A Week in Winter: A Novel (43 page)

As he opened the gate and put the car away, Mike was remembering the astonishing scene in Oxford last weekend. He’d fetched Posy from the station and taken her home, with Luke belted into his seat behind them. Her shyness had quickly dissolved into her natural friendliness but a vestigial awareness remained. He’d felt it too. It meant that they hadn’t quite been at ease. An accidental touch, a glance that lingered into a longer look, a casual phrase—all these things found a nervous, quivering response which meant that the earlier intimacy had to be re-established. He’d known it would be more difficult here, in Oxford, than on neutral ground in London but he had an unexpected ally in his small son.

Luke was missing Melissa too, and, having already created a rapport with Posy in Cornwall, he’d greeted her with an enthusiasm which was both gratifying and a welcome diversion from their own immediate problem. Carrying Luke in from the car, Posy perching with him at the table while Mike had made tea, making themselves heard above Luke’s delighted roars, had made it impossible for them to remain self-conscious. When at last Luke had been persuaded to be separated from Posy to the extent of being put into his highchair, and she’d settled herself more comfortably, her attention had been riveted by a photograph standing on the shelf. She’d frowned, about to speak, then paused, and he’d glanced in the same direction, immediately understanding her caution.

‘That’s Melissa,’ he’d said at once, putting down the teapot, lifting the photograph and handing it to her. ‘Taken a few years ago, just after she’d graduated.’

Posy had taken it, still frowning. ‘This is so bizarre,’ she’d said slowly, ‘but I feel I know her. Or perhaps she reminds me of someone.’

‘People say we’re alike,’ he’d offered diffidently. ‘Could it simply be a family resemblance?’

‘I don’t know.’ She’d shaken her head. ‘It might be. I’ve felt the same with you once or twice. It’s like a kind of fleeting memory of something. I expect it will come back. She’s so beautiful.’

‘Yes,’ he said. He took the photograph, looking at the bright, laughing face, the thick bronze-coloured hair, remembering that happy, triumphant day. ‘She was … lovely.’

‘Oh, Mike.’ Posy had stood up, putting an arm about him sympathetically, and suddenly they’d been in each other’s arms, everything else forgotten. It was Luke who had brought them back to the present, hammering on his tray, shouting for his tea, and they’d broken apart, laughing rather breathlessly.

It was the next day, when the weekend was nearly over, that he’d talked to her about Rob, about being together, living at Moorgate—‘Oh, this is so amazing,’ Posy had cried, her eyes brilliant. ‘I can’t believe this can be happening!’—and had talked for hours about their feelings, their hopes.

‘I’m not easy to live with,’ he’d told her. ‘I get utterly absorbed with what I’m writing and you’ll probably feel neglected. The trouble is that
most people think that writers are only at work when they have a pen in their hands or they’re sitting at a word processor but it isn’t true. It goes on and on in their minds and they become withdrawn and preoccupied and touchy if they’re distracted. Moorgate is rather isolated and I don’t want you to be lonely.’

‘I shan’t be lonely,’ she’d assured him. ‘I like my own company and there will be Luke. Perhaps I’ll get involved with the local playgroup when he starts going. Things like that. I shan’t sit about watching the grass grow.’

‘No,’ he’d said, ‘no, I’m sure you won’t. But it’s all happened rather quickly. What will your parents say?’

She’d shrugged impatiently. ‘Who cares? It’s my life and I want to be with you. What’s the point of waiting?’

‘If you’re certain …’ He’d still sounded anxious and she’d grinned at him.

‘Trying to get rid of me before we’ve even started?’

‘Of course not. I just don’t want to be the cause of you missing out on anything. What will your grandmother say? She’s a daunting lady, if I’m a judge.’

‘Maudie? Maudie will want me to be happy. It’s Mum who’s the daunting one.’

‘Yes,’ he’d said uncomfortably. ‘So you keep saying. I’m not looking forward to meeting your mother.’

‘Neither am I,’ she’d agreed frankly. ‘But we can do it now that we’ve really made up our own minds. You have to be absolutely determined or she’ll undermine you. Look.’ Suddenly she’d become very serious. ‘We don’t want to waste time, do we? We know how precious it is and we know that you can’t take it for granted.’

It was as if Melissa had materialised beside them, encouraging them, and his eyes had filled with tears.

‘No,’ he’d mumbled. ‘You can’t take it for granted.’

