The Winter Folly

by Taylor, Lulu

  You don’t need to spend time with Ben, she told herself sternly. That’s not where the solution lies.

  She started putting the breakfast things in the dishwasher, making herself think of John instead. He would be in the coach house now, sitting across from his father, trying to follow the vagaries of his mind or attempting to anchor it down with facts about the weather, the house, the estate. She pictured the portrait of John’s father, a full-length oil by the staircase that showed a young, vibrant and handsome man. The white-haired old man next door was the same person, just as John was the round-faced boy in his prep school uniform, holding his mother’s hand, she expressionless behind a huge pair of Jackie O-style sunglasses, as they stood together next to a sleek-bodied car.

  She couldn’t remember exactly what John’s mother’s name was now. Had she ever been told? John had only called her ‘my mother’ and he spoke of her rarely – in fact, only when Delilah pressed him on it.

  Then it burst upon her.

  But of course! Elaine must be John’s mother! That’s why his father thought I was her – his wife from long ago. I don’t suppose we look much like each other, considering she was dark and I’m fair, but perhaps that doesn’t matter when your mind and memory are impaired.

  She left the dishwasher half loaded and hurried along the hall to the library. It was dull and fusty in the mornings, before the sun had moved around to illuminate it through the rows of long, elegant windows. Dust hung in the air around the cabinets of books with their doors of wire mesh protecting the antique tomes inside. The leather-and-gilt volumes weren’t of much interest to her; she preferred the shelves on the other side of the room, where there were novels and books on art and history, collections of letters, volumes of the peerage and Who’s Who, and lots of juicy biographies and revelatory exposés. It was also where the old albums were kept, leather bound and stamped with the Stirling crest on the spines and covers. There were cellar books, books of menus going back to the big house parties of the nineteenth century, and visitors’ books. And there were photograph albums bound in green and red calfskin.

  Delilah plucked one out, sat down on the library floor and opened it on her crossed legs. It weighed a ton, the black pages alone stiff and heavy, even before the black-and-white prints had been mounted. They weren’t family snaps – each one had been taken with a determined sense of subject and framing. Most were inside the house; it was virtually unchanged from today and it was odd to see pictures taken in the library and then to flick her gaze upwards to see the exact same furniture in the identical configuration. Under each large print was a caption written in white ink, neat capitals spelling out who the picture was of. The names meant nothing to Delilah but she loved looking at the frozen moments, people snapped and preserved forever in their youth. The men had hair that touched their collars at the back, and that was either shaggy at the front or swooped back in a thick quiff; they wore tight shirts, shiny drainpipe trousers and Chelsea boots; some were wearing cardigans and dark square-framed glasses, or striped tops with leather jackets, giving them a tough edge. The girls wore tight pencil skirts and blouses, or fitted sweaters, their hair in loose curls or pulled back into long ponytails. They had flicks of black eyeliner on their lids and had darkened their brows with kohl. There were obviously parties going on: she could see bottles, full ashtrays, people dancing to a gramophone on the walnut table by the window – she looked up: the table was still there, the gramophone had now disappeared – or else young men strummed guitars together. How amazing it must have been to be young and have a house like this to play in.

  There was no sign of John’s father in the photographs, but he must have been behind the camera. A vague memory floated into her mind of John telling her that his father had once been a society photographer in the sixties. And occasionally she saw the delicate pale face, large eyes and soft dark hair of the woman she recognised as John’s mother. She seemed to be apart from the others somehow, always in the shadows or seen in the half-light. Only once or twice was she caught full-on by the camera and then it was always unawares, when the tilt of her head or the shape of her mouth was quite heartbreakingly pure. Underneath her image was only the letter ‘A’ in bold white strokes.

