A Winter's Child (43 page)

Toby, in his heart of hearts, thought that too. To him, as to his ancestors, money was for spending, to create pleasure rather than to purchase power, to give away as
largesse, noblesse oblige,
assistance to the needy, rather than to accumulate in bank vaults or stocks and shares. Justin – and Simon – thought the same, except – and she had long known the difference – Justin and Simon were not, by nature, gentlemen. She must never allow Toby to discover that.

At midnight the maid came in to make the fire. ‘Happy New Year, Madam.' But the girl, who had wanted the night off, was sulky, had already decided to give in her notice and get a job in a factory, and did not feel that Eunice's future happiness or lack of it, had anything to do with her.

‘Thank you, Betty.' She suspected the girl would be leaving and had already started to convince herself that there would be no need to replace her. She had a cook, a girl to do the laundry, a woman who came in twice a week to scrub, a woman once a month to sew. Surely she could manage without a parlourmaid? It was quite the fashion now just to hand dishes round at dinner or to take one's guests to a restaurant. Or at least she could say it was the very latest London thing and insist she preferred it. And Betty's wages would be a useful addition to the money she had started to put by like a frantic, October squirrel to be used for the rescue – whenever the need arose – of Justin or Simon.

On the nursery floor above her head her two younger children, her
little
boys, were not asleep perhaps, had quite possibly raided the larder for nuts and raisins and the dreadful concoction of sugar and cocoa powder mixed up together which they would be bound to spill all over the bed. But at least she knew where they were. Where was Justin? Enjoying himself in a way she would have found gross in anyone else's son. Drinking spirits, ready to repeat his misdemeanour with that chambermaid – that little slut – or with any girl foolish enough, or tipsy enough to let him. And if he succeeded, as he probably would, since he was handsome and could be persuasive as she had every reason to know, then it could only be a matter of time before he started a baby on its way. The thought struck her like a hammer blow and was followed instantly by another thought, equally compelling. She must save him, somehow, from all those little flibbertigibbets, those feather-headed, silk-stockinged girls who were nothing, when all was said and done, but temptation. Girls no longer conducted themselves as they should, as she had always done,
that
was the real trouble. They allowed liberties to be taken, led men on – only look at Polly! – and then, when the inevitable happened, set up such a caterwauling! She recognized her own injustice, of course. She even knew quite clearly how differently she would have viewed the matter had she been the mother of daughters. But she was not. And she would defend her boys, her own flesh and blood, through anything, always, to the bitter end. Her boys, and Toby. She had been unable to conceal from him that sorry business about Justin and the chambermaid. Justin's headmaster had seen to that. But any further indiscretions she would do her utmost to handle alone. And if it became too much for her, if it turned into some sordid business of paying off or hushing things up in a way she could not manage, then she would rather endure the scorn of her formidable brother than upset Toby.

Yet, where was Toby? She had told him to go out and enjoy himself. She had been glad to make the sacrifice. But, just the same, she knew he should not have left her. She knew that in his place she would never have left him.

Miriam Swanfield spent the last evening of the year at a civic banquet in Faxby's Town Hall where she herself had once reigned, for a glittering year, as Faxby's Mayoress. Aaron, of course, had not wanted in the very least to take office, she fondly remembered that. He was a businessman, accustomed to what he had called the ‘real world'of gigantic profit or loss and had no inclination – he had grunted – to waste his time arguing about the siting of park benches or what to do about the odour from those pig pens on Faxby Green. But he had looked very splendid in his mayoral robes and she had brought not only dignity but graciousness and style to her position as consort. She remembered that
very
well. She had worn enormous French hats, tight-corseted gowns that had nipped in her waist and pushed out her bosom, had presided at this very banqueting table in all the lavish silks and satins, the billowing lace and tulle which Polly had now cut up into those scandalous chemises she called evening dresses. Ah well. The times were changing. But not necessarily for the better. And she saw no one at the Mayoral table tonight who could in any way compare with the luscious,
clever
woman she had once been.

