A Week in Winter: A Novel

by Willett, Marcia

  ‘Well, why shouldn’t he have some fun?’ Hugh gathered up the reins. ‘I’ll tell Pippa to get some lunch on the go. What a pity Rowley’s at school, he’d have loved him. What’s his name?’

  ‘Polonius. No, don’t ask me. I have no idea. And I wouldn’t dream of bothering Pippa with lunch.’

  ‘It’s not a problem.’ Hugh was already cantering away, calling back over his shoulder, ‘It’ll only be soup or a sandwich. See you.’

  Polonius watched him go regretfully. He knew an ally when he saw one.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Maudie, reading his expression correctly. ‘You’ll be seeing him again in a minute. Hugh’s an even bigger mug than I am, so you’ll be on velvet as long as you don’t try any tricks on Max or old Mutt.’

  As they started back towards the car, Maudie was remembering her first visit to the school with Hector. How he’d loved riding out over the moor! The little group at Trendlebeare had made him very welcome: Max, Hugh and Pippa, not to mention the dog, Mutt. Slowly, Maudie had learned about them all through Hector’s conversation. The adventure school had been Max’s dream. Resigned from the Royal Marines, with a broken marriage behind him, he’d taken Hugh on to run the school with him. Apparently, Pippa had joined later, as cook, matron and general factotum. She had a small son, Rowley, and they too were the casualties of a broken marriage. By the time Maudie met them, Pippa and Max were married and Rowley was a cheerful six-year-old, prone to getting himself—and Mutt—into scrapes.

  ‘It’s a fascinating setup,’ Hector had told her. ‘Poor Pippa had a terrible time with her husband, it seems, and Hugh had some affair with a girl who killed herself. One of the stable blocks is dedicated to her.’

  ‘They all seem jolly enough,’ Maudie had answered, surprised. ‘I didn’t realise that Max wasn’t Rowley’s father.’

  ‘He’s very good with him, and with Hugh too. He’s a good lad, is Max, and his old mum is a real tonic, I can tell you.’

  Over the years she’d come to know them all very well, taking Posy—who loved to go riding with Hugh—to Trendlebeare whenever she came to visit and, although Maudie did not ride, she’d continued to keep the friendship alive. As she and Polonius approached the car, she was wondering about the dead girl and if she were the reason why Hugh had never married. He was such a nice man—and a very good-looking one. She found herself thinking about Posy again, but shook her head. Hugh must be in his mid-thirties; much too old for Posy. Anyway, they’d been riding together for years…

  ‘No matchmaking,’ she told herself sternly, opening the door to allow Polonius to jump in. ‘No interfering. On the other hand …’

  Polonius turned himself round and licked her face enthusiastically, causing her to jump back, hitting her head on the still open door. Cursing eloquently she slammed the door, wiping her face with her handkerchief, romantic notions quite forgotten.

  Posy finished wrapping the last present and sat staring at the festive-looking pile. Confused and miserable she wound her arms about herself, bracing herself for the next encounter with her father. She hadn’t imagined how difficult it would be to look at him. All easy familiarity had fled and she still feared that her knowledge might show in her face. She tried to convince herself that it wouldn’t matter, now, if it did. She was aware that he knew she’d been told yet she had a horror of his being hurt by any expression which reflected the beastly muddle in her mind. At times she loathed him, imagining him with the other woman, betraying his family and being undignified.

  Posy dropped her head on her knees. Oddly, this was really the worst thing—the thing about being undignified. Even when Mum was putting him down, being sarcastic, he’d stayed somehow outside it all. Oh, there had been times when she’d longed for him to stand up to Mum, to shout back, but, at the same time, it was his kind of dignified refusal to descend to that level which she’d grown to admire. They’d had lots of fun times on their own together, without Mum or the boys, and he’d always stood up for her when it came to Maudie. She’d never cared about him being quiet and dull, which is what Mum called him, because he’d always been there, solid and unchanging, and she’d liked that feeling. Now it was different. Now there was someone else that he cared about. Someone that he was being silly about. It was simply terrible; imagining him being silly. He was too old to be falling in love and behaving in that awful way. Like old people dancing to the Beatles, wearing terrible clothes and waving their hands over their heads, pretending that they were still like they’d been thirty years before. It made her feel hot and uncomfortable and ashamed for them. Jude always laughed at her when she was like this and told her that she was intolerant. Perhaps she was but, especially now, she couldn’t seem to help herself. Ever since she’d been home she’d tried to avoid her father and she longed to be away, off to Devon and Maudie. What was even worse was that she could see that Mum was quite enjoying the situation, which was really bizarre.

