SEPTEMBER
21
Thursday the Eighth
Isobel Balmerino, at her sewing machine, stitched the last name-tape, HAMISH BLAIR, on to the last new handkerchief, cut the thread, folded the handkerchief, and laid it on top of the pile of clothes that stood on the table beside her. All done. All that remained were those garments which required that the name-tapes be hand-sewn…rugger stockings, an overcoat, and a grey polo-necked pullover, but these could be done at leisure, in the evening, and by the fireside.
She had not had such a session of name-tapes since Hamish first went to Templehall, four years ago, but he had grown during the summer holidays to such an alarming extent that she had been forced to drag him into Relkirk, school-clothes list in hand, and start all over again. The expedition, as she had known it would be, had been both painful and expensive. Painful because Hamish did not want to think about going back to school, hated shopping, hated new clothes, and miserably resented being done out of a single day of his holiday freedom. And expensive because the regulation uniform could only be purchased at the most up-market and costly shop in the town. The overcoat, the polo-necked sweater, and the rugger stockings were bad enough, but five new pairs of enormous leather shoes were almost more than Isobel, and her bank balance, could take.
With some idea of cheering Hamish up, she had bought him an ice-cream, but he had devoured this morosely and without joy, and they had returned to Croy in an uncommunicative and mutually unfriendly silence. Once home, Hamish had immediately taken himself off, armed with his trout rod, and wearing an expression which implied that he had been grossly mistreated. Isobel was left to hump the parcels and boxes upstairs, where she had slung them into the foot of his wardrobe and firmly shut the door, then made her way to the kitchen to boil a kettle for a cup of tea and start preparing dinner.
The horrible experience of spending vast quantities of money that she could not afford left her feeling quite sick, and Hamish’s patent ingratitude did not help. Peeling potatoes, she said a silent goodbye to any dreams of buying herself a new dress for the Steyntons’ dance. The old navy taffeta would have to do. Letting herself feel martyred and ill done by, she toyed with the notion of freshening it up with a touch of white at the neck.
But that had all happened two weeks ago, and now September was here. That made everything better, and for a number of reasons. The most important was that, until next May, she was finished with the business of paying guests. Scottish Country Tours had shut up shop for the winter, and the last lot of Americans, complete with baggage, souvenirs, and tartan bonnets, had been waved away. The tiredness and depression that had dogged Isobel all summer was dissolved almost instantly by her sense of freedom and the knowledge that, once more, she and Archie had Croy to themselves.
But this was not all. Born and bred in Scotland, she experienced each year this lifting of the spirits as August slipped away, off the calendar, and one could stop pretending that it was summer. Some years, it was true, there came seasons like the old days, when the lawns grew dry from lack of rain and golden evenings were spent watering the roses and sweet peas and the rows of young lettuces in the vegetable garden. But too frequently the months of June, July, and August were nothing but a long and soggy endurance test of frustration and disappointment. Grey skies, chill winds, and dripping rain were enough to dampen the enthusiasm of a saint. The worst were those dark and muggy days when, in desperation, one eventually retreated indoors and lit a fire, whereupon the sky instantly cleared and the late afternoon sun dazzled out over the sodden garden, tantalisingly too late to be of use to anybody.
This summer, in particular, had been specially disappointing, and with hindsight Isobel realised that the weeks of dark clouds and sunlessness had done much to contribute to her low spirits and physical exhaustion. The first snap of frost was actually welcome, and she was able to put away her cotton skirts and shirts with some satisfaction and revert once more to friendly old tweeds and Shetland pullovers.
But even after splendid summers, September in Relkirkshire was special. Those first light frosts cleared the air, so that the colours of the countryside took on a stronger and richer hue. The deep blue of the skies was reflected in loch and river, and with the harvest safely in, the fields stood golden with stubble. Harebells grew in wayside ditches, and the scented heather, coming into full bloom, stained the hills with purple.