The present Mayoress, she noticed, was large and dowdy and had never learned the art of concealing her own excellent opinion of herself. The Councillors'wives were either serviceable and plain or aggressively smart; or, in two cases, indecently young; a pair of ‘old men's darlings'wearing too much paint and too much jewellery and thoroughly bored with these pompous, self-indulgent, elderly gentlemen who had condescended to marry them.

The wife of Councillor Greenwood was visibly younger than his unmarried daughter, Miss Greenwood, who liked it to be thought that she had lost her fiance in the war, although Miriam knew it was no such thing. Poor Miss Greenwood, sitting now with a somewhat pained expression between the newly married pair, probably worrying – thought Miriam – about who, in the event of her father's death, would be likely to inherit his spinning mill, particularly since the other ‘civic flapper', the new young wife of Councillor Redfearn of Redfearn's Hardware – such a
lucrative
chain of shops – was expecting her first, his second child. Although Councillor Redfearn's daughter, of course, was another matter from poor, plain Miss Green wood. A capable woman, Elvira Redfearn, a widow now of ample means and abundant energies, who would stand no nonsense from anyone, not even from her portly,-pretentious father, much less his twenty-year old wife. Yes. A
clever
woman, Elvira Redfearn. Perhaps even a shade too forceful. A friend of long standing – as Miriam well knew – of Benedict's.

He had accompanied her tonight, his position as Chairman of Swanfield Mills amply justifying his place at the Mayoral table and she was bound to admit that the dignity sat well on him, rather better, in fact, than it had on Aaron. Her husband, even beneath the gold mayoral chain, the scarlet robes, the London tailored suits she had insisted upon, had retained a certain earthiness – she did not care to say coarseness although it had been exactly that and more attractive, too, than one would ever have imagined – whereas Benedict had always possessed a natural refinement, not merely an appreciation but an expectation of the best. Elvira Redfearn had once been the best catch in Faxby. But Aaron – with his ‘earthiness' and his certainty of always being right – had looked farther afield and discovered Nola. And what a disappointment she had been.

‘Happy New Year, my dears. Many,
many
of them.' Miriam raised her heavy, long-stemmed wine glass, engraved with Faxby's civic arms in gold and ruby – the civic crystal which she had had designed for her own year of office and then presented to the town – her round blue eyes shining, a sentimental tear lightly beading short, pale lashes, to be quickly whisked away by a square of embroidered cambric held in a plump, helpless little hand. An elderly lady who had been very pretty, still looked very sweet, offering to one and all a verbal overflow of seasonal good wishes as she coolly considered – since in her private thoughts she made no bones about such things – how very much it would please her should Nola be so obliging as to drive that nasty little car of hers into a lamp-post one of these dark nights, thus setting Benedict free to bring home a more comfortable daughter-in-law. Elvira Redfearn had once been her favourite. But now she much preferred Claire. She did not know for certain what had happened between them. She had simply assumed, knowing Benedict's temperament – so like his father's until she had tamed it – that he had taken what she archly and laughingly called ‘his evil way'. Claire's reactions to her probing had confirmed it. And Claire suited her. She needed Claire. And if Benedict could oblige her in this – then she would be very ready to smooth away whatever needed smoothing from the path of what she preferred to call his ‘affections'.

She was, therefore, a little put out to see him taking advantage of the dignified, civic chimes of midnight – the Town Hall clock booming out the hour from its spire directly above their heads – to make what she instinctively understood to be an assignation with Elvira Redfearn.

‘Benedict, my dear,' she sweetly enquired on their way home, ‘Forgive me, but are you not in danger of becoming something of a – well, I believe libertine is the word which springs to mind?'

‘No, Miriam.' He sounded in no way put out about it. ‘Not “becoming”, as I think you know – it has been ever thus.'

‘Yes, dear. I know. How sad. Your father was just the same until I took him in hand. You need a good woman, dear boy.'

‘I think not, Miriam.'

‘So you say now. But as you get older you will find it hard to be satisfied by these casual encounters. They will bore you and they will exhaust you. You may take my word for it. That is what your father discovered, in any case, and he had every reason to know. Nothing could be compared to the pleasure of his own fireside, he often used to say, once he had found the right woman to light the fire. And if that sounds a trifle
risque
then I must ask you to remember that I am simply quoting what your father said.'

