Winter Solstice

by Pilcher, Rosamunde

  “Not, I hope, that you are about to leave me.”

  “No, not that. I have had a telephone call. Jeffrey’s daughter, Carrie Sutton. She has returned from Austria. She wants to come and spend Christmas with us.”

  “But we are not having Christmas.”

  “Oscar, I told her. A lamb chop for lunch and no tinsel. I told her that that was what you and I had agreed. She understands. It makes no difference to her. She says she’s not interested in Christmas either.”

  “Then let her come.”

  Elfrida hesitated.

  “There is a complication.”

  “A man?”

  “No. Jeffrey’s grandchild. Carrie’s niece. Lucy. If Carrie comes, then Lucy must come, too.”

  There was a very long silence. Oscar’s eyes turned from Elfrida’s face and gazed into the fire. For a moment he looked as old as his uncle had looked that dreadful day when Elfrida had come unexpectedly upon the old man and thought for a frightening instant that he was Oscar. She said, “I told Carrie I would have to ask you. I would have to tell you about the child.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Why does she have to come?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Elfrida shrugged.

  “Some story about her mother going to Florida for Christmas to stay with a friend, and the daughter doesn’t want to go with her. And Dodie, the grandmother, doesn’t want the child. The sort of selfish muddle that is always happening in my family.” Oscar made no comment on this. Elfrida bit her lip. She said, “I can ring Carrie and tell her no. I can tell her that it is too soon. A little girl around the place would be more than painful for you. It could be unbearable. I understand, and I shan’t think any the less of you if you say no.”

  He looked at her, his gentle features filled with affection.

  “I love your directness, Elfrida.”

  “It is the only way.”

  “If they come…”

  “I’ll say no Christmas.”

  “But the child … ?”

  “She will be with Carrie. They can do what they want. Go to church. Sing carols, give each other presents.”

  “It sounds a little bleak for a youngster.”

  “And for you, Oscar?”

  “It can make no difference. It can change nothing. You want them here, I think. Then tell them to come.”

  “You’re sure? You’re certain?” He nodded.

  “You are a dear, kind, brave man.”

  “There’s space for them?”

  “The attics are empty. Perhaps we could buy a bed, and Lucy shall sleep up there.”

  “We’ll need to buy more than a bed.”

  “Not very much more.”

  “It’s what you want. That’s all that matters. Tell them they’re welcome. Come whenever they want. They will be company for you. I’m afraid I am not very lively company.”

  “Oscar, lively company was not the point of us coming here together.”

  He drank a bit of his whisky, seemingly deep in thought. Then he said, “Telephone Carrie now. If they take the train or come by aeroplane, we can send a taxi to meet them at Inverness. If they’re driving, warn her about the snow.”

  She was filled with gratitude for his generosity of spirit. To have him sitting there mulling over such mundane details made her feel a great deal better. He was being hostly, almost as though it were he who had issued the invitation, and not had it dumped upon him. She finished her tea and pulled herself to her feet.

  “I’ll ring her. Right away.” She made for the door, and men turned back.

  “Thank you, Oscar.”

  LUCY

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 8TH

  I’ve already written down all the wonderful things that happened today, about Carrie coming back, and going out for lunch, and her saying maybe she and I can go away for Christmas somewhere. The cinema was really good, too. Well, now it is ten-thirty and I’m just going to bed. Writing this in my dressing-gown. What happened was I had a bath after supper and washed my hair, and while it was drying went into the kitchen to make a hot chocolate. Then the phone rang, and Mum came to find me and to say it was Carrie wanting to talk to me. I think they‘d already had a chat. I picked up the kitchen telephone and waited till I’d heard the click and knew Mum had put the other phone down so wasn’t going to listen. She does sometimes.

  And then Carrie told me. We are going to Scotland for Christmas. Elfrida, Grandpa’s cousin, is staying there with a friend and they both want us to go. It’s a place called Creagan, and they say the house is quite big. It is so exciting, I could burst. Carrie says it’s too far to drive in the middle of winter, so we’re going to fly to Inverness and then a taxi will meet us and drive us the rest of the way. We’re going on December 15th, and she’s already booked seats.

