September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

Croy.

  Enough. Pandora jerked her wayward memories back into line as though they were over-eager children. She had no wish to go further. Enough of self-indulgence. Enough of Scotland. She swam a final length and then climbed the shallow steps up and out of the pool. The stones beneath her bare feet were already hot. Dripping, she made her way back into the house. In her bathroom, she showered, washed her hair, put on a fresh dress, loose and sleeveless, the coolest garment she owned. She left her bedroom, crossed the hall, went into the kitchen.

  “Seraphina.”

  Seraphina swung round from the sink where she was busily engaged in scrubbing a bucket of mussels. She was a small, squat, brown woman with sturdy bare legs thrust into espadrilles, and dark hair drawn back into a knot at the nape of her neck. She always wore black because she was perpetually in mourning. No sooner was she out of mourning for one old grandparent or distant relation than another of her clan passed on and she was back in mourning again. The black dresses all looked exactly the same, but as if to make up for their gloom, her pinafores and aprons were invariably brightly coloured and hectically patterned.

  Seraphina went with the Casa Rosa. Previously, she had worked for fifteen years for the English couple who had originally built the villa. When, two years ago, due to family pressures and uncertain health, they had reluctantly returned to England, Pandora, searching for some place to live, had bought the property from them. Doing this, she discovered that she had inherited Seraphina and Mario. At first Seraphina was not certain whether she wished to work for Pandora, and Pandora was in two minds about Seraphina. She was not exactly attractive and very often looked quite grumpy. But tentatively they tried out a month together, and then the month stretched to three months, and then to a year, and the arrangement, quite comfortably, settled itself, without anything actually being said.

  “Señora. Buenos días. You are awake.’

  After fifteen years with her previous employers, Seraphina spoke reasonable English. Pandora was grateful for this small mercy. Her French was fluent but Spanish a closed book. People said it was easy because of having done Latin at school, but Pandora’s education did not include Latin and she was not about to start now.

  “Any breakfast?”

  “Is on the table. I bring the coffee.”

  The table was set on the terrace, which faced out over the driveway. Here it was shady and cooled by any breeze that blew from the sea. Crossing the sitting room, Pandora’s eye was caught by a book that lay on the coffee-table. It was a large and lush volume, sent as a present from Archie for her birthday. Wainwright in Scotland, She knew why he had sent it. He never stopped, in his simple and transparent way, trying to lure her home. Because of this, she had not even opened it. But now she paused, her attention caught. Wainwright in Scotland. Scotland again. Was this a day to be drenched in nostalgia? She smiled at herself, at this weakness that had suddenly come upon her. Why not? She stooped and picked up the book and carried it out on to the terrace. Peeling her orange, she opened it on the table.

  It was indeed a coffee-table book, built for browsing. Pen-and-ink drawings, beautifully executed maps, and a simple text. Coloured photographs sprang from every page. The silver sands of Morar. Ben Vorlich. The Falls of Dochart. The old names resounded satisfactorily, like a roll of drums.

  She began to eat the orange. Juice dripped on the pages of the book, and she brushed it carelessly away, leaving stains. Seraphina brought her coffee but she never looked up, so engrossed was she.

  Here the river, after a long and sedate journey, suddenly erupts into a furious rage, descending in a turbulent cataract of white foam along a wide and rocky channel in a remarkable display of thrashing waters. The flow of the rapids is interrupted by wooded islands, one of which was the burial place of the clan MacNab, and a bower of lovely trees enhances a scene of outstanding beauty…

  She poured coffee, turned a page and read on.

  Wainwright in Scotland consumed her day. She carried it from the breakfast table to a long chair by the pool and then, after lunch, took it to bed with her. By five o’clock, she had read it from cover to cover. Closed at last, she let it drop to the floor.

  It was cooler now, but for once she had scarcely been troubled by the heat. She got off her bed and went out of doors and swam once more, then dressed in white cotton trousers and a blue-and-white shirt. She did her hair, her eyes, found earrings, a gold bracelet. White sandals. She sprayed on scent. Her bottle was nearly finished. She would have to buy more. The prospect of this small luxurious purchase filled her with pleasure.

