A Week in Winter: A Novel (18 page)

‘Ah.’ Daphne had understood at once. ‘That wasn’t terribly tactful, love, was it?’

‘I know,’ Maudie had cried remorsefully. ‘I could have bitten my tongue out but I simply couldn’t help myself. It’s been a bit grim, Daffers. Posy is seriously upset.’

‘Mmm.’ Daphne had been thinking it through and Maudie had felt the usual relief at sharing with this old friend who’d supported her through so many unhappy moments.

‘It came to me,’ she’d told her, ‘that Posy is feeling about this woman, Mary, exactly as Selina felt about me all those years ago. I expected Selina to behave reasonably but now I’m wondering if I was very harsh with her.’

‘But Hector was a widower.’ Daphne had sounded surprised. ‘Not quite the same, is it?’

‘Well, no, but Posy seems to be reacting just like Selina did. She feels betrayed, as if her father is putting the family at risk for love of this Mary.’

‘I can understand that,’ Daphne had said thoughtfully. ‘And, of course, he is. Hector would never have done that. He couldn’t have known that Selina would react so violently and he always did his best to reassure her. Often at your expense, Maudie, I know, but that’s because he expected you to understand.’

‘I know.’ Maudie had felt miserable again. ‘But I didn’t. Not always. I felt insecure, too. Poor Hector. If only I could get rid of these wretched doubts and resentments. It’s selling Moorgate that has brought all this on.
I wish I could manage without selling it but I can’t. And I wish I knew what happened to Hector’s investments. It’s like a wretched worm, gnawing at my peace of mind.’

There was a moment of silence before Daphne spoke again.

‘Oh, Maudie,’ she’d said sadly, ‘I hate you to be like this. Look, I’m hoping to come over later on this year and then we’ll have a proper talk. It’s so frustrating trying to communicate properly at this distance.’

‘Are you really? How amazing.’ Maudie had been swamped with delight. ‘Do you know I was thinking of flying out to see you all, once Moorgate was sold. It was going to be my treat. It occurred to me that although you’ve been over several times I’d never been to visit you. Of course, Hector wasn’t up to it…’

‘Well, now you can save your money,’ Daphne had said, ‘and get ready for us to have a good time together. I’ll talk to Emily and make some plans. As for poor Posy, we’ll simply have to hope that the affair blows over. Selina will never let him go.’

‘That’s what I thought. But I have to say it’s made me do a bit of rethinking.’

‘Well, don’t let it get out of proportion,’ Daphne had warned. ‘And Maudie, never forget how much Hector loved you.’

‘I know he did,’ Maudie had answered wretchedly. ‘Of course I do. It was just that he was so different at the end. And then there’s the thing about his investments …’

‘Put it right out of your mind for the moment. Concentrate on all those wonderful times you had with him. I knew Hector for most of his adult life and I never saw him as happy as he was with you. Believe it, Maudie, hold on to it. Don’t let it be ruined. Hector wasn’t himself at the end, you know that. You know what Alzheimer’s does to people. As for the money, perhaps you just misunderstood what he actually showed you. Portfolios are very muddly things if you haven’t the head for it and you’ve always admitted that you were never too interested. Think about the good times and make some plans for my visit. I long to see Polonius …’

Turning for home, shouting for Polonius, Maudie realised that she was hungry; hungry and much more cheerful. Posy, back at college, had telephoned to ask if she could come down for the weekend and had muttered, in passing, that things were a bit better at home—much to Maudie’s relief—and there was Daphne’s visit to look forward to. All she needed now was a buyer for Moorgate.

Enjoying a well-earned rest from shopping, relaxing in Peter Jones’s coffee shop, Selina, too, was thinking about Moorgate. The bank had refused to agree to lend the balance required for the deposit and she was trying to bolster up the courage to speak to Maudie so as to ask her to give her special terms. She’d spent several days trying to overcome her reluctance. It wasn’t simply that she knew Maudie utterly disapproved of her attempting to buy Moorgate; she also knew that Posy had told her grandmother about Patrick. She’d asked Posy outright and Posy had answered just as bluntly.

