Wild Mountain Thyme

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  There was an old black Labrador at his heels. Thomas caught sight of him, and wriggled, wanting to be put down so that he could go and pat the dog. Victoria set him back on his feet, and he and the dog looked at each other. Then Thomas touched the soft, grizzled muzzle.

  “What is he called?” asked Victoria.

  “Barney. He’s very old. Almost as old as I am.”

  “I thought you’d probably have a dog.”

  “Victoria,” Oliver explained, “is one of your fans, Roddy.” He sounded quite cheerful and ordinary again, and Victoria wondered if the quarrel that had blown up that morning was, for the time being, forgotten.

  “How splendid,” said Roddy. “Nothing I like better than having a fan about the place.”

  Victoria smiled. “I was looking for the waterfall.”

  “Even on a fine day you can’t see it from here. It’s hidden behind an outcrop. There’s a little bay. Perhaps if the weather clears and I can find the key to the boathouse, we’ll get over one day and you can see it for yourself.” A gust of wind, with a cutting edge like a knife, keened down upon them. Victoria shivered and Roddy was galvanized into hostly action. “Now, come along, we’ll all get pneumonia standing here. Let’s get your cases out of the car and get you all settled in.”

  Again, it was like nothing that Victoria had imagined. For Roddy led them, not into the big house, but through the archway into the stableyard, and so on to what was obviously his own little house. The bedrooms were on the ground floor. “This is for you and Oliver,” said Roddy, going ahead of them like a well-trained hotel porter. “And there’s a dressing room off it, where I thought you could put the child; and here’s the bathroom. It’s all pretty cramped I’m afraid, but I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

  “I think it’s perfect.” She set Tom down on the bed, and looked about her. There was a window facing out over the water, and a deep windowsill, upon which stood a little jug of snowdrops. She wondered if it was Roddy who had put them there.

  “It’s a funny sort of house,” he told her. “The living room and the kitchen are upstairs, but I like it that way. Now, when you’ve unpacked and made yourselves comfortable, come up and we’ll have a drink and something to eat. Does Thomas like soup?”

  “He likes anything.”

  Roddy looked suitably amazed. “What an accommodating child,” he remarked, and went off and left her.

  Victoria sat on the edge of the bed, and lifted Thomas onto her knee and began to divest him of his little jacket. And all the time her eyes went around the room, loving it because it was so right, whitewashed and simply furnished, and yet containing all that any person could possibly need. It even had a fireplace, built across one corner of the room, in which a stack of peats was smoldering, and there was a basket containing more peat alongside the hearth, so that one could replenish it oneself, keep it going all night if need be. She thought of going to sleep by firelight, and it seemed, all at once, the most romantic thing in the world. Perhaps, she told herself cautiously, perhaps after all, everything was going to be all right.

  Oliver appeared behind her, bearing the last of the suitcases. He put this down and shut the door behind him.

  “Oliver…”

  But, abruptly, he interrupted her. “Something ghastly’s happened. Roddy’s brother died at the beginning of the week. That was his funeral in Creagan this morning. I mean, that’s why all the blinds were down.”

  Victoria stared at him, over the top of Thomas’s head, in horrified disbelief. “But why didn’t he let us know?”

  “He couldn’t. He didn’t know where we were. And anyway, he swears he wanted us to come.”

  “He’s just saying that.”

  “No, I don’t think he is. In a way, I think we’re probably the best thing that could happen to him. You know, give him something to think about. Anyway, we’re here now. We can’t go away again.”

  “But…”

  “And there’s another thing. We’re Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs like in the hotel register. Apparently, there’s a string of old retainers who’ll all give notice if they know the terrible truth.” He began nosing around, opening cupboards and doors, like a great, long cat making itself at home. “What a fantastic setup. Is this where Thomas is sleeping?”

  “Yes. Oliver, perhaps we should only stay one night.”

  “What do you mean? Don’t you like it here?”

