A Week in Winter: A Novel (13 page)

Maudie placed a log on the fire, closed the door and settled again in her chair, adjusting her spectacles, picking up her knitting. How amused Hector would have been to see her busy with her new hobby!

‘I must say,’ he’d admitted, in one of his rare bursts of criticism, ‘that it’s rather nice to be able to read without the accompaniment of clacking needles. Of course, Hilda knitted the most beautiful garments …’

Of course. Maudie grimaced, pushing the stitches along the thick wooden needles, stroking the nubbly hand-dyed wool appreciatively.

‘Was there anything,’ she’d asked despairingly of Daphne, ‘that dear Hilda didn’t do to perfection?’

Daphne had smiled at her. ‘You know very well that there’s a whole side to Hector that Hilda never touched. She never even guessed that it
was there. Be content, Maudie. Leave the stuffy, serious, responsible part of him to Hilda. Don’t regret it or yearn for it. You don’t want it. That’s not the Hector that you know and love. Don’t hanker, my dear, let it go. Poor Hilda barely scratched the surface. Don’t begrudge her whatever it was she had.’

How wise Daphne had been through all those early years; what a comfort. Her irrepressible sense of humour had carried them all through stormy patches; soothing Maudie’s irritation, bolstering her in moments of inadequacy.

‘She looks so damned smug,’ she’d raged on one occasion, when Selina had insisted on turning her bedroom into a kind of shrine, and images of Hilda through the ages had smirked and simpered from every available flat surface. ‘I wouldn’t mind only it makes Hector feel so guilty. I don’t mind her being dotted about the place, for heaven’s sake. How could I? But he’s brought out that Dorothy Wilding one again and stuck it on the piano.’

‘Oh, my dear, no! Not that portrait with her gazing mistily over her shoulder like something rather ghastly out of a Barrie play?’

‘Just so,’ said Maudie grimly.

‘It was her favourite,’ mused Daphne, ‘and one could see why. Clever old Dorothy Wilding managed to reduce that rather masterful chin and very subtly gave her eyebrows and eyelashes so that she really looked rather pretty … in a sickly kind of way.’

They’d sat together, rocking with laughter, until Hector had come in for tea and asked them what the joke was. His question had reduced Maudie to a state of nervous hysteria but Daphne had pulled herself together and reported some childishly amusing remark, attributed to Emily, which had convinced Hector though he’d clearly been puzzled they’d found it quite so funny.

The telephone bell, breaking into Maudie’s thoughts, startled her and she put her knitting aside and reached for the receiver.

‘Hello, Maudie. It’s me.’ Posy’s voice sounded rather flat, as though she were exhausted. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine, my darling. Are you OK? You sound tired.’

‘I am a bit. I’ve just got back from London.’

‘Oh dear. Were things a bit difficult?’ Maudie was reluctant to pry or encourage disloyalty but she was alerted by Posy’s lassitude. ‘Is Moorgate being a real problem?’

‘Well, sort of. It was all a bit strained and stuff. Look, the good thing is that I can come for Christmas. They don’t mind. Well, not really. Mum did her usual bit about my lack of loyalty but what’s new?’

‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.’ Maudie cast about for words, feeling hopelessly inadequate. ‘It would be simply wonderful if you could come. I should love it, but if it’s going to make it unpleasant at home—’

‘No. No, it won’t.’ She sounded defiant now. ‘Anyway, who cares? It’s all arranged. I’ll go home first so as to leave them my presents and then come down to you the day before Christmas Eve. How’s that?’

‘It is simply perfect,’ answered Maudie warmly. No point in questioning the child now, she realised that, but some instinct told her that it was important to make Posy feel especially loved. ‘It’s going to be such fun. I can’t tell you when I last felt so excited. I shall tell Polonius.’

There was a small, rather watery chuckle at the other end of the line. ‘Give him a hug for me. Is he OK?’

‘He certainly is. He’s still enjoying terrorising the local population and making his presence felt generally.’

Maudie recounted the incident with the Jack Russell and was rewarded by a stronger chuckle and a more cheerful note in Posy’s voice when she said goodbye. As she replaced the receiver and picked up her knitting, Maudie suddenly realised that Posy had not once called her ‘babe’.

