September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  He folded the letter and put it back into the envelope.

  Isobel said, “An Australian.”

  “A sheep-farmer.”

  “Bumming round Europe.”

  “At least they’re travelling by bus.”

  “Oh well, I suppose it could be worse. But thinking that she might go and see Pandora…isn’t that extraordinary? We don’t mention Pandora’s name for months and all at once it keeps popping up everywhere we turn. Is Ibiza very far from Majorca?”

  “Not very.”

  “I wish Lucilla would come home.”

  “Isobel, she’s having the time of her life.”

  “I hate her being short of money.”

  “I’ll send her a cheque.”

  “I miss her so.”

  “I know.”

  She was done with plucking, the feathers all painfully collected and stowed in the black rubbish bag. The six small corpses lay in a pathetic row, their heads askew, their clawed feet pointed like dancers. Isobel reached for her lethally sharpened knife and without ado sliced into the first little flaccid body. Then she laid down the knife and plunged her hand into the bird. She withdrew it, red with blood, drawing out a long string of pearly, greyish entrails. These piled in surprising profusion on to the newspaper. The smell was overwhelming.

  Archie sprang to his feet. “I’ll go and write that cheque.” He gathered the mail. “Before I forget.” And he headed for his study, firmly closing the kitchen door behind him, shutting away the small scene of domestic carnage.

  At his desk, he held Pandora’s envelope for a moment or two. He thought about writing to her. Tucking a letter from himself in with Verena’s invitation. It’s a party, he would say. It’ll be fun. Why not come home for it, and stay with us at Croy? We would so love to see you. Please, Pandora. Please.

  But he had written thus before and she had scarcely bothered to reply. It was no good. He sighed and carefully readdressed the envelope. He added a few stamps for good measure and an airmail sticker, then laid it aside.

  He wrote a cheque payable to Lucilla Blair, for a hundred and fifty pounds. He then began a letter to his daughter.

  Croy, August 15th,

  My darling Lucilla.

  Thank you very much for your note which we received this morning. I hope you will have a good journey to the South of France, and are able to raise enough cash to get you to Ibiza, as I am sending this cheque there as you asked me to. As for Pandora, I am sure she would be delighted to see you but suggest that you telephone before you make any plans, and let her know that you propose to visit her.

  Her address is Casa Rosa, Puerto del Fuego, Majorca. I haven’t got her telephone number but I am sure you will be able to find it in the phone book in Palma.

  As well, I am forwarding on an invitation to a party that the Steyntons are throwing for Katy. It’s only a month off and you may have other and better things to do, but I know that your mother would be so happy if you could be there.

  A good day on the twelfth. They were driving, and so I joined the guns for the morning only. Everybody was kind and I was allowed the bottom butt. Hamish came with me to carry my gun and my game bag, and help his old father up the hill. Edmund Aird shot exceptionally well, but at the end of the day the bag was only twenty-one and a half brace, and two hares. Hamish went off yesterday for a week in Argyll with a schoolfriend. He took his trout rod, but hopes for some deep-sea fishing. My love, my darling child. Dad.

  He read this missive through, then folded it neatly. He found a large brown envelope and into this put the letter, the cheque, and Verena’s invitation. He sealed and stamped it and addressed it to Lucilla at the Ibiza address that she had given them. He took both letters out into the hall and laid them on the chest that stood by the door. The next time that anyone went to the village they would be posted.

  13

  Wednesday the Seventeenth

  The Steyntons’ invitation was delivered to Ovington Street on the Wednesday of that week. It was early morning. Alexa, barefoot and wrapped in her bathrobe, stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. The door to the garden was open, and Larry was out there, having his routine sniff-around. Sometimes he found traces of cat and became very excited. It was a grey morning. Perhaps later the sun would come out and burn the mist away. She heard the rattle of the letterbox and, looking up through the window, saw the postman’s legs as he strode on down the pavement.

