Winter Solstice (19 page)

The lunch out proved a good idea. Both Dodie and Nicola relished the restaurant life, and their spirits lifted visibly even as the little party walked the short distance from Farnham Court to Rosetti’s. The cold of the grey December day was a good excuse for Dodie to wrap herself into her new black fur-trimmed coat, and as she led the way through the glassed doors and into the warm and delicious-smelling interior of the restaurant, various charming and smiling Italians moved forward to greet her, to relieve her of her coat, to make her feel both pretty and important. The place was not large, and there were a number of diners already ensconced, but a corner table had been reserved for them, and once they were all sitting, Carrie wasted no time and ordered a round of drinks. Gin and tonics for Dodie and Nicola, Coke for Lucy, and a Tio Pepe for herself. Then she chose a bottle of wine to drink with their meal. Relaxed by alcohol, and soothed by the pleasant atmosphere of the little restaurant, tensions gradually loosed off, and conversation became, if not sparkling, then reasonably easy.

They had, after all, not been together for some years, and there was a great deal of chat and gossip to catch up on. Old friends, old acquaintances, distant relatives. Carrie was told about Dodie’s cruises in the Mediterranean and about one particular Greek island with which she had fallen in love.

“My dream would be to build a little house there.” And Carrie, questioned, told them a bit about Oberbeuren and the magic of the mountains in summer, when walkers came to stay at the big hotel and the white ski-slopes became green pastures where cattle grazed and cowbells rang out in the glass-clear air.

Dodie and Nicola kept their word, and no mention was made of Christmas, Florida, or Bournemouth.

By the time they had finished their coffee and Carrie was dealing with the bill, it was time for Lucy to go. One of the obliging waiters went out and stood on the cold pavement, with his long white apron flapping in the wind, until he caught the eye of a cruising taxi-cab and flagged it down. Carrie gave Lucy some money to pay the fare, and they saw her safely aboard. Perched forward on the seat, she opened the window.

“Carrie, I haven’t said thank you. It was a lovely treat.”

“My pleasure. Enjoy the movie. And I’ll ring you.”

“Don’t let it take too long.”

“Soon as I can. Shan’t waste a moment.”

Nicola was more practical.

“Lucy, when will you be home?”

“About seven.”

“Take care.”

“I will.”

The taxi rolled away and they stood and watched it go, and then turned and began to stroll back down the pavement in the direction of the river. At the corner of Farnham Road, they paused to say goodbye.

“You’ve cheered us up no end.” Dodie, warmed by quantities of good food and drink, was prepared to be generous.

“So lovely to have you home again. Keep in touch. Let us know what you plan to do.”

“Yes, of course.

“Bye, Ma.” She dropped a kiss on her mother’s cheek. “

“Bye, Nicola. Shall I see you before you fly off?”

“Oh, probably. I’ll be around. Thanks for the lunch.”

“If I don’t see you, have a great time.”

“I have every intention of doing just that.”

They parted. Carrie watched them go, the two ridiculously identical women, each totally bound up in her own affairs and problems. They didn’t change. She turned and went on walking, and it wasn’t until she was halfway across Putney Bridge, the east wind cold and damp on her cheeks, that she remembered Sara’s note on the kitchen table, and the fact that Carrie was meant to buy a vegetable for dinner, and a packet of Lapsang Souchong tea-bags. So, halfway up Putney High Street, she went into a Pakistani grocery and loaded up with cauliflower and leeks, and some tiny new potatoes. She bought the tea-bags as well, and a nutty brown loaf, and a couple of bottles of Jacobs Creek wine. The handsome young man behind the till stowed all these into a carrier-bag, and took her money.

“My God,” he remarked, “this is a cold day and no mistake. You will be grateful to be getting home.”

She agreed and thanked him, and went out again, and the overcast winter afternoon was already sinking into dusk. Cars drove with lights on, and shop windows spilled bright squares out onto the dank pavements. By the time she had reached the Lumleys’s little terrace house, Carrie’s hands felt frozen, and it was quite painful to remove her glove and struggle with the latchkey. Indoors, she turned on the hall light, dealt with the alarm, and was grateful for the warmth.” She went into the kitchen and dumped the carrier-bag on the table, and then, still in her coat, filled the kettle and plugged it in. She drew the blue-and-white-checked curtains and unpacked the groceries, by which time the kettle had boiled, and she made a mug of tea. Finally, she took off her coat and draped it over the back of a chair, found her handbag with her address book, and settled down by the telephone.

