September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  “Archie, that’s not your —”

  She stopped abruptly, raised her head to listen. From beyond the closed door could be heard footsteps coming down the hall.

  “Mum!” It was Lucilla.

  “We’re in the study.”

  The door opened a crack. “Can I come in? I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

  “No, of course not, darling. Come in.”

  Lucilla closed the door behind her. She looked as though she had been crying, but had dried her tears. Archie held out his arm to her, and she took his hand and bent to kiss his cheek. She said, “I am so dreadfully sorry.” She sat on the edge of the desk, facing her parents. She said, “I’ve got something to tell you. And it’s very sad, and I hope you won’t be too distressed…”

  “Is it about Pandora?”

  “Yes. I’ve found out why she did it.” Waiting, they watched their daughter. “You see…she had terminal cancer.”

  Her voice was quiet, but quite calm and firm. Isobel looked into Lucilla’s face and saw there, behind the youthful features, a great inner strength, and knew that, at nineteen, she had quite suddenly grown up. The child was gone for ever. Lucilla would never be her child again.

  “Cancer?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “When Jeff and I went to stay with her in Majorca, the afternoon we arrived, there was a man with her called Carlos Macaya. I told you about him, Dad. He was very attractive, and Jeff and I were convinced he was her current lover. But he wasn’t. He was her doctor. It was Jeff who remembered him, and suggested that we ring him up, just in case he knew something that we didn’t know. We found his name and his telephone number in her address book, and it was then that we realised that he was a doctor, and not just a friend. So we put the call through, to Majorca, and spoke to him. And he told us everything.”

  “Had he been taking care of her?”

  “Yes. But I think he found it a fairly difficult and thankless task. He realised that something was wrong when she started getting so thin, but he had a hard time of it getting her to agree to a consultation. And even then, she wouldn’t face up to reality or keep appointments. By the time he finally managed to get her into his surgery, she had sat on her illness for a long time. As well, he discovered a carcinoma on one of her breasts. He did a needle biopsy, and sent it off to the hospital in Palma for a pathology report. It was malignant, and may well have spread. So he went to see Pandora and tell her that she would have to have surgery, a mastectomy, and then a course of chemotherapy. That was what he was telling her the day Jeff and I turned up. But she flatly refused. She said that nothing would induce her to have surgery, and nothing would induce her to endure the subsequent treatment, radiation chemotherapy. He could give her no real hope of a total cure…the disease was too far along, I suppose…but he did tell her that if she went her own way, her expectation of life was not very long.”

  “Was she in pain?”

  “Some. She was taking medication. Quite strong drugs. That’s why she was always so tired. I don’t think she suffered a great deal, but of course, in time, it would have got very bad.”

  “Cancer.” Archie said the word, and it had about it the toll of finality. The end. The double line drawn at the foot of a column of figures. “I never thought. I never had the faintest suspicion. But we should have guessed. There was nothing of her. We should have known…”

  “Oh, Dad…”

  “Why didn’t she tell us…We could have helped…”

  “No, you couldn’t have helped. And she would never have told you. Don’t you see, the last thing she wanted was for you and Mum to know. She just wanted to be back at Croy, and everything just the way it used to be. September. And parties, and little shopping sprees to Relkirk, and people coming and going and the house full of guests. No sadness. No talk of dying. And that’s what you gave her. Verena’s dance was the perfect, timely excuse for Pandora to come home and to accomplish what I think she had planned all along.”

  “Did the doctor know this?”

  “Not for certain. But he did say that he would never have allowed her to make that journey through Spain and France if Jeff and I had not been with her.”

  “But he guessed what she had in mind?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t ask. But I expect that he did. He knew her very well. And I think that he was very fond of her.”

  Archie said, “How could he have let her simply go away?”

  “You mustn’t blame Carlos, Dad. He did everything he could to persuade her to go to hospital, to try to make her grasp her only chance, however slight. But she was simply adamant.”

  “So she came home to die?”