  She laid a tray, put tea-bags into the teapot. The kettle boiled and she made the tea, and then, leaving her little dog to his own devices, carried the tray up the basement stairs. The letters lay on the doormat. Juggling with the tray, she stooped to gather them up and push them into the capacious pocket of her robe. Up again, the thick carpet soft beneath her bare feet. Her bedroom door stood open, the curtains already drawn back. It was not a very large room, and almost completely filled by the bed that Alexa had inherited from her grandmother, an impressive bed, wide and downy, with tall brass bedheads at either end. She put the tray down and climbed back between the sheets.

  She said, “Are you awake, because I’ve brought you a cup of tea?”

  The hump on the other side of the bed did not instantly respond to this summons. Then it groaned and heaved. A bare brown arm appeared from the covers, and Noel turned to face her.

  “What’s the time?” His hair, so dark on the white linen pillow, was tousled, his chin rough with stubble.

  “A quarter to eight.”

  He groaned again, ran his fingers through his hair. She said, “Good morning,” and bent to kiss his unshaven cheek. He put his hand on the back of her head and held her close. He said, mumbling, “You smell delicious.”

  “Lemon shampoo.”

  “No. Not lemon shampoo. Just you.”

  He took his hand away. Released, she kissed him again, and then turned to the domestic business of pouring his tea. He pummelled pillows, heaved himself up to lean against them. He was naked, brown-chested as though he had just returned from some tropical holiday. She handed him the steaming Wedgwood mug.

  He drank slowly, in silence. He took a long time to come to in the mornings, and scarcely said a word before breakfast. It was something she had found out about him, one of his small routines of existence. Like the way he made coffee, or cleaned his shoes, or mixed a dry martini. At night he emptied his pockets, laying their contents in a neat row on the dressing-table, always in the same order. Wallet, credit cards, penknife, small change, the coins tidily stacked. The best of all was lying in bed and watching him do this; then watching him undress, waiting for him to be ready, to come to her.

  Each day brought new knowledge; each night fresh, sweet discovery. All the good things piled up so that every moment, every hour, was better than the moment and the hour before. Living with Noel, sharing this blissful blend of domesticity and passion, made her understand for the first time why people ever wanted to get married. It was so that it would go on for ever.

  And once…only three months ago…she had thought herself perfectly satisfied. Alone in the house, with only Larry for company, occupied with her work, her little routine, occasional evenings out, or visits to friends. No more than half a life. How had she endured it?

  You never miss what you’ve never had. Edie’s voice, loud and clear. Thinking of Edie, Alexa smiled. She poured her own mug of tea, stood it beside her, and then reached into her pocket for the letters. She spread them on the eiderdown. A bill from Peter Jones, a circular for double glazing, a postcard from a woman who lived in Barnes and wanted some goodies concocted for her deep-freeze, and finally the huge stiff white envelope.

  She looked at it. A Scottish postmark. An invitation? To a wedding, perhaps…

  She ripped open the envelope with her thumb and took out the card.

  She said, “Goodness me.”

  “What is it?”

  “An invitation to the ball. ‘You shall go to the ball’ said the Fairy Godmother to Cinderella.”

 
Noel reached out and took it from her.

  “Who’s Mrs Angus Steynton?”

  “They live near us in Scotland. About ten miles away.”

  “And who’s Katy?”

  “Their daughter, of course. She works in London. You’ve maybe met her…” Alexa thought about this and then changed her mind. “No. I don’t think you would have. She’s inclined to go round with young men in the Guards…lots of race meetings.”

  “Sixteenth of September. Are you going to go?”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I wouldn’t want to go without you.”

  “I haven’t been invited.”

  “I know.”

  “Will you say, ‘I shall come if I can bring my lover with me’?”

  “Nobody knows I’ve got a lover.”

