Winter Solstice

  It was a good day.

  OSCAR

  After a late breakfast on Sunday morning, Oscar, bundled up as usual against the cold, walked down the street to the news agent’s to pick up the weekly wedge of Sunday papers. The little town was empty and quiet. No cars at this early hour, and only the sound of the gulls and the jackdaws, forever hovering and wheeling and settling on the church tower. It was another brilliant day, cloudless and with no breath of wind. All was petrified by frost, and his footsteps rang on the deserted pavements. He felt as isolated as an Arctic explorer.

  Returning, he met Elfrida and Horace setting out for a good long walk along the beach. Elfrida wore a thick woollen hat, like a tea-cosy, pulled down over her ears, and her blanket coat, trimmed with fringe.

  She said, “Come with us,” but he declined her invitation, because he wished to settle down with the Arts section and catch up with all that was happening in London. Galleries, operas, and concerts. He also enjoyed reading the gardening articles. World news, for the moment, was going by the board.

  “How long will you be?” he asked her.

  “No idea, but home in time to grill your chop. And I’ve put a rice pudding in the oven.”

  Oscar liked rice pudding. Elfrida had made him one before, and it had been splendid, creamy and rich, and lightly spiced with lemon zest.

  “Which way are you going?” he asked her.

  “Along the dunes. Why?”

  “If you are not back by dark, I shall call up a posse and come searching.”

  “I promise you, I shall tread carefully, like Agag.”

  “Do that.”

  They parted. He went indoors, and up the stairs to their magnificent sitting-room. Elfrida had laid the fire, so he lit it, and then went downstairs again and out to the shed, to fill a second basket with logs. If the fire burnt all day, then one basket was not sufficient to last until bedtime. With the flames blazing nicely, he selected the Arts section and settled down in considerable comfort to read.

  The church bells disturbed him. The tower clock told him that it was half past ten. He dropped the paper, went over to the window-seat, and perched there, half-turned so that he looked down onto the street. He found it fascinating, on Sunday mornings, how the empty town slowly but steadily began filling up.

  The church was coming to life, preparing itself for the weekly influx. The main doors had been opened, and vergers, elders-whatever they called them-in dark suits or kilts strode up the path from the gate and disappeared inside. Oscar recognized Mr. W. G. Croft, who had sold Elfrida their new toaster. Presently he heard, as though from very far away, the tones of the organ.

  “Sheep May Safely Graze.” Muffled by stone-thick walls, but recognizable, to Oscar’s professional ear, as a good instrument, and competently played. So often, in country churches, an organist had to do his best with an aged and breathless piece of equipment and a creaky choir, so that he was obliged, while pedalling, to sing loudly, in order to lead the congregation and give them some idea of the tune.

  At first, Oscar had found having the church so close as a neighbour a little disconcerting. A constant reminder, nudging at his shoulder, of all he had lost. He watched the cars draw up and groups of people converging, walking from street corners, stepping down the hill. He knew that he only had to cross the road and he would be swept up into the stream, and, like a swimmer caught in a current, sucked through those imposing doors and into the soaring nave.

  The windows of the church were tall, arched in gothic style. But from the outside, the colours and patterns of the stained-glass were dimmed. He knew that to appreciate their jewel-like beauty one had to view them from within, the light of day streaming through the colours and throwing lozenges of ruby and sapphire and emerald onto worn flagstones.

  Perhaps this was symbolic. Perhaps, isolated from the church, there were other delights, pleasures, comforts, that, because of his present state of mind, he deliberately denied himself.

  It was an interesting supposition, but disturbing, too, and one on which he did not wish to dwell. He left the window and went back to the fire and his newspaper. But when the congregation in the church across the street began to sing their first hymn, he lowered the paper and listened, staring into the flames.

  “Hark, a thrilling voice is sounding, Christ is nigh, it seems to say. Cast away the dreams of darkness O ye children of the day.”

  A good old classic Advent hymn. He remembered rehearsing the choir at the school where he had taught, imploring them to sing as though they truly believed the message of hope.

  He thought, I must get in touch with Peter Kennedy.

  But Sunday was the busiest day of a rector’s week. Perhaps tomorrow. Or the next day.

  Meantime … he settled his spectacles and endeavoured to concentrate his mind on The Sunday Times and an erudite critique of Jonathan Miller’s production of Fidelia at Covent Garden.

