Winter Solstice

  “Wonderful. Just back. Haven’t even been home yet, because I had to buy some provisions.” She put the wire basket on the counter and reached for a Daily Telegraph.

  “You won’t believe this, but I haven’t read a newspaper for weeks. To be truthful, I didn’t miss it.”

  Mrs. Jennings made no comment on this. Elfrida looked up and saw that Mrs. Jennings was staring at her, biting her lip and looking much troubled. Elfrida put the newspaper on top of the basket. After a bit, she said, “Is anything wrong, Mrs. Jennings?”

  Mrs. Jennings said, “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  Suddenly Elfrida’s mouth was dry.

  “No.”

  “Mrs. Blundell.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s dead, Mrs. Phipps. A car smash at Pudstone roundabout. She was bringing the little girl home from a fireworks party. November the fourth, it was. A lorry. Heaven knows how it happened. She couldn’t have seen it. It was a dreadful night. Pouring with rain…” Elfrida, stunned by shock, said nothing.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Phipps. I thought you might have heard.”

  “How could I have heard? I never read a paper. Nobody knew where I was. Nobody knew my address.”

  “A tragedy, Mrs. Phipps. We couldn’t believe it. None of the village could believe it.”

  “And Francesca?” She made herself ask the question, dreading the answer.

  “She died, too, Mrs. Phipps. And the two little dogs who were in the back. You couldn’t believe the photograph in the paper. That great car, smashed and flattened to bits. They didn’t stand a chance. Only good thing was the police said it was instant. They couldn’t, any of them, have known a thing.” Mrs. Jennings’s voice shook a little. She clearly found it almost impossible to speak of what had taken place.

  “You hear of things like this happening, but when it happens to folk you know….”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve gone white as a sheet, Mrs. Phipps. Would you like me to make you a cup of tea? Come into the back shop….”

  “No, I’m all right.” Which she was, because she was numb, quite calm and cool, shocked beyond horror. She said, “A funeral?”

  “A couple of days ago. Here in the village. A huge turnout. A real tribute.”

  So she had missed even that chance to mourn and comfort. She said, “And Oscar. Mr. Blundell?”

  “Hardly seen him. At the funeral, of course, but not since then. Kept to himself. Poor gentleman. It doesn’t bear thinking what he’s been through. What he’s going through.”

  She thought of Francesca, laughing and teasing her father, playing duets with him on the piano, curled up in his big armchair and the two reading a book together. And I blotted the image from her mind, because it was unbearable to remember.

  She said, “Is he at the Grange?”

  “Far as I know. The boy’s been delivering milk and papers and so forth. Suppose he’s just gone into himself. Natural, really. The vicar went to call, but he didn’t even want to see the vicar. Mrs. Muswell goes up to the Grange each day, just like she always did, but she says he just stays in his music room. She leaves a tray for his supper on the kitchen table, but she says most times he doesn’t even touch it.”

  “Do you think he would see me?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Mrs. Phipps. Except that you and them were always friends.”

  “I should have been here.”

  “Not your fault, Mrs. Phipps.” Someone else had come into the shop. Mrs. Jennings put her spectacles on again, in a brave attempt to be business-like. She said, “I’ll put these things through the till, shall I? It’s nice to see you back. We’ve missed you. I feel I’ve spoilt your homecoming. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you for telling me. I’m glad it was you and not anybody else.”

  She went out of the shop and got back into her car, where she sat for a moment, feeling as though the day, her life, had been snapped into two pieces; it could never be repaired and would never be the same again. She had moved from the laughter and happiness of Emblo into a place of loss and unthinkable pain. And what upset her most was the fact that she had had no knowledge of the tragedy, no inkling, not a suspicion. For some reason, this made her feel guilty, as though she had reneged on responsibilities, stayed on at Emblo when she should have been here. In Dibton. With Oscar.

