The Dead of Winter (2 page)

‘I need not remind you that you have no one else, Michael,’ said Jerwood. ‘But let me assure you that your mother was in full agreement. She loved you and she knew that whatever her feelings about the matter, this was the best option.’

I looked away. He was right, of course. What choice did I have?

‘You are to move schools,’ said Jerwood.

‘Move schools?’ I said. ‘Why?’

‘Sir Stephen feels that St Barnabas is not quite suitable for the son – the ward, I should say – of a man such as him.’

‘But I am happy where I am,’ I said stiffly.

Jerwood’s mouth rose almost imperceptibly at the corners.

‘That is not what I have read in the letters Sir Stephen has received from the headmaster.’

I blushed a little from both embarrassment and anger at this stranger knowing about my personal affairs.

‘This could be a new start for you, Michael.’

‘I do not want a new start, sir,’ I replied.

Jerwood let out a long breath, which rose as mist in front of his face. He turned and looked away.

‘Do not fight this,’ said Jerwood, as if to the trees. ‘Sir Stephen has your best interests at heart, believe me. In any event, he can tell you so himself.’ He turned back to face me. ‘You are invited to visit him for Christmas. He is expecting you at Hawton Mere tomorrow evening.’

‘Tomorrow evening?’ I cried in astonishment.

‘Yes,’ said Jerwood. ‘I shall accompany you myself. We shall catch a train from –’

‘I won’t go!’ I snapped.

Jerwood took a deep breath and nodded at Bentley, who hurried over, rubbing his hands together and looking anxiously from my face to Jerwood’s.

‘Is everything settled then?’ he asked, his nose having ripened to a tomato red in the meantime. ‘All is well?’

Bentley was a small and rather stout gentleman who seemed unwilling to accept how stout he was. His clothes were at least one size too small for him and gave him a rather alarming appearance, as if his buttons might fly off at any moment or he himself explode with a loud pop.

This impression of over-inflation, of over-ripeness, was only exacerbated by his perpetually red and perspiring face. And if all that were not enough, Bentley was prone to the most unnerving twitches – twitches that could vary in intensity from a mere tic or spasm to startling convulsions.

‘I have informed Master Vyner of the situation regarding his schooling,’ said Jerwood, backing away from Bentley a little. He tipped his hat to each of us. ‘I have also informed him of his visit to Sir
Stephen. I shall bid you farewell. Until tomorrow, gentlemen.’

I felt a wave of misery wash over me as I stood there with the twitching Bentley. A child’s fate is always in the hands of others; a child is always so very powerless. But how I envied those children whose fates were held in the loving grip of their parents and not, like mine, guided by the cold and joyless hands of lawyers.

‘But see now,’ said Bentley, twitching violently. ‘There now. Dear me. All will be well. All will be well, you’ll see.’

‘But I don’t want to go,’ I said. ‘Please, Mr Bentley, could I not spend Christmas with you?’

Bentley twitched and winced.

‘Now see here, Michael,’ he said. ‘This is very hard. Very hard indeed.’

‘Sir?’ I said, a little concerned at his distress and what might be causing it.

‘I’m afraid that much as Mrs Bentley and I would love to have you come and stay with us, we both feel that it is only right that you should accept Sir Stephen’s invitation.’

‘I see,’ I said. I was embarrassed to find myself on the verge of tears again and I looked away so that Bentley might not see my troubled face.

‘Now then,’ he said, grabbing my arms with both hands and turning me back to face him. ‘He is your guardian, Michael. You are the ward of a very wealthy man and your whole life depends upon him. Would you throw that away for one Christmas?’

‘Would he?’ I asked. ‘Would he disown me because I stay with you and not him?’

‘I would hope not,’ he said. ‘But you never know with the rich. I work with them all the time and, let me tell you, they are a rum lot. And if the rich are strange, then the landed gentry are stranger still. You never know what any of them will do …’

Bentley came to a halt here, realising he had strayed from the point.

‘Go to Hawton Mere for Christmas,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s my advice. That’s free advice from a lawyer, Michael. It is as rare and as lovely as a phoenix.’

‘No,’ I said, refusing to change my grim mood. ‘I will not.’

