‘Most of the gang think I’ve gone quite potty but I was never a London person. Especially not without Hector.’
‘No,’ said Daphne, after a moment. ‘No, I quite see that.’
‘Hector was so good at all those things: exhibitions, concerts, first nights, the best restaurants. He had a kind of instinct which led him to the best seats, the best bars. Oh, I don’t know. It was just Hector’s way. You know what I mean.’
‘Yes, love. Very well indeed. He had a knack of making people feel pleased to oblige him.’ Daphne came back into the living room and sat down at the table. ‘But it wasn’t a heartless thing. He didn’t use people, did he? Hector was naturally generous. He liked people to be happy.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’ Maudie smiled reminiscently. ‘He certainly had a huge capacity for fun.’
‘Exactly,’ said Daphne. ‘Just that. Dear old boy!’
‘Oh, it’s good to have you here,’ said Maudie impulsively. ‘I’ve got things out of proportion lately and I’ve sometimes wondered if I’m going quite mad. You’ll get me back on the rails again. I’ve been so bitter, Daphne.’
‘Yes,’ said Daphne quietly. ‘Yes, I know you have, love. It hasn’t been easy for you since Hector died.’
‘I’m a jealous cantankerous old woman,’ said Maudie remorsefully. ‘We were so happy together, Hector and I. We enjoyed some truly blissful times and we were very good friends. Yet I could never quite get the wretched Hilda out of my system. I had long spells of peace but at the end all the bitterness came back. When Selina used to come to see him and he used to apologise to her over and over again for marrying me I thought I’d kill him. And her. Of course, it wasn’t her fault. He thought she was Hilda—Selina looks just like Hilda from what I can gather from the photographs of her—and he’d hold her hand and drone on and on. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Selina loved it, of course. And then there was the business of his stocks and shares. Oh, hell and damnation, Daphne. I didn’t mean to start on all this so soon. Let’s forget it. Have some scones and some jam and clotted cream. A proper Devon tea.’
‘It sounds delicious. Yes, please.’ Daphne hesitated but Maudie had clearly decided to change the subject.
‘And now there’s been the great drama with Patrick,’ she continued, ladling cream on to her scone. ‘I cannot imagine what Selina is going to do without him.’
‘It’s quite extraordinary.’ Daphne decided to accept the change of direction, not without a certain relief. ‘I know you’ve kept me informed but it’s not the same by telephone. Start from the beginning and tell me again properly.’
In Winchester, Posy lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, her work forgotten.
‘I don’t suppose you get back to London very often,’ he’d said casually and she’d answered that, just now, she went home quite often. She’d said that her mother wasn’t too good at present, that there were a few problems and that she needed company. She’d been kneeling on the broad window-seat on the landing, looking out over the moor, whilst he’d leaned beside her.
‘I’m going up next weekend,’ he’d said. ‘I have to see my agent. Maybe we could meet up?’
She’d felt a tiny shock of surprise at the invitation—even anxiety—but rather flattered, too.
‘That would be good,’ she’d replied, very calm, very cool.
‘Well, then.’ He’d shifted his weight. ‘Perhaps I’d better have your telephone number.’
‘Oh yes.’ She’d turned quite naturally, frowning a little. ‘I think I can remember it. Or do you mean the London number?’
‘I mean both.’ He was smiling. ‘Hold on a moment.’
He’d gone into the room he was using as a bedroom and returned after a minute with a pad and a pencil. She’d been able to give him both numbers and had watched whilst he tore out the page and tucked it into his wallet.
‘Great,’ he’d said. ‘Thanks. We’ll talk, then. I don’t like to leave Luke overnight if I can help it but perhaps we could have lunch?’—and she’d nodded, suddenly shy.
It was odd how, from the beginning, she’d had a special feeling about the day, a certainty that something really good might happen, but this was rather beyond her experience. After all, this was Mike Clayton, the playwright and novelist who had caused a sensation with Changing Places. She’d been given tickets for her eighteenth birthday, when she was deciding that her future lay within the theatre. His wife, a beautiful, dazzling, sophisticated woman, had been playing the leading role and Posy had been utterly enraptured by the play. It seemed unbelievable that this was the same man, who’d joked with Maudie and was so sweet with his baby son.
