September (1990) (34 page)

"How extraordinary. I . . . I . . . wonder what she will look like?"

"No idea. Probably smashing. Except that she's thirty-nine now, so there are bound to be a few wrinkles. Anyway, we'll soon see for ourselves. I must go, Vi. I'm making bramble jelly and it's just about to boil over. See you Sunday."

_ "So kind. And I'm thrilled about Lucilla . . ."

But the brambles claimed Isobel. " 'Bye, Vi." And she rang off.

Pandora.

Vi put down her receiver, took off her spectacles, and rubbed her aching eyes. She had been tired before, but Isobel's news, delivered with such joy, left her with the sensation that she was being beleaguered. As though impossible demands were about to be made of her, and vital decisions to be made.

She lay back in her chair and closed her eyes, wished that Edie were here, her oldest and dearest friend, so that she could confide, and discuss, and be comforted. But Edie was in her cottage, lumbered with Lottie, and even a telephone call was out of the question, with Lottie listening to every word and drawing her own dangerous conclusions.

Pandora. Now thirty-nine, but because Violet had not seen her since she was eighteen, she had stayed, in Violet's mind, perpetually that enchanting teenager. Like a person already dead. People who had died never aged, just stayed in the memory the way they had once been. Archie and Edmund had matured to middle age, but not Pandora.

Which was ridiculous. Everybody grew older at the same speed, like people at airports being carried along by those moving walkways. Pandora was thirty-nine and had lived a life, if all accounts were to be believed, that was anything but quiet and peaceful. Experience would have left its mark, drawing lines, wrinkling skin, dulling the bright lustre of that amazing hair.

But it was almost impossible to imagine. Violet sighed, opened her eyes, reached for her drink. This would not do. She must pull herself together. The implications of the situation had nothing to do with her. She would make no decision because there was none to be made. She would simply continue to do what she had always done, which was to observe, disregard, and keep her counsel.

Edmund Aird, returning home to Balnaid from Edinburgh at seven o'clock in the evening, walked through his front door just as the telephone started to ring. Standing in the hall, he paused, but when no one immediately answered the call, he laid his brief-case down on the table and went to the library, to sit at his desk and pick up the receiver.

"Edmund Aird."

"Edmund. Archie here."

"Yes, Archie."

"Isobel asked me to call you. She wants you and Virginia and Henry to come for lunch on Sunday. We've asked Vi as well. Can you make it?"

"How very kind of Isobel. I think so . . . just a moment . . ." He reached in his pocket for his diary, laid it on the blotter, turned the pages. "As far as I'm concerned, that would be fine, but I'm only just back and I haven't spoken to Virginia yet. Do you want me to go and find her?"

"No, don't bother. You can ring me if you can't come, and if we don't hear, we'll expect you all at about a quarter to one."

"We look forward to it." Edmund hesitated. "Is this for some occasion we should know about, or just a routine invitation?"

Archie said, "No." And then said, "Yes. I mean, it is an occasion. Lucilla's coming home, tomorrow. . .

"That's great news."

"She's bringing some Australian with her."

"The sheep-farmer?"

"That's right. And she's bringing Pandora."

Edmund, with some deliberation, closed his diary. It was bound in navy-blue hide, with his initials in gold in one corner. It had been in his stocking last Christmas, a present from Virginia.

"Pandora?"

"Yes. Lucilla and the sheep-farmer went to stay with her in Majorca. They've all come back together, driving through Spain and France. Got to London this morning." Archie paused, as though waiting for some comment from Edmund. But Edmund did not speak and, after a bit, Archie went on. "I forwarded an invitation from Verena Steynton, so I suppose she thought it might be fun to come home for the party."

"It's as good a reason as any."

"Yes." Another pause. "Sunday then, Edmund?"

"Yes, of course."

"Unless we hear from you."

"We look forward to it. Thank you for calling."

