Wild Mountain Thyme

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  This taxi, in a long queue of taxis, drew in at last under the canopy of the terminal building. Oliver got out, pulled his suitcase after him, and stood at the pavement’s edge feeling in his pocket for the fare. The driver, waiting, let his eyes move over his passenger, his passenger’s luggage.

  “Here.” Oliver handed the notes over.

  “Sure I’ve brought you to the right place, mate? This is domestic flights here. Terminal one.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Just saw the label on your case. You ought to be over in international flights, terminal three.”

  “No. This is the one I want.” He grinned. “Keep the change.”

  “Well, it’s you who’s traveling. You ought to know.”

  He picked up his case and went in through the glass doors, across the polished expanse of the great building, up the escalator, following the signs that led to domestic departures.

  The departure hall was crowded as usual, every seat taken with travelers waiting for their various flights to be called. There was the smell of coffee, and cigarette smoke and humanity. Oliver moved slowly down the room, looking about him, like a man with a rendezvous. He saw the woman with her five exhausting children; a pair of nuns. He saw the man in the tweed overcoat and bowler hat, immersed in his newspaper. His briefcase stood on the floor between his legs. Oliver stopped before him.

  “Excuse me.”

  Startled, the man looked up from his paper. He had a long, pale face, a neat collar, a dark tie. He wore spectacles. A lawyer, thought Oliver. A businessman. He said, “I am sorry, but I saw the label on your briefcase. Are you flying to Inverness?”

  “Yes,” said the man, sounding as though he did not think it was any of Oliver’s business.

  “On the five-thirty plane?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder if you’d be very kind and deliver a letter for me.” He reached into his pocket and took out the envelope. “The thing is, I’d arranged to catch this flight, but I’m not going to be able to make it after all, and there’s someone meeting me at Inverness.”

  The man in spectacles continued to look unenthusiastic. He probably thought the envelope contained some sort of an explosive device, and that he and the rest of his fellow passengers were going to be blown to kingdom come whilst in transit over the Pennines.

  “This has just all cropped up in the last couple of hours, and I can’t telephone her—the girl who’s meeting me, I mean—because she’s driving to Inverness from Sutherland, and she’ll have left by now.”

  The man in spectacles looked at the envelope and then back at Oliver. Oliver put on his sincere and open expression. The man laid down his newspaper.

  “If I do take your letter, how shall I know the young lady?”

  “Well, she’s young, and she’s got long fair hair, and she’ll probably be wearing trousers. She’s called Victoria Bradshaw.” He added, as though it were a little lure, “She’s very pretty.”

  But the other was not to be so easily seduced. “What shall I do if she isn’t there?”

  “She will be there. I promise you. She’ll be there.”

  The man took the envelope at last, gingerly. “Wouldn’t it be better to hand this over to the air hostess?”

  “I suppose we could, but you know what they’re like, always so busy giving people cups of tea. And anyway, I haven’t got time to wait till she turns up, because I’ve got to get over to the international terminal and catch another plane.”

  “Very well,” said the man at last. Having made the decision, he allowed a small smile to cross his chilly features. “You can leave it with me.”

  “Thank you,” said Oliver. “Thank you very much. I’m really sorry to have bothered you. And I hope you have a good flight.”

  “The same to you,” said the man in spectacles, and went back to his paper.

  Oliver picked up his suitcase and turned away. He would go down the stairs and out of this building, and he would walk through the rain, over to terminal three, and check in to the New York flight, and after that he was on his own once more. He was on his way.

  He was free. It was over. An interlude, a brief encounter finished. The actors had departed, and the stage lay empty. Like an untouched canvas, it waited for Oliver to inhabit it with his own people, his own private and absorbing world.

  You’re back then.

  That’s right.

  She’s gone, then.

  Yes, she’s gone.

  You can tell. A house has got a funny feeling when the last child goes. You think they’re there forever but they go. And there’s nothing much left, really. Except the telly. There’s always the telly.

