September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  Once more, they set off. Now, there were only half a dozen people on board. The engine of the bus made a grinding sound as they climbed the hill out of the little market town, and at the top of the hill it became quite foggy. The driver turned on his headlights, and thorn hedges and wind-bent beeches raced towards them out of the gloom, wreathed in mist and looking ghostly. Henry thought about the five empty miles between Caple Bridge and Strathcroy, which he was going to have to walk because Caple Bridge was where he had to get off the bus. The prospect scared him a bit, but not all that much, because he knew the road, and the difficult bit was over, and he was nearly there.

  At Pennyburn, Violet prepared herself for the rigours of the evening that lay ahead.

  She had not been invited to a proper dance for longer than she could remember, and, at seventy-eight, it was unlikely that she would ever be invited to another. For this reason, she had decided to make the most of the occasion. Accordingly, this afternoon, she had driven to Relkirk, and there had her hair professionally washed and waved. As well, she had indulged in a manicure, and the nice girl, with her cushion, had spent some time digging earth out of Violet’s nails and pushing back her neglected cuticles.

  After this little beautifying session, she had called in at the bank, and withdrawn from its vaults the battered leather box that contained Lady Primrose’s diamond tiara. It was not very large, and had to be held together at the back with a loop of elastic, but she had brought it home and cleaned it up with an old toothbrush dipped in neat gin. This was a household tip that she had gleaned, long ago, from Mrs Harris. It worked well, but still seemed to Violet a terrible waste of gin.

  Then, from her wardrobe, she had taken down her ball-dress, black velvet and at least fifteen years old. The frill of black lace at the neck had come away a little, and needed the attention of a needle and thread, and her evening shoes, black satin with diamanté buckles, proved, on inspection, to have grown a few whiskers around the toes, so she took up her nail scissors and gave them a trim.

  When all was ready, she allowed herself a little relaxation. She was not due at Croy until half past eight. So, there was time to pour a restoring whisky and soda and settle down by the fire to watch the news on television and then ‘Wogan’. She enjoyed Wogan. She liked his cheerful Irish charm, his blarney. This evening, he was interviewing a young pop star, who, for some reason, had become deeply involved in the preservation of rural hedgerows. People were really quite extraordinary, Violet decided, watching the young man, with his punk hair and his earring, burbling on about nesting yellow-hammers.

  Then Wogan finished, and a quiz-show came on. Four people were meant to guess the value of various bits of antique junk which were set before them. Violet, all on her own, joined in the guessing game, and became certain that her assessments were far more accurate than anybody else’s. She was beginning to enjoy herself when the telephone rang.

  How tiresome. Why did the wretched thing always ring at the least opportune moment? She set down her glass, heaved herself out of her comfortable chair, turned down the television and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs Aird?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Dr Martin. From the Relkirk Royal.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Mrs Aird, I’m afraid we have a little trouble on our hands. Miss Carstairs has disappeared.”

  “She’s disappeared?” It sounded like some sort of dreadful conjuring trick, bringing visions of an explosion, a puff of smoke, and Lottie fading into nothing. “How could she possibly have disappeared?”

  “She’s gone. She went out for a walk in the garden, with another patient. She never returned.”

  “But that’s perfectly terrible.”

  “We think she must have simply walked out through the gates. We’ve alerted the police, of course, and I’m certain that she cannot be far away. She’ll probably come back here of her own accord. She’s been quite content, responding to treatment, and not troublesome in any sort of way. There is no reason why she shouldn’t return. But I felt I should let you know…”

  Violet thought that he was being very feeble.

  “Surely you should have taken more care of her?”

  “Mrs Aird, we are overcrowded here and understaffed. Under the circumstances, we do the best we can, but ambulant patients, whom we consider able, up to a point, to take care of themselves, have always been allowed a certain amount of freedom.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “There is nothing to be done. But, as I said, I thought you should know what has happened.”

  “Have you spoken to Miss Findhorn, her next of kin?”

  “Not yet. I thought it better to have a word with you first.”

  “In that case, I shall tell Miss Findhorn.”

  “I’d be very grateful if you would.”

  “Dr Martin…” Violet hesitated. “Do you think that Lottie Carstairs will try to make her way back to Strathcroy?”

  “It’s possible, of course.”

  “She would go to Miss Findhorn’s house?”

  “Possibly.”

  “I shall be honest with you. I don’t like the prospect at all. I fear for Miss Findhorn.”

  “I appreciate your fears but consider them groundless.”

  “I wish,” Violet told him dryly, “that I could be so certain, but thank you, Dr Martin, for calling.”

  “If I have any news, I’ll ring you.”

  “I shan’t be here. But you will be able to reach me at Croy, because I shall be dining with Lord Balmerino.”

  “I’ll make a note. Thank you. Goodbye, Mrs Aird. And I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  “Yes,” said Violet. “You have bothered me. Goodbye.”

  And she was more than bothered. All peace of mind had been shot to ribbons. She was not only bothered but filled with fear. The same reasonless panic she had experienced sitting by the river with Lottie that day in Relkirk, with Lottie’s fingers clenched, vicelike, around her wrist. Then, she had been tempted to leap to her feet and run. Now, she felt the same way, her heart pounding in her chest. It was the fear of the unknown, the unimaginable, some lurking danger.

