Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  It was not until halfway through the evening, when most of the guests had had supper, and the younger element had already taken themselves off to the disco, that Sam Crichtan appeared. Mrs. Lowyer, trapped in a corner by the fireplace with Colonel Foxton, saw him come into the room through the French windows, which had been left open for air, and she knew a rush of relief that he had kept his word to her.

  It was a long time since she had seen him dressed for an evening out, and she decided, with private satisfaction, that his dark formal clothes became him. With his thin brown face and his neatly brushed hair, he looked more than presentable—distinguished, even.

  “… it’s a funny thing,” droned Colonel Foxton. “Damn’ funny thing, the way some people can get planning permission. Wanted to renovate my gardener’s cottage. Wasn’t allowed to put a window in the roof. It’s a funny…”

  “I wonder, would you excuse me?” Gracefully, charmingly, Mrs. Lowyer got to her feet. “I have an urgent message for Sam, and I must give it to him before he gets swept out of my sight.”

  “What? Oh, yes. Sorry, my dear. Didn’t realize how I’d been going on.”

  “I loved hearing about your gardener’s cottage. You must tell me the rest of the story another time.”

  She made her way across the room. “Sam.”

  “Mrs. Lowyer.”

  “I am glad you came. Have you eaten?”

  “No, I didn’t really have time.”

  “I thought not. Then come with me right away, and before you do anything else you must have a drink, and some cold salmon and cold roast beef that is out of this world.”

  She led him through to the dining-room and found him a glass of whisky and a plate which she proceeded to heap with food.

  “Have you seen Christabel?”

  “I’ve only just got here.”

  “But you didn’t see her this afternoon?”

  “No.”

  “She was looking for you. To thank you for the walking-stick.”

  “I suppose you thought it was a pretty stupid present?”

  “Yes.” said Mrs. Lowyer, who had never believed in mincing words. “But a very special one. Christabel was not only delighted, she was touched. How about a baked potato with butter? Or even two?”

  “You didn’t tell her? What we talked about this morning?”

  “Of course not. A roll?”

  “I wouldn’t want her to know.”

  “No,” said Mrs. Lowyer. “Of course not.” Across the room, through the open door, she could see Christabel and Nigel. He had his arm around her shoulder, her amazing hair glinted in the candlelight. “Nigel is a very nice young man. She is a very lucky girl.”

  Sam glanced up, saw that she was looking over his shoulder, and turned. Nigel bent and kissed the top of Christabel’s head. Somebody made a remark, and everybody laughed. For a second Sam was still, and then he turned back to the table. He said, “And some of that mayonnaise, too, if I may. I was always very fond of Felicity’s mayonnaise.”

  * * *

  But, later again, taken to inspect the disco by her son, Mrs. Lowyer saw Christabel dancing with Sam. Everybody else on the floor appeared to be dancing by themselves, gyrating to the thumping music, grotesque in the whirling, flashing lights. Only Christabel and Sam seemed a couple. Moving together, their arms around each other, Christabel’s head rested against Sam’s shoulder.

  Mrs. Lowyer hoped that her son had not seen. She put a hand on his arm. She said, “The noise is deafening. I’d rather go back to the drawing-room,” and obediently, he led her away. But at the door Mrs. Lowyer looked back. It did not take a second to realize that in that instant, apparently without trace, Sam and Christabel had disappeared.

  After that, she went home. Slipped away unnoticed, said good night to nobody. Wrapped in the familiar warmth of her shawl, she made her way down the lane. The sounds of music, the hum of conversation died away behind her, swallowed into the quiet of a country night. September. Her favourite month.

  This is all a terrible mistake. She is marrying the wrong man.

  Her house, dark and small and quiet, was a sanctuary. She lifted Lucy from her basket, put her out into the garden, got herself a cup of hot milk, let Lucy in again, carried the milk upstairs, slowly undressed, and put herself to bed. Through the open window, she saw the half-moon sickle from the sky. The world outside was filled with small night sounds. She longed for sleep.

