Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  “The job is yours if you want it,” she told him.

  Against all sense, because he wanted to work there more than anything else in the world, he heard himself suggesting that perhaps she would be better off with a man older than himself, someone with more experience. But she had thrown back her head and laughed, and said “Oh, heavens, I’d be terrified of someone like that. It would end up with him telling me what to do.”

  “In that case,” said Miles, “it’s a deal.”

  * * *

  He stayed at Brookfield for a year. He would have stayed longer if it had not been for Julia. He was twenty-three. He had never seriously considered meeting a person, and falling in love, and wanting to spend the rest of his life with her. It happened, he knew, to other men. It had already happened to several of his friends. But somehow he had always imagined that, for himself, such an occurrence was a long way off—he would be thirty, or more. The time would be ripe, he would have made his way, built for himself a solid future, which he would then offer to some suitable female, as though he were giving her a present which he had made himself.

  But Julia was suddenly there, in his life, and all his pre-conceived ideas, floating like soap bubbles around the back of his mind, instantly burst and disappeared forever. Why did it have to be Julia? What was it about her that was different? What was it about her that made everything magic? He had heard a word, “propinquity,” and he looked it up in the dictionary, and it said nearness in place; close kinship.

  They were indeed near. He saw her, if only briefly, every day. Helped her start her little car on frosty mornings; rode with her on April Sundays; swam with her in the river, when the leaves were thick and heavy overhead, and the brown, slow-moving water danced with sun-shafts and midges. They swept leaves together in the autumn, and built bonfires fragrant with wood-smoke. He remembered her at haymaking time, wearing a tattered old straw hat like a hobo, and with her arms sunburnt and her face running with sweat. He remembered her at Christmas, in a holly-red dress, her eyes as bright as an excited child’s.

  And as for kinship … if that meant laughter and companionship and keeping silence without constraint, then they had been kin. If it meant going to a party with her and glowing with pride because she was more attractive than any other girl in the room, then that was kin. If it meant not minding whom she danced with, because, inevitably, it was always Miles who drove her home; slowly, dawdling down the dark lanes, discussing, like an old married couple, everything that had happened—then that was kin.

  Propinquity. It was he who had ruined it all. He thought of the old Frank Sinatra song. “And then I have to spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you.”

  * * *

  It was a Sunday evening. Warm and dusky, and they were sitting down by the river. The sound of church-bells, ringing for evensong, reached them from far across the meadows.

  “I love you.”

  She had said, “I don’t want you to love me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t. Because you’re not that sort of a person.”

  “What sort of a person am I?”

  “You’re Miles.”

  “Is Miles so different from other men?”

  “Yes, and a thousand times nicer.”

  “If you say you think of me as a brother, then I shall strangle you.”

  “I have a brother. I don’t need another.”

  “A dog, then. A faithful hound.”

  “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

  “What do you want me to say? We can’t go on like this forever.”

  “I just don’t want it to be any other way than this.”

  “Julia, grow up. Nothing can stay the same.”

  “Why me? Why do you have to be in love with me?”

  “I didn’t, actually, organize it.”

  “I’m not ready for falling in love. I’m not ready for getting married and white wedding dresses and setting up house and having babies.”

  “What are you ready for, then?”

  “I don’t know. Change, perhaps, but not marriage.”

  “What sort of change?”

  She looked away from him. A lock of dark hair fell forward and hid her face. “I can’t stay home forever. I could go to London, perhaps. Sukie Robins … you know, you met her at that party. We were at school together. She’s getting a flat in Wandsworth—she wants someone to share it with her.” Miles did not say anything to this shattering revelation, and Julia suddenly turned and faced him in a sort of rage, but whether it was at him or herself, he could not guess. “Oh, Miles, it’s all right for you. You’re doing what you want, you don’t want to do anything else. You haven’t any doubts. You’re on your way, you’ve made your decisions. But I’m twenty-one and I don’t know. I haven’t done anything…”

  He could think of no response to this outburst. “What about your mother?” he asked at last.

  “I adore my mother. I adore her. You know that. But she would be the last person to want to pin me down, to be possessive.”

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

  “I don’t know. I only know that I don’t want to get married for years. Years and years. There are a thousand things I want to do before that happens and I want to start doing them now.”

  After a little he said, “I shan’t always be a farm manager, you know. One day I’ll have a farm of my own. I’ll be self-supporting, independent. I won’t always be like this.”

  “You mean money? You think I don’t want you because you haven’t got any money? How can you think anything so horrible?”

  “Being practical isn’t horrible.”

  “That doesn’t come into it.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You can’t have a very high opinion of me to say a thing like that. I never thought you could be so materialistic.”

  “Julia—I love you very much.”

  “Then I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” With that, she burst into tears, springing to her feet. “I’m sorry for you and I’m sorry for me. But I don’t want to be like … like a dead butterfly, pinned to a bit of cork…” And with this extraordinary statement, she fled from him, away up the lawn towards the house.

  And Miles sat on, alone, bitten to death by midges, and not caring; because he had spoiled everything, and nothing could ever be the same again.

