A Winter's Child

by Brenda Jagger

  ‘And you don’t worship me for that?’

  She smiled at him again, thinking about Time. ‘I don’t know. Shall we go up to Thornwick after dinner and see? If you want me, that is?’

  ‘Of course I want you.’

  He had no need to touch her. They sat, their chairs well apart, and smiled at each other, acknowledging what had become a simple fact.

  ‘Should you really offer yourself so freely, Claire?’

  ‘I suppose not. I ought to be mean and coy and make you run after me – which I expect you would.’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘So why pretend to run in the first place? Isn’t it just a waste of time?’

  ‘Is there so much need for hurry?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘There is. Always. When you’re lucky enough to find something you want – and it is luck, because you can go on for ages and ages without managing to want anything – then you take it. You jump at it. Now. Today. The world may be over tomorrow.’

  ‘My dear – I doubt that.’

  ‘Don’t ever doubt it. It ends for somebody every day.’

  He smiled, quite gently. ‘Yes, Claire. I know. The philosophy of the returned soldier. Then we’ll go up to Thornwick, shall we, after dinner – if we can get away early enough?’

  No difficulties were put in their way, both Eunice and Polly being concerned only with their separate determination to monopolize the telephone, Eunice in an attempt to locate her eldest son, Polly to keep the line clear for Roy Kington who had promised to call her. While Miriam, who might have put in a bid of her own for Claire’s time, seemed wholly distracted by Eunice’s constant departures from the dinner-table – ‘I’ve just thought of something. He’s friendly with the Cartwright boys. I’ll give them a ring’ – bringing a wail of protest from Polly – ‘Mother – she’ll gossip for ages and it’s not her telephone. Tell her, mother!’ – followed, when Miriam failed to oblige, by a sullen ‘The little beast is probably down at the police station – or in the river’.

  ‘How dare you talk about Justin like that,’ shrieked Eunice – from the hall, the telephone still-in her-hand.

  ‘Because it’s true.’ Polly could shriek even louder. ‘And you think so yourself. Why else are you making such a fuss?’

  ‘Girls – girls,’ murmured Miriam, glancing hopefully at Benedict who appeared to have noticed nothing amiss.

  ‘Downright rudeness,’ said Eunice, coming back to the table flushing scarlet, ‘that’s what it is. And I don’t see why I should put up with it, mother, from a girl her age.’

  ‘Mother!’ This time Polly, hearing what she thought might be a bell, had dashed into the hall, ‘Mother-now see what the silly bitch has done. She’s left the telephone off the hook, that’s all-’

  ‘How dare you call me that,’ gasped Eunice, jumping to her feet.

  ‘You did it on purpose so he couldn’t get through,’ hissed Polly. ‘You wanted to spoil my fun because you never get any of your own.’

  ‘Ladies – please,’ said Toby nervously.

  ‘I think,’ sighed Miriam, ‘that I will take my coffee upstairs.’

  The dessert over, she tiptoed off to bed, looking fragile, leaving Polly and Eunice glowering at each other as they circled the telephone, Polly willing it to ring, Eunice waiting her chance to seize it and put through another call, Toby keeping his distance, apparently engrossed in yesterday’s copy of The Times.

  ‘Shall I take you home?’ said Benedict.

  ‘Oh – yes please,’ said Claire.

  No one watched them go. Not even Miriam’s bedroom curtains twitched as they drove away. The night was fine, star-lit, so clear that one could see for miles, had one desired to do so, from the brow of Thornwick Hill. The farmhouse, in the springtime, had a different fragrance, crocus scents, open window scents instead of the woodsmoke and beeswax and hyacinths of the winter. And standing before the great stone hearth she put her arms around him before she had even taken off her coat, her cheek pressed against his, and held him for a long, uncomplicated, friendly moment.

  ‘Let’s not think too deeply about it yet, Benedict. I know we’ll have to start talking about right and wrong and how long it can last. But not now. Let’s just live it now. Then we’ve got it. And it can’t be taken away. Let’s just be happy about it – put into it as much as we can.’

