“You’re being bitchy.”
“So I am.” And, without any change of expression, he went on, “When are you going back to America?”
I was taken off-guard. “Why?”
“Just want to know.”
“A month?”
“As soon as that? I’d hoped you’d stay. Abandon Father and put down your roots in your ain countree.”
“I like my father too much to abandon him. And, anyway, what would I do?”
“Take a job?”
“You sound like Grandmother. And I couldn’t take a job, because I’m not qualified to do anything.”
“You could be a secretary.”
“No, I couldn’t. Every time I try to type it always comes out red.”
He said, “You could get married.”
“I don’t know anyone.”
“You know me,” said Sinclair.
His thumb, stroking my cheek, was suddenly still. After a little I sat up, and turned to look down at him. His eyes were bluer than the sky, but their clear gaze gave nothing away.
“What did you say?”
“I said ‘you know me.’” His hand moved, and took hold of my wrist, ringing it easily with his fingers.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Can’t I? All right, then let’s pretend I am. What would you say?”
“Well, in the first place, it would be practically incest.”
“Rubbish.”
“And why me?” I warmed to my subject. “You know perfectly well that you’ve always thought me as plain as a pikestaff, you were forever telling me so…”
“Not now. You’re not plain now. You’ve turned into a gorgeous Viking…”
“… and I haven’t a single talent. I can’t even arrange flowers.”
“Why on earth should I want you to arrange flowers?”
“And anyway, I can’t believe you haven’t got strings of eager females, scattered all over the country, just pining away for love of you and dreaming of the day when you’ll ask them to be Mrs. Sinclair Bailey.”
“Maybe so,” said Sinclair with maddening complacency. “But I don’t want them.”
I considered the idea, and despite myself, found it intriguing.
“Where would we live?”
“In London of course.”
“I don’t want to live in London.”
“You’re mad. It’s the only place to live. Everything happens there.”
“I like the country.”
“We’ll go to the country at weekends—that’s what I do anyway—go and stay with friends…”
“And do what?”
“Potter around. Sail, maybe. Go racing…”
I pricked my ears. “Racing?”
“Haven’t you ever been to a race meeting? It’s the most exciting thing on earth.” He sat up, leaning back on his elbows, so that his eyes were on a level with mine. “Am I persuading you?”
I said, “There is a small consideration that you haven’t mentioned yet.”
“And what is that?”
“Love.”
“Love?” He smiled. “But Janey, surely we love each other. We always have done.”
“But that’s different.”
“How different?”
“I can’t explain if you don’t already know.”
“Try.”
I sat in a troubled silence. I knew that in a way he was right. I had always loved him. As a child he had been the most important person in my life. But I was not entirely sure about the man he had become. Anxious that he should not read all this in my face, I looked down and began to tug at the tough grass, pulling out tufts by the roots, and then letting them loose, to be blown away by the wind.
I said at last, “I suppose because we’ve both changed. You have become a different person. And I am, virtually, an American…”
“Oh, Janey…”
“No, it’s true. I’ve been brought up there, educated there … the fact that I have a British passport can’t alter any of that. Or the way I feel about things.”
“You’re talking in circles. You know that, don’t you?”
“Perhaps I am. But don’t forget that this whole conversation is hypothetical anyway … we’re arguing around an assumption…”
He took a deep breath as if to continue the argument and then seemed to change his mind and let it all out again on a laugh. “We could sit here all day, couldn’t we, and ‘tire the sun with talking’.”
“Shouldn’t we go?”
“Yes, we’ve another ten miles, at least, to cover. But we’ve come a long way, and for your information, that remark is meant to be ambiguous.”
I smiled. He put his hand around my neck and pulled my face towards his and kissed my open, smiling mouth.
I had been half-expecting this, but still not prepared for my own panicky reaction. I had to make myself be still in his arms, wait for him to finish, and when at last he drew away, I stayed for a moment where I was, and then slowly began to gather in our rucksack the paper that had wrapped the sandwiches, the red plastic drinking mugs. All at once our solitude was frightening, and I saw the two of us, tiny as ants, the only living creatures in this vast and deserted landscape, and wondered if Sinclair had brought me today with the intention of starting his extraordinary discussion, or whether the idea of marrying was just a whim, blown up out of nothing by the wind.
I said, “Sinclair, we must go. We really must go.”
His eyes were thoughtful. But he only smiled and said, “Yes,” and stood up, took the rucksack from me, and turned to lead the way, on up the path towards the distant pass.
We were home by dark. The last few miles I had walked blindly, simply putting one foot in front of the other, not daring to stop, for if I had, I should never have got going again. When at last we came round the final curve of the track, and, through the trees, saw the bridge and the gate, and Gibson and the Land-Rover, waiting on the road beyond, I could scarcely believe we had actually made it. Aching in every muscle, I came up the last few yards, climbed the gate, and fell into the car, but when I tried to light a cigarette, I found that my hands were shaking.
We drove home through the blue dusk. To the east a tiny new moon, pale and fine as any eyelash, hung low in the sky. Our headlights probed the road ahead, a rabbit skittered for cover, the eyes of a roaming dog glittered like twin beads, and were gone. Across me the two men talked, but I slumped, silent in an exhaustion which was not entirely physical.