  Elfrida’s friend is called Oscar, but Carrie doesn’t know what he’s like because she’s never met him.

  I said, had she told Mum and Gran, and she said no. And I said would I tell them, and she said no again, because Gran never much approved of Elfrida and it would be better if Carrie told them herself, so she’s coming over some time tomorrow to break the news and calm Gran down if she starts being difficult. Mum won’t say a word, because all she can think about is Randall and Florida.

  I asked Carrie what I should pack, and she said fur coats and snow-shoes, but of course that was just a joke.

  I can’t believe I am going to Scotland.

  I am already counting the days.

  Carrie says it probably won’t be very Christmassy on account of Oscar and Elfrida being so old. But compared with going away with Carrie, Christmas doesn‘t matter a bit, and I never liked Christmas pudding much anyway. She says there is a beach, and the North Sea.

  I simply can’t wait.

  ELFRIDA

  Now, Saturday morning and Elfrida was the first downstairs. She had dressed in thick corduroy trousers and two sweaters and was glad of these when she opened the back door to let Horace out into the garden. During the night, there had been a deep frost. All was iced and sparkling, and her footsteps left marks on the thick, crunchy grass of the little lawn. It was not yet light, and she and the dog emerged into the glow of a street lamp which lighted the stepped lane that led up the hill. Horace hated the cold, so she stayed with him, waiting while he nosed to and fro, shot up to the top of the garden where he smelt a rabbit, and took much time in finding exactly the right spot to do his wees. Standing freezing cold and trying to be patient, she looked up at the sky, and saw it turning sapphire-blue and quite clear. In the east, over the sea, the glow of dawn was a streak of pink, although the sun had yet to edge its way over the horizon. It was, she decided, going to be a fine day, and was grateful. They had had enough of grey skies, howling winds, and rain.

  Finally Horace was done, and they scurried indoors, to the warmth, and Elfrida slammed shut the door behind her. Then she put the kettle on, found the frying-pan and the bacon. She laid the table with a checked cloth, and cups and saucers. She cracked two eggs. Oscar enjoyed a cooked breakfast, and although Elfrida did not eat it with him, she relished the smell of bacon frying.

  Cautiously, she made toast. Making toast in this old-fashioned kitchen was something of a hazard, because the toaster was elderly and past its best, and behaved accordingly. Sometimes it popped up two quite reasonable, nicely browned slices. Other times, it regurgitated two uncooked slices of bread. But if in a bad temper, it forgot to turn itself off, with the result that the kitchen was filled with dark smoke, and the blackened crusts on offer were so disgusting that not even the seagulls would eat them.

  Every now and then Elfrida told herself that they should buy a new toaster. There was a small shop in the High Street, William G. Croft Electrical Goods, its windows filled with microwaves, hair dryers, steam irons, and waffle makers, along with a number of other gadgets that Elfrida could happily live without. But a toaster was essential. One day she had gone into William G. Croft�
��s to price the cheapest, but quailed at the expense, and departed without having made a purchase.

  It was all a bit difficult, because without the little income engendered by her home industry of stitching cushions, she found herself chronically short of money, and Mondays, when she could go to the post office and collect her old age pension, couldn’t come around quickly enough. She supposed that the sensible thing to do would be to find a tenant for Poulton’s Row, and rent this out on a quarterly basis, thus ensuring a small trickle of cash, but the logistics of achieving this, organizing from Sutherland a let in Hampshire, were too much, and so the tentative idea was abandoned. As for Oscar, she had no idea whether or not he was in the same dilemma and was not about to ask. Probably he had a little bit put by, a stock or a share, but she knew that it was Gloria who had footed the bills for the day-to-day expenses incurred by the lush and generous lifestyle of the Grange.

  So she struggled on with the old inherited toaster, having decided that if she did find herself with a bit of spare cash, she preferred to spend it on books or flowers.

