Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories (13 page)

“But Mother and Pa … I’ll never have the nerve to tell them. I’ve been so stupid…”

“I shall tell them.”

“And Nigel…?”

“I shall tell Nigel as well. He’s young. He’ll be hurt, but he’ll recover. Nothing could be worse for him than a half-hearted marriage.” She kissed her granddaughter, her heart filled with sympathy and love. “Now off you go, my darling, and good luck. And, Christabel…”

“Yes, Granny.”

“My dearest love to Sam.”

*   *   *

She heard Christabel go. Heard her get the little car out of the garage and drive away down the rutted farm lane that led to Sam Crichtan’s house. It was now five o’clock in the morning.
What am I thinking of?
Mrs. Lowyer asked herself.
What in the name of goodness have I done?

But she could not make herself feel repentant. It had gone, that anxiety which she had been too afraid to take out and examine. She had always known about Sam and Christabel. She had told herself that their destiny was of no concern to her. But now their destiny had been put into her hands, and she had made her decision. Right or wrong, there could be no going back.

She lay sleepless until full light. At eight-thirty, she awoke from a doze, got out of bed and put on her dressing-gown and went to shut the window. The barley field lay shorn and gold under a watery sky. She knew that Sam and Christabel were right for each other. She thought of Paul and Felicity and Nigel. She dressed and went downstairs; said good morning to Lucy and put her out into the garden, cooked her own breakfast, drank her coffee. Then she put on her coat and, taking Lucy with her, let herself out of the house. It was a sweet, damp morning. Mrs. Lowyer went down the path and through the gate, and then, briskly, set off up the lane towards the big house, with her little dog at her heels.

T
HE
B
LACKBERRY
D
AY

The night train moved out of Euston Station, headed north. Claudia, already changed into her night-gown and robe, pulled up the blind and sat on the edge of the narrow bunk, watching the city slip away, lights and dim streets and high-rise flats wheeling off into the past. It was a cloudy evening, the clouds stained bronze by a million street lamps, but as she watched, the clouds parted for a moment and a moon sailed into view, a full moon, round and shining as a polished silver plate.

She turned off the lights, got into the bunk, with its cotton sheets all crisp and tight as a hospital bed, and lay and watched the moon, lulled by the smooth, gathering speed of the train. Inevitably, she recalled other, long-ago journeys, and for the first time, she thought of tomorrow and felt a mild stirring of excitement. It was as though what she was doing had become a positive action, not simply a compromise. Not simply the next-best thing.

This did something to bolster her bruised pride and enabled her to bundle, for the moment, anxious uncertainties out of her mind. They were still there, and would remain so, lurking around the edge of her subconscious, but for the time being she allowed herself the luxury of knowing that, at the end of the day, she had taken the right course.

She was immensely tired. The moon shone into her eyes. She turned on her side, away from its disturbing brilliance, buried her face in the pillow, and, surprisingly, slept.

*   *   *

At Inverness Claudia alighted from the train into a climate so different that the night train could have carried her not only north, but abroad. The day was Saturday, the month September, and she had left London on an evening warm as June, the air muggy and stale, the sky overcast. But now she walked out into a world that glittered in the early light, and was arched by a high and cloudless sky of pale and pristine blue. It was much colder. There was the nip of frost in the air, and leaves on trees were already turning autumn gold.

Here, she had an hour or two to wait for the small stopping train that would carry her, through the morning, even farther north. She filled this in by going to the nearest hotel and eating breakfast, and then walked back to the station. The news-stand had opened, so she bought a magazine and made her way to the platform where the smaller train waited, already gradually filling with passengers. She found a seat, stowed her luggage, and was almost at once joined by a pleasant-faced woman who settled herself across the table in the seat opposite. She wore a tweed coat with a cairngorm brooch in the lapel and a furry green felt hat, and, as well as her zipped overnight bag, was burdened by a number of plastic shopping bags, one of which contained what looked like a hefty picnic.

Their eyes met across the table. Claudia smiled politely. The woman said, “Oh, my, what a cold morning. I had to wait for the bus. My feet turned to stone.”