  He smiled, his arms tightening around her, ‘I know. Before the bombs start to fall.’

  Her body had missed him. He had been very far from celibate yet her welcome enchanted his senses, precipitating them both very quickly into pleasure, after which she kept her arms around him, holding him fast.

  Having made up her mind to live for the moment, to snatch it and savour it and be grateful – very grateful – for as much as it gave her, she was happy and told him so.

  ‘And have you madly fallen in love with me again?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She snuggled against him, giddy with love and pleasure, able to say anything, to be as outrageous as she chose. ‘Tell me about your first girl, Benedict.’

  ‘Claire-for Heaven’s sake.’ But he was smiling.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because gentlemen don’t tell about such things.’

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter. It must have been so long ago. And it hardly seems fair, since ladies are entitled to tell as much as they like. How old were you?’

  ‘Sixteen, I think.’

  ‘Shameful. Don’t let me hear you say another word about Eunice’s Justin. And she?’

  ‘About twice that age.’

  ‘My word – how thrilling.’

  ‘Yes, she was. A schoolmistress of independent manners and advanced views. Eccentric, I suppose. Unpredictable. Very beautiful.’

  ‘If you are trying to make me jealous then – yes, you are doing it very well.’

  ‘I am simply answering your question.’

  ‘What did you do next?’

  ‘I travelled a little, for the firm, and one makes acquaintances on the road. And then I had a long flirtation with Elvira Redfearn and almost got engaged to her.’

  ‘I’m not too keen to hear about that.’

  ‘Why not?’ His dark eyes were frankly teasing her. ‘There’s nothing in it to distress you. And it was you after all who started me talking. In the end my father decided against it.’

  ‘Benedict!’ She sat up straight in her astonishment. ‘I can’t imagine you allowing anyone – not even your father – to decide a thing like that.’

  ‘You didn’t know me when I was twenty-five.’

  Looking down at him, his head still leaning against the pillows, she brushed a finger-tip against his lean, slightly hollow cheek, his long mouth, the arch of his brows which she had once thought supercilious, the Roman curve of his nose.

  ‘No I didn’t know you then. I wish I had. How were you?’ He caught her hand and held it a moment, the texture of their conversation becoming denser, rather deeper than either of them had wanted.

  ‘I was short of cash. That’s what I remember mainly about being twenty-five. A deliberate policy on my father’s part, of course. A traditional policy, as a matter of fact, in this area. How else can any self-respecting millmaster work his son as hard as millmasters hereabouts have always tended to do, unless he keeps him short of ready money? A young man with a pound or two in his pocket might not be so ready to get up at half past five every morning. And he might not do just as he’s told in other ways either.’

  ‘You mean he might not let his father choose him a wife?’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid that’s just what I mean. It may not be the right moment to talk about it. And it’s certainly not the right place – but – since we’ve approached it so closely –?’

  ‘All right. I don’t mind.’

  ‘When I was twenty-five it was decided that I needed a wife. When one attains a certain position in life it is just as well to be married. One looks askance at bachelors, particularly in small provincial towns. They
arouse too much speculation. My arrangement with my father was that on my wedding day I would become a director of the Mills – in effect to receive official recognition for the job I had been doing for years. I was also to be paid a reasonable salary. And Elvira Redfeam had a certain amount of capital. So had Nola. My father decided that the Crozier warehouses and construction companies and their reputation in the wool trade far outweighed the Redfearn chain of hardware stores. I was in no position to disagree.’

  ‘You didn’t mind?’

  ‘I had known Elvira for a long time. Nola was a very recent acquaintance and because of that I may have found her the more attractive of the two. To be honest, she rather reminded me of the schoolmistress I just told you about – or rather as I thought my schoolmistress might have been as a girl. Unusual. No one’s idea of pretty. Unco-ordinated. But then, in my schoolmistress’s case, when she’d pieced herself together, “unco-ordinated” had turned out to be “original”, “exciting”. Well – in our case, Nola’s and mine, it didn’t. But, having said all that, I feel obliged to confess that what really mattered to me at the time was the authority I’d be acquiring in the business, and the money. If my father had withdrawn his offer then I would certainly have withdrawn mine.’

