September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  She was at the sink, dealing with the odd saucepan or two, but turned at his footstep.

  “Agnes. Everything all right?”

  “All under control. I’ve just got to keep my eye on the casserole, and put the wee bits of smoked trout on to the plates when Lady Balmerino says.”

  “It’s good of you to come and help us.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.” She eyed him in some admiration. “I hope you don’t mind my saying, but you’re looking fantaastic.”

  “Oh, thank you, Agnes.” He found himself a little embarrassed, and to cover his confusion, offered her a drink. “A glass of sherry. How would that be?”

  Agnes was also a little taken aback. “Oh. Well. That would be very nice.”

  She reached for a towel and dried her hands. Archie found a glass, and the bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream. He poured her a generous tot. “Here you are…”

  “Thanks a lot, Lord Balmerino…” She raised the glass in a convivial fashion, saying, “Here’s to having a good time,” and then took a ladylike sip, folding her lips appreciatively around the rich taste. “Sherry’s lovely,” she said. “Like I say, it always gives you a beautiful glow.”

  He left her and went back, through the dining room, across the hall, and into the drawing room. Another fire, more flowers, soft lights, but no guests. His house party, it seemed, were taking their time. The drinks tray had been set out, and placed on top of the grand piano. He considered the situation. They would be on champagne for the remainder of the evening, but he needed a Scotch. He poured himself a drink, and then poured a second one, and, carrying the two glasses with a certain amount of care, painfully made his way upstairs again.

  On the landing he came upon his daughter, who, for some reason, was wandering around in her underclothes.

  “Lucilla!” he reproached her.

  But she was more concerned over his appearance than her own.

  “Goodness, Dad, you look gorgeous. Really romantic and distinguished. The Lord Balmerino in full fig. Are those new trousers? They’re heaven. I wouldn’t mind a pair of those. And Grandpa’s old smoking jacket. Quite perfect.” She put her naked arms around his neck and pressed a kiss on his newly shaved cheek. “And you smell delicious as well. All sleek and barbered and yummy. Who are the drinks for?”

  “I thought I’d better make sure that Pandora’s awake. Why haven’t you got any clothes on?”

  “Just on my way to borrow a petticoat from Mum. My new dress is a bit flimsy.”

  “You’d better get a move on. It’s twenty-five past eight.”

  “I’m ready now.” She went to throw open the door of her parents’ bedroom. “Mum! I’m going to have to wear a petticoat…”

  Archie crossed the landing to the door of the guest room. From within came faint strains of music, which meant that Pandora had turned on her radio, but did not necessarily mean that she was awake. He juggled the two glasses into one hand, gave a cursory thump on the panel, and opened the door.

  “Pandora?”

  She was not in bed, but she was on it, lying draped in a silk-and-lace wrapper. Clothes were scattered about all over the place, and the room was heavy with the smell of that strange scent which had become so much part of her presence.

  “Pandora.”

  She opened her beautiful grey eyes. She had put on her make-up, and her thick lashes were heavy with mascara. She saw him and smiled. She said, “I’m not asleep.”

  “I’ve brought you a drink.”

  He set the glass down on her table, alongside the little lamp, and went to sit on the edge of the bed. Her radio crooned softly away to itself, a programme of dance music that sounded as though it came from a long way back.

  She said, “How kind.”

  “It’s almost time to come downstairs.” Her shining hair spilled over the pillow, almost as though it had a life of its own, but lying there she looked so thin, so insubstantial, so weightless that, all at once, he felt concern. “Are you tired?”

  “No. Just lazy. Where is everybody?”

  “Isobel’s dealing with her face, and Lucilla’s wandering about in her knickers wanting to borrow a petticoat from her mother. So far, there’s no sign of either of the men.”

  “It’s always a good moment, isn’t it? Just before a party. Time to have a toes-up and listen to nostalgic tunes. Do you remember this one? It’s so pretty. Rather sad. I can’t remember the words.”

