The Winter Folly (9 page)

Delilah nodded. She got on well with Janey and was glad of her company. It stopped the house being so unbearably empty. Knowing that Janey and Erryl, her husband, were in the lodge down the
drive was comforting, and made her feel a little less stranded out here in the middle of the estate. Janey came in most days to manage the house, along with the help of cleaners, while Erryl took
care of the grounds and did odd jobs that didn’t need a specialist. No doubt in the old days relations between housekeeper and mistress would have been much more formal, but she and Janey had
an easy time together. At first, Janey had called her ‘Mrs Stirling’ but Delilah had coaxed her out of it, although she still preferred to say nothing rather than actually use
Delilah’s name. Erryl called her ‘ma’am’ and she didn’t seem able to do a thing about it. ‘I’m going to take Mungo for a walk in the woods.’

‘Just the day for it, it’ll be lovely up there. Are you taking some coffee in to Mr Stirling?’

‘Oh – er, yes. I’ll take it before I go out.’ She flushed slightly. She’d hoped Janey might do the honours today. John was in a bad mood because the VAT return was
due, and she preferred not to knock on the office door if she could help it.

They talked over domestic details while Delilah drank her coffee and opened her post, putting most of it aside to read more carefully later, then she got up to go, almost reluctant to leave the
pleasant normality of the kitchen.

‘Right,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’ll take some coffee to John and then get on my way.’

‘See you later – enjoy yourself.’

The estate office was down the hall, towards the front of the house. She knocked on the door and went in. John was staring at the computer, one hand on the mouse, frowning with
concentration.

‘Coffee break,’ she announced.

He looked up, startled. ‘Hello. Thanks for that. I could do with a breather.’ He sat back in his chair and sighed.

‘You started early this morning,’ she said, putting the mug down on the desk. The room was lined with shelves full of files, and John’s desk was scattered with papers of all
kinds. ‘How is the VAT going?’

He made a face. ‘Bloody awful. I don’t know what I pay the accountant for. I do everything but fill in the boxes.’

Delilah gestured to a box of papers and receipts. ‘Isn’t he going to work his way through that?’

‘Yes, good point. I can do without that fresh hell. What are you up to?’

‘I’m going to take Mungo for a walk, then answer letters.’

He fixed her with an enquiring look. ‘Any news?’

She remembered how his eyes used to soften from their usual granite grey to a cloudier colour when he looked at her. These days he seemed to have lost that tenderness towards her, and she longed
to see it again. She smiled and said, ‘Nothing yet.’

An expression of hope crossed his face. ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it? How late are you?’

‘It’s two days now.’

‘Are you going to do a test?’

‘Maybe not today. If there’s still nothing by Saturday, I’ll do one.’ She’d learned not to do the tests too early: a negative result somehow still held the
possibility of hope. It was only when she felt the familiar drag in her belly and found that her period had started that she accepted that, once again, she was not pregnant.

‘Okay. Two days is good, isn’t it? That’s longer than last time.’

She observed the anxious look on his face and wondered when their lives had become so all absorbed by this desire to have a child. It hadn’t seemed so desperately important at first, when
she’d been busy closing down her London life and making the move here. But gradually the fact of months passing without any sign of a baby began to dominate everything. ‘I know, but
I’m not usually late all the time. I’m worried it’s the stress playing havoc with me. Let’s wait and see. You know there’s nothing we can do about it,’ she said.
A fear played at the back of her mind that their failure to conceive was beginning to drive them apart, but she tried to banish that thought. They both wanted this, and it wouldn’t help if
they began blaming each other.

He gave her a wan smile. ‘You’re right, I suppose. Best not to think about it.’

‘Exactly. Now, I’d better leave you to the joys of accounting. Good luck.’

‘Thanks. See you at lunch.’ He turned back to his computer screen, frowning. She let herself out quietly.

Delilah called Mungo from his basket and he came scampering excitedly, knowing they were going for a walk. She had never had a dog until now, thinking she did not much like
them, but it was hard not to respond to the little cocker spaniel with his glossy black coat, long soft ears and trusting brown eyes. He didn’t feel like hers yet, but she was beginning to
enjoy him.

