Snow in April

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  Dear Oliver,

  After you had gone Jody and I talked things over and we have decided that it would be best if we go back to London. It isn’t any good waiting for Angus, we don’t know when he will be back and it isn’t fair on Diana to stay longer when she doesn’t even know where we are.

  Please don’t worry about us. The car is working beautifully and your kind garage filled it up with petrol for us. I don’t think there will be any more blizzards and I’m sure we shall get back safely.

  There isn’t any way of saying thank you, to you and Mrs Cooper, for all you have done. We loved being at Cairney. We shall never forget it.

  With love from us both,

  Caroline.

  7

  The next morning, pretending to himself that he wanted to square off one or two problems with Duncan Fraser, Oliver drove himself over to Rossie Hill. It was another beautiful day, but colder; over the night there had been the lightest of frosts, and the sun had not yet enough warmth to melt this away, but still the Rossie Hill drive was lined with the bobbing heads of the first early daffodils and when he went into the house it smelt of the great bowl of blue hyacinths which stood in the middle of the table in the hall.

  As familiar with this house as Liz was with Cairney, he searched for occupants, running Liz to earth at last in her father’s study, where she sat on the desk and conducted a telephone conversation. To the butcher by the sound of it. When he opened the door she looked up, saw him, raised her eyebrows in a silent message to tell him to wait. He came into the room and went to stand by the fire, wanting a cigarette and yet not wanting one, comforted by the warmth of the flames against the front of his legs.

  She finished the phone call and hung up, but stayed by the telephone, very still, one long leg swinging thoughtfully. She wore a pleated skirt, a skinny sweater, a silk scarf knotted round the base of her throat. The skin of her arms and her face still glowed from the Antigua sun, and for a long moment her dark eyes met his across the room.

  Then she said, “Looking for somebody?”

  “Your father.”

  “He’s out. Gone to Relkirk. Won’t be back till lunchtime.” She reached for a silver cigarette-box and held it out to him. Oliver shook his head, so she took one for herself and lit it from the heavy desk lighter. She surveyed him thoughtfully through a drift of blue smoke. She said, “You look a little distrait, Oliver. Is anything wrong?”

  He had been trying all morning to tell himself that nothing was wrong, but now he said bluntly, “Caroline and Jody have gone.”

  “Gone?” Her voice was mildly surprised. “Where have they gone?”

  “Back to London. I got back last night and found a letter from Caroline.”

  “But surely that’s quite a good thing.”

  “After all that, they never got to find their brother.”

  “From what I could gather, that doesn’t sound as though it’ll make much difference either way.”

  “But it mattered to them. It mattered to Jody.”

  “Provided you think they’re capable of getting themselves back to London I shouldn’t worry too much about them. You’ve got enough on your plate without acting as Nanny to a couple of lame dogs you’d never even seen before.” She changed the subject, as though it were of little importance. “What did you want to see my father about?”

  He could scarcely remember. “… an access road. I want to keep the Loch Cottage if I can, but I’ll need access up the glen.”

  “Keep the Loch Cottage? But it’s a ruin.”

  “Basically, it’s sound enough. Just needs a bit of tidying up, a new roof.”

  “And what do you want the Loch Cottage for?”

  He said, “To keep. A holiday house, perhaps. I don’t know. Just to keep.”

  “Was it I who put that idea into your head?”

  “Perhaps it was.”

  She slipped off the desk then, and came across the room to stand beside him. “Oliver, I have a better idea.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Let my father buy Cairney House.”

  Oliver laughed. “He doesn’t even want it.”

  “No, but I do. I would like to have it for … what was it you said? Holidays. Weekends.”

  “And what would you do with it?”

  She tossed her cigarette on the fire. “I would bring my husband here, and my children.”

  “Would they like that?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  Her eyes were clear, honest, unblinking. He was astonished by what she was saying and yet flattered too. And amazed. Little Liz, leggy, gawky Liz, all grown up and composed as hell and asking Oliver to…

  He said, “Forgive me if I’m all wrong, but oughtn’t I to be the one who comes up with these sorts of ideas?”