  Together they listened. The tenor saxophone carried the melody. Archie frowned, trying to capture the elusive lyric. The music carried him back twenty years, to Berlin and some regimental ball. Berlin was the clue.

  “Something about a long long time from May to December.”

  “Yes, of course. Kurt Weill. ‘But the days grow short when you reach September.’ And then autumn leaves, and the days running out, and there not being time for the waiting game. So dreadfully poignant.”

  She sat up, bunching her pillows behind her. She reached for her drink, and he saw her narrow wrist, and her red-tipped hand, so fine and pale and blue-veined that it seemed to Archie almost transparent.

  He said, “Are you nearly ready?”

  “Nearly. I’ve only got to slip my dress on and zip up the zip.” She took a mouthful of whisky. “Oh, delicious. This will get me going.” Over the rim of the glass her eyes appeared enormous. “You look amazing, Archie. Just as dashing as you ever did.”

  “Agnes Cooper said I looked fantaastic.”

  “What a compliment. Darling, I wasn’t asleep. I was just having a little quiet think about yesterday. It was all so perfect. Just like it used to be. The two of us. Sitting in the butt, and having time to chat. Or not chat, as the case might be. Perhaps I talked too much, but twenty years is a long time to tell. Was it dreadfully boring?”

  “No. You made me laugh. You always made me laugh.”

  “And the sun and the blue sky and the heather linties cheeping away, and the guns going crack, and the poor little grouse tumbling out of the sky. And all those clever doggies. Weren’t we lucky to have such a day? Like being given the most gorgeous present.”

  He said, “I know.”

  “It’s nice to think those sort of days come back again. That they haven’t gone for ever.”

  “We must reform. Kick this invidious family habit of dwelling in the past.”

  “It was such a good past, it’s difficult not to. Besides, what else is there to think about?”

  “Now. Yesterday is dead and tomorrow not yet born. We only have today.”

  “Yes.”

  She took another sip from her glass. They fell silent. From beyond the closed door came sounds of activity. A door opened and shut. And then Lucilla’s voice. “Conrad. How smart you look. I don’t know where Dad is, but go downstairs and we’ll all be with you in a moment…”

  “I hope,” said Archie, “that she’s wearing Isobel’s petticoat.”

  “Conrad is such a gentleman that even if Lucilla is stark-naked, he’ll pay no regard. Such a nice Sad American. It would have been too awful for all of us if he’d been a crashing bore.”

  “You must make a point of dancing with him.”

  “I’ll twirl him through a Dashing White Sergeant and introduce him to all the nobs as we move around the room. That’s the only thing about this evening that makes me a little unhappy. You won’t be able to dance.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Over the years, I’ve perfected the art of sparkling conversation…”

  They were interrupted at last by Lucilla opening the door and putting her head around the edge of it.

  “Sorry to barge in, but there’s a crisis. Dad, Jeff can’t tie Edmund’s bow-tie. He’s only worn a bow-tie once in his life, and that was a made-up one on an elastic. I tried to help, but it was a total failure. Can you come and assist?”

  “Of course.”

  Duty called. He was needed. The quiet moments were over. He gave Pandora a kiss. “See you.” And then got to his feet an
d followed Lucilla out of the room. Pandora, left alone, slowly finished her drink.

  These precious days I’ll spend with you.

  The song was ended.

  Violet, with Highland blood coursing through her veins, always stoutly averred that she was not superstitious. She walked under ladders, disregarded Friday the thirteenth, and never touched wood. If some sort of an omen presented itself, she usually told herself firmly that it was probably for the best, and looked for good news. She was grateful that she had not been blessed — or cursed — with second sight. It was better not to know what the future held.

  Having dealt with Edie, and bullied that promise out of her, she expected her anxieties to be resolved, and her mind once more at rest. But this did not happen, and she returned to her fireside chair in a state of grave apprehension. What was amiss? Why did she feel all at once haunted by nameless, lurking fears? Bundled in her old dressing-gown, she sat forward, staring into the flames, searching for the root-cause of her sudden chill, the unease that, like a weight, lay deep in her being.