And then, most important of all, September meant fun. A packed season of socialising before the darkness of a long winter closed in on them all, when the bitter weather and snow-packed roads isolated scattered communities and precluded any form of contact. September meant people. Friends. For this was when Relkirkshire came truly into its own.
By the end of July, the last of the annual invasion of family holidaymakers had, by and large, left; tents were packed up and caravans towed away, as the tourists headed for home. In their stead, August brought the vanguard of a secondary immigration from the south, regular visitors who returned each year to Scotland for the sport and the parties. Shooting lodges that had stood forlornly empty for most of the year were once more opened up, and their owners, driving north up the motorway in Range-Rovers loaded to the gunwales with rods, guns, small children, teenagers, friends, relations, and dogs, took happy and grateful repossession.
As well, local households swelled, not with Americans nor paying guests but with young families who belonged to these establishments and had, by necessity, moved south to London to live and work, saving their yearly vacations to return home at just this time. All bedrooms were occupied, attics turned into temporary accommodation for gangs of grandchildren, and sparse bathrooms worked overtime. Huge quantities of food were produced, cooked, and eaten every day at dining-room tables elongated by extra leaves.
And then, September. In September, all at once, everything came to life, as though some celestial stage manager had made his countdown and pulled the switch. The Station Hotel in Relkirk was transformed from its customary Victorian gloom to a cheerful, crowded meeting-place for old friends, and the Strathcroy Arms, taken over by the syndicate of businessmen who paid Archie reassuring sums of money for the privilege of shooting grouse over his moor, fairly buzzed with activity and sporting talk.
At Croy, the invitations stood stacked on the mantelpiece in the library, covering every type of convivial occasion. Isobel’s contribution to the general jollity was an annual buffet lunch party before the Strathcroy Games. Archie was Chieftain of these Games and led the opening parade of village worthies, their stride tactfully slowed to match his halting gait. For this important ceremony, he wore his regimental balmoral and carried a drawn sword. He took his responsibilities with great solemnity and, at the end of the day, presented prizes, not only for piping and Highland dancing but also for the sweater most expertly knitted from hand-spun wool, the lightest of sponge cakes, and the winning pot of home-made strawberry jam.
Isobel kept her sewing machine in the old linen room at Croy, mostly for reasons of convenience but also because it was her favourite and most private retreat. Not large, but quite spacious enough, it had windows facing west, out over the croquet lawn and the road that led up to the loch, and on bright days was always filled with sunshine. The curtains were white cotton, the floor brown linoleum, and the walls were lined with large white-painted cupboards in which were stowed all the household sheets and towels and spare blankets and fresh bedcovers. The solid table on which stood the sewing machine was also useful for cutting out and dressmaking, and the ironing board and the iron stood ready for instant use. In here there was always a comforting nursery smell of laundered linen and the lavender bags that Isobel tucked in with her crisp piles of pillowcases, and this contributed in no small way to the room’s extraordinary aura of timelessness and tranquillity.
Which was why, with the name-tapes finished, she made no immediate effort to move but stayed, sitting on the hard chair, with her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. The view beyond the open
window led, up beyond the trees, to the first gentle summits of the hills. All was washed in golden sunlight. The curtains stirred in the breeze, and that same breath of air shivered through the branches of the silver birches that stood on the far side of the lawn.
A leaf dropped, drifting like a tiny kite.
It was half past three and she was alone in the house. Indoors all was still, but from the farmyard she heard distant hammering and the barking of one of the dogs. For once in her life she had time to herself, there being no commitment nor person urgently requiring her attention. She could scarcely remember when she had last found herself in such a situation, and her thoughts drifted back to childhood and youth and the lazy, aimless joys of empty days.
