September (1990) (26 page)

"What did Edmund say when you told him?"

Virginia shrugged. "Not a lot. He's certainly not about to fly to London with a loaded shotgun. But I think he is concerned, if only for the fact that Alexa is a girl of some wealth . . . she has that house and she has the money she inherited from Lady Cheriton. Which, as Edmund pointed out, is considerable."

"He's afraid this young man is after her money?"

"It's a possibility, Vi."

"You've met him. What do you think of him?"

"I liked him. . . ."

"But you have reservations?"

"He's so personable. Cool. Like I said, charming. I'm not certain if I trust him. ..."

"Oh dear."

"But that's just me talking. I may be making a total misjudgement."

"What can we do?"

"We can't do anything. Alexa is twenty-one, she must make her own decisions."

Violet knew that this was true. But Alexa ... so far away. In London.

"If only we could meet him. That would put everything on a much more normal footing."

"I entirely agree with you, and you will meet him." Violet glanced at her daughter-in-law and saw that she was smiling, looking as pleased with herself as the cat that got the cream. "I'm afraid I stuck my oar in and made noises like a mother. I talked to the two of them and they've agreed to come north together for the weekend of the Steyntons' dance. They're going to stay at Balnaid."

"Oh, what a clever idea!" Violet could have kissed Virginia, so delighted was she. "What a brilliant girl you are. Quite the best way of doing things, without making too much of an occasion of it."

"That's what I thought. And even Edmund approves. But we'll have to be very casual and tactful and matter
-
of-fact. No suggestive glances or meaningful remarks."

"You mean I'm not to say anything about their getting married?" Virginia nodded. Violet thought about this. "I wouldn't, you know. I'm sufficiently modern to know when to hold my tongue. But, by living together, young people create for themselves such difficult situations. They make it so difficult for us. If we make too much of the young man, then he will think he is being pressurized and he'll back off and break Alexa's heart. And if we don't make enough of him, Alexa will think we disapprove and that will break her heart."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that. She's grown up a lot. She has much more confidence. She's changed."

"I couldn't bear her to be hurt. Not Alexa."

"I'm afraid we can't protect her any longer. The affair has already gone too far."

"Yes," said Violet, feeling in some' way admonished. This was no time for apprehensive sentiment. If she was to be of any use to anybody, then she must remain sensible. "You are absolutely right. We must all-"

But there was no time for more. They heard the front door open and slam shut. "Mummy!"

Henry was back. Virginia laid down her teacup and sprang to her feet, Alexa forgotten. She made for th
e d
oor but Henry was there first, bursting in on them, red-cheeked with excitement and the effort of running up the hill.

"Mummy!"

She held out her arms, and he flung himself, bodily, into them.

Chapter
8

Saturday the Twenty-seventh

Edmund was frequently asked, by well-meaning fellow
-
guests at dinner parties, if he did not find the long commute between Edinburgh and Strathcroy an almost unbearable strain, every morning and evening each day of the week that he was working in Edinburgh. But the truth was that Edmund thought nothing of the miles that he covered. Getting home to Balnaid and his family was more important than the considerable effort that it involved, and only a late business dinner in Edinburgh, an early plane to catch, or impassable winter roads persuaded him to stay in town and spend the night in the flat in Moray Place.

As well, he enjoyed driving. His car was both powerful and safe, and the motorway, slicing over the Forth and through Fife to Relkirk, had become as familiar as the back of his hand. Once through Relkirk, he was onto country roads that necessitated slowing down to a more prudent speed, but even so the journey rarely took him more than an hour.

He used this time to switch off at the end of a day of stress and decision-making, and to let his mind concentrate instead upon the many other, but equally absorbing, facets of his busy life. In winter-time, he listened to the radio. Not the news nor political discussions . . . he had had enough of both by the time he finally cleared his desk and locked away all confidential documents ... but Radio Three, classical concerts and erudite plays. For the rest of the year, as the hours of daylight lengthened and he no longer made the journey in the dark, he found much pleasure and solace in simply watching the unfolding seasons of the countryside. The ploughing, the sowing, the greening of the trees; the first young lambs in the fields, the crops turning gold, the raspberry pickers out in the long drills of canes, the harvest, the autumn leaves, the first of the snows.

They were harvesting now, on this fine, blowy evening. The scenery was both peaceful and spectacular. Fields and farmlands were washed in fitful sunlight, but the air was so clear that every crag and corrie on the distant hills presented itself with startling visibility. The light flowed over these hills, touching their summits with reflected radiance; the river running alongside the road glittered and sparkled; and the sky, skimming with clouds, was infinite.

He felt more content than he had for a long time. Virginia was back, restored to him. His gift to her was the nearest he could get to an apology for the things that he had said on the day of the original explosion: accusing her of smothering Henry; wanting to keep him by her side for selfish reasons; never thinking of any person but herself. She had accepted the bracelet with gratitude and love, and her unqualified pleasure was as good as forgiveness.

Last night, after their dinner at Rafaelli's, he had driven her home to Balnaid through a twilit countryside and beneath the banner of a spectacular skyscape, rose
-
pink to the west, and streaked as though by some gargantuan paintbrush with dark charcoal clouds.

They had returned to an empty house. He could not remember when this had last happened, and it made their homecoming even more special. No dogs, no children; just the two of them. He had dealt with the luggage, then taken two malt whiskies up to their bedroo
m a
nd sat on the bed and watched her unpack. There was no sense of urgency, because the whole of the house, the night, the sweet darkness belonged to them. Later, he showered; Virginia took a bath. She came to him, scented and cool, and they made the most satisfying and blissful love.

