“Oscar’s not out of the woods yet by any means. He still has a long way to go. Some days he’s been so depressed that he scarcely speaks. But I’ve learned to leave him alone. He has to deal with his grief in his own way.”
“It can’t have been easy.”
“Oh, darling Carrie, nothing is. And now we must waste no more time, otherwise the day will have died. I shall find you a hot-water bottle, and you shall go to sleep.”
LUCY
Friday, December 15
We are here, and it is now ten o’clock at night and it has been a long day. Carrie came to Gran’s flat about half past eight in the morning, and she had a taxi waiting, and then we drove on to Heathrow. Mummy and Gran were still at the flat. Mummy doesn’t fly to Florida till Tuesday. They were still in their dressing-gowns and being very kind. I think they both felt a bit guilty about all the discussions and crossness. They gave me Christmas presents, all wrapped, and I put them in my suitcase. Mummy gave me one hundred fifty pounds and Gran gave me fifty more pounds for spending money. I have never felt so rich and am frightened of losing my purse, but it’s all right, quite safe in my new haversack.
The flight was all right and not bumpy and we had a son of breakfast on the plane. At Inverness a nice man called Alec was there to meet us and drove us here. There was snow on a hill and it took about an hour and a quarter.
Creagan is very old, pretty, and full of quite large houses and a huge church. This is an amazing house, it is much bigger than it looks and is on three storeys. It was rented out, and a lot of the furniture, Oscar told me, came from Carry-dale, the big house he used to stay in when he was a boy and had a grandmother there. I say a lot of furniture, but in fact there isn‘t much, and no pictures or anything. The sitting-room and bedrooms are on the first floor, but I am up again, and in an attic, which Elfrida has done up especially for me. She didn’t have to paint it, as it’s all white and quite fresh, but she has had to buy furniture, which was very kind of her.
So. My worn. It has a sloping ceiling and a skylight (no window) and a striped blind on the skylight, but I don’t suppose I shall ever pull it down, as I am able to lie in bed and look up at the sky. Like being out of doors.
The bed is dark wood, and there is a blue-and-white striped duvet and a tartan rug in case I feel cold. There is a white dressing-table, with a swing mirror and little drawers, and a chest of drawers as well. Then, a bedside table, a lamp, and a very useful table against one of the non-sloping walls. I think it must once have been a kitchen table, as it’s a bit battered, but just right for writing up diary or writing letters, et cetera. Then there are two chairs and some hooks on the wall for me to hang my clothes. I haven’t brought very many. The floor is scrubbed floorboards and in the middle is a wonderful thick rug with lots of bright colours, and by my bedside there is a sheepskin for stepping out onto on cold mornings. I find it all so different and romantic.
Elfrida and Oscar are really nice. I thought they would be terribly old. They are old, but don’t look it, or talk like it. Elfrida is very tall and thin with orangey hair, and Oscar is also tall, but not quite so thin. And he has a lot of white hair, a very soft voice, gentle eyes. Before we left London, Carrie told me about his wife and his daughter Francesca being killed in a terrible car smash. And their dogs as well. I was rather dreading meeting him, because it is difficult sometimes to know what to say to someone who has suffered something so awful. But he is really nice and didn‘t seem at all upset when he saw me and Carrie. We had lunch, and then he asked me to go out for a walk with him and Horace. Horace is Elfrida’s dog. So we went, and it wasn‘t too cold, and we looked at shops and sat in the church for a bit, and then we went out again, and crossed the golf links and went to the beach. The beach is lovely, long and clean, with no plastic bottles or rubbish. Lots of shells. I picked up two scallops. I shall go again, and take Horace with me.
I am really happy. I’ve never lived in such a big house, but it has a nice feel, as though well-to-do and cheerful people had always lived here. It has a big garden, too, at the back, but not much growing there at this time of year. Tomorrow I shall explore.
OSCAR
Oscar, rather to his surprise, was having a bonfire.
