September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  “Is she there now?”

  “No. She’s having a toes-up. I’m phoning from my room. I’m all alone except for Jeff. I’ve got so much to tell you and Mum, but I won’t do it now because it’s all so complicated…”

  But Archie would not let her off with this excuse. “When did you get to London?”

  “This morning. Just before lunch. We’ve all been driving through Spain and France in Pandora’s car. We’ve had the most amazing time. Then we caught the ferry early this morning and came to London. I was all ready to head north right away, but Pandora wanted to draw breath, so she brought us here. Insisted. And don’t worry about the bill because she’s footing it. She footed the whole trip, ever since we left Palma. Paid for all the petrol, the hotels, everything.”

  “How…” His voice broke. It was ridiculous, unmanly, to be so emotional. He tried again. “How is she?”

  “She’s fine. Terribly pretty. Lots of fun. Oh, Dad, you are pleased I’m bringing her home, aren’t you? It’s not going to be too much for Mum? Pandora’s not what you call madly domesticated and I don’t suppose she’ll ever raise a finger to do anything to help, but she’s so excited about seeing you both again. It will be all right, won’t it?”

  “More than all right, my darling. It’s like a miracle.”

  “And don’t forget, I’m bringing Jeff as well.”

  “We look forward to meeting him.”

  “See you tomorrow then.”

  “What time?”

  “About five? But don’t worry if we’re a little late.”

  “We won’t.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Nor me. Drive carefully, my darling.”

  “Of course.” She sent him a kissing noise down the hundreds of miles of wire, and rang off.

  Archie was left sitting on the hard kitchen chair and holding the buzzing receiver in his hand. Lucilla and Pandora. Coming home.

  He replaced the receiver. The buzzing ceased. The old kitchen clock ticked slowly. For a few moments he sat where he was, and then got to his feet and went out of the kitchen and down the passage to his study. Sitting at his desk, he opened a drawer and took out a key. Using this key, he opened another, smaller drawer. From this he withdrew an envelope, yellowed with the years and addressed in Pandora’s large and immature scrawl to himself, at the headquarters of the Queen’s Loyal Highlanders, in Berlin. The date of the postmark was 1967. It contained a letter, but he did not take this letter out to read because he knew it by heart. Which meant that there was no reason not to have torn it to shreds, nor flung it on the fire years ago, except that he could not bring himself to destroy it.

  Pandora. Coming back to Croy.

  From the distance came the sound of a car, growing louder, approaching the house, up the hill from the main road. The noise of its engine was unmistakable. Isobel and Hamish returning in the minibus from their blackberrying expedition. Archie put the envelope back into its drawer, locked it away, disposed once more of the key, and went to meet them.

  Isobel had driven the minibus around the back of the house and parked it in the yard and, by the time Archie returned to the kitchen, they were there, his wife and his son, flinging open the door and staggering triumphantly through it, each weighed down by two huge baskets brimming with dark fruit. After a session in the bramble thickets they were both disreputable, dirty, and mud-stained, and looked, Archie decided fondly, no better than a pair of tinkers.

  Every time he set eyes on Hamish, he knew a small shock of surprise, because the boy, these summer holidays, had grown like a young tree, getting taller and larger by the day. At twelve, he now topped his mother, and his out-at-elbow sweater was strained across a pair of muscular shoulders. His shirt hung out of his jeans, purple juice stained his hands and mouth, and his abundant corn-coloured hair was sorely in need of a cut. Archie, eyeing him, was filled with pride.

  “Hi, Dad.” Dumping the baskets on to the kitchen table, Hamish groaned. “I’m starving.”

  “You’re always starving.”

  Isobel, too, set down her load. “Hamish, you’ve been eating blackberries all afternoon.” She wore her baggy corduroys and a shirt that Archie had long since discarded. “You can’t be hungry.”

  “I am. Blackberries don’t fill you up.” Hamish was headed for the dresser where the cake-tins were stacked. He removed a lid with a clatter and reached for a knife.

  Archie admired their harvest. “You’ve done frightfully well.”