  * * *

  He lived with it for a week, and then he went to Mrs. Hawthorne and gave in his notice. She was not a stupid woman and he respected her for her outspokenness.

  “Oh, Miles. It’s Julia, isn’t it?”

  As well, he respected her too much to lie. He said, “Yes.”

  “You’re in love with her.”

  “I think I always have been. From the first moment I set eyes on her.”

  “I was so afraid that something like this had happened. Julia’s going to London. She’s got a flat, and she’s going to get a job there. She told me last night. So there is no reason that you have to go too.”

  “I must.”

  “Yes. I can see that. I’m sorry. I’ve been dreading this, and yet I wanted it too. I’ve grown so fond of you. I had silly dreams, like any sentimental mother. But I wouldn’t be any use as a parent if I tried to influence Julia.”

  “I … I never meant it to happen.”

  “You’re not to blame. Nobody is to blame.”

  “I’ll stay, of course. Until you find somebody to take over my job.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll find another job.”

  * * *

  He did, too. In Scotland, with the Forestry Commission. When he told Mrs. Hawthorne, she smiled wryly. “It could scarcely be further away,” she said.

  “Perhaps that’s what I need. Perhaps that’s what we all need.”

  “Oh, Miles. Dear Miles. How much I shall miss you.”

  “I’ll come back,” he promised her.

  * * *

  But he did not come back. He moved
forward, to a new life in more senses than one. He went to solitude as he had never known it before, to a small granite house in heathery hills that stretched forever. He went to new attitudes, new problems, new solutions. He made, gradually, new friends. Learned to drive thirty or forty miles for any sort of social contact. Lived with bitter cold and wide skies, endless rain and drifting snow. He planted trees, and brushed trees and felled trees; ploughed land that had never known anything but heather and ling and the cries of grouse and curlew. He learned to melt ice when the water from the tap trickled to a standstill, learned to fish for salmon, to dance an eightsome reel. He learned to live alone.

  He worked, sometimes seven days a week, using self-imposed labour as a sedative, numbing his memories and his heartache. Sometimes there was leisure to read a book or a paper. One morning, more than two years after he had said goodbye to Brookfield, he went the twenty miles to Relkirk for Market Day, and along with a few crates of necessary groceries, he bought a Times. In it, he read the announcement of Julia’s engagement to a man called Humphrey Fleet. He had meant to drive straight home, but instead took himself into the nearest pub with the intention—for the first time in his life—of getting slowly, systematically drunk.

  He did not. Because in the pub he met an old friend from Agricultural College, and with this extraordinary coincidence, the whole course of his life took a new turning.

  And now the road ran downhill and Brookfield lay below him in the valley, a cluster of cottages around a crossroads, surrounded by farmland and shallow hills. He came to the vicarage and the church, passed the Flower in Hand, the grocer’s shop that sold everything from frozen scampi to floor polish. He came to the oak copse, the white gates standing open, the cattle-grid. Brookfield Farm. He went through the gates and up between the white-painted fences and over the little bridge, and the house revealed itself, rose-red brick smothered in wisteria, the garden concealed by banks of rhododendrons.

  He drew up at the back of the house, stopped the car and turned off the engine. He could smell the rich, sweet fragrance of the farmyard, heard the soft, contented squawks of Mrs. Hawthorne’s free-range hens. He got out of the car and opened the back gate and made his way down to the house and through the open kitchen door. The Aga hummed companionably. There were roses in a lustre jug in the middle of the scrubbed pine table, and all the old lustre plates still ranged upon the open shelves of the dresser.

  “Mrs. Hawthorne?”

  No sound. No reply. He went through the kitchen and into the hall, and the door to the garden was open to the warm afternoon, and beyond it lay the terrace and the long lawn, sloping down to the river. A wheelbarrow stood in the middle of the grass, and he stepped out into the sunshine, and there was Mrs. Hawthorne, on her hands and knees, peacefully weeding her border.

  He walked across the grass towards her. She did not hear him, but suddenly became aware that she was not alone. She turned her head, putting up a muddy gloved hand to push back her hair with her wrist.

  He said, “Hello.”

  “Miles!” Astonishment, delight filled her face. She dropped her weeding fork and got to her feet. “Oh, Miles.”

  They had never been on kissing terms, but he kissed her now, and she put her arms around him to give him a hug, and then held him off in order to gaze into his face.

  “What a wonderful surprise. Where have you sprung from?”

  “I was on my way to London from Southampton. I thought I had to call in and see you.”

  “And I thought you were in Scotland.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m still working there, but I’ve been on holiday with some friends, they’ve got a cottage in the Dordogne. Now I’m on my way back. I’m putting the car on the Motorail to Inverness this evening. It saves a long drive.”

  “But how wonderful that you came. I am touched.” She pulled off her gloves and dropped them onto the grass. “Let’s go and sit in the shade. Would you like a drink? How about some lemonade?”

  “That would be delicious.”

  She led the way back to the house and he watched her go and thought that the years had still not touched her. She remained as slim as a girl, her fair, greying hair cut casually short, her step long-legged and supple. She disappeared indoors for a moment, and then returned with a tray, a jug of lemonade clinking with ice, and two tumblers. She put this down on a battered table that had seen many such al-fresco occasions.

