Winter Solstice

  The family business was a small woollen mill, in a small Yorkshire town. After Newcastle, Sam had intended to spread his wings, perhaps get a job abroad, but with his mother gone, he hadn’t the heart to abandon his father, and, with a degree in engineering under his belt, he went home to Yorkshire, to Radley Hill, and the mill. For a few years, father and son boxed along happily together, and business boomed. But then, recession hit, and the mill, which specialized in fine worsteds and lightweight tweeds, came up against sophisticated competition from Europe, an influx of imports, and a cash flow problem. At the end of the day, Sturrock and Swinfield, the huge textile conglomerate, based in London, moved in. The little mill was taken over. Sam was given a job under the new umbrella, but his father, too old a dog to learn new tricks, took early retirement. But digging his garden and playing the odd game of golf was not enough to fend off the stress of loneliness, boredom, and enforced inactivity, and he died twelve months later of a massive heart attack.

  Radley Hill was left to Sam. After some heart-searching, he put it on the market. It seemed the only sensible thing to do, for he was now London-based, still working for Sturrock and Swinfield, and wise to all the ups and downs of fluctuating markets and the business of woollen brokering. With the money he got for Radley Hill, he was able to buy his first property, a garden flat in Eel Park Common, so close to the tube station that at night he could hear the rattling of the trains. But it had a scrap of garden that caught the evening sun, and once he had furnished it with some of the smaller stuff from the old house in Yorkshire, it felt familiar and homely. He had been happy there, living a carefree bachelor life, and in memory it was always sunlit and filled with friends. Countless impromptu parties, when the rooms overflowed and guests ended up sitting on the tiny terrace. Crowded winter weekends, when old colleagues from the North came down for rugger matches at Twickenham. And, of course, a number of poignant love affairs.

  He was in the throes of one of these when, out of the blue, came a summons from Sir David Swinfield. There, in the prestigious high-rise office, far above the maze of the City of London, Sam was told that he was being transferred to the United States, to New York. The head of the New York office, Mike Passano, had particularly asked for him. It was promotion, responsibility, a rise in salary.

  “No reason not to go, Sam?”

  New York. He said, “No, sir,” which was true. No family ties, no wife, no children. Nothing that could not be abandoned.

  “No reason.” It was the opportunity that he had subconsciously yearned for ever since University. A new job, a new city, a new country. A new life.

  He took the current love affair out to dinner and tried to explain, and she cried a bit and said that if he wanted, she’d come to New York with him. But he knew that wasn’t what he wanted. Feeling a heel, he told her this, and she cried some more, and when it was time to go he found a taxi for her and watched her drive away. He never saw her again.

  He was equally ruthless about material possessions. A chunk of his life was over, and he had no idea when, if ever, he would return to London. Accordingly, he sold his car and his flat, putting only a few favorite pieces of furniture, pictures, and books into store. At the office, he cleared his desk. Someone threw a leaving party, and he was able to say goodbye to all his friends.

  “Don’t stay too long,” they told him.

  “Come back soon.”

  But New York waited, and once arrived, he was seduced by all he found. He took to the place like a duck to water, relishing every aspect of the stimulating, cosmopolitan melting pot that made up the city. Home, there, was a walk-up in Greenwich Village, but after he married Deborah, she persuaded him to move and they ended up in a fancy duplex on East Seventieth Street. He had always enjoyed the challenge of a new home, new surroundings. Doing a bit of painting, shunting furniture around, and hanging pictures. But Deborah didn’t much want any of the old Greenwich Village stuff in her beautiful new apartment, and anyway, she had engaged the services of an interior designer, who would die if that sagging old leather sofa were integrated into his string-coloured d6cor. There were a few spats, but not too many because Sam usually gave in, and he was quite happy to have the old leather sofa in his den, where he kept his computer and his fax machine. It felt friendly there, and sometimes, on weekends, when Deborah thought he was working overtime, he could lie on the leather sofa and watch football on television.

  Homes. East Seventieth Street had been the last, and that, too, had gone. Along with Deborah.

  She had never been a moral coward. She told him, face-to-face, that she was leaving. She was tired of playing second riddle to Sturrock and Swinfield, and tired of being married to a workaholic. There was, of course, another man, and when she told Sam his name, he was both appalled and filled with anxiety for her future. He said as much, but Deborah was adamant. It was too late. Her mind was made up. He could not persuade her.

  He was furious, but he was hurt, too, bewildered and abased. He thought of that oldfashioned word, cuckold. I am a cuckold. I have been cuckolded.

  And yet, in a way, he understood.

  The morning after her departure, he walked into the office and was met with covert glances and sympathetic faces. Some colleagues were over-hearty, slapping him chummily on the shoulder, letting him know they were his buddies. There if he needed them.

  Others, who had never particularly liked Sam, the Limey, showed signs of snide amusement, resembling cats that had got at the cream. He realized then that probably they had all had a fair idea of what was going on, and Sam, the leading actor in the drama, had been the very last to know.

