Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  “I look ahead all the time. To the spring, and the bulbs coming up. To the summer, and seeing my new rose-bed bloom. I’m looking ahead to Rodney finding himself a wife, and Tessa getting married in this house. I’m looking forward to having them all back to stay, with their families. We’ve survived the traumas of raising them; now let’s allow ourselves to reap some of the rewards.”

  After a bit, Edwina said, “Yes.”

  “You sound unconvinced.”

  “You’re right, of course. But I think I’m right, too.” He reached across the table and laid his hand on hers. She said, “I miss the children.”

  He did not argue with this. “Wherever we lived, we’d miss them.”

  * * *

  Two weeks later, Rosemary called. “Edwina, it’s about your wedding anniversary. Come and have dinner with James and me, and we’ll have a little celebration. That’s Saturday in two weeks’ time. Shall we say seven-thirty?”

  “Oh, Rosemary, you are sweet.”

  “It’s settled, then. If I don’t see you before, I’ll see you then.”

  * * *

  That evening, Edwina’s sister-in-law, Kate, called. “Edwina, what are you doing about your thirtieth wedding anniversary?” she asked.

  “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

  “Of course I remember. How could I forget?”

  “Well, actually, we’re going to have dinner with James and Rosemary. She asked us this morning.”

  “Splendid. I imagined you and Henry eating a chop in the kitchen and none of us doing anything to mark the occasion. But I’ll worry no longer. See you sometime. ’Bye.”

  * * *

  Thirty years. She awoke to rain pouring down the window-panes and splashing sounds from the bathroom, which meant that Henry was taking his morning shower. She lay and watched the rain, and thought, “I have been married for thirty years.” She tried to remember that day thirty years ago and scarcely remembered anything, except that her younger sister had tried to iron her wedding-dress petticoat and had scorched the white silk. And everybody had carried on as though it were a total disaster, when, in fact, it hadn’t mattered at all. She turned her head on the pillow and called “Henry!” and after a moment, he appeared through the open door, with his hair on end and a bath towel tied around his waist.

  She said, “Happy day,” and he came to kiss her, damply and fragrantly, and produced a small box. She unwrapped it, and there was a red-leather jewel box and, inside, a pair of ear-rings: small, gold leaves, each set with a pearl.

  “Oh, they’re so pretty!” She sat up, and he brought her a hand mirror so she could put them on and admire herself. Kissing her again, he went off to get dressed, and she went downstairs to cook breakfast. While they were eating, the postman came, and there was a cable from Rodney and cards from Priscilla and Tessa. “Thinking of you today,” they said. “Wish we could be with you.” “Happy anniversary,” they said, “and lots and lots of love.”

  “Well, that’s very gratifying,” Henry said. “At least they remembered.”

  Edwina read Rodney’s cable for the fourth time. “Yes.”

  He looked anxious. “Being married to me for thirty years doesn’t make you feel old, does it?”

  She knew that he was thinking of Mrs. Titchfield’s house, although they had not spoken of it again. But the idea still hung about at the back of her mind, and she had watched the For Sale sign being put up. So far, no one had bought the house.

  She said, “No.” Just empty and deserted like the rooms upstairs.

  “Good. I don’t like you feeling old. Because you don’t look old. In fact, you look more beautiful than ever.”

  “That’s because of my beautiful ear-rings.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  * * *

  It rained most of the day. Edwina spent it making marmalade, and, because they were going out for dinner, did not light the fire in the little sitting-room. By the time the marmalade had set and been stowed away in the storeroom, it was time to go upstairs and change. She made up her face, fixed her hair, and put on her black velvet dress and a great deal of perfume. Then she helped Henry with his cuff links and gave his best grey flannel suit a brush.

  “It smells of mothballs,” she told him.

  “All the best suits smell of mothballs.”

  Wearing it, he looked handsome and very distinguished. They turned off the lights and went downstairs. They locked the front door, said goodbye to the dogs, locked the back door, and scurried through the rain and into the car. They drove down the hill, leaving the house, dark, cold, and deserted, behind them.

