A Week in Winter: A Novel

by Willett, Marcia

  Daphne turned out her light and settled her pillows, preparing herself for sleep, but, as she lay staring into the dark, her thoughts were of Selina.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Rob stood the bags of shopping on the kitchen table, and opened the kitchen windows. After a short cold spell of rain, a brief regression into winter, summer had arrived, overtaking the tender, cool green spring and rushing nature into a more generous and luxuriant growth. Below the house red and white blossom lay thick along the thorn, and the bracken, tight-curled as a question mark, was springing from the peaty earth. He opened a can of beer and drank deeply, thinking about Mike.

  He’d telephoned last evening, his voice charged with some kind of suppressed excitement mixed with another, different, emotion.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve thought it through and I think you might be right about me buying Moorgate.’

  Rob had felt almost weak with joy and relief. ‘Oh, that’s great, Mike,’ he’d said. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am.’

  ‘It feels right, somehow.’ He’d hesitated briefly, then—‘I’m going for it,’ he’d said firmly. ‘Get it valued, Rob, will you?’

  ‘Oh, surely—’ he’d begun to protest—but Mike had overridden him.

  ‘It’s got to be done properly, I insist on that, although at least we can cut out agents, but get started on it. We’ll talk about it properly when I come down.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  A tiny pause. ‘To be honest, I’m hoping you can put me up this week.’

  ‘This week? But that’s great. When?’

  ‘I’d like to come down midweek if you can cope. I’m busy next weekend. The thing is, Rob, I’d like us to inter Melissa’s ashes. I think the time has come, don’t you? She wanted them to be with you at Moorgate, and I think it’s a wonderful idea but I know you were cautious about it—’

  ‘Not because I didn’t want them here,’ Rob had interrupted quickly. ‘It was only that I didn’t know whether I’d stay and I didn’t want her to be left with … strangers.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry, Rob.’ Mike had known immediately that Rob was near to tears. ‘It’s just that I think the time has come, don’t you? While you’re still there but knowing we shall be there soon.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right.’ He’d been unable to swallow down his grief which seemed to stick, like a lump in his throat. ‘It’s a nice idea, Mike. So when will you come?’

  ‘I thought Wednesday. Just me, by the way. Best to leave Luke here, this time. I’ll leave early and be down mid-morning. Is it a problem for you? You don’t have to take time off.’

  ‘Oh, an afternoon won’t do any harm. I’ll try and get back for lunch. Will you go back the same day?’

  ‘No. I’ll stay over and leave on Thursday morning. If you want me to, that is. Let’s play it by ear.’

  Rob had smiled, then, knowing that Mike was trying to gauge how Rob might feel: whether he’d need company or whether he’d prefer to be alone.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he’d agreed. ‘See you Wednesday, then.’

  Rob finished his beer and began to unpack the shopping. His relief that Mike would buy Moorgate was very great. Any other solution would have felt as if he were betraying Melissa.

  ‘I’m sorry, my love,’ he murmured, as he went to and fro between the kitchen and the larder. ‘I know what you tried to do. Forgive me that I can’t cope here without you.’

  He wondered if he would continue to feel so close to her in the small cottage he’d seen for sale in Tintagel. Perhaps it was only at Moorgate that he would be aware of her presence and hear the echoes of her voice but at least he would still be able to come here, to visit Mike and Luke. He would not be leaving her or denying her dream. He kept his thoughts deliberately turned away from the idea of interring her ashes. It was unthinkable that such a vital, human, vivid person could be reduced to a handful of dust. Rob closed the larder door, fear, misery, loneliness, rising in him at such a reminder of his own mortality. He thrust away his morbid thoughts, consigning them, with his grief, to some distant part of his mind, but unable to subdue the pain in his heart. It would be such a comfort to have Mike at hand. Only Mike knew his situation. In a way, it was a relief that none of his acquaintances, or the men with whom he worked, knew about Melissa. Their ignorance allowed a kind of freedom; he need not suffer their sympathy or explain his feelings. In their company it was easier to keep his pain at a bearable level. With Mike, however, there was the companionable comfort of shared loss; each helped the other. Grief could put a man into exile, shutting him away from the humour, irritation and rough-edged living of the day-to-day. People were careful of you; either shunning you from sheer embarrassment or being supersensitive about your condition. Both reactions kept you permanently aware, rendering mental escape impossible. You were an outcast, your pain and grief a constant, unpleasant reminder to them of their own frailty. Their own feelings were expressed in anxious grimaces to warn the unwary of your presence, lest they make some thoughtless observation, and relief once you were safely out of the room. Only with Mike could he relax into his true self and yet, even with Mike, he could not allow himself the luxury of real grief