“Yes, but it’s lovely.”

“Oh, ay, good and fine. Anything’s better than the rain, I always say.” A whistle blew, doors slammed. “There we are, we’re off. Sharp on time, too. Are you going far?”

Claudia, who had picked up her magazine, resigned herself to conversation, and laid it down again.

“Lossdale.”

“That’s where I’m bound, too. I’ve been down for a night or two, staying with my sister. For the shopping, you know. They’ve a lovely Marks and Spencers. Bought a shirt for my husband. Are you staying in Lossdale?”

She was not curious, simply interested. Claudia told her, “Yes, just for a week.” And then, because it was obvious that she would be asked, she volunteered the information. “At Inverloss, with my cousin Jennifer Drysdale.”

“Jennifer! Oh, I know her well, we’re on the Rural together. Stitching new kneelers for the kirk. Funny she never mentioned the fact that you were coming.”

“It was very much a last-minute arrangement.”

“Is this your first visit?”

“No. I used to come up every summer when I was young. When her parents were alive, and before Jennifer inherited the farm.”

“You live in the south?”

“Yes, in London.”

“I thought so. By your clothes.” The train was rattling over the bridge, the firth spread below them, stretching from the far western hills to the sea. She saw small boats going about their business, delectable houses facing out over the water, with gardens sloping down to the shore. “I came up last night on the sleeper.”

“That’s a long journey, but better than driving a car. My man will scarcely go on the main roads these days, the traffic goes so fast. Like taking your life in your hands. But then he was always slow. It’s his nature. Goes with his job.”

Claudia smiled. “What is his job?”

“He’s a shepherd. And his mind on not much else but his sheep. I just hope he remembers to come and pick me up at the station. I left a note over the cooker to remind him, but that’s no certainty that he’ll remember.” She was not complaining. In fact, she looked quite smug about her husband’s shortcomings, as though they made him special. “And is Jennifer coming to meet you?”

“She said she would.”

“She’s a busy girl, with the farm and the animals and the children. They’re lovely bairns.”

“I’ve only seen photographs. I haven’t been to Inverloss for twenty years. Jennifer wasn’t even married then.”

“Well, she’s got a lovely man in Ronnie. Mind, he comes from south of the border, but for all that he’s a good farmer. Just as well, with that great place to run.”

The conversation lapsed. Claudia gazed from the window. They were into the hills now, snaking away into a country desolate save for isolated farmsteads and flocks of sheep, and rivers flowing through wide green straths. The sun rose in the sky, and long shadows grew shorter. Claudia’s companion opened her picnic bag, poured tea into a plastic mug, munched genteelly on a ham sandwich.

The small stations came and went, the train idling for moments while passengers alighted or climbed aboard. They passed the time of day, and dogs barked, and porters trundled trolleys of parcels. Nobody hurried. It was as though there was all the time in the world.

The journey progressed, and Claudia began to count the stops, as once she used to. Three more to go. Two more. One more. Nearly there. The train ran alongside the sea. She saw ebb-tide beaches and distant breakers. The shepherd’s wife packed up her picnic, dusted shortbread crumbs from her pouter-pigeon bosom, rummaged in her capacious handbag for her ticket.

The train slowed, and the sign
LOSSDALE
sailed past the window. The two women stood, gathered up their belongings, stepped down onto the platform. The shepherd was there, with his dog. He had not forgotten, but greeted his wife with little fuss. “You’re here,” he told her unnecessarily, took her bag from her, and strode away. She followed him, turning back to wave at Claudia. “See you around, maybe.”

No sign of Jennifer. The train drew away, and Claudia was left alone on the platform. She stood by her suitcase in her London suit and decided that there is nothing more letting down than to have no person to meet one at the end of a journey. She determined not to become impatient. There was no hurry, no pressing appointment. Jennifer had just been held up …

“Claudia!”

A man’s voice. Startled, she turned, full into the sun, needing to shade her eyes. She saw him, coming at her out of the dazzle, unrecognized for an instant, and then, astonishingly, familiar.