‘Come on, boy,’ she said, taking a cardigan off a hook and opening the boot room door. Outside in the garden, Mungo sniffed around, nosing at the flower beds. She breathed in and
took in her surroundings. The air was fresh and clean. The summer was ripening to that jewel-like moment when the gardens glowed with ripe fruit and vegetables, and the sky turned a gold-soaked
blue and offered the prospect of long, shimmering green days that would fade slowly into warm evenings with pink-streaked skies. She loved this time of year, with its fresh scents and fluttering
breezes. Summer still felt young and undusty. Everything good was still to come.

With Mungo trotting at her heels, she made her way through the formal gardens that lay behind the house, the neatly arranged box hedges in their perfectly symmetrical patterns and the ordered
beds. They gave her a sense of calm that came from well-planned detail and good organisation. She caught a movement and looked over to see Ben hard at work among the beds. He was bent low, the
brown flesh of his muscled arms glowing in the sunshine. He always wore the same things: shabby brown shorts with gardening gloves stuffed in the pocket, a white T-shirt with smears of brown and
green, a tool belt at his waist and sturdy boots. He hadn’t seen her and she wondered whether to call out to him. She’d liked Ben as soon as she met him, drawn to him by his simple,
unpretentious air and his willingness to help. Now she valued the way he was so even-tempered and always happy to see her and take a few minutes away from the garden to chat.

I could ask him about the gymkhana
, she thought. One of her letters was from the pony club requesting the use of a field for their annual competition day. She hadn’t wanted to
bother John with it when he had so much on, but Ben would probably know what it was all about.

Delilah started over towards him, then paused, wondering why she was hesitating. There was nothing wrong in talking to Ben, but lately she’d noticed she was often thinking of him. Most
days she wandered into the garden to seek him out, sometimes with a cup of tea or a glass of water for him. He was such easy company – cheerful, good-humoured and friendly. After the tension
of John’s mood swings and low spirits, she found Ben’s company relaxing. She didn’t need to be on full alert for a temper change. It was a relief, even if she knew that it
wasn’t entirely how things should be.

There’s no harm in it
, she said to herself.
He’s just a friend. He’s John’s cousin so we’re practically related. He works here so I’m bound to
see him all the time.

She watched as Ben straightened up and used his forearm to brush his light brown hair from his sweaty forehead. He noticed her and lifted his arm to wave, a broad smile on his face. She smiled
and waved back, wondering if she should go to him after all, then caught herself. That wasn’t the plan. She intended to walk Mungo, and she would. Ben was gazing at her, obviously expecting
her to come over, so she gestured towards the yew walk to indicate where she was going. He nodded and turned back to his work, and she called to Mungo and headed towards the old gates that led out
of the garden and into the woods beyond, glad to be getting away from what she felt obscurely was a source of danger.

Don’t be ridiculous
, she scolded herself as she entered the cool of the woods, the undergrowth lush and spidery with foliage.
You’re imagining things.

She’d always had a strong and creative imagination, which she supposed was what had led her to the magazine world, but she’d also prided herself on her pragmatism and was easily
exasperated by people like Rachel, who lived her entire life like she was in a daft movie. Delilah had managed to reconcile herself to giving up her job by deciding to focus all that creativity and
energy on the house and turn it into something vibrant and alive. At first, she’d had complete confidence in her ability to take it on and tame it but now, after six months, she was quailing
before the task. Her first winter had been nothing less than an ordeal. She had never been so cold, as freezing weather descended and took the whole house in its icy grip. The place seemed shrouded
in almost continual darkness, as though it was actually near the Arctic Circle and locked into six months of night, and the vast rooms that had once been so enchanting were like chilly museum
pieces. Her ideas about bringing them all back to life and persuading John to light the fires and turn on the lamps so that they could actually use them seemed ridiculous when she stood in the grey
morning light of the drawing room and saw her breath turn to frosty clouds. Under the eyes of the long-dead Stirlings gazing down at her from the wall, she’d felt that attempting to warm the
place was beyond her power. Besides, what was the point? It wasn’t as though the two of them could occupy all the rooms at once, and even one was far too large for them. The only one they
bothered with was the library, where at weekends the fire was lit and glasses of whisky and ginger wine put out, in accordance with some old family custom. Then, with the huge velvet curtains
closed and the lamps on, and Mungo snoozing on the rug, she could pretend for a while that her dream of what it would be like to live in a house like this was coming true. But the reality was that
most often she and John ate in the kitchen and then spent their evenings in the snug, which had once been a sitting room for live-in staff and still had a faintly impersonal, almost institutional
air. The furniture was old and worn, everything make-do, nothing loved or treasured. There they would sit on the ancient rug-covered, dog-hairy sofa and watch the television together. So much for
her dreams of wafting about the turquoise and gold drawing room in a silk tea dress, hosting soirees or entertaining London friends at glamorous parties in her great house. John was not at all keen
on the idea of visitors, and after a few awkward weekends, she hadn’t repeated the experience.