He rang off. The library, the house were silent. It occurred to him that perhaps Virginia and Henry were out somewhere, and he was totally alone. This sense of solitude grew, became oppressive. He found himself straining his ears, needing the reassurance of a raised voice, the clatter of dishes, the bark of a dog. Nothing. Then, from beyond the open window, came the long, bubbling call of a curlew, flying low over the fields beyond the garden. A cloud covered the sun, and the cool air stirred. He put the diary back in his pocket, smoothed his hair with his hand, straightened his tie. He needed a drink. He got up from the chair, left the room, and went in search of his wife and his son.

Chapter
4

Saturday the Tenth

Lucilla said, "I've never come home in such style before."

"How did you come before?" Jeff was driving. He had been at the wheel the whole of their long journey north.

"In trains from school. Or driving a ratty little car from Edinburgh. Once I flew from London, but that was in the days when Dad was still a soldier and the War Office paid my fare."

It was half past three, a Saturday afternoon, and now there were only twenty miles to go. They had made good time. The motorway was behind them, Relkirk bypassed, and the winding road comfortingly familiar, leading them to Strathcroy and home. The river kept them company, and ahead lay the
. H
ills. The air was clear, the sky enormous, and the fresh breeze, sweeping in through opened windows, sweet and heady as young wine.

Lucilla could scarcely believe their good fortune. It had been raining in London and pouring in the Midlands, but as they crossed the Border, she had watched the clouds disintegrate, disperse, roll away to the east, and Scotland welcomed them with a blue sky and trees just on the point of turning gold. Lucilla thought that this was extremely obliging of her native country and felt as pleased as if she, personally, had stage-managed the miraculous transformation, but deliberately made no comment on either their luck or the stunning scenery. She had known Jeff for long enough to discover that he did not appreciate, and was even embarrassed by, over-effusion.

They had set off at ten o'clock this morning, checking out of the Ritz, and watching the majestic porters load Pandora's dark-red Mercedes with her impressive array of matched luggage, along with their own humble backpacks. Pandora had forgotten to tip the porters, so Lucilla had had to do it for her. She knew that she would never get it back, but after a night of total luxury with dinner and breakfast thrown in, she felt that it was the least she could do.

To begin with, Pandora had sat in the front of her magnificent car, cosy in her mink, because after the nailing heat of a Majorcan August, she felt in need of its opulent comfort. The cold and the rain were not what she had expected. While Jeff drove them out of the city, jousted with traffic, achieved the motorway, she kept up an endless stream of inconsequential chat. Later, she fell silent, gazing out of the window at the grey and dull countryside through which they swept, in the fast lane, at eighty miles an hour. The windscreen wipers worked flat out, immense juggernauts sent up blinding, muddy showers of spray, and even Lucilla had to admit that it was all thoroughly disagreeable.

"Goodness, it's ugly." Pandora snuggled deeper into her fur.

"I know. But it's just this bit."

For lunch, they stopped at a Motorway Service Station. Pandora wanted to leave the motorway and go in search of some wayside pub, preferably thatched, where they could sit by an open fire and drink cheering concoctions like whisky and ginger ale. But Lucilla knew that if they allowed themselves to be so diverted, they would never get back to Croy.

"There isn't time. This isn't Spain, Pandora. It isn't France. We've no time to waste on frivolities."

"Darling, hardly a frivolity."

"Yes, it is. And you'd get talking to the barman and we'd be there forever."

So the Motorway Service Station it was, which proved just as unenjoyable as Lucilla feared it would be. Queuing with trays for sandwiches and coffee; and then sitting on orange plastic chairs at a Formica table, hemmed in by irritable families with fractious children, punky youths in pornographic T-shirts, and muscular truck drivers, all seemingly content to wrap themselves around mind-boggling platefuls of fish and chips, evilly coloured trifles, and cups of tea.

After lunch, Pandora and Lucilla had changed places; Pandora had made herself comfortable on the back seat and fallen instantly asleep. She had been asleep ever since, which meant that she had missed the dramatic crossing of the Border, the clearing of the sky, and the miraculous excitement of actually coming home.

They drove through a small country town. "Where's this?" Jeff asked.

"Kirkthornton."