Magnus Ballater. The last person she had ever expected to see. Not forgotten, but out of mind for longer than Claudia cared to think about. Magnus, in dark corduroys and a hugely patterned sweater; taller and more heftily built than she remembered, with a head of unfashionably long, dark, thick hair, and that old irrepressible grin on his sun-tanned, weather-seamed face.

“Claudia.”

She knew that she was gaping, and had to laugh at her own amazement. “Magnus. For heaven’s sake. What are
you
doing?”

“Come to meet you. Jennifer’s been held up at Inverloss. Something about the boiler. She gave me a ring and asked me to come and collect you.” He stood there, looking down at her. “Do I get a kiss?”

Claudia reached up and planted a peck on his cold cheek. “I didn’t know you’d be around.”

“Oh, yes, I’m around. A local inhabitant now. Is this all your luggage?” He swept it up. “Come along now.”

She followed him, almost running to keep up with his long legs, through the gate, and out into the station yard, where a large battered car awaited them. A dog looked out of the back window. Its nose had made smeary marks on the glass. Magnus flung open the boot and tossed Claudia’s suitcase in with the dog, and then came around to open the front door for her. She got in. The car smelled of dog, and the inside looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned out for months, but Magnus made no apologies as he settled himself beside her, slammed the door and started up the engine. Gravel shot from behind the back wheels and they were away. She remembered that he had never been a man to waste time.

She said, “But what do you do here?”

“I run my father’s old woollen mill.”

“But you always swore you’d never do that. You were going to be independent, go out on your own.”

“And so I was for a bit. Worked in the Borders, and then Yorkshire. Then I went to Germany for a couple of years, and ended up in New York as a wool broker. But then my father died, the mill started running down, and it was going to be sold, so I came home.”

There was an air of tremendous confidence about him. She said, and it was a statement and not a question, “And pulled it all together.”

“Tried to. At least we’re out of the red now, and we’ve got some important orders coming in. Doubled the work-force. You must come and see it. See if you approve of our end product.”

“And what is that?”

“Tweeds, but much finer than the ones my father used to make. Closer weaves, lighter weights. Hard-wearing, but not hard. Malleable, I think the word is. And some amazing colours.”

“Are you designing?”

“Yes.”

“And where are the important orders coming from?”

“All over the world.”

“That’s marvellous. And where do you live?”

“In Pa’s old house.”

Old Mr. Ballater’s house. Claudia remembered it, built high on the hill, above the town. It had a large garden and a tennis court, and many energetic afternoons had been spent there, for Magnus, a year or so older than Claudia and Jennifer, had been one of a pack of youngsters who had spent all their time together. Leaving school, he had studied textile design, and that last summer of all, he was already a first-year student.

That had been a special summer, for a number of reasons. The weather was one of them, for it had been exceptionally warm and dry, and the long, light northern evenings had seen many fishing expeditions, walks up the river bank, and quiet hours spent casting for trout. The social life was another. They were all grown up now, and never had there been such an endless round of picnics and golf matches and tennis tournaments and reel parties and midnight barbecues on the beach. But Magnus, perhaps, had been the most important reason of all, for his enormous energy and his appetite for new diversions had swept them all up in his wake. A young man who never tired, was never bored nor out of humour, who owned his own car, and generally gave the impression that never for one moment did he doubt that life was living and every day to be filled with enjoyment.

“But tell me about yourself.” Driving at an alarming rate, they were already through the little town, and out into the countryside beyond. “Jennifer says you haven’t been north for twenty years. How could you stay out of touch for so long?”

“We weren’t out of touch. We’ve always written to each other, and telephoned, and every now and then Jennifer comes to London for a day or two and stays with me, and we go shopping and to the theatre…”

“But twenty
years.
So long since we were all together. What times those were.” He turned to smile at her, and Claudia prayed that a car was not bombing towards them around the curve of the road. “Why didn’t you come? Were you too busy?”

“Like you. Learning a trade. Getting experience. Starting a business.”

“Interior designing. Jennifer told me. Where do you operate?”