Bentley looked at the ground, rocked back and forth on his heels once or twice, then exhaled noisily.

‘I have something for you, my boy. Your dear mother asked me to give this to you when the time came.’

With those words he pulled an envelope from his inside coat pocket and handed it to me. Without asking what it was, I opened it and read the enclosed letter.

Dear Michael,

You know that I have always hated taking anything from that man whose life your dear father saved so nobly at the expense of his own. But though each time I did receive his help it made me all the more aware of my husband’s absence and it pained my heart – still I took it, Michael, because of you.

And now, because of you, I write this letter while I still have strength, because I know how proud you are. Michael, it is my wish – my dying wish – that you graciously accept all that Sir Stephen can offer you. Take his money and his opportunities and make something of yourself. Be everything you can. Do this for me, Michael.

As always and for ever,

Your loving mother

I folded the letter up and Bentley handed me a handkerchief for the tears that now filled my eyes. What argument could I have that could triumph against such a letter? It seemed I had no choice.

Bentley put his arm round me. ‘There, there,’ he said. ‘All will be well, all will be well. Hawton Mere has a moat, they tell me. A moat! You shall be like a knight in a castle, eh? A knight!’ And at this, he waved his finger about in flamboyant imitation of a sword. ‘A moated manor house, eh? Yes, yes. All will be well.’

I dried my tears and exhaustion came over me. Resistance was futile and I had no energy left to pursue my objection.

‘Come, my boy,’ said Bentley quietly. ‘Let us quit this place. The air of the graveyard is full of evil humours – toxic, you know, very toxic indeed. Why, I knew a man who dropped down dead as he walked away from a funeral – dead before he reached his carriage. Quite, quite dead.’

Bentley ushered me towards his carriage and we climbed inside. The carriage creaked forward, the wheels beginning their rumble. I looked out of the window and saw my mother’s grave retreat from view, lost among the numberless throng of tombs and headstones.

I spent a restless night at the Bentleys’ house in Highgate, packing to leave when I arose early the following day. As we journeyed to King’s Cross station that afternoon I sat in silent contemplation of my many misfortunes. I felt resentful of all those – even, I am ashamed to say, my mother – who had conspired together to bring me to this state. Grief had swiftly given way to a deep and angry bitterness.

The sun was already sinking behind the new St Pancras Hotel when we arrived, and the difference between that tall and stylish edifice and the
humbler, squatter King’s Cross station reminded me a little of the difference between the two lawyers who now stood alongside me at the bustling station entrance.

My bag was unloaded and I seemed to be handed from the care of one lawyer into the care of the other with detached efficiency. I felt as though I were a bundle of legal papers rather than a person.

Having shaken Jerwood’s hand, Bentley held his hand out to me and, when I took it, he placed the other on top so that my hand was all enclosed in his, and he smiled at me, twitching and blushing a little, glancing nervously at Mr Jerwood, as if kindness were some sort of misdemeanour among lawyers. Jerwood, for his part, looked in the direction of the large clock and remarked that it was really time we ought to be going.

‘All will be well,’ said Bentley quietly. ‘All will be well.’

But I was not in the mood for kindness.

‘Thank you for your services, Mr Bentley,’ I said coldly.

I saw the look of hurt in his face and for a moment I felt a stab of guilt – but only for a moment. Mr Bentley smiled sadly, let go of my hand, tipped his hat and, saying farewell, walked away
to be engulfed by the crowd.

‘I rather think Mr Bentley may be a good man,’ said Jerwood quietly as we watched him leave. ‘I fear they’re in short supply, so value them when you find them.’

I saw no cause to value anything about my present circumstances and I resented this lawyer for trying to influence me one way or another. I was perfectly aware that Mr and Mrs Bentley meant well, but I was tired of feeling beholden to people of whom I had asked nothing.

We entered the great station; I followed Jerwood, who strode with stately determination through the crowds. A locomotive belched out a plume of filthy smoke that sailed up towards the wide arch of the ceiling high above.

We found our platform and boarded our train, and had barely seated ourselves before it lurched out of the station with a squeal of wheel rims and a whistle of steam.

