A Midwinter Promise

by Lulu Taylor

  Alex remembered the wedding, in the village church where Mum was buried in the graveyard. Sally had wanted her to be a bridesmaid, in a candy-pink taffeta dress and a headband of yellow and white roses. Alex – no, I was Ali then – aged nine and confused by the emotions Pa’s wedding was inspiring, had said she didn’t want to wear the dress but Sally wouldn’t hear of anything else and had made it clear what she expected. On the day itself, a bright May morning, Ali sat in her room in Tawray, the hated dress laid out on her bed, and set her chin against it. She wouldn’t wear it.

  When Johnnie came to check on her, sent by Sally, she told him that she refused to put it on. He shrugged and went away to deliver the news. The next moment, Sally came rushing down the corridor, in a bathrobe and a veil, her make-up half done, maddened with rage.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she yelled, her eyes blazing. ‘You put on that dress right now!’

  ‘No.’ Ali crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at the vile pink of the ruffled dress. She hated it and she wasn’t going to wear it. If that meant they would cancel the wedding, then good. She knew that down the hall, the daughter of Sally’s best friend was obediently getting into her pink monstrosity. Sally wanted two bridesmaids and Ali was going to do it.

  ‘Put it on!’ Sally shrieked and picked up the dress.

  ‘No.’ Ali had never felt more sure of anything in her life – she wasn’t going to wear that dress and be Sally’s bridesmaid. Mum was there, in that churchyard, and to put on the pink silk horror and walk behind Sally as she married Pa was a betrayal Ali couldn’t bear.

  ‘Yes, yes!’ Sally was frantic. She dropped the dress and hauled Ali to her feet by one arm, her grip vicious with the painted red fingernails digging in. ‘Take those things off.’ She started clawing at Ali’s T-shirt, pulling it up and over her head while Ali struggled and shouted.

  ‘Get off!’ she yelled. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘You little . . . bitch,’ Sally cried and she tore the T-shirt away, leaving Ali bare-chested and shaking. ‘And the rest!’

  She grabbed the waistband of Ali’s jeans and her anger made her perfectly able to keep Ali where she wanted her, despite the struggling. Then Ali, seeing Sally’s arm in just the right position, bent down and sank her teeth into the bare flesh. Sally screamed, drew back her hand and slapped Ali hard around the face, sending her to the floor.

  ‘What’s this?’ Pa was standing in the door in full naval uniform, white-faced and shocked. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘She bit me!’ howled Sally, rubbing her arm. Her veil, tugged in the struggle, was half off her head, her newly done hair messed so that it stood out in frozen sprayed strands. ‘Ali won’t wear her dress and she bit me!’

  Pa stared, taking in Ali, who was on the ground, one cheek scarlet with finger marks clearly visible, not crying but wide-eyed and stunned; and Sally, eyes full of tears and outrage, on the brink of hysteria.

  ‘Sally, go and get ready,’ he commanded.

  ‘Make her wear the dress,’ Sally said, a whimper in her voice.

  Pa said nothing and Sally sniffed, pushed up her veil and went slowly out. Ali still half lay on the floor, shivering slightly and wrapping her arms around her bare chest.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ Pa said, coming in. He put out a hand and pulled Ali gently to her feet. He took a small blanket off the bed and put it around her shoulders. ‘Why won’t you wear the dress?’

  She stared back, not sure if she was brave enough to defy Pa. She would happily fight Sally to the death and never surrender, but Pa was a different matter. He was looking at her face, his lips turned down, his eyes sad, but he said nothing.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ she said. She longed to tell him that was code for the fact she didn’t want him to marry Sally. That she missed Mum so badly, and wanted their old life back so desperately it made her cry into the night. She wanted to tell him that her heart was broken and Sally didn’t care and Sally was coming between her and Pa and the grief they shared and the restoration they might be able to give one another. She wanted to say that if only Sally knew how to love her, it might be all right. But she had no idea how to say any of those things. She just wanted Pa to understand, without her having to tell him that she needed him, and she wanted him to tell her that he loved her and would always be her Pa, Sally or no Sally.

  ‘All right, old chum,’ he said, using their nickname for each other. She felt a rush of desperate need. He had been her Pa, the centre of her world, the one who adored her. Then Mum had died and the games and smiles and laughter had stopped. Pa had vanished into a locked room of grief, and only Sally had been able to bring him out. To hear the old name reminded her of the bond they had once had and it was both a comfort and a painful reminder. He smiled at her. ‘I know that dress is not the loveliest thing in the world. But it means everything to Sally. I want you to wear it and be her bridesmaid. Do you understand? I’m afraid you don’t have a choice about this. It’s an order.’

  Ali’s eyes dropped to the floor. She couldn’t disobey Pa, she wasn’t strong enough. She needed him too much.

  He spoke again, his voice stern. ‘And did you bite her?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked up from under her fringe, wondering what would happen now.

  Pa said nothing for a moment but his eyes went to Ali’s cheek again. After a moment, he said, ‘That was very wrong. But we’ll overlook it this time, if you put on the dress and behave yourself today. Will you do that?’