  “Yes, I suppose you should. But I’ve known you too long to indulge in coy dishonesties. And I have this feeling that our coming together again like this, when neither of us expected to find each other, is meant. Part of a pattern. I have this feeling that Charles meant it to happen.”

  “But it was always Charles who loved you.”

  “That’s what I mean. And Charles is dead.”

  “Would you have married him, if he’d lived?”

  Her answer was to put her arms round his neck and pull down his head and kiss him on the mouth. For a second he hesitated, taken off his guard, but only for a second. She was Liz, scented, dazzling, marvellously attractive. He put his arms round her and drew her close, her slender body pressed against his, and told himself that perhaps she was right. Perhaps this was the direction his life was meant to go, and perhaps this was what Charles had always meant to happen.

  * * *

  He was, not unnaturally, late home for lunch. The kitchen was reproachfully empty, his single place laid at the table, a good smell of cooking coming from the stove. Searching for Mrs Cooper he found her in the nursery, stacking away all the old toys that Jody had left disarranged, and looking like a mother who has been bereft of her children.

  He put his head around the door and said, “I’m late, I’m sorry.”

  She looked up from the box of bricks which she was meticulously packing. “Och, it doesn’t matter.” She sounded listless. “It’s only a shepherd’s pie. I left it in the cool oven, you can eat it when you feel like it.”

  She had been shocked and much distressed last night when he told her that the Cliburns had gone. From her expression now he knew that she had not yet got over this. He said, robustly, trying to cheer her, “They should be well on their way by now. In London by this evening, if there’s not too much traffic on the roads.”

  Mrs Cooper sniffed. “I just can’t bear the feel of the house without them. It’s as though that wee boy had lived here the whole of his life. It was like Cairney coming alive again, having him here.”

  “I know.” Oliver was sympathetic. “But they’d have had to go in a day or two anyway.”

  “And it wasn’t even as though I had the chance to say goodbye to them.” She made it sound as though it were all Oliver’s fault.

  “I know.” He could think of nothing else to say.

  “And he never got to see his brother. He talked so much about his brother Angus, and then he never even got to see him. It just makes me heart sick.”

  This, from Mrs Cooper, was strong language. All at once Oliver felt as depressed as she was. He said, feebly, “I … I’ll go and eat that shepherd’s pie,” and then, at the door, remembered why he had originally come in search of her. “Oh, Mrs Cooper, don’t bother to come in this evening. I’ve been asked to dinner at Rossie Hill…”

  She acknowledged this with a nod, as though too distressed to say another word. Oliver left her to her disconsolate tidying and went downstairs again, and felt the house watchful and silent, as though, bereft of Jody’s noisy presence, it had sunk into a gloom as thick as Mrs Cooper’s own.

  * * *

  Rossie Hill, made ready for a dinner-party, was a
s bright and glowing as the inside of a jewel-box. When Oliver let himself into the house, he smelt the hyacinths, saw the flickering of logs in the grate, was immediately soothed by warmth and comfort. As he took off his coat and dropped it over the chair in the hall, Liz emerged from the kitchen, carrying a bowl of ice-cubes in her hand. She stopped when she saw him, her smile sudden and brilliant.

  “Oliver.”

  “Hallo.”

  He took her shoulders between his hands and kissed her carefully, cautious about blurring the clear line of her lipstick. She both smelt and tasted delicious. He held her off, the better to admire her. She wore red, a silk trouser dress with a high collar, and diamonds sparked from her neatly-set ears. She reminded him of a parakeet, a bird of paradise, all bright eyes and glittering plumage.

  He said, “I’m early.”

  “Not early. Just right. The others haven’t come yet.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Others?”

  “I told you it was a dinner-party.” He followed her through to the drawing-room where she set down the ice-bowl on a meticulously prepared drink table. “The Allfords. Do you know them? They’ve come to live in Relkirk. He’s something to do with whisky. They’re longing to meet you. Now, shall I pour you a drink or would you rather do it yourself? I do mix a very special Martini.”

