Winter Solstice

by Pilcher, Rosamunde

  Holding it close, he slept.

  Tuesday, December 12th.

  The next morning dawned a day of dismal weather. The sparkle of the big freeze was drowned in showers of sleety rain, driven in from the sea, and the street was filled with bobbing wet umbrellas. At midday, the huge gritting lorry appeared, trundling back to its depot, with snow crusted beneath its mudguards and windscreen wipers going full-tilt.

  Elfrida had bought herself a notebook, and over lunch, which was soup and some Stilton she had found in the supermarket, she made lists.

  “I’ve got to think of everything,” she told Oscar importantly.

  “There isn’t time for forgetting. They’ll be here on Friday. Do you think Lucy will want a dressing-table?”

  Oscar, who was trying to do The Times crossword puzzle, set it nobly aside and removed his spectacles, as though the better to think.

  But “I have no idea” was all he could come up with.

  “And a bed, of course….”

  With some effort, he applied himself to the problem.

  “A wardrobe?”

  “We’d never get a wardrobe under those combed ceilings. Some hooks on the wall would do.” She wrote, in her notebook. Hooks.

  “And coathangers.” She wrote Coathangers.

  Oscar sat back in his chair and watched her with amusement. He had never seen Elfrida so focused and organized. For a moment she reminded him, in the nicest possible way, of Gloria; planning and plotting and writing lists and making things happen.

  “When does Mrs. Kennedy come?”

  “Half past two, she said she’d be here. I said I’d drive her in your car. You don’t need it, do you?”

  “No.”

  “If you felt frightfully energetic, you could take Horace for a walk.”

  Oscar, hedging, said, “I’ll see,” and went back to his crossword.

  But when Tabitha Kennedy arrived, Elfrida was up at the top of the garden, un pegging a line of wet washing which should never have been pegged out in the first place. So, when the doorbell rang, it was Oscar who went downstairs to open the door.

  She was booted and rain coated but her head was bare, and her dark hair blew in the wind. She put up a hand to push a strand from her cheek, “Hello. I’m Tabitha.”

  “Of course. Come in out of the wet. Elfrida won’t be a moment, she’s getting a lot of wet clothes off the line. I’m Oscar Blundell.”

  “I know.” She had a lovely smile.

  “How do you do.” They shook hands.

  “I hope I’m not too early.”

  “Not at all. Come upstairs, it’s more comfortable than standing around here.”

  He led the way, and she followed, chatting as though she had known him forever.

  “Isn’t it disappointing, the rain, after all that lovely frosty weather? There’ve been burst pipes all over the place and the plumber’s run off his feet.” In the sitting-room, the fire burnt brightly, and a pot of Arthur Snead’s forced hyacinths filled the air with their fragrance.

  “Oh, aren’t they heaven. They really smell of spring, don’t they? I said to Elfrida we’d have to go in your car, but Peter’s at home today, so he let me bring our car. Anything rather than come shopping with me. He hates shopping more than anything.”

  “I sympathize. It’s very good of you to help Elfrida out.”

  “I’ll love it. I adore spending other people’s money. We’ll probably be quite late back. The market won’t close till five, and by then we’ll both be ready for a restoring cup of tea.”

  Downstairs, a door slammed, and Elfrida’s footsteps came running up the stairs. She appeared at the door in her blanket coat and her tea-cosy hat.

  “Tabitha, I am sorry; have you been waiting? It’s on days like this that I long for an electric dryer. But only on days like this. Now, I just have to get my bag, and my list, and the car keys….”

  “You don’t need them,” Tabitha told her.

  “I’m driving you.”

  They departed at last, in some excitement, reminding Oscar of a couple of young girls setting off to enjoy themselves. He stood at the window and watched them go, getting into the well-worn estate car, slamming doors, fixing seat-belts, moving away across the square and out of sight.

