A Winter's Child (37 page)

Coats and hats were removed.

‘Sherry,' she said, beaming benignly, ‘by the drawing room fire, as we
always
do.'

Glasses were brought and raised, the toast was drunk. ‘Merry Christmas.'

‘Many of them.'

‘What a lovely morning.'

‘What an excellent sermon.'

‘The same as last year,' said Nola.

‘Not so fast,' said Eunice as Justin defiantly emptied his glass.

‘Why not?' murmured Nola – now that he's a man.'

‘And don't put your glass down on that polished table, Simon,' snapped Eunice, who was in fact so mortified by her son's public loss of virginity that she could not have discussed it rationally had she tried; certainly not with Nola.

‘Can I have another?' enquired Justin of his grandmother.

‘No, dear.' She was affectionate but very firm. ‘One sherry before lunch on Christmas morning – that is our tradition. Grandpapa used to pour it himself – and serve it from this very tray. One sherry each.'

‘And a very sweet sherry at that.' Nola's grimace made no secret of her preference for dry.

‘I like sweet sherry,' Eunice, who – missed her father and needed her mother, spoke hotly. ‘It's a lady's drink, after all – so Father said.'

Nola looked amused.

‘Can't we have champagne instead?' breezed Polly.

‘It is time now,' said Miriam, still smiling, ‘to run along and tidy ourselves up for lunch.'

Claire had not expected to change but the maid, who evidently knew better, had laid out the cherry red jumper suit she had planned to wear the following day but which she put on now with red silk stockings and black shoes with patent buckles, brushed her hair into its gleaming Chinese fringe, wound a length of black and red beads around her neck and ran downstairs again, feeling late, to find herself alone, for five painful moments, with those strange, silent young men – her lover's sons.

‘Are you home for the holidays?'

Of course they were. Any fool must see that. But, with scrupulous politeness, they supplied her with the exact date and time of their arrival, the duration of their visit – as ‘visit'it was, no one being under the impression that they lived here – the train they would be most likely to take on their departure.

What else could she say to them? She could have asked Eunice's boys about their Christmas presents, but realized at once that with Conrad and Christian Swanfield she dare not raise a subject so trivial. She could have talked cars, motor cycles, dogs to Justin and Simon, books, the cinema, and they would have answered ungrammatically perhaps or thoughtlessly – but at least with some enthusiasm.

‘Do you like your school?' she asked feebly.

‘Yes,' said Conrad, ‘It is a very good school.'

‘Yes – very much,' said Christian.

She understood that they were bored with her, and, hearing a step in the hall turned towards the door, her hope of a reprieve fading before the renewed awkwardness of Benedict.

‘You're down early, boys,' he said.

‘Yes, sir.'

She saw that he did not know what to say to them either, and that they were bored with him too.

Lunch was enormous, lengthy, the traditional roast turkey with a special chestnut stuffing – ‘special'because Aaron Swanfield had chosen to call it so – plum pudding flamed in brandy, eaten with plain, honest custard because Aaron had disliked rum sauce, the same meal that was being eaten in every middle-class house in Faxby that day, except that at High Meadows it was grander, there was more of it, and Miriam could never quite stop herself from pretending that she and Aaron had invented it. And afterwards, abandoning port and brandy which could be consumed at leisure all afternoon, the family – in memory, Miriam insisted, of her father – gathered around the tree for the distribution of presents, Eunice restraining her brood with difficulty, Conrad and Christian standing with the grave composure of twin bishops, while Miriam gave the signal for the scramble to begin.

Claire had brought her own gifts that morning and placed them under the tree without much interest, simply a family duty meticulously done with nothing personal or significant about it since Miriam had calmly handed her a list, early in November, not merely of appropriate gifts for every member of the family but of colours, sizes, flavours and in which department of Taylor & Timms they might be bought.

‘I always do a list for everyone, dear. It saves disappointment.'

And so she was able to say ‘Thank you, Benedict,' knowing that the expensive but markedly unoriginal scent spray he gave her had been chosen by Miriam too.

Within moments the hall was littered with Christmas paper, tinsel ribbons, Eunice's four boys and Polly down on the floor squealing like happy, excitable little pigs scrabbling for trinkets which Polly, at least, could have twice over, any day of the week, from Roger Timms: their cousins, Conrad and Christian, gravely comparing the Latin Grammar, the leather-bound Shakespeare, the books on antique coins and industrial architecture their grandmother had thought suitable – and apparently rightly so – for them.

