A Week in Winter: A Novel

by Willett, Marcia

  ‘You’re for the chop,’ Selina told him furiously. ‘If Posy doesn’t come up with something soon, you’re going.’

  At the sound of his mistress’s name Polonius’s ears cocked hopefully but, realising that she was not going to appear, he settled, groaning. Meanwhile, Selina had given herself an idea. Posy loved Moorgate. She, too, would be devastated to hear that Maudie was selling it. Perhaps Posy could influence Maudie, persuade her to drop the price, bring pressure to bear.

  Selina thought: I must be subtle. Posy loves Moorgate but she also loves Maudie. Perhaps I’ll give her a buzz. Tell her that Maudie’s put it up for sale.

  She went to the telephone, her mind busy preparing phrases, Patrick quite forgotten. She found her address book and leafed through the pages, looking for Posy’s Winchester number. Presently she lifted the receiver and dialled.

  Patrick was also speaking on the telephone, wedged against the coats which hung in the narrow passage which led to the men’s loo, hunched so that he might be as private as possible.

  ‘I had to speak to you.’ He pressed the receiver hard against his ear so as to shut out the noise of the busy pub. ‘I just had to. I’m missing you. How are you? … I wish I could be with you … I know. I’m trying to be patient but I’m not certain what we’re waiting for … OK, OK, but I need to see you … No, I don’t mean tomorrow at school, I mean properly … Really? For a whole weekend. Oh God, that’s absolutely wonderful … Of course I want to, you idiot. Oh, that’s fantastic … Let’s go away somewhere, shall we? You get so little chance with Stuart, as a rule, and if he’s being well looked after and having a lovely time, too, you won’t feel guilty or anxious … I don’t care much, do you? As long as we’re together … Not too far out of London, though. We don’t want to waste too much time just driving … Oh, must you go? Is he? OK then. I love you, Mary. See you tomorrow.’

  Maudie replaced the telephone receiver and went into the kitchen to pour herself a drink. She needed something a little stronger than tea or coffee after her conversation with Selina, and there was some Chablis left; more than half a bottle in the pantry. She poured a glassful, shocked to see that her hand was trembling a little.

  ‘I’m getting old,’ she muttered. ‘I’m getting old when a run-in with Selina can really upset me.’

  She took her wine and went back to the sitting room. A series of chill, damp evenings had made up her mind to light the wood-burning stove and the room was cosy and welcoming. The curtains made of heavy Indian cotton, double-sided in rich blues and faded red, were drawn against the dark, and the carved wooden wall-lights, with cream, parchment shades, glowed warmly. Maudie’s passion for fabric was evident. The faded, comfortable sofa was partially covered by a velvet, tasselled, garnet-coloured shawl, and a plaid rug in soft lambswool hung on the back of the fireside chair. On the stool beside the chair a mass of multicoloured wool spilled out of a rush basket. Several skeins were rolled together, whilst two sturdy wooden needles were stuck, points first, into a huge ball of the nubbly, hand-dyed wool which had been partially knitted up.

  ‘But will you ever wear it?’ a friend had asked, looking cautiously at the first results.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Maudie had been amused. ‘I knit for fun, for the feel of the wool and the glorious colours. I shall give it to a charity shop when it’s finished.’

  Books lined the shelves either side of the fireplace whilst the wall opposite was almost covered with paintings, sketches, watercolours which Hector had collected from all over the world. Thick, silky rugs from India were thrown on top of the plain, fitted carpet, and a French clock, delicately painted with pastoral scenes and edged with gilt, ticked throatily from its shelf above the fire.

  Maudie sat down and stared at the flames which flickered behind the wood-burner’s glass door. It was foolish to be upset. She’d guessed that the news would rake up Selina’s grievances from the past, would bring down upon her head the familiar accusations, yet she felt unsettled. It was odd that now, when for the very first time she was in a position to call the tune, there should be no true pleasure in it. Moorgate was her own, to keep or dispose of, as she wished, yet any sense of power was absent. There had been none of the usual pleasure in irritating and annoying Selina; none of the satisfaction in being the victor; only this rather empty, weary depression. Her eye was caught by Posy’s card, standing on the shelf beside the clock, and she remembered the plea that she should give Polonius a home. She was filled with horror at the thought of his great form, lumbering about, but she also knew that Selina would carry out her threat of rehousing him. Selina’s great strength—and it was this which made her a formidable opponent—was that she never hesitated to implement threats.

