September (1990) (5 page)

"She must have been very fond of you."

"I was terribly fond of her. It all caused a bit of family ill-feeling. My living with her, I mean. My fathe
r d
idn't think it was a good idea at all. He was quite fond of her, but he thought I should be more independent. Make friends of my own age, move into a flat with some other girl. But I didn't really want to. I'm dreadfully lazy about things like that, and Granny Cheriton . . ." Abruptly she stopped. Across the space that divided them their eyes met. Noel said nothing, and after a pause she continued, speaking casually, as though it were of no importance. ". . . she was getting old. It wouldn't have been kind to leave her."

Another silence. Then Noel said, "Cheriton?"

Alexa sighed. "Yes." She sounded as though she were admitting to some heinous crime.

"An unusual name."

"Yes."

"Also well-known."

"Yes."

"Sir Rodney Cheriton?"

"He was my grandfather. I didn't mean to tell you. The name just slipped out."

So that was it. The puzzle solved. That explained the money, the opulence, the precious possessions. Sir Rodney Cheriton, now deceased, founder of a financial empire that stretched world-wide, who, during the sixties and the seventies, had been associated with so many take-over bids and conglomerates that his name was scarcely ever out of the Financial Times. This house had been the home of Lady Cheriton, and the sweet
-
faced, unsophisticated little cook who sat, curled in her chair like a schoolgirl, was her granddaughter.

He was flabbergasted. "Well, who'd have thought it?"

"I don't usually tell people, because I'm not all tha
t p
roud of it."

"You should be proud. He was a great man."

"It isn't that I didn't like him. He was always very sweet to me. It's just that I don't really approve of huge take-overs and companies getting bigger and bigger. I'
d l
ike them to get smaller and smaller. I like corner shops and butchers where the nice man knows your name. I don't like the thought of people getting swallowed up, or lost, or made redundant."

"We can scarcely move backwards."

"I know. That's what my father keeps telling me. But it breaks my heart when a little row of houses gets demolished, and all that goes up in their place is another horrible office block with black windows, like a hen battery. That's what I love about Scotland. Strathcroy, the village we live in, never seems to change. Except that Mrs. McTaggart, who ran the newsagent's, decided that her legs couldn't take the standing any longer and retired, and her shop was bought by Pakistanis. They're called Ishak, and they're terribly nice, and the women wear lovely bright silky clothes. Have you ever been to Scotland?"

"I've been to Sutherland, to fish on the Oykel."

"Would you like to see a picture of our house?"

He did not let on that he had already taken a good look. "I'd love to."

Once more, Alexa set the dog on the floor and got to her feet. The dog, bored by all this activity, sat on the hearthrug and looked fed up. She fetched the photograph and handed it to Noel.

After an appropriate pause he said, "It looks very comfortable."

"It's lovely. Those are my father's dogs."

"What's your father's name?"

"Edmund. Edmund Aird." She went to replace the photograph. Turning, she caught sight of the gold carriage clock which stood in the middle of the mantelpiece. She said, "It's nearly half past eight."

"Good heavens." He checked the time with his watch. "So it is. I must go."

"You don't have to. I mean, I could cook you something, give you supper."

The suggestion was so splendid and so tempting that
Noel felt bound to make some small noises of refusal. "You're too kind, but ..."

"I'm sure you haven't got any food at Pembroke Gardens. Not if you've just come home from New York. And it's no trouble. I'd like it." He could tell from her expression that she was yearning for him to stay. As well, he was painfully hungry. "I've got some lamb chops."

That did it. "I can't think of anything I'd like more."

Alexa's face lit up. She was as transparent as clear spring water. "Oh, good. I'd have felt really inhospitable letting you go without something inside you. Do you want to stay here, or do you want to come down to the kitchen and watch me?"

If he stayed in this chair, he would fall asleep. As well, he wanted to see more of the house. He heaved himself out of the chair. "I'll come and watch you."

Alexa's kitchen was predictable, not modern at all, but quite homely and haphazard, as though it had not been planned, but simply come together over the years. It had a stone-tiled floor with a rush mat or two, and pine cupboards. A deep clay sink faced out over the window and the little area with its steps leading up into the street. The sink was backed with blue-and-white Dutch tiles and the same tiles lined the walls between the cupboards. The tools of her trade were very evident: a thick chopping board, a line of copper saucepans, a marble slab for rolling pastry. There were racks of herbs and bunches of onions and fresh parsley in a mug.

She reached for a blue-and-white butcher's apron and tied it around her waist. Over the thick sweat-shirt this made her look more shapeless than ever and accentuated her rounded, blue-jeaned bottom.

Noel asked if there was anything he could do to help.

"No, not really." She was already busy, turning on the grill, opening drawers. "Unless you'd like to open a bottle of wine. Would you like some?"

"Where would I find a bottle of wine?"

"There's a rack through there. . . ." She indicated with her head, her hands being occupied. "On the floor. I haven't got a cellar, and that's the coolest spot there is."

Noel went to look. At the back of the kitchen an archway led into what had probably once been a small scullery. This too was stone-floored, and here stood a number of shining white electrical appliances. A dishwasher, a clothes washer, a tall refrigerator, and a huge chest deep-freeze. At the far end, a half-glassed door led directly out into the little garden. By the door, in country fashion, stood a pair of rubber boots and a wooden tub of gardening tools. An ancient raincoat and a battered felt hat hung from a hook.

He found the wine-rack beyond the deep-freeze. Crouching, he inspected a few bottles. She had an excellent selection. He chose a Beaujolais, went back to the kitchen.

