Born of Woman (71 page)

The car had left a gash in the snow between them, a hole which Edward was struggling to fill in.

‘Er … Happy Christmas, Mr Winterton. I'm sorry I am late. The roads were very treacherous and we had to take it slowly. In fact, I had no idea how far it was. The house is certainly remote.'

‘Yes.' Lyn made no attempt to move. He felt numb—and not with cold. Once this man stepped across his threshold, then everything was over—his house and future lost. The ‘Mr Winterton' had thrown him. That was the enemy name. Ainsley versus Winterton, was how the lawyers would see it. He had read about the lawyers in the papers, stumbled on the story almost by accident. He didn't buy newspapers—they were a waste of time and money—filched old discarded ones from litter-bins and benches—not to read, but to use as blankets, cushions, tablecloths, draught-excluders for barn doors, insulation for his car. He had been swaddling his windscreen with a stained and grubby
Daily Express
one raw November evening, when he saw his own name staring at him, just above the windscreen wiper. He ripped the paper off, read the paragraph in horror and astonishment. There had been other accounts since then, but still he didn't know the whole story, or understand exactly what had happened. He had been out of touch since the beginning of September, had moved first to Cobham to be close to Jennifer, find her shadow there. When the shadow turned to solid flesh, he had fled away in turmoil, this time to Northumberland, to be a child again, since now he had lost his marriage and his wife. He had been camping out near Mepperton, as close to Hernhope as he dared, returning where he was born and bred. Maybe it was dangerous, but then everywhere was dangerous, now lawyers were on his trail. After he'd discovered that, he went deeper into hiding, lived like a wolf—nervous, hungry, hunted.

He had read the next instalment of the saga—in the
Daily Mail
this time—which gave the name of the small, secluded, out-of-town hotel, where Edward had fled in a hopeless attempt to dodge cameras and reporters. He had phoned the hotel on a sudden crazy impulse. Didn't believe it existed, really—any more than Edward himself existed. He was still buried in that forest as a tiny helpless baby.

It was a full-grown man who answered the in-room phone—but a softly spoken, apprehensive man, not the ranting bully of the
Mail
. That had thrown him. He had stuttered, mumbled, wasted his precious coins, then suddenly blurted out his idea of a meeting on Christmas Day—a meeting which would be to Mr Ainsley's advantage, but must be held in total secrecy as one of its conditions—no lawyers or reporters, no witnesses at all. Edward sounded as stunned as he felt himself. He was flabbergasted, really, that he had agreed to come at all. It was a hell of a way and Edward had no car and didn't know the country. True, he was probably curious to meet his only relation and view his mother's house, but all the same, he had expected more suspicion and more rancour. Maybe Ainsley was suppressing all his fury until they actually met in person. Which was now.

He glanced at Edward again. He looked cold rather than angry; stamping his feet in the snow, blowing on his fingers. And yet he seemed reluctant to go inside. He was still gazing around at the huge white-mantled hills, the dark gash of the forest. He had retraced his steps towards the road, as if he were looking back the way he'd come, measuring the miles, marvelling at the distance. He stumbled into a snow-drift, almost lost his balance.

‘I've never seen snow like this before. It's astonishing. So deep and …'

Lyn shrugged. ‘This is nothing. Later on, in January or February, you get drifts twenty feet high and more.'

Edward shook his head—‘Incredible'—turned to face the hills again. ‘It's so … wild up here, so desolate. I can hardly take it in. There's not another house in sight.'

Lyn didn't answer. He walked towards the house, Edward struggling after him, exclaiming at the massive walls and thick oak door.

‘I … never imagined Hernhope quite like this.'

‘No?'

‘No.'

‘Well, you'd better come in and see it properly. We're getting frozen stiff out here.'

‘I'm sorry—you haven't even got a coat on. Forgive me, Mr Winterton, I was so stunned by my surroundings, I didn't notice.'

Lyn tensed. That name again. He had invited Edward as a brother, not an adversary. Yet how could they be brothers when they didn't share the same name? And by inviting him at all, he had betrayed his other brother—Winterton brother—Matthew. He picked up Edward's briefcase which was ominously heavy. Was it stuffed with legal documents; Christmas to be swamped in charge and counter-charge?

