A Week in Winter: A Novel (7 page)

‘I’ll be back very soon.’ Posy was climbing in, reaching for her seat belt, winding down the window. ‘No, Polonius. Stay. Good boy. Oh, Maudie, thanks so much for looking after him …’

Her cries were lost in the sound of the engine as Jude very wisely cut the farewells short by setting off down the drive that ran along beside the bungalow to the lane. Waving, one hand on Polonius’s collar, Maudie suddenly realised that she would see very much more of Posy now. The thought made her feel more tolerant towards the large mastiff with the sad, wrinkled face who stood beside her, watching the car disappear, whining miserably.

‘She’ll be back soon,’ Maudie told him confidently. ‘Really she will. And now we’re going to have a walk through the woods to take your mind off things. Just let me get my boots on. No, you can’t go after her. Come on, old chap …’

Talking comfortingly to him, she hauled him back into the house and presently they set out together. Polonius bounded ahead, overjoyed by such freedom after London streets, scattering the fallen leaves. The silence of the woods was broken by the murmuring, ceaseless music of the River Bovey, chuckling its way over smooth, rounded stones and under overhanging, mossy banks, splashing over miniature waterfalls. The hound’s lead around her neck, her hands thrust into the pockets of her corduroy
jacket, Maudie strode behind him. Twenty-four hours with Posy had renewed her courage. She had been bravely philosophical about Moorgate, sensing Maudie’s distress, sympathising with her step-grandmother’s dilemma.

‘Money’s such a curse,’ she’d said. ‘I can quite see that you have to sell.
Of course
it would have been lovely to hang on to it…’

‘I’d always hoped that you would have it eventually,’ Maudie had answered wretchedly. ‘Your mother is terribly upset, of course.’

‘Yes, well, she would be, wouldn’t she? I’m glad you’d told me before I saw her.’ Posy had hesitated, embarrassed. ‘The thing is, she’s wondering if she can’t afford to buy it herself.’

‘Oh,
no.
’ Maudie had shaken her head. ‘Oh dear. This is what I feared might happen.’ They’d stared at each other anxiously.

‘I thought I’d better tell you. I didn’t really want to but I think she’s hoping that you might … well, back down a bit.’

‘Back down?’ She’d frowned impatiently. ‘Back down how? I can’t afford not to sell and I feel quite certain that Selina can’t afford to buy it. Even if she could, I wouldn’t encourage it. Not unless she and Patrick were prepared to sell up and live in it. They couldn’t afford to run it and Selina would hate to have a tenant in. She’d want to use it for weekends and parties. Oh, it would be a
disaster.
’

‘I know. I agree with you. It’s one of Mum’s grand ideas that costs Dad a fortune and just causes trouble. I told her so.’

‘Did you?’ Maudie had chuckled grimly. ‘That must have gone down well.’

Posy had shrugged. ‘We had a bit of a row. So what’s new? Anyway, I thought I’d warn you. She’s ringing round the family for support but Dad thinks the whole thing’s ridiculous. Try not to be upset, Maudie …’

‘It’s just that I’d hoped—I shall invest most of it for the future and, once the roof is done and the car sorted out, there might be some spare cash for you for any small thing you need. Oh, dear. I feel so—’

‘Maudie!’ Posy had interrupted warningly. ‘You know we don’t used the G-word. It was our new year resolution. Remember? We were never going to feel guilty about Mum again. Or anything else if we could help it.’

‘How optimistic we were,’ Maudie had sighed. ‘It’s because the house is not truly mine, I suppose. Perhaps I should move into Moorgate and sell The Hermitage. I wouldn’t feel so badly then. No, no, Posy.’ She’d felt even more remorseful as she saw the light that briefly rose and fell in
Posy’s eyes. ‘Even for you I couldn’t bury myself on Bodmin Moor. I sometimes wonder how much longer I can manage isolated here, but when I
do
move, it will be into Bovey.’

‘I know that. Of course you will. It was just a mad moment. Let’s forget about it. When are you coming to Winchester? You’ll be able to bring Polonius with you …’

As the late autumn afternoon faded gently into shadowy twilight Maudie felt determination and confidence returning. Selling Moorgate had opened too many old wounds, revived painful memories. She must strive to remember Hector without destructive doubts; to simply refuse to allow Selina to wrong-foot her. The money from the sale would ease the financial situation and still her nagging fears of the future. It was a pity that she wouldn’t have the funds for a new roof before winter set in but it would be such a comfort to have a sensible sum put by for her old age and for Posy’s future.

