A Midwinter Promise

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘I want to help,’ he said plaintively.

  ‘Help. Help!’ Netta cried hard. She took in a deep breath and tried to control herself. ‘I have a cleaning lady. She helps me. I have people come in to help me with Bertie. They don’t owe me anything, and when they help me, I pay them. But you . . . you shouldn’t help. This is your house too, your children, your life. You’re telling me that this is my job but you’re prepared to help me with it, when you’re in the mood. When did you last really do anything – I mean the shit stuff like cleaning the loo or hauling hair out of the shower plug? You still use the satnav to get to the children’s schools, for crying out loud.’

  ‘I know that.’ He felt guilty and ashamed. Was he acting like some kind of overentitled male, the kind that everyone hated so much these days? He’d thought he was a kind, empathetic, supportive husband. He’d certainly tried to be. ‘I know I don’t do as much at home as you do. I suppose I bring in the money.’

  ‘Not all of it,’ Netta said. ‘I work too.’

  ‘But I pay for most of it – this house, our holidays, the car. For the children. For Bertie.’

  Netta sniffed and wiped away some of her tears. She was staring at the oiled tablecloth, one fingertip tracing its way around the polka dots. She looked up at her husband and Johnnie had a sudden flash of her as she had been when they met: a glamorous half-French student he saw at some university event and couldn’t stop thinking about until he’d tracked her down in the library and struck up a conversation with her. She’d been elfin, so delicately pretty and so graceful, he’d almost been afraid to touch her. Those fragile looks had been deceptive. She was strong, immensely strong, hugely strong. He’d seen it first when she gave birth to Bertie: fighting with all her strength over four days to deliver him before they insisted on a Caesarean. And then, when the diagnosis of autism came, and they realised that the life they’d dreamed of for Bertie would never happen, that he might never recognise them or call them Mum and Dad, her raw grief had swiftly been banished as Netta reached for her strength and started fighting. She’d inspired him, motivated him, when he felt floored by the reality of Bertie’s condition. She took on their houses and made them homes. She said they should have more children when Johnnie was terrified any other children might have Bertie’s autism too, and she cared for her babies while looking after her desperately needy son, simultaneously training herself to be a therapist in the new developments in autism treatment. And then, when Nathan and Joe started school, she’d returned to a career in accountancy, as though she didn’t have enough on her plate. But she’d said she needed an identity that wasn’t just being a mother and a carer.

  Yes, Netta was strong all right.

  So how can she be crying over some pants hung wonky on a laundry rack? He put a hand on hers. ‘What is it? What are you thinking?’

  Her brown eyes rose to his, still swimming in tears. ‘I suppose I was thinking . . . about you providing the money, and what I do . . . And if we add it up . . . if we really add it all up, and if adding it up is important and will give us some answers . . . what will the answer be?’

  Johnnie felt a prickle of apprehension. ‘What do you mean, add it up?’

  ‘The labour. The time, the work, the effort. If it matters who does what, what will it tell us?’

  He saw anger in the set of her mouth. ‘What’s wrong, Netta? You seem very cross with me.’

  She got up and started putting breakfast things into the dishwasher, and said nothing. He watched her. The silence between them grew longer and more intense. With everything loaded, she closed the dishwasher and padded to the door on bare feet. There, she turned and looked at him. ‘I’m just wondering about our future, that’s all.’

  ‘Our future?’ he said, surprised. He’d expected her to say that she was undervalued, unappreciated, in need of recognition. She was right about that, he would concede it graciously, offer a dinner out, a trip somewhere nice, a weekend away. He’d already made a mental note to ask his assistant to arrange some flowers.

  ‘I don’t know if I can make you happy,’ she said simply.

  She turned and walked out, leaving him watching her in astonishment.

  Make me happy? He felt an odd, unsettled sensation, as if he was in a lift that had plummeted too quickly. There hadn’t been time for their own happiness for years and years; they had been coping. Happiness was for the children. For them, the blessed relief of a few hours’ quiet, an early night, a glass of wine and telly. That had been Johnnie’s idea of happiness ever since the children came. Of course there had been plenty of happy moments, but did Netta make him happy?

