A Week in Winter: A Novel

by Willett, Marcia

  ‘Thanks. I will. It’s just this top corner. How’s Stuart?’

  ‘He’s OK. Fine … well, you know.’ She sounded flustered. ‘He’s making progress.’

  ‘That’s good. Splendid.’

  Patrick might have been talking about a distant acquaintance, more occupied with what he was writing than with her or Stuart, and suddenly—and quite unreasonably—Mary felt affronted.

  ‘You don’t sound all that interested.’

  He looked up at her in surprise, folding the piece of paper into his diary, and she bit her lip, annoyed with herself.

  ‘I had the impression that you preferred me to keep my interest to myself.’

  He wasn’t huffy, she noticed, not martyred or hard done by, merely amused, and she felt her irritation grow. Had he shown the least flicker of hope, a renewal of his need of her, she’d have quickly put him back in his place. As it was she felt an unforgivable requirement to test her power, to experience the sense of being desired which his adoration had always supplied.

  ‘I didn’t realise you’d be able to switch off so easily.’

  ‘Switch off?’

  She shrugged. ‘Forget us. Stop caring. Whatever.’

  He frowned thoughtfully. ‘Is that what I’ve done? Yes, I suppose it is.’

  Contrarily, she’d always fancied him most when he’d drawn back a little, been less intense, and now she had a keen longing to turn back the clock. She knew she couldn’t, knew the dangers still existed, that nothing had changed, but the knowledge of his love had been very sweet and there had been a strange little frisson in being at school with him once the affair was over. Just lately, however, he’d become withdrawn, aloof, and at some basic level she wanted to know that he still wanted her. His measured reply hurt her pride and, as he handed her the paper, she drew closer, looking up at him.

  ‘I miss you,’ she said. ‘I really do. I wish things could be different.’

  She looked for an answering response, for the flash of love in his eyes, but he simply smiled rather absently at her, as though she were merely a very good friend.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said, as if comforting her. ‘Perhaps it was for the best.’

  He went out, tucking his diary into his pocket, and she stood looking after him, angry and miserable, and, worst of all, humiliated.

  Shopping in Tintagel, choosing supper, waiting in the car whilst Rob disappeared on a mission of his own, Melissa was wrapped in the delightful holiday anonymity that she’d first experienced in Bovey Tracey. She felt free, almost invisible. These nice local people, going about their business, barely spared her a second glance so used were they to visitors in their midst. No one looked at her with sympathy or avoided meeting her eyes because they couldn’t bear to admit to their weighty, private knowledge. Sometimes, she knew, when friends burst out laughing at some joke or a television programme they suffered an immediate stab of guilt; that they should be able to laugh, knowing her situation, filled them with a kind of self-disgust.

  ‘Please laugh,’ she wanted to say. ‘Please continue to live, to enjoy life,’ but she knew that it would make the reaction worse. Either she ignored it or laughed too, but the responsibility was heavy. If she became tired or low in spirits, their response was far more exaggerated than if she’d been an ordinary, healthy person. In the end she was able to relax only when she was alone—or with Mike. Mike understood. It had been a relief to move from London to Oxford but, pretty soon, the rumours had spread, someone had seen her at the surgery, so that now, even in Oxford, she felt the pressure building again.

  Perhaps that’s why Moorgate had appealed so much; its isolation attracted her, promising peace. Now that she was here, however, now that she’d met Rob, she didn’t want to think about practicalities. How could she imagine Mike and Luke moving into Moorgate now that she knew how much Rob loved it? To own Moorgate was his dream; he’d worked so hard on it, put so much of himself into it. For these few days she wanted to forget her real reason for coming; she simply wanted to postpone decisions, put aside reality, and lose herself in this small, magic world.

  Rob was coming towards her, a bulky parcel under his arm and a carrier bag in his other hand, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and embarrassment. She was amused and puzzled but she did not question him.

  ‘Right,’ he said, settling himself beside her, the parcels stowed away behind them. ‘Would you like to continue to drive us about or shall we get my old pick-up?’

