A Week in Winter: A Novel (8 page)

He paused, mug halfway to his lips, imagining that he heard a footstep. After a moment he took a deep breath and drank some tea. The old farmhouse was getting to him, no doubt about it. He often felt that there was another presence in the house with him: steps overhead, a door closing quietly, voices in the garden. Perhaps it was so in all old houses, if one spent enough time alone in them, but Moorgate wasn’t just any old house. Moorgate was special. It must be hard to have to part with such a place but he could understand that Lady Todhunter was rather too elderly to up sticks and move into such an isolated situation.

The slamming of a car door alerted him and he set down his mug and passed swiftly through to the sitting room. A young couple were standing in the lane, a sheaf of particulars in their hands, staring at the house. Standing well back he watched them for a moment, noting the new four-wheel-drive vehicle, the smartly casual clothes, the confidence with which they stood together, comparing the photograph with reality. Presently they opened the gate and trod up the path to the front door.

He waited for a moment, composing himself, before he opened the door to them.

‘Ah, Mr …’ The young man consulted his sheet of paper. ‘Mr Abbot, is it? I think you’re expecting us. Mr Cruikshank telephoned you earlier. I’m Martin Baxter. This is my wife.’

She smiled briefly but her eyes were already glancing past him, trying to see into the hall beyond. They were rather older than he’d first guessed, probably late thirties, and he experienced an odd, irrational desire to slam the heavy oak door in their complacent, well-groomed faces.

‘How do you do? Yes, I’m Rob Abbot. Come in, won’t you? I often show people round to save Mr Cruikshank the drive from Truro if he can get me on my mobile.’

She was already in the hall, opening the door to the sitting room, exclaiming. Martin Baxter shrugged, smiling, implying that, having let them in, Rob was now surplus to requirements.

‘We’ll give a shout if we need any information,’ he said. ‘OK? I imagine it’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it? Houses are houses. Don’t let us hold you up.’

He followed his wife into the sitting room. ‘Just
look
at this fireplace,’ Rob heard her say. ‘It must be positively ancient. Darling! Wooden shutters! Can you believe it…?’

Rob retreated to the kitchen and stood by the open door, listening. He heard their footsteps cross the hall and more cries of pleasure.

‘This just
has
to be my study.’

‘Darling, have you noticed the beams …?’

When they arrived in the kitchen Rob was washing out his mug at the sink, his back to the door. They stood for a moment, silenced by the sheer size of the room, before Mrs Baxter came across and stood beside him at the sink.

‘What an utterly incredible view,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he replied, without looking at her. ‘Yes, even washing up can be a pleasure here.’

She turned her back to the window, leaning against the working surface, barely glancing at him but allowing a faint lifting of the brows to indicate that she had not been addressing him.

‘I have a dishwasher,’ she said briefly. ‘Martin, can’t you just see this with the right furniture in it? Provençal farmhouse, would you say?’

Rob stood his mug on the draining board. ‘Or even English farmhouse,’ he said lightly. ‘The Esse heats the water as well as being a cooker.’

‘Esse?’ She glanced about her. ‘Oh, the range. We’d probably want an Aga, wouldn’t we, darling?’

‘It’s probably the same sort of thing.’ Martin Baxter sounded slightly embarrassed. ‘Is it gas-fired, Mr … ah … Abbot?’

Rob laughed. ‘There’s no mains gas piped on to the moor,’ he said. ‘No, it’s oil-fired and just as good as any Aga.’

Mrs Baxter frowned. ‘I think I’d prefer it to be electric’

‘Until the first power cut,’ said Rob laconically. ‘We get a lot of those round here. Then you’d be blessing the fact that you can cook and bath, if nothing else. Assuming the lorry’s been able to get up here, that is. It’s not always so easy in the winter. Plenty of paraffin lamps, that’s what you need. Unless you want to use the old generator. It’s still there, out in the barn. That’s what they used in the old days.’

‘Oh, it can’t be that bad,’ she said dismissively—but her husband was frowning a little.

‘Power cuts? That would be a damn nuisance when you’re using a computer. I’d be working a lot from home and I don’t want to be sitting here in the dark with a morning’s work lost.’

‘Oh, darling, it can’t be that bad,’ she repeated. ‘Millions of people live in the country these days and work at home.’

