September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  However, she felt a certain uneasiness. It was hateful to imagine Edie’s distress at having to admit failure, her reluctance to commit her cousin once more to the professional, but impersonal, care of the hospital. But surely, deep down, Edie must know some relief, if only for the fact that she was shed of that almost untenable responsibility and no longer had to endure listening to the seemingly endless spate of Lottie’s conversation.

  Finally, there was Henry, and here Virginia was filled with guilt. She knew how Henry felt about Lottie, and how he feared for Edie, and yet the sensible idea of making a telephone call to his school had never even occurred to her, and she realised that the shameful reason for this was that Henry had slipped out of her mind, so absorbed had she become in herself and the events of the last two days.

  First, Edmund and Pandora. Now, Conrad.

  Conrad Tucker. Here, in Scotland, in Strathcroy, already part of the Balmerino household and an important character in the dramatis personae of the next few days, Conrad’s presence changed the shape of everything. Mostly herself, as though some unsuspected and hidden facet of her own personality had been, by him, revealed. She had slept with Conrad. They had made love with a mutual desire that had more to do with comfort than passion, and she had stayed with him, and spent the night in his arms. An act of infidelity; adultery. Call it the worst name in the world, and still Virginia regretted nothing.

  You must never tell Edmund.

  Vi was a wise old lady, and confession was not a penance but a self-indulgence. It was unloading your so-called sin on to another person, and thus shedding guilt. But her own total lack of remorse had taken Virginia by surprise, and she felt that in the last twenty-four hours she had somehow grown, not physically, but within herself. It was as though she had been struggling up some precipitous hillside, and now had time to pause for breath, to rest, to appreciate the widened prospects that her efforts had achieved.

  For so long she had been content to be simply Henry’s mother, Edmund’s wife, one of the Airds, her existence shaped by clan, and all her time and energy and love channelled into making a home for the family. But now Alexa was grown, Henry was gone, and Edmund…? For the moment, she seemed to have lost sight of Edmund. Which left only herself. Virginia. An individual, an entity with a past and a future, bridged by the fleeting years of marriage. Henry’s going had not only ended an era, but freed her as well. There was nothing to stop her stretching her wings, flying. All the world was hers.

  The visit to Long Island, which for months had been simply a dream, edging around at the back of her mind, was now possible, positive, even imperative. Whatever Vi said, it was time to go, and if excuses were needed she would plead her grandparents’ advancing age and her own burning need to see them again before they grew too old to enjoy her company; before they became ill or infirm; before they died. That was the excuse. But the true reason had much to do with Conrad.

  He would be there. He would be around. In the city, or Southampton, but never more than a telephone call away. They could be together. A man whom her grandparents had always known and liked. A kindly man. He was not one to leave abruptly, nor break promises, nor let you down just when you needed him most; nor love another woman. It occurred to her then that perhaps trust was more important than love if a relationship was to be truly enduring. In order to deal with these uncertainties, she needed time and space, some sort of an interlude in which to stand back and review the situation. She needed solace, and knew that she would find it in the company of one who had always been her friend and was now her lover. Her lover. An ambivalent word, loaded with meanings. Once more, she searched her conscience for that mandatory twinge of guilt, but found nothing but a sort of assurance, a comforting strength, as though Conrad had brought to her some sort of a second chance, another taste of youth, a whole new freedom. Whatever. She only knew that she was going to grab at it, before it eluded her for ever. Leesport was there, just a jet flight away. Unchanged, because it was a place that never changed. She smelled the crisp autumn air, saw the wide streets scattered with fallen scarlet leaves, the smoke from the first fires rising from the chimneys of the stately white clapboard houses drifting sweetly upwards into the deep-blue sky of a Long Island Indian summer.

