September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  With his drawing safely stowed, he buckled up his satchel once more. Speed Bonnie Boat. He had got it wrong. He often got things wrong. There was another song they had learned at school. “Ho ro my Nut Brown Maiden.” Henry, singing lustily with the rest of the class, could just imagine the maiden. A little Pakistani, like Kedejah Ishak, with her dark skin and her shining pigtail, rowing like mad across a windy loch.

  His mother had had to explain that one to him.

  As well, ordinary words could be confusing. People said things to him, and he heard them, but heard them just the way they sounded. And the word, or the image conjured up by the word, stuck in his mind. Grown-ups went on holiday to ‘My Yorker’ or ‘Portjiggal’. Or ‘Grease’. Grease sounded a horrid place. Edie once told him about a lady who was very cut up because her daughter had married some fly-by-night who was not good enough for her. The poor lady, all cut up, had haunted his nightmares for weeks.

  But the worst was the misunderstanding that had happened with his grandmother, and which might have come between them for ever and caused a lasting rift, had not Henry’s mother finally found out what was bothering him and put it right.

  He had gone to Pennyburn one day after school to have tea with his grandmother, Vi. A gale was blowing and the wind howled around the little house. Sitting by the fire, Vi had suddenly made an exclamation of annoyance, got to her feet and fetched from somewhere a folding screen, which she set up in front of the glass door that led out into the garden. Henry asked her why she was doing this, and when she told him he was so horrified that he scarcely spoke for the rest of the afternoon. When his mother came to fetch him, he had never been so glad to see her and could not wait to scramble into his anorak and be out of the house, almost forgetting to thank Vi for his tea.

  It was horrible. He felt that he never wanted to go back to Pennyburn, and yet knew that he ought to, if only to protect Vi. Every time his mother suggested another visit, he made some excuse or said he would rather go to Edie’s. Finally, one night while he was having his bath, she came and sat on the lavatory and talked to him…she brought the conversation gently around to the touchy subject and at last asked him straight if there was any reason why he no longer wanted to go to Vi’s.

  “You always used to love it so. Did something happen?”

  It was a relief at last to talk about it.

  “It’s frightening.”

  “Darling, what’s frightening?”

  “It comes in, out of the garden, and it comes into the sitting room. Vi put a screen up but it could easily knock the screen over. It might hurt her. I don’t think she should live there any more.”

  “For heaven’s sake! What comes in?”

  He could see it. With great tall spotted legs, and a long thin spotted neck, and great big yellow teeth with its lips curled back, ready to pounce, or bite.

  “A horrible giraffe,”

  His mother was confounded. “Henry, have you gone out of your mind? Giraffes live in Africa, or zoos. There aren’t any giraffes in Strathcroy.”

  “There are!” He shouted at her stupidity. “She said so. She said there was a horrible giraffe that came out of the garden, and through the door and into her sitting room. She told me so.”

  There was a long silence. He stared at his mother and she stared back at him with her bright blue eyes, but she never smiled.

  At last she said, “She wasn’t telling you that there was a giraffe, Henry. She was telling you that there was a draught. You know, a horrid, shivery draught.”

  A draught. Not a giraffe but a draught. All that fuss about a stupid draught. He had made a fool of himself, but was so relieved that his grandmother was safe from monsters that it didn’t matter.

  “Don’t tell anybody,” he pleaded.

  “I’ll have to explain to Vi. But she won’t say a word.”

  “All right. You can tell Vi. But not anybody else.”

  And his mother had promised, and he had jumped out of the bath, all dripping wet, and been gathered up into a great fluffy towel and his mother’s arms, and she had hugged him and told him that she was going to eat him alive she loved him so, and they had sung ‘Camptown Races’, and there was macaroni cheese for supper.

  Edie had cooked sausages for his tea and made potato scones, and opened a tin of baked beans. While he ploughed his way through this, sitting at her kitchen table, Edie sat opposite him, drinking a cup of tea. Her own meal she would eat later.

