The Winter Folly (3 page)

I wonder what happened to her
, Delilah thought. She knew that John’s mother had died when he was a boy, but he’d never told her more than that. Sometimes, when she looked at
the photograph that showed John as a small child and his mother in a coat and big sunglasses clasping his hand tightly, she felt the urge to know what the woman was thinking as she gazed
impassively into the camera, shielded by her glasses. But there was no way of knowing now.

The coat and dress were on the small side, as vintage garments often were, but Delilah had a feeling that they might fit her. On impulse, she jumped up, kicked off her Converse and quickly shed
her jumper and jeans, then unzipped the dress’s under-arm fastening and, pushing her arms into the cool silk interior, began to snake her way into it.

She feared breaking the seams but she managed to wiggle herself until her head and arms were free and she could slide the dress down over her hips. When she’d pulled the zip up, the dress
was snug but it did fit, just. She wished she could see it but there was no mirror up in the attic. As she’d suspected, the dress fell just to the knee and she imagined what kind of shoes
might be worn with it. Kitten-heeled winkle-pickers, perhaps. No, that didn’t feel right. This dress came from an era of square heels and toes, stacked heels . . . Boots, perhaps? Long black
boots that hugged the calves and came up the knee. Laced. Maybe . . . Delilah picked up the coat and felt the weight. Good quality. She slid her arms into it. The sleeves were tight but otherwise
it fitted well, falling to the exact length of the dress. Lovely . . . It was old but it still felt stylish, almost fresh. She spun round. Perhaps she could wear this to something, a lunch or a
trip to town.

She put her hands into the pockets and at once felt something under the fingers of her right hand. She grasped it and pulled it out. It was the remains of a flower, something that once had been
pale – white or pink – though it was now crisp and brown. As she touched it, it crumbled under her fingers, the green-grey stalk falling apart, dropping to the ground and disappearing
between a gap in the boards.

As she stared at the dusty remnants, a chill coursed through her body and a strong sense of sadness washed over her. She brushed the flower from her hands as fast as she could, gripped suddenly
by a black sensation that seemed to engulf her. She wanted to get the clothes off as fast she could. The idea of wearing them to anything at all seemed absurd. They were freighted with something
unpleasant, chilling, something that wanted to drag her down into a dark and fearful place. She struggled out of the coat, letting it drop to the floor despite the thick dust there, and then
wrestled for a few moments to get the dress up and over her head, hearing her breath coming in short, almost panicked bursts as she grew increasingly desperate to be free of it. Then it slid up and
off, releasing her.

She stared at the abandoned garments, astonished at the depth of feeling that had just possessed her. Shivering in the cool attic air, she realised she was wearing just her underwear. The
clothes lay in a black puddle on the floor, the arms of the coat splayed out as though silently requesting an embrace.

‘Delilah!’ The voice from the bottom of the attic staircase pierced the air.

She jumped violently, then shivered. John. It was all right. ‘Up here!’ she called back, her voice surprisingly normal.

‘Lunch is ready.’

‘I’ll be right there!’ She shivered again, and reached for her clothes. When she was dressed, she picked up the coat and dress, folded them hastily and put them back into the
trunk. She slotted the drawers back into place and closed the lid.

I’ll come and look at the other things later
, she promised herself, though she felt uncertain if she would want to come back alone. Shaking off the last remnant of the nasty black
feeling, she headed for the stairs and the normality of lunch with John in the round dining room.

1965

Alexandra moved through the noisy crowded room like someone who’d walked unexpectedly into a gathering of strangers and was bewildered by what was going on and why all
these people were here. She caught a glimpse of herself in a gilt-framed mirror over the fireplace and saw a white face and large, startled-looking blue eyes. She was perfectly turned out, as she
was supposed to be, her dark hair smooth and shiny, her face made up, her gown a chiffon confection of the palest blue. But she looked lost.

I’m meant to be enjoying myself
, she thought,
but it feels like all this is happening to someone else. Do I dare slip away, go upstairs and be alone for a while? Would anyone
miss me?