  “Oh, excuse me.”

  He had reached the top of the stairs. He turned and found himself face to face with the man in the bowler hat. It took an instant’s mental reorganization before Oliver even recognized him. He carried his briefcase in one hand, and Oliver’s letter in the other.

  “I’m sorry, but the young lady I have to give this to, I can’t remember what you said she was called. You’ve written it on the envelope, but your writing’s not all that clear. Is it Miss Veronica Bradshaw?”

  “No,” said Oliver. “It’s…” he hesitated, having to remember. “It’s Victoria.”

  * * *

  He supposed there came a time for starting to feel old. Not just mature, or experienced, or any of the other euphemisms. Just old. He way sixty. Jock had died at sixty-nine. If he, Roddy, were to die at sixty-nine, that meant that he had only nine years left to enjoy. Or did it mean that he had nine years to fill in before he was finally released? And if so, then how was he to fill them? He would not have Benchoile to cushion him against the cold winds of the outside world, and he knew—had known for some years—that to all intents and purposes he had out-written himself. There was no longer a readable book inside his head, and scarcely the most banal of articles. His friends, his social life, which had once so satisfyingly filled his time, were fading. His contemporaries had started to die; and delightful women who had once charmed him were becoming grandmothers, unable to cope—as inflation swallowed everything and old servants went into retirement—with house parties and dinner parties and all the endless, pleasant diversions of former days.

  Pouring his second drink of the evening, trying to cheer himself up, Roddy Dunbeath told himself that in many ways he was fortunate. He would become old and he would probably be lonely, but at least he would not be penniless. All right, so Benchoile was going to be sold, but Roddy Dunbeath was in a financial position that would allow him to buy, outright, some modest house in which to spend the rest of his days. Where this house was to be, he had not yet decided, but Ellen was another problem which loomed like a shadow at the back of his mind. There could be no question of abandoning Ellen. If none of her many relations could be persuaded to have the cantankerous old thing live with them, then Roddy would have to take her on himself. The very prospect of living in a small house with no one but Ellen Tarbat for company gave him the shivers. He prayed, fervently, that it would never have to happen.

  It was eight o’clock in the evening, and he was alone in his house, and it was this very solitude that had brought on his gloomy mood. Oliver was in London, by now—Roddy glanced at his watch—by now probably on his way back to Scotland. Victoria had departed in that immense Volvo to meet him at the airport. Thomas was in the bedroom downstairs, asleep, having been bathed and put to bed by Ellen. John was over in the big house, doing God knew what. The whole business of Benchoile seemed to have got the boy down, for he had been going around all day with a face like a wet weekend and with scarcely a word for anybody. To put the final lid on things, the weather had degenerated dismally with sleet showers and a force eight gale, and the summits of the hills were once more blanketed in snow.

  Where, Roddy asked himself, was the spring? On such an evening, in such a mood, it was possible to believe that it would never come again. There would be some freak in the cosmos,
the stars would start clashing, earthquakes erupt and the planet Earth be trapped forever in the grip of eternal winter.

  Enough. That was as far as a man’s depression could be allowed to go. Supine in his chair, his slippered feet sharing the hearthrug with his old dog, Roddy decided that the time had come to take some positive step to raise his spirits. He looked once more at his watch. He would go over to the big house and take a drink with John. They would then eat dinner together, and later, when Oliver and Victoria returned from Inverness, would all sit around the fire and listen to Oliver’s news.

  This pleasant prospect stimulated him sufficiently to make the effort of pulling himself up out of his chair. The newspaper that he had been reading sometime before slipped from his knees. Outside, the wind howled, and an icy draught came up the stairs and stirred the rugs on the polished floor. The Stable House was usually cozy, but no door or window built by man’s hands could keep that northwest wind from penetrating. The room felt chilly. The fire was dying. He took logs from the basket, tossed them onto the dying embers, building up a good blaze that would still be alight when he returned later on in the evening.

