“I think I’d better be off. Get out of your way.”
“Where?”
“Sorry?”
“Where will you be off to?”
“There’ll be some guest-house, hotel… I’ll check in there.”
“There is no hotel or guest-house open in Creagan at this time of year. Everything closes down for the winter. You’ll find nothing.”
“But surely …”
She said, “You’ll have to stay here. With us.”
“Here? But I can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“You don’t know me. I’m a stranger. I can’t just come and-”
“Of course you can. Anyway, there doesn’t seem to be an alternative. There’s an empty bedroom, I know. An empty bed. It would be ridiculous not to use it.”
“But…”
Carrie smiled. Now that matters were settled, and she had won her point, she was rather enjoying his discomfiture.
“What do they say? Any port in a storm.”
“But… Mr. Blundell…”
“I expect he will be delighted to have another guest. And most interested in what you have to tell him. And his companion Elfrida will be pleased, I’m sure. There’s nothing she likes better than unexpected arrivals and impromptu house parties. You don’t even have to worry about dinner. There is a kedgeree in the oven, and plenty of hot bath water. All mod cons. What more could any man want?”
He shook his head, defeated by her insistence.
“Nothing, I guess.”
“A toothbrush?”
“I have one in the car. And my electric razor. But if it’s all right by you, I should make another call.”
“Feel free.” (He obviously needed to ring home, wherever that was; explain to his wife what had happened.) “You don’t want anybody worrying.”
He took out his mobile once more and punched the numbers. Carrie wondered if she should make some excuse and go from the room, not wishing to overhear a private and personal conversation: loving words, messages for the children. But before she could do this he had got through and was speaking to the receptionist at some hotel in Inverness.
“Just to let you know I shan’t be back tonight. I’m stuck here, in Creagan, in a snowstorm. I’m all right. Staying with friends. Maybe back tomorrow. Just keep the room. Thanks.
“Bye.”
Call finished.
“Is that all?” Carrie asked.
“That’s it.”
“No more calls?”
He slipped his mobile back into his jacket pocket and shook his head.
“Nope.”
“Right. Well. In that case, why don’t you have that drink?”
“Well, that would be very kind.”
“I shall have to go down to the kitchen and bring something up for you. We don’t keep a drinks tray up here, because there isn’t a drinks table. Oscar’s wine-cellar is a slate shelf in the scullery.”
“Let me come and help.”
“No, you stay here and make yourself comfortable. What would you like? There’s everything.”
“Scotch?”
“Soda, water, or ice?”
“On the rocks?”
“Fine. I shan’t be a moment.”
She ran downstairs, and in the scullery found a tray on which she loaded the whisky bottle, the filled ice bucket, a glass, and then the bottle of wine. She carried the tray upstairs and found her visitor, not by the fire, but on the other side of the room, gazing intently at Elfrida’s little picture. In order to do this, he had put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles which made him look rather scholarly.
When Carrie appeared, he took these off.
“What a fine lit. tie painting.”
“Yes. It belongs to Elfrida. She brought it with her from Hampshire. She’s had it for years. It’s a David Wilkie. She says it’s her insurance policy, against the day when she runs out of money and doesn’t want to become a bag lady. As you can see, there are no other pictures in this room, so it looks a bit lost.”
“It’s certainly a treasure … here, let me have that.” He took the tray and held it while Carrie made space on Oscar’s table, shunting aside a few files and papers. She said, “I’ll let you do your own drink.”
“How about you?”
“I’m onto the wine.”
“Can I refill your glass?”
“Certainly, if you’d like to.”
She went back to her chair by the fire and watched him, liking the neat movements of his hands. Intrigued, in an objective sort of way, because his appearance at the Estate House, his reason for being there, and his reason for staying on (bad weather) all seemed like a sort of contrivance. The plot of a play, perhaps. The start of a film which could turn out to be disturbing, even terrifying.
He came across the room, with her wine and his whisky, handed her her glass, and then sat again where he had sat before.
He said, “Good health.”
“And to you, too.”
“You said you’d just had flu?”
“Not very badly. I slept it off.”
“And you’re visiting?”
“I live in London. I have a young niece; I brought her with me. We’re staying for Christmas and the New Year.”
“Has she gone to the drinks party, too?”
“Yes, and then on to some sort of reel party with all the other children of the town. Goodness knows when she’ll be home. Do you know this part of the world well?”
“No. I don’t know it at all. I come from Yorkshire. Then I was based in London for a bit, and then New York for six years.”
Carrie smiled to herself because she had been right about the accent.
“Hence the Scotch on the rocks.”
“Exactly so.”
“What is your job?”
“I’m basically a wool-broker…. I work for Sturrock and Swinfield.”
She was impressed.
“Goodness.”
“They bought out my father’s woollen mill in Yorkshire some years ago, and I’ve been with them ever since.”
“New York and all?”
“New York and all.”
“This is going to be a bit of a culture change, isn’t it? Working up here.”
“Yes,” he agreed with her.
“A bit.”
“What did you say the mill was called?”
“McTaggarts of Buddy.”