  Analysed, she realised that this fear was not for herself, but for Edie. Her imagination leapt ahead. A knock on Edie’s cottage door, Edie going to answer it, and Lottie, with her hands outstretched like claws, leaping upon her…

  It didn’t bear thinking about. On the television screen, a woman, presented with a flowered chamber pot, dissolved into silent, embarrassed laughter, her mouth open, her hand over her eyes. Violet turned her off, picked up the receiver and dialled Balnaid. Edmund must be back from New York by now. Edmund would know exactly what to do.

  She heard the ringing sound. It continued to ring. She waited, became impatient. Why did none of them answer her call? What were they all doing?

  Finally, exasperated, and by now in a state of fluster, she slammed the receiver down, and then picked it up again and dialled Edie.

  Edie, too, was watching television. A nice Scottish programme, country dancing, and a comic in a kilt, telling rare stories. She sat with her supper tray on her lap, grilled chicken legs and chips and mushy peas. For afters, there was some leftover Apple Betty in the fridge. This evening, she was eating late. One of the good things about being on her own again was that she could eat when it suited her, without Lottie on at her all the time about when was the next meal coming. There were other good things. Quiet was one of them. And being able to get a good night’s rest in her own bed, instead of tossing and turning on the inadequate Put-U-Up. Getting a good night’s rest had done more than anything to restore her energy and good spirits. She still felt guilty about poor Lottie, back in the hospital, but there could be no doubt that life was a great deal easier without her.

  The telephone rang. She set aside her tray and got up to answer it.

  “Yes?”

  “Edie.”

  She smiled. “Hello
, Mrs Aird.”

  “Edie…” There was something wrong. Edie could tell at once, just by the way Mrs Aird said her name. “Edie, I’ve just been speaking to Dr Martin from the hospital. Lottie’s walked out. They don’t know where she is.”

  Edie felt her heart sink into her boots. After a bit she said, “Oh dear, goodness,” which was all she could think of to say.

  “They’ve notified the police, and they are pretty certain she’s not gone far, but Dr Martin agrees with me that there is a strong possibility that she’ll make her way back to Strathcroy.”

  “Has she got money with her?” asked Edie, ever practical.

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about that. But I’m certain that she wouldn’t have gone far without her handbag.”

  “No. That’s true enough.” Lottie was devoted to her handbag, and kept it by her side even when she was just sitting by the fire. “Poor soul. Something must have upset her.”

  “Yes. Maybe. But, Edie, I’m concerned for you. If she does come back to Strathcroy, I don’t want you to be alone in your house.”

  “But I must be here. If she comes, I must be here.”

  “No. No, Edie, listen. You must listen. You must be sensible. We don’t know what is going on in Lottie’s mind. She may have got it into her head that you have let her down in some way. Done her some hurt, rejected her. If she is in one of her states, you cannot possibly deal with her on your own.”

  “And what harm could she do to me?”

  “I don’t know. I only know that you must get out of your house…come to me for the night, or go to Balnaid until such time as she has been located and is safely back in hospital.”

  “But…”

  Her protest was overridden. “No, Edie, I will not take no for an answer, otherwise I shall not have a moment’s peace. You must pack a nightdress and go to Balnaid. Or come here. I don’t mind which. And if you don’t agree, then I shall be forced to get into my car and come and fetch you myself. And as I have to be at Croy at half past eight, and am not yet bathed nor dressed, this will be extremely inconvenient for me. It’s up to you.”

  Edie hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to cause a lot of inconvenience. Besides, she knew of old that Violet, once she had set her mind on something, was immovable. And yet…

  “I should stay here, Mrs Aird. I’m her next of kin. She’s my responsibility.”

  “You are also responsible to yourself. If you were to be distressed or threatened or hurt in any way, I should never forgive myself.”

  “And what will happen if she does come and finds the house empty?”

  “The police have been alerted. I am certain that a patrol car will be around the place. It won’t be difficult for them to pick her up.”

  Edie could think of no more arguments. She was defeated, her fate sealed. She sighed, and said quite crossly, “Oh, very well. But in my opinion, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “Maybe so. I hope I am.”

  “Do they know at Balnaid that I’m coming?”

  “No. I can’t get through to them on the telephone. I think something must be wrong with the wires.”

  “Have you reported it to Faults?”

  “Not yet. I called you right away.”

  “Well, I’ll give Faults a ring, and let them know the number’s not answering. They must be there. All getting ready for the party.”

  “Yes, Edie. You ring Faults. And when you’ve done that, you must promise me that you’ll go to Balnaid. Your room there is always ready, and Virginia will understand. Explain to her what has happened. If there is any inconvenience, you can put the blame on me. I’m sorry, Edie, to be so dictatorial. But I really wouldn’t enjoy myself in the very least if I knew that you were on your own.”

  “It seems to me a lot of fuss about nothing, but I suppose a night at Balnaid won’t kill me.”

  “Thank you, Edie dear. Goodbye.”

