A Week in Winter: A Novel (11 page)

A quick glance round showed him that Selina was not yet home. Relieved, Patrick hung up his coat and hurried up the stairs. With luck he might be in bed and feigning sleep before she arrived back.

Polonius sat on the veranda watching Maudie rake the leaves from the lawn. Each time she turned to look at him he sat up, his ears pricked, hopeful that she might allow him to join her—but Maudie refused to be moved by his eager expectancy. The long sheltered lawn with its high, thick hedges was approached only from the French windows of the bungalow and it had a secret, magical quality, rather like the gardens described in fairy tales. Beneath the hedge the first tiny snowdrops would appear, piercing the frozen earth, their pale, delicate heads drooping on green stems. These ‘fair maids of February’ were often to be found just after Christmas in this mild climate and Maudie always felt a glow of joy when she saw them gleaming bravely on a dull, cold winter morning. As spring approached primroses could be seen amongst the wet grass, growing with clumps of sweet smelling violets, and Maudie would wander contentedly along the winding paths, greeting these long familiar friends, waiting for the first showing of the daffodils’ bright trumpets and the dainty lady’s smock. She had no intention of allowing Polonius’s huge paws to crush these fragile plants and, whilst he was allowed to roam freely around the back of the house and in the woods, here, in this little sanctuary, he was confined.

Maudie leaned the rake against the wooden seat and looked down into the still, quiet water of the pond. This was the natural pond where frogs and toads returned each year to breed so that, later, the water would be
seething with wriggling tadpoles. In summer, around its edge, yellow stonecrop would flower amongst the slates and campanula would tumble, nodding at its trembling image in the cloud-reflecting water. The white blossoms of the weeping cherry would float and drift amongst the weed whilst above them dragonflies would hover with shimmering wings. Even now, on this chill, dank November morning, a pink primula blossomed bravely in its terracotta pot and the leaves of the azalea were greeny-bronze.

In the lower pond Maudie could see the hint of gold and the flick of a tail in the shadowy depths. There were goldfish here although it was difficult to see them. In this boggy corner, hidden from the sun except at the height of summer, the tall yellow flag
Iris pseudacorus
and handsome bulrushes made their home alongside the pretty
Butomus umbellatus,
with its rose-pink blossoms, and the gay yellow marsh marigold. Between tall stems and lush wet grasses, below the spongy leaves of the water dock, tiny froglets made their slow progress away from the safety of their pond, protected from the greedy eyes of predators. Here great toads squatted in magisterial comfort, watching for slugs, blinking lazily at the small red damselflies which flitted restlessly around them.

Maudie straightened up. Those warm, languorous days were yet far ahead; first came Christmas. As she trod the path back to the veranda she allowed herself a moment of sheer, childish thrill. Another card from Posy had arrived this morning.

‘How would you feel about me spending Christmas with you,’ she’d scrawled, the words wedged between all her news.

It was impossible, of course. Coming on top of the news about Moorgate it would be the final straw for poor Selina, yet how to refuse? How could she bring herself to resist such a delightful treat? Pausing to pat Polonius, who had watched her approach with great eagerness, she stepped over the low chain which was slung between the supporting posts and kicked off her gumboots. Presently she would go into Bovey Tracey to do some shopping but first a cup of coffee would not go amiss. As she put water in the percolator and spooned coffee into the filter she was remembering Christmases with Hector. For him it was a time of parties, theatres, dinners, and he was never happier than to be dressing for some formal event; wandering between the bedroom and his dressing room, white shirt-tails dangling, his legs long and elegant in knee-length black socks, bending so that he might peer into her looking-glass whilst he tied his bow
tie. His face would appear beside her own, frowning in concentration, and she would pause in the application of her make-up to look at him.

‘Let’s not go,’ she’d say suddenly. ‘Let’s stay here and make love’—and he’d hesitate, his hands stilled, gazing at her in surprise, shocked but delighted at such a notion.

‘Honestly, darling.’ He’d laugh, stooping to caress her. ‘Don’t think I’m not tempted but we’ve accepted now. Can’t let people down,’ but he was pleased, all the same: amused and flattered to be desired so unaffectedly.

