Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  He was wrong. As he came around the last curve of the lane, he saw the car parked in front of the house. The front door was open and a tall man was on the point of emerging, with a dog at his side. Immediately, all was lost. Miss Pritchett had not owned a dog, and Loden considered this his garden. He now let out a furious woof and all his hackles went up. The other dog sprang to instant attention, and William grabbed, just in time, for Loden’s collar.

  Dark mutterings sounded in Loden’s throat. “For heaven’s sake, Loden, behave yourself,” William whispered desperately, but the other dog was already bounding towards them, a friendly-looking Labrador bitch, ready and waiting for a game.

  Loden growled again. “Loden!” William jerked his collar. The growl changed to a whine. The Labrador approached and the dogs tentatively sniffed at each other. Loden’s hackles subsided, his tail began to wag. Cautiously, William released him, and the two dogs began to romp. So that was all right. Now he had to deal with the Labrador’s owner. He looked up. The man was coming towards him. A tall man, with a pleasantly weather-beaten look, as though he spent much time out of doors. The wind ruffled his greying hair, and he wore spectacles and a blue sweater. He carried a clipboard and a yardstick. He looked a bit like an architect. William hoped that he was.

  He said, “Good morning.”

  The man looked at his wrist-watch. “Actually, it’s good afternoon. Half past one.”

  “I didn’t know it was so late.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking my dog for a walk. Going over the common and up onto the hill. I always used to come this way when Miss Pritchett was alive.” He enlarged on this. “I live in the house at the bottom of the road.”

  “The lodge?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “William Radlett. I saw in the paper this morning that this house has been sold, but I didn’t think there’d be anybody here.”

  “Just looking around,” said the man. “Taking a few measurements.”

  “Are you an architect?”

  “No. My name’s Geoffrey Wray.”

  “Oh, so you…? He felt himself grow red in the face. “But you…” He had almost said, You don’t look like an adding machine. “I … I’m afraid I’m trespassing,” he finished at last, sounding feeble.

  “No matter,” said Mr. Wray. “I’m not living here yet. Like I said, just taking a few measurements.” He turned to look back at the worn fabric face of the house. As though seeing it for the first time, William noticed the rotting trellis that supported the upper balcony, the blistered paintwork and broken guttering.

  He said, “I suppose it will need a lot done to it. It’s a bit old-fashioned.”

  “Yes, but charming. And most of it I can do myself. It’ll take time, but that’s half the fun.” The two dogs were by now quite at ease with each other, chasing around the rhododendron bushes and searching for rabbits. “They’ve made friends,” observed Mr. Wray.

  “Yes.”

  “How about you? I was just going to have something to eat. Brought a picnic with me. Like to share it?”

  William remembered the shepherd’s pie, uneaten, and realized that he was ravenously hungry.

  “Have you got enough?”

  “I imagine so. Let’s go and look.”

  He took a basket from the back seat of his car and carried this to the wrought-iron garden seat that stood by the front door. In the sun and out of the wind, it was quite warm. William accepted a ham sandwich.

  “I’ve only got lager to drink,” said Mr. Wray. “Are you old enough to drink lager?”

  “I’m twelve.”

  “Old enough,” decided Mr. Wray, and handed over a can. “And there’s a fruit-cake. My mother makes excellent fruit-cake.”

  “Did she make the sandwiches, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you live with her?”

  “Just for the moment. Until I come to live here.”

  “Are you going to live here alone?”

  “I haven’t got a wife, if that’s what you mean.”

  “My mother thought you might have a wife and a lot of jolly children for us to play with.”

  He smiled. “Who’s us?”

  “Miranda and me. She’s nearly seven.”

  “And where is she today?”

  “She and my mother have gone out for lunch.”

  “Have you always lived in the lodge?”

  “Yes, always.”

  “Does your father work in the town?”

  “I haven’t got a father. He died about ten months ago.”

  “I am sorry.” He looked and sounded both distressed and genuinely sympathetic, but, blessedly, not in the least embarrassed by William’s revelation. “I lost my father when I was about your age. Nothing’s ever quite the same again, is it?”

  “No. No, it’s not the same.”

  “How about a chocolate biscuit?” He held one out. William took it and looked up, straight into Mr. Wray’s eyes, and suddenly smiled, for no particular reason except that he felt comforted and at ease, and … last, but not least … not hungry any longer.

  * * *

  When they had finished the picnic they went indoors and all through the house, room by room. Without furniture, smelling chill and slightly damp, it could have been depressing, but it wasn’t. On the contrary, it was rather exciting, and flattering to be discussing plans as though he were a grown-up man.

  “I thought I’d take this wall down, make a big open-plan kitchen. Fit an Aga in here, and build pine fitments around that corner.”

  His enthusiasm dispelled the gloom even of the old kitchen, which smelt of stone floors and mice.

  “And this old scullery I’ll turn into a workshop, with the work-bench here, under the window, and plenty of space for hanging tools and storing stuff.”

  “My father had a workshop, but it was in a shed in the garden.”

  “I expect you use it now.”

  “No. I’m useless with my hands.”