  “Where did you learn to do that?”

  “Oh, I picked it up on my travels.”

  “Would I be ungracious if I opted for a whisky and soda?”

  “Not ungracious at all, just typically Scottish.”

  She poured it for him, just the way he liked it, not too dark, bubbling, bobbing with ice. She brought it over and he took it, and he kissed her again. She detached herself reluctantly, and went back to the drink table and began to mix a jug of Martinis.

  While she did, they were joined by Duncan, and then the front-door bell rang, and Liz went out to greet her other guests.

  When she was out of the room Duncan said to Oliver, “Liz has told me.”

  Oliver was surprised. Nothing definite had been settled this morning. Nothing discussed. His talk with Liz, though filled with delight, had been more of the past, remembering, than of the future. It had seemed to Oliver that there was all the time in the world to decide about the future.

  He said, carefully, “What did she say?”

  “Nothing very much. Just put one or two ideas in my way, as it were. But you have to know, Oliver, that nothing would make me a happier man.”

  “I … I’m glad.”

  “And as for Cairney…” Voices approached the half open door, and he broke off abruptly. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  * * *

  The Allfords were middle-aged, the husband large and ponderous, the wife very slender, pink-and-white with the soft, fluffy blonde hair that looks so colourless when it starts to go grey. Everybody was introduced, and Oliver found himself sitting by Mrs Allford on the sofa, hearing about her children who hadn’t wanted to come and live in Scotland but now loved it. About her daughter who lived for the local Pony Club, and her son who was in his first year at Cambridge.

  “And you … now you live next door, if that’s the right term to use.”

  “No. I live in London.”

  “But…”

  “My brother, Charles Cairney, lived at Cairney but he was killed in a car smash. I’m just up here trying to get all his affairs sorted out.”

  “Oh, of course.” Mrs Allford put on a face suitable for tragedy. “I did know. I am sorry. It’s so difficult to keep track of everybody when you’re meeting them all for the first time.”

  His attention wandered back to Liz. Her father and Mr Allford were standing, deep in business talk. She stood beside them, holding her drink and a small dish of salted nuts from which Mr Allford, absently, helped himself from time to time. She felt Oliver’s gaze and turned towards him. He winked with the eye farthest from Mrs Allford and Liz smiled.

  Finally, they went in to dinner, the dining-room softly lit, velvet curtains drawn against the night. There were lace mats on dark shining wood, crystal and silver, a mass of scarlet tulips, the same red as Liz’s dress, in the middle of the table. Then smoked salmon, pink and delectable, white wine, escalopes de veau, tiny brussels sprouts cooked with chestnuts, a pudding that was simply a froth of lemon and cream. Then coffee and brandy, the smell of Havana cigars. Oliver pushed back his chair, replete and sleek with the comforts of good living, and settled down to the after-dinner conversation.

  Behind him the clock on the mantelpiece struck nine o’clock. Some time during the day he had pushed the thought of Jody and Caroline into the back of his mind, and had had no bother with them since. But as the chimes gently rang out he was, all at once, no longer at Rossie Hill, but in London with Cliburns. By now they would be home, tired and weary, trying to explain to Diana, trying to tell her all the things that had happened; Caroline would be exhausted and pale after the long drive, Jody still consumed with disappointment. We went to find Angus. We went all the way to Scotland to find Angus but he wasn’t there. And I don’t want to go to Canada.

  And Diana, frantic, scolding, finally forgiving, heating milk for Jody and getting him to bed; and Caroline going upstairs, a step at a time, her face curtained by her long hair, her hand trailing on the banister.

  “… what do you say, Oliver?”

  “Uh?” They were all looking at him. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “We were talking about the salmon fishing rights on the Corrie, there’s some talk of…”

  Duncan’s voice trailed away. Nobody else spoke. It was suddenly very quiet, and through the stillness they heard what Duncan’s sharp ears had heard already. The sound of a car, not on the road, but coming up the hill towards the house. A van, or a lorry; gears crashing down as the incline steepened, and then a flash of headlights against the outside of the drawn curtains, and the steady throb of an ancient engine.