* * *
That night I was awakened by the ringing of the telephone. Its shrilling cut across my dreams and pulled me out of sleep like a hooked fish. I had no idea of the time, but, turning my head, saw that the moon hung over the loch, its reflection touching the black water with small brush strokes of silver.
The ringing continued. Dazed, I stumbled out of bed, across my room, and out on to the dark landing. The telephone was downstairs, in the library, but there was an extension upstairs as well, along a passage that led to the old nurseries, and it was for this that I made.
Some time during my half-conscious progress the ringing must have stopped, but I was too sleepy to register this, so that when I reached the telephone and picked up the receiver, a voice was already speaking. A female voice, unknown to me, but pleasantly pitched, and attractive “… of course I’m certain. I saw the doctor this afternoon and he says there’s no doubt at all. Look, I think we should talk about this … I’d like to see you anyway, but I can’t get away…”
Listening dopily, I supposed that the telephone lines had become crossed. The girl on the Caple Bridge exchange had made a mistake, or gone to sleep, or something. This call was not for us. I was about to speak, when a man’s voice interrupted, and all at once I was wide awake, and clearly conscious.
“Is it really so urgent, Tessa? Can’t it wait?”
Sinclair. On the other line.
“Of course it’s urgent … we haven’t any time to waste…” and then, less calmly,
as though hysteria was not very far below the surface, “Sinclair, I’m having a baby.…”
I put down the receiver gently, quietly. The instrument made a tiny click and the voices were extinguished. I stood in the darkness, shivering, and then turned and made my way back to the landing and hung over the banister to listen. The stairs and the hall yawned below me, black as a well, but, from beyond the closed library door, came the unmistakable murmur of Sinclair’s voice.
My feet were icy. Crawling with cold I made my way back to my room, and gently closed the door and got back into bed. Presently I heard the single ring of the telephone and knew that the call was finished, and soon after that, Sinclair came quietly upstairs. He went into his room, and there were soft sounds as he moved about, opened and shut drawers, then he came out again, and went down once more. The front door opened and closed, and moments after I heard the tiger hum of the Lotus as it drove off, down the lane, and on to the main road and away.
I found that I was trembling, as I had not done since I was a child, waking from a nightmare, and convinced there were ghosts hiding in my wardrobe.
8
Next morning, when I went downstairs, I found my grandmother already at the breakfast table. As I bent to kiss her, she said, “Sinclair’s gone to London.”
“How do you know?”
“He left a letter in the hall…” She sorted it out from the rest of her opened mail, and handed it to me. He had used the thick writing paper with Elvie engraved at its head, and his writing was strong and black and full of his personality.
“Terribly sorry, have to go south for a day or two. Should be home Monday night or Tuesday morning. Take care of yourselves while I’m away, and don’t get into any sort of trouble.
Much love
Sinclair.”
That was all. I laid down the letter, and my grandmother said, “The telephone rang last night at about half past midnight. Did you hear it?”
I went to pour coffee, thankful for a reason not to meet her eyes.
“Yes, I did.”
“I was going to answer it, but I was fairly sure it would be for Sinclair, so I let it ring.”
“Yes…” I brought the full cup back to the table. “Does … does he often do this?”
“Oh, every now and then.” She sorted out some bills. It occurred to me that she seemed as anxious as I to keep herself occupied. “He leads such a full life, and then this job he has seems to make tremendous demands on his time … not like being in an office from nine till five.”
“No, I suppose not.” The coffee was hot and strong, and helped to loose the knot of tension at the back of my neck. Encouraged by this, I said, “Perhaps it’s a girl-friend.”
My grandmother shot me a sharp, blue glance. But she only said, “Yes, perhaps.”
I leaned my elbows on the table, and tried to sound casual. “I should think he has about a hundred. He’s still the best looking thing on two legs I’ve ever seen. Does he ever bring them home? Have you ever met any of them…?”
“Oh, sometimes when I’ve been in London … you know, he brings them for dinner, or we go to the theatre or something.”
“Did you ever think he’d marry one of them?”
“You can never be sure, can you?” Her voice was cool, almost disinterested. “His life in London is so different from the one he leads when he comes up here. Elvie’s sort of a rest-cure as far as Sinclair’s concerned … he simply potters. I think he’s quite glad to get away from late nights and expense-account lunches.”
“So there wasn’t ever anyone in particular? One you specially liked?”
My grandmother laid down her letters. “Yes, there was.” She took off her spectacles, and sat, looking out of the window, across the garden to where the loch sparkled blue in the sunshine of another perfect autumn day. “He met her in Switzerland, ski-ing. I think they saw a lot of each other when she got back to London.”
I said, “Ski-ing? Did you send me a photograph?”
“Did I? Oh, yes, it was New Year at Zermatt. That was where they met. I think she was taking part in some championship or other, you know these international races they have…”
“She must be very good.”
“Oh, she is. She’s quite famous…”
“Did you ever meet her?”
“Yes, Sinclair brought her for lunch at the Connaught when I was in town during the summer. She was a charming girl.”
