The Winter Children (4 page)

‘Okay.’ He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘Okay.’

They are at the kitchen table, their plates smeared with the remains of their food, sitting within the pool of golden light from the overhead pendant. They have talked so intently, they barely
tasted the stew that Olivia started cooking this morning, trying out a new recipe she cut from the paper at the weekend. She’s been craving Moroccan flavours lately: the sweaty tang of cumin,
the sweet calm of cinnamon, the perfume of rose and the spikiness of chilli and pepper. She’s dimly aware that the stew was good, but all the pleasure in its creation has gone. Dan has described the scene to her three times at least: how they were all summoned to the meeting room, then divided into groups, and how one by one they were called into
separate offices to learn their fate.

‘It was like being divided into fit for work, and destined for the knacker’s yard,’ he says bitterly.

‘That might be overstating it a bit,’ Olivia says with a touch of severity. ‘You’ve got to keep it in proportion. It’s not the end of the world.’ She rubs her
hand absent-mindedly over her full, drum-tight belly. ‘You’ve lost a job, that’s all. It happens to lots of people. We’ve still got the babies, that’s the important
thing.’

‘But that’s why this is the worst possible time to lose my income!’ He takes a big gulp of the red wine in his glass and pours more from the bottle. He’s already had two
thirds of it and there’s a rim of black speckles on his lips. Olivia hasn’t drunk for ages now, and she’s begun to lose that unquestioning belief that it’s just something
you do. She doesn’t like watching Dan get belligerent and start ranting, his brief burst of energy followed by sudden deep fatigue and, later, by sound, snore-filled sleep. He’s not at
the ranting stage yet, but it might not be far off. ‘We need all the money we can get now we’re going to have two children to support. And all our savings are practically gone. And
you’re not working!’ He finishes up with another gulp of wine.

‘It sounds bad,’ Olivia agrees. ‘But it’s not that grim. You’re getting a redundancy package, right? A decent one, as you’ve been there so long?’

He nods, frowning.

‘So maybe this is a good thing. You’re going to be around when the babies arrive, with more than just a fortnight’s paternity leave.’ She starts to see it in a different
light, and feels a rush of excitement. ‘We’ll have enough for a year or so, won’t we? You’ll have time to think about what you really want to do, and I’ll be able to
get some work in while you’re home with us.’

Dan frowns, and Olivia thinks that it’s almost as if he doesn’t want to acknowledge anything positive. Then his face starts to clear a little. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
Expressions flit over his face. He’s only looked at the downsides. He’s not used to failure of any kind, and he’s stung by the humiliation of losing his job, needing to vent his
anger at the people who treated him this way after all these years. But he’ll get a tidy tax-free sum and can forget all the stresses and strains of his office and concentrate on the miracle
of the babies and the excitement of parenthood instead. As the reality of their arrival sharpens, Olivia has dared to look ahead for the first time and consider what having twins to look after
might mean. She hasn’t wanted to tempt any malevolent fates, but now it seems it might actually happen. And then what? If she and Dan could do it together, how much more wonderful would
that be?

She leans across the table towards him. ‘This could be just the opportunity you’ve wanted, even though it’s not ideal. I know it’s a horrible thing to go through but . .
. you’ll be with me and the babies. We’ve got to enjoy this. Think how hard we worked and struggled to get here. We’ll never do it again. Honestly, Dan, this is the silver lining,
can’t you see?’

Dan nods slowly and smiles. When his face clears, she sees the man she loves again, handsome with those dark blue eyes and thick, almost black hair. He has an Irish look about him, and indeed
his father is Irish American. Charm runs in the family, along with good looks, and the attractive aura of self-confidence. Olivia still melts when Dan turns the full force of his smile on her, even
after all this time. She’s still thrilled by his intelligence and intellectual prowess, his sharp wit and belief in himself. Although she was prepared to adopt if the IVF hadn’t worked,
ready to love any child who needed her so that she could satisfy the maternal longing that’s consumed her for years, it’s a special pleasure to her that the babies are biologically
Dan’s. She almost sees it as an honour to be creating his children, even if they share half their genetic inheritance with a stranger.