"How about this?"

She glanced at it. "Perfect. That was a good year. There's a corkscrew in that drawer. If you open it now, that'll give it time to breathe."

He found the corkscrew and drew the cork. It came, sweetly and cleanly, and he set the open bottle on the table. With nothing more to be done, he drew back a chair and settled himself at the table to enjoy the last of his whisky.

She had taken the chops from the refrigerator, assembled the makings of a salad, found a stick of French bread. Now she was arranging the chops on the grill
-
pan, reaching for a jar of rosemary. All this was accomplished deftly and with the greatest economy of effort, and it occurred to Noel that, working, she had become quite assured and confident, probably because she wa
s e
ngaged in doing the one thing she knew that she was really good at.

He said, "You look very professional."

"I am."

"Do you garden as well?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"All the clobber by the back door."

"I see. Yes, I do garden, but it's so tiny that it's not really gardening. At Balnaid, the garden's enormous, and there's always something needing to be done."

"Balnaid?"

"That's the name of our house in Scotland."

"My mother was a manic gardener." Having said this, Noel could not think why he had mentioned the fact. He did not usually talk about his mother unless somebody asked him a direct question. "Perpetually digging, or harrowing great loads of manure."

"Doesn't she garden any longer?"

"She's dead. She died four years ago."

"Oh, I am sorry. Where did she do her gardening?"

"In Gloucestershire. She bought a house with a couple of acres of wilderness. By the time she died, she'd transformed it into something very special. You know . . . the sort of garden people walk around in after lunch parties."

Alexa smiled. "She sounds rather like my other grandmother, Vi. She lives in Strathcroy. Her name's Violet Aird, but we all call her Vi." The chops were grilling, the bread put to warm, the plates to heat. "My mother's dead, too. She was killed in a car accident when I was six."

"It's my turn to be sorry."

"I remember her, of course, but not really very well. I remember her mostly coming to say good night before she went out for a dinner party. Lovely airy dresses, and furs, and smelling of scent."

"Six is very young to lose your mother."

"It wasn't as bad as it might
. H
ave been. I had a darling Nanny called Edie Findhorn. And after Mummy died we went back to Scotland and lived with Vi at Balnaid. So I was luckier than most."

"Did your father marry again?"

"Yes. Ten years ago. She's called Virginia. She's not much older than I am."

"A wicked stepmother?"

"No. She's sweet. A bit like a sister. She's terribly pretty. And I've got a half-brother called Henry. He's nearly eight."

Now she was making the salad. With a sharp knife she chopped and shredded. Tomatoes and celery, tiny fresh mushrooms. Her hands were brown and capable, the nails short and unvarnished. There was something very satisfactory about them. He tried to recall the last time he had sat thus, slightly woozy with hunger and drink, and peacefully watched while a woman prepared a meal for him. He couldn't.

The trouble was that he had never gone for domesticated females. His girl-friends were usually models, or young aspiring actresses with immense ambition and little brain. All they had in common was their general appearance, for he liked them very young and very thin with tiny breasts and long, attenuated legs. Which was great for his own personal amusement and satisfaction, but not much use when it came to being good about the house. Besides, they were nearly all . . . however skinny ... on some sort of diet, and while able to down enormous and expensive restaurant meals, were disinterested in producing even the simplest of snacks in the privacy of either their own flats, or Noel's.

"Oh, darling, it's such a bore. Besides, I'm not hungry. Have an apple."

From time to time there had come into Noel's life a girl so besotted that she wished only to spend the rest of her days with him. Then much effort-perhaps too much-had been made. Intimate dinners by gas-fired logs, and invitations to the country and doggy weekends. But Noel, wary of commitment, had backed away, and the girls in question, after a painful period of abortive telephone calls and tearful accusations, had found other men and married them. So he had reached thirty
-
four and was still a bachelor. Brooding over his empty whisky glass, Noel could not decide whether this left him feeling triumphant or defeated.

"There." The salad was ready. Now she began to mix a dressing with beautiful green olive oil and pale wine vinegar. Various herbs and seasonings were added, and the smell of these made his mouth water. With this done, she started to lay the table. A red-and-white
-
checked cloth, wineglasses, wooden mills for pepper and salt, a pottery butter dish. She took forks and knives from a drawer and handed them to Noel and he set the two places. It seemed an appropriate moment to pour the wine, so he did, and handed Alexa her glass.

She took it from him. In her apron and bulky sweatshirt, and with her cheeks glowing from the heat of the grill, she said, "Here's to Saddlebags."

He found himself, for some reason, much touched. "And here's to you, Alexa. And thank you."

It was a simple but splendid meal, living up to all Noel's greedy expectations. The chops were tender, the salad crisp; warm bread to mop up juices and dressings, and all washed down by fine wine. After a bit, his stomach stopped groaning, and he felt infinitely better.

"I can't remember food ever tasting so good."

"It's not anything very special."

"But perfect." He took more salad. "Any time you need a recommendation, let me know."

"Don't you ever cook for yourself?"

"No. I can fry bacon and eggs, but if pushed I buy gourmet dishes from Marks and Spencer and heat them up. Every now and then, if I'm desperate, I go and spend an evening with Olivia, my London sister, but she's as useless in the kitchen as I am, and we usually finish up eating something exotic, like quails' eggs or caviar. A treat, but not very filling."

"Is she married?"

"No. She's a career lady."

"What does she do?"

"She's Editor-in-Chief of Venus."

"Goodness." She smiled. "What illustrious relations we both seem to have."