Under Gemini

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  Flora was aware of mountains—not the little hills of home, the familiar cairns of Cornwall, but real mountains, sheer, rearing their way up at right angles and forming deep caverns and lonely glens down which the road ribboned ahead of them. There was bracken in the ditches, shining with rain, and always, even about the sound of the car’s engine, the suggestion of running water which every now and then became a torrent as a waterfall leapt from some distant unseen ledge down onto the rocks of a roadside stream.

  The dawn on that wet, gray morning came so gradually that Flora scarcely noticed it. It was simply a paling of the gloom, imperceptible, so that slowly it became possible to pick up the white glimmer of a hillside croft and to see the damp shapes of flocks of sheep before one was actually in danger of hitting them.

  There had been little traffic on the road all night but now they began to meet great lorries coming in the opposite direction, passing them with roaring Diesel engines and waves of muddy water washing across the windscreen.

  “Where have they suddenly appeared from?” asked Flora.

  “They’ve come from where we’re going,” Antony told her.

  “Fernrigg?”

  “No, Tarbole. Tarbole used to be an unimportant fishing village, but it’s a great herring port now.”

  “Where are the lorries going?”

  “Edinburgh, Aberdeen, Fraserburgh—anywhere they can sell the herrings. The lobsters get taken to Prestwick and flown straight to New York. The scampi goes to London. Salted herrings go to Scandinavia.”

  “Hasn’t Scandinavia got its own herrings?”

  “The North Sea’s been fished out. That’s why Tarbole came into its own. Very prosperous we are these days. All the fishermen have new cars and color televisions. Jason goes to school with their children, and they have a low opinion of him because we don’t have color television at Fernrigg. It cramps his style a bit, poor chap.”

  “How far is Tarbole from Fernrigg?”

  “About six miles.”

  “How does he get to school each day?”

  “He gets taken by Watty, the gardener. He’d like to bicycle, but Tuppy won’t let him. She’s quite right. He’s only seven, and she lives in fear that some terrible accident will befall him.”

  “How long has he lived with Tuppy?”

  “So far, a year. I don’t know how much longer he’ll stay. I suppose it depends on Torquil’s job.”

  “Does he miss his parents?”

  “Yes, of course he does. But the Persian Gulf is really no place for a child his age. And Tuppy wanted him to stay. She doesn’t like the house without a little boy messing the place up. There have always been little boys at Fernrigg. I think that’s one of the reasons Tuppy always seems ageless. She’s never had time to grow old.”

  “And Isobel?”

  “Isobel’s a saint. Isobel was the person who looked after you when you were ill, and coped when you’d been sick, and woke up in the middle of the night to get you a drink of water.”

  “She never married?”

  “No, she never married. I think the war had something to do with that. She was too young at the beginning of the war, and by the end all she wanted was to come back to Fernrigg to live. And the West Highlands aren’t exactly teeming with eligible bachelors. There was a suitor once, but he was a farmer with every intention of buying a property on the Isle of Eigg. He made the mistake of taking Isobel to see it, and she was seasick on the way over, and when she got there it rained incessantly for the entire day. The farmhouse was intensely primitive, the loo was down at the end of the garden, she was seasick all the way home again, and after that the romance died an entirely natural death. We were all delighted. We didn’t like the chap at all. He had a bright red face and was always talking about going back to the simple life. A terrible bore.”

  “Did Tuppy like him?”

  “Tuppy liked everybody.”

  “Will she like me?”

  Antony turned his head slightly and sent Flora a smile that was both rueful and conspiratorial, and not really a smile at all.

  “She’ll like Rose,” he said.

  Flora fell silent once more.

  * * *

  Now it was light, and the rain had turned to a soft blowing mist which was beginning to smell of the sea. The road ran downhill through cuttings of pinkish granite along sloping hills planted with stands of larch and fir. They came through small villages slowly starting to stir for the new day and by inland lochs where the dark water shivered under the touch of the west wind. With each turn of the road a new and marvelous prospect presented itself, and when at last they came to the sea, Flora realized it only when she saw the salty waves breaking onto weeded rocks at the head of yet another loch.