‘I say – thanks awfully,' said Toby to the company at large, clearly embarrassed by Eunice's compulsion to check that her own children had been given full measure, that Toby's collection of cigarette cases and silk scarves and tie-pins was of comparable value to Benedict's, that the scent spray she had herself received from her brother was exactly the same as Claire's and Polly's.

Nola, leaving her own presents in a careless heap on the hall table, her mind on her sculptor alone in his chilly flat eating his Christmas dinner of cold beans and pickled beef out of a tin, slipped away to inform him by letter that Christmas – as she had long had reason to know – was hell for lovers.

Benedict went into his study and closed the door.

‘Merry Christmas,' said Toby, feeling the need to say something, giving Polly a resounding kiss under the mistletoe which caused her to swoon most endearingly into his arms, her lithe, boundlessly enthusiastic-body and long, silk-clad legs proving rather too much for his peace of mind.

‘Toby,' said Eunice sharply, ‘take the boys outside and race them up the hill or something.'

‘It is time,' said Miriam, happily pronouncing her traditional formula, ‘for the punch.' The door bell rang.

‘Quickly, Charlesworth – the punch.'

And for the rest of the afternoon she served it with her own hands, Aaron's recipe, no innocent brew but ‘a punch that had punch'as Aaron had always said, good claret, whisky, a bottle or two of champagne, the best fruit in season, no more lemonade than was needful, offered with hot mince pies, slices of Christmas cake and cheese to the upper echelon of Swanfield employees, the departmental managers, accountants, secretaries, who had all been required by Aaron to walk up the hill to High Meadows on Christmas afternoon, no doubt at great inconvenience to themselves, to drink a toast with their master.

Traditional ‘high tea'of raised pork pies, cold, ham and tongue and turkey, a baron of beef, pickles, salads, another mountain of hot mince pies, a chocolate log, more dark exceedingly alcoholic fruitcake was served at five, after which it was time to rest and change for the evening, when there would be more guests.

‘I feel sick,' said Polly, walking into Claire's room and flopping down on her bed.

‘I'm not surprised. You've eaten too much.'

‘So I have. What else is there to do? I just
loathe
Christmas Day.'

‘You liked getting your presents.'

‘Oh – that part's all right. I took Nola's lot as well. Why not? She just left them there, in the hall, so she obviously didn't want them.'

‘So now you have two of everything – two scent sprays, two silk scarves, two pairs of gloves, two beaded evening bags.'

‘What's wrong with that? I
like
having lots of things. I notice she didn't leave the emerald ring Benedict gave her last night lying around.
That's
on her hand, all safe and sound. Cost a fortune, I expect.'

‘Yes – I expect so.'

‘I'm going to have diamonds.'

‘Good.'

‘This time next year, Claire, if not sooner – a diamond like a pigeon's egg and a wedding ring to go with it. I could have had the engagement ring today if I'd wanted.'

‘From Roger Timms?'

She nodded, curtly, dismissively – poor Roger – and stretched herself, flexing her muscles, holding her long arms in the air and turning her wrists this way and that, badly crumpling the blue chintz quilt and then, suddenly sitting bolt upright, her whole body bristling with dissatisfaction.

‘Do you know how many parties the boys have been asked to today?'

‘Which boys?'

‘All the boys, silly. Every single male of the species who's old enough to leave his mother's apron strings. Even Justin got a couple of invitations although Eunice, as you might expect, wouldn't let him go.
We
have to sit at home and wait and look pretty, because there's no shortage of us. But
they
can go where they please. And so what they've decided to do is go everywhere – sharing out their valuable time a little bit here, a little bit there, so that everybody gets at least one dance. What fun! That's why mother wouldn't give a ball this year – not enough guaranteed partners and not enough staff. You can't imagine what it used to be like here on Christmas Eve when we had our dance – fairyland, that's all. Heaven. Christmas 1913 when we had the last one – I was thirteen years old, the same age as the year, and too damned young to do anything about it but sit on the landing in my frilly nightgown and
watch.
But – well – I thought there'd be another one, you see, the year after, and the year after that – every year – and now I'm not sure-I just don't think there ever will – not
just
like that. Hell – how I loathe Christmas Day. The Templetons are having a big party. I suppose you know that?'