  She said goodbye to Seraphina and went out of the front door and down the steps to where her car was parked in the garage. She got in and drove down the winding hill and so out on to the wide road that led to the port. She parked her car in the courtyard of the post office and went in to collect her mail. She put this in her leather-strapped basket and then left her car and walked slowly through the still-crowded streets, pausing to glance into shop windows, to assess a dress, to price a delectable lacy shawl. At the scent shop, she went in and bought a flagon of Poison, then went on, always walking in the direction of the sea. She came at last to the wide, palm-fringed boulevard that ran parallel to the beach. At the end of the day it seemed as busy as ever, the sands crowded and people still swimming. Far out, windsurfers’ sails caught the evening breeze, dipping like birds’ wings out across the surface of the water.

  She came to a little café where a few tables stood empty on the pavement. The waiter came and she ordered coffee and cognac. Then, leaning back in the uncomfortable iron chair, pushing her sunglasses up on to the top of her head, she reached into the basket and took out her letters. One from Paris. One from her lawyer in New York. A postcard from Venice. She turned it over. Emily Richter, still staying at the Cipriani. A large, stiff white envelope, addressed to Croy and readdressed in Archie’s handwriting. She opened it and read, in disbelief and then with some amusement, Verena Steynton’s invitation.

  At Home

  For Katy

  Extraordinary. As though she were receiving a summons from another age, another world. And yet a world which, by some strange coincidence, like it or not, she had inhabited for the whole of the day. She knew uncertainty. Was it an omen of some sort? Should she pay heed? And if it was an omen, did she believe in omens in the first place?

  At Home for Katy. She remembered other invitations, “stiffies” she and Archie had called them, propped on the mantelpiece of the library at Croy. Invitations to garden parties, cricket matches, dances. Dances galore. There had been a week in September when one scarcely slept, somehow surviving with stolen naps in the backs of cars, or a doze in the sun while others played tennis. She remembered a wardrobe filled with ball-dresses, and she herself perpetually complaining to her mother that she had nothing to wear. Everybody had seen the ice-blue satin because she’d worn it at the Northern Meetings, and anyway, some man had spilled champagne all down the front and the stain wouldn’t come out. And the rose-pink? The hem was torn and one of the straps had come loose. Whereupon her mother, the most indulgent and patient of women, instead of suggesting that Pandora find a needle and thread and mend the rose-pink, would put her daughter into the car and drive to Relkirk or Edinburgh and there suffer the traumas of Pandora’s capricious whims, trudging from shop to shop until the most beautiful — and inevitably most costly — dress was finally run to earth.

  How spoiled Pandora had been, how adored, how cherished. And in return…

  She laid down the card and looked up at the sea. The waiter came with her coffee and brandy on a little tray. She thanked him and paid. As she drank the bitter, black, scalding coffee, Pandora watched the windsurfers and the slow ambling flow of passers-by. The evening sun slipped down out of the sky and the sea became like molten gold.

  She had never gone back. Her own decision. Nobody else’s. They had not come chasing after her but they had never lost touch. Always letters, still filled with love. After her parents d
ied, she thought the letters would stop but they didn’t, because then Archie took over. Detailed descriptions of shoots, news of his children, scraps of village gossip. Always they ended in the same way. “We miss you. Why don’t you come and stay for a few days? It is too long since we have seen you.”

  A yacht was moving out of the marina, motoring gently until it was clear of the beach and able to fill its sails with wind. Idly, she watched its passage. She saw it, but her inner eye was filled with images of Croy. Her thoughts, once more, ran ahead and this time she did not pull them back, but let them go. To the house. Up the steps to the front door. The door stood open. Nothing to stop her. She could go…

  She set down her coffee-cup with some force. What was the point? The past was always golden because one recalled only the good times. But what about the darker side of memory? Happenings better left where they were, shut away, like sad mementoes stuffed in a trunk, the lid closed down, the key turned in the lock. Besides, the past was people, not places. Places without people were like railway stations where no trains ran. I am thirty-nine. Nostalgia drains all energy from the present and I am too old for nostalgia.

