The Darkest Evening

him; in her more depressed moments it occurred to Juliet that this stately pile had been a major influence on his proposal of marriage three years before. She could tell, though, that there were times when he thought longingly of his single life, the smart apartment, which he still held on to, on Newcastle’s quayside, his work at the Live Theatre, the easy access to bars and good restaurants. She’d loved Mark so much when they’d married. Now the relationship seemed complex and fraught, and she wasn’t sure how they’d move forward. She thought that somehow, she’d failed him.
When the doorbell went, she excused herself from her guests and made her way into the hall. Dorothy would be up to her ears preparing dinner and her mother Harriet, deep in conversation with Jane, the priest from the village, still seemed to believe that they had staff to respond. Harriet had blossomed after her husband’s death, taken to the solo role of lady of the manor with aplomb and seemed hardly to miss Crispin at all. Away from the fire, the hall felt chill. Juliet thought again about the bedrooms and made a mental note to remind Dorothy about hot-water bottles. Juliet hoped that their city friends might see them, and the electric blankets she’d put on some of the beds, as charming, a part of the country-house experience. Dorothy was brilliant and almost certain to remember, but it was the small details that counted. This was about business more than friendship.
Juliet opened the door and felt a blast of icy air. The snow had stopped and it had started to freeze. There was a moon and the park looked glorious, a fairy-tale setting with the circle of black forest as a backdrop. She had a sudden moment of cold exhilaration, of love for the place. After all, Mark was right: this effort was worthwhile. On the doorstep was a woman. Definitely not a late-arriving friend who’d been forgotten. This woman was large and shabby. She wore wellingtons and a knitted hat. She reminded Juliet of the homeless people she encountered occasionally outside Newcastle Central station, wrapped in threadbare blankets, begging. Then there was a flash of recognition. She remembered a funeral. Her great-uncle Hector’s funeral. Hector, her grandfather’s younger brother, a mythical black sheep of whom stories had been told in whispers when she was growing up. It had been a bleak, rainy day and she’d been surrounded by strangers. She’d been sent along to represent their side of the family, because in death Hector could be forgiven. He would no longer be around to cause trouble.
‘Vera, we weren’t expecting you!’ She realized immediately that she’d let dismay creep into her voice. How rude that must sound! Was it possible that her mother, who was becoming ever more eccentric, had invited the woman without letting Juliet or Mark know? ‘I’m sorry, do come in out of the cold.’
‘Hello, pet.’ Vera came in and stamped her boots on the mat to get rid of the snow. ‘I’m not gatecrashing, honest. I’ve got a bit of a situation.’
‘What sort of a situation?’
‘Well, there’s this.’ Vera looked down and Juliet saw a sleeping child in a car seat. ‘Do you think I could bring it in? It’s freezing out here. It’s asleep at the moment.’ She looked at Juliet as if her opinion mattered.
Juliet felt a tug in the gut. She’d wanted children ever since she could remember, but it hadn’t happened and she was approaching an age when perhaps it never would. Sometimes she couldn’t help an overwhelming feeling of jealousy when children were mentioned. If it’s not mine, I don’t care if it freezes to death. Sometimes a gentler longing, which was just as desperate. ‘Of course, bring him in. Or her. Which is it?’
‘Good point,’ Vera said. ‘I haven’t checked.’
Juliet, who looked at mothers’ forums on the Internet in secret, with shame, as if she were accessing pornography, thought it could be about twelve months old. It might just be walking. Not properly talking. But really what did she know? In the drawing room, she heard the sound of voices, a sudden shrill laugh. It was clear that they weren’t missing her. Mark and Harriet would keep things going. She looked again at the baby and found herself unclipping the straps and lifting it out into her arms. It smelled of fabric softener and baby oil. And poo. ‘I think it needs changing. We might have nappies somewhere. Dorothy, our housekeeper, has a baby.’
Duncan. Fourteen months old. Soft dark hair and round cheeks.
‘You must be Juliet,’ Vera said. ‘You were at Dad’s funeral. We didn’t really have a chance to speak.’
‘No.’ Juliet felt defensive. These days she often felt defensive. ‘I’m sorry. I had to rush away.’ Then, in an attempt to assert herself:
‘What’s the story behind this child? Why are you here?’
‘A car came off the road in the blizzard,’ Vera said. ‘I found this in the back. No sign of the driver. I need to use your phone, see if we can track down its parents.’
‘Oh, of course. You must.’
‘I don’t want to get in the way.’ Vera nodded towards the sound of laughter.
‘There’s a phone in the kitchen.’ Juliet found herself becoming decisive, useful. ‘You can use that. It’s warmer in there anyway. And we’ll get a nappy from Dorothy, make him more comfortable.’ Because, despite the gender-neutral colour of the clothes, Juliet had decided that this was a boy.
In the kitchen there were good smells; they’d decided on pheasant, cooked slowly with red wine and shallots. Lots of pheasants, because they were cheap as chips here, and the city people would love them and find the dish exotic, authentic at least. And a vegetable casserole for the vegans and veggies. Roast potatoes and parsnips and sprouts because it was nearly Christmas. A variety of puds, hot and cold, because even the skinny women liked dessert and that way nobody would go to bed hungry. Dorothy was