The Winter Secret

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘She’s a gentle one, that’s why. Plenty of others here aren’t like her. There’s a woman down the hall who’s violent, it’s awful. I always think you can see the soul more clearly when the outside gets stripped away. Your mother is a good one and I think she’s still here.’

  Buttercup’s eyes had filled with tears. She wanted so badly to believe.

  ‘So you must talk to her, tell her what’s going on,’ Stacy urged. ‘She likes it.’

  It seemed so difficult to explain her life when everything was so different from how it had been before the illness claimed her mother’s mind. The early onset Alzheimer’s had begun when Buttercup was a teenager; by the time she was in her twenties, her mother was finding it hard to recognise her and her language had deteriorated badly. Her husband’s love and devotion had been unstinting but eventually he had to agree with Buttercup that he could no longer care for her mother alone and they had found a good home where he visited her almost daily.

  Buttercup badly wanted her father to have a life beyond caring for her mother, who increasingly had no life at all and was even unaware of what she no longer had. Once, angry at the terrible disease, desperate to be free of it herself, she had shouted at her father, ‘Can’t you see she doesn’t have a clue who you are any more? Go out, live your life, meet someone else! Don’t sacrifice yourself, she wouldn’t have wanted that.’

  Her father had looked at her with an expression that was as close to anger and disapproval as he had ever come. ‘She’s my wife, Buttercup. I can’t abandon her. I’m married – till death us do part. That’s just how it is. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t care for her until the end.’

  She’d burst into tears of grief and humility in the face of his unquestioning, unstinting love, when her own didn’t seem to be as strong. But his end had come before her mother’s with an unexpected and massive heart attack, leaving Buttercup utterly bereft. She was sure the loss of her father triggered a sudden descent for her mother: it wasn’t so much that she was able to register the fact of her husband’s death, but that his visits stopped. Buttercup was now all she had left.

  The loss and loneliness had been so great, Buttercup had wondered how she would ever cope. Outwardly, she seemed perfectly fine, going to work, going out, smiling and appearing normal; but underneath she was a churning mess of depression, tears and panic. Her father’s signet ring hung on a chain around her neck like a talisman, and she touched it many times a day when the pain struck.

  She was holding it delicately between her fingers at a drinks party her boss, Lazlo, had taken her to, standing in a small circle of strangers, not listening to the general talk until she heard her own name pronounced in unusual rasping tones:

  ‘Buttercup Wilcox? That’s the most marvellous name I’ve ever heard.’

  She looked around to see a man standing near her, and realised she had not clocked herself being introduced to him.

  ‘I’m Charles Redmain,’ he said, and smiled, that odd enchanting animation working its magic. She liked him at once, drawn to the light in his eyes: intelligent, curious, knowing. He was smartly dressed and well presented, his sandy hair neatly cut, his sharp-boned face clean-shaven, his looks distinguished and yet boyish. ‘Boring, I’m afraid, compared to you, and not one bit unique.’

  ‘I’m Anna, really,’ she said, taken by the way he responded to her name, instead of asking what her parents were thinking of, or whether she liked butter, as most people did.

  ‘Then I prefer Buttercup by miles. Now, Lazlo here tells me you’re his assistant and I want to get you an enormous drink to help you cope. He’s a ridiculously annoying old fusspot.’

  Lazlo, her boss, said, ‘Really, Charles!’ and laughed.

  ‘He daren’t be cross as I’m an investor in his business.’ Charles smiled again. ‘Would you like that drink?’

  ‘Yes please,’ she said, attracted to his vivacity and fizzing charm.

  ‘Good.’

  Within a few moments, they were talking intently and he had begun to learn everything about her. When the drinks party ended, he took her to dinner to a discreet but very luxurious restaurant nearby, and over dinner she was surprised to find herself opening up about her father’s death, her grief for him, and the void it had left in her life.

  ‘You poor girl,’ he said, his expression tender. ‘What a horrible time you’ve had. You’re strong and independent, I can see that. But everyone needs a bit of looking after from time to time.’ And something in her responded with a chime of relief that her inner weakness had been recognised, not with scorn but with kindness.

