‘If Lady Todhunter knows I want to buy it she’ll give me time to sort things out, I know she will.’
He sounded more cheerful and Melissa gave a sigh of relief It was not always easy to head him away from these emotional moments, yet she could not bring herself to tell him the truth; to shatter his happiness. At least he would have Moorgate. The few thousand pounds she’d made out of her London flat would make up the deposit; a small recompense for the joy he’d given her.
‘Well then. Let’s not worry about the details.’
‘I’m a fool but I have this terrible feeling that once you leave I shall never see you again.’
Silence fell between them like a sword, cutting off intimacy. The sun had set and the shadows were deepening. A chill breath of wind moved lightly over the land and the barn owl rose from his post with an unearthly cry. Melissa suddenly remembered that Geoffrey Chaucer had referred to this bird as a ‘prophet of woe and mischance’ and she shivered.
‘I’m sorry.’ Rob was remorseful, knowing that he had distressed her but never for a moment guessing that his prophecy was a true one. He wondered if he might have made her fear an accident on the way home—or some such thing—and cursed his clumsiness silently. How to repair the damage? ‘I had no idea that falling in love was so devastating. Take no notice of me.’ He laughed. ‘It’s rather humiliating, feeling like an adolescent at my age. Ready to go back?’
‘I think so.’ She rose to his mood, encouraging him. ‘Anyway, I’m getting hungry again.’
‘I should have guessed.’ He chuckled. ‘I must remember in future never to travel any distance from home without supplies of food.’ He stopped suddenly and she slithered to a halt beside him, clutching him. Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her tenderly. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘Just never forget it. You’re shivering again. What a wench! Always cold, always hungry.’
‘I love you too, Rob,’ she said. ‘This has been the best thing that ever happened to me. And just you never forget that, either. Promise?’
They stared at each other, serious, intent.
‘I won’t,’ he said gently. ‘I promise. Bless you. Come on, my love. Let’s go home.’
Maudie sat at the table, the tartan squares ranged before her. Months had passed since the packet had arrived from The Scotch House yet she seemed incapable of making up her mind: MacCallum Ancient, Hunting Fraser, Muted Blue Douglas, Muted Blue Dress Stewart. She liked the muted colours best, especially the Douglas, yet she was incapable of coming to a final decision. There was too much on her mind. Posy had telephoned earlier, sounding faintly anxious.
‘Dad phoned,’ she’d said, after a few preliminaries. ‘He’s coming down to see me.’
A pause.
‘Ah.’ Maudie had tried to be intelligent; to guess at Posy’s feelings. ‘Well, that’s very nice, isn’t it? He’s seen your house, hasn’t he?’
‘Mmm.’ Posy wasn’t giving too much away. ‘He and Mum came down to check it out.’ She still sounded faintly indignant about it, embarrassed by her parents looking over the accommodation. ‘As if I’m just a kid,’ she’d said crossly at the time. Maudie knew that Posy was fiercely protective about her personal life and tried to keep it separate from her home life. Knowing Selina’s propensity for publicly putting Posy in her place, Maudie was unable to blame her too much, nevertheless she also knew that Posy could be oversensitive about it.
‘Well, it should be fun,’ she’d said encouragingly. ‘You haven’t seen much of him lately and you can show him round. I thought you wanted the chance to make up for Christmas.’
‘I do. I just wondered if you’d, like, heard anything.’
‘If you mean has your mother phoned, the answer is yes, but only about Moorgate. I think it was last weekend. She’s still hoping to buy it but I’m afraid that I wasn’t very encouraging. Perhaps your father is hoping to sound you out about it. If your mother is pressing him he might feel that it’s a way to make restitution. He seems to have made himself generally unpopular and is maybe considering a way of making it up.’
‘I don’t want him to feel like that,’ Posy had mumbled. ‘Anyway, I’m not sure anything happened. Hugh says that he might have been helping Mary out and Mum got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘That’s very likely. So why not just accept that he’s coming to Winchester because he loves you and misses you. Does there have to be a hidden agenda?’
‘No.’ Her voice was none too certain. ‘He just sounded a bit odd, that’s all.’
‘Odd? How?’
‘He sounded … happy.’