  She reached for her brandy. As she did this, a shadow came between herself and the sun, to lie across her table. Startled, she looked up and into the face of the man who stood beside her. He gave a little bow.

  “Pandora.”

  “Oh, Carlos! What are you doing creeping up on me?”

  “I have been to the Casa Rosa but found nobody there. You see, if you don’t come to me, then I have to come to you.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “So I tried the port. I thought that I should find you somewhere here.”

  “I was shopping.”

  “May I join you?”

  “Of course.”

  He drew out a chair and sat facing her. He was a tall man in his mid-forties, formally attired in collar and tie and a light jacket. His hair was dark, as were his eyes, and even on this sultry evening his appearance was cool and crisp. He spoke impeccable English and looked, Pandora always thought, like a Frenchman. But he was, in fact, a Spaniard.

  He was also extremely attractive. She smiled. She said, “Let me order you a brandy.”

  15

  Wednesday the Twenty-fourth

  Virginia Aird shouldered her way through the swing-doors of Harrods and stepped out into the street. In the store, the heat and the hassle had become oppressive. Outside, it was scarcely better. The day was humid, the air heavy with petrol fumes and the claustrophobia of surging humanity. Brompton Road stood solid with traffic, and the pavements were choked with a slow-moving river of people. She had forgotten that city streets could contain so many people. Some had to be Londoners, one supposed, going about their daily business, but the general impression was of some global immigration from all points of the compass. Tourists and visitors. More visitors than one could have believed possible. Great blond students with back packs passed by. Entire families of Italians or possibly Spaniards; two Indian ladies in brilliant saris. And, of course, Americans. My fellow countrymen, thought Virginia wryly. They were instantly recognisable by their clothes and the plethora of camera equipment slung about their necks. One huge man was even wearing his ten-gallon hat.

  It was four-thirty in the afternoon. She had been shopping all day and was now laden with loot, carrier bags, and parcels. Her feet hurt. But still she stood there, because she had not yet made up her mind what she was going to do next.

  There were two alternatives.

  Either she would return forthwith, by any means of transport that made itself available, to Cadgwith Mews, where she was staying in great comfort with her friend Felicity Crowe. She had been given a doorkey, so even if the house was empty — Felicity out shopping, or taking her dachshund for a turn around the gardens — Virginia could let herself in, kick off her shoes, make a cup of tea, and fall, in a stupor of exhaustion, on to her bed. The prospect of such a course of action was immensely tempting.

  Or she could go to Ovington Street and risk finding Alexa out. This was what she ought to do. Alexa was not exactly on her conscience, but there could be no question of returning to Scotland without having made contact with her stepdaughter. She had already tried to do this, telephoning last night from Felicity’s, but there had been no answer to the call and she had finally replaced the receiver deciding that, for once, Alexa was out on some spree. Then she had tried again this morning, and at lunch-time, and again from the hairdresser’s, boiled with heat from the blow-drier. Still no reply. Was Alexa perhaps out of London?

  At that moment a small Japanese, gazing in the opposite direction, barged into her and knocked one of her parcels to the ground. He apologised profusely in his polite Japanese way, picked up the parcel, dusted it off, returned it to her, bowed, smiled, raised his hat, and went on his way. Enough. A taxi drew up to unload its cargo and, before anyone else could claim it, Virginia did so.

  “Where to, love?”

  She had made up her mind. “Ovington Street.” If Alexa was not at home, she would keep the taxi and go on to Felicity’s. With the small decision taken, she felt better. She opened the window, sat back, thought about taking off her shoes.

  It was a short journey. As the taxi turned into Ovington Street, Virginia sat forward to search for Alexa’s car. If her car was there, then, in all probability, Alexa would be at home. It was — a white Mini van with a red stripe was parked at the pavement outside the blue front door. Relief. She directed the cab driver and he drew up in the middle of the street.

