Winter Solstice, Page 2

  She wondered if Gloria, sitting in state at the head of the table, had slightly overdone her alcoholic intake, and if, when the time came for them to leave the table, she would heave herself to her feet and fall flat on her face. But Gloria was made of tougher stuff, and when Mrs. Muswell put her head round the door to say that coffee was all ready in the drawing-room, she led the way with a steady step, out of the dinning-room and across the hall.

  They gathered around the fire, but Elfrida, lifting her cup of coffee from the tray, saw through the uncurtained window a sky of deep sapphire blue. Although the spring day had been fitful, with showers and glimpses of sunshine, while they sat over dinner the clouds had dispersed, and a first star hung in the heavens over the top of a distant budding beech. There was a window-seat and she went to sit on it, cradling the cup and saucer in her hands and watching the stars.

  Presently she was joined by Oscar.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

  She turned to look up at him. So busy had he been through dinner, pouring wine, clearing plates, handing around the delectable puddings, that she had scarcely addressed him all evening.

  “Of course. Such a lovely evening. And your daffodils will very soon be in bud.”

  “You like gardens?”

  “I’ve not had much experience. But this one looks particularly inviting.”

  “Would you like to take a little stroll and be shown around? It’s still not dark.”

  She glanced at the others, settled down in the deep chairs around the fire and in full flood of conversation.

  “Yes, I would like that, but wouldn’t it be rude?”

  “Not at all.” He took her cup from her hand and carried it back to the tray. He set it down.

  “Elfrida and I are going to have a stroll around the garden.”

  “At this hour?” Gloria was astounded.

  “It’s dark and it’s cold.”

  “Not so dark. We’ll be ten minutes.”

  “Right, but make sure the poor girl’s got a coat. It’s chilly and damp … don’t let him keep you too long, my dear….”

  “I won’t….”

  The others went back to their discussion, which was about the iniquitous price of private education. Elfrida and Oscar went out through the door. He closed it quietly behind him and then lifted from a chair a thick leather coat lined in sheepskin.

  “It’s Gloria’s … you can borrow it,” and he draped it gently over Elfrida’s shoulders. Then he opened the half-glassed front door, and they stepped outside into the chill and purity of the spring evening. Shrubs and borders loomed in the dusk, and underfoot the grass was wet with dew.

  They walked. At the far end of the lawn was a brick wall, fronted by borders and broken by an archway with an imposing wroughtiron gate. He opened this and they went through and were in a spacious walled garden, neatly divided into geometrical shapes by hedges of box. One quarter was a rose garden, the bushes pruned and richly composted. Clearly, when summer came, mere would be something of a display.

  Faced with professionalism, she felt inadequate.

  “Is this all your work?”

  “No. I plan, but I employ labourers.”

  “I’m not much good at flower names. I’ve never had a proper garden.”

  “My mother was never lost for names. If someone asked her the name of a flower, and she had no idea what it was, she simply said, with much authority, Inapoticum Forgetanamia. It nearly always worked.”

  “I must remember that.”

  Side by side, they strolled down the wide gravel led pathway. He said, “I hope you didn’t feel too distanced at dinner. I’m afraid we’re something of a parochial lot.”

  “Not at all. I enjoyed every moment. I like to listen.”

  “Country life. It teems with intrigue.”

  “Do you miss London?”

  “From time to time, enormously. Concerts and the opera. My church. Saint Biddulph’s.”

  “Are you a religious person?” Elfrida asked impulsively, and then wished that she hadn’t. Too soon for such a personal question. But he remained unfazed.

  “I don’t know. But I have spent the whole of my life steeped in the sacred music, the lithurgies and magnificats of the Anglican Church. And I would find it uncomfortable to live in a world where I had no person to thank.”

  “For blessings, you mean?”

  “Just so.”

  “I understand, but even so I’m not a bit religious. I only went to church that Sunday because I was feeling a bit isolated and I needed the company of other people. I didn’t expect the lovely music. And I’d never heard that setting of the Te Deum before.”

