The Winter Folly (12 page)

He pulled off his pyjamas in a quick movement as she lay back to welcome him, lifting her arms to him and relishing the weight of his body as he rolled onto her. She knew that he loved the
feeling of her soft belly and breasts under him and the way she opened herself to him. He sighed with pleasure as he ran his hand over her hips and along the curve of her waist. She curled her legs
around his thighs, urging him to find the place and there he was. It was so familiar and yet each time she revelled in the sensation of their bodies being joined, and the delicious fulfilment as he
pressed home.

They didn’t speak but stared into each other’s eyes, reading the emotions there. They could see that they were both at the mercy of their physical passion as it grew stronger and
fiercer, both finding excitement in the other’s arousal. She pulled him closer and deeper, rising up to meet him, feeling as though she would never be able to have enough of him. But their
morning passion was fast and urgent and the end came quickly, as their desire for one another sped them on until they both reached the brink of pleasure.

When they were lying together afterwards, she sighed contentedly, happy that they had made love with such enthusiastic enjoyment after the way it had been recently. ‘That was
very
nice.’

‘It always is. You always are.’ He trailed his finger along the soft flesh of her inner arm and said slowly, ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been a grouch lately. I know
I’m not easy to live with sometimes. You’re so good to put up with me.’

She grasped at the feeling of connection between them. ‘Are you okay? You’ve been so down, and you seem to be getting more morose, not less.’

John looked away and sighed, rubbing one hand across the dark stubble on his chin. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t explain it . . . this place. It’s hard for me, you know? Sometimes
I feel like this house wants to smother me alive. There’s no end to the demands it makes on me. And then there’s Dad.’ His expression saddened. ‘He’s getting worse.
It’s taking him away from me. For years, it was just the two of us and now that his memory is going, it’s taking the past – my life, I mean – with it. I’m going to
spend the morning with him today and I’m dreading it, dreading seeing what else has been lost. There’ll only be me left to remember soon. It feels very lonely.’

She felt a surge of sympathy for him and squeezed his arm for comfort. ‘Oh, darling – we can build new memories together.’

He smiled wanly. ‘I hope so. Fingers crossed.’ He paused and said, ‘Are you doing your pregnancy test today?’

‘Later,’ she said, trying to hide the tremor of anxiety she felt at the thought. ‘I’ve run out of kits. I’ll need to pick up some more.’

‘Okay,’ he said, dropping a kiss on her cheek. ‘Let me know when the big moment happens, won’t you?’

Saturday breakfast was a long, lazy meal served in the round blue dining room in an old-fashioned way that always reminded Delilah of a hotel, with napkin-lined bread baskets,
hot dishes with sausages, bacon and scrambled egg, and coffee served in a silver pot. As she poured out some milk, she said, ‘Why don’t I come over with you this time?’

John looked up from his porridge and the newspaper. Erryl had dropped the papers off early that morning, and then they were left to themselves for the rest of the weekend since Delilah had put a
stop to the tradition of Janey coming to do Sunday lunch every week. When it was just the two of them, she was happy to do it herself; if there were visitors to entertain, she appreciated Janey
taking the strain of cooking. ‘Come where?’ he asked.

‘To visit your father, of course.’

John’s expression became closed, almost anxious. He sighed and took a sip of his coffee, before saying, ‘Why?’

‘Because I’d like to.’

‘I don’t understand why you’d want to spend a perfectly nice Saturday morning sitting with an old man you barely know – a man who’s never going to know you. He
hardly remembers who I am half the time.’

‘But I’m part of the family now. I want to show support – both for him and for you.’

John looked over at her, a touch of pleading in his eyes. ‘Darling, I’d find it more supportive if you stayed away. It’s tedious enough for me, answering the same questions
over and over again. I’d find it uncomfortable if you had to endure the same thing, without even the memory of my father as he used to be to sustain you through the boredom.’

She stared back, not sure what to say to that. It seemed odd that there was this kind of division between people who lived so close to one another, with her in the big house and the old man in
the coach house next door, and only John allowed to move between the two. She ate a spoonful of her own porridge slowly, savouring the nutty, salty taste softened by a swirl of cold cream. She
said, ‘I think you’re worrying too much. I met your father in the garden the other day and he was perfectly fine.’