  Of course she does.

  He couldn’t imagine being with anyone but Netta. They’d lived a life, raised children, got used to each other. They were married. Happy or not. Hopefully happy at least some of the time. But they just got on with it and hoped that happiness would come along occasionally. Didn’t everyone?

  He had a feeling, a horrible feeling, that Netta meant something else. But what, he wasn’t entirely sure.

  In the hotel car park, Alex checked her reflection in the mirror on the back of the visor in the car. She looked all right but suspected that the dim lighting helped mask a multitude of sins – sins like sleepless nights, wine, and failure to remove make-up adequately before bed. She was also feeling agitated, churned up by the sight of Chloe sitting in the passenger seat next to Tim when he arrived at the Old Barn earlier to collect the girls. There was something about it that upset her, seeing that shadowy shape in the darkness as the girls got into the car.

  ‘Enjoy yourself,’ Tim called out, and then drove away. They looked like a family, Alex realised, and the unpleasant feeling washed over her, the one that always came when she saw Scarlett and Jasmine disappear with Tim. She went back inside to get changed for the reception, and now here she was in the car park of the Manor Hotel, about to go inside to schmooze with other local business owners in a celebration of local enterprise. Not exactly her idea of fun, but important for the Tawray Flower Company. If she could pick up some work from the hotel, a favourite for weddings and parties with locals, then it was worth it.

  She got out and went inside, hoping she was smart enough in jeans, high boots and a plum velvet jacket over a plum silk shirt. Lipstick and dangly earrings did most of the work in making her look in party mode. Inside, she took a name badge from the table and a glass of white wine offered by a waiter, and wandered into the reception. It was already crowded and she recognised plenty of familiar faces from the village and the surrounding areas, owners of small businesses who’d recently banded together to try and combat the power of online shopping and the out-of-town trading estates. They had come up with new payment and loyalty schemes, joint promotions and marketing events.

  ‘Hello, love!’ A tall woman, owner of a local wine business, came over and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. ‘How are you? Any nice plans for Christmas?’

  Alex smiled. ‘Hi, Pam.’ She paused for a moment and then said, ‘Nothing really. Just the usual family affair.’ News of David’s stroke had not spread then, and she didn’t want to spoil the mood. ‘How are things? Gearing up for your busy time?’

  ‘The Christmas season is the goose that lays the golden eggs, it’s true. But have I told you about my plan for some tasting evenings at the warehouse?’ Pam was off, and they were soon deep in discussion about possible joint ventures, joined from time to time by other local traders who wanted to contribute to the subject of business rates.

  Pam, on her fourth glass of white even though she’d declared it rubbish, suddenly called out, ‘Oi, Jasper, over here!’

  A man across the room turned around, his eyebrows raised.

  She waved at him. ‘Come here!’ Pam leaned into Alex confidentially. ‘He’s just spent a wedge at the shop, restocking his cellar, he said. Here he comes.’

  The man came over. He was tall, with short, ruffled brown hair and blue eyes, and casual in jeans and a red hoodie to
p, faded, which advertised the Penrith Tea Rooms. ‘Hi, Pam,’ he said. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Good, thanks, Jasper. Have you met Alex?’

  He looked at her, his eyes bright and intelligent. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’ He held out a hand to her. ‘How do you do?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’ She shook it, noticing that he had a rich Scottish accent.

  ‘What’s your business then?’ he asked. ‘You must have a reason for being part of this jolly event.’

  ‘I grow flowers.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He looked interested. ‘Is there much demand for that?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. People just think of weddings, but there’s a huge gift market and I’m moving into doing flower growing and flower arranging workshops.’ She launched into her familiar patter; people usually asked a variation on just a few questions. Jasper nodded, listening intently.

