The Secrets of Winter

by Nicola Upson

  Christmas was less than a week away and the shops in Queensgate were busy, but the atmosphere was one of unhurried contentment, and she browsed for a while before heading for the post office. There was a long queue at the counter, and she cursed the friend in Suffolk whose card she had forgotten until an envelope with an Ipswich postmark landed smugly on the mat that morning. She took her place in line, and soon found herself standing awkwardly between the woman who ran her local paper shop and one of her father’s Castle Street tenants, whose name she couldn’t remember. ‘Are you at home for Christmas, Miss Tey?’ the newsagent asked, when there was nothing more to say about the weather.

  If there were half a dozen words more likely to stir guilt in the human heart, Josephine had yet to hear them. ‘Not this year,’ she said, conscious that the same answer would have applied to last Christmas and the Christmas before that. ‘I’m going to stay with a friend in Cornwall.’

  ‘My, that’s a long way to travel! You don’t do things by halves, do you? Would that be the same friend you went to America with last year?’

  ‘No, a different friend. I have more than one.’

  ‘Of course you do. You must bring them all home to meet us one of these days. So your father …’

  ‘Will be staying here, yes. My sisters are both coming up for the holidays.’ Josephine looked at her watch, surprised by how long she had been out. ‘In fact, Moire should be here by now. We thought it would be nice to spend a few days together before I have to leave.’ A summons from the counter saved her from any further conversation, and she bought her stamps and headed for home. Her brother-in-law’s car was standing in the driveway, its back seat piled with parcels, and she opened the front door onto a hallway which was scarcely recognisable as the one she had left an hour earlier. Rather than take her cases up to her room, Moire had begun to unpack at the bottom of the stairs, much to the frustration of the daily woman. The floor was littered with clothes, shoes and cosmetics. ‘Have the January sales started early?’ Josephine asked wryly. ‘This could give the ground floor of Benzie’s a run for its money.’

  Moire laughed and got up to give her older sister a hug. ‘You’ve run out of sherry,’ she said by way of greeting. ‘We bought you a bottle but I wrapped it in one of Donald’s pullovers to stop it getting broken, and now I can’t remember which bag it was in.’

  ‘There’s more sherry in the cupboard under the stairs. They delivered a case this morning but I haven’t had time to unpack it yet.’ She glanced round at the chaos and raised an eyebrow. ‘I put it in there so it wouldn’t make the place look untidy.’

  ‘Ha! Here it is.’ Moire waved the Tío Pepe triumphantly and began to shove everything else haphazardly back into the suitcases. ‘The house looks wonderful,’ she said, ‘but I wish you were staying for Christmas. We come home and you leave three days later. I could take that personally, you know. It’s been ages since we spent any decent time together.’

  She was right, but before Josephine could say anything her father popped his head round the sitting room door. ‘Ah, you’re back – good. Chief Inspector Penrose telephoned while you were out.’

  It amused Josephine that her father held the authority of Scotland Yard in such high regard that he could never quite bring himself to use a first name, even though she and Archie had been friends for more than twenty years. ‘Did he leave a message?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s about the arrangements for Christmas. He said he’d be at his desk for another half an hour, so you should just catch him if you ring now.’

  They left her to it, and she picked up the receiver to call Archie. She watched her family through the sitting room door while she waited to be connected, noticing how happy and animated her father seemed. They rattled around contentedly enough in a house that was far too big for two people, but there was no doubt that Crown Cottage had come to life the minute that Moire and Donald walked through the door. She felt a sudden pang of regret that she wouldn’t be part of it for longer. Her father wasn’t getting any younger, and with war more inevitable by the day and her middle sister now married to a naval officer, the opportunities for a family Christmas in the future might be few and far between. Moire’s words hadn’t been meant as a reproach, but the two of them had always been close; she, too, was sorry that their lives kept them apart except for snatched lunches in London, where Moire worked for the Gas Board, or the briefest of stays in Inverness.