  * * *

  The Turners lived ten miles on the other side of the village. Their front door opened as Henry and Edwina alighted from the car, and light streamed out, turning the rain to a shimmer of silver. Rosemary and James were waiting for them.

  “Happy anniversary! Congratulations!” There were kisses and hugs, warmth and brightness. They took off their raincoats and went into Rosemary’s sitting room, where a log fire burned and the white peke sat on her cushion and yapped. There was a present, too, a new rose-bush for the garden.

  “Wonderful,” Edwina told them. “That’s something we can both enjoy.”

  Then James opened a bottle of champagne, and after he had raised his glass to them both and made a little speech, they all settled by the fireside in Rosemary’s marvellously comfortable chairs, and chatted in the easy manner of four mature people who have been friends for a long time. Their glasses emptied. James refilled them. Henry stole a furtive glance at his watch. It was ten minutes to eight. He cleared his throat. “James, I’m not complaining, but are we to be the only guests this evening?” he asked.

  James looked at his wife. She said, “No, but we’re not having dinner here. Just a drink.”

  “Where are we eating?”

  “Out.”

  “I see,” said Henry, not sounding as though he saw at all.

  “But where are we going?” Edwina asked.

  “Wait and see.”

  Mysterious, but rather exciting. Perhaps they were going to be taken to the new and expensive French restaurant in Relkirk. A pleasing possibility, because Edwina had never been there. Her spirits rose in cautious anticipation.

  At a quarter past eight. James set down his glass. “Time to leave.” So they all got up, and climbed into their coats, and went out into the rainy darkness. “Edwina, you come with me, and Henry can drive Rosemary. I’ll lead the way, Henry.”

  They set off. James began to tell her about how well old Henry was playing golf these days. She sat beside him, her chin deep in the collar of her coat, watching the headlights probe the winding road ahead. “It’s his swing. His swing has really improved since that chat with the pro.” In the village she thought he would turn right and head for the road leading to the French restaurant. But he did not do this, and she was mildly disappointed.

  “Extraordinary what bad habits one can get into with golf,” he was saying. “Sometimes all you need is a little objective advice.”

  “We seem to be going towards Hill House,” she said.

  “Edwina, Hill House is not the only establishment in this part of the world.”

  She fell silent, gazing from the window, trying to get her bearings. Then the car swung around a steep corner, and she saw lights. They were above her, shining out over the dark countryside, dazzling as a fireworks display. But where were they? Listening to James, she had become disoriented. The lights grew larger, brighter. Then they came to a crossroads with two cottages, a familiar landmark, and she realized she had been right all along, the lights were the lights of Hill House, and James was driving her home.

  To a house that they had left deserted and dark. A house now with every light on, and every window blazing a welcome.

  “James, what’s happening?”

  But James did not answer. He turned the car in through the gates and roared up the hill. The trees lining the driveway opened o
ut, and the lawn lay illuminated as though floodlit. The front door was open, and the dogs came belting out, barking a welcome, and there were two people standing there, a man and a woman. At first she thought it couldn’t be true, but it was true. It was Priscilla. Priscilla and Bob.

  Almost before the car had stopped, she was out of it, for once ignoring her precious dogs, running across the gravel through the rain, heedless of her hair and her high-heeled satin shoes.

  “Hello, Mummy!”

  “Oh, Priscilla! Oh, darling!” They hugged enormously. “But what are you doing? What are you doing here?”

  “We’ve come for your anniversary,” her son-in-law told her. He was grinning from ear to ear, and she embraced him lovingly, and then turned back to Priscilla. “But the children? What have you done with the babies?”

  “Left them with my darling neighbour. It’s all been the most tremendous conspiracy.” The other car had by now arrived, disgorging Henry, who appeared to be poleaxed with astonishment. “Hello, Dad! Surprise, surprise!”

  “What the hell is happening?” was all he seemed to be able to say.

  Priscilla took his hand. “Come indoors, and we’ll show you.”