She’d seemed so surprised, so mystified at such a manifestation, that Maudie had burst out laughing. ‘Poor Patrick,’ she’d gasped. ‘Poor, poor Patrick’—and Posy had become defensive.
‘I don’t mean it like that,’ she’d said. ‘He was more than just happy. There was something else … Perhaps you’re right and he thinks that agreeing to buy Moorgate would be exciting for all of us but, unless they sell up and move down, I think it would be awful. They can’t afford two houses.’
‘Well, between you and me, I’ve heard that I may have a buyer. Someone’s very interested, apparently, so keep your fingers crossed. It would certainly solve that particular problem.’
In the end, Posy had agreed that she must simply wait and see, and had gone off with Jude and Jo, ‘clubbing’ as she called it, leaving Maudie to brood. She had no wish to raise suspicion or alarm in Posy’s mind but the description of Patrick’s happiness puzzled her. Her conversation with Selina made her feel quite confident that Patrick had no intention of being party to buying Moorgate—so what else might make him so happy? Could it be that he’d taken up again with Mary? If so, why on earth should he want to tell Posy about it? He must know how she would react.
Maudie fiddled with the squares of wool, thoughtfully. She’d tried never to interfere with the decisions of her stepdaughters, though, when Hector was alive, it had never really been necessary. Selina had often sought his advice and Hector had never been averse to giving it.
‘You are so bossy and domineering,’ Maudie had told him once, during the early years of Selina’s marriage, when Patrick had announced that he was buying a new car and Hector had roundly told him that he couldn’t afford it. ‘How do you know what they can afford?’
‘Absolute madness,’ he’d snorted. ‘Utter extravagance. He should know better.’
‘I think he does,’ she’d answered coolly. ‘He’s trying to meet Selina’s need to keep up with her smart friends.’
He’d said nothing, shaking out The Times and retiring behind the sheets, but he’d been less outspoken after that, more tolerant towards Patrick, and there had been a generous contribution towards the car. Selina had been touchingly grateful—big hugs and a kiss, with a slyly triumphant glance at Maudie—whilst Hector had growled that it was an advance Christmas and birthday present for both of them.
Maudie thought: Why did everything have to be a contest? The trouble was that I was too outspoken. Neither Hector nor Selina was used to it. And now it’s too late. Despite my good intentions, Selina and I will never be friends. If only Hector hadn’t felt so guilty at the end. He apologised to Selina whenever he saw her and I feel that he regretted ever marrying me. But guilty or not, I’m sure he wouldn’t approve of Selina buying Moorgate as a holiday home.
She pushed the pieces of cloth aside and went to sit by the fire, pulling her knitting out of its bag, spreading it across her knees.
‘I absolutely agree,’ Daphne had said, recently. ‘It’s crazy. Financial suicide.’
‘I feel like an executioner,’ Maudie had said. ‘We’ve all had such happy times there, haven’t we?’
‘We can’t hold on to everything,’ Daphne had said firmly. ‘Part of what we remember is our youth. It’s like the people who can never forget the war because it was the happiest time of their lives. Generally it’s because they were young and those war years were their youth and because it was such an extreme n
othing could ever measure up to it afterwards. For Selina, Moorgate represents her childhood before Hilda died, before her life changed, but it would be ridiculous to attempt to recreate it. Selina needs her feet on a pavement. Do stop ferreting, Maudie. This isn’t like you at all. You’ve always been so pragmatic’
‘Not always,’ she’d answered reluctantly. ‘I’ve had my moments too, you know.’
‘Oh, Maudie.’ Daphne had begun to chuckle. ‘Do you remember when you emptied a jug of cold water over Hector’s head and he was so surprised he simply sat there, dripping?’
‘He was hectoring.’ Maudie was laughing too. ‘He could be so infuriating and I was hideously menopausal.’
‘His face! He looked so hurt and offended and we both shrieked with laughter.’
‘And he said, “I’m so pleased to have afforded you amusement…” all huffy …’
‘And you threw the kitchen towel at him and he threw it back in a fit of pique and got up and stomped out. And we simply cried with laughter and opened a bottle.’