  Melissa instinctively felt that he didn’t want to go back to his place and collect his own transport. She believed that he felt exactly as she did; that he wanted to be free of the real world for this short moment in time, to remain anonymous. Nobody here knew her or would recognise her car. They could be free; it was as if they didn’t exist. Clearly he was a man who did not need to drive to establish his identity and he was a calm, relaxed passenger.

  ‘I’m quite happy to drive,’ she said. ‘As long as you don’t mind directing me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m good at that,’ he said easily. ‘I’ve always enjoyed telling people what to do. OK, then. We’ll head for the wide open spaces, shall we?’

  ‘I’d like to get up on to the moor,’ she agreed, pulling away from the kerb, following his directions. ‘I want to see Moorgate from somewhere else.’

  ‘And so you shall,’ he said. ‘Do you have a hat as well as that scarf thing?’

  She hesitated for a moment, foolishly sad that he would never see her with the thick long, bronze mass of hair that she’d had before the chemo, and he looked at her curiously.

  ‘Yes,’ she said quickly. ‘Yes, I have a hat but you must promise not to laugh at it. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’ll be seriously cold higher up,’ he answered. ‘The chill factor is supposed to be minus two. We may not be able to stick too much of it.’

  She smiled at the ‘we’, suspecting that the cold hardly bothered him at all, liking him enormously.

  ‘These lanes are so narrow,’ she said—and gave a loud squeak as the car skidded on a patch of ice and then righted itself.

  ‘The sun doesn’t get to them at this time of the year,’ he said, apparently unmoved. ‘At least, not until the middle of the day. We’ll cross the A39 in a minute. Not far now.’

  The moor rose up ahead of them but she looked in vain for Moorgate.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, guessing her thoughts. ‘You’ll see her in a minute. Straight over here and then right. That’s it. Now we’re climbing. That’s Rough Tor, see, away to the north there?’

  Presently they came to the ford. The brown, peaty water flowed across the road and away under an old granite clapper bridge but Melissa drove through the stream and came to a rest just beyond it.

  ‘Come on,’ said Rob. ‘We’ll have a little stroll and I’ll show you something.’

  She dragged the sheepskin cap over her ears and climbed out. The wind was so sharp, so icy, it deprived her of her breath and she gasped, feeling the air freezing against her skin. Beyond the ford, ice had formed along the shallows beneath the bank and the grass crunched like glass under their feet. On the slopes below them a tractor was parked, whilst the farmer flung great forkfuls of feed for the sheep, and in the blue sparkling air a buzzard circled, crying insistently. Rob slipped an arm about Melissa’s shoulder, turning her slightly, pointing.

  ‘Look there,’ he said.

  They were looking at Moorgate from its north side. There it stood, comfortable, belonging, gazing out across the moor. It should have looked bleak, lonely, desolate, but it didn’t. Melissa thought that it looked strong and welcoming and safe; safe as Rob’s arm about her, holding her close. She looked up at him. He was staring at Moorgate, smiling a little, and she felt a sudden welling of desire, a tremendous need for him. He glanced down at her and his smile faded; his look intent.

  His lips were burning cold but for once she was gloriously warm, the blood rushing in her ears and tingling to the tips of her fingers. After a long mo
ment she drew back a little and he clasped her close, his cheek against hers.

  ‘You do pick your moments,’ he murmured in her ear—and she burst out laughing, glad to take refuge in simple, uncomplicated happiness.

  ‘I love you both,’ she said, meaning it. ‘Doesn’t Moorgate look wonderful? Just as if she grew out of the ground. I suppose you didn’t think to bring some chocolate with you?’

  ‘It just so happens,’ he said, releasing her, digging into his pocket, ‘that I did. So what do I get for being so clever?’

  ‘You get half the chocolate,’ she said promptly. ‘Look at the lambs. How high they spring. I suppose you haven’t got a flask of hot coffee slung about your person, too, have you?’

  ‘No, I have not,’ he said firmly. ‘We’ll have to go back to the car. I never knew a wench with such a passion for her vittles.’

