September (1990) (77 page)

Everything nicely organized.

But then, just as she was heating up a pot of broth for her dinner, Edmund had stopped by to see her. He had come straight to Edie's from Pennyburn, and before that, from Croy. He'd brought with him terrible tidings, and after hearing these, all thoughts of Lottie, had flown from Edie's head, and she was left with her day fallen to pieces. She had picked up the bits and put them together again; only now everything was a different shape. A strange feeling. Upsetting.

From time to time she read in the papers of some family, setting out on an innocent and enjoyable outing in the car, perhaps to see friends, or simply to enjoy the countryside, only to have their lives blown apart for ever by an accident; a pile-up on the motorway, with dead drivers at the wheel, and shattered vehicles this way and that, all over the road. She felt now as though she had been, if not involved, then witness to such a disaster, and was standing there surrounded by wreckage, knowing only that there had "to be something that she could do to help.

"I've told my mother," Edmund had said, "but she's alone. I asked her to come back to Balnaid for lunch, and to spend the day with us all, but she declined. She said that she just wanted to be on her own."

"I'll go to her."

"I would be grateful. If there is one person in the world she will want to be with, it's you."

So Edie had taken the pot of soup off the hob, and put on her coat and her walking shoes. Into her capacious bag she had put her spectacles and her knitting, then locked her house and set off for Pennyburn.

Now, she was there. She went in through the kitchen door. All was neat and tidy. Mrs. Aird had washed her own breakfast dishes this morning, and put them all away. Even swept the floor.

"Mrs. Aird!" She laid her bag on the table and, still wearing her coat, went through the hall and opened the sitting-room door.

She was there. Sitting motionless in her chair, staring at the unlit fire. Not knitting, not doing her tapestry, not reading the paper-just sitting. And the room, as well, felt chill. The morning, which had started so brightly, had clouded over, and without the warmth of the sun pouring through the windows, felt strangely comfortless.

"Mrs. Aird."

Disturbed, Violet turned her head, and Edie was shocked, because for the first time in her life she saw Vi as old, lost, confused; even infirm. For a moment her expression remained blank, as if she scarcely recognized Edie. And then, at last, her eyes brightened, and an expression of immeasurable relief filled her face.

"Oh, Edie."

Edie shut the door behind her. "Yes, it's me."

"But why are you here?"

"Edmund dropped by to see me. To tell me about Pandora. What a thing to do. He said you were on your own. Could maybe do with a bit of company. . . ."

"Only you, Edie. Nobody else. He wanted me to go back to Balnaid with him. So kind. But somehow I didn't feel quite up to it. I didn't feel strong enough. With one's children one always has to put on a brave face, and be the person who does the comforting. And somehow, I think I've just run out of the energy to comfort anybody. Just for the moment. I shall be better tomorrow."

Edie glanced about her. "It's awful cold in here."

"I suppose it is. I really hadn't noticed." Violet looked at the fireplace. "I was up quite early this morning. I got everything done. Cleaned out the ashes myself, and relaid the fire and everything. I've just not got around to lighting it."

"Won't take a moment." Edie unbuttoned her coat and laid it over a chair, then knelt on the hearthrug
,
lowering her bulk onto her well-padded knees, and reached for the box of matches. The paper caught. The sticks, the little pile of coals. The flames flickered.

Violet said, "I am sitting here filled with shame, Edie. We should have been more perceptive. We should have realized that Pandora was ill, perhaps dying. She was so dreadfully thin. Just skin and bone. We should have seen for ourselves that something was wrong. But I, for one, have been so taken up with my own family that I never gave Pandora a passing thought. Perhaps if I had been a little less self-absorbed, I would have sensed that all was not well." She sighed, and shrugged. "And yet, she was just the way she had always been. Beautiful, flirtatious, funny. Bewitching."

"She was always a wee character."

Edie reached for a couple of logs and set them on the brightly burning coals. Then, with some effort, she pulled herself up off her knees and settled down in the chair facing Violet. She was wearing her best tweed skirt and her Shetland cardigan with the bright colours around the neck, and her dear face was rosy from the effort of the long walk up the hill. With the fire burning, and Edie there, sitting on the other side of the hearthrug, Violet was warmed, and felt no longer quite so desolate.

"I hear," said Edie, in her gossiping voice, "it was Willy Snoddy who found her?"

"Yes. Poor Willy. I don't doubt he'll be drunk for days after such an experience."

"Cancer's a terrible thing. But to take your own life . . ." Edie shook her head. "I cannot understand a body doing such a thing."

"I think we have to understand, Edie, otherwise we shall never forgive her. ..."

". . . but the Balmerinos. And wee Lucilla. Did she not think of them?"

"I am sure that she did. And yet, perhaps, she never thought very much about anybody except herself. And she was so pretty, so attractive to men. Little love affairs were always the excitement of her life. To understand, we have to try to imagine her future as she obviously saw it. Ill, maimed by surgery, fighting the disease, losing all her lovely hair, rendered unappealing." The fire now was crackling up the chimney. Violet spread her hands to its comfort. "No. She couldn't have coped with all of that, Edie. Not on her own, the way she was."

"And Edmund?" Edie asked.

They had no secrets from each other. It was a good feeling.

"You saw Edmund, Edie."

"But he didn't say very much."

