Edmund watched them, waiting for Virginia. His appearance, tall and elegantly suited, his demeanour, the heavily lidded eyes and expressionless features gave nothing away, and a stranger observing him would glean no clue as to his inner uncertainties. For the truth was that Edmund could not be sure either of his welcome from Virginia, nor what her reactions would be when she saw him standing there.
Relations between them, ever since the evening he had broken the news of his plans for sending Henry away to school, had been painfully strained. They had never had a row before, never quarrelled, and although he was a man who could exist very well without other people’s approval, he was bored by the whole business, longed for a truce, and for this chill politeness that lay between them to come to an end and be finally finished.
He was not hopeful. As soon as the Strathcroy Primary had broken up for the summer, Virginia had packed Henry up and taken him to Devon to stay there with her parents for three long weeks. Edmund had hoped that this extended separation would somehow heal the wounds and bring Virginia’s sulks to an end, but the holiday, spent in the company of her beloved child appeared only to have hardened her attitude, and she returned home to Balnaid as cool and uncommunicative as ever.
For a limited time, Edmund could deal with this, but he knew that the chill atmosphere that existed between himself and Virginia did not go unnoticed by Henry. He had become uncommunicative, prone to easy tears, and more dependent than ever on his precious Moo. Edmund hated Moo. He found it offensive that his son was still unable to sleep without that disgusting old scrap of baby blanket. He had been suggesting for some months that Virginia should wean Henry from Moo, but Virginia as far as he could see, had ignored his advice. Now, with only three weeks to go before Henry left for Templehall, she was going to have her work cut out.
After the debacle of the Devon holiday, and becoming frustrated with Virginia’s resolute non-communication; Edmund had considered precipitating another row with his young wife, so bringing matters to a head. But then he decided that this could do nothing but worsen the situation. In her present state of mind, she was quite capable of packing her bags and hightailing it off to Leesport, Long Island, to stay with her devoted grandparents, now returned from their cruise. There she would be petted and spoiled as she had always been and vociferously reassured that she was in the right and Edmund a hard-hearted monster even to contemplate sending small Henry away from her.
And so Edmund had kept his counsel and decided to ride out the emotional storm. He was, after all, not about to change his mind nor make any compromises. It was at the end of the day, up to Virginia.
When she announced that she was going to London by herself for a few days, Edmund greeted the news with nothing but relief. If a few days of fun and shopping did not put her in a more sensible frame of mind, then nothing would. Henry, she told him, was going to stay with Vi. He could do what he pleased. And so he put the dogs into kennels with Gordon Gillock, closed Balnaid, and spent the week in his flat in Moray Place.
The time alone had come as no hardship to him. He simply cleared his mind of all domestic problems, allowed himself to become absorbed in his work, and enjoyed being able to put in long and productive days at his office. As well, the word went swiftly around that Edmund Aird was in town and on his own. Extra attractive men were always at a premium, and the invitations to dinner had poured in. During Virginia’s absence he had not once spent an evening in the flat.
But the hard truth was that he loved his wife and deeply resented this constraint that had lain for so long, like a fetid bog, between them. Standing waiting for her to appear, he hoped devoutly that the time spent enjoying herself in London had brought her to her senses.
For Virginia’s sake. Because he had no intention of living under the cloud of her disapproval and umbrage for so much as one more day, and had already made the decision to stay in Edinburgh, and not return to Balnaid, if she had not relented.
Virginia was one of the last to appear. Through the door and down the stairs. He saw her at once. Her hair was different and she was dressed in unfamiliar and obviously brand-new clothes. Black trousers and a sapphire-blue shirt, and an immensely long raincoat that reached almost to her ankles. She was carrying, along with her flight bag, a number of shiny and extravagant-looking boxes and carriers, the very picture of an elegant woman fresh from a mammoth shopping spree. As well, she looked sensationally glamorous and about ten years younger.