I took a piece of toast and started to butter it. “What’s she called?”
“Tessa Faraday … You’ve probably heard of her.”
I had heard of her, but not in the way my grandmother meant. I looked at the toast I was buttering, and suddenly felt that if I ate it, I should be sick.
* * *
After breakfast, I went back upstairs, took up my double folder of family photographs, and drew out the one of Sinclair that my grandmother had sent to me, and that I had arranged in my montage, so that only Sinclair showed, and his companion was hidden.
But now, I was interested only in her. I saw a small, slim girl, dark-eyed, laughing, with hair caught back from her face by a ribbon, and thick gold rings in her ears. She wore a velvet trouser-suit, banded with some sort of embroidery, and she stood in the curve of Sinclair’s arm, the two of them wound and tangled by yards of festive paper streamers. She looked gay and vital, very happy, and, remembering the careful voice on the telephone last night, I was suddenly frightened for her.
The fact that Sinclair had gone so promptly south—presumably to see her—should have reassured me, but somehow it did not. His departure had been too swift and businesslike, unencumbered by any personal consideration of either my grandmother or myself. Reluctantly I was reminded of his attitude towards Gibson, when he and my grandmother discussed the old keeper’s possible retirement, and I realized that, subconsciously, I had been making excuses for Sinclair.
But now it was different, and I was forced to be honest with myself. The word “ruthless” sprang to mind. Where ordinary people were concerned he could be entirely ruthless, and, torn as I was by anxiety for this unknown girl, I could only hope that he could also be compassionate.
From the hall my grandmother called me. “Jane!”
I hastily pushed the picture back in the frame, set it back on the dressing-table, and went back out on to the landing.
“Yes.”
“What are you doing today?”
I went down to the half-landing and sat on the stairs, and talked to her from there … “I’m going shopping. I have to buy some sweaters, otherwise I’ll die of cold.”
“Where did you plan to go?”
“Caple Bridge.”
“Darling, you can’t buy anything in Caple Bridge.”
“I’m sure I can buy a sweater…”
“I have to go to Inverness for a hospital board meeting … why don’t I take you with me in the car?”
“Because David Steward has some money for me. He changed the dollars Father gave me. And he said he’d give me lunch.”
“Oh, how kind … but how will you get to Caple Bridge?”
“I’ll jump on a bus. Mrs Lumley says there’s one every hour at the end of the road.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” but she still sounded doubtful. Standing there, with one hand on the newel post, she took off her glasses, and looked me over carefully from beneath her finely arched brows. “You look tired, Jane. Yesterday was really too much for you after all that travelling.”
“No, it wasn’t. I loved it.”
“I should have made Sinclair wait a day or two…”
“But then we might have missed the lovely weather.”
“Yes. Perhaps. But I noticed you didn’t eat anything for breakfast.”
“I never do. Honestly.”
“Well, you must make sure David gives you a proper lunch…” She turned away and then thought of something else, and turned back. “Oh, and Jane … if you are shopping, why not let me stand you a new raincoat?
You should have something really warm to wear.”
Despite everything, I grinned. I loved it when she ran so true to form. I said wickedly, “But what’s wrong with the one I’ve got?”
“If you must know, it makes you look like a tinker.”
“In all the ten years I’ve been wearing it, I’ve never had that said to me before.”
She sighed. “You get more like your father every day,” she said, and without smiling at my feeble joke, went off to her desk and wrote me a cheque which would have bought me a fur-lined, floor-length, sable-hooded raincoat, if that was what I happened to be wanting.
I waited, in brilliant sunshine, at the end of the road for the bus that would take me to Caple Bridge. I could not remember a day so bright or fresh or full of colour. It had rained a little during the night, so that everything shone newly-washed, and the damp roads reflected back the blue of the sky. The hedges were full of scarlet hips, bracken was gold, and turning leaves every colour from deep crimson to butter yellow. The air, sweeping down from the north, was cold and sweet as iced wine, with a bite to it suggesting that already, much farther north, the first snow of the winter had already fallen.
The bus came around the corner, stopped for me and I got in. It was packed with country people, heading for Caple Bridge for their weekly shopping session, and the only seat I could find was next to a fat woman with a basket on her knee. She wore a blue felt hat, and was so enormous there was only room for half of me on the seat, and every time the bus turned a corner, I was in deadly danger of being thrown off altogether.
It was five miles to Caple Bridge, and I knew the road as well as I knew Elvie itself. I had walked it, ridden on my bicycle, watched the landmarks fly by from the window of my grandmother’s car. I knew the names of the people who lived in the wayside cottages … Mrs Dargie and Mrs Thomson, and Mrs Willie McCrae. And here was the house with the bad-tempered dog, and there the field where the flock of white goats grazed.
We came to the river, ran alongside it for half a mile or so and then the road swept into a deep S-bend in order to cross the river by means of a narrow humpbacked bridge. Up to now, nothing had apparently changed in all the years I had been away, but as the bus ground cautiously over the crest of the bridge I saw, ahead of us, a roadworks and traffic lights, and realized that considerable excavations were taking place in order to eliminate a dangerous curve.
The End of Summer Page 9