September (1990) (66 page)

Colour assaulted her eye. Ball gowns of dark silk or flower-garden chintz. Virginia cool and sophisticated in black and white, Pandora ethereal as a dryad in sea
-
green chiffon. She saw jewels. Isobel's inherited pearls and diamonds, the silver-and-turquoise chain that encircled Pandora's slender neck, the gleam of gold that shone from Virginia's ears and at her wrist. She saw Alexa's face, laughing across the table at some remark of Noel's. Alexa wore no jewel but her pale-red hair shone like a flame, and her peachy face was alight with love. . . .

All at once, it wasn't any good. Violet was too involved with all of them to remain objective, to continue to observe them with a stranger's dispassionate eye. Her heart agonized for Alexa, so vulnerable and transparent. And Virginia? Across the table she faced her daughter-in-law, and knew that although Edmund was home again, nothing had been resolved between the two of them. For Virginia, this evening, was at her most animated. There was a brilliant and brittle sheen about her, and a dangerous brightness in her blue eyes.

I mustn't imagine the worst, Violet told herself. I must simply hope for the best. She reached for her glass and drank a little wine.

The first course was over. Jeff rose to his feet to act as butler and clear the plates. As he did this, Archie turned to Virginia.

"Virginia, Edmund tells me that you're going back to the States to see your grandparents?"

"That's right!" Her smile was too swift, her eyes too wide. "Such fun. I can't wait to see the darling old things."

So, despite Violet's warnings, she had done it. It was definite, official. Knowing that the worst of her fears was confirmed, Violet felt her heart sink.

"So you are going?" She did not try to keep the disapproval from her voice.

"Yes, Vi. I am. I told you I was. And now it's all fixed. I leave on Thursday. Conrad and I are travelling together."

For an instant Vi said nothing. Across the table their eyes met. Virginia's gaze was defiant and did not waver.

"How long will you be away?" Violet asked her.

Virginia shrugged her bare brown shoulders. "Not certain yet. I've got an open-ended ticket." She turned back to Archie. "I always wanted to take Henry, but now that he is no longer with us, I decided that I might as well go on my own. Such a funny feeling, being able to do things on the spur of the moment. No responsibilities. No ties."

"And Edmund?" Archie asked.

"Oh, Vi will take care of Edmund for me," Virginia told him airily. "Won't you, Vi?"

"Of course." She repressed an impulse to take her daughter-in-law by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled. "It will be no trouble at all."

And with that Violet turned away from them both, and talked instead to Noel.

". . . my grandfather had a young under-keeper by the name of Donald Buist. Twenty years old and a fine, lusty lad . . ."

They were now onto the second course, Isobel's Pheasant Theodora. Jeff had handed round the vegetable dishes, and Conrad Tucker refilled the wineglasses. Archie, primed and prompted by Pandora, was engaged in telling a classic family anecdote, which, like the saga of Mrs. Harris and the shooting stocking, had become, over the years, an oft-repeated family joke. Blairs and Airds had heard it many times before, but for the sake of the newcomers Archie had been persuaded to recount it again.

. . he was an excellent under-keeper, but he had one failing, and the net result of this was that every girl within twenty miles became, unfortuitously, pregnant. The shepherd's daughter at Ardnamore, the butcher's daughter in Strathcroy; even my grandmother's parlourmaid fainted clean away one lunch-time while serving the chocolate souffle."

He paused. From beyond the closed door that led through the pantry and into the kitchen could be clearly heard the ringing of the telephone. It rang twice, and then ceased. Agnes Cooper was dealing with the interruption. Archie continued with his story.

"Finally, my grandmother put her foot down and insisted that grandfather take Donald Buist to task. So he was sent for and duly wheeled into my grandfather's office for the distasteful interview. My grandfather named half a dozen of the ladies who were bearing, or had borne, the young man's little bastards, and finally demanded to know what Donald had to say for himself, and what possible excuse he could give for his behaviour. There was a long silence while Donald thought about this, and finally he came up with his defence, 'Well, you see, sir, I've got a bicycle!'"

As the laughter died, there sounded a cursory thump on the pantry door. It was at once opened, and Agnes Cooper put her head around the edge of it.

"Sorry to disturb you, but that's Edie Findhorn on the telephone; wants to speak to Mrs. Geordie Aird."

Misfortunes always came in threes.

Violet instantly felt very cold, as though the opened door had admitted not only Agnes, but a freezing, icy draught as well. She rose to her feet so abruptly that she would have knocked over her chair had not Noel put out a hand to steady it.

Nobody spoke. They were all looking at her, their faces mirroring her own concern. She said, "If you wil
l e
xcuse me . . and was ashamed of the shake in her voice. "... I won't be a moment."

She turned and left the table. Agnes held the door open for her, and she went through it, through to Isobel's big kitchen. Agnes followed her, but that didn't matter . . . privacy was, at the moment, the last thing to worry about. The telephone stood on the dresser. She picked up the receiver.

"Edie."

"Oh, Mrs. Aird ..."

"Edie, what is it?"

"I'm sorry to get you out of your dinner party . . ."

"Is Lottie there?"

"It's all right about Lottie, Mrs. Aird. You were right. She did make her way to Strathcroy. Caught a bus. She went to my cottage. She got in through the back door. . . ."

"You weren't there?"

"No, I was no' there. I was here at Balnaid."

"Thank God for that. Where is she now?"

"Mr. Ishak telephoned the police and in five minutes they were there in a wee Panda car and picked her up."

"So where is she now?"

"Safely back in the hospital. . . ."