  “We must have picked about thirty pounds. I’ve never seen so many. We went over to the other side of the river where Mr Gladstone grows his turnips. The hedgerows around those fields are groaning with fruit.” Isobel pulled out a chair and sat down. “I’d die for a cup of tea.”

  Archie said, “I have news for you.”

  She looked up quickly, always fearing the worst. “Good news?”

  “The best,” he told her.

  “But when did she call? What did she say? Why didn’t she let us know before?” Isobel, alight with excitement, gave Archie no time to answer any question. “Why didn’t they call us from Palma, or France, and give us more notice? Not that I need a moment’s notice, it doesn’t matter; all that matters is that they’re coming. And staying at the Ritz. I don’t think that Lucilla’s ever stayed in a hotel in the whole of her life. Pandora is ridiculous. They could easily have gone somewhere a little less grand…”

  “Pandora probably doesn’t know anywhere else.”

  “And they’re staying over the dance? And she’s bringing the sheep-farmer? Do you suppose she actually persuaded Pandora to come? It’s so extraordinary, after all these years, that it’s taken Lucilla to persuade her. I’ll have to get all the bedrooms ready. We’ll be quite a house party because we’ve got that American friend of Katy’s coming as well. And food. I think there are still some pheasants in the deep-freeze…”

  They were, by now, sitting around the table and drinking tea. Hamish, in famished desperation, had put the kettle on and made this. While his parents talked, he had set the table with three mugs, the tins that contained the cakes and biscuits, and a loaf of bread on its wooden board. He had also found butter and a jar of Branston Pickle. Hamish had, just now, a passion for Branston Pickle and spread it on everything. He was, at this moment, engaged in concocting a sandwich, the dark pickle oozing out between two enormous doorsteps of bread.

  “…did she tell you about Pandora? Did she say anything at all about her?”

  “Not very much. Just sounded pleased with life.”

  “Oh, I wish I’d been here to talk to her.”

  “You can talk to her tomorrow.”

  “Have you told anyone else they’re coming?”

  “No. Just you.”

  “I’ll have to call Verena and tell her she’s got three more people coming to her party. And I must tell Virginia. And Vi.”

  Archie reached for the teapot and refilled his mug.

  “I was thinking. Perhaps it would be a good idea to ask all the Airds for lunch on Sunday? What do you say? After all, we don’t know how long Pandora’s going to be staying, and next week’s going to be like a three-ring-circus with one thing and another. Sunday might be a good day.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea. I’ll ring Virginia. And I’ll order a sirloin from the butcher.”

  Hamish said “Yum yum” and reached for another slice of gingerbread.

  “…and if it’s a fine day we can play croquet. We haven’t played croquet all summer. You’ll have to cut the grass, Archie.” She set down her mug, businesslike. “Now. I’ve got to make bramble jelly, and I’ll have to get all the bedrooms ready. But I mustn’t forget to ring Virginia…”

  “I’ll do that,” said Archie. “You can leave that to me.”

  But Isobel, with the great jelly-pan set on the Aga and the blackberries simmering, knew that if she did not share her exciting news with somebody, she would burst, and so found time to call Violet. At first there was no reply f
rom Pennyburn, so she hung up and called again half an hour later.

  “Hello.”

  “Vi, it’s Isobel.”

  “Oh, my dear.”

  “Are you busy?”

  “No, I’m sitting down with a drink in my hand.”

  “But, Vi, it’s only half past five. Have you taken to the bottle?”

  “Temporarily. I’ve had the most exhausting day of my life, wheeling Lottie Carstairs around Relkirk and giving her tea. Never mind, it’s all over now and I’ve done my good deed for the week. But I did feel I deserved a large whisky and soda.”

  “You certainly do. Or even two large whiskies and soda. Vi, something really exciting has happened. Lucilla rang from London and she’s coming home tomorrow and she’s bringing Pandora with her.”

  “She’s bringing who?”

  “Pandora. Archie’s over the moon with delight. Just think. He’s been trying to get her back to Croy for the past twenty years and now she’s actually coming.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Incredible, isn’t it? Come for lunch on Sunday and see them all. We’re asking all the other Airds as well, you can come with them.”