  Posy sat up straight, listening, as she heard footsteps coming slowly up the stairs. They paused on the landing and she willed them past her door, into his study. The light tap brought her to her feet, and by the time he’d opened the door she’d leaped from the bed and was standing by the window.

  ‘Hi.’ He smiled at her but his eyes were wary. ‘I was wondering if you needed a lift to Paddington?’

  ‘Oh.’ It was almost a gasp of fright before she controlled herself. ‘Well.’ She stared about her, as though the walls and furniture might supply her with the answer. ‘Won’t that be a bit of a drag? I mean—I can manage …’

  He gave a ghost of a chuckle. ‘I don’t doubt that for a moment but since I can’t imagine you going away without enough luggage for a year or two I thought it might help a bit.’

  ‘Well, thanks.’ How could she refuse? It was Christmas and for the first time in her life they wouldn’t be opening their presents together. Tears gathered behind her eyes and she hastily seized her battered travelling grip, swinging it on to the bed. ‘I haven’t done too badly this time, actually, but I’ve got to put some presents in yet. Have you seen what I’ve got for Polonius …?’

  ‘Posy.’ His voice was quite gentle. ‘I know that Mum’s told you about Mary and I’m sorry. It must have been a terrible shock. I wish she’d left it to me. It’s not quite how it might have sounded.’

  She gaped at him, hot with distaste and a terrible pity, the rubber toy hanging from her hands.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Oh, Posy—’

  ‘No.’

  She was a small girl again, feet planted firmly, head lowered, eyes narrowed warningly. Patrick’s heart contracted with love. So had he seen her on countless occasions in the past; protecting a beloved possession from her brothers’ teasing; defending herself against Selina’s gibes about Maudie. The ridiculous toy, clutched in her hands, made the scene more poignant. He longed to hug her, to remove the pain, but, for the first time in their lives, it was he who was inflicting it.

  ‘It doesn’t change anything,’ he said urgently. Try to understand that. You have new friends, now, new interests, new allegiances. We have to make ourselves big enough to contain them all. Nothing and nobody changes how I feel about you.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  He sensed the panic behind the stubborn reiteration and took a deep breath.

  ‘OK,’ he said lightly. ‘Fair enough. Don’t worry. I won’t start again in the car so you can have your lift quite safely. We ought to be away by half-past eleven to be on the safe side.’

  She waited until the door closed behind him and then she began to pack, jamming things into the bag.

  ‘It’s not true, anyway,’ she muttered, justifying herself. ‘It does change things. He didn’t care about me not being home for Christmas.’

  She flung the toy in, on top of everything else, and sat down, wrenching her hands through her hair, reminding herself that the decision to stay with Maudie had been made before she’d known about hi
s affair. How childish it was to announce that you’d be away and then be upset when nobody minded! For a brief moment she allowed herself to imagine the bleakness of his Christmas. She was quite certain that the boys would be told—if they hadn’t been already—and she could already sense his feeling of isolation. Deliberately she hardened her heart. He shouldn’t have started messing about, behaving as if he were twenty instead of fifty. She zipped up the grip and flung her long black coat—discovered in a charity shop in Winchester—on top of it. Gathering up the pile of presents she went downstairs to put them under the Christmas tree. The house was decorated, ready for the boys’ arrival, but she was glad to be going to Maudie: to Maudie and Polonius.

  Driving back from the station through the busy streets, Patrick wondered why he hadn’t told Posy, why he hadn’t just said it, despite her refusal to be involved in conversation.