  ‘Fascinating,’ he said. ‘You have my respect – it sounds like hard work.’

  ‘It is.’ She smiled, pleased. People seemed to think flower growing was ladylike and elegant, as though she spent her time wafting around roses and dahlias, snipping their pretty heads into a willow trug, when the reality was hard work, filthy wellies, cold and lots of dirt. He’s attractive. She liked his short, feathery haircut and the slightly rugged look he had. And that accent. It was rich and fluid, a soft Highland brogue. She glanced down at his hand to see if he sported a wedding ring but it was at the wrong angle and she couldn’t see. ‘What’s your business?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet. I’m thinking about weddings, in which case we might have a bit of an overlap.’ He smiled. ‘It’s all to play for right now.’

  ‘Oh?’ She frowned, confused.

  ‘Jasper’s just moved to the area,’ Pam said. She looked suddenly wary, as though she had just realised a connection that bothered her. ‘In fact, you should know—’

  ‘I’ve taken on an old wreck,’ he said. ‘Lovely place but really broken down. I’m just considering what to do with it – gut it, turn it into a hotel, set it up for events . . . not really sure. It’s got a listing, so planning will be a bit of a nightmare.’

  ‘Which house is it?’ Alex said, interested. ‘I’ve lived here all my life, I’m bound to know it.’

  Pam tried to cut in before Jasper spoke, but it was too late and he said, ‘Tawray. Crazy old house, almost a castle with the turrets on the top. A crusty old major and his wife lived there before we moved in, and they’ve let it go over the years. So I’m coming up with ideas to revitalise it.’

  Alex stared at him, her mouth open, stunned.

  Pam said, ‘Alex knows it, don’t you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ He smiled at her then his face changed. ‘Hold on, you’re not that flower farm on the far side of the park, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice came out frigid and cold. She was remembering the woman at the door of Tawray, the way she wouldn’t open it, her refusal to consider continuing the Christmas flowers, her closed-off expression. That must be his wife.

  ‘We’re neighbours then,’ he said cheerfully. ‘And you’ve lived here all your life, have you?’

  Alex paused, then said with faux brightness, ‘Would you excuse me? I’m really sorry, Pam, I’ve just remembered I have to get back home.’

  ‘Sure.’ Pam looked sympathetic while Jasper was evidently taken aback.

  ‘Oh, right,’ he said. ‘Well, see you soon.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She put her glass on the tray of a passing waiter. ‘Goodnight then. Happy Christmas, Pam.’

  Then she hurried out, not wanting to spend another moment in his company.

  Chapter Fourteen

  1985

  Three months to the day after Julia’s meeting with David, he asked her to marry him and she said yes without thinking twice. They were in a dream of love, barely able to function apart, yearning for one another at every moment. She’d never known anything like it, and if she ever thought of Mark at all, it was to be grateful that he had given her the means of appreciating the contrast between the grinding on his Stockwell mattress with the utter delight she found with David.

  Everything about him pleased her, from the way his dark hair curled softly on his neck and on the curve behind his ears, to the shape of his hands. She loved his warm, sweet smell, and the feel of his strong body when he wrapped his arms around her. His voice was the loveliest sound she could imagine, and everything he thought and said seemed right.

  This is how it’s meant to be. This is what it means to be in love.

  So when on a lazy Sunday morning, only a few weeks after they had collected her things from Stockwell and she had said goodbye to Mark, who seemed quite unfazed by the fact she was leaving him for good, David pulled her to him under the sheets and said seriously, ‘I think we ought to get married as soon as we can, don’t you?’, she had said, ‘Yes, yes I do,’ and meant it utterly.

  What was the point in waiting, when life was to be grasped and taken? David excited and thrilled her, but he also made her feel safe. He was older, wiser. He seemed to quieten the voices that told her insistently that life was brief and full of suffering, and that she must find her joy where she could, in dancing, drinking, and whatever hedonistic oblivion appeared. She felt, almost without knowing it, that he would keep her away from all that, and in his safe, sober world, she would be all right.

