Wild Mountain Thyme

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  At this point John realized that Davey was not continuing their dissertation on farming, but telling a joke. Anxious not to miss the punch line, or worse, to laugh at the wrong moment, he listened with sharpened attention.

  “And then the farmer asked the Texan how much land he owned. And the Texan said to the farmer, ‘You would not understand. You could not comprehend, if I told you how much of Texas I own. But I’ll tell you this. If I got into my car and drove all day around my boundary fence, I still should not have circled my property.’ And the farmer thought a little while, and then he said to the Texan, ‘I had a car like that, once upon a time. I got rid of it.’”

  There came a long pause. Davey continued to gaze ahead. John stayed straight-faced as long as he could, and then the grin, upstoppable, crept up his face. Davey turned his head and looked at him. His blue eyes held a certain gleam, but otherwise he was as dour as ever.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, in his gentle Sutherland voice. “I thought that you would enchoy that. It is a very good choke.”

  * * *

  Ellen Tarbat, dressed in her good Sunday black, pulled her hat down over her ears and pierced it to her bun with a formidable hat pin. It was a decent hat, only two years old, and trimmed with a buckle. There was nothing like a buckle for lending a bit of dignity to a hat.

  She looked at the kitchen clock. It was a quarter past ten, and Ellen was going to church. She was giving them a cold lunch today instead of the usual roast. She had peeled the potatoes, and made a jam tart, and the dining room table was ready and laid. Now, she was ready for Jess to pick her up. Davey was not coming to church with them, because he and John Dunbeath had gone up the hill to look at the sheep. Ellen did not approve of such goings-on on the Sabbath and had said as much to John, but he had pointed out that he had not all the time in the world, and would soon have to go back to London. Ellen could not imagine why he should want to get back to London. She herself had never been to London, but her niece Anne had taken a trip a couple of years ago, and what she had told Ellen about it had left Ellen in no great hurry to follow her example.

  Her hat settled, she picked up her coat. She had brought all her things downstairs earlier in the morning so as to save a trip up all those flights of stairs to her attic bedroom. Climbing stairs was one of the things that tired her. She hated being tired. She hated the way her heart thumped when she was tired. Sometimes she hated being old.

  She put on her coat and buttoned it up, and adjusted the lapel where she had pinned her best Cairngorm brooch. She took up her bulging handbag, her black gloves. From the front of the house, the telephone rang.

  She stood still, waiting, trying to remember who was in the house and who out of it. Mrs. Dobbs had taken the little boy out for a walk. John was with Davey. The telephone continued to ring, and Ellen sighed and laid down her bag and gloves and went to answer it. Out of the kitchen, across the hall, into the library. The telephone stood on the colonel’s desk. Ellen picked up the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  There came a series of clickings and buzzings, distasteful to her ear. The telephone was another thing she hated. “Yes?” she said again, beginning to sound testy.

  A final click, and a man’s voice. “Is that Benchoile?”

  “This is Benchoile.”

  “I want to speak to Oliver Dobbs.”

  “He’s not here,” said Ellen, instantly. Jess Guthrie would be at the door at any moment, and she did not want to keep her waiting.

  But the caller was not so easily put off.

  “Is there no way you can get hold of him? It’s very important indeed.”

  The word important caught her attention.

  It was splendid when important people came to stay and important things happened. It gave a body something to talk about that wasn’t simply the price of lambs or the weather.

  “He … he’ll maybe be over at the Stable House.”

  “Could you go and get him?”

  “It may take a moment or two.”

  “I’ll hold on.”

  “The telephone is very expensive,” Ellen reminded him sharply. Important or not, it was a sinful thing to waste good money.

  “What?” He sounded taken aback, as indeed he might. “Oh. Well, never mind about that. I’d be grateful if you could get him. Tell him it’s his agent.”

  Ellen sighed, and resigned herself to missing out on the first hymn. “Very well.”

