The Winter Children (20 page)

Francesca stared at the page, reading it twice. She tried to calm herself down.
Wedding hyperbole.
Then it came, rolling upwards from her depths – a great wave of black,
grief-filled anger. A flood of dark misery.
Why? Why her? Why not me?

Amazing girl.

But I could have been that for him. He wouldn’t let me! Laugh . . . talk . . . think . . . why couldn’t he do those things with me? We had all that together, we always
did!

Body of his dreams.

The words burned in her mind, causing an actual physical pain in her stomach as though she was clenching up with some awful cramps. She was possessed by the feelings that had threatened to swamp
her all that time ago: dark, wild, frantic despair that wanted to whirl her down into nothingness.

Ten years.

Ten years!

Francesca remembered only too well how things were for her ten years ago. While she was in agony, Dan was sampling the sweet delights of falling in love. She was his for the asking but that
wasn’t enough. He rejected her: everything she’d fought so hard to become, the struggle to learn how to be the right kind of person, the battle from that tiny house on the edge of town
to the golden Cambridge college . . . it all meant nothing to Dan. She might as well not have bothered. He’d never wanted her, not in the way he wanted Olivia. There in the restaurant, as
they celebrated his forthcoming wedding, an urge to scream possessed her. She teetered on the brink, almost overcome by the impulse to stand up and yell, turn over the table, smash the glasses,
throw plates, let out all her misery and frustration and the pent-up jealousy that had poisoned her being for so long that she couldn’t remember what it was like to live without it.

She steadied her breathing and calmed herself, using all her powers of control. She glanced up the table to where Olivia was talking and laughing with a friend; she looked so pretty, her blonde
hair pulled up, darkish below and fair strands escaping at the edges. She looked so young, younger than the majority of them even though she was older than most, with her clear complexion, the glow
on her cheeks and her slenderness. She wore a pale blue dress with a grey cardigan falling from her shoulders, a gold necklace with an acorn pendant hanging from it. Simple and yet effortlessly
attractive. Francesca felt bulky and overdressed in a navy jacket, expensive T-shirt and white jeans. She was slender too, but in the stringy manner of someone who restricts all but the most vital foods. Olivia had a wholesomeness about her, as though
she delighted in the good things of life and in return, life liked her back and let her stay young and healthy and fit.

It’s wrong to hate her
, Francesca told herself.
This isn’t her fault.

She knew that. Her rational brain could still inform her of the fact, and yet she couldn’t stop the anger and resentment that needed a target from flowing towards Olivia.

She breathed long and slow again, smiled at Alex and said, ‘Can I borrow a pen?’

And somehow she got through the rest of it, though she left before the nightclub, at the end of her tether, full of leaden sadness at the way it had worked out, and eaten up with jealousy of
Olivia.

A month after the wedding, which had passed by in a haze of sorrow that she hid with a manic cheerfulness and too many glasses of champagne, Dan confided in her the story of their fertility problems. It was the only thing that was able to lighten
her mood, and after that, she began to feel better. After all, the amazing body could provide nothing in the way of offspring, while her lesser being had produced two beautiful children. It was a
comfort of sorts.

Walt is home, as she discovers when she goes into the sitting room to look for a book she wants, and finds him there reading a newspaper.

‘Oh!’ she says, surprised to see him. ‘You’re home.’

‘Yes.’ He looks up at her over the folded-down corner of a page, giving her a beetley look from beneath his sprouting brows. ‘Didn’t Anastasia tell you I’d be
back?’

‘Perhaps she did.’ Francesca gets torrents of emails from Walt’s personal assistant, most entitled ‘WAH movements’, which always make her think of a baby’s
cry. They inform her of Walt’s whereabouts and soon-to-be-abouts but she finds it impossible to hold the endless itineraries in her mind. Usually she focuses on when he is to be home and
holds on to that. But that must have slipped her mind too.

‘I’m surprised you weren’t expecting me,’ Walt says, putting down his paper.