  ‘I need them,’ she said simply, tucking her arm into his. ‘What’s that tor over there? Is it the one we saw earlier?’

  ‘That’s Rough Tor,’ he told her as they stepped out briskly, ‘and beyond that is Brown Willy, but we can’t see it from here. There’s lots to show you before we go … home.’

  ‘Home.’ She looked up at him, unable to conceal a wave of longing. ‘Oh, if only it were.’

  ‘Perhaps it could be,’ he said tentatively. ‘Perhaps there might be a way.’

  She swallowed down her emotion, clutching his arm tightly. ‘For today it is, anyway,’ she said. ‘And for tonight.’

  She unlocked the car and climbed in whilst Rob lifted the hatch and opened the hamper. By the time he brought her the mug of steaming coffee she’d managed to control her despair, to will back the hope with which she dispelled her unexpected descents into terror. She smiled at him, taking comfort from his strong presence, accepting his love, knowing that she must try to live for the moment.

  Selina stood in the hall, listening. Supper was finished and Patrick had disappeared up to his study, but the situation was not resolved. All day she’d been gradually building up the courage to confront him; to talk properly about this impasse. It was impossible to carry on in this miserable way, as if they were polite strangers who merely happened to share the same house. He was impervious to all the tactics she’d used so successfully in the past and she felt helpless and frustrated. She’d planned to discuss it immediately after supper—and had drunk several glasses of wine so as to bolster up her resolve—but Paul had telephoned at exactly the wrong moment. He’d been promoted and wanted to share the glad tidings with his parents but, by the time he’d finished telling her all the details, Patrick had cleared the table and vanished. He’d been particularly preoccupied, with a kind of suppressed excitement about him, and she was beginning to suspect that he’d revived his affair with Mary. Now, as she cautiously climbed the stairs, she could hear his voice: he was talking to someone on the telephone.

  ‘That sounds fantastic,’ he was saying. Then. ‘If you could, I’d be terribly grateful.’ Another pause. ‘No, no. I quite understand. Yes, Brecon sounds wonderful.’

  She thought: Brecon? Whatever is he talking about?

  She heard the receiver go down and hesitated for a moment. The house seemed oppressively empty; silence flowed around her and she felt unbearably lonely. The thought of another sleepless night, alone in their bedroom, galvanised her into action. Reaching the landing, she tapped at the door and opened it. He was sitting hunched at the desk, staring down at it, deep in thought.

  ‘Patrick,’ she said, almost pleadingly, ‘I need to talk to you.’

  He raised his eyebrows in a friendly question but didn’t speak.

  ‘We can’t go on like this, can we? I mean, hardly communicating, talking about the weather and you going off to the spare room every night. It’s silly.’

  ‘It’s difficult to know how to handle it, isn’t it?’ he agreed, almost cheerfully. ‘But it won’t be for much longer, I hope.’

  She was staring at him, frowning. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Well, I’ve been trying to decide where I should go. What I might do. That sort of thing. But now I think I’ve found just what I’ve been looking for.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Anxiety made her angry. ‘If you think I’m impressed by this silly pretence you couldn’t be more wrong. It’s simply not interesting.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve ever thought me interesting,’ he answered. ‘But at least I’m not pretending. I thought we’d agreed that whatever we had together has outlived itself. It was bound to happen once the children were gone. Looking back, I can see that there wasn’t much to begin with. You used me to get away from Maudie and Hector, and the children were the glue which held us together. It’s dried up now, peeled off, and we’re back where we started. If your father hadn’t injected slugs of cash from time to time we probably wouldn’t have lasted this long. You’ve always wanted more than I could give you, Selina.’

  ‘This is all utter nonsense. Just because I stood up for myself over the Mary thing—’

  ‘Precisely.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘You stood up for yourself. You didn’t fight for me.’

