“Well, we could write him a letter.”
“He never replies to letters.”
This was too true. But Caroline was uneasy, Jody was driving at something and she didn’t know what it was. “And so?”
He took a deep breath. “You and I must go to Scotland and find him. Explain. Tell him what’s happening.” He added, his voice raised as though she were slightly deaf, “Tell him that I don’t want to go to Canada with Diana and Shaun.”
“You know what he’ll say to that, don’t you? He’ll say what the hell’s it got to do with him.”
“I don’t think he’ll say that…”
She felt ashamed. “All right. So we go to Scotland and we find Angus. And what do we tell him?”
“That he’s got to come back to London and look after me. He can’t run away from responsibilities for the rest of his life—that’s what Diana’s always saying. And I’m a responsibility. That’s what I am, a responsibility.”
“How could he look after you?”
“We could have a little flat, and he could get a job…”
“Angus?”
“Why not? Other people do. The only reason he’s stuck out against it all this time is because he doesn’t want to do anything that Diana wants.”
Despite herself Caroline had to smile. “I must say, that fits.”
“But for us he would come. He says he misses us. He’d like to be with us.”
“And how would we get to Scotland? How could we get out of the house without Diana missing us? You know she’d be on the telephone to every airport and railway station. And we can’t borrow her car, we’d be flagged down by the first policeman we came to.”
“I know,” said Jody. “But I’ve thought it all out.” He finished his milk and moved in closer. “I’ve got a plan.”
* * *
Although, in a day or so it would be April, the bitter black afternoon was already sinking into darkness. Indeed it had scarcely been light all day. Since morning, the sky had been filled with low and leaden clouds which spilled, every now and then, into thin freezing showers of rain. The countryside was equally bleak. What could be seen of the hills were dark with the last brown grass of the winter. Snow, left over from the last fall, covered most of the high ground and lay deep in haphazard corries and sunless crannies, looking like ineptly applied icing sugar.
Between the hills, the glen took its shape from the twists and turns of the river and down this the wind blew, straight from the north—from the Arctic, possibly—hard and cold and without mercy. It dragged at the bare branches of the trees; tore old dried leaves out of ditches, to fly about, demented, in the bitter air; made a sound in the tall pines that was like the distant thundering of sea.
In the churchyard, it was exposed and without shelter, and the black-clad groups of people stood, hunched against the blast. The starched surplice of the rector flapped and bellied like an ill-set sail, and Oliver Cairney, bare-headed, felt that his cheeks and ears no longer belonged to him and wished that he had thought to wear a second layer of overcoat.
He found that his mind was in a curious state, partly blurred and partly clear as crystal. The words of the service, which should have been meaningful, he scarcely heard, and yet his attention was caught and held by the bright yellow petals of a great bunch of daffodils, flaming on that sombre day like a candle in a dark room. And although most of the mourners who stood about him, just beyond the perimeter of his vision, were as anonymous as shadows, one or two of them had caught his notice, like figures in the foreground of a painting. Cooper, for one, the old keeper, in his best tweed suit and a black knitted tie. And the comforting bulk of Duncan Fraser, neighbour to Cairney. And the girl, the strange girl, incongruous in this homely gathering. A dark girl, very slender and tanned, a black fur hat deep over her ears and her face almost obliterated behind a huge pair of dark glasses. Quite glamorous. Disturbing. Who was she? A friend of Charles? It seemed unlikely…
He found himself lost in unworthy speculations, jerked his mind free of them and tried once more to concentrate on what was happening. But the malicious wind, as though taking sides with Oliver’s own personal Satan, rose, howling, in a sudden gust, tore a flurry of dead leaves from the ground at his feet and sent them flying. Disturbed, he turned his head, and found himself looking straight at the unknown girl. She had taken off the glasses, and he saw with astonishment that it was Liz Fraser. Liz, unbelievably elegant, standing beside her father. For an instant, his eyes met hers, and then he turned away, his thoughts in a turmoil. Liz, whom he had not seen for two years or more. Liz, grown up now and for some reason, at Rossie Hill. Liz, whom his brother had so adored. He found time to feel grateful to her for coming today. It would have meant everything to Charles.