  ‘It’s over.’ He could have made it clear, even if she hadn’t wanted to discuss it. ‘It’s finished.’ At least the knowledge that the affair had come to an end might have comforted her. Yet he’d been unable to say the words and it was clear that Selina had not done so either. He’d rather hoped that Selina might have put Posy’s mind at rest. After all, she’d told her in the first place. If Selina had held her tongue Posy would have known nothing about it. How shaming it had been, admitting that it was over, that Mary had been prepared to let him go rather than risk losing her job and her home. How amused Selina had been, milking the scene for every drop of humiliation, revelling in his discomfiture.

  ‘So she’s not going to put up a fight for you?’ She’d pretended to sympathise. ‘What a shame. And you were prepared to risk your little all for her. Poor old Patrick. So embarrassing to throw down the gauntlet and have people treading it into the mud without a backward glance, isn’t it? At least I won’t have to tell Susan that you’re behaving like a teenager. Well, that’s a relief, anyway. You’re not much of a man, Patrick, but I still have some pride left. So what about our weekend in Oxford?’

  ‘I’m not going to Oxford. I never was, as you well know, and I don’t intend to change my mind at this late date.’

  She’d shrugged. ‘Oh, well. I can’t say I’m disappointed. Dreary place, if you ask me. Anyway, we must save our pennies for Moorgate. Don’t look so surprised. Had you forgotten about Moorgate? Oh dear. Well, I haven’t. It’s been such a comfort to me, whilst you’ve been off with your little tart, thinking about happier times. I’m still certain that we could buy it. I’m not so sure, now, that we want to live there permanently but I think it would be a great comfort to know it was there—if you know what I mean?’

  He’d gone away, then, leaving her to her triumph—and to her fantasies. The thought of Mary was a constant ache in his heart and the realisation that Selina intended to pursue her romantic desire to possess Moorgate filled him with despair. He’d awaited Posy’s arrival with trepidation and had seen immediately how it was to be. Selina was certainly right about Posy’s reaction: she despised him. Yet he had not been able to say the words which might have healed the breach.

  ‘It’s over.’ ‘It’s finished.’

  It had been bad enough, seeing Mary at school, watching her with the children in the playground, working in the classroom. It was a hundred times worse knowing that he would not see her at all for three long weeks. To protect Mary he’d told Selina that the affair was over but at the bottom of his heart lay the hope that somehow the miracle might happen, that Mary might relent. Each time the post arrived or the telephone rang, each time he saw her, he hoped that his misery would be relieved. He imagined scenes in which she told him that she’d changed her mind, that she couldn’t manage without him, that somehow they’d survive—and each time she told him that she loved him. As far as he was concerned it wasn’t over. He needed her; he simply couldn’t stop loving her at will.

  As Patrick drove home he knew why he’d been unable to say the words to Posy: they simply wouldn’t have been true.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Seated either side of the fire, Polonius stretched between them on the rug, Maudie and Posy seemed utterly absorbed in their separate occupations: Maudie knitting, Posy reading. They’d agreed that there was nothing worth watching on the television and Maudie had suggested that she might listen to the tape which Posy had bought her for Christmas. It was at least the fourth or fifth time she’d played it but she was so clearly delighted with the recording by Lionel Hampton that Posy was only too pleased to agree. Anyway, she was rather enjoying it, too. It was really good to be here with Maudie, listening to the jazz, her feet resting on Polonius’s back. Although it was very quiet, and she missed her friends, she knew that it had been right to spend Christmas here. Maudie’s pleasure in her company was very real although she was never extravagant with her emotions. Glancing covertly at her, Posy tried to analyse exactly what it was about Maudie which made her such a good companion. There she sat, glasses slipping down her nose, her short grey hair brushed back from her face, frowning as she counted her stitches. She was wearing a cherry-red, lambs wool roll-neck jersey, under a padded moleskin waistcoat, and her long legs were encased in dark green cords. On her feet were the sheepskin-lined boot-socks which were also Posy’s present.

  The thing which had always drawn her to Maudie, Posy decided, was that she didn’t fuss. There were no emotional confrontations, no hidden agendas. There was a detachment which gave you room to breathe—yet she was not indifferent. The point was that she didn’t seek to possess you whilst offering her love. Several years ago, Posy had tried to explain this concept to her mother, without success.

  ‘It’s easy for Maudie,’ had been the answer. ‘She’s not related to you. She’s not your real grandmother. You wait until you have children of your own and then you’ll understand.’