  “The organ is a new one. Paid for by countless Bring and Buy sales of work.”

  They trod in silence for a moment. Then Elfrida said, “Do you count that as a blessing? The new organ, I mean.”

  He laughed.

  “You are like a little dog, worrying a bone. Yes, of course I do.”

  “What else?”

  He did not immediately reply. She thought of his home, his wife, his enormously comfortable and lavish house. His music room, his friends, his obvious financial security. She thought it would be interesting to know how Oscar had come to marry Gloria. Had he, after years of bachelor dom small boys, meagre salaries, and dusty academic rooms, seen, looming in the future, the emptiness of an elderly bachelor’s old age, and taken the easy way out? The wealthy, forceful widow, the capable hostess, good friend, competent mother. Or perhaps it was she who had done the stalking, and she who had made the decision. Perhaps they had simply fallen madly in love. Whatever, it seemed to work.

  The silence lay between them. She said, “Don’t tell me if you’d rather not.”

  “I was simply trying to decide how to explain. I married late in life and Gloria already had boys by her previous marriage. For some reason it never occurred to me that I should have a child of my own. When Francesca was born, I was amazed, not simply that she was there, a tiny human being, but so beautiful. And familiar. As though I had known her always. A miracle. Now she is twelve and I am still astounded by my good fortune.”

  “Is she here at home?”

  “No, at a weekly boarding-school. Tomorrow evening, I fetch her for the weekend.”

  “I would like to meet her.”

  “You shall. I like to think that you’ll be charmed by her. When Gloria inherited this pile of a house, I kicked against leaving London. But for Francesca I went with the tide and complied. Here, she has space and freedom. Trees, the smell of grass. Room to grow. Room for the rabbits and the guinea pigs and the pony.”

  “For me,” said Elfrida, “the best is bird-song in the morning and big skies.”

  “You too, I believe, have also fled from London?”

  “Yes. It was time.”

  “A wrench?”

  “In a way. I’d lived there all my life. From the moment I left school and left home. I was at RADA. I was on the stage, you see. Much to my parents’ disapproval. But I didn’t mind about disapproval. I never have, really.”

  “An actress. I should have known.”

  “And a singer, too. And a dancer. Revues and big American musicals. I was the one at the back of the chorus line because I was so dreadfully tall. And then years of fortnightly Rep, and then bit parts on television. Nothing very illustrious.”

  “Do you still work?”

  “Heavens, no. I gave it up years ago. I married an actor, which was the most dreadful mistake for every sort of reason. And then he went off to America and was never seen again, so I kept myself by doing any sort of job that came my way, and then I got married again. But that wasn’t much use either. I don’t think I was ever a very good picker.”

  “Was number-two husband an actor as well?” His voice was amused, which was exactly the way Elfrida wanted it to be. She seldom talked about her husbands, and the only way to make disasters bearable was to laugh about them.

  “Oh, no, he was in busi
ness. Terribly expensive vinyl flooring. One would have thought I would have been marvellously secure and safe, but he had that disagreeable Victorian conviction that if a man feeds and houses his wife, and doles out some sort of a housekeeping allowance, then he has kept his share of the marital bargain.”

  “Well,” said Oscar, “and why not? An old-established tradition, going back for centuries. Only then it was called slavery.”

  “How nice that you understand. Turning sixty was one of the best days of my life, because I got my old age pension book, and knew that I could walk down to the nearest post office and be given money, cash in hand, for doing nothing. I’d never in my life been given something for nothing. It was like a whole new world.”

  “Did you have children?”

  “No. Never children.”

  “You still haven’t explained why you moved to this particular village.”

  “A need to move on.”

  “A big step.”

  It was nearly dark now. Turning, Elfrida looked back towards the house, and saw, through the lacework of the wroughtiron gate, the glow of the drawing-room windows. Somebody had drawn the curtains. She said, “I haven’t talked about it. I haven’t told anybody.”