He’d telephoned on Tuesday afternoon at about three o’clock—a time which she’d suggested. She couldn’t have borne hanging about downstairs, dashing out every time the phone rang, making a spectacle of herself. She had no lectures on Tuesday afternoon and knew that she’d have the house to herself. He’d telephoned just after the hour and she’d willed herself to let it ring twice, thrice, before suddenly snatching up the receiver in a panic lest he should ring off.
He’d been jokey, happy, amusing, and she’d fallen in with his mood, talking, listening, utterly happy until he’d had to go because Luke had woken from his after-lunch nap.
‘See you on Saturday, then,’ he’d said.
She closed her eyes, imagining him, frowning slightly. He reminded her of someone; someone she’d met recently. Ever since last Saturday she’d been racking her brains, cudgelling her memory, but it eluded her. She shook her head, suddenly seized by a mixture of anxiety and anticipation, and, rolling off her bed, turned her mind deliberately to her work.
Chapter Thirty-five
Rob washed up his supper things, rinsing them, setting them on the draining board. He performed the task mechanically, his thoughts elsewhere, the slow almost rhythmical movements bringing a small measure of peace to his unquiet mind. The serene beauty of the evening beyond the window for once had no power to soothe. The deep, overarching bowl of blue trailing the last flaming banners of a glorious sunset, the golden flowering furze, the evening shadows stealing along deep-sided coombs, all these things merely increased his melancholy. Here, looking across the huddled grey roofs, over neatly parcelled fields towards the sea, he was aware of his isolation. Before Melissa he’d sought out this seclusion; happy to be alone after a busy day, glad to go apart. This had been part of Moorgate’s charm: set on its own, looking over the surrounding countryside, splendidly detached. Climbing up from the field below, he’d pause to gaze up at the house, rooted, secure. Once inside, closing the shutters, lighting the fires, he’d felt a strangely peaceful contentment. Perhaps this contentment was the first temptation to which the recluse succumbed. Others would follow: a growing unwillingness to communicate, to make an effort; the inability to become involved.
He’d been aware of these tendencies growing in him: a relief when the working day was over, a reluctance to join his friends down at the pub, an indifference to the affairs of the world beyond his gate. Solitude had begun to be an ideal to be sought, worked for, treasured—and then Melissa had arrived, demolishing the illusion with her vital presence. Strange that she, who was so near death, had been so full of life. Her absolute need for warmth, her passion for chocolate, her amazed delight at the small miracles—the rooks building their nests and the lambs crying at their mothers’ heels—had shocked him back to life. Love had unfolded, flowering, growing, bursting out of him, smashing the protective shell which had been gently but ineluctably enclosing his heart.
Rob removed the plug, letting the water rush away, and reached for the tea cloth. He knew that this love, which now included Mike and Luke in its embrace, must not be forced back. It should not be labelled ‘Remembrance’ and pressed down into a small space, cold and narrow as a grave. He could not understand why he should have discovered this loosening of love, this new awareness, a greater capacity for compassion, only to be left without the one upon whom he lo
nged to shower it, yet some instinct warned him that he must let Moorgate go. He knew he must resist the gentle path of melancholy, the tempting comfort of retrospection, the dulling, numbing company of self-pity. Even the sharper, more painful emotion of bitterness was more welcome than the indulgence of self-pity.
As he put away the plates he considered the possibility of Mike buying Moorgate. He had no fears for Mike. The solitude would be a balm to Mike after the company of the characters who filled his imagination and with whom he spent so many hours. Mike needed privacy and peace but, once refreshed, he would seek out company with a friendly ease which would guarantee him companions. And then there was Luke. Luke, as he grew, would keep Mike in touch with his own small world. Rob pushed the kettle on to the hotplate, wondering if he’d imagined the attraction which had flared between Mike and Posy last Saturday. His own heightened emotions had made him unusually aware and he’d felt that the whole day was building towards some climax which was yet to be fulfilled.