‘Why is that?’ She goes to the bookcase and starts scanning it for a volume she promised to lend to Dan. It’s a good idea to take it with her.

‘Because the children are coming home?’ He says it in a half-ironic questioning tone, like a character in an American sitcom.

She goes still, startled and confused. ‘Are they?’

He laughs with an edge of disbelief. ‘Yes. Of course. It’s in the diary. Anastasia sent the usual reminders. But you don’t need those normally. Have you forgotten?’

She stands there, confused. She has completely forgotten. In fact, she has scarcely given the children a thought since she got back from England. Her whole mind has been focused on her return to
Renniston and her need to get back there as soon as she can. She knows she has to speak. At last she says, ‘Well, that’s very strange. I must have got my calendars confused. I
haven’t had the usual reminders.’

Walt stares at her quizzically. She hasn’t needed reminders like that, ever. The return of the children is always anticipated and planned for, with arrangements made for their stay. This
time, she remembers, they have a long weekend away from school. Those are easier to forget, without the usual kerfuffle and packing and awkward gear that comes at the end of term. As she is
processing this, and mentally making last-minute plans, Walt speaks.

‘Frankie, are you okay?’

‘Yes.’ She speaks brightly, a smile over her face. ‘Of course I am.’

‘Really?’

She laughs now, a merry, pealing sound. ‘Of course! What on earth could be wrong?’

‘Well, now, I don’t know.’ He puts down the paper and sits forward in his chair, regarding her with a mixture of solemnity and affectionate concern. ‘Why don’t you sit down for a moment?’

She hesitates, eager to be off, wanting to return to her own private world. But she’s spent long enough learning to subsume her desires when Walt is around to be able to put that on hold.
‘All right.’ She sinks down on the edge of an armchair, as though poised to leave at any moment. ‘What is it?’

‘How long have we been married now, Frankie?’

‘Sixteen years, darling.’ She smiles warmly at him.

‘I think I’ve got to know you a little in that time.’ He returns her smile. When he does, his face brightens, and the sagging jowls lift a little. The sparkle in his eyes
reminds her of the Walt who attracted her all those years ago: never handsome, but with a vitality and a good humour she found soothing. He was going places, she knew that. The ride would be a good
one, and he would make her life easy, both materially and as a companion. Not being wildly in love would be an advantage. It would protect her from the pain that went with passion.

‘We’ve got to know each other,’ she replies.

‘Yes. I hope you’ve been happy, Frankie.’

‘Of course,’ she says, as though incredulous it could be any other way.

‘I’m glad. You’ve made me happy too. But . . .’ His eyes take on a hint of sadness. ‘I’ve wondered if something is wrong lately. You’re not yourself. I
heard you’ve resigned from the Red Cross committee. You’ve been so distracted too. I know I’m not about all that much but when I am, it’s as though you’re completely absent, even when you’re in the room with me.’

‘Oh, that’s silly,’ she says, a tiny ripple of apprehension rolling through her stomach.

‘And now you’ve forgotten that the children are coming home.’

‘No, no, I remember now,’ she says quickly.

‘So have you arranged to have them met at the airport?’

‘I . . . I’ll check on that right now.’ She stands up, wanting to be away from this interrogation.

Walt frowns. ‘And for the weekend? What are we doing? I have in my diary that we are possibly going skiing.’

‘Oh.’ She sighs with a touch of irritation. ‘No, we can’t do that now. At least I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m going back to England tomorrow morning.’

Walt looks astonished now. ‘You can’t do that! Fred and Lympie are home. We should be together as a family.’

‘Please don’t call her that, you know I don’t like it. The children will be fine.’

‘What are you doing there that’s so important?’ His voice is rising a little and he’s sitting forward in his seat, looking up at her as she hovers, keen to be on her
way.

‘I’m trying to make the arrangements for this house you’ve bought. Remember? That’s why I’ve resigned all my committees. I’m going to be spending all my time
overseeing the renovation. So,’ she says tartly, ‘perhaps you should have thought about that before you bought the old wreck.’

