September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  No detail was unimportant. The only topic that was never brought up, as though by tacit agreement, was Pandora and what she had been doing with herself for the past twenty-one years.

  She did not mind. She was back at Croy and for the moment that was all that mattered. The wayward years faded into unreality, like a life that had happened to another person, and surrounded by family she was happy to consign them to oblivion.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, she sipped coffee and watched Isobel at the sink, scouring the roasting pan. Isobel wore red rubber gloves and a blue-and-white apron tied over her tidy dress, and it occurred to Pandora that she was an exceptional woman, peacefully labouring away and quite unresentful of the fact that the rest of her family had taken themselves off, and she was left to clear up the detritus of the meal by herself.

  For, after dinner, the others had all dispersed. Archie, excusing himself, had gone down to his workshop. Hamish, with the promise of financial reward, had agreed to take advantage of the long evening light and mow the croquet lawn. He had gone to do this with good grace, and Pandora was much impressed. What she did not realise was how impressed Hamish had been by her. An aunt to stay was not an exciting prospect. Hamish had had visions of a Vi-type person with grey hair and laced-up shoes, and had received the shock of his life when he was introduced to Pandora. A stunner. Like a film star. Over his pheasant, he entertained fantasies of showing her off to the other seniors in his class at Templehall. Perhaps Dad would bring her over to watch some match or other. Hamish’s stock with schoolmates would go sky-high. He wondered if she liked rugger.

  “Isobel, I do love Hamish.”

  “I’m quite keen on him myself. I just hope he doesn’t grow too enormous.”

  “He’s going to be divinely handsome.” She took another mouthful of coffee. “Do you like Jeff?”

  Jeff, predictably sated by two weeks of female company and unaccustomed gracious living, had wheeled Lucilla down to the Strathcroy Arms for a restoring jar of Foster’s lager downed in comfortably masculine surroundings.

  “He seems really nice.”

  “Terribly kind. And all through that long drive, he never once lost his patience. A bit laconic, though. I suppose all Australians are strong and silent. I wouldn’t really know. Never met any others.”

  “Do you think Lucilla’s in love with him?”

  “No, I don’t think so. They’re just…that awful phrase…very good friends. Besides, she’s terribly young. You don’t want to start thinking about permanent relationships when you’re only nineteen.”

  “You mean marriage.”

  “No, darling. I don’t mean marriage.”

  Isobel fell silent. Pandora decided that she had, perhaps, said the wrong thing and cast about for a more amusing and less touchy topic. “Isobel, I know who you haven’t told me about. Dermot Honeycombe and Terence. Are they still running the antique shop?”

  “Oh dear.” Isobel turned from the sink. “Didn’t Archie tell you in one of his letters? So sad. Terence died. About five years ago.”

  “I don’t believe it. What did poor Dermot do? Find himself another nice young man?”

  “No, never. He was heartbroken, but faithful. We all thought he might leave Strathcroy, but he stayed; all by himself. Still running the antique shop, still living in their little cottage. Every now and then he asks Archie and me over for a meal, and gives us tiny helpings of frightfully dainty food with amusing sauces. Archie always comes home starving and has to be given soup or cornflakes before he goes to bed.”

  “Poor Dermot. I must go and see him.”

  “He’d love that. He’s always asking after you.”

  “I can buy some trinket from him to give Katy Steynton for her birthday. We haven’t talked about that either. The dance, I mean.” Isobel, finished at last, pulled off her rubber gloves, laid them on the draining board, and came to sit down with her sister-in-law. “Are we going to be a huge house party?”

  “No. Just us. No Hamish because he’ll be back at school. And some sad American Katy met in London and took pity on. Verena hasn’t got space for him, so he’s coming here.”

  “Goodness! How nice. A man for me. Why is he sad?”

  “His wife’s just died.”

  “Oh dear, I hope he’s not too gloomy. Where’s he going to sleep?”

  “In your old bedroom.”

  Which settled that question. “And what about the night of the party? Where are we having dinner?”

  “Here, I think. We could ask the Airds to join us, and Vi. They’re coming for lunch tomorrow; I thought I’d speak to Virginia then.”

  “You never said.”

  “What, that they’re coming for lunch? Well, I’ve told you now. That’s why Hamish is cutting the croquet lawn.”

  “Lovely afternoon entertainment, all laid on. What are you going to wear for the dance? Have you got a new dress?”

