A Winter's Child

by Brenda Jagger

  In fact she played quite well when she could be bothered to put her mind to it, a fast chancy game which was no match, as she had expected, for his deadly accurate calculations.

  ‘Benedict, I don’t even understand what you’re doing, much less how to stop you. If you ask me to play chess next I shall go home.’

  ‘I don’t think I shall do that. I’m very good at chess.’

  ‘Yes – it did occur to me that you would be.’

  He glanced down at the board and then, with his dry smile, looked full into her face, his expression speculative, amused, not at all sorry to see that she had not the slightest chance of defeating him.

  ‘Why take so many risks, Claire? Do you enjoy them?’

  ‘Heavens no. I don’t even think about them. It’s only a game.’

  ‘Games, my dear, are to be won.’

  ‘I dare say. I can’t seem to take them seriously, that’s all.’

  ‘You should.’ And he was no longer, perhaps had never been, talking of backgammon.

  ‘To leave oneself so wide open – dear Claire – amounts to an invitation to be taken advantage of – imposed upon. Don’t you see that?’

  She smiled. ‘Oh – well – but at least I do know when people are taking advantage of me.’

  ‘And you are good-natured enough to-let it happen.’

  ‘Good nature – or laziness perhaps. Most of the time I don’t really mind, you see.’

  ‘You’re not hard enough, Claire.’

  ‘I know. I should have thought you’d be glad.’

  ‘Of course. It pleases me very well.’

  The pattern, therefore, was fixed. Two or three times a week through November and December he would drive her to Thornwick where, after whatever civilized preliminaries he had devised in the way of food and wine, teaching her chess, listening to music she found too difficult for pleasure, he would make love to her, enjoying her body to the full extent of their shared capacity and then, for a silent, hostile quarter of an hour, he would turn his back to her until whatever troubled him had passed away. He was older than the other men she had known, his experience infinitely more varied, his patience – since he was patient in nothing else – amazing and moving her sometimes more than she thought wise. Each time she left his bed it was with a sense of every nerve deeply at rest, every muscle purring with content. And her body would hum sometimes for hours afterwards like a finely-strung instrument replete with remembered harmony.

  She had never experienced so much unmixed sensation. Yet, beyond his ability to thrill and explode her senses into the kind of orgasm which had somehow never taken place in her past experience of young bodies in cramped and hurried conditions, thinking more of loving and parting than of satisfied desire, she seemed no nearer the truth of him than before. She continued to enter his world at times of his choosing, a clandestine, entirely sensual relationship between accommodating mistress and powerful lover which, had she not been the mistress in question, she would have declared distinctly old-fashioned.

  And she was not the stuff of which good, old-fashioned mistresses were made. She spent many a long hour pondering that. She needed friendship and partnership from a man. His confidence a certain amount of laughter, above all frankness. The relationship, she knew, with a wry shaking of her head had to be waiting for her with Kit Hardie. And Benedict, apart from an occasional flash of dry humour, gave her none of those things.

  Yet she was still curious about him. Sometimes she could readily admit his fascination. Sometimes she could go further still and acknowledge both the physical hold he had established over her and her own perverse delight in surrendering to it. She had detested, more than anything in her life, her mother’s complete surrender to Edward. With Jeremy and Paul the question had never arisen. But if she had inherited enough of her mother’s nature to enjoy being what amounted to the plaything of a man like Benedict, then she would just have to come to terms with it and keep it under control.

  She continued to see him because she wanted to see him. It was no longer either simple or straightforward. It puzzled her a great deal, often alarmed her, yet it persisted. And, as December brought its rush of seasonal business to the Crown, obliging her to work longer and later, she soon found herself living her life, not for the first time, frantically and against the clock.

  ‘Are you free tomorrow?’ Benedict’s voice would ask, sounding curt on the telephone.

  ‘I should be. It’s supposed to be my night off.’

  ‘Eight o’clock then.’

  ‘Fine. Oh Lord – just a minute – perhaps we’d better say nine. It gives me time to change.’

