Winter Solstice

by Pilcher, Rosamunde

  “Hello, there,” he said when he saw her. He had a very Highland voice, but he was quite young, with a wind-burnt face and gingery eyebrows, like caterpillars.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Lucy Wesley. I’m staying here.”

  “That’s nice. Now, where’s the invalid?”

  “She’s upstairs….”

  Elfrida was hanging over the banister.

  “Dr. Sinclair. You are a saint to come.” He climbed the stair, but Lucy did not follow him. Instead, she went back into the kitchen, where Mrs. Snead was sorting laundry for the clothes washer. That the doctor come? I ‘ope it’s not serious.”

  “I thought it was just a cold. She felt rotten flying up, I know. It’s so miserable for her.”

  “Oh, cheer up, she’ll be all right. Now, would you like to do something for me?

  “Op upstairs and bring down the towels in Mrs. Phipps’s bathroom. And then I’ll give you the clean ones to put in their place.”

  Dr. Sinclair did not take long. He and Elfrida went into Carrie’s room, and Lucy, collecting towels, heard their voices behind the closed door. It was reassuring to have him here, but she hoped that he would not diagnose some sinister bug, an illness that would demand antibiotics and two weeks in bed. When he had finished with Carrie, he and Elfrida did not at once come downstairs, but went into the drawing-room, to talk to Oscar.

  Lucy, having finished her laundry duties, hung about for a bit in the hall, and then could wait no longer, and went to join them. The three of them were sitting on the window-seat, talking about somebody called Major Billicliffe. Major Billicliffe, it seemed, was in hospital in Inverness and very ill. They all wore rather long faces. And then Elfrida turned and saw her standing in the open door, and smiled.

  “Don’t look so worried, Lucy.”

  The doctor got to his feet.

  “Is Carrie all right?” Lucy asked him.

  “Yes, she’ll be all right. All she needs is a bit of rest. Sleep and lots of drinks, and I’ve left a prescription for that cough. Leave her in peace, and she’ll be up and about in a couple of days.”

  Lucy was much relieved.

  “Can I go and see her?”

  “I’d leave her for a moment.”

  Elfrida said, “Why don’t you take Horace for his exploring walk?”

  “Where are you going, Lucy?” the doctor asked.

  “I thought along the beach.”

  “Are you interested in birds?”

  “I don’t know their names.”

  “There are beautiful birds on the beach. I’m calling in tomorrow to see your aunt, so I’ll bring my bird book with me, and then you can look them up.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not at all. Not at all. Well, I must be off. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Blundell. Goodbye, Mrs. Phipps.”

  And he was away, running downstairs, letting himself out, slamming the front door shut behind him. Lucy, looking from the window, saw him get into his car and drive off to his next call. There was a dog on the passenger seat, gazing from the window. A big springer spaniel with floppy ears. And she decided it must be nice, being a country GP and having a dog in your car.

  Mrs. Snead was right. It was a daunting sort of day, though not actually raining. Which was odd, because the weekend had been so soft and still, and Oscar had been able to have his bonfire. With Horace on his lead, Lucy let herself out of the Estate House, went through the gate, and set off across the square, and then turned up the road that led to the Golf Club. There were not very many golfers around, and only a few cars in the park. The right-of-way led across the links, curving up and over the natural undulations of the land, and when she reached a shallow summit she saw the whole horizon, cold and still as steel, and a great arc of sky, grey with low cloud. It was half-tide, and small waves washed up onto the shining wet sand. Far away, she could see the lighthouse, and when she reached the little car-park, flocks of kittiwakes were pecking over the rubbish bins, as though expecting crusts or stale sandwiches. Horace saw them and, of course, barked, and they all fluttered off, pretending to be frightened, flew around for a moment, and then settled down again to their scavenging.

  Lucy unclipped Horace’s lead and he ran ahead of her, down the ramp and onto the sands. In the shelter of the dunes the sand was deep and soft and difficult for walking, so she went out onto the wet hard sand, and looking back, saw her own footsteps, with Horace’s footpads circling them, like a line of stitching.

