September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  She came to the dam, the river sliding over its rim, the deep pool beyond. This was Henry’s favourite swimming place. She sat on the bank where, in summer, they brought picnics. The dogs loved the river. They stood now knee-deep, and drank as though they had not seen water for months. When they had done this, they came out and shook themselves lustily all over her. The afternoon sun felt warm. She pulled off her jacket and would have sat on, revelling in the sun’s warmth, but inevitably the midges appeared in droves and started biting, so she got to her feet, whistled the dogs, and went home.

  She was in the kitchen preparing dinner when Edmund returned. They were having roast chicken and she was grating breadcrumbs for bread sauce. She heard the car, looked with surprise at the clock, and saw that it was only half past five. He was very early. Driving from Edinburgh, he did not usually arrive back at Balnaid until seven or even later. What could have happened?

  Speculating, hoping there was nothing wrong, she finished the breadcrumbs and dumped them into the saucepan with the milk and the onion and the cloves. She stirred. She heard his footsteps coming down the long passage from the hall. The door opened and she turned smiling, but faintly anxious.

  “I’m back,” he announced unnecessarily.

  Her husband’s masculine appearance, as always, filled Virginia with satisfaction. He wore a navy-blue chalk-striped suit, a light-blue shirt with a white collar, and a Christian Dior silk tie that she had given him for Christmas. He carried his briefcase and looked a bit creased, as well he might after a day’s work and a long drive, but not in the least weary. He never looked weary and he never complained of feeling tired. His mother swore he had never been tired in his life.

  He was tall, his figure youthful as it had ever been, and his handsome face, with the quiet, hooded eyes, hardly lined. Only his hair had changed. Once so black, it was now silvery-white but thick and smooth as ever. For some reason the ageless face, in juxtaposition to that white hair, rendered him more distinguished and attractive than ever.

  She said, “Why so early?”

  “Reasons. I’ll explain.” He came to kiss her; looked at the saucepan. “Good smells. Bread sauce. Roast chicken?”

  “Of course.”

  He dumped his briefcase on the kitchen table. “Where’s Henry?”

  “With Edie. He won’t be back till after six. She’s giving him his tea.”

  “Good.”

  She frowned. “Why good?”

  “I want to talk to you. Let’s go into the library. Leave the sauce, you can cook it later…”

  He was already on his way out of the kitchen. Puzzled and apprehensive, Virginia put the saucepan aside and replaced the big lid on the hob. Then she followed him. She found him in the library, crouched by the fireplace, setting a match to the newspaper and kindling.

  She felt faintly defensive, as though this were some sort of criticism. “Edmund, I was going to light the fire when I’d got the sauce made and the potatoes peeled. But it’s a funny sort of day. We spent all afternoon in the dining room, having the church meeting. We never came in here…”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  The paper had caught, the kindling snapped and crackled. He straightened, dusting his hands, and stood watching the rising flames. His profile gave nothing away.

  “We’re going to have this sale in July.” She sat on the arm of one of the chairs. “I’ve got the worst job of all, collecting jumble. And Archie wanted some envelope from the Forestry Commission…he said you knew about it. We found it on your desk.”

  “Yes. That’s right. I meant to give it to you.”

  “…oh, and something frightfully exciting. The Steyntons are going to have a dance, for Katy, in September…”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “I had lunch with Angus Steynton in the New Club today. He told me then.”

  “They’re going the whole hog. Marquees and bands and caterers and everything. I’m going to get a really sensational dress…”

  He turned his head and looked at her, and her chatter died. She wondered if he had even been listening. After a little, she asked, “What is it?”

  He said, “I’m home early because I haven’t been in the office this afternoon. I drove down to Templehall. I’ve been with Colin Henderson.”

  Templehall. Colin Henderson. She felt her heart drop into her stomach and her mouth was suddenly dry. “Why, Edmund?”

  “I wanted to talk things over. I hadn’t made up my mind about Henry, but now I feel sure it’s the right thing to do.”