  Rob threw the empty can into the rubbish bin. He would have a shower, put on some clean clothes and then make up Mike’s bed. Keeping busy was the answer. It didn’t do to have too much time to think. After making Mike’s bed he’d mow the lawn. The small, sheltered garden was beginning to blossom into lushness and needed tidying. With this thought, the question of where to inter the ashes presented itself and he thrust it hastily away. One thing at a time. Shower; make Mike’s bed; mow the lawn. By then it would be suppertime. Concentrating on this necessary itinerary Rob went out of the kitchen and ran quickly up the stairs.

  Maudie sat at the table, the French windows open to the garden, some photographs spread before her. Yesterday afternoon, she’d driven Daphne up to Exeter to catch the train to London and she was now enjoying the prospect of a few days alone. Since Daphne had shown her the photograph of Tim and told her the truth, Maudie had looked forward to a period of time when she could ponder these things more carefully. The relief had been so overwhelming, so liberating, that it was only now that she’d begun to realise how painful such a confession must have been for Daphne. She had, in part, acknowledged it at the time but her own feelings had been paramount. The strength of her reaction—that huge, glorious swamping relief—had been the measure of her fear: the fear that Hector had never really loved her, had always missed Hilda, had kept something important hidden from her. During the two years since his death these suspicions and doubts had grown out of all proportion, forcing out confidence and peace of mind, distorting the truth and corroding her memories.

  Daphne’s revelations, though startling, had destroyed the enemy within and restored her. Yet it was a shock to know that Daphne and Hector had been lovers. To begin with, to have her suspicions and doubts explained away was enough, nothing else had mattered; later, a rather horrid mental picture of Hector and Daphne, intimately together, had threatened to destroy her present calm. Was it really true that he had never loved Daphne? Could she really believe that there had never been other such moments after she herself had met him? A rather unworthy sensation of triumph had manifested itself at the thought of Hector being unfaithful to the perfect Hilda; a sensation quickly superseded by the horrid possibility that if he’d betrayed Hilda he might also have betrayed her, Maudie. Was it Daphne who had been the threat after all?

  She remembered that there had been a wariness on Hector’s part at the beginning; a wariness which Maudie had put down to the fact that Hilda and Daphne had been lifelong friends and that Daphne might resent Maudie on Hilda’s behalf. Now she saw that this wariness had sprung from a very different cause. Yet her instinct had been to trust Daphne although, looking back, many things were now clear that had seemed puzzling at the time. It was hard to be unaffected by the thought of inti
macy between Hector and Daphne but she was determined not to replace one set of suspicions with another. Without quite knowing why she’d rooted out the photograph albums, along with the manila envelopes full of ancient snapshots, and settled herself at the table. Perhaps the evidence of the past could help settle her mind.

  The afternoon sun was too high to penetrate the shade of the veranda, and Polonius lay, peacefully asleep, insensible to the birdsong which filled the sunny garden. Maudie reached for her spectacles and opened the first album. Selina had commandeered the earliest records of her life with her parents and, apart from the framed studio portraits, very few records remained of Hector’s early married life. A few had slipped through the net and Maudie studied these black-and-white snapshots of the young Hilda with her two small children: sitting in a deckchair, a daughter on either side, laughing at the camera; standing alone, wearing a voluminously skirted sundress with big patch pockets, eyes shaded by a straw hat; posed beside Hector, who stood easily, his hands in his pockets, her smile rather self-conscious as she held the girls’ hands. Her fair hair was carefully set, always tidy; her face subtly made up. Maudie stared curiously at this woman whom she had feared. Even given the formality of the fifties she was so like Selina it was rather unsettling but there was nothing else to give rise to anxiety or jealousy. A rather ordinary young woman, whose life had been cut short, yet she had been the cause of so much pain.