  “I’d love to do that. But…Isobel, why did she suddenly decide to come? Pandora, I mean.”

  “No idea. Lucilla said something about the Steyntons’ party, but it seems a fairly feeble excuse.”

  “How extraordinary. I…I…wonder what she will look like?”

  “No idea. Probably smashing. Except that she’s thirty-nine now, so there are bound to be a few wrinkles. Anyway, we’ll soon see for ourselves. I must go, Vi. I’m making bramble jelly and it’s just about to boil over. See you Sunday.”

  “So kind. And I’m thrilled about Lucilla…”

  But the bramble jelly claimed Isobel. “‘Bye, Vi,” And she rang off.

  Pandora.

  Vi put down the receiver, took off her spectacles, and rubbed her aching eyes. She had been tired before, but Isobel’s news, delivered with such joy, left her with the sensation that she was being beleaguered. As though impossible demands were about to be made of her, and vital decisions would need to be taken.

  She lay back in her chair and closed her eyes, wished that Edie were here, her old and dearest friend, so that she could confide, and discuss, and be comforted. But Edie was in her cottage, lumbered with Lottie, and even a telephone call was out of the question, with Lottie listening to every word and drawing her own dangerous conclusions.

  Pandora. Now thirty-nine, but because Violet had not seen her since she was eighteen, she had stayed, in Violet’s mind, perpetually that enchanting teenager. Like a person already dead. People who had died never aged, just stayed in the memory the way they had once been. Archie and Edmund had matured to middle age, but not Pandora.

  Which was ridiculous. Everybody grew older at the same speed, like people at airports being carried along by those moving walkways. Pandora was thirty-nine and had lived a life, if all accounts were to be believed, that was anything but quiet and peaceful. Experience would have left its mark, drawing lines, wrinkling skin, dulling the bright lustre of that amazing hair.

  But it was almost impossible to imagine. Violet sighed, opened her eyes, reached for her drink. This would not do. She must pull herself together. The implications of the situation had nothing to do with her. She would make no decision because there was none to be made. She would simply continue to do what she had always done, which was to observe, disregard, and keep her counsel.

  Edmund Aird, returning home to Balnaid from Edinburgh at seven o’clock in the evening, walked through his front door just as the telephone started to ring. Standing in the hall, he paused, but when no one immediately answered the call, he laid his briefcase down on the table and went to the library, to sit at his desk and pick up the receiver.

  “Edmund Aird.”

  “Edmund. Archie here.”

  “Yes, Archie.”

  “Isobel asked me to call you. She wants you and Virginia and Henry to come for lunch on Sunday. We’ve asked Vi as well. Can you make it?”

  “How very kind of Isobel. I think so…just a moment…” He reached in his pocket for his diary, laid it on the blotter, turned the pages. “As far as I’m concerned, that would be fine, but I’m only just back and I haven’t spoken to Virginia yet. Do you want me to go and find her?”

  “No, don’t bother. You can ring me if you can’t come, and if we don’t hear, we’ll expect you all at about a quarter to one.”

  “We look forward to it.” Edmund hesitated. “Is this for some occasion we should know about, or just a routine invitation?”

  Archie said, “No.” And then said, “Yes. I mean, it is an occasion. Lucilla’s coming home tomorrow…”

  “That’s great news.”

  “She’s bringing some Australian with her.”

  “The sheep-farmer?”

  “That’s right. And she’s bringing Pandora.”

  Edmund, with some deliberation, closed his diary. It was bound in navy-blue hide, with his initials in gold in one corner. It had been in his stocking last Christmas, a present from Virginia.

  “Pandora?”

  “Yes. Lucilla and the sheep-farmer went to stay with her in Majorca. They’ve all come back together, driving through Spain and France. Got to London this morning.” Archie paused, as though waiting for some comment from Edmund. But Edmund did not speak and, after a bit, Archie went on, “I forwarded an invitation from Verena Steynton, so I suppose she thought it might be fun to come home for the party.”