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ she’d demanded. ‘I was very upset about it. Why shouldn’t I tell her?’

‘Oh, don’t imagine that I expect loyalty from you,’ Selina had snapped. ‘Naturally you’d go round washing our dirty linen in public’

‘I haven’t told anyone else,’ Posy had said, stung by her mother’s accusation. ‘You shouldn’t have told me if you’d wanted it to be a secret. It isn’t anyone’s business but yours and Dad’s, anyway. I wish you hadn’t told me.’

‘I expect you do.’ Selina had shrugged. ‘Anyway, it’s all over. Your father has come to his senses.’

Posy’s expression of overwhelming relief, the visible relaxing of her whole body, had almost shocked Selina. Assailed by an unfamiliar sense of guilt, she’d tried to make it up to Posy during the last week of her holiday and she’d been met, to her surprise, by a readiness to meet her halfway. Patrick, who seemed to be in a state of numbed indifference, was pleasantly polite to both of them and a kind of truce had descended upon the household. Only the question of Moorgate remained a subject of dissension.

Selina sipped her caffé latte thoughtfully. Now that Patrick had returned to the fold, she’d decided that to bury themselves in a remote farmhouse in Cornwall would be foolish. Nevertheless, she couldn’t let Moorgate go. The idea of possession obsessed her. The old farmhouse should remain in the family and, somehow, she simply must find a way to achieve her desire. Meanwhile, at any moment, some other person might make an offer on it. There was really no time to waste. She’d rather counted on exploiting Patrick’s sense of guilt—a ploy which had worked excellently in the past—but there was something about Patrick which made him oddly unapproachable at present. He refused to respond to emotional
blackmail and, for the first time in their married life together, she felt slightly wary of him. Her cunningly phrased suggestions that the purchase of Moorgate would be an excellent expiation for his sins fell on stony ground and his cool, puzzled response made her nervous. At the same time, her determination to own Moorgate grew stronger. It was part of her history, full of happy memories; she owed it to her mother to preserve it if she could. Perhaps, after all, an approach to Maudie, subtle and well prepared, was worth a try.

Melissa drove carefully, watching for the turning off the A38. Mike had written the instructions on an A4 pad which lay on the passenger seat, and to which she referred from time to time, but she knew the road very well. She was aware, however, that he would feel happier knowing that the directions were at hand and the small VW Polo contained every possible aid in case of emergency.

‘It’s only February,’ he’d said, packing rugs, gumboots and even a small spade into the hatchback. A hamper was already on the back seat, containing two flasks full of boiling water and the means to make tea or coffee, as well as biscuits and some chocolate. ‘It’s quite possible you might get some bad weather. You’ve got your mobile, haven’t you? And the RAC membership card?’

She’d reassured him, feeling touched, hating to leave him and Luke, but driven by an inner need. They’d waved her off, standing on the pavement, and she’d suppressed the urge to stop the car and run back to them. They were all she had, and she loved them both so much—why waste precious time on a mad dash to the West Country?

‘Because I must,’ she’d told herself desperately, weaving her way out of Oxford. ‘I need to feel normal. I want to pretend that I’m like anyone else and I can’t do that with darling Mike. However hard he tries, it’s there at the back of his eyes. I want to be looked at by people who don’t know.’

Gradually the panic and guilt receded; slowly she thought herself into
her other persona: the Melissa who had all her life before her; who was healthy and free and looking for adventure. She’d taught herself to do this as a means of escape from despair. Sometimes it was a slow, painful effort, wrestling with her willpower in an attempt to beat down fear, but it was easier when there was something on which to concentrate. She glanced at the details of the farmhouse, also lying on the front seat, and excitement bubbled quietly inside her. Presently she began to enjoy herself. The day was bright and sunny, full of hope, promising miracles, and she sang to herself as the miles sped away beneath the wheels. She’d promised not to attempt the journey in one day and had decided to break the trip just before she turned off the A38 on to Dartmoor.