The idea was tempting, but her father would be furious if he realised she was gone and she couldn’t risk spoiling the unusually sunny mood he’d been in lately. She was basking in his
unaccustomed approval and the last thing she wanted was to lose it again. She looked over at Laurence, who was sipping champagne and laughing loudly at someone’s joke. Would he notice if she
quietly disappeared?

Just then a white-gloved hand landed on her arm, startling her. She looked at it and then up at the owner. It was Mrs Freeman, smiling at her, her teeth brownish yellow behind her thick
post-box-red lipstick. She always looked rather masculine, her heavy dark brows and large square chin at odds with her feminine dress and sparkling jewels.

‘I haven’t offered my congratulations,’ Mrs Freeman said. ‘Although am I supposed to congratulate the bride-to-be? I believe it’s the man who is congratulated, and
the lady is commended on her choice. In which case, well done, my dear. You’ve chosen well.’

Alexandra smiled weakly. ‘Thank you.’

‘The ring – may I see it? Oh, what a beauty. A fine stone considering it’s so small. Family jewel, is it? These charming little pieces often are.’

Alexandra nodded. The two old diamonds in their golden claws glittered ferociously in the light from the chandelier. Between them, the antique ruby looked deep and still as a pool of claret. It
still felt odd and heavy on her finger.

‘And the wedding?’ asked Mrs Freeman. ‘When is it to be?’

‘June,’ said Alexandra, feeling as though she were talking in a dream. Would June ever come? She half hoped not. It was only three months away but it seemed impossibly distant.
Perhaps something would happen before then to transform her life and take away the strange, unimaginable future she had agreed to. When she tried to conjure images of what her wedding day might be
like, she found she could picture only a misty scene, with people flickering in and out of focus. Laurence was in it, but he kept his back, strong and square in a morning coat, turned on her and
when she tried to make him face her, he became a blank.

‘Wonderful.’ Mrs Freeman smiled again, clasping Alexandra’s hands between her own for a moment, the heavy cotton gloves making it feel as though her hands were swaddled in
bandages. ‘You’ve blossomed, my dear. It must be happiness. You were such a mousy little thing and now look at you. A touch of lipstick and powder, a decent dress, and you’ve
turned out rather pretty.’ She released Alexandra’s hands. ‘And have the Stirlings come to celebrate with us?’ Mrs Freeman looked about, her heavy eyebrows raised as she
scanned the room.

Alexandra felt herself colouring. ‘No . . . no. My father . . . No,’ she finished lamely. Once the Stirlings had been friends of theirs; Nicky Stirling and his cousins had been her
childhood playmates, but now she was forbidden to see them and they had been shut out of her father’s life. The fact of their absence was glaring.

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Mrs Freeman, who seemed to remember the need for discretion and added awkwardly, ‘Well, never mind. I mustn’t keep you from your fiancé.
He’s very handsome, isn’t he?’

They both looked to where Laurence was standing in a small circle of men, smiling broadly, laughing and talking. He did look handsome at that particular moment: his blond hair was cut short in
the severe military style and it suited his rather small head and features, and his blue eyes were bright with animation. His obvious good humour made him look personable.

‘Yes,’ she replied mechanically. ‘I’m very lucky.’

‘Go on then, dear,’ urged Mrs Freeman. ‘We want to see you together, you know.’

Alexandra obeyed, making her way through the throng, nodding at friends and acquaintances. There was her father, in deep conversation with Laurence’s father. She wondered if he was talking
about her, and tried to imagine him saying how proud he was of her, but even now that he seemed happy with her at last, she couldn’t make it ring true. He’d always been a distant father
but after her mother died and it was just the two of them, he had become colder and more remote than ever. She’d been unable to do anything right; even her presence seemed to irritate him.
All her life she’d been trying to please him but he’d never seemed satisfied, until now.

The tantalising prize of winning his approval had been dangled in front of her the day he had called her into his study to tell her that he had as good as arranged a husband for her.

