“No. I went out and bought them while you were asleep. There’s a little shop around the corner, very handy when you run out of things.”
“Has your mother lived here always?”
“Not at all, only a year or so. She used to have a house in Hampshire, but it got too big for her and the garden was a worry … it’s not easy to get help. So she sold it, and kept a few of her favourite things and moved here.”
So that explained the country house atmosphere. I looked out at the little patio and said, “And she has got a garden.”
“Yes, a small one. But she can manage that herself.”
I took another piece of toast and tried to imagine my grandmother in such a situation. But it was not possible. Grandmother would never be defeated by the size of her house or the amount she had to do, or the difficulties of getting and keeping cooks and gardeners. Indeed, Mrs Lumley had been with her ever since I could remember, standing on her swollen legs at the kitchen table, and rolling out pastry. And Will, the gardener, had a little cottage and an allotment of his own, where he grew potatoes and carrots and enormous mop-headed chrysanthemums.
“So you didn’t ever live in this flat?”
“No, but I stay with her when I come to London.”
“Is that often?”
“Fairly.”
“Do you ever see Sinclair?”
“Yes.”
“What does he do?”
“He works for an advertising agency. I would have thought you knew that.”
It occurred to me that I could ring him up. After all, he lived in London, it would take only moments to look up his number. I thought of doing this, and then decided against it. I was not entirely sure of Sinclair’s reaction, and did not wish David Stewart to witness my possible discomfiture.
I said, “Has he got a girl-friend?”
“Heaps, I should think.”
“No, you know what I mean. Anyone very special.”
“Jane, I really wouldn’t know.”
I licked hot butter, thoughtfully, from the ends of my fingers.
I said, “Do you suppose he’ll come up to Elvie when I’m there?”
“Bound to.”
“And his father? Is Uncle Aylwyn still in Canada?”
David Stewart pushed his glasses up his nose with a long, brown finger. He said, “Aylwyn Bailey died, about three months ago.”
I stared. “Now I never knew that. Oh, poor Granny. Was she very upset?”
“Yes, she was…”
“And the funeral and everything…”
“In Canada. He’d been ill for some time. He never managed to get home.”
“So Sinclair never saw him again.”
“No.”
I digested this information, and felt sad. I thought of my own father, infuriating as he was, and knew that not for anything would I have missed a single moment of the time we had spent together, and I felt sadder than ever for Sinclair. And then I remembered that in the old days it had been I who envied him, for, while I merely spent holidays at Elvie, it was Sinclair’s home. And as for missing a father’s companionship, the place had always been teeming with men, for as well as Will the gardener—whom we loved—there was Gibson the keeper, a dour man but wise in all respects; and Gibson’s two sons, Hamish and George, who were about Sinclair’s age and included him in all their pursuits, both legal and otherwise. And so he had been taught to shoot and cast a fly, play cricket and climb trees, and one way and another had a good deal more time and attention lavished on him than most boys of his age. No, all things considered, Sinclair had missed very little.
* * *
We caught the Royal Highlander at Euston, and it seemed that I spent half the night getting out of bed to look out of the window and gloat over the fact that the train was tearing northwards, and nothing, save a disastrous Act of God, could stop it. In Edinburgh I was wakened by a female voice, sounding like Maggie Smith being Miss Jean Brodie, saying “Edinburgh Waverley. This is Edinburgh Waverley,” and I knew that I was in Scotland, and I got up and put my raincoat over my nightdress and sat on the cover of the wash basin and watched as the lights of Edinburgh slid away, and waited for the bridge, when the train, suddenly making an entirely different sound, plunged out and over the Forth, and the river lay miles below us, a gleam of dark water, touched with the riding lights of miniature craft.