  “You don’t need to tell me.”

  “Perhaps I’ve talked too much already. Perhaps I drank too much wine at dinner.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “There was this man. So special, so loving, funny, and perfect. Another actor, but successful and famous this time and I won’t say his name. Brilliant. We lived together for three years in his little house in Barnes, and then he got Parkinson’s disease and it took him another two years to die.

  It was his house. I had to leave. A week after his funeral I saw an advertisement for the cottage in Poulton’s Row. In The Sunday Times. And the next week I bought it. I have very little money, but it wasn’t too expensive. I brought my dear dog, Horace, with me for company, and I have my old age pension, and I have a little job making cushions for a rather snob interior designer in London. It’s not very arduous and it keeps me busy and my head above water. I always liked to sew, and it’s good to work with lovely, expensive materials, and each project is different.” It all sounded very trivial.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. It’s not very interesting.”

  “I find it fascinating.”

  “I don’t see why you should. But you’re very kind.” It was dark now. Too dark to see into his face, or read the expression in his hooded eyes.

  “I think perhaps it’s time we went back to the others.”

  “Of course.”

  “I love your garden. Thank you. Sometime I must see it in the daylight.”

  That was Thursday. The following Sunday morning, it rained, not a spring shower, but regular rain drumming down against the windows of Elfrida’s cottage and darkening the tiny rooms, so that she was forced to switch on all the lights. After she had put Horace out into the garden for his morning wee, she made a cup of tea and took it back to bed with her, intending to spend the morning warm, comfortable, and idle, reading yesterday’s newspapers and struggling to finish the crossword.

  But, just after eleven, she was interrupted by the ringing of the front-door bell, a jangling device operated by a hanging chain. The noise it made was like nothing so much as an emergency fire alarm and Elfrida nearly jumped out of her skin. Horace, lying across the foot of the bed, raised himself into a sitting position and let out a couple of barks. This was as much as he was prepared to do in the cause of protecting his mistress, for he was of a cowardly nature and not in the habit of snarling, nor biting intruders.

  Astonished, but not alarmed, Elfrida climbed out of bed, pulled on her dressing-gown, tied the sash, and made her way down the steep and narrow staircase. The stairs descended into her living-room, and the front door opened straight onto the miniature front garden. And there she found a small girl, in jeans and sneakers and a dripping anorak. The anorak had no hood, so the child’s head was wet as the coat of a dog that had just enjoyed a good swim. She had auburn hair, braided into plaits, and her face was freckled and rosy from the chill, damp outdoors.

  “Mrs. Phipps?”

  There were bands on her teeth, a mouthful of ironmongery.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Francesca Blundell. My mother said it’s such an awful day, would you like to come for lunch? We’ve got an enormous bit of beef and there’s heaps-”

  “But I’ve only just been to dinner-”

  “She said you’d say that.”

  “It’s terribly kind. As you can see, I’m not dressed yet. I hadn’t even thought about lunch.”

  “She was going to phone, but I said I’d bicycle.”

  “You biked?”

  “I left it on the pavement. It’s all right.” A douche of water from an overflowing gutter missed her by inches.

  “I think,” said Elfrida, “you’d better come in before you drown.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Briskly, Francesca accepted the invitation and stepped indoors. Hearing voices, and deciding that it was safe to appear, Horace, with dignity, descended the stairs. Elfrida closed the door.

  “This is Horace, my dog.”

  “He’s sweet. Hello. Mummy’s Pekes always yap for hours when there’s a visitor. Do you mind if I take off my anorak?”

  “No, I think it would be a very good idea.”

  This Francesca proceeded to do, unzipping the jacket and draping it over the newel-post at the bottom of the banister, where it dripped onto the floor.

  Francesca looked about her. She said, “I always thought these were the dearest little houses, but I’ve never been in side one of them.” Her eyes were very large and grey, fringed with thick lashes.