And she was his wife. Despite everything, he realised all at once how dreadfully he had missed her. He did not move from where he stood, but he could feel the drumbeat of his own heart.
She saw him and paused. Their eyes met. Those blue and brilliant eyes of hers. For a long moment they simply looked at each other. Then she smiled, and came on down towards him.
Edmund took a long, deep breath in which relief, joy, and a surge of youthful well-being were all inextricably mingled. London, it appeared, had done the trick. Everything was going to be all right. He felt his face break into an answering, unstoppable smile, and went forward to greet her.
Ten minutes later, they were back in the car, Virginia’s luggage stowed in the boot, doors closed, seat belts fastened. Alone and together.
Edmund reached for the car keys, tossed them in his hand. “What do you want to do?” he asked.
“What suggestions do you have?”
“We can head straight back to Balnaid. Or we can go to the flat. Or we can go and have dinner in Edinburgh and then drive back to Balnaid. Henry is spending another night with Vi, so we are completely free.”
“I should like to go out for dinner and then go home.”
“Then that is what we shall do.” He inserted the car key, switched on the ignition. “I have a table booked at Rafaelli’s.” He manoeuvred the crowded car-park, drove to the tailgate, paid his dues. They moved out on to the road.
“How was London?”
“Hot and crowded. But fun. I saw masses of people, and went to about four parties, and Felicity had got tickets for Phantom of the Opera. I spent so much money, you’re going to pass out when the bills come in.”
“Did you get a dress for the Steyntons’ dance?”
“Yes. At Caroline Charles. A really dreamy creation. And I got my hair done.”
“I noticed.”
“Do you like it?”
“Very elegant. And that coat is new.”
“I felt such a country frump when I got to London, I went slightly mad. It’s Italian. Not much use in Strathcroy, I admit, but I couldn’t resist it.”
She laughed. His own, sweet-tempered Virginia. He was filled with grateful satisfaction, and swore to himself that he would remember this when the inevitable American Express account came in. She said, “I can see I shall have to go to London more often.”
“Did you see Alexa?”
“Yes, and I’ve lots to tell you, but I’ll save that up till we’re having dinner. How’s Henry?”
“I rang up a couple of evenings ago. He’s having, as usual, the time of his life. Vi asked Kedejah Ishak to tea at Pennyburn, and she and Henry made a dam in the burn and sailed paper boats. He was quite happy to spend an extra night with Vi.”
“And you? What have you been doing?”
“Working. Going out to dinner. I’ve had a social week.”
She glanced at him wryly. “I’ll bet,” she said without rancour.
He drove into Edinburgh by the old Glasgow road, and as they approached, the city looked its most impressive, etched like a romantic engraving beneath the immense and steely sky. The wide streets were verdant with leafy trees, the skyline pierced by spires and towers, and the castle on its rock brooded over all, with flag snapping at the masthead. Coming to the New Town, they entered the gracefully proportioned purlieus of Georgian terraces and spacious crescents. All had been newly sandstoned, and the buildings, with their classic windows and porticoes and airy fanlights, stood honey-coloured in the evening light.
Circli
ng the one-way system, Edmund made his way through a labyrinth of hidden lanes and turned at last into a narrow cobbled street to draw up at the pavement’s edge outside the little Italian restaurant. On the opposite side of this street stood one of Edinburgh’s many beautiful churches. High up on the tower, above the massive arched doorway, the hands of a golden clock moved to nine o’clock, and as they got out of the car, its chimes pealed out across the rooftops, striking the hours. Flocks of pigeons, disturbed from their airy roosts, exploded upwards in a flurry of flight. When the last chime had struck, they settled again, on sill and parapet, cooing to themselves, folding their wings, pretending nothing had happened, as though ashamed of their silly agitation.
“You’d think,” said Virginia, “that they’d get used to the din. Become blasé.”
“I never met a blasé pigeon. Did you?”
“Come to think of it, no.”