I got back into bed, and dozed until we reached Relkirk, when I got up again, and opened the window, and the air poured in, cold and edged with the smell of peat and pine. We were on the edge of the Highlands. It was only a quarter past five, but I dressed and spent the last part of the journey with my cheek pressed against the dark, rain-spattered glass. To begin with I could see little, but by the time we had ground our way over the pass, and started in on the long run down the gentle gradient that finally leads to Thrumbo, the day was beginning to lighten. There was no sign of the sun, simply an imperceptible fading from darkness. Clouds were thick, grey and soft over the tops of the hills, but as we ran down into the valley, they thinned and shredded away to nothing and the great wide sweep of the glen lay before us, golden brown and tranquil in the early morning light.
There was a thump on my door and the attendant looked in.
“The gentleman’s wanting to know if you’re awake. We’ll be in to Thrumbo in ten minutes or so. Will I take your case?”
He removed it, and the door shut behind him and I turned back to the window, because now the countryside was becoming closely familiar and I didn’t want to miss a thing. I had walked on that bit of road, ridden a highland pony in that field, had been taken to tea in that white cottage. And then there was the bridge which marked the boundaries of the village, and the filling station, and the refined hotel that was always filled with elderly residents, and where you could never buy a drink.
The door opened again, and David Stewart stood there, filling the doorway.
“Good morning.”
“Hi.”
“How did you sleep?”
“O.K.”
Now the train was slowing, braking. We moved past the signal box, under the bridge. I slid off the top of the wash basin, and followed him out into the corridor, and over his shoulder watched the sign saying Thrumbo sail triumphantly past, and then the train stopped and we were there.
He had left his car in a garage, so he abandoned me to wait in the station yard while he went to fetch it. I sat there on my suitcase, in the deserted, slowly waking village, and watched as lights came on, one by one, and chimneys smoked, and a man came wobbling down the street on a bicycle. And then I heard, far above me, a honking and a chattering and it became louder and passed clear overhead but I couldn’t see the formations of wild geese, because they were flying above the cloud.
* * *
Elvie Loch lay about two miles beyond the village of Thrumbo, a wild expanse of water looped to the north by the main road to Inverness and enclosed, on the opposite shore, by the great bastions of the Cairngorms. Elvie itself was very nearly an island, shaped like a mushroom and joined to the mainland by its stalk, a narrow spit of land that was no more than a causeway between reed-filled marshes, nesting-place for hundreds of birds.
For many years the land had belonged to the church, and indeed there were still the ruins of a little chapel, roofless now and deserted, although the small graveyard surrounding it was still kept neat and tidy, the yews tightly clipped, the grass mown smooth as velvet, and, in spring, gay with the tossing heads of wild daffodils.
The house where my grandmother lived had been the manse for this little church. Over the years, however, it had outstripped its original modest bounds, as wings were added and extra rooms to accommodate, one supposed, large Victorian families. From the back, from the approach road, it appeared tall and forbidding, the windows to the north being small and sparse in order to conserve warmth in the bitter winters, and the front door was snug and unimpressive, and usually tightly closed. This fortress-like impression was enhanced
by the two high garden walls, which, like arms, reached from the house to east and west, and against which even my grandmother had been unable to coax a climber to grow.
But, from the other side, the aspect of Elvie was entirely different. The old white house, protected and enclosed and facing due south, blinked and drowsed in the sunlight. Windows and doors stood open to the fresh air, and the garden sloped down to a shallow ha-ha, dividing it from a narrow field where a neighbouring farmer grazed his cattle. The field dipped to the water’s edge, and the lap of small waves on shingle, and the gentle lowing and munching of cattle were so constant a part of Elvie that after a little you stopped hearing them. It was only when you’d been away, and returned, that you became aware of them all over again.
* * *
David Stewart’s car was a surprise, a dark blue T.R.4, and unexpectedly racy for such a solid-seeming citizen. We packed in our cases, and headed out of Thrumbo, and I sat forward on my seat and churned with excitement. Familiar landmarks appeared, and flew away behind us. The garage, the sweet shop, and the McGregors’ farm, and then we were out in open country. The road swept up through fields of golden stubble, the hedges were spattered scarlet with the hips of wild roses, and there had been frost already, for trees were touched with the gold and red of the first autumn colours.