  “No. I’ve run out of money. I had to buy Hamish five new pairs of shoes for school…”

  “But, Isobel, you must have a new dress. We’ll go and find one for you. Where shall we go? To Relkirk. We’ll have a day out…”

  “Pandora, I told you…I really can’t afford it.”

  “Oh, darling, the least I can do is stand you a little gift.” The back door opened and Hamish appeared, having finished his mowing just before darkness fell, and once again in his usual state of ravenous hunger. “Well talk about it later.”

  Hamish collected his snack. A bowl of Weetabix, a glass of milk, a handful of chocolate biscuits. Pandora finished her coffee, set down the mug. She yawned. “I think I must go to bed. I’m bushed.” She got to her feet. “Goodnight, Hamish.”

  She did not attempt to kiss him and Hamish was torn between relief and disappointment.

  “Will I find Archie in his workshop? I’ll just pop down and have a word.” She stooped and kissed Isobel. “And goodnight to you, darling. Heaven to be here. Delicious dinner. See you all in the morning.”

  In the basement, Archie, absorbed and concentrated, worked by a strong bulb with a wide shade that threw a bright circle on to his workbench. Painting the carving of Katy and her dog was both tricky and fiddly. The muted check of the skirt, the texture of the sweater, the subtle, varying streaks of colour in the hair, each presented a challenge and took all his dexterity to accomplish.

  He laid down one sable brush and took up another, then heard Pandora approach. Her step was unmistakable, descending the stone stair that led down from the kitchens, as was the sharp tap of her high heels down the ill-lighted stone-flagged passage. He paused in his work to look up and saw the door open and Pandora’s head come around the edge of it.

  “Am I interrupting?”

  “No.”

  “Goodness, it’s gloomy. I couldn’t find the light switch. Like a dungeon. But I must say, you’re quite cosy in here.” She found a chair and sat beside him. “What are you doing?”

  “Painting.”

  “I can see that. What a charming little statue. Where did you get it?”

  He told her, not without pride. “I made it.”

  “You made it? Archie, you are brilliant. I never knew you were so handy.”

  “It’s for Katy’s birthday. It’s her. With her dog.”

  “What a lovely idea. You didn’t used to be able to make things. It was always Pa who glued our toys together and mended broken china. Did you go to classes or something?”

  “I suppose I did. After I was wounded…” He corrected himself. “After my leg was shot off and when I was finally discharged from hospital, I got sent to Headley Court. That’s the Forces rehabilitation centre for chaps who’ve been disabled. Dismembered in some way. That’s where they fit the artificial limbs. Legs, arms, hands, feet. Anything that you are missing is supplied for you. Within, of course, reason. And then they give you months of bloody hell until you’ve learned to use it properly.”

  “It doesn’t sound very nice.”

  “It was all right. A
nd there was always some poor bugger worse off than yourself.”

  “But you were alive. You weren’t dead.”

  “True.”

  “Is it very horrible, having a tin leg?”

  “Better than none at all, which seems to be the alternative.”

  “I never heard how it happened.”

  “Better not.”

  “Was it a nightmare?”

  “All violence is a nightmare.”

  Forbidden ground. She backed off. “I’m sorry…go on telling me.”

  “Well…once I…” He had lost the thread of what he had been saying. He took off his spectacles, rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Once…I was more or less ambulant, they taught me how to use a treadle jigsaw. Occupational therapy and good exercise for the leg. And from that, it sort of snowballed…”

  It was all right. The dangerous moment was safely over. If Archie did not want to talk about Northern Ireland, then Pandora did not want to hear.

  “Do you mend things, like Pa used to?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that dear little figure. How do you start to make something like that? Where do you begin?”

  “You start with a block of wood.”

  “What kind of wood?”

  “For this one, I used beech. Beech from Croy, a windblown branch from years back. I squared it off into a block with the chainsaw. Then I made two drawings from the photograph, a front view and a side view. Then I transferred the front elevation on to the face of the block, and the side elevation on to the side of the block. Are you with me?”

  “All the way.”

  “Then I cut it out on the band saw.”

  “What’s a band saw?”

  He pointed, “That’s the band saw. It’s electrically operated and lethally sharp, so don’t start fiddling.”

  “I wasn’t going to. What do you do then?”

  “Start carving. Whittling.”

  “What with?”

  “Woodcarver’s chisels. A penknife.”

  “I’m amazed. Is this the first you’ve done?”

