Long Night's Loving

Maggie said nothing, concentrating on the wet slick of the road ahead instead of giving in to the urge to look at him again. Almost forty, she thought, which meant she was almost thirty-six. As he’d said, they weren’t kids any more. So why did she feel so immature suddenly?

‘Are you well?’ she asked, aware of the muscled length of his thigh, taut beneath its worn covering of denim. Almost involuntarily she was aware that he was wearing a loose knitted sweater beneath his leather jacket, long boots on his feet, manipulating the controls.

‘Fine,’ he answered briefly. ‘And you?’

‘Fine,’ she mimicked, without thinking. ‘Um—is Mrs Benson still at the house?’

‘No. She retired,’ he responded, and Maggie felt an enormous sense of relief. The elderly housekeeper had always resented her for being a ‘Southerner’, and it was one less person for her to confront.

‘So—so who’s looking after you now?’ she asked, and he cast her an amused look.

‘Do you really care?’ he asked, his dark eyes bright with unconscious irony. ‘As I remember it, my welfare was never high on your list of priorities, not even when we were living together.’

‘That’s not true!’

Her denial was instinctive, but although she stared at him indignantly he turned his attention back to the road. It was getting dark, so she could hardly blame him for that, but it was infuriating that he should still be able to wound her after all this time.

While she absorbed this evidence of her own weakness, they negotiated the southern outskirts of the city, and turned west onto the road for Carlisle. Signs indicating the nearness of the Roman Wall loomed at frequent intervals, and the announcement that this was ‘Catherine Cookson Country’ was vaguely familiar.

But it was a bleak landscape in the fading light of a January afternoon. Skeletal trees bent into the wind, and the few animals that had braved the weather huddled together in the corners of the fields, seeking shelter. It was the time of year, of course, but she felt a sense of isolation. Perhaps she’d lived too long in London, as Neil used to say. Perhaps she was afraid of the silence of her thoughts.

At least it wasn’t snowing, she thought gratefully, and it could have been. These border counties of England saw more than their fair share of severe winter weather. She wondered what she’d have done if it had been snowing. Bellthorpe had been known to be cut off in the past.

‘How’s Lindsey?’

His question was sudden, if not unexpected. But Maggie didn’t want to get into their daughter’s problems in the car. No, she and Neil had to talk—it was why she was here, for heaven’s sake—and she wanted to be able to see his face when she told him. She had no intention of revealing her reasons for coming here in the anonymous shadows of the vehicle.

So, ‘She’s OK,’ she replied, after a moment’s consideration. ‘Um-did you have a good Christmas? I seem to remember there was snow in your part of the country, wasn’t there? White Christmases are so rare these days. I imagine it was quite—’

‘What do you want, Maggie?’

His curt interruption caught her unawares, and for a moment she could only look blankly in his direction.

‘Well, you didn’t come here to discuss the weather, did you?’ he countered, dark eyebrows raised in an interrogatory stare. ‘Come on, Maggie, spit it. out, why don’t you? It will save us from all this meaningless chatter.’

Maggie took a steadying breath. ‘I see you haven’t changed,’ she remarked, without answering him. ‘Patience was never your strong suit.’

‘And candour was never yours,’ he retorted harshly, accelerating to pass another car. ‘I’m tired of your secrets, Maggie. You’re here, aren’t you? At least have the decency to get to the point.’

Maggie refused to be stampeded. ‘When I phoned, you said I could spend the night.’

‘That doesn’t mean I’m prepared to entertain you,’ replied Neil, in a controlled voice. ‘Luke is at the house. It may be some time before we can talk privately. If what you have to say concerns Lindsey I’d rather know what it is now.’

Maggie couldn’t disguise her sudden intake of breath. ‘Why are you so aggressive?’ she protested.

‘Because of the way you avoided answering me before,’ he replied in a weary tone. ‘Don’t be tiresome, Mags, I’m not an idiot. What’s the matter with her? Has she got herself pregnant?’

Maggie gasped. ‘No!’

But she half wished she had. She might have been able to cope with an unwanted pregnancy. She wouldn’t have had to approach Neil for a start.

‘What, then?’

He was slowing now, indicating that he was turning right at the next junction, turning onto the narrower road that led first to Chollerford, and then on, into the less populated heart of Northumberland.

Maggie turned to look out of the window. ‘I’d rather not discuss it in the car.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I wouldn’t.’ She was feeling indignant now. ‘What’s the matter, Neil? Don’t you want to take me to the house?’

