September (1990) (41 page)

"It's a pet, isn't it? The Garden of Eden. I love that dark gentian blue." He was a rotund, smooth-faced man of mature years, but strangely ageless. His cheeks were pink, and his fluffy pale hair airy as dandelion down. He wore a faded green corduroy jacket, much adorned with drooping poachers' pockets, and had a red-spotted kerchief tied in a jaunty knot around his neck. "You're the second person I've had in today looking for something for Katy."

"Who else has been here?"

"Pandora Blair. Popped in this morning. Lovely to see her again. Couldn't believe it when she walked through the door. Just like old times. And after all these years!"

"We had lunch at Croy yesterday." Virginia thought about yesterday, and knew that it had been a good day, the sort they would all remember when they were old and there was nothing much left to do but reminisce. It was the time when Pandora came home from Majorca, and Lucilla was there and some young Australian. Can't remember his name. And we played croquet And Edmund and Pandora sat in the swing seat, and Pandora went to sleep, and we all teased Edmund for being such a boring companion. "That's the first time I'd met Pandora."

"Of course. Amazing. How the years fly by."

"What did she buy for Katy? I mustn't get the same."

"A lamp. Chinese porcelain, and I'd made the shade for it myself. White silk, lined in palest pink. Then we had a cup of coffee and caught up on all the news. She was ever so sad when I told her about Terence."

"I'm sure." Virginia was afraid that Dermot's eyes were about to swim with tears, and went on hurriedly, "Dermot, I think I'll have this jug. Katy can use it either for cream or flowers, yet it's pretty enough on its own."

"Don't think you could find anything nicer. But stay for a bit. Have a snoop around. . . ."

"I'd love to, but I'm taking the dogs for a walk. I'll pick the jug up on my way home, and write you a cheque for it then."

"Righty ho." He took the jug from her and led the devious way back towards the door. "Are you going to Vi's picnic on Thursday?"

"Yes. Alexa will be there too. She's bringing a frien
d u
p for the dance."

"Oh, lovely. Haven't seen Alexa for months. I'm going to see if I can get someone to mind the shop for m
e t
hat day. If I can't, I'll shut it up. Wouldn't miss Vi's picnic for anything."

"I hope it's a good day."

They emerged and stepped out into the sunshine. The dogs, spying them, wheaked blissfully and leaped to their feet, tangling the leads. "How's Edmund?" asked Dermot.

"On his way to New York."

"I don't believe it! What a thing! I wouldn't have his job for all the tea in China."

"Don't waste your sympathy. He loves it."

She rescued the dogs, waved goodbye to Dermot, walked on, leaving the last straggling cottages of Strathcroy behind her. Another half mile and she had come to the bridge that spanned the river at the west end of the village. The bridge was ancient, steeply humpbacked, and once used by cattle-drovers. On the far side, a winding, tree-shaded lane followed the convolutions of the river, and led the way back to Balnaid.

On the crest of the bridge she paused to loosen the dogs and let them run free. They shot off at once, noses enticed by the smell of rabbits, to plunge into a thicket of bracken and brambles. Every now and then, as though to prove they were not wasting their time, they made hunting calls, or bounced high out of the tall bracken, with ears flying like furry wings.

Virginia let them go. They were Edmund's gun dogs, patiently trained, intelligent and obedient. A single whistle and they would return to her. The old bridge was a pleasant spot to loiter. The stone wall felt warm in the sunshine, and she leaned her arms on this and gazed downwards at the flowing peat-brown water. Sometimes she and Henry played Pooh-sticks from this bridge, flinging sticks upstream and then racing back to watch for the first, the winning stick, to appear. Sometimes the sticks never did appear, having been caught up in some unseen obstruction.

Like Edmund.

Alone, with only the river for company, she felt strong enough to think about Edmund, by now probably, winging his way over the Atlantic towards New York, drawn, as though by a magnet, away from his wife and his son, just at a time when he was most needed at home. The magnet was his work, and right now Virginia felt as jealous and resentful and lonely as if he were gone to keep an assignation with a mistress.