  Munching, he realised that she was quieter than usual. Normally on such occasions they never stopped talking, and he was the willing recipient of all the gossip in the glen. Who had died and how much they had left; who had abandoned his father on the farm and hightailed it off to Relkirk to work in a garage; who had started a baby and was no better than she should be. But today no such snippets of information came his way. Instead Edie sat with her dimpled elbows on the table and gazed out of the window at her long, thin back garden.

  He said, “Penny for your thoughts, Edie,” which was what she always said to him when he had something on his mind.

  She sighed deeply. “Oh, Henry, I don’t know, and that’s for certain.”

  Which told him nothing. However, when pressed, she explained her predicament. She had a cousin who had lived in Tullochard. She was called Lottie Carstairs and had never been bright. Never married. Gone into domestic service, but had proved useless even at that. She had lived with her mother and father until the old folks had died, and then turned very strange and had had to go to hospital. Edie said it was a nervous breakdown. But she was recovering. One day she would come out of hospital, and she was coming to stay with Edie because there was no other place for the poor soul to go.

  Henry thought this a rotten idea. He liked having Edie to himself. “But you haven’t got a spare room.”

  “She’ll have to have my bedroom.”

  He was indignant. “But where will you sleep?”

  “On the Put-U-Up in the sitting room.”

  She was far too fat for the Put-U-Up. “Why can’t Dotty sleep there?”

  “Because she will be the guest, and her name’s Lottie.”

  “Will she stay for long?”

  “We’ll have to see.”

  Henry thought about this. “Will you go on being dinner-lady, and helping Mummy, and helping Vi at Pennyburn?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Henry, Lottie’s not bedridden.”

  “Will I like her?” This was important.

  Edie found herself at a loss for words. “Oh, Henry, I don’t know. She’s a sad creature. Nineteen shillings in the pound, my father always called her. Screamed like a wet hen if a man showed his face around the door, and clumsy! Years ago, she worked for a wee while for old Lady Balmerino at Croy, but she smashed so much china that they had to give her the sack. She never worked again after that.”

  Henry was horrified. “You mustn’t let her do the washing-up or she’ll break all your pretty things.”

  “It’s not just my china she’ll be breaking…” Edie prophesied gloomily, but before Henry could follow up this interesting line of conversation she took a hold of herself, put a more cheerful expression on her face, and pointedly changed the subject. “Do you want another potato scone, or are you ready for your Choc Bar?”

  7

  Emerging with Archie and Virginia from the front door of Balnaid, and descending the steps to the gravel sweep, Violet saw the rain had stopped. It was still damp but now much warmer, and lifting her head she felt the breeze on her cheek, blowing freshly from the west. Low clouds were slowly being rolled aside, revealing here and there a patch of blue sky and a piercing, biblical, ray of sunshine. It would turn into a beautiful summer evening — too late to be of much use to anybody.

  Archie’s old Land-Rover stood waiting for them. They said goodbye to Virginia, Violet with a peck on her daughter-in-law’s cheek.

  “Love to Edmund.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  They clambered up into the La
nd-Rover both with some effort, Violet because she was elderly, and Archie because of his tin leg. Doors were slammed shut, Archie started up the engine, and they were off. Down the curving driveway to the gate, out on to the narrow lane that led past the Presbyterian church, and so across the bridge. At the main road Archie paused, but there was no traffic, and he swung out and into the street which ran through Strathcroy from end to end.

  The little Episcopal church squatted humbly. Mr Gloxby was out in front of it, cutting the grass.

  “He works so hard,” Archie observed. “I do hope we can raise a decent bit of cash with a church sale. It was good of you to come today, Vi. I’m sure you’d much rather have been gardening.”

  “It was such disheartening weather, I had no desire to get at my weeds,” Vi said. “So one might as well spend the day doing something worthy.” She thought about this. “Rather like when one is worried sick about a child or a grandchild, but you can’t do anything, so you go and scrub the scullery floor. At the end of the day you’re still worried sick, but at least you’ve got a clean scullery.”