  Recalling other years, she took stock. Labor Day was past, the kids back at school, the ferry no longer running to Fire Island, the shore bars closed. But Gramps would not yet have pulled his small motorboat out of the water, and the great Atlantic beaches were there, only a short trip distant. The dunes, combed by the wind; the endless sands littered with clam shells, and laced by the surf of the thundering rollers. She felt that blown spume on her cheeks. Saw herself, as though from a great distance, walking through the shallows, silhouetted against the evening sky, with Conrad at her side…

  And then, despite everything, Virginia found herself smiling, not with romantic delight, but with healthy self-ridicule. For this was a teenager’s image, culled from some television ad. She heard the soupy music, the deeply sincere masculine voice urging her to use some shampoo, or deodorant, or biodegradable washing powder. Too easy, it would be, to drift through this day on a cloud of fantasy. It was not that daydreams were the sole right of the young, it was just that their elders did not have the time to lose themselves in fantasy. They had too much to do, too much to see to, too much to organise. Like herself. Right now. Life, immediate and demanding, claimed her attention. Resolutely, she put Leesport and Conrad out of her mind and thought about Alexa. The first priority was Alexa. Alexa was due to arrive at Balnaid in an hour or two, and a month ago, in London, Virginia had made Alexa a promise.

  “…you and Fa,” Alexa had pleaded. “You won’t still be having a row, will you? I couldn’t bear it if there was a hateful atmosphere…”

  And, “No, of course not,” Virginia had assured her. “Forget that…We’ll have a great time…”

  Promises were not made to be broken, and she had enough pride to know that this one was no exception. By Friday, Edmund would be home again. She wondered if he would bring her another gold bracelet and hoped that he would not, for now it was not only Henry who lay between them, like a bone to be snarled over, but Virginia’s new knowledge, both of herself and her husband. She felt that nothing would be either simple or straightforward again, but somehow, for Alexa’s sake, she would make it seem that way. It was basically a question of getting through the next few days. She imagined a series of hurdles; Alexa’s arrival, Vi’s picnic, Edmund’s homecoming, Isobel’s dinner party, Verena’s dance, all to be taken, one by one, without betraying a single base emotion. No doubt, no lust, no suspicion, no jealousy. Eventually, it would all be over. And when the September visitors were gone, and life was back to normal, Virginia, freed of commitments, would make plans for departure.

  She waited for the dawn, from time to time turning on her bedside light to check the hour, but by seven o’clock she had had enough of this pointless occupation and was grateful to abandon her bed with its twisted sheets.

  She drew back the curtains and was met by a pale-blue sky, a garden streaked with long, early shadows, and a thin ground mist hanging over the fields. All these were potential signs of a fine day. As the sun rose, the mist would be burned away, and with a bit of luck, it might become really warm.

  She knew a certain relief. To have been met by cold, grey, and rain, today of all days, would have been almost more than she could bear. Not simply because her spirits were low enough without extra depressions, but, as well, because whatever the elements threw at them, Vi’s birthday picnic, willy-nilly, would take place. For Vi was a stickler for traditions, and cared not if all her guests had to crouch beneath golf umbrellas, paddle about in rubber boots, and cook their damp sausages over a smoking, rain-sizzled barbecue. This year, it seemed, they were to be spared such masochistic pleasures.

  Virginia went downstairs, dealt with the dogs, and made a cup of tea. She thought about starting to cook breakfast, abandoned this idea, and went back upst
airs to dress and make her bed. She heard a car, dashed to the window, saw nothing. Just some person passing the gates as they headed down the lane.

  She returned to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. At nine o’clock the telephone rang, and she sprang for it, expecting some explanation from Alexa, stuck in a motorway telephone kiosk. But it was Verena Steynton.

  “Virginia. Sorry to ring so early. Are you out of bed?”

  “Of course.”

  “Heavenly day. You haven’t got any damask tablecloths, have you? White ones, and huge. It’s the one thing we never thought of, and of course Toddy Buchanan can’t produce them.”

  “I think I’ve got about half a dozen, but I’ll have to look them out. They were Vi’s; she left them behind when she moved out.”

  “Are they really long?”

  “Banquet-sized. She had them for parties.”

  “You couldn’t be an absolute saint and bring them up to Corriehill this morning, could you? I’d come and fetch them, only we’re all going to be doing flowers, and I simply haven’t got a moment to spare.”

