A Week in Winter: A Novel (25 page)

‘Good morning, Rob,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you what fun I’m having.’

‘We aim to please,’ he said—and she went to him quite naturally and put her arms about him, hugging him. ‘This is cheating,’ he said, holding her tightly, his hands full of forks and plates, ‘because you know I’m far too hungry to take advantage of you.’

She kissed him quickly and let him go. ‘Let me do this,’ she said. ‘I know where everything lives. How far is Tintagel?’

‘Not far,’ he said, ‘but we’ll take your car, if you don’t mind, and collect mine later.’

He’d already put away the table and chairs so that no sign of occupation was left and a few minutes later they went out, carrying the hamper and some rugs, to find the car.

‘Gosh!’ she said, gasping, waiting whilst he locked the back door. ‘It’s freezing.’

‘The wind’s from the north,’ he told her. ‘Come on. It’ll be warmer in the sun.’

Inside the car it was like being in a fridge and her teeth chattered as she
drove away down the lane, following his instructions until at last they came to Tintagel. They fed lavishly on eggs and bacon, with toast and more coffee, in the company of the café proprietor, who watched them meditatively. Content at last they sat back and looked at one another.

‘I hope,’ said Rob, trying to sound casual, ‘that you aren’t going to abandon me now that you are replete with victuals.’

‘Certainly not.’ She sounded shocked. ‘You promised me the ford and a clapper bridge. You said that I could splash through the ford if I’d brought my wellies. I hope you are not intending to renege from your promise?’

He sighed happily. ‘We shall splash together. I just wondered if… you had any other engagements.’

The diffidence in his voice moved her heart and she lightly touched his fist where it lay on the table.

‘None,’ she said. ‘I’m a free agent. I spoke to my brother earlier on my mobile so my duty is done for the day.’

He turned his hand, holding hers, watching her curiously. ‘Did you tell him where you were?’

She grinned. ‘Not exactly. He knows that I’m staying on the moor and having a wonderful time. It’s a pity, isn’t it, that if you move about the signal breaks up a bit and it goes all crackly and you have to shout? Things like, “Sorry. Can’t quite hear but I’m fine. Don’t worry. I’ll call you later.” That sort of thing. I don’t want him to worry but he might not
quite
understand.’

Rob began to laugh. He laughed himself into a choking fit and the proprietor, concerned, came and poured more coffee whilst Melissa watched sympathetically.

‘No, he probably wouldn’t
quite
understand,’ he agreed at last. ‘In his place I’d have had a fit and ordered you back to a hotel.’

‘Exactly,’ said Melissa comfortably, sipping the fresh hot coffee. ‘You take my point.’

‘You’re in no danger from me,’ he grumbled. ‘Always was a fool with women.’

‘I expect Jack the Ripper used to say the same thing,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but it’s too late. I’m in love.’

He looked at her sharply, eyebrows raised.

‘With Moorgate,’ she said sweetly, challengingly, and he chuckled. ‘Those keys aren’t going back just yet.’

‘In that case we’d better stock up for the day,’ he suggested—and hesitated.

‘Oh, at least,’ she said at once. ‘After all, tomorrow we could have a nice early breakfast, couldn’t we? It’s not that I don’t like it here—the food’s great—but I’d like to have breakfast at Moorgate.’

There was a short silence.

‘In that case,’ said Rob, finishing his coffee, ‘we’d better do some shopping.’

It was just after break, in the staff room, that Patrick noticed the advertisement. The paper had been folded back to the classified ads page and the headline caught his attention. ‘Could you be a L’Arche assistant?’ it asked. He’d heard of L’Arche; communities which looked after people with disabilities and learning difficulties. Perhaps it was Mary who had mentioned it. His eyes wandered over the column. ‘There are no specific qualifications for being a L’Arche assistant, except being at least 18 years old … Others decide upon L’Arche as a career change. Many find the vocation fulfilling enough to stay for many years.’ He remembered reading about Jean Vanier, a naval officer and then a professor of Moral Theosophy who gave up a promising career to help those who had been marginalised by society. He’d bought a little house and invited two such men into it—and so had started an incredible world-wide movement.

Patrick stood holding the paper, an idea forming at the back of his mind. The door opened behind him and Mary came in.

