A Week in Winter: A Novel (17 page)

‘I don’t
want
to take sides,’ cried Posy, dragging back her hair, ‘but it’s not that simple. I can understand that Mum’s asked for it, in a way, but I can’t just say, “Oh, great, Dad. Cool. I think it’s fab.” I know what you’re saying sounds right but I can’t just go along with it.’

‘I’m not suggesting that it’s simple or that you go along with it. I’m simply asking that you don’t condemn and reject him out of hand. You
might say that by not condemning it you are, in fact, tacitly approving it, but that is very black and white. There are so many shades of grey. Try to detach yourself emotionally. Try to see that it needn’t be your problem, that it needn’t affect you. Remain affectionate and friendly to them both.’

Posy shook her head. ‘It’s impossible,’ she said wretchedly. ‘It’s this feeling that I don’t know Dad any more. I can understand about the invisible bit. He was just there, in the background. But he made me feel safe and now I can’t feel that any longer. I can’t just pretend nothing has happened, Maudie. I can’t!’

‘Of course not,’ agreed Maudie. ‘That would be too much to ask after such a shock. I was just suggesting that you might try to think about your father less harshly. Sorry, Posy. I shouldn’t interfere. Talking about things isn’t always helpful. I just suddenly remembered when I first met Patrick. Selina was about your age and your grandfather was concerned that Patrick might not be tough enough to look after her.’

‘What was he like when he was young?’ Posy was interested, despite her own unhappiness.

‘He was a nice-looking young man with very good manners. We all liked him. He overcame your grandfather’s anxieties by sheer will and determination. You see, he felt that he was rescuing your mother from her wicked stepmother and her unfeeling father and he was absolutely determined that he would win her. That’s what I meant about him being chivalrous. Patrick has that streak in him and this young woman has probably given him a cause to fight for again. Perhaps it is to do with her crippled child, or he might have found her some work or accommodation, and she’s been grateful. Gratitude can be so dangerous if the recipient is a bit lonely.’

‘You make him sound really sad,’ said Posy irritably. ‘I don’t want to think about him like that.’

‘That’s because you don’t want to think about him as a person in his own right. You want to think about him as some nice, solid, dependable shadowy figure who is always there when you need him but can be put on hold when you don’t. That’s very nice for you but where does it leave Patrick?’

‘He’s my
father,
’ cried Posy. ‘That’s what being a parent is all about. I’d want to be there for
my
children.’

‘Of course you would,’ said Maudie remorsefully. ‘That’s always been my problem, you see. I’ve never been a parent so I see it from the other
side. It seems to me that being a parent can preclude you from being anything else—which is a bit unfortunate. Or perhaps it’s simply that, not being a parent, I can’t fully enter into that particular obsession which often goes with it. Either way I shouldn’t have interfered. Shall I make a pot of tea? And perhaps a piece of Christmas cake?’

In the kitchen she stood watching the kettle, cursing quietly to herself. It was too much to expect the child to be able to take such a detached view: too much and probably quite wrong. Maudie smiled wryly. After all, disliking Selina as she did, it was hardly likely that her own point of view would be totally unbiased and she’d had no business to attempt to exonerate Patrick. The kettle boiled and she began to make tea.

Staring at the fire, Posy was brooding. It was odd to imagine her mother feeling about Maudie as she, Posy, was now thinking about Mary; odd and unsettling. Upsetting, too, to believe that her father had needed to look outside the family circle for affection. The tape finished playing and clicked into silence; Polonius yawned, stretched mightily and sat up. When Maudie came in with the tray Posy was putting logs on the fire, teasing Polonius with his new toy. She smiled rather shyly at Maudie and hurried to clear a space on the table for the tray. As she put some books away, the envelope from the Scotch House was dislodged from between the pages and the woollen squares drifted to the floor. Posy bent to gather them up.

‘Aha,’ she said, attempting her usual manner. ‘Goodies from the Scotch House, I see. Are you ordering a new skirt?’

‘I’m thinking of it,’ answered Maudie cheerfully, grateful for a complete change of subject, remembering that it must be at least six weeks since the samples had arrived, along with Posy’s card begging her to give Polonius a home, and the letter from Ned Cruikshank about Moorgate. ‘Do you know I’d quite forgotten about them. They came ages ago. Let’s have a look at them and you can give me some advice.’

