September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  “Do you feel bitter about it? Angry?”

  “Why? Because I’ve lost my leg? Because I have to hump myself around on this aluminium contraption? No. I was a regular soldier, Conrad. Being shot to ribbons by an implacable enemy is one of the occupational hazards of being a soldier. But I could just as easily have been an ordinary civilian, a run-of-the-mill guy, trying to get peacefully on with his own life. An old father, perhaps, gone to Enniskillen to mourn his dead son on Armistice Day, and ending up dying beneath a pile of rubble. A young boy, taking his girlfriend to a Belfast pub for a drink, and seeing her blown to kingdom come by a booby-trap bomb. I could have been an off-duty serviceman, in the wrong car, at the wrong place, at the wrong time; dragged by a mob into a patch of wasteground, stripped, clubbed nigh to death, and finally shot.”

  Conrad shuddered. He chewed his lip, shamed by his own queasiness. He said, “I read about that. It made me want to vomit.”

  “Mindless, pointless, bloody violence. And there are other outrages that never reach the papers, are never made public. Do you know, one time a man went into a pub for a few beers. Just an ordinary young man, except that he happened to be a member of the IRA. One of the lads he was drinking with suggested it might be a laugh if he shot off somebody’s kneecaps. Which was something he had never actually done, but after three beers he was ready to have a go. He was given a gun, and left the pub, and walked up to the local housing estate. He saw a young girl who was walking home from a friend’s house. He hid in a passageway, and as the young girl came past, he grabbed hold of her and pushed her to the ground. He then shot off both her knees. That girl will never walk again.

  “Just another incident. But it haunts me because it could have been any man’s daughter, and more personally, it could have been my Lucilla. So you see I don’t feel bitter and I don’t feel angry. Just desperately sad for the people of Northern Ireland, the ordinary decent people who are trying to make a life for themselves, and bring up their children under this terrible, perpetual shadow, of blood and revenge and fear. And I feel sad for the whole human race, because if such senseless cruelty is accepted as the norm, then I can see no future for us all. It is frightening. And I am frightened for myself because, like a child, I still get nightmares that terrify me, and leave me screaming. And there is still worse. Guilt and remorse for that young man I told you about. Neil MacDonald. Twenty-two years old and dead as a doornail. Nothing left of his body, nothing to bury. His parents left without even the consolation of a funeral, or a grave to visit. I knew Neil as a soldier, and a good one, too, but I remember him as a boy, standing on the platform at the Strathcroy Games, piping his Pibroch. I remember the day, the sun shining down on the grass, and the river, and hills, and he and his Pibroch part of it all. Just a boy. With all his life before him, and standing there making that marvellous music.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for his death.”

  “It was because of me that he became a soldier. If I hadn’t shoved my oar in, he would still be alive now.”

  “No way, Archie. If he was meant to join your regiment, he’d have done it, with no prompting from you.”

  “You think that? I find it hard to be a fatalist. I wish I could be, because then I might be able to lay his ghost and leave him in peace, and stop asking myself, why? Why should I be here, on the top of Creagan Dubh, seeing, breathing, touching, feeling, when Neil MacDonald is dead?”

  “It is always worst for the one who is left to carry on.”

  Archie turned his head and looked at Conrad. Across the small space which divided them, the eyes of the two men met. Then Archie said, “Your wife died.”

  “Yes. Of leukaemia. I watched her die and it took a long time. And all that time I was resentful and bitter, because it wasn’t me who was dying. And when she died, I hated myself because I was alive.”

  “You too.”

  “I think, probably, it’s an inevitable reaction. One simply has to come to terms with it. It takes time. But at the end of the day, all those self-accusing and soul-searching questions are unanswerable. And so, as you Brits would say, it’s bloody silly even to ask them.”

  There was a long pause. Then Archie grinned. “Yes. You are right. Bloody silly.” He turned his face up and surveyed the sky. “You are right, Conrad.” The sky was darkening. They had sat for too long, and it was becoming cold. “Perhaps we should make tracks for home. And I must apologise. For a moment, I admit, I forgot that you had tragedies of your own to deal with. I hope you will believe me when I tell you that I didn’t bring you up here in order to unload my troubles on to your shoulders.”

