Emily

by Cooper Jilly

‘Among other things,’ said Rory. ‘She’s perfectly all right.’

  ‘She looks it,’ said Finn. He bent down to stroke Walter Scott who thumped his tail noisily on the floor.

  ‘And stop sucking up to my dog,’ snarled Rory.

  ‘Oh, please,’ I said, ‘leave Finn and me for a few minutes.’

  Rory scowled at both of us. ‘All right,’ he said, going towards the door, ‘but if you put a finger wrong, Finn, I’ll report you to the medical council and get you struck off the register.’ And he slammed the door so hard, all the windows rattled.

  Finn raised an eyebrow. ‘What was that little tantrum in aid of?’

  ‘He was trying to give me the sack,’ I said miserably. ‘And you interrupted him. You’ve heard that his real father’s turned up?’

  Finn nodded.

  ‘So there’s nothing to stop Rory and Marina now.’

  ‘It’s not going to be as easy as that, there’s Hamish to be considered. I doubt if he’ll give Marina a divorce.’

  ‘It’s funny,’ I said, feeling very ashamed of myself, ‘none of us ever thinks of Hamish, do we?’

  Finn gave me some tranquillizers. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m off to a conference in Glasgow this afternoon. I’d cancel it, but I’ve got to speak. I’m not too happy about the current situation. Marina’s in a highly overwrought state. So, obviously, is Rory, and I’m worried about Hamish. I want you to stay in bed today. I’ll be staying at the Kings Hotel tonight, don’t hesitate to ring me if you need me. Here’s the telephone number.’ He dropped a kiss on the top of my head. ‘Don’t look so miserable, little one, things will sort themselves out.’

  Knocking back tranquillizers like Smarties, I decided to disregard Finn’s advice and get up. When I finally made it downstairs, I found a noisy and drunken lunch had just finished. The debris of wine glasses, napkins and cigar butts still lay on the dining-room table. Buster was bustling about organizing his pigeon shoot. I went into the kitchen and opened a tin of Pedigree Chum for Walter. Then wandered into the drawing-room where I found Alexei well entrenched, chewing on a large cigar, drinking port and reading a book called The Grouse in Health and in Disease.

  ‘Ah, my enchanting daughter-in-law,’ he said, getting to his feet and kissing my hand with a flourish. Oh God, I hoped my fingers didn’t smell of Pedigree Chum. ‘Come and sit down,’ he patted a rather small space on the sofa beside him, ‘and tell me about yourself.’

  Predictably I couldn’t think of anything to say, but Alexei had obviously had enough to drink for it not to matter a scrap.

  ‘Coco tells me you lost a baby recently — I am so sorry — you must have been very disappointed. You must have another one — as soon as you’re strong again. You and Rory would have beautiful children.’ It was not a subject I cared to dwell on.

  ‘Do you have lots of children yourself?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I think so, several that I know about and several that I probably don’t, but none, I think, as talented as Rory. I have been looking at his paintings this morning. I am proud of my new son, he is a very good-looking boy, I think.’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ I said wistfully.

  ‘And not unlike me, I think,’ said Alexei with satisfaction. He got up. ‘I must go and change for the shooting.’

  ‘But it’ll be dark in a couple of hours,’ I said.

  ‘We wait till dusk and catch the pigeons as they come home to roost,’ he said.

  ‘Poor things,’ I said. ‘Where’s Rory?’

  ‘Gone to fetch his gun. Hamish is coming too.’ Suddenly, in spite of the centrally heated fug of the house, I felt icy cold. I didn’t like the idea of that cast of characters going shooting.

  Alexei went up to change. I turned on the television and watched a steeplechase. It all looked so bright green and innocent one couldn’t really believe those horses falling at the fences were really hurting themselves.

  A few minutes later, Rory arrived with Walter Scott. ‘Who told you to get up?’ he asked angrily. ‘You look frightful.’

  ‘I thought I might come and watch you all shooting,’ I said.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ snapped Rory. ‘You’re supposed to rest — according to your doctor. Go back upstairs at once.’

  At that moment Buster walked in, looking ludicrously like a French tart in rubber thigh boots and an extraordinary hat with a veil.