Which was strange because she had never been jealous of other women, never tortured herself with imaginings of infidelity during the long periods when Edmund was away from her, in far-flung cities on the other side of the world. Once, teasing, she had told him that she didn't care what he did, provided she wasn't expected to watch. All that mattered was that he always came home. But today, she had slammed down the telephone receiver and never said goodbye, and then forgotten, until too late, to give Henry his father's message. Experiencing a twinge of guilt, she gathered her hurt feelings about her. It's his own fault Let him brood. Perhaps another time he'll-

"Out for a walk, are you?"

The voice came from nowhere. Virginia thought, oh, God, let a few seconds pass, and then slowly turned. Lottie stood only a few feet away. She had come up the slope of the bridge from the village, the way that Virginia had, soft-footed, unheard. Had she seen Virginia in the street, watching from Edie's window, reached for her horrible beret, her green cardigan, and followed? Had she been waiting while Virginia was with Dermot, ducking out of sight and then dogging Virginia's footsteps, always just out of earshot? The very idea was spooky. What did she want? Why could she not leave people alone? And why, beyond Virginia's irritation, lurked, like a ghost, a sense of presentiment, a foreboding of fear?

Ridiculous. She pulled herself together. Imagination. It was only Edie's cousin, avid for company. With some effort, Virginia put a friendly expression on her face. "What are you doing here, Lottie?"

"Fresh air belongs to everybody, I always say. Looking at the water?" She moved to Virginia's side, to lean over the wall as she had been doing. But she was not as tall as Virginia and had to stand tiptoe, and crane her neck. "Seen any fish?"

"I wasn't looking for fish."

"Been to Mr. Honeycombe's, haven't you? Lot of rubbish he's got in there. Most of it only fit for a bonfire. But then, there's no accounting for tastes. And as for what I'm doing, I'm out for a walk, same as you. On your own, Edie tells me over dinner. Edmund gone to America."

"Just for a few days."

"That's not so nice. On business, is he?"

"He wouldn't go for any other reason."

"Oh, ho, ho, that's what you think. Saw Pandora Blair this morning. Thin, isn't she? Like a scarecrow. And that hair! Looks like dyed to me. Called out to her but she didn't see me. Had dark glasses on. Could have had a good old chin-wag about the old days. I was up at Croy, you know, resident housemaid. Old Lady Balmerino then. She was a lovely lady. Felt sorry for her, with a daughter no better than she should be. That was the time of the wedding. Lord and Lady Balmerino, but they were Archie and Isobel then. There was a dance at Croy the evening of the wedding. What a work. So many people staying you couldn't turn round. Course, Mrs. Harris was cook, old Lady Balmerino didn't have to cook. There were some fine goings-on, but no doubt you've been told."

"Yes," said Virginia, and tried to think of some way in which she could escape this unwelcome flood of words.

"Scarcely out of school she was, Pandora, but she knew a thing or two, I can tell you. Men. She'd ea
t t
hem for breakfast, and leave them chewed. A right wee whore."

She was smiling, her tones inconsequent and chatty, almost approving, so that the archaic word caught Virginia unawares and surprised her into saying, quite sharply, "Lottie, I don't think you should say that about Pandora."

"Oh, you don't?" Lottie was still smiling. "Not pleasant, is it, hearing the truth? Nice Pandora's back, everybody is saying. But if I were you, I wouldn't be too happy. Not with your husband. Not with her. Lovers they were, Edmund and Pandora. That's why she's back, mark my words. Come back for him. Eighteen years old, and Edmund a married man and the father of a wee bairn, but that didn't stop them. That didn't stop him, rutting in her own bed. Night of the wedding it was, and everybody dancing. But they weren't dancing. Oh, no. They were up the stair and thinking nobody noticed. But I noticed. Not much missed me." Pink spots burned on Lottie's sallow cheeks, her boot
-
button eyes were like a pair of nails, hammered into the sockets of her head. "I went after them. Stood at the door. It was dark. I heard. Never heard anything like it. You didn't guess, did you? He's a cool fish, that Edmund. Never let on. Never say a word. Just like the rest of them. They all knew. Well, it was obvious, wasn't it? Edmund back in London and Pandora sulking in her bedroom, face swollen with tears, wouldn't eat. And the way she spoke to her mother! But, of course, they're all thick as thieves. That's why Lady Balmerino gave me my notice. Didn't want me around. I knew too much."