  During the course of the day, Mike Passano appeared, breezing through the open door, and coming to perch on the edge of Sam’s desk. For a bit they talked day-to-day business, and then Mike said, “I’m sorry. About Debbie, I mean. Just wanted to let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s no comfort, but at least you haven’t got kids to complicate matters.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you want to come over for dinner one evening …”

  “I’m okay, Mike.”

  “Right. Well. You can always take a rain-check.”

  He soldiered on for six weeks. At the office he found every excuse to stay at his desk long after others had left, returning late to an empty apartment and no food. Sometimes he stopped off at a bar and had a sandwich and a Scotch. Or two Scotches. For the first time in his life he suffered from insomnia, and during the day found himself pervaded by an unfamiliar restlessness, as though not only his marriage but everything else had gone stale.

  Mike Passano said, “Take a vacation,” but that was the last thing Sam wanted. Instead, it slowly became clear to him that he had had enough of New York. He wanted England. He wanted to go home. He wanted misty skies and temperate green fields and warm beer and red buses.

  And then one evening, at the nadir of his despair, the telephone rang in the apartment, and it was Sir David Swinfield from London.

  “Is this a good time to talk, Sam?”

  “As good as any.”

  “Hear things aren’t running too smoothly for you.”

  “Bad news travels fast.”

  “Mike Passano told me. Had a word this morning. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you feel like a change?”

  Sam was cautious.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “New idea. New project. Right up your street. Might be interesting.”

  “Where?”

  “UK.”

  “You mean, leave New York?”

  “You’ve had six years. I’ll square it with Mike.”

  “Who’d take over?”

  “Lowell Oldberg?”

  “He’s inexperienced.”

  “So were you.”

  He had to get it right.

  “Is this a demotion?” Sam asked bluntly.

  “No. Just a shunt. Upwards and onwards.” A pause.
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  “I want you back, Sam. I need you. I think it’s time.”

  The house in Beauly Road was a semi-detached three-storey Victorian villa, set back from the pavement by a front garden which had been turned into a paved carport. The rest of the quiet residential road was lined on both sides with cars, an indication of the affluence of the district. There were as well trees, bare now, but which in summer and in full leaf would give a country illusion, suggesting a pleasant suburb far from the city of London.

  On that black morning, it was still dark. As Sam, surrounded by his baggage, paid off the taxi, the front door of the house opened, letting forth a stream of light, and a masculine, burly figure appeared.

  “Sam.” Semi-prepared for his day in the City, Neil Philip wore the trousers of a business suit and an enveloping navyblue polo-neck sweater. He came down the path and through the gate.

  “God, it’s good to see you.”

  And Sam felt himself swept up into a huge and masculine embrace, because Neil had never been a man to be shy about showing emotion. It was a bit like being hugged by a bear. The taxi driver, still expressionless, trundled away, and Neil stooped, scooped up the two enormously heavy suitcases, and charged back towards the open door, leaving Sam to hump the golf clubs and his briefcase.

  “Janey’s just getting the kids organized, she’ll be down in a moment. Did you have a good flight? Bloody exhausted, probably.” He dumped the suitcases at the foot of the stair.

  “The kettle’s on; would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Love one.”

  “Come on, then.”

  Sam shed himself of his overcoat and draped it over the banister. From upstairs he heard a child’s voice complaining about something. A pair of small gum boots and a toy lorry sat side by side on one of the stairs. He followed Neil down the passage into a spacious family kitchen, with a skylight and windows over the sink. The curtains of these were still closed, but overhead he could see the dark clouds, stained with reflected light. There were pine cupboards and a humming fridge, and the table was set for breakfast. A checked table-cloth, packets of cereal, a milk jug, egg cups.

  Neil spooned coffee into a jug and poured on boiling water. The delicious, fresh aroma filled the room.

  “Do you want something to eat?”

  “No, just coffee.”

  Sam pulled out a chair and took the weight off his feet. He could not imagine why he felt so weary, considering the fact that he had been sitting down for at least seven hours.

  “You’re looking terrific, Neil.”

  “Oh, not so bad. Surviving family life.” He found bread and put two slices into an electric toaster.

  “You’ve never seen this house, have you? We bought it a couple of years after you went to New York. Upgrading, Janey called it. And we needed a garden for the children.”

  “Remind me.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Ages. Daisy and Leo. One loses track.”

  “Daisy’s ten, Leo six. They’re wildly excited about you staying. Been talking about it ever since your phone call. How long can you stay?”

  “It’s not a holiday, Neil. Business. I’ve been summoned by the Chairman. Some new project.”

  “Goodbye to New York?”

  “For the time being.”

  “Sam, I’m so sorry about Deborah, and everything.”

  “We’ll talk about it, but not now. There’s too much to say.”

  “Let’s weave our way down to the pub this evening, and you can spill it all out over a pint. But remember, you’re welcome here for as long as you like.”

  “You’re more than kind.”

  “It’s my nature, old boy, it’s my nature.”

  The toast popped and Neil removed it from the toaster and put another couple of slices in. Sam watched him, the neat and precise movements of a large and apparently ungainly man. Neil still had a head of thick dark hair, but there showed a sprinkling of grey. He had put on weight as well, as athletic men tend to do, but otherwise nothing else much seemed to have changed.