  Virginia was glad that Verena could not see her face. “Yes. Yes, I could do that,” she said, sounding as obliging as possible. “But I can’t come until Alexa and Noel have arrived, and they aren’t here yet. And then I’ve got to go to Vi’s picnic…”

  “That’s all right…if you could just drop them in. Endlessly grateful. You are a love. Find Toddy and give them to him…and see you tomorrow if not before. Bye-eee…”

  She rang off. Virginia sighed in some exasperation, because this morning the last thing she wanted to do was to drive the ten miles to Corriehill and then back again. However, after years of living in Scotland, she had become programmed to the local customs, and one of these was that in times of stress it was a case of all hands to the wheel — even if it was somebody else’s — and putting a cheerful face on inconvenience. She supposed throwing a dance counted as a time of stress, but even so wished that Verena had thought of tablecloths before the last moment.

  She wrote “Tablecloths” on the telephone pad. She thought about the picnic and put a large chicken into the oven to roast. By the time it had cooked and cooled, hopefully Alexa would be here, and she would get her to carve it into handy chunks.

  The telephone rang again. This time it was Edie.

  “Would you be able to give me a lift to the picnic?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll come and pick you up. Edie, I’m so sorry about Lottie.”

  “Yes.” Edie sounded curt, which was the way she always sounded when she had been much upset but didn’t want to talk about it. “I felt badly.” Which left Virginia uncertain as to whether Edie felt badly because Lottie had had to go, or because of Virginia’s involvement in the whole sorry affair. “What time should I be ready?”

  “I have to go to Corriehill with some tablecloths, but I’ll try to be with you around twelve.”

  “Has Alexa come yet?”

  “No, not yet.”

  Edie, imagining death and destruction, was instantly anxious. “Oh my, I hope they’re safe.”

  “I’m sure. Perhaps heavy traffic.”

  “Those roads scare the life out of me.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll see you at midday, and they’ll be here by then.”

  Virginia poured another mug of coffee. The telephone rang.

  “Balnaid.”

  “Virginia.”

  It was Vi. “Happy birthday.”

  “Aren’t I lucky with the weather? Has Alexa come?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I thought they’d have arrived by now.”

  “So did I, but they haven’t shown up yet.”

  “I can’t wait to see the darling child. Why don’t you all come to Pennyburn early, and we’ll have a cup of coffee and a chat before we head off up the hill?”

  “I can’t.” Virginia explained about the tablecloths. “I’m not even certain where to find them.”

  “They’re on the top shelf of your linen cupboard, wrapped in blue tissue paper. Verena is a nuisance. Why didn’t she think of asking you earlier?”

  “I suppose she’s got a lot on her mind.”

  “So when will you all be here?”

  Virginia made calculations and laid plans. “I’ll send Noel and Alexa up to Pennyburn in the Subaru. And then I’ll go to Corriehill in the small car, and on the way back I’ll pick up Edie and bring her to Pennyburn. And then we’ll pack all of us and all the picnic gear into the Subaru and go on from there.”

  “What a splendid organiser you are. It must have something to do with having an American mother. And you’ll bring rugs, won’t you? And wineglasses for yourselves.” Under “Tablecloths”, Virginia wrote “Rugs, Wineglasses”. “And I’ll expect Noel and Alexa at about eleven o’clock.”

  “I hope they’re not too exhausted.”

  “Oh, they won’t be exhausted,” Vi assured her breezily. “They’re young.”

  Noel Keeling was an urban creature, born and raised in London, his habitat the city streets and weekend forays into the diminishing countryside of the Home Counties. From time to time his pleasures took him further afield, and he’d fly to the Costa Smeralda or the Algarve, invited to join some house party, where he would play golf or tennis or indulge in a bit of yachting. Sightseeing, gazing at churches or châteaux, admiring great tracts of vineyards did not enter his plans for enjoyment, and if such an outing was suggested, he usually found good reason to opt out, and instead spent the time either lying by the swimming pool, or drifting down to the nearest town to sit beneath the awning of a pavement bar and watch the world go by.