‘I thought that’s why we’ve got Dan and Olivia there – so they can oversee it,’ Walt protests.

‘They can’t do everything. We still haven’t hammered out the details, and they can hardly approve the architect’s revised plans, or decide which contractor we’re
going to use.’ She feels she’s managed to turn things around so that she is coming out on top. No longer the bad, forgetful mother, but the harassed wife, overwhelmed with the organisation of practical details and arrangements.

Walt stands up, his knees cracking with the effort of lifting his frame upwards. ‘You can go on Monday, can’t you? There won’t be anything to be done on a Saturday, will
there?’

She thinks about this. He’s right, of course. Her appointments are for Monday and Tuesday, arranged precisely so she can spend longer with the twins. She could go out on Sunday night,
when Frederick and Olympia are on their way back to school, but that would mean putting off the moment she has been yearning for, when she will see the babies again. They’ve been in her
thoughts constantly, filling her dreams and her waking hours with memories of their faces, the piping of their voices, the sweet smell of their skin and hair. Then she remembers. ‘Mr Howard
from Preserving England is going tomorrow afternoon. It was the only time he could make for weeks. That’s why I need to be there.’

‘Call him. Rearrange.’

‘I’m not sure that’s possible—’

‘Come on, Frankie. You can’t tell me you’d rather see that conservation guy than our kids! You said only the other day how annoying you find him. Call and postpone.’

She stares at the floor, following the pattern of the blue silk Persian rug with her gaze. She can’t bear the thought of putting off what she’s been looking forward to so keenly. But
her duty is here, she realises that. And she would like to see Fred and Olympia.

Of course I would.

‘I’ll think about it,’ she says briefly, then strides towards the door. ‘I’ve got to see about collecting the children now. We’ll talk when I get back. Can
you ask Anastasia to book somewhere nice for dinner? Marie won’t have time to make anything now, so we’ll have to eat out.’

She marches out, frustrated that she now won’t see the twins as she has been longing to.

Not for long, though. I’ll be with them as soon as I can.

Olivia can’t pretend to herself that she’s not glad Francesca won’t be coming until Monday, and not till late as all the morning flights were booked. Even though their days are
no longer governed by the strict timetable of the working week, there is still something special about the weekend. They can’t help sticking to the rituals – a luxurious supper cooked
by Olivia on Friday night with plenty of wine, watching a film together on Saturday night, a roast lunch on Sunday. The repetition is comforting and something she looks forward to. Even though it
would be perfectly nice having Francesca here – and they can hardly say no, as it is her house and there is an unused spare bedroom awaiting a guest – she prefers being on their
own.

On Friday night, gleeful that they have been released from the impending visit for another forty-eight hours, she cooks with particular relish: steak in a peppercorn cream, potatoes
persillade
, and purple sprouting broccoli with snippets of anchovy and globules of melting butter. Dan opens a bottle of shiraz and they celebrate the best part of the day: the twins safely upstairs and fast asleep, and two or three lazy hours to themselves to eat and drink and talk. He goes to watch a cricket match he’s recorded while she cooks, and Olivia takes
occasional sips of her wine, enjoying the peaceful, harmonious atmosphere as she prepares the food.

Not so long ago, this ritual became strained and difficult. As the years of unsuccessful IVF took their toll, their relationship suffered. At dinner, they would sit in silence with the radio
on so that they did not have to talk about what was dominating their lives. It wasn’t only the pressure of their desire to become parents and the continual dashing of those hopes; the
powerful and uncontrollable currents of artificial hormones surged through Olivia, making her morose, weepy, and hopeless with a hair-trigger temper. Dan tried to be understanding but he soon lost
sight of the fact that these feelings had been created within her and there was little she could do about it; they were beyond her control. He lost patience and fought back, grew equally as tetchy
and cross as she was, argued furiously and became cold and distant when she wouldn’t – couldn’t – snap out of it.