  Bemused, they followed her. As they stood in the middle of the hall, a voice floated down from upstairs. “Happy anniversary, you darling old things.” They looked up, and there was Tessa, running down the stairs, with her long, silky mane of hair flying behind. She took the last three steps in a single leap, the way she had always done, and Henry scooped her up into his arms and swung her off her feet.

  “You monkey! Where did you spring from?”

  “From London, where else? Oh, Mum, darling, aren’t you looking gorgeous! Isn’t this the best surprise ever? No, it isn’t the best surprise, there’s more … come with me!”

  “It’s worse than ‘This Is Your Life,’” Henry said, but Tessa was not listening. She grasped her mother’s wrist, and Edwina found herself being dragged across the hall and through the open door which led into the big drawing-room. The dust sheets were gone, the fire had been lighted, and there were flowers everywhere. Kate and Tony were there, standing with their backs to the fire, along with a young man with a deeply tanned face and hair bleached blond by the tropic sun. It was Rodney.

  “There!” said Tessa and let go of her wrist.

  “Happy anniversary, Ma,” said Rodney.

  “But how did you do it?” Edwina asked, walking into his arms. “How did you arrange everything?”

  “It was a conspiracy. Aunt Kate and Uncle Tony were in on it—and Rosemary and James as well, and Bessie Digley. We all met up in London yesterday and flew north together.”

  “But Rodney, how did you get leave?”

  “I was due some anyway. Been saving it up.”

  “But I got a cable this morning, from your ship.”

  “I got the first lieutenant to send it for me.”

  She turned to her daughters. “And your cards…”

  “Red herrings,” Tessa told her. “To allay any suspicions you might have had. And of course, we’re all having dinner here, in the dining-room. Priscilla and I cooked it in Aunt Kate’s kitchen, and we brought it all over in the trunk of their car.”

  “But … the fire. This room. The flowers. Everything…”

  “Rodney and Uncle Tony did all that while we flew around setting the table. And Bob went around turning on every single light.”

  “It was so funny,” Priscilla chimed in. “When you left for Rosemary’s, we were all waiting in two cars at the bottom of the drive, with everything switched off so you wouldn’t see us. Just like playing hide and seek. Then, as soon as you were safely on your way, we shot up the drive and set to work.”

  “And how did you get in?” Henry wanted to know.

  “Tessa still has her key. And Bessie Digley’s here. She’s going to make up all our beds. You don’t mind if we stay the weekend, do you? Rodney can stay longer, of course, because he’s got two weeks’ leave, but I can’t leave the children too long, and Tessa has to get back to work.”

  Champagne corks had been popping. Somebody handed Edwina a glass. She hadn’t even taken off her coat yet, and she had never felt so happy in her whole life.

  * * *

  A little later, Edwina slipped away from the laughter and talk and champagne. She looked into the dining-room and saw that here, too, the fire had been lighted, and the great mahogany table laid as though for a royal banquet. She moved towards the kitchen and looked in around the door. Bessie Digley turned from the stove. “Now this was a good surprise,” she said, with a smile that Edwina had never seen on her dour face.

  She went upstairs. On the landing every bedroom door was ajar, and every light blazed. She glimpsed open suitcases and clothes lying about in a heartwarming muddle. In her own room, she took off her coat and laid it across the bed. She thought about drawing the curtains, then decided against it. Let the whole world see and guess what was happening! She stood with her back to the window and surveyed her large, familiar, faintly shabby bedroom. Her dressing-table, the huge double bed, the towering Victorian wardrobe, her desk. She saw the plethora of photographs, which seemed to cover every surface. The children at all stages and ages, and now grandchildren, too, and dogs and picnics and reunions and celebrations.

  A thousand memories.

  After a little while, she went to the mirror, fixed her hair, and powdered her nose. It was time to join the others. But at the top of the stairs, she paused. From the drawing room, voices and laughter floated upward, filling the air with happy sounds. Her children were here. They had come to tear the dust sheets from the empty rooms, and fill the vacant bedrooms. Henry had been right. There were still years of life to be lived in this house. It was too soon to be thinking of leaving. Too soon to be thinking of growing old.