  For a few miles they drove by the shore. Flora saw a ruined castle, the grass about its walls cropped by sheep; a coppice of silver birches, the leaves turned the color of bright new pennies; a farm with sheep pens and a dog barking. It was all remote and very beautiful.

  She said, “It’s romantic. Such a corny word to use, but the only one I can think of. It’s romantic country.”

  “That’s because it’s Bonnie Prince Charlie country. Steeped in tradition and nostalgia. The birthplace of a thousand lost causes, the start of long years of exile and depopulation, and all those sterling Scottish women coming into their own.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to live here? I mean, all the time.”

  “I have to earn a living.”

  “Couldn’t you earn a living here?”

  “Not as a chartered accountant. I could be a fisherman. Or a doctor, like Hugh Kyle. He looks after Tuppy and he’s lived here, on and off, all his life.”

  “He must be a happy man.”

  “No,” said Antony. “I don’t really think he is.”

  * * *

  They were in Tarbole by half past six, driving down the steep hill to the little harbor, empty now of the huge fish lorries and enjoying a quiet soon to be shattered by the boats coming in with the night’s haul.

  Because they were still too early, Antony drove down to the harbor road and parked the car in front of a wooden shack which faced out over the wharves and piers and the cranes and the smokehouses.

  As they got out of the car the cold struck at them, rich with the smell of sea, tarred ropes, and fish. The shack had “Sandy Soutar. Teas, Coffees, Snacks” written over the door, and a warm yellow light shone from the steamy windows.

  They went in, stepping up by means of an old herring box. Inside it was very warm, and smelt of new bread and bacon frying, and from behind the counter a fat woman in a flowered overall looked up from her urn, saw Antony, and broke at once into a welcoming smile.

  “Antony Armstrong. For heaven’s sake! What are you doing here, turned up like a bad penny?”

  “Hello, Ina. I’m home for the weekend. Could you give us some breakfast?”

  “Well, of course. Sit down. Make yourselves at home.” She looked past him at Flora, her eyes bright with interest. “And is this your young lady you’ve brought with you? We heard you were going to be married.”

  “Yes,” said Antony, and he took Flora’s hand and pulled her forward. “This is Rose.”

  It was the first time. The first lie. The first hurdle.

  “Hello,” said Flora, and somehow, as easily as that, the hurdle was behind her.

  6

  JASON

  Tuppy had been awake since five o’clock, expecting Antony and Rose since six.

  If she had been well, she would have gotten up and dressed, gone downstairs into the silent sleeping house, and engaged herself in all the familiar routine jobs which she found so comforting. She would have opened the front door and let out the dogs and then gone into the kitchen to put on the kettle, all ready for a cup of tea. Back upstairs, she would have switched on the electric fires in the two prepared bedrooms and ehecked that all was ready and welcoming, with the bedcovers crisp and fresh, hangers in the wardrobes, and the drawers of t
he dressing tables lined with clean white paper.

  Then down again to let in the dogs and give them biscuits and a little petting, to draw curtains, thus letting in the morning light, to stir the embers of the hall fire and lay on some more peat. All would have been warm and welcoming.

  But she was old and now ill, and had to stay in bed while others performed those pleasurable tasks. Frustration and boredom gnawed at her. For two pins, she thought, she would get up and get dressed, and Isobel and Nurse McLeod and Hugh Kyle could all go to the devil. But behind her resentment there was a very real fear. A miserable homecoming it would be for Antony to find his grandmother prone at the foot of the stairs because she hadn’t the sense to do what she was told.

  She sighed, accepting the inevitable. She ate a biscuit out of the tin by her bed and drank a little tea, which Nurse left each night in a thermos. She would contain herself in patience. But being ill, she decided, was a thorough bore. She was thankful she had never tried it before.

  At seven o’clock the house began to stir. She heard Isobel come out of her room and go downstairs; she heard the sounds of dogs and the opening of the big front door, the dungeon-like iron bolts being shot back, and the great key being turned.

