September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  “You’ve been watching too much television.” But luckily she found it funny too. “He’ll think he’s come to a madhouse.”

  “Wouldn’t be all that far off the mark. What time are you setting off for Relkirk?”

  “About half past ten.”

  “Lucilla and Jeff seem to be on the move, but you’d better prise Pandora out of bed or you’ll still be waiting for her at four o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “I already did,” Isobel told him. “Half an hour ago.”

  “She’s probably climbed back into bed and gone to sleep again.”

  But Pandora had done no such thing. The words were scarcely out of Archie’s mouth when they heard the tap of her high heels coming down the passage from the hall. The door opened and she burst into the kitchen, her profusion of hair bright as a flame, and face filled with laughter.

  “Good morning, good morning, here I am, and I bet you thought I’d gone back to bed.” She kissed the top of Archie’s head and settled herself beside him. She was wearing dark-grey flannel trousers and a pale-grey sweater patterned with pink knitted sheep, and was carrying a magazine. This, it appeared, was the root cause of her amusement. “I’d forgotten this marvellous mag. Papa used to take it every month. The Country Landowners’ Journal.”

  “We still take it. I never got around to cancelling the subscription.”

  “I found this copy in my bedroom. It’s simply fascinating, full of mind-boggling articles about something called Flea-Beetle Dust, and how we’ve all got to be terribly kind to badgers.” She began to riffle through the pages. Isobel poured her a cup of coffee. “Oh, thank you darling, heaven. But the best are the ads at the back. Do listen to this one: ‘For Sale. Titled Lady Wishes to Dispose of Underclothes. Peach-Pink Directoire Knickers and Silk Opera-Top Vests. Hardly Worn. Offers.’”

  Archie finished munching his bit of toast. “Who do we write to?”

  “Box number. Do you suppose that because she’s titled, she’s simply stopped wearing underclothes?”

  “Perhaps somebody’s died,” Isobel suggested. “An old aunt. And she’s cashing in on the loot.”

  “Some loot. I think she’s having a mid-life crisis and has changed her image. Gone on a diet and lost stones of weight and become all flighty. She’s into satin cami-knickers now with lace round the legs, and His Lordship doesn’t know what’s hit him. And here’s another marvellous one. Do listen, Archie. ‘Work Wanted. Personable Farmer’s Son. (Does that mean the farmer’s personable or the son is?) Thirty Years Old. Some Experience in Draining. Driver. Fond of Shooting and Fishing.’ Just think!” Pandora’s eyes became enormous. “He’s only thirty and he’s able to drive a car. I’m sure he’d be frightfully useful to you, Archie. ‘Some Experience in Draining.’ He’d be able to take care of all the plumbing. Ballcocks and such. Why don’t you drop him a line and offer to take him on?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Why ever not?”

  Archie thought about it. “He’s over-qualified.”

  Simultaneously, their shared sense of the ridiculous bubbled to the surface and brother and sister dissolved into giggles. Isobel, observing them, shaking her head at their idiotic paroxysms of mirth, was nevertheless filled with grateful wonder. Since Pandora’s arrival, Archie had been in better spirits than Isobel had seen him for years, and now, sitting at her own breakfast table, she recognised once more that attractive and blissfully funny man she had fallen in love with over twenty years ago.

  Pandora was not the perfect guest. Domestically speaking, she was a dead loss, and Isobel spent much time clearing up after her — making her bed, cleaning her bath, tidying away her clothes, and doing her laundry. But Isobel would forgive her anything, because she knew that it was his sister who had brought about the miraculous change in Archie, and for this could be nothing but grateful, for somehow Pandora had rekindled Archie’s youth and brought, like a gust of fresh wind, laughter back to Croy.

  The shopping party, one by one, mustered. Jeff, having eaten his way through Isobel’s enormous breakfast, went to collect Pandora’s Mercedes from the garage, and drive it around to the front of the house. Isobel, armed with shopping baskets and the inevitable lists, joined him. Pandora was the next to appear, wearing her mink coat and her dark glasses and reeking of Poison.

