Winter Solstice

  “I hope you are not offended by my action.

  “I am also a little anxious in case the Estate House is under-furnished and under-equipped. As you know, I have not seen it for years, although, since the Cochranes departed, I have arranged for its day-today upkeep. As I feel responsible for persuading you to leave Hampshire and take up residence in Creagan, I would be happy to supply any extras that you feel would make life more comfortable. So I am enclosing a cheque for five hundred pounds which I hope will be sufficient for your needs.

  “The weather in London is still grey and cold. I do not go out very much, but observe it from my window.

  “I hope you are both well. I would appreciate a letter or a telephone call to set my mind at rest.

  “I saw in The Times that the Grange is on the market. The boys have lost no time.

  “With my best wishes to you both, “Sincerely, “Hector”

  In silence, she folded the letter and put it back into its envelope. She said, “I shall write this morning.”

  “It’s enormously generous. And we really don’t need anything.”

  “Oh, yes we do,” Elfrida told him firmly.

  “Like what?”

  “Like a new toaster that doesn’t burn the toast, or blow upJ or electrocute me. This one is archaic. And I’ve got to gettl bed for Lucy, and it would be nice to have curtains on the stair window.”

  “I never noticed any of these things,” said Oscar, looking I a bit ashamed.

  “Men never do.”

  “Perhaps you could buy a dishwasher?”

  “I don’t want a dishwasher.”

  “Or a microwave?”

  “I don’t want a microwave either.”

  “Or a television set?”

  “I never look at television. Did you?”

  “Only the news. And “Songs of Praise.” And the proms.”

  “But aren’t we lucky, Oscar, to have such simple needs?”

  “We are certainly fortunate.” He picked up the cheque and eyed it.

  “In more ways than one. Before I go and see Rose, I shall call in at the Bank of Scotland and open a joint account for the two of us. And you shall go mad, buying furniture.”

  “But the money’s not for me.”

  “It is for both of us.”

  “And will the Bank of Scotland be so obliging?”

  “I have banked with them since I was a boy. I can see no difficulties.”

  “You are being dynamic, Oscar. And you won’t forget the flowers for Rose?”

  “No. I shall not forget.”

  The day turned into one of dazzling brightness. The red sun rose in the eggshell-blue sky, and there was not a breath of wind. Ladies, shopping, trod cautiously down the pavements, anxious not to slip or fall, and they wore thick boots and were muffled up in woollen hats and gloves. But the cold did not stop them from pausing to gossip, their breath clouding like steam as they chattered away.

  The church, behind the black lacework of bare trees, was golden in the sunlight. Over its spire gulls wheeled, jackdaws settled on the weather-vane at its peak. Frost iced the grass of the ancient graveyard, and cars, driven down from remote hill farms, wore blankets of snow. One of them had a Christmas tree sticking out of the open tailgate. Having done a little cursory housework, made beds, set The fire, and humped a basket of logs up from the outdoor shed, Elfrida sat in her bay window and observed all this seasonal activity. Oscar had departed, having spent some effort on unfreezing his windscreen and getting the wipers to work. Elfrida hoped that Rose Miller would be pleased to see him, and guessed that she would.

  She turned to the table, the thin sun warm on her back, and started her letter to Hector.

  The Estate House December 9th

  Dear Hector, How very good of you to write, and thank you, from Oscar and myself, for your very generous cheque. It is more than welcome for a number of reasons. We are a bit short of essentials, but have managed very well without them. But now I have a young cousin, Carrie Sutton, coming to stay for Christmas, and she is bringing her niece, Lucy, who is fourteen, so it will be good to be able to cheer the place up a bit and make it more homely. We do need a new toaster, but that’s about all, though I shall buy some furniture for Lucy’s worn (she’s going to sleep in the attic!) and your cheque will come in very useful for that reason. I shall find a second-hand shop.

