The Tender Glory (7 page)

“Your breakfast’s spoiling,” she warned him. “I’ve pulled the eggs aside, but they’ll go on getting harder. If you’ ll tell me what to do with the engine I’ll return your duster in the morning.”

“You’d make greater headway with the eggs,” he suggested. “If you’d like a cup of coffee, help yourself.” She stood irresolute, but it seemed that she couldn’t help much where she was. Slowly she made her way back to the lighthouse.

The percolator sizzled and hissed, drowning out the sound of the wind in this secure eyrie above the cliff. The storm’s onslaught, the battering of wave and rain, meant nothing here inside these thick stone walls, and the fire added a glowing comfort. A great plaited creel stood at the side of the hearth full of driftwood ready to replenish it when it died down, and the collie stretched himself out in front of it, keeping one wary eye on her movements as she attended to the eggs.

The table had been set in a man’s rough and ready fashion, with the bread cut in hunks and Kirsty’s butter all on one plate. She found eggcups and a stand for the percolator. There were no table-napkins in sight and the salt was obviously used straight from the round tin drum in which it had been bought from the village store.

She looked for marmalade, but that appeared to be a luxury for which he had little use, although there was honey in a comb. Dark heather honey with the smell of the moor in it.

Standing back, she surveyed her handiwork, feeling pleased. At least she had saved his breakfast when he had been forced to help her out of her predicament with the van. It equalled things up a little.

When she turned he was standing in the open doorway with an odd, almost puzzled expression in his grey eyes.

“I’ve brought the plugs in,” he told her. “You can’t afford to let a car stand too long facing the sea in weather like this, and your bonnet leaks like a sieve. We’ll have to dry these out.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologised. “I know the van’s in a pretty ropey condition, but it’s all we have. A—friend looked it over for me yesterday, but he won’t be able to service it for me properly till I can take it to Wick.”

“I’d choose a dry day, if I were you,” he advised, laying the plugs on the hearth. “Will you have something to eat?” He glanced at the table, frowning.

“No, thank you.” She chose to remain independent as far as possible.

“Coffee, then?”

The appetising smell from the percolator was too much for her.

“Perhaps a cup of coffee.”

He went to the kitchen to wash his hands and the collie settled down before the fire to sleep.

“You must be frozen stiff,” he said when he returned to find her with her gloves off and her hands outstretched to the blazing driftwood. “Nobody could keep warm on a morning like this.”

“You’ve been out,” she suggested, watching as he shed his oilskins. “Possibly as early as I have.”

“I thought it best to bring in some lobster-pots.” He examined a blister on his hand as he sat down at the table. “Would you care to take one back for your mother?”

“I—thank you very much.” She was surprised by the offer because his whole manner was briefly dismissive. “If my mother can’t eat it I’m sure Kirsty will be glad to have it.”

He looked amused.

“But not you? Has London blunted your appetite for lobster?”

“I was never very keen. I hate the way they have to be cooked.” He attacked his first egg as she poured out the coffee.

“Is Kirsty staying with you?” he asked.

The question surprised her.

“We couldn’t manage without her. She’s been at Craigie Hill for as long as I can remember. Kirsty’s a fixture. My mother depends on her so much.”

“Of course,” he said, buttering a hunk of bread, “you were never meant to come back to Caithness, were you? You were following your own bright pathway to the stars. Robin used to call you the Genius.”

“You knew my brother.” Her voice caught on the words. “You were—his friend.”

He looked round at her, his expression subtly changed.

“I suppose you might say that I knew Robin,” he agreed.

She waited, but that was to be the end of confidences. When he had eaten another hunk of bread he rose to his feet, leaving the second egg to grow cold on his plate while he picked up the plugs to examine them.

“They’re dry enough,” he decided. “I’ll put them back for you.” “I can manage,” she told him firmly. “I’ve seen it done before.” Her flushed face and independent manner made him look at her more closely.

“You don’t like to be helped, do you?” he said. “But I’d prefer to see you safely on your way.”

He couldn’t get rid of her quickly enough, Alison thought.

“I’m ready to go,” she told him briefly. “I didn’t try to stall the van, but thanks for the coffee, anyway. At least it made me feel warm.”

He turned towards the kitchen.

“What about the lobster?”

“I’ll take it for Kirsty.”

He brought it in, still in its wicker pot.

“You can return the pot tomorrow,” he said, “when you come with the milk.”

It took him less than ten minutes to re-insert the plugs and start up the engine. The whole procedure appeared childishly simple in his capable hands.

“Jump in,” he advised, “while the going’s good. I wouldn’t stop too often on your way home, if I were you.”

“I’ve only one call to make,” she told him. “At the Lodge.”

He said: “They’ll be waiting for their milk,” and stepped back. Alison leaned across the steering wheel.

“Thanks—for everything. I couldn’t have managed by myself,” she confessed.

He stood by the gate until she was out of sight, a tall, dark, remote figure with the wind whipping his coat about him and the remnants of the rain blowing in his face.

He wanted to be alone, Alison thought on her way across the promontory, and she had thrust herself across his path, but he had no intention of letting her into his life, not even on the plea of neighbourliness. He had elected to live up there at Sterne, cut off from the glen and Calders for some reason of his own, and not even his former friendship with her brother would give her the right to go there again, even if she wanted to.

Angrily she pressed her foot down on the accelerator, urging the reluctant van to greater speed. Why should she want to go to Sterne again? Their worlds were miles apart, linked feebly by the fact that she had won his mother’s scholarship.