  The next day forty white roses arrived at Lazlo’s office for Buttercup, with an invitation to the opera that week. From that moment, her life lost its bleakness and began to sparkle. Charles treated her like something rare and precious but at the same time assumed she was as energetic and resilient as he was. He brought fun and adventure and, most of all, reassurance into her life. At a moment’s notice, she could find herself packing for trip to Paris to see an exhibition or to Rome for the opening of a new restaurant, or be sunning herself on the deck of a boat cruising Greek islands while Charles researched a business opportunity – plans for a new hotel or a harbour complex or any of the many projects he invested in. But at the same, he was full of kindness. He insisted on meeting Buttercup’s mother and going along to visit whenever he could.

  ‘I’m just sorry I’ll never get to meet your father,’ he had said softly, squeezing her hand. ‘He sounds like a wonderful man.’

  Lazlo was not surprised on the January day when she arrived with a huge aquamarine on her ring finger.

  ‘It was inevitable,’ he said simply. ‘I saw it when I introduced the two of you that night. Congratulations, sweetheart. We’ll miss you.’

  ‘I’m not leaving,’ she’d laughed.

  ‘Not yet – but you’ll find Charles is a full-time job,’ Lazlo said.

  She had intended to keep working but once they agreed that they would move full-time to Dorset, it hadn’t been possible and she’d handed in her resignation after all.

  She’d visited her mother to tell her the news too, radiant for the first time in many months, rapturous with all the details of Charles and how wonderful he was.

  Her mother stared into space, her right leg twitching and rubbing against her left, and said nothing.

  ‘You don’t have to worry about me any more, Mum,’ Buttercup had said softly. ‘I’m going to be all right. It’s going to be perfect, I just know it.’

  It was that reassurance that meant even now Buttercup could not bring herself to tell her mother about the miscarriage or the trip to the consultant. Instead, she talked on about Hazel and the dinner out they’d had the night before, her trip to London, how busy Charles was.

  When an hour was up, she bent to kiss her mother’s cheek. ‘Bye, Mum. I’ll see you soon, I promise. Lots of love. Charles sends his love too.’

  But as soon as she was in the car on the way home, she wished she’d confided everything.

  Passing the King’s Head on her way home, Buttercup noticed that there was a car outside the pub.

  Is it the Tranters? They can’t be there already, can they?

  On impulse, she slowed down and turned into the car park as Cathy Tranter came out of the open door of the pub.

  ‘Hello!’ Buttercup called, stopping and getting out. ‘Are you doing a recce?’

  Cathy stared at her, bewildered, then recognition spread across her face. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t place you for a minute!’ She came over, smiling, looking far more relaxed than she had at the interview, her copper hair pulled back into a loose bun with ends floating free. ‘Yeah, we’ve come down to take a look and do some measuring up. We’re going to be living over the shop, so to speak, and it’s a bit smaller than we’re used to. Still, a good reason to do some decluttering.’

  She was wearing a loose dress with a long belted cardigan over the top to protect her from the autumn chill in
the air.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Buttercup asked, indicating the bump.

  ‘Fine, thanks, though it’s not easy being pregnant when you’ve got a three-year-old, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Have you got any?’

  ‘Not yet. Soon, I hope.’ Buttercup looked over Cathy’s shoulder. ‘Where’s your boy?’

  ‘Inside with Wilf. Come on in and say hello.’

  Buttercup followed her into the empty pub and they went through to the kitchen where a small blond boy was sitting on the steel countertop and kicking his heels, an apple held between two hands.

  ‘Olly, say hello to Mrs Redmain,’ Cathy said as they went in.

  ‘Hello,’ said the boy obediently, and gnawed at his apple like a squirrel, his small white teeth carving out a bite.

  ‘Hi.’ Wilf got up from where he’d been kneeling on the floor, inspecting something. ‘I didn’t realise we had a visitor.’

  Buttercup said, ‘Sorry to intrude. I just wanted to stop and say how pleased I am that you’re coming to live here. When do you think you’ll move in?’

  Wilf smiled, rubbing his hands on his jeans. ‘We’d like to be in by Christmas. That’s a good time for pubs. But we’ll see. It depends on our house in London and how quickly we can sell it. Lots of unknowns.’