  This continual inference that Posy was ungrateful, disloyal, an unnatural daughter, was wearing—and hurtful. She’d never been able to see why she couldn’t be allowed to love both her mother and her grandmother; couldn’t understand why there had to be a choice.

  ‘Of course you can’t,’ her mother had retorted. ‘You’ve never made the least effort to understand my feelings. You choose to ally yourself with someone who’s made my life miserable and expect me to be delighted about it. How Maudie must be laughing!’

  ‘She doesn’t laugh,’ the young Posy had protested. ‘We don’t talk about you at all.’

  This assurance, apparently, had not been as comforting as she’d hoped and the difficulty remained unresolved. Her father was much more reasonable and had done as much as he could to ease the situation.

  Posy dug her toes into Polonius’s back in an attempt to relieve her feelings, remembering the telephone conversation with her father on Christmas Day. He’d been cheerful, thanking her for his present, asking after Maudie. She’d managed to talk to him almost as if nothing had happened—it was easier at a distance—and then the boys had taken their turn. Her mother, it seemed, was too busy with the lunch to come to the telephone but sent her love, and Posy had felt irritated and hurt that she couldn’t be bothered to leave the turkey for five minutes to wish her a happy Christmas. The call had unsettled her, reminding her of past Christmases, making her feel guilty. Eventually, after several glasses of wine, she’d blurted it all out to Maudie and then burst into silly, pathetic weeping. Maudie’s reaction had been so unexpected, however, that she’d been brought up short, sniffling into a tissue, wide-eyed with surprise.

  ‘Good grief!’ she’d said, bottle poised above her glass. ‘You amaze me. Patrick, of all people. I’d never have believed he had the gumption.’

  Despite her shock, another emotion had penetrated Posy’s confusion. For a brief moment she’d seen the situation through Maudie’s eyes; seen her father as a man, independent of his family. For those few seconds she’d been able to think of him, not as a father, not as a husband, but as a stranger, and a new emotion had stirred deep down inside her. She’d tried to hold on to it but it had elud
ed her; the moment had passed, but she’d been subtly changed by it. She’d realised that Maudie expected her to approach it as another adult might and she’d felt flattered but at the same time affronted. After all, it was her father they were discussing. Nevertheless Maudie’s reaction had comforted her. It reflected Maudie herself: detached but human. Yet surely she couldn’t approve? She’d almost immediately apologised.

  ‘Sorry,’ she’d said. ‘You took me by surprise. It sounds so un-Patrick-like. Are you absolutely certain?’

  Posy had answered that she was quite certain but that she didn’t really want to talk about it. This wasn’t quite true but she couldn’t bear to discuss her feelings, even with Maudie, yet she’d felt rather deflated when Maudie had taken her at her word.

  ‘I can understand that,’ she’d said. ‘It takes a bit of getting used to, I imagine. Just don’t get things out of proportion.’

  Easier said than done. It had seemed all wrong then, on Christmas Day, after eating the goose and opening the presents, to spoil the festive atmosphere. Now, she wished that she’d had the courage to talk it through, describe her feelings, but it was difficult to raise the subject again. How was it to be done?

  ‘By the way, you know what I was saying about Dad having an affair …?’ Or, ‘So you don’t think that being unfaithful is all that bad, then?’ No, she simply couldn’t just mention it as casually as though she were asking what they would be eating for supper. Perhaps an opportunity might arise quite naturally and she’d be able to take advantage of it. Posy settled back in her chair and tried to concentrate on her book.

  Apparently absorbed in her knitting, Maudie was aware of Posy’s preoccupation with things other than her book. She’d been furious with herself for her spontaneous reaction to Posy’s disclosure, yet instinctively she’d held back from sympathising. She didn’t quite know why—after all, it must have been a frightful shock for the poor child—nevertheless she’d resisted the urge to become affected by Posy’s evident distaste. Maudie didn’t approve of adultery but there were sometimes extenuating circumstances. She considered it either heroic or just plain stupid to remain married to Selina for thirty years and had a sneaking sympathy for Patrick’s outburst. At the same time she was amazed by it. She’d respected Posy’s request, and they hadn’t discussed it since, but she’d given it a great deal of thought.