese for lunch, and, in a few weeks’ time, Daphne would be here.

  The kitchen was deserted. Mike yawned, rubbing his hands over his unshaven jaw, noting that it was nearly nine o’clock. He’d worked well, today, and he felt weary but at peace—and terribly hungry. A note was propped on top of the tidily stacked pile of proof pages: ‘Feel too tired to eat. Gone off to bed.’

  Fear jolted him out of his other, imaginary, world back into the present. He stood for a moment, indecisively, and then went quietly upstairs. Luke slept peacefully, tidily, his thumb still half in his mouth, and Mike stared down at him thoughtfully. They’d both taken a break at Luke’s teatime and had given him a bath before feeding him and putting him to bed. Mike had noticed that lately Melissa was having great difficulty in lifting the child and he’d realised that he
must be on his guard to protect her. Crossing the small landing, he gently opened her bedroom door. The light streamed across her bed and he saw that she was lying on her back, so flat and light that she seemed to make no impression on the bed, no shape beneath the quilt. Silently he raged against the pervasive, cruel, relentless disease, impotent with helpless fury.

  They’d heard earlier that completion should take place within the next few days and Mike had realised, by the look on Melissa’s face, that she was simply waiting. Ever since she’d returned from Moorgate it was as if she were being sustained by the need to see the sale through. Once it was accomplished she would feel able to let go. And then what? It was difficult to imagine life without Melissa. She inhabited his earliest memories; how would it be without her fun, her determination, her undemanding companionship? Without her love and support?

  His attention was caught by a pale oblong shape, lying on the table beside her bed. He stepped forward cautiously and picked it up, holding it angled towards the light. ‘For Rob’ was written on the front of the bulky envelope. So she’d managed it. In the last few days she’d found the strength—and the courage—to write to him; to explain the reasons for the deception and to assure him of her love.

  Mike thought: I said I’d go down to see him but how will I be able to leave her now? She’s deteriorating so fast. How could I leave her? I’d have to take Luke with me.

  He replaced the letter gently on top of The Golden Treasury and went out. As he made some supper he wondered what he should do. Should he telephone Rob after completion and talk to him? Mike shook his head despairingly. What a shock it was going to be for the poor fellow; how would he deal with it? He might want to refuse to accept Melissa’s part of the house, reject her bequest, and then what? Rob sounded a resourceful, determined man. Once he knew the truth it would be almost impossible to refuse to allow him to come to Oxford, yet Mike knew that this would ruin everything for his sister. She wanted Rob to remember her as she had been in Cornwall and it would be cruel to weight her last days with the responsibility of comforting him, or the guilt of admitting that she’d misled him. The whole thing was quite mad; wildly, crazily impossibly foolish.

  Yet it still might be achieved. His head aching with ideas and plans, Mike sat down to his supper.

  Yet, when the end came, it was so quick that Mike found himself travelling down to Cornwall in the dawn light of a wild March day, speeding along wet deserted roads, his whole mind concentrated upon the interview which lay ahead. Exactly six days after the keys of Moorgate had been officially handed to Rob, Mike found himself standing outside the gate, staring up at the house. The wind roared across the moor from the northwest, battering at the rooks’ nests high in the trees, screaming round the house. The rain had cleared away and the sun was bright, casting sharp shadows, and daffodils gleamed gold in the borders beneath the windows. It was all exactly as Melissa had described it to him.

  The front door opened and Rob stood, hands in pockets, watching him. Mike’s heart thumped against his side and he gasped, a deep steadying breath.

  He opened the gate and walked slowly along the path, pinned by Rob’s unwavering stare.

  ‘I’m Mike,’ he said awkwardly, praying desperately for some kind of guidance. ‘I’m Melissa’s brother.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rob, almost grimly. ‘I thought you might be. I’ve been expecting … something.’

  ‘Expecting …?’

  Rob shrugged. He looked angry, even threatening, and Mike felt a tiny stab of fear. After a moment, however, Rob stood aside and indicated that Mike should enter. They stood together, in the hall, until Rob closed the front door and turned to him.

  ‘I knew something was wrong when I couldn’t get an answer from her mobile and there were no more messages. She’s changed her mind, hasn’t she? Doesn’t want to go through with it?’

  His misery was palpable and Mike’s fear dissolved in sympathy. In his overwhelming need to disabuse Rob of such terrible suspicions, he spoke baldly.

  ‘She never changed her mind for a moment. It’s not that, Rob. Melissa is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ His lips formed the word but did not utter it and he seemed to stagger slightly, as if from a physical blow. He put out an arm, as if to steady himself, and Mike caught him, horrified by his thoughtlessness. Yet how else could he have done it?

  ‘Rob. I’m so sorry. Forgive me for being so brutal. She’d been ill for some time but the end was quick. Oh, hell! Look, can we go somewhere?’

  Rob stumbled ahead of him through the hallway, into the kitchen. A small table stood by the stove, with some chairs, but Rob went to the sink and stood staring out, gripping the edge, his back to Mike.