  He turned off the lamp and said, “Come along, Barney,” and the old dog heaved himself up, obviously feeling, as Roddy was, his age. “You’re not the only one,” he told him, and he turned off the center light, and together, slowly, they started down the stairs.

  Without occupants, the darkened room was still and quiet. The fire flickered. A log cracked and kindled into flame. There came a crack of splitting wood, and a shower of sparks erupted like fireworks, out onto the hearthrug. Unattended, they smoldered. Then a draught snaked in up the stairs, a spark flared for a second, and caught the corner of the abandoned newspaper. Tiny flames began to lick and then grew larger. They played up the leg of Roddy’s chairside table, where he kept his books and his cigars and a pile of old magazines. They reached the tindery withies of the old basket where he kept his logs. Soon, the hem of the curtain had started to smolder.

  * * *

  John Dunbeath sat at the desk in the library, where he had spent most of the afternoon going through his uncle’s papers, sorting out farm accounts from personal accounts, arranging neat piles for the attention of Robert McKenzie, for Jock’s stockbroker in Edinburgh, for his accountant.

  The old man had kept a neat and efficient tally of his affairs, and this task had not been complicated, but tedious and inevitably sad. For there were as well old diaries, dance cards, and faded photographs of people whom John had never known. Regimental groups taken in the Red Fort at Delhi; a snapshot of a party of guns in jungly surroundings gathered for what looked like a tiger shoot; a wedding. Some of the photographs were Benchoile. He recognized his father as a small boy, and Roddy, a slender stripling, wearing white flannels and looking as though he were about to burst into song, the juvenile lead in some prewar musical comedy.

  The door opened and the present-day Roddy ambled in. John was pleased to see him and to have the excuse to stop working. He pushed his chair back from the desk and held up the photograph.

  “Look what I’ve just found.”

  Roddy came to inspect it over John’s shoulder. “Good God. Inside every fat man there’s a thin man struggling to get out. Where did you find that?”

  “Oh, put away with some other old papers. What time is it?” He looked at his watch. “A quarter past eight already? I didn’t realize it was as late as that.”

  “Quarter past eight on a vile cold winter’s evening.” He shivered. “I was nearly blown away just coming across the yard.”

  “Let’s have a drink.”

  “Splendid idea,” said Roddy as though he had not thought of it himself. He headed over to the table where the bottles and glasses had already been set out by Ellen, and John wondered how many private Scotches his uncle had already consumed, and then told himself that it didn’t matter anyway, and it was none of his business. He only knew that he felt tired, and the prospect of a restoring drink was all at once very welcome.

  He got up and went to build up the fire, and to draw a chair close to the blaze, for Roddy. Roddy brought the drinks over, and handed John his, and then sank into the chair with what sounded like a sigh of relief. John remained standing, and the warmth of the flames crept up his back, and he realized that he was stiff and cold from sitting in the bay of the window.

  “Slainthe,” said Roddy, and they both drank. “When are the others getting back, do you know?”

  “No idea,” Johns dark face was impassive. “Around ten, I guess. Depends on whether the plane’s on time or not. This gale might delay them.”

  “Are you really going back to London tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I should. I’ll probably be back again, next week or the week after, but we’ve got this big thing going just now, and I should be around.”

  “It was good that your were able to come.”

  “I’ve liked it. I’m just sorry that it had to end this way. I’d have liked Benchoile to go on.”

  “Dear boy, nothing can go on forever, and we’ve had a good run for our money.”

  They started talking about the old days, and as they both relaxed in the warmth, and each other’s companionship, the time slipped pleasantly by. They were on to their second drink (or John’s second drink and Roddy’s fourth) when there came a scuffling sound from outside the door, the door opened, and Ellen advanced into the room. Neither of the men were surprised by this sudden appearance, for Ellen had long since given up knocking on doors. She was looking tired and particularly old. The wind and the bitter cold were bad for her bones, and she had been on her feet most of the day. Her expression showed this. Her mouth was buttoned up. She seemed determined to be put upon.