A floorboard creaked. Somewhere a door slammed shut. Croy. An old house with a heartbeat all its own. Her home. But she remembered the day, over twenty years ago, when Archie had first brought her here. She was nineteen and a tennis party had been arranged, with afternoon tea served in the dining room. Isobel, the daughter of an Angus solicitor, and neither beautiful nor assured, had found herself overwhelmed by the size and grandeur of the place, and also by the glamour and sophistication of Archie’s other friends, all of whom seemed to know each other frighteningly well. Already hopelessly in love with Archie, she could not imagine why he had bothered to include her in the general invitation. Lady Balmerino appeared to be equally perplexed, but had been kind, making certain Isobel sat next to her at the tea-table, and taking pains to see that she was not left out of any conversation.
But there was another girl, long-legged and blonde, who seemed already to have claimed Archie for her own, and made this very clear to the assembled company, teasing him, and catching his eye across the table as though they shared a million private secrets. Archie, she was telling them all, belonged to her, and no other person would be permitted to take possession.
But, at the end of the day, Archie had made up his own mind to marry Isobel. His parents, once they had got over their astonishment, were patently delighted and welcomed Isobel into the family not as Archie’s wife but as another daughter. She was fortunate. Gentle, funny, hospitable, unworldly, and totally charming, the Balmerinos were adored by everybody and Isobel was no exception.
From the farm, she heard one of the tractors starting up. Another leaf fluttered to the ground. It occurred to Isobel that now could be an afternoon that had happened long ago, as though time had slipped backwards. The sort of afternoon when dogs sought for shade, and cats basked on windowsills, their furry bellies turned to the sun. She thought of Mrs Harris, with one of the younger maids in tow, emerging from the kitchen and headed for the walled garden, there to fill a bowl with the last of the raspberries, or reach for the bloomy Victoria plums, capturing their sweetness before the wasps got at them.
All of Croy the way it once had been. Nobody had gone away. Nobody had died. They were still alive, those two dear old people; Archie’s mother out with her roses, snipping away at the dead heads and finding time to chat with one of the gardeners while he raked the dusty gravel; and Archie’s father in the library, stealing a little snooze with his silk handkerchief spread across his face. Isobel only had to go and find them. She imagined doing this, making her way down the stairs, crossing the hall to stand at the open front door. She saw Lady Balmerino in her straw gardening hat coming in from the garden, carrying the basket filled with snippings and faded rose petals. But when she looked up and saw Isobel, she would frown and show some confusion because the middle-aged Isobel would be unfamiliar to her as a ghost…
“Isobel!”
The voice, raised, impinged upon her daydreams. Isobel was aware that it had already called, more than once, but she had scarcely heard. Who was wanting her now? Reluctantly she collected herself, pushed back the chair and got to her feet. Perhaps to be left alone for more than five minutes was too much to expect. She went out of the room and down the nursery passage to the head of the stairs. Leaning over the banister, she saw below her the foreshortened view of Verena Steynton standing in the middle of the hall, having walked into the house through the open front door.
“Isobel!”
“I’m here.”
Verena tilted her head and looked up. “I was beginning to think there was nobody in.”
“Only me.” Isobel started down the stairs. “Archie’s taken Hamish and the dogs to the Buchanan-Wrights’ cricket match.”
“Are you busy?” Verena did not look as though she had been busy. As usual, she was immaculately and suitably turned out, and surely had just been to the hairdresser.
“I’ve been sewing Hamish’s name-tapes for school.” Instinctively, Isobel put a hand to her hair, as though the casual gesture might improve her own tousled head. “But I’ve finished now.”
“Can you spare me a moment?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve got lots to tell you and two favours to ask. I meant to phone but I’ve been in Relkirk all day and then, driving home, I thought much simpler and nicer just to call in.”
“Do you want a cup of tea?”
“In a moment. No hurry.”
“Let’s go and be comfortable.” Isobel led her visitor into the drawing room, not with any intentions of grandeur but simply because it was full of sunlight, and the library and the kitchen, at this time of day, were inclined to be gloomy. The windows stood open, the room felt cool, and a mass of sweet peas, which Isobel had picked that morning and arranged in an old soup tureen, filled the air with their fragrance.