  Oscar is well. He has been very withdrawn ever since we got here, and I have, from time to time, become a little depressed about him, wondering if he ever would emerge from his cloud of grief and begin to go forward again. He did not want to see anybody, nor even speak to any person. Yesterday, however, he took Horace, my dog, for a long walk, and by the Golf Club was approached by Peter Kennedy. He liked him very much, and said he had a nice face. He was invited into the clubhouse for tea, and went, but then realized that Peter Kennedy was the minister, took fright, and fled.

  He was terribly upset about this, but I think the incident brought him up short, and he realizes he can’t hide away forever. So this morning he has gone in the car to pay a call on Rose Miller at Corrydale. It is his first voluntary step out into the world of other people, and I am filled with gratitude and hope that the Kennedys won’t be far behind. But, whatever happens, Oscar mustn’t be goaded, but allowed to take it all at his own pace.

  We are really all right, and the days pass peacefully. This is a very tranquil part of the world, and I take my dog Horace for long walks on the beach, sometimes returning after the sun has set. We have no television, but really don’t need one. Oscar brought his little radio with him, and we pass the long evenings playing canasta and listening to Classic FM.

  We had a long drive up from Hampshire, and were

  So intent was she upon her letter, so unheeding of voices in the street below, that she did not hear the wrought-iron gate open and shut, nor the tread of footsteps up to the front door. When the doorbell rang, she was so startled that she dropped her pen. From downstairs Horace, as usual, filled the house with panic-stricken barking. She got up and went out of the room and ran downstairs.

  “Oh, Horace, be quiet!” Down the hall to open the heavy door, swinging it wide to the sunshine, to the penetrating cold, to an unknown female figure.

  “Sorry about the dog….”

  “No matter…”

  Her visitor was a woman perhaps in her late thirties, tall and slender and marvellously unconventional in her appearance.

  She had very dark, almost raven-black hair, cut in a fringe and hanging loose and straight to her shoulders. She wore a battered Barbour over a long red woollen skirt and what looked like Doc Marten boots. A tartan muffler was wound about her neck, framing a face beautifully boned and innocent of make-up. Her cheeks were tanned, rosy this morning with cold, and her eyes deep-set and dark as black coffee. In one hand she carried a plastic shopping bag, and in the other a little rural basket containing eggs.

  She smiled.

  “Hello. You’re Elfrida Phipps? I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I’m Tabitha.” Elfrida was no wiser, and puzzlement clearly showed on her face.

  “Tabitha Kennedy. Peter Kennedy’s wife.”

  “Oh.” Elfrida made much effort not to appear too astonished. She had never seen any person in her life less likely to be a minister’s wife.

  “How really nice to meet you.” She stepped back indoors, holding open the door.

  “Do come in.”

  But Tabitha Kennedy hesitated.

  “Not if you’re busy. I just brought you some eggs. From my hens.”

  “I’m not busy and fresh eggs are a real treat. Come on, I’ll give you a cup of coffee.”

  Tabitha stepped through the door, and Elfrida closed it behind her.

  “Do you mind coming into the kitchen… ?” She led the way.

  “I’ll put the kettle on, and then we’ll take our coffee upstairs. Or would you rather have tea?”

  “I’d die for a cup of coffee, I’m frozen. Peter’s got the car, so I
had to walk down the hill. I thought I was going to fall flat on my back, it’s so icy.” She followed Elfrida into the kitchen, put the basket of eggs on the table, and hung her plastic bag over a chair.

  “Oscar’s got the car, too. He’s gone to Corrydale to call on someone called Rose Miller.”

  “Goodness, there’ll be a reunion. Rose always adored Oscar. Never stops talking about him. Do you know I’ve never been in here? If I did come to the Estate House, it was very formal, straight up the stairs and into the big room. The Cochranes were a funny old couple, very reserved. Not, you might say, into entertaining. But once a year, Peter and I were asked for tea and polite conversation. It was always a bit of an ordeal. How are you settling in?”

  Elfrida, having filled the kettle and put it on to boil, began reaching for a tray, and cups and saucers.

  “We’re fine.”

  Tabitha looked about her.

