The Winter Children (15 page)

Dan shrugs. ‘But what’s the point in anything if you just give up and take the cash?’

Francesca feels a tiny stab of something painful, as though Dan is referring to what happened to her: the promising career in human rights law that faltered and died, before she became a rich
Swiss housewife. She rushes to hide her awkwardness and suggests a few other names of their contemporaries who now have positions of influence in the arts: a couple of actors, a theatre director, a script editor, a literary agent, quite a few who are now important at the BBC. It’s
a reminder of how gilded they all were, and how much potential they all once had.
How much was handed to us because of our university and the
entrée
it gave us? And the connections
we made there?
She recalls that two of the women at university who went on to be well-known actresses had famous parents. Nearly everyone from the circle she mixed in – bright, privately
educated, privileged – had contacts to call upon. Even though she had no family connections, Francesca still had the name of her college to drop into conversation like a little magic
talisman, her degree (‘From Cambridge? Goodness, you must be clever!’) and the name of her well-known tutor, a man who wrote bestselling books and presented television and radio programmes, who put her in touch with helpful people when she began her law studies, getting her work experience in chambers specialising in human rights.
But it wasn’t only that
, she
reminds herself.
It wasn’t just leg-ups. We all worked hard to get where we did.

And then, for her, it all came to a shuddering halt. A blanket of deep sadness drops slowly over her. How did that happen? She’s never wanted to think about it. She’s always felt
that she took the only path open to her, in order to survive. Anything else is too much to consider.

Olivia stands up, as though she is suddenly bored with the conversation. ‘Come on, Cheska, let me show you round the rest of the house. Dan, can you give Bea her yoghurt? She’s finished, haven’t you, sweetie? You’ve eaten it all, you clever thing! Isn’t she clever?’ She leans down to nuzzle the little girl, who beams and crows loudly
with pleasure at her cleverness.

‘Sure,’ Dan says, scooping up more for Stan, who is still slowly eating and now interested in the food in the trench at the bottom of his bib.

‘Stan can have one too when he’s finished.’ Olivia picks up her wine and cocks her head towards the door to the rest of the cottage. ‘Follow me, Cheska.’

Francesca stands up, also picking up her glass. She’d like to stay with the children, and was planning to offer to help Stan eat his yoghurt, but she’s also interested in the bedrooms. She wants to be able to visualise where the twins sleep. ‘Lovely, yes please.’

Olivia leads her out of the kitchen, nursing her wine glass against her chest, one hand on the bowl and one on the base of the stem. The condensation makes a dark stain over the blue of her top.
‘We’re so grateful for this, you know that. Lucky for us you wanted to use this for a staff annexe or a holiday let, it’s been furnished so nicely.’

‘You’re so welcome. I’m happy to help.’ Francesca looks around curiously. She can see pictures and books, familiar from the flat in London, and yet different in this new
environment. The previous neat impersonality of the cottage is now full of the presence of individuals, from the photographs on the hall table to the bright orange folded-paper-like lampshade,
a massive piece of origami, that’s now suspended in the stairwell and looking unexpectedly splendid, like a Cubist sun beaming above them against the mellow stone of the old walls as they climb the stairs that turn back on themselves to reach the first floor. Olivia talks about the villa in
Argentina as she shows Francesca around, and Francesca half listens, nodding and asking questions but actually looking as hard as she can. There are three bedrooms; the one at the front with the
view of the garden has been turned into the twins’ nursery, with two large white cots on either side of the room, two small white wardrobes against each wall, and a shared changing table in
between. There are bright framed posters on the wall – Barbar floating over a country in a convoy of balloons, the Gruffalo and Beatrix Potter – and alphabet letters adhered at jaunty
angles.
I hope those come off
.

‘Oh, isn’t it sweet!’ Francesca exclaims. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘They love it,’ Olivia says, her tone content. ‘And in the evenings I can hear the wood pigeon cooing them to sleep.’ She leads the way out of the bedroom and into the
hall, down towards the spare room. ‘Now, this one I’ve barely touched, as we don’t need it right now. Until we have visitors, anyway.’