  “I love it, but…”

  He came to drop a kiss on her open, protesting mouth, and Victoria was silenced. The quarrel still lay between them. She wondered if the kiss was meant as an apology, or whether she was going to have to be the first to say she was sorry. But before she was able to make up her mind about this, one way or the other, he had kissed her again, patted Thomas on the head, and left them. She heard him running upstairs, heard his voice mingling with Roddy’s. She sighed, and lifted Thomas off the bed and took him to the bathroom.

  * * *

  It was midnight and very dark. Roddy Dunbeath, steeped in brandy, had taken a torch and whistled up his dog, and gone the rounds of the big house, to make sure, he explained to Oliver, that the doors and windows were all securely closed, and that old Ellen, up in her attic bedroom, was safe for the night.

  Oliver wondered, safe from what? They had been introduced, formally, to Ellen during the course of the evening, and she had seemed to him not only older than God but just as formidable. Victoria had long since gone to bed. Thomas was sleeping. Oliver lit the cigar that Roddy had given him and took it out of doors.

  The silence that greeted him was immense. The wind had dropped and there was scarcely a sound. His footsteps crunched as he went across the gravel, and then fell silent when he reached the grass. He could feel its cold dampness through the soles of his shoes. He reached the loch and began to walk along the edge of the water. The air was icy. His light clothes—the velvet jacket and the silk shirt—were no protection, and the cold washed over his body like a freezing shower. He reveled in the shock of it and felt refreshed and stimulated.

  His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Slowly, the massive presence of the surrounding hills began to take shape. He saw the translucent shimmer of the loch. From the trees behind the house, an owl hooted. He came to the little jetty. Now, his footsteps sounded hollow on the wooden planking. At the end, he stopped, and threw the butt of the cigar into the water. It sizzled and then was dark.

  The voices were there. The old woman. It’s not the way your father would have done it. She had been living in his head for months, but she was Ellen Tarbat. And yet she was not Ellen from Sutherland. She was called Kate and she came from Yorkshire. Your father didn’t do things that way, not that way at all. She was embittered, she was worn, she was indestructible. He was always a man to pay his way. And proud. When I buried him, I did it with ham. Mrs. Hackworth buried her man, but she’s that mean, she did it with nobbut buns.

  She was Kate, but she was Ellen too. This was the way it happened. Past and present, fantasy and reality, all spun together like a steel rope, so that he did not know where one ended and the other began. And this thing inside him would begin to grow, like some tumor, until it took over altogether, and he would become possessed by it, and by the people who fought to get out of the inside of his head; to get down on paper.

  And for weeks, perhaps months, he would exist in a shambling vacuum, incapable of anything except the most basic and essential of bodily functions; like sleeping, and ambling around the corner to the pub, and buying cigarettes.

  The anticipation of this state filled him with trembling excitement. Despite the cold, he found that the palms of his hands were sweaty. He turned and looked back at the dim bulk of the house. A light burned in the attic, and he imagined old Ellen pottering about, putting her teeth into a tumbler, saying her prayers, getting into bed. He saw her, lying, staring at the ceiling, her nose sticking up over the edge of the sheet, waiting for the fitful sleep of old age.

  There were other lights. From Rodd
y’s sitting room, from behind drawn curtains. From the bedroom below it where Victoria slept.

  He made his way, slowly, back to the house.

  She was asleep, but she woke when he came in and turned on the light by their bed. He sat beside her, and she turned on the pillow and yawned, and saw who it was and said his name. She wore a nightdress of thin white lawn, edged with lace, and her pale hair spread on the pillow like strands of primrose-colored silk.

  He pulled off his tie and undid the top button of his shirt, and she said, “Where have you been?”

  “Out.”

  “What time is it?”

  He kicked off his shoes. “Late.” He leaned across and took her head between his hands. Slowly, he began to kiss her.

  * * *

  He slept at last, but Victoria lay awake in his arms for an hour or more. The curtains were drawn back and the cold night air flowed in through the open window. In the hearth the peat fire burned steadily, and its flicker and glow were reflected in patterns of light on the low, white ceiling. The quarrel of the morning had been dissolved in love. Victoria was reassured. She lay there in the tranquil knowledge—as calming as a sedative—that nothing this perfect could possibly go wrong.