Waiting for the light on the percolator to show that the coffee was ready, Maudie chuckled to herself. It was clear that Hilda had never been so natural with him. She would have been obliging in intimate matters, but she would never have taken the lead, and Hector found this new approach rather fun. In other respects he had been somewhat less pleased by Maudie’s self-confidence; less able to be teased.

‘You’re hectoring,’ she’d say, when he came striding into the bathroom, voicing his opinions on this or that political situation.

‘I thought you might be interested in my point of view,’ he’d answer rather huffily, stopping short in his peroration, irritated by the pun on his name …

‘I
am
interested,’ she’d answer calmly, soaping herself, ‘but don’t
teach
it to me. Let’s have a discussion about it, not a lecture.’

He’d go away, hurt, but gradually he’d realised that she was capable of holding her own in any debate he might choose and began to enjoy the stimulation of an exchange of views.

‘Poor old Hector,’ Daphne had said one day, a year or so after Maudie and Hector had married. ‘You’re a bit of a shock for him. Hilda had all the mental stubbornness of the rather stupid person, you know. Her beliefs were formed early by other people and she stuck to them. Fortunately, most of them were formed by Hector so there were very few dissensions.’

Maudie had thought of Daphne and her remarks later that same day when Hector began to read aloud to her from one of the articles in the paper. After a minute or two she’d interrupted him.

‘I’m reading, Hector,’ she’d said, holding up her book.

He’d stared at her. ‘I beg your pardon. It’s just that this is a subject on which you hold quite strong views.’

‘I know,’ she’d answered. ‘I read it this morning. I’m quite capable of assimilating facts from a newspaper article, you know. I don’t have to be read to as though I were a child. I thought he put it very well, actually.’

She’d continued with her book and Hector had shaken out the pages crossly. No doubt Hilda would have sat sewing or knitting, listening meekly, ready to be instructed. ‘Yes, darling,’ she’d have said. ‘Oh, really? Oh, yes, I quite agree,’ and Maudie had suddenly wanted to burst out laughing, but instead she’d got up and, pausing briefly to touch his shoulder, had gone to pour him a drink. When she’d brought it to him he’d taken the glass but held on to her hand and kissed it. He was never one to bear a grudge.

‘Oh, Hector,’ she sighed, now, switching off the percolator and pouring strong black coffee. ‘I’d give anything to have you back. I’d even let you read the newspaper to me.’

Polonius suddenly thrust a cold nose into her hand and she started, spilling some coffee, cursing under her breath. ‘Wretched animal. No, we are not going for a walk. Not until later. I have to go shopping. I might take you with me, although you don’t deserve to go. Not after yesterday.’

Polonius flattened his ears, exuding a winning air of kindly benevolence, but Maudie was unimpressed. He was still partially in disgrace after an incident which was affording her a certain amount of amusement. They’d been returning from their walk, rounding the curve in the lane, when they’d observed the car parked beyond the entrance to the drive, beside the little bridge. A couple were climbing out, accompanied by a Jack Russell who immediately raced towards them barking hysterically.

Polonius had stopped short, ears pricked, gazing at this intruder in amazement, and Maudie had clasped his collar firmly.

‘Don’t worry,’ called the owner, making no attempt to restrain his dog. ‘He won’t hurt you if you stand quite still.’

‘Cheeky bugger,’ muttered Maudie, releasing her grip. ‘Go on, Polonius. Lunch!’

Polonius had needed no further encouragement. With a deep, baying bark, he’d set off like a bullet from a gun. The terrier had paused, given one last defiant yap and scuttled back to his owners who were now proceeding less confidently.

‘He won’t hurt you if you stand quite still,’ shouted Maudie, enjoying the spectacle of the terrier with his tail between his legs. ‘Polonius! That’s enough now. Here boy! Here!
Polonius!
’

Polonius had been quite deaf to entreaty, however, and, having dealt with the intruder, was now determined to see the whole party off his territory. The couple had hesitated for a moment and then made a hasty dash
for the car, scrambling in, slamming doors just as Polonius had arrived beside it, still barking. They’d driven away and Polonius had returned, tail wagging, evidently pleased with himself

‘You’re supposed to come when I call you,’ she’d scolded—but he’d merely shaken himself victoriously and trotted ahead of her, up the drive, hoping for a reward.