  Neil Philip was part of Sam’s life. They had been friends ever since they met, on their first day at boarding-school, two apprehensive new boys feeling their way into the system. Neil was one of the regular visitors invited to Radley Hill for the holidays, and Sam’s mother had ended up calling him her second son. When Sam went to Newcastle, Neil went to Edinburgh University, where he played Rugby like a fanatic and

  spent one brilliant season as fly-half for Scotland. After University, meeting up again in London, in the Eel Park Common days, it was just as though there had simply been a pause in the conversation. When Neil married Janey, at Saint Paul’s, Knightsbridge, Sam had been their best man. And when Sam married Deborah, in the garden of her grandparents’ house in East Hampton, Neil and Janey had flown out to be with him, so that Neil could be best man to Sam. Sam was deeply grateful, because otherwise the bridegroom would have been sadly short of family or friends.

  Neil poured coffee and put eggs on to boil. From upstairs, voices grew louder, and then there were scurrying feet on the stairs, and the two children erupted into the kitchen, Daisy dressed in her school uniform, and Leo wearing jeans and a pullover. They stood staring at the stranger.

  Sam said, “Hi.”

  They stared, silent, all at once overcome.

  “Say hi back,” Neil told them.

  Leo said, “I fort you’d be wearing a cowboy hat.”

  “They don’t wear cowboy hats in New York, silly,” his sister squashed him.

  “Well, what do they wear?”

  “They probably don’t wear anything.”

  “Who doesn’t wear anything?” Janey came through the door, dressed much as her little son, and her arms were held wide, all ready for her welcome.

  “Oh, Sam, it’s been too long. It’s so heavenly to see you.” He stood, and she hugged and kissed him.

  “God, you haven’t shaved, you brute.”

  “I was too idle.”

  “It’s been such ages since we saw you. I do hope you can stay forever. Daisy, you’re never going to eat all those Cocoa Puffs, put some of them into Leo’s bowl.”

  The house was quiet, its owners all gone. Neil to his daily grind, Janey to take the children to school. Sam had been shown his bedroom and his bathroom. He had a relaxing bath and shaved, and then, bundled into the towel robe he had found on the back of the bathroom door, fell into bed. It was light now. Through the window he could see the lacy branches of a plane tree. Cars passed, swishing down the road. Far overhead, a jet moved across the sky. He slept.

  It rained for most of that weekend, but Monday morning was dry, with even a few clear patches of sky blinking in and out beyond the sailing clouds. After watching a soggy football match on Saturday, organizing a long wet walk in Richmond Park on Sunday, and playing a Monopoly marathon after tea-time, Neil inspected the clear morning, said, with faint bitterness, “Sod’s law,” and left for work.

  The children were next to go, picked up by a neighbour and taken to school. A wonderfully black Jamaican lady appeared to push the vacuum cleaner around the house, and Janey went off to shop.

  “Do you want a key?” she asked Sam.

  “I’ll be in after four o’clock.”

  “In that case, I don’t need a key.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “No idea.”

  “Well.” She smiled up into his face, gave him a quick kiss.

  “Good luck.”

  Sam was not far behind her, suitably attired for the important occasion, buttoned into his overcoat and armed with an umbrella of Neil’s, in case of unexpected downpours. He closed the front door on the strains of the Jamaican lady singing hymns as she scoured the bath. At twenty-five past twelve, he walked up Saint James’s Street, presented himself to the porter at Whites, and asked for Sir David Swinfield. Sir David was in the bar, he was told, and expecting a guest.

  It was three-thirty before they emerged from the club, de
scending the steps to the pavement where Sir David’s car and driver waited. Sir David offered a lift, which Sam politely refused. They parted, and he stood and watched as the great black saloon slid out into the stream of traffic and disappeared in the direction of Piccadilly.

  Sam turned and set out to walk, at least part of the way, back to Wandsworth. He went by way of Green Park, and Belgrave Square, Sloane Street, and the King’s Road. By now, the day had died and the street lights had come on. Shop windows shone and glittered with all the paraphernalia of Christmas decoration and seductive consumerism. He found himself astonished by this. He had been so turned in upon himself that he had forgotten about Christmas. The months, lagging in some respects, had shot past in others. Christmas. He had no idea where he would be for the holiday, and could think of no person who would be expecting a present from him, which was a bleak truth and brought no credit upon himself. However, the thought of presents galvanized him into action, and he went into a flower shop and bought a huge bouquet of white lilies for Janey; a little farther on, he paused at a wine shop and purchased there brandy and a bottle of champagne for Neil. Burdened, he thought about the children, Daisy and Leo. They should have presents, too, but he couldn’t think what on earth they would like. He would have to ask them. Having already spent two days in their company, he was pretty sure they would know.

  By World’s End, he had expended his energy and it had started to rain again. It was now nearly five o’clock and the traffic at its most dense, crawling along at the pace of a snail, but after five minutes or so he picked up a cab and gave the driver the address. It took an incredibly long time to get across the Wandsworth Bridge, and when they finally trundled up the length of Beauly Road, he saw the lights shining from behind the drawn curtains of number fourteen and felt welcomed, as though he were coming home.