  ‘A,’ murmured Delilah. ‘What happened to you, A?’ She was struck by how young the woman looked. She must be younger than Delilah was now. And yet, within a few years, she was dead, and exactly how she died Delilah didn’t know. Whenever she’d thought of it, she supplied some kind of unspecified illness for which treatment back then would have been more primitive: a cancer or a blood disease. But, she realised, she had no way of knowing that was true.

  She felt a sudden bond to this other woman who had come here so many years before, to the same place, the same furniture, the same park and gardens. So little had changed, according to the photographs. Had A shivered in the freezing rooms in winter, as well? She’d probably slept in the same four-poster bed, its grandeur muted by the orange hangings that hadn’t been replaced since midway through the previous century. Had she run along the corridor, wide-eyed and frightened, desperate for the light of the bedroom to banish the dark emptiness all around, just as Delilah did?

  But the pictures seemed to show that the house had been full of people and parties then. Perhaps A hadn’t been afraid of the silence and the unoccupied space. Parties might be the answer, she thought. Noise. People. Life.

  She sighed. Well, that was the end of that. Unless the name was spelt most unusually with A, John’s mother was definitely not Elaine. She closed the album. Now she was curious to know what John’s mother’s name was. Surely there must be clues elsewhere.

  There were other photograph albums, but on impulse she turned instead to the visitors’ books, pulling them out to examine. There were three of them, covering a period from the middle of the nineteenth century, with long lists of names and addresses in faded but exquisite copperplate hands, the roster of guests reading like a society comedy: Lady This and Sir Someone That and the Duke of Wherever. She flicked through the pages, wondering what the house was like when it had been so full of people, bustle, chatter and endless meals. That was what this place had been designed for – not for two people rattling around alone, gradually being squashed by the weight of the past.

  The final visitors’ book was the saddest. The house parties stopped abruptly after the advent of the Great War, and did not start again for over five years. When they did, the grand country weekends were gone forever. These house parties were smaller and less extravagant, although they picked up towards the end of the twenties. When the Second World War began, the names kept coming for a while, but now there were Colonels, Lieutenants and Captains visiting the house, and then the parties clearly stopped. Delilah remembered John telling her the house had been requisitioned for a while in the war, as a convalescent home for soldiers. The visitors’ book had not been brought out again for a long time because it was only in the late fifties that the names began to appear again.

  The titles and double or triple-barrelled surnames of the past all but disappeared. Now there were first names alone, or signatures like ‘Jimmy J’, and instead of addresses guests scrawled comments: ‘Great party, Nicky! Like your gaff’ or ‘Unforgettable time here at the fort – wine, women and rock ’n’ roll, oh yeah!’

  On they went, the parties stretching into the next decade, and then she saw it: ‘We had a marvellous time thanks to the wonderful Nicky and beauteous Alex – see you both very soon! Gareth and Rita.’

  So that was John’s mother’s name. Alex.

  She said it out loud, and then glanced up quickly as though afraid she might have summoned a ghost by speaking the name. The library was still and silent around her.

  It’s a pretty name, she thought. Knowing it made her more real somehow.

  She flicked over more pages, looking for further clues, but now she had the name she wanted, there was nothing more to discover. She kept alert for an Elaine but there was none that she coul
d see. And then, abruptly, after eight years, the parties stopped. There were no more names in the book at all. The rest of the creamy pages were empty.

  Why did it all stop there? she wondered. She went back to where she had first seen Alex’s name. The date was 1966. And then, in 1974, it finished, just like that.

  That must have been when she died, she thought. I suppose Nicky didn’t feel like having any more parties after that . . . ever, by the looks of it.

  A sense of melancholy drifted over her. How sad it was that John’s mother had died; she’d been so young, and so pretty and with so much to live for. Had she known she was going to die? Leaving a child behind must be a terrible agony . . . She imagined Alex, pale and thin, lying back on the pillow in the four-poster upstairs, having John brought to her so she could say goodbye, and then breathing her last. It gave her a morbid shiver. Had John’s mother died in the bed where she slept?