  Duncan looked at Liz. “It sounds,” he said, making a joke of it, “as though you’re expecting the coalman.”

  She frowned. “I expect it’s someone lost the way. Mrs Douglas will go to the door,” and smoothly she turned once more to Mr Allford, intending to carry on with the conversation, ignoring the unknown caller who waited outside. But Oliver’s attention was drawn as tight as a rubber band, his ears pricked like a dog’s. He heard the ringing of the front-door bell, and slow footsteps go to answer the summons. He heard a voice, high and excited, interrupted by Mrs Douglas’s mild objects. “… canna go in there, there’s a dinner-party…” And then an exclamation, “Ah, ye wee divil…” and the next moment the dining-room door was flung open and outside, poised, his eyes searching the room for the only person he wanted to find, was Jody Cliburn.

  Oliver was on his feet, his napkin flung on the table.

  “Jody!”

  “Oh, Oliver.”

  He came across the room like a bullet, like a homing pigeon, straight into Oliver’s arms.

  * * *

  The urbane formality of the dinner-party collapsed instantly, like a pricked balloon. The shambles that resulted would have been funny had it not been tragic. For Jody was in tears, bawling like a baby, with his head butted into Oliver’s stomach and his arms clutched tight about Oliver’s waist as though he had no intention of ever letting him go. Mrs Douglas, harassed in her pinafore, hovered in the doorway, undecided as to whether or not she should come into the dining-room and bodily haul the intruder away. Duncan was on his feet, with no idea of what was happening or who this child could be. From time to time he said, “What the devil is all this about?” but nobody was in a position to give him any sort of a reply. Liz was also on her feet, but saying nothing, simply staring at the back of Jody’s head as though, given half a chance, she would like to have smashed it, like some rotten fruit, against the nearest stone wall. Only the Allfords, conventional to the last, stayed where they were, Mr Allford saying, “Extraordinary thing to happen,” between puffs o
f his cigar. “Do you mean to say he’s come in the coal lorry?” While Mrs Allford smiled sociably, giving the impression that unknown children had disrupted every memorable dinner-party she had ever been to.

  From the depths of Oliver’s waistcoat came sobs and snuffles and garbled sentences of which he could neither hear nor understand one word. It was obvious that the situation could not be allowed to continue, but Jody clung so tightly that it was impossible for Oliver to move.

  “Now come along,” he said at last, raising his voice to make himself heard above the sobs. “Loosen off. We’ll go outside and you can tell me what this is about…” His words somehow got through to Jody, who loosened his stranglehold slightly and allowed himself to be led towards the door. “So sorry,” said Oliver as he went. “Please excuse me for a moment … rather unexpected.”

  Feeling as though he had accomplished a brilliant escape he found himself out in the hall, and Mrs Douglas, bless her good heart, was closing the door behind them.

  “Will you be all right?” she whispered.

  “We’re fine.”

  She went back to her kitchen, muttering away under her breath, and Oliver sat on a carved wooden chair that had never been built for sitting in and pulled Jody close between his knees. “Stop crying. Try to stop crying. Here, blow your nose and stop crying.” Scarlet-faced, swollen, Jody made a valiant effort, but the tears still came.

  “I c-can’t.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Caroline’s ill. She’s really ill. She’s sick like she was before, and she’s got a terrible pain here.” Jody laid his own grubby hands over his stomach. “And it’s getting worse.”

  “Where is she?”

  “At the Strathcorrie Hotel.”

  “But she said you were going back to London.”

  “I wouldn’t let her.” Tears filled his eyes again. “I w-wanted to find Angus.”

  “Has Angus come back yet?”

  Jody shook his head. “No. There wasn’t anybody but you.”

  “Have you told a doctor?”

  “I … I didn’t know what to do. I c-came to find you…”

  “You think she’s really sick?”