* * *
And then, at last, it was over. People began to move, thankfully, away from the cold, turning their backs on the new grave and the piles of shivering spring flowers. They walked in twos and threes out of the churchyard, blown by the gale, swept through the gate like dust before a broom.
Oliver found himself out on the pavement, shaking hands and making appropriate noises.
“So good of you to come. Yes … a tragedy…”
Old friends, village people, farmers from the other side of Relkirk, many of whom Oliver had never seen before. Charles’s friends. They introduced themselves.
“So good of you to come so far. If you have time on your way home, drop in at Cairney. Mrs Cooper’s got a big tea ready…”
Now, only Duncan Fraser waited. Duncan, large and solid, buttoned into his black overcoat and mufflered in cashmere, his grey hair blown into a coxcomb. Oliver looked for Liz.
“She’s gone,” said Duncan. “Went home by herself. Not much good at this sort of thing.”
“I’m sorry. But you’ll come back to Cairney, Duncan. Have a dram to warm you up.”
“Of course I’ll come.”
The rector materialized at his side. “I won’t come to Cairney, Oliver, thank you all the same. My wife’s in bed. ’Flu, I think.” They shook hands, a silent acknowledgement of thanks on one hand and sympathy on the other. “Let me know what you eventually plan to do.”
“I could tell you now only it would take too long.”
“Later then, there’s plenty of time.”
The wind filled his cassock. His hands, holding the prayer book, were swollen and red with cold. Like beef sausages, thought Oliver. He turned and went away from Oliver, up the church path between the leaning gravestones, his white surplice bobbing away through the gloom. Oliver watched until he had gone back into the church and closed the great door behind him, and then he went down the pavement to where his car waited, solitary. He got in and closed the door and sat, glad to be private and alone. Now that the ordeal of the funeral was over, it was possible to accept the idea that Charles was dead. Having accepted this, it seemed likely that things, now, would get easier. Already Oliver felt—not happier, exactly—but calm and able to feel pleased that so many people had come today, and pleased, especially, that Liz had been there.
After a little, he reached awkwardly into his coat pocket, found a packet of cigarettes, took one and lit it. He looked at the empty street and told himself that it was time to go home, there were still the last small social obligations to be met. People would be waiting. He turned on the ignition, put the car into gear and moved out into the street, the frozen gutters crunching beneath the heavy treads of the snow tyres.
* * *
By five o’clock the last visitor had gone. Or, at least, the second last visitor. Duncan Fraser’s old Bentley still stood by the front door, but then Duncan scarcely qualified as a visitor.
Oliver, having seen the final car away, came back indoors, shut the front door with a slam and returned to the library and the comfort of a roaring fire. As he did this, Lisa, the old Labrador, roused herself and came across the room to his side, and then, realizing that the one for whom she waited had still not come, returned slowly to the hearthrug
and settled down once more. She was—had been—Charles’s dog, and somehow her air of being lost and abandoned was the most unbearable thing of all.
He saw that Duncan, left alone, had drawn up a chair to the blaze and made himself comfortable. His face was ruddy, perhaps from the heat of the fire, but more likely from the central heating of the two large whiskies which he had already drunk.
The room, always shabby, bore witness to the remains of Mrs Cooper’s excellent tea. Crumbs of fruit-cake littered the white damask cloth spread over the table which had been pushed to the far side of the room. Empty teacups stood about, interspersed with tumblers which had contained something a little stronger than tea.
As he appeared, Duncan looked up and smiled and stretched his legs and said, in a voice still rich with the accents of his native Glasgow, “I should be on my way.” He made, however, no move to go, and Oliver, stopping at the table to cut himself a slice of cake, said, “Stay for a bit.” He did not want to be left alone. “I want to hear about Liz. Have another drink.”