  She laid down the receiver, and made the long journey down through the back of the house to the stableyard. When she opened the back door the wind swirled and gusted and nearly pulled the doorknob out of her grasp. Bent against this, holding on her good hat, she crossed the cobbles and opened Roddy’s front door.

  “Roddy!” Her voice, raised, cracked a little.

  There was a pause, and then footsteps crossed the floor above her, and Mr. Dobbs himself appeared at the head of the stairs, as tall, thought Ellen, as a lamppost.

  “He’s not here, Ellen. He’s gone to Creagan to get the Sunday papers.”

  “There’s a telephone call for you, Mr. Dobbs. The man says he is your agent, and it is very important.”

  His face lit up. “Oh. Right.” And he came helter-skelter down the stairs, so fast that Ellen was obliged to step sideways to avoid being knocked flat. “Thanks, Ellen,” he said, as he shot past her.

  “He’s waiting at the other end of the telephone…” she raised her voice to his retreating back “… and the Lord himself knows what it’s costing him.”

  But Mr. Dobbs was already out of earshot of her grumblings. Ellen made a face. Some people. She pulled her hat down, and followed him at her own pace. In the kitchen, she saw, through the window, the Guthrie’s van, waiting for her, with Jess Guthrie at the wheel. She was flustered and halfway through the door before she realized that she had forgotten her gloves.

  * * *

  Oliver’s telephone call from London lasted for more than half an hour, and by the time he got back to the Stable House, Roddy had returned from Creagan with all the Sunday papers, was ensconced in his deepest leather armchair in front of a furnace of a fire, and was already looking forward to the first gin-and-tonic of the day.

  He laid down the Observer, and looked up over his spectacles as Oliver came bounding up the stairs two at a time.

  “Hello,” he said. “I thought I’d been deserted.”

  “I had a phone call.” Oliver came to sit in the chair opposite to Roddy, with his hands hanging loose between his bony knees.

  Roddy sent him a keen look. He sensed the suppressed, secret excitement. “Good news, I hope.”

  “Yes. Good. It was my agent. It’s all fixed. The new play’s moving to London when it’s finished the run at Bristol. Same cast, same producer, everything.”

  “Fantastic.” Roddy dropped the paper to the floor, reached up a hand to pull off his spectacles. “My dear boy, that really is the most splendid news.”

  “There are other goodies in the pipeline as well, but those can wait till later. I mean, they’re not actually signed and sealed yet.”

  “I couldn’t be more pleased.” Roddy glanced at his watch. “The sun’s not over the yardarm yet, but I think this calls—”

  But Oliver interrupted him. “There’s just one thing. Would you mind if I left Victoria and Thomas with you for a couple of days? I have to go to London. I have to go tomorrow. Just for one night. There’s a plane from Inverness about five o’clock in the evening. I wondered, too, if someone would be able to drive me over to catch it.”

  “But of course. You can leave them here as long as you like. And I’ll take you over in the MG.”

  “It’s only for two days. I’ll be coming back the next day. And after that I’ll pack the others up and we’ll make our way back south in the car.”

  The very idea of them all leaving made Roddy feel miserable. He dreaded being on his own again, not simply because he loved to have young company about the place, but because with Oliver and Victo
ria and little Thomas gone, he knew that there would no longer be an excuse not to face up to facts. And the facts were cold. Jock was dead. John was going to sell Benchoile. Ties and traditions would be broken forever. It was the end of a way of life. This was the last house party.

  He said, with the vague notion of putting off the evil moment, “You don’t have to go. You know you don’t have to go.”

  “You know that we have to. As it is, you’ve been more than kind and marvelously hospitable, but we can’t stay forever. Anyway, fish and guests stink after three days, and we’ve been here three already, so tomorrow we’re going to start stinking.”

  “I’ll miss you. We all will. Ellen has lost her heart to Thomas. It won’t seem the same without you all around.”

  “You’ll still have John.”

  “John won’t stay longer than he has to. He can’t. He’s got to get back to London.”

  “Victoria tells me that he’s going to sell Benchoile.”