  “Can you wait a moment? I just want to make sure somebody’s in.”

  “Okay, love.”

  She gathered up her shopping and bundled out, climbed the steps and pressed the bell. She heard Larry barking, Alexa’s voice telling him to be quiet. She dumped her parcels on the doorstep and, opening her bag, went back to pay off the taxi.

  Alexa was in her kitchen, dealing bravely with the detritus of her day’s work, all of which she had brought back from Chiswick in the back of her van. Saucepans, plastic containers, wooden salad bowls, knives, eggwhisk, and a cardboard wine crate filled with dirty glasses. When all was clean, dried, and put away, she planned to go upstairs, strip off her crumpled cotton skirt and shirt, take a shower, and then put on an entirely fresh set of clothes. After that, she would make a cup of tea…Lapsang Souchong with a slice of lemon…and then she would take Larry for a little stroll, and later start thinking about dinner. On the way back from Chiswick, she had stopped off at the fishmonger and bought rainbow trout, Noel’s favourite. Grilled, with almonds. And perhaps…

  She heard the taxi approaching slowly down the street. Standing at the sink, visibility was limited. The taxi stopped. A woman’s voice. High-heeled footsteps tapped across the pavement. Alexa, rinsing a wineglass under the tap, waited, listening. Then her doorbell rang.

  Larry hated the doorbell and burst into an aria of barking. And Alexa, so occupied and busy, resented the interruption and was equally unenthusiastic. Who on earth could this be? “Oh, be quiet, you stupid creature.” She set down the glass, untied her apron and went upstairs to find out. Hopefully, it would be no one of importance. She opened the door to a pile of expensive-looking parcels. The taxi made a U-turn and trundled away. And…

  She gaped. Her stepmother. Dressed for London but still instantly recognisable. She wore a black dress and a scarlet jacket and patent pumps, and her hair, fresh from the hands of some exclusive expert, had been dressed in a new style, drawn back from her face and clasped in a huge black velvet bow.

  Her stepmother. Looking fantastic but unannounced and entirely unexpected. The implications of this caused every thought but one to fly from Alexa’s head.

  Noel.

  “Virginia.”

  “Don’t die of shock. I kept the taxi waiting because I thought you might be out.” She kissed Alexa. “I’ve been shopping,” she explained unnecessarily, and stooped to gather up the parcels. Alexa, with an effort, pulled h
erself together and helped.

  “But I didn’t even know you were in London.”

  “Just for a day or two.” They dumped it all on the hall table. “And don’t say why didn’t you ring me up, because I’ve been calling non-stop. I thought you must be away.”

  “No.” Alexa shut the door. “We…I went out for dinner last night, though; and I’ve been out on a job all day. I was just washing up. That’s why I’m looking such a mess…”

  “You look great.” Virginia eyed her. “Have you lost weight?”

  “I don’t know. I never weigh myself.”

  “What was the job?”

  “Oh, a lunch for an old man’s ninetieth birthday. In Chiswick. A lovely house, right on the river. Twenty guests, and all relations. Two great-grandchildren.”

  “What did you give them?”

  “Cold salmon and champagne. That’s what he wanted. And a birthday cake. But why didn’t you tell me you were coming…?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It was all done on the spur of the moment. I just felt I wanted to get away for a day or two. I’ve been shopping all day.”

  “It looks like it. And I love your hair. You must be exhausted. Go on in and take the weight off your feet…”

  “That’s all I want…” Pulling off her jacket, Virginia went through the open door, tossed her jacket aside, headed for the largest armchair, collapsed into it, kicked off her shoes and placed her feet on a stool. “Heaven.”

  Alexa stood and looked at her. How long did she plan to stay? Why…? “Why aren’t you staying here with me?” Thank heavens she wasn’t, but it was the obvious question to ask.

  “I would have invited myself, of course, but I promised Felicity Crowe next time I came to London I’d stay with her. You know, she’s my childhood friend. She’d have been my bridesmaid if I’d had bridesmaids. And we never see much of each other, and when we do we talk and giggle non-stop.”