September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  “Oh, Edmund.”

  “I made such a fucking cock-up of it all. I was such a bloody coward. I went back to London, and as the miles lengthened behind me, I started to hate myself for what I’d done to Caroline and Alexa, and for what I was doing to Pandora. By the time I got back to London, I determined I would write to Pandora and try to explain that the whole episode had been a sort of fantasy; stolen days that had no more substance, no more future, than a soap bubble. But I didn’t write. Because the next morning I went into the office, and by that evening I was in an aeroplane with my chairman, flying to Hong Kong. A huge financial deal was on the stocks, and I’d been picked to handle it. I was away for three weeks. By the time I returned to London, that time at Croy had dissolved into a sort of distant unlikelihood, like days stolen from another person’s life. I could scarcely believe that it had happened to me. I was my own hard-headed businessman, not that indecisive romantic, swept off his feet by a fleeting sexual infatuation. And there was too much at stake. My job, I suppose. A way of life that I’d worked my guts out to achieve. Alexa. Losing Alexa did not bear thinking about. And Caroline. My wife, for better, for worse. Back from Madeira, suntanned, well, recovered. We’d gone through a bad time together, but we’d come out on the other side. We were together again, and it wasn’t the right time to blow it all apart. We picked up the threads of life, the warp and woof of a convenient marriage.”

  “And Pandora?”

  “Nothing. Finished. I never wrote that letter.”

  “Oh, Edmund. That was cruel.”

  “Yes. A sin of omission. Do you know that dreadful feeling, when there is something immensely important that you should do, and you haven’t done? And with each day that passes, it becomes more and more difficult to accomplish, until finally it passes the bounds of possibility and becomes impossible. It was over. Archie and Isobel went to Berlin, and immediate ties with Croy were severed. I heard nothing more. Until that day that Vi called from Balnaid to say that Pandora had gone. Run away, eloped to the other side of the world with a rich American old enough to be her father.”

  “You blame yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you ever tell Caroline?”

  “Never.”

  “Were you happy with her?”

  “No. She wasn’t a woman who engendered happiness. It worked all right, because we made it work, we were those sort of people. But love, of every sort, was always thin on the ground. I wish we had been happy. It would have been easier to accept her death if we’d had a good life, and I could have been certain that it hadn’t all been just a” — he searched for words — “waste of ten good years.”

  There did not seem to be anything more to say. Across the distance that divided them, husband and wife regarded each other, and Virginia saw Edmund’s hooded eyes filled with despair and sadness. She got up then, off the low stool, and went to sit beside him. She touched his mouth with her fingers. She kissed him. He reached out his arm and pulled her close.

  She said, “And us?”

  “I never knew how it could be, until I met you.”

  “I wish you’d told me all this before.”

  “I was ashamed. I didn’t want you to know. I’d give my right arm to be able to change things. But I can’t, because they happened. They become part of you, stay with you for ever.”

  “Have you spoken to Pandora about this?”

  “No. I’ve scarcely seen her. There’s been no opportunity.”

  “You must make it right with her.”

  “Yes.”

  “She is, I think, still very precious to you.”

  “Yes. But she’s part of life the way it used to be. Not the way it is now.”

  “You know, I’ve always loved you. I suppose if I hadn’t loved you so much, you wouldn’t have been able to make me so miserable. But now that I realise you are human and frail and make the same idiotic blunders as the rest of us, it’s even better. I never thought you needed me, you see. I thought you were quite self-sufficient. Being needed’s more important than anything.”

  “I need you now. Don’t go away. Don’t leave me. Don’t go to America with Conrad Tucker.”

  “I wasn’t running away with him.”

  “I thought you were.”

  “No, you didn’t. He’s actually a very nice man.”

  “I wanted to kill him.”

  You must never tell Edmund. Still untouched by guilt, she felt protective of her husband, holding her secret like a proud and private trophy. She said lightly, “That would have been a dreadful waste.”

