Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  And then, all at once, long before she had expected it, they were in familiar territory, at the top of the nursery slopes, and so the finish of the run was child’s play compared with what had gone before. Jeannie came down these slopes, on which she had unhappily struggled for seven solid days, with a flourish of speed, and a sensation of elation and achievement that she had never known before in her life. She had done it. She had come down the Kreisler. She had done it.

  It was over. The slope levelled out by the ski-school hut and the little café where she had gone each day for a comforting mug of hot chocolate. Here, he waited for her, relaxed and smiling, delighted as she was, and yet obviously amused by her own delight.

  She stopped alongside him, pushed up her goggles and laughed up into his face. “I thought it was going to be horrible and it was heavenly.”

  “You did very well.”

  “I didn’t fall once. I don’t understand it.”

  “You only fell because you were nervous. Now you will never fall for that reason again.”

  “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. I enjoyed it. And if I’m not mistaken, I think that’s your young man come to claim you.”

  Jeannie turned and saw that it was indeed Alistair, emerging from the door of the café, down the wooden steps and across the snow towards them. His face was filled with a marvellous relief, and the smile he had for her, a congratulation in itself.

  “You made it, Jeannie. Well done, my darling.” He enfolded her in a huge bear-hug. “I watched you coming down the last bit of the nursery slope, and you were really good.” And then, across her head, her eyes met those of the man who had come to her rescue. Jeannie looked up and saw another expression cross his handsome features—the same respect and reverence that had shown on the face of the cable-car man when he had come to deliver Alistair’s message.

  “Commander Manleigh.” If he had been wearing a hat, he would surely have removed it. “I didn’t realize it was you. I didn’t even know you were out here.” The two men shook hands. “How are you, sir?”

  “All the better for having met your charming young lady. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Alistair Hansen. I used to watch you skiing when I was a boy. I had great photographs of you pinned up all over my bedroom walls.”

  “Well, it’s very nice to meet you.”

  “It was good of you to come down with Jeannie.”

  “Hans at the cable-car station gave me your message.”

  “I was half-way down the piste before I realized that she wasn’t behind me, and by then it was too late to make my way back.”

  “I found her in the restaurant. She was feeling a bit cold, so she went to get herself a hot drink. We got talking.”

  “I was afraid she’d fallen. Had visions of her coming down the mountain on the blood-wagon.”

  Commander Manleigh stooped and loosened his bindings and stepped out of his skis. Shouldering them, he stood erect. He smiled. “Given a little encouragement, young man, she won’t let you down. Now I must be off. Goodbye, Jeannie, and good luck.”

  “Goodbye, and thank you again for being so kind.”

  He slapped Alistair across the shoulder. “Take good care of her,” he told him, and then turned and walked away from them, a tall grey-haired man on his own. A strangely solitary figure in the crowded street.

  Jeannie was taking off her own skis. “Who is he?” she wanted to know.

  “Bill Manleigh. Come on, let’s go and have a drink.”

  “But who’s Bill Manleigh?”

  “I can’t believe you’ve never heard of him. A famous fellow. One of the best skiers we’ve ever produced. When he grew too old to race, he became a coach for the Olympic team. So you see, my darling, you came down the Kreisler with a champion.”

  “I didn’t know that. I only know that he was terribly kind. And Alistair, it wasn’t because I was cold that I went into the restaurant, it was because I was too frightened to follow you. You might as well know.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “I couldn’t. I just stood there, being terrified, and then I knew I hadn’t the nerve to make the run. And I was drinking coffee and he came and talked to me. And he didn’t tell me anything about himself at all. Not at all.” She thought about this. “Except that he was married.”

  Alistair lifted her skis onto his shoulder, and took her hand in his other hand. Together, they made their way towards the little café. “Yes, he was,” he told her. “To a lovely girl. I used to watch them ski together, and think that they must be the most glamorous couple in the world. They were always such good friends, always laughing together. As though they didn’t need anybody but each other.”

