A Winter’s Tale (6 page)

But I now had two rather differing views of my inheritance to compare—three, if you counted the letter from my grandfather that Mr Hobbs now handed to me, though actually it was more of a brief note scrawled in thin, spidery writing, urging me to complete the garden restoration project—his ‘Memorial to Posterity’ as he put it. It was abundantly clear that I needed to see Winter’s End for myself before deciding what to do, and the sooner the better: I would be
upping sticks and decamping to rural west Lancashire as soon as I could get my act together.

Besides, I was beginning to feel a strong, almost fearful tug of attraction, as though some connecting umbilical cord stretched almost to invisibility had suddenly twitched, reminding me of its existence.

Mr Hobbs must have drawn his own conclusions from the expression on my face, for he seemed to relax and, with a satisfied smile, said, ‘So, I may inform the family that you will be arriving shortly?’ He looked around at the cluttered caravan. ‘It would seem you do not have a home or employment to keep you here.’

‘Very true,’ I agreed. ‘No, there is nothing to keep me here—so I’ll go to Winter’s End and then make my own mind up what will be the best thing to do.’

‘Spoken like a Winter,’ he said approvingly.

‘Yes, but Jack might not be pleased about it,’ I said, suddenly remembering my handsome cousin’s existence (be still my beating heart!). ‘He told me that he’d decided, before he met me, that if I wouldn’t sell Winter’s End back to him he would challenge the will. If he has a strong case, is there really any point in my going to Winter’s End?’

‘Oh, that’s an empty threat, my dear,’ Mr Hobbs assured me. ‘Your grandfather was perfectly
compos mentis
when he made the will: only look at the way he left instructions for everything to be settled before you were informed of your inheritance, so you could step right in and pick up the reins. I am sure Jack has already taken legal advice and been told the same thing.’

He stood up and began to gather his papers back into his briefcase, declining my offer of more tea and rock cakes with every sign of polite revulsion. There’s no accounting for tastes.

Chapter Four: The Moving Mollusc

Now Thomas is somewhat recovered it is pleasant to have such a sweet-natured companion little older than myself, for he is not yet twenty. We play at Glecko in the evenings, or I read to him. In truth, I read better than hee, for my mother’s father was a great scholar and taught her well, and in turn she has taught mee. Other skills she had from her own mother, and though some may whisper of black arts, she does only good, not ill.

From the journal of Alys Blezzard, 1580

When Mr Hobbs had gone I tore up the letter to Lucy, which was still lying unposted on the table and, blowing the expense, phoned her.

I was then under orders to give her every minute detail from the moment I got to Winter’s End, and not make
any
major decisions without consulting her. She also, like Anya, said Jack sounded clever, devious but attractive—just my type, in fact—and I was not to promise him
anything
until she got home and OK’d it.

I didn’t know why either of them should jump to conclusions about poor Jack like that—nor did I know why my daughter turned out to be such a bossy little cow. She even tried to organise my life for me, just as I did for my own feckless mother, only with much less justification…

‘Great-Grandfather left Winter’s End to
you
, not Jack,’ she said, ‘so there must be a reason. The least you owe him is to go back and look at the place.’

‘Yes, I know, and I feel quite differently about him now that I know he never really gave up looking for your granny and me. And Mr Hobbs said he took quite a shine to you, Lucy, and thought you would be great for Winter’s End.’

‘Well, I rather liked
him
, too,’ she said, then, changing the subject, enquired in a bored voice that didn’t fool me in the least, ‘How is Anya? And I suppose Guy has sent me all kinds of messages?’

‘Actually, no, he hasn’t, though Anya was asking after you. He’s on the road with her at the moment, now he’s finished his degree, but he’s job-hunting.’

‘I suppose that accounts for why he hasn’t emailed me for ages,’ she said, sounding a bit miffed, ‘though there
are
internet cafés.’

‘I expect he’s been busy and he will catch up with you later. Anyway, you always said he emailed too much and he should get a life,’ I pointed out mildly.

‘Well, he’s such a nerdy little geek—but he’s still one of my oldest friends.’

‘You haven’t actually seen him for a couple of years, Lucy—you were both always off doing things in the university holidays whenever Anya and I met up. But take it from me, he doesn’t look remotely like a nerdy little geek any more. He’s all grown up.’

‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ she said.

I only wished she could see it right then, and all my maternal urges were telling me to send her some cash and tell her to get on the next plane home…except that I hadn’t got any money, of course. But Jack had, and I was sure if I accepted his offer to buy Winter’s End he would advance some to me straight away, when he knew what it was for.

But I simply couldn’t rush into a decision that would affect many more lives than mine, even though I realised that if I was mad enough to take on Winter’s End I would still have the same money problems I’d always had, only on a much,
much
grander scale.

It took me a while to think what to say to Jack, but in the end I only got his answering service. I left my mobile number and a message telling him that, now I had spoken to the solicitor and read my grandfather’s letter, I felt a responsibility to at least
go
to Winter’s End and see how things were for myself, and I hoped he would understand.

But if he did, he didn’t tell me so…unless that was the series of phantom text messages on my phone? I usually manage to delete them before reading them. They just slip through my fingers and vanish.

I have a disease called Technological Ineptitude; I’m some kind of throwback to the Stone Age, but I’m not proud of it.

I managed to lose three more text messages before Jack got the idea and phoned me instead. He has a voice like melted Swiss milk chocolate—smooth, rich and creamy; my knees went quite weak. He was so sweet too, and said he quite understood.

‘That’s such a relief. I thought you might be cross!’ I blurted out, and he laughed.

