September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  Bugger.

  No matter. No good trying to clean it up, because she’d only cut her fingers to ribbons. Isobel would deal with it. In the morning. Tomorrow morning, Isobel would deal with it.

  She stowed the jar of pills safely away, deep into the pocket of her mink coat, and then, carefully switching off all the lights, and closing her bedroom door, went back downstairs and into the drawing room. She turned on the main switch, and the huge chandelier, suspended from the centre of the ceiling, sprang into a thousand facets of glittering crystal light. Here again, the fire was nearly dead, but the room was still warm and comfortingly shabby and familiar with its crimson damask walls hung with the old portraits and oil paintings that Pandora had known all her life. It was all so dear. The battered armchairs and sofas, the mismatched cushions, the little green velvet footstool where she had sat, as a child, while her father read aloud to her before she went to bed. And the piano. Mama used to play the piano in the evenings, and Pandora and Archie would sing the old songs. Scottish songs. Songs of loyalty and love and death…nearly all of them quite dreadfully sad.

  Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon,

  How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair…

  How lovely to be able to play as Mama had. But then, being given lessons, the young Pandora had swiftly tired of them, and her gentle mother, as always, had allowed her to have her own way. And so she had never learned.

  Another regret to add to all the others. Another missed opportunity of joy.

  She went to the piano and lifted the lid and haltingly picked out the notes with a single finger.

  It’s a long long time

  From May to December

  But the days grow short…

  Wrong note, try again.

  …short

  When you reach September.

  Not much of a performance.

  She shut the piano lid, went out of the room, across the hall and into the dining room. Here, more detritus. The table uncleared, empty coffee-cups, port glasses, crumpled napkins, chocolate wrappings, the scent of cigar smoke. The sideboard was laden with decanters, and she found an open bottle of champagne, still three-quarters full, which Archie had capped for future consumption with some patent stopper. Carrying this, she went back across the hall and out through the front door.

  Archie’s Land-Rover waited for her. She climbed up behind the wheel, into its smelly and battered interior. She had never driven it before, and it took a moment or two to work out the complexities of ignition, gears, and lights. But finally, she got the hang of them. With only sidelights burning, the old engine chuntered into life, and she was off.

  Down the drive between the dark masses of the rhododendrons, across the cattle-grid, up to the right, headed for the hills. She drove very slowly, with immense care, feeling her way by the dim lights, as though she walked on tiptoe. Past the farmhouse, through the steadings. And then, Gordon Gillock’s house. She had been afraid that the sound of the car engine would disturb Gordon’s dogs, and they would start raging and barking and wake their master. But this did not happen.

  Now she switched on the full beam of the headlights and was able to pick up a little speed. The road wound and twisted, but she knew every inch of the way. After a bit she reached the deer-fence with its tall gates. The last obstacle. She drew to a halt, pulled on the handbrake, and, leaving the engine throbbing, climbed down and went to open the gates. The bolt was rusted and awkward to pull free, but she finally achieved this, and the gates, weighted, swung open of their own accord. Back into the Land-Rover, through the gap in the fence, and then the whole procedure all over again — pulling the gates shut, and bolting them closed behind her.

  Free. Now she was free. Nothing more to be afraid of. Nothing more to worry about. Lurching and bumping, the Land-Rover crawled its way up the unmade track, headlights pointing to the sky, and the sweet damp air pouring through the ill-fitting windows cool upon her cheeks.

  Behind, the world dropped away, became smaller, infinitesimal, unimportant. The hills closed ranks, drew her close, like comforting arms. This was Pandora’s country. She had carried it all through the wasted years in her heart, and now she was back for good. This was reality. The darkness, the feeling of belonging. Warm and safe and comforting as the womb.

  You are my womb, she told the hills. I am returning to the womb. She began to sing.

  Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon,

  How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair…

  Her voice, thin and cracked and out of tune, sounded lonely as a curlew’s cry. Too banal. Something cheerful.