‘Something’s wrong,’ she told Polonius, who thumped his tail sleepily once or twice but was disinclined to any greater response. ‘She’s probably had a row with Selina over Moorgate. Damn and blast. If only I didn’t have to sell …’

Posy went back into her room and closed the door. She’d been at Hyde Abbey Road for some hours but she’d found it very difficult to speak even to Maudie. To her relief, Jude and Jo were out and she was able to be alone, attempting to sort out her emotions. Last evening, she’d heard her father come back quite late—her mother was already in bed—and go into the spare room. This behaviour was extraordinary in itself and lent credence to her mother’s accusations but, to begin with, Posy had wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt; to let him deny or explain it.

‘You’ll see,’ her mother had said, almost cheerfully. ‘He’ll come back late, much later than he used to when he went to the pub for a quick pint. That’s why he didn’t want you along. He’ll telephone her from the pub or
make a quick dash round to see her. Then he’ll come back, hoping I’m already in bed, and he’ll use the spare bedroom. He never used to behave like that, did he?’

Posy hadn’t wanted to believe her. She’d tried to explain it away by attributing it to her mother’s natural possessiveness and ready jealousy but she’d been infected by her father’s preoccupation, by his indifference, and she couldn’t quite convince herself. Whilst her mother was watching television, she’d slipped out, hurrying round the corner to the pub.

‘He’s not here,’ the barman told her. ‘He’s been telephoning someone and he got a bit restless and suddenly dashed off. He’ll probably be back in a minute. Give him a message, shall I?’

‘No, don’t do that.’ She’d been horrified at the thought. Would he think she’d been spying on him? ‘Thanks, anyway. It really doesn’t matter.’

It was only later that she saw how fear and guilt could corrupt. Why shouldn’t she wander down to the pub to meet her father and have a drink with him? She’d done it before. Now, because she feared her mother’s words were true, she could no longer approach her father in innocence. She had been made party to this web of deceit and she was unable to behave naturally. When she’d realised this—lying in bed listening to him creeping up the stairs, going into the spare bedroom—she knew that she simply couldn’t face him in the morning. She feared that her own knowledge, his guilt and her mother’s jealousy might combust in a scalding broth of fury and she shrank at the thought of it.

Now, as she sat cross-legged on her bed, she felt comforted by her conversation with Maudie. Nothing had changed at The Hermitage. Maudie was there with Polonius, waiting for her, and she could go for Christmas with a clear conscience. No matter how hard she tried to concentrate on this, however, other thoughts intruded. She couldn’t believe how much it hurt to know that this unknown woman was more important to her father than she was; that she had been replaced in his affections so easily; that it was more important to him to be with this woman than with his own daughter. She’d genuinely believed that he would be terribly hurt when she’d said that she wouldn’t be at home for Christmas—and he simply hadn’t cared. He’d been kind, understanding and utterly indifferent.

Posy felt her lips trembling uncontrollably and dragged her hands fiercely through her hair.

‘Don’t be a wet!’ she told herself ‘For heaven’s sake! You’re not a little kid. You’re nearly twenty-two. Grow up and face facts.’

The bang on the door startled her so much that she cried out and Jude opened the door and put his head inside the room.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘I’ve just got back. How about some coffee?’

‘Yeah. Great!’ she answered casually, pretending to be rooting for something in her grip. ‘I’ll be right there.’

He disappeared and she stood up, drawing a deep breath, controlling herself. Nobody must know yet, not even Jude and Jo, not until she’d got used to the idea. She stared at herself critically in the looking-glass, half imagining that her new knowledge must show in her face, pulled her hair forward over her eyes and went out to find Jude.

‘I must say I do love this old place.’ Ned Cruikshank cast his Filofax and mobile telephone on to the working surface and smiled blindingly at Rob. ‘If I had the money I’d buy it myself

‘Would you though?’ murmured Rob, making coffee. He glanced at Ned’s shiny black loafers. ‘Not a bit off the beaten track for you?’

Ned wrinkled his nose dismissively. ‘Doesn’t matter these days, does it? You can be on the A30 in minutes. Although I must say that socially it’s a bit dead. OK if you were married and had plenty of local friends.’

‘I have to say that you look as if the streets of London were more your natural habitat. However,’ Rob said, passing him a mug of black coffee, ‘first impressions aren’t always reliable.’

‘Oh, I’m a great countryman,’ Ned assured him earnestly. ‘Absolutely. I ride most weekends, if I can.’