  Monday, December 11th Monday was one of Mrs. Snead’s days, the other being Thursday. She came at nine on the dot, while Elfrida and Oscar were still drinking the last of their breakfast coffee, and her arrival was heralded by the slam of the back door when she let herself in. Then a pause while, in the scullery, she divested herself of anorak, headscarf, and boots, hanging the garments on her useful hook. She always carried a flowered plastic shop ping bag in which were stowed her working clothes, an apron and a trendy pair of trainers. Oscar and Elftida waited. Then Die door was flung open, and bang, she was there.

  “Morning, all.”

  An entrance, thought Oscar, that any actress would be proud of.

  “Morning, Mrs. Snead.”

  “Blimey, it’ sparky Rubbing her hands together to get her circulation going, Mrs. Snead kicked shut the door behind her.

  “There’s a wind goes through you like a knife.”

  Elfrida put down her coffee-cup.

  “Have a cup of tea.”

  “I wouldn’t mind, before I get started in. Kettle’s boiled, ‘as it?” She caught sight of the new toaster.

  “Well, just look at what we’ve got ‘ere. Love the colour. Been shopping, ‘ave you? About time, too, that other old thing was a killer. What did you do with it? Bin it, I “ope.” She clashed around, finding a mug and a tea-bag and the milk carton. Her tea made, she pulled out a handy chair and sat to join them.

  “What’s this I’m ‘earing about Major Billicliffe?”

  They both stared at her. Then Oscar said, “News travels fast.”

  “Charlie Miller was in Arfur’s yesterday evening, buying a cabbage.

  “‘E told ‘im. Says ‘e’s got to look after the dog. Say ‘e’s going to Inverness to the ‘ospital.

  “Ope it’s nothing serious.”

  “We hope so, too, Mrs. Snead. And Oscar’s going to drive him over.”

  “Charlie said something like that to Arfur.” She eyed Oscar.

  “You up to it, Mr. Blundell? It’s a long way.”

  “I think I’ll manage, Mrs. Snead.”

  “At least it’s not snowing. What time do you ‘ave to be off?”

  “As soon as I’ve finished breakfast.”

  “Got a mobile phone, ‘ave you? Ought to ‘ave a mobile phone.”

  “No, I haven’t got one. But we shall be all right.”

  “Well, let’s ‘ope so, anyway. No point in being pessimistic. Now, Mrs. Phipps, before I forget, Arfur says to ask you, do you want a Christmas tree, and if so ‘e’ll reserve one.”

  “A Christmas tree?” Elfrida looked uncertain.

  “Well… I don’t know.”

  “You must ‘ave a tree. Wouldn’t be Christmas without a tree.”

  “Yes. Perhaps. But we thought we wouldn’t bother.”

  “A tree’s no bother. It’s fun. Decorating and all that.”

  Elfrida appealed to Oscar.

  “What do you think?”

  He decided it was time to put her out of her misery.

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Sn
ead, but we’re getting our Christmas tree from Corrydale.”

  Elfrida’s jaw dropped. And for once in her life, she was quite cross with him.

  “We’re getting one from Corrydalel Why didn’t you say? Here I am telling Mrs. Snead we don’t want a tree, and the next thing you’re telling me you’ve already booked one. You are impossible.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “When did you organize all this?”

  “On Saturday, when I went to see Rose. I told you, Charlie works in the gardens there. They’ve got a whole plantation of Christmas trees, and Rose said she’d speak to him, and he’d cut us a good one.”

  “You should have said.”

  “There was so much else to tell you, I forgot. I thought it would be nice for Carrie and Lucy.”

  Elfrida stopped being cross.

  “That was a lovely idea. When is it coming?”

  “We have to telephone Charlie, and go and fetch it.”

  By now, Mrs. Snead had pricked up her ears.

  She was a small, spare lady, with tightly per med grey hair, and always wore sparkling, dangly earrings. Sitting there with her head cocked and her bright eyes not missing a trick, she reminded Oscar of a cheeky sparrow.

  “Having visitors, are you?”

  “I haven’t had time to tell you yet, Mrs. Snead. But my cousin and her niece are coming for Christmas. Lucy’s the niece. She’s fourteen.”

  Mrs. Snead was highly delighted.