Edward followed him into the hall, their footsteps echoing on the cold stone flags. ‘It's … quite a sizeable house, I see.'

‘It used to be much bigger. It had two thousand acres of land attached to it, a thousand sheep and a host of outbuildings—
and
another wing. This is the only part that's left now. Mind you, it's very old—goes back three hundred years.' Why had he said that? Boasting about a property which was no longer his to flaunt, alienating Edward who had got nothing yet at all. He should be making Edward comfortable, offering him a drink.

He ushered him into the living-room, took his coat, tried to make his tongue form welcoming phrases, but it was as if the snow had leaked inside him and frozen up his voice-box. It was Edward who was speaking.

‘I brought you a few small … trifles.' He rummaged in his briefcase. The legal documents turned into a bottle of Glenfiddich and a vintage port, fresh figs, plump and purple-bellied, a tin of crystallised ginger, boxes of nuts, chocolate, fruits.

Lyn stared at all the bounty. Why should an enemy bring gifts—and on such a scale? He had cheated Edward of his house and was now repaid with a cornucopia. He carried them to the sideboard, arranged them as a still-life. He couldn't open them, couldn't take anything else which belonged to Edward.

‘Thanks,' he murmured, fingering the box of
marrons
in its gold and scarlet packaging. They cost six or seven pounds, that size—more than he had spent on the entire Christmas lunch. Edward had put it to shame now, his piddling little picnic. He and Hester had always spent quiet and frugal Christmases. There hadn't been money to spare for
marrons
or liqueurs, nor friends or kin to share them with. Only in Matthew's boyhood had Hernhope rung with carols and groaned with food and wine. He had read about past Christmases in Hester's diaries—the thirty-pound turkeys and twelve-foot-high Christmas trees, the troops of villagers who came for cakes and ale, the Christmas feast for the shep-herds. He and Hester had sat alone with a small bony chicken between them and a couple of tangerines—Hester still in black and silence heavy-breathing on the windows.

He ignored the whisky, reached across for his own cheap
vin de pays
.

‘A glass of wine?' he asked.

‘No, thank you. I very rarely drink. I'd rather have a juice, if that's no trouble?'

Lyn frowned. He hadn't any juice, hadn't bothered with soft drinks, not even a bottle of tonic or orange squash. Money was short and he'd had to shop extremely carefully, buy only the necessities.

‘I'm afraid there isn't … I mean, I didn't know …'

‘A glass of … water, then. No, really. I'm fond of water, I always think if it wasn't free, then …'

Lyn escaped into the kitchen. Water—on Christmas Day! Even the tap was grudging, spluttered when he turned it on, coughed up only a brown and brackish dribble. He poured it into one of Hester's thick and clumsy glasses, stared at the murky liquid. Edward would be used to fresh-pressed juices from exotic fruits, served in cut-glass tumblers on a silver tray. He had read about Edward's luxurious life, his country club, his rich and important friends. He poured the water down the sink, returned to the living-room.

‘I'm sorry …' He tried to laugh, to cover his embarrassment. ‘Even water seems a problem. We have marvellous water, normally—as pure as any in the British Isles, but the pipes must have rusted up or …'

‘Please don't worry. It doesn't matter at all.'

‘Well, have a seat, at least.'

‘Thank you.' Edward chose the hardest chair, sat down on the very edge of it.

There was silence for a moment. Lyn strained to fill it. There was too much to say, but nothing safe or neutral.

‘The … er … snow's slackening off a little now.'

‘Yes.' Edward wasn't looking. He cleared his throat, leaned forward in his chair. ‘I was surprised to hear from you, Mr Winterton—very surprised, in fact. As you know, my lawyers have been …'

‘Do let's open that wine.' Lyn was still standing, hunting for a corkscrew. ‘I need a drink, quite frankly, and I never fancy tippling on my own. It is Christmas, after all.'

‘Look, Mr Winterton, I'm most grateful to you for getting in touch with me and inviting me here at all, but I can't pretend that there aren't certain … er … constraints between us. This isn't purely a … social call. Christmas or no, I think we should have a full and frank discussion, to thrash these matters out before we …'

‘All right, but we can do it over a drink, can't we?'