  After a bit, heavy-hearted, she started up the engine and moved on. Bobby Burton Jones had finished clipping his hedge and disappeared indoors, which was a relief because she didn’t want to stop and talk to anybody. She drove down the main street of the village, passed by her own turning. As the houses thinned out, she came to the great gates of the Grange, the house that had been Gloria’s. She turned in, up the drive, and around the curve where grew the huge cedar tree grew. She saw the elaborate face of the house, and outside the front door, a large black limousine upon the gravel.

  She parked a little way off and got out, and saw that behind the wheel of this impressive vehicle there sat a uniformed driver, wearing his cap and reading a newspaper. Hearing her, he glanced up, acknowledged her presence with a nod of his head, and then went back to his racing results. He clearly was not expecting conversation. She left him there and went up the steps, and through the open doorway into the familiar tiled porch. The half-glassed door was closed, and she did not ring the bell, but opened this and went inside.

  It was tremendously quiet. Only the lock of the long case clock, snipping away at the passing seconds. She stood for a little, listening. Hoping for comforting, domestic sounds from the kitchen, or a thread of music from upstairs. Nothing. The silence was suffocating, like a fog.

  To her right, the drawing-room door stood open. She crossed the hall, thick carpets blanketing her footfall, and went through. At first she thought the room was empty, and she alone. And then saw that a man sat in the wing-chair by the empty fireplace. Tweed trouser-legs, polished brogues. Not much else was visible.

  “Oscar,” she said softly, and moved forward, to look down at him, and experienced the second stunning shock of that dreadful day. For here was Oscar, aged beyond belief, all at once an old man, bespectacled, wrinkled and hunched in the padded chair, a gnarled hand clenched over the ivory handle of an ebony stick. Instinctively, her hand went to her mouth, to stop a scream, or perhaps to conceal her despair.

  He looked up at her and said, “My word,” and instantly such relief flooded through her that she thought her legs were going to give way. Swiftly, before they did this, she sat with a thump on the padded leather seat of the club fender. They stared at each other. He went on, “I never heard you coming in. Did you ring a bell? I’m a bit deaf, but I’d have heard the bell. I’d have come to the door….”

  He was not Oscar, aged beyond belief, just another person resembling him. Maybe twenty or so years older than Oscar. An old gentleman well into his eighties, and speaking most courteously with a strong Scottish accent. His voice reminded her of a well-loved old doctor who had looked after Elfrida when she was a small child, and for some reason this made everything much easier to deal with.

  “No,” she told him.

  “I didn’t ring the bell. I just walked in.”

  “You’ll forgive me not getting up. I’m a bit stiff and slow these days. Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. I am Hector McLennan. Oscar is my nephew.”

  Hector McLennan. Who had once owned Corrydale, but now lived in London, and whose son Hughie had wiped the dust of Britain from the soles of his shoes and gone to live in Barbados.

  She said, “Once, Oscar told me about you.”

  “And you, my dear?”

  “Elfrida Phipps. I have a house in the village. I live on my own. Gloria and Oscar were endlessly kind to me. I’m sorry I was so rude when I first came in. I thought you were Oscar, and then of course I realized my mistake.”

  “Oscar, aged by grief?”

  “Yes. I suppose so. You see, I haven?
??t seen him yet. I’ve been in Cornwall for a month with cousins, and only just heard about everything from Mrs. Jennings in the village shop. I went in to buy bread … and things. She told me.”

  “Yes. A ghastly accident.”

  “What happened?”

  The old man shrugged.

  “Gloria drove her car onto the roundabout, right into the teeth of this great articulated lorry.”

  “You mean, she never saw it?”

  “It was very dark. It had started to rain.”

  “Mrs. Jennings said she’d been to a party with Francesca. Fireworks and such.”

  “That’s so.”

  Elfrida bit her lip. After a little, she said, “Sometimes, at the end of a party, she’d have a strong drink.” And immediately wished she hadn’t said such a thing. But the old man was unfazed.