  There were rocks, and small rock-pools at the point, and then the big beach, curving northwards. Ahead, a long way off, the hills folded in on each other, grey and forbidding, and dusted with snow. The sky beyond them was dark as a purple bruise, and she felt the light wind on her face, so cold it was like opening a deep freeze.

  She was alone. Not another soul, not another dog on the beach. Only birds skimming over the shallow breakers.

  In this enormous, empty, airy world, she saw herself tiny as an ant, reduced to total unimportance by the sweep and size of nature. A nonentity. She rather liked the feeling of being without identity, of knowing that nobody knew exactly where she was, and that if she met somebody, they wouldn’t know who she was. So, she belonged to nobody but herself. She walked hard, keeping warm, pausing only every now and then to pick up a scallop shell or a particularly eye catching pebble or shard of glass worn smooth by the sea. She put these treasures in her pocket. Then Horace found a long piece of seaweed, which he carried in his mouth like a trophy. Lucy tried to get it from him, and it turned into a game, with Horace running and Lucy chasing. She found a stick and flung it into the waves, and Horace forgot about the seaweed and dropped it, and went galloping into the water, only to discover that it was too cold and wet for comfort before beating a startled retreat.

  The beach ended at another outcrop of rocks, with pools and crannies of pebbles, and there was a strong reek of seaweed. Lucy paused to get her bearings. Hillocky dunes separated the beach from the golf links, and as she hesitated, trying to decide which way to go next, Lucy heard the sound of a motor and saw, above the rocks, a tractor come trundling towards her, over a rise. The tractor pulled a bogie, so it wasn’t moving very fast. But clearly, there had to be a sort of road. She decided that she would walk home that way, and with some difficulty hauled her way up a sandy cliff and into the dunes. Horace bounded ahead of her, and out of sight. The dunes made a little hill, thick with rough grass and rushes, and reaching the summit, she saw the track.

  Horace was already down there, waiting for her. But not looking Lucy’s way. He had, it was obvious, sensed strangers. He stood, ears pricked, with his plumy tail up like a flag. Watching. Lucy looked, and saw, coming up the slope from the direction of the town, another dog walker, striding out in purposeful manner. She was dressed in boots, thick trousers, and a sheepskin coat, and wore a tam-o’-shanter slanted at a cocky angle over cropped grey hair. Her dog, running free, spied Horace and stopped dead. The two animals eyed each other for a long moment, and Lucy was all at once petrified with dread, because the other dog was a Rottweiler.

  “Horace.” She had meant to call him, but her mouth was dry, and his name came out in an agonized whisper.

  Horace either didn’t hear her, or pretended not to. And then, stupid mutt that he was, began to bark. The Rottweiler slowly moved forward, his shining body tense, muscles flexed. A snarling sound came from deep in his throat, and his dark lips rolled back from his teeth. Horace, holding his ground, gave another timid bark, and with that, the Rottweiler pounced.

  Lucy screamed. Horace screamed as well, a dog-scream that sounded like a howl for help. He was being flattened, bitten, and bruised, and however he struggled, could not escape.

  The dog’s owner was of no use at all. She had a chain leash in her hand, but it was obvious that she was too wary to start manhandling her pet while he was in this frame of mind. Instead she produced a pea whistle, which she blew sharply, and proceeded to shout orders, like a sergeant-major.
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br />   “Brutus! Brutus! Down, boy! Down! To heel!…”

  The Rottweiler took absolutely no notice whatsoever.

  “Brutus!”

  “Get hold of him,” Lucy wailed, hysterical with horror. Horace, Elfrida’s darling dog, was about to be murdered.

  “Do something. Stop him!”

  She had forgotten about the approaching tractor. Now, like the cavalry in some old Western, it trundled into view, in the nick of time; the door was flung open, the driver jumped down and, sprinting the last few yards and without showing ; (he slightest fear or hesitation, went straight into action, tending his heavy boot into the muscled backside of the Rottweiler.