  “You still haven’t told your family that I’ve moved in with you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Oh Noel…I don’t know.” But she did know. She wanted to keep it all to herself. With Noel, she inhabited a secret magic world of love and discovery, and she was afraid that if she let anybody in from the outside, then it would all dissolve and somehow be spoiled.

  As well…and this was a pathetic admission…she lacked any form of moral courage. She was twenty-one but that didn’t help, because she still felt, inside, about fifteen, and as anxious to please as she had ever been. The thought of possible family reactions filled her with agonised distress. She imagined her father’s disapproval, Vi’s horrified astonishment, and Virginia’s concern. Then, the questions.

  But who is he? Where did you meet him? You’ve been living together? At Ovington Street? But why is this the first we’ve heard of it? What does he do? What is his name?

  And Edie. Lady Cheriton must be turning in her grave.

  It wasn’t that they wouldn’t understand. It wasn’t that they were strait-laced or hypocritical in any way. Nor was it that they didn’t all love Alexa — she just couldn’t bear any of them to be upset.

  She drank some tea.

  Noel said, “You’re not a little girl any longer.”

  “I know I’m not. I’m an adult. I just wish I wasn’t such a wet adult.”

  “Are you ashamed of our sinful cohabitation?”

  “I’m not ashamed of anything. It’s just…the family. I don’t like hurting them.”

  “My sweet, they’ll be much more hurt if they hear about us before you’ve got around to telling them.”

  Alexa knew that this was true. “But how could they find out?” she asked him.

  “This is London. Everybody talks. I’m astonished your father hasn’t got the buzz already. Take my advice and be a brave girl.” He gave her his empty mug and a swift kiss on the cheek. Reaching for his bathrobe, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “And then you can write to Mrs Stiffden, or whatever her name is, and say yes, please, you’d love to come to the ball, and you’re bringing Prince Charming with you.”

  Despite herself, Alexa smiled. “Would you come?”

  “Probably not. Tribal dances are scarcely my scene.” And with that he took himself off to the bathroom. Almost at once Alexa heard the gushing of the shower.

  So what was all the fuss about? Alexa picked up the invitation again, and frowned at it. I wish you’d never come, she told it. You’ve just stirred up a lot of trouble.

  14

  Monday the Twenty-second

  That August, the entire island simmered in an unprecedented heat wave. The mornings started hot, and by midday the temperatures had risen to unbearable heights, driving any person with sense indoors for the afternoon, to loll breathless upon a bed, or sleep on some shady terrace. The old town, up in the hills, quiet and shuttered, slumbered through the hours of siesta. The streets were empty and the shops closed.

  But, down in the port, it was a different story. There were too many people about, and too much money being spent, to respect this time-honoured custom. The tourists did not want to know about siestas. They did not want to waste a moment of their costly holiday in sleeping. And during the day visitors had nowhere to go. So, instead, they sat about in droves, red and perspiring, in the pavement cafés; or wandered aimlessly in air-conditioned gift arcades. The beach was littered with palm-thatch umbrellas and half-naked, kippering bodies, and the marina packed with seagoing craft of every description. Only the boat people seemed to know what was good for them. Usually bustling with activity, the yachts and launches dipped lazily in the swell of the oily water, and in the shade of canvas awnings supine bodies, brown as mahogany, lay about on the decks, as though already dead.

  Pandora awoke late. She had tossed and turned her way through the night and finally, at four in the morning, taken a sleeping pill and fallen at last into a heavy, dream-troubled sleep. She would have slept on but the sound of Seraphina clattering away in the kitchen disturbed her. The clatter shattered the dream, and after a little, reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

  The dream had been of rain, and brown rivers, and cold wet scents, and the sound of wind. Of deep lochs and dark hills with boggy paths leading to their snowcapped summits. But most important was the rain. Not falling straight, not thunderous and tropical as it was when it fell here, but gentle and misty. Rolling in on clouds, insidious as smoke…

  She stirred. The images dissolved, were gone. Why should she dream of Scotland? Why, after all these years, did those old chilly memories come back to tug at her sleeve? Perhaps it was the heat of this cruel August, the endless days of relentless sunshine, the dust and the dryness, the hard-edged black shadows of noon. One yearned for that gentle, scented mist.