“Heaven.” Verena sank into a corner of the sofa and stretched out her long and elegantly shod legs. “What a day for the cricket match. Last year it bucketed with rain and they had to pull stumps in the middle of the afternoon because the pitch was flooded. Are those your own sweet peas? What colours! Mine were a bit of a failure this year. Do you know, I really hate Relkirk on a warm afternoon? The pavements were banked three deep with fat girls in jeans pushing babies in buggies. And all the babies seemed to be howling.”
“I know the feeling. How’s everything going?”
She had already made up her mind that Verena wanted to talk about the dance and she was not mistaken.
“Oh…” Verena, for a moment, became quite dramatic, groaning as though in pain and closing her eyes. “I’m beginning to wonder why I ever thought about throwing a party. Do you know, half the invitations haven’t even been answered yet? People are so thoughtless. I think they leave them curling on mantelpieces, waiting to die of old age. It makes trying to arrange dinner parties and find beds for everybody quite impossible.”
“I wouldn’t worry.” Isobel tried to sound soothing. “I’d let them make their own arrangements.”
“But that would mean utter chaos.”
Isobel knew that it wouldn’t, but Verena was a perfectionist. “Yes, I suppose so. It must be awful.” She added, almost afraid to ask, “Has Lucilla replied yet?”
“No,” Verena told her bluntly.
“We did send your invitation on, but she’s travelling so she may not even have got it. She sent us a rather vague address in Ibiza, but we haven’t heard from her since she was in Paris. She thought she might go and see Pandora.”
“I haven’t heard from Pandora either.”
“I’ll be surprised if you do. She never answers anything.”
“But Alexa Aird’s coming, and bringing a boyfriend. Did you know that Alexa has found herself a man?”
“Vi told me.”
“Extraordinary. I wonder what he’s like.”
“Virginia says he’s dishy.”
“Can’t wait to see him.”
“When is Katy arriving?”
“Next week some time. She phoned last night. Which is one of the favours that I have to ask you. Have you got a houseful of people staying over the dance?”
“So far, nobody. Hamish will be back at school and I don’t know whether Lucilla will be here or not…”
“Well, could you be an angel and have a stray
man to stay? Katy told me about him last night. She met him at some dinner party, and liked him. He’s an American — a lawyer, I think — but his wife’s just died, and he’s come over here for a bit of a holiday. He’s coming to Scotland anyway to stay with some people who live in the Borders, and she thought it would be friendly to send him an invitation. We can’t put him up at Corriehill because I’m full, with all Katy’s friends, and Toddy Buchanan hasn’t a room free at the Strathcroy Arms, so I thought you could give him a bed? Would you mind? I don’t know anything about him except the bit about his wife dying, but if Katy liked him I don’t suppose he’d be dreadfully heavy weather.”
“Poor man. Of course he can come.”
“And you’ll bring him to the party? You are sweet. I’ll ring Katy tonight, and tell her to tell him to get in touch with you.”
“What’s his name?”
“Something funny. Plucker. Or…Tucker. That’s it. Conrad Tucker. Why do you suppose Americans always have such peculiar names?”
Isobel laughed. “They probably think Balmerino’s pretty odd. What else is happening?”
“Nothing really. We’ve persuaded Toddy Buchanan to do the catering and run the bar, and produce some sort of a breakfast. For some reason, Katy’s generation are always ravenously hungry around four in the morning. And darling Tom Drystone is organising the band.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be a party without our whistling postman up on the platform. Are you having a disco?”
“Yes. A young man from Relkirk is doing that. He provides everything. A sort of job lot. Flashing lights and amplifiers. What the noise is going to be like, I dread to think. And we’re going to have fairy lights all the way up the drive. I thought it would look festive, and if it’s a miserably dark evening, it’ll help people find the way.”
September Page 23