Relief made Violet feel quite weak. Her knees shook. She glanced about for a chair, but there was none within reach. However, Agnes Cooper, seeing her need, came forward with one, and Violet was able to take the weight off her legs.

"And you're all right, Edie?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Aird." She stopped. Violet waited. There was something else. She frowned. "How did Mr. Ishak know about Lottie? Did he see her?"

"No. Not exactly." Another long pause. "You see, that's not all. You'll need to tell Edmund. He and Virginia must come back. Henry's here. He's run awa
y f
rom school, Mrs. Aird. He's come home."

Edmund drove, too fast, in the rain and the darkness, away from Croy and down the hill to the village. Virginia, her chin buried in the fur collar of her coat, sat beside him, staring ahead at the swinging windscreen wiper. She did not speak. Not because there was nothing to say, but because so distanced had they become from each other, so shocking was the situation in which they found themselves, that there was no way of saying it.

The short journey took only moments. They sped through the gates of Croy and out into the village street. Another hundred yards or so, and then over the bridge. The trees; the open gates; Balnaid.

Virginia spoke at last. She said, "You mustn't be angry with him."

"Angry?" He could scarcely believe that she could be so unperceptive.

She said no more. He turned the BMW into the backyard, slammed on the brakes, switched off the engine. He was out of the car before she was, leading the way to the house, flinging open the door.

They were in the kitchen, Edie and Henry, sitting at the table. Waiting. Henry faced the door. His face was very white, and his eyes round with apprehension. He wore his grey school sweater and looked pathetically small and defenceless.

How the hell had he managed that long and solitary journey? The thought flashed through Edmund's mind, and was gone.

He said, "Hello, Henry."

Henry hesitated for only an instant, and then slipped off the chair and bolted for his father. Edmund scooped him up into his arms, and the boy, it seemed, weighed nothing, no more than a baby. Henry's arms were locked about his neck, and he could feel Henry's tears wet on his own cheek.

"Henry." Virginia was there, beside him. After a bit, gently, Edmund set Henry down on his feet. Henry's stranglehold loosened. He turned to his mother, and Virginia, in one graceful fluid movement, dropped to her knees, with no regard for her evening gown, and gathered him into her soft and furry embrace. He buried his face into her collar.

"Darling. Darling. It's all right. Don't cry. Don't cry. ..."

Edmund turned to Edie. She had risen to her feet, and down the length of the scrubbed kitchen table she and Edmund faced each other in silence. She had known him all his life, and he was grateful to her because there was no reproach in her eyes.

Instead she said, "I'm sorry."

"What for, Edie?"

"Spoiling your party."

"Don't be ridiculous. As if it could possibly matter. When did he get here?"

"About fifteen minutes ago. Mrs. Ishak brought him."

"Has anybody phoned from the school?"

"The phone's broken. Nobody can call."

He had forgotten. "Of course." So there were things to be seen to, practical matters of the utmost urgency. "In that case, I must go and do some telephoning."

He left them, Henry still weeping. Made his way through the quiet house to the library, switched on the lights, sat at his desk, dialled the number for Templehall.

The ringing sounded only once before the receiver was snatched up.

"Templehall."

"Headmaster?"

"Speaking."

"Colin, it's Edmund Aird."

"Oh . . ." The sound came down the line on a sigh of audible relief. Edmund found time to wonder how long the poor man had been trying to make some sort of contact. "I've been going insane trying to get in touch with you."

"Henry's here. He's safe."

"Thank God for that. When did he turn up?"

"About a quarter of an hour ago. I haven't heard the details. We're only just back ourselves. We were out for dinner. The message came through there."

"He disappeared just after bedtime. Seven o'clock. I've been trying to get hold of you ever since."

"Our phone's on the blink. No incoming calls."

"I finally found that out. When I did, I rang your mother, but there was no reply from her number either."

"She was at the same dinner party."

"Is Henry all right?"

"He seems to be."

"How the devil did he get home?"

"I've no idea. Like I told you, I've only just this minute got here myself. I've hardly spoken to him. I wanted to talk to you first."

"I'm grateful."

"I'm sorry you've been put to so much trouble."

"It's I who should apologize. Henry's your son, and I was responsible for him."

"You"-Edmund leaned back in his chair-"you don't know if anything in particular precipitated his flight?"

"No, I don't. Nor do any of my senior boys. Nor do any of my staff. He didn't seem either happy or unhappy. And it always takes a week or two for a new boy to settle down and get used to his new life, accept the change, and the unfamiliar environment. I kept an eye on him, of course, but he showed no signs of taking such dramatic action."

He sounded as upset and as puzzled as Edmund himself. Edmund said, "Yes. Yes, I see."

The Headmaster hesitated, and then he asked, "Will you send him back to us?"

"Why do you say that?"

"I just wondered if you wanted him to return."

"Is there any reason why he shouldn't?"

"From my point of view, absolutely no reason at all. He's a very nice boy, and I know I could make something of him. I, personally, would like to welcome him back at any time, but . . ." He paused, and Edmund got the impression that he was choosing his words with the utmost tact. "... but, you know, Edmund, every now and then a boy comes to Templehall who really shouldn't be away from home in the first place. I haven't had Henry long enough to be perfectly certain, but I think he is one of those children. It isn't just that he's young for his age; it's that he is not ready for the demands of boarding-school life."

"Yes. Yes, I see."

"Why don't you take a day or two to think it over? Keep Henry there till you've made up your mind. Remember, I really want him back. I'm not trying to shed my responsibilities, nor renege on my commitments, but I would seriously suggest that you reconsider the situation."

"And do what?"

"Return him to his local primary. It's obviously a good school, and he's been well-grounded. By the time he's twelve you can think again."