  ‘Time’s getting on, Rory,’ he said, ‘we ought to take up our positions at least an hour before dusk.’

  ‘Is he getting married to Alexei already?’ I said.

  Rory laughed: ‘It’s supposed to stop the pigeons seeing his face when they fly over — a pity he doesn’t wear it all the time. Come on,’ he whistled to Walter Scott.

  ‘Rory,’ I said. He turned in the doorway. ‘Be careful,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s all gun and no fear.’

  I met Coco coming down the stairs.

  ‘’Ullo bébé, how are you, I am fed up. I ’ope the presence of Alexei would make Buster jealous, and spend less time on his horrible bloody sports, but it only makes ’im worse. I like to have a good sleep in the afternoon, but what is the point if there is no-one to sleep with you? So Marcelle and I decided to go over to the mainland. You will be all right, mon ange?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  I tried to sleep but I was in much too uptight a state. I heard voices outside and crept to the window to see them go off. Poor Hamish looked iller than ever. Alexei was laughing at some joke of Buster’s. Walter Scott, who was thoroughly over-excited by the whole proceedings, suddenly decided to mount Hamish’s red setter bitch. Hamish went mad and rushed over and started kicking Walter in the ribs in a frenzy. Walter started howling and Rory turned on Hamish in fury. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Hamish went absolutely spare with rage. I could see the white of his knuckles as his hands clenched on his gun. Then Buster came over and said something and they all set off, their boots ringing on the drive.

  They crossed the burn and took the narrow, winding path up to the pine woods. I thought of the pigeons coming home after a long day to face the music: tomorrow they would be strung up as corpses in the larder, their destination pigeon pie.

  I took more tranquillizers and tried to sleep, but it was impossible. I tried to read, Coco had left some magazines by the bed. I read my horoscope, which was lousy. Rory’s horoscope said he was going to have a good week for romance, blast him, but should be careful of unforeseen danger towards the weekend. I should never have let him go shooting.

  An explosion of guns in the distance made me jump nervously. Then I heard a crunch of wheels on the gravel and looked out of the window again. It was Marina, Miss Machiavelli herself. She parked her blue car in front of the house and switched off the engine, then combed her hair, powdered her nose, and put on more scent — the conniving bitch. God, how I hated her.

  She got out of the car, fragile in a huge sheepskin coat and brown boots, her red hair streaming in the breeze, and set off down the track the guns had taken.

  No wonder Rory had been so insistent about my staying in bed and keeping out of his way. Drawn by some terrible fascination to see what they were getting up to, I got up, put on an old sheepskin coat of Coco’s and set off after her.

  The guns popped in the distance, like some far-off firework party. It was getting dark, the fir trees beetled darkly, a rabbit scuttled over the dead leaves, frightening the life out of me. The sweat was rising on my forehead, my breath coming in great gasps. I ran on, ducking to avoid overhanging branches. There was the ADDERS — PLEASE KEEP OUT sign Buster had put up to frighten off tourists. I could hear voices now; the colour was going out of the woods; in the distance the sea was darkening to gun metal.

  Suddenly I rounded a corner and, to my relief, saw Buster’s gamekeeper, then Marina’s red hair, and the guns strung out in a ring; Buster still wearing that ludicrous veil, Alexei next to him, then Rory, then Hamish, with Marina standing between them, but
slightly behind. She was lighting one cigarette from another. I hoped they wouldn’t see me, then I stepped on a twig and she and Rory looked round. He looked absolutely furious. Buster smiled at me, waving and indicating to me to stay quiet. Walter Scott sat beside Rory, quivering with excitement, trying to look grown up. Marina tiptoed back and stood beside me. On closer inspection she didn’t look so hot, her skin pale and mottled, her eyes sunken and bloodshot. Even so, there was plenty of the old dash about her.

  ‘I thought you were at death’s door,’ she said. ‘It’s been quite exciting, Alexei has already tried to shoot a couple of sheep and nearly killed Hamish — I wish he’d tried harder.’

  ‘What are they waiting for?’ I asked.