The journey to Ely was uneventful, and though I had travelled very little by railway and would normally have been much excited by such a trip, I sat in the carriage with the same dull disinterest as if I had been travelling by omnibus.

Jerwood was quite talkative in a dry and formal
way, though I gave him little encouragement. By and by I realised that his stiff manner was only a kind of awkwardness, and he seemed genuinely interested in me and in the answers I gave to his questions about my life. Much as it suited me to dislike him, I found myself warming to this stranger. In fact, it took all my willpower to maintain my sullen demeanour.

Though initially undeterred, Jerwood eventually took his lead from me and we settled into a state of quietude. The lawyer began to read through a mass of papers he had pulled from his briefcase. I wondered if any of them concerned my fate.

I looked out of the window, staring blankly at the passing view. Had the pyramids of old Egypt appeared on the horizon I should have paid little heed. I felt as though some part of me had died with my mother and that I would never again feel truly alive.

Exhaustion wrestled with misery for supremacy of my thoughts, but it was exhaustion – perhaps mercifully – which came out victorious, and I sank into a fitful sleep, lulled by the movement of the railway carriage.

My resting mind did not acknowledge the need for the barriers I had constructed while awake,
barriers to those thoughts I found too upsetting to allow. Memories of my poor mother came to me uninvited, though once they came I would have done anything to be in their company for a lifetime and never to have woken up. Things hadn’t been easy after my father died, but we were often happy, just the two of us. When wake I did, it was as if our parting was newly forced and the pain as fresh as ever. Tears stung my eyes as soon as they opened.

Only the desire not to appear weak and foolish in front of Jerwood dried my eyes. The lawyer was deep in the examination of the papers laid out on his lap and I looked out at the passing view.

‘We will soon be in Ely,’ said Jerwood, glancing up.

I made no reply. What did I care?

‘A carriage will meet us at the station,’ he continued, ‘and take us on to Hawton Mere. It isn’t too far.’

Again I made no reply. Jerwood shuffled his papers together and placed them on the seat beside him.

‘Michael,’ he said, ‘I understand that you must feel the world is against you –’

‘Do you, sir?’ I said, turning towards him, my voice choking a little. How could a man like that understand what I felt?

‘But you must realise that we are only trying to do what is best for you,’ he continued.

‘I don’t want to go!’ I said. ‘I don’t want to spend Christmas with people I don’t know.’

Even as I said the words I realised that, with my mother gone, there could be no other kind of Christmas now. Better to spend it with the Bentleys, though. At least I knew them a little and knew them to be kindly. Jerwood nodded, as though reading these thoughts.

‘I understand. It must be hard for you, I know,’ he said. ‘And I do sympathise, Michael. But give Sir Stephen a chance. He has made you his ward. It is not unreasonable for him to meet you, now, is it?’

I shrugged and looked out of the window again. It did not matter what I said. I was going to Hawton Mere whether I liked it or not. Jerwood gathered up his papers and began putting them away in his briefcase.

‘About your guardian,’ he said as he put the case down at his feet. ‘I should warn you that Sir Stephen has not been well of late. I have known him for many years, ever since we were children in fact, and he is a good man, but he may not be quite what you expect.’

I had actually given very little thought to what
Sir Stephen may or may not have been like until that moment. Jerwood’s words did nothing to improve my enthusiasm for meeting my guardian.

‘Sir Stephen has the power to be a great force for good in your life, Michael,’ said Jerwood. ‘He made a promise to your father to help you and it is to his credit that he is honouring it.’

‘My father died and he is alive,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing he can do for me that will ever change that.’

Jerwood saw that further conversation on the matter was useless and turned to look out of the window, as did I. The day was ending, and the evening light gilded the steeples and the bare branches of high treetops. It sent long blue shadows across the rich brown earth of ploughed fields that were speckled with crows. The sky was clear and the cold air seemed to seep through the glass of the carriage as night approached. By the time we reached Ely the light of day was all but extinguished.

The ancient cathedral stood out against the dying light of evening, looking more like a formidable castle than a church. Its size and height were exaggerated by the fact that it sat atop a low hill that seemed a mountain in this flat fenland landscape, the great spiked tower bristling on the skyline like a giant’s crown.