  Her shoulders slumped. She was defeated. At last she said in a very small voice, ‘All right.’

  ‘Good.’ He patted her head. ‘Thank you, old chum. Now, let’s get going, we’re going to be late if you don’t crack on.’

  So she had walked up the aisle behind Sally, whose good humour was restored, and who was smiling beatifically as she floated along in a vast white dress, adorned with lace and ruffles, next to the other girl bridesmaid and in front of Johnnie and Mundo in their sailor suits, which they were far too old for, really, with Johnnie big for twelve and Mundo a chunky ten-year-old. She had watched Pa marry Sally, while Mum lay dead in the churchyard, feeling that Sally had won and Pa had let her, and that this victory would set the tone for years to come.

  She had been right. Not long after the wedding, Sally said that Ali needed to change her name.

  ‘It’s so silly!’ she said brightly, as though it was the funniest thing in the world. ‘We can’t have Ali and Sally in the same family. It sounds too comical. We’re going to call you Alex from now on.’

  She couldn’t even let me keep my name. Mum called me Ali. Ali Pali. Angel Ali.

  But from that time, she was Alex, and that was that.

  Alex was in the kitchen to make cups of tea for the ambulance crew when Mundo came in. ‘Alexandra,’ he said loudly, coming in just as the kettle was boiling.

  ‘Hello,’ she said briefly. Only Sally and Mundo called her Alexandra, and Sally only did it when she was being lofty. The name made her skin crawl just a little. Mundo always said it in a tone of voice that implied some kind of intimacy whereas she felt it only emphasised how foreign they were to each other, even after years of living in the same house.

  ‘We didn’t get much time to catch up,’ he said genially, leaning against the kitchen table and watching as she made the mugs of tea. He was looking casual, which in Mundo’s book meant perfectly pressed chinos, a crisp shirt and an immaculate jumper. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  ‘Busy?’

  ‘Yes.’ She thought of how much time she’d had to spend in the potting shed over the last week, working into the night to keep up with her orders, boxing them up carefully for the couriers arriving each morning. Her regular helper, Gary, tended to the greenhouses during the day and she’d had to book extra hours as she was at the hospital so often. That would put a strain on profits, but she’d counted on the Tawray contract to cover some of it. That won’t happen now, she thought darkly.


  ‘Lovely business, flowers,’ Mundo said, a dreamy note in his deep voice. ‘It must be like working with poetry.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Alex answered dryly, and she noticed the rim of dried mud under her fingernails as she fished out the teabags. ‘And how are you?’

  ‘Very well! Very well. My work is fascinating. I’ve just won the most extraordinary case. The first time I’ve ever had to go to the judge and ask him to name my own client as a hostile witness.’

  ‘Really?’ Mundo worked on big criminal cases at the Old Bailey and liked to regale people with stories of the more gruesome or celebrated ones.

  ‘Yes. Her husband had clearly tried to kill her and she had only just escaped with her life, but she didn’t want to believe him capable of it. So, on the stand, she started changing her story to make him appear innocent.’ Mundo laughed. ‘I had to put a stop to that. She was in danger of getting him acquitted.’

  ‘It sounds very stressful,’ she said politely. ‘Did you win?’

  ‘Happily, yes. So I can afford to take a bit of a break and help Mummy through this awful time.’ He shook his head gloomily, his expression grave. ‘It’s terrible, isn’t it? I’m in pieces, to be honest.’

  ‘Yes.’ Alex didn’t feel convinced for a moment, even though she could understand that Mundo was very likely sad about Pa. It just didn’t touch her. His emotions didn’t ring true. He’s like someone playing the part of being a caring human. Like what I imagine a psychopath must do. Perhaps Mundo was a psychopath. He had always seemed chilly to the core to her, even though other people spoke about his charm and intelligence.

  Mundo went on: ‘That’s why I thought we ought to have a conference. You, Johnnie and me.’

  ‘Really? Why?’ She went to get the milk from the fridge, taking the long way around the kitchen table so that she could avoid passing him.

  ‘Why?’ He blinked as if in surprise. ‘I know it’s not pleasant, but we’re going to have to face some truths. If Pa dies . . . well, Mummy is going to be on her own and she’s going to need looking after.’

  ‘Will she? She seems very capable to me.’ Alex got the milk and headed back to the mugs. ‘She’s still young.’

  ‘My theory is that she’ll age quickly without Pa to look after, and she’ll be lonely. I’m in London, too far away to help much. But you’re here, right on the doorstep.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You want me to look after her. Take on the job of her carer.’

  ‘No, no. Not that. But you are the closest.’

  ‘Convenient.’

  ‘So you can look in on her, keep me informed if she needs anything. You know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Right.’ She poured out the milk, added sugar where needed, and began to load the mugs onto a tray, seething inwardly at Mundo’s arrogance and bland assumption she would take on caring for his ageing mother. After everything that had happened.

  ‘But that’s not the only thing we need to discuss.’ His tone was portentous.

  ‘What do you mean?’ She picked up the tray and turned to look at him. His eyebrows were raised meaningfully.