‘Oh,’ she said, taken aback, clearly expecting the room to be empty. ‘Hello. I left my paper. Oh, yes. That’s it. Were you reading it?’

Patrick looked at her, faintly saddened by her brittleness, still surprised by his own indifference. This odd depression, which numbed all feeling, was a strange business. He smiled at her quite easily, feeling in his jacket pocket for his pen and his diary.

‘Mind if I jot down a number?’ he asked, resting the diary on the table,
flattening the paper. ‘Won’t take a moment. Just an advert that caught my eye.’

‘Tear it out,’ she said, almost impatiently, suddenly not caring about the paper, needing his attention.

‘Thanks. I will. It’s just this top corner. How’s Stuart?’

‘He’s OK. Fine … well, you know.’ She sounded flustered. ‘He’s making progress.’

‘That’s good. Splendid.’

Patrick might have been talking about a distant acquaintance, more occupied with what he was writing than with her or Stuart, and suddenly—and quite unreasonably—Mary felt affronted.

‘You don’t sound all that interested.’

He looked up at her in surprise, folding the piece of paper into his diary, and she bit her lip, annoyed with herself.

‘I had the impression that you preferred me to keep my interest to myself.’

He wasn’t huffy, she noticed, not martyred or hard done by, merely amused, and she felt her irritation grow. Had he shown the least flicker of hope, a renewal of his need of her, she’d have quickly put him back in his place. As it was she felt an unforgivable requirement to test her power, to experience the sense of being desired which his adoration had always supplied.

‘I didn’t realise you’d be able to switch off so easily.’

‘Switch off?’

She shrugged. ‘Forget us. Stop caring. Whatever.’

He frowned thoughtfully. ‘Is that what I’ve done? Yes, I suppose it is.’

Contrarily, she’d always fancied him most when he’d drawn back a little, been less intense, and now she had a keen longing to turn back the clock. She knew she couldn’t, knew the dangers still existed, that nothing had changed, but the knowledge of his love had been very sweet and there had been a strange little frisson in being at school with him once the affair was over. Just lately, however, he’d become withdrawn, aloof, and at some basic level she wanted to know that he still wanted her. His measured reply hurt her pride and, as he handed her the paper, she drew closer, looking up at him.

‘I miss you,’ she said. ‘I really do. I wish things could be different.’

She looked for an answering response, for the flash of love in his eyes,
but he simply smiled rather absently at her, as though she were merely a very good friend.

‘Never mind,’ he said, as if comforting her. ‘Perhaps it was for the best.’

He went out, tucking his diary into his pocket, and she stood looking after him, angry and miserable, and, worst of all, humiliated.

Shopping in Tintagel, choosing supper, waiting in the car whilst Rob disappeared on a mission of his own, Melissa was wrapped in the delightful holiday anonymity that she’d first experienced in Bovey Tracey. She felt free, almost invisible. These nice local people, going about their business, barely spared her a second glance so used were they to visitors in their midst. No one looked at her with sympathy or avoided meeting her eyes because they couldn’t bear to admit to their weighty, private knowledge. Sometimes, she knew, when friends burst out laughing at some joke or a television programme they suffered an immediate stab of guilt; that they should be able to laugh, knowing her situation, filled them with a kind of self-disgust.

‘Please laugh,’ she wanted to say. ‘Please continue to live, to enjoy life,’ but she knew that it would make the reaction worse. Either she ignored it or laughed too, but the responsibility was heavy. If she became tired or low in spirits, their response was far more exaggerated than if she’d been an ordinary, healthy person. In the end she was able to relax only when she was alone—or with Mike. Mike understood. It had been a relief to move from London to Oxford but, pretty soon, the rumours had spread, someone had seen her at the surgery, so that now, even in Oxford, she felt the pressure building again.

Perhaps that’s why Moorgate had appealed so much; its isolation attracted her, promising peace. Now that she was here, however, now that she’d met Rob, she didn’t want to think about practicalities. How could she imagine Mike and Luke moving into Moorgate now that she knew how much Rob loved it? To own Moorgate was his dream; he’d worked so hard on it, put so much of himself into it. For these few days she wanted to forget her real reason for coming; she simply wanted to postpone decisions, put aside reality, and lose herself in this small, magic world.

Rob was coming towards her, a bulky parcel under his arm and a carrier
bag in his other hand, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and embarrassment. She was amused and puzzled but she did not question him.