  She frowned again, puzzled. ‘What d’you mean? Of course it was for you.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head firmly. ‘No, it wasn’t. You didn’t fight to get me back because you love me. You did it because I am one of your possessions. Love was not involved, Selina.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she said quickly. ‘Look. This has just got completely out of hand—’

  ‘That’s quite true,’ he agreed. ‘It has got completely out of your hands, Selina. For once my life is in my own hands and I intend to live it my way. You’re no longer calling the tune. You’ve dominated and controlled us all—well, except for Posy—for nearly thirty years and I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She folded her arms under her breasts, her lip curling. ‘And so just because I refuse to condone your sordid affair with some little tart you’re running out on me. You’re reneging on your marriage vows, betraying your children and abandoning your wife.’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked rather struck by this catalogue of misdeeds; almost proud. ‘I suppose you could say exactly that. I hadn’t quite seen it in those terms—’

  ‘May I ask how you had seen it?’

  He ignored the tone of heavy irony. ‘I saw it as a relationship which was worn out, dried out and tasteless. The boys have never been too bothered about me and I’ve nearly managed to alienate Posy, who will soon be too busy with her own life to care either way. As for you, well, I’ve annoyed and irritated you for more than a quarter of a century. You’ve decided where we live, who our friends are, where we have our holidays and how our money is spent, and you’re still not happy. You’ve humiliated me, hurt me and ignored me.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Have you noticed, Selina, how you never use the words “we” or “ours”? Only “I” and “mine”? Just a small point but a significant one. I accept that to leave a wife to fend for herself is a disgraceful thing to do but I intend to do it. This house is worth at least three hundred thousand pounds. You can downsize and have enough to invest for a reasonable living when you put it with the other pensions we have. You won’t starve.’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder if you’re ill. I think you’ve lost your senses.’

  He shrugged. ‘You would. But I’m fairly sane, I think. Just heady with the sensation of freedom.’

  ‘And you think it will be that easy? That I’ll let you stroll off into the sunset? I don’t want to sell this house and downsize. I like it here. I’m not moving into some grotty little flat.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Thanks to your father we don’t have a mortgage and you’ve got some savings. Stay here and work. I know you never have but it’s never too late to try something new.’

  ‘You’re mad.’ She was quite serious. ‘You’re having some kind of breakdown.’

  He laughed. ‘It’s funny you should say that. I had the same thought
myself He looked at her sympathetically. ‘Poor Selina. It’s come as a shock, hasn’t it? The worm turning and so forth. Don’t worry, I shan’t take anything that’s yours.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody offensive,’ she shouted. ‘You’re crazy. Off your head. I shall speak to my lawyer in the morning.’

  ‘Our lawyer,’ he corrected her gently. ‘Steve is my lawyer too, remember.’

  She glared at him, furious but impotent. ‘And have you told him that you’re leaving me to go to Brecon? Got another little tart there, have you?’

  She went out, slamming the door behind her, running down the stairs. Patrick sat quite still, staring reflectively at the door. Presently he picked up a piece of paper, studying it carefully.

  Could you be a L’Arche assistant? Some people come from sixth form or college. Others decide upon L’Arche as a career change … Many find the vocation fulfilling enough to stay for many years … Assistants receive free board and lodging and a modest weekly income …

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Once again she was alone in the house. They’d returned as dusk was beginning to fall, after a day of exploration, and when Melissa was beginning to feel very tired.

  ‘It feels warmer,’ she’d said, as they unloaded the car. ‘Or am I imagining it? I’ll still be glad to get indoors, though.’

  Rob had paused, his arms full of parcels, looking away to the north. Pillowy, downy clouds lay piled, layer upon layer, advancing slowly, and he’d begun to whistle thoughtfully under his breath as he followed her into the house. The kitchen was warm and, leaving Melissa to deal with the putting away of their supplies, he’d gone through to the sitting room. Earlier that morning he’d built up the fire with the biggest logs he could find and it was still burning, though very low. He’d dragged the remaining logs together, piled more dry ones on top and begun to ply the bellows. Soon the flames were leaping, the wood crackling, and he’d left it so as to check the wood-burning stove. Back in the kitchen he’d washed his hands at the sink, drying them on the towel he kept on the rail of the Esse.