  “That’s really lovely. That’ll cheer you up, ‘having young people around the place. When are they coming? And where do you want them to sleep? We’ll need to get the rooms cleaned up and polished.”

  “I thought I’d put Lucy up in the attic.”

  “The attic! But there’s not a stick of furniture.”

  “There will be, after tomorrow. Tabitha Kennedy’s going to take me to the market in Buckly. She says we can buy anything there.”

  Mrs. Snead sniffed.

  “It’s not new stuff,” she warned. “All second-‘and.”

  “It’ll be good enough, I’m sure.”

  “I’d ‘ave thought you’d ‘ave liked a nice suite.” She was clearly disappointed in Elfrida’s lowly taste.

  “Saw one in Inverness last time I was there. Lovely, it was. Walnut veneer with filigree brass and les And the bed ‘ad a peach satin ‘eadboard and valance.”

  “It sounds very pretty, Mrs. Snead, but a bit grand. And I don’t want to have to drive all the way to Inverness.”

  Mrs. Snead, pondering over this new domestic situation, sipped her tea. She said, “We’re a bit short of sheets and stuff. You don’t want to buy them second-‘and. Never liked the thought of a used blanket. There’s a draper in Buckly, not much good for clothes, but they run a line in soft furnishings. You could ‘ave a word with Tabitha Kennedy and pop in there.”

  “Til do that.”

  “Oh, well.” Mrs. Snead finished her tea and sprang to her trainered feet, to fling the dregs of her mug into the sink.

  “Sitting ‘ere chatting won’t get the baby bathed. Where’d you want me to start, Mrs. Phipps?”

  “Let’s get going on the attic. Get it swept and scrubbed and the skylight cleaned, and then, when any furniture arrives, it can be carried straight upstairs and put into place.”

  “

  “Go’s going to do the carrying, I’d like to know?” Mrs. Snead could be quite protective and fierce.

  “Not you and Mr. Blundell, I ‘ope. You’ll give yourselves ‘ernias.”

  “I shall organize a van. With removal-men.”

  “You can borrow Arfur if you like.”

  “That’s very kind….”

  “

  “E’s ‘andy with a screwdriver. I will say that for “im.” With this parting shot, Mrs. Snead collected brooms, dusters, and her tin of polish, and set off up the stairs. A moment or two later could be heard the roaring of the ancient Hoover, accompanied by Mrs. Snead’s voice.

  “I want to be Bobby’s girl,” she sang.

  Elfrida stifled a giggle. Oscar said, “Not only does Mrs. Snead dust for us, but brings with her music that takes me back over the years. She is indeed a remarkable lady.”

  “What memory does her singing evoke for you, Oscar?”

  “Schoolboys’ studies, smelling of sweaty gym shoes and throbbing with pop.”

  “That’s not very romantic.”

  “I was a bachelor schoolmaster. Romance did not fly my way.” He looked at his watch. “Elfrida, I must be going.”

  “You will take care, won’t you?”

  “I shall endeavour to.”

  “It’s beside the point, but I think you’re a saint.”

  “I shall ask Mrs. Snead to polish my halo.”

  “Oscar…”

  “What is it?”

  “Good luck.”

  That night, the wind veered around to the east, and in the early hours of the morning Oscar awoke to the whining, piping sound of an imminent gale and the rattle of rain flung at window-panes. He lay awake for a long time, thinking about Godfrey Billicliffe. At last he knew his Christian name, because he had learned it in the course of helping the Ward Sister to fill in countless forms, before leaving the sick old man to her tender mercies.

  The undertaking had not been as demanding as he had feared. The drive to Inverness had gone smoothly, and old Billicliffe, encouraged by caring attention, had talked nonstop the entire way over. Oscar had learned much about his life. His career in the Army, his spell in Germany with the Army of the Rhine. How he had met his wife in Os. How they had married in Colchester. How they had never been blessed with children. Oscar, at the wheel of his ear, was thankfully not expected to make much response to this stream of reminiscence. From time to time, all that was required was a casual agreement, or a nod of the head, whereupon Godfrey Billicliffe bumbled on.

  It was not until they were speeding down the motorway across the Black Isle, and Inverness was in view across the water, that Major Billicliffe fell silent. For a moment Oscar wondered if he had fallen asleep, but glancing sideways saw his passenger was still awake. Perhaps simply brooding. After a bit he started talking again, but now it was not about the past that he spoke, but his present and his future.