Passing through the hall of the narrow terraced Georgian house in Jericho, Melissa bent to pick up the envelopes which lay scattered on the doormat. She wore an ankle-length bouclé wool cardigan, over narrow jeans and a long tunic, and her feet were tucked into soft leather bootees. The effect was medieval, an image accentuated by the short, curly, fox-red hair, bound back from her thin, pointed face with a plaited silk scarf. She passed down the hall into the kitchen where her brother and his small son, Luke, were eating breakfast.

‘Bank statement,’ she said, flourishing the letters in front of his eyes. ‘House details. And someone telling you that you’ve won six hundred thousand pounds.’

Mike Clayton continued to spoon the soggy, milky mess into Luke’s mouth, clearly unmoved by the treats in store for him, and Melissa sat down at the end of the table, poured herself some orange juice from the jug and twiddled her fingers at her nephew. He beamed gummily at her, crowing loudly, so that the cereal ran down his chin. Patiently Mike spooned it back into Luke’s mouth and took a quick swallow from his own mug of black coffee.

‘You might as well open it,’ he said indifferently. ‘You can tell me how much more I have to order before I can really win anything and then only if I send back the winning number. I refuse to buy anything I don’t want and if it says “If not ordering see the rules on the back of the page” you
can bin it. I’m convinced that they don’t bother to look at anything that isn’t in the official envelope.’

‘I fear that you’re right.’ Melissa was busy opening the bulky communication with the butter knife. ‘Ah, here we have it. “Your name was among more than one million names scanned and identified by our IBM computer,” blah, blah, blah. Oh, this is it. “If you are not ordering this time do not use the pre-paid envelope and see the rules on the back of the official letter.” ’

‘Chuck it,’ advised Mike. ‘I refuse to be blackmailed.’ He held a feeder to Luke’s mouth, tilting it gently as Luke gulped back his milk. ‘I have a feeling that we’re not the get-rich-quick kind.’

‘You’re not doing too badly,’ said Melissa, pushing the sheets of offers and bargains back into the envelope. ‘The book’s doing well and you’ve got some good ideas for the new one. Just think yourself lucky that you managed the transition from playwright to novelist so painlessly.’

There was an uneasy silence, broken only by the sound of Luke’s gulping. Melissa reached for the house details, aware of her tactlessness, whilst Mike, frowning thoughtfully, watched Luke. He’d met Luke’s mother during the staging of his second play and, passionately in love with her, had re-written her part with loving, brilliant fervour. She’d received such rave notices once it moved to the West End that hundreds of offers for work had rolled in and, eventually, even Hollywood had taken an interest in her. It continued to be a bitter reminder to Mike that, had he been a little less clever, a little less besotted, his wife might still be here with him, looking after her child, instead of abandoning them both for a glittering career in America. He’d attempted a novel whilst looking after Luke, when Camilla had first begun filming in the States, and was delighted and surprised by its reception from one of the major publishing houses. At the same time that he’d learned that Camilla would not be coming back, he’d been offered a two-book contract and was relieved that the very respectable advance enabled him to concentrate on his second novel. He was glad to be done with the stage, and the permanent reminders of Camilla, but he had by no means recovered from his wife’s defection.

Mike wiped the milky bubbles from Luke’s chin and glanced at his sister. She was absorbed with whatever it was she was reading and when she looked up at him her face wore a rapt expression.

‘Oh, Mike,’ she said. ‘This house. It sounds simply perfect. We must
buy it. You want to be in the country so as to be able to write in peace and quiet, don’t you? Well, this is it. Just look at the photographs.’

He reached for them, studying the picture of the old farmhouse, sturdy and strong; looking at the pictures of the sitting room and study with their beamed ceilings and huge, open fireplaces.

‘But it’s on the edge of Bodmin Moor,’ he said, surprised, reading the details. ‘Why on earth have they sent me something so far afield?’

‘They’ve got a branch in Truro,’ said Melissa. ‘And what’s wrong with Cornwall? The country is the country.’

‘Well, not quite.’ Mike began to read the rest of the details. ‘It’s a hell of a long way from London for a start.’

‘Oh, London.’ Melissa made a face. ‘Does that matter so much any more? Writing novels isn’t quite the same as writing plays, is it? You can write novels anywhere. And think how wonderful for Luke.’