  Presently Mrs. Watty’s voice joined Isobel’s and before very long the faint smell of breakfast cooking drifted up from below. Next she heard Jason go to the bathroom, and then his raised voice as he called over the banister, “Aunt Isobel!”

  “Yes?”

  “Have Rose and Antony come?”

  “Not yet. Any moment now.”

  Tuppy watched her door. The handle turned, and it slowly opened. “I’m awake,” she said, as Jason’s blond head came around the edge of it.

  “They haven’t got here yet,” he told her.

  “By the time you get dressed, they’ll probably be here.”

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “Like a top,” lied Tuppy. “Did you?”

  “Yes. At least, I think I did. You don’t know where my Rangers T-shirt is, do you?”

  “Probably in the airing cupboard.”

  “Oh, all right. I’ll go and look.”

  He disappeared, leaving the door open. The next event was the arrival of Sukey who, having been let in from her morning visit to the garden, had headed straight upstairs. She pattered across the floor and leapt by means of a chair onto Tuppy’s bed. With no more ado she settled herself in her usual place at the foot of the eiderdown.

  “Sukey!” Tuppy reproached her, but Sukey was without conscience. She stared coldly at Tuppy for a moment, and then settled down to sleep.

  Nurse was the next visitor, drawing curtains, shutting windows, turning on the fire, and making all Tuppy’s ornaments rattle as she trod heavily about the room.

  “We’ll need to get you tidied up before your grandson and his young lady arrive,” Nurse said, with a gleam in her eye. She pulled at sheets and pillows, reached into the depths of Tuppy’s bed for her hot water bottle, asked her what she wanted for breakfast. “Mrs. Watty’s frying bacon … she says Antony always looks forward to fried bacon his first morning home. Would you fancy a little yourself?”

  And then, just as Tuppy was telling herself that she couldn’t wait another moment, she heard the sound of Antony’s car roaring up the road, through the open gates, and up the potholed driveway. The morning’s calm was shattered by the double flourish of his horn, the screech of brakes, and the spatter of flying gravel. (In Tuppy’s opinion, he always drove too fast.) Downstairs minor pandemonium broke out. Plummer began to bark, footsteps came up the back passage and across the hall, the door opened with a bang, and happy voices filled the house.

  Here you are. Oh, how are you? How lovely to see you.

  Jason said, “Hello, Antony. Did you have a good journey? Will you make me a bow and arrow?”

  Tuppy heard Antony’s voice. “How’s Tuppy?” (Her heart melted with love for him.)

  “She’s awake,” she heard Jason telling him, his voice squeaky with excitement. “She’s waiting for you.”

  Tuppy hugged herself in anticipation and sat watching her door and waiting for him to come, which he did almost immediately, taking the stairs two at a time as usual.

  “Tuppy!”

  “I’m here!”

  Long strides took him down the landing and through the door. He burst into her room and stood beaming at her with a grin on his face like a Cheshire Cat.

  “Tuppy.” He wore Bedford cords and a thick sweater and a leather car coat, and when he came over to her bedside to give her a kiss she could feel the night’s stubble on his chin scraping her cheeks. He was cold and his hair was too long and she could scarcely believe that he was really here.

  They hugged enormously. He drew away from her. “But you’re looking marvelous. What an old fraud you are.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me. You’re later than usual. Did you have a horrid drive over?”

  “No, a very good one. So good that we stopped for breakfast with Sandy in Tarbole. We’re stuffed with sausages and strong tea.”

  “Is Rose with you?”

  “Yes. Downstairs. Do you want to see her?”

  “Of course I want to see her. Fetch her up at once.”

  He went out of the room, and she heard him calling down the stairs. “Rose!” There was no response. Then, louder this time, “Rose! Come along up. Tuppy’s waiting to see you.”

  Tuppy watched the door. When he came back into the room, he was leading Rose by the hand.

  She thought they both seemed shy, almost ill-at-ease, and she found this endearing, as though being in love had peeled away a little of Antony’s bright veneer of sophistication.