  But nine o’clock, more often than not, would find her racing like a hare through the back door of the hotel, shrugging on her coat as she ran, her feet and her stomach aching, having eaten nothing all day, in the midst of rich food, but whatever she had been able to snatch on the wing. Late, of course, however fast she ran; and still in her working clothes, either her daytime uniform of narrow dark grey dress with its white collar or the long net shift covered with jet beads she wore in the evenings, both of which Benedict detested.

  ‘I see you decided not to change.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ And she was always irritated by her own apology. ‘I’ve had no time even to wash my face – which makes me bold enough to beg the use of your gorgeous bath.’

  ‘Of course. Can you stay the night?’

  This, for reasons she was uncertain, was the one request she would never grant. It would have been easier, of course, particularly for Benedict, had she been willing to stay. It did not please him, she knew, to get up from a warm bed in the middle of a winter night to drive her to Mannheim Crescent, particularly when there was no real need for her to go there. Yet she resisted his attempts to keep her at Thornwick as firmly as Miriam’s hints about the spare bedrooms at High Meadows. She had a room of her own, a cherished measure of independence, and so long as her dresses and shoes remained in her own wardrobe, not a change of clothes here, a change of clothes there, she felt far more certain of keeping it.

  And so she made excuses.

  ‘Oh no – I have to be in early tomorrow. We have sixty-four for lunch and then a Townswomen’s Guild Christmas Tea-party…’

  ‘Splendid. I’m flattered you found the time to see me at all. And you’ll want to be home early, I suppose, to get a good night’s rest.’

  He was not accustomed, it seemed, to working women. But she had been crossing swords all her life, here and there, with autocratic men.

  ‘Well – yes,’ she said, as sweet and innocent as Euan Ash, ‘but if I had a husband, of course, then you would have to take me home even earlier still.’

  A pause. And then his quick, dry smile.

  ‘Touche,’ he said.

  But, once at Thornwick, lonely miles from anywhere with no transport of her own, no telephone, she was very much at his disposal. And quite often when she had finally cajoled him or teased him or had allowed him to condescend to take her back to Mannheim Crescent, it would be so late that, with the prospect of that Townswomen’s Guild Teaparty looming before her, a silver wedding dinner-dance, a coming of age, the very private little parties which taxed the limits of everybody’s discretion, given by Arnold Crozier in the Tangerine Suite, the eternal racket of the Cocktail Bar, she could look forward to no more than four or five hours sleep.

  ‘This impermanent relationship of yours,’ Euan told her, ‘is doing you no good.’

  ‘That’s my business. Not yours.’

  ‘I absolutely agree. I suppose you know you’ve got dark shadows under your eyes?’

  ‘Will you leave me alone?’

  ‘I only mention it because Kit is bound to notice. And apart from the fact that the customers won’t like it, he’ll know, won’t he – perhaps a bit too well – just how one gets that kind of washed-out, wrung-out look.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with him either,’ she snarled, gritting her teeth.

  ‘He won�
�t think so.’

  ‘Then why the hell doesn’t he do something about it?’ Passionately, desperately, – from time to time – she wished he would.

  ‘Oh I see.’ Euan’s face flooded with his honeyed mischief. ‘You want rescuing, do you? Well then, my darling, if Kit’s too busy at the moment – what with the Christmas rush and his Viennese tart – I’d be only too pleased …’

  She banged the door very loud as she went out into the street, marched to the Crown looking as if she meant to burn it down, glared at dapper Mr Clarence at his front desk, who, being by no means averse to glares since at least they meant ‘notice‘, mildly said, ‘You’ve only got one glove. And the Major was looking for you – half an hour ago.’

  Damnation! But when she hurried to Kit’s office it was to find him well rested and well content, wanting neither to reprimand her for lateness nor to accuse her of breaking promises he had not yet asked her to keep, but simply to share with her the pleasure of his November audit, his financial forecast for December, his growing freedom from those long, cold interviews with the Croziers now that he had a credit balance to show them.