“Is it a going concern?”
He said bluntly, “No,” and then briefly enlarged on this. Explained the chain of events that had brought it down.
“And is this what you are expected to take on?”
“Not entirely on my own.”
“You mean you have Sturrock and Swinfield behind you?”
“That’s right. And capital, expertise, architects, and designers.”
“And when it’s all up and going, what will you produce?”
“Everything. A very wide scope. Traditional tweeds and tartans, but as well we’ll head for new markets. The fashion trade. Luxury wool lens “When will you be in production?”
“The mill has to be gutted and rebuilt. So, maybe nine months. A year.”
“Why don’t you just bulldoze it away and start afresh?”
“Because it’s a particularly beautiful old building. Stone, with steep gables and long arched windows. It’s over a hundred and fifty years old. Part of the little town. It would be vandalism to destroy it.”
“And you have to have someplace to live?”
“Yes.” He smiled.
“But I can’t sort that one out until I’ve spoken to your host.”
“Did Hughie McLennan, whoever he is … did he mention a price?”
“Yes.”
“Am I allowed to be told?”
“A hundred and fifty thousand. Between the two cousins. The two owners.”
“So if Oscar gave Hughie seventy-five thousand, he could buy him out.”
“He could.”
“It’s not that much money, is it?”
“By today’s standards, no.”
“But Oscar mightn’t have seventy-five thousand. In fact, I’m pretty sure he hasn’t. And he’s so unworldly, he wouldn’t know where to lay his hands on such a sum. Anyway” she shrugged “it’s absolutely none of my business and nothing to do with me. I just think it would be nice if he could stay here.”
“I promise you, I’m not going to throw him out.”
“You couldn’t. It’s his house.”
“Half house.”
“Sitter’s rights. The security of his own bricks and mortar.”
Suddenly, defusing a small tension, he laughed.
“You’re so right about that. I bought my first flat, freehold, when I went to work in London. It was a great feeling. That’s some years ago now.”
“Where was your flat?”
“Eel Park Common.”
“How funny.”
“Why funny?”
“I’ve got a little house in Ranfurly Road. That’s only about half a mile away.”
“Is that where you live?”
“I will, in February, when I get the tenants out.” Sam looked a bit confused, and Carrie suddenly felt sorry for him, because, perhaps, she had not been particularly forthcoming. The thing was, she didn’t really want to talk about herself.
“I’ve been in Austria for three years, in Oberbeuren, working for a travel firm called Oversees. That’s why I let my house. But now I’m back, based in London again. I’m still with the firm, but I’ve been offered a job in their head office, in Bruton Street.”
“Are you going to take it?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“You’ll miss Austria and the mountains.”
Carrie said, “Yes.” For a moment, neither of them spoke, and the silence was fraught with unsaid words. Then she moved in her chair and looked across at him.
“Your glass is empty. Would you like another drink?”
ELFRIDA
Oscar and Elfrida, arm in arm, and making their way with tremendous caution, walked home together. It was nearly eight o’clock, very dark, with thickly falling snow, but there were street lamps all the way and so no need for the torch which Oscar, with some forethought, had tucked in his pocket. As they proceeded along the footpath that led along the top of the hill, the town was spread below them, and they could see, beyond the topmost leafless branches of other people’s trees, the round lighted face of the clock tower. All looked so transformed, so magical that Elfrida was compelled to stop and gaze.
She said, “Oscar, I do wish I could paint.”
As she had a firm hold of his arm, he had to stop, too.
“Is this an appropriate moment to dwell on the might-have- been?” he asked.
“Why not?”
“I have snow trickling down the back of my neck.”
“But wouldn’t it be lovely to be able to capture such a scene? To pin it down forever? The snow, falling into the light of street lamps and bright windows. And the clock, like a constant moon. The only thing one couldn’t paint would be the smell of peat-smoke.”
“It would, I agree, be a satisfying exercise. But please, let us go home.”
The lane sloped steeply down alongside the wall of Oscar’s garden. There was a handrail there, and they descended in single file, holding on to this like passengers leaving an aircraft. At the bottom was their back gate, and the bright light suspended over their own back door.
Safely home.
In the scullery, emulating Mrs. Snead, they shed wet coats, snow-encrusted boots, and sodden hats, and hung them about the place to dry. Elfrida said something about supper, but Oscar wanted to wait for a bit. He was full of smoked-salmon sandwiches and mince pies. As well, he had been prudently abstemious, because of the walk home, and wanted a large whisky before settling down to yet more food.
Elfrida went ahead of him, and in the kitchen greeted her dog with loving words, and was opening the oven door to peer at the good-tempered kedgeree when she heard him say, “My whisky has gone. My bottle of whisky is not here.”
“Are you sure?”
He joined her as she closed the oven door, looking a bit put out, which, because he was Oscar, wasn’t very much.
“It’s walked.”
“Perhaps Carrie felt like a tot.”
“I thought she was meant to be still in bed.”
“You can still be in bed and feel like a tot. Haven’t you got another bottle?”
“Yes, but that one was open.”