‘No.'

‘What they call a dancing party, whatever that means.'

‘A ball, I suppose, without guaranteed partners and not enough staff.'

Polly made a face. ‘Clever, aren't you. Mother just wouldn't take the risk. But I suppose Mrs Templeton has to do something with all those gawky girls on her hands, Kay and Margot and Jane – and
Sally.
Mrs Timms has made Roger promise to call on his way here – to support Mrs Templeton in her efforts. If he stays more than half an hour he'll have me to answer to.'

And she had no need to add her almost visible fear that Roy Kington might well stay there the whole evening.

‘Well,' she said, getting up, flexing her long golden arms and legs once again, tossing her cropped golden hair, ‘I hate it – that's all – dreary old Day – and the part I hate most of all is
now
when they all go off and shut themselves up in separate rooms. You can see the tobacco coming under Nola's door. Mother's fast asleep and snoring. Eunice and Toby are having a blazing row, or at least Eunice is because Toby won't fight back, you know; wouldn't hurt a fly, poor lamb. It's about Justin, I suppose, who isn't a bit sorry for what he's done. Or about Simon who's just longing to do the same. Or else about why can't he buy her an emerald like Nola's. Benedict's gone out –'

‘Where!' But Polly did not notice how sharply Claire had spoken.

‘Lord – how should I know? Just
out.
He probably hates Christmas Day as much as I do.'

Had he driven over to Thornwick? Alone? She refused to think about it, having no inclination whatsoever to face up to the sensations her suspicions might arouse. Yet, suddenly, in this hot and heavy place, she was caught unawares by an acute longing for Benedict's beautiful, tranquil house which, when coupled by a sharp spasm of desire for the man himself, dealt her a telling blow. How foolish. How wrong. He had not spoken a dozen words to her all day and she, oppressed by the sheer weight of High Meadows, the silent presence of his children, the blue chintz bedroom, had had little to say to him. Now, the suspicion that, in order to escape that weight, that presence, and for his own particular pleasure on Christmas Day, he had taken another woman to Thornwick, did not surprise her. It seemed entirely possible, quite natural, only to be expected. It seemed exactly the kind of thing Benedict would do and had been doing for years.

It hurt.

She did not hurry downstairs, waiting until she had heard several cars come and go on the drive below her window before she put on her long black dress, her rope of pearl beads, rouged her lips and walked into the drawing room smoking a Turkish cigarette in an ebony holder, a woman without a care in the world, as anyone could see. Benedict was not there to see it. She had not expected him to be. Nor was Roy Kington, although Roger Timms had arrived looking heavy and amiable and just a little sheepish as if the flattery of the four Templeton girls made a pleasant change, now and again, from Polly's scolding. Nola's cousin, Arnold Crozier, was there too, up from the Crown where he had taken the Tangerine Suite for Christmas, having got out of the habit, since the war, of spending December in Cannes. ‘A poor old widower who needs cheering up a little', according to Miriam, although she knew quite well about the young ‘flappers' who passed in and out of the Tangerine Suite door in such rapid succession; cheerful young things, scarcely identifiable one from the other, as tiny and blonde and feather-headed as his late wife had been sallow and stately and shrewd. Of course she knew. One simply did not
talk
about these things.

Arnold and Roger and Toby. Eunice, looking sick and feeling blinded by the headache which always followed a quarrel with her husband. Nola in a green sequined dress which, with the green turban around her head, gave her the air, if not the look, of a snake, a large emerald ring on her hand at which she glanced occasionally. Polly in scarlet silk, vivid, almost painfully beautiful, concealing, just beneath the golden skin, the careful nonchalance, a scared little girl who believed her youth to be ebbing away, Claire, who had lost her youth with Paul and did not even want it back again, trying not to wait for Benedict, not to look at Nola's ring. Miriam, surrounded by her family as she had fully intended, sitting at the centre of her charmed circle yet quite alone in her perfect content. And, apart from that, a collection of second cousins, obscure uncles to whom something was due at Christmas, all of them with daughters, sisters, a generation of wallflowers who seemed resigned to sitting patiently together in quiet conversation; and a sprinkling of very young men – too young – sixteen and seventeen-year-olds who pestered Polly for mistletoe kisses boisterously, but with no less enthusiasm than some of their fathers.