  ‘The three of us have to talk about what’s going to happen to Pa’s assets.’

  Alex stared at him and then understanding dawned. ‘So that’s why you’re here. You want to know what’s going to happen to any money. I might have guessed.’

  ‘I’m looking after my mother’s interests,’ he said, suddenly icy, and she got a glimpse of what he could be like in the courtroom. ‘If that’s all right with you.’

  ‘I’m sure Pa has provided for Sally perfectly adequately,’ Alex said tartly. ‘And everything will go to her as a matter of course, I think, if I understand the legal position.’

  ‘Unless he’s made other arrangements, and we won’t know that until the will is read.’ Mundo’s eyes had gone a chilly blue.

  ‘Doesn’t Sally know?’

  ‘She doesn’t. And I don’t want to talk to her about it at a time like this in any case; it hardly seems appropriate when she’s grief-stricken.’

  Alex looked at him, nodding. I might have known that would be his main concern. He just wants to know what he’s going to get out of all this, and make sure he’s not cheated out of whatever he thinks he’s entitled to.

  Entitled. That was Mundo, all right. Always thinking he could have whatever he wanted.

  ‘I’ll talk to Johnnie,’ she said, not wanting to tell him that Johnnie was planning to come down soon in any case. He might not want to see Mundo, though it would be hard to avoid him, as he was staying in Pa’s house.

  ‘Good. You do that.’ Mundo’s eyes softened. ‘And we need to catch up, don’t we? It’s been a while since I heard your news. You’re divorced now, aren’t you? I was sorry to hear that.’

  She said nothing, not wanting to discuss her personal life.

  He smiled, one corner of his mouth going upwards in that way she suspected he thought was charming. ‘And also not sorry.’

  A pang of disgust stabbed her.

  Sally came bustling in. ‘Where’s the tea? You’ve been ages.’

  ‘Sorry, Sally, here it is. Bringing it now.’ Alex went out as quickly as she could, leaving Mundo watching after her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Johnnie was still reeling from the idea that Netta wanted a divorce. Or, perhaps did not actually want one – she hadn’t decided. But she was thinking about it. He was in shock. He’d had no idea that she felt so strongly that their marriage was going wrong.

  He pondered it when he went for his Saturday morning run down to the river, along the towpath and back via the park, in the company of dozens of other middle-aged weekend runners.

  She feels like she does all the work and I don’t appreciate her.

  But he did appreciate her. And the money he earned helped pay for the big house she wanted, the childminders, cleaners, gardeners and all the others who made their lives run as smoothly as possible, who enabled their standard of living. She was financially secure; didn’t that count for a lot? Johnnie worked bloody hard to make sure his family could enjoy a comfortable life, and he was focused on making sure he did his absolute best for them all. If that meant he couldn’t clean the damn shower, then he couldn’t clean the damn shower. They had a cleaning woman for that.

  But . . .

  He tried to be fair. It was more than that, he knew. He’d read an article lately on something called the mental burden, and how women shouldered it and how it added hours of invisible work to their already considerable load. He hadn’t entirely understood it but it seemed to be things like remembering birthdays, running calendars and writing thank you letters. All the social grease and family admin. But men didn’t care about all that. Johnnie couldn’t honestly say he’d mind if he never got another birthday card, he had no interest in receiving thank you letters, let alone sending them, and he felt that it was Netta who crammed the diary with activities, holidays, get-togethers, dinners, parties and all the rest, then complained that they were so busy. And if he tried to intervene and start organising things himself, she’d be furious.

  Johnnie checked his tracker and saw he’d run over six kilometres so he took a pit stop at the park cafe to drink a coffee before he returned to the mad house. No school on Saturdays, so Bertie would be there, needing constant supervision and holding back from stealing the cereal. Johnnie found it upsetting in a way he couldn’t articulate when, every five minutes, Bertie would rush to the nearest tap, turn it on and drink from it. Life was dominated by ‘Where’s Bertie?’ and ‘Is Bertie all right?’

  The truth was that Bertie had a life that Johnnie sometimes envied. He had no obligations, no demands, and he pleased only himself. He didn’t care what anyone thought of him, and his needs were simple: to be outside occasionally, to be warm, clean and fed. He did whatever he wanted: he watched the garden for hours on end, like a cat, bounced on his trampoline and swung in his swing. He adored swimming pools and theme parks. He ate and drank what he wanted wh
en he wanted, slept and wandered about, then watched the garden again. He was utterly unselfconscious.

  Not such a bad existence. In days gone by, he could have been shut in an asylum or allowed to die through neglect. Now, he would always be cared for, and surrounded by the love of his family. He would never be bothered by world affairs, taxes, bills or whether he’d find a parking spot in town. On the other hand, he would never be moved by music or poetry, weep at a soppy film or gasp at the beauty of a painting, or be awed by the scope of human history and achievement. But he would never know what he was missing, so did that really matter?

  Johnnie slumped down on the park bench, holding a takeaway cup of coffee in one hand, warming his fingers. The park was full of wintery mist, the depleted winter foliage grey in the chill sunlight, and Johnnie was cold despite the heat he’d generated from running.