The pavements were crammed with Saturday-after
-
noon shoppers, the municipal gardens bright with dahlias. Old men sat on benches enjoying the kindly warmth. Children licked ice-creams. A bridge curved high over a tumbling river. A man fished. The road led on up the hill. Pandora, bundled in mink, was curled up like a child, her head supported by Jeffs jacket rolled into a pillow. A lock of bright hair fell across her face, her lashes lay black on her jutting cheek-bones.

"Do you think I should wake her up?"

"Up to you."

This had been her pattern, her routine, all through the long journey from Palma, through Spain and France. Spurts of immense energy, activity, conversation, much laughter, and sudden impetuous suggestions.

We really should see that cathedral It's only ten kilometers out of our way.

Look at that delicious river Why don't we stop for a moment and have a skinny-dip? There's no one to see.

You know, we've just passed the most enchanting cafe. Let's turn round and go back and have a drink
,
But the drink would spin out into a long and leisurely lunch, with Pandora falling into conversation with any person who happened to be within earshot. Another bottle of wine. Coffee and cognac. And then . . . out. Sleep. She could catnap anywhere, and though this was sometimes embarrassing, it meant, at least, that she stopped talking, and Lucilla and Jeff had learned to be grateful for these respites. Without them Lucilla was not certain whether they would have survived the passage. Travelling with Pandora was a little like travelling with an ebullient child, or a dog-entertaining and companionable but as well quite dauntingly draining.

The Mercedes crested the slope. At the summit, the countryside opened and the views were magnificent. Beeches, fields, scattered farms, grazing sheep, the river far below them, the far-away hills bloomy and purple as ripe plums.

"If I don't wake her now she'll still be asleep when we get home. It's only about ten minutes away."

"Then wake her."

Lucilla stretched out her arm, laid her hand on the soft fur of Pandora's shoulder and gave her a little shake.

"Pandora."

"Um."

"Pandora." Another shake. "Wake up. We're almost there. We're almost home."

"What?" Pandora's eyes fluttered open. They stared blankly, disorientated, confused. She closed the
m a
gain, yawned, stirred, stretched. "What a lovely sleep. Where are we?"

"Heading for Caple Bridge. Almost home."

"Almost home? Almost at Croy?"

"Sit up and you'll see. You've missed the best bit of the drive, snoring away on the back seat."

"I wasn't snoring. I never snore." But after a bit she made an effort and did sit up, pushing her hair out of her eyes, gathering her furs around her as though chilled. She yawned again, stared from the window. Blinked. Her eyes brightened. "But . . . we're nearly there!"

"I told you."

"You should have woken me hours ago. And the rain's gone. It's all sunshiny. And the green. I'd forgotten such greenness. What a welcome. 'Caledonia, stern and wild, fit nurse for a poetic child.' Who wrote that? Some stupid old fool. It's not stern and wild, it's just utterly beautiful. How perfectly sweet of it to be looking so lovely." She groped for her bag, her comb; tidied her hair. A mirror, some lipstick. A generous splash of Poison. "I must smell good for Archie."

"Don't forget about his leg. Don't expect him to come running to sweep you up in his arms. If he sweeps you up in his arms, he'll probably fall flat on his back."

"As if I'd suggest such a thing." She looked at her tiny diamond watch. "We're early, We said we'd be there at five and it's not four o'clock yet."

"We've made fantastic time."

"Dear Jeff." Pandora gave his shoulder an appreciative thump, as though she were patting a dog. "What a clever driver."

Now they were running downhill. At the bottom of the incline, they took the steep hump of Caple Bridge, turned left, and were at the start of the glen. Pandora leaned forward in her seat. "But it's amazing. Absolutely nothing seems to have changed. Some people called Miller used to live in that cottage. They wer
e t
erribly old. He'd been a shepherd. They must be dead by now. They used to keep bees and sell jars of heather honey. Oh dear, I'm getting so fraught, I think I might have to stop for a pee. No, of course I don't want to. Just imagination." She gave Jeff another thump on his shoulder. "Jeff, you're doing your silent act again. Can't you think up one small word of appreciation?"