  Today, it was in a good mood, and the smell of bacon mingled with the scent of fresh hot coffee. Coffee was most important. She was sitting at the table drinking her first cup when Oscar came downstairs to join her, and at once Elfrida noticed his appearance. Normally, he wore a thick shirt under a warm pullover. Very informal. No necktie. But this morning he had put on, not only one of his better shirts, but a tie, a waistcoat, and his good tweed jacket.

  She eyed him in some astonishment.

  “You’re looking very smart.”

  “Thank you. I’m pleased you noticed.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  He retrieved his plate of bacon and eggs from the hot plate where she had left it to keep warm.

  “Because it’s Saturday?”

  “Not good enough.”

  “Because I must not allow myself to become a shabby, shambling old wreck.”

  “Putting on a tie isn’t going to make that much difference.”

  He sat down, and she poured his coffee.

  “Thank you. No, you’re quite right. I have made a small effort, because I am going calling.”

  Elfrida was genuinely surprised, but took great pains not to show this. She was also intrigued.

  “Who are you going to call on?”

  “Rose Miller.”

  “Who is Rose Miller?”

  “A very old friend.”

  “You’ve never mentioned her. Should I be jealous?”

  “I don’t think so. She must be eighty-five if she’s a day. She was my grandmother’s parlour maid She lives on the Corrydale estate in a very small cottage with a thatched roof. I am going to go and pay my respects.”

  “Why have you suddenly decided to go and see your grandmother’s parlour maid You’ve been keeping such a low profile, anyone might think you’re an escaped fugitive.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Oh, dear Oscar, I’m absolutely delighted. But I don’t entirely understand your change of heart.”

  He set down his coffee-cup. When he spoke again, his voice was different, no longer bantering. He said, “It was yesterday. Meeting that man. Peter Kennedy, the minister. Behaving so stupidly, so rudely. And there’s another thing. During the last few weeks, I’ve thought of myself as anonymous, but of course I’m not. If Peter Kennedy knows about me, then so will many other people. They’re just too polite and thoughtful to come banging on our door. This is a small place and news spreads like wildfire. By now Rose Miller is bound to have heard I’ve come back. And she will be intensely hurt if I don’t get in touch with her. So I have decided to go. I shall buy her a bunch of flowers from Arthur Snead, and together she and I will take a trip down Memory Lane. You don’t need the car, do you?”

  “No. That is the best of living here. I can walk across the square to the supermarket, I can walk down the street to the butcher, and on the way home I can go into the bookshop and browse. If I felt so inclined, I could have a little foray into the antique shop, and come back with a Victorian teapot. Or even have my hair tweaked.”

  “Do you mean there’s actually a hairdresser in Creagan?”

  “Of course. Over the barber’s shop. Where else?”

  She leaned across the table to remove his empty plate, and to pour herself her second cup of coffee. The gingham curtains were still drawn, so she pulled them back, and saw the lightening sky.

  Suddenly, she felt more cheerful than she had for a long time. Things, slowly, were looking up. The day would be fine. Icily cold, but fine. Oscar was going calling, and next week, Carrie and Lucy Wesley would be here. Thinking about it, she decided that perhaps yesterday had been the turning point, although she had not recognized it as such.

  “I shall go for a walk,” Oscar had announced.

  “Stretch my legs, and get some fresh air. I’ll take Horace with me.” Elfrida, clearly, was neither expected nor invited to join them. Which was just as well, because she had no wish to go out, tramping through the wind and the rain. She managed not to show her surprise, and simply told him to wrap up warmly against the bitter weather.

  But, perhaps fortuitously, Oscar had met this man, this Peter Kennedy. And, for whatever reason, had been engaged in conversation, and treated with friendliness and hospitality. The fact that, like a dog biting the feeding hand, Oscar had panicked and walked out on him was probably of less consequence to Peter Kennedy than it was to Oscar, who had been, clearly, much ashamed of his behaviour. Perhaps, during the night, he had lain awake, filled with remorse. Perhaps going to visit old Rose Miller was a way of reparation, las first voluntary step back into the company of others.