  It was another windy day with flashes of sunshine, and they all stood around in the breeze and waited for Lucilla. She came at last, shouted for by her father, and then shooed out through the door by him, just as he shooed his dogs. But she turned back to say goodbye, embracing and kissing him as though she were never going to see him again, before running down the steps with her dark hair flying.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know you were waiting.”

  Lucilla was dressed in old and faded jeans with slits at the knees that had been ineptly patched with some red-spotted material. With these, she wore a crumpled cotton shirt with much embroidery and drooping sleeves. The tails of this hung down below a very small leather waistcoat, dangling with fringe. She looked, thought her mother, as though she had just been raped by a Sioux.

  “Darling, aren’t you going to change?” She spoke rashly.

  “Mum, I am changed. These are my best jeans. I bought them in Majorca when I was staying with Pandora.”

  “Oh yes, of course.” They all got into the car. “I am sorry, Lucilla. How silly of me.”

  Having reached Relkirk and found a place to park, the shoppers split up, because Lucilla and Jeff wanted to case the antique shops and browse around the famous street market.

  “We’ll meet you for lunch in the Wine Bar,” Isobel told them. “At one o’clock.”

  “Have you booked a table?”

  “No, but we should get one.”

  “Right. We’ll be off then.” They walked away across the cobbled square. As Isobel watched them go, she saw Jeff put his arm around Lucilla’s thin shoulders. Which surprised her, because he had struck her as a most undemonstrative young man.

  “That’s got rid of them,” said Pandora, sounding like a wicked child who, having disposed of the grown-ups, was ripe and ready for mischief. “Now, where are all the dress shops?”

  “Pandora, I haven’t quite made up my mind…”

  “We’re going to get you a dress for the dance, and that’s it. And stop looking agonised because it’s going to be my present to you. I owe it. I’m paying a debt.”

  “But…shouldn’t we do all the important shopping first? The food for Friday, and…”

  “What could be more important than a new dress? We can leave all the boring stuff until the afternoon. Now, stop standing around and dithering, or we’ll waste the day away. Head us in the right direction…”

  “Well…there’s McKay’s…” said Isobel doubtfully.

  “Not a dreary department store. Isn’t there somewhere exclusive and expensive?”

  “Yes, there is, but I’ve never been into it.”

  “Well, now is the time to start. Come on.”

  And Isobel, feeling all at once carefree and pleasantly sinful, abandoned her Calvinistic tendencies and followed.

  The shop was narrow and deep, thickly carpeted, lined with mirrors, and sweetly scented like a glamorous woman. They were the only customers, and as they came through the plate-glass door, a woman rose from behind an enviable little marquetry desk and came to meet them. Dressed for work, she wore the sort of outfit that Isobel would have happily gone out to dinner in.

  “Good morning.”

  She was told what they searched for.

  “What size are you, madam?”

  “Oh.” Isobel, already, was flustered. “I think a twelve. Or maybe a fourteen.”

  “Oh, no.” A professional eye was cast over Isobel, gauging. Isobel hoped that her tights hadn’t laddered. “I’m sure a twelve. The ball-gowns are through here, if you’d like to come.”

  They followed her into the back of the shop. She swept aside a curtain and revealed open wardrobes bu
lging with racks of evening dresses. Some short, some long; silk and velvet, glimmering satin, chiffon, and voile; and every beautiful colour under the sun. She rattled the hangers along the rail.

  “These are twelves, here. But of course, if you find something you like in another size, I could always get it altered for you.”

  “We haven’t time,” Isobel told her. Her eyes moved to the darker gowns. Dark colours didn’t date, and you could always add bits to them to make them look different. There was a brown satin. Or a navy-blue ribbed silk. Or maybe black. She took down a black crêpe with jet buttons, and moved to the mirror to hold it in front of her…a bit governessy perhaps, but she saw it standing her in good stead for years…She tried squinting at the price ticket but was not wearing her glasses.

  “This is nice.”

  Pandora scarcely gave it a glance. “Not black, Isobel. And not red.” She pushed more hangers aside, and then pounced. “Now, this.”