  10

  FRIDAY

  She was suddenly, intensely, wide awake, disoriented, with no idea where she was meant to be. She saw the wide window, and beyond it, the sky—pale, pristine, cloudless. The outline of the hills was sharp as glass, the topmost peaks touched by the first rays of the rising sun. Benchoile. Benchoile, possibly at its best. It looked as if it were going to be a beautiful day. Perhaps she could take Thomas to the beach.

  Thomas. Thomas’s grandmother. Mrs. Archer. Today she was going to write to Mrs. Archer.

  Just like that, while she slept, her mind, perhaps realizing that Victoria was capable of dithering about this problem indefinitely, had apparently made itself up. The letter would be written this morning, posted at the earliest opportunity. She would find out the address by going to the post office in Creagan and asking for the relevant telephone directory. Woodbridge was in Hampshire. It was only a small place. There would not be many Archers living in such a small place.

  The form of the letter began to frame itself. I am writing to let you know that Thomas is well and very happy.

  And Thomas’s father? Beside her Oliver slumbered soundlessly, his head turned away from her, his long arm stretched outside the covers, the palm of his hand turned up, the fingers curled and relaxed. Victoria raised herself on her elbow and looked down at his untroubled face. He seemed, in that moment, defenseless and vulnerable. He loved her. Love and fear could not share the same bed. She was not afraid of Oliver.

  And anyway—cautiously she lay back on her pillows—Oliver need never know. Oliver did not want me to write to you, she would put, so perhaps it would be better if you do not acknowledge this letter or try to get in touch.

  She could not think why this harmless deception had not occurred to her before. Mrs. Archer would understand. All she would want was reassurance about her missing grandson. And Victoria would promise, at the end of the letter, to write again, to keep in touch. It would seem that it was going to be quite a correspondence.

  From the next room, from beyond the closed door, came sounds of Thomas stirring. A strange sound, “Meh, meh, meh,” disturbed the morning quiet. Thomas, singing. She imagined him sucking his thumb, thumping Piglet against the wall by his bed. After a little the singing stopped, there were scuffling sounds, the door opened and Thomas appeared.

  Victoria pretended to be asleep, lay with her eyes closed. Thomas climbed up onto the bed and lay on top of her, forcing her eyelids open with a stubby thumb. She saw his face, only inches from her own, the blue eyes alarmingly close, his nose nearly touching her own.

  She had not yet written to his grandmother, but today she was going to, and the knowledge freed Victoria of guilt and filled her with tenderness towards Thomas. She put her arms around him and hugged him, and he laid his cheek on hers and thoughtfully kicked her in the stomach. After a little, when it became obvious that he was not going to be still for a moment longer, she got out of bed. Oliver still slept, undisturbed. She took Thomas into his room and dressed him, and then dressed herself. They left Oliver sleeping, and hand-in-hand climbed the stairs to forage for breakfast.

  The domestic arrangements at Benchoile appeared to be fluid—the two establishments, the big house and the Stable House running, as it were, in harness. Yesterday they had lunched on soup and cheese in Roddy’s cheerful, littered living room, eating off a table drawn up to the window, the meal as informal as a picnic. Dinner, on the other hand, was a quite different affair, served in the immense dining room of the big house. By some unspoken agreement, they had all changed for this occasion. Oliver had put on his velvet jacket, and Roddy wore a straining doublet made of tartan, with a cummerbund filling the gap between his shirt and the dark trousers, which would no longer do up around his waist. A fire had burned in the grate, there were candles in the silver candlesticks, and tall, dim portraits of varied Dunbeaths looked down upon them from the paneled walls. Victoria had wondered which was Jock, but didn’t like to ask. There was something vaguely unnerving about the empty chair at the head of the table. She felt as though they were all intruding, as though they had walked into another man’s house, without permission, and at any moment the owner was going to walk in and find them there.