  ‘It would be lovely to have the pub open at Christmas,’ Buttercup said. ‘Roaring fires, mulled wine.’

  ‘Good old-fashioned pub grub,’ Wilf said. ‘Venison stew. Roast pheasant with game chips. A good beef pie. Not forgetting a storming burger and the best sausage and mash you’ll ever taste.’

  ‘Don’t get him started.’ Cathy laughed. She shook her head. ‘He can’t wait to start serving up the best food in the county.’

  ‘The country, actually,’ Wilf corrected her.

  ‘Okay, Masterchef. You’ll have to get to grips with the kitchen first. A good clean and an inspection for starters.’

  ‘I think it sounds brilliant,’ Buttercup said eagerly. ‘Just what we need round here. How long are you staying?’

  ‘We’re camping here tonight, going home tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh?’ Buttercup looked round at the empty restaurant kitchen. ‘It doesn’t look all that usable.’

  ‘There’s the small kitchen upstairs in the living quarters,’ Wilf said. ‘We’ll cook there.’

  ‘Why not come up to me? My husband won’t be back till tomorrow. Come up and have a kitchen supper with me, and tell me all about the plans for the pub.’

  Cathy flicked an uncertain look at her husband. ‘We’d love to, but there’s Olly . . . and it’s pretty short notice for you . . .’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. The larder’s well stocked. And you can bring Olly and put him down to sleep at our house. We’ve got plenty of room and cots and things for when my friends visit.’

  The couple looked at each other for a moment before Wilf said decisively, ‘We’d like that, thanks.’

  ‘Good. Come up early, that will give you time to get Olly settled.’

  Buttercup drove back to the house in a good mood, enthused by her sudden decision. She explained to Carol about the extra guests and by the time Cathy and Wilf arrived that evening, everything was set up in one of the spare bedrooms and with a toddler supper ready in the kitchen.

  ‘This is so nice of you,’ Cathy said, as Wilf sat down with Olly at the table to help him spoon up the pasta and tomato sauce.

  ‘Not at all,’ Buttercup replied. ‘Carol did all the work.’

  ‘Carol?’ Cathy looked around expectantly.

  ‘She’s gone home, but she does most of the cooking. It’s lovely to have you here.’ She watched as the small boy crowed and chatted as he ate his supper, smearing a good deal of it over his face in the process. Tippi stood close by, her tail wagging, hoping for scraps, and quickly licking up dropped pasta. Buttercup wanted to sit down and join in feeding him, but Cathy was keen to chat and look around the kitchen so she poured glasses of wine for herself and Wilf, and an elderflower fizz for Cathy, then showed her around the kitchen, feeling rather embarrassed that she wasn’t sure which cupboard housed the dishwasher or how the fancy sous vide oven worked.

  ‘Wilf will be pretty jealous if you show him that – he’s desperate for one,’ Cathy said, sipping her drink. ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Almost two years.’ Buttercup was suddenly conscious that she rarely used the kitchen or laundry, and never cooked or cleaned or shopped. Hazel jokingly called it her lap of luxury and made jokes about Buttercup having forgotten how to use a washing machine and make a cup of tea, but it all added to the sense of not entirely belonging in her own home, as if she were still a newcomer.

  ‘It’s so beautiful here,’ Cathy said. ‘And the countryside! It’s magnificent. I can’t wait till we finally get out of London and live with this every day.’

  ‘Yes, it is lovely.’ Buttercup glanced at the kitchen table, where Olly was swallowing the last of his pasta, coaxed by his father with the promise of fruity yoghurt if he ate two more mouthfuls. A thought came into her mind, strong and clear. I can’t imagine Charles doing that.

  As soon as she thought it, she knew it was true. Charles wouldn’t have the patience or desire to sit with a wriggling child, and risk tomato sauce on his shirt cuffs.

  Another thought occurred to her. Is it possible that Charles doesn’t want children as much as he claims?

  As soon as she thought this, she felt panicked and breathless, gripped by an impulse to pick up her phone and call him immediately, and quiz him.

  But she couldn’t do that. Cathy was talking about the forthcoming move. Wilf was wiping up yoghurt, while Olly slurped it eagerly from his bowl, waving his spoon around between mouthfuls.