  Isobel, still listlessly holding the black crêpe, looked — at the most beautiful dress she had ever imagined. Sapphire-blue Thai silk shot with black, so that as the light moved over the material, it shimmered like the wings of some exotic insect. The skirt was huge, puffed out with petticoats, and it had a low neck. The sleeves were finished at the elbow with narrow ruffles of the same silk, and an identical ruffle bordered the hem.

  Scarcely daring to imagine herself owning such a garment, Isobel eyed the tiny waist. “I’ll never get into that.”

  “Try.”

  It was as though she had lost all will of her own. Bundled into a curtained changing-room, stripped, like some votive sacrifice, of all her outer clothes. “Now.” She stood in her bra and tights, and the profusion of whispering silk was lowered cautiously over her head; sleeves pulled up over her arms; the zip…

  She sucked in her breath, but there was no problem. The waistline hugged her snugly, but she could breathe. The saleslady settled the shoulders, bouffed out the skirt, stepped back to admire.

  Isobel saw herself full-length in the mirror, and it was like seeing another person. A woman from another age, stepped down from the frame of an eighteenth-century portrait. The hem of the dress swept the floor, the stiff silk arranging itself in gleaming folds. The sleeves were infinitely flattering, and the deep neckline revealed Isobel’s best points, which were her pretty plump shoulders and the swelling curve of her breasts.

  Overwhelmed with desire, she tried to remain practical. “It’s too long.”

  “It won’t be with high heels,” Pandora pointed out. “And the colour makes your eyes as blue as ink.”

  Isobel looked and saw that this was true. But she put her hands to her tanned and weathered cheeks. “My face is all wrong.”

  “Darling, you’re wearing no make-up.”

  “And my hair.”

  “I’ll do your hair for you.” Pandora narrowed her eyes. “You need jewellery.”

  “I could wear the Balmerino earrings. The diamond drops with the pearls and sapphires.”

  “Of course. Perfection. And Mama’s pearl choker? Have you got that as well?”

  “It’s in the bank.”

  “We’ll get it out this afternoon. You’re beautiful in it, Isobel. Every man in the room will be in love with you. We couldn’t have found anything more becoming.” She turned to smile at the silent but satisfied saleslady. “We’ll have it.”

  The dress was unzipped, gently removed, and taken away to be parcelled up.

  “Pandora!” Isobel whispered urgently, reaching for her Marks & Spencer petticoat. “You never even asked the price.”

  “If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it,” Pandora whispered back and disappeared. Isobel, torn between excitement and guilt, was left to put on her blouse and skirt, button up her jacket and lace up her shoes. By the time she had done this, the cheque had been written, the price-tag removed, and the ravishing dress packed into a huge box.

  The saleslady went to open the door for them.

  “Thank you so much,” said Isobel.

  “I’m glad you found something you liked.”

  The whole transaction had taken no more than ten minutes. Pandora and Isobel stood on the pavement in the sunshine.

  “I can’t thank you…”

  “Don’t thank me…”

  “I’ve never in my life owned such a dress…”

  “Then it’s about time you did. You deserve it…”

  “Pandora…”

  But Pandora did not want to hear any more. She looked at her watch. “It’s only a quarter to twelve. What shall we go and buy now?”

  “But haven’t you spent enough money?”

  “Heavens no, I’ve only just started. What’s Archie going to wear to the party? His kilt?”

  They began slowly to walk down the pavement.

  “No. He hasn’t worn his kilt since his leg was shot off. He says a horrible tin knee sticking out is an obscenity. He’ll just wear his dinner jacket.”

  Pandora stopped dead. “But Lord Balmerino can’t go to a Highland dance in his dinner jacket.”

  “Well, he’s been doing it for years.”

  A fat lady with a basket, annoyed by the obstruction they were causing, said “Excuse me,” and pushed her way between them. Pandora ignored her.

  “Why doesn’t he wear tartan trews?”

  “He hasn’t got any.”

  “Why ever not?”