Polonius appeared, dripping from the river, and shook himself vigorously all over her.

‘Wretched animal,’ she cried, wiping the cold drops from her face. ‘Come on. Home, then.’

She turned back, her boots crunching over beech mast and dead leaves, Polonius loping beside her. A star twinkled high above, tangled in the bare branches of a beech tree, and tranquillity touched her anxious, restless heart. They went together through the garden gate and into the house, and the door closed behind them.

Battling with the endless administrative work that seemed to expand to fill every spare hour, Patrick heard Selina’s footsteps on the stairs with a now-familiar dread. It was guilt—what his daughter called the G-word—that caused the pit of his gut to contract sickeningly, made him swallow in a suddenly dry throat. Foolish that part of him longed to shout the truth, have it out in the open whilst the other, more cowardly, part of him feared exposure; foolish and pathetic. Mary was frightened too. What she had now, which was precious little—a tiny, rented ground-floor flat, her part-time job, a place for Stuart at the Care Centre three days a week—was hard-earned, painfully achieved, and she was terrified of losing any of it.

‘I simply can’t afford to mess it up,’ she’d said, anxious that he should
understand. ‘I know that it makes me sound terribly selfish but I have to be, you see. Because of Stuart. I need to earn money and this little flat is so convenient. The bus picks Stuart up at the door and I can walk to school and to see Mum and Dad. It’s so difficult on public transport with a wheelchair and I couldn’t possibly afford to buy a car. It’s not that I don’t love you, Pat. It’s just that I can’t see how it would work, being together.’

He’d held her hand, looking beyond her to where Stuart sat, immobile before the television set. How would the school governors react if they found out about the affair; if he announced that he was leaving his wife for one of the supply teachers? Would he or Mary be asked to leave? Perhaps they would both he dismissed.

‘It’s just not that easy, is it?’ she’d asked, watching him—and he’d smiled quickly, attempting reassurance, convincing neither of them.

‘I’ve been speaking to Patricia.’ Selina was at the door. ‘She’s furious, of course. Well, I knew she would be, and she thinks it’s a brilliant idea.’

He stared at her, puzzled, only partially concentrating.

‘Thinks what’s a brilliant idea?’

‘Buying Moorgate,’ said Selina impatiently. ‘You know! My idea that we should all contribute and buy Moorgate ourselves. She agreed that it would be great to be able to have holidays there when they come over.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Patrick turned on his swivel chair so as to be able to look at her properly. ‘And how much are they intending to contribute?’

‘We didn’t go into details. They were in the middle of supper. I just wanted to sound her out.’

‘It’s out of the question.’ He turned back to his desk, too dispirited to pretend. ‘Even if Patricia and Simon were prepared to put a bit in, we still couldn’t afford it. And anyway, what’s the point? It’s a hell of a long way down to Cornwall. You might make an effort to get down for weekends in the summer but it would stand empty all winter, getting damp. It’s a ridiculous idea and you know it is.’

‘You think anything’s ridiculous if it’s out of the ordinary,’ she said bitingly. ‘You have no vision. No sense of adventure. You’ve always been afraid to take risks.’

‘I married you, didn’t I?’ The words were out before he could prevent them and he dropped his head into his hands. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry. That was unnecessary. But really, Selina, this is just too much. Patricia will agree with you, of course she will. She’s thousands of miles away
and doesn’t give a damn. But do you seriously imagine that Patricia and Simon will sink money into an old farmhouse in Cornwall so that they can have a holiday in it once every three years? Dream on!’

Selina leaned against the door jamb, arms folded, and looked at him thoughtfully. Her instinct warned her that there were other issues involved here and she considered carefully before she spoke.

‘I realise that it sounds crazy,’ she said. Her voice was friendly, almost amused, and he looked up at her, taken aback. ‘But Moorgate really is special to me. OK.’ She chuckled a little, holding up her hands as if warding off protest from him. ‘I promise I won’t go over the past again. After all, you know better than anyone else about my feeling. It’s just that I had another idea about it. Look,’ her voice was intimate now, almost conspiratorial, ‘I utterly agree with you about Patricia and Simon but I thought it was worth a phone call. No, my latest idea was that we should sell up here and move to Cornwall.’ She smiled a little at the shock on his face, noting the fear in his eyes. ‘Yes, it’s quite a mind-bending thought, isn’t it? But why not? You’re always so tired lately, Patrick. Very edgy. I think your work is getting you down, darling, and I’m worried about you. It would be wonderful to live in the country for a change, wouldn’t it? Just there, between the sea and the moor. Wonderful fresh air and peace and quiet. You could get a teaching job locally and we could be together, just the two of us. The kids could come down for weekends. Think how they’d love it.’ She watched him, her eyes cool, considering, mouth still smiling. ‘I just feel that it’s
right,
if you see what I mean. We’re still young enough for the challenge of it but old enough to be realistic’

Silence stretched between them. She raised her eyebrows and he shook his head.