  “I know, my dear. We all knew. Sometimes she overdid it a wee bit. A dram too many at the end of a convivial evening. Hard to say no, perhaps. And then to drive home. Oscar knows this, better than any of us. He is consumed with guilt because he didn’t take Francesa to the fireworks party himself. I think it never occurred to him that it was anything more than a children’s party, that Gloria wouldn’t bring Francesca straight home. But I suppose there were other parents there, and it just went on. The rain started just before they set out. And then, a momentary lapse of concentration, a confusion of lights, a heavy vehicle, a wet road…” He spread his hand in a gesture that said it all.

  “Finished. All over. Lives wiped out.”

  “I’ve even missed the funeral.”

  “I missed it, too. I had a touch of flu, my doctor forbade it. This is my first visit, though of course I wrote my letter of condolence, and have been in touch over the telephone. It was while I was speaking to him that I became aware of his situation. So as soon as I could, I made the journey down from London to talk things through. I am aged, but I am still his uncle. No doubt you saw my car and driver at the door.”

  “Yes.” Elfrida frowned.

  “You said ‘his situation.’ Does that have special meaning?”

  “It most certainly does.”

  “Am I allowed to be told?”

  “No secret, my dear. Gloria has left everything, including this house, to her sons. The day after the funeral they presented themselves and told Oscar he could no longer live here, because they intended selling.”

  “And where do they imagine Oscar’s going to live?”

  “They suggested some old folks’ home. The Priory, I think it is called. They had brochures for him to read.” He added with gentle irony, “They had clearly thought of everything.”

  “You mean, they’re throwing him out? Into an old folks’ home? Oscar? They must be mad.”

  “No. I don’t think they’re actually insane. Just avaricious and without heart. And they’ve got two hard wee wives as’ well, probably pushing from the back line to get every brass farthing they can lay their hands on.”

  “Then Oscar must buy another house.”

  Hector McLennan lowered his head and regarded Elfrida over the top of his spectacles. He said, “Oscar is not a man of means.”

  “You mean he has no money?”

  “A pension, of course. And a little put by. But not enough to buy a decent house at these days’ inflated prices.”

  “Gloria’s sons, Giles and Crawford, must know that.” Another thought occurred to her.

  “And Gloria must have known, too. Surely she could have left Oscar something. She was so generous, so giving of worldly goods.”

  “Maybe she intended to. She was a relatively young woman. In all likelihood, it never occurred to her that she would die before Oscar. Or perhaps she simply never got around to making a new will, or even adding a codicil. We shall never know.”

  “But he can’t go and live in an old folks’ home.” The very notion was an affront. Oscar, of all people, bundled in with a lot of old incontinent geriatrics, eating milk puddings and being taught to make baskets. Elfrida’s vision of an old folks’ home was a little fuzzy, on account of her never having been in one. She said firmly, “I won’t let it happen.”

  “What will you do?”

  “He can come and live with me.” But even as she said it she knew that this was an impractical suggestion. There was scarcely space for one at Poulton’s Row, let alone two. And where would she put his grand piano? On the roof or in the garden shed?

  “That’s stupid. No, he can’t.”

  “My notion,” said the old man, “is that he should move away. This house, this village is too filled with poignant memory. I think he should cut loose. That’s why I drove down today to see him. Mrs. Muswell gave us lunch, and I put forward my suggestion. But he seems unable to make any sort of decision. Doesn’t seem to care what happens.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He was called to the garden. Some problem with the greenhouse heating system. I said I would wait until he returned, and then start back for London. Which is why you found me sitting here in my nephew’s chair, and looking, doubtless, like an old ghoul.”

  “You don’t look like an old ghoul, and what was your suggestion?”

  “That he goes back to Sutherland for a bit. Corrydale, and the wee Estate House. Half of it belongs to him anyway, and my Hughie, who is the co-owner, lives in Barbados and is likely to stay there.”

  “I thought it was let. The house, I mean. Occupied.”