  Stop letting your imagination run away with you, she scolded herself. You’ve no idea. Perhaps it was an accident. In a way, I hope it was – something quick, without suffering.

  It occurred to her that it was odd she didn’t know this fact of how Alex had died. She felt as though they were linked over the years: both marrying Stirlings, both living at this great house. There had been Vanna in between, of course, but Vanna had not managed to cope with this place. Delilah imagined she probably lived now in something modern, light and perfectly decorated, with lots of beige and white, spotless sofas, glass, silver and mirrors. It would be the antidote to this place, with its shabbiness, dust and decay.

  A cold feeling ran over her. Vanna had left before time, and so, in a way, had Alex.

  Will I be overwhelmed by it too? Is it fate?

  A shiver of nasty apprehension shook her shoulders. She was already oppressed by this place, and the way it was governing her marriage.

  No, she thought resolutely. I’m strong enough, I know I am. I can help John through it, and survive it myself. I can make it a success.

  She put the books back carefully, making them look as undisturbed as possible.

  Over lunch, Delilah felt a dull pull of pain in her abdomen and her spirits sank. She tried to keep up a cheerful exterior, but she knew that another month had gone by unsuccessfully, and when afterwards she was sure, she went to find John and tell him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, as he took it in. ‘There’s always next month.’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked away to hide the disappointment in his face. ‘There’s always next month.’

  To break the dismal silence that followed, she said, ‘You haven’t forgotten that Susie invited me to that exhibition in London, have you? I thought I might go. It’ll mean going away for a few days – if you don’t need me here.’

  John looked back her, expressionless now. ‘No, no. You go. I don’t need you.’

  The way he phrased his answer seemed bleakly pointed and it hurt. ‘All right,’ she said, trying to smile. She remembered her fear in the library that she might not be up to all this, and reminded herself of her resolve to stay the course. ‘If you’re sure it’s all right. It’ll be such a short time away, I’ll be back before you know it. I’ll ring her now and tell her I’ll be up on Monday.’

  As she went to find her phone to call Susie, she was depressed to think that the delightful bond they had shared that morning had entirely vanished.

  Chapter Nine

  1965

  The address was a mews house down a tiny cobbled deadend road just behind a smart Belgravia square. The door was opened to Alexandra’s knock by a pretty blonde girl in cropped black trousers and a long black knitted jumper that hung to her thighs. She stared at Alexandra before saying ‘Yes?’ in a faintly hostile way.

  ‘I’m looking for Nicky Stirling. Is this the right address?’

  The girl said nothing and a male voice behind called from the depths, ‘Who is it, Polly? Is that her?’

  ‘Just finding out!’ the girl threw back over her shoulder. ‘What’s your name?’ she demanded, facing Alexandra again with her cold gaze.

  ‘Alexandra Sykes.’

  ‘You’d better come in then.’ She turned and retreated into the house, and Alexandra followed her into the gloom, finding herself in a tiny sitting room, furnished eclectically and full of interesting objects. Beyond she spotted a small kitchen, but was immediately distracted by a pair of long legs in black trousers descending the stairs and the next moment Nicky had appeared, tall and rangy, and he was hurrying over to kiss both her cheeks.

  ‘You came!’ He was smiling, his eyes bright. ‘You’ve met Pols, of course. She’s my assistant. She helps me.’

  ‘You mean, I do all the work,’ Polly responded tartly.

  ‘Some of it. You should be grateful, you little hoyden.’ He turned to Alexandra and said confidentially, ‘I found her working on the broken biscuit counter in Woolworths. She owes everything to me, don’t you, sweetheart?’

  ‘Hardly,’ replied Polly.

  ‘Be nice, you devil. You’ve met Mrs Sykes. She is charm incarnate and she’s going to have a picture taken. Make her a cup of tea, will you? Come on, Alex, let’s go upstairs.’ Nicky headed back up the staircase, Alexandra following behind, feeling shocked at being called Alex. He had used to call her that, she remembered suddenly, and no one had since. She felt that strange buzzing sensation again, the one of being connected almost physically to the past; it was so strong, she had to concentrate on climbing the stairs, in case she toppled over under its force. They gained the first floor where a ladder led up through a hatch in the ceiling.