Now, as he made some coffee, he was visited by an odd sense of well-being although his heart was heavy. He was waiting for something; some word or sign. Perhaps it would be Mike’s agreement to buy Moorgate, perhaps something else which would release the weight of the pent-up pain in his breast into simple, ordinary grief.
‘Hi.’ Posy stood awkwardly in the sitting-room doorway looking across at Selina. ‘I was just wondering …’
Selina did not remove her gaze from the flickering screen of the television.
‘Wondering what?’ she asked indifferently.
Posy tried to quell a faint irritation. Since her arrival earlier she’d felt a distinct lack of enthusiasm for company on her mother’s part but she was determined to try to create a cheerful atmosphere.
‘I was wondering about supper,’ she said brightly, too brightly—rather as though Selina were half-witted or senile, ‘and thought we might go round to the pub.’
At last Selina turned to look at her. ‘To the pub?’
She sounded so incredulous that Posy was seized by a nervous desire to burst out laughing.
‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘It would save us having to cook and stuff. I’ll pay. Come on, Mum,’ she said, almost pleadingly. ‘It’ll be fun. It’ll stop you moping.’
Even as she said the words she knew she’d made a terrible mistake.
Selina stiffened. ‘I happen to be watching television,’ she said icily. ‘What makes you think that I should be moping?’
Posy sighed and rolled her eyes impatiently. ‘OK, so you’re not moping. It’s just difficult to imagine anyone watching reruns of Steptoe and Son if they’ve got anything better to do. But perhaps you’re actually enjoying it. So if you don’t want to go to the pub what are we going to eat? There doesn’t seem to be much in the fridge.’
‘There’s plenty to eat,’ snapped Selina. ‘I’m not running a hotel, you know. You think that just because you suddenly deign to grace the house with your presence I should be killing the fatted calf.’
‘No,’ said Posy wearily. ‘No, actually, I don’t think that. I just thought we might try to have a fun evening together. Never mind. I’ll make us an omelette.’
‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Selina. ‘I’m not hungry.’
Posy stood for a moment, holding the door handle, possessed by an urge to scream loudly.
‘Mum,’ she said. ‘Mum, why does it have to be like this? I thought we might spend some time together. I’ve got tomorrow off and we could go shopping or something, and have lunch.’
Selina sat quite still whilst her pride, which had always made it so difficult for her to give in, to accept favours, to suffer indignity or criticism, battled with a desire to break down and admit her loneliness. But how could she admit such a thing to her daughter; to Posy who had shamed her by taking Maudie’s side and, from babyhood, had wilfully flouted her mother’s authority? This was nothing more than pity that Posy was offering; humiliating, degrading pity. She’d probably tell Maudie about it, later. And here was another grievance. Maudie had Daphne staying with her. It was disgraceful that Daphne, Selina’s mother’s oldest and best friend, should have passed through London without coming to see her. She had gone directly to Devon without so much as a telephone call. Oh, she’d called earlier that evening from Maudie’s, said that she’d be in London in a fortnight and would love to see her, but by then Maudie would have told her all about Patrick’s defection. How they would enjoy it! All this passed through Selina’s mind as Posy waited for an answer.
‘Strange as it may seem,’ she said bitterly, ‘I have other plans for tomorrow. I do have a life, you know, although you might find it difficult to imagine. I can’t just drop everything because you suddenly decide to come home for a long weekend. Why should I?’
‘Why indeed?’ asked Posy. ‘I can’t think of a good reason. Great. I’ll do my own thing, then. See you around.’
The door closed and Selina sat on, her hands clenched in her lap, staring at the flickering screen. Harold Steptoe and his father were playing badminton and the studio audience were shrieking with laughter. Now Harold was missing the shuttlecock, falling over, getting cross, and the laughter was increasing, growing louder whilst, all the while, Selina, locked in the prison of her insecurity and pride, was regretting her lost opportunity, swallowing down her misery, the tears trickling down her cheeks.