  Oh, the black cat piddled in the white cat’s eye

  And the white cat said “Gorblimey.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, if I piddled in you eye

  But I didn’t know you were behind me.”

  It was some time before she reached the loch, but time didn’t matter, because there was no hurry now, no stress, no urgency, no panic. All had been attended to, nothing forgotten. Familiar landmarks came and went. The Corrie was one of them. She thought of Edmund, and then did not think of him.

  She knew at last that she was drawing close to the loch when the bumping ceased and the land levelled out, and the wheels of the Land-Rover ran smoothly over close-cropped grass.

  In the beam of the headlights the dark waters lay revealed, the further shores invisible, melding into the moors. She saw the black shape of the boathouse, the pale sickle of the pebbled beach.

  She switched off the engine and the lights, reached for the bottle of champagne, and climbed out on to the grass. The heels of her sandals sank into the soft turf and the high air was very cold. She pulled her mink close about her and stood for a moment listening to the silence. Then she heard the piping of the wind, the ripple of water on shingle, the distant soughing of the tall pines that stood at the far end of the dam.

  She smiled, because it felt just as it had always felt. She walked down to the water and sat on the turfy bank above the little beach. She set the champagne bottle beside her, then took the jar of sleeping pills from her coat pocket, unscrewed the cap and shook the lot out into her palm. There seemed to be an awful lot of them. She put her hand to her mouth and shovelled them in.

  Their taste and texture caused her to shudder and gag. Impossible to chew or to swallow. She reached for the champagne bottle, tore off the stopper, tilted it to her lips and washed the noxious mouthful down. The wine still fizzed and bubbled. It was important not to start vomiting. She drank more champagne, rinsing out her mouth as though she’d just endured a tiresome session at the dentist.

  An amusing thought came to mind. How smart to do it with champagne. Like being poisoned by an oyster or run over by a Rolls-Royce. What else was smart? She’d once heard of somebody’s mother who’d died of a heart attack in the Food Hall at Fortnum & Mason. Presumably she’d been laid out…

  Her mind wandered. There really wasn’t time to sit here, remembering that poor dead lady.

  …laid out by some kindly swallow-tailed gentleman; stowed away behind the jars of Larks’ Tongues in Aspic…

  She stopped to jerk off her high-heeled sandals and, straightening, felt her head reel as though some person had struck her a blow on the back of the neck. There is, she told herself with some deliberation, no time to lose. She shed her coat, left it lying, got to her feet, and walked the little distance that separated her from the loch. The stones were agony beneath her bare feet, but somehow it was a detached sort of agony, as though it were happening to another person.

  The loch was cold, but no colder than other times, other remembered summers, other midnight swims. Here, the shore shelved steeply. A step and she was ankle-deep, another, and she was up to her knees. The filmy skirts of her dress dragged heavy with the weight of the water. Another step. And another, and that was it.

  She plunged forward, out of her depth, and the water closed over the top of her head. She surfaced, gasping and spluttering for air. Her long wet hair clung to her naked shoulder
s, and she began to swim, but her arms felt feeble, and her legs were shrouded and tangled in layers of sodden chiffon. She could perhaps kick them free, but she was too tired…always too tired…to make the effort.

  More restful, surely, just to float with the tide.

  The hills were blurred now, but they were there, and that was comforting.

  Always tired. I’ll just have a little toes-up.

  She saw, with grateful wonder, the night sky filled with stars. She laid back her head to gaze at these, and the dark water flowed over her face.

  31

  Saturday the Seventeenth

  It was five-thirty in the morning when Archie Balmerino looked at his watch, realised the time, and heaved himself reluctantly out of the armchair in which he had been sitting, placidly sipping the last of the malt whisky, and having a crack with young Jamie Ferguson-Crombie.

  The party was over. There was no sign of Isobel or the rest of his house guests, the band had gone home, and the marquee was deserted. Only from the disco did the music still emanate and, glancing in, he observed two or three couples drooping around in the darkness, and looking as though they had fallen asleep on their feet. Nor was there any evidence of his hosts. From the kitchen could be heard voices, and he debated as to whether he should go and search for Verena, and then decided against it. It was time to head for home, and he would write his heartfelt thanks in a bread-and-butter letter the following morning.