  Hearing that Lottie was on the loose, wandering about, up to heaven knew what, was bad enough; but, ridiculously, the fact that she could not get through to Balnaid and speak to Edmund disturbed her a good deal more. It wasn’t just the frustration of non-communication. Often, during the winter blizzards, Violet was cut off at Pennyburn for a day or more, and isolation did not worry her in the very least. It was just that the breakdown had occurred at such a startlingly inappropriate time. As though some uncontrollable and malevolent force were at work.

  She was not superstitious. But misfortunes invariably happened in threes. First Lottie, then the faulty telephone. What next?

  She let her imagination move forward to the evening ahead, and knew that there lay a veritable minefield of potential disaster. For the first time, the players in the drama that had been boiling up over the last week would all come together, gathered around the dining-room table at Croy. Edmund, Virginia, Pandora, Conrad, Alexa and Noel. All, in their various ways, confused and restless, searching for some elusive happiness, as though it could be found, like a pot of gold, at the end of a fairy-tale rainbow. But in their efforts all they seemed to have unearthed was a useless cache of destructive emotion. Resentment, distrust, selfishness, greed, and disloyalty. Adultery, too. Only Alexa, it seemed, stayed unsullied. For Alexa, there was only the pain of love.

  A log, burning through, collapsed with a whisper into the bed of ashes. An interruption. Violet looked up at her clock, and was horrified to see that she had sat, brooding, for too long, for it was already a quarter-past eight. She would be late arriving at Croy. Under usual circumstances, this would have bothered her, for she was a stickler for punctuality, but this evening, with so much else on her mind, it scarcely seemed to matter. For fifteen minutes or so, she would not be missed, and Isobel would not lead them into the dining room until at least nine o’clock.

  She realised, too, that the last thing she wanted to do was go out. Smile, chat, conceal her apprehensions. She did not want to leave the safe haven of her house, her fireside. Something, somewhere, was lying in wait, and her frail human instinct was to bolt herself indoors, in safety, sit by the telephone, and keep watch.

  But she was not superstitious.

  She pulled herself together, got out of her chair, put the guard on the dying fire, and went upstairs. Swiftly, she bathed, and then dressed herself for the party. Silk underclothes and black silk stockings, the venerable black velvet gown, the satin court shoes. She dressed her hair, and then took up her diamond tiara and settled it on her head, fixing, with a bit of difficulty, the loop of elastic at the back. She powdered her nose, found a lacy handkerchief, sprayed a little eau-de-cologne about her person. Moving to her long mirror, she gauged, with critical eyes, the general effect. Saw a large and stout dowager for whom the word “dignified” seemed the kindest description.

  Large and stout. And old. All at once, she felt very tired. Tiredness did funny things to one’s imagination, for, staring into the mirror, she saw beyond her own reflection the cloudy image of another woman. Never beautiful, but unlined, and brown-haired, and filled with a raging energy for life. Herself, wearing the crimson satin ball-gown that had been her most favourite. And beside that other woman, stood Geordie. For an instant the mirage stayed, so real that she could have touched it. And then it faded and was gone, and she was left alone. For years, she had not felt so alone. But there was no time to stand and feel sorry for herself. Others were waiting for her, as always, demanding her company, her attention. She turned from the mirror, reached for her fur coat and pulled it on, picking up her evening bag and switching off the lights. Downstairs, she went out through the kitchen door, locking it behind her. The night was dark, and damp with a drizzling mist. She crossed over to the garage and got into her car. Lifts had been offered by all and sundry, but she had chosen to drive herself to Croy, and after dinner, she would drive herself to Corriehill. That way she would be totally independent of any person and able to return home whenever she chose.

  You should always leave a party just when you are most enjoying yourself.

  That had been one of Geordie’s maxims. Thinking of Geordie, hearing his dear voice in her head, filled her with a certain comfort. On such occasions, she never felt that he was very far away. How amused he would be by her now, seventy-eight years old, dolled up in velvet and diamonds and fur, and driving herself in her mud-stained motor car to…of all things…a ball.