  Sipping her wine, Maudie knew that it was impossible, now, to offer Polonius a refuge without it being partly a guilt offering. She knew that Posy cherished a dream that one day she might live at Moorgate with some gorgeous man and a brood of children and, however reasonable and adult Posy might be about the sale of the house, Maudie felt sad that she must be the one to shatter her dream. She feared the possibility that Posy might think that the relenting in her refusal to give Polonius a home was a sop to her own conscience. She’d had her own dream—that she’d be able to leave Moorgate to Posy—but the cost of living dictated otherwise and at least she’d be able to invest some money for Posy to help her later on. Meanwhile she could help her out with Polonius and if Posy detected some hidden agenda, well, there was nothing to be done about it. Anyway, she had to be told about Moorgate. Sheer courtesy had obliged Maudie to tell Selina about it before she spoke to Posy but the idea of Selina getting in first with her version sent Maudie hurrying to the telephone again. A breathless Posy answered.

  ‘Hi, babe,’ she said warmly. ‘Great timing. I’ve just this minute walked through the door. How are you? Did you get my card?’

  ‘I did,’ said Maudie, who still found it difficult to get used to the idea of being addressed as ‘babe’, ‘and I’ve decided to give Polonius a try.’

  She winced as Posy shrieked at the other end of the line, smiling despite her heavy heart.

  ‘That’s so great!’ she was saying. ‘Oh, that’s really cool. Oh, Maudie, I’m just so grateful. Mum was being really mean last time we spoke. Listen. Can I bring him this weekend?’

  ‘Well.’ Maudie blinked, taken aback. ‘Well, why not. But how?’

  ‘Jude is coming down to the West Country for the weekend to see friends in Exeter. I told you about Jude, didn’t I? He’s doing the drama course too. Well, he’s got an old estate car for carrying props about and stuff. We’ll be able to fit Polonius in the back. Oh, this is so fab. We can get up to London to fetch Polonius on Friday morning and be with you by about teatime. Jude can pick me up on his way back on Sunday. Is that OK?’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Maudie swallowed and took a firmer hold on the receiver. ‘Listen, Posy, I’ve got some disappointing news. I’m having to put Moorgate on the market.’ Silence. ‘I know how you feel about it, my darling, but I simply need the money. I promise you I’ve done my sums and thought about it long and hard, but The Hermitage needs a new roof and there are other things … I’m so sorry, Posy.’

  ‘Oh, Maudie.’ It was clear that Posy was struggling to come to terms with it. ‘Oh, how absolutely bloody.’

  ‘I know. Don’t think I want to do this, Posy. If there were any other way …’

  ‘I know. Of course I know that, Maudie. You love it too. Oh, hell… Hang on a sec. What?’ Maudie could hear muffled voices in the background. ‘Oh, OK … Look, Maudie, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you on Friday and listen, babe, don’t worry too much about Moorgate. We’ll talk about it then. Bless you for Polonius. Love you lots. ‘Bye.’

  In tears Maudie sat down again by the fire.

  ‘Oh, Posy,’ she murmured. ‘I love you too.’

  Chapter Six

  It was only after Posy and Jude had left, driving away after tea on Sunday afternoon, that Maudie fully realised
the true benefit of having Polonius to live with her.

  ‘I’ll get down as often as I can,’ Posy promised, hugging her goodbye. ‘Honestly. Oh, if only I had a car then I could get down midweek sometimes. I don’t have any lectures on a Wednesday so I could come down on Tuesday night. That would be really fab. Maybe Jude will lend me his car.’

  Jude, a small, slight boy with a sweet smile, shook his head. ‘No chance.’

  Posy glared at him. ‘He’s so selfish, Maudie,’ she grumbled. ‘Don’t be taken in by those old-fashioned good manners. He’s as tough as cow-hide and wily as a serpent.’

  Maudie looked at Jude, eyebrows raised, and he winked at her, jingling the car keys, waiting good-humouredly for Posy to make her farewells.