  He went out of the house, down the steps, set off in the direction of the car-park. The night had lightened, and the sky faded to grey. Dawn was not far off. It occurred to him then that perhaps he would find no form of transport waiting. The others, maybe returning to Croy in dribs and drabs, might well have forgotten all about Archie, and left nothing for him to drive. But then he saw Isobel’s minibus standing in the middle of the field in lonely state, and knew that she had not forgotten him, and was filled with gratitude for her thoughtfulness.

  He drove away from Corriehill. The Roman candles had burned themselves out, and the fairy lights had been extinguished. He knew that he was mildly tipsy, but, for some reason, felt totally clear-headed. He drove slowly, with concentrated care, only too aware that in the unlikely event of being stopped by the police, he hadn’t a hope in hell of cheating the breathalyser. On the other hand, if he did meet a policeman, it would probably be young Bob McCrae from Strathcroy, and the last thing Bob would want to do would be to wheel the Laird in on a drunk-and-driving charge.

  Dreadfully wrong; but one of the perks and privileges, he reflected wryly, of local gentry.

  It had been a good party. He had enjoyed every moment of it. Seen a lot of old friends, made a lot of new ones. Drunk some excellent whisky, and eaten a splendid breakfast of bacon and eggs and sausages and black pudding and mushrooms and tomatoes and toast. Black coffee, too. Which was probably why he was feeling so wakeful and sparky.

  All he had had to miss out on was the dancing. But he had taken great pleasure in watching some of the reels and listening to the toe-tapping music. The only time he had felt a little wistful was during the Duke of Perth. The Duke of Perth was the dance when, by tradition, your wife was your partner, and it had been a little galling to see Isobel being whirled off her feet by another man. No matter, she and Archie had shunted their way a couple of times around the floor of the disco, and very romantic and satisfactory it had been too, cheek to cheek, just like the old days.

  The sun was edging its way over the eastern horizon as he turned into the front drive of Croy and mounted the hill. The sweep in front of the house was empty of cars. No Land-Rover. Jeff, good fellow that he was, must have put it away in the garage.

  He climbed out of the minibus and went indoors. Physically, he was very tired, and his stump hurt like hell, as it always did when he had spent too much time standing about on it. Haltingly, holding the banister, he climbed the stairs. In their bedroom, he found Isobel, fast asleep. Evidence of her evening’s finery lay across the floor in a little trail. Shoes, tights; the beautiful dark-blue dress abandoned on the sofa which stood at the foot of the bed. Her jewels on the dressing-table, her evening bag on a chair. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her sleep. There was still mascara on her eyelashes, and her hair was tousled. After a bit, he stooped and kissed her, and she did not stir.

  He left her sleeping, went into his dressing-room, and slowly took off his clothes. In the bathroom, he turned on the taps, and the boiling water filled the air with steam. He sat on the lavatory seat and unbuckled his harness and his tin leg, and laid the awkward contraption out on the bathmat. Then, with a cunning expertise perfected over the years, he lowered himself into the scalding bathwater.

  He soaked for a long time, turning on the hot tap whenever the water threatened to turn chill. He soaped himself, shaved, washed his hair. He thought about going to bed, and then decided against it. The new day had begun, and he might just as well see it through.

  Later, dressed in old corduroys and a polo-necked sweater of great age and thickness, he went back downstairs and into the kitchen. The dogs were waiting for him, ready for their morning outing. He put on the kettle. When he came indoors again he would make a cup of tea. He led the dogs across the hall and out through the front door. They raced ahead of him, over the gravel and off on to the grass, scenting the rabbits who had played there during the night hours. He stood at the top of the steps and watched them go. Seven o’clock and the sun was on its way up the sky. A pearly morning with only a little light cloud drifting about in the west. Birds were singing, and so still was it that he could hear the sound or a car, far below in the glen, starting up, and driving away through the village.