‘Right,’ he said, settling himself beside her, the parcels stowed away behind them. ‘Would you like to continue to drive us about or shall we get my old pick-up?’

Melissa instinctively felt that he didn’t want to go back to his place and collect his own transport. She believed that he felt exactly as she did; that he wanted to be free of the real world for this short moment in time, to remain anonymous. Nobody here knew her or would recognise her car. They could be free; it was as if they didn’t exist. Clearly he was a man who did not need to drive to establish his identity and he was a calm, relaxed passenger.

‘I’m quite happy to drive,’ she said. ‘As long as you don’t mind directing me.’

‘Oh, I’m good at that,’ he said easily. ‘I’ve always enjoyed telling people what to do. OK, then. We’ll head for the wide open spaces, shall we?’

‘I’d like to get up on to the moor,’ she agreed, pulling away from the kerb, following his directions. ‘I want to see Moorgate from somewhere else.’

‘And so you shall,’ he said. ‘Do you have a hat as well as that scarf thing?’

She hesitated for a moment, foolishly sad that he would never see her with the thick long, bronze mass of hair that she’d had before the chemo, and he looked at her curiously.

‘Yes,’ she said quickly. ‘Yes, I have a hat but you must promise not to laugh at it. Why do you ask?’

‘It’ll be seriously cold higher up,’ he answered. ‘The chill factor is supposed to be minus two. We may not be able to stick too much of it.’

She smiled at the ‘we’, suspecting that the cold hardly bothered him at all, liking him enormously.

‘These lanes are so narrow,’ she said—and gave a loud squeak as the car skidded on a patch of ice and then righted itself.

‘The sun doesn’t get to them at this time of the year,’ he said, apparently unmoved. ‘At least, not until the middle of the day. We’ll cross the A39 in a minute. Not far now.’

The moor rose up ahead of them but she looked in vain for Moorgate.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, guessing her thoughts. ‘You’ll see her in a
minute. Straight over here and then right. That’s it. Now we’re climbing. That’s Rough Tor, see, away to the north there?’

Presently they came to the ford. The brown, peaty water flowed across the road and away under an old granite clapper bridge but Melissa drove through the stream and came to a rest just beyond it.

‘Come on,’ said Rob. ‘We’ll have a little stroll and I’ll show you something.’

She dragged the sheepskin cap over her ears and climbed out. The wind was so sharp, so icy, it deprived her of her breath and she gasped, feeling the air freezing against her skin. Beyond the ford, ice had formed along the shallows beneath the bank and the grass crunched like glass under their feet. On the slopes below them a tractor was parked, whilst the farmer flung great forkfuls of feed for the sheep, and in the blue sparkling air a buzzard circled, crying insistently. Rob slipped an arm about Melissa’s shoulder, turning her slightly, pointing.

‘Look there,’ he said.

They were looking at Moorgate from its north side. There it stood, comfortable, belonging, gazing out across the moor. It should have looked bleak, lonely, desolate, but it didn’t. Melissa thought that it looked strong and welcoming and safe; safe as Rob’s arm about her, holding her close. She looked up at him. He was staring at Moorgate, smiling a little, and she felt a sudden welling of desire, a tremendous need for him. He glanced down at her and his smile faded; his look intent.

His lips were burning cold but for once she was gloriously warm, the blood rushing in her ears and tingling to the tips of her fingers. After a long moment she drew back a little and he clasped her close, his cheek against hers.

‘You do pick your moments,’ he murmured in her ear—and she burst out laughing, glad to take refuge in simple, uncomplicated happiness.

‘I love you both,’ she said, meaning it. ‘Doesn’t Moorgate look wonderful? Just as if she grew out of the ground. I suppose you didn’t think to bring some chocolate with you?’

‘It just so happens,’ he said, releasing her, digging into his pocket, ‘that I did. So what do I get for being so clever?’

‘You get half the chocolate,’ she said promptly. ‘Look at the lambs. How high they spring. I suppose you haven’t got a flask of hot coffee slung about your person, too, have you?’

‘No, I have not,’ he said firmly. ‘We’ll have to go back to the car. I never knew a wench with such a passion for her vittles.’

‘I need them,’ she said simply, tucking her arm into his. ‘What’s that tor over there? Is it the one we saw earlier?’