‘And we were halfway through it when he came back and said “Where’s mine, then?” ’
There was a short silence.
‘He was rather an odd duck, wasn’t he?’ said Daphne unsteadily.
‘There was nothing mean-minded about Hector. I miss him, Daffers.’
‘You and me both, love. We had some good times. Don’t let Selina get you down …’
If only Ned Cruikshank’s client made a genuine offer she could accept it thankfully and put the whole thing out of her mind. Tomorrow was Friday, so perhaps he might telephone with good news before he left for London. Maudie counted her stitches carefully, settled herself comfortably and began to knit.
Moonlight poured its cold, white brilliance through the bedroom window—‘We can’t pull the curtain on a night like this,’ Melissa had protested—and laid black bars across the bare floorboards. Curled against the warmth of Rob’s back, Melissa dreamed fitfully. The house had come to life about her and she could hear voices: doors slammed and there were running footsteps on the stairs. The boy must have been almost outside the door. ‘Hurry up!’ He was impatient. ‘Miss Morrow helped with the picture but you’ll have to colour it in yourself The smaller child had reached the landing now. ‘I wish I could come to school.’ Her voice was wistful. ‘You will soon.’ The boy attempted comfort. ‘Do come on or Daddy will be back and it will spoil the surprise.’ In the small nursery room a baby began to cry and the boy swore softly. ‘Mummy’s coming,’ whispered the little girl. ‘Let’s hide the card …’
Melissa shivered, pulling the rug closer about her shoulders, and drifted back into sleep. A Christmas tree was standing at the back of the hall, beside the stairs, its lights twinkling like coloured gems in the twilight of the hall. A young woman came down the stairs behind it, holding a baby, and paused on a level with the highest branches so that the child might see the brightly coloured baubles. She murmured to it, her cheek against its tiny head, and then went on down the stairs and into the kitchen. The front door opened and a man came in, shutting the door behind him, smiling at the sight of the tree. ‘Hi, kids!’ His voice rang round the hall, echoing up the stairs. ‘I’m back.’ The girl came out from the kitchen and they hugged, whispering together—and Melissa, pressing close to Rob, smiled in her sleep.
Chapter Twenty-five
Selina stared at herself in the looking-glass. She felt panicky and very angry: even her own face looked unfamiliar to her. She leaned forward a little, studying her image more closely. When had the wrinkles formed? Those grooves which were scored between nose and lips; the discontented lines about the drooping mouth? There were shadows under her eyes and her hair needed restreaking. She was looking her age and was suddenly reminded of photographs of her mother—except that Hilda would have been smiling, always smiling: bravely, determinedly, brightly, even grimly—but always smiling.
Selina thought: Well, she had plenty to smile about. Daddy would never have been unfaithful to her and then abandoned her.
For the first time ever, a tinge of resentment crept into her memories of her mother. She’d always been loved, respected, bathed in her husband’s honours, lapped in comfort; why the hell shouldn’t she smile? Selina leaned both her elbows on the dressing table and sneered into the mirror. She’d perfected this look from an early age—she could date it exactly—from the moment Maudie had arrived on the scene. It was meant to be a look of utter contempt; of despising.
‘I’ve never known anyone,’ Posy had once cried furiously, ‘who can ruin a good time as quickly as you can!’
Oddly, Selina was able to remember the exact occasion. Chris had brought home his first really serious girlfriend for the weekend and Patrick had suggested that they should drive into Surrey on Sunday morning for a pub lunch. He knew a really good pub, he’d said, near Farnham, so they’d all piled into the car and driven out of London. It had been a bright sunny morning, Sue and Posy were getting along splendidly, Chris was clearly head over heels in love and Patrick was singing to himself as he drove. Why had she felt so irritable, so touchy? Was it Chris’s openly displayed adoration for the silly, simpering Sue? After all, she had always been first with Chris. He was her eldest child, her firstborn; Chris was special. All his life she’d been able to manipulate him by a word or even a look. Until now her happiness had been paramount, her comfort and wellbeing his first concern. This morning he was far more anxious about Sue; fussing about where she should sit, so that she could see out of the window, worrying in case she was too hot, quite foolishly bound up in the girl.