  “What is the right thing to do?”

  “To send him there in September.”

  “As a boarder?”

  “He could scarcely attend as a day boy.”

  Apprehension by now had gone, overwhelmed by a slow, consuming anger. She had never experienced anger like this against Edmund. As well, she was shocked. She had known him to be overbearing, even dictatorial, but never underhand. Now, behind her back, it seemed that he had betrayed her. She felt betrayed, without defences, destroyed before she had even had time to fire a single gun.

  “You had no right.” Her own voice, but it did not sound like Virginia. “Edmund. You had no right.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “No right?”

  “No right to go without me. No right to go without telling me. I should have been there, to talk things over, as you put it. Henry is my child just as much as he is yours. How dare you sneak off and organise everything behind my back, without saying a single word!”

  “I didn’t sneak off and I’m telling you now.”

  “Yes. As a fait accompli. I don’t like being treated as a person who doesn’t matter, someone who has no say. Why should you always make all the decisions?”

  “I suppose because I always have.”

  “You were underhand.” She rose to her feet, her arms folded tightly across her breast, as though the only way to stop herself from actually striking her husband was to keep her hands under control. Always so compliant she was a tigress now, fighting for her cub. “You know, you’ve always known, that I don’t want Henry to go to Templehall. He’s too little. He’s too young. I know you went when you were eight to boarding school, and I know that Hamish Blair is there, but why should it have to be a rigid tradition that we all have to follow? It’s archaic, Victorian, out of date, to send little children away from home. And what is worse is that it doesn’t have to happen. Henry can perfectly well stay at Strathcroy until he’s twelve. And then he can go to boarding school. That’s reasonable. But not before, Edmund. Not now.”

  He gazed at her in genuine perplexity. “Why do you want to make Henry different from other boys? Why should he be marked out as an oddity, staying at home until he’s twelve? Perhaps you’re confusing him with American children who seem to rule the family household until they’re practically adult…”

  Virginia was incensed. “It’s nothing to do with America. How can you say such a thing? It’s to do with what any sensible, normal mother feels about her children. It’s you who are on the wrong track, Edmund. But you won’t ever consider the possibility that you might be wrong. You’re behaving like a Victorian. Old-fashioned and pig-headed and chauvinistic.”

  She got no reaction from this outburst. Edmund’s expression did not change. On such occasions, his was a poker-face, with sleepy eyes and an unsmiling mouth. She found herself longing for him to behave naturally, let himself go, lose his temper, raise his voice. But that was not Edmund Aird’s way. In business, he was known as a cold fish. He stayed unmoved, controlled, unprovoked.

  He said, “You are thinking only of yourself.”

  “I’m thinking of Henry.”

  “No. You want to keep him. And you want your own way. Life has been kind to you. You’ve always had your own way; spoiled and indulged by your parents. And perhaps I continued where they left off. But there comes a time when we all have to grow up. I suggest that you grow up now. Henry is not your possession and you
must let him go.”

  She could scarcely believe that he was saying these things to her.

  “I don’t think of Henry as a possession. That is the most insulting accusation. He’s a person in his own right, and I’ve made him that person. But he’s eight years old. Scarcely out of the nursery. He needs his home. He needs us. He needs the security of surroundings he’s known all his life, and he needs his Moo under the pillow. He can’t be just sent away. I don’t want him to be sent away.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s too little.”

  “So he needs to grow.”

  “He’ll grow away from me.”

  Edmund made no comment on this. Her bracing anger had dissolved and she was left hurt and defeated, and near to tears. To hide these, she turned away from her husband and walked to the window, and stood there with her forehead against the cool glass. She stared, hot-eyed, unseeing, at the garden.