  ‘Josephine, thanks for phoning so quickly.’ Archie’s voice cut into her thoughts before regret could turn to guilt, and the warmth in his tone reminded her of how much she was looking forward to seeing him. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a change of plan for the holidays.’

  ‘Why? Has something come up at work?’

  ‘Not exactly. How do you fancy spending Christmas in a castle?’

  They had arranged to stay on his family’s Cornish estate, and the question took her by surprise. ‘I suppose that depends on whether or not it’s got central heating,’ she said. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘On St Michael’s Mount, so we’d only be going a few miles further down the road. Have you got today’s Times?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Hang on.’ She put the phone down and went to the dining room, where her father had been reading the paper over breakfast. ‘All right, I’ve got it. What am I supposed to be looking for? Are you in the headlines again?’

  She heard him laugh, still embarrassed by the publicity surrounding a recent case that he had solved, bringing to justice a man who had brutally murdered his wife and three children. ‘You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?’

  ‘Probably not. You’re the only person I know who’s been in a newsreel.’

  ‘Well, that’s all over and done with now, thank God. Look at the main story on page six.’

  She did as he asked, finding the clue to what he meant in an article headed ‘Ingenious fundraising idea boosts Refugee appeal’, and Archie waited patiently while she read the whole piece:

  A recent Times advertisement has met with an unprecedented response, taking the total of The Lord Baldwin Fund for Refugees to £155,730. In Saturday’s newspaper, the Hon. Hilaria St Aubyn announced that she will be opening her family home at St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall to a limited number of guests for Christmas in order to raise money for this urgent and important cause. The Mount, which lies off the coast near Penzance and is accessed at low tide by a narrow causeway, is crowned by a medieval church and castle, rich in both history and legend, and the unique opportunity to spend Christmas in such a romantic setting has met with an extremely generous response. One reader alone – whose identity shall remain a secret for now – has pledged ten thousand pounds to the Fund, which was established by the former Prime Minister to bring thousands of Jewish children out of Nazi Germany and care for them in hostels and private homes. Miss St Aubyn, who is widely known for her charitable work, is said to be delighted by the success of the scheme and promises her guests a Christmas they will never forget.

  ‘It’s a marvellous idea,’ Josephine said, putting the newspaper down, ‘but isn’t it a bit out of our league? I can’t compete with ten thousand pounds, no matter how good the cause.’

  ‘You don’t have to. Hilaria’s an old friend of mine. We grew up together, and you’ve met her at a couple of parties in London.’

  ‘I thought I recognised the name. It’s not one that you forget in a hurry.’ Josephine tried to bring Hilaria St Aubyn to mind, and vaguely recalled a tall, graceful woman in her mid-forties who had talked about travel and music. ‘She’s a brave lady, opening up her home to the highest bidder. You never know who you might find at the other end of a cracker.’

  ‘Well, that’s rather the point,’ Archie said. ‘She telephoned last night to ask if I’d come for Christmas and bring some of what she called my “glamorous friends”. Apparently, it’s all been much more successful than she thought, and there’s one guest in particular whom she doesn’t want to disappoint.’


  ‘The one paying ten thousand pounds, presumably.’

  ‘Exactly. She never expected to have a donation from a celebrity, and now she’s worried that all the other guests will be dull by comparison. Rich, but dull. She was very excited when I suggested you and Marta.’

  ‘I suppose we should be flattered. Who is the celebrity?’

  Archie paused, and she found his reticence as annoying as the newspaper’s sly teasing. ‘I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but trust me – you won’t be disappointed. And Hilaria has asked me to stress that you’d be doing her an enormous favour and there’s no obligation to make a pledge – although I’m sure she won’t turn down a modest contribution. God knows this situation is only going to get worse. So how about it? Would you like to go?’

  Josephine hesitated. She had been looking forward to seeing the Loe Estate in winter, and the idea of a house full of strangers all striving to impress each other didn’t seem like much of a holiday, but Archie was obviously committed and she knew that Marta would love the prospect of something more adventurous. ‘All right, then,’ she agreed. ‘It sounds lovely. I’ll tell Marta that we’re expected to be at our sparkling best.’

