A Winter's Child (38 page)

Not that Polly had the least objection to kisses – nor to sex in general, recognizing how badly men wanted it. Although, being completely unaroused herself, she saw little point to it beyond the power it gave her. She enjoyed being kissed and tickled behind the ears and rumpled a little as one would play with a kitten.
That,
particularly when she had had a cocktail or two, was great fun, a game she would have loved to spin out for hours and hours had it not been for its alarming effect, after ten minutes or so, on her partners. Men wanted more. She understood that now, although she had been shocked to begin with, considerably scared the first time she had slipped out of the Crown to spend a cramped and frankly distasteful half-hour in the back seat of a parked car, having agreed to go out in the first place only because the girls with the shortest skirts, the most dashing hair-cuts, the ‘sophisticates' all did so. She had to force herself the second time too. But, like cigarettes which had made her very sick to begin with, she had persevered, had soon acquired the habit, soon learned the rules which, in her case, were very simple. She would give what had to be given, as little as she could get away with, as much as seemed necessary, to prove her own sophistication or to avoid being labelled a prude, a cold fish, a poor sport, Heavens – one could never survive that. And, should the pressure become sufficiently great she was ready to go even further, to do anything in fact, and even pretend that she had done it before, so long as if it would not make her pregnant.

Contraception did not interest her. She still planned to be a virgin bride, with a dozen bridesmaids and a white satin train six yards long. But, having accepted that in these changing times her blue and gold looks alone would not hold the attention of a man, or at least not of the men she knew, unless they could also be touched, even Roger Timms was allowed to kiss her with open mouth and unbutton her blouse from time to time; while others had been rather more fortunate than that. But Roy Kington, hard young warrior whose appetite for battle had taken him straight to revolutionary Russia from France, had acquired more knowledge of her eager, golden body – without in any way awakening it – in one short, blunt half-hour than anyone else had managed after months of persuasion. And while he had been clutching her breasts and biting them and forcing her legs apart she had consoled herself for all the discomfort and embarrassment he had been causing her with the thought that, for the sake of all this nonsense – and not very
nice
nonsense either – he had left Sally Templeton puzzled and lonely, waiting for him with a dry martini at the Crown.

But he was at the Templetons now, she had no doubt, dancing with Sally who was desperate enough to give him anything in order to escape that household of women, a domineering elder sister who would never find a man, two others who had lost theirs in the war, a widowed mother and a pair of spinster aunts who would all need a great deal of looking after one day. She had once felt sorry for Sally. Now she condemned her to something far worse than death and damnation – eternal spinsterhood.

Naturally she did not herself intend to suffer that dire fate. ‘Roger,' she said, ‘do light my cigarette.' Yet each time an engine was heard on the drive, each time the gravel crunched under the weight of a man, her stomach lurched, as Claire's did, her breath caught sharply and her ears strained – like Claire's – her eyes darted to the doorway – as Claire's did not – her impatience visible – Claire's perfectly controlled – to be replaced, as visibly, by disappointment, peevishness, when the door opened to admit another middle-aged businessman, a cleric, a youth.

‘For God's sake, Roger can't you sit still – you're crumpling my dress.'

Where was he? He had promised to come. She had promised to make it worth his while, knowing full well that their ideas of ‘worth'would not be the same. Yet she had been ready to promise anything in order to see him, tempt him, relying heavily on her belief – learned from her mother – that men most want what they cannot have.

Where was he? She heard another car, approaching at speed, driven as one might expect a wild young warrior to drive and leaping to her feet, causing Roger Timms to spill his drink, she ran out into the hall fleet-footed as a virgin huntress of ancient Arcady, calling out ‘We have company.'

It was Benedict.

‘Good evening,' he said, looking at no one in particular.

‘Good evening, Benedict,' a chorus of voices replied, not Claire's, not Nola's, who, in spirit, was in a cold Leeds-attic eating beans. Not Polly who, caught now under the mistletoe, stood like a stag at bay surrounded by a pack of boisterous puppies and a few ageing hounds clamouring for Christmas kisses.