  “Been thinking, Oscar…”

  “What have you been thinking about?”

  “What’s going to happen…. Turning my toes up …”

  “You’re not going to turn your toes up,” Oscar assured him, hoping that he sounded robust.

  “Never know … Not as young … Have to be prepared. Ready and prepared for all contingencies. Learned that in the Army. Prepare for the worst and hope for the best.” Another long pause.

  “Wondered … up to you, of course … if you’d agree to be my executor. Good to know … Capable hands…”

  “I’m not so sure my hands are capable.”

  “Rubbish. Hector McLennan’s nephew. Not that his son was great shakes … you … different kettle of fish. Friends all dead. Thought you might… Appreciate it…”

  His unfinished sentences Oscar found maddening. He said, as calmly as he could, “If you want. If it would set your mind at rest, I’d be happy to be your executor. But…”

  “Splendid. All settled…. Tell my lawyer. Nice feller. Did all the conveyancing when I bought my house from the Corrydale Estate. Keen fisherman. Liked the cut of his jib.”

  “Has he got a name?”

  Major Billicliffe gave a snort, which perhaps was meant to be laughter at Oscar’s quirky question.

  “Course he’s got a name. Murdo MacKenzie. Firm's MacKenzie and Stout - South Street, Inverness.”

  “Murdo MacKenzie”

  “I must tell him you're my executor. That's settled. Ring him up.” He thought about this. “’Suppose I could ring from the hospital. They’ll have telephones, won't they?” he asked hopefully.

  “Of course. The nurse, I am sure, will bring one to your bedside.”

  “Bit different f
rom the old days,” said Major Billicliffe, as though he had once languished in the military hospital at Scutari. “Medical officers’ rounds and bedpans. And a matron like a sergeant-major. No telephones then.” Sobering, he fell silent once more, and did not speak again until they had reached their destination.

  The hospital was the Royal Western. Oscar found it without too much difficulty, and once arrived, matters were taken out of his hands, and all he had to do was accompany Major Billicliffe on his way. A porter appeared with a wheelchair and took over the new arrival, while Oscar walked alongside, carrying the necessary suitcase, a heavy and battered bit of equipment fashioned from what looked like elephant hide. Upstairs in a huge lift, and then the long corridors of polished linoleum, and finally the ward. Ward 14. The Ward Sister was ready and waiting for admission, with her clipboard and her forms. All went smoothly until she came to Next of Kin.

  “Next of kin, Major Billicliffe?” Suddenly, he looked bewildered.

  “Sorry?”

  “Next of Kin. You know. Wife. Children. Brothers or sisters.”

  He shook his head.

  “I have none. I have no one….”

  “Oh, come along, there has to be someone.” Oscar could not bear it.

  “Me,” he said firmly.

  “I am Major Billicliffe’s next of kin. Oscar Blundell. You can write it down. The Estate House. Creagan.”

  Sister did so.

  “Have you got a telephone number?” Oscar gave it to her.

  Finally, all was written, recorded, and signed. And it was time for Oscar to leave. He said goodbye.

  “You’ll come again?”

  “Of course. Provided we don’t get snowed in.”

  “Thank you for bringing me. Obliged….”

  “Not at all.”

  And he walked away from the old man and his suitcase, and told himself that it wasn’t his fault. There was no reason to feel as shifty as a traitor.

  He could have done no more. Later, when there was news of the invalid, he and Elfrida would set out on the long drive once more, and go to visit Godfrey Billicliffe. Elfrida, if anybody could cheer him up. She would probably take him grapes.

  A clout of wind struck the house. Oscar turned into the pillows and closed his eyes, and all at once found himself thinking about Francesca. This often happened in the dark hours of a restless night, and he dreaded the inevitable aftermath, a torment of rekindled, anguished loss. Francesca. Soundless, his lips formed her name. Francesca. He slid his hand beneath his pillow to rumble for his handkerchief, knowing that he would probably weep. But instead of weeping, he became aware of a sort of quiet, as though he were more at ease with himself than he had felt for weeks. Francesca. He saw her running across the sunlit lawns of the Grange, towards him. And the image stayed, poignant, but especially sweet.