  ‘Good. Hilaria will be thrilled, and it will be nice to spend some time there again. I haven’t been for years.’

  ‘Are we still going down on Christmas Eve?’

  ‘That’s the other thing I wanted to tell you. I’ve got to travel separately now to chaperone the celebrity.’

  ‘Is she really that famous? I’m assuming it’s a she. You’ve got that tone in your voice.’

  ‘Nonsense. But yes, Christmas Eve is fine. There’ll be a car to meet you at Marazion – or a boat, depending on when you arrive. The causeway’s only open for a few hours at a time.’

  ‘Cut off from the world at Christmas. Right now, that might actually be worth ten thousand pounds.’ She recalled the intriguing silhouette of St Michael’s Mount that she had seen from the train, never imagining that she might stay there, and began to share a little of Archie’s excitement.

  ‘I’m glad you’re pleased,’ he said. ‘How are things in Inverness? Your father sounded well when I spoke to him.’

  ‘Yes, he is, and the baby of the family’s just arrived, so that’s made his day.’ As if on cue, Moire hovered awkwardly in the doorway with two glasses of sherry, and Josephine waved her through. ‘Are you busy at work?’

  ‘Too busy. It’s the usual season of peace and goodwill to all men. A woman’s just cut her husband’s throat in Ealing. Three little girls have been taken into care, covered in bruises and half starved. We dragged a man out of the Thames last night because he couldn’t pay his debts and he didn’t want to go home to his family without a present for them.’ His voice sounded bitter, and Josephine wondered for the thousandth time how he coped with the relentless sadness of his job. ‘I was thinking just now, before you rang – I can’t remember a Christmas that wasn’t more steeped in misery than the rest of the year. It drives people to do the most terrible things to each other, this pressure to be happy. And on that note … I’ll see you in Cornwall. Give my love to Marta.’

  ‘I will.’

  She put the phone down, and Moire smiled at her. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt,’ she said coyly.

  ‘You weren’t.’

  ‘How is your policeman?’ Josephine didn’t dignify the question with a response, but Moire carried on undeterred. ‘I really don’t know why the two of you have to keep dancing round each other. You’ve been so close for years, and neither of you is getting any younger. He’s a nice man, you say, and you could do a lot worse. Why don’t you just throw your lot in with him, Josephine? We’ll sort something out for Dad.’

  There were a hundred and one reasons why, but Josephine wasn’t about to explain them to her sister. ‘We’re friends,’ she said, and nodded to the small, gift-wrapped box in Moire’s hand to change the subject. ‘What did you get her this year?’

  ‘A brooch. And you?’

  ‘A ring. I found it in a market in London. She would have loved it.’ Josephine watched while her sister put the present under the tree at the bottom of the stairs. It was a ritual that had begun the Christmas after her mother’s death and continued ever since, a personal act of remembrance that was special to the two of them and jealously guarded. Funny, she thought, that only Christmas could bring out this uncharacteristic streak of sentimentality, when her mother – like many Scottish women of her generation – had never made much fuss of the day. Whenever Josephine thought of her, it was always summer, and she was striding across the sands at Nairn or playing with her daughters in Daviot, the village they all loved. Winter had never really suited her, and yet here they were, she and Moire, buying her presents and crying into their sherry.

  ‘I can’t believe she’s been gone fifteen years,’ Moire said.

  ‘No, neither can I.’ She squeezed her sister’s hand and raised her glass. ‘Happy Christmas.’

  2

  Hilaria St Aubyn sat at the window in her father’s study, going through the final preparations for Christmas before discussing the arrangements with her housekeeper. It was contrary of her in a home this size to gravitate so often to one of the smallest rooms, but she loved everything about it: the oak-panelled walls and family portraits that acknowledged her long connection with the Mount; the old partner’s desk, from which she ran the estate business, taking over new duties each year as her father grew older and more frail; the chair where she sat most evenings, watching the sun setting over the sea and loving the sense of peace and satisfaction from another day safely navigated.