‘It's my turn, come on, Polly – be a sport. Oh, I say, Polly, give me another one.'

‘Leave me alone will you – all of you –'

‘You don't mean that, Polly – does she chaps?'

And immediately there was a chorus of ‘Stop it, I like it.'

‘I've had enough,' she struck out wildly, catching a young cousin a hefty blow across the head, pushing a much older gentleman, who should have known better, so that he stumbled against the Christmas tree, bringing down a shower of tinsel.

‘Let go of me – grinning bloody monkeys … Just leave me be-'

‘All right, Polly,' Toby Hartwell, moving quickly to her side, put both arms around her, easing her slowly backwards so that no one could see the tears pouring down her face: away from her tormentors.

‘What is it, old girl? Got something in your eye? We'll soon fix that.'

And deftly, being a man whose wife was very prone to sudden outbursts of weeping, he dried her eyes, telling her soothing nonsense all the while, calling her ‘pretty Polly'again, as everyone used to do when she had been a child.

‘Toby – I do love you.'

‘Well', I hope so. You've always been my best girl. All right now, princess? Ready to go back and dazzle ‘em?'

‘What that girl needs,' said Eunice, who had heard nothing beyond her sister's use of ‘bloody', a word she had never pronounced in her life, ‘is a good spanking.'

‘I think I may get rather drunk,' said Nola who had heard nothing at all. ‘Claire – how about it?'

Smiling, Claire nodded.

‘It is time,' said Miriam pleasantly, ‘for supper. Come children – there may even be surprises – and prizes – under the plates.'

Nola was carried to bed at two o'clock that morning in exactly the kind of stupor she had intended, Claire following a few moments later, too tired and rather too tipsy herself to grapple with what she ought to be feeling about sleeping in the room next to Benedict, and the suspicion that Miriam had placed her there deliberately to show her how easily and in how socially acceptable a manner even adultery might be managed. She decided, therefore, not to think about it at all, falling asleep so deeply that it seemed only a few moments before the maid brought her breakfast tray and a piece of information which promised her release from High Meadows earlier than she had expected. Miriam, it appeared, was unwell and would not be coming downstairs that morning. Going to her room to enquire Claire found her suffering from a slight cold and a great deal of fatigue, wanting sleep for once in her life rather more than company. No, she would probably not get up today. They must manage luncheon as best they could. Nola did not get up either. Christian and Conrad – God help them, thought Claire – had gone to spend the day with Eunice.

‘I'll drive you home,' said Benedict. ‘Parker's not here.' And before they had reached the main road he had slipped out of his role as Chairman of Swanfield Mills and, smoothly – almost imperceptibly taken up the part of cool, attractive stranger.

‘Have you half an hour to spare?'

She nodded and he drove up the hill away from town, quickly and quite dangerously, she supposed; considering the steepness of the road and its sharp corners, the thin layer of frost just covering the puddles so that they released showers of needle-fine ice to mark their way. The air was crisp and snow-scented, a streak of winter sun low in the sky, painting the clouds a soft rose-pearl tipped at their edges with pale gold. Below them the town was a black smudge in the valley bottom, nothing but the factory chimneys and the tip of one church spire breaking through the eternal pall of smoke.

Getting out of the car they stood for a moment at the top of the hill, a bare place with nothing to shelter from, nothing to disturb them but a bird rising suddenly from the bare field beyond, beating its charcoal wings for a moment against the pink-streaked sky.

‘Whatever your feelings might be about silver-topped scent sprays,' he said, ‘perhaps you might prefer this.' Quickly, to her initial embarrassment, her sudden flash of delight, her anxiety in case her cold fingers might drop the lovely things, he gave her, or rather tossed in her direction, a pair of antique earrings, clusters of amethysts, opals and pearls in an elaborate Victorian setting marvellously crafted like no others she had ever seen. And she was amazed and a little alarmed at her own exultation in the sure knowledge that although anyone, who had the money, could go into a jeweller's and order an emerald ring, it had taken time and skill and taste to find jewels like these.