Still smiling. Hot with excitement. Mad. I must, Virginia told herself, keep very calm. She said, "Lottie, I think you are making all this up."

Lottie's demeanour, with quite startling suddenness, changed. "Oh, am I?" The smile was wiped from her face. She backed away from Virginia and stood, foursquare, facing up to her as though they were about to engage in a contest of physical strength. "And why do you think your husband's suddenly taken himself off to America? You ask him when he comes home to you, and I'll doubt you'll enjoy his answer. I'm sorry for you, do you know that? Because he'll make a fool of you, same as he did his first wife, poor lady. There's no streak of decency in him."

And then, abruptly, it was over. Her venom spent, Lottie seemed to slump within herself. The colour seeped from her cheeks. She pursed her lips, brushed a scrap of lichen from the front of her cardigan, tucked a wisp of hair under her beret, patted it into place. Her expression became complacent, as though all were now well, and she was content to prink.

Virginia said, "You are lying."

Lottie tossed her head and gave a little laugh. "Ask any of them."

"You are lying."

"Say what you please. Sticks and stones may break my bones. . . ."

"I shall say nothing."

Lottie shrugged. "In that case, what's all the fuss about?"

"I shall say nothing and you are lying."

Her heart was banging in her chest, her knees trembling. But she turned her back on Lottie and began to walk away; walking steadily and without haste, knowing that Lottie watched, determined to give her no satisfaction. The worst was never looking back. Her scalp crawled with terrified apprehension, the fear that, at any moment, she would feel Lottie's weight leap upon her shoulders, dragging her to the ground with all the inhuman strength of a clawed monster from childhood nightmares.

This did not happen. She reached the far bank of the river, and felt a little safer. She remembered the dogs and pursed her lips to whistle for them, but her mouth and her lips were too dry for whistling, and she had to try again. A tiny piping sound, a pathetic effort, but Edmund's spaniels had had enough of abortive rabbiting, and almost immediately appeared, bounding through the bracken towards her, trailed with goose
-
grass and with twigs of thorny bramble entwined in their feathery fur.

She had never been so glad to see them, so grateful for their instant obedience. "Good dogs." She stopped to fondle them. "Good to come. Time to go home."

They ran ahead, down the lane. Leaving the bridge behind her, Virginia went after them, her pace still resolutely unhurried.' She did not allow herself to look back until she reached the bend of the river, where the lane curved away beneath the trees. There, she stopped and turned. The bridge was still visible but there was no sign of Lottie.

She was gone. It was over. Virginia took a deep breath and let it all out in a whimpering sigh that was not far from panic. Then the panic took over, and, without shame, she bolted for home. Ran to Edie, to Henry, to the sanctuary of Balnaid.

Back to the beginning.

You are lying.

Two o'clock in the morning and Virginia was still awake, her eyes, scratchy with fatigue, wide open, staring out into the soft darkness. She had tossed and turned, been either too hot or too cold, fought with pillows lumpy with pummelling. From time to time, she got out of the bed, wandered about in her night-gown, fetched a glass of water, drank it, tried again to sleep.

It was no good.

On the far side of the bed, Edmund's side, Henry slumbered peacefully. Virginia, defiantly breaking one of Edmund's strictest rules, had taken her son to bed with her. Every now and then, as though for reassurance, she put out a hand to touch him, to feel his gentl
e b
reathing, his warmth through the flannel of his striped pyjamas. In the huge bed, he seemed small as a baby, scarcely alive.

Shed eat them for breakfast and leave them chewed. A right wee whore.

She could not get the appalling scene out of her mind. Lottie's words went on and on, round and round like some scratchy old gramophone record, worn with playing. Circles of torment, never ceasing, never coming to any sort of conclusion.