  “Not just that. She came home to be with you, to be at Croy. To give us all a good time, and lovely presents, and to make us laugh. She came back to her childhood and the places she remembered and loved. The house, the glen, the hills, the loch. If you think about it, it was a very brave thing to do. But that doesn’t make it any easier for you. I’m sorry. I’ve hated telling you. I just hope it makes it all a bit easier to understand.” Lucilla fell silent, thinking about this. Then she said, and her voice, which had been so strong, suddenly wavered, “Not that understanding helps very much.” Isobel saw her face crumple like a child’s and tears fill her eyes and overflow and stream down her cheeks. “She was so sweet to Jeff and me…we had such a good time together…and now it feels as though a light has gone out of all our lives…”

  “Oh, darling,” Isobel could not bear it. She went to Lucilla, put her arms around her daughter’s thin and heaving shoulders. “I know. I’m so sorry. And you’ve been so brave…but you’re not alone, because we’re all going to miss her. And I think we must be grateful that she did come home. How awful if we had never seen her again. You brought her back to us, even if it was only for just a little time…”

  After a bit, Lucilla calmed down and stopped crying. Isobel gave her a handkerchief, and she blew her nose. She said, “I’ve already had one blub, and I’d hoped that was the last of it. You see, Jeff asked me to go back to Australia with him, and I’m not going to go. For some idiotic reason that made me cry as well…”

  “Oh, Lucilla…”

  “I’m going to stay home for a bit. If you and Dad can stand having me under your feet.”

  “I can’t think of anything we would love more.”

  “Nor me.”

  Lucilla gave her mother a watery smile, blew her nose in a final sort of way, and got to her feet. She said, “I’ll leave you two together. But, Dad, please come soon and eat some breakfast. You’ll feel better then.”

  “I’ll come,” he promised her.

  She went to the door. “I’ll make certain those two greedy men haven’t helped themselves to all the bacon.” She smiled. “Don’t be too long.”

  “I won’t, my darling. And thank you.”

  She was gone, leaving Isobel and Archie with only each other. After a bit, Isobel left Archie’s side and went over to the long window. Beyond lay the garden, the croquet lawn, and the squeaky old swing-seat. The sun had not yet reached the grass, and it was still damp with the night’s dew. She saw the silver birches, their leaves turned to gold. Soon the leaves would drop, and the branches be stripped bare for the winter.

  She said, “Poor Pandora. But I think I understand.”

  She looked up at the hills, the sky, and saw the rain-clouds looming, blowing in from the west. Sun at seven, rain at eleven. They had had the best of the day.

  “Archie.”

  “Yes.”

  “This exonerates Edmund, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned from the window. He was watching her. She smiled. “I think you should ring him now. And I think now is the time to forgive. It’s all over, Archie.”

  Edie, breathless after her climb up the hill, hurried on her way along the lane that led to Pennyburn.

  It seemed a funny thing to be doing on a Saturday. Sa
turday was one of the few days of the week that Edie kept to herself, seeing to her own little house, doing a bit of gardening if it was fine, clearing out cupboards, baking. This morning, because the sun had shone, she had pegged out a long line of washing, and then walked down the street to Mrs Ishak’s, to get a few groceries and the daily newspaper. As well, she had bought a People’s Friend and a box of chocolates for Lottie, because she had planned to catch the afternoon bus into Relkirk and go to visit her poor cousin. She felt badly about Lottie but also a little annoyed, because Lottie had nicked her new lilac cardigan. The police couldn’t have known, of course, that it wasn’t hers, but Edie was determined to get it back. She’d give it a good wash before she wore it again. Poor Lottie. Maybe, as well as the magazine and the box of chocolates, Edie would pick a few Michaelmas daisies out of her garden to liven up the impersonal ward. Not that she’d get any thanks for her pains, but still, her own conscience would be eased. Just because things had gone so wrong for Lottie, one couldn’t simply abandon the poor soul.

  Everything nicely organised.

  But then, just as she was heating up a pot of broth for her dinner, Edmund had stopped by to see her. He had come straight to Edie’s from Pennyburn, and before that, from Croy. He’d brought with him terrible tidings, and after hearing these, all thoughts of Lottie had flown from Edie’s head, and she was left with her day fallen to pieces. She had picked up the bits and put them together again; only now everything was a different shape. A strange feeling. Upsetting.