‘Oh?’ John stiffened for a moment and blinked rapidly. Then he sat back in his chair and fixed his gaze on her. He looked so handsome, she thought, in his old cotton shirt, washed to
down-like softness, and dark jeans. ‘Did you two have a chat? Did he remember you?’

She hesitated before answering, wondering why John seemed just a touch anxious, then said, ‘He didn’t know me, I’m afraid. But if he saw me more often, perhaps he might get to
know that we’re married.’

‘I shouldn’t count on it,’ John said, his gaze turning back to the cricket reports in the paper. ‘He barely remembered who Vanna was, and that was before he lost his
marbles.’

Delilah said nothing, hurt by the mention of Vanna and the inference that if the old man couldn’t remember the stylish and fascinating Vanna, he was hardly likely to recall boring Delilah.
At least, that was what it sounded like to her. She wanted to laugh it off but somehow felt wounded.

‘Did he say anything else?’ John asked idly as he turned the page.

‘Yes, actually.’ It was, Delilah thought, the perfect opportunity to ask about what had been niggling at the back of her mind. ‘He seemed to think I was someone called Elaine.
He was quite insistent that I was her, even when I tried to tell him that I wasn’t.’

John went quite still and his jaw tightened.

‘Do you know who that is?’ she asked. ‘Does it mean anything to you?’

There was a small pause and he replied, ‘No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. It must be someone from his distant past. That means more to him than the present these days.’ He
began to move quickly, putting down his paper, drinking the last of his coffee and pushing back his chair all at once. ‘You can see why it’s pointless coming to spend a morning with my
father. If he thinks you’re someone else, then it’s only going to confuse him, isn’t it? Much better if we do it my way. I’ll see you at lunchtime.’

A moment later she heard the kitchen door slam, indicating that he’d gone out that way to take the shortcut to the coach house.

‘Bloody man!’ she said with exasperation, putting down her spoon. He’d used her question about the mysterious Elaine as a reason to stop her going with him to see his
father.

I can’t understand it
, she thought.
Why wouldn’t he want me to go with him? Surely I could make it easier for him.

She sat back in frustration, wondering why he refused her help. At first, the two of them had been so connected, but all the passionate lovemaking and long hours wrapped in each other’s
arms talking had not made him share every part of his complicated heart with her. Now she was worried by how much they seemed to be moving apart. Ever since she’d come to the house,
John’s misery appeared to be increasing. His nightmares came more often and his dark moods were more frequent, as though something inside him was tormenting him with ever greater force. And
yet he refused to let her in. How could she help him if he didn’t? And what would her life be if the man she loved gradually turned into a stranger tortured by the burden of his inheritance
and yet unwilling to change anything?

It must be the house,
she thought.
That and his father. It’s all I can think.

It seemed that there was only one way she could ease his pain. John appeared to have placed all his hopes of salvation in a baby, and the longer they went without a sign of one, the worse things
were becoming. She stood up, a wave of anxiety flooding through her. Was that the only way she could heal him? And what if her growing fear proved correct? What if they – or she –
couldn’t have a child?

She shivered and pushed that vision of the future from her mind, and began to lay the breakfast dishes on the mahogany tray.

Delilah missed Janey’s solid, amiable presence in the kitchen. She wondered idly if she could take Ben a cup of tea in the garden, then remembered that it was Saturday
and he would be in his cottage over at Home Farm, and was disappointed. It occurred to her that she could surprise him with a visit. She could see him now, slouchy in jeans and a T-shirt, out of
those gardening things for once, his feet bare and his hair wet from the shower. His grey-green eyes would widen with surprise, then a smile would broaden across his face, and he’d say,
‘Delilah! This is an unexpected pleasure. Why don’t you come in?’ She knew he would be happy to see her. She would do it. She would get in the car, drive the couple of miles over
to the farm – it was part of the Fort Stirling estate and not far away – and she would take him something nice from the garden as a pretext . . . She stopped unloading the breakfast
tray and stood stock-still in the kitchen.