He took her arm and led her across the pavement and through the door. Inside the restaurant was small, dimly lighted, smelling of fresh coffee and garlic and delicious Mediterranean food. The place was pleasantly busy and most of the tables were occupied, but the head waiter spied them at once and made his way across the floor to welcome them.
“Good evening, Mr Aird. And Madame.”
“Good evening, Luigi.”
“I have your table ready.”
The table Edmund had particularly asked for; in the corner, tucked under the window. A starched pink damask cloth, pink damask napkins, a single rose in a slender vase. Charming, intimate, seductive. The ultimate ambience for the ending of a feud.
“Perfect, Luigi. Thank you. And the Moët Chandon?”
“No problem, Mr Aird. I have it on ice.”
They drank the chilled champagne. Virginia filled in the details of her social activities, the art exhibitions she had been to, the concert at the Wigmore Hall.
They ordered in a leisurely fashion. Eschewed the ravioli and tagliatelli, and went instead for duck päté, and cold Tay salmon.
“Why do I bring you to Italian restaurants, when you can eat Tay salmon at home?”
“Because there is nothing in the world so delicious, and after my whirl in London I seem to have had my fill of ethnic food.”
“I shall not ask with whom you have been dining.”
She smiled. “Nor I you.”
Without haste, they ate their way through the perfect meal, ending with fresh raspberries coated in thick cream, and a Brie of exactly the right consistency. She told him of the exhibition at Burlington House, Felicity Crowe’s plans to buy a country cottage in Dorset, and tried to explain, with a certain amount of confusing detail, the plot of Phantom of the Opera. Edmund, who knew the plot anyway, listened with absorbed interest, simply because it was so marvellous to have her back, to listen to her voice, to have her sharing her pleasures with him.
Finally, their plates were cleared, and coffee brought, black and fragrant, steaming in the tiny cups, as well as a dish of chocolate peppermints thin as wafers.
By now most of the other tables had emptied, the diners gone home. Only one other couple sat, as they sat, but drinking brandy. The man smoked a cigar.
The Moët Chandon was finished, up-ended in the ice-bucket. “Would you like a brandy?” Edmund asked.
“No. Not a thing more.”
“I’d have one, but I have to drive.”
“I could drive.”
He shook his head. “I don’t need a brandy.” He leaned back in his chair. “You’ve told me everything, but you still haven’t told me about Alexa.”
“I was keeping it to the end.”
“Does that mean it’s good?”
“I think it’s good. I’m not sure what you’ll think.”
“Try me.”
“You won’t become Victorian, will you?”
“I don’t think I ever am.”
“Because Alexa’s got a man. He’s moved in with her. He’s living with her in the house in Ovington Street.”
Edmund did not at once reply to this. Then he said, quite calmly, “When did this happen?”
“In June, I think. She didn’t tell us because she was afraid we would all be upset or disapproving.”
“Does she think we wouldn’t like him?”
“No. I think she thinks you’d like him very much. It’s just that she wasn’t sure how you’d take it. So she gave me the job of telling you.”
“Have you met him?”
“Yes. Just for a little while. We had a drink together. There wasn’t time for more.”
“Did you like him?”
“Yes. I did. He’s very good-looking, very charming. He’s called Noel Keeling.”
Edmund’s coffee-cup was empty. He caught Luigi’s eyes and asked for it to be refilled. When this was done, he stirred it thoughtfully, his eyes downcast, his handsome features giving nothing away.
“What do you think?” Virginia asked.
He looked up at her and smiled. “I think I’m thinking that I thought it would never happen.”
“But you’re pleased that it has?”
“I’m pleased that Alexa has found someone who is sufficiently fond of her to want to spend much time with her. It would be easier for everybody if it could have taken a less dramatic course, but I suppose nowadays it’s inevitable that they should shack up together and give it a try before making any momentous decision.” He took a mouthful of the scalding coffee, set down the cup. “It’s just that she’s such an extraordinarily unsophisticated child.”
“She isn’t a child any more, Edmund.”