Olivia goes on, eager to push home this new slant on the day’s trauma. ‘You know what? You can write the play you’ve been planning. This could be the chance you’ve been
waiting for! You’ll finally have the time to do some writing, just like you’ve always wanted.’

Interest flickers in his eyes, then he laughs. ‘I bet there won’t be much chance for writing when the babies get here.’

‘You’ve got a breather before then. And babies do sleep, eventually!’ She smiles at him across the table and puts her hand in his. They clasp each other on the scrubbed pine
surface.

‘But the redundancy money won’t last forever,’ he murmurs thoughtfully. ‘We’ll need to be very careful.’

‘Fine,’ she says, wanting everything to be all right. ‘We’ll cut right back. We’ll work it out, I just know it. And . . .’ She smiles at him, squeezing his hand gently. ‘Just think. You don’t have to go back to the office. Ever
again. And one day, you’ll probably think that this was the best thing that ever happened to you.’

He nods thoughtfully. She feels a rush of triumph that she has managed to turn his setback into an opportunity, a doorway to another life, one that he wants more than his old job.

Things are going our way.
She feels sure that life is smiling on them at the moment. Luck is on their side. Fortune has spun her wheel and is whisking them upwards to a bright future
after all the bad years.
Everything’s falling into place. I can feel it.

The estate agent is very excited. Perhaps it’s the effect of seeing Walt’s Daimler sweep up the drive of Renniston Hall, or perhaps it’s the thought of the massive commission
that will come the agency’s way if the hall is sold.

Or maybe he just likes the house
, Francesca thinks. The agent jigs along, perky and energetic, beside the more laconic figure of the man from Preserving England, the heritage society
that’s selling the house, who’s pointing out the historic features and the work already completed. Francesca remains in the background, her face inscrutable behind huge dark glasses,
cutting a neutral figure in white jeans and a black silk trench coat. The attention is all on Walt, as though he is a walking wallet that can be talked open. Maybe they’re right. Usually
it’s a woman who makes the final decision about a house, but this place is different. It needs so much capital that it’s no wonder they are focusing on the probable source of it.

‘Note the plaster barrel ceiling in this room,’ the heritage man is saying, gazing upwards. He’s exactly what one would expect: white-haired and imposing, wearing faded plum-coloured cord trousers and a tweed jacket over a checked shirt and Windsor-knotted tie. ‘The fireplace is mid-sixteenth century and
the plaster overmantle probably a little later, closer to 1630 or so, we believe. You can see it has a bas-relief, showing the sacrifice of Isaac.’

Walt is drinking it all in, although it means very little to him. He can’t tell a pediment from a portico, but he knows that he’s seeing something spectacular. ‘Wow!’ he
exclaims. ‘And whose coat of arms is that on the ceiling?’

‘You’ll see various arms and crests throughout the house, reflecting the many different owners since the original house was built in 1540. It’s been added to several times
since then, of course, so you’ll see Elizabethan, Jacobean and Palladian styles . . . The families who lived here include the Vanes, the Earls of Arnandale, the Beauclerks . . .’

Francesca is half aware of the voice as they move through the great rooms, but she is in a daze as they walk around. The house has stunned her. It is beautiful, though deeply dilapidated, and
more redolent with history than any place she has ever been, outside public and royal buildings. She can tell it’s full of centuries’ worth of ghosts: ruffed courtiers, armoured
knights, cavaliers and crinolined ladies. She senses the vanished presence of dandies, nobles, duchesses and bishops, not to mention the hundreds of servants who must have kept a place like this
running. It is ornate as only great houses are, the stone mullion windows embellished with carving, every column rich with entablature, and every cornice moulded in intricate designs.

But it’s so . . . tired. So worn out.