At Dibton, at the Grange, he had become an enthusiastic gardener, mostly because he was retired, and a little piano teaching and the occasional Sunday-morning duty in the village church still left him with time on his hands. To begin with, he was totally inexperienced. Had never even watered a window-box. But, starting up, he realized that long-forgotten wisdoms came floating up from his subconscious, wisdoms left over from the holidays he had spent at Corrydale with his grandmother, a natural gardener so experienced and accomplished that others came to view the glories of Corrydale and seek her advice.
The practical aspects he taught himself-by trial and error, and by intensive study of huge gardening tomes. As well, he had the help of the two local men who came in to cut grass, do a bit of forestry, and deal with the heavy digging. Before long, his new hobby had absorbed him, and he enjoyed the physical exercise, the pleasures of planning and planting, and the simple satisfaction of being out of doors.
Coming to Creagan in the middle of winter, there wasn’t much he could do about the steep terraced garden that climbed the slope behind the Estate House. He had swept up a number of dead leaves and cleared blocked drains, and that was all. But this morning, at breakfast, Elfrida had complained about an overgrown lilac bush that spilt out over the path and got in her way when she went up to the washing-line with her basket of wet laundry.
Oscar said that he would deal with the wayward lilac.
After breakfast, he took down the key of the potting-shed from its hook on the dresser, and went out to investigate. It was a strange sort of day, overcast, and with only a slight movement of chill air. From time to time the clouds parted to reveal a scrap of blue sky, but looking, he could still see the snow lying on the hills, which meant there was more to come.
He managed to turn the rusty key and tug the warped wooden door open, revealing a dark and musty interior scarcely lit by a small cob webby window. There was a potting-table, on which lay a lot of earth, some broken flowerpots, a stack of yellowed newspapers, and a few archaic tools, like dibbers and bill hooks There was no mower or trimmer, nor any piece of modem equipment, but around the walls, on huge masonry nails, hung heavy old forks and spades. A rake, a hoe, a rusted saw, a formidable scythe. All were in dire need of care and attention, and he thought he would clean and oil them all, but could find no oilcan amongst the chaos and decided that that particular job must wait.
In a box filled with nuts, bolts, and rusted spanners, he found a pair of secateurs, ancient but more or less workable. Using these, he went out and dealt with the lilac, which left him with a pile of branches in need of disposal. There was no wheelbarrow, and indeed a wheelbarrow would be useless in this precipitous plot, so he found a ragged potato sack, stuffed the branches into this, and lugged it up to the top of the garden where, behind an old plum tree, there were the blackened remains of some previous bonfire.
He decided, then, to clear out the potting-shed and burn all the rubbish while it was a dry, still day, and while he was in the mood.
There was a great deal of it, and it took several journeys up and down the path to get it all collected. He made spills out of the newspaper, chopped up some rotted wooden seed-boxes, and got his fire started. Soon it was blazing nicely, and he was raking up leaves and getting quite warm. He took off his jacket, hung it on the plum tree, and worked in his sweater. The thick smoke rose and billowed and made everything smell of autumn. Then he started in on some smothering ivy, cutting and tearing it back off the old stone wall, and so intent was he on this labour that he did not hear the back gate open and shut, and he did not see the man who walked up the path behind him.
“Oscar.”
Startled, Oscar swung around, to face Peter Kennedy. Peter was dressed for golf, in his red jacket and with his
long-peaked baseball cap pulled down over his brow.
“Heavens, I never heard you.”
“I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. But I’m on my way to the Golf Club, I’m playing at half past ten. I saw the smoke from the fire, and guessed I’d find you here.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Nothing, really. But I wanted to tell you that I was in Inverness yesterday, and I dropped in at the hospital to see Godfrey Billicliffe.”
“That was good of you. How is he?”
Peter shook his head.
“Not good news, I’m afraid. He’s very ill. He has cancer….”
Cancer. Oscar said, “Oh, God.”
“… I think, he already had his own private suspicions, fears. But never said a word to anybody. He told me he’d been feeling unwell for a long time, but had never gone to see the doctor. Just dosed himself with pain-killers and whisky. He didn’t want to be told … he was frightened of the truth.”