Posy had held his hand tightly and, once he’d recovered, he’d begun to talk about his next visit to Moorgate.

‘I was wondering,’ he’d said, ‘about giving Rob a keepsake. Melissa didn’t want anything that might be a tie, if you know what I mean. Moorgate was something else but she didn’t want him surrounded by things which might prevent him from forming new relationships. She had no
idea, of course, that she’d made such an imprint on the house itself as far as he’s concerned. Anyway, she couldn’t think of anything that might not, ultimately, be a kind of reproach, if you see what I mean.’

‘I think so.’ Posy had looked thoughtful. ‘I can understand how she felt. She’d had that wonderful week with him knowing that she had to leave him and she would have hated him feeling a kind of on-going allegiance. Things that would have constantly reminded him and tied him to her memory.’

‘Exactly.’ He’d been grateful for her insight. ‘But I think that when we’ve … dealt with the ashes, he might suddenly feel bereft. Moorgate gone. Melissa gone. Perhaps I’m being fanciful. Anyway, I’ve framed this photograph, a recent one of her, which is how he knew her. What do you think?’

He’d taken the leather case out of the drawer and shown it to her. Her response had been electrifying.

‘Oh, my God!’ She’d clutched the case with one hand, the other pressed to her mouth. ‘I don’t believe it! I know her. I met her.’ She stared at him, her eyes almost wild with shock. ‘Oh, Mike. I met her.’

‘But where?’ He’d felt almost angry with the surprise of it. ‘Are you sure? Was it in London?’

‘No.’ Posy had stared down at the photograph and her eyes had filled with tears. ‘It was in Bovey.’

‘In
Bovey
?’

‘We had coffee in the Mill.’ She’d looked at him, her lips shaking. ‘We talked about the birds. She was so lovely. I remember thinking how elegant and confident she was and wishing that I was like her. I imagined that she was terribly successful and sought after. She said that she was on her way to look at a house in Cornwall and we talked …’

Posy had lapsed into silence, sitting quite still, hearing Melissa saying, ‘Perhaps you want five children and a husband that writes nice things about you when you’re sixty.’ This recollection, her remembrance of an odd feeling of kinship, suddenly brought home the reality of Melissa’s death; it had made the loss personal, and very real, and the tears had poured down her cheeks.

Mike had tried to comfort her, still trying to come to terms with this revelation.

‘We’ll go there together,’ Posy had said later, drying her tears. ‘I’ll show you. Oh, I simply can’t believe this …’

Now, with the photograph and Melissa’s ashes in his bag, Mike let himself into Moorgate, dreading the ordeal that lay ahead.

It was early evening, however, before either of them had the courage to take the small box and go out into the garden. After lunch, they’d gone for a walk across the moor, allowing the bleak majestic beauty to creep into their souls, preparing themselves. The exercise and the invigorating air had made them ready for an early supper although, after the first few mouthfuls, they’d suddenly lost their appetites. Each had struggled on, however, lest the other should be affected.

At length conversation had begun to lag; silences stretched longer and the atmosphere grew heavy with suspense.

‘Come on,’ said Mike gently, at last. ‘Shall we go into the garden, Rob, and … do this last thing?’

Rob nodded, pushing back his chair, his face grim, and Mike picked up the small casket from his bag and followed him outside. He was waiting on the lawn and Mike could see that the ground beneath the escallonia hedge had been freshly turned.

‘Where do you think?’ muttered Rob. ‘I thought that… it would be … safe there. But I don’t really know …’

Mike held the casket tightly, staring down at the dark, peaty earth. He had an impression of Melissa, standing behind him, shivering, clasping her ruana tightly about her; heard her voice in the wind.

‘No,’ he said desperately, with a kind of revulsion. ‘No. I can’t put her there. Not in the cold and wet. Not Melissa.’

Rob stared at him. ‘Let her go where she likes,’ he said suddenly. ‘Let her be free. That’s how she was, wasn’t she? Not tied down and constrained.’

On an impulse, Mike opened the lid, holding up the casket, letting the contents be taken by the wind which streamed, cold and cleansing, over the moor from the west. They stood together until the casket was quite empty and Rob took Mike’s arm.

‘What shall we do?’ he muttered. ‘We can’t just leave it like that.’ He
was shuddering with reaction and Mike took a deep breath, steadying himself. The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon, the garden was washed in the golden light of evening and, in the east, a star was twinkling. In his confused mind some lines from a prayer formed; the prayer which he and Melissa had said each evening at school, before bed. Slowly, haltingly he began to speak the lines.