  ‘You forget,’ he said, ‘that I saw you arrive at Hyde Abbey Road in your mother’s car. I watched that little scene which took place when you attempted to park it and I sympathised utterly with the poor man whose motorbike you crushed.’

  ‘I did not crush it!’ cried Posy indignantly. ‘I barely touched it. Only enough to knock it off its silly support thingy. It wasn’t even scratched.’

  ‘She drew a crowd,’ Jude said to Maudie. ‘Thirteen manoeuvres it took, everyone helping her on with word and gesture, solo and chorus, and even then she managed to bash the bike.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Posy, grinning unwillingly. ‘I was planning to ask if I could borrow Maudie’s car and now you’ve ruined everything.’

  ‘Nobody borrows my car,’ said Maudie firmly. ‘It’s too old and capricious.’

  ‘Very wise.’ Jude nodded at her. ‘Hold fast to that decision. Posy has no sympathy with mechanical things and no patience at all with inanimate objects. She’s broken the video, dented Jo’s wok, and the microwave will never be the same again since she attempted to cook spaghetti in it.’

  ‘Kill!’ said Posy grimly to Polonius, pointing at Jude. ‘Kill. Lunch. Go on, savage him.’

  Polonius wagged his tail, tongue lolling, and Jude laughed. ‘But she’s great with dogs. Sorry to break up the party but we really ought to be going.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be OK, Maudie?’ Posy looked anxiously at Polonius. ‘I’m certain he’ll be good.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be good,’ said Maudie cheerfully. ‘Don’t you worry about that. Off you go. It’s been lovely to see you.’

  ‘I’ll be back very soon.’ Posy was climbing in, reaching for her seat belt, winding down the window. ‘No, Polonius. Stay. Good boy. Oh, Maudie, thanks so much for looking after him …’

  Her cries were lost in the sound of the engine as Jude very wisely cut the farewells short by setting off down the drive that ran along beside the bungalow to the lane. Waving, one hand on Polonius’s collar, Maudie suddenly realised that she would see very much more of Posy now. The thought made her feel more tolerant towards the large mastiff with the sad, wrinkled face who stood beside her, watching the car disappear, whining miserably.

  ‘She’ll be back soon,’ Maudie told him confidently. ‘Really she will. And now we’re going to have a walk through the woods to take your mind off things. Just let me get my boots on. No, you can’t go after her. Come on, old chap …’

  Talking comfortingly to him, she hauled him back into the house and presently they set out together. Polonius bounded ahead, overjoyed by such freedom after London streets, scattering the fallen leaves. The silence of the woods was broken by the murmuring, ceaseless music of the River Bovey, chuckling its way over smooth, rounded stones and under overhanging, mossy banks, splashing over miniature waterfalls. The hound’s lead around her neck, her hands thrust into the pockets of her corduroy jacket, Maudie strode behind him. Twenty-four hours with Posy had renewed her courage. She had been bravely philosophical about Moorgate, sensing Maudie’s distress, sympathising with her step-grandmother’s dilemma.

  ‘Money’s such a curse,’ she’d said. ‘I can quite see that you have to sell. Of course it would have been lovely to hang on to it…’

  ‘I’d always hoped that you would have it eventually,’ Maudie had answered wretchedly. ‘Your mother is terribly upset, of course.’

  ‘Yes, well, she would be, wouldn’t she? I’m glad you’d told me before I saw her.’ Posy had hesitated, embarrassed. ‘The thing is, she’s wondering if she can’t afford to buy it herself.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Maudie had shaken her head. ‘Oh dear. This is what I feared might happen.’ They’d stared at each other anxiously.

  ‘I thought I’d better tell you. I didn’t really want to but I think she’s hoping that you might … well, back down a bit.’

  ‘Back down?’ She’d frowned impatiently. ‘Back down how? I can’t afford not to sell and I feel quite certain that Selina can’t afford to buy it. Even if she could, I wouldn’t encourage it. Not unless she and Patrick were prepared to sell up and live in it. They couldn’t afford to run it and Selina would hate to have a tenant in. She’d want to use it for weekends and parties. Oh, it would be a disaster.’

  ‘I know. I agree with you. It’s one of Mum’s grand ideas that costs Dad a fortune and just causes trouble. I told her so.’

  ‘Did you?’ Maudie had chuckled grimly. ‘That must have gone down well.’