  The habitual winter traditions seemed more poignant than ever this year, coloured by the knowledge that this might be her last Christmas here. Her father was in his eighties now, and the grief of losing two much-loved wives in the space of a few years had damaged his health; when he died, his title and the island would pass to Hilaria’s cousin, and she would be forced to leave the life that had been hers since she was a girl. There was little point in resenting the laws of inheritance, still less in being sentimental about a home she had loved from the moment she arrived, but she couldn’t help the fear that came with knowing that her sense of purpose would be lost along with the right to be here. Like her parents, she felt responsible for those who lived and worked on the Mount; hers wasn’t the only family to have been here for generations, and she loved and respected the islanders for their loyalty and pride; she had hoped to see them through the difficult years ahead, but it was unlikely that she would see out another war here. As her inevitable departure from the Mount grew closer, she found herself increasingly sensitive to the changing seasons and the markers of an island year, acutely aware that it might be the last time she would oversee the daffodil harvest or bathe off the rocks at Cromwell’s Passage; the last time she would come home and feel that overwhelming flood of love as the castle came into view. And now, perhaps, the last Christmas, its joy half stifled by uncertainty. This must, she thought, be exactly how it felt to know you were dying.

  There was a knock at the door, just as the grandfather clock in the corner prepared to strike the hour, and she smiled at Nora Pendean, glad to be saved from her thoughts. ‘The drawing room looks magnificent,’ she said, gesturing for the housekeeper to sit down at the other side of the desk. ‘Every year I think the tree can’t get any better, and every year you prove me wrong.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re happy, Miss,’ Nora said. ‘Everyone’s looking forward to tomorrow. The children are starting to get excited now.’

  ‘Good. Actually, I think we all deserve a bit of excitement with everything that’s going on in the world. Who knows where we’ll be this time next year?’ The housekeeper nodded and they talked through the arrangements for the islanders’ Christmas party, which would be held the following day. It was an annual tradition, going back as long as Hilaria could remember – presents for the children in the afternoon, followed by an early supper at the castle and a con
cert with music and carols down in the village – and, if she was honest, she enjoyed it more than the more formal celebrations on Christmas Day. ‘As you know, we’re doing things differently this year,’ she said. ‘There’ll be twelve guests for the Christmas weekend, including a photographer from The Times, and they should all be here by teatime on Christmas Eve. Most of them are strangers to the Mount, so it’s important that we put them at their ease from the moment they arrive, whilst offering them every possible luxury. None of them will be bringing staff, so here’s a list of the ladies who’ll need looking after.’ She pushed the piece of paper across the desk, waiting for the surprise to register on the housekeeper’s face when she read the name at the top, but her reaction was not the one that Hilaria had anticipated. ‘Is there a problem, Mrs Pendean?’

  ‘Not at all, Miss. I’ll make sure they’ve got everything they need.’

  ‘Of course you will, but I thought you might show a little more enthusiasm for the task? It’s not every day we have a film star for dinner.’ She waited, determined to have an explanation for the housekeeper’s apparent disapproval. ‘Well? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t want to speak out of turn, Miss.’

  ‘Please, Mrs Pendean, just say what you feel.’

  ‘All right, then. It’s nothing to do with her being a film star, Miss, it’s where she comes from. You said it yourself – with everything that’s going on in the world, I’m not sure the staff will take too kindly to waiting on a German.’

  Her boldness surprised Hilaria even more than the sentiment, but it was a common reaction and she wondered in hindsight why she had never considered it. ‘Can I remind you, Mrs Pendean, that the poor children we’re raising money for are also Germans? There are plenty of people in that country who are just as horrified by what’s going on there as we are – more so, perhaps, because it’s their homeland. I hope I can rely on you all to treat every guest in this house with courtesy and respect, no matter where he or she comes from?’