  “You’re not worried about your family, are you, Vi? What could you possibly have to worry about?”

  “All women worry about their families,” Violet told him flatly.

  The Land-Rover trundled down the road, past the petrol station, which had once been a carpenter’s workshop, and the Ishaks’ supermarket. Beyond this stood the open gates that led to the back drive of Croy. Archie changed down and drove through these, and at once they were climbing steeply. Once, and not so long ago, the surrounding lands had all been park, smooth green pastures grazed by pedigree cattle, but now these had been ploughed for crops, barley, and turnips. Only a few broad-leaved trees still stood, witness to the splendour of former years.

  “Why do you worry?”

  Violet hesitated. She knew that she could talk to Archie. She was as close to him as if he had been her own son, for although he was five years younger than Edmund, the two boys had been brought up together, spent all their time together, and become the closest of friends.

  If Edmund was not at Croy, then Archie was at Balnaid; and if they were at neither house, then they were walking the hills with guns and dogs, potting at hares and rabbits, helping Gordon Gillock burn the heather and repair the butts. Or else they were out in the boat on the loch, or casting for trout in the brown pools of the Croy, or playing tennis, or skating on frozen floodwater. Inseparable, everybody had said. Like brothers.

  But they were not brothers, and they had parted. Edmund was bright. Twice as bright as either of his not unintelligent parents. Archie, on the other hand, was totally unacademic.

  Edmund, sailing through university, emerged from Cambridge with an Honours Degree in Economics, and was instantly employed by a prestigious merchant bank in the City.

  Archie, fearing the boredom of a City job, decided to try for the Army. He duly appeared before a Regular Commission Board and somehow managed to bluff his way through the interview, for the four senior officers had apparently felt that a modest scholastic record was outweighed by Archie’s outgoing and friendly personality and his enormous enthusiasm for life.

  He went through Sandhurst, joined the Queen’s Loyal Highlanders, and was posted to Germany. Edmund stayed in London. He became, to no person’s surprise, enormously successful, and within five years had been head-hunted by Sanford Cubben. In the fullness of time he married, and even this romantic event added glitter to his image. Violet recalled pacing up the long aisle of St Margaret’s, Westminster, arm in arm with Sir Rodney Cheriton, and finding time to hope in her heart that Edmund was marrying Caroline because he truly loved her, and not because he had been seduced by the aura of riches that surrounded her.

  And now the wheel had gone full circle, and both men were back in Strathcroy, Archie at Croy, and Edmund at Balnaid. Grown men in their middle years, still friends, but no longer intimate. Too much had happened to both of them, and not all of it good. Too many years had slipped by, like water under a bridge. They were different people: one a very wealthy man of business, the other strapped for cash and perpetually struggling to make ends meet. But it was not because of this that a certain formality, a politeness, lay between them.

  They were no longer close as brothers.

  Violet sighed gustily. Archie smiled. “Oh, come on, Vi, it can’t be as bad as that.”

  “Of course not.” He had troubles enough of his own. She would make light of hers. “But I do worry about Alexa, because she seems so alone. I know she’s doing a job she enjoys, and that she has that charming little house in which to live, and Lady Cheriton left her enough to give her security for the rest of her life. But I am afraid that her social life is a disaster. I think she truly believes that she’s plain and dull and unattractive to men. She has no confidence in herself. When she went to London, I so hoped that she would make a life for herself, make friends of her own age. But she just stayed at Ovington Street with her grandmother, like a sort of companion. If only she could meet some dear kind man who would marry her. She should have a husband to take care of, and children. Alexa was born to have children.”

  Archie listened sympathetically to all this. He was as fond of Alexa as any of them. He said, “Losing her mother when she was so little…perhaps that was a more traumatic experience than any of us realised. Perhaps it made her feel different from other girls. Incomplete in some way.”

