A Week in Winter: A Novel (35 page)

Yet, when the end came, it was so quick that Mike found himself travelling down to Cornwall in the dawn light of a wild March day, speeding along wet deserted roads, his whole mind concentrated upon the interview which lay ahead. Exactly six days after the keys of Moorgate had been officially handed to Rob, Mike found himself standing outside the gate, staring up at the house. The wind roared across the moor from the northwest, battering at the rooks’ nests high in the trees, screaming round the house. The rain had cleared away and the sun was bright, casting sharp shadows, and daffodils gleamed gold in the borders beneath the windows. It was all exactly as Melissa had described it to him.

The front door opened and Rob stood, hands in pockets, watching him. Mike’s heart thumped against his side and he gasped, a deep steadying breath.

He opened the gate and walked slowly along the path, pinned by Rob’s unwavering stare.

‘I’m Mike,’ he said awkwardly, praying desperately for some kind of guidance. ‘I’m Melissa’s brother.’

‘Yes,’ said Rob, almost grimly. ‘I thought you might be. I’ve been expecting … something.’

‘Expecting …?’

Rob shrugged. He looked angry, even threatening, and Mike felt a tiny stab of fear. After a moment, however, Rob stood aside and indicated that Mike should enter. They stood together, in the hall, until Rob closed the front door and turned to him.

‘I knew something was wrong when I couldn’t get an answer from her mobile and there were no more messages. She’s changed her mind, hasn’t she? Doesn’t want to go through with it?’

His misery was palpable and Mike’s fear dissolved in sympathy. In his overwhelming need to disabuse Rob of such terrible suspicions, he spoke baldly.

‘She never changed her mind for a moment. It’s not that, Rob. Melissa is dead.’

‘Dead?’ His lips formed the word but did not utter it and he seemed to stagger slightly, as if from a physical blow. He put out an arm, as if to steady himself, and Mike caught him, horrified by his thoughtlessness. Yet how else could he have done it?

‘Rob. I’m so sorry. Forgive me for being so brutal. She’d been ill for some time but the end was quick. Oh,
hell!
Look, can we go somewhere?’

Rob stumbled ahead of him through the hallway, into the kitchen. A small table stood by the stove, with some chairs, but Rob went to the sink and stood staring out, gripping the edge, his back to Mike.

‘Why did nobody tell me she was ill?’

Mike looked compassionately at the straight back and clenched muscles, sharing the man’s furious unhappiness. ‘She left you a letter.’ He took it from his pocket. ‘Would you …? Do you think you could read it, Rob? She’ll have explained it all so much better than I could and then we can talk. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. She loved you, Rob. Please read the letter.’

After some moments, Rob turned and took the envelope which Mike held out to him. He nodded, made to leave the kitchen, hesitated.

‘There’s coffee and sugar under the sink,’ he mumbled. ‘Milk’s in the larder,’ and went away, shutting the door behind him.

‘Shit!’ muttered Mike, near to tears. ‘Oh God.’

Shaken with grief, weary from the drive from Oxford after long days and nights of vigil, he stumbled about, pushing the kettle on to the hotplate, opening and shutting cupboards, dropping things in his clumsy distress. Presently he stood at the window, holding the mug of coffee, staring out at the wild, majestic landscape. It was as if Melissa leaned at his shoulder, wrapped in her ruana, gazing out eagerly.

‘Listen,’ he could hear her saying, ‘can you hear the lambs?’

Hot tears ran down his cheeks. His own loss was so new, so raw, yet how to comfort Rob? He had no idea how long he stood, waiting, watching the changing colours of the moor, gold, indigo, lavender, as the clouds raced before the wind, but at length he heard the door open behind him. He turned eagerly—but glanced hastily away from the red eyes and ravaged face. At a loss for words he began to make more coffee, his hands trembling.

‘When?’ asked Rob.

‘Yesterday morning. It was just getting light.’ His own voice wavered. He swallowed, gaining a measure of control. ‘In the last few days she seemed to think that she was here. You were always in her mind. You and Moorgate. She was so happy.’ He spooned coffee into the mugs, his face screwed up like a child’s, and it was Rob who came to comfort him, dropping an arm along his shoulder. ‘Don’t blame her,’ Mike muttered. ‘She loved you but she couldn’t bear for it to be spoiled.’

‘It’s a very … wonderful letter,’ said Rob gently. ‘I can’t believe you came so quickly. It’s … extraordinarily brave of you.’