  Roddy was surprised. “I didn’t realize he’d discussed it with Victoria.”

  “She told me last night.”

  “Yes. He’s going to sell up. He really has no alternative. To be truthful, it’s what I expected.”

  “What will happen to you?”

  “It depends who buys the place. If it’s a rich American with sporting instincts, perhaps I could get a job as ghillie. I rather see myself touching my cap and collecting massive tips.”

  “You should get married,” said Oliver.

  Roddy sent him another sharp look. “You’re a fine one to be talking.”

  Oliver grinned. “I’m different,” he said smugly. “I’m a different generation. I’m allowed to have a different set of morals and values.”

  “You certainly have those.”

  “Don’t you approve?”

  “It would make no difference whether I approved or not. I’m too idle a man to take up attitudes about matters which really don’t concern me. Perhaps I was too idle to get married, because getting married was expected of me. I never really did anything that was expected of me. Not getting married was just part of the pattern. Like writing books and watching birds and drinking too much. My brother Jock despaired of me.”

  “I think it’s a good way to be,” said Oliver. “I suppose I’ve followed pretty much the same pattern myself.”

  “Yes,” said Roddy, “but in my case I had a golden rule. I never got involved with anybody, because I knew that once I did I was in danger of hurting them.”

  Oliver looked at him, surprised. “You’re talking about Victoria, aren’t you?”

  “She is very vulnerable.”

  “She is also intelligent.”

  “The heart and the head are two separate entities.”

  “Reason and emotion?”

  “If you like.”

  Oliver said, “I can’t be tied.”

  “You already are,” Roddy pointed out. “You have the child.”

  Oliver reached for his cigarettes. He took one and lit it with a spill kindled from the fire. When it was alight, he tossed the spill onto the flames. He said, “In that case, isn’t it a little late to start talking to me like a father?”

  “It’s never too late to rectify matters.”

  Across the hearthrug their eyes clashed, and Roddy recognized the coldness in Oliver’s pale gaze. When he spoke, it was to change the subject. “Do you know where Victoria is?”

  It was a sort of dismissal. Roddy sighed. “I think she took Thomas for a walk.”

  Oliver stood up. “In that case, I’d better go and find her. Tell her what’s happening.”

  He went, running down the wooden staircase, and slamming the front door shut behind him. His footsteps rang across the cobbles of the stableyard. Roddy was left no wiser as to Oliver’s intentions, suspecting that he had done more harm than good, and wishing that he had kept his mouth shut. After a little, he sighed again, hauled himself out of his chair and went to pour himself that longed-for gin-and-tonic.

  * * *

  Victoria, making her way back through the birch wood, saw Oliver emerge from beneath the stableyard archway, and walk out onto the gravel in front of the house. He was smoking a cigarette. She was about to call out to him, when he caught sight of her and Thomas, and came across the grass to meet them.

  Thomas, whose legs had given out on him halfway home, was riding pickaback on Victoria’s shoulders. When she saw Oliver coming towards them, Victoria bent down and let Thomas slip to the ground. He ran ahead of her and reached Oliver before she did, butting his father in the legs with his head and hobbling Oliver’s knees with his arms.

  Oliver did not pick him up, but stood there, penned, waiting until Victoria was within earshot.

  “Where have you been?” he asked her.

  “Just for a walk. We found another stream, but not as pretty as the waterfall.” She reached his side. “What have you been doing?”

  “Telephoning,” he told her. The walk, the cold air, had brought color to her cheeks. Her pale hair was blowing and tousled. She had found, somewhere, a clump of yellow aconites, and had picked one or two and put them in the buttonhole of her jacket. Oliver pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She smelled cool and fresh, of apples and the outdoors. Her lips were sweet and clean, her kiss tasted as innocent as clear water.

  “Telephoning who?”

  “I wasn’t telephoning anybody. I was being telephoned.”

  “Who by?”

  “My agent.” He let her go, and stooped to disentangle Thomas from his legs. They began to walk towards the house, but Thomas protested, so Victoria went back to lift him up in her arms. When she was alongside Oliver once more, she asked. “What did he say?”