Elfrida Phipps, Poulton’s Row, Dibton. Carrie lifted the receiver and punched in the number. She heard the double tone of Elfrida’s telephone, and waited. She waited for a long time, but there was no reply, and clearly Elfrida had never got around to investing in an answer phone Perhaps she was out. Carrie gave up, drank her tea, and then went upstairs to hang up her coat and change her shoes. Downstairs again, she dealt with the sitting-room curtains and lit the fire. After that, she returned to the kitchen and had another shot at reaching Elfrida. Once more, no joy. After the third try, by which time Carrie had peeled the potatoes for dinner, dealt with the cauliflower, and made a marinade for some chicken breasts, she began to be a little concerned. It was, after all, a long time since they had been in touch. Elfrida had never been a great letter writer, preferring the telephone, but she had always been there. Perhaps, dreadful thought, she had died. This possibility hit Carrie out of the blue, but then common sense got the better of her, and she knew that if anything had happened to Elfrida, then Jeffrey would have let her know.

Jeffrey. She would ring her father. Jeffrey would surely know the whereabouts of his cousin. His number at Emblo was one that Carrie knew by heart, so she lifted the receiver once more and put through the call. This time she was successful, and he answered almost at once.

“Jeffrey Sutton.”

“Jeffrey, it’s Carrie.”

“Darling girl. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Cold, though.”

“Isn’t it hellish weather? We’re almost being blown off the cliff.”

“How are Serena and Ben and Amy?”

“They’re well. Serena’s taken the car to fetch them from school. So I’m sitting in solitary state writing cheques and paying bills. What can I do for you?”

“Have you a moment to talk?”

“How long a moment?”

“Like an hour.”

“For heaven’s sake, what’s up?”

“I’m looking for Elfrida. I’ve been ringing the Dibton number, but there’s no reply.”

“She’s not there.”

“Not there?”

“She’s in Scotland.”

“What is she doing in Scotland?”

“She went last month. She’s been there ever since.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when I rang you up last week?”

“There seemed to be other, more important things to talk about. Like you.”

“Yes.” Carrie felt a bit shamefaced.

“Well. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t realize that Elfrida’s whereabouts were so important to you.”

“Well, it’s important now. Why did she go to Scotland?”

Jeffrey said, “It’s a long story,” and proceeded to tell her. That, in Dibton, Elfrida had these friends. A family called Blundell. They had been enormously hospitable to Elfrida, and she was clearly very fond of them. But then disaster, tragedy, had struck, and Mrs. Blundell and her daughter had both been killed in a horrendous road accident. Mr. Blundell, devastated, had left Dibton and escaped to Scotland, where, it seemed, he owned some small property. Elfrida had gone with him.

Listening in some horror to this sorry tale, Carrie found herself becoming increasingly bewildered. She knew Elfrida very well. Knew her to be kindhearted and impetuous, without ever much thought for the day ahead. But even so, it all sounded a bit precipitous.

She said, voicing the first thought that came into her head, “Is she in love with this man?”

“I don’t know, Carrie. I don’t really know what’s going on. She told me about it over the telephone, and she sounded more distressed than elated.”

“In that case, she isn’t in love with him. She’s just being caring.”

“She told me that he had asked her to go with him, for company and solace, and she’d said yes.”

“What sort of solace? I ask myself.”

“They were leaving the next day, driving, doing the long journey in stages.”

“Whereabouts in Scotland are they?”

“Sutherland. Far North. I’ve got the address and the tele phone number somewhere. I didn’t want Elfrida disappearing into the blue without any person knowing where she was.”

“Has she been in touch since she got there?”

“No. I imagine she has other matters to occupy her mind.”

It was all very frustrating. Carrie said, “Oh, damn.”

“What’s that for?”

“I really wanted Elfrida. I wanted to get hold of her. To talk to her.”

“Is there some problem?”

“You could say so.”

“With you?”

“No. Not me. Your granddaughter, Lucy Wesley.”

“Explain.”

So then it was Carrie’s turn to talk. To try to make clear to her father, in as few words as possible, the hopeless situation that existed at Farnham Court. Nicola taking off to spend Christmas in Florida with her new American boyfriend. Lucy refusing to accompany her. Dodie refusing to be left with Lucy, and instead planning a genteel festive season at the Palace Hotel, Bournemouth. And both Nicola and Dodie refusing to compromise or give way a single inch.

