A Week in Winter: A Novel (3 page)

She’d learned that it didn’t do to make a little joke about such criticism. ‘What’s this heresy?’ she’d asked once, laughingly. ‘Come now! Can it be true? Hilda wasn’t perfect, after all?’ It had been mild enough but he’d descended at once into self-criticism and remorse, rehearsing a catalogue of Hilda’s attributes, singing her praises, mourning her passing. No, it didn’t do at all to hint, even light-heartedly, that she felt the least bit inadequate in the face of such perfection. Instead she’d done what she was good at; she’d made him laugh, made him feel young, sexy, strong. Responsibility, grief, anxiety would slide away from him and he’d respond in such a way that her own esteem would soar again and she’d feel needed,
desired, witty, vital. It hadn’t been easy, after all, to give up her own career, to become a diplomat’s wife and stepmother to his ungrateful, tiresome daughters.

Although, at the start, she had to admit that it had been only
too
easy. She’d been on her way home to England for leave following the retirement of the physicist for whom she’d worked for more than fifteen years. Part of her life was at an end. It was Christmas and the airport was closed by snow. Disgruntled passengers huddled together, complaining, whilst Hector … ‘hectored’, as Maudie had said to him afterwards. ‘You hectored the staff and bullied them into finding us accommodation.’

‘Perfectly reasonable,’ he’d said. ‘You didn’t refuse a nice warm bed, if I remember rightly.’

It was odd—odd and altogether delightful—how she and Hector had so quickly drawn together. Laughing, sharing his hip flask, making light of the difficulties—the brief episode had been romantic, unreal, fantastic, yet afterwards they’d refused to be separated. Maudie had given up her career and Hector had risked the surprise and disapproval of friends and family so that he and Maudie could be married twelve months after the death of his wife.

‘It might be tricky,’ he’d admitted anxiously as they’d driven to meet Hilda’s mother and the girls. ‘It’ll come as a bit of a shock. Everyone adored Hilda …’

It was only then that she’d realised that their life together was to be a delicate balance, a seesaw of emotions. There was the Hector that she knew, lover and companion, and the Hector who was the responsible elder son, the adored father, the admired friend, the respected colleague.

‘I feel that nobody really looks upon me as Hector’s wife,’ Maudie had once said to Daphne. ‘It’s the oddest sensation, as if there’s something illicit about the whole thing; that Hilda was his official, legal wife and I’m regarded as his mistress.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Daphne had replied. ‘Much more fun.’

Daphne had been the one who had welcomed her, done her best to make her feel at home, eased her path: Daphne, who was Hilda’s oldest friend and Patricia’s godmother.

‘You might have a problem with Daphne,’ Hector had warned as they’d waited for their guests at the official cocktail party in Geneva. ‘She and Hilda were at school together. They were like sisters.’

He’d been clearly uneasy at that first meeting, awkward during introductions, quite without his usual urbane ease, but Daphne had taken
Maudie’s hands readily, smilingly, although her gaze had been very direct, searching.

‘How clever of you, Hector,’ she’d murmured. ‘How very clever.’ And she’d leaned forward to kiss Maudie’s cheek.

Even now, more than thirty years later, Maudie could remember the warmth she’d felt at Daphne’s brief embrace. There had been a genuine liking, discernible even in such an artificial setting; a warmth that had thawed Maudie’s wariness.

‘I like Daphne,’ she’d said later, over their nightcap, and Hector had taken a deep breath, stretching as he stood before the fire, clearly relieved.

‘It all went off very well,’ he’d admitted. ‘Very well indeed.’

Daphne had become her closest friend, her ally in the ongoing battle with Selina, her defender against the whispers of Hilda’s supporters.

‘After all,’ Maudie had said, enraged by a snub, ‘it’s not as if Hector divorced the blasted woman, abandoned her for me. He was a widower, for God’s sake!’

‘Oh, my dear.’ Daphne had looked rueful. ‘Can’t you see the threat you are to us old wifies? Hector’s flouted the unwritten rules which govern our small bit of society. He has found himself a younger, attractive woman who can’t cook, doesn’t want children, can’t tell the difference between His Excellency and the gardener and
he doesn’t give a damn.
He’s clearly enjoying himself enormously. He looks ten years younger and he’s making us question all our entrenched beliefs.’

‘But why?’ Maudie had asked. ‘Why can’t people just leave us alone?’