  Another sound. Footsteps on the gravel, approaching from the direction of the cattle-grid. He looked and saw, in some surprise, the unmistakable figure of Willy Snoddy, his lurcher at his heels, walking towards him. Willy, as disreputable as ever in his tinker’s cap and muffler and his old jacket with its bulging poacher’s pockets.

  “Willy,” Archie went down the steps to meet him. “What are you up to?” A ridiculous question, because he knew perfectly well that Willy Snoddy, at this hour of the day, was up to only one thing, and that was no good.

  “I…” The old man opened his mouth and then shut it again. His eyes met Archie’s and veered away. “I…I was up at the loch…me and the dog…I…”

  He stopped.

  Archie waited. Willy put his hands in his pockets and took them out again. And then the dog, sensing something, began to whine. Willy swore at it and slapped its head, but a frisson ran down Archie’s spine and he tensed, consumed by a dreadful apprehension.

  “Well, what is it?” he demanded sharply.

  “I was up at the loch…”

  “You told me…”

  “Just a wee troot or twa, ken…” But that wasn’t what Willy had come to say. “Your Land-Rover. It’s there. And the lady’s furry coat…”

  And then Willy did a strange thing. He took off his cap, an instinctive and touching gesture of respect. He held it, twisted in his hands. Archie had never seen him bareheaded before. Willy’s cap was part of his image, and rumour had it that he even slept in it. But now he saw that Willy’s head was balding, and his sparse white hair lay thin over the defenceless scalp. Without the rakish slant of his bonnet it was as though the graceless poacher had been disarmed; no longer the well-kent villain, slouching about the place with his pockets full of ferrets, but simply an old countryman, uneducated and at a total loss, struggling to find the words to tell the untellable.

  “Lucilla.”

  The voice came from a long way off. Lucilla decided to ignore it.

  “Lucilla.”

  A hand on her shoulder, gently shaking.

  “Lucilla, darling.”

  Her mother. Lucilla groaned, buried her head in the pillow. Slowly awoke. She lay for a moment and then rolled on to her back and opened her eyes. Isobel was sitting on the edge of her bed, her hand on Lucilla’s T-shirted sho
ulder.

  “Darling. Wake up.”

  “I am awake,” Lucilla mumbled. She yawned and stretched. Blinked once or twice. “Why did you wake me up?” she asked resentfully.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “Ten o’clock. Oh Mum, I wanted to sleep until lunch.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Lucilla slowly came to. The curtains had been drawn back, and morning sunlight slanted into the far corner of her room. She looked at her mother with sleepy eyes. Isobel was dressed, wearing a pullover and a Husky, but her hair was untidy, as if she had not found time to do more than run a comb through it, and her expression seemed strained. But then, she would be tired. Lacking sleep. They had none of them got to bed before four o’clock.

  But she was not smiling. Was not her usual self.

  Lucilla frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  “Darling, I had to wake you. And yes, something is wrong. Something’s happened. It’s very sad. I have to tell you. You’ve got to try to be brave.” Lucilla’s eyes widened in apprehension. “It’s Pandora…” Her voice faltered. “Oh, Lucilla, Pandora is dead…”

  Dead. Pandora dead? “No.” The instinctive reaction was one of denial. “She can’t be.”

  “Sweetheart, she is.”

  Lucilla was now awake, all trace of drowsiness shattered by shock. “But when?” Noel Keeling had driven Pandora home from the dance. “How?” She imagined Pandora, like a wraith, not breathing, still, on her bed. A heart attack, perhaps.

  But not dead. Not Pandora.

  “She drowned herself, Lucilla. We think she drowned herself…”

  “Drowned herself?” The implications were too horrifying to take in.

  “In the loch. She took Dad’s Land-Rover. She must have driven herself up the road. Right past Gordon Gillock’s house, but the Gillocks never heard a thing. The gates of the deer-fence were bolted shut. She must have shut them behind her.”