  “Will your grandparents be very disappointed?”

  “We’ll go some other time. You and me together. We’ll leave Henry with Vi and Edie and we’ll go and see them on our own.”

  He kissed her. Leaned his head back on the deep cushions of the sofa and sighed. “I wish we didn’t have to go to this bloody dance.”

  “I know. But we must. Just for a little.”

  “I would very very much rather take you to bed.”

  “Oh, Edmund. We’ve lots of time for love. Years and years. The rest of our lives.”

  Presently Edie came to find them, knocking on the door before she opened it. The light from the hall shone from behind her and turned her white hair into an aureole.

  “Just to say Henry’s in bed and waiting for you…”

  “Oh, thank you, Edie…”

  They went upstairs. In his own room, Henry lay in his own bed. His night-lamp burnt dimly, and the room lay in shadows. Virginia sat on the edge of the bed and bent to kiss him. He was already half asleep.

  “Good night, my darling.”

  “Good night, Mummy.”

  “You’ll be all right.”

  “Yes. I’ll be all right.”

  “No dreams.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “If dreams come, Edie’s downstairs.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “I’ll leave you with Daddy.”

  She stood up and moved towards the door.

  “Have a good party,” Henry told her.

  “Thank you, my darling. We will.” She went through the door. Edmund took her place.

  “Well, Henry, you’re home again.”

  “I’m sorry about the school. It really wasn’t right.”

  “No. I know. I realise that. Mr Henderson does as well.”

  “I don’t have to go back to it, do I?”

  “I don’t think so. We’ll have to see if the Strathcroy Primary will take you on again.”

  “Do you think they’ll say no?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. You’ll be back with Kedejah.”

  “That’ll be good.”

  “Good night, old boy. You did well. I’m proud of you.”

  Henry’s eyes were closing. Edmund stood up and moved away. But at the open door, he turned back, and realised, with some surprise, that his own eyes were moist.

  “Henry?”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you got Moo in there with you?”

  “No,” Henry told him, “I don’t need Moo any more.”

  Out of doors, Virginia realised that the rain had stopped. From somewhere a wind had sprung up, chill and fresh as snow, stirring the darkness, causing the high elms of Balnaid to rustle and creak and toss their heads. Looking up, she saw stars, for this wind was blowing all clouds away to the east, and in their wake the sky was clear and infinite, pricked with the jewel glitter of a million constellations. Sweet and cold, the clean air struck her cheeks. She took deep breaths of it and was revitalised. No longer tired. No longer miserable, angry, resentful, lost. Henry was home and staying home, and Edmund, in more ways than one, returned to her. She was young and knew that she looked beautiful. Dressed to the nines and off to a party, she was ready to dance all night.

  They drove into the beam of the headlights, the narrow country roads twisting away behind them. As they approached Corriehill, the night sky was bathed in reflected b
rilliance from the spotlights which had been directed on to the front of the house. Drawing closer, they saw Verena’s strings of fairy lights looped from tree to tree all the way up the long drive, and as well, every twenty yards or so, the bright flares of Roman candles that grew from the grass verges.

  The BMW swung around the last bend, and the house was revealed in its full glory, towering up against the dark backdrop of the sky. It looked enormously impressive and proud.

  Virginia said, “It must be feeling really good tonight.”

  “What must?”

  “Corriehill. Like a monument. In memory of all the dinner parties, and wedding feasts and dances and balls that it must have known in the course of its history. And christenings. And funerals too, I suppose. But mostly parties.”

  Three brilliant searchlights were beamed upwards, lighting Corriehill from basements to chimneys. Beyond stood the marquee, lit from inside, like a shadow theatre. Distorted silhouettes moved and turned against the white canvas. They heard the beat of music. The dancing, clearly, was already well under way.