‘But you’re high up here,’ Rob pointed out. ‘Look out there. Straight down to the coast with nothing in between. The gales fair whistle up across the moor. It’s very exposed. Come and see it on a wet day with a southwesterly blowing. It’s pretty bleak.’

Martin Baxter looked at him curiously. ‘Not exactly trying to sell the place, are you?’

Rob shrugged. ‘It’s none of my business, either way. But I’ve seen people move down here to remote houses that look wonderful on a sunny
day, only to sell up a year later because they can’t take the long winter months. Have you any idea how much it rains here?’

Mrs Baxter looked at him angrily. ‘I was born and brought up in the country. We know all about rain, thank you.’

He smiled at her. ‘And where was that?’ he asked sweetly.

‘Hampshire.’

She turned her back on his chuckle. ‘Come on, Martin. I want to look upstairs.’ They went out together. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense,’ Rob heard her say. ‘Everyone knows how mild and temperate Cornwall is.’

‘Well, he might have a point.’ Martin Baxter sounded uneasy. ‘That’s more in the south, I think. It’s pretty high up here.’ There was the rustle of paper. ‘I see that there’s no mains water or sewage, either. There’s a septic tank somewhere and the water’s pumped up from a well …’

Their voices grew fainter and Rob listened to them walking about overhead. Presently they returned downstairs and Martin Baxter put his head round the door.

‘We’re off,’ he said. ‘Thanks. We’ve decided to look at a place down in Just-in-Roseland before we make up our minds.’

‘Very wise.’ Rob beamed at him. ‘Beautiful countryside, the Roseland Peninsula. Very mild down there. And temperate, too.’

He followed them through the hall and watched them climb into the clean, new vehicle, reverse it in the yard and drive back down the lane, Mrs Baxter staring straight ahead. Rob grinned to himself, waved cheerfully and returned to his painting.

‘The point is,’ Maudie said to Polonius, as they sat together before the fire just before bedtime, ‘that you are a very large person and very large persons do not climb on to sofas, nor do they sleep on other persons’ beds. It is possible, of course, that you imagine yourself to be quite a small person but facts are facts.’

Polonius groaned deeply, settling himself comfortably, head on paws.

‘It’s no good protesting,’ she said firmly. ‘I suspect that your partiality for luxurious living was what made you homeless in the first place. I hope you are older and wiser now. Posy’s a soft touch, of course. Selina must have had conniptions when she appeared with you on the end of a lead. In fact, I am amazed that she let you stay at all. However, your bed is in the kitchen and that’s where it is staying. I want no whining tonight.’

Polonius sighed heavily but he regarded her with a cynical and disillusioned eye. He’d learned that the delight and amazement aroused by his size and melancholy expression was generally short-lived and that cries of affection rapidly turned to shouts of rage. Posy was his third owner, and he’d been very happy with her, but he disliked Selina and had been relieved to be brought here to this place of woods and streams and hills. He did not feel that he’d been abandoned to yet another new owner but hoped that Posy would reappear just as she had in the past. Meanwhile, he was enjoying himself. He’d frightened the milkman by barking unexpectedly and very loudly in his ear through the open window of his pick-up truck, whilst the fellow was rooting about for Maudie’s newspaper. Later, he’d lain in wait for the postman; hiding under the hedge by the door, chasing him along the drive, back to his van.

Now, at the end of a busy day, his tail thumped once or twice contentedly and Maudie chuckled too, remembering the incident. The milkman, bred on a farm, once he’d recovered from his shock had simply pushed Polonius aside and delivered the milk and paper, reporting the incident good-humouredly, pulling Polonius’s ears and marvelling at his size. The postman, however, was new to the area and he’d already made himself unpopular by complaining about the difficulties of a country round and the distance he was obliged to walk. He’d suggested that Maudie should put a box at the end of the drive and Maudie had replied, somewhat tartly, that he’d probably be a happier, not to mention fitter, person if he occasionally took some exercise. To see him sprinting down the drive had reduced her to tears of mirth and she’d had difficulty in remonstrating with Polonius when he’d returned, tail wagging and clearly delighted with himself.

‘You’re a wretch,’ she said, pushing him with her foot. ‘And now I shall
have
to put a box at the end of the drive. I’m certain he’ll refuse to come to the door again. No more chasing or we’ll all be in trouble.’