Duncan Fraser eyed his empty glass as though debating the proposition. “Well,” he said at last, as Oliver had known that he would; he let Oliver relieve him of the glass. “… Maybe a very small one. But you’ve not had a drink yourself. It would be companionable if you’d join me.”
“Yes, I will now.”
He took the glass over to the table, found a second, clean one, poured the whisky and added, not too generously, water from a jug. “I didn’t recognize her, do you know that? I couldn’t think who she was.” He carried the glasses back to the fire.
“Yes, she’s changed.”
“Has she been with you long?”
“A couple of days. Staying in the West Indies with some girlfriend or other. I went over to meet the plane at Prestwick. I hadn’t intended going over, but, well … I thought it would be better to tell her myself about Charles.” He gave the ghost a grin. “You know, women are a funny lot, Oliver. Hard to know what they’re thinking. They bottle things up, seem to be afraid to let go.”
“But she came today.”
“Oh yes, she was there. But this is the first time Liz has ever had to face up to the fact that dying is a thing that happens to people you know, not just names in newspapers and obituary columns. Friends die. Lovers. She’ll maybe be down to see you tomorrow or the next day … I couldn’t say for sure…”
“She was the only girl Charles ever looked at. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes. I knew. Even when she was a little girl…”
“He was only waiting for her to grow up.” Duncan made no reply to this. Oliver found himself a cigarette and lit it, and then let himself down on to the edge of the chair that stood on the other side of the hearth. Duncan eyed him.
“And what are you going to do now? With Cairney I mean?”
“Sell it,” said Oliver.
“Just like that.”
“Just like that. I have no alternative.”
“It’s a shame to let a place like this go.”
“Yes, but I don’t live here. My job and roots are in London. And I was never cut out to be a Scottish laird. That was Charles’s job.”
“Doesn’t Cairney mean anything to you?”
“Of course. The house where I grew up.”
“You were always a cool-headed fellow. What do you do with yourself in London? I could never stand the place.”
“I love it.”
“Are you making money?”
“Enough. For a decent flat, and a car.”
Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “What about your love life?”
If anyone else had asked Oliver that question he would have thrown something at them for sheer bloody interference. But this was different. You wily old coot, thought Oliver, and told him, “Satisfactory.”
“I can imagine you, running around with a lot of glamorous women…”
“From your tone I can’t tell whether you are disapproving or merely envious…”
“I never worked it out,” Duncan said drily, “how Charles ever got himself a young brother like you. Have you never thought of getting married?”
“I’m not getting married until I’m too old to do anything else.”
Duncan gave a wheeze of a laugh. “That puts me in my place. But let’s get back to Cairney. If you mean to sell it, will you sell to me?”
“I’d rather sell to you than anyone else. You know that.”
“I’ll take the farm in with mine, and the moor and the loch. But there’d still be the house. You could maybe sell that separately. After all, it’s not too large, nor too far from the road, and the garden is perfectly manageable.”
It was comforting to hear him speak this way, putting emotional decisions into practical language, cutting Oliver’s problems down to size. But this was the way that Duncan Fraser worked. This was how he had made his money at a comparatively early age, been able to sell up his London business for an astronomical figure and done what he had always wanted to do, which was to return to Scotland, buy some land and settle down to the pleasant life of a country gentleman.
However, this fulfilment of his ambition had its ironic aspect, for Duncan’s wife, Elaine, never particularly anxious to leave her native South and put down roots in the wilds of Perthshire, soon became bored with the slow pace of life at Rossie Hill. She missed her friends and the weather got her down. The winters, she complained, were long, cold and dry. The summers, short, cold and wet. Accordingly her flying visits to London became more frequent and of longer duration until the inevitable day came when she announced that she was never going to return, and the marriage broke up.