‘Ah, well.’ Rob put the lids on the coffee and sugar jars. ‘Still, you’d rattle about here on your own. Or am I making another assumption? You’re not married or—’

‘Good grief, no!’ Ned willingly helped him out of his difficulty. ‘But I wouldn’t mind. I’ve nothing against it, if you see what I mean. Rather fun, I should think. Actually …’

The ringing of his mobile telephone put an end to a promise of confidence and Rob turned to look out of the window, pretending that he couldn’t hear the one-sided conversation which was clearly a personal one. It was a clear, bright day; huge, feathery clouds drifting slowly, bumping
gently, merging, re-forming. Sheep grazed on the moor below the house watched by a crow perched in the twisted, black, weather-shaped branches of an old thorn tree, which leaned out of the dry-stone wall. The slate roofs of the small village, huddled in the valley, gleamed grey in the wintry sunshine and, far away on the hill, a tractor was ploughing, churning over clods of heavy earth, a flock of seagulls screaming in its wake.

‘Terrific view, isn’t it?’ Ned’s voice behind his shoulder made him jump. ‘Gets ‘em every time. Not that we’ve had too many people round yet. It’s not a good time of the year for these isolated properties. I was really pleased that we had the sunshine this morning. Do you think they really liked it?’

Rob looked noncommittal. ‘Difficult to say. Some people think that they have to enthuse, don’t they? I think the thought of having to ferry the kids everywhere didn’t fill them with delight.’

Ned looked as put out as his round face and naturally cheerful expression would allow.

‘You didn’t have to lay it quite so firmly on the line,’ he said. ‘They were pretty keen, I thought, until then.’

‘Sorry.’ Rob shrugged. ‘But they did ask about public transport. I don’t think townspeople realise that out here you’re not going to have a bus passing the gate every twenty minutes. They must have seen that it was going to be much too isolated for two teenage kids who have spent all their lives in a city. No point in stringing them along and then having the sale fall through at the last minute, is it? You might miss a genuine buyer.’

‘You’ve got a point.’ Ned brightened a little. ‘I’m glad that Lady Todhunter lets you keep the range alight. Makes all the difference, doesn’t it? The house feels warm and friendly. Don’t you mind having to caretake, now that the work’s finished?’

‘Not particularly. I don’t live far away and she’d soon get damp if she wasn’t aired and heated. Pointless doing all that work and seeing it ruined through the winter.’

‘Funny about those keys, wasn’t it? I wondered whether one of your lads might have taken them. But I couldn’t really see why anyone should.’

Rob frowned, remembering certain proofs of habitation. ‘No reason at all,’ he said firmly. ‘Anyway, it’s dealt with now. Have you got anyone else viewing before Christmas?’

Ned shook his head. ‘Everything’s dead as mutton at the moment and the office shuts tomorrow for a week. So.’ He rinsed his mug at the sink and beamed at Rob. ‘Good to see you again. Gave me a bit of a surprise to
find you here but it was just as well since I managed to get held up. At least they weren’t hanging about in the cold.’

‘Oh, I keep an eye on the old girl but I don’t have a routine. Best to be … unexpected.’

Ned looked puzzled. ‘Unexpected?’

‘Well, it’s a lonely spot. Easy for someone to break in. If anyone were watching the place, for instance, it would keep them on their toes, if you see what I mean?’

‘Mmm.’ Ned glanced around almost nervously. ‘Sounds a bit creepy, if you ask me. Perhaps it
is
a bit off the beaten track.’ He hesitated for a moment and then laughed, picking up his Filofax, putting his mobile telephone into his pocket. ‘But don’t go saying that to the clients.’

‘Of course not. But I shall tell the truth about transport and the weather, if they ask.’

‘Fair enough. Well, I’ll be off. Season’s greetings and so on. See you in the new year.’

‘Indeed. And the same to you.’

Rob strolled out, round the side of the house and into the yard, watching Ned climb into his car and shoot off down the lane with a fanfare farewell on the horn. He raised his hand, smiling. He’d become quite fond of Ned. The sound of the engine died away, the car disappearing amongst the trees, and he looked about him. The yard was tidy now; the stable repaired, the barn creosoted, all rubbish cleared away. He passed through the small gate which led to the front of the house, noting the first new green spears thrusting through the soil of the flower borders under the wall, appreciating the yellow stars on the jasmine which climbed over the porch. Crossing in front of the windows, he stepped on to the lawn which was divided from the moorland by its high escallonia hedge. He remembered the remains of a swing he’d found, rotting and broken, beneath its shelter and, for a moment, he’d imagined Moorgate as it had once been a hundred years before, with chickens running in the yard, children playing on the swing and the men coming in tired and hungry from the fields. He turned, half expecting to see the farmer’s wife watching him from the porch, her hands folded under her apron—but no one was waiting by the door and the yard was empty. Laughing aloud at his foolish fancies, giving one last glance round, he went back inside.