  Headed up the hill, watching the road ahead contained by the beam of her headlights, she made Geordie a promise.

  I know this is a ludicrous situation, my darling, but it is the last time. After this evening, if any person is kind enough to ask me to a dance, I shall tell them no. And my excuse will be that I am really far too old.

  Henry walked. Darkness had fallen and a thin rain drifted into his face. The river, the Croy, kept him company, flowing alongside the winding road. He could not see it, but was aware all the time of the presence of moving water, the rippling sound as the shallows tumbled downhill in a series of little pools and waterfalls. It was comforting to know that the Croy was there. The only other noises to reach his ears were familiar, but strangely magnified by his own solitude. The wind, stirring the branches of trees, and the curlew’s lonely call. His footsteps sounded enormous. Sometimes he imagined other footsteps, following some way behind him, but it was probably just an echo of his own tread. Any alternative was too scary to contemplate.

  He had been passed by only three cars, driving from Caple Bridge and heading, as he was headed, up the glen. On each occasion, aware of the approaching headlights, he had bundled himself down into the ditch, hiding until the car was gone, zipping past with a hiss of tyres on the wet road. He did not wish to be observed, and as well, he did not wish to be offered a lift. Accepting lifts from strangers was not only dreadfully dangerous, but totally forbidden, and at this stage of his long journey, Henry was not about to risk being driven somewhere he did not want to go, and murdered.

  However, when he was less than a mile from Strathcroy, and could actually see the lights of the village pricking like welcome stars through the gloom, he did get a lift. A massive double-deckered sheep-float came grinding up the road behind him, and Henry somehow hadn’t the energy to jump for the ditch before being caught in its headlights. Even as it passed Henry, the sheep-float was already slowing down. It drew to a throbbing halt, and the driver opened the door of his high cab and waited for Henry to catch up with him. He squinted down into the murky dusk and saw Henry’s Balaclava-ed face staring up at him.

  “Hello, sonny.” He was a great burly man in a tweed bonnet. A familiar sort of person. Not a stranger. By now, Henry’s legs were beginning to feel wobbly, like cooked spaghetti, and he was not certain whether he was going to be able to make that last bit of the road to Strathcroy.

  “Hello.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Strathcroy.”

/>   “Did you miss the bus?”

  This seemed a good excuse. “Yes,” fibbed Henry.

  “Want a ride?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Up you come, then.”

  The man reached down a horny hand. Henry put his own hand into it and was heaved upwards, as though he weighed no more than a fly, on to the big man’s knee, and then over and on to the other seat. The cab was warm and snug and very dirty. It smelled fuggy, of old cigarettes and sheep, and there were sweet-papers and match-ends littered around the floor, but Henry didn’t mind this, because it was good to be there, with another person for company, and to know that he didn’t have to walk any further.

  The driver slammed his door shut, shoved his engine into gear, and they moved forward.

  “Where have you walked from?”

  “Caple Bridge.”

  “That’s a long walk on a wet night.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you live in Strathcroy?”

  “I’m going to see someone there.” Before he could be asked any more questions, Henry decided to ask one himself. “Where have you been?”

  “To the market in Relkirk.”

  “Did you have a lot of sheep?”

  “Aye.”

  “Were they your own?”

  “No, I’ve no sheep. I’m just the driver.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Inverness.”

  “Are you going there tonight?”

  “Oh, aye.”

  “It’s a long way.”

  “Maybe so, but I like to sleep in my own bed.”

  The windscreen wipers swung to and fro. Through the clear fan of glass, Henry watched as the lights of Strathcroy came closer. Then they passed the thirty-miles-an-hour sign, and then the war memorial. Around the last curve of the road, and the long main street of the village stretched ahead into the darkness.

  “Where do you want me to drop you off?”

  “Just here will do very nicely, thank you.”

  Once more, the sheep-float ground to a juddering halt.