He looked at her, hating to pour cold water on her excitement, longing to be able to give her some happiness.

‘Perhaps we’ll go down and look at it,’ he said cautiously. ‘A bit later on in the spring. Make a little holiday of it …’

Melissa had taken the details from him and was studying the photograph again; her face was dreamy and her green eyes were cloudy with visions.

‘Isn’t it odd?’ she said. ‘I feel as if I know this place. Isn’t that strange? Oh, Mike, I feel I want to see it. I’ve been thinking of going away for a little while, haven’t I? Just a few days or, perhaps, a week. I think I’ll go to Cornwall.’

‘Look,’ he said anxiously. ‘It’s a long way to drive, Lissy. Don’t be silly about this. We’ll all go if you really want to.’

‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘No, Mike, honestly. It would be crazy to cart Luke down to Cornwall in February, I quite see that. Only … only I just feel I must do this. Please.’

He looked away from her, longing to agree, racked with worry.

‘I’m OK at the moment,’ she said gently. ‘Robin said it could be six months, didn’t he? Well then. A week or two out of six months. It would be such heaven, Mike.’

He swallowed hard, not wanting to be selfish, sensing her need. Well, it was her life, what was left of it, and they couldn’t spend every minute of it together.

‘If you’re sensible,’ he said. ‘And don’t overdo things.’

‘I won’t,’ she said joyfully. ‘How wonderful to have something to plan. A point for going on a jolly. We’ll find somewhere for me to stay and I’ll go and look at…’ she peered down at the particulars ‘ … at Moorgate. What a fantastic name. The gate to the moor.’ She smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry, Mike. I’ll be very good. I promise.’

Walking in the woods with Polonius, Maudie was thinking about Daphne. Ever since Christmas life had seemed rather dull and she found herself possessed by a poignant longing for the past. No matter how firmly she told herself that this was foolish, the feeling persisted. She wondered if it were the decision to sell Moorgate which had triggered these unsettled sensations: coming to terms with Hector’s death; brooding over their life together, remembering the resentments and irritations caused by Selina’s rejection. More recently there was the news of Patrick’s infidelity and Posy’s reaction to it. It was irrational to feel sympathy for Posy when, in the past, she’d expected Selina to cope bravely and positively with a similar situation.

‘Perhaps I was too hard on her,’ she murmured, pausing to watch a tiny goldcrest flitting restlessly amongst the branches of a small conifer, listening to his high-pitched, squeaky twittering song as he clung upside down, searching for insects. The sound of the roaring tumbling water was a disturbing, almost menacing presence, echoing through the quiet, windless woods. After a week of heavy rain the river raced between its banks, setting the overhanging branches to a restless dancing sway, drowning the reeds, swirling into crevices and tugging at strong, woody roots. A small party of mallards had taken refuge in a sandy pool, protected from the rushing, foaming torrent by a great tree trunk which had stuck fast, forming a calm oasis. A few of the ducks paddled, quacking foolishly, dabbling cheerfully, whilst others, perched on the log itself, roosted quietly, beaks tucked beneath folded wings. The sun, a pale lemon disc, leaked into a grey canopy of unbroken cloud, high above the bare, twiggy branches of the great trees which reached towards it.

Polonius appeared, crashing out of the undergrowth in pursuit of a squirrel, his high, ecstatic barks splintering the silence, dead leaves and earth churning beneath his paws. The squirrel raced for safety, darting up the smooth grey bole of a towering beech, turning to chatter insults at the
animal now far below him. Polonius hurled himself impotently skywards whilst a woodpigeon, disturbed by the unexpected advent of the squirrel, clappered noisily away.

‘Forget it,’ advised Maudie. ‘We all have our limitations and you might as well face facts. You’ll never be able to fly. Come on.’

Polonius grumbled discontentedly but followed her away from the tree and presently picked up another scent. Maudie strolled after him, her hands thrust into the pockets of her warm padded jacket, her thoughts with Daphne. They’d spoken at Christmas, as usual, but, once Posy had gone, Maudie had telephoned Daphne again to tell her about Patrick.

‘I simply cannot believe it,’ Daphne had said firmly. ‘Not Patrick. Selina will simply marmalise him.’

Maudie had laughed, really laughed, for the first time in several days.

‘I said more or less the same thing,’ she’d said, ‘only out loud to Posy.’