  From time to time she read in the papers of some family, setting out on an innocent and enjoyable outing in the car, perhaps to see friends, or simply to enjoy the countryside, only to have their lives blown apart for ever by an accident; a pile-up on the motorway, with dead drivers at the wheel, and shattered vehicles this way and that, all over the road. She felt, now, as though she had been, if not involved, then witness to such a disaster, and was standing there surrounded by wreckage, knowing only that there had to be something that she could do to help.

  “I’ve told my mother,” Edmund had said, “but she’s alone. I asked her to come back to Balnaid for lunch, and to spend the day with us all, but she declined. She said that she just wanted to be on her own.”

  “I’ll go to her.”

  “I would be grateful. If there is one person in the world she will want to be with, it’s you.”

  So Edie had taken the pot of soup off the hob, and put on her coat and her walking shoes. Into her capacious bag she had put her spectacles and her knitting, then locked her house and set off for Pennyburn.

  Now, she was there. She went in through the kitchen door. All was neat and tidy. Mrs Aird had washed her own breakfast dishes this morning, and put them all away. Even swept the floor.

  “Mrs Aird!” She laid her bag on the table and, still wearing her coat, went through the hall and opened the sitting-room door.

  She was there. Sitting motionless in her chair, staring at the unlit fire. Not knitting, not doing her tapestry, not reading the paper — just sitting. And the room, as well, felt chill. The morning, which had started so brightly, had clouded over, and without the warmth of the sun pouring through the windows, felt strangely comfortless.

  “Mrs Aird.”

  Disturbed, Violet turned her head, and Edie was shocked, because for the first time in her life, she saw Vi as old, lost, confused; even infirm. For a moment her expression remained blank, as if she scarcely recognised Edie. And then, at last, her eyes brightened, and an expression of immeasurable relief filled her face.

  “Oh, Edie.”

  Edie shut the door behind her. “Yes, it’s me.”

  “But why are you here?”

  “Edmund dropped by to see me. To tell me about Pandora. What a thing to do. He said you were on your own. Could maybe do with a bit of company…”

  “Only you, Edie. Nobody else. He wanted me to go back to Balnaid with him. So kind. But somehow I didn’t feel quite up to it. I didn’t feel strong enough. With one’s children one always has to put on a brave face, and be the person who does the comforting. And somehow, I think I’ve just run out of the energy to comfort anybody. Just for the moment. I shall be better tomorrow.”

  Edie glanced about her. “It’s awful cold in here.”

  “I suppose it is. I really hadn’t noticed.” Violet looked at the fireplace. “I was up quite early this morning. I got everything done. Cleaned out the ashes myself, and relaid the fire and everything. I’ve just not got around to lighting it.”

  “Won’t take a moment.” Edie unbuttoned her coat and laid it over a chair, then knelt on the hearthrug, lowering her bulk on to her well-padded knees, and reached for the box of matches. The paper caught. The sticks, the little pile of coal. The flames flickered.

  Violet said, “I am sitting here filled with shame, Edie. We should have been more perceptive. We should have realised that Pandora was ill, perhaps dying. She was so dreadfully thin. Just skin and bone. We should have seen for ourselves that something was wrong. But I, for one, have been so taken up with my own family that I never gave Pandora a passing thought. Perhaps if I had been a little less self-absorbed, I would have sensed that all was not well.” She sighed, and shrugged. “And yet, she was just the way she had always been. Beautiful, flirtatious, funny. Bewitching.”

  “She was always a wee character.”

  Edie reached for a couple of logs and set them on the brightly burning coals. Then, with some effort, she pulled herself up off her knees and settled down in the chair facing Violet. She was wearing her best tweed skirt and her Shetland cardigan with the bright colours around the neck, and her dear face was rosy from the effort of the long walk up the hill. With the fire burning, and Edie there, sitting on the other side of the hearthrug, Violet was warmed, and felt no longer quite so desolate.