  * * *

  It was four o’clock before the rattle of pebbles sounded like rain against her window-pane. At first she thought that she had imagined it, but it came again. And then, “Granny!”

  She got out of bed, took up her dressing-gown, wrapped herself in it, tied the sash. She went to the open window. Below in the garden, she saw the blur of white. White as a ghost, a wraith.

  “Granny.”

  “Christabel, what are you doing?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  She went downstairs, switching on lights. She opened the front door, and Christabel came in, shivering with cold, the white dress muddied at its hem.

  “What about the party?”

  “The party’s nearly over. I wanted to talk to you. Everybody thinks I’ve gone to bed.”

  “Where’s Nigel?”

  “Having a second supper.”

  “And Sam?”

  “He went home.”

  In silence Mrs. Lowyer looked into her granddaughter’s eyes. They were bright with unshed tears. “Come upstairs,” she said.

  * * *

  They went back to her room, her own pretty, fragrant bedroom. Mrs. Lowyer got into bed, and Christabel slid in beside her, beneath the eiderdown. Mrs. Lowyer could feel the coldness of Christabel’s arms, the bony young rib-cage, the beat of Christabel’s heart.

  Christabel said, “I’m afraid.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “Everything. Getting married. Being trapped. Doors closing in on me.”

  “That’s what being married is all about,” said Mrs. Lowyer. “Being trapped. All that matters is that you’re trapped with the right person.”

  “Oh, Granny, why can’t everything be easy?”

  “Nothing is ever easy,” said Mrs. Lowyer. Her hand moved against Christabel’s shoulder. “Being born isn’t easy. Growing up isn’t easy. Getting married isn’t easy. Having children can be murder. Growing old is just as bad.”

  “I think … I think I don’t want to marry Nigel.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Aren’t you in love with him?”

  “I was. Terribly. Really terribly in love. But … I don’t know. I don’t want to live in London. I don’t like being in a flat. I feel as though I’m going to have to live in a box. And … there’s another thing. I don’t like his friends very much. I don’t feel I have anything in common with them. Does that matter? Does it matter terribly?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Lowyer. “Yes, I think it probably does.”

  “It’s called wedding nerves, isn’t it?”

  “It is, sometimes.”

  “Do you think it is this time?”

  Mrs. Lowyer answered this with another question. “Where did you go with Sam?”

  “Into the garden. We just went and sat on the seat under the beech tree. It was quite harmless.”

  “And then you said good night and he went home?”

  “Yes.”

  “He loves you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I hoped he would say that. But he didn’t say anything.”

  “He thinks he has nothing to offer you. He’s very proud.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “Oh, Christabel. Use your imagination.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being poor. I wouldn’t mind helping him on the farm. I wouldn’t even mind living in that cold little house; I know I could make it bright and comfortable. Nothing would matter provided I was with Sam.”

  “You’ll have to c
onvince him.”

  “But Granny, the wedding. The marquee and the arrangements and the presents and the invitations. It’s all costing so much, and…”

  “It can be put off,” said Mrs. Lowyer. “The last thing that your mother and father would want would be for you to marry a man whom you didn’t truly love. If you want Sam, you’re going to have to go and tell him. You must tell him what you’ve told me—that you don’t mind about his being poor and hard-working and living in that funny little farmhouse. You must tell him that he is the only man in your life that you have ever truly loved.”

  “You’ve always known, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I’m old. I’m experienced. I’ve seen it all happen before.”

  “When shall I tell him?”

  “Now. Go to his house now. You can borrow my car so that you don’t get your feet wet. And I’ll lend you a cardigan to keep you warm. And if he’s asleep, wake him up, get him out of bed. Just tell him. Be truthful to him, but most important of all, be truthful to yourself.”

  “But Mother and Pa … I’ll never have the nerve to tell them. I’ve been so stupid…”

  “I shall tell them.”

  “And Nigel…?”