  Conrad smiled. “I asked for them,” he reminded Archie. He realised then that he was chilled and stiff with sitting, tucked into that hard and inhospitable perch. He rose painfully to his feet, stretching the cramps out of his legs. Out of the shelter of the rock, the wind pounced upon him, stinging his cheeks, sneaking down the back of his collar. He shivered slightly. The dogs, stirring at this promise of activity, and already thinking of their dinners, sat up and gazed with hopeful eyes into Archie’s face.

  “So you did. But now let us both forget it all and not speak of it again. All right, you greedy bitches, I’ll take you home and feed you.” He held out an arm. “Give me a hand, would you, Conrad, old boy, and heave me to my feet?”

  They left the hills at last, and trundled slowly homewards, down the main glen and so back to Croy. As they came through the front door, the grandfather clock by the staircase chimed the half-hour. Half past six. The dogs were ravenous. It was long past their dinner-time and they headed straight for the kitchen. Archie glanced into the library but there did not seem to be anybody about.

  “What would you like to do?” he asked his guest. “We usually eat about half past eight.”

  “If it’s okay with you, I think I’ll go up and unpack my bag. Maybe take a shower.”

  “Fine. Use any bathroom that doesn’t happen to be occupied. And come downstairs when you’re ready. If there’s still nobody around, you’ll find a tray of drinks in the library. Help yourself. Make yourself at home.”

  “That’s very kind.” Conrad started up the stairs and then turned back. “And thanks for today. It was special.”

  “Perhaps it is I who should thank you.”

  Conrad continued on his way. Archie followed the dogs, and in the kitchen found Lucilla and Jeff, at sink and stove, both aproned and looking industrious and companionable. Lucilla turned from some pot she was stirring.

  “Dad. You’re back. Where’ve you been?”

  “Up on the moor. What are you two up to?”

  “We’re cooking dinner.”

  “Where’s Mum?”

  “She went to have a bath.”

  “Would you feed the dogs for me?”

  “Of course. No problem…” She returned to her stirring. “But they’ve got to wait a moment, otherwise this sauce is going to end up in lumps.”

  He left them to their cooking, shut the door, went back to the library, poured himself a whisky and soda and, carrying the glass, climbed the stairs in search of his wife.

  He found her in the bath, soaking in scented steam and looking as comic as she always did in her blue-and-white-spotted shower-cap.

  “Archie.” He made himself comfortable on the lavatory seat. “Where have you been?”

  “To the top of Creagan Dubh.”

  “It must have been heavenly. Did the Sad American turn up all right?”

  “Yes, and he’s not sad. He’s very good company. And he’s called Conrad Tucker, and he happens to be an old chum of Virginia’s.”

  “I don’t believe it! You mean they know each other? What an extraordinary coincidence. But what a lucky one. It’ll make him feel not so strange, dumped in this alien household.” She sat up and reached for the soap. “You obviously like him?”

  “Delightful man. Exceptionally nice.”

  “What a relief. What’s he doing now?”

  “Same as you,
I think.”

  “Has he ever been to Scotland before?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Because I’ve been thinking. Neither he nor Jeff are going to be able to do any of the dances on Friday night. Do you think it would be a good idea to have a bit of instruction after dinner this evening? Provided they can get themselves through an eightsome reel and one or two others, they can at least join in some of the fun.”

  “Why not? Good idea. I’ll look for some tapes. Where’s Pandora?”

  “Crashed out, I think. We didn’t get home till five. Archie, would you mind if she came up the hill with you tomorrow? I told her about Vi’s picnic but she said she’d rather spend the day with you. She wants to sit in your butt and chat.”

  “No, that’s all right, provided she doesn’t make too much noise. You’d better see she’s got some warm clothes.”

  “I’ll lend her my green wellies and my Barbour.”

