Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  Rory and Jane were asking riddles.

  What’s green and goes at a hundred miles an hour?

  A ton-up gooseberry.

  Why did the razorbill raise ’er bill?

  Because she wanted the sea urchin to see ’er chin. Get it, Rory? See ’er chin.

  Screams of laughter.

  Claudia opened her window and let the wind blow in on her face. It was cold and smelt of grass and moss and seaweed, and she thought of Spain, and was, quite suddenly, glad that she was here and not there.

  They reached the chosen spot at last, spilled out of the cars and set to work. Ranged along the roadside, scrambling over dykes into the fields, they picked busily all afternoon. The plastic buckets were slowly filled with the dark fruit. Mouths and fingers were stained purple, sweaters snagged, jeans torn, shoes coated with mud. By four o’clock little Geordie had had enough, and Jennifer decided that it was time to take him home.

  “He’s been so good, sitting in that nice bit of bog and looking for ladybirds, haven’t you, my poppet?” She kissed his filthy face. “Anyway, I’ve got to get back and do something about dinner. Come and eat dinner with us, Magnus.”

  “You’ve already fed me.”

  “We’ll feed you again. No problem. And Ronnie will want to tell you all about the fish he didn’t catch. Who’s coming with me?”

  Jane and Rory debated, and finally decided to go with their mother. They were sated with blackberries, and there was a television programme they wanted to watch.

  “How about you two?”

  Claudia put her heavy bucket of berries into the boot of Jennifer’s car and stretched her aching arms and shoulders. “It’s such a beautiful day, I can’t bear to waste a moment of it.” She looked at Magnus. “Perhaps we could take your dog for a walk? So far, he seems to have had a fairly boring time.”

  Magnus was easy. “Whatever. We could climb the hill. Look at the view. Would you like that?”

  It was exactly what she had been wanting to do all afternoon. She said, “Yes, I’d love it.”

  * * *

  Jennifer departed, the children waving from the open windows of the car as though they were saying goodbye forever. When they were gone, Magnus turned to Claudia.

  “So. What are we waiting for?”

  They set off. Up through the fields, up the gradually steepening slope; through broken gateways and knee-high bracken, and on, up again, until they were surrounded by heather. The dog, delighted at last to have some attention paid to it, raced ahead, scenting rabbits, his great tail pluming. A few old sheep, seeing them approach, ceased their grazing and stared. Now, Claudia could feel the wind on her cheeks and was grateful for its coolness, and was grateful too for the path that stretched ahead, for the firmness of the close-cropped turf, which made for pleasant walking. She could feel the stretch and pull of the muscles in her legs, and her lungs were filled with air as pure and as cold as fresh spring water.

  About half-way up the hill, they came upon a grassy corrie cleft by a tiny burn, miniature waterfalls bubbling down over a bed of white pebbles. Claudia was thirsty. She knelt and scooped water up in her palm and drank it. It tasted of peat. She sat then, with her back to the hill and her eyes, for the first time, turned upon the view.

  “I had no idea that we had come so far, and climbed so high.”

  “You’ve done well.” He settled himself beside her, his knees drawn up. He shaded his eyes with his hand. “No need to climb further. We won’t get a better sighting than this.”

  He was right. A spectacular view, remembered from years back, but always breath-taking. It took in the curve of the coastline, the fields and the farms and the inland lochs. All was spread before them like some giant-sized map. So clear was the air that the mountains, some fifty miles to the south, showed themselves, their peaks frosted with the first snows of the winter. And ahead was the sea, on this day blue as the Mediterranean, the wine-dark seas of Homer’s Greece.

  And the silence. Only the wind, the song of a lark, the long sad call of a curlew. Sitting still, they were soon chilled by the wind. Claudia, who had taken off her sweater and tied the arms around her waist, now undid the knot, and pulled the sweater on again.

  He said, “You mustn’t get cold.”

  “I’m all right. And it’s good for the soul just to look at a view like that on a day like this. How fortunate we are. You in particular, because now you live here all the time.”