  “You talk as though it’s all in the past.”

  “It is.” They had reached the wooden building, and Alistair paused to ram her skis into the snow. “She died last summer. She was drowned. I read about it in the papers. They were sailing with friends in Greece, and there was some ghastly misadventure. He was devastated, and now he must be so lonely without her.” Jeannie looked down the street, the way that he had gone, but he had been swallowed up in the cheerful crowds of holidaymakers, and there was no sign of him. He must be so lonely. For a terrible moment, she thought that she was going to cry. A lump swelled in her throat, and her eyes misted with ridiculous tears. Such a kind man. She would probably never see him again, and yet she owed him an immeasurable debt. She would never forget him. “But I don’t suppose,” Alistair went on, “that he would have said anything to you about that.”

  You remind me, quite extraordinarily, of a girl I used to know.

  Going hand in hand with him up the wooden steps that led to the café door, she realized that she wasn’t going to cry after all. “No,” she said. “No, he didn’t say anything.”

  THE WATERSHED

  “Can you manage, now, Mrs. Harley?”

  “Yes, of course.” Edwina slung her handbag over one arm, the bulging basket over the other, and, with some effort, heaved the box laden with groceries off the counter. The bag of tomatoes at the top teetered dangerously, so she steadied it with her chin. “If you could just open the door.”

  “Your car there, is it?”

  “Yes, right outside.”

  “Cheerio, then, Mrs. Harley.”

  “Goodbye.”

  She emerged from the doorway of the village shop and stepped out into the chill February sunshine, crossed the cobbled pavement in a couple of steps, dumped the box onto the hood of her car, put the basket alongside, and went around to the back to open the trunk.

  As this was Friday, and so shopping morning, the trunk was already half-full. A large parcel from the butcher’s; Henry’s shoes, picked up from the cobbler; clean sheets collected from the laundry; and the garden shears, newly sharpened and oiled by the local blacksmith. She lifted the grocery box and basket into the trunk, then found that it would not close, and so did a bit of rearranging and finally got it shut.

  Finished. All done. No reason now not to drive straight home. Yet she hesitated, standing there by her car in the middle of the small Scottish village, to turn her attention to the stone house which stood across the street. A house with a face as symmetrical as a child’s drawing, and a roof tiled with a grey slate. A narrow strip of garden, a white wooden gate, and a clipped privet hedge separated it from the pavement. Its curtains were drawn.

  Old Mrs. Titchfield’s house. Empty, because two weeks ago Mrs. Titchfield had died in the local hospital.

  Edwina knew the house. Had known Mrs. Titchfield for years. Had sometimes called to collect a pie for the church sale, or to deliver a Christmas card and a fruit-cake, and be asked indoors to sit by the fire with a cup of tea.

  She knew the tiny rooms and the narrow stairway, the garden at the back with its Albertine roses and the clothesline strung between two apple trees …

  “Edwina!” She had neither heard nor seen the other car
draw up in the space behind her own. But here was Rosemary Turner approaching; Rosemary, with her shopping basket and her neat, grey hair and her fat, white peke on a scarlet leash. Rosemary was one of Edwina’s closest friends. Her husband, James, played golf with Henry, and Rosemary was godmother to Edwina’s oldest child. “What are you doing, standing there, gazing into space?” Rosemary asked.

  “Just that.”

  “Poor old Mrs. Titchfield. Never mind—she had a good, long life. Seems funny though, doesn’t it, not to see her puttering about in that strip of garden? It must have been the best-weeded plot in the county. Have you done your shopping?”

  “Yes. Just on my way home.”

  “I’m going to get some biscuits for Hi-Fi. Are you in a mad hurry?”

  “No. Henry’s out for lunch today.”

  “In that case, why don’t we live dangerously and go and have a cup of coffee in Ye Olde Thatched Café? I haven’t seen you for ages. Masses of things to talk about.”