  There was a long silence. And then, reasonable as ever, Edmund began to speak again. “Templehall’s a good school, Virginia, and Colin Henderson’s a good headmaster. The boys are never pushed, but they’re taught to work. Life is going to be hard for Henry. It’s going to be hard for all these youngsters. Competitive and tough. The sooner they face up to this, and learn to take the rough with the smooth, the better. Accept the situation. For my sake. See it my way. Henry is too dependent on you.”

  “I’m his mother.”

  “You smother him.” With that, he walked calmly from the room.

  10

  In the golden evening, Henry walked home. There were few people about because it was nearly six o’clock and they were all indoors eating their tea. He imagined this comforting meal. Soup perhaps, and then haddock or chops and then cakes and biscuits, all washed down with strong and scalding tea. He himself felt pleasantly full of sausages. But perhaps before he went to bed there would be space for a mug of cocoa.

  He crossed the curving bridge that spanned the Croy between the two churches. At the top of the curve he stopped and leaned over the ancient stone parapet to gaze down at the river. There had been much rain, too much for the farmers, and it was running deeply, carrying on its spate stray scraps of flotsam gathered on its journey. Branches of trees and bits of straw. Once he had seen a poor little dead lamb swept away beneath the bridge. Further down the glen the land flattened out and there the river changed character, to widen and wind through pastureland, between fields where the peaceful cattle came down at evening-time to drink at the water’s edge. But here it flowed steeply downhill, leaping and sliding over the rocks in a series of miniature waterfalls and deep pools.

  The sound of the Croy was one of Henry’s earliest memories. At night he could hear it from the open window of his bedroom, and he awoke to its voice every morning. Upstream was the pool where Alexa had taught him to swim. With his friends from school he played many wet muddy games on its banks, building dams and making camps.

  Behind him, the big clock on the Presbyterian church tower struck the hour with six solemn donging tolls. Reluctantly he drew back from the parapet and went on his way, down the lane that bordered the south bank of the river. Tall elms towered overhead, their topmost branches noisy with a colony of cawing rooks.

  Reaching the open gates of Balnaid and anxious all at once to be home, he began to run, his satchel bumping at his side. As he came around the house he saw his father’s dark-blue BMW parked on the gravel. Which was splendid, and an unexpected treat. His father did not usually get home until after Henry was in bed. But now he would find them in the kitchen, comfortably chatting and exchanging news of the day, while his mother prepared dinner and his father had a cup of tea.

  But they were not in the kitchen. He knew this the moment he went through the front door because he could hear voices from behind the closed library door. Just voices and the closed door, so why did he have this feeling that it was wrong; that nothing was as it should be?

  His mouth had gone dry. He tiptoed down the wide passage and stood outside the door. He had truly meant to go in and surprise them, but instead he found himself listening.

  “…scarcely out of the nursery. He needs his home. He needs us.” His mother, speaking in a voice he had never heard before, high-pitched and sounding as though she was about to burst into tears. “…he can’t be just sent away. I don’t want him to be sent away.”

  “I know.” That was his father.

  “He’s too little.”

  “So he needs to grow.”

  “He’ll grow away from me.”

  They were quarrelling. They were having a row. The unbelievable had happened: his mother and father were fighting. Cold with horror, Henry waited for what was going to happen next. After a bit, his father spoke again.

  “Templehall’s a good school, Virginia, and Colin Henderson’s a good headmaster. The boys are never pushed, but they’re taught to work. Life is going to be hard for Henry…”

  So that was what the row was about. They were going to send him to Templehall. To boarding school.

  “…and learn to take the rough with the smooth, the better.”

  Away from his friends, from Strathcroy, from Balnaid, from Edie and Vi. He thought of Hamish Blair, so much older, so superior, so cruel. Only babies have teddies.

  “…Henry is too dependent on you.”

  He could not bear to listen any more. Every fear that he had ever known crowded in on Henry. He backed away from the library door and then, reaching the safety of the hall, turned and ran. Across the floor, up the stairs and down the passage to his bedroom. Slamming the door shut behind him, he tore off his satchel and threw himself on to his bed, bundling the duvet around him. He reached under his pillow for Moo.

