September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  His saving grace would be Alexa. For Alexa, he knew Virginia would put on her best face, if necessary play-act her way through the weekend, performing a charade of enjoyment and affection. For this small mercy, at least, he would be grateful.

  The road sign came up at him out of the mist. ‘Strathcroy’. He slowed, changed down, crossed the bridge by the Presbyterian church, drove beneath the high branches of the elms, clattering with rooks, and through the open gates of Balnaid.

  Home. He did not go around to the front of the house, but turned into the old stableyard and parked the BMW there. Only one car, Virginia’s, stood in the garage, and the back door, which led into the kitchen, was open. But this, he knew, did not necessarily mean that anybody was at home.

  He switched off the ignition and waited, expecting, if not a delighted family spilling out of that door to greet him, then at least some sort of a welcome from his dogs. But he was met by silence. There did not appear to be anybody about.

  He climbed wearily from his car, went to open the boot and collect his baggage. His suitcase, his bulging leather briefcase, his raincoat, the yellow plastic bag of duty-free. It was heavy with bottles, Scotch and Gordon’s gin, and generous packages containing French perfume for his wife, his daughter, his mother. He carried these indoors, out of the rain. He found a kitchen warm, swept, orderly but empty, the only sign of his dogs their unoccupied baskets. The Aga hummed to itself. Into the sink, a tap dripped gently. He put his suitcase and his raincoat on the floor, the bag of duty-free on the table, went to the sink to tighten off the faulty tap. The dripping ceased. He listened for other sounds, but none disturbed the ensuing quiet.

  Carrying his briefcase, he went out of the kitchen, down the passage, through the hall. There he paused for a moment, waiting for an opened door, footsteps, a voice, another person. The old clock ticked. Nothing more. He went on, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, past the drawing room, to open the door of the library.

  Nobody here either. He saw cushions, smooth and fat, on the sofa, an empty fireplace, a neat pile of Country Lifes, an arrangement of dried flowers, their colours faded, smoky, and rusty. The window was open and let in a great draught of damp and chilly air. He set down his briefcase and went to close it, and then returned to his desk, where a week’s mail tidily stacked, awaiting his attention. He turned over an envelope or two, but knew that there was nothing there that could not wait for another day.

  The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver.

  “Balnaid.”

  It clicked, buzzed, and then went dead. Probably some person dialling the wrong number. He put the receiver back, and all at once could not bear the gloom of the empty room for a moment longer. The library at Balnaid, without a fire for companionship, was like a person without a heart, and only on the hottest days of summer was it ever allowed to go out. He found matches, lit the paper in the hearth, waited until the kindling crackled, added logs. The flames leapt up the chimney, warming and lighting, bringing life. Thus he contrived his own welcome and felt marginally cheered.

  He watched the flames for a bit, then put on the fireguard and made his way back to the kitchen. He unloaded the whisky and the gin and put them in the cupboard, and then carried his suitcase and the duty-free bag upstairs. The ticking of the grandfather clock accompanied his tread. He crossed the landing and opened the door of their bedroom.

  “Edmund.”

  She was there, had been in the house all the time. She sat at her dressing-table and was engaged in painting her nails. The room, so spacious and feminine — dominated by the enormous king-size double bed draped in antique-white linen and lace — was, uncharacteristically, in a state of some disarray. Shoes lay about, a pile of folded clothes stood stacked on a chair, wardrobe doors hung open. On one of these doors, from a padded hanger, was suspended Virginia’s new evening dress, the one she had bought in London especially for the occasion tonight. The skirt, flaring out in layers of some filmy material spattered with a confetti of black spots, without her inside it, looked a bit sad and empty.

  Across the room, they eyed each other. He said, “Hi.”

  She wore her white towelling robe and had washed her hair and set it on the huge rollers that Henry always told her made her look like some monster from outer space.

  “You’re back. I never heard the car.”

  “I parked it by the garage. I thought there was nobody around.”

  He carried the suitcase through to his dressing-room and set it down on the floor. All his evening clothes were laid out on the single bed. His kilt, stockings, skean dhu, evening shirt, jacket, and waistcoat. The buttons of these shone like stars, as did the silver buckles on his shoes.

  He went back into the bedroom. “You cleaned my buttons.”

  “Edie did.”

  “That was kind.” He went over to her side and stooped to give her a kiss. “A present for you.” He put the box on her dressing-table.

  “Oh, lovely. Thank you.” She had finished painting her nails, but the varnish had not yet dried. She sat with fingers outspread, from time to time blowing on them to speed the process up. “How was New York?”

  “Okay.”

  “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  “I caught the early shuttle.”

  “Are you tired?”

  “I won’t be when I’ve had a drink.” He lowered himself on to the edge of the bed. “Is there anything wrong with the telephone?”

  “I don’t know. It rang about five minutes ago, but only once, and then it stopped.”

  “I answered it downstairs, but it went dead.”

  “It’s done that once or twice today. But it’s working for outgoing calls.”

  “Have you reported it?”

  “No. Do you think we should?”

  “I’ll do it later.” He leaned back on the piles of pillows, his head against the quilted bedhead. “How have things been with you?”