“Let’s investigate.”
They went out of the kitchen and upstairs, but on the landing, Elfrida paused. For, from behind the closed door of the sitting-room, she heard the low murmur of voices. Oscar heard them, too. They looked at each other in some mystification. Oscar said, “I think I know where my bottle is.”
“Shh.” Silently, Elfrida tiptoed to Carrie’s half-open bedroom door. She peered in, and then returned to Oscar’s side.
“Not there,” she told him in a dramatic whisper.
“Empty bed.”
Oscar, gamely joining in, also dropped his voice.
“And she has a visitor.”
“Who can it be?”
“A mystery. Why don’t we go and find out?”
Which they did.
Opening the sitting-room door, they came upon a peaceful and companionable scene. The lovely room, curtained and softly lighted. The fire blazing, the two most comfortable chairs drawn up to its warmth. And in them, looking as though they had known each other forever, Carrie and a complete stranger. Possibilities instantly flashed through Elfrida’s mind. An old acquaintance of Carrie’s, perhaps, come in search of her. A long-time admirer, staunchly constant…. Carrie turned her head and saw them, and at once rose to her feet.
“Elfrida. You’re back. We didn’t hear you. Did you have a good party?”
“Yes, it was splendid. But you’re not meant to be out of bed.”
“I got bored.”
By now the unknown man was also on his feet, standing in front of the fire, and waiting to be introduced. Elfrida’s first impression of this stranger was one of business-like formality, in his beautifully cut dark-grey suit, his neat tie, and his closely barbered head of hair. He was tall and long-legged, with a tanned complexion that accentuated his light hazel eyes. And despite her sixty-two years, she knew a frission of physical attraction that dimmed in no way her affection for Oscar. It was just a sort of recognition, an ardent memory of how things, once, had been for her.
“Elfrida, this is Sam Howard. Elfrida Phipps. And my host, Oscar Blundell.”
“How do you do?” They all shook hands.
Sam Howard said, “I’m really sorry about this intrusion.”
“Why is it an intrusion?”
“Because I’m in your house, unasked….”
At this juncture, Oscar spied his whisky bottle.
“There it is! I wondered where it had gone.”
Carrie laughed.
“Did you think I was secretly boozing? I am sorry. I brought it up to give Sam a drink. Do you want one?”
“Badly. I purposely had an abstemious evening, so that I would be fit to walk Elfrida home through the snow.”
“In that case,” said Carrie, “I shall give you one. But I’ll need to get down and get some more glasses. What about you, Elfrida? I’m having a glass of wine….”
“I’ll join you.” Elfrida suddenly felt tired. She sat, with some relief, in the middle of the sofa, with her long legs stretched out in front of her.
“I’ve been standing for two hours, eating sandwiches and mince pies.”
“Anyone else there?”
“Oh, yes, a proper party. Three other couples; all so chatty and welcoming.”
“How about Lucy?”
“She disappeared with the Kennedy children to some other room, and hasn’t been seen since. They’d gone to the reeling by the time we left. Just the way it should be.�
��
“That’s good. I’ll get those glasses and another bottle of wine. And soda for Oscar….”
She left them, and Elfrida heard her running downstairs. Oscar by now had sat himself down in his own armchair and they were left with the strange man. Oscar, Elfrida knew, had no idea what he was going to say to him, and so she came to his rescue. She did this by smiling in her most friendly fashion, and saying, “Now tell us exactly who you are, and why you’re here. You must be an old friend of Carrie’s.”
“Actually, I’m not.”
He reached for a chair and pulled it up to sit near Elfrida, leaning forward to speak to her, with his hands clasped between his knees.
“I never met her before this evening.”
“Goodness,” said Elfrida faintly.
He began to explain, and they listened. He was Sam Howard. He worked for Sturrock and Swinfield, the textile conglomerate that had taken over the defunct woollen mill in Buddy. McTaggarts. He was coming here to work as managing director.
Elfrida was none the wiser, but Oscar picked it up at once.
“Peter Kennedy told me about McTaggarts’ being taken over, but I didn’t realize that things were already moving.”
“They aren’t exactly moving yet, but we’re on our way.”
“That’s splendid news.”
“I hope so.”
“When does it all get going again?”
“We have to rebuild the place first.”
Elfrida interrupted.
“What happened?”
“There was a long series of misadventures,” Oscar told her.
“And then a flood which destroyed everything.” He turned back to Sam.
“Have you been in this business for a long time?”
“All my life, really. My father owned a small mill in Yorkshire.”
“Well, bless my soul. Where are you based? In London?”
“I have been. But I’ve been working in New York for the last six years. Then, in November, I got called back to London, to take this project over.”
“Does this mean you’re going to be living up here?”
Now Carrie reappeared, with a second tray bearing bottles and glasses. Sam sprang to his feet and went to relieve her of this, and they spent a moment or two juggling for space on Oscar’s table, shifting the ice bucket and setting out the glasses. The wine bottle was still frosted from the fridge, and Sam drew the cork neatly, poured wine for E1frida, and brought it over to her.
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