  She turned her head on the pillow and saw, beyond the sliding glass doors that had stood open all night, the balustrade of the terrace, the glaring brilliance of geraniums, the sky. Blue, cloudless, already brazen with heat.

  She propped herself up on an elbow and reached across the wide, empty bed to the bedside table and her watch. Nine o’clock. More racket from the kitchen. The sound of the dishwasher churning. Seraphina was making her presence heard. And if she was here, that meant that Mario — her husband and Pandora’s gardener — was already scratching away with his archaic hoe in the garden. Which precluded all possibilities of an early skinny-dip. Mario and Seraphina lived in the old town and came to work each morning on Mario’s moped, roaring full-throttle up the hill. Mario drove this noisy brute of a contraption with Seraphina perched behind him, riding, modestly, side-saddle, and with her strong brown arms wrapped around his waist. It was a wonder that the daily assault of din that proclaimed their arrival had not woken Pandora before this, but then the sleeping pills were very strong.

  It was too hot to go on lying in this rumpled, messy bed. She had been here long enough. Pandora threw aside the thin sheet and, barefoot and naked, crossed the wide expanse of marbled floor and went into her bedroom. She collected her bikini — no more than two scraps of knotted handkerchief — climbed into it, and then walked back through her bedroom, out on to the terrace, and down the steps that led to the swimming pool.

  She dived. It was cool, but not cool enough for true refreshment. She swam. She thought of diving into the loch at Croy and coming up screaming with agony because the cold bit into every painful pore of one’s body; it was a numbing cold that took all breath away. How could she have swum in what was virtually snow-water? How could she and Archie and all the rest of them have indulged in such masochistic pleasures? But what fun it had been. And then coming out, and struggling damply into warm sweaters, and lighting a fire on the pebbly shore of the loch, and cooking the best trout in the world over the smoky embers. Trout, ever since, had never tasted so good as at those impromptu campfire meals.

  She swam on. To and fro, up and down the long pool. Scotland again. Not dreams now but conscious memories. So what? She let them have their way. Let them lead her away from the loch, down the rough turfy track that followed the co
urse of the burn, tumbling and spilling its way down the hill, finally to join the Croy. Peaty water brown and frothy as beer, spilling over rocks and splashing into deep pools where the trout lurked in the shadows. Over the centuries this stream had cut for itself a little valley, and the banks of this were green and verdant, sheltered from the north winds and bright with wildflowers. Foxgloves grew, and starwort, sweet green bracken and tall purple thistles. One particular spot was special. They called it the Corrie and it was the venue for many spring and winter picnics when the winds from the north were too cold to light camp-fires by the loch.

  The Corrie. She did not let her memories linger there but hurried them on. The track steepened, winding between great rock formations, cliffs of granite older than time. A final turn and the glen lay spread far below, sunlit, rolling with cloud shadows, revealed in all its pastoral beauty. The Croy a glittering thread, its two arched bridges just visible through the trees; the village reduced by distance to a child’s plaything, set out on some nursery carpet.

  A pause for contemplation and then on again. The track levelled off. The deer-fence lay ahead and the tall gate. Now visible, the first of the trees. Scots pines, and beyond them the green of the beeches. Then Gordon Gillock’s house, with Mrs Gillock’s washing-line flying a bunting of laundry, and the gun dogs, disturbed, exploding into a cacophony of frenzied barking from their kennels.

  Nearly home. The track a proper road now, tarmacked, leading between farm buildings, stone steadings, and barns and byres. The smell was of cattle and dung. Another gate and past the farmhouse with its bright cottage garden and drystone wall smothered in honeysuckle. The cattle-grid. The drive lined with rhododendrons…