And then we swung around the last corner and the loch stretched away to our right, grey in the grey morning, and the mountains on the far side were lost in cloud. And, not half a mile away, stood Elvie itself, the house hidden by trees and the roofless church looking romantically desolate. Excitement made me speechless and, with a rare understanding, David Stewart offered no sort of comment. We had come a long way together, so far indeed that it was hard to comprehend, but it was in silence that we finally turned off by the roadside cottage, and the car wound down through the high hedges, over the causeway between the marshes, and up under the copper beeches, to come to a halt at the front door.
I was out of the car in an instant, running across the gravel, but my grandmother was quicker than I. The door opened and she appeared, and we met, our arms tight around each other, and she kept saying my name, and she smelt of the scented sachets she keeps with her clothes, and I told myself that nothing had changed.
5
A reunion after so many years is always confusion. We said things like, “Oh, you’re really here…” and “I never thought I’d make it…” and “Did you have a good journey…” and “Everything’s just the same,” and we held each other off, and laughed at our idiocies, and hugged again.
Next the dogs added to the turmoil, boiling out of the house, barking around our feet, demanding attention. They were liver-and-white spaniels, new to me, and yet familiar too, because there had always been liver-and-white spaniels at Elvie, and these were no doubt descended from the ones I remembered. And no sooner had I started to greet the dogs than we were joined by Mrs Lumley, who had heard the din and was unable to resist the temptation to be in on the homecoming. She was fatter than ever in her green overall, and she appeared out of the house smiling from ear to ear, to be kissed, to tell me I’d grown awful tall and that I’d got more freckles than ever and that she was making a really big breakfast.
Behind me David was quietly unloading my suitcase, and now my grandmother went to greet him.
“David, you must be tired out.” Rather to my surprise she gave him a kiss. “Thank you for bringing her safely back.”
“You got my wire.”
“Of course I did. I’ve been up since seven. You’ll come in and have breakfast with us, won’t you? We’re expecting you.”
But he excused himself, saying that his housekeeper would be expecting him, that he must get home and change and then get to the office.
“Well, then, come back for dinner tonight. Yes, I insist. About half past seven. We want to hear all about everything.”
He allowed himself to be persuaded, and we looked at each other, smiling. It occurred to me, with some surprise, that I had only met him four days ago, and yet now, when it was time to say goodbye, I felt that I was leaving an old friend, someone I had known all my life. He had been given a difficult job to do, and he had done it tactfully and with good humour, and as far as I knew, had offended nobody.
“Oh, David…”
He hastily forestalled my garbled thanks.
“I’ll see you this evening, Jane,” and he backed away, and got into his car, and slammed the door, and we watched him turn and drive away, under the beeches, down the road and so around the corner and out of sight.
“Such a nice man,” said my grandmother thoughtfully. “Don’t you think so?”
“Yes,” I said, “sweet,” and dived to prevent Mrs Lumley picking up my case, and carried it into the house myself, and Grandmother and the dogs came behind me, and the door was shut and David Stewart was, for the moment, forgotten.
I was assailed by the smell of peat smoke from the hall fire, the smell of roses from the big bowl of pink blooms on the chest by the clock. One of the dogs was panting for attention, tail wagging and all excitement, and I stopped to scratch his ears and was just going to tell them about Rusty, when my grandmother said, “I’ve got a surprise for you, Jane,” and I straightened and looked up and saw a man coming down the stairs towards me, silhouetted against the light of the staircase window. For an instant I was dazzled by this light, and then he said, “Hello Jane,” and I realized that it was my cousin Sinclair.
I could only gape, while Grandmother and Mrs Lumley stood, delighted by the success of the surprise they had planned. He had reached my side, and taken my shoulders between his hands and stopped to kiss me before I found breath to say weakly, “But I thought you were in London.”