  ‘The pigeons,’ she said, ‘they’re late back. I had the most cataclysmic row with Hamish last night,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘I ended up throwing most of the silver at him. We started at four o’clock in the morning and went on till just before he came out. This is half-time, I ought to be sucking oranges and thinking what to do in the second half. He said I behaved atrociously last night,’ she went on, her eyes glittering wildly, ‘and that he absolutely refuses to divorce me. Has Rory spoken to you?’ she said, suddenly tense.

  ‘He tried to this morning,’ I hissed, ‘but your dear brother walked in in the middle.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ whispered Marina, ‘that Rory feels frightfully guilty about you because everything’s worked out for him, now he can marry me. If you went off with Finn it would make things much easier for everyone.’

  ‘I don’t want to go off with Finn,’ I said, my voice rising. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, riding roughshod over everyone’s lives, don’t you ever think that Hamish and I might have feelings?’

  Marina turned her great headlamp eyes on me: ‘I’d never hang around being a bore to a man who couldn’t stand me — I’ve got too much pride, you obviously haven’t.’

  ‘Shut up you two,’ said Buster.

  We were silent but the whole forest must have heard my heart thudding.

  Then suddenly the pigeons came sailing over the view over the pine tops, and with a deafening crash the guns went off. It was like being in the middle of a thunderstorm, except that the sky was raining pigeons. The deafening fusillade lasted about three minutes.

  Some of the birds escaped unscathed, others came down directly. The guns charged about looking for booty. Dogs circled, cursed by their masters. Alexei stood proudly with two birds in each hand. There were congratulations and verdicts. Walter Scott rushed grinning up to me, his mouth full of feathers.

  ‘Must be some more in here,’ said Buster, disappearing into the undergrowth. A minute later his great red face appeared and he said in a low voice, ‘Rory, come here a minute.’ Rory, followed by Walter Scott, went into the undergrowth.

  There was a pause, then Rory came out, his face ashen in the half light, shaking like a leaf.

  ‘What’s the matter, darling?’ Marina ran forward. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Hamish,’ said Rory. ‘There’s been an accident. I’m afraid he’s blown his brains out.’ His face suddenly worked like a small boy about to cry. ‘Don’t look, Marina, it’s horrible.’

  Marina gave a scream and rushed into the wood after Buster. Rory disappeared to the right: next moment I heard the sound of retching.

  Marina emerged a minute later, her eyes mad with hysteria. ‘There, you see,’ she screamed at me, ‘Rory killed him, he killed him for me, because he thought Hamish wasn’t going to let me go. Now who do you think Rory loves?’

  ‘Don’t be bloody silly, Marina,’ said Buster, coming out of the copse. ‘Of course Rory didn’t kill him, poor old boy obviously did himself in.’

  Rory, having regained his composure, had returned.

  ‘I didn’t, Marina,’ he said, as she ran forward and collapsed in his arms. ‘I swear I didn’t.’

  ‘Well, it’s my fault then,’ she sobbed. ‘I told Hamish to do it, I told him how much I loathed and hated him, how much he disgusted me. I goaded him into it. Oh, Rory, Rory, I’ll never forgive myself.’

  I turned away. I couldn’t bear the infinitely tender way he was holding her in his arms, stroking her hair, and telling her everything would be all right. Suddenly there was an unearthly wailing: everyone jumped nervously, then we realized it was Hamish’s red setter howling with misery.

  ‘She was the only one,’ said Rory, ‘who gave a damn for the poor old bugger.’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I can’t really remember much of getting back.

  Rory took me home; he was in a terrible state, shaking like a leaf. He came in and poured a stiff whisky and downed it in one gulp.

  ‘Look, I must go to her.’

  I nodded mechanically. ‘Yes, of course you must.’

  ‘I’m frightened this will unhinge her; I feel sort of responsible, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Do you want to come too?’

  I looked at him for the last time, taking in the brown fur rug on the sofa, the yellow cushions, the gold of his corduroy jacket, his dark hair and deathly pale face, the smell of turpentine, the utter despair in my heart. I shook my head, ‘I’d rather stay here.’

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he said, and was gone.

  So Hamish had loved Marina after all. What was it that Marina had said that afternoon — that she’d never hang around being a bore to a man who couldn’t stand her.

  So the game had ended that never should have begun. I’m not a noble character, but I know when I’m licked.