  Another spotlight hung from a tree to the left of the drive, illuminating the big paddock. Here, cars were parked, in long, well-ordered rows, as far as the eye could see. A figure approached through the gloom, flashing a torch. Edmund stopped the car and rolled down his window. The torchbearer stopped to peer in. Hughie McKinnon, the Steyntons’ old handyman, press-ganged for the evening into the role of car-park attendant, and already reeking of whisky.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Good evening, Hughie.”

  “Oh, it’s yourself, Mr Aird! I’m sorry, I didna’ recognise the car. How are you, sir?” He craned a little further in order to cock his eye at Virginia, and the whisky fumes flowed afresh. “And Mrs Aird. How are you keeping yourself?”

  “Very well, thank you, Hughie.”

  “Very good, very good,” said Hughie. “You’re awfully late. The rest of your party were all here an hour ago.”

  “I’m afraid we were unavoidably detained.”

  “Oh, well, no matter. The night’s long enough. Now, sir” — with pleasantries over, he steadied his legs — “if you would just like to take your good lady to the front of the house, and drop her off there, you can come back here, and I’ll be here, and I’ll help you park the car over there.” His torchbeam wavered haphazardly in the direction of the field, and he belched discreetly. “And see that you both enjoy yourselves, and have a rare time.”

  He stepped back. Edmund rolled up the window.

  “I doubt that Hughie is going to last the evening.”

  “At least he’s well centrally heated. He won’t die of hypothermia.”

  The car moved forward to pull up at the front door behind a large Audi with a personalised number-plate, disgorging its load of very young men and girls, all flushed and laughing from some extended and lavish dinner party. Virginia followed them up the steps while Edmund drove to find Hughie again and park his car.

  She entered the house and was assailed by light, warmth, music, the smell of flowers, greenery, wood-smoke; the sound of voices, raised in greeting, laughter, and high-pitched conversation. As she slowly made her way up the stairs, she looked down over the banisters at the carnival scene. People everywhere. Many she knew, and others strangers, come from all parts of the country especially for the occasion. A log fire blazed in the huge fireplace, and around this, young men in kilts and evening dress stood talking to each other, drinks in hand. Two of them were officers from the Relkirk barracks, flamboyant in their scarlet regimental mess-jackets.

  From the dining room, its doors festooned in draperies of deep-blue silk, came the powerful beat of the disco music. A steady flow of two-way traffic passed through these doors. Eager boys, their partners in tow, disappeared into the darkness, while others emerged, the young men as hot and sweaty as if they had just completed a fast game of squash, while the girls, casual with assumed sophistication, raked their fingers through tousled hair, and reached for cigarettes. The lowered lights and the din were clearly engendering a certain sexual excitement.

  On one of the sofas that guarded the entrance to the library sat old General Grant-Palmer, kilted, and with his knees indecently wide apart. He talked to a formidable lady with a huge bosom, whom Virginia did not recognise. Past them, others made their way through to the library, and so to the marquee at the front of the house. “Virginia!” Some man, spying her, called her name.

  She waved, smiled, continued on up the stairs. She went into the bedroom that had the sign ‘Ladies’ on the door, shed her fur and laid it on top of the coats already piled on the bed. She went to the mirror to comb her hair. Behind her the bathroom door burst open and a girl appeared. She had hair pale and fine as dandelion fluff, and eyes blackened like a panda’s. Virginia was about to tell her kindly that she’d inadvertently got her dress tucked up into her knickers, and then realised that she was wearing a puffball skirt. Wishing that Edmund were with her so that they could share the joke together, she did a quick turn to spin the creases out of her skirt, put her comb back in her bag, and went out of the room.

  Edmund was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He took her hand. “All right?”

  “I’ve got something lovely and funny to tell you. Did you get the car parked?”

  “Hughie found a place for me. Come on, let’s go and see what’s going on.”