  “It’s amazing what you can do if you have to.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said William impulsively, and then stopped.

  “What did you think?” Mr. Wray prompted gently.

  “I thought I could do something because I had to. But I can’t. It’s too difficult.”

  “What would you be trying to do?”

  “Build a doll’s house. From a kit. For my sister’s birthday.”

  “What’s gone wrong?”

  “Everything. I’m stuck. I can’t get the staircase to fit, and I can’t work out how to put the window-frames together. And the instructions are so complicated.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking,” said Mr. Wray politely, “but if you aren’t a particularly handy chap, why did you embark on this in the first place?”

  “Miranda was promised a doll’s house, by my father. And they’re too expensive to buy. I really thought I could do it.” He added, making a clean breast of his own stupidity, “And it cost twenty pounds. I’ve wasted twenty pounds.”

  “Couldn’t your mother help you?”

  “I want it to be a surprise.”

  “Isn’t there anyone you could ask?”

  “Not really.”

  Mr. Wray turned and leaned against the old sink, his arms folded. “How about me?” he asked.

  William looked up at him, frowning. “You?”

  “Why not?”

  “You’d help me?”

  “If you want.”

  “This afternoon? Now?”

  “Good a time as any.”

  He was flooded with gratitude. “Would you really? Just explain it to me. Show me what to do. It won’t take long. No more than half an hour…”

  * * *

  But it took a good deal longer than half an hour. The instructions had to be carefully studied, the little staircase sandpapered down and fitted into place. (It looked splendid; really real.) Then, on a clean
sheet of newspaper, Mr. Wray placed all the little bits of wood in order, arranged into five small window surrounds, ready to be glued.

  “You fit the glass in first, and then the frames fit round it, and keep it in place. Just like an ordinary window.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Like all things, once explained, it became marvellously simple.

  “You’d better paint them first and let them dry before you fix them permanently. And then the roof goes like this; and the scotia angle gets glued along the top of the front panel, so…”

  “I can do that.”

  “The hinges might be tricky. It’s a question of getting them quite straight so that the front panel swings straight. You don’t want any sag.”

  They worked on, companionably, and all became as clear as light. So preoccupied was William, so involved, that he did not hear the car coming up the road and stopping at the gate, and the first inkling that he had of his mother’s return was the sound of the front door opening and her voice calling to him.

  “William!”

  She was back already. He looked at his watch and was astonished to see that it was nearly five o’clock. The hours had flown past like moments.

  He sprang to his feet. “That’s my mother.”

  Mr. Wray smiled. “So I guessed.”

  “We’d better go down. And, Mr. Wray, don’t say anything.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And thank you so much for helping me. I can’t thank you enough.”

  He went from the room and hung over the landing banister. Mother and sister stood below him in the hall, their faces turned up towards him. His mother carried an enormous bunch of daffodils, wrapped in pale-blue tissue paper, and Miranda clutched a new and particularly hideous doll.

  “Did you have a good time?” he asked.

  “Lovely. William, there’s a car outside with a dog in it.”

  “It’s Mr. Wray’s. He’s here.” He turned as Mr. Wray emerged from the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and came to stand beside William. “You know,” William went on. “He’s bought the Manor House.”

  His mother’s smile became a little fixed, as she gazed in some astonishment at the tall stranger who had so unexpectedly appeared. William hastily filled in the ensuing silence with explanations. “We met this afternoon, and he came home with me to give me a hand with … well, with something…”

  “Oh…” With a visible effort, she collected herself. “Mr. Wray … but how very kind…”

  “Not at all, it’s been a pleasure,” he told her in his deep voice, and went down the stairs to meet her. “After all, we’re going to be neighbours.”

  His hand was outstretched. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Confused still, she juggled the daffodils into her left arm and took the proffered hand.

  “And this must be Miranda?”

  “Arnold bought me a new doll,” Miranda told him. “She’s called Priscilla.”

  “But…” William’s mother had still not quite got the hang of the situation. “… how did you meet William?”

  Before Mr. Wray had time to answer this, William began to explain. “I forgot about not going through the garden, and Mr. Wray was there. We ate his picnic lunch together.”

  “What happened to the shepherd’s pie?”

  “I forgot that too.”

  For some reason, this broke the ice, and suddenly they were all smiling.

  “Well, have you had tea?” his mother asked. “No? Neither have we, and I’m longing for a cup. Come into the sitting-room, Mr. Wray, and I’ll go and put the kettle on.”

  “But I’ll do it,” said William, running down the stairs. “I’ll get the tea.”

  * * *

  In the kitchen, he laid a tray, found some biscuits in a tin, filled the kettle. Waiting for this to boil, he went, with some satisfaction, over the events of the day. The problem of the doll’s house was now solved, he knew what he had to do, and he would finish it in good time for Miranda’s birthday. And Mr. Wray was coming to live at the Manor House, and he was not the walking adding machine that he had feared, but the nicest person William had met in years. As well, he was willing to bet, they would be allowed to walk through the garden, just as they had done in Miss Pritchett’s day, and perhaps, when the autumn came and the leaves turned gold, to pick the fruit in the old orchard.

