A Week in Winter: A Novel (37 page)

‘Me, too.’ In his relief he sounded almost genuine. ‘Another time perhaps.’

She was not so easily consoled. He was not to know that she’d let it be understood that Mike Clayton was more than just a neighbour, had hinted that he was more, even, than just a friend. Oh, there was nothing definite, nothing that could be repeated with confidence, only little remarks left unfinished, an air of being in the know, of being someone who was rather special to the Claytons. Rebecca knew that, without Melissa, it would be much more difficult to gain access. She might never have got further than the kitchen, had rarely seen Mike, but Melissa had been unable to withstand such a determined attack of neighbourliness, and Rebecca had gained a tiny, precarious foothold. Now she needed to secure Mike’s friendship or
that foothold would be lost. How humiliating to have to admit that she’d been unable to persuade Mike to come to her party. However, if he were indeed going away for the weekend it was, at least, a sensible excuse. She rehearsed it mentally whilst Mike gave Luke some milk.

Oh, such a bore! He’s away in Cornwall, again. Yes, with that chap Melissa knew. Rob Something. He’s seriously upset, apparently. I think there was something going on there. Oh, definitely. Mike’s such a sweetie. It’s a long way to go to simply be supportive and he has his own grief to contend with. Oh, very cut up about it. They were very close, you know, and she was such a darling. Utterly tragic. Poor Mike. What with the ghastly Camilla leaving him literally, but literally, holding the baby, and now poor Melissa. He’s so brave. We have these little chats together. Oh yes, only on Wednesday morning we were having a heart-to-heart
… She brightened a little.

‘Well, never mind. Another time. I’ll be certain to give you more notice.’

‘You do that.’ He remained on his feet. ‘Look, sorry to break it up but it’s time for Luke’s nap and then I have to get on.’

‘Absolutely. I quite understand.’ She leaned across the table, her expression a mixture of sympathy, admiration, coyness. ‘Isn’t there anything I can do to help? Put Luke to bed? Wash up? Anything at all? You must miss Melissa so much. Can’t I be useful?’

‘No.’ The repugnance which filled him sharpened his voice and he bent over Luke, giving himself a moment to regain control. ‘No, thanks.’ He straightened up, smiling at her. ‘It’s really very kind. I promise I’ll ask if I have a real problem. Writers are grumpy, selfish people, you know. We have to have our space or we bark and bite and become intolerable. I’ve lost too many friends already.’

‘Now you know much better than that where
I’m
concerned …’ She was arch now, smiling with an intolerable intimacy. ‘You can trust me, Mike.’

‘I know I can.’ He was herding her towards the door like a collie with a distracted sheep. ‘Bless you, Rebecca. Give me a buzz sometime. Yes, when I’m back from Cornwall. That’ll be great…’

He closed the door on her promises and leaned against it, his eyes shut. Luke shouted and he hauled himself upright and went back to the kitchen, wondering how he and Luke could hide for a whole weekend. Murmuring to Luke, picking up his lion, he reached for the telephone and dialled.

‘Rob? Hi! It’s Mike. How are you? … Good … Yes, I’m OK but I’ve
got a problem. Could Luke and I come down to Moorgate this weekend instead of next? … You don’t sound too certain … Oh, right. I’d rather like to meet her, actually, but not if it’s going to be difficult for you … Really? I must say I’d be truly grateful … Thanks, mate … Oh, Friday, about teatime? … No, don’t worry about that. I’ve got some keys, remember … You’ve saved my life. Yes, I’ll tell you later. I can hear you’re pushed for time. Great. See you.’

He hung up and lifted Luke out of his chair, blowing raspberries into his soft neck, holding him high in the air.

‘We’re going to see your Uncle Rob,’ he told him. ‘Good, isn’t it? And now you’re going to bed and I’m going to work. Here’s Leo, don’t panic. There you are. Now, up we go.’

He carried him up the stairs, singing to him, looking forward to the unexpected bonus of the weekend.

‘I know. Isn’t it just too tiresome?’ Rebecca was already on the telephone. ‘Yes, we’ve just been having coffee together … Oh, I know. He makes me feel
so
special… Yes, just the two of us and darling little Lukey. I’m such a lucky girl, aren’t I? … Don’t worry, sweetie, you’ll meet him sometime … Well, he’s just a
tad
reserved but too sexy for words.’ A light laugh. ‘How sweet of you. Well, I
was
very close to poor, darling Melissa, of course … Oh, honestly! You’re very naughty! Now, I’m not saying a single word more. Not a word

Selina opened the cupboard door and stared at the line of clothes: suits, flannels hung neatly beneath jackets, shirts. She longed for the courage to drag them out; to fling them on the floor and mutilate them; or at the very least bundle them up and take them to the local charity shop.