Francesca peeps in. It is indeed just as she left it, with the double bed neatly made, a quilt of pale country floral squares over a snowy duvet, piled with white pillows and pastel cushions. A
cream armchair with more cushions sits in the corner. On the dressing table are a few essentials any guest would want: a jar of cotton wool balls, a box of tissues, a nail file and some upmarket
make-up remover, along with an expensive hand cream. At the window is a pretty view towards the side of the garden – not as pretty as the front view but still acceptable. This edge of the west wing of the house is on the side that has been less altered. Perhaps a
school caretaker or elderly teacher lived here. At any rate, the other wing is far more like a school, with its swimming pool and abandoned gymnasium. This side is more homely. It reminds Francesca
of holidays in the Lake District, where she was taken when she was young. Their only holiday of the year: a week’s walking in the Lakes, staying in the cottage of a friend of the family who
charged the bare minimum. But she loved it, being away from home, seeing the beauty of the countryside and the grandeur of the hills. This place makes her feel the same way: comforted, refreshed
and renewed.

‘And we,’ says Olivia, turning back to the hall again, ‘have unashamedly taken the room with the en-suite shower. I mean, it has no windows so no view, but the luxury of the
shower meant we had to have it. And here we are.’

Olivia opens the door and Francesca looks in with that strange tingle she has always felt when she’s caught a glimpse of Dan’s marital bed. It’s blameless enough: the bed she,
Francesca, chose, but now with Olivia’s bedding – a faded ticking stripe duvet and matching pillowcases, a floral quilt folded at the foot, going rather well with the taupe buttoned
headboard that was already there. But despite the appearance of utter normality, Francesca knows that this is where Dan and Olivia share their most intimate moments, and she can’t stop
herself imagining them as she looks: the kisses, slow at first, growing in intensity, the exploration of each other with hands and fingers, and the meeting of their bodies, the movement growing more urgent until it’s over in a rush of ecstasy. Francesca pushes the image out of her mind, but
in the moment that she and Olivia stand there looking in, another takes its place. She recalls an evening when the old crowd were all assembled at Dan’s flat, and the evening turned drunken
and riotous. As usually happened, Olivia retired to bed and eventually the others left, while Dan and Francesca stayed up until close to dawn, opening another bottle, lighting up cigarettes long
after they’d both given up smoking, and talking intensely about times past (though they never mentioned
that
, because they never did). At last Francesca crashed out on the sofa, Dan
offering her a blanket to go with the rough Navajo style cushions before he staggered off to bed. She woke, dry-mouthed and heart pounding, at around 8 a.m. and realised she needed to get home and
restore herself to normal. The cigarettes that she rarely touched had given her mouth a particularly foul taste and her headache a violently thudding quality. On her way out of the flat, she had to
use the bathroom and as she tiptoed past Dan and Olivia’s bedroom, she glimpsed through the door that stood slightly ajar their naked feet emerging from their bed. The reality of their
sleeping together hit her anew like a punch to the stomach, and she was crippled by the feelings all over again – the ones she’s tried all these years to subdue: jealousy, outrage,
injured pride, fury . . . She stared for a long minute, then found the bathroom, and eventually crept away. The glimpses of Dan’s private life were the hardest things of all to cope with,
when it was all still so raw.

All of that flashes through her mind now, as she looks in at the bedroom. Olivia is beside her with an air of expectation, as though waiting for her verdict on a room that Francesca considers
more or less unchanged.

‘It’s . . . wonderful,’ Francesca says a little weakly, wondering what Olivia wants for a room that’s not exactly the Brighton Pavilion. ‘Such a special
room.’

‘Then you know the secret,’ Olivia says jauntily.

‘Secret?’ echoes Francesca.

‘I didn’t find it right away.’ Olivia goes into the room towards the back wall. She’s right that this room has no windows, so it has an enclosed, removed feel, rather
dark and close.

Is that what she means?

‘It was only the day before yesterday that I realised,’ Olivia continues as she reaches the wall beside the right-hand side of the bed that looks like the rest of the panelling
covering the walls. She puts out her hand and pushes down, and suddenly the wall moves, opening outwards into a twilight gloom. ‘There’s a handle here, but it’s very easy to
miss. And here we are.’ Olivia goes through the doorway that has appeared in the panelled wall, and disappears. Curious, Francesca crosses the room in three strides and looks out through the
doorway. They are on a wooden balcony that she can see, in the evening dimness, stands above a part of the house she knows, but she’s having trouble orienting herself. A moment ago, she was
in the cottage, now she’s somewhere else entirely, in the main house. Actually, she’s in the great hall, at the far end, high up and looking down into the room.