‘She wanted you to have the letter earlier.’ Mike wiped away his tears. ‘But the end came so fast, I couldn’t leave her. I hoped that you might come back with me to the funeral. I … She …’ He bent his head and Rob tightened his grip on Mike’s shoulder. ‘We thought it would be right to scatter her ashes here at Moorgate. Where she longed to be.’

For a moment there was only the wild crying of the wind; then Rob spoke sadly, his eyes on the moor beyond the window.

‘Yes, please, Mike. I’d like to come back with you. We’ll have our own little ceremony here later.’

Mike nodded and Rob hugged him briefly and let his arm drop away. They stood together, each comforted by the other’s presence and by the hot, sweet coffee. Neither felt the need for conversation, wrapped as they were in their own thoughts, grateful for this moment of shared silence.

‘When you’re ready,’ Rob said, at last, ‘we’ll get going. I think that we’ll talk later, perhaps on the journey, if you’re up to it. There will be plenty of time for talking.’

Mike looked at him gratefully. ‘I’d like to get back. There’s Luke …’

‘Oh, yes, your little boy. It was good of you to come, Mike.’

‘I promised Melissa.’ Mike stood his mug on the draining board and rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m so tired. I feel I could sleep for a week.’

‘Would you like to grab a quick nap?’

‘No,’ said Mike quickly. ‘Thanks. I probably should but I’d rather get straight on. I … don’t want to be away longer than I need. There will be plenty of time for rest afterwards.’

‘Would you let me drive?’ offered Rob. ‘Just to give you a bit of a rest? I’m insured. I have to be in my kind of work.’

‘Thanks. I’d like that. I’m not certain I should be driving, if I’m honest. If you’ll drive I can sleep on the journey.’

‘I’ll throw a few things in a bag and be right down.’

Mike felt a brief lightening of spirits at the thought of companionship on the long drive back, relief that the worst was over. He opened the back door and stood, braced against the gale, letting it blow over him, cold and fresh and cleansing. A parliament of rooks argued in some trees somewhere out of sight and, borne on the wind as it fled over the moor, he heard the high plaintive crying of the lambs.

It was hot. Spears of sunshine pierced the leafy canopies and thrust downwards into the water. In the cool, shadowy depths dark fish hung; a flick of a tail, a flash of gold, a sliding, glancing, silvery arrow. Tall yellow flag irises shone bright as flame whilst below, reflections of white and purple cloud, solid as a wall, moved slowly across the trembling surface. Tiny wild strawberries, sweet and ripe, trailed across the slate flags, and pansies, delicate, silken tapestries of colour, edged the mossy paths. A jackdaw sidled round the chimneypot, head cocked, listening to two swallows gossiping busily on the telephone wire.

In the deep shade of the veranda, Polonius lay; head on paws, utterly relaxed. Yet a watchful eye gleamed and his ears were pricked attentively. He was not allowed into this part of the garden and he was waiting for Maudie to return from her weeding. Some excitement was afoot, he knew that quite well, but wasn’t certain yet as to what it might be. It had involved a great deal of busyness in the spare bedroom, several trips to Bovey—from which he’d been excluded—and a stocking up of the shelves in the storeroom. He followed Maudie about, faintly anxious, inquisitive, interested, sensing her suppressed anticipation. Now, with the onset of this hot sunny spell, this busyness had extended itself to the garden. Polonius yawned massively, snapping at a passing fly, stretching himself upon the sun-warmed wooden planks.

Maudie, pottering happily with the sun on her back, was in high spirits.
In little more than a week, Daphne would be here. She was staying for a month.

‘But not with you, love, don’t panic,’ she’d said. ‘Not for all of it.’

Maudie had protested but Daphne had been quite determined.

‘I shall be with you for most of it,’ she’d promised, ‘but I shall come and go. Leave you time to breathe and have a rest. You’re used to being alone, Maudie, and a month is a very long time.’

Part of Maudie knew that this was true; nevertheless she’d felt ridiculously hurt—almost jealous—that Daphne had other friends to see. She knew how silly this was, how childish she was being, but she couldn’t quite help herself. Daphne was a popular and well-loved woman who made a point of keeping in contact with her friends. Naturally she would want to see them, as well as the few remaining members of her family. It was quite unreasonable to expect to have her all to herself for a whole month and Maudie consoled herself with the knowledge that she was having the lion’s share of Daphne’s company.

‘Just over a week to begin with,’ she’d said, ‘if you can cope with me that long, and then I shall go off for a few days to see an old cousin of mine and Philip’s brother. Oh, Maudie, we’re going to have such fun!’