You don’t need to spend time with Ben
, she told herself sternly.
That’s not where the solution lies.

She started putting the breakfast things in the dishwasher, making herself think of John instead. He would be in the coach house now, sitting across from his father, trying to follow the
vagaries of his mind or attempting to anchor it down with facts about the weather, the house, the estate. She pictured the portrait of John’s father, a full-length oil by the staircase that
showed a young, vibrant and handsome man. The white-haired old man next door was the same person, just as John was the round-faced boy in his prep school uniform, holding his mother’s hand,
she expressionless behind a huge pair of Jackie O-style sunglasses, as they stood together next to a sleek-bodied car.

She couldn’t remember exactly what John’s mother’s name was now. Had she ever been told? John had only called her ‘my mother’ and he spoke of her rarely – in
fact, only when Delilah pressed him on it.

Then it burst upon her.

But of course! Elaine must be John’s mother! That’s why his father thought I was her – his wife from long ago. I don’t suppose we look much like each other,
considering she was dark and I’m fair, but perhaps that doesn’t matter when your mind and memory are impaired.

She left the dishwasher half loaded and hurried along the hall to the library. It was dull and fusty in the mornings, before the sun had moved around to illuminate it through the rows of long,
elegant windows. Dust hung in the air around the cabinets of books with their doors of wire mesh protecting the antique tomes inside. The leather-and-gilt volumes weren’t of much interest to
her; she preferred the shelves on the other side of the room, where there were novels and books on art and history, collections of letters, volumes of the peerage and
Who’s Who
, and
lots of juicy biographies and revelatory exposés. It was also where the old albums were kept, leather bound and stamped with the Stirling crest on the spines and covers. There were cellar
books, books of menus going back to the big house parties of the nineteenth century, and visitors’ books. And there were photograph albums bound in green and red calfskin.

Delilah plucked one out, sat down on the library floor and opened it on her crossed legs. It weighed a ton, the black pages alone stiff and heavy, even before the black-and-white prints had been
mounted. They weren’t family snaps – each one had been taken with a determined sense of subject and framing. Most were inside the house; it was virtually unchanged from today and it was
odd to see pictures taken in the library and then to flick her gaze upwards to see the exact same furniture in the identical configuration. Under each large print was a caption written in white
ink, neat capitals spelling out who the picture was of. The names meant nothing to Delilah but she loved looking at the frozen moments, people snapped and preserved forever in their youth. The men
had hair that touched their collars at the back, and that was either shaggy at the front or swooped back in a thick quiff; they wore tight shirts, shiny drainpipe trousers and Chelsea boots; some
were wearing cardigans and dark square-framed glasses, or striped tops with leather jackets, giving them a tough edge. The girls wore tight pencil skirts and blouses, or fitted sweaters, their hair
in loose curls or pulled back into long ponytails. They had flicks of black eyeliner on their lids and had darkened their brows with kohl. There were obviously parties going on: she could see
bottles, full ashtrays, people dancing to a gramophone on the walnut table by the window – she looked up: the table was still there, the gramophone had now disappeared – or else young
men strummed guitars together. How amazing it must have been to be young and have a house like this to play in.

There was no sign of John’s father in the photographs, but he must have been behind the camera. A vague memory floated into her mind of John telling her that his father had once been a
society photographer in the sixties. And occasionally she saw the delicate pale face, large eyes and soft dark hair of the woman she recognised as John’s mother. She seemed to be apart from
the others somehow, always in the shadows or seen in the half-light. Only once or twice was she caught full-on by the camera and then it was always unawares, when the tilt of her head or the shape
of her mouth was quite heartbreakingly pure. Underneath her image was only the letter ‘A’ in bold white strokes.

‘A,’ murmured Delilah. ‘What happened to you, A?’ She was struck by how young the woman looked. She must be younger than Delilah was now. And yet, within a few years, she
was dead, and exactly how she died Delilah didn’t know. Whenever she’d thought of it, she supplied some kind of unspecified illness for which treatment back then would have been more
primitive: a cancer or a blood disease. But, she realised, she had no way of knowing that was true.