  “I know what you mean. It gets everything into proportion.”

  “It makes me feel like an ant.”

  “An ant?”

  “Tiny. Insignificant. Unimportant.”

  But not just she herself. All of life, with its problems: working, making money, loving. Up here, so high above the world, was like seeing the day-to-day rat race through the wrong end of a telescope, so that all became diminished, weightless, and trivial. And if Claudia was an ant, then the Atlantic was no more than a pond, and New York a dot on the globe, yet alive with the millions of teeming insects which peopled that teeming glut of humanity. Giles was one of them.

  Magnus said, “Would you actually want to live here all the time?”

  “I’ve never thought about it. But there is Jennifer, so happy. With her husband and her farm and her children. Yet I don’t suppose it would ever do for me.”

  “Life is strange. All of us scattered, all over the place, and then after all these years … Why should you and I, of all people, find ourselves here and now, half-way up Creagan Hill and on a God-given day to boot?”

  “I have no idea, Magnus.”

  He said, “I wonder if you have any idea of how much I was in love with you.”

  Claudia, frowning, turned to gaze at him in total puzzlement. His profile was sombre. She could see the lines around his mouth, the crow’s feet, the strands of grey in his thick dark hair. Then he turned and looked into her face, and she saw his eyes, and for once there was no laughter in them.

  She said, “You can’t be serious.”

  “You had no idea?”

  “I was seventeen.”

  “You were amazing. So beautiful that I was scared of how I felt because I was so certain that wanting you was unattainable.”

  “You never said…”

  “Nor let it show.”

  “But why? Why not?”

  “It wasn’t the time. We were too young. Scarcely out of school, with all our lives in front of us. Everything to be learned, to be done. The world our oyster, filled with people waiting to love. And all we wanted was to get out and discover it for ourselves. I had a photograph of you. I used to carry it round and show it to my mates. ‘This is my first love,’ I would say. I didn’t say, ‘my only love.’ That’s what I should have said.”

  “Why do you tell me now?”

  “Because I am too old for pride.”

  Simply spoken. Claudia dropped her eyes, not wishing him to read her thoughts. I am too old for pride as well, but I’ve hung on to it, because as far as Giles is concerned, it seems to be the only way I can hold on to him. Bleak knowledge. She thought about opening her heart to Magnus and telling him about Giles. Explaining, trying to make him understand. But she knew that she could never inflict such pain. Not now, not while she was in such a confused and distressed state of mind. Giles was her life and her love, but also her problem, and not one to be unloaded onto this man, this old friend, who had just declared his own undying love for her.

  No. It must be kept inconsequent, light-hearted. She smiled. She said, “Pride is a nuisance anyway. It just gets between people.”

  “Yes. And then you say nothing until it is too late. Better, perhaps, not to say anything at all.”

  “Don’t feel that.” The afternoon was dying, the sun sinking behind them, the last of its rays casting long shadows. The wind, rising, bent the long grasses that grew on the banks of the little burn. Claudia shivered. She said, “It’s getting cold.” And then, because he looked so much in need of comfort, she leaned f
orward and kissed his mouth. “It’s time we went home, Magnus.”

  After that, it was all right again. He grinned, ruefully, but still, it was a smile of sorts, and got to his feet, and held out a hand to help Claudia up. Then he whistled for his dog, and they set off. The downward slope was easy going, and by the time they reached the car, he was his old cheerful self again, full of plans for the evening ahead.

  “… I must buy some wine for Ronnie. Do you mind if we stop off in the town for a moment while I do a quick bit of shopping? I’m out of bacon as well, and I need a bag of dog biscuits.”

  In the last golden light of the afternoon, the main street of Inverloss bustled with the last activities of the day. The shops were still open; the butcher, the greengrocer, the fishing-tackle shop. The Italian café spilled neon light out onto the pavement, and from its interior came the sound of pop music and the evocative smell of frying fish and chips. Girls hung around outside the café, giggling in their Saturday finery, tight jeans and ear-rings, and the young men sat across the road, outside the pub, and eyed them.