  She inspected her nails. “All right.”

  “And Henry?”

  “I don’t know about Henry. I haven’t heard and I haven’t telephoned.” She looked at him, and her brilliant blue gaze was cool. “I thought that perhaps telephoning was not quite the right thing to do. Untraditional, perhaps.”

  Which made it abundantly clear that he was not forgiven. But this was not the time to pick up the gauntlet and precipitate yet another row.

  “Did you get him to Templehall?”

  “Yes. I drove him. He didn’t want to go with Isobel, so we took Hamish with us. Hamish was in one of his most disagreeable moods, Henry never said a single word the entire journey, and it peed with rain the whole way. Apart from that, it was a picnic.”

  “He didn’t take Moo with him, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t take Moo.”

  “Thank God for that. And Alexa?”

  “She arrived yesterday morning, with Noel.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I think they took the dogs out for a walk. After lunch they had to go to Relkirk to pick up Lucilla’s dress from the cleaner’s. We had an SOS from Croy. The dress had been forgotten, and they’re all so busy getting the dinner party together that nobody had time to go.”

  “So what else has been happening?”

  “What else has been happening? Vi had her picnic. Verena’s had us all at her beck and call like slaves, and Edie’s cousin has gone back to hospital.”

  Edmund raised his head a fraction, as an alert dog will prick its ears. Virginia, her nails now satisfactorily dry and hard, took up the package that he had brought her, and began to tear off the cellophane wrapping.

  “She’s gone back?”

  “Yes.” She opened the box and drew out the bottle, square-cut and opulent, the stopper ringed with a bow of velvet ribbon. She unscrewed the stopper and dabbed a little on her neck. “Delicious. Fendi. How kind. I’ve been wanting this scent, but it’s too expensive to buy for oneself.”

  “When did this happen?”

/>   “Lottie, you mean? Oh, a couple of days ago. She became so impossible that Vi insisted. She should never have been discharged in the first place. She’s insane.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Oh, talked. Meddled. Made mischief. She wouldn’t leave me alone. She’s evil.”

  “What did she say?”

  Virginia turned back to the mirror and began, slowly, to take the pins out of her rollers. One by one, she laid them on the plate glass of the dressing-table. He watched her profile, the line of her jaw, the curve of her lovely neck.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “I shouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

  “All right. She said that you and Pandora Blair were lovers. Years ago, the time of Archie and Isobel’s wedding, when Lottie was a housemaid at Croy. You always said that she listened at doors. She doesn’t seem to have missed a trick. Describing it all to me, she made it quite vivid. She became quite excited. Turned on, one might say. She said that it was because of you that Pandora ran off with her married man and never came home again. That it was all your fault. And now…” One of the rollers was being stubborn, and Virginia jerked at it, trying to free it, tugging at and tangling her corn-coloured hair. “…now she is saying that you are the reason that Pandora has come back to Croy. Nothing to do with the party tonight. Nothing to do with Archie. Just you. She wants to start it up all over again. To get you back.”

  Another jerk and the roller was loose, and Virginia’s eyes were watering with agony. Edmund watched her, scarcely able to bear the pain that she was inflicting upon herself.

  He remembered the evening when he had encountered Lottie in Mrs Ishak’s supermarket, and how she had buttonholed him. He had recoiled from her distasteful presence. He remembered her eyes, her pallid skin, her moustache, and the useless fury that she had kindled within him, so that he had come very close to losing his temper and inflicting upon her grievous bodily harm. He recalled the stirring of a dreadful apprehension. An apprehension well-founded, for now it seemed it had come to this.

  He said coldly, “She is lying.”

  “Is she, Edmund?”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Virginia…”

  “Oh…” In a burst of exasperation, she jerked another roller free, flung it at her own reflection in the mirror, and then rounded on him. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I can’t think straight any longer. And I don’t care. Why should I care? What does it matter to me that you and Pandora Blair once had a raging love affair? As far as I’m concerned, it’s all lost in the mists of time and absolutely nothing to do with me. I only know that it happened when you were already a married man — married to Caroline — and that you were the father of a child. The simple fact is that that doesn’t make me feel very secure.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “Sometimes I think I don’t even know you.”

  “That is a ludicrous statement.”

  “All right, so it’s ludicrous. But unfortunately we can’t all be as cold and objective as you. And if it is ludicrous, you can put it down to human frailty, except that I don’t suppose you even know what that means.”

  “I’m beginning to realise I know only too well.”

  “It’s us I’m talking about, Edmund. You and me.”

  “In that case, perhaps it would be better to postpone this conversation until you are a little less overwrought.”

  “I am not overwrought. And I am not a child any longer, I am not your little wife. And I think perhaps that this is as good a time as any to tell you that I’m going away for a bit. I’m going back to Long Island, to Leesport, to spend some time with my grandparents. I’ve told Vi. She says you can stay with her. We’ll close the house.”

  Edmund said nothing. She looked at him and saw his poker-face empty of expression, the handsome features still, the hooded eyes giving nothing away. No hurt showed, no anger. She let the silence lengthen, waiting for him to react to her announcement. For a mad moment, she imagined him flinging reserve to the wind, coming to her side, taking her in his arms, covering her with kisses, loving her, making love to her…

  “When did you plan all this?”