Even at this late date, Selina felt her irritation rising. He’d made an absolute fool of himself—and Patrick had been aiding and abetting him: admiring the girl’s long hair, teasing her a little, playing up to her. Of course, the girl had been loving every minute of it, bridling and simpering; even Posy had been taken with her—Selina shrugged at her reflection—not that she’d ever expected the least show of loyalty from Posy. Anyway, they’d found the pub at last and, of course, it was packed, heaving wall to wall with people. Patrick had grabbed the only empty table, which seated two, and had told her to sit down, so that at least they had somewhere to put their drinks.
‘We don’t mind standing for a bit, do we?’ Chris had been smiling into Sue’s eyes, leaving Selina to grind her teeth in fury, isolated at the table whilst Posy and Patrick fought their way to the bar. She’d stared coldly ahead, shrugging when Patrick had come back to ask her what she’d wanted to drink and to assure her that a table was about to be vacated which would seat them all.
‘Gin and tonic?’ he’d asked, still cheerful, enjoying the family outing. ‘Wine? A spritzer?’
‘No thanks.’ The sneer was coming into play. ‘Just an orange juice.’
‘Are you sure?’ He’d looked dismayed, his happiness fading a little. ‘We’ll get a table, honestly, darling. The food’s good.’
She looked about her, frowning at a group at the next table who were laughing loudly, shaking her head disgustedly at a dog who was lying beside another family. Her expression conveyed utter disbelief that he should have brought her to such a place. He’d turned, fighting his way back to the bar, and, out of the corner of her eye, she’d seen him exchange a few words with Posy who’d turned to look at her anxiously. She’d enjoyed the power, the ability to spoil their silly, selfish fun, to punish them for forgetting, even for a moment, to put her first. At last, when they’d got a table and were looking at the menus, Patrick had smiled at her hopefully, willing her to be happy.
‘Now, what shall we have?’ he’d asked, beaming at Sue, winking at Chris. ‘What would you like, darling?’
‘I’d like to be in a decent restaurant,’ she’d said icily, disdainfully, ‘with decent people. Can you explain to me, can you just tell me, what on earth made you think that I’d like a place like this?’
She could remember the reaction—Chris’s look of fear, Sue’s embarrassment, Patrick’s misery, Pos
y’s rage—and her own fierce elation, the sense of power. That’s when Posy had made her remark and the others had pretended to study their menus, trying to ignore it, but the day was ruined. Yes, she’d always enjoyed being able to subdue her family with a look but it was being borne in relentlessly upon her that soon there would be no one left to be impressed by that practised curl of the lip. The boys were already beyond her influence, their wives had seen to that, and Posy had never been truly cowed by it. Only Patrick had remained affected—until now. Now her power was going, she was losing control, and she was frightened; frightened and angry. She simply couldn’t believe that Patrick was serious. This was the most alarming development—that Patrick was utterly unaffected by her. He was unmoved by rage, by contempt, even by a more gentle approach. He remained remote and detached—and unbearably, infuriatingly happy.
‘I’ve given in my notice,’ he’d told her jubilantly, ‘and it’s been accepted. I have the feeling that perhaps I wasn’t so discreet as I might have been over Mary and they’re pleased to see me go without a fuss. If they can find a replacement I shall leave at Easter.’
‘Easter?’ She’d goggled at him, her fury at his casual mention of the little tart overborne by shock. ‘You’re leaving at Easter?’
‘Why not? Why wait? Don’t worry. I shall only take a few books and some clothes. Have you thought what you might do?’
‘Is it any of your business?’
‘Not really.’ He’d shrugged cheerfully. ‘I’m sure you’ll cope. I’m going down to see Posy on Friday. I guessed from my conversation with her that you haven’t told her that I’m leaving. Why not? You were quick enough to tell her that I was an adulterous bastard.’
She’d been speechless. This was a Patrick she’d never known and she had no idea how to handle the situation.
‘What should I tell her?’ she’d said contemptuously. ‘That you’ve found another little tart in Brecon?’
‘If you call people with learning disabilities “tarts” then I suppose that’s about the sum of it. You know exactly where I’m going, Selina, and why. You’ve looked through all my papers and I’ve made no secret of it.’
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