  He was alone. Horace slept by the fire. Aware of his own procrastination, Oscar made another attempt to finish the crossword, but was defeated and laid the newspaper aside. There were other things, he knew, that he had to do. He pulled himself out of his chair and went across the room to the heavy oak table which stood against the wall opposite the fireplace, and which he used as a desk. He made space, pushing aside a file or two and his briefcase, and settled down to write two long-overdue letters. One was to Hector McLennan, thanking him for his generosity, and doing his best to sound positive and reassuring. The second was to Mrs. Muswell, who had looked after Oscar during the worst time, and whom he had abandoned so abruptly. The memory of her standing, weeping, at the door of the Grange as he and Elfrida drove away had been pricking his conscience ever since. Now, he assured her that he was well, thanked her for her loyalty, and said that he hoped she had found other congenial employment. He sent his best wishes. He signed his name.

  He folded the letters, addressed envelopes, found stamps. They were ready for posting.

  Peter’s at home today.

  Now.

  He went out of the room, where, on the landing, stood the telephone. He found the phone book, looked up the number, memorized it, and punched the digits. He heard the ringing tone, but only once, as though the instrument stood on a desk, at a man’s elbow, ready for instant response.

  “Creagan Manse.” The warm, familiar voice.

  “Peter Kennedy.”

  At half past five, Oscar, bundled up and hatted, let himself out of the Estate House and set off on the stepped lane that led up the hill. Elfrida and Tabitha Kennedy had not yet returned, so he left the light burning in the hall, as a welcome for when they eventually came home. And a note for Elfrida on the kitchen table. Gone out for a while. 1 shan’t be late. He left Horace as well, having done his duty and taken the dog for a walk and fed him his biscuits and lambs’ hearts. Lambs’ hearts, for Horace were the treat of all time, and he had guzzled the lot and then retired to his basket for a snooze.

  He walked between high walls and garden trees. It was very dark, an overcast evening, but the wind had dropped and a drizzling rain fell. At the top of the lane, a steepish climb, he paused to get his breath, and then continued on his way along the footpath that leaned up against the slope of the hill. The town dropped below him. He looked down on the other gardens, rooftops, the lines of the streets marked with lamps. In the tower of the church, the clock face shone like a full moon.

  A little farther on-by now his eyes had adjusted to the darkness-and he could make out the long line of the distant coast, stretched like an arm out to sea, and holding in its fingers the intermittent pinprick signal of the lighthouse. There were no stars.

  A gate led out into a wide road, lined on the right-hand side by large stone-built Victorian houses set in spacious gardens. The first house was the Manse. Oscar remembered its location from sixty years ago, when he was sometimes brought for tea by his grandmother, and to play with the then-incumbent’s children. He remembered the house and the family who lived there, but had forgotten all their names.

  A light burnt over the door. He went up the path, sea-pebbles crunching beneath the soles of his boots. The front door had been painted bright blue. He pressed the bell.

  Suddenly he shivered. He told himself that it was because of the cold and the damp.

  He heard the inner door open, and then the blue door was flung wide, and he was dazzled by light. Peter Kennedy stood there, warm with welcome. He wore a thick polo-neck sweater and a pair of worn corduroys and looked comfortingly un churchly “Oscar! Come away in.” He looked over Oscar’s shoulder.

  “Did you not bring your car?”

  “No. I walked
.”

  “Good man.”

  He went indoors, into the hall. Saw the Turkish carpet, the fumed-oak hall-stand, the antique cist on which stood a neat stack of parish magazines. A riding hat had been dumped on the newel-post of the banister, and on the bottom stair stood a pair of football boots and a stack of clean and folded laundry. All left there, Oscar guessed, until the next obliging person would collect them and bear them upstairs.

  “… take your coat off. The children are both out, so we’ve got the place to ourselves. I’ve a fire on in my study. I’ve had an afternoon of it, catching up on paperwork and writing a long-overdue article for The Sutherland Times? Oscar divested himself of gloves, jacket, and hat, and Peter Kennedy took them from him and laid them on an impressive oak chair, which looked as though it might, at one time, have seated a bishop.

  “Now, come along in….”