  She released his hand and brushed the tips of her fingers once again across his face.

  ‘I’m twenty-five now, Benedict – or very nearly.’

  ‘I know. I’m forty. So this really is ridiculous –’

  ‘Yes. Quite ridiculous. Because I am jealous.’

  ‘Of what – for God’s sake?’

  ‘Original, unusual women. All of them. Because I’m not.’

  ‘Claire,’ he said, his voice only just neutral, ‘I have never met anyone even remotely like you – never.’

  She slid down on top of him and kissed him for a long time, her hands on either side of his head, the length of her body curving against his in a gentle, supple, loving line, until his arms came around her, imprisoning her with such unrelenting strength that she was finally obliged to cry out ‘Darling – you’re hurting me.’ And even then he did not let her go.

  ‘Of course I’m hurting you. I’m bound to hurt you, aren’t I, one way or another. How can I avoid it now? You should have disliked me when I gave you the opportunity. You should have seen the sense to it – as I did.’

  ‘Yes – flirting with abominable Lois, and those insulting flowers the next morning.’

  ‘I’ve done more than flirt with Lois, you know.’

  ‘You’re boasting again.’

  ‘No. I’m making it plain to you that I tried – for your sake, not mine – to convince you that I wasn’t a man you could possibly care for. Your sake. Because what have I to lose? Nothing. And everything to gain. I want you with me, Claire. I know how to keep you. I have only to exploit your sweetness and your generosity and I think you’d stay with me for a very long time. Permanently, in fact – and in the blue chintz room too if it seemed most convenient, as it probably would. Make no mistake about it, Claire. That’s what I want. The first time I realized it I drove off and left you in the snow. I wasn’t abandoning you that night. I was saving you, from yourself-not from me. But you wouldn’t be saved would you? You did the generous thing – the original thing. And I couldn’t resist. I lost the will to resist – until the next morning when I made the best use I could of Lois and Edwina. I hurt you deliberately and I didn’t find it easy. I probably won’t find it any easier when I have to do it again.’

  ‘We agreed not to go too deep – not yet.’

  ‘One seizes the moment. You, of all people, must know that. And you don’t really want to end your days in the blue chintz room, do you Claire? I have nothing to offer you but that. At the moment I can still see how wrong it would be to impose such a future upon you. I may, eventually, lose sight of that.’

  ‘Not now, Benedict – please.’

  ‘No. Can you stay the night?’

  ‘I shouldn’t.’

  ‘That means you can. And when you see your employer tomorrow tell him you need a holiday – a fortnight starting not later than Monday next. He owes you that.’

  She sat up again. ‘Are we going away together?’

  ‘Yes. Shall I take you to France? No, no, don’t wrinkle your nose. I’m not talking about the grand tour of the battlefields. I thought you might like to see where the Vouvray comes from.’

  She clasped her hands around her knees, excited and apprehensive as a child at Christmas.

  ‘Oh yes. Yes please. Could we manage it?’

  ‘Of course. We have only to meet in London and then travel home to Faxby on separate trains. A reasonable amount of discretion covers the rest. I shall probably leave a day or two before you and stay in London a day or so longer. Quite simple.’

  ‘So simple that I am bound to think you have done it all before.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Oh – naturally.’

  They smiled at one another as they had done at the beginning of the evening, acknowledging a closeness which had nothing to do with touch.

  ‘But not to Vouvray. The Edwinas and Elviras of my life have always preferred Paris or Cannes.’

  Two weeks in France. The prospect shone before her like a guttering prize, filling her with the total, unmixed longing of childhood. And, as children feel, it seemed to her that if she could just get to it, touch it, have it, then she would be content. Nothing must stand in her way. She would give up anything for it and count her losses afterwards. And, sensing this, Kit Hardie bowed graciously to her demands. She had worked, after all, for eight months without a break. She needed a rest.