“He was frightened that day I found him in his bed.”
“I know.”
Oscar thought about the sick old man, remembered the weak tears that had brimmed his rheumy eyes.
“Does he know?” he asked.
“Yes. He persuaded the young consultant to tell him.”
“How long has he got?”
“A little time. He’s dying. But he’s comfortable and quite peaceful, I think, rather enjoying all the attention and the nurses taking care of him. It will be a relief.”
“I must go and see him.”
“No. He asked me to tell you no. He’s doped and frail, and already has the look of a man on his way out of this world. But he asked me to send you his regards and to say how grateful he was for your kindness.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You did: And you were there when he most needed a friend.”
Oscar kicked, with the toe of his boot, a smouldering twig into the heart of his fire. For a moment, remembering his reluctance even to speak to old Billicliffe, dodging around street corners in mortal dread of meeting him, he hated himself.
He said, “Did you speak to the doctor in the hospital?”
“Yes. When I’d said goodbye, I tracked the consultant down, and he confirmed what I already knew.”
“What can I do?”
“Little, really. Perhaps write him a note. Send him a card. He’d like that.”
“It seems a bit tame.”
“He really is quite peaceful. Not struggling, not distressed. Sleeps most of the time, but when he did open his eyes, he recognized me, and we spoke and he was perfectly lucid. I think, accepting.”
Oscar sighed hugely.
“Well, I suppose that’s it, then.” He thought of practicalities.
“I’m down as his next of kin.”
“They’ll let you know. Or myself. We’ll keep in touch.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
“I knew that you would want to know. Now I must be off, and leave you to your bonfire.”
Oscar laid down his rake.
“I’ll come with you to the gate.”
They walked down the path in single file. At the gate, Peter paused.
“There’s something else. It occurred to me that perhaps you might be missing your music.” He felt in the pocket of his red golf jacket and produced a small brass key.
“The church is always open, but the organ locked. I have discussed it with Alistair Heggie, our organist, and he is happy for you to use it any time you feel so inclined. Here….” Before Oscar could protest, Peter had taken his wrist and pressed the key into his outstretched palm, closing his fingers about it.
Oscar said, “Oh, no….”
“You don’t have to. You might not even want to. But I’d like to think that you can, if the impulse takes you, and if you feel it would help.”
“You are too kind.”
“Just put it somewhere safe.” Peter grinned.
“It’s our only spare.” He turned as if to go, and then turned back again.
“I think my brain is going soft. I very nearly forgot. Another of the reasons I came in search of you. Tabitha says would you all like to come up to the Manse for a drink and a mince pie on Tuesday evening at six. Everybody’s welcome. Nothing formal. Don’t dress up. Our children will probably be around….”
“Tuesday.” Oscar, still holding the key, made a mental note. He must not forget to tell Elfrida.
“Tuesday at six. I think we’d like that very much.”
“Splendid.” Peter went through the gate and latched it behind him.
“We’ll see you then.”
“Have a good round. And thank you for coming.”
LUCY
On Monday morning, when Lucy descended from her private eyrie in the attic, she saw, on the first-floor landing, that Carrie’s bedroom door was closed. Her first thought was that perhaps Carrie had overslept, and wondered if she should wake her up, and then, fortuitously, decided against it.
Downstairs, she found only Oscar and Elfrida in the midst of breakfast. This morning Oscar was eating sausages, and Lucy hoped there would be some for her. Sausages for breakfast was one of her ideas of heaven.
“Lucy.” As she appeared through the door, he laid down his coffee-cup, and smiled.
“How are you this morning?”
“I’m fine, but where’s Carrie?”
“Carrie’s really not well.” Elfrida got up from the table to collect Lucy’s sausages from the hot plate “I don’t think she’s got flu, but she certainly isn’t throwing this horrible cold off. Two sausages, or three?”
“Three, please, if there’s enough. Is she still in bed?”
