September (1990) (23 page)

She laughed. His own sweet-tempered Virginia. He was filled with grateful satisfaction, and swore to himself that he would remember this when the inevitable American Express account came in. She said, "I can see I shall have to go to London more often."

"Did you see Alexa?"

"Yes, and I've lots to tell you, but I'll save that up till we're having dinner. How's Henry?"

"I rang up a couple of evenings ago. He's having, as usual, the time of his 'life. Vi asked Kedejah Ishak to tea at Pennyburn, and she and Henry made a dam in the burn and sailed paper boats. He was quite happy to spend an extra night with Vi."

"And you? What have you been doing?"

"Working. Going out to dinner. I've had a social week."

She glanced at him wryly. "I'll bet," she said without rancour.

He drove into Edinburgh by the old Glasgow road, and as they approached, the Old City looked its most impressive, etched like a romantic engraving beneath the immense and steely sky. The wide streets were verdant with leafy trees, the skyline pierced by spires and towers, and the Castle on its rock brooded over all, with flag snapping at the mast-head. Coming to the New Town, they entered the gracefully proportioned purlieus of Georgian terraces and spacious crescents. All had been newly sandstoned, and the buildings, with their classic windows and porticoes and airy fanlights, stood honey-coloured in the evening light.

Circling the one-way system, Edmund made his way through a labyrinth of hidden lanes and turned at last into a narrow cobbled street to draw up at the pavement's edge outside the little Italian restaurant. On the opposite side of this street stood one of Edinburgh's many beautiful churches. High up on the tower, above the massive arched doorway, the hands of a golden clock moved to nine o'clock, and as they got out of the car, its chimes pealed out across the rooftops, striking the hours. Flocks of pigeons, disturbed from their airy roosts, exploded upwards in a flurry of flight. When the last chime had struck, they settled again, on sill and parapet, cooing to themselves, folding their wings, pretending nothing had happened, as though ashamed of their silly agitation.

"You'd think," said Virginia, "that they'd get used to the din. Become blase."

"I never met a blase pigeon. Did you?"

"Come to think of it, no."

He took her arm and led her across the pavement and through the door. Inside the restaurant was small, dimly lighted, smelling of fresh coffee and garlic and delicious Mediterranean food. The place was pleasantly busy and most of the tables were occupied, but the head waiter spied them at once and made his way across the floor to welcome them.

"Good evening, Mr. Aird. And Madame."

"Good evening, Luigi."

"I have your table ready."

The table Edmund had particularly asked for,
. I
n the corner, tucked under the window. A starched pink damask cloth, pink damask napkins, a single rose in a slender vase. Charming, intimate, seductive. The ultimate ambience for the ending of a feud.

"Perfect, Luigi. Thank you. And the Moet et Chandon?"

"No problem, Mr. Aird. I have it on ice."

They drank the chilled champagne. Virginia filled in the details of her social activities, the art exhibitions she had been to, the concert at the Wigmore Hall.

They ordered in a leisurely fashion. Eschewed the ravioli and tagliatelli, and went instead for duck pate, and cold Tay salmon.

"Why do I bring you to Italian restaurants, when you can eat Tay salmon at home?"

"Because there is nothing in the world so delicious, and after my whirl in London I seem to have had my fill of ethnic food."

"I shall not ask with whom you have been dining."

She smiled. "Nor I you."

Without haste, they ate their way through the perfect meal, ending with fresh raspberries coated in thick cream, and a Brie of exactly the right consistency. She told him of the exhibition at Burlington House, Felicity Crowe's plans to buy a country cottage in Dorset, and tried to explain, with a certain amount of confusing detail, the plot of Phantom of the Opera. Edmund, who knew the plot anyway, listened with absorbed interest, simply because it was so marvellous to have her back, to listen to her voice, to have her sharing her pleasures with him.

Finally, their plates were cleared, and coffee brought, black and fragrant, steaming in the tiny cups. As well as a dish of chocolate peppermints thin as wafers.

By now most of the other tables had emptied, the diners gone home. Only one other couple sat, as they sat, but drinking brandy. The man smoked a cigar.

The Moet et Chandon was finished, up-ended in the ice-bucket. "Would you like a brandy?" Edmund asked.

"No. Not a thing more."

"I'd have one, but I have to drive."

"I could drive."

He shook his head. "I don't need a brandy." He leaned back in his chair. "You've told me everything, but you still haven't told me about Alexa."

"I was keeping it to the end."

"Does that mean it's good?"

"I think it's good. I'm not sure what you'll think."

"Try me."

"You won't become Victorian, will you?"

"I don't think I ever am."

"Because Alexa's got a man. He's moved in with her. He's living with her in the house in Ovington Street."

Edmund did not at once reply to this. Then he said, quite calmly, "When did this happen?"

"In June, I think. She didn't tell us because she was afraid we would all be upset or disapproving."

"Does she think we wouldn't like him?"

"No. I think she thinks you'd like him very much. It's just that she wasn't sure how you'd take it. So she gave me the job of telling you."

"Have you met him?"

"Yes. Just for a little while. We had a drink together. There wasn't time for more."

"Did you like him?"

"Yes, I did. He's very good-looking, very charming. He's called Noel Keeling."

Edmund's coffee-cup was empty. He caught Luigi's eye and asked for it to be refilled. When this was done, he stirred it thoughtfully, his eyes downcast, his handsome features giving nothing away.

"What do you think?" Virginia asked.

He looked up at her and smiled. "I think I'm thinking that I thought it would never happen."

"But you're pleased that it has?"