  “I don’t know when you two are wanting your dinner, but you can have it anytime you like.”

  “Thank you, Ellen,” said Roddy, with a mild sarcasm that was wasted upon her.

  “And when the others are getting back from Inverness I do not know, but they’ll just have to make do with a bowl of broth.”

  “That’ll be all they want,” John assured her, and added, with some idea of placating her, “We’ll be in the dining room in a moment. We’re just having a drink.”

  “So I can see for myself.” She hovered for a moment, trying to think of some other fault to find. “Did you check on the little boy before you came across, Roddy?”

  “Um?” Roddy frowned. “No, I didn’t. Was I meant to?”

  “It seems it might have been a sensible thing to do instead of just leaving the mite there, abandoned for the evening.”

  Roddy became exasperated. “Ellen, I’ve only just got over here. Anyway, we leave him happily every evening.”

  “Oh, well, never you mind. I’ll go and look for myself.”

  She began to shuffle off, but seemed, in truth, so tired, so old, with her sticklike black legs and her trodden shoes that John couldn’t bear it. He laid down his drink. “Here, Ellen, don’t you worry. I’ll go.”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble for me either. It’ll take me one minute. And when I get back, we’ll come and eat dinner, and then you can take yourself off to bed.”

  “Who said anything about bed?”

  “I did. You’re looking tired, and it’s the best place for you.”

  “Well, I don’t know…” Shaking her head, she made for the kitchen, and John started down the long flagged passages that led to the stableyard. Tonight they were as cold as dungeons, eerily lighted by naked bulbs which swung in the draughts. He seemed to be surrounded by looming shadows.

  He opened the back door to the outside. The wind snatched at it and nearly blew it out of his hand, and for a second that seemed like forever, he stood there in the doorway.

  For ahead of him, across the cobbles of the yard, every upstairs window of Roddy’s house was filled with dancing orange light. Smoke and flames gushed from the roof, and above the wind’s fury, he could hear the terrifying sou
nds of the fire, a roar like a furnace, the splinter and crack of wood, sharp as rifle fire. Even as he stood there, a window exploded into a shatter of glass as its frame disintegrated in the heat. Instantly, flames leaped from the empty void, and John felt the heat of them sear his face.

  Thomas.

  He was across the yard and had opened the door before he considered the consequences. The stairs were already alight, and the wind caught the flames and the whole edifice turned into a sort of blast furnace from which he reeled. The smoke was suffocating. He turned from it, and holding his arm up to his face, made his way down the narrow passage and threw open the door of the first bedroom.

  “Thomas!” He had no idea where Thomas was sleeping. “Thomas!”

  This room was empty. The second door. “Thomas!”

  Now, he was directly under Roddy’s sitting room, and the smoke was blinding; his eyes began to stream and sting, he started to cough.

  “Thomas!” His voice was a croak. He plunged on through the smoke and found the other door, the other bedroom.

  Here, mercifully, the air was a little clearer.

  “Thomas!”

  A wail answered him. There was no time to be relieved, to give thanks that the child had not already died from asphyxiation, for it was clear that the charred ceiling of the room was about to give way at any moment. As John scooped Thomas up in his arms, there came a great load of plaster and charred lathe, spilling down from above and making a sound like falling rocks. He looked up, and saw the ragged crater of the hole, the inferno beyond. Thomas let out a scream, and John pressed the child’s face against his shoulder and stumbled from the room.

  He was scarcely through the door before the remainder of the ceiling collapsed, and the floor, the carpet, Thomas’s bed, everything was obliterated beneath an avalanche of burning debris.

  * * *

  The London plane, fifteen minutes late on account of head winds, could be heard long before it was seen. The dark evening was stormy, the cloud ceiling very low, and when the aircraft did appear, it was with great suddenness, breaking through the murk at the end of the runway as it came in to land on the black, puddled tarmac.