“Yes, I looked in to see her, and she said she’d coughed all night, and hadn’t been able to sleep, and was feeling thoroughly fed up with herself. I took her up a cup of tea, but she doesn’t want anything to eat. When the Health Centre opens at nine, I’m going to ring Dr. Sinclair and ask if he’ll come around and have a look at her.”
“Does he make house calls?”
“The Health Centre’s only across the road.”
Lucy sat down to her sausages.
“In London, doctors never do house calls. You have to go and sit in the waiting room with all the other sick people. Gran always says you come out with more things wrong with you than when you went in. Do you think she’s going to be all right? Carrie, I mean. She must be all right for Christmas.”
“We’ll see what Dr. Sinclair says.”
“Can I go and see her?”
“I shouldn’t, until we know what’s wrong. It might be frightfully contagious and then you’d come out in spots. Or running sores. Like poor Job.”
Lucy ate her sausages, which were delicious, and Elfrida poured her a cup of coffee. She said, “It’s really disappointing, because we’d planned a long walk on the beach this morning, with Horace.”
“No reason why you shouldn’t go.”
“Will you come, Oscar?”
“I can’t, this morning. I’ve got a lot of letters to write, and then I’m going to get my hair cut. After that I’m going to the bookshop to order two books, and then I am going to pick up the meat from the butcher.”
“Oh, I see.” It was hard not to sound downcast.
He smiled.
“You can go on your own. Take Horace. He will guard you. You can be a lone explorer.”
Lucy brightened.
“Can I?”
“Of course.”
She mulled over this new prospect of freedom while she ate her sausages, and found that she was rather taken with the idea of setting out, with the dog, all by herself. For obvious reasons she was not allowed to go for long, solitary walks in London, and if she did have some arrangement made with Emma, her mother always had to know where she was going, and when she would be back. But here, in Creagan, it was obvious that such precautions were not necessary. Elfrida and Oscar didn’t even lock their front door. In the town, cars and lorries
drove very slowly, and shoppers quite often walked in the middle of the road, stopping from time to time to chat, and on the streets and pavements there always seemed to be unaccompanied children skateboarding or otherwise flocking around in gangs. The day that Oscar had taken her as far as the beach, she had seen youngsters climbing rocks, riding bicycles, and not an adult in view. As for sinister men in raincoats, drunks, or drug addicts, they simply didn’t seem to exist in this wholesome climate. Perhaps, like germs and mildew, they did not flourish in the cold.
The back door opened and slammed shut.
“Mrs. Snead,” said Oscar, and in a moment she was with them, bursting into the kitchen, wearing a pink track suit and a dashing pair of trainers.
“Oh, it’s ‘orrible again,” she told them.
“Black clouds. Looks like snow to me.” She saw Lucy. “
“Ullo, what are you doing ‘ere? Come to stay? Where’s your auntie?”
She had a head of tight grey curls and wore pink glass earrings to match her track suit.
“She’s in bed. She’s not well.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Seen the doctor, ‘as she?”
“Elfrida’s going to ring him up and ask him to come.”
“Well.” Mrs. Snead gazed at Elfrida.
“What a turn-up for the books. I mean, ‘having an invalid. And only just got ‘ere. That’s bad luck. You’re Lucy, aren’t you? Mrs. Phipps told me about you. What do you think of your room? We ‘ad a lovely time doing it all up for you. It was just an empty old attic before.”
“Have a cup of tea, Mrs. Snead,” said Elfrida, and Mrs. Snead said that would be very nice, and proceeded to make herself a mug, with a tea-bag, and then settled down at the table to drink it.
Lucy knew that Gran would disapprove violently of such familiar carryings-on, and, perversely, liked Mrs. Snead all the more.
The morning progressed. Mrs. Snead Hoovered, Lucy and Oscar washed up the breakfast dishes, and Elfrida went off to telephone the doctor. At ten o’clock, the doorbell rang, and Lucy ran downstairs to let him in, but he had already done so, and she found him wiping his boots on the front-door mat.
Winter Solstice Page 27
