Winter Solstice

by Pilcher, Rosamunde

“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.”

  OSCAR

  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.

  It was then that he heard the voices. A man calling, a murmur of conversation. He turned his head and saw, below him, a group of four men making their way to the tee. Oscar was instantly wary, fearing that one of them might be Major Billicliffe, and he would be spied, and forced into introductions and convivial chat. He stood very still, hoping to render himself invisible, but his fears were, thankfully, ill-founded. Major Billicliffe, tall as a tree and with his skinny shanks draped in tweedy plus-fours, was not one of the group. Instead, Oscar saw the four sturdy figures bundled up in coloured jackets and waterproof trousers, wearing white golf shoes and long-peaked American caps. Billicliffe would never be so trendy.

  Major Billicliffe was the main reason that Oscar had kept a low profile ever since their arrival in Creagan. From time to time, urged by Elfrida, he had nipped across the road to the supermarket, to stock up on beer or to buy a loaf of bread, and his daily outing was a trip to the news agent to pick up The Times and The Telegraph. On these occasions he kept an eye open, just in case Billicliffe should be bearing down upon him, loud with greeting and invitations to his terrible house.

  Elfrida thought Oscar was being feeble.

  “He’s harmless, Oscar, just a stupid old man. You must be firm if you meet him. Polite but firm.”

  “He is a terrifying bore.”

  “You can’t cower indoors for the rest of your life. It’s ridiculous.”

  “I am cowering indoors because the weather is inclement, to say the least of it.”

  “Rubbish. You spent the whole of Saturday raking leaves in the garden. In the pouring rain.”

  “Billicliffe can’t get into my garden.”

  “He could see you over the wall. He’s tall enough.”

  “Don’t even suggest it.”

  This walk with Horace was Oscar’s first real foray into the countryside, and he had started out because all of a sudden he was restless, filled with nervous energy, and knew a physical need to stretch his legs. Even the prospect of encountering Major Billicliffe did not put him off, and, as Elfrida constantly pointed out, he could not spend the rest of his life cowering indoors, ducking behind a sofa every time the front-door bell rang.

  It was all very unfortunate. Because Billicliffe, retired factor of Corrydale, was the man who had had custody of the key of the Estate House, and calling upon him, to take possession of this key, had been their first priority.

  The occasion had not been propitious. At the end of a long winter drive from Hampshire, which had taken two days, both Oscar and Elfrida were exhausted. They had travelled by the Al, battling with rain, long-distance lorries, and manic car drivers speeding past in the fast lane. Crossing the border into Scotland, climbing Soutra, the rain had turned to sleet, and then snow, and conditions had become even more dicey.

&nb
sp; Elfrida had suggested stopping once more for a restful night, but Oscar simply wanted to get there, and so they had pressed on, farther and farther north. At the summit of Dramochter the snow had been six inches deep and they had crawled along behind the sheltering tailgate of a huge articulated lorry. Trusting that if disaster struck, it would at least strike the lorry first. Hoping with every mile that the storm would stop for just a few hours.

  Darkness fell early, and the final miles were achieved in Bight-time conditions. As well, Oscar found that his memory failed him, and he became confused by new road systems and bypasses which had been built since his long-ago boyhood visits.

  “Why does everything have to change?” he complained pettishly, struggling to read the map by the light of a torch.

  “For the better,” Elfrida told him firmly.

  “At least we’re not threading our way along a single-track lane.”

  Finally, they were crossing the new bridge that spanned the firth.

  “In the old days,” Oscar remembered, “we had to drive over the hills and about five miles inland.”

  “You see. Things are better. Where do we go next?”

  “We have to turn left, back onto the old road, heading west.”

  “Will the old road still be there?”

  “If it isn’t, we’re scuppered.”

  But it was there, and in the dark, they turned off the fast dual-carriage way and set out into the country. By now Elfrida was getting very tired. Finding Billicliffe’s house was the final, frustrating straw.