“It’s hard to think of Alexa as anything else.”
“We have to.”
“I realise that.”
“She was in rather a state about my telling you all. She asked me to tell you, but I know, in a funny way, she was dreading the secret coming out.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“You don’t have to do anything. She’s going to bring him up to Balnaid in September for the weekend of the Steyntons’ dance. And we’ll all behave as casually as all-get-out…just as though he were an old childhood chum or a schoolfriend. I don’t think we can do more. After that, it’s up to them.”
“Was that your idea or Alexa’s?”
“Mine,” Virginia told him, not without pride.
“What a clever girl you are.”
“I told her other things as well, Edmund. I told her that, over the last few weeks, we haven’t exactly been the best of friends.”
“That must be the understatement of the year.”
She fixed him with her brilliant gaze. She said, “I haven’t changed my mind. I haven’t changed my attitude. I don’t want Henry to go and I think he’s too young, and I think you’re making a dreadful mistake; but I know that Henry’s been upset by all this ill feeling, and I’ve decided we’ve got to stop thinking about ourselves and think about the children instead. Think about Henry and Alexa. Because Alexa said that if we were still glowering at each other, then she wasn’t going to come up with Noel because she couldn’t stand the idea of any sort of bad atmosphere between us.” She paused, waiting for Edmund to make some sort of comment. But he said nothing and so she continued. “I’ve been thinking about that. I tried to imagine going back to Leesport and finding my grandparents snapping each other’s heads off, but it was unimaginable, and that’s the way we’ve got to make it for Henry and Alexa. I’m not giving in, Edmund. I’ll never come round to your way of thinking. But what can’t be cured must be endured. Besides, I’ve missed you. I don’t really like being on my own. In London I kept wishing you were there.” She put her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands. “You see, I love you.”
After a little, Edmund said, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry I love you?”
He shook his head. “No. Sorry I went to Templehall and settled the whole affair with Colin Henderson without consulting you. I should have had more consideration. It was overbearing.”
; “I’ve never heard you admit to being in the wrong before.”
“I hope you never have to again. It’s painful.” He reached out and took her hand in his. “It’s a truce then?”
“With one proviso?”
“What would that be?”
“That when the terrible day comes and poor Henry has to go to Templehall, I am not asked nor expected to take him. Because I don’t think that I could physically bear to do that. Later on maybe, when I’ve got used to being without him. But not the first time.”
“I’ll be there,” said Edmund. “I shall take him.”
It was growing late. The other couple had departed, and the waiters were standing around trying not to look as though they were longing for Edmund and Virginia, too, to go home and let them close up for the night. Edmund called for the bill and, while this was coming, leaned back in his chair, put his hand in the pocket of his jacket and brought out a small package wrapped in thick white paper and sealed with red wax.
“It’s for you.” He put it on the table between them. “It’s a welcome-home present.”
17
If Henry could not be at home, at Balnaid, then the next best thing was staying with Vi. At Pennyburn, he had his own bedroom, a tiny room over what had once been the front door, with a narrow window looking out over the garden and the glen and the hills beyond. From this window, if he screwed his neck around a bit, he could even see Balnaid, half-hidden in trees beyond the river and the village. And in the mornings when he awoke and sat up, he could watch the rising sun stretching long fingers of early light across the fields, and listen to the song of the blackbird that had its nest in the top branches of the old elder tree by the burn. Vi did not like elder trees, but she had let this one stand, because it was a good tree for Henry to climb. That was how he had found out about the blackbird’s nest.
The room was so small, it was a little like sleeping in a Wendy house, or even a cupboard, but that was part of its charm. There was space for his bed and a chest of drawers with a mirror hanging over it, but no more. A couple of hooks on the back of the door did duty as a wardrobe, and there was a neat little light over his bedhead, so that he could read in bed if he wanted to. The carpet was blue and the walls were white. There was a nice picture of a bluebell wood, and the curtains were white with bunches of field flowers spattered all over them.
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