‘Now, why should I be cross? In fact, I’ll come down myself and show you what needs urgently doing to the house, and I’m quite sure that when you’ve seen the scale of the problems—not to mention the sheer costs of running a place like that, and paying back the bank loan—you’ll be more than happy to let me buy it. After all, it will still be your family home, where you will always be sure of a welcome,
but without all the expense and hassle of trying to keep it from falling into a ruin,’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘You’d be in a win/win situation.’

‘I expect you’re right,’ I said, feeling a warm glow at the thought of being part of the extended family again. Since he was being so nice about it, I asked, ‘Do you think it would be OK if I had our belongings sent down there to store? Only, whatever happens I don’t think I will be coming back here to live, and it will be easier to pack them up now.’

‘Of course—there’s loads of room. Give Hebe a ring and tell her when your stuff is arriving—unless you’ve already spoken to her?’

‘No, I will do, of course, but I am feeling a bit nervous about it. I don’t know why, because she was always very kind to me, in her way.’

‘Oh, old Hebe’s all right—you give her a ring,’ he said cheerfully, then added, his voice going deeper and sort of furry, ‘I’m
really
looking forward to seeing you again, Sophy! I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we met,’ and my insides turned to a mass of quivering jelly. I was rather looking forward to seeing him again too.

Our meagre possessions, including a few small bits of good furniture culled from local auctions or given to me by Lady Betty, were dispatched to Winter’s End as a part-load with a furniture removal firm. I just don’t seem to accumulate things like most people do, except books, which I buy second-hand like other people buy sweets. I keep my absolute favourites in a little shelf unit built into the camper van because, deep down, I think I’m always expecting to move on. In fact, I keep
all
my treasures in the van.

I didn’t know what Aunt Hebe would do with our stuff when it arrived; when I nervously rang her to warn her of
its imminent appearance, I suggested she stack it all in an outhouse somewhere for me to sort out.

‘Oh, I expect Jonah will find somewhere,’ she said vaguely.

‘You don’t mind my coming back to Winter’s End, do you, Aunt Hebe?’

‘Not at all, for how else can things be settled satisfactorily? And I’m sure we’re very
happy
to welcome you back to the fold, Sophy,’ she added, in a voice that suggested that she was anything but, ‘though of course I always thought Winter’s End would go to Jack, and it’s very hard on the poor boy—’

Then she broke off and said again that I would be very welcome, but it was clear that as far as she was concerned, my advent was a very mixed blessing.

When I spoke about Lucy, I feared my own voice had the very same doting tone in it as Aunt Hebe’s when she uttered Jack’s name: bewitched, besotted and bewildered. But that didn’t stop me feeling slightly jealous. I had always thought that she was fond of me, in her way, yet evidently my absence had been more than compensated for by Jack’s arrival, the cuckoo who’d taken my place in both the nest and her affections.

When I finally managed to see Lady Betty before I left for Lancashire, it was clear that she had all but forgotten me too.

I had been to the stiff and starchy care home once before, and the same white-overalled woman was on the reception desk. She asked me for my name and then checked a list while I undid my coat. It was hot in there and smelled of air freshener and surgical spirit.

‘I’m afraid you are not on the list of permitted visitors,’ she said, pursing her lips, ‘though you have been before, haven’t you? I recognise that funny little brooch you’re wearing.’

‘My bee?’ I said, taken aback but thinking fast. ‘Yes, it is unusual, isn’t it? Lady Betty gave it to me—and I won’t be on the list of visitors because I’m just an employee. Mr Conor Darfield asked me to bring in a few things that she wanted.’ I lifted the carrier bag to show her.

‘Oh, right,’ she said, ‘perhaps if you leave—’ She broke off as an elderly gentleman, who had been shuffling about the foyer in a desultory sort of way, suddenly made a determined, if hobbling, sprint for the front door.

‘No, no, Colonel Browne, come back!’ she called—but too late, he’d gone. ‘Oh, blow—I’d better catch him before he vanishes,’ she said distractedly, lifting up the flap in the counter and coming out.

‘That’s all right,’ I assured her, sincerely hoping the poor colonel made it to wherever he was going, ‘I know where Lady Betty’s room is—I’ll just pop up.’ I don’t know if she heard me because she was off in pursuit, but I seized the opportunity to run upstairs.

I tapped gently on the door of Lady Betty’s room before going in, finding her in bed. As soon as I saw her I realised that this would be our last goodbye, for she seemed suddenly to have grown smaller, as if she was already shrinking away into death, and there was no recognition in her clouded eyes.

I sat quietly with her for ten minutes, feeding her bits of ratafia biscuits and sips of whisky and water from the supplies I had smuggled in (both of which she had always loved), and she took them with greedy eagerness, opening her mouth like a baby bird. She seemed to become slightly more alert then, and I talked to her, trying to raise some spark of recognition, but there was only one brief moment when her eyes focused on my face and she said my name and smiled. Then she closed her eyes and to all intents and purposes went to sleep.

I left the remainder of the biscuits in the bedside cabinet, but took the whisky bottle away with me. I had a feeling that anything remotely pleasurable would be banned in this sterile place.

The receptionist, looking distracted, was on the phone and only acknowledged my departure with a wave of the hand. ‘Yes,’ she was saying, ‘he’s gone again. Must have had a taxi waiting outside—and God knows which pub he’s gone to this time…’

I only hoped the colonel had a good time before they caught up with him.

The exterior of the VW was painted in time-faded psychedelic flowers, just as it was when my mother drove it, but I had made the interior over to my own tastes. Now, it was more like an old-fashioned gypsy caravan than a camper—deep, glowing colours, brightened with lace and patchwork and painted tables, ingenious shelves and cupboards, all sparklingly clean and smelling of roses.

There was a place in it for every item that was essential to me, so I felt as reassured as a snail in its shell once I was driving down to Lancashire, even though I was nervous about actually
arriving
.