‘Well, just a small one.' Edward took his tumbler grudgingly. ‘Perhaps you don't realise, Mr Winterton, but I've been in England over six whole weeks now, and got absolutely nowhere. I'm most relieved you've decided to come into the open and help me get things settled. It's essential that …'

Lyn rammed the cork back in the bottle, started pacing up and down. ‘I never said I'd … What I mean is, there's no point in going over and over grudges or dragging up past history or …' He stopped in front of the door. He longed to slam through it, escape from a situation he himself had set up. Bloody fool.

Edward took a cautious sip of his wine. ‘We've got to talk, Mr Winterton, we can't avoid it. And we must go back to basics. There are certain things I …'

‘Well, let's leave it till after lunch. It'll be … easier then. We'll be more relaxed and …' Lyn was talking to the door. He turned round, tried to sound more welcoming. ‘I expect you're hungry, aren't you? People always seem ravenous up here. I suppose it's the air or …'

‘Thank you, Mr Winterton, but I had a very substantial breakfast at my hotel. What I'd prefer is …'

‘It's nothing fancy, anyway. If you're expecting proper Christmas dinner, then you're going to be disappointed.' He heard himself sounding peevish, inhospitable. It was a crazy situation. He should have stayed in hiding, fled abroad. Eating would be as difficult as talking. He hadn't managed breakfast, had pushed away his scrappy bit of supper on Christmas Eve.

‘I've laid it up in the kitchen. We always eat in there. It's the only room which really fits the table. It's twelve feet long, that table, and two hundred years old. It was made from the decking of a …' He was blabbing on, filling in the space with words. At least it stopped Edward talking, postponed that full and frank discussion which meant only loss and void. His guest had eased up from his chair and was standing by the sideboard, rigid and uneasy.

‘Yes, bring your glass. The kitchen's just through here. It should be warm. The range is always temperamental, but I cleaned it out thoroughly last night and …' Christ! He sounded like some clacking old hen of a woman. If he hadn't been out of his mind, he could have spent his Christmas Day alone.

The table loomed larger even than usual—a mile of wood with a peck of food on it. Jennifer would have made pies, puddings, mincemeat, marzipan, laid the cloth like a work of art—scarlet crackers nestling in snowy napkins, silvered laurel framing gold chrysanthemums.

Edward had followed him and was dithering by the table. He looked wrong in the house, his head too near the ceiling, his frame too large for the narrow wooden chairs.

‘No, don't sit there. Sit at the head of the table.' Lyn drew back the larger chair for Edward—the master's chair with arms—Thomas Winterton's chair.
Beloved son
. Since her husband's death, Hester had never used it. It had stood there, empty, joining them at meals, he on its left, Hester on its right. Now, he sat further down the table, on a lower, lesser seat.

Silence again. Lyn wished they could say grace, embark on some soothing formal ritual which would prevent the need for fraught and dangerous topics.

‘Er … can I give you some ham?' he asked instead. The squat pink oval seemed to have shrunk since he opened the tin. He tried to carve it neatly, but the scrappy slices fell to pieces on the plates. Jennifer's ham was plump and smooth and marbled like her thighs. The knife trembled in his hand, but he went on slicing—cut her off.

‘I should have cooked potatoes, I suppose, or Brussels sprouts or something … Would you like some bread?'

‘Thank you. Just half a slice.'

Lyn hacked him off a doorstep. Hester would never have stood for half slices. His mother had insisted on no-nonsense appetites, cleared and grateful plates, no fads or fuss-potting.

‘My mother baked the best bread in Northumberland.' Why had he said that? He remembered it as hard and heavy, scratching down his throat when other kids had light, white, magic bread which God had already sliced in glossy coloured wrappers and which was so soft you could have slept on it. He should have said ‘
our
' mother, anyway.

‘Yes, I … er … saw her recipes in the book.'

Now they were back on battle-ground again. Edward was right—it was impossible not to talk. Every subject led back to their quarrel or their mother, their future or their past.

‘Look, Mr Ainsley,' Lyn suddenly blurted out. ‘Don't think I approve of it—that book. I don't. I never did. It's full of lies.'