  Once, some years ago, when he had come to Scotland to join a few friends for a week of salmon fishing, he had flown to Inverness from London, where he had been met by another member of the fishing party, and driven to Oykel Bridge. It had been raining. It rained the whole way to the hotel, and continued to rain for the remainder of their stay, the downpour interrupted at infrequent intervals by a slight clearing of the mist, which revealed a great deal of brown and treeless moorland and very little else.

  His memories of that week were mixed. Each day was spent thigh-deep in the flood of the river, flogging the swollen waters for the elusive fish. And each evening was passed in a cheerful blur of conviviality, eating quantities of delicious Scottish food and drinking even larger quantities of malt whisky. The surrounding scenery had left no impression whatsoever.

  But now, at the wheel of his Volkswagen Golf, and driving the last few miles of their long journey, he realised that he was not only on familiar ground, but also in unexpected territory.

  The familiar ground was metaphorical. He was an experienced guest, with long years of country weekend house parties behind him, and this was by no means the first time he had approached an unknown house to stay with strangers. In years gone by, he had devised a rating for weekends, awarding stars for comfort and pleasure. But that was when he had been much younger and poorer, and in no position to turn down any invitation. Now, older and more prosperous, with friends and acquaintances to match, he could afford to be more selective, and was seldom disappointed.

  But the game, if it was to be properly played, had its own appointed rituals. And so, in his suitcase, stowed in the boot, were not only his dinner jacket and a selection of suitably countrified clothes, but a bottle of The Famous Grouse for his host, and a generously large box of Bendicks handmade chocolates for his hostess. As well, this weekend involved birthday presents. For Alexa’s grandmother, celebrating her seventy-eighth year this very day, there were shiny boxes of soap and bath oil from Floris — Noel’s standard offering to elderly ladies, both known and unknown; and for Katy Steynton, whom he had never met, a framed sporting print depicting a sad-eyed spaniel with a dead pheasant in its mouth.

  Thus, bearing gifts, he abided by the rules.

  The unexpected territory was a physical thing, the astonishingly beautiful county of Relkirkshire. He had never imagined such ric
h and prosperous estates, such verdant farmlands, immaculately fenced and grazed by herds of handsome cattle. He had not expected avenues of beech, roadside gardens filled with flowers in such profusion and such colour. Driving overnight, he had watched the light creep into an overcast and misty dawn, but now the sun had done its work, and the greyness was dissolved into a morning of brilliant clarity. With Relkirk behind them, the road was clear, fields gold with stubble, rivers sparkling, bracken turning to saffron-yellow, the skies enormous, the air crystal-clear, unpolluted by smoke or smog or any horror that the hand of man could produce. It was like going back in time to a world that one had thought gone for ever. Had he ever known such a world? Or had he known it once and simply forgotten that it had existed?

  Caple Bridge. They crossed a river, deep in a ravine far below them, and then took the turning signposted “Strathcroy”. The hills, still bloomy with heather, folded away on either side of the narrow winding road. He saw scattered farmsteads, a man driving a flock of sheep up through green pasture fields to the rough grazing beyond. Alexa, with Larry on her knee, sat beside him. Larry slept, but Alexa was palpably tense with the scarcely suppressed excitement of coming home. In truth, she had been in a state of happy anticipation for weeks, counting the days off on her calendar, getting her hair cut, buying presents and searching the shops for a new dress. This had proved an abortive business and she had finally abandoned the shops for an establishment which hired out marvellous creations — she had agonised over a delectable mini-dress spangled in glitter, but with the help of a sympathetic assistant had decided that she did not have the legs for a mini-skirt — and had happily allowed herself to be persuaded into a traditional gown, raw silk and splashed with flowers, in which Noel thought she looked both delectable and romantic. For the last two days, she had been spinning like a top with last-minute arrangements; packing for the pair of them, ironing all Noel’s shirts, emptying the refrigerator, and leaving with a neighbour the spare keys of her house in case it should be invaded by vandalising bandits. All this was accomplished with the transparent enthusiasm and energy of a child, and Noel had witnessed her furious activity with fond tolerance, while refusing to pretend that he felt the same way.