  He led the way into his study, a bow-windowed front room which had probably been intended as the dining-room of the original house. It was thickly curtained against the dreich evening, and softly lit by three lamps-one on the huge littered desk, and two more burning on either side of the fire, where stood two ancient leather armchairs. Walls were lined with shelves of books, and after the airy emptiness of the Estate House, all felt safe and dark and warm. A bit like going back to the womb.

  As well, there was a marvelous smell, which Oscar finally traced to the chunks of carefully stacked peat smouldering in the fire basket.

  He said, “A peat-fire. I’d forgotten about peat. Sometimes when I put the dog out at night, I can smell the smoke from chimneys. I must try and get hold of some, just for that smell.”

  “I’m very fortunate; one of my parishioners has his own peat-patch, and he keeps me supplied. Now come and sit down and make yourself comfortable. Would you like a cup of coffee?” Oscar did not immediately reply, and Peter looked at his watch.

  “A quarter to six. We could jump the gun, and enjoy a glass of Laphroaig. I keep it, but only for special occasions.”

  Malt whisky. Laphroaig. Irresistible.

  “I think I’d like that more than anything.”

  “I thought you might, so I am prepared.” And Oscar saw on the desk-along with a word processor, a stack of books, papers in some disarray, and a telephone-a small tray, neatly set with the bottle of Laphroaig, two small tumblers, and a jug of water. So much for the coffee. He was touched.

  “The girls aren’t back yet?”

  “No.” Oscar lowered himself into one of the chairs, which was surprisingly soft and comfortable. Above him, in the centre of the mantelpiece, stood a clock, the sort that is presented to retiring ministers or schoolmasters after forty years of loyal service. It had a soft, solid tick, smooth and sweet as a carefully set metronome.

  “I think they planned on treating themselves to a tea-party once they’d finished their shopping.”

  “I’m sure. I hope they were successful.” Carrying the two glasses, Peter handed Oscar his drink, and then settled down in the other armchair, facing his visitor. He raised his glass.

  “Slainte.”

  “Good health.”

  The Laphroaig was like nectar. Clean, delicious, slipping down his throat. Warming.

  Peter went on.

  “Buddy’s rather a depressing town at the moment. Most of the people are unemployed. The woollen mill went to the wall, and for skilled weavers and spinners, there is little alternative work.”

  Oscar frowned.

  “The woollen mill? Not McTaggarts?”

  “Yes. McTaggarts.”

  “Gone bust? I had no idea. Astonishing. It’s like being told the Rock of Gibraltar has crumbled. What happened?”

  Peter told him.

  “The old man died, the sons weren’t interested. The workforce got a bit of financial help, a grant, and took it over themselves. They were doing all right, and then we had a spell of dreadful weather, the river burst its banks, and the place was flooded. Everything lost, destroyed.”

  Oscar was appalled.

  “Is that the end of it, then?”

  “There’s some word of a take-over. One of those big textile conglomerates. Sturrock and Swinfield. From London. But so far, nothing very much seems to have happened, and the people in Buddy are beginning to fear the worst. Which is, that nothing is ever going to happen.”

  “What a tragedy.” Oscar frowned.

  “I can’t think why I haven’t heard about this before. I suppose … just now… I don’t read the newspapers properly, and certainly not the City pages. And here, I only take The Times and The Telegraph, so I don’t get the local news. As well, I haven’t talked to many people. Except Mrs. Snead. That, of course, is why I am here. To apologize to you. I should have come before, but I didn’t.”

  “Please. Don’t feel bad. I realized that I had taken you unawares, and I should have waited for a more suitable occasion to make myself known to you. I hope you weren’t too upset”

  “I don’t know what came over me. It was ridiculous.”

  “Please, think no more of it. No harm has been done. Another time, you must join me there, for tea, or for a drink, or whatever you want. The best would be if you felt like joining the club, and then, when the good weather starts again, we could have a game. You do play?”

  “I used to play with my grandmother when I was a boy, but I was never much good, even then.”

  “I’d be delighted to give you a game.”

  “I have no clubs.”

  “We’ll borrow some from the pro. It’s such a splendid course, it would be sad to live here and not experience at least one round. Your grandmother was a good golfer. When I came here, I heard a lot about her prowess. She was Lady Champion two years running. One way or another she must, by all accounts, have been an exceptional lady.”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “And musical, too.”