  Edwina smiled. “All right.”

  “Hold Hi-Fi for me, then. He hates going into the shop because the cat always spits at him.”

  Edwina took the leash and, waiting, leaned against her car. Her eyes drifted back to Mrs. Titchfield’s house. She had an idea, but knew that Henry would hate it, and the prospect of heated discussion filled her with dismay. She sighed, feeling tired and old. Probably, at the end of the day, she would take the easy way out and say nothing.

  The little café was cramped and dark and old. But the china was pretty, there were fresh flowers on the tables, and the coffee, when it arrived, was fragrant and strong.

  Edwina took a sustaining mouthful. “I needed that.”

  “I thought you looked a bit washed out. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yes. Just overwhelmed by the tedium of shopping. Why does it always have to be such a boring routine?”

  “I suppose, after years of marriage, we’ve become programmed. Like computers. Where’s Henry having lunch?”

  “With Kate and Tony. He and Tony have spent the morning having horrible financial discussions.”

  Kate was Henry’s sister. Her husband, Tony, was Henry’s accountant, and his office was walking distance from Edwina and Henry’s spacious home in Relkirk.

  “Does Henry like being retired?”

  “I think so. He always seems to be occupied.”

  “Do you find him getting under your feet? I nearly went crazy when James first retired. He kept coming into the kitchen and switching off my radio and asking me questions.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “Oh, the usual. ‘Have you seen my calculator?’ ‘What do you want done with the lawn mower?’ ‘What time is lunch?’ Who was it who said that you marry a man for better, for worse, but not for lunch?”

  “The Duchess of Windsor.”

  Rosemary laughed. Across the table, their eyes met. Her laughter died. “So what’s the problem? You’re not usually so down in the mouth.”

  Edwina heaved her shoulders and sighed. “I don’t know … Yes, I do. I looked in my diary this morning and realized that next month Henry and I will have been married for thirty years.”

  “So you will! A pearl anniversary. Is it really five years since your silver? How splendid! Another excuse for a lovely party.”

  “There’s no point in having a party if the children can’t be there.”

  “Why can’t they be there?”

  “Because Rodney’s with his ship, patrolling the Straits of Hormuz. And Priscilla’s in Sussex, totally occupied with Bob and the two babies. And Tessa’s finally found herself a job in London, but she scarcely earns enough to keep body and soul together, so even if she could get the time off, she wouldn’t be able to afford the train fare home. Besides, thirty years doesn’t seem to be anything to celebrate. To me it feels uncomfortably like a watershed … you know, from now on it’s downhill all the way…”

  “Don’t say such depressing things!”

  “… and at the end of the day, what has one achieved? I don’t feel I’ve got anything to show for it all.”

  Rosemary, with characteristic good sense, made no comment on this lament. Instead, stirring her coffee, she turned the conversation to another tack.

  “Were you gazing at Mrs. Titchfield’s house for any particular reason?”

  “In a way … It’s suddenly come home to me that I’m fifty-two and Henry’s sixty-seven, and that the day will come when, physically, we won’t be able to live at Hill House any longer. As it is, we rattle around like a couple of dried peas, and every spare moment is spent trying to keep the garden the way it’s always looked.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “Yes, it’s a beautiful garden, and we love it, and we love the house. But it was always too big for us, even with the three children living at home.”

  “If you’re thinking of moving, you’re going to have difficulty persuading Henry.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that.” Henry had inherited Hill House from his parents. He had lived there all his life, and remembered the days when there were a large indoor staff and two gardeners. Now there was just Bessie Digley, and she could only manage three mornings a week.

  “I can’t bear the thought of you not living there. Aren’t you jumping the gun? After all, you’re not old—you’ve years and years ahead of you. And what about having the grandchildren visit? You’ll need space for them.”