‘You could carry on into Cornwall on the A38,’ Mike had told her. ‘You could shoot off at Liskeard. Much quicker.’

‘It’s boring,’ she’d shrugged, wrinkling her nose, ‘dragging through Plymouth when I could be driving over Dartmoor. You know how much I love moorland, Mike. I can go across to Tavistock and then Launceston. Much nicer.’

He’d agreed—but with the proviso that she had a night’s sleep before crossing the moor. She’d laughed at him.

‘Anyone would think it was the Kalahari,’ she’d said teasingly. ‘But OK. It’ll be nice to take my time.’

He’d made certain that she’d booked a room at The Dolphin in Bovey Tracey and together they’d traced the route across the moor to Tavistock and on to Launceston. She’d reserved a room for two nights in Padstow but she refused to do more than that.

‘I want to be free to move about,’ she’d insisted. ‘It’s an adventure, Mike, not a package tour.’

He’d agreed, understanding, and she’d promised to keep in touch daily. So she would, it was only fair and, anyway, she’d want to know that he and Luke were OK too, but slowly she was beginning to experience the sense of freedom that had become so elusive. By lunchtime, driving into Sherborne to find somewhere to eat, she’d very nearly completed the transition. She could think about her brother and his child calmly, without guilt, and was managing to hold at bay the tiny demon of fear that lived permanently now in her mind and in her heart.

As she ate a large piece of locally made applecake and sipped her coffee, she looked at the house particulars. She’d brought them with her almost as a talisman, slipping them into her leather shoulder bag which always contained
a battered leather-covered copy of
The Golden Treasury,
some chocolate, her purse, mobile and other necessities. The farmhouse, after all, was the reason for her journey. She was travelling to the West Country to look at houses for her brother who was a writer. If anyone asked she’d tell them that she was a lawyer working in one of the City law firms, living in a flat in Dulwich. Well, so she had been until a year ago. Apparently concentrating on the description of the large kitchen, Melissa was well aware of the attention she was receiving from a young man at a corner table. She felt a surge of gratitude, blessing him silently for his admiration which bestowed a kind of strength upon her. There was no sympathy or compassion in his eyes, just a simple, natural interest shown by a man for an attractive woman.

Melissa put her hands to the scarf wound around her hair which had grown back well, once she’d refused any more chemo. She mourned the long thick, rippling bronze mane but she was grateful that, though still very short, her hair curled into pretty, springing tendrils. ‘I’ve had enough,’ she’d said to her GP. ‘I know it’s inoperable and I know I may not have much longer. I’m going to enjoy what’s left to me,’ and he’d agreed with her, defending her from the specialist and the other doctors, agreeing that she had the right to take her life back to herself. It had been a relief when Mike had needed help just then, so that she could move to Oxford, free of that terrible, suffocating sympathy. Some of her friends had been unable to believe that she was ‘giving up’ and talked severely about denial; others attempted to persuade her to try homoeopathic treatment; yet others saw her as a statistic or as an insurance—because
she
had been struck down
they
had been passed over—and were almost grateful. What she really missed was the ordinary, cheerful rough and tumble of daily life. The terrible privileges of the sick were weighty, paralysing, and she was determined to throw them off.

She finished her applecake, drew her thick, woollen ruana more closely about her—it was tiresome that she felt the cold so keenly—and slid the sheets of paper back into her bag. On her way out she smiled at the young man, rejoicing in the answering flash in his eyes, but was gone before he could react. Back in the car she breathed deeply, feeling stronger and more confident as she headed towards the A30. She loved being in the car, a small, private world in which she could talk to herself, sing, scream, even, if she felt like it; in the car she was on equal terms with her fellow man.

Yet later, as she drove off the A38, following the signs for Bovey
Tracey, she acknowledged the fact that she was weary. The day had been a busy one and she would be glad to rest. She would telephone Mike so that he knew she’d arrived safely, then a soak in a hot bath and a sleep before dinner would refresh her. Tomorrow morning, she promised herself as she parked the car, she would allow herself an hour or so to potter in the town before setting off on the second half of her journey.