  Maudie held the album closer, examining Hector now. There was no way that he could be described as ordinary: dark, dashing, confident, he must have caused many a flutter in hearts other than Hilda’s—or Daphne’s. Maudie turned the pages slowly, studying these records of the past. Some of the photographs had simply been put in loosely between the pages and it was one of these which attracted her attention. The camera had caught Daphne unaware. Her whole concentration was centred on Hector, who was laughing, head thrown back, hands on hips, unconscious of anything apart from whatever it was that was causing him so much amusement. Hilda was there too, glancing at the person behind the camera, but it was Daphne’s expression which riveted Maudie’s attention. Her smile was wistful, tender, loving—oh! such a wealth of feeling was expressed in that smile. Maudie felt tears pricking at the back of her eyes and it was some while before, putting the photograph to one side, she continued to turn the pages.

  At last she found what she had been subconsciously hoping for: a photograph of herself with Hector. There were plenty of these, Selina had no desire to look at them, but this one was special. Although she could not remember seeing it before, Maudie could clearly remember when it had been taken. Staring at it, it seemed that she could hear the creak and flap of the sails, the gentle slap of the water against the hull, the seagulls screaming overhead. She was leaning back against Hector’s shoulder, her legs stretched along the thwart, dreamy and relaxed. They’d been swimming from the boat and she wore his jersey but her long brown legs were bare. His arm was round her and she held his hand in both of hers. He was looking down at her with a brooding, passionate intensity which even now, more than thirty years later, had the power to make her feel quite weak. How well she could remember that look—and yet, she had forgotten it; forgotten so many things about Hector that now came flooding back to remind her of his love.

  Daphne was right: she’d had nothing to fear. Gently, Maudie held the two photographs together, comparing the way Daphne looked at Hector with Hector’s expression as she, Maudie, lay in his arms on the boat. Presently she had an idea. Fetching some scissors, she very carefully cut Hilda out of the first photograph, trimming it so that it showed only Daphne and Hector. Next she searched for the envelope containing the photographs of Hector as a boy. Finding the copy of one she had framed—the one that looked like Tim—Maudie trimmed it to the same size as the photograph of Daphne and Hector. She held them together, matching them, smiling at the boy who gazed out, almost proudly, in his cord shorts and collared jersey. Alert and confident, he looked almost eagerly into the camera, just as Tim looked, nearly seventy years later. Keeping aside the third photograph, Maudie bundled the rest away into their carrier bags.

  It was after she’d found a leather folder and was carefully inserting the first of the two photographs that the telephone rang.

  ‘Hi, babe,’ said Posy. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Things are splendid.’ Maudie laid aside the folder. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Great. I thought I might come down at the weekend. Aunt Daphne’s gone to see Mum, hasn’t she?’

  ‘She has indeed. She’ll be with Selina for the weekend and back at the end of next week. I shall be delighted to see you.’

  ‘Fab. I’ll bring my sleeping bag so you haven’t got to worry about sheets.’

  ‘That would be helpful. Usual train?’

  ‘Yes.’ A slight hesitation. ‘I’ve got something to tell you, Maudie.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Mmmm. You know Mike?’

  Maudie frowned, searching her memory. ‘Mike?’

  ‘You know. We met him at Moorgate with Rob.’

  ‘Oh, Mike. Of course I remember him. Sorry.’

  ‘Well, the thing is …’ a longer pause. ‘It’s just… I think it’s getting a bit serious between us.’

  Maudie was shocked into complete silence, which was, perhaps, fortunate.

  ‘I know it seems sudden,’ Posy was saying breathlessly, ‘but I’ve actually been seeing him a lot. He’s been up to London several times and I went to Oxford last weekend. It’s just… well, I’m begining to think I love him.’