  She looked at Rose and remembered her, and thought that the five years between seventeen and twenty-two had transformed a pretty but sometimes sulky girl into something very special. She saw the tanned skin, clear with health and sheer cleanliness; the shining fall of brown hair; the eyes—such dark brown eyes. Tuppy had forgotten they were so dark. She wore the regular uniform of the young these days: washed-out jeans and a turtleneck sweater, and over it a navy blue coat with a tartan lining.

  Rose said, shyly, “I’m afraid I don’t look very tidy.”

  “Oh, my dear! How could you look tidy when you’ve been traveling all night? Anyway, I think you look charming. Now come and give me a kiss.”

  Rose came across and stooped to kiss Tuppy. The dark hair fell forward and touched Tuppy’s cheek. Rose’s own cheek was smooth and cool, reminding Tuppy of crisp, newly picked apples.

  “I thought you were never coming to see me!”

  Rose sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve been in America?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s your mother?”

  “Very well.”

  “And your father?”

  “He’s well too. We were on a trip.” She caught sight of Sukey. “Oh, look, is this your dog?”

  “You remember Sukey, Rose! She used to come on picnics on the beach with us.”

  “She … she must be getting quite old.”

  “She’s ten. That’s seventy in dog years. And even that’s younger than I am. I’ve got more teeth than she has, but then Sukey hasn’t been stupid and ill like me. Did you say you’d had breakfast?”

  “Yes,” said Antony. “We had it in Tarbole.”

  “Oh, what a shame, Mrs. Watty’s frying bacon specially for you. You’ll have to go and toy with it, or at least have a cup of coffee.”

  She smiled at Rose, feasting her eyes on the girl. She relished the thought of having her married to Antony and the pleasure of having her here, at Fernrigg.

  She said, “Let me see your ring,” and Rose showed it to her, the diamonds and sapphires glittering on the slender brown hand.

  “What a pretty one! But then I knew it would be. Antony has very good taste.”

  Rose smiled. It was one of those all-embracing, lighting-up smiles that Tuppy
loved … the teeth very white with the two front ones a little crooked, making her seem very young and vulnerable.

  “How long can you stay?” asked Tuppy, not able to endure the idea that they would have to go away again, ever.

  “Only till tomorrow night,” said Antony. “We both have to get back.”

  “Two days. It’s such a short time.” She gave Rose’s hand a little pat. “Never mind, long enough to enjoy ourselves. And we’re going to have a little party tonight, just one or two people, as it’s such a special occasion.” She caught sight of Antony’s expression. “Now, don’t start fussing. I have that all the time from Isobel and Nurse. Did you know they engaged a nurse to look after me? Mrs. McLeod, and she comes from Fort William.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “She looks exactly like a horse.” Rose gave a snort of laughter. “Such a lot of rubbish, but it does make things a little easier for Isobel. And of course I’m not coming to the party. I shall sit up here with a supper tray and listen to you all having a good time.” She turned to Rose. “I asked Anna and Brian—you remember them, don’t you? Yes, of course you do. I thought it would be fun for you to see them again.”

  Rose said, “I just wish you could be there too.”

  “How sweet you are. But if I stay in bed for just a little while longer, then I’ll be on my feet for your wedding and that’s the most important thing of all.” She smiled again at them, her eyes moving from one face to the other. They watched her, the two pairs of eyes, one so pale and one so dark. Tuppy noticed that the dark eyes were shadowed with tiredness. She said, “Rose, have you slept at all?”

  Rose shook her head. “I couldn’t.”

  “Oh, my dear, you must be exhausted.”

  “I am, a little. Suddenly. Just sleepy.”

  “Would you like to go to bed? Sleep until lunchtime and then you’ll feel better. And perhaps Antony…”

  “I’m all right,” Antony said quickly. “I’ll maybe have a snooze later on in the day.”

  “But Rose must sleep. Mrs. Watty shall make you a hot-water bottle. And afterwards you can have a lovely bath. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”