  Magnus drew up by the newsagent. “I won’t be long.”

  He disappeared inside, and emerged almost immediately with a newspaper. Through the open window, he dropped it onto her lap. “This’ll keep you amused.”

  He strode off.

  It was this morning’s paper he had brought her, a national tabloid printed in London. She cast her eye over the screaming headlines and then slowly scanned the rest of the paper, glancing at items, photographs, advertisements. She turned to the Social Diary. And saw the picture of Giles.

  It was neither a very large nor a very good photograph, but it jumped at her as a known name will leap from a column of newsprint. He stood with a girl on his arm. A fair-haired girl, with a long cascade of hair. She wore a low-necked dress, her arms were bare. She carried a small bunch of flowers. Giles was smiling, showing his teeth. He looked overweight, a bit ponderous. He was sporting a tremendously spotted tie.

  The caption: “Giles Savours with his young bride Debbie Peyton. See Column 4.”

  Her first instinctive thought was It can’t be true. It’s a ghastly mistake. They’ve got it all wrong. Quite suddenly, she felt dreadfully cold, her lips frozen, her mouth dry. It can’t be true.

  Column 4.

  The headline in thick black type. BUSINESS AS USUAL FOR GILES AND DEBBIE. And then the story.

  There will be no immediate honeymoon for London business man Giles Savours (forty-four), who was married this week in the Church of St. Michael, Brewsville, New York State. Giles, a partner with the City firm Wolfson-Rilke, has work aplenty to keep him at his desk in his New York office, but plans to jet to Barbados for Christmas.

  His lovely bride Debbie Peyton (twenty-two) is the only daughter of Charlie D. Peyton, of Consolidated Aluminium. A petite five feet two, she met Savours for the first time only three months ago, but their whirlwind courtship has not gone unobserved by Giles’s New York colleagues. This is his second time around—his previous wife was Lady Priscilla Rolands—and his friends were beginning to doubt if he would ever take the plunge again …

  She could not read any more. The light was too dim, the newsprint wavered, the words blurred together. Giles—married. She thought of his voice, over the transatlantic telephone lines, easy as ever, ripe with reasonable excuses. “Terribly sorry. Something’s come up. No possibility of my getting back to London in time for Spain. I know you’ll understand. Why don’t you go without me? You’ll have a great time. Yes, of course. Just as soon as I can…”

  And so on. The same voice, the same old letdown. Nothing new. Except this time he hadn’t even had the courage to tell her that he was going to be married to another woman. A girl. Young enough to be his daughter. He was married. It was over.

  She still felt numb with cold. She thought, I am numb with shock. She sat in Magnus’s car and waited for her reactions to make themselves evident. For rage. Perhaps screams of fury. For furious tears of rank humiliation. For a terrible sense of loss. But none of these things happened, and after a bit, she realized that they would not.

  Instead, she discovered that she was experiencing the most unexpected emotions of all. Relief, and a sort of gratitude. Relief because all decision had been taken out of her hands, and gratitude because perhaps this was the last and the best thing that Giles could have done for her.

  “Sorry I’ve been so long.” Magnus was back. He hurled a paper sack of dog meal over onto the back seat and then got in behind the wheel, placing a grocer’s carrier bag on the floor between them. Claudia heard the clank of bottles. He slammed the door shut.

  “I got the wine and some sweets for the children. I remembered, just in time, I’d promised them all prizes for blackberry-picking…”

  Claudia said nothing. She did not turn to look at him, but felt his eyes on her face.

  “Claudia?” And then: “Is something wrong?”

  After a bit, she shook her head.

  “Something is wrong.”

  She stared at the newspaper. Gently he reached over and took it from her. “What is it?”

  “Just a man I know.”

  “What’s happened to him?” He obviously feared the worst.

  “He’s not dead or anything. Just married.”

  “This guy here? Giles Savours?”

  Claudia nodded.

  “An old friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “A lover?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Eight years.”