  I have to get on with this evening. But tomorrow I’ll talk to Charles.

  The feeling of panic began to subside and she forced herself to be calm. Brightly, she showed them up to the spare room, leaned against the bathroom door to watch as Olly had his bath, his parents kneeling beside it to play with him and sponge him clean. When he was dressed in his pyjamas and tucked up with Wilf for a bedtime story, Cathy and Buttercup said goodnight and tiptoed out.

  ‘Thank God that’s over!’ Cathy said with a sigh.

  Buttercup led her down the back stairs to the kitchen. ‘But he’s adorable.’

  ‘He is. But it’s hard work, night after night. Relentless.’

  Buttercup felt a deep sense of longing to be up on the spare room bed, the small warm body tucked next to hers, the sweet-smelling head resting on her, the gentle rhythm of a bedtime story filling the air. ‘I suppose it must be.’ She hoped she didn’t sound too yearning.

  ‘You’ll find out when it’s your turn. I mean, it is wonderful to be a parent, but I couldn’t cope if Wilf wasn’t a fantastic dad. I never dreamed how tough it would be.’ Her hands went over her bump. ‘I’m pretty nervous about how it will be when this one’s born. If one is hard, imagine what two will be like . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Buttercup said faintly.

  ‘But with Wilf on hand, and both of us around full-time, it will be so much easier than it used to be.’ Cathy smiled. ‘It’s another reason why I’m so happy we’re moving here.’

  Buttercup was staring at the floor, uneasy again. It struck her that this huge house and all the help within it ought to be perfect for a family. And yet the cosiness of the pub, with its small upstairs flat, suddenly seemed incomparably nicer. Cathy was chatting on, not noticing Buttercup’s retreat into silence.

  What’s wrong with me? I’ve got everything, it’s all perfect, just as I knew it would be. As soon as a baby comes, it will all be complete. And all I have to do is talk to Charles about my worries. It will be fine, I know it.

  Her mood lightened over the dinner Carol had left: a chicken casserole with herby dumplings floating in it and garlic green beans, eaten around the kitchen table. The atmosphere was relaxed and cheerful; Wilf pronounced the food excellent and something he might cons
ider copying for the pub menu. As they ate, he held forth about his previous career as a builder and his excitement about the career he’d always longed for, as a chef and publican.

  ‘It’s the dream,’ Cathy said, her eyes bright. ‘We’re determined to make it work, aren’t we, sweetheart?’

  ‘Yup.’ Wilf had relaxed even more as he put away a few glasses of white wine. ‘It’s a risk for us, I’ll be honest. We’re selling our London house and putting all the money into this. It’s got to work or we are – to be Anglo Saxon about it – fucked.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll make it a huge success,’ Buttercup said firmly. ‘Will it cost so much?’

  ‘A full refurb,’ Wilf said. ‘And we’re going to convert the outbuildings into accommodation. This is a prime area for holidaymakers. If we get the food right and the marketing, we should be able to make a decent fist of it.’

  ‘We want to start a few local events,’ Carol chimed in. ‘A food festival, maybe, to showcase local producers. There’s so much on offer round here.’

  Wilf looked earnestly at Buttercup. ‘You’ve got the big house. We’ve got the pub. It could be the start of a beautiful friendship.’

  She laughed. ‘Yes, I’m sure it is! But you’ll have to speak to Charles about that.’

  ‘Speak to Charles about what?’

  Buttercup jumped at the sound of that familiar, rasping voice. She turned to see her husband walking into the kitchen, his navy-blue travelling bag over his shoulder. Stammering slightly, she jumped to her feet. ‘Darling! You’re home! How wonderful. I had no idea . . . I thought it was tomorrow.’

  ‘We finished early. I thought I’d surprise you.’ He came over, dropped his bag on a chair and kissed her warmly, before turning to look at Wilf and Cathy, who were suddenly quiet. ‘Wilf, isn’t it?’

  ‘Evening, Mr Redmain,’ Wilf said, his ebullience muted.

  ‘Have you moved into the pub already?’ Charles lifted his eyebrows. ‘Hello, Cathy.’

  ‘Hello,’ Cathy replied politely. ‘We were visiting today to measure up. Your wife kindly asked us up to supper.’