‘It’s … a bit of shock,’ he muttered, turning away, unable to meet her eyes any longer. ‘I never thought I’d hear you say that you’d want to leave London. We need to think about it very carefully.’

‘Do we?’ She still sounded amused. ‘I don’t think
I
do. Still, I can see that I’ve surprised you. But don’t think for
too
long, Patrick, or we might miss the boat.’

She went away, closing the door gently, and he continued to sit, head in hands, fear in his heart.

He thought: She’s guessed that something is going on. What shall I do? Call her bluff and take a chance?

An image of Mary—dressed in leggings and an oversized shirt, singing
as she fed Stuart—came to his mind. A word from Selina to the school governors and Mary might well be out of a job—and her flat, too, if she were unable to pay the rent. She’d fought hard to get the three-roomed flat with the use of a small garden, so that Stuart could sit outside in summer; it hadn’t been easy to persuade the strict, old-fashioned landlord that Stuart would be no nuisance to the other tenants, that she could afford to pay her rent and was not dependent on benefit. Patrick clenched his fists and swore quietly; he could not put Mary at risk unless he could offer her as much or more than she had already achieved for herself. On what grounds could he divorce Selina? Would he be entitled to a share in the house and would he be obliged to continue to support her? Suppose he were to lose his job in the process?

Tired, frustrated, Patrick felt an overwhelming desire to weep. Mary had come into his life at a most vulnerable and dangerous time: missing his children, disillusioned with his career in which the word Vocation’ was now a dirty word; bound to a wife he almost disliked. He’d been attracted by Mary’s cheerful, realistic approach; her energy. He felt old and jaded as he watched her with the children, encouraging them, patient but lively. The little ones responded to her enthusiasm and she was clearly in her element. There was no shred of self-pity or resentment when she told him about Stuart’s accident, or described the desertion of her husband when he learned that Stuart would be an invalid for the rest of his life.

‘He simply couldn’t face it,’ she’d said, as if this were quite a reasonable reaction. ‘He was a macho kind of guy and he just couldn’t come to terms with the life ahead. He couldn’t bear it for Stuart as much as for himself. He found it simply horrific that he would never kick a ball or swim or be normal in that way. It killed him to see Stuart in his chair. He’d weep. He just didn’t come back one evening and then I got a letter. I’ve no idea where he is.’

‘Couldn’t he be traced?’ Patrick had asked, horrified. ‘How could he just abandon you both?’

‘I don’t want him back,’ she’d said, almost fiercely. ‘He weakened me. It was terrible, watching him suffer. It was like he was injured too, and I didn’t have enough strength for them both. Stuart needs me, Dave doesn’t.’

As the weeks passed he’d learned of her joy when she’d been offered the teaching post, her struggle for the flat, the worries about her parents, who were very frail. Her love for her son was wholehearted, practical,
vivid. Coming home to Selina was an unfortunate contrast—and he’d fought to resist his growing disloyalty—but the temptation was too great. Mary’s courage and vitality warmed him, attracted him, and soon he ceased to struggle too hard against it.

Could Selina possibly have suspected his growing attachment? It was impossible to imagine her living permanently in Cornwall; nevertheless the battle was now joined and he must make some kind of move. But what?

‘Lunch!’ Her voice echoed up the stair and he instinctively responded, tidying his papers, putting the top on his pen, before going downstairs.

Whistling softly to himself, Rob Abbot stirred up the thick paint with a piece of wood and dipped the paintbrush into the gleaming white. The office was empty now—except for the old desk, which was too battered and worm-eaten to be valuable—swept and cleaned out ready to be decorated. The outside door was open to a brilliant, sparkling day, and he worked quickly in the icy, invigorating air, irritated by the thought of the imminent interruption. He glanced at his watch, pressed the lid back firmly on to the can of paint and crossed the small passage to wash the brush out under the cold tap in the cloakroom. Leaving it to dry, balanced on the edge of the Butler sink, he went through to the kitchen, closing the inner door behind him. It was warm in here after the chill of the office and he blessed Lady Todhunter for agreeing that the Esse should be lit. The kettle was singing and he made himself a mug of tea, looking about him critically, pleased with what he’d achieved.