“Well I’m not. I’m here.”
“But how…? Why…?”
“I’ve got a few days’ leave.”
For me? Had he taken them so that he could be at Elvie for my return? The possibility was both flattering and exciting, but before I could say anything more, my grandmother started organizing us.
“Well, there’s no point in our standing around here … Sinclair, perhaps you’d carry Jane’s case up to her room, and then when you’ve washed your hands, dear, you’d better come down and have some breakfast. You’ll be tired out after that journey.”
“I’m not tired.” And indeed I wasn’t. I felt vital and wide awake and ready for anything. Sinclair picked up my case, and went upstairs two at a time, and I followed his long legs as though I had wings on my heels.
My bedroom, looking out over the garden and the loch, was inhumanly neat and polished but otherwise unchanged. Still, the white-painted bed stood, pushed in the bay of the window which was where I always preferred to sleep. And there was a pin cushion on the dressing-table and lavender bags in the wardrobe and the blue rug, covering the worn patch of carpet.
While I shed my coat and washed my hands, Sinclair went and dumped himself on my bed, sadly creasing the starched white cover, and watched me. In the seven years that had passed he had changed, of course, but the differences I saw in him were almost too subtle to be pin-pointed. He was thinner, certainly, there were fine lines round his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, but that was all. He was very good looking, with dark brows and lashes and deep blue eyes, which slanted tantalizingly up at the corners. His nose was straight and his mouth curved and full, with a lower lip which, when he was young, could look very sulky. His hair was thick and straight, and he wore it long, tapered down the back of his neck on to his collar, and used as I was to the hair fashions of Reef Point, either crew cut (surfers) or shoulder length (hippies), I thought the effect was very attractive. He wore that morning a blue shirt with a cotton handkerchief knotted in the open neck and a pair of washed-out cord trousers hitched round his waist with a belt of plaited wool.
I said, fishing for confirmation of what I hoped was true, “Are you really on leave?”
“Of course,” he said shortly, confirming nothing.
I resigned myself to never knowing. “You’re with an advertising firm?”
“Yes. Strutt and Seward. P.A. to the Managing Director.”
“Is that a good job?”
“It includes an expense account.”
“You mean boozey lunches with prospective clients.”
“It doesn’t have to be a boozey lunch. If the prospective client is pretty, it’s just as likely to be an intimate candle-lit supper.”
A twinge of jealousy had to be firmly battened down. I was at the dressing-table now, combing out the long heavy tassel of my hair, and he said, without any change of expression, “I’d forgotten how long it was. You used to wear it in plaits. It’s like silk.”
“Every now and then I swear I’m going to get it cut off, but I never get round to it.” I finished my hair and laid down the comb and went to join him on the bed, kneeling to open the window and hang out.
“Delicious smell,” I told him. “All damp and autumny.”
“Doesn’t California smell damp and autumny?”
“Most of the time it smells of petrol.” I thought of Reef Point. “When it isn’t smelling of gum trees and the Pacific.”
“And how is life with the Redskins?”
I shot him a sharp look, daring him to start being offensive, and he relented. “Honestly Jane, I was terrified you’d come back chewing gum and slung with cameras, and say “Gee, Sin” every time you addressed a remark in my direction.”
“You’re out of date, brother,” I told him.
“Protesting, then, you know, with a picket saying, ‘Make Love Not War’.” He said this in a fake American accent which I found as tedious as being kidded in California about my terribly terribly British voice.
I told him so and added, “I promise you that when I start protesting, you will be the first to know.”
He acknowledged this with a wicked gleam. “How’s your father?”
“He’s grown a beard and he looks like Hemingway.”
“I can imagine.” A pair of mallards flew down out of the sky, came in to land on the water, with that little scud of white foam, just as they touched down. We watched them and then Sinclair yawned and stretched and gave me a brotherly slap and said it was time for breakfast, so we got up off the bed and closed the window again and went downstairs.
The End of Summer Page 5