  “By no means, but this was more difficult because of the composition. The girl sitting and the dog. That was quite difficult. Before, they’ve been standing figures. Soldiers mostly, in various regimental uniforms. I get the details of the uniforms from a book of plates I found up in Pa’s library. It was that book that gave me the idea. They make quite good wedding presents if the bridegroom happens to be in the Army.”

  “Have you got any to show me?”

  “Yes. There’s one here.” He pulled himself out of his chair, went to a cupboard, took out a box. “I didn’t actually give this one away because I wasn’t quite satisfied with it, so I made another. But it’ll give you an idea…”

  Pandora took the figure of the soldier from him and turned it in her hands. It was a replica of an officer in the Black Watch, every detail perfect — from brogues, to kilt, to the red hackle in his khaki bonnet. She thought it perfect and was filled with wordless admiration for Archie’s unsuspected talent, his precision, his undeniable artistry.

  Also incredulous. “Do you mean to say you give these away? Archie, you’re dotty. They’re beautiful. Unique. Visitors from overseas would snap up just such a souvenir. Have you ever tried selling them?”

  “No.” He seemed quite surprised at the idea.

  “Have you ever thought of it?”

  “No.”

  She knew a burst of sisterly irritation. “You are hopeless. You always were a laid-back old stick, but this is ridiculous. There’s Isobel slaving away, trying to keep everything going by having strings of Americans to stay, and you could be churning these things out and making a fortune.”

  “I doubt that. Anyway, it’s not a case of churning. They take a lot of time.”

  “Well, get someone to help you. Get two people to help you. Start a little home industry.”

  “I haven’t the space down here.”

  “What about the stables? They’re empty. Or one of the barns?”

  “It would mean reconstruction, equipping, electricity laid on, safety regulations, fire precautions.”

  “So?”

  “So it would cost money. Which is a commodity pretty thin on the ground.”

  “Could you get a grant?”

  “Grants, as well, are thin on the ground just now.”

  “You could try for one. Oh, don’t be so hopeless, Archie. Be a bit more enterprising. I think it’s the most wonderful idea.”

  “Pandora, you were always full of wonderful ideas.” He took the soldier from her and laid him back in his box. “But you’re right about Isobel. I do what I can to help, but I know she’s got far too much on her plate. Before Northern Ireland, I thought about trying to get some sort of a job…as a factor, or something. I don’t know who’d have employed me but I didn’t want to leave Croy, and it seemed the only sort of work I could do…” His voice, ruminating, trailed to silence.

  “But now you’ve learned a new trade. All this. Hidden talents have sprung to life. All you need is a little enterprise and a lot of determination.”

  “And a lot of money.”

  “Archie” — she spoke quite crossly — “whether you have one leg or two, you can’t just shed responsibility.”

  “Are you speaking from experience?”

  “Touché.” Pandora laughed and shook her head. “No. I’m the last to preach. Just talking off the top of my head.” Abruptly, she abandoned the argument, yawned and stretched, reached upwards, spreading her fingers. “I’m tired. I came to say goodnight. I’m going to bed.”

  “I hope you have sweet dreams.”

  “What about you?”

  “I want to get this finished and done with. Then, every spare moment I have I shall be able to spend with you.”

  “Dear man.” On her feet, she stooped to kiss him. “I’m glad I came home.”

  “Me too.”

  She went to the door, opened it, hesitated, and turned back.

  “Archie?”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve often wondered. Did you get that letter I sent you in Berlin?”

  “Yes.”

  “You never replied.”

  “By the time I’d decided what I was going to say, you’d gone to America and it was too late.”

  “Did you tell Isobel?”

  “No.”

  “Did you…speak to anybody?”

  “No.”

  “I see.” She smiled. “The Airds are coming for lunch tomorrow.”

  “I know. I asked them.”

  “Goodnight, Archie.”

  “Goodnight.”

  The evening slipped into night. The house settled as the momentum of another busy day wound itself down. Hamish watched television for a bit and then made his way upstairs. Isobel, in the kitchen, laid the table for breakfast — the last chore of the day — and then let the dogs out for their last sniff around the dark garden, alert for scents of marauding rabbit. Lights were turned off, and she too headed for bed. Later still Jeff and Lucilla returned from the village. They let themselves in through the back door. Archie heard their voices above him in the hall. And then silence.

  Past midnight, and he was finally finished. Another day and the enamel would be dry. He tidied up, put lids on small paint-pots, cleaned his brushes, turned off the light and closed the door. Slowly he made his way down the shadowy passage and up the stairs