  Henry is too dependent on you.

  And so he was going to be sent away.

  Plugging his mouth with his thumb, pressing Moo to his cheek, he was, for the moment, safe. Comforted, he would not cry. He closed his eyes.

  11

  The drawing room at Croy, used only for formal occasions, was of enormous size. The high ceiling and scrolled cornices were white, the walls lined with faded red damask, the carpet a vast Turkey rug, threadbare in places but still warm with colour. There were sofas and chairs, some loose-covered, some in their original velvet upholstery. None of them matched. Small tables stood about, littered with Battersea boxes, silver-framed photographs, stacks of back numbers of Country Life. There were a great many dark oil paintings, portraits and flower arrangements, and on the table behind the sofa stood a Chinese porcelain jar containing a flowering and scented rhododendron.

  Behind the leather-seated club fender, a log fire burned brightly. The hearthrug was shaggy and white, and if wet dogs sat about upon it, smelled strongly of sheep. The fireplace was marble with an impressive mantelpiece, and on this stood a pair of gilt-and-enamel candelabra, two Dresden figures, and a florid Victorian clock.

  This clock, chiming sweetly, now struck eleven o’clock.

  It surprised everybody. Mrs Franco, sleek in black silk trousers and creamy crêpe blouse, announced that she could not believe it was so late. They had all been talking so much that the evening had just flown by. She must get to bed, and her husband as well, if he was to be fit and ready for his golf game at Glen eagles. With that, the Francos gathered themselves and rose to their feet. So did Mrs Hardwicke.

  “It’s been perfect, and such an elegant dinner…Thank you both for your hospitality…”

  Goodnights were said. Isobel, in the two-year-old green silk dress that was her best, led them from the drawing room to see them safely on their way upstairs. She closed the door behind her and did not return. Archie was left with Joe Hardwicke, apparently disinclined to retire so early. He had settled back in his chair again and looked good for at least another couple of hours.

  Archie did not mind, and was content to be left in his company. Joe Hardwicke was one of their better guests, an intelligent man with liberal views and a dry sense of humour. Over dinner…often
a sticky session…he had done his bit to keep the easy conversation going; he told, against himself, one or two extremely funny stories, and proved to be unexpectedly knowledgeable about wine. Discussing Archie’s inherited cellar had taken up most of the second course.

  Now Archie poured him a nightcap, which the American gratefully accepted. He then filled a tumbler for himself, threw a log or two on the fire, and sank deep into his own chair, his feet on the sheepskin rug. Joe Hardwicke began to question him about Croy. He found these old places fascinating. How long had his family lived here? From where had the title come? What was the history of the house?

  He was not curious but interested, and Archie happily answered his questions. His grandfather, the first Lord Balmerino, had been an industrialist of some renown, who had made his fortune in heavy textiles. His elevation to the peerage had followed on from this, and he had bought Croy and its lands at the end of the nineteenth century.

  “There wasn’t a dwelling-house here then. Just a fortified tower dating back to the sixteenth century. My grandfather built the house, incorporating the original tower. So, although bits at the back are ancient, it’s basically Victorian.”

  “It seems large.”

  “Yes. They lived on a grand scale in those days…”

  “And the estate…?”

  “Mostly let out. The moor’s gone to a syndicate for the grouse shooting. I have a friend, Edmund Aird, and he runs it, but I have a half-gun in the syndicate and I join them on days when they’re driving. I’ve kept some stalking, but that’s just for my friends. The farm is tenanted.” He smiled. “So you see, I have no responsibilities.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “I help Isobel. I feed the dogs and exercise them when I can. Deal with all the fallen timber, keep the house supplied with logs. We’ve got a circular saw in one of the outbuildings and an old villain comes up from the village every now and then and gives me a hand. I cut the grass.” He stopped. It wasn’t much of an answer but he couldn’t think of anything more to tell.