  “It’s as good a reason as any.”

  “Yes.” Another pause. “Sunday then, Edmund?’

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Unless we hear from you.”

  “We look forward to it. Thank you for calling.”

  He rang off. The library, the house, were silent. It occurred to him that perhaps Virginia and Henry were out somewhere, and he was totally alone. This sense of solitude grew, became oppressive. He found himself straining his ears, needing the reassurance of a raised voice, the clatter of dishes, the bark of a dog. Nothing. Then, from beyond the open window, came the long, bubbling call of a curlew, flying low over the fields beyond the garden. A cloud covered the sun, and the cool air stirred. He put the diary back in his pocket, smoothed his hair with his hand, straightened his tie. He needed a drink. He got up from the chair, left the room, and went in search of his wife and his son.

  24

  Saturday the Tenth

  Lucilla said, “I’ve never come home in such style before.”

  “How did you come before?” Jeff was driving. Had been at the wheel the whole of their long journey north.

  “In trains from school. Or driving a ratty little car from Edinburgh. Once I flew from London, but that was in the days when Dad was still a soldier and the War Office paid my fare.”

  It was half past three, a Saturday afternoon, and now there were only twenty miles to go. They had made good time. The motorway was behind them, Relkirk bypassed, and the winding road comfortingly familiar, leading them to Strathcroy and home. The river kept them company, and ahead lay the hills. The air was clear, the sky enormous, and the fresh breeze, sweeping in through opened windows, sweet and heady as young wine.

  Lucilla could scarcely believe their good fortune. It had been raining in London and pouring in the Midlands, but as they crossed the border, she had watched the clouds disintegrate, disperse, roll away to the east, and Scotland welcomed them with a blue sky and trees just on the point of turning gold. Lucilla thought that this was extremely obliging of her native country and felt as pleased as if she, personally, had stage-managed the miraculous transformation, but deliberately made no comment on either their luck or the stunning scenery. She had known Jeff for long enough to discover that he did not appreciate, and was even embarrassed by, over-effusion.

  They had set off at ten o’clock this morning, checking out of the Ritz, and watching the majestic porters load P
andora’s dark-red Mercedes with her impressive array of matched luggage, along with their own humble back packs. Pandora had forgotten to tip the porters, so Lucilla had had to do it for her. She knew that she would never get it back, but after a night of total luxury with dinner and breakfast thrown in, she felt that it was the least she could do.

  To begin with, Pandora had sat in the front of her magnificent car, cosy in her mink, because after the nailing heat of a Majorcan August, she felt in need of its opulent comfort. The cold and the rain were not what she had expected. While Jeff drove them out of the city, jousted with traffic, achieved the motorway, she kept up an endless stream of inconsequential chat. Later, she fell silent, gazing out of the window at the grey and dull countryside through which they swept, in the fast lane, at eighty miles an hour. The windscreen wipers worked flat out, immense juggernauts sent up blinding, muddy showers of spray, and even Lucilla had to admit that it was all thoroughly disagreeable.

  “Goodness, it’s ugly.” Pandora snuggled deeper into her fur.

  “I know. But it’s just this bit.”

  For lunch, they stopped at a motorway service station. Pandora wanted to leave the motorway and go in search of some wayside pub, preferably thatched, where they could sit by an open fire and drink cheering concoctions like whisky and ginger ale. But Lucilla knew that if they allowed themselves to be so diverted, they would never get back to Croy.

  “There isn’t time. This isn’t Spain, Pandora. It isn’t France. We’ve no time to waste on frivolities.”

  “Darling, hardly a frivolity.”

  “Yes, it is. And you’d get talking to the barman and we’d be there for ever.”

  So the motorway service station it was, which proved just as unenjoyable as Lucilla had feared it would be. Queuing with trays for sandwiches and coffee; and then sitting on orange plastic chairs at a Formica table, hemmed in by irritable families with fractious children, punky youths in pornographic T-shirts, and muscular truck drivers, all seemingly content to wrap themselves around mind-boggling platefuls of fish and chips, evilly coloured trifles, and cups of tea.