  “What time will you go, Oscar?” She brought her cup ; back to the table.

  “To keep your assignation with Rose?”

  “It’s not an assignation, because she doesn’t know I’m coming.”

  “Yes, but assignation sounds so much more exciting.”

  “I thought about half past ten. Would you consider that a suitable time?”

  “Perfect. She’ll be up and about, and she will give you a cup of tea and perhaps a biscuit.” She drank her coffee.

  “Maybe, while you’re at Corrydale, you should look in on Major Billicliffe.”

  “I hoped you wouldn’t say that.”

  “Oh, Oscar, you are being feeble. He’s a harmless old git, and probably dreadfully lonely. It’s unkind to go on living here and just pretending he doesn’t exist. After all, he was all ready with the key, and a rather dim little drink.” Oscar, silent, did not look enthusiastic.

  “You could just drop in, casually, to pass the time of day. Perhaps ask him along for a drink or something when Carrie and Lucy are here. You could say it was a party.”

  Cunningly, Oscar steered the discussion off at a tangent.

  “When are they coming?”

  “Friday. I told you. They’re flying to Inverness on Friday morning, and I’ve asked the taxi-man to go and get them.”

  “I didn’t know we had a taxi-man.”

  “Alec Dobbs.”

  “I thought Alec Dobbs was the undertaker.”

  “He is, but he does taxis as well.”

  “Useful fellow.”

  Elfrida sipped her coffee. She had now forgotten about Major Billicliffe and was thinking instead about Carrie’s and Lucy’s arrival.

  “There isn’t much time, is there? I’ll have to get around to finding some furniture for the attic. There must be a second-hand shop around somewhere. I shall make inquiries.”

  “Whom will you ask?”

  “The butcher? Or the news agent?”

  “Or the undertaker?”

  “Mrs. Snead, of course! Mrs. Snead will be bound to know….”

  This fascinating discussion might have gone on forever had they not been disturbed by the shrilling ring of the front-door bell, which caused Horace, startled out of his wits, to sit up in his basket and bark with agitation.

 
Elfrida shushed him, and went out of the kitchen and down the hall. The doorbell had been the postman, and there were two letters on the mat. Which seemed another good omen, because they had scarcely had any correspondence delivered since the day they arrived.

  She stooped and picked up the letters and carried them back to Oscar.

  “One is for you, typed and business-like, and probably from your bank manager. And the other is for me.”

  “Now it’s my turn to be jealous.”

  “I don’t think so.” She felt for her spectacles in the pocket of her sweater and put them on. She eyed the envelope suspiciously.

  “Rather neat, spiky old writing.” She picked up a knife and slit the envelope and took out the letter. She turned the page over to find the signature, and smiled.

  “Oscar, it’s from Hector. That dear old man, writing to us.” She sat down and unfolded the thick blue paper.

  “And a chequel A cheque for five hundred pounds.”

  Oscar’s jaw fell.

  “Five hundred pounds? Are you sure?”

  “See for yourself. Made out to you.” She handed it over. He stared at it in some bewilderment, and then said, “Perhaps you’d better find out what it’s all about.”

  So Elfrida read aloud.

  “My dear Oscar and Elfrida, “I have not written before, because I wanted to give you both time to settle in. I trust you had a safe journey and found the Estate House in good condition.

  “I have to confess that, after you left, I felt impelled to write a letter to Peter Kennedy, the minister of the parish church in Creagan. I know your desire for privacy and anonymity, to give you the opportunity to come to terms with the tragedy which you have suffered. But I could not help worrying about you, and Peter is a good man, and a good friend, and I knew I could trust him to keep your sad circumstances to himself. He was a regular visitor to Corrydale before I handed it over to Hughie, and I much enjoyed his company and his keen mind. I expect he will be in touch, and would like you to accept his concern, and possible offer of comfort.