  “This kitchen reminds me of an exhibit in one of those National Heritage museums. My grandmother had one the very same. I don’t suppose the Cochranes went in for gadgets, but if they did, Mrs. Cochrane has certainly removed the lot. Have you got a dishwasher?”

  “No. But I’ve never had one, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “How about a clothes washer?”

  “There’s an archaic one in the scullery. It takes hours, but it does work. And my dryer is the washing line at the top of the garden.”

  “A scullery! Can I look?”

  “Of course.”

  “This door? Better and better. Tiled floors and clay sinks, and wooden draining boards. But you’ve got a fridge.”

  “I hardly need one in this weather.”

  Tabitha closed the scullery door and came back into the kitchen, to pull out a chair and sit at the table.

  “Do you use the big upstairs sitting-room?”

  “All the time, though it’s a lot of running up and down stairs.”

  “What about the ground-floor rooms?”

  “One’s a very gloomy Victorian dining-room. Lots of heavy, dark mahogany furniture, and plush curtains, and an upright piano with candle sconces. The other, I think, was the original estate office. I don’t suppose the Cochranes ever used it. There’s still an old roll-top desk, and a table with special drawers for collecting rents. I’m afraid we’ve kept the doors shut on both of them. We either eat in here or by the fire.”

  “Much simpler.”

  “And Oscar doesn’t seem to mind.”

  Tabitha said, “I’m glad Oscar’s not here. One of the reasons I’ve come is to apologize, and now I shan’t have to.”

  “Apologize? For what?”

  “Peter sent me. He’s afraid he was rather crass and pushy yesterday afternoon. He hopes so much that he didn’t upset Oscar.”

  “I think Oscar feels he’s the one to apologize. It was rude, just running away like that, but he panicked and fled. He was filled with remorse. He knew he’d behaved dreadfully badly.”

  “Hector wrote and told us about his wife and his child dying in that appalling car accident. It takes a long while to move out of something like that, and get back into life again.”

  “It’s called grieving.”

  “I know. It can’t have been easy for you.”

  “As a matter of fact, it’s been hellish.”

  Elfrida heard herself come out with this, and was amazed that the impulsive words had been spoken, because the moments of hellishness she had never acknowledged, nor admitted, even to herself.

  “I think frustration is the worst, because there is not a mortal thing one can do to help. And then, impatience. And then guilt for feeling impatient. More than once, I’ve had to bite my tongue. And another thing is, I’m quite a sociable animal. I don’t mean endless parties, but I like making friends and getting to know people, but because of Oscar I’ve had to keep a low profile. I’ve probably created a very snooty impression.”

  “I’m sure not.”

  “Mrs. Snead has been my lifeline. We have long conversations over cups of tea.”

  “I’m glad she’s working for you.”

  “Today … today I have a feeling that the hellish time might just about be behind us. For Oscar’s sake, I hope it is. He’s such a sweet man, he didn’t deserve what happened. Perhaps going to see Rose Miller is a step forward.”

  “We were always there, Peter and I, but we decided you both needed a bit of time. It’s sometimes difficult to gauge exactly the right moment….”

  “Don’t think about it. Please.”

  “If Peter came to see Oscar, would that be a good idea? They could put things right between them.”

  “I think it’s a marvelous idea, but tell him to telephone first.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  The coffee was made, the jug set on the tray. Elfrida picked it up.

  “Let’s go upstairs. It’s more comfortable.”

  She led the way, and Tabitha followed.

  “I’m always impressed by this beautiful staircase. It gives such a grand feel to your entrance. Peter says the banisters are made of Baltic pine, brought back as ballast on the herring boats.” She paused on the half-landing to gaze out at the garden. This, still frosted, and bleak with midwinter, climbed the slope of the hill in a series of terraced lawns, with a path and small flights of steps running up its centre. At the very top was a stand of pines, filled with jackdaw nests.

  “I’d forgotten how much land there is. You can’t see it from the lane because of the high wall. I love a walled garden. Old Cochrane was a great gardener. He kept the Manse supplied with free lettuces.”