  But she, apparently, was the only one of them troubled by this uneasy guilt. Oliver and Roddy talked incessantly, of their world of writers, publishers, producers, about which Victoria knew nothing. The conversation flowed, well-oiled by an abundance of wine. And even the old woman, Ellen, had seemed to see nothing amiss in such good spirits on the very night of the laird’s funeral. To and fro she trod in her worn-down shoes, her best apron over her black dress, handing the heavy ashets through the hatch that led to the kitchen, and taking away the used plates. Victoria had made signs that she would like to help, but Roddy had stopped her. “Jess Guthrie’s in the kitchen, giving Ellen a hand. She’ll be mortally offended if you so much as rise from your chair,” he had told Victoria when Ellen was out of earshot, and so she sat, against all her better instincts, and let herself be waited on with the others.

  At one point during the course of the meal Ellen had taken herself off for ten minutes or more. When she returned with the coffee tray, she had announced, without preamble, that the wee boy was sleeping like an angel, and Victoria realized that she had made the journey down the long stone passages and across the stable yard, to check on Thomas, and was touched.

  “I was just going to look at him myself,” she told Ellen, but Ellen’s mouth had bunched up, as though Victoria had said something indecent. “And why should you be getting up from your dinner, when there’s me here to see to the child?” Victoria felt reprimanded.

  * * *

  Now, the following morning, she struggled with the inconsistencies of another person’s kitchen, but, by the lengthy expedient of opening one door after another, she ran to earth eggs, bread, a jug of milk. Thomas was no help at all, and always seemed to be under her feet. She found suitable plates and mugs, knives and forks. Some butter and a jar of instant coffee. She laid the small plastic-topped table, set Thomas up on a chair, tied a tea towel around his neck, took the top off his egg. He settled down, silently, to demolish it.

  Victoria made herself a cup of coffee and pulled up a chair to face him. She said, “Would you like to go to the beach today?”

  Thomas stopped eating and looked at her, the egg yolk running down his chin. She wiped it away. As she did this the door that led into the house from the stable-yard opened and shut. Footsteps came slowly up the stairs. The next moment Ellen appeared at the open kitchen door.

  “Good morning,” said Victoria.

  “Yes, and you’re up and about already. You’re an early starter, Mrs. Dobbs.”

  “Thomas woke me.”

  “I came over to
see if you’d like me to give him his breakfast, but I see you’ve already seen to that yourself.”

  Her manner was disconcerting, because you could never tell by her voice whether you were doing the right thing or not. And it was no help looking at her face, because her expression was one of constant disapproval, the faded eyes cold and beady and her mouth pursed as though someone had run a string around it and then pulled it tight. Her hair was thin and white, dragged back from her temples and screwed into a tight little bun. Beneath it her scalp gleamed pinkly. Her figure seemed to have shrunk with age, so that all her clothes—her ageless and seemly clothes—appeared to be a size too big. Only her hands were large and capable, red with scrubbing, the joints swollen and twisted like old tree roots. She stood with these folded across her stomach, over the flowered apron, and looked as though, in her long life, she had never once stopped working. Victoria wondered how old she was.

  She said, tentatively, “Perhaps you’d like a cup of coffee?”

  “I never touch the stuff. It doesn’t agree with me at all.”

  “A cup of tea, then?”

  “No, no. I’ve had my tea.”

  “Well, why don’t you sit down? Take the weight off your feet?”

  For a moment, she thought that even this mild overture of friendliness was going to be rejected, but Ellen, perhaps seduced by Tom’s unblinking stare, reached for a chair, and settled herself at the head of the table.

  “Eat up your egg, then,” she said to Thomas, and then to Victoria, “He’s a beautiful child.” Her Highland voice turned this into, “He’s a peautiful chilt.”

  “Are you fond of children?”

  “Oh, yes, and there used to be so many of them at Benchoile, all over the place.” She had come, it was obvious, to see Thomas and have a gossip. Victoria waited, and inevitably the old voice rambled on. “I came here to look after Charlie when he was a baby. Charlie was the youngest of the boys. I looked after the others as well, but I had Charlie all to myself. Charlie’s in America now, you know. He married an American lady.” Casually, as though they could not help themselves, her hands went out to spread Thomas’s toast with butter, to cut the toast into fingers for him.