  ‘But why France?’ asked Dorothy, who simply knew, without at all knowing why she knew, that her daughter was up to something. ‘I know people do keep going out there to look at the graves, but surely you must have had enough of that?’

  ‘Yes, mother.’

  ‘Then why not the south coast, dear? Edward and I stayed in a charming guest-house in Bournemouth – oh, some years ago. I’m sure to have the address somewhere.’

  ‘No thank you, mother. I’m going to France.’

  Miriam, on the other hand, was all sweet encouragement.

  ‘My dear, how very nice. I have been thinking for some time that you needed a rest. Benedict is going away too. Oh – didn’t you know that? Indeed – why should you? I am not sure where, of course. A mixture of business and pleasure I expect and one would really not care to pry. Perhaps you could travel together, as far as London, at any rate. Oh, I see. You are leaving on Monday and he is going tomorrow. What a pity. Perhaps you will run into him somewhere. Who knows? These odd little co-incidences do happen. Between ourselves – strictly between ourselves – Benedict often worries me.’

  ‘Oh –?’

  ‘He is far too solitary, my dear.’

  ‘Is he really?’

  Miriam smiled fondly, a little archly. ‘Ah well, you naughty girl, I suppose you have heard whispers about him and his various amours, haven’t you? Of course you have. And I shall shock you, I suppose, when I say they are all true. Why not? In view of Nola’s sad experience I really don’t wish to pass comment on the state of their marriage. Suffice it to say that when a man is less than satisfied at home he usually feels entitled to look elsewhere. Certainly my own husband, during his first wife’s time, was exceedingly promiscuous. In fact, I was warned against him, my dear, in most explicit terms. Fortunately – young as I was – I understood how meaningless these fancies can become, how stale. Oh yes – a man can repeat himself so often with women of a certain type that in the end … Well dear, my husband who had a very direct turn of speech sometimes, told me that before he married me he had seen so many faces on his pillow that he could hardly distinguish them one from the other. It troubled him. I wonder if it is starting to trouble Benedict?’

  ‘I really – I couldn’t say.’

  ‘No?’ Miriam smiled again, very sweetly. ‘Of course not. I am trying to put old heads
on young shoulders, aren’t I dear? Never mind. Experience matures very slowly and I have really so little to do these days but sit and observe. You do know, of course, that Benedict is a very difficult man?’

  ‘Yes.’ She could not have answered more than that one word no matter how hard she had tried.

  ‘Far more difficult than his father. Aaron was hard. Benedict is cold. By their own choice, of course. Hardness was the character my husband selected for himself and hard was how he wished to appear. Benedict is the same with his coldness.’

  ‘Oh – I see.’

  ‘Perhaps you do. You remember my theory, child, about the children of the seasons?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Could she possibly distract her? ‘You said because I was born in the summer I must be lazy and easy-going from having had nothing to do in infancy but bask in the sun. And that I must be inclined to give things away, because there would have been so much fruit on the trees and so many flowers.’

  But Miriam was not to be distracted.

  ‘And are you not like that, Claire? Generous – even a little wasteful – of your summer bounty? Unguarded because no cold winds threatened you in your cradle, so that you never learned how to cover yourself, nor even saw the need for it? How very alarming all that must sometimes seem to a man like Benedict. He was born on a bitterly cold night, you see. His mother died. And no one had the time even to wrap him up. How very shivery and how very threatened he must have felt. Is it any wonder that he threw up so many defences? There was no one else, after all, who could be bothered to defend him until I came along. And by that time it was too late. He was already living behind a screen. I failed him. How sad.’

  ‘Yes-yes, quite-’

  ‘My goodness, what a pair they were, father and son. What they both needed was a sunny nature to warm them up – like yours dear, and mine – I could see that at once. Aaron was much simpler, of course. Solid rock. And what harm can the sun do to rock? None at all. It warms it. It makes things grow. And Aaron wanted to be warmed. One could see him, dear, positively basking – loving it. It did him immense good. Now think of Benedict.’

  She was thinking fast.