‘You know what I think?’ Chris’s wife, Sarah, had asked. ‘I think that Patrick intends to come back. I think that this leaving all his belongings hasn’t got anything to do with seeing the light or whatever. I think it’s his subconscious at work. Deep down, although he’s not admitting it to himself, he knows he’ll be back.’

Pride had required a sharp answer here and Selina had not been at a loss for one. She’d retorted that she had no intention of taking Patrick back—and made several pithy observations about his character—but Sarah’s
remark had taken root. As the days passed, and anger was replaced by a dull depression, she realised just how much she missed him. Despite his gentleness, his dislike of confrontation, Patrick had a quiet strength and Selina was beginning to realise how much she’d leaned on it. She missed other things, too: the early cup of tea in bed; the washing-up unobtrusively completed whilst she watched a favourite television programme; the ready sympathy when one of her migraines took possession of her. He came of a generation of men who carried heavy objects, opened doors and put up shelves and she knew now how much she’d taken for granted.

Selina fingered the blue shirt which Paul had given his father for his fiftieth birthday present. It was a James Meade shirt, thick twill with a Prince of Wales check, and Patrick had been delighted. She remembered that he’d worn it proudly to school the next morning, along with the silk tie which had been Posy’s present, smiling agreeably at her suggestion that the effect would be more impressive if he got a haircut and bought himself a new suit. She closed the cupboard door abruptly, carefully keeping her eyes away from the photograph he’d put on the shelf on his side of the bed. It was a family group; the two boys crowding beside him with Posy as a baby in his arms and Selina standing slightly to the left. It was surprising, and rather hurtful, that he had not even taken a photograph.

‘You don’t know that he hasn’t,’ Posy had pointed out. ‘There are millions of photographs stuck in envelopes lying about. He might have taken some of those.’

‘He’s rejecting something,’ Sarah had said importantly. ‘He needs to work through it,’ and Selina, somewhat acidly, had asked if she’d ever thought of taking up counselling as a career.

As she went downstairs she felt moody and irritable. The holiday in Edinburgh had not been an overwhelming success. Chris was far too easygoing with Sarah; her lightest whim was his command and he was quite foolishly concerned about her now that she was pregnant. And as for Sarah’s mother, a bossy old woman who wanted them to move nearer to Edinburgh so as to support her in her old age—well, Selina had made no bones about her opinion regarding that idea.

‘But, Mum,’ Chris had said pacifically, ‘it’s quite reasonable. She only has Sarah, after all, and now with the baby coming—’

‘You’re not seriously suggesting that you intend to give up your job and move to Scotland?’

Rage, jealousy and fear had battled together in her breast whilst Chris had shuffled about, embarrassed, anxious, looking just like his father.

‘The company has a branch in Newcastle,’ he’d mumbled. ‘It’s a kind of compromise. There’s some beautiful countryside round there and the houses are cheaper than London. It would be a good move now that we’re starting a family.’

Selina had made some sharp observations which embraced genetics, loyalty and weakness of character but Chris had merely listened, shrugged and gone away. Paul, who worked in Bristol, was sympathetic—from a safe distance—whilst refusing to be drawn into taking sides and as for Posy … Well, Posy had always been a broken reed when it came to loyalty. The only good thing, for which she gave daily thanks, was that her friends had never been selected from Patrick’s colleagues. As far as they were concerned, Patrick had decided to give up teaching—‘Couldn’t agree more, darling. So sensible with all this wretched OFSTED’—and was away on some kind of course. She simply could not bring herself to tell them the truth. So far she’d managed very nicely with a blend of long-suffering vagueness: yes she was managing quite well on her own; no he didn’t get much time off but she dashed up to see him whenever she could. Oh, it was something to do with helping disabled people with learning difficulties.

‘How brave!’ they cried, studying their score cards. ‘Darling old Patrick. So typical. Always doing something for somebody else.’

Occasionally, just occasionally, Selina looked at their well-maquillaged, complacent faces and felt a surge of antipathy. She longed to slam down her hand and storm out—but the thought of the empty house kept her in her seat. At these moments, surrounded by her friends, she felt terribly alone.