It was nearly two years since they’d been together last; at Hector’s funeral. They’d stood together—two tall, elderly women, with a wealth of shared memories—straight-backed, dry-eyed. Theirs was not a generation who’d known the luxury of easy tears or the indulgence of indiscriminately or publicly displayed emotion. They’d said their farewells to Hector with dignity and it was only after the door had shut behind the last guests that they’d kicked off their shoes and allowed themselves the relaxation of grief. On that occasion Daphne had stayed for barely a week; this was to be a real holiday.

‘And then I shall come out to see all of you,’ Maudie had said. ‘That’s what I planned to do once Moorgate was sold. This has only postponed it, you know. I long to see darling Emily and the children.
Do
bring some photographs with you, won’t you?’

Maudie, kneeling beside the border beneath the hedge, prepared herself for the painful act of rising. The garden was looking delightful, the house was spring-cleaned, all was ready; but first, before Daphne was due to arrive, Posy was coming for the weekend. Posy was longing to see Daphne again, always interested in everything that Emily was doing. She had a special fondness for Emily, although she hadn’t seen her for many years, and
still liked to talk about the holidays at Moorgate, insisting that she could remember those far-off happy days. Perhaps the three of them might make a visit to Moorgate, to see Rob and the girl whose name she’d forgotten. Maudie had sent a card once the house was finally, legally, his but in the ensuing two months, what with Patrick’s departure and the need to prepare the house for Daphne’s arrival, she’d had little time to spare for Rob. Somehow, the knowledge that Rob was there made her feel that Moorgate was still accessible; that it was not lost to the family for ever.

As she kicked off her shoes, and stepped over the rope which prevented Polonius from going into the garden, the telephone began to ring.

‘Damn,’ she muttered, ‘damn and blast.
Don’t
hang up!’ and, abandoning the search for her espadrilles, she fled barefoot through the French doors into the living room and snatched up the receiver.

‘Lady Todhunter? Hello. It’s Rob Abbot. How are you?’

Maudie sat down, took a deep breath and began to laugh. ‘Rob, how good to hear from you. You must have second sight. I was just thinking about you and wondering if I might come down and see you. Just a quick one, you know, to say hello.’ A short silence. ‘Not if it’s difficult, though,’ she added quickly. ‘I certainly don’t want to be a nuisance. It would simply be nice to see you—both of you—settled in.’

‘That would be good.’ Rob sounded as if he’d made up his mind about something. ‘Yes. You do that. Only, could you come this weekend?’

‘This weekend?’ Maudie was rather taken aback. ‘Well, I could. I’d have my granddaughter with me, if you can cope with that?’

‘Of course. Bring her along. Would Saturday or Sunday be best?’

‘I’d prefer Saturday. She travels back to Winchester on Sunday.’

‘Saturday it is, then. About coffee time?’

‘Excellent. I shall look forward to it. Goodbye, Rob.’

Polonius came padding in and sat down beside her chair. ‘That was rather sudden,’ she told him. ‘But it should be fun. Perhaps I can go again later, with Daphne. I hope Posy won’t object to being dragged down to Cornwall. Well, never mind. Saturday it is. If it’s not too hot we might take you with us but don’t count on it.’

Polonius sighed heavily, as one who was continually and cruelly exposed to disappointment, and Maudie patted him consolingly. She knew how much he hated being left alone; she also knew that Posy would be loath to leave him. Posy had spent most of the Easter holidays with Maudie, although Selina had not gone to Australia after all. Chris and his
wife had arranged to take a holiday and had invited Selina to go with them to Edinburgh. Selina had accepted with alacrity and Posy had felt free to travel to Devon without feeling guilty.

‘Trust Chris,’ she’d said rancorously. ‘Chris always does the right thing. It makes you sick. I wish you could have seen Mum doing the wistful abandoned wife bit. She was like, “Oh, however shall I manage?” with her handkerchief at the ready and Chris doing his filial stuff and saying what a bastard Dad is. I wouldn’t mind but when Chris went she was back to her normal sarky self before he’d got outside the gate.’

‘Never mind. At least she’s being looked after and you can relax.’

‘I know.’ Posy had still looked cross. She’d frowned, dragging her hands through her hair. ‘I know it’s silly but it hurts.
I
offered to spend the holidays with her and she just chucked the offer back in my face and said she was going out to see Auntie Pat. But the minute Chris steps in she changes her mind and goes off with him and Sarah.’ She sniffed. ‘I can’t think why I’m surprised. Chris has always been her favourite. I suppose I can understand it but she’s so … so
blatant
about it.’