September (1990) (76 page)

Darling, I'm so dreadfully sorry about all this. It's just that everything's suddenly become so complicated and such an effort and I haven't the energy to fight any longer. I was never much use at being steadfast and brave. It's been a funny old life. I adore you both and I leave you my love. Pandora.

I am sure that Edmund would help and advise. Back to Edmund.

He thought of the other letter, safe in the drawer of this desk. He found the key, and unlocked the drawer, and took out that letter. The airmail envelope, creased and dog-eared, addressed to himself in Berlin; the postmark 1967.

He withdrew the two flimsy sheets, scrawled with the same immature handwriting. Unfolded them.

My darling Archie. It was such a lovely wedding and I hope you and Isobel are happy, had a lovely honeymoon and are happy in Berlin, but oh, I miss you so much. Everything is horrible, because everybody I love has gone away. I have got nobody to talk to. I can't talk to Mamma and Pa because it's about Edmund. This doesn't surprise you, does it, because you must have known. I don't know how I never knew it, but I must have loved him for ever, because when I saw him again, the few days before the wedding, I suddenly realized that there never had been, nor could be, anyone else, ever again. And the ghastly, tragic, unbearable thing is that he's married somebody else. But we love each other. I can write it in big letters, we love each other. But I'm not allowed to tell anybody because of him being married to Caroline and having the baby and everything. He has gone back to her, but he doesn'
t l
ove her, Archie. He loves me, and I am without him, stuck here, and I need you so badly and you're in Berlin. He said that he would write but he's been gone for a month and I haven't heard a word, and I can't bear it and I don't know what to do. I know it's wrong to break up a marriage, but I'm not doing that, because I had Edmund long before she did. I know you can't do anything to help but I just had to tell someone. I never knew Croy could be so lonely and I'm horrible to Mamma and Pa, and I can't help it. I can't stay here for ever, I think I shall go mad. There's only you I can tell. With lots of love and tears, Pandora.

Before he had always found the adolescent despair immeasurably poignant. Now, in the light of the morning's tragedy, it took on an even graver significance. He covered his eyes with his hand. Behind him, the door opened. "Archie."

It was Isobel. "I've brought you some coffee." He did not turn. She reached over his shoulder and laid the steaming, fragrant cup on the desk in front of him, and then put her arms around his neck, and stooped to press her warm cheek against his own.

"Why are you taking so long? What are you doing?" "Just reading." He laid the letter down. She hesitated and then said, "That's the letter Pandora sent you just after we were married." "Yes."

"I didn't know you'd kept it. Why did you, Archie?" "I didn't have the heart to tear it up and throw it away."

"So sad. Poor little girl. Have you telephoned Edmund yet?" "No. Not yet."

"You don't know what to say, do you?"

"I don't know what to think."

"Perhaps she was still in love with him. Perhaps that's why she came home. And then she saw him again, with Virginia and Alexa and Henry, and she realized it was hopeless."

She was voicing his own fears, his own unspoken dreads. He could not have spoken them, and hearing Isobel say the words aloud, bringing their shared suspicions out into the open, filled him with loving gratitude for her fearless good sense. Because now they could talk about it.

"Yes," he admitted. "That's what I'm afraid of."

"She was such a little sorceress. Always enchanting. Generous and funny. But you know, Archie, she could be ruthless. If she wanted something, she could be ruthless to get it. If she set her heart on something, other people didn't matter."

"I know. It was our fault. We all spoiled her, indulged her. . . ."

"I think it would have been impossible not to. ..."

"She was only eighteen when they had that affair. Edmund was twenty-nine. He was married and he had a child. I know Pandora flung herself at him, but instead of backing off, he reneged on his responsibilities, threw them to the wind. She was like a fire, and he added his own potent fuel to that fire; the result was an explosion."

"Have you ever talked to Edmund about it?"

"No. Once, I could have. But hot after that. He was the reason she ran away. He was the reason she never came back."

"You've never forgiven him, have you, Archie?"

"No. Not really." It was a bleak admission.

"Is that why you're hesitating now? Is that why you haven't rung him?"

"If all our conjectures are true, I would be unwilling to unload such a burden of guilt onto my worst enemy."

"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 forever. 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 realized that he was a doctor, and not just
a f
riend. 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 realized 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. Saturday 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 bad 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.