  Posy had shrugged. ‘We had a bit of a row. So what’s new? Anyway, I thought I’d warn you. She’s ringing round the family for support but Dad thinks the whole thing’s ridiculous. Try not to be upset, Maudie …’

  ‘It’s just that I’d hoped—I shall invest most of it for the future and, once the roof is done and the car sorted out, there might be some spare cash for you for any small thing you need. Oh, dear. I feel so—’

  ‘Maudie!’ Posy had interrupted warningly. ‘You know we don’t used the G-word. It was our new year resolution. Remember? We were never going to feel guilty about Mum again. Or anything else if we could help it.’

  ‘How optimistic we were,’ Maudie had sighed. ‘It’s because the house is not truly mine, I suppose. Perhaps I should move into Moorgate and sell The Hermitage. I wouldn’t feel so badly then. No, no, Posy.’ She’d felt even more remorseful as she saw the light that briefly rose and fell in Posy’s eyes. ‘Even for you I couldn’t bury myself on Bodmin Moor. I sometimes wonder how much longer I can manage isolated here, but when I do move, it will be into Bovey.’

  ‘I know that. Of course you will. It was just a mad moment. Let’s forget about it. When are you coming to Winchester? You’ll be able to bring Polonius with you …’

  As the late autumn afternoon faded gently into shadowy twilight Maudie felt determination and confidence returning. Selling Moorgate had opened too many old wounds, revived painful memories. She must strive to remember Hector without destructive doubts; to simply refuse to allow Selina to wrong-foot her. The money from the sale would ease the financial situation and still her nagging fears of the future. It was a pity that she wouldn’t have the funds for a new roof before winter set in but it would be such a comfort to have a sensible sum put by for her old age and for Posy’s future.

  Polonius appeared, dripping from the river, and shook himself vigorously all over her.

  ‘Wretched animal,’ she cried, wiping the cold drops from her face. ‘Come on. Home, then.’

  She turned back, her boots crunching over beech mast and dead leaves, Polonius loping beside her. A star twinkled high above, tangled in the bare branches of a beech tree, and tranquillity touched her anxious, restless heart. They went together through the garden gate and into the house, and the door closed behind them.

  Battling with the endless administrative work that seemed to expand to fill every spare hour, Patrick heard Selina’s footsteps on the stairs with a now-familiar dread. It was guilt—what his daughter called the G-word—that caused the pit of his gut to contract sickeningly, made him swallow in a suddenly dry throat. Foolish that part of him longed to shout the truth, have it out in the open whilst the other, more cowardly, part of him feared exposure; foolish and pathetic. Mary was frightened too. What she h
ad now, which was precious little—a tiny, rented ground-floor flat, her part-time job, a place for Stuart at the Care Centre three days a week—was hard-earned, painfully achieved, and she was terrified of losing any of it.

  ‘I simply can’t afford to mess it up,’ she’d said, anxious that he should understand. ‘I know that it makes me sound terribly selfish but I have to be, you see. Because of Stuart. I need to earn money and this little flat is so convenient. The bus picks Stuart up at the door and I can walk to school and to see Mum and Dad. It’s so difficult on public transport with a wheelchair and I couldn’t possibly afford to buy a car. It’s not that I don’t love you, Pat. It’s just that I can’t see how it would work, being together.’

  He’d held her hand, looking beyond her to where Stuart sat, immobile before the television set. How would the school governors react if they found out about the affair; if he announced that he was leaving his wife for one of the supply teachers? Would he or Mary be asked to leave? Perhaps they would both he dismissed.

  ‘It’s just not that easy, is it?’ she’d asked, watching him—and he’d smiled quickly, attempting reassurance, convincing neither of them.

  ‘I’ve been speaking to Patricia.’ Selina was at the door. ‘She’s furious, of course. Well, I knew she would be, and she thinks it’s a brilliant idea.’

  He stared at her, puzzled, only partially concentrating.

  ‘Thinks what’s a brilliant idea?’

  ‘Buying Moorgate,’ said Selina impatiently. ‘You know! My idea that we should all contribute and buy Moorgate ourselves. She agreed that it would be great to be able to have holidays there when they come over.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Patrick turned on his swivel chair so as to be able to look at her properly. ‘And how much are they intending to contribute?’