"He said a great deal to me. He is naturally devastated about Pandora, as we all are, but, I think, no more than the rest of us. And I believe that now he will be all right, because he has Virginia and Alexa and Henry. Darling little Henry. And, who knows, perhaps even Noel Keeling as well. I have a feeling that, very soon, Noel is going to be a member of the family."

"Is that right?"

"Just a feeling, Edie. We'll have to wait and see. As well, Edmund told me that he is going to take a bit of a holiday. He wants to spend some time with Virginia and Henry, and of course he must be around to support Archie Balmerino through the next few days. There will be so much to be seen to. A fatal-accident inquiry is inevitable, and then, after that hurdle has been taken, the funeral, and all the sad and heart-rending tying-up of the loose ends. Afterwards, when it is all over, he and Archie plan to go fishing together, to Sutherland, perhaps, for a little while. And you know, that fills me with satisfaction. I have always loved Edmund, Edie, but just lately I have found myself not liking him very much. But I think that everything has changed. Perhaps he's realized at last that the little things in life are sometimes infinitely more important than the big ones. And it's a comfort to know that out of this appalling and unnecessary tragedy has come at least one good thing. Which is that Archie and Edmund are good friends again, just the way they used to be."

"It's taken a long-enough time," Edie pointed out, down-to-earth as ever, and not afraid to speak her mind. "Over twenty years."

"Yes. But then Edmund behaved very badly. We both, I think, know that."

Edie was silent for a little, and then made her only comment. "Alexa's mother. She was a very cold lady."

It was not much of an excuse, but her loyalty to Edmund filled Violet with gratitude. "Well, you should know, Edie. You lived with them in London. You knew them both, perhaps better than any of us."

"A nice-enough girl, but cold."

On the mantelpiece, Violet's little gilt clock struck the hour. One o'clock. Edie glanced up at it in some surprise. The time had flown by.

"Just look at that," she said. "One o'clock already. You must be needing something to eat. I'll go into the kitchen and see what I can find. There was a pot of beef stew I left in the larder yesterday. I'll give it a heat-up. There's plenty for the two of us. So what do you say? We'll have it here, on a tray, by the fire."

"I can't think of anything I'd like more. And perhaps a glass of sherry to cheer ourselves up?" Edie clicked her tongue in disapproval, but she was smiling. She rose to her feet and made for the door. "Oh, and Edie, you will stay with me, won't you? We'll spend the afternoon together, and talk about the old days."

"I'd like that," Edie told her. "I've no mind to be on my own today. And I've brought my knitting."

She went. A moment later Violet heard her clattering dishes in the kitchen, opening and shutting the larder door. Comforting and companionable sounds. She stood up, holding on to the mantelpiece until the stiffness left her knees. Behind the clock, she saw the invitation, which had stood there for so many weeks. Curling now, and a bit dusty from the smoke that rose from the fire.

Mrs. Angus Steynton

At Home

For Katy

She took it out from behind the clock, and read it for the last time, then tore it into pieces and dropped the scraps onto the flames. They flared, burnt, shrivelled to ashes, were gone.

She went to the door that led out into the garden, opened it, descended the steps and walked out onto the sloping lawn. With the sun gone, and the sky filled with sailing grey clouds, it felt very cold. Colder than it had been all autumn. September was passing, and soon the winter gales would begin.

She made her way to the foot of the garden, to stand by the gap in the hedge, looking out to the south, over the incomparable view. The glen, the river, the distant hills: sunless today, sombre, but beautiful. Always so beautiful. Never would she tire of them. Never would she tire of life.

She thought about Pandora. And Geordie. Geordie, wherever he was, would keep an eye on Pandora. She thought about Edie, and for the first time the dreadful possibility occurred to her that perhaps her dearest friend would die before she herself died, and she would be left with no contemporary, no person to turn to, to give her comfort; no person to talk to, remembering together the days that were gone.

She said a prayer. "I know I am a dreadfully selfis
h w
oman, but please let me go before Edie goes, because without her I don't think I could cope with living. I don't think I could cope with growing old."

A sound caught her ear. High up, far beyond the blowing clouds. A distant honking and gabbling, both haunting and familiar. The wild geese, returning. The first she had heard since they had flown away north at the end of the spring. She gazed up into the sky, screwing up her eyes, searching for them. And then the clouds momentarily parted, and she glimpsed the birds, a single skein, beating their way south, the vanguard of the many thousands already on their way.

They were early. They had left late, and were returning early. Perhaps it was going to be very cold. Perhaps it was going to be a hard winter.

But she had survived hard winters before, and this one would be no worse. In fact, it would be better, because she felt, in some strange way, that her family had been restored to her, and she knew that, together, the Airds were strong enough to withstand whatever the fates chose to hurl in their direction. That was the most important thing. Togetherness. There lay the greatest strength. Her family, putting the past behind them, and never losing sight of the fact that, beyond the winter, a new spring was already on its way.

"Mrs. Aird."

She turned, saw Edie standing there at the open door. She had tied one of Violet's aprons on over her good skirt, and her white hair blew in the breeze. "Come away in and get your dinner." ' Violet smiled, raised a hand. "Coming, Edie." She walked . . . slowly at first and then briskly . . . back up the sloping lawn towards her house. "I'm coming."