  “I hear,” said Edie, in her gossiping voice, “it was Willy Snoddy who found her?”

  “Yes. Poor Willy. I don’t doubt he’ll be drunk for days after such an experience.”

  “Cancer’s a terrible thing. But to take your own life…” Edie shook her head. “I cannot understand a body doing such a thing.”

  “I think we have to understand, Edie, otherwise we shall never forgive her…”

  “…but the Balmerinos. And wee Lucilla. Did she not think of them?”

  “I am sure that she did. And yet, perhaps, she never thought very much about anybody except herself. And she was so pretty, so attractive to men. Little love affairs were always the excitement of her life. To understand, we have to try to imagine her future as she obviously saw it. Ill, maimed by surgery, fighting the disease, losing all her lovely hair, rendered unappealing.” The fire now was crackling up the chimney. Violet spread her hands to its comfort. “No. She couldn’t have coped with all of that, Edie. Not on her own, the way she was.”

  “And Edmund?” Edie asked.

  They had no secrets from each other. It was a good feeling.

  “You saw Edmund, Edie.”

  “But he didn’t say very much.”

  “He said a great deal to me. He is naturally devastated about Pandora, as we all are, but, I think, no more than the rest of us. And I believe that now he will be all right, because he has Virginia and Alexa and Henry. Darling little Henry. And, who knows, perhaps even Noel Keeling as well. I have a feeling that, very soon, Noel is going to be a member of the family.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Just a feeling, Edie. We’ll have to wait and see. As well, Edmund told me that he is going to take a bit of a holiday. He wants to spend some time with Virginia and Henry, and of course he must be around to support Archie Balmerino through the next few days. There will be so much to be seen to. A fatal-accident inquiry is inevitable, and then, after that hurdle has been taken, the funeral, and all the sad and heart-rending tying-up of the loose ends. Afterwards, when it is all over, he and Archie plan to go fishing together, to Sutherland perhaps for a little while. And you know, that fills me with s
atisfaction. I have always loved Edmund, Edie, but just lately I have found myself not liking him very much. But I think that everything has changed. Perhaps he’s realised at last that the little things in life are sometimes infinitely more important than the big ones. And it’s a comfort to know that out of this appalling and unnecessary tragedy has come at least one good thing. Which is that Archie and Edmund are good friends again, just the way they used to be.”

  “It’s taken a long-enough time,” Edie pointed out, down-to-earth as ever, and not afraid to speak her mind. “Over twenty years.”

  “Yes. But then Edmund behaved very badly. We both, I think, know that.”

  Edie was silent for a little, and then made her only comment. “Alexa’s mother. She was a very cold lady.”

  It was not much of an excuse, but her loyalty to Edmund filled Violet with gratitude. “Well, you should know, Edie. You lived with them in London. You knew them both, perhaps better than any of us.”

  “A nice-enough girl, but cold.”

  On the mantelpiece, Violet’s little gilt clock struck the hour. One o’clock. Edie glanced up at it in some surprise. The time had flown by.

  “Just look at that,” she said. “One o’clock already. You must be needing something to eat. I’ll go into the kitchen and see what I can find. There was a pot of beef stew I left in the larder yesterday. I’ll give it a heat-up. There’s plenty for the two of us. So what do you say? We’ll have it here, on a tray, by the fire.”

  “I can’t think of anything I’d like more. And perhaps a glass of sherry to cheer ourselves up?” Edie clicked her tongue in disapproval, but she was smiling. She rose to her feet and made for the door. “Oh, and Edie, you will stay with me, won’t you? We’ll spend the afternoon together, and talk about the old days.”

  “I’d like that,” Edie told her. “I’ve no mind to be on my own today. And I’ve brought my knitting.”

  She went. A moment later Violet heard her clattering dishes in the kitchen, opening and shutting the larder door. Comforting and companionable sounds. She stood up, holding on to the mantelpiece until the stiffness left her knees. Behind the clock, she saw the invitation, which had stood there for so many weeks. Curling now, and a bit dusty from the smoke that rose from the fire.