  She had seen it all before, the morning that she had delivered her flower vases, when the marquee stood empty and unfinished, and there had been workmen everywhere. Now all was transformed, and Verena’s months of planning, agonising, and sheer hard labour had paid off. Corriehill, Virginia decided, might have been especially designed for just this occasion. From the library, the lead-out to the tent took in the stone garden steps. The urns that stood at the top and the bottom of these contained great masses of greenery and white chrysanthemums, and the lamps illuminating them swayed in the thin draught that blew beneath the enclosed awning.

  At the top of the steps, a natural vantage spot, they paused to regard in some wonder and admiration the scene before them.

  The tall tent-poles had been transformed into veritable trees of barley sheaves, beech branches, and rowan bright with scarlet berries. High overhead hung four sparkling chandeliers. At the far end, a platform had been erected and strung with silver helium balloons, and on this sat Tom Drystone and his band, thumping out an eightsome reel, ‘The Soldiers’ Dance’. Tom with the accordion sat, as leader, in the middle, and around him were grouped the others. A pianist, two fiddlers, and a young boy with a drum set. In white jackets and tartan trews, they presented a fine sight, and Tom caught Virginia’s eye and sent her a wink and a crack of his head. His long tumbler of beer stood brimming on the floor beside him.

  The sets of dancers, some in eightsome, some in sixteensome, circled and swung, linking arms, changing partners, clapping hands and stamping feet in time to the hypnotic pulse of the music. In the middle of one set was a huge young man making a fine exhibition of himself. He looked strong enough to be a shot-putter or caber-tosser, but this evening was putting all his energy into his dancing. Kilt flying, arms held high over his massive shoulders, shirt bursting from his scarlet waistcoat, he was giving it his all, and his muscled legs flailed as he leapt, uttering manic cries, high off the floor.

  “If he doesn’t watch out,” remarked Edmund, “he’s going to do himself an injury.”

  “More likely kill off one of the girls.”

  But the girls loved him, they screamed with glee, were lifted off their feet, or spun like tops. Virginia half-expected to see one of them tossed, like a doll, high up into the roof of the tent.

  Edmund nudged her. “Look at Noel.”

  Virginia followed his pointing finger, saw Noel, and dissolved into laughter. He stood, with a bemused expression on his handsome face, in the centre of one of the sets, having clearly lost his bearings and any idea of what he was meant to do next. Alexa, quite undeter
red, and in a state of giggles, was trying to point him in the direction of his next partner, while she, in her turn, was being deliberately non-co-operative and wore a look of mock boredom.

  They searched for the others. Found Vi, Conrad and Pandora, and Jeff and Lucilla, all dancing in a big sixteensome together. Vi’s partner was a retired Law Lord from Edinburgh, about half her size and perhaps the only person in the room older than she was. Vi, so large and so stout, moved, when she danced, lightly as a feather, gracefully swinging from man to man and never a step out of beat. As they watched, she took her place in the ring again, and two other ladies moved to dance together in the centre. Vi looked up, over their heads, and caught sight of Edmund and Virginia, standing hand in hand at the head of the stone steps.

  For an instant, her cheerful, flushed face clouded. She raised her brows in fearful question. In answer, Edmund held their clasped hands up, as if in triumph. She got the message. A smile lit her homely features. The tempo of the catchy music quickened, she and the old judge linked arms to swing again, and Violet gave him such an almighty spin that he was nearly sent flying off his spindly legs.

  At last the Grand Chain, a final turn, a long chord from the band, and the eightsome reel was over. Applause for the musicians instantly broke out, clapping, cheering, and stamping. The dancers, hot, breathless, sweating, wanted more. There were noisy demands for an encore, another round.

  But Violet had had enough. Excusing herself, she had abandoned her partner and was already on her way across the dance floor to where Edmund and Virginia waited. They went down the stone steps to meet her, and Violet embraced her daughter-in-law.

  “You’re here at last. I’ve been so worried. Is everything all right?”

  “Everything, Vi.”

  “Henry?”

  “Safe and well.”

  Violet fixed her son with a beady stare.