‘Perhaps when you’ve had the chance to redecorate?’ Grey had suggested sympathetically when he had stayed. ‘I love the naïve charm of having your guest bathroom half
a mile away from the guest bedroom, but I do rather rely on hot water when I finally get there.’

‘Sorry, sorry!’ she’d said humbly. ‘You’ve been so uncomfortable. I will get that mattress seen to, I promise.’

‘It’s not just that, though,’ he said, and leant in confidingly. ‘If I’m honest, I’ve found the whole place a bit spooky. I never thought a house could be too
big, but I’m beginning to think that this one is. The emptiness just seems to press down on one, doesn’t it?’

That was exactly it, Delilah thought. There was no way to occupy it all and gradually she had come to feel smaller and less effectual as the house loomed over her. The days were manageable. Then
she could fling open a door and see whatever lay beyond if she felt like it. But as night fell, the place seemed to swell in size and she felt the tingling of childish terrors. When they went up to
bed, she dreaded leaving the snug, even with its hideous furniture, and ascending the narrow back stairs to the upper part of the main house and the great stretch of dark corridor ahead that
disappeared into door-lined blackness. They couldn’t turn on the light because there was no way to turn it off further down the hall, so it meant a quick walk in the blackness down towards
their bedroom at the front of the house and she was always intimidated by the huge empty house all around them. The closed doors hinted at something unpleasant contained behind them and she had to
rein in her imagination in case it ran wild and set off a panic. If she was with John, she could hold his hand and feel his warmth and his air of sensible normality. Alone, it was all she could do
not to break into a gasping run and dash for the bedroom. Once inside, there was safety. As soon as the light came on, the glow doused her fears and she would laugh at herself for being so
stupid.

But it wasn’t normal to be afraid like this in her own home. Her flat in London had been a refuge, a sanctuary. She would close its front door with a sense of relief that now she could
shut out the world and nestle down into her own space, refreshing herself in quiet and safety.

If only John would let her start redecorating, making the place more comfortable and more their own. If only they could fill it with people, the way it was meant to be, and conquer the deadening
quiet that way. But it seemed that it belonged to the generations of the past more than to them.

She walked through the woods almost without seeing them, lost in her own thoughts and only vaguely aware of Mungo racing away and returning. Then, suddenly, she emerged into bright sunlight, its
warmth giving her a burst of pleasurable energy, and she realised she was in a clearing. Her eye was caught by the old tower sitting on the slight hill at its centre. She’d seen it before on
walks but had always skirted it. Now, as Mungo bounded up the hill, invigorated by all the open space and breeze-rippled grass, she headed towards it for a closer look. She’d never seen
anything like it. Ben had told her it was built in the nineteenth century, which accounted for its Gothic appearance, and that it had been the equivalent of a summer house or garden shed for the
owner, just a little place to hang out when there was nothing else to do, but it had been decaying for decades. As she approached, she saw that it was in a frightful state, with fallen masonry
everywhere and the inside rotten and full of weeds and brambles. The entrance to the tower had been boarded up and a sign on the front warned that there was no entry permitted owing to the unsafe
structure but, peering in at the narrow window, she saw a few abandoned beer cans and other rubbish that showed people had managed to get in at some point recently, though why they would want to,
she couldn’t imagine. The place was a dangerous old wreck, the interior damp and fetid. It had an unpleasant atmosphere too. She didn’t feel any desire to explore it further and when
Mungo barked and raced away, she followed him with some relief.