  “He’s in old Ferguson’s cottage,” Hector had told Oscar when asked for instructions and directions.

  “Used to be head forester. You remember him. Turn into the main gates and follow your nose. I’ll ring him and tell him you’re coming.”

  But somehow, in the darkness, they lost all sense of distance, and so overshot the main gates, and too late, Oscar saw the sign as it flashed past.

  CORRYDALE COUNTRY HOUSE HOTEL. AA. RAC. ****

  So then they had to find someplace to turn and retrace their steps. This took a long time, and there was a muddy farmyard with a ferociously barking dog. Back again, at a snail’s pace, and this time they were more successful. Once through the gates, Oscar peered around him, trying to find landmarks, but ended up becoming more confused than ever.

  “I don’t remember any of this,” he complained, sounding as though his amnesia were all Elfrida’s fault.

  “Things change, Oscar. Things change.”

  “I can’t see a single bloody house anywhere.”

  “Well, we can’t drive round in circles for the rest of the night.”

  Elfrida was beginning to sound a little desperate. Oscar hoped she wasn’t about to lose her cool, because she had been so wonderfully calm for two days, and he didn’t think he could bear it if she became as despairing as he already felt.

  “Are you sure we’re on the right road?”

  But Oscar, by now, wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure about anything any longer. He said sadly, “Perhaps we are too old for wild-goose chases.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, of course we’re not. And it’s not a wild-goose chase, it’s a key chase. We’ve got to get the key. All we have to do is find the stupid cottage.”

  Which, in the end, of course they did. Quite by chance, turning left onto a rutted lane that seemed to lead nowhere. But instead, all at once, there was a light, shining through naked trees. They found an open gate and a short driveway leading to a single small stone house, with a single curtained window lighted from within.

  “Is this it?” Elfrida asked in doubtful tones.

  Recognizable. Remembered. Oscar breathed a sigh of relief.

  “This,” he told her, “is it.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  She turned the car in through the gate and drew up in front of the small house, the tyres scrunching on pebbly gravel. Their headlights illuminated a rural wooden porch-way, a closed door. Elfrida switched off the engine. At once, nearly frightening them both out of their wits, the quiet was ripped apart by a cacophony of deep-throated barking, and furious, eerie howls.

  Elfrida said, “For heaven’s sake.”

  “A dog,” Oscar observed.

  “A mastiff. A Rottweiler. A hound. A Baskerville hound. I’m not getting out of this car. I would prefer to keep all my limbs.”

  But then there came the sound of a human voice, raised in fury, and a slammed door. The barking stopped. In the back seat, poor patient Horace sat up and gazed in a timid fashion out of the window. It was clear that he didn’t wish to lose a limb either. They waited.

  Oscar said, “We’re just going to collect the key, and get on our way. No socializing.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  The door of the cottage was opened. Within shone the dim illumination of a small lobby. A lanky, gangling figure stood there, sagging at the knees in order to peer out beneath the low lintel, and with a hand up to shade his eyes against the glare of the car lights. Elfrida, obligingly, turned them off.

  “That you? Blundell? Been waiting …”

  The sentence was not finished, simply left hanging in the air.

  Oscar and Elfrida got out of the car, both stiff and aching with exhaustion. Oscar felt his knees creaking. The outside ah-was bitterly cold.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized, although indeed they could scarcely have arrived earlier.

  “Difficult, driving in the dark. It’s all unfamiliar. We’ve come for the key, and then …”

  He had been going to say, “… we’ll be on our way,” but Major Billicliffe overrode him.

  “Of course. Got it here. Come along in. Just going to have a sniffer. You’ll join me.”

  “Well…”

  “Splendid to see you. Been looking forward. Come in out of the cold.”

  He stood aside, holding the door open in an hospitable manner, and after a moment’s hesitation Oscar capitulated, although all he wanted was no further delay; to complete this hideous journey, get to Creagan and take possession of his house. But it seemed that they were in for a social encounter, with drinks.