  “Get off, you bloody brute!” The startled Rottweiler abandoned Horace and turned to attack this new enemy, but the young man grabbed his studded collar and, with some strength, hauled him away from his prey.

  Lucy, in a thousand years, could never have imagined any person being so level-headed, strong, and brave.

  “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded of the dog’s owner, grabbing the chain leash from her hand and somehow clipping it to the collar of the snarling, struggling beast. He then dragged the animal towards her, and she took the leather loop in both her hands.

  There then followed the most stupendous row.

  “Don’t you swear at me-”

  “Why didn’t you keep the dog on its chain?”

  “He was attacked” Now that danger was over, she became belligerent. Her voice was not the voice of Sutherland. In fact, she sounded as though she came from Liverpool or Manchester.

  “He was no such thing. I saw it all-”

  “There’s no harm in Brutus unless he’s attacked….” She was having a terrible time trying to control her dog and became quite red in the face with effort.

  “He’s a monster-”

  “Roobish!”

  “Where do you live?”

  “And what’s that got to do with you, young man?”

  “Because if you lived here, you’d know better than to walk a savage dog on a public footpath.”

  “I do not live here,” said the woman, as though this were something to be proud of.

  “I’m a visitor. Staying with my sister in her caravan.”

  “Well, go back to her caravan, and take your dog and shut him up.”

  “Don’t speak to me in that tone of voice.”

  “I’ll speak to you any way I like. I work for the Golf Club; I’m one of the staff.”

  “Oh, hoity-toity, are you….”

  “Take that dog and go. Just go. If I see him running free again, I’ll report you to the police.”

  “And I shall complain of impudence-” But at this point, Brutus took charge. He had spied two innocent golfers striding down the fairway, and with his blood up, and a desperate need to sink his teeth into some other throat, set off on the hunt. His owner, willy-nilly, went too, trailed in his wake, her short, trousered legs going like pistons.

  “Never been so insulted,” she threw back over her shoulder. Clearly a woman who liked to have the last word.

  “I’m not forgetting this….” They heard no more. She was out of earshot, and her voice blown away by the wind.

  She was gone.

  Lucy, by now, was sitting on the wet, prickly grass with Horace gathered up in her arms, his head pressed against the front of her new red jacket. The young man came to kneel beside her. She saw that he was very young, his face wind-burnt, his eyes blue. He had short yellow hair which looked as though he had dyed it, and there was a gold ring in his left ear.

  He said, “Are you all right?” And Lucy, to her eternal shame, burst into tears.

  “Yes … but Horace Here.” Gently he touched and examined poor Horace, stroked the long hair off his face, making comforting, murmuring noises as he did so.

  “I think he’ll be all right. Just superficial cuts and bruises.”

  “He only barked” Lucy sobbed.

  “He always barks. He’s so stupid. I thought he was going to be dead.”

  “Lucky he isn’t.”

  Lucy sniffed. She couldn’t find a handkerchief. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  “He’s not even my dog. He’s Elfrida’s. We just came for a walk.”

  “Where from?”

  “Creagan.”

  “I’ll take you back in the tractor. I can take you as far as flje clubhouse. Can you walk from there?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Well done. Come along then.”

  He helped her to her feet, stopped to lift Horace up, and, carrying him, led the way back to the tractor. This he had abandoned with doors open and the engine throbbing. Lucy clambered up into the cab. There was only one seat, but she perched herself on the very edge of this, and Horace was placed at her feet, where he sat and leaned heavily against her knee. Then the young man jumped up beside her, slammed the door shut, and put the tractor in gear. Lurching over the bumps and with the bogie rattling away behind them, they moved forward.

  Lucy had stopped crying. Tentatively, she asked, “Do you think Horace will be all right?”

  “When you get home, give him a bath, with disinfectant; you’ll be able to gauge the damage then. If there are any really bad bites, he might need stitches. Might need to go to the vet. He’ll be bruised, that’s for sure. And stiff for a couple of days.”

  “I feel so guilty. I should have looked after him better.”