“So there’s an impasse,” she finished.

“What about Lucy’s father?”

“Going skiing. Doesn’t want her. It’s all so dreadfully unfair, and she’s such a nice child, she deserves better. I don’t mind taking her on for Christmas, but I haven’t got a house or a job or anything, so I thought of Elfrida.”

“You should come to us.” Jeffrey sounded agonized with guilt and Carrie hastened to reassure him.

“Jeffrey, we can’t possibly come to Emblo. I know there’s no space and it’s not fair on Serena.”

“Then why don’t you ring Elfrida in Scotland. She can only say no, and she’d love a chat. You can hear the whole saga of Mr. Blundell from her own lips, and then you’ll be far more in the picture than I am.”

Carrie hesitated.

“Doesn’t it seem a bit intrusive?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I haven’t seen Elfrida, nor spoken to her, for so long.”

“All the more reason to telephone. Look, don’t ring off; I’ll find that number and her address. I put it down somewhere….”

Carrie hung on. Faint noises could be heard, of drawers being opened and slammed shut, the rustling of papers. It’s a stupid idea, she told herself. We can’t possibly go so far just to spend Christmas. And then, another voice, Why not?

“Carrie?” He was back.

“Got a pencil and paper?” Hastily, Carrie scrabbled around and found Sara’s shopping list, and a Biro stuck in a blue-and-white mug.

“This is the phone number.” She took it down.

“And this is the address. The Estate House, Creagan, Sutherland.”

“Sounds frightfully grand.”

“I don’t think it is.”

“How do you spell Creagan?”

He spelt it out for her.

“Perhaps I should write a letter,” Carrie was beginning to lose her nerve.

“That’s feeble. And it’ll take too long. Telephone. Right away. Speak to Elfrida. And, Carrie …”

“Yes.”

“Send her my love.”

In midwinter, it was an alien land. Monotone beneath a sky scoured white by the wind. The hills, sweeping down to the coast, were already topped by an icing of snow, and the snow merged with the clouds so that the summits of the hills were lost to view, veiled, blurred, as though already absorbed by the doleful heavens.

It was alien because Oscar did not remember the landscape thus. Always, as a boy, he had come in the summer to visit his grandmother at Corrydale, and in summer, so far north, the afternoons had stretched on and on until ten or eleven o’clock at night, and at bedtime the shadows of trees fell long, across golden sun-washed lawns.

He walked, with Horace. He had left the house after lunch, setting out with a stout stick to help him on his way, and insulated against the cold by a fleece-lined jacket and an ancient tweed hat pulled low over his brow. His boots were sturdy, built for walking, and once he had traversed the streets of the little town and climbed the hill to the gate above the golf links, he was able to step out at some speed; so after a bit he forgot about feeling cold and was aware of his body, warm beneath all the layers of wool, and the quickened pace of his heartbeat.

Horace bounded cheerfully ahead, and they followed a footpath high above the links, winding between thickets of gorse. After a mile or so, this path led over a stile and along the track of a disused railway, where once, coming from London, Oscar had chuntered his way into Creagan on the small branch line, with many stops for level crossings and gates to be opened.

The sea lay to his right, beyond the links and the dunes. Steel-coloured beneath the winter sky, cheerless; the tide far out. He stopped to listen and heard the breakers on the beach, driven in by the wind, and the cry of gulls. Observing the gulls, he saw, to his mild surprise, that there were a few hardy golfers out, brightly dressed figures striding down the fairways, hauling their clubs on trolleys behind them. He remembered that when his grandmother played golf, she had always employed a caddie, and always the same man, an old reprobate called Sandy, who knew every curve and hazard of fairway and green, and advised her accordingly. A good deal of the time, Sandy teetered on the verge of drunkenness, but when he caddied for Mrs. McLennan, he wore the when of a sober judge and behaved accordingly.

The old railway track petered out into a thicket of broom, and rounding this stretch, Oscar saw that they had reached the end of the links, the turn of the course, and the ninth tee. Now, the next stretch of coastline revealed itself, another wide and shallow bay, an old pier, and a cluster of fisher cottages, huddled down, single-storied, crouched from the teeth of the wind.