‘Benedict …' She breathed out her pleasure and, with a movement of her whole body as spontaneous and eager as Polly's, walked, for the first time without invitation, into his arms.

‘I see you like them.'

‘Much more than that. I saved your real present for your birthday next weekend.'

‘I shall be away for my birthday, I always am.'

‘Oh-why?'

‘To avoid Miriam's overflowing enthusiasm for birthdays. You could come with me.'

‘No I can't.'

‘I'm not going very far.'

‘How far?'

‘A little place called Thornwick, perhaps?'

She laughed, still leaning against him, her body so much in tune now with his, so finely adjusted to his rhythms – so dominated by them – that desire could be awakened by a touch, a memory, a suggestion, her whole mind accepting that whoever he was, whatever he turned out to be, she had never felt so powerful, so well nigh unmanageable a physical need for any man.

‘We're not far from Thornwick now,' he said into her ear.

‘I can't.' But it was no more than a token.

‘Yes you can.'

‘No. I'll be late for work.'

‘What time are they expecting you?'

‘Five o'clock.' She had promised Kit she would be on duty by seven but it seemed wise to allow a safety margin.

He glanced at his watch. ‘Then you can.'

The house was tranquil and strange as she had longed for it, her mood one of sheer release again, of taking flight, her body dissolving beneath his into a physical plane which made nonsense of reasons, identity, consequences. Giving herself wholly, setting herself adrift she allowed herself to be carried beyond every barrier she had set herself, every barrier which had been set for her by her mother's conditioning, until she had been drenched by sensation, saturated: dazed afterwards and bemused by sheer satisfaction so that, in her trance, she was able to say, ‘Did you come here yesterday?'

‘Yes. Even I couldn't think of a believable excuse to bring you with me.'

‘So you brought someone else?'

‘Of course.'

Perhaps he had – or not? It made no difference. It hurt.

‘Oh well – she can't have been much fun or you'd hardly have felt – well – so energetic just now.'

And she added quickly, ‘I don't really expect you to answer that.'

‘Very wise.'

‘And I have to go now anyway.'

‘Yes.'

Would he go back to High Meadows? When he had left her at the Crown to take up her life again, the Boxing Day Dinner for sixty-four, the private party in the upstairs reception room, the usual pandemonium in the cocktail bar, what would he do then?

She had never asked herself this simple question before. She had thought of him either at High Meadows with Miriam – never with Nola – or else here, with her. What happened in between? What
now
tonight? Was there someone in his life, not a simple sexual diversion like herself, but someone real, someone who knew him as she did not, someone so well established with him that she could even be called on at short notice on Christmas Day, someone who, after Claire was gone, might come here this very night and say, ‘Tell me about her. Is she doing you good?'

She could not bear it.

Was this jealousy? And if so, how ridiculous.

‘Benedict –?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is it time to go?'

‘Yes. Very nearly,' he said.

His birthday was of no importance to him, she saw that much quite clearly. Falling as it did in the trough between those glittering peaks of Christmas and New Year it could easily have been forgotten by everyone else, could have passed unnoticed, overshadowed by the tinsel and holly and silver bells, had it not been for Miriam's devotion to the cult of birthday treats. Therefore, by absenting himself from home that day, he allowed Miriam to forget it too. ‘Benedict has never liked a fuss,' she told Claire, ‘It is his December nature, you see. If one makes a fuss of him then he has to – well –
thaw
a little, doesn't he. And I suppose if one happened to be December, one could hardly wish to melt.'

Yet, just the same, she had spent time she could not afford to find him a gift and, in the end, money she could not really afford either when Euan Ash, through friends in Faxby Market where he displayed his pictures and assisted in the sale of usually dubious antiques, found her a piece of art glass, a bowl shaped like a lily, the petals shading from a pale opalescent green to a strange blue-white with the head of a woman at their centre, long green eyes half-asleep, a long mouth half-smiling, opal-tinted hair floating gently on green glass water, a tranquil, dreaming lily-face in deep repose.