  “Not a thing you could do. I think that female must be barmy. If I see her hellish animal again, I’ll shoot it.”

  “He’s called Brutus.”

  “Brutus the Brute.”

  Despite everything, Lucy found herself smiling. She said, “Thank you so much. For helping.”

  “You’re staying at the Estate House, aren’t you? With Oscar Blundell?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “No, but my father does. My father’s Peter Kennedy, the minister. I’m Rory Kennedy.”

  “I’m Lucy Wesley.”

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “I think it’s horrible.” It was rather snug, sitting high up in the cabin of the tractor, sharing a single seat with this young and kind young man. She liked the feel of his sturdy body pressed against her own, the oily smell of his thick jacket, the warmth of unaccustomed physical contact.

  “It sounds like a missionary.”

  “Well, there are worse things. I’ve got a small sister called Clodagh. She doesn’t like her name either. She wants to be called Tracey Charlene.”

  This time Lucy laughed.

  “Didn’t I see you in church yesterday?” he asked.

  “Yes, but I didn’t see you. I suppose because there were so many people. I wanted to see the lights turned on, shining on the ceiling. It’s beautiful. Elfrida came with me. Carrie would have come, too. She’s my aunt. But she’s had this cold and she stayed indoors. This morning the doctor came, and she’s got to stay in bed. There’s nothing awful wrong with her. She just has to rest. Otherwise, she’d have been with me, and probably that dogfight would never have happened.”

  “Nothing worse than a dogfight. But not a thing you could have done to stop it.”

  This was comforting.

  “Do you work on the golf course?”

  “Yes, for the time being. This is the start of my Gap year. I finished Highers in July, and next year I go to Durham University. I caddied for Americans all summer. That was really lucrative, but they’ve all gone home, so I’m helping out for the head green keeper “What are you going to do then?”

  “I want to go to Nepal. I can get a job there, teaching in a school.”

  Lucy was impressed.

  “What will you teach?”

  “Reading and writing, I suppose. Just little kids. And sums. And football.”

  She thought about this. She said, “I’m rather dreading my Gap year.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.”

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bsp; “You’ve time enough to make plans.”

  “The thing is, I don’t want to go somewhere strange and scary. All by myself.”

  “Scary?”

  “You know. Crocodiles and revolutions.”

  He grinned. He said, “You’ve been watching too much television.”

  “Perhaps I’ll just stay at home.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “London.”

  “Do you go to school there?”

  “Yes. A day-school.”

  “Up here for Christmas?”

  “I came with Carrie. I live with my mother and my grandmother. My mother is going to America for Christmas. In fact, she’s flying out tomorrow. And my grandmother is going to Bournemouth. So Carrie and I came here.”

  “What about your father?”

  “They’re divorced. I don’t see him much.”

  “That’s rough.”

  Lucy shrugged.

  “It’s all right.”

  “My mother told me I have to lend you my old TV. Do you want it?”

  “Have you got one?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, it would be kind of you, but I’m managing very well without one.”

  “I’ll look it out.” For a bit they thumped along in silence, up and over the bumpy track. Then he said, “I believe you’re all coming up to the Manse for a drink tomorrow evening. There’s a hooley in the school hall, at seven o’clock. Clodagh and I are going. Do you want to come with us?”

  “What’s a hooley?”

  “A dance.”

  Lucy was at once filled with anxiety. She hated dancing, could never remember which was right and which was left. She had been to parties, but never a dance. And at parties she was usually consumed and silenced by shyness.

  She said, “I don’t know.”

  “What don’t you know?”

  “If I want to come to a dance.”

  “Why not? It’s just the school-kids, practising reels for the hogmanay parties. Good fun.”

  Reels.

  “I don’t know how to do reels. I don’t know the steps.”

  “So it’s high time you learned.” Still she hesitated, but then he turned his head to smile down at her, in a friendly and encouraging manner, and rather to her own surprise she found herself saying, “All right. Yes. Thank you. Do … do I have to dress up?”