Polonius yawned contemptuously. He’d taken a dislike to the postman and was looking forward to another encounter. Once outside the bungalow there was nothing to restrain a dog with brains and initiative and, after the restrictions of a courtyard garden and small municipal park, he had every intention of making the most of his new environment.

Sitting back in her chair, Maudie eyed him somewhat anxiously. Of course it had been madness to agree to have him—yet, if it meant seeing more of Posy, it was worth it. Oddly, she was rather enjoying his company
He was cheerfully companionable, always ready for a jaunt, but there was something intractable and tough about him, a refusal to be dominated and a pronounced liking for having his own way …

‘In other words, my dear Polonius,’ she murmured, ‘you remind me of Hector. Except that Hector never chased the postman.’

She took several logs from the big basket, put them on the fire and wrapped herself more closely in the plaid rug. At least the arrival of Polonius had distracted her a little from her anxieties. It was impossible, surely, that Selina would be able to persuade Patrick into buying Moorgate, and, anyway, it was likely, now that Rob had practically finished, that someone would make an offer before Selina could hope to get her act together. Posy had been dismissive, quite certain that her father would prevent it, but Selina had inherited her mother’s stubbornness and it would be foolish to underestimate her.

Watching the flames, Maudie remembered how relentless a campaign Selina had waged once she’d noticed Maudie’s growing affection for Posy. The child became the weapon with which Selina punished Maudie for attempting to take her mother’s place. Though the boys had been brought to visit regularly, Posy was rarely seen; though she and Hector heard of outings with Patrick’s parents, of parties to which they were never invited, and were shown tantalisingly delightful photographs of Posy growing up, they were excluded as much as possible. When Hector complained that he rarely saw his granddaughter, Selina made excuses: it was so difficult to find time now, with two growing boys and a baby; that Posy preferred her other grandmother. It was Patrick who had guessed what was happening and tried to put things right; to make opportunities for Posy to be with Hector and Maudie.

It was strange that such maternal feelings should make themselves known so late in life. Patricia and Selina had never given her the opportunity for such emotions and Maudie had been perfectly happy to remain free from the variety of joys and anguish to which Daphne was prey. No terrors for a child’s safety kept Maudie awake at night; no anxieties that he—or she—might fail exams, be rejected in love or become unemployed destroyed her peace of mind. For Hector, brainwashed by Hilda’s excessive motherliness, Maudie’s lack of interest had been refreshing. She’d made no attempt to prevent him from being all that was caring and paternal but she’d made him see that he was not
only
a father and provider, that he could be simply Hector, a person in his own right—and that it could be
fun. She’d made it clear that she expected to have a relationship with him which was utterly separate from anything relating to Hilda and her children—and for part of the time she’d succeeded. There were whole periods when they had been united, utterly together, and it was these moments which she strove now to remember.

Those awful scenes with Hector at the end, his begging for forgiveness and Selina’s triumph, must somehow be wiped out of her memory. Why should she believe that he’d regretted marrying her—or that Hilda and the girls had, after all, been much more important to him? It must be possible to concentrate on the good times and the fun they’d shared, to stop torturing herself with these doubts, this obsession with how he’d disposed of his money. If only he’d told her what he’d done with it, trusted her. If only it weren’t for that peculiarity she might be able to come to terms with the last unhappy year.

Maudie stood up abruptly, disturbing Polonius, who roused himself and struggled up, yawning.

‘Last outs,’ she said. ‘Come on. It’s time for bed.’

He followed her out into the clear, cold night and ambled off obediently whilst she shivered, clutching the rug, shining the torch after him. The trees beyond the gate seemed to press closer, leaning over, whispering and creaking gently and, hearing a rustling behind her, she swung round, directing the torchlight into the recesses of the open-fronted woodshed. A feathery ball of wrens, huddling together on a high beam, was caught in the light and she turned away quickly, not wishing to disturb them, smiling to herself.

She thought: Oh, how I wish I had someone to cuddle—and was seized with a sudden and terrible despair.

‘Oh, Hector,’ she cried aloud, angrily, ‘if only you knew how much I miss you!’—and Polonius, thinking that she was calling him, appeared out of the darkness and led the way indoors.