"I'm pleased that Alexa has found someone who is sufficiently fond of her to want to spend much time with her. It would be easier for everybody if it could have taken a less dramatic course, but I suppose nowadays it's inevitable that they should shack up together and give it a try before making any momentous decision." He took a mouthful of the scalding coffee, se
t d
own the cup. "It's just that she's such an extraordinarily unsophisticated child."

"She isn't a child any more, Edmund."

"It's hard to think of Alexa as anything else."

"We have to."

"I realize that."

"She was in rather a state about my telling you all. She asked me to tell you, but I know, in a funny way, she was dreading the secret coming out."

"What do you think I should do?"

"You don't have to do anything. She's going to bring him up to Balnaid in September for the weekend of the Steyntons' dance. And we'll all behave as casually as all-get-out . . . just as though he were an old childhood chum or a school friend. I don't think we can do more. After that, it's up to them."

"Was that your idea or Alexa's?"

"Mine," Virginia told him, not without pride.

"What a clever girl you are."

"I told her other things as well, Edmund. I told her that, over the last few weeks, we haven't exactly been the best of friends."

"That must be the understatement of the year."

She fixed him with her brilliant gaze. She said, "I haven't changed my mind. I haven't changed my attitude. I don't want Henry to go and I think he's too young, and I think you're making a dreadful mistake; but I know that Henry's been upset by all this ill feeling, and I've decided we've got to stop thinking about ourselves and think about the children instead. Think about Henry and Alexa. Because Alexa said that if we were still glowering at each other, then she wasn't going to come up with Noel because she couldn't stand the idea of any sort of bad atmosphere between us." She paused, waiting for Edmund to make some sort of comment. But he said nothing and so she continued. "I've been thinking about that. I tried to imagine going back to Leesport and finding my grandparents snapping each other's heads off, but it was unimaginable, and that's the way we've got to make it for Henry and Alexa. I'm not giving in, Edmund. I'll never come round to your way of thinking. But what can't be cured must be endured. Besides, I've missed you. I don't really like being on my own. In London I kept wishing you were there." She put her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands. "You see, I love you."

After a little, Edmund said, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry I love you?"

He shook his head. "No. Sorry I went to Templehall and settled the whole affair with Colin Henderson . without consulting you. I should have had more consideration. It was overbearing."

"I've never heard you admit to being in the wrong before."

"I hope you never have to again. It's painful." He reached out and took her hand in his. "It's a truce then?"

"With one proviso?"

"What would that be?"

"That when the terrible day comes and poor Henry has to go to Templehall, I am not asked nor expected to take him. Because I don't think that I could physically bear to do that. Later on maybe, when I've got used to being without him. But not the first time."

"I'll be there," said Edmund. "I shall take him."

It was growing late. The other couple had departed, and the waiters were standing around trying not to look as though they were longing for Edmund and Virginia, too, to go home and let them close up for the night. Edmund called for the bill and, while this was coming, leaned back in his chair, put his hand in the pocket of his jacket and brought out a small package wrapped in thick white paper and sealed with red wax.

"It's for you." He put it on the table between them. "It's a welcome-home present."

Chapter
6

If Henry could not be at home, at Balnaid, then the next best thing was staying with Vi. At Pennyburn, he had his own bedroom, a tiny room over what had once been the front door', with a narrow window looking out over the garden and the glen and the hills beyond. From this window, if he screwed his neck around a bit, he could even see Balnaid, half-hidden in trees beyond the river and the village. And in the mornings when he awoke and sat up, he could watch the rising sun stretching long fingers of early light across the fields, and listen to the song of the blackbird that had its nest in the top branches of the old elder tree by the burn. Vi did not like elder trees, but she had let this one stand, because it was a good tree for Henry to climb. That was how he had found out about the blackbird's nest.

The room was so small, it was a little like sleeping in a Wendy house, or even a cupboard, but that was part of its charm. There was space for his bed and a chest of drawers with a mirror hanging over it, but no more. A couple of hooks on the back of the door did duty as a wardrobe, and there was a neat little light over his bedhead, so that he could read in bed if he wanted to. The carpet was blue and the walls were white. There was a nice picture of a bluebell wood, and the curtains were white with bunches of field flowers spattered all over them.

This was his last night with Vi. Tomorrow, his mother was going to come and fetch him, and take him home.

It had been a funny sort of few days, because the Strathcroy Primary had already opened for the winter term, and all his friends were back at their lessons. And so Henry, destined for Templehall, had nobody to play with. But somehow it hadn't mattered. Edie was there most mornings, and Vi was always full of bright ideas for a small boy's amusement and entertainment. They had gardened together, and she had taught him how to make fairy cakes, and for the evenings she had produced a mammoth jigsaw puzzle with which they had struggled together. One afternoon Kedejah Ishak had come for tea after school, and she and Henry had built a dam in the stream and become extremely wet. Another day he and Vi had taken a picnic lunch up to the loch and made a collection of twenty-four different wild flowers. She had shown him how to press them dry between leaves of blotting paper and thick books, and when they were ready he was going to stick them into an old exercise book with bits of Sellotape.

He had had his supper and his bath, and was now in bed in his sleeping-bag, and reading his library book, which was by Enid Blyton and called The Famous Five. He heard the clock in the hall strike eight o'clock, and then Vi's footsteps treading heavily up the staircase, which meant that she was coming to say good night to him.

His door was open. He laid down his book and waited for her to come through it. She appeared, tall and large and solid, and settled herself comfortably on the foot of his bed. The springs creaked. He was cosy in his own sleeping-bag, but she had tucked a blanket over the top of it, and he thought that it was one of the best feelings, having someone sit on your bed, with the blanket pulled tight over your legs. It made him feel very safe.