  “I shall tell Nigel as well. He’s young. He’ll be hurt, but he’ll recover. Nothing could be worse for him than a half-hearted marriage.” She kissed her granddaughter, her heart filled with sympathy and love. “Now off you go, my darling, and good luck. And, Christabel…”

  “Yes, Granny.”

  “My dearest love to Sam.”

  * * *

  She heard Christabel go. Heard her get the little car out of the garage and drive away down the rutted farm lane that led to Sam Crichtan’s house. It was now five o’clock in the morning. What am I thinking of? Mrs. Lowyer asked herself. What in the name of goodness have I done?

  But she could not make herself feel repentant. It had gone, that anxiety which she had been too afraid to take out and examine. She had always known about Sam and Christabel. She had told herself that their destiny was of no concern to her. But now their destiny had been put into her hands, and she had made her decision. Right or wrong, there could be no going back.

  She lay sleepless until full light. At eight-thirty, she awoke from a doze, got out of bed and put on her dressing-gown and went to shut the window. The barley field lay shorn and gold under a watery sky. She knew that Sam and Christabel were right for each other. She thought of Paul and Felicity and Nigel. She dressed and went downstairs; said good morning to Lucy and put her out into the garden, cooked her own breakfast, drank her coffee. Then she put on her coat and, taking Lucy with her, let herself out of the house. It was a sweet, damp morning. Mrs. Lowyer went down the path and through the gate, and then, briskly, set off up the lane towards the big house, with her little dog at her heels.

  THE BLACKBERRY DAY

  The night train moved out of Euston Station, headed north. Claudia, already changed into her night-gown and robe, pulled up the blind and sat on the edge of the narrow bunk, watching the city slip away, lights and dim streets and high-rise flats wheeling off into the past. It was a cloudy evening, the clouds stained bronze by a million street lamps, but as she watched, the clouds parted for a moment and a moon sailed into view, a full moon, round and shining as a polished silver plate.

  She turned off the lights, got into the bunk, with its cotton sheets all crisp and tight as a hospital bed, and lay and watched the moon, lulled by the smooth, gathering speed of the train. Inevitably, she recalled other, long-ago journeys, and for the first time, she thought of tomorrow and felt a mild stirring of excitement. It was as though what she was doing had become a positive action, not simply a compromise. Not simply the next-best thing.

  This did something to bolster her bruised pride and enabled her to bundle, for the moment, anxious uncertainties out of her mind. They were still there, and would remain so, lurking around the edge of her subconscious, but for the time being she allowed herself the luxury of knowing that, at the end of the day, she had taken the right course.

  She was immensely tired. The moon shone into her eyes. She turned on her side, away from its disturbing brilliance, buried her face in the pillow, and, surprisingly, slept.

  * * *

  At Inverness Claudia alighted from the train into a climate so different that the night train could have carried her not only north, but abroad. The day was Saturday, the month September, and she had left London on an evening warm as June, the air muggy and stale, the sky overcast. But now she walked out into a world that glittered in the early light, and was arched by a high and cloudless sky of pale and pristine blue. It was much colder. There was the nip of frost in the air, and leaves on trees were already turning autumn gold.

  Here, she had an hour or two to wait for the small stopping train that would carry her, through the morning, even farther north. She filled this in by going to the nearest hotel and eating breakfast, and then walked back to the station. The news-stand had opened, so she bought a magazine and made her way to the platform where the smaller train waited, already gradually filling with passengers. She found a seat, stowed her luggage, and was almost at once joined by a pleasant-faced woman who settled herself across the table in the seat opposite. She wore a tweed coat with a cairngorm brooch in the lapel and a furry green felt hat, and, as well as her zipped overnight bag, was burdened by a number of plastic shopping bags, one of which contained what looked like a hefty picnic.

  Their eyes met across the table. Claudia smiled politely. The woman said, “Oh, my, what a cold morning. I had to wait for the bus. My feet turned to stone.”

  “Yes, but it’s lovely.”