  ‘But first,’ she said, lacing her fingers through his, ‘we need to go to Tawray.’

  Julia had been away too long, she felt that as soon as they neared the house. Something in this place fed and nourished her. It had been self-punishing to stay away from it.

  ‘My goodness, look at that!’ David exclaimed as they came up the driveway and he saw the house for the first time. ‘What a place!’

  Julia felt a rush of pride and love at the sight of the old house, sitting in its hollow surrounded by mellow parkland. ‘And look – the sea!’ She inhaled deeply. ‘Oh, I can smell it. I love that smell.’

  ‘What period is the house?’ David said, interested.

  ‘It’s a bit of a mishmash,’ Julia said. ‘Bits from different times, stuck on by different ancestors. But somehow it works.’

  Her heart swelled with love for it – the strange Gothic towers on the roof, the battlements and turrets, and the dark Cornish stone of the main house.

  David brought the car to a halt in front of the broad shallow steps that led to the front door. ‘I can see why you need to come back here.’

  ‘Come on, let’s go in,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘There’s something I want to show you.’

  They stood in front of the mural, David exclaiming at its lifelike quality. ‘And this is you,’ he said, reaching out to touch the tawny hair of the twelve-year-old Julia. ‘You look like a young witch.’

  She gave him a sideways look. ‘Really? Is that a good thing?’

  ‘Oh yes. You’re brewing enchantment. It’s a wonderful picture of you. And I love the apples.’

  ‘That’s my mother,’ Julia said, pointing at the wistful figure by the writing desk. ‘It’s just how she looked in real life.’

  He stared, solemn. ‘She looks lovely. Very sad.’

  Julia nodded, biting her lip. ‘She was. Very, very sad.’

  ‘When did she die?’

  ‘Four years ago now.’

  ‘Here?’

  She nodded, unable to say more, and he saw that she couldn’t, so said quickly, ‘And who’s this?’ He gestured to the girl in the middle, a bright spot of yellow and soft blue eyes. ‘Fantastic seventies outfit.’

  ‘That’s my sister, Lala.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’

  ‘Half-sister, if we’re being pedantic. She lives in France. I don’t see her much these days but we used to be close. You’ll meet her at the wedding, I’m sure she’ll come over.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. I hope she wears those shoes. And who is that hatchet-fac
ed woman?’

  ‘Oh, that’s my rather poisonous—’

  ‘Well, well!’ Aunt Victoria’s voice cut through the air, and she advanced towards them, stately in a tartan skirt, navy jumper and pearls, followed by two fat waddling spaniels with drooping brown ears. ‘Fancy arriving and not even ringing the bell! We didn’t know you were here, darling.’ Then she stopped and put her hands to her face. ‘Oh Julia! Your hair! Your lovely hair. What on earth have you done to it?’

  ‘Just a spot of hair dye, you know, to ring the changes. Nice to see you too. Sorry not to announce ourselves. I wanted to show David the painting.’

  ‘David!’ Victoria’s face softened as she inspected him and she smiled. ‘Welcome. You’re Julia’s new friend?’

  ‘Her fiancé,’ David corrected as she offered a cheek for him to kiss.

  Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? How unexpected. Isn’t that rather sudden?’ Her gaze went at once to Julia’s middle. ‘And you haven’t even met Julia’s father.’

  ‘I intend to remedy that as soon as possible.’

  Julia said lightly, ‘We don’t live in the Dark Ages, for Christ’s sake,’ and enjoyed the expression of distaste that crossed her aunt’s face. ‘I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions about who I’m going to marry without Daddy’s permission.’

  ‘But,’ David said quickly, ‘I appreciate it’s the correct gesture to make.’

  ‘I’m glad one of you knows how things are done. So, a wedding. What fun. I can’t wait to hear all about it.’

  ‘Has she always lived here?’ David asked as they went upstairs to put their bags in their rooms – David having been put firmly down the hall in one of the guest rooms.