  Isobel tried to think why this obvious solution had not solved the problem years ago, and realised that, along with his leg, Archie had lost all pride and pleasure in his appearance. It was as though it didn’t matter any longer. As well, luxury clothes cost money, and there always seemed to be something else more essential to spend it on.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But he always used to look so yummy at dances. And what’s more, knew he did. In a boring old dinner jacket, he’ll look like an undertaker, or a part-time waiter. Or worse, a Sassenach. Come on, let’s go and buy him something brilliant. Do you know what size he is?”

  “Not offhand. But his tailor will.”

  “Where’s his tailor?”

  “In the next street.”

  “Would he have tartan trews? Off-the-peg?”

  “I should think so.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” And Pandora was off again, striding away with her mink coat open and flying. Isobel, lugging her parcel, had to run to keep up with her.

  “But even if we find some trews, what’s he going to wear with them? He can’t wear a dinner jacket.”

  “Papa had a very handsome velvet smoking jacket. Faded bottle green. What’s happened to that?”

  “It’s up in the attic.”

  “Well, we’ll go and find it. Oh, how exciting. Just imagine how majestic the dear man is going to look.”

  They found the old tailor working away at his table in the back regions of the shop, a Gentleman’s Outfitters Specialising in Highland Dress for All Occasions. Disturbed, he raised his head from an unrolled bolt of tweed, saw Isobel, laid down his scissors and favoured her with a beaming smile.

  “Lady Balmerino.”

  “Good morning, Mr Pittendriech. Mr Pittendriech, do you remember my sister-in-law, Pandora Blair?”

  The old man looked at Pandora over the top of his spectacles. “Yes, I remember. But it’s a long time ago. You couldn’t have been more than a wee girl.” Across the table, he and Pandora shook hands. “Very pleased to see you again. And how is His Lordship, Lady Balmerino?”

  “He’s very well.”

  “Is he able to get up the hill?”

  “Not very far, but…”

  Pandora, impatient, interrupted. “We’ve come to buy him a present, Mr Pittendriech. A pair of tartan trews. You know his measurements. Would you come and help us choose a pair?”

  “Most certainly. It would be a pleasure.” He abandoned his cutting and emerged from behind his table to lead them back to the main shop, where a plethora of tartans, leather spo
rrans, skean dhus, diced hose, lace jabots, silver-buckled shoes, and Cairngorm brooches fairly dazzled the eye.

  Mr Pittendriech obviously felt that all this was a little beneath his dignity.

  “Would it not be better if I were to tailor His Lordship a pair of trews? He’s never been a gentleman to buy his clothes off-the-peg.”

  “We haven’t time,” Isobel said for the second time that morning.

  “In that case, would it be regimental tartan, or family tartan?”

  “Oh, family tartan,” said Pandora firmly. “Anyway, it’s such a pretty one.”

  It took a little time to find the right tartan, and then more time fiddling with a tape measure to ensure that the inside leg was the correct length. Finally, Mr Pittendriech made his choice.

  “This pair should do His Lordship very nicely.”

  Isobel considered them. “They aren’t going to be too narrow, are they? Otherwise he won’t be able to get them over his tin leg.”

  “No, I think they should be amply comfortable.”

  “In that case,” said Pandora, “we’ll have them.”

  “And how about a cummerbund, Miss Blair?”

  “He can wear his father’s, Mr Pittendriech.” She turned her dazzling smile upon him. “But perhaps a really lovely new white cotton shirt?”

  More parcels, more cheques. Out on the pavement again. “Time for lunch,” said Pandora, and they headed, mutually delighted with themselves, in the direction of the Wine Bar. Propelled into this popular rendezvous by the revolving door, they came up against the first obstacle of the day. There was no sign of Lucilla and Jeff, most of the tables were occupied, and those that weren’t had “Reserved” notices placed upon them.

  “We want a table for four,” Pandora told the superior looking woman behind the high desk.

  “Have you resairved?”

  “No, but we still want a table for four.”

  “I’m afraid if you haven’t resairved, then you will have to await your turn.”

  Pandora opened her mouth to argue, but before she could say anything the telephone on the desk began fortuitously to ring and the woman turned aside to pick up the receiver. “This is the Waine Bar.”