He knew that the bone of contention still lay between them. Virginia did not want to lose Henry, and Edmund was determined that he should go. But for the time being they had ceased snarling over this particular bone and, with a bit of luck, it would stay buried and forgotten.

As well, there were other good things to look forward to. This evening, he would see his small son again after a week of separation. There would be much to tell and much to hear. And then, next month, in September, Alexa was bringing her young man to stay.

Virginia's bombshell about Alexa had caught Edmund unawares, rendering him confounded but not shocked nor disapproving. He was extremely fond of his daughter, and recognized her many sterling qualities; but during the last year or two he had privately wished, more than once, that she would take her finger out and-start to grow up. At twenty-one, her lack of sophistication, her shyness, her dumpy shape had become an embarrassment to him. He was used to being surrounded by elegant and worldly women (even his secretary was a stunner) and disliked himself for his own impatience and irritation with Alexa. But now, all by herself, she had found a man, and a personable one, if Virginia was to be believed.

Possibly he should be taking a tougher line. But he had never relished the image of himself as a paterfamilias, and was more concerned with the human side of the situation rather than the moral.

As always, when faced with a dilemma, he planned to go by his own set of rules. Act positively, plan negatively, expect nothing. The worst that could happe
n w
ould be Alexa's getting hurt. For her, it would be a frightening new experience, but at least she would come out of it more adult and, hopefully, stronger.

He drove into Strathcroy as the church clock was striking seven. He thought, in pleasant anticipation, of getting home. The dogs would be there, rescued from the kennels by Virginia; and Henry, in his bath or eating his tea in the kitchen. He would sit with Henry while he consumed his fish fingers or beefburgers or whatever horror he had chosen to eat, listening to all that Henry had been up to during the week, and drinking, meanwhile, a very long and strong gin anci tonic.

Which reminded him that they were out of tonic. The drink cupboard had been allowed to run dry of this precious commodity, and Edmund had meant to stop off and buy a crate before he left Edinburgh, but had forgotten to do this. And so he passed the bridge that led to Balnaid and drove on into the village, drawing up outside the Pakistani supermarket.

All the other shops had long since shut their doors and closed their shutters, but the Pakistanis never seemed to close. Long after nine o'clock in the evening they were still selling cartons of milk and bread and pizzas and frozen curries to anybody who wanted to buy them.

He got out of the car and went into the shop. There were other customers but they were filling their own wire baskets from the shelves or being assisted by Mr. Ishak, and it was Mrs. Ishak who dimpled at Edmund from behind the counter. She was a comely lady, with huge dark eyes ringed in kohl, and this evening dressed in butter-yellow silk, with a paler yellow silk scarf draped around her head and shoulders.

"Good evening, Mr. Aird."

"Good evening, Mrs. Ishak. How are you?"

"I am very well, thank you for asking."

"How's Kedejah?"

"She is watching television."

"I hear she had an afternoon at Pennyburn with Henry."

"That is true, and my God, she came home soaking wet."

Edmund laughed. "They were building dams. I hope you weren't annoyed."

"Not at all. She has had a most lovely time."

"I want some tonic water, Mrs. Ishak. Have you got some?"

"But of course. How many bottles do you need?"

"Two dozen?"

"If you wait, I will fetch them for you from the store."

"Thank you."

She went. Edmund, unimpatient, stood waiting for her to return. A voice spoke from behind him.

"Mr. Aird."

It was so close, just behind his shoulder, that he was much startled. He swung around and found himself faced by Edie's cousin, Lottie Carstairs. Since she had come to stay with Edie, he had glimpsed her once or twice, pottering about the village, but had taken some pains and avoiding action, not wishing to be confronted by her. Now it seemed she had him cornered and there was no escape.

"Good evening."

"Remember me?" She spoke almost coyly. Edmund did not relish finding himself so close to her with her pallid, bloodless skin and the strong suggestion of a moustache upon her upper lip. Her hair was the colour -and roughly the texture-of steel wool, and under wildly arched eyebrows her eyes were brown as currants, and round and quite unwinking. Apart from all this, her appearance was reasonably normal. She wore a blouse and skirt, a long green cardigan perkily embellished with a sparkling brooch, and shoes with high heels upon which she tottered slightly as she engaged
Edmund in conversation. "I used to be with Lady Balmerino, staying with Edie Findhorn right now I am. Seen you around the village, never had the chance of an old chin-wag . .

Lottie Carstairs. She must be nearly sixty now, and yet she had not changed so much since those days when she had worked at Croy and caused every person in the house untold annoyance and aggravation, with her stealthy tread and her habit of always appearing just when least wanted or expected. Archie always swore that she listened at keyholes, and he had been perpetually throwing doors open in the expectation of catching Lottie there, crouched and eavesdropping. In the afternoons, Edmund remembered, she had always worn a brown woollen dress with a muslin apron tied over it. The muslin apron was not Lady Balmerino's idea but Lottie's. Archie said it was because she wanted to appear servile. The brown dress had stains under the armpits, and one of the worst things about Lottie was her smell.

The family complained vociferously and Archie demanded that his mother take some step to rectify the situation. Either sack the bloody woman or do something to ensure a little personal daintiness. But poor Lady Balmerino, with Archie's wedding on her mind, every bed filled with guests and a party planned at Croy on the evening of the great day, did not feel strong enough to sack her housemaid. And she was far too kind-hearted actually to send for Lottie, face her fair and square, and tell her that she smelt.

Under attack, she fell back on feeble excuses.

"I must have someone to clean the rooms and make the beds."