  ‘This way.’ He climbed up and when he’d clambered through the hole, his head reappeared, framed by the hatch. ‘Come on, it’s easier than it looks. I’ll help you.’

  She put her handbag strap over the crook of her arm and grasped the ladder. Nicky’s hand reached down, his palm broad and open for hers. She climbed up, took his hand and he pulled her into the space beyond. The loft had been boarded and painted black, but bright sunshine poured in through three skylights. A fan whirred in the corner, to counter the stultifying effect of the heat rising from below and the fiery sunlight beating through the glass above. Around about was scattered photographic equipment: tripods, lights, reflective discs, paper backgrounds plain and painted, boxes spilling wires and plugs, and the cameras themselves.

  ‘My studio,’ he explained. ‘For now, anyway.’

  ‘Why is it black?’ she asked, looking around. ‘I thought photographers needed light.’

  ‘We do. But these days it’s easy to make light’ – he nodded towards the great lamps on their tripods – ‘and it’s much harder to take it away. But when the blinds are down it’s pitch dark in here. That way I can get some good effects.’

  ‘It’s terrifc,’ she said. He seemed to know what he was talking about and the set-up looked very professional.

  Nicky seemed pleased by her praise. ‘Of course I need a better way to get here – I can’t exactly ask Laurence Olivier or Dame Edith Evans to climb a ladder to my loft.’

  ‘Have you photographed Laurence Olivier?’ she asked, impressed.

  ‘Um – no, not yet, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. So we’re going to take your picture up here. I’ll use the white backdrop and keep the blinds open. I want natural light, plenty of it, to show off your rather stunning complexion.’ He gazed at her in a way that showed he was now looking at her with an artistic, appraising eye. ‘I’m glad you’re not wearing that orange stuff. You barely need a scrap of make-up – it’s extraordinary. But of course we’ll put something on you or you’ll be washed out. There’s a particular look I want, very fresh and now.’ He bent over the hatch. ‘Polly! Where are you? Get up here, and bring the kit! And the tea!’ He looked back up at Alexandra, smiling and shaking his head. ‘What on earth am I supposed to do with that girl?’

  She smiled back, suddenly enchanted by him as he stood there, tall and rather skinny, his hair tousled, his shirt open at the ne
ck. His face was too round to be classically handsome and yet he gave the impression of being very good-looking. Perhaps it was the way his grey eyes stared out from under his black brows, their colour intensified by his tan. He had long lashes too, almost like a girl’s, although he was anything but feminine. His mouth entranced her: it was wide and generous and expressive and gave the impression that he was voracious for everything in life. She could see the boy she once knew, but changed into a man whose vivacity and energy made him fascinating to her. And he looked so modern with his black leather trousers and suede shoes. They were strange objects to her and yet on him they looked wonderful. He seemed so free and so unencumbered by the kinds of things that imprisoned Laurence: the army regulations, the dress codes, the endless rules and traditions that dictated everything.

  ‘Now,’ he said softly. ‘What shall we do with you, eh?’ He frowned. ‘It’s very strange, Alex, but you look so . . . just like that little girl. I feel very odd when I’m with you – as though everything that happened since I last saw you is a kind of dream and the only things that are real are you and that time when we were kids.’

  ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘That’s how I feel too.’

  ‘Isn’t it peculiar?’ he said conspiratorially. ‘I mean, we haven’t seen each other for so long, we’re virtually strangers. But you seem so familiar.’

  She stared back at him, nervous but excited, her fingertips trembling with the anticipation of something, though she had no idea what it might be. An adventure of some sort, perhaps, some knowledge or something she was going to learn . . .