  For the second time in two months I packed my suitcase. I had no thought of going to Finn. Finn fancied me, but he didn’t really love me. Not as Rory understood love. And now I couldn’t have Rory, I didn’t want second best.

  I left a note.

  ‘Darling,

  Hamish has set you and Marina free, now I’m going to do the same. Please be happy and don’t try and find me.

  Emily.’

  Mist swathed the Irasa hills, the lochs lay about them like steel and silver medallions in the moonlight. A small, chill wind whispered among the heather. I walked the narrow track that twisted down the hill to the ferry. I caught the last boat of the day. There was scarcely anyone on it. I stood on deck, and watched the castle and everything I loved in the world getting dimmer and dimmer until they vanished in a mist of tears.

  I shall never remember how I got through the next ten days. I went to ground in a shabby London hotel bedroom. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. I just lay dry-eyed on my bed like a wounded animal, shocked by incredulous grief and horror.

  I toyed with the idea of going to see my parents, or ringing up Nina, but I couldn’t bear the expressions of sympathy, then the whispering, and later, the ‘I told you so’s’, and ‘We always knew he was a bad lot’, and much later — the ‘Pull yourself togethers’. Sooner or later I knew I would have to face up to life, but I hadn’t got the courage to get in touch with them yet, nor could I face the bitter disappointment I would feel if Rory hadn’t rung them and tried to contact me.

  But why should he contact me? He must be blissfully happy now with Marina. The idea of them together rose black and churning. Sometimes I thought I was going mad. Even my unconscious played tricks on me. Every night I dreamed of Rory and woke up in tears. In the street I saw lean, dark, tall men and, heart thumping, would charge forward, shrinking away in horror when I realized it wasn’t him.

  I hoped I would find it easier as the days went by, but it got much worse. What I hadn’t anticipated was going slap into the infinitely bosky lushness of a late London spring. Everything was far further on than it was in Scotland. Outside my bedroom window the new lime-green leaves of the plane trees swung like little cherubs’ wings, ice-cream pink cherry trees were dropping their blossom on the long grass. Huge velvety purple irises and bluebells filled the Chelsea gardens. Everywhere, too, there was an atmosphere of sexiness, of sap risi
ng, of pretty girls walking the streets in their new summer dresses, of men whistling at them, of lovers entwined in the park, everything geared to ram home my loss to me.

  ‘He’s gone, he’s gone, and when thou knowest this thou knowest how dry a cinder this world is.’

  The day of the opening of Rory’s exhibition came and went. With heroic self-control, I stuck to the hotel and didn’t hang around in the coffee bar opposite in the hope of getting a glimpse of him. I couldn’t face the anguish of seeing him with Marina.

  But next morning I dragged myself up and went out and bought the papers, and crept back to the hotel to read them. The reviews were very mixed: some of the critics loathed the paintings, some adored them, but everyone agreed that a dazzling new talent had arrived. There were also several pictures of Rory looking sulky and arrogant, and impossibly handsome. The Nureyev of the Art world, the gossip columns called him.

  I cried half the morning, trying to decide what to do; then the manager presented me with my weekly bill, and I realized I could only just pay it. Next week I should have to get a job.

  I had a bath and washed my hair. I looked frightful, like one of those women that wait for the bodies at the pit head — even make-up didn’t help much. I can’t even make any money as a tart now, I said dismally — I’d have to pay them.

  When I got to Bond Street, I felt giddy. It struck me I hadn’t eaten for days. I went into a coffee bar and ordered an omelette, but when it arrived I took one bite and thought I was going to throw up. Chucking down a pound I fled into the street. Four doors down, I went up the steps to the agency that used to find me work in the old days. How well I remembered that grey-carpeted, grey-walled, potted-plant world that I hoped I’d abandoned for ever. I started to sweat and tremble.

  Audrey Kennaway, the principal, agreed to see me. She greeted me in an immaculate, utterly awful primrose yellow dress and jacket. Her heavily made-up eyes swept over me.

  ‘Well, Emily,’ she said in cooing tones, ‘it’s nice to see you. How are you enjoying your new jet-set life? Are you on your way to Newmarket or the Cannes Film Festival?’