‘Not particularly,’ he answered, almost cruelly, and it took an enormous effort of will-power not to demand he take her back to the station right away. She should never have come here, she thought. She should have realised how he would regard it. She’d sworn she’d never ask him for anything ever again, and she hated going back on her word.

‘Well, at least I know where I stand,’ she said at last, managing to conceal the anguish his words had given her. ‘But I’m sorry. I have no intention of discussing your daughter at this moment. If you hadn’t wanted to accommodate me, you should have booked me a room at a hotel.’

‘Yes, I should,’ he remarked, pausing at the traffic lights at Chollerford Bridge. ‘How about here?’ He gestured towards the lights of the George Hotel that stood at the crossroads. ‘You could always get a taxi back to town.’

For a moment, she thought he meant it, and her face turned towards his in sudden anxiety. But when the lights changed, and he accelerated over the bridge, he didn’t turn into the hotel yard, and she realised he had only been baiting her again. It seemed he had accepted that, however compromised he might feel, he had to take her to Bellthorpe, to the dower house he’d purchased on the Haversham estate.

It was full dark by the time they reached Bellthorpe, and the rain that had accompanied them from Newcastle was now a steady downpour. Yet, for all that, there were a few people about in the village, and the windows of the post office and general stores cast a shaft of yellowish light across the road.

When Neil had first bought the house here, Maggie had thought he was crazy. When would he ever find the time to live here? she’d asked. His work was in London. The recording studios were there.

Of course she hadn’t realised then that Neil was planning on giving up his recording career, that his ambition had changed to one of writing music instead of performing it. She’d been so wrapped up in creating her own identity, she had not noticed he was having a crisis with his. She’d been so selfish—she could admit it now—and stupid. But she doubted Neil would believe her if she said so.

The Haversham estate extended almost to the outskirts of the village. When Neil had moved here from the house they had owned in Buckinghamshire—how many years ago? Six? Seven?—the estate had been owned by an elderly recluse called Sarah Cavendish, and Maggie remembered making a rather poor joke about Great Expectations, and what a pity it was that Miss Cavendish hadn’t been called Haversham, too. She’d even made fun of Neil, by suggesting that if he stayed here long enough people would forget him, as well. But, of course, they never had...

The house Neil had bought had once been occupied by the various widows of the family who’d owned the estate in the nineteenth century, when the eldest son inherited his father’s position in the community. But it was years since it had been used for its original purpose, and when Neil had bought the property it had been in an appalling state of repair. The last tenant had been a farm labourer, who had left before the last war, and Maggie had considered Neil’s offer ludicrous, for a house that, in her opinion, wanted pulling down.

Of course, she had had to eat her words. Time—and money—had worked wonders, and by the time it was ready for habitation even she had had to agree that it had become a home to be proud of. The trouble was, she had still wanted to live near London, and no house in Northumberland, however luxurious, could compensate her for that.

She remembered they had had their own entrance to the estate. The dower house was situated some distance from Haversham House itself, and it had been convenient, not just for Neil but for Miss Cavendish as well, for them to use an alternative way in. Consequently, she was surprised when Neil slowed at the tall iron gates that guarded the main entrance, and she cast him a puzzled look as they turned into the entry.

But before she could say anything a man emerged from the conical-roofed lodge that stood just inside the gates, and with some ceremony threw the gates wide for them to drive through.

‘Evening, Mr Jordan,’ he said as Neil lowered his window to thank him. He shielded his eyes against the downpour, and looked at Neil with evident respect. ‘I found that break in the fence, like you said, and I’ve had a word with Ben Armstrong’s man just this afternoon.’

‘Great.’ Maggie got the impression Neil would have avoided this discussion if he could. ‘I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow, Frank. You get on in out of this rain.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The man pulled a wry face. ‘At least it’s better than the snow. Did you hear the forecast? They say there’s a depression coming over from the continent.’

‘No, I didn’t hear that.’ Maggie could hear the controlled patience in Neil’s voice. ‘Goodnight, Frank. Give my regards to Rachel.’

‘I will.’

The man stood back, and Neil accelerated away along the drive. In the wing mirror on her side of the car, Maggie could see the lodge-keeper closing the gates behind them, and her brows drew together in an expression of disbelief.

‘You know,’ she said, trying to sound casual, ‘if I didn’t know better, I’d say that man was treating you like his employer.’ She paused. ‘Are you?’