  He drank whisky. Yawned. He was tired.

  “How was the shopping? Did you get my cartridges?”

  “Yes. And the champagne, and the candles, and enough food to feed a starving army. And I got a new dress for the dance.”

  “You bought a new dress?”

  “No, I didn’t buy it. Pandora bought it for me. And it’s perfectly beautiful, and I wasn’t allowed to know how much it cost, but I think probably an arm and a leg. She seems to be dreadfully rich. Do you think I should have allowed her to be so extravagant and generous?”

  “If she wanted to give you a dress, there’s no way you could have stopped her. She always loved giving presents. But it was kind. Am I allowed to see it?”

  “No, not until Friday, when I shall astonish you with my beauty.”

  “What else did you do?”

  “We had lunch in the Wine Bar…” Isobel, squeezing water from her sponge, considered telling Archie about Pandora and the reserved table, and then decided against it because she knew that he would disapprove. “And Lucilla bought a dress off a stall in the market.”

  “Oh God, it’s probably full of fleas.”

  “I made her leave it at the cleaner’s. Somebody will have to go to Relkirk on Friday morning to pick it up. But the most exciting bit of news I’ve kept to the end. Because Pandora bought you a present as well, and if you hand me my towel I shall get out of the bath and show it to you.”

  He did this. “A present for me?” He tried to imagine what on earth his sister had brought back for him. He hoped not a gold watch, a cigar cutter, or a tiepin, none of which he would use. What he really needed was a new cartridge belt…

  Isobel finished drying herself, pulled off the bathcap, shook out her hair, reached for her silk dressing-gown, knotted the sash around her waist. “Come and look.” He pulled himself off the lavatory seat and followed her through to their bedroom. “There.”

  It was all laid out on the bed. Tartan trews, a new white shirt still in its cellophane wrapper, black satin cummerbund, and his father’s remembered green velvet smoking jacket, which Archie hadn’t set eyes on since the old man died.

  “Where did that come from?”

  “It’s been in the attic, in mothballs. I hung it over the bath to get the wrinkles out. And the trews and the shirt are from Pandora. And I’ve polished your evening shoes.”

  He gaped. “But what’s all this for?”

  “Friday night, you goop. When I told Pandora you wouldn’t wear your kilt, and you’d go to Verena’s party in a dinner jacket, she was horrified. She said you’d look like a part-time waiter. So we visited Mr Pittendriech and he helped us choose these.” She held up the trews. “Aren’t they heaven? Oh, do try it all on, Archie, I can’t wait to see how you look.”

  The last thing Archie wanted to do, at this particular moment, was to try on a lot of new clothes, but Isobel seemed so excited that he hadn’t the heart to refuse her. And so he put his glass down on her dressing-table and obediently began to shed his old tweeds.

  “Leave your shirt on. We don’t want to open the new one in case you get it dirty. Take off your brogues and those smelly old stockings. Now…”

  With her help, he pulled on the new trousers. Isobel dealt with zips and buttons, tucking in the tails of his blue country shirt and generally fussing around as if she were dressing a child for a tea-party. She fixed the cummerbund, laced his evening shoes for him, held out the velvet smoking jacket. He put his arms into the silk-lined sleeves, and she turned him around and did up the frogged fastenings.

  “Now.” She smoothed his hair with her hands. “Go and look in the mirror.”

  For some reason, he felt like an idiot. His stump ached and he yearned for a hot bath, but he limped obediently over to Isobel’s wardrobe, where a full-length mirror was set in the centre panel. Observing himself in mirrors was not his favourite occupation, because his reflection nowadays seemed such a travesty of his former handsome self, so thin and grey had he become, so graceless in his shabby clothes, so awkward with his lumbering, hated aluminium leg.

  Even now, with Isobel’s proud eyes upon him, it took some effort actually to face himself. But he did so, and it wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. It wasn’t bad at all. He looked all right. Great, in fact. The trews, long and slim-legged, immaculately cut and sharply creased, had a crisp and almost military dash about them. And the marvellously rich and lustrous velvet of the jacket provided exactly the right touch of worn and gentlemanly elegance, the faded green picking up the thread of green in the tartan.