Wrenchingly, Rob began to weep, almost doubling up, his body racked with sobs. Keeping control of his own reactions, Mike led him into the house and pushed him into a chair at the kitchen table. Without thinking he dragged a rug from his bag, Melissa’s rug, placing it round Rob’s shoulders.

‘There’s nothing left now,’ Rob said, raising his head to look pitifully at Mike. ‘Nothing at all. How shall I manage?’

Mike took the photograph from his bag and placed it wordlessly before him, tucking the rug more closely over his shaking shoulders, before going to push the kettle on to the hotplate. Rob stared down at Melissa’s face, his hand unconsciously smoothing the soft, comforting wool. Presently, as if growing aware of his unconscious action, he glanced at the rug. His face changed as a thousand memories possessed him and he began to cry in earnest, allowing, at last, the agonising weight of grief to dissolve in healing tears.

At the same hour, Posy was standing in the hall at Hyde Abbey Road talking to Selina.

‘I know it’s sudden,’ she was saying. ‘Of course it is. It’s a sudden sort of thing, isn’t it?’

‘But you’re talking about
marrying
this… Mike.’ Selina’s voice sounded strained. ‘That’s certainly sudden. I can imagine you falling in love with someone suddenly—I’m not quite stupid—but marrying them after … how long is it? And what about your own career?’

‘I’ll think about that later.’ In her anxiety Posy managed to sound cockily defiant. ‘After all, you were never terribly impressed by the thought of my having a career in the theatre, were you?’

‘That’s not the point.’ Selina wanted to burst into tears, to scream. She was tired, lonely, unhappy and she wanted to be made much of, to be cosseted and looked after. This was simply too much; she hadn’t the strength for it. ‘You’re only twenty-two, Posy, and did you say this man is divorced? With a child?’

‘I did say that.’ Posy was on the defensive. ‘So what? It’s not his fault that his wife became famous and chose a career instead of motherhood.’

‘Please, Posy.’ Selina, remembering long ago yoga classes, took a few deep, calming breaths. ‘Please can we discuss this sensibly? Must we do it on the telephone?’

Various sarcastic answers presented themselves but, seized by an unexpected fit of maturity, Posy rejected them.

‘I can’t get home in the middle of the week,’ she said, quite reasonably, ‘and you’ve got Aunt Daphne staying the weekend, haven’t you? Not much point me coming home while she’s there. We wouldn’t be able to talk properly. I just wanted you to know about me and Mike getting really serious. I’ll come home the following weekend if you like.’

‘Yes,’ said Selina, with a gasp of relief. ‘Yes, do that…’

‘And I’ll bring Mike to meet you.’

‘Bring Mike?’ cried Selina, alarmed. ‘But isn’t that rather premature? Can’t we talk about this first, Posy?’

‘We’ve already talked about it.’ She paused, steeling herself. ‘There’s something else, Mum.’

‘Oh God, you’re pregnant, aren’t you?’ said Selina flatly. ‘I might have guessed. That’s what all this urgency is about, isn’t it?’

‘No,’ shouted Posy crossly. ‘No, it bloody isn’t. I’m not pregnant. I just wanted to tell you that Mike’s buying Moorgate. The man who bought it doesn’t want it any more because … well, it’s a long story and I’ll explain when I see you. But…’ She laughed almost hysterically. ‘Isn’t it amazing, Mum? I’ll be living at Moorgate. You’ll be able to come and stay with us. Aren’t you pleased?’

‘Buying Moorgate?’ Selina sounded as if she’d been temporarily stunned by a blunt instrument. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘Mike’s buying Moorgate,’ explained Posy patiently. ‘He knows the
man who bought it from Maudie. He was engaged to Mike’s sister but … well, she died. It’s really sad. Rob doesn’t want to be there without her so Mike’s buying it. Oh, Mum, I’m just so happy. Can’t you be pleased for me?’

Selina sought for words; her brain reeled. For once the usual cutting remarks and cruel observations deserted her. She felt bone-tired, exhausted, beyond all rational thought.

‘Yes,’ she said faintly. ‘Yes, of course I’m pleased. We’ll talk later, next weekend. Bring Mike. I shall be pleased to see him if he’d like to come.’