‘Can you see?’ asks Olivia, laughing at Francesca’s face. ‘We’re in the minstrels’ gallery. We’re connected by a secret door.’

‘I didn’t know,’ Francesca says, surprised.

‘Well, it’s very hard to see that handle. And to be honest, I wish I hadn’t noticed it. I’ve not quite felt the same about our bedroom since. When I’m in bed, I
keep thinking I hear it move, even though I know there’s no one there. It feels ever so slightly creepy to be connected to the rest of the house right by our bed like this.’ Olivia
smiles at her conspiratorially. ‘But it’s empty. Silly, isn’t it?’

For a moment, they both look out over the huge hall with its vast empty fireplace at one end, the chill rising from the stone floor. Francesca is assailed suddenly by images of the past –
the Tudor lords and ladies, the Jacobean nobles, all the way from the fourteenth century to early in the twentieth, when the last great house parties took place. They’re all gone now, every
soul who was entertained here, who danced across this great stone floor or warmed themselves at the fire. Francesca shivers again.

Why did Walt buy this house? It’s so full of the dead past.

‘Come on. I’m cold.’ Olivia turns back to the warmth and normality of the bedroom. Francesca follows, slightly stunned by the unexpected coalition between the cottage and the
main house. She takes a gulp of the cold white wine as they go. Olivia goes in and sits on the bed, beckoning Francesca over as she takes a sip from her own glass. ‘Come and sit down,’ she says. ‘I want . . .’ She pauses while Francesca sits down a little gingerly beside her, almost as though afraid of defiling the place where Dan and Olivia perform
the intimate rites of marriage. ‘I want to thank you for sorting this out for us. I’m only just beginning to realise how incredible this place is, and how lucky we are that you
offered it to us. You could be getting amazing money for it from any number of holiday people. And we’ve got it for free. We won’t take advantage, I promise. We’ll be gone as soon
as we can.’

Francesca blinks at her, hoping she is hiding the start of pity she feels. Olivia actually seems to think that she and Walt need the few hundred pounds a week that a holiday let would bring
them. ‘Don’t be silly, you can stay as long as you like, you know that.’

Olivia smiles, her gaze sliding away. She clutches her wine glass with one hand and the other plucks a little nervously at the duvet cover. She sighs. ‘Thanks. It means a lot. Francesca
. . .’

‘Yes?’ Francesca’s heart begins to beat nervously. She is suddenly aware of the size of the secret she has inside her. It sits on her tongue. With a few breaths, a few
vibrations of her voice box, a quick series of movements of her mouth, the secret would be out, free to wreak its havoc. She has to keep it in, even though she has the wild impulse to release it
and see what happens.
Don’t tell. Don’t tell.

‘What do you think of Dan?’ Olivia asks suddenly.

‘I . . . I . . .’ Her heart flutters with nerves and her breathing quickens. ‘What do you mean?’

‘This play. It doesn’t sound like it’s anywhere near finished.’ She frowns anxiously and plucks at the duvet cover. ‘I thought . . . it’s just he’s spent so many hours on it. We agreed that he would take this opportunity to see what he could make of writing.’ She pauses, a look of
uncertainty on her face, as though she’s afraid of sounding disloyal. She shrugs and laughs lightly. ‘I’m being silly. He’ll do it, of course he will. And then either
he’ll make a huge success of it, or he’ll go back to doing the job he did very well. And, thank goodness, we’ve got this place in the meantime.’ Olivia suddenly reaches out
and grasps Francesca’s hand, gazing at her straight in the eye. Francesca is aware of the candour shining out of Olivia’s blue-grey eyes, the rim of long dark lashes around them, the
little blood vessels creeping in from the edges of her whites. ‘You’ve given the children a home,’ she says in a low, urgent voice. ‘When we needed one. Thank
you.’

No. You gave my children a home. Thank you.
Francesca smiles. ‘You’re welcome. After all, what are old friends for?’