  ‘Just look at that.’ And sitting her down at his desk, he spread the figures before her. ‘I’ll say this to you, Claire, and to no one else, certainly not the Croziers. It’s better than I expected. A damned sight better.’

  She studied the balance sheet for a moment, not understanding it but wanting to invest the moment with as much importance as she could, to give him the full measure of appreciation which she knew he deserved.

  ‘Kit – this is wonderful.’ And although the meticulous columns of figures swam meaninglessly before her eyes what she saw was his unflagging energy, his cheerful despotism, his flair; her voice sounding deeply impressed because the man himself, rather than his neatly penned arithmetic, impressed her.

  ‘Yes – although I say it as shouldn’t – so it is. Bernard Crozier went away happy and even Arnold managed to smile.’

  ‘Did you ever doubt it, Kit?’

  ‘Christ yes – all the time.’

  ‘I didn’t. You said it was sure to be all right and I believed you – which goes to prove –’

  ‘What a good liar I am?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t say that. What a good leader.’

  ‘You’re flattering me.’

  ‘Of course. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘I’m not complaining.’

  ‘I’m just so glad for you, Kit.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I thought we’d open a bottle of champagne.’

  ‘For breakfast-?’

  ‘Of course – with a few other little things.’

  A beaming Gerard wheeled the breakfast trolley into the room, champagne in a silver bucket, the tall crystal glasses reserved for Arnold Crozier’s private suppers, plates of smoked salmon with eggs poached in cream and butter, hot croissants, French bread from the Kellers’oven. Amandine’s apricot preserve, clover honey, a pastry rich with almonds and cinnamon and icing sugar.

  ‘What fun,’ she said weakly, her stomach still heavy with Mrs Mayhew’s steak and kidney pie, eaten in haste very late the night before, her head still aching from the white wine she had gulped rather than tasted in order to keep pace with Benedict who, preferring claret, had opened the Vouvray specially for her. And now, at half past eight in the morning, on top of her undigested dinner, her uneasy breakfast – only twenty minutes ago – of burned toast and black coffee, she was being asked to drink champagne.

  ‘Here’s to the Crown.’

  She desired with her whole heart to drink to that.

  ‘To the Crown.’

  ‘And to you, Claire.’

  He had not said ‘To us’ but, just the same, as her stomach mustered its resources to meet this fresh onslaught of cream and spices and wine, her smile flickered uncertainly, went out for a moment to be swiftly rekindled, and she lowered her eyes.

  It was a reaction she experienced often enough that winter at High Meadows, an uneasy blend of apprehension and unreality, of looking through a veil as she watched Benedict, on those interminable ‘family Sundays’, take his place at the head of the table, detached, aloof, contributing nothing to the conversation but an occasional sarcasm, a hint that of those present somebody had been found out in something; retiring to his study afterwards where, sooner or later, the ‘guilty party’would be sent for to make whatever defence they could.

  ‘Poor Toby,’ drawled Nola, smiling at Toby’s pallor as he emerged from judgement on one such occasion, his hand visibly trembling, tears so near his eyes that he went out into the garden and stood for a long time in a bitter wind. Or ‘Poor Eunice. I suppose you’ve heard that they’ve sent her darling Justin home from school because they found him in bed with one of their chambermaids?’ or ‘Poor Polly. She wouldn’t take it from me that Roy Kington is a fortune hunter. Let’s see how she takes it from Benedict.’

  And Claire, sitting quietly, her apparently tranquil hands folded in her lap, her glossy dark head turning obediently wherever it was directed to look, would give that brief, flickering smile.