  A long pause, while Magnus read what Claudia had already read. “Why are ages and measurements always so vital on these bloody pages?” He folded the newspaper with some force and dropped it on the floor. Then he did a kindly thing. He reached out and took her hand in his own. He said, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “Nothing to tell. Nothing and everything. It would take too long. But Giles is the reason that I am here. Because we were going to Spain together, and he cried off at the last moment. He didn’t tell me why, just said that something had come up.”

  “Didn’t you know about this other girl?”

  “No. I didn’t know anything about her. I suppose because I didn’t want to. I wouldn’t let myself think about anybody but myself. There is nothing more unattractive than a suspicious woman, and I knew that if I said anything to Giles, what existed between us would all be spoiled.”

  “That’s not much of a basis for a relationship. You deserve better than that.”

  “No. It was my own fault. But it would have been more dignified for both of us had he found the courage to tell me himself. In a way I’m rather sorry for him. It must be dreadful to have so little moral courage.”

  “I’m not sorry for him. I think he sounds a cruel bastard.”

  “No. Not cruel, Magnus. One of us had to finish it … it’s limped along for long enough. And you mustn’t be sorry for me. You think I’ve been abandoned, but I think I feel as though I’d been set free.”

  Her hand still lay in his. For the first time, she turned her head and looked full into his face, and this time, it was he who kissed her.

  He said, “It has been, to put it mildly, a remarkable day. And what is more, it is the first day of the rest of your life. So what do you say? Shall we nail our flags to the mast, and make what remains of it just as memorable? After all, we have wine and we have women, and I can always oblige with a song.”

  Despite everything, she found herself laughing at him. She said, “I’m glad you were the person who was with me. I’m glad that you were the person I was able to tell.”

  “I’m glad too,” said Magnus.

  And that was all. He started up the engine and the car moved forward, down the street and out into the dusky countryside beyond. Claudia looked out over the sea and saw the moon rising up over the horizon and felt comforted, and she smiled into its silvery face as though she were greeting an old friend.

  TH
E RED DRESS

  A month after old Dr. Haliday’s funeral, Mr. Jenkins, the gardener, sought out Abigail, and with a long face and much scratching of his head, gave in his notice.

  Abigail had been half-expecting this for some time. Mr. Jenkins was well over seventy. He had gardened for her father for nearly forty years. But still nothing could assuage her dismay.

  She thought of the beautiful garden, now with nobody to tend it. She had frightening visions of herself, single-handed, having to mow lawns, dig potatoes, weed flower-beds. She saw herself being overwhelmed by it all, letting the garden go to seed. She saw nettles, brambles, groundsel slowly encroaching, taking over. She thought in a panic, What on earth am I going to do without him?

  She said this: “Mr. Jenkins, what am I going to do without you?”

  “Perhaps,” said Mr. Jenkins after a long, ruminative pause, “you could find somebody else?”

  “I suppose I’ll just have to try.” She felt defeated, inadequate. “But you know how difficult it is even to find an odd-job man. Unless…” But she was without much hope. “Unless you know somebody?”

  Mr. Jenkins shook his head slowly, from side to side, like an old horse bothered by flies. “It’s difficult,” he admitted. “And I don’t like to leave you. But somehow, without the Doctor, I don’t have the heart to go on. We made it together, him and me. Besides, I’m getting a bit beyond it, and the wet weather does play up my rheumatics. Mrs. Jenkins, now, she’s been on at me the past year or two to hand in my notice, but I didn’t want to leave the Doctor…”

  He looked more anguished than ever. Abigail’s tender heart went out to him. She put out a hand and laid it on his arm. “Of course you must retire. You’ve worked all your life. It’s time you took things more easily. But … I will miss you. It’s not just the garden. You’ve been a friend for so long…”

  Mr. Jenkins mumbled something embarrassed and took himself off. A month later he departed for the last time, weaving down the lane on his ancient bicycle. It was the end of an era. Worse, Abigail had still found no one to take his place.