If Duncan was distressed by this, he managed to hide it very well. He enjoyed having Liz to himself and when she went off to visit her mother, he was never lonely, for his interests were legion. When he had first come to Rossie Hill, local people had been sceptical of his capabilities as a farmer, but he had proved himself—now he was accepted, a member of the club in Relkirk and a J.P. Oliver was very fond of him.
He said, “You make it all sound so reasonable and easy, not like selling one’s home at all.”
“Well, that’s the way things are.” The older man finished his drink in a single enormous gulp, laid the glass on the table by his chair and abruptly stood up. “Think about it, anyway. How long are you up for?”
“I’ve two weeks’ leave of absence.”
“Suppose we meet on Wednesday in Relkirk? I’ll give you lunch and we’ll have a chat with the lawyers. Or is that pushing things too fast?”
“Not at all. The sooner it’s buttoned up, the better.”
“In that case, I’ll be taking myself home.”
He started for the door and at once Lisa got up and, at a distance, followed them out into the chilly hall, her claws scratching on the polished parquet floor.
Duncan glanced back at her over his shoulder. “It’s a sad thing, a dog without a master.”
“The worst thing of all.”
Lisa watched while Oliver helped Duncan on with his coat and then accompanied them both out to where the old black Bentley waited. The evening was, if possible, colder than ever, black dark and torn with wind. The puddled driveway, beneath their shoes, rang hard with ice.
“We’ll have more snow yet,” said Duncan.
“Looks like it.”
“Any message for Liz?”
“Tell her to come and see me.”
“I’ll do that. See you Wednesday, then, at the club. Twelve-thirty.”
“I’ll be there.” Oliver shut the car door. “Drive carefully.”
* * *
When the car had gone he went back indoors with Lisa at his heels and shut the door and stood for a moment, his attention caught by the extraordinary emptiness of the house. This had struck him before—had been striking him at intervals ever since he arrived from London two days before. He wondered if he would ever get used to it.
The hall was cold and quiet. Lisa, worried by Oliv
er’s stillness, pushed her nose into his hand, and he stooped to fondle her head, winding her silky ears over his fingers. The wind buffeted, a draught caught the curtain which hung across the front door, and sent it billowing, a swirling skirt of velvet. Oliver shivered and went back to the library, putting his head around the kitchen door on the way. Presently he was joined by Mrs Cooper with her tray. Together they piled cups and saucers, stacked glasses, cleared the table. Mrs Cooper folded the starched damask cloth and Oliver helped her pull the table back into the middle of the room. Then he followed her back into the kitchen, held the door open so that she could carry through the laden tray, and followed her, with the empty teapot in one hand and the nearly empty whisky bottle in the other.
She began to wash the dishes. He said, “You’re tired. Leave them.”
She kept her back turned towards him. “Oh, no, I canna leave them. I’ve never left a single dirty cup for the morning.”
“Then go home when you’ve finished that lot.”
“What about your supper?”
“I’m full of fruit cake. I don’t want any supper.” Her back remained stiff and unrelenting, as though she found it impossible to show any grief. She had adored Charles. Oliver said, “It was good cake.” And then he said, “Thank you.”
Mrs Cooper did not turn around. Presently, when it became obvious that she was not going to, Oliver went out of the kitchen and back to the library fire, and left her on her own.
3
Behind Diana Carpenter’s house in Milton Gardens was a long narrow garden which backed on to a cobbled mews. Between the garden and the mews was a high wall with a gate in it and what had once been a large double garage, but when Diana returned to London from Aphros, she decided that it would be a sound investment to turn the garage into a paying property, and accordingly built over it a small flat for letting. This diversion had kept her busy and happy for a year or more and when it was finished and furnished and totally decorated, she let it at a thumping rent to an American diplomat, posted to London for two years. He was the perfect tenant, but when he was returned to Washington and she started casting about for someone to take his place, she was not so fortunate.
Snow in April Page 4