  “Oh, ay, good and fine. Anything’s better than the rain, I always say.” A whistle blew, doors slammed. “There we are, we’re off. Sharp on time, too. Are you going far?”

  Claudia, who had picked up her magazine, resigned herself to conversation, and laid it down again.

  “Lossdale.”

  “That’s where I’m bound, too. I’ve been down for a night or two, staying with my sister. For the shopping, you know. They’ve a lovely Marks and Spencers. Bought a shirt for my husband. Are you staying in Lossdale?”

  She was not curious, simply interested. Claudia told her, “Yes, just for a week.” And then, because it was obvious that she would be asked, she volunteered the information. “At Inverloss, with my cousin Jennifer Drysdale.”

  “Jennifer! Oh, I know her well, we’re on the Rural together. Stitching new kneelers for the kirk. Funny she never mentioned the fact that you were coming.”

  “It was very much a last-minute arrangement.”

  “Is this your first visit?”

  “No. I used to come up every summer when I was young. When her parents were alive, and before Jennifer inherited the farm.”

  “You live in the south?”

  “Yes, in London.”

  “I thought so. By your clothes.” The train was rattling over the bridge, the firth spread below them, stretching from the far western hills to the sea. She saw small boats going about their business, delectable houses facing out over the water, with gardens sloping down to the shore. “I came up last night on the sleeper.”

  “That’s a long journey, but better than driving a car. My man will scarcely go on the main roads these days, the traffic goes so fast. Like taking your life in your hands. But then he was always slow. It’s his nature. Goes with his job.”

  Claudia smiled. “What is his job?”

  “He’s a shepherd. And his mind on not much else but his sheep. I just hope he remembers to come and pick me up at the station. I left a note over the cooker to remind him, but that’s no certainty that he’ll remember.” She was not complaining. In fact, she looked quite smug about her husband’s shortcomings, as though they made him special. “And is Jennifer coming to meet you?”

  “She said she would.”

  “She’s a busy girl, with the
farm and the animals and the children. They’re lovely bairns.”

  “I’ve only seen photographs. I haven’t been to Inverloss for twenty years. Jennifer wasn’t even married then.”

  “Well, she’s got a lovely man in Ronnie. Mind, he comes from south of the border, but for all that he’s a good farmer. Just as well, with that great place to run.”

  The conversation lapsed. Claudia gazed from the window. They were into the hills now, snaking away into a country desolate save for isolated farmsteads and flocks of sheep, and rivers flowing through wide green straths. The sun rose in the sky, and long shadows grew shorter. Claudia’s companion opened her picnic bag, poured tea into a plastic mug, munched genteelly on a ham sandwich.

  The small stations came and went, the train idling for moments while passengers alighted or climbed aboard. They passed the time of day, and dogs barked, and porters trundled trolleys of parcels. Nobody hurried. It was as though there was all the time in the world.

  The journey progressed, and Claudia began to count the stops, as once she used to. Three more to go. Two more. One more. Nearly there. The train ran alongside the sea. She saw ebb-tide beaches and distant breakers. The shepherd’s wife packed up her picnic, dusted shortbread crumbs from her pouter-pigeon bosom, rummaged in her capacious handbag for her ticket.

  The train slowed, and the sign LOSSDALE sailed past the window. The two women stood, gathered up their belongings, stepped down onto the platform. The shepherd was there, with his dog. He had not forgotten, but greeted his wife with little fuss. “You’re here,” he told her unnecessarily, took her bag from her, and strode away. She followed him, turning back to wave at Claudia. “See you around, maybe.”

  No sign of Jennifer. The train drew away, and Claudia was left alone on the platform. She stood by her suitcase in her London suit and decided that there is nothing more letting down than to have no person to meet one at the end of a journey. She determined not to become impatient. There was no hurry, no pressing appointment. Jennifer had just been held up …

  “Claudia!”

  A man’s voice. Startled, she turned, full into the sun, needing to shade her eyes. She saw him, coming at her out of the dazzle, unrecognized for an instant, and then, astonishingly, familiar.