  Tears pricked behind her eyes, but she set her teeth and willed them away.

  “I’ve been thinking about going for months. I finally made up my mind after Henry went. Without Henry, there is no reason not to go.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “I’ve got a seat on a Pan Am flight out of Heathrow next Thursday morning.”

  “Thursday? That’s less than a week away.”

  “I know.” She turned back to her mirror, pulled free the last of the rollers, reached for her comb, began to draw it through the tangled curls, smoothing out the snarls. “But there is a reason, and you may as well be told that reason now, because if I don’t tell you, some other person will. A strange thing has happened. You remember last Sunday Isobel telling us that she had some unknown American coming to stay? It turned out that he’s a man called Conrad Tucker, and we knew each other years ago, in Leesport.”

  “The Sad American.”

  “Yes. And he is sad. His wife has just died of leukaemia, and he’s been left with a little daughter. He’s been over here for a month or more, but he’s returning to the States on Thursday.” She laid down the comb, tossing the shining, clean hair away from her face, turned back to face him. “It seemed,” she said, “a good idea to make the journey together.”

  “Was that his idea or your idea?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No. I don’t suppose it makes any difference at all. When are you planning to return?”

  “I don’t know. I have an open-ended ticket.”

  “I don’t think you should go.”

  “That has an ominous ring to it, Edmund. It wouldn’t be a warning?”

  “You’re running away.”

  “No. I am simply taking advantage of a freedom that has been forced upon me. Without Henry, I am in a sort of limbo, and I’ve got to come to terms with being bereft of him, and I can’t do that here. I need time to sort myself out. To be on my own. To be my own person. You have to try, just for once in your life, to see a situation from another person’s point of view. In this case, mine. And perhaps, as well, you could try to give me some credit for being honest with you.”

  “I would have been astonished had you done anything else.”

  After that, there did not seem to be anything more to say. Beyond the open windows, the misty autumn evening sank into an early dusk. Virginia switched on the lights of her dressing-table, and then stood up and moved to close the heavy chintz curtains. From downstairs, sounds reached their ears. A door opening and shutting, dogs barking, voices raised.

  She said, “Noel and Alexa. They’re back from their walk.”

  “I’ll go down.” He got to his feet, stretched his arms, swallowed a yawn. “I need a drink. Do you want one?”

  “Later.”

  He made for the door. “What time are we expected at Croy?”

  “Half past eight.”

  “You can have your drink in the library before we leave.”

  “There’s no fire.”

  “I lit it.”

  He went out of the room. Listening, Virginia heard him traverse the landing, start down the stairs. And then Alexa’s voice. “Fa!”

  “Hello, my darling.”

  He had left the door open. She went to shut it and then returned to her dressing-table, with some idea of starting to do something about her face. But tears, so long controlled, rose in her eyes, overflowed, streamed down her cheeks.

  She sat and watched her own weeping reflection.

  The country bus, stopping and starting and taking its time, trundled through the twilit countryside. Leaving Relkirk, it had been full, with every seat occupied, and one or two passengers standing. Some of the people were returning home from work, others had been shopping. A lot of t
hem seemed to know each other, smiling and chatting as they climbed on board. Probably they travelled together every day. There was a man with a sheepdog. The dog sat between his knees and gazed without ceasing into the man’s eyes. The man didn’t have to buy a ticket for the dog.

  Henry sat at the front, just behind the driver. He was squashed in by the window, because a hugely fat lady had chosen to sit beside him.

  “Hello, pet,” she’d said, as she settled herself, her massive bottom shunting him sideways and her bulging thighs taking up most of the space. She had two laden bags with her, one of which she put at her feet, and the other on her lap. From the top of this bag stuck out a head of celery and a bright pink celluloid windmill. Henry decided that she was taking it home for her grandchild.

  She had a round, kind face, not unlike Edie’s, and beneath the brim of her sensible hat, her eyes screwed up in a friendly way. But when she spoke to him, Henry did not answer her; simply turned away and gazed from the window, although there was nothing to be seen except rain.

  He wore his school stockings and shoes, his new tweed overcoat, which was much too big for him, and his Balaclava helmet. The Balaclava helmet had been a good idea, and he was proud of himself for thinking of it. It was navy-blue and very thick, and he had pulled it right down over his face, like a terrorist, so that only his eyes showed. It was his disguise, because he did not want anybody to recognise him.

  The bus made slow progress, and they had already been travelling for nearly an hour. Every mile or so, they drew to a halt at some crossroad, or lonely cottage, to allow people to get off. Henry watched as the seats emptied; passengers gathered up their possessions and alighted one by one, to set off on foot, to walk the last bit of their journey home. The fat lady beside him got out at Kirkthornton, but she didn’t have to walk, because her husband had come to meet her in his little farm truck. As she struggled to her feet, she said, “Goodbye, pet,” to Henry. He thought this very nice of her but, again, made no reply. It wasn’t easy to say something with a Balaclava over your mouth.