  “Thank you,” he said weakly, and put out a hand to steer Elfrida in front of him.

  “This is my friend, Elfrida Phipps. She came to share the driving with me.”

  “Splendid. Splendid. Hell of a long way. Charmed to meet you, ma’am.” He took Elfrida’s hand, and for a mad moment Oscar thought he might be about to press a kiss upon it, so courtly and old-worldly was his manner.

  Elfrida said, “Hello.”

  “Now, let’s get the door closed, and shut the damned cold away. Come along….”

  They followed him into a small, low-ceilinged sitting-room, where a tiny fire in a tiled grate did little to warm the air. All seemed to be in a state of sad confusion. Sagging leather chairs, a wrinkled rug, a carpet covered in dog’s hairs, ashtrays brimming with pipe ash.

  At the back of the room was another door, behind which the enraged dog had been shut away. Whines and heavy breathing emanated from beyond, and every now and then they heard a thump and a rattle of a latch, as, frustrated beyond measure, the imprisoned brute flung his weight against the door.

  Elfrida, naturally enough, began to look a bit nervous.

  “What kind of dog is it?” she asked.

  “Labrador,” Major Billicliffe told her.

  “Dear old bitch. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Over the fire was a mantelpiece crowded with an array of objects-tarnished mugs, a golf ball, a clock which had stopped at a quarter past twelve, some dog-eared postcards and invitations, and a leather box in which Major Billicliffe kept his hearing aids. Before doing anything else, he retrieved these and proceeded to fit them into his huge red ears. Oscar and Elfrida watched, fascinated, while he made a few squeaking adjustments with the tip of his finger, before he was finally satisfied. He then turned back to them, wearing an expression of satisfaction, as though a difficult job had been well done.r />
  “That’s better. Take them out most of the time. Sometimes forget where I’ve put ‘em. Now, what can I get you?”

  He made his way across the room to where stood an old trolley on wheels, laden with bottles and with one or two smeary glasses set out on the bottom shelf.

  “Bar’s open.”

  Oscar longed for a cup of tea, but knew that that would take much longer to prepare.

  “A Scotch would be splendid. Very small. A lot of water….”

  “And the lady?”

  Elfrida looked a bit nonplussed. She, as well, was clearly longing for a hot cup of tea. But she said bravely, “A sherry?”

  “Got some somewhere. Where’s the bottle?” He held it up. It contained a very small quantity of liquid.

  “Just enough for one.”

  Pouring drinks, he talked. Oscar and Elfrida stood by the miserable fire and did not interrupt. “

  “Fraid the housekeeping’s a bit hit-and-miss these days. Wife died, you know, couple of years ago. Miss her like hell, but what can one do? I’ve got a female who’s meant to come and clean.” Oscar watched him splashing clumsily about with bottles and jugs, spilling water on the carpet, lifting a glass with a trembling hand. To look at, Major Billicliffe was something of an old wreck, knock-kneed as a horse on its way to the knacker’s yard, and with thin, stockinged legs that ended in a pair of enormous black unpolished brogues. His head was bald, sparsely covered with a few strands of grey hair, and his eyes rheumy. A tobacco-stained moustache overhung yellowed, uneven teeth. It was hard to imagine him as a dapper upright officer in any regiment of the British Army.

  “Hector rang me and said you’d be coming. Delighted. About time we had a bit of new blood about the place. How is the old boy? Funny we’ve never met before, you and I, but then, it’s years…. I’ve been here since the sixties, came straight out of the Army. Well, not quite. Did a course at Cirencester first, had to qualify. Factor. Not a job any fool can do. Good fishing. The wife found it a bit lonely.

  Didn’t fish. Walked the dogs. The old telly saved her reason.” He had achieved their drinks, and now, with a glass in either hand, came shambling over to deliver them.