  “When Mummy said you were living here, I couldn’t wait to come and look. That’s why I hiked. Do you mind?”

  “Not a bit. It’s all rather cluttered, I’m afraid.”

  “I think it’s perfect.”

  It wasn’t, of course. It was cramped and shabby, filled with the few personal bits and pieces Elfrida had brought with her from London. The sagging sofa, the little Victorian armchair, the brass fender, the battered desk. Lamps, and worthless pictures, and too many books.

  “I was going to lay and light a fire as it’s such a grey day, but I haven’t got around to it yet. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee or something?”

  “No, thank you, I’ve just had a Coke. Where does that door go?”

  “Into the kitchen. I’ll show you.”

  She led the way, opened the wooden door with the latch, and pushed it ajar. Her kitchen was no larger than a boat’s galley. Here a small Rayburn simmered away, keeping the whole of the house warm; a wooden dresser was piled with china; a clay sink stood beneath the window; and a wooden table and two chairs filled the remainder of the space. Alongside the window, a stable door led out into the back garden. The top half of this was glazed in small panes, and through this could be seen the flagged yard and the narrow border, which was as far as Elfrida had got in the way of making a flower-bed. Ferns thrust their way between the flags, and there was a honeysuckle scrambling over the neighbour’s wall.

  “It’s not very inviting on a day like this, but there’s just room to sit out in a deck-chair on a summer evening.”

  “Oh, but I love it.” Francesca looked about her with a housewifely eye.

  “You haven’t got a fridge. And you haven’t got a washing machine. And you haven’t got a freezer.”

  “No, I haven’t got a freezer. I have a fridge and a washing machine, but I keep them in the shed at the bottom of the yard. And I do all my dishes in the sink, because there’s no space for a dishwasher.”

  “I think Mummy would die if she had to wash dishes.”

  “It’s not very arduous when you live on your own.”

  “I love all of your china. Blue and White. It’s my favourite.”

  “I love it, too. None of it matches, but I buy
a bit whenever I find something in a junk-shop. There’s so much now, there’s scarcely space for it.”

  “What’s upstairs?”

  “The same. Two rooms and a tiny bathroom. The bath is so small I have to hang my legs over the side. And a bedroom for me and a work-room where I do my sewing. If I have a guest, they have to sleep there, along with the sewing-machine and scraps of material and order books.”

  “Daddy told me you made cushions. I think it’s all exactly right. For one person. And a dog, of course. Like a doll’s house.”

  “Have you got a doll’s house?”

  “Yes, but I don’t play with it any more. I’ve got animals. A guinea pig called Happy, but he’s not very well. I think he’ll have to go to the vet. He’s got horrible bare patches all over his fur. And I’ve got rabbits. And a pony.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “He’s called Prince but he’s a bit nappy sometimes. I think I’d better go now. Mummy said I had to muck Prince out before lunch, and it takes ages, ‘specially in the rain. Thank you for letting me see your house.”

  “A pleasure. Thank you for bringing that kind invitation.”

  “You’ll come, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you walk?”

  “No, I’ll bring my car. Because of the rain. And if you ask me where I keep my car, I’ll tell you. On the road.”

  “Is it that old blue Ford Fiesta?”

  “It is. And ‘old’ is the operative word. But I don’t mind provided the wheels go round and the engine starts.”

  Francesca smiled at this, revealing, unembarrassed, her wired-up teeth. She said, “I’ll see you later then.” She reached for her anorak, still dripping, pulled on the sodden garment, and tossed free her plaits. Elfrida opened the door for her.

  “Mummy said, a quarter to one.”

  “I’ll be mere, and thank you for coming.”

  “I’ll come again,” Francesca promised, and Elfrida watched her go splashing down the path and through the gate. A moment later, she was off, on her bike, with a wave of her hand, pedalling furiously down through the puddles and along the road, out of sight.