  And so, with one thing and another, he felt better about life than he had for a long time. The kettle boiled and he filled the teapot and set it on the tray and carried it through to the sitting-room. From the playroom came the sound of the television, which Miranda was watching, and from the sitting-room a pleasant murmur of voices.

  “When will you move in?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “You’ll have a lot to do.”

  “There’s a lot of time. All the time in the world.”

  He pushed the door open with his foot. The room was filled with evening sunlight and there was something in the air, so tangible it almost could be touched. Companionship, maybe. Ease. But excitement, too.

  All the time in the world.

  They stood by the fireplace, half turned towards the newly kindled flames, but he could see his mother’s face reflected in the mirror that hung over the mantel-piece. Suddenly she laughed, though at what he could not guess, and tossed back her lovely red hair, and there was that look about her … the old glowing look that he had not seen since his father died.

  His imagination bolted ahead, like a runaway horse, only to be reined firmly in and brought to a halt. It wasn’t any good making plans. Things had to happen at their own speed, in their own time.

  “Tea’s ready,” he told them and set down the tray. As he straightened up he caught sight of the daffodils, lying on the window-seat where his mother had tossed them down. The tissue paper was crushed and the delicate petals beginning to wilt, and William thought of Arnold, and had it in his heart to be very sorry for him.

  ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS

  Tom said, without much hope, “You could come with me.”

  Elaine gave a derisory laugh, which sounded like a snort from her pretty nose. “Darling, can you see my freezing in a castle in Northumberland?”

  “Not really,” he admitted with honesty.

  “Besides, I haven’t been invited.”

  “That wouldn’t matter. Aunt Mabel would love a new face around the place. Particularly one as attractive as yours.”

  Elaine tried hard not to look pleased. She adored compliments and soaked them up as blotting paper absorbs ink. “Flattery will get you nowhere,” she told him. “And I’m cross. You were meant to be coming down to the Stainforths with me this weekend. What am I going to tell them?”

  “Tell them the truth. That I’ve got to go north for my Aunt Mabel’s seventy-fifth birthday ball.”

  “But why do you have to go?”

  He explained again, patiently. “Because somebody’s got to put in an appearance, and my parents are in Majorca, and my sister’s living in Hong Kong with her husband. I’ve already told you that three times.”

  “I still don’t see why you have to leave me in the lurch like this. I don’t like being left in the lurch.” She gave him one of her most persuasive smiles. “I’m not used to it.”

  “I wouldn’t leave you in the lurch,” he swore to her, “for anyone in the world but Aunt Mabel. But she’s a very special old girl, and she doesn’t have any children of her own, and she was always so marvelous to us when we were young. And she must have had to go to a lot of effort to organize any sort of a shindig. I think it’s very plucky of her. It would be churlish if I made no sort of effort to turn up. Besides,” he finished in truth, “I want to be there.” He said again, “You could come with me.”

  “I shouldn’t know anybody.”

  “You would, after you’d been there for five minutes.”

  “Anyway, I hate being cold.”

  He stopped trying to persuade her. It was always fun taking Elaine to places and i
ntroducing her around to his awe-struck acquaintances, because she was so sensational to look at that Tom’s own self-esteem took a welcome boost. On the other hand, if she was not having a good time, she would make no effort to hide the fact. Staying with Aunt Mabel was always a bit dicey. One’s well-being and comfort depended heavily on the state of the weather, and if the coming weekend turned chilly or damp, then Elaine, hothouse London flower that she was, might turn out to be the worst possible companion.

  They had dined together in their favorite restaurant, just around the corner from Elaine’s little flat in the King’s Road. Now Tom reached across the table, around the coffee-cups, and put his hand over hers.

  “All right,” he said. “You don’t have to come. I’ll ring you when I get back and tell you all about it. And you’ll just have to say I’m sorry to the Stainforths. Say I’ll take a rain-check on that invitation.”

  * * *

  The next day was Friday. Tom, who had already squared things with his boss, left the office at lunchtime and drove north, up the Motorway. It was April and showery weather, but the roads were clear and he was able to allow his thoughts a free rein. Inevitably, they chose to chew over the problem of Elaine.

  He had known her now for three months, and despite the fact that she frequently exasperated him, she was nevertheless the most engaging person he had met in years. Her very unpredictability he found delightfully stimulating, and she never failed to make him laugh. Because of this, he had taken her home once or twice for long weekends, not anticipating that his mother would find Elaine just as attractive as he did. “She’s perfectly charming,” she kept saying, but she was a model mother and managed, with obvious effort, not to say more. Tom, however, knew very well what she was thinking. He was, after all, nearly thirty. It was time that he settled down, got himself married, provided his mother with the grandchildren that she craved. But did he want to marry Elaine? It was a dilemma that had been tearing him for some time. Perhaps getting away from it—and her—for a little while would be the best thing that could happen. He could view the problem at a distance, as though he were studying some complicated painting; get the details of their relationship into a true proportion. The best way to start doing this was to stop thinking about her, so he put visions of Elaine firmly out of his mind and concentrated instead on the weekend that lay ahead.