‘Quite so,' murmured Benedict, his eyes on the road ahead. ‘Perhaps one should also remember that when my father found you, Miriam, he was no longer a married man.'

Nola had taken considerable trouble, put herself – or so she imagined – at considerable risk to avoid Faxby's Civic Banquet and watch the dawn of the New Year with her lover.

She had lied, dry-mouthed, to Benedict about a visit to the Manchester Croziers which ought not to be neglected. They were not only celebrating the New Year, she told him, but a whole batch of family anniversaries which involved presents, congratulations, Nola's presence, since one really had to say things like ‘Happy Birthday', ‘Happy Silver Wedding', ‘Happy Eightieth, Auntie Trudy' in person. So she would just have to go and do her duty.

‘Certainly you must go,' Benedict had said dryly. ‘So, it appears must I.'

She had blinked rapidly, her eyelids which she had smeared heavily with vaseline to make them glisten, looking heavy and a little swollen beneath the scarf of black and purple striped chiffon wound several times around her head in Egyptian fashion. ‘Must you?' she had said, understanding only that she had been challenged, lowering her gleaming eyelids still further to hide the excitement she still so regularly felt in this fearful game of deceiving him.

‘I think so, Nola. If it is so important a family occasion as all that, then shouldn't I – as your husband – accompany you?'

‘Not necessary, darling.'

‘Why is that?'

She believed he wanted to know. She always believed him. And triumphantly, because the reason had just leapt into her mind, she told him. These anniversaries were not actually Crozier anniversaries, hadn't she mentioned? No, no. They were all relatives of her cousin's wife, Nanette, which made it remote enough for Benedict not to trouble. Although for Nola herself, of course, who had known Nanette for ever – almost like a sister – it was another matter. And he had arranged – hadn't he – to take Miriam to the Town Hall? She had been relying on that.

He nodded. She had won. And then – how predictable, how stimulating – not quite.

‘You'll be taking the afternoon train? Then you'll need Parker to take you to the station or I'll drive you myself.'

She would not be going to the station. She would be driving to Leeds in her own car. What now? Could she pretend she was taking her car to Manchester? No. Benedict would know quite well that neither her driving nor the shaky little motor could ever achieve that much. What then? She lowered those heavy eyes again, thinking it over, and smiled.

‘No need to trouble anyone,' she said brightly, knowing it would not be enough, simply playing for time. ‘Now that I have my own sweet little car I can just catch the train all by myself.'

‘On the contrary.' She had known, with the odd undercurrents of dread and exultation these encounters always aroused in her, that he would say something like that. ‘What is to happen to your sweet little car when you get on the train? You can hardly abandon it in the station yard. Or at least, one can offer no guarantees that it will still be there on your return.'

‘But I don't mean to leave it there.' What did she mean to do? The answer flowed suddenly into her mind – it always did – and as she spoke to him there was a note in her voice which was almost a chuckle. ‘It's all arranged, my sweet. No need to fret. I've promised to lend the car to Claire. She
did
ask me, you see, and with all the running about she has to do is it any wonder? So I'll just drive over to Mannheim Crescent and pick her up, she'll drive me to the station, keep the car and meet me the day after from the train. Now – isn't that clever?'

‘My dear,' he said, ‘very clever. Although no less than I had expected. Enjoy yourself. Give my regards, of course, to Nanette.'

It had gone well. She drove over to Leeds, therefore, with a sense of achievement, losing her way several times since no part of her ladylike education had encouraged a sense of direction, but very pleased with herself just the same, very excited. She was going to her lover, bringing him her devotion, her great faith in him, her burning ambitions on his behalf, a huge wicker basket full of cold roast turkey,
foie gras,
a trifle in one of Miriam's best crystal dishes, a bottle of Benedict's champagne. She was going to spend the night – all night – with a man of talent who needed her. She had planned, it, dreamed of it, gloated over it for days. Now – now at last – it was in her grasp. Yet somehow, perhaps from too much anticipation, from having missed him so atrociously throughout that tedious family Christmas which had imprisoned her at High Meadows, her rush of exultation on reaching his door was just a fraction less than she had hoped, her thrill when he opened it falling just short of electrifying.