  Isobel had tidied his hair, but now he smoothed it again, for himself; turned to see other aspects of his reflected finery. Undid the jacket to admire the satiny sheen of the cummerbund, sleek around his skinny middle. Did the jacket up again. Caught his own eye and smiled wryly, seeing himself preen like a bloody peacock.

  He turned to his wife. “What do you think?”

  “You look amazing.”

  He held out his arms. “Lady Balmerino, will you waltz with me?”

  She came to him, and he held her close, his cheek resting on the top of her head, the way they used to dance long ago, smooching in nightclubs. Through the thin silk of her gown his hands felt her skin, still warm from the bathwater, the curve of her hips, her neat waist. Her breasts, soft, unrestricted, pressed against him, and she smelled sweetly of soap.

  They shifted gently from foot to foot, rocking in each other’s arms, dancing, as best they could, to music which only the two of them could hear.

  He said, “Have you, at this moment, got anything pressing that you have to go and do?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “No dinner to cook, no dog to feed, no bird to pluck, no border to weed?”

  “No.”

  He pressed a kiss on her hair. “Then come to bed with me.”

  She was still, but Archie’s hand moved on, stroking her back. After a little, she drew away from him, looked up into his face, and he saw that her deep-blue eyes were bright with unshed tears.

  “Archie…”

  “Please.”

  “The others?”

  “All occupied. We’ll lock the door. Hang up a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign.”

  “But…the nightmare?”

  “Nightmares are for children. We are too old to allow dreams to stop us loving each other.”

  “You are different.” She frowned, her sweet face filled with puzzlement. “What has happened to you?”

  “Pandora bought me a present?”

  “Not that. Something else.”

  “I found a guy who would listen. At the top of Creagan Dubh, with only the wind and the heather and the birds for company, and no person to obtrude. And so I talked.”

  “About Northern Ireland?”

  “Yes.”

  “All of it?”

  “All of it.”

  “The bomb blast, and the bits of body and the dead Jocks?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Neil MacDonald? And the nightmare?”

  “Yes.
”

  “But you told me. You talked to me. And that didn’t do us any good.”

  “That’s because you are part of me. A stranger is different. Objective. There was never anybody like that before. Only relations and old friends who had known me all my life. Too close.”

  “The nightmare’s still there, Archie. That won’t go away.”

  “Maybe not. But maybe its fangs have been drawn.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “My mother had a saying. Fear knocked at the door, Faith went to answer it, and no one was there. We’ll have to see. I love you more than life itself, and that’s all that’s important.”

  “Oh, Archie.” Her tears overflowed and he kissed them away, unloosened the sash of her gown and slid his hand beneath the soft silk, caressing her nakedness. His lips moved to her mouth, the lips opening for him…

  “Shall we give it a try?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Now. Right away. Just as soon as you can get me out of these damned trousers.”

  29

  Thursday the Fifteenth

  Virginia, awake at five o’clock, waited for the dawn. It was Thursday, Vi’s seventy-eighth birthday.

  Vi, as she had promised, had rung in the evening just before the nine o’clock news. Lottie was back in the Relkirk Royal, she had told Virginia. Not at all upset, she seemed to take it in her stride. Edie had been distressed, but after some persuasion, had accepted the inevitable. And Vi had telephoned Templehall and instructed the headmaster to reassure Henry that he no longer needed to agonise over his beloved Edie. The horrendous episode was over at last. Virginia must put it out of her mind.

  The conversation left Virginia in a state of confused emotions. The most important was one of thankfulness and overwhelming relief. Now she could face the darkness of the night, go to bed by herself in the large and empty house; sleep, in the certain knowledge that no ghoul haunted the shadows of the garden, hovering, watching, waiting to pounce. Lottie would not return; she was shut away with her dangerous secrets. Virginia was free of her.