  “Yes. And an inspired gardener. She was extremely accomplished.” Oscar took another sip of the Laphroaig, and then set the glass down on the table beside him, where it glowed like a jewel in the soft light of the lamp. He said, “Godfrey Billicliffe also invited me to join the Golf Club. But I’m afraid, at mat particular moment, we were in the throes of a rather traumatic encounter. Both Elfrida and I were exhausted after our long journey. All we wanted was to get the key of our house and escape. I’m afraid we were very offhand.”

  “He can be daunting. I understand. I understand, as well, that you drove him to hospital yesterday morning.”

  “How did you know that?”

  Peter Kennedy smiled.

  “There are few secrets in this small community. No, don’t worry; it wasn’t idle gossip. Dr. Sinclair rang me to put me in the picture. It was very good of you.”

  “Did you know he was ill?”

  “No. I don’t think anybody knew. He’s been something of a problem ever since his wife died-gone downhill at a frightening pace. Lonely, I think, but too proud to admit it, and none of us had the nerve to suggest that he sell up and move into the Old People’s Home.”

  “My stepsons exhorted me to go into a retirement home in Hampshire, but that was because they had inherited their mother’s house and wanted me out of the way so that they could put it up for sale. I found the notion dire. Like the beginning of the end.”

  “How did you guess there was something amiss?”

  “I went to see Rose Miller. On the way home, I heard Billicliffe’s dog howling. So I called in. To set my mind at rest, I suppose. Both Elfrida and I had been feeling rather bad about the old boy. And I found him upstairs in bed, obviously very poorly. He was frightened, too. Frightened of the prospect of ambulances or helicopters. He seemed so dreadfully alone. Saying I’d drive him to Inverness in my car was the least I could do.”

  “I have to go to Inverness on Friday for a meeting with the moderator. I’ll pop into the hospital and pay a visit. See how he’s getting on….”

  “I said I would stand as his next of kin. So my name and telepho
ne number are on all the countless forms we had to fill in, and I imagine that if there is any news, then I shall be informed.”

  “Well. Keep me in touch.”

  “Of course.”

  “Now. Tell me about your uncle. Hector. How is Hector?”

  “Growing older. Living in London. He came down to see 2/6 me after… after the funeral. He didn’t come to the funeral, because he’d had flu and his doctor, very rightly, forbade him. It was Hector who suggested that I leave Hampshire and come back here….”

  “I know, Oscar. He wrote me a long letter. I was so dreadfully sorry. I wanted to come right away, to talk with you, and to let you know that if there was anything I could do … could say. But my instinct told me mat for the time being you needed to be on your own. I hope you didn’t get the impression that I was either uncaring or inattentive.”

  “No. I didn’t think that.”

  “Sometimes … just to talk. To a stranger. A person disassociated … is very often easier.”

  “Like confiding in a man met on a train journey. A man you know you will never see again.”

  “Not entirely.” Peter smiled.

  “Because I hope you will see me again.”

  “It’s difficult to know where to start. It all seems to go a long way back.”

  “Life tends to.”

  “I never thought I should be married. I thought, always, that I would remain a bachelor all my life. I had my work, as a schoolmaster, teaching piano and training the choir. For company, other masters and their wives. My passion was music. The school was Glastonbury, a lesser-known public school, but excellent for all that. I was very happy there. And then I grew older, and the headmaster retired, and a new, younger man came to take his place. The head had always been a close friend, and although his replacement was perfectly competent, pleasant, and traditional, I decided, after a year, that the time had come for a change. As well, I had been offered the post as organist and choirmaster at Saint Biddulph’s in London. I thought about it for a bit, but not very long. The music at Saint Biddulph’s had always been renowned for its excellence, and the choir was secure, funded by a generous endowment that had been made by a grateful parishioner some years before. So I changed direction and moved to London. I lived in a comfortable, spacious flat on the second floor of an old terraced house, only live minutes or so from the church, and the ladies of the parish made certain that I had a competent housekeeper and was well cared for.