Selina reached the bottom of the stairs and picked up the letters from the mat. A telephone bill—she must really make up her mind what she intended to do about selling the house—a circular offering her yet another credit card, and a postcard. It was a scene of rolling Welsh moorland and she turned it over, her heart bumping unsteadily.

‘It’s great here. Terrific challenge. Hope all is well with you.’

The sight of Patrick’s looping generous signature engulfed her in a kaleidoscopic lifetime of memories. She swallowed painfully. Presently she went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. Whilst she waited for it to boil she continued to look at the card. Even now, with all of the novelty and excitement of his new life, he had not quite forgotten her. She propped the card against the fruit bowl, made some tea and sat down, still staring at it.

‘I’m feeling rather a fool,’ admitted Maudie as they bowled along the A39, between the sea and the moor. ‘I wish I’d asked Rob why he’d telephoned, instead of just butting in. After all, there’s no real reason why I should go to see him now that he owns Moorgate. It’s not the norm, is it? Going back to visit the new owners?’

Posy stared out at the grey granite mass of Rough Tor. ‘But you and Rob have become friends, haven’t you? So it’s a bit different. So what? I think it’s nice of him to invite us.’

‘That’s the problem. I have this feeling that I invited myself.’

‘You’re feeling guilty again,’ accused Posy. ‘We’ll have to have a G-word box. What’s his girlfriend’s name?’

‘I didn’t even ask him,’ wailed Maudie. ‘I feel so … so idiotic’

‘I think it’s going to be fun,’ said Posy contentedly. ‘I wasn’t certain at first that I’d want to see Moorgate, now it’s not ours any longer, but I have this feeling that it’s going to be good. If we can be friends with them it won’t seem as if we’ve really lost it.’

Deep inside, Maudie felt quite wretched. Despite her plans for the money, to invest some for Posy, have the roof of The Hermitage mended and to buy a more reliable—though not new—car, she still had misgivings about selling Moorgate. Being in the position of fairy godmother had seemed so promising; she’d wondered whether she might buy Posy a little car and had spent many happy hours looking through the local paper at the
prices of second-hand hatchbacks. It was extraordinarily pleasant to have the means to contemplate such a purchase but, at the back of her mind, she’d wondered what Selina might have to say about it. The phrase ‘He who pays the piper calls the tune’ had come to mind again, but, defiance aside, she was concerned that it might not be good for Posy to have such a luxury. Of course, these days nearly all young people owned cars—just as in her own youth they’d owned bicycles—but, once the seeds of doubt were sown, she was unable to approach the proposition with unmixed pleasure.

‘I love it here,’ Posy was saying dreamily. ‘It’s so wild and rugged. It has everything. There’s only a few miles between the coast and the moors and yet the cottage gardens are full of flowers and that lovely sandy beach at Rock is so sheltered.’

Maudie struggled from beneath another crushing stab of guilt. ‘Perhaps you should have trained for an outdoor kind of career,’ she suggested. ‘Something like Hugh does, for instance. You love horses and riding.’

Posy shifted a little in her seat. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured evasively. ‘Are we nearly there?’

‘Not far now. What a day! It’s quite hot. I’m sorry Polonius couldn’t come but if this girlfriend is anti-dog he might have had to stay in the car all morning.’

‘I know. Don’t worry.’ Posy seemed almost drowsy. ‘I gave him a good walk in the woods. He’ll be fine. Don’t we turn off soon?’

‘Quite soon.’ She peered at a fingerpost. ‘Here we are.’ She swung the car off the main road into the network of narrow lanes, so dim and secret after the bright, high, open road. Earlier, Posy had been all agog at the news of the unexpected trip to Moorgate; ready to discuss at length, yet again, the romantic story of Rob’s sudden decision to buy the house with his new love. She’d been fascinated by it, the surprise of it outweighing her sadness that the sale was completed and Moorgate no longer a part of the family. This morning, however, as they drew closer, this rather fey, dreamy state had come upon her and Maudie was beginning to dread the actual moment of arrival. She changed down into a lower gear. ‘Not long now.’

Posy sat up straighter, watching and waiting as they passed through the small hamlet with its cottages set about the grassy triangle with its stone cross. The deep lane curved sharply left, uphill, and there was the house. Set back from the lane, washed a deep, warm cream with its window frames and gutters painted a dark red, Moorgate looked well settled in, comfortable, solid. Posy sat quite still, staring, suddenly speechless. As she
gazed, the front door opened and Rob came out. He came swiftly down the path and out into the lane. Maudie wound down her window but before she could speak, Rob was talking, quite urgently, so that they both leaned to look at him, surprised, intent.