All the way from Oxford, travelling on the Circle Line to Embankment, walking up The Strand and along William IVth Street to The Chandos, Mike was thinking about Posy. Ever since last Saturday, she’d occupied his thoughts, coming between him and his work, distracting him and puzzling him. Camilla had been beautiful, amusing, desirable and a boost to his ego but Posy was the stuff of every day: interesting, funny, kind, bossy, inquisitive, enthusiastic. There was a durability about her that was enormously attractive. For one so young she’d handled the situation at Moorgate with great tact. It hadn’t been easy for either of the women, given that there were so many sensitive areas, but he’d been impressed by Posy’s ability to deal with it without either descending into sentimentality or creating an atmosphere of false jollity. He was too experienced to be unaware of her interest, yet even the chemistry which had tingled between them had not rendered her tongue-tied or coy.
As he went up the steps and into the upstairs bar of The Chandos he was prey to a sudden attack of nerves. Perhaps, today, she might be different; perhaps his judgement had been clouded by the extraordinary circumstances. He was early, so he bought himself a pint and went to sit in one of the window seats, thinking about Melissa. No doubt there were many sensible explanations for that strange, magical influence which had informed the whole day at Moorgate. He’d wondered if his creative instinct, the novelist’s sense of the dramatic, had provided that happy, peace-pervading quality. Melissa had been so much in his mind that it had been a terrific shock when Rob had announced that he didn’t want to stay at Moorgate. His own reaction had been one of anxiety lest Melissa should be hurt. It had been her great consolation, that Rob should have Moorgate; it had been her way of making restitution for misleading him. Yet, on reflection, it was easy to understand how he must be feeling. To be at Moorgate alone, to attempt to create, on his own, the home they might both have shared, was a heartbreaking concept. Melissa had not taken into consideration the essential fact that, without her, Moorgate would be a reminder of all that Rob had lost. That brief week in winter was not enough on which to build sustaining memories, yet her impact had been too great for him to be able to start a new life at Moorgate.
So far, Mike was in agreement—yet to buy Moorgate himself was a big step to take. It was a large house, fairly isolated, and a long way from London and Oxford and his friends. On the other hand, it was exactly what he’d been considering: a place in the country where Luke might grow up in a rural community. As he’d walked over the moor with Rob his own creative juices had begun to flow freely, excitingly, and he’d felt rejuvenated. After all, he need not fear isolation. His
friends would be delighted to spend weekends in Cornwall and he’d have Rob nearby to ease him into the community.
Once he’d adjusted to Rob’s announcement, one level of his consciousness was telling him that this was quite right, that all the pieces were falling into place. Perhaps this was what had been intended all along. Given Rob’s decision, surely Melissa would have been delighted to think that Mike and Luke were at Moorgate, with Rob near at hand. As for Posy … He was convinced that Melissa would have approved of Posy. In some ways they were alike: enthusiasm, inquisitiveness, an easy companion, these were qualities they both shared. Yes, Melissa would have liked Posy …
He turned, sighing, and saw her standing in the doorway, looking faintly anxious. As he stood up he saw her expression warm into eagerness and instinctively he held out his hand to her. She came quickly towards him and took it in her own, beaming at him, noticing his half-empty glass.
‘You’re early.’
‘Oh, that was quite deliberate.’ He grinned down at her, releasing her hand, pulling out a chair for her. ‘I needed to get a quick pint in to steady my nerves.’
‘Excellent,’ she said, pleased. ‘I like to see myself as a scary character. How’s Luke?’
‘Fine. I have a very motherly lady next door who comes round for the day if I really need her. She’s great.’
‘And does she mother you too?’
‘If I let her. I’m not really the mothered kind. Now what will you have to drink?’
She watched him go to the bar, his fair hair gleaming under the bar lights, his easy stance, the way he laughed at something the barman said. Once more a teasing memory flickered at the back of her mind; his resemblance to someone who had laughed just like that, with that same relaxed posture and in-built confidence. He came across to her with her glass and the menu and went back for his own drink.
A Week in Winter: A Novel Page 31