‘Julian Sykes and I have been talking and we both agree that his boy Laurence could make a very good match for you. He has excellent prospects in the Blues. It’s a good regiment and
he’s keen to find a wife. All successful officers need a good wife to support them. I’d like you to meet him, and if you both get on, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t turn
out very well for all of us.’ Her father had given her a cold smile, one of the ones that told her the conversation was at an end, that no opposition would be brooked. He always demanded
complete obedience and questions were not tolerated. No matter how often she resolved to stand up to him, Alexandra couldn’t help being cowed by his tremendous strength of will and his
absolute certainty in his own opinions. She had distant memories of towering rages directed at her mother and she’d do anything to avoid bringing down that awful anger on her own head. The
truth was, she wanted desperately to win his love. What harm could it do to meet this man, if that was what her father wished? She could always say no to anything more if she wanted to.

So she let it happen. One day there was tea, with Laurence Sykes sitting awkwardly opposite her and asking polite questions, before the two of them were told to walk around the garden together
for half an hour. Another two or three visits just like the first followed, and then there was a trip to London where the two young people, accompanied by Mr and Mrs Sykes and Alexandra’s
father, dined out in a horrible, formal restaurant with fish-eyed waiters and clinking silver, and then went on to a dance club. Girls in stiff satin dresses with long gloves waltzed awkwardly with
young men in tail coats and brilliantined hair. Alexandra knew it was supposed to be fun, a taste of the sophisticated life that awaited her if she married, but it had felt like an enforced jollity
that was hollow at its heart.

Laurence was perfectly pleasant and seemed kind enough, but she felt nothing more than friendship for him. He was nice looking, if rather small for a soldier, with his fair hair in that short
military haircut, and eyes of washed-out pale blue, like a morning sky after a rain storm. He had regular, almost delicately small features and straight teeth with particularly sharp canines that
emerged high in the gum and gave him a rather wolfish look when he smiled. His slim bony hands always had a cigarette clenched in the fingers, and he jiggled his left knee unconsciously when he
smoked. He talked to her of everyday things and appeared interested in her uneventful life. She found that once she had a willing listener, she could chatter on for ages about nothing much and
rather enjoy the feeling of amiable companionship. If marriage was like that, perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. A couple of times she’d caught him staring at her in a peculiar way, and had
smiled at him shyly, almost hopefully, wondering if he might be able to awaken something in her like girls felt in books and poems for men they loved, but he’d quickly glanced away.

Perhaps she was asking too much to feel those things, whatever they were. It might even be better if she didn’t. Sometimes she wondered whether there was something wrong with her. Nobody
else seemed to struggle with suppressing their emotions the way she did. She was quick to tears or laughter, prone to wanting to dance for joy or slump down with misery, and she lived every word of
the books she read. Her aunt told her she wore her heart on her sleeve, which she supposed meant the same thing. She sensed that life might be a good deal easier if she could learn to live it
without feeling anything at all.

Her father’s enthusiasm for the match grew. It was revealed in the way Mrs Richards, the seamstress, came to the house to fit dresses, skirts and coats that her father had ordered for her.
He arranged for a small amount of pin money to be paid into her post office account ‘for you to have a little fun with, for lipsticks and so forth’, and he began to talk to her over his
newspaper at breakfast, making comments on world affairs that he obviously hoped she would absorb. She felt that she had let things go too far to pull back now, and that the inevitable was
approaching.

It’s for the best
, she told herself stoutly.
It’s what he wants for me. Besides, I’ve got virtually nothing to do but keep house. Am I going to sit in the cold
breakfast room, morning after morning, pouring coffee for Father, forever?

Perhaps marriage, whatever it meant, would be a better fate than that.

When Laurence appeared unexpectedly one afternoon, she knew that the moment had arrived. Her stomach lurched with something that she supposed must be excitement when she was
called down to the drawing room to find him there, white faced and trembling, but with bravado in his eyes as though he was determined to prove himself.

The words, sounding well-worn even though she had never heard them before, came out as she stood there, feeling shabby and schoolgirlish in her tartan skirt and old green jumper. They fell in
and out of her consciousness like a wireless with the volume turned high and then low and back again. ‘The respect and admiration I have for you . . . over recent months . . . ripened to
something deeper . . . If you would do me the honour . . . the happiest man in the world . . . become my wife.’