  “Have a good party.”

  Edie rang off. And then, before she should forget, she lifted the receiver again and called Faults to report the dead line. She was answered by a helpful man, who said that he would investigate the trouble and ring her back.

  Lottie gone. What was going to happen next? It was terrible to think of Lottie wandering around somewhere all on her own, perhaps frightened, lost. What was the stupid creature thinking about? Why could she not have stayed where she was, cared for by kindly folk? What wild idea had got into her head this time?

  Edie would go to Balnaid, but not immediately. Her tray waited, with the cooling remains of her supper. She would finish it, then do her dishes, tidy the kitchen, and bank up the Rayburn with coke. After that, she would put a nightie into her leatherette message bag, and set off down the road.

  She sighed in exasperation. That Lottie was a real nuisance, and no mistake, turning everybody’s lives upside down. She settled herself once more with her supper tray on her lap, but the chicken had cooled and lost its tastiness, and even the Scottish programme could not claim her attention.

  Once more the telephone rang. Once more she set aside the tray and got up to answer the call. The man from Faults told her that the Balnaid number did not seem to be ringing out, but that an engineer would be around to see to it tomorrow morning.

  Edie thanked him. Nothing more could be done. She picked up her supper tray and carried it through to the kitchen. Scraping the remains on her plate into the rubbish bin, she washed up the few bits and pieces and stacked them on the draining board, all the time trying to work out where on earth her sad, half-witted cousin could have got to.

  Archie Balmerino, bathed, shaved, groomed, dressed in his evening clothes, and, given a kiss of approval by his wife, left Isobel at her dressing-table, doing something complicated to her eyelashes, and emerged on to the landing from their bedroom.

  For a moment he paused, listening for other signs of activity, but nobody but himself appeared to be about, and so he set off down the stairs, one step at a time, with a hand on the banister rail. All through the day, each occupant of Croy had been hard at it, with jobs allotted and tasks to be accomplished. Which was just as well, for there had been a hell of a lot to do. Now the house was ready, dressed for the party, a stage set for action, awaiting the raising of the curtain, the entrance of the dramatis personae.

  He was the first. At the turn of the stair he paused, to stand, admiring with some satisfaction, the scene below him. The great entrance hall, cleared and tidied of all its normal day-to-day clobber, presented a face both impressive and welcoming. In the huge fireplace, with its carved overmantel, logs flamed, and the table that stood in the centre of the worn Turkey rug reflected, in its highly polished surface, the considerable arrangement of white chrysanthemums and scarlet rosehip berries which Isobel had concocted some time during the course of the afternoon.

  Croy, dressed for entertaining. An excitement in the air, a promise of pleasures to come. For once austerity and necessary economies had been tossed overboard, and the old house could be sensed revelling in the indulgence of rare extravagance.

  He thought of other evenings. His own twenty-first; and the evening when he and Isobel had celebrated their engagement. Birthdays, Christmases, hunt balls, his parents’ silver wedding…

  And then, frowning at himself, he shut the memories away. Nostalgia was his greatest weakness. One could look back for ever, but looking back was an old person’s ploy and he was not old. He was not yet fifty. Croy was his and yet not his. It had come to him, through his father and his grandfather, to hold in trust for Hamish. And the strength of a chain was the strength of its weakest link.

  He himself. The horrors of Northern Ireland would remain with him until the day he died, but the haunting ghosts and dreams had finally been laid to rest, and with them disposed of, he knew that there were no longer excuses to be made to himself. The time had come to stop vacillating and start constructing some practical plans for his inheritance and his family and their future. He had marked
time for too long, and there were no more years to be wasted. He wasn’t quite sure what he would do, but he would do something. Borrow money and start that factory that Pandora thought such a brilliant idea. Or grow soft fruit, raspberries and strawberries, on a huge commercial scale. Or go in for fish-farming. There were opportunities and possibilities all about him. All he had to do was make up his mind and go for it.

  Go for it. The words had a heartening ring to them. He knew again some of his old, youthful confidence. Knew that the worst was over, and nothing could ever be quite so bad again.

  He went on, down the stairs, into the dining room. He and Pandora had laid the table together, just the way it had always been arranged for important occasions, when Harris was in charge, and pleased to instruct the youthful Blairs on correct and time-honoured procedure. It had taken them most of the afternoon, with Archie polishing up the bubble-thin wineglasses, and Pandora folding the starched white napkins into mitres, each tipped with the embroidered coronet and the letter B.

  Now he observed, with a critical eye, their work. The effect was splendid. The four heavy silver candlesticks marched down the centre of the table, and firelight shone and sparkled from gleaming silver and glass, for here, as well, the logs flamed, and Jeff Howland had been given the job of filling all the wood-baskets. The scent of dry and crackling pine was warm and spicy. Archie walked the length of the room, checking on the placement, straightening a fork, altering, very slightly, the position of a salt-cellar. Satisfied, he went on into the kitchen.

  Here he found Agnes Cooper, up from the village for the evening. Agnes normally came to work in her tracksuit and a pair of trainers, but this evening she wore beneath her pinafore her best turquoise Crimplene dress, and she had had her hair done.