Grinding to a halt before the Lodge, she was surprised to see the door lying open and a girl of about her own age waiting on the step. It was the girl she had seen at the window on her first visit, but now the light fell full on her face and she saw that, although it was undeniably plain, it had an odd, haunting youthfulness about it which lifted it above the ordinary. The girl’s expression was still marred by a frown, however, and the deeply-set dark eyes looked out at her with undisguised suspicion.

“You’ve certainly taken your time,” Tessa Searle remarked.

“I had trouble with the van.” Alison got down to deliver the milk. “Do you still want two pints?”

There was no reply. The girl came slowly towards her, limping badly.

“You’ve been to Sterne,” she said. “That’s why you’re late.” Her tone was aggressive, the dark eyes watching her reaction jealously.

“That’s where I broke down,” Alison admitted. “About the most awkward place I could have chosen.” She tried to laugh, finding it difficult. “It would have been easier to get help if it had happened in the glen.”

“But it didn’t.” Tessa stood quite still, gazing at her relentlessly. “I suppose Huntley came to your rescue. There’s nobody else up there.”

“He dried out the plugs for me.” There was an awkward pause. “He seems very comfortable at the lighthouse.”

“You needn’t feel sorry for him,” Tessa said. “It’s how he wants to live—at present.”

Her tone suggested that things might change considerably in the near future.

“Perhaps he finds Calders too big for him,” Alison said. “It’s quite a house. I used to think that it must be the biggest place in the world, next to Dunrobin!”

Tessa’s faint smile was peculiarly devoid of mirth.

“You lived all your life here up till three years ago, I suppose,” she said.

“Yes. I had never been further south than Aberdeen till I won the scholarship.”

“Did you know Huntley in those days?” Tessa asked.

“No. He was older, and he went away to school.”

Tessa picked up two bottles of milk, turning back towards the house. She moved awkwardly on a damaged hip.

“Let me help you,” Alison offered without thinking.

The dark eyes blazed at her.

“I don’t need help—yours or anybody else’s. I can manage by myself!” Tessa cried.

“At least let me carry the milk.” Alison felt desperately sorry, aware that she had touched this girl on the raw. “The bottles are so cold they’ll almost freeze to your hands.”

“I don’t feel the cold,” Tessa declared instantly. “I’m used to it.”

“It’s taking me longer than I thought to become acclimatised again.” Alison was chattering to cover her mistake. “Perhaps I’ve grown too soft, living in London for the best part of three years.”

“Does that mean you’ve come home to Craigie Hill for good?” The question had been shot at her so quickly that she hesitated for a moment.

“I think it does,” she admitted at last. “I depended on the scholarship, you see, and it has only a few more months to run.”

“You could apply for an extension,” Tessa suggested, still watching her. “Hadn’t you thought of it?”

“I don’t think I could.” Alison carried the milk into the house. “There’s no one else now at Craigie Hill.”

Tessa must have known about Robin if he had gone to Calders a great deal. She must have met him there, but she gave no sign. She stood stiffly, looking at the floor.

“People are going to feel sorry for you, having to come back like this when you had so much to look forward to,” she said.

“I don’t want that sort of sympathy,” Alison answered immediately. “I knew what I was doing.” “All the same,” Tessa argued, “you must feel cheated. You might have had a distinguished career, like my sister.”

Her voice had sharpened on the last three words, but it was impossible to read her expression as she turned her head away.

“I could never hope to be as distinguished as Leone Searle, even in my own field,” Alison said impulsively. “She had the world at her feet.”

Tessa laughed.

“That was the way she liked it. And now she’s dead.”

Anguish lay beneath the clipped observation and a certain amount of resentment, yet it seemed scarcely possible that Tessa hadn’t admired her talented sister. Universally proclaimed, Leone’s beauty had complimented her perfect voice, the two perfections going hand-in-hand, the one reflecting the other.

Looking at Tessa it was difficult to believe that the two were sisters. Leone had been as fair as Tessa was dark.

“She was my half-sister,” Tessa volunteered, as if she had read her thoughts.

“I didn’t know.”

“Her mother died not long after she was born. Do you believe people are—recompensed in some other way for that sort of thing?”

The odd question caught Alison unawares.

“For that sort of loss, do you mean?”

“For any loss.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

“I have. Leone had everything she wanted because she knew how to take it.”

Alison turned to the door.

“She was more than talented, Tessa,” she said quietly. “Her singing was wonderful.”

“Oh, yes—her singing! Everybody fell for that. Even Huntley. She couldn’t be mean or little or selfish with such a heavenly voice. That’s what he thought, and that’s why he lives up there at Sterne.”

“I can imagine how he must feel,” Alison said.

“One day he’ll have to come back to Calders,” Tessa said. “He realises that, but he was getting it ready for Leone.” She limped towards the door. “I could make it up to him,” she added almost defiantly.

Alison looked round at her, trying to hide her shocked surprise. “You don’t think so?” Tessa challenged.

“I—don’t know anything about it.” Alison felt suddenly chilled to the bone. “I haven’t been here long enough to judge.”

Tessa’s short, abrupt laugh was bitter in the extreme. “You don’t have to live for ever to realise the truth,” she said. “What are you going to do here all the time, Alison Christie? Have you got a piano to play?”

“Not a very good one,” Alison was forced to admit. “It’s an old upright, the one I first practised on.”

“We have one here,” Tessa said unexpectedly. “And there’s one at Calders. You could come here whenever you liked.”

A remote sort of loneliness seemed to be reaching out to her and Alison was quick to respond.

“I’d like to, very much, if your father wouldn’t mind,” she said. “Mind? He’d be overjoyed,” Tessa assured her. “I’m a terrible responsibility to him. All he wants to do is fish.” “He can’t fish all day long,” Alison countered, “and I’m sure he doesn’t consider you a burden. Do you get out much, Tessa?’ The wary look came back into the dark eyes.