  Yet what cause had she to feel guilty about Nola who, still obsessed by sculpture in the shape of her hollow-eyed, almost cadaverous lover, could think of nothing but escaping to be with him in Leeds where, unable to settle in the larger and far more comfortable studio she had found him in Faxby, he had sullenly returned. She had arranged an autumn exhibition for him in Manchester, had taken him to London to consult a specialist about his weak lungs, had spent three nights with him, on some flimsy pretext or other, in a cottage in Ambleside which she had loathed but had suffered gladly, having been told that fresh air was good for him. She wrote notes to him every morning, whether she expected to see him that day or not, and letters on violet-coloured paper about him to other people, acquaintances who might buy his work, art critics who might review it, the owners of galleries from Edinburgh to New York who might one day be grateful to her for drawing him to their attention. And even on those tense and often morbid family Sundays she survived his absence by lounging, in her long sage green or dull purple dresses, on Miriam’s sofa, a sequined turban wrapped around her head, smoking Turkish cigarettes and stroking the pages of an album containing photographs of his work.

  She had made him her sole occupation. Claire was only too well aware of it. Guilt, therefore – in theory – was unnecessary, irrelevant even with regard to Nola. Yet, in practice, she found it to be quite different, her logic and sophistication easily giving way before the simple teaching of her childhood that one did not steal another woman’s husband, particularly a woman of whom, in a very odd and annoying fashion, one happened to be fond. And she was fond of Nola. Nor could Dorothy Lyall’s daughter fail to be acquainted with the double standard of her mother’s world which, while utterly condemning her for ‘carrying on’with Benedict would, in the same breath, congratulate him for seducing her. She did not believe in that double standard. But Dorothy believed it. And she had an uneasy suspicion that Nola, beneath all her avante-garde posturings, believed it too.

  Yet, one thought could still console her. It was to be such an impermanent relationship after all, so very unlikely – like the war – to last beyond Christmas that surely, with care, the risk was not too great.

  The Sunday before Christmas almost proved her wrong. Interminable ‘family Sunday’. Her only free day of the week claimed by Miriam, a claim much reduced, almost broken by her first months at the Crown and then calmly renewed by Benedict. She had once been expected at High Meadows on Sunday afternoons. ‘Keep some clothes here, dear, so you can change for dinner. You shall have the blue chintz room, and I shall put a little china nameplate on the door like Polly’s. “Claire’s Room”.’ Instantly, the alarm bells Miriam touched off so easily in Claire’s ears had sounded. Once her name went on that door, her clothes in the wardrobe, a spare set of brushes on the dressing table, what next? And she had managed with great skill and not a little embarrassment, to delay he
r arrival until dinner-time.

  ‘What do you do on winter Sunday afternoons?’ Benedict had asked her.

  ‘Recently I stay in bed.’

  ‘Then come and stay in mine.’

  ‘How can you get away?’

  ‘My dear – by the simple process of walking through the door.’ How wonderful, she thought, how lordly, was such simplicity. How rare.

  ‘I go to the office on Sundays,’ he said, ‘or so one supposes – often enough to arouse no suspicions. I take the car, Sunday being Parker’s day off. Therefore, since I am at the office anyway, it would seem practical and obvious – to all concerned – to collect you on my way home. If you appear with me at seven o’clock in evening dress who is to say that I didn’t? All you have to do is bring a change of clothes to Thornwick, whereas I – having been hard at work all day – can have no scruples about keeping everybody waiting for dinner while I change at home. Quite simple.’

  ‘Are you much troubled by scruples, Benedict?’

  ‘Oh – I think I can safely leave such worries to you.’

  And because he had made it sound like an adventure, an extension rather than a curtailment of her freedom, she had agreed.

  The first time it had worked smoothly. The second time Euan, seeing her leaving the house with a small bag, had called out ‘Have fun’. The third time, twenty minutes before Benedict’s car was due in the back lane, another car, small and asthmatic, jerked to a halt at the front gate and Nola got out, standing for a moment posing beside the little vehicle, overpowering it almost in her long nutria coat and her skull-cap of palegrey feathers designed for a Russian ballet swan, the wind making floating banners of the various chiffon scarves around her neck. But, as she walked into the flat, her eyes were too full of her own images and urgencies to notice either the telltale bag with Claire’s gold evening sandals and black crepe de Chine dress folded ready beside it, nor Claire’s embarrassment.