‘I might take you with me,’ she said now. ‘But you’ll have to be patient. I have quite a lot of shopping to do and you’ll have to wait in the car.’

Whilst she sat at the table in the living room, making her list, her glance returned occasionally to Posy’s card. Was it really possible that she might come to stay for Christmas? Maudie shook her head. It was best not to be too hopeful.

Maudie looked at the great hound stretched before the fire, sleeping peacefully now, and felt oddly contented. She took a quick gulp of coffee and returned to her list.

Posy folded some jeans and a large black sweater and put them into her faded, battered holdall along with some books. It was important to her that her room in Hyde Abbey Road looked as Posy-ish as she could make it. They were not allowed to put up shelves or hammer nails into the wall but fortunately some previous tenant had been blissfully ignorant of—or utterly indifferent to—this tiresome rule and her own room had plenty of picture hooks. She’d made a point of showing these to the landlord, lest she was held responsible for them at a later date, and he’d agreed that they might be left
in situ.
Slowly, she’d been moving her few belongings to Winchester and now her bedroom here in London had a rather desolate air.

She sat on the edge of her bed and looked round the small room. It was odd that she felt more comfortable at the house in Hyde Abbey Road;
more relaxed with Jude and Jo and the others than with her family. Posy struggled with her guilt. After all, surely it was more natural to want to be with friends of her own age than with two middle-aged people, especially now that the boys were rarely at home and she wasn’t allowed to keep Polonius? She pushed both hands through her thick black hair, straining it back from her face. It was a nervous gesture she’d had from childhood and Jo and Jude teased her about it.

‘Posy’s stressed out,’ they’d warn each other. ‘Watch it. Come on, Posy. Chill!’

She’d tried to control it but each time a real anxiety presented itself she’d find herself dragging her hands through her hair, pulling it until it hurt, as if this might in some way distract her or calm her. This time it was the thought of Polonius, which had automatically associated itself to Maudie and Christmas, that had triggered it. Being nonchalant about spending Christmas with her step-grandmother was one thing; actually broaching it with her mother was another. Posy drew up her legs and sat cross-legged, frowning. Mum was being a bit peculiar; still set on buying Moorgate but behaving like she was trying to needle Dad with it, and Dad wasn’t responding. He wasn’t doing his placating ‘of course you must have it if you want it, love’ stuff which he did when he wanted some peace, but he wasn’t actually arguing about it either. It was like he was marking time; waiting for something. He was absent-minded, preoccupied, although he’d been like that for a while now, even before she’d gone back to Winchester, and Mum was kind of watchful but as if she knew a secret and was hugging it to herself. Perhaps she had some money tucked away somewhere and intended to buy Moorgate whether Dad wanted her to or not. Anyway, she’d done the usual anti-Maudie bit and it had been difficult to just say straight out, ‘Oh, by the way, I thought I’d spend Christmas with her.’

Posy tugged at her hair, climbed off the bed and went downstairs. Patrick was sitting at the kitchen table, reading. He glanced up at her, smiling, but he looked old and tired and she felt another pang of guilt.

She thought: I won’t feel guilty about him. I simply won’t. Maudie’s old too, and all alone.

‘I had an idea about Christmas,’ she said, sitting opposite, trying not to notice his strained expression and restless hands. ‘I wondered about spending a few days with Maudie. The boys will be with you and she’s all on her own. And I have to think about Polonius …’

Her voice trailed off and she looked away from him, waiting for reproaches. She knew that he loved her and that he would miss her but she tried to harden her heart, ready to argue her corner.

‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t,’ he said. ‘I guessed with Polonius down with Maudie you’d be more inclined to go there than come here.’

‘Oh, don’t say it like that,’ she cried, compassion making her sound cross, ‘as if I love Polonius more than you. You know I don’t. It’s just unfair to load him on to Maudie and leave it at that. Mum said he could come home for holidays but now she’s changed her mind. I’ll be here for some of the time.’