  “Don’t look too closely at the garden, Miles. I’ve been so busy, there’s been no time to tie things up or get rid of the weeds.”

  He turned from his contemplation of the familiar view and came to sit beside her.

  “How’s the farm going?” he asked.

  “Splendidly.” She poured him a glass of lemonade, picked it up and handed it to him. “Derek’s out of the Army, finished with Cirencester, and now he’s in charge. So far everything seems to be going according to plan, but I’m afraid you won’t meet him, because he’s gone over to Salisbury today, to see about a new tractor.”

  “And the farm manager who took over when I left?”

  “A great success. He’s moved on to work for some friends of ours who farm near Newbury. The only thing was that he wasn’t as keen a gardener as you were, and I’m afraid your little garden at the cottage has gone back to rack and ruin again.”

  “There’s nobody living in that house, then?”

  “No. Derek thought we’d maybe let it. He hasn’t decided yet. Now, tell me about you. Tell me about everything you’ve been doing. Are you still with the Forestry Commission?”

  “No. No, I’m not. I’ve gone into partnership with a chap called Charlie Westwell. We were at Cirencester together, and I met up with him again in a pub in Relkirk, quite by chance. He’d come north to look at a farm that was for sale, but he couldn’t raise sufficient capital to buy it on his own. So, right then and there, we went off together to look at the place. It’s a good farm, in the Vale of Strathmore, south-facing, incredibly fertile. The sort of place I’ve always dreamed about. I rang my father that evening, and put the scheme to him, and he came up trumps with just about enough cash for the half-share, and a long-suffering bank manager lent me the balance. We’ve been working together now for four months, and I think it’s going to work out.” He grinned. “The best thing about having a partner is that you can sometimes take a holiday. This is the first one I’ve had in years.”

  “And I’m sure you needed it! He sounds a good friend to have met again. Do you share a house?”

  “No. Charlie’s married, you see. He and Jenny live in the farmhouse and I’ve got the grieve’s cottage. It’s actually quite a big house, with a new kitchen and central heating and all sorts of luxuries. I scarcely know myself.”

  “And you…” She smiled at him. “You never married?”

  “No.”

  “You should be, Miles.”

  He took a long drink of the lemonade. It was sour and refreshing and the ice clinked against the glass, and touched his mouth. When he had drained it, he set down the empty tumbler and said, as casually as he could, “How did the wedding go?”

  She said, “It didn’t.” Miles looked up quickly, and her blue gaze met his own.

  “You mean, it didn’t go well?”

  “No, I don’t mean that. I mean it didn’t happen. Five days before the wedding was due to take place, Humphrey and Julia came to me and said that they had decided they didn’t want to get married after all. We put an announcement in the paper, but of course, if you were in the Dordogne, you wouldn’t have seen it.”

  “Dear heaven,” said Miles.

  His voice sounded quite ordinary and calm, but inside he felt as though he had been kicked in the stomach, knocked to the ground, left in some gutter, bruised and incapable. A sort of panic knocked in his chest, and it was a second or two before he realized that it was simply the beating of his own heart.

  “Luckily,” Mrs. Hawthorne’s gentle voice went on, “they at least came out with this before the mar
quee went up. So I was able to cancel that. But it took a good deal of organization to put off the caterers and the guests and the lady who was going to do the flowers; and the man with the crates of champagne, and the poor vicar.”

  He said, “But why?”

  She shrugged and sighed deeply. “I don’t know. I simply don’t know. They neither of them were able to find any particular reason.”

  “Did you imagine that this was going to happen?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “Yes. Yes, really, I did. Very much. He was a very nice young man. Really, everything any mother could wish for. Nice-looking, plenty of money, a good job. I always thought, perhaps, that Julia was more in love with him than he was with her, but you know what sort of a person she is. Demonstrative and outgoing. She was never any good at hiding her feelings. I think he had learned to be a little bit more reserved.”

  “Is Julia back in London?”

  “No. She’d given up her flat, given up her job. She’s still here. She won’t see anybody. She’s very unhappy.” Once more their eyes met and held. “I don’t suppose,” said Mrs. Hawthorne, “that you would want to see her.”

  “What you mean is, that Julia wouldn’t want to see me.”

  “Oh, dear Miles. I don’t know what I mean.”

  She looked, he thought, all at once exhausted and distraught. As though, suddenly, she felt that she could let down her defences, and stop pretending to be practical and strong.

  “It’s such a mess,” she admitted. “Derek was furious with her. He’d bought himself a new morning coat. He said that if he was going to give his sister away, he couldn’t do it in a hired outfit from Moss Brothers. He kept saying, ‘And I’ve bought myself a bloody morning coat,’ as though that were really all that mattered. Poor man, he’s been a tower of strength to me, but he doesn’t seem to be able to do anything for Julia.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Do you remember the raspberry canes you planted at the back of the cottage when you were living here? I don’t think you stayed long enough to harvest the fruit, but they produce the most beautiful berries. Julia went down there to see if she could find a bowlful for our supper. Perhaps … perhaps if you’re not in too much of a hurry, you could go and help her…?”