  “No. At the moment, it’s standing empty. An elderly couple, called Cochrane, were living there, but the old man died, and the wife has gone to stay with her daughter. I discovered this from our erstwhile factor, Major Billicliffe. He’s retired now, but he still lives on the Corrydale estate. At the time of Hughie’s big sale, he bought his house. I gave him a telephone call, and we spoke at length. He says the place is in good condition, maybe needs a lick of paint, but otherwise sound and dry.”

  “Is it furnished?”

  “It was a furnished let. There will be no frills, but the essentials of day-to-day living should be there.”

  Elfrida thought this all over. Sutherland. She imagined it: peat bogs and sheep. Remote as the moon. She said, “It’s a long way for Oscar to go all on his own.”

  “He’s known at Corrydale and Creagan. He’s family. His grandmother’s grandson, and my nephew. People are kindly, and he will be remembered, even though he’s not been back for fifty years.”

  “But is he up to such an uprooting? Such upheaval? Why not return to London, and be near the church where he was organist? Wouldn’t that be more sensible?”

  “A regression. And one haunted, I should think, by memories of his child.”

  “Yes. You’re right.”

  “And, saddest of all, he has abandoned his music. It’s as though the best part of him has died.”

  “How can I help?”

  “That’s up to you. A little gentle persuasion, perhaps?”

  “I can try.” But she wondered where she was going to find the strength.

  They fell silent, gazing sadly at each other. This silence was disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps, the slow tread of a person crossing the gravel in front of the house. Elfrida raised her head and watched Oscar pass by the long window. All at once she was nervous. She got to her feet.

  “He’s coming now,” she said.

  The front door opened and closed. They waited. A long pause. Then the drawing-room door swung open, and he was there, surveying the pair of them across the expanse of the thick carpet. He wore old corduroys and a heavy sweater, knitted and flecked like tweed. His thick white hair fell across his forehead, and he put up a hand to push it aside. She had imagined him diminished, felled by tragedy. But heart-break is a hidden thing, and Oscar was a private man.

  “Elfrida. I knew you had come because I saw your little car.”

  She went to meet him, and he took her hands in his own and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. His lips were icy against her skin. She looked into his eyes.


  “Dear Oscar. I’m home again.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “About fifteen minutes. I drove up from Cornwall this morning. I went into the shop, and Mrs. Jennings told me. I hadn’t known. I haven’t read a newspaper for a month. So I came straight here and walked in on your uncle.”

  “I see.” He let go of her hands and turned to Hector, who sat in his chair and watched their reunion.

  “I am sorry I kept you waiting, Hector. There were complications. Something to do with a trip-switch. But you have had Elfrida for company.”

  “And very pleasant it has been, too. Now I must be on my way.” Which entailed something of a struggle, the old man leaning on his stick and endeavouring to rise from the chair. Oscar moved forward to lend a hand, and after some effort on both their parts got his uncle to his feet, supported by his stick, and prepared for departure.

  They all moved, at the old gentleman’s pace, across the big room and through to the hall. There, Oscar helped him into his oldfashioned overcoat and handed him his aged brown trilby. Hector put this on at a rakish angle.

  “It was good of you to come, Hector, and I really appreciate it. Splendid to see you.”

  “Dear boy. Thank you for lunch. And if you’re in town, drop in.”

  “Of course.”

  “And give thought to my suggestion. It may seem a little drastic, but it would at least give you a breather. You mustn’t stay here.” It was then that he remembered something, and began groping in the pocket of his overcoat.

  “Nearly forgot. Wrote it down for you. Billicliffe’s telephone number. All you have to do is give him a ring; he’s got the key of your house.” He withdrew from the pocket a scrap of folded paper and handed it over.

  “Only thing is,” he added, with a dry twinkle in his rheumy old eyes, “don’t leave it too late in the day. He’s inclined to hit the whisky bottle, and doesn’t make much sense after that.”

  But Elfrida was concerned by other, more practical, matters.

  “How long has the house stood empty?”

  “Couple of months. But there’s a Mrs. Snead who’s been going in and out. Keeping the place cleaned and aired. Billicliffe arranged that, but I’ve been paying her wages. Doesn’t do to let property disintegrate.”