  ‘Why did nobody tell me she was ill?’

  Mike looked compassionately at the straight back and clenched muscles, sharing the man’s furious unhappiness. ‘She left you a letter.’ He took it from his pocket. ‘Would you …? Do you think you could read it, Rob? She’ll have explained it all so much better than I could and then we can talk. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. She loved you, Rob. Please read the letter.’

  After some moments, Rob turned and took the envelope which Mike held out to him. He nodded, made to leave the kitchen, hesitated.

  ‘There’s coffee and sugar under the sink,’ he mumbled. ‘Milk’s in the larder,’ and went away, shutting the door behind him.

  ‘Shit!’ muttered Mike, near to tears. ‘Oh God.’

  Shaken with grief, weary from the drive from Oxford after long days and nights of vigil, he stumbled about, pushing the kettle on to the hotplate, opening and shutting cupboards, dropping things in his clumsy distress. Presently he stood at the window, holding the mug of coffee, staring out at the wild, majestic landscape. It was as if Melissa leaned at his shoulder, wrapped in her ruana, gazing out eagerly.

  ‘Listen,’ he could hear her saying, ‘can you hear the lambs?’

  Hot tears ran down his cheeks. His own loss was so new, so raw, yet how to comfort Rob? He had no idea how long he stood, waiting, watching the changing colours of the moor, gold, indigo, lavender, as the clouds raced before the wind, but at length he heard the door open behind him. He turned eagerly—but glanced hastily away from the red eyes and ravaged face. At a loss for words he began to make more coffee, his hands trembling.

  ‘When?’ asked Rob.

  ‘Yesterday morning. It was just getting light.’ His own voice wavered. He swallowed, gaining a measure of control. ‘In the last few days she seemed to think that she was here. You were always in her mind. You and Moorgate. She was so happy.’ He spooned coffee into the mugs, his face screwed up like a child’s, and it was Rob who came to comfort him, dropping an arm along his shoulder. ‘Don’t blame her,’ Mike muttered. ‘She loved you but she couldn’t bear for it to be spoiled.’

  ‘It’s a very … wonderful letter,’ said Rob gently. ‘I can’t believe you came so quickly. It’s … extraordinarily brave of you.’

  ‘She wanted you to have the letter earlier.’ Mike wiped away his tears. ‘But the end came so fast, I couldn’t leave her. I hoped that you might come back with me to the funeral. I … She …’ He bent his head and Rob tightened his grip on Mike’s shoulder. ‘We thought it would be right to scatter her ashes here at Moorgate. Where she longed to be.’

  For a moment there was only the wild crying of the wind; then Rob spoke sadly, his eyes on the moor beyond the window.

  ‘Yes, please, Mike. I’d like to come back with you. We’ll have our own little ceremony here later.’

  Mike nodded and Rob hugged him briefly and let his arm drop away. They stood together, each comforted by the other’s presence and by the hot, sweet coffee. Neither felt the need for conversation, wrapped as they were in their own thoughts, grateful for this moment of shared silence.

  ‘When you’re ready,’ Rob said, at last, ‘we’ll get going. I think that we’ll talk later, perhaps on the journey, if you’re up to it. There will be plenty of time for talki
ng.’

  Mike looked at him gratefully. ‘I’d like to get back. There’s Luke …’

  ‘Oh, yes, your little boy. It was good of you to come, Mike.’

  ‘I promised Melissa.’ Mike stood his mug on the draining board and rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m so tired. I feel I could sleep for a week.’

  ‘Would you like to grab a quick nap?’

  ‘No,’ said Mike quickly. ‘Thanks. I probably should but I’d rather get straight on. I … don’t want to be away longer than I need. There will be plenty of time for rest afterwards.’

  ‘Would you let me drive?’ offered Rob. ‘Just to give you a bit of a rest? I’m insured. I have to be in my kind of work.’

  ‘Thanks. I’d like that. I’m not certain I should be driving, if I’m honest. If you’ll drive I can sleep on the journey.’

  ‘I’ll throw a few things in a bag and be right down.’

  Mike felt a brief lightening of spirits at the thought of companionship on the long drive back, relief that the worst was over. He opened the back door and stood, braced against the gale, letting it blow over him, cold and fresh and cleansing. A parliament of rooks argued in some trees somewhere out of sight and, borne on the wind as it fled over the moor, he heard the high plaintive crying of the lambs.

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirty-one

  It was hot. Spears of sunshine pierced the leafy canopies and thrust downwards into the water. In the cool, shadowy depths dark fish hung; a flick of a tail, a flash of gold, a sliding, glancing, silvery arrow. Tall yellow flag irises shone bright as flame whilst below, reflections of white and purple cloud, solid as a wall, moved slowly across the trembling surface. Tiny wild strawberries, sweet and ripe, trailed across the slate flags, and pansies, delicate, silken tapestries of colour, edged the mossy paths. A jackdaw sidled round the chimneypot, head cocked, listening to two swallows gossiping busily on the telephone wire.