  Thirty years. She touched her new ear-rings, found herself smiling, and ran downstairs, excited as a bride.

  MARIGOLD GARDEN

  He had not planned to go to Brookfield. It lay deep in the Hampshire countryside, fifteen miles from the motorway between Southampton and London, and he had seen himself simply speeding past the turn-off, without, as it were, a sideways glance.

  But somehow—perhaps by memory, perhaps by the familiar countryside drowsing in the afternoon sunshine—he was seduced, beguiled. After all, now it was over. Finished. Julia and her new husband would still be away on their honeymoon, basking in the nailing heat of the Mediterranean, or sailing some boat across turquoise-blue, glass-clear West Indian waters. She was now out of his reach. It was over.

  The huge road curved ahead of him, poured behind. On either side villages, orchards, farms, sliced in two by progress, lay untouched, unchanged. Cows stood in the shade beneath clumps of trees, and fields were thick and yellow with ripening corn.

  The sign came up at him. Lamington. Hartston. Brookfield. Miles eased his foot from the accelerator. The needle on the dashboard dropped from seventy to sixty to fifty. What the hell am I doing? But the image of the old red brick house smothered in wisteria, the lawn sloping down to the river, the heady scent of roses, pulled him like a magnet. He knew that he had to go back. Now he saw the turnoff, the bridge across the motorway. He glanced into his driving-mirror to check the traffic behind him, and then, inexorably, slid across into the slow lane, and so up onto the ramp.

  He grinned at himself wryly. Perhaps you always meant to do this. But why not? It was too late for memories. Ten days too late.

  Out of sight and sound of the motorway, the surroundings were, almost at once, familiar. He knew this road, that village; had drunk beer in that pub after a cricket match; had once been to a party in the house that lay beyond a pair of impressive gates. It was four years ago when he had first made this journey, but, idling along the country lanes, he could remember every moment, every nuance of that drive. Excited he had been, and a little anxious, because he was fresh out of Agricultural College and going to an interview for his first job, as manager of Br
ookfield Farm, working for Mrs. Hawthorne.

  When they eventually met, she explained her position. Her husband had recently died. Her son, who would one day take over the farm, had taken a short service commission in the Army, and was at present stationed in Hong Kong.

  “… but when he leaves the Army, he plans to go to agricultural college, but meantime I must have somebody to help me … just to keep things going until Derek’s ready to come home again…”

  Privately Miles decided that she looked far too young to have a grown-up son, but he said nothing, because this was a business matter, and no time for personal compliments.

  “… so you can see, I must have a manager. Now, why don’t we go and have a look around?”

  They had spent the day inspecting the farm. There were good outbuildings, a tarmacadamed yard, well-kept cattle-courts, modern tractors. Beyond lay fields of arable land, some stock, sheep and cattle. In a little paddock horses grazed.

  “Do you ride?” he asked Mrs. Hawthorne.

  “No. Julia’s the horsy one in our family.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “Yes. She’s got a job in Hartston; she works in an antique shop there. It’s nice for me, because she lives at home, but I expect before long she’ll get restless and go and find herself a flat in London. That’s what all her friends seem to be doing.”

  “Yes, I suppose they do.”

  She smiled. “You never wanted to work in London?”

  “No. I never wanted to do anything except farm.”

  She showed him the house where he would live, a brick cottage with a small and totally unkempt garden. “I’m afraid it’s rather a mess…”

  He eyed it. “It wouldn’t take long to get straight.”

  “Are you a keen gardener?”

  “Put it this way: I don’t like weeds.”

  She laughed at that. “I know. I spend most of my time pulling the beastly things up.”

  “My mother does that too.” They looked at each other, smiling. It was the beginning of friendship, of liking.

  Finally, they were back indoors, in the house, in the farm office that had been her husband’s. She did not sit in the impressive leather chair, but leaned against the desk, with her hands deep in the pockets of her cardigan, and turned to face Miles.