  Violet thought about this. “Yes. Perhaps. Except that Caroline was never a very demonstrative or loving mother. She never spent much time with Alexa. It was Edie who provided all Alexa’s security and affection. And Edie was always there.”

  “But you liked Caroline.”

  “Oh yes, I liked her. There was nothing to dislike. We had a good relationship, and I think she was a good wife to Edmund. But she was a strangely reserved girl. Sometimes I went south, to stay for a few days with them all in London. Caroline would invite me, very charmingly, knowing that I would enjoy being with Alexa and Edie. And of course I did, but I never felt totally at home. I hate cities, anyway. Streets and houses and traffic make me feel beleaguered. Claustrophobic. But, quite apart from that, Caroline was never a relaxed hostess. I always felt a bit in the way, and she was an impossible girl to chat with. Left alone with her I had to struggle, sometimes, to make conversation, and you know perfectly well that, if pressed, I can talk the hind-legs off a donkey. But pauses would fall, and they were silences that were not companionable. And I would try to fill those silences in, stitching furiously at my tapestry.” She looked across at Archie. “Does that sound ridiculous, or do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  “Yes, I do understand. I hardly knew Caroline, but the few times I met her I always felt my hands and my feet were too big.”

  But even this mild attempt at levity did not raise a smile with Violet, preoccupied as she was with Alexa’s problems. She fell silent, brooding about her granddaughter.

  By now they had climbed halfway up the hill that led to Croy and were approaching the turning for Pennyburn. There were no gates, simply an opening that broke the fence to the left of the road. The Land-Rover turned into this, and Archie drove the hundred yards or so along a neatly tarmacked lane bordered on either side by mown grass verges and a trimly clipped beech hedge. At the end of this the lane opened up into a sizeable yard, with the small white house on one side and a double garage on the other. The doors of this were open, revealing Violet’s car, and, as well, her wheelbarrow and lawn-mower and a plethora of garden tools. Between the garage and the beech hedge was her drying-green. She had done a wash this morning, and a line of laundry stirred in the rising breeze. Wooden tubs, planted with hydrangeas the colour of pink blotting paper, flanked the entrance to the house, and a hedge of lavender grew close to its walls.

  Archie drew up and switched off the engine, but Violet made no move to alight. Having started this discussion, she had no wish to end it before it was finished.

  “So I don’t re
ally believe that losing her mother in that tragic way is the root cause of Alexa’s lack of confidence. Nor the fact that Edmund married again and presented her with a stepmother. Nobody could have been sweeter or more understanding than Virginia, and the arrival of Henry brought nothing but joy. Not a hint of sibling rivalry.” The mention of Henry’s name reminded Violet of yet another tiresome worry. “And now I’m fretting about Henry. Because I’m afraid that Edmund is going to insist on sending him to Templehall as a boarder. And I think he’s not ready for that yet. And if he does go, I’m anxious for Virginia, because her life is Henry, and if he is torn away from her against her will, I’m afraid that she and Edmund might drift apart. He is away so much. Sometimes in Edinburgh for the entire week, sometimes on the other side of the world. It’s not good for a marriage.”

  “But when Virginia married Edmund, she knew how it would be. Don’t get too worked up about it, Vi. Templehall’s a good school, and Colin Henderson’s a sympathetic headmaster. I’ve got great faith in the place. Hamish has loved it there, enjoyed every moment.”

  “Yes, but your Hamish is very different from Henry. At eight years old, Hamish was quite capable of taking care of himself.”

  “Yes.” Archie, not without pride, had to admit this. “He’s a tough little bugger.”

  Violet was visited by another dreadful thought. “Archie, they don’t hit the little boys, do they? They don’t beat them?”

  “Heavens, no. The worst punishment is to be sent to sit on the wooden chair in the hall. For some reason this puts the fear of God into the most recalcitrant infant.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s something to be thankful for. So barbaric to beat little children. And so stupid. Getting hit by someone you dislike can only fill you with hatred and fear. Being sent to sit on a hard chair by a man you respect, and even like, is infinitely more sensible.”