The heritage man is explaining how the house was left empty for a couple of decades, put on the register of buildings at risk, served with notices for compulsory repairs to the foreign-based
leisure group that had acquired it, sold on several times before the heritage society stepped in with emergency public funds and bought it. Millions have already been spent getting the house up to
its current state: still not much more than a shell, but watertight, although without much in the way of plumbing or power; vast empty, dusty chambers leading one into another, and huge staircases
winding upwards to corridors of doors leading into yet more rooms. Francesca is hopelessly lost after only a short time when they gain the first floor, and she walks quietly in the wake of the
others as they discuss what needs to be done in this great, neglected place. It’s like a gigantic beast, left untended to fend and forage for itself, its majesty hidden under the ravages of
time and creeping decay, and a kind of acquired savagery. She catches glimpses of sunshine glowing on the honey-coloured stone outside, of green lawns beyond the windows. The grass is in wonderful
condition. Someone has been looking after it. It is in stark contrast to the dust, cobwebs and the dirt-smeared glass inside.

She knows that Walt wants to buy this place; she can feel the desire for it emanating from him. When the heritage man mentions in passing that Queen Elizabeth stayed in the very room
they’re standing in, Walt almost quivers with excitement.

‘Queen Elizabeth the First?’

Francesca thinks,
It’s hardly going to be the other one. Where would she sleep? On a camp bed?

‘That’s right.’ The heritage man looks quite touched by Walt’s excitement. ‘She stayed here several times apparently, on her summer progresses around the country.
She had a particular affinity with the place, we believe. We know that James the First visited too.’

‘Wow,’ Walt breathes again. ‘Would you believe it?’ He turns to Francesca. ‘It makes history come alive, doesn’t it, honey?’

‘Yes,’ she says. Her throat feels thick with dust. She imagines the Tudor queen lying in a huge carved bed with tapestry hangings, old and childless, feeling the glory of her reign
fading. Francesca shivers with a sudden chill that crawls over her skin.

‘Queen Elizabeth, huh?’ Walt shakes his head. ‘That sure is something. Imagine making this room just the way it was when she was here. It would be a kind of
privilege.’

There is a murmur of agreement. Francesca follows the others as they leave the room.

The tour takes them up to the second floor and to the attics, then down some back stairs and into a different part of the house altogether, to a place where there are no turned balustrades or
moulded plaster. Instead, they are surrounded by the unlovely tiles, ugly paint and solid pipework of an institution.

‘This place was a girls’ school from before the war until the sixties,’ explains the heritage expert, leading them down a dark, dank corridor. ‘They converted this wing
into their sports hall. It would never be allowed now, of course, but back then people did as they liked. Here are the old showers.’ He opens a door to a long, narrow tiled room, full of the bitter
smell of mould and the sour tang of old, rotten water. The floor is covered in large white tiles with blackened grout that dip down in the centre to a channel where dry drains still wait for a
deluge. Shower heads stick out from the wall at intervals, crusty with ancient limescale. There are no partitions or curtains. No privacy at all.

Francesca thinks of the tour she took around the Swiss boarding school where Frederick and Olympia are studying. Olympia is in a pretty chalet-style boarding house, with views over the
mountain, and a cosy, homelike environment. The plentiful bathrooms are comfortable and private.

How horrible this is
, Francesca thinks, with another shudder. It’s hard to believe this is in the same house as the grand royal bedroom with its panelling and great stone
fireplace.

‘Obviously there’s plenty to do in this part of the house,’ the heritage expert says, shutting the door. ‘Although it’s hard to know precisely what. That’s
why it’s been left pretty much as it was.’

He takes them further down the corridor and opens another door inset with a panel of murky safety glass. Now they are in a huge chamber, its high walls tiled except at the top where there is a
row of narrow rectangular windows that let in a little grey light. Francesca realises that about half of this room is below ground. In the middle of the room is a vast tiled rectangular hole sunk
far into the floor, its depths filled with rubbish and filth.

Of course
, she thinks, getting her bearings.
That’s the swimming pool.

She sees now that she is looking into the deep end, where a pile of leaves and accumulated litter has settled. Someone has tossed in old fittings: a pool ladder, cracked tiles, a coil of blue
lane rope, some floats. The filters, thick with dirt, are falling from the sides of the pool, and the whole thing is a giant ruin.

‘Well now,’ Walt says, gazing about, his eyes gleaming. ‘Isn’t this grand?’ He turns to Francesca. ‘There’s already a pool here! Just think, we can make all this into our own private gym.’