  Maudie’s gaze fell distractedly on the photographs: Hector’s look of love, Daphne’s longing smile.

  ‘Well,’ she said weakly, ‘well, my darling … of course, you haven’t known him long but if you’re sure …’

  ‘Bless you, Maudie,’ said Posy. ‘I knew I could rely on you. Mum’s making a dreadful fuss, flapping about like a chicken with its head off about Mike being divorced and having a child. As if it matters. And Maudie, you’ll never guess what?’

  ‘What?’ asked Maudie predictably.

  ‘Mike’s going to buy Moorgate from Rob. Rob doesn’t want to be there without Melissa, you see, so Mike’s buying it.’

  ‘That sounds … wonderful.’

  ‘Do you think you could talk Mum round a bit?’ asked Posy anxiously. ‘About Mike being divorced and having Luke and stuff? I think this might be really serious, Maudie, and I can’t bear all the hassle. She’s having fits about me even going out with him. Look, I’ll see you at the weekend, Maudie. I’ll explain everything then and we’ll decide how to deal with Mum. And I want you to meet Mike again, properly. There’s so much to talk about. If Mum phones tell her how much you like Mike, won’t you? If I don’t phone again, I’ll see you on Friday at the station. Love you lots. ‘Byeee.’

  Maudie put down the telephone receiver and picked up the photographs, hands trembling a little, her head rocking. Hector looked back at her with Posy’s eyes. Posy: her baby, her child, her darling. Might Posy, too, become a second wife, a stepmother? Poor Selina. What a shock, coming so soon after Patrick’s departure! And poor Daphne, her mind fixed firmly on Hector and Emily, quite unaware of the drama awaiting her in London. Anxiously, Maudie tried to remember the name of the friend with whom Daphne was spending a few days—but with no success. No chance, then, of warning her.

  There was nothing to be done. She must wait patiently until the weekend and then find out as much as she could. It was quite possible, after all, that Posy and Mike were genuinely in love, just as she and Hector had been in love after one meeting at a snowed-in airport. Maudie picked up the third photograph and tucked it into the back of her wallet. Perhaps, one day, she might show it to Posy.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Mike was relieved to see that the pick-up was not in the yard when he arrived at Moorgate. He needed a little time alone, to collect his thoughts. It was odd to approach the house, knowing that it was to be his. He stood in the lane, staring round
him, in an emotional confusion. An exciting sense of ownership was infused by a Posy-induced joyfulness, yet he was aware of an overall sadness, the familiar weight of loss. He’d come to terms with these conflicting emotions. His knowledge of Melissa enabled him to reject guilt, quite certain that she would be at one with him in his new-found happiness, yet he missed her painfully. He was confident that she would understand Rob’s reason for leaving Moorgate—in her condition she’d had no chance to think it through coolly—and she’d be delighted to know that her brother and Luke were to live there; he and Luke and Posy.

  As he opened the gate and put the car away, Mike was remembering the astonishing scene in Oxford last weekend. He’d fetched Posy from the station and taken her home, with Luke belted into his seat behind them. Her shyness had quickly dissolved into her natural friendliness but a vestigial awareness remained. He’d felt it too. It meant that they hadn’t quite been at ease. An accidental touch, a glance that lingered into a longer look, a casual phrase—all these things found a nervous, quivering response which meant that the earlier intimacy had to be re-established. He’d known it would be more difficult here, in Oxford, than on neutral ground in London but he had an unexpected ally in his small son.

  Luke was missing Melissa too, and, having already created a rapport with Posy in Cornwall, he’d greeted her with an enthusiasm which was both gratifying and a welcome diversion from their own immediate problem. Carrying Luke in from the car, Posy perching with him at the table while Mike had made tea, making themselves heard above Luke’s delighted roars, had made it impossible for them to remain self-conscious. When at last Luke had been persuaded to be separated from Posy to the extent of being put into his highchair, and she’d settled herself more comfortably, her attention had been riveted by a photograph standing on the shelf. She’d frowned, about to speak, then paused, and he’d glanced in the same direction, immediately understanding her caution.