  “Good things. Bent Penny’s going to London.”

  She stopped dead. “Oliver! But that’s marvelous.”

  “And I’m going to London too, tomorrow.” Her face dropped. “I’m leaving you and Thomas behind.”

  “You can’t mean it.”

  He laughed. “Don’t look so tragic, you ninny. I’m coming back the next day.”

  “But why can’t we come with you?”

  “What’s the point of coming to London for one day? Anyway, I can’t talk business with you and Thomas under my feet all the time.”

  “But we can’t stay here without you!”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to be left behind.”

  In a flash, Oliver became irritated. He stopped his good-natured teasing, and said, in some exasperation, “I’m not leaving you behind. I’m simply going to London for a night. I’m flying down and I’m flying back. And when I get back, we’re packing up and we’re getting into the car and we’re all going south again. Together. Now, does that make you happy?”

  “But what am I going to do without you?”

  “Exist, I imagine. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “I just feel it’s so awful for Roddy. We dumped ourselves on him in the first place, and now…”

  “He’s fine. He’s delighted at the idea of having you and Thomas to himself for a day or two. And as for dumping ourselves on him, he doesn’t want us to go. Once we’ve gone, he’ll have to face reality, and he doesn’t relish that in the very least.”

  “That’s a horrible thing to say about Roddy.”

  “OK, it’s horrible, but it’s true. OK, he’s charming and amusing, a character straight from the pages of some old nineteen-thirties comedy. Rattigan, perhaps, at his most fresh-faced. But I doubt if he’s ever faced an issue in his life.”

  “He was in the war. Anybody who went through the war was bound to face issues. That was what it was all about.”

  “I’m talking about personal issues. Not National Emergencies. You can’t hide from a National Emergency by climbing behind a brandy and soda.”

  “Oh, Oliver. I hate it when you’re like this. And I still don’t want you to go and leave Thomas and me behind.”

  “Well, I’m going.” She
did not reply, and he put his arm around her, and bent and kissed the top of her head. “And you are not to sulk about it. And on Tuesday, when I fly back, you can jump into the Volvo and come and meet me. And if you’re particularly charming, I shall take you out to dinner in Inverness. And we’ll eat haggis and chips and join in the folk dancing. Can you think of anything more riveting?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t go.” But she was beginning to smile.

  “I have to. Duty calls. I’m a successful man. Leaving you behind is one of the prices I have to pay for being successful.”

  “Sometimes I wish you weren’t.”

  He kissed her again. “You know what’s wrong with you? You’re never happy.”

  “That’s not true.”

  He relented. “I know it isn’t.”

  “I’ve been happy here,” she told him, and she was suddenly shy. She hoped that Oliver would tell her that he had been happy too. But he did not say anything, and she heaved Thomas’s weight from one arm to the other, and together, they walked back to the house.

  13

  MONDAY

  Roddy stood at the top of his staircase and called “Victoria!”

  Victoria, who had spent the morning ironing shirts and handkerchiefs for Oliver, sorting out socks and sweaters, and finally packing a suitcase, straightened up from her task, pushed a lock of hair from her face, and went to open the bedroom door.

  “I’m here!”

  “John’s here, and Oliver. Come and join us. We’re having a drink.”

  It was nearly half past twelve, a bright, cold day and the sun was shining. Roddy and Oliver were leaving for the airport after lunch. A quarter of an hour previously, Ellen had appeared to take charge of Thomas and to get him ready for lunch, for lunch today was to be a substantial affair, cooked by Ellen and Jess Guthrie and eaten in the big dining room at Benchoile. This was Ellen’s decision. She had always been of the opinion that no person should set out on a journey, however short, without a good meal inside him, and Oliver was, apparently, no exception. Accordingly, she and Jess had been busy all morning. Appetizing smells had wafted through from the big house, and there was a certain sense of occasion in the air, as though something important was happening, like a birthday, or the last day of the holidays.