  “I’ve thought of that. But isn’t it better to make a move before you’re too old to enjoy it? Think of the poor old Perrys. They clung on to the manor until they were so decrepit, they simply had to sell. And then they bought that dreadful little house, and Mrs. Perry fell down the stairs and broke her hip, and that was the end of both of them. Suppose Henry and I bought Mrs. Titchfield’s house? Wouldn’t it be fun, doing it up together? Redecorating, and replanning the garden? I know it’s tiny, but it’s in the village. I wouldn’t have to drive seven miles every time I want to buy a loaf of bread or a pound of sausage. And we’d be able to keep it really warm, and never be snowed in in the winter. And the children wouldn’t worry about us.”

  “Do they worry now?”

  “No, but they will.”

  Rosemary laughed. “You know what I think is wrong with you? You’re missing those children. They’ve all fled the nest, even little Tessa, and you miss them. But that’s no reason to make a momentous decision about moving. You’ll just have to find something else to fill your life. Make Henry take you on a cruise.”

  “I don’t want to go on a cruise.”

  “Then take up yoga. Do something.”

  * * *

  They finally parted and Edwina drove the seven winding miles back to Hill House. She came to the white gate, opened it, and drove up the steep driveway between the tall beeches and the thick clumps of rhododendron. Beyond the trees was the lawn, which, in spring, would be a riot of yellow daffodils. Beyond it was the big old Georgian house, its windows blinking in the low February sunshine.

  Parking the car in the stable yard, Edwina carried the groceries indoors. The kitchen was huge and homey, with a dresser stacked with ironstone china, a basket of laundry waiting to be ironed, and the two Labradors waiting to be taken for a walk.

  Without Henry, the house always felt strangely empty. She was suddenly aware, with piercing intensity, of the deserted rooms above and about her. The dust-sheeted drawing-room; the great Victorian dining-room, scene of countless cheerful family meals, but now scarcely used, for she and Henry always ate in the kitchen. Like a ghost, her imagination wandered up the stairs to the wide landing and the doors leading off it, into the spacious bedrooms where once the children had slept, or where visitors, often entire families, had stayed; down the passage to the white-painted nurseries, the linen room, the cavernous bathrooms; up to the attic, where the household staff had long ago slept, and where she had stored the outgrown bicycles and perambulators and doll’s houses.

  The house was a monument
to family life. To a family of children who were children no longer. How had the years swept by so swiftly?

  There was no answer to this. The dogs demanded her attention, so she left the groceries on the kitchen table, pulled on her green Wellingtons, and set off, with the dogs at her heels, for a long walk.

  That evening over supper, emboldened by a glass of wine, Edwina broached the subject of Mrs. Titchfield’s house.

  “I expect it will be coming up for sale.”

  “I expect it will.”

  “You don’t think we should buy it?”

  Henry raised his handsome white head to stare at her in disbelief. “Buy it? For heaven’s sake, why?”

  Edwina gathered her courage about her. “To live in.”

  “But we live here.”

  “We’re getting older. And Hill House seems to be getting bigger.”

  “We’re not that old.”

  “I just feel we ought to be sensible.”

  “And what do you intend doing with this house?”

  “Well … if Rodney wants it one day, we could rent it. And if he doesn’t, we could sell it.”

  At this he laid down his knife and fork and reached for his Scotch and soda. She watched him. He set down the glass, then asked, “When did you get this brilliant idea?”

  “Today. No, not today. It’s been in the back of my mind for some time. I love Hill House, Henry, just the way you do. But face it, the children are gone. They have their own lives to live. And we’re not going to be able to stay here forever…”

  “I can’t see why not.”

  “But there’s so much to look after. The garden…”

  “If I didn’t have the garden, what would I do with myself? Imagine me in Mrs. Titchfield’s house, banging my head every time I went through a door. If I didn’t die of brain damage, I’d go dotty with claustrophobia. Probably end my days as one of those seedy old men you see ambling down to the pub at midday and not emerging until closing time. Besides, this is our home.”

  “I just feel … perhaps … that we should look ahead.”