  “Oscar gardens, but so far he’s just swept up a few leaves.”

  “In spring, there are daffodils and the terraces are purple with aubrietia. And there’s a lilac, too….”

  Elfrida, laden with the tray, went on upstairs, and behind her, Tabitha continued her running commentary.

  “It hasn’t just got a grand feel, it really is imposing. The size is unexpected, like Dr. Who’s Tardis … it all gets bigger and bigger….” Low sun streamed through the open sitting-room door. “… And I always thought this drawing-room one of the loveliest…. Oh, look, you’ve been allowed to keep the chandelier. That must have come from Corrydale.” She looked around her at the empty walls and spied the little painting that Elfrida had brought with her from Dibton.

  “Heavens, what a darling.” She moved to inspect it more closely.

  “This wasn’t here, was it?”

  “No. It’s mine.” Elfrida set the tray down on the table by the window.

  “It’s a David Wilkie. It has to be.”

  Elfrida was impressed.

  “Yes, it is. I’ve had it for years. I take it with me to every house I live in.”

  “How did you come by such a precious possession?”

  “It was given to me.”

  Tabitha laughed.

  “Someone must have liked you very much.”

  “It looks a bit like a stamp on a blotting pad; too small for such an expanse of wall.”

  “But enchanting.”

  Elfrida went to put a match to the fire.

  “Do we need a fire?” Tabitha asked.

  “Everything feels so warm.”

  “That’s the best. An oil-fired boiler and central heating. When we came, I was so afraid it would all be piercingly cold, but we’re snug as bugs. The boiler does the water, too, so scalding baths.”

  “And of course these old Victorian houses were so solidly built there’s not a draught in the place.”

  The fire kindled, snapped, and crackled. Little flames leaped. Elfrida put on a chunk of coal, another log.

  “Shall we sit by the window?”

  “Let’s. The sun is so gorgeous.” Tabitha unwound her muffler and unzipped her Barbour, which she took off and tossed onto a chair before coming to settle herself on the window-seat.

  “Do you sit here and watch all the goings-on? Already you must know enough about us locals to write a book.
”

  “It is pretty fascinating.” Elfrida pushed aside the letter she had been writing to Hector.

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “About twenty years. We were married just before Peter came here as minister.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twenty.” Tabitha made a face.

  “Some of the parishioners didn’t approve at all, but at the end of the day, it all worked out. Both our children were born in the Manse.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Rory’s eighteen. Just left school. We sent both of our offspring to the local Academy. He’s got his Highers and a place at Durham University, but he’s not taking it up till next year.

  So we’re into his Gap year, and goodness knows what he’s going to do with himself. Peter says he doesn’t care provided the boy is either earning or learning. And Clodagh’s twelve, and for some reason, mad on horses. We haven’t worked out why she had to choose such an expensive hobby.”

  “She might have gone for hang-gliding.”

  Suddenly, they were both laughing, and it was lovely to be gassing to a girl-friend over a cup of coffee as though they had known each other forever.

  She looked at Tabitha, sitting there in her black polo-neck sweater, and with her young girl’s hair, and was filled with curiosity.

  “Do you like being a minister’s wife?”

  “I adore being married to Peter. And I’m not totally a minister’s wife, because I teach art at the school. I’m a qualified teacher, with all the right degrees. Five mornings a week.”

  “Are you an artist?”

  “Yes, I paint and draw. But I teach crafts as well. Pottery and sewing. The senior girls stitched all the kneelers in the church. It was a huge project. And every mother in Creagan has a rather wobbly pot for her begonias.”

  Elfrida said, “I was an actress.” And then felt a bit shy, and wished she hadn’t said it, because it sounded as though she were capping Tabitha’s talent.

  But Tabitha was gratifyingly amazed.

  “Were you really? Actually, I’m not a bit surprised. I can just see you on the stage.”

  “I wasn’t exactly Ibsen material. It was light stuff. Musical comedies, that sort of thing. I was in Rep for years, playing every sort of part from teenager to ragged crone.”