‘Research laboratories must be very unusual places.’ Daphne had shaken her head. ‘Are you only just learning that if someone steps aside from the herd he is likely to be torn to pieces? We’re all so insecure, you see. If you behave differently from me, I either have to question my own beliefs and habits or prove that you are wrong. Misguided, stupid, ill-bred, it doesn’t really matter how I label you so long as I can continue to feel complacent and safe. You have come amongst us and upset the apple cart. But you must be patient with us, Maudie. Middle-aged wives are very vulnerable people, you know. And middle-aged men are very susceptible.’

‘I don’t want to be a threat to anyone,’ Maudie had cried. ‘I just want to be left alone. I don’t criticise any of
you.
I don’t care what you do or how you do it.’

‘That’s the problem,’ Daphne had sighed. ‘You’re so confident, so sure,
so indifferent. You’ll find that some people will simply not be able to cope with it.’

‘You make it sound as if my life is one big laugh,’ Maudie had said crossly. ‘I promise you it isn’t. Being a second wife and a stepmother can be hell. I’m not nearly as confident as you imagine.’

‘Ah, but you’re not admitting it. You’re not confiding in all those wives who would love to advise …’

‘And gloat, privately together, afterwards.’

‘Well, there you have it. So why do you admit it to me?’

‘Because you’re different,’ Maudie had said, after a moment or two. ‘I trust you.’ And Daphne had laughed then, laughed until Maudie had felt almost uneasy.

‘I know it’s odd that I should trust you,’ she’d said almost defensively, ‘you being Hilda’s closest friend and all that. But I do. So now
you
can go and gloat privately.’

‘No, I shan’t do that. But I agree that it’s odd. I loved Hilda, I really did. We started at boarding school together, you know, and I spent a great many holidays with her family whilst mine were abroad, and we had a lot of fun. But she was always a serious girl, rather prim and proper, and as she grew older this developed into a kind of complacency which, if I’m honest, could be very irritating. There, how’s that for disloyalty?’

‘Not a bad effort for a beginner,’ Maudie had answered, grinning, ‘but I’m sure you could do better if you were to try harder.’

Daphne had hesitated—and then laughed. ‘You are a wicked girl,’ she said. ‘Hector’s a lucky man. He’s clearly a very happy one.’

Had he been happy? Maudie took her jacket from the peg inside the door and rummaged in her bag for the car keys. What about those endless rows over Selina? Those accusations he’d hurled at her: that she was unsympathetic, cold, selfish? What about those times that he’d gone alone to see his daughter and her children because Selina complained that Maudie was so critical, so unaffectionate that the boys were frightened of her? What about the pain when she realised that Hector was beginning to take Selina’s word against her own?

‘Over,’ Maudie said loudly, as she stepped outside and slammed the door. ‘Over, over,
over!
’

So why, asked the insistent small voice inside her head,
why
are you still so angry?

‘Shut up,’ said Maudie. ‘I will not do this. I am going to enjoy myself Go away and leave me alone.’

She opened the door of the large shed which housed the car, drove slowly down the long moss-covered drive and headed westwards, towards Bodmin Moor.

The farmhouse stood in a small hollow beside the narrow lane. At the end of the garden, by the dry-stone wall, two granite pillars—the moor gate—leaned either side of the cattle grid, beyond which the lane climbed steeply to the open moor. Maudie parked the car by the gate to the yard and climbed out. A pick-up stood in the shelter of the open-fronted barn and a bonfire smoked sulkily. It was a soft grey day, the distant farmland veiled in mist, and a brooding quiet lay over the countryside. The place looked deserted, the house closed up, empty. In the stand of trees to the west, across the lane, a party of rooks rose suddenly, noisily, into the damp air, and the faint clopping of hoofs penetrated the silence.

Maudie looked with approval at the sturdy cob which now appeared round the bend in the lane. Its rider raised his crop to his hat and jogged onwards, bending to unfasten the small gate beside the cattle grid. They passed through, the cob waiting quietly whilst the gate was shut, and began to climb the moorland road. Presently they were out of sight and Maudie turned her attention once more to the house. In this land of granite and slate the cream-washed walls struck a warm note. The roof was Delabole slate, the front door solid oak, and the old farmhouse had an air of permanency and safety; a place of refuge in an inhospitable environment.

On a hot summer’s day, with the tall escallonia hedge in full flower and the larks tossing high above, it was an idyllic place to be but in winter, with the storms lashing the uplands and the wind screaming from the west, it was harsh and bleak. Left empty, the farmhouse would become damp,
icy-cold and uninhabitable. It needed to be lived in, kept dry and warm, used as a home, not bought for a holiday retreat.

‘Mummy adored Moorgate,’ Selina had been fond of repeating. ‘Her family owned it when she was a little girl and she used to stay with the farmer and his wife. Then, when they retired, we kept it as a holiday home for years. We went there every summer, Mummy, me and Patricia. Daddy joined us when he could. We must never get rid of Moorgate, there are so many memories.’

Even after the sale of the London house Selina kept a watching brief from a distance.

‘Pure dog-in-the-manger,’ Maudie had observed crossly to Daphne, after one of these sessions down memory lane with her stepdaughter. ‘She hasn’t been there for years. Sentimental hogwash. I notice there was no problem when it came to selling the house in Arlington Road. Yet she spent much more time there with Hilda than down at Moorgate.’

‘I suppose that childhood summers are always invested with a kind of glamour,’ Daphne had answered thoughtfully. ‘You know the kind of thing I mean? The sun was always shining, wasn’t it? The sea was warm and adventure was always round the corner.’

‘Thank you, Enid Blyton,’ Maudie had said acidly. ‘Shall we have a chorus of “Jesus wants me for a sunbeam” before you go?’

Nevertheless, Maudie had not yet told Selina that Moorgate was about to be put up for sale. Now, as she wandered into the yard and stood looking about her, she felt rather sad that the old farmhouse should pass out of the family. Posy loved it too, and for Posy’s sake she wished she could keep it. Yet, even for Posy, it would be crazy to hold on to a property which none of them could enjoy. If she kept Moorgate it must be let—so what was the point? Better to sell and be able to help Posy financially later on.

Rob Abbot came striding round the corner of the house and she gave a gasp of surprise. She could see that she’d startled him too. He frowned a little—and then came on towards her, eyebrows raised, a faint smile hovering on his lips.

‘Come to check up on me?’ he asked lightly.

Maudie grinned at him. ‘Thought I’d catch you slacking,’ she said. ‘Mr Cruikshank’s been in touch, wittering on about keys. I couldn’t get you on your mobile so I thought I’d drive down and see if we could sort this out.’

‘He’s been here,’ said Rob grimly. ‘Poking around, rattling door handles,
peering through windows. I told him that I can’t break down doors without your permission. You know, I’m sure I’ve never had those keys.’

‘It’s a mystery.’ Maudie shrugged. ‘I honestly can’t remember now what I did with them. If they weren’t on the big ring I gave you then I simply haven’t a clue. We’ll have to force the locks. As I remember, there’s a door from the kitchen which leads into a passage to the office. There was a small cloakroom, I think, and a kind of storeroom which had an outside door.’

‘Both doors are firmly locked,’ said Rob. ‘And the window has a blind or a curtain pulled across it. You can’t see in.’

‘How silly of us!’ exclaimed Maudie. ‘Perhaps we can just break the window and get in that way. Why didn’t we think of it before?’

Rob looked doubtful. ‘It’s not that sort of window. I had thought of it, actually, but it’s too small to climb through. Anyway, we’ll have a look at it now you’re here.’ He hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t leave the car in the lane. It’s very narrow there and a tractor will probably be along in a minute. Pull her into the yard.’

He opened the gate for her and went away to put the kettle on for some tea. Maudie backed carefully through the gateway and parked beside the pick-up, and by the time she arrived in the kitchen the kettle was boiling and Rob was putting tea bags into mugs. She paused inside the door, looking around. The kitchen faced northwest, stretching almost the whole width of the house, and looked out across the moor, beyond distant farmland to the sea. Empty, except for some built-in cupboards, the sink unit and the Esse range, it looked enormous, cavernous.

‘It needs really big, old-fashioned farm furniture,’ Maudie said, accepting her mug. ‘Huge dressers and a big refectory table. The odd thing is that it doesn’t feel as cold as I’d expected. There’s a warm atmosphere,’ she sniffed at the air, ‘and what’s that smell … Bacon?’ She shook her head. ‘I’m imagining things.’

Rob was looking at her oddly. ‘It’s funny you should say that. I’ve had the same impression once or twice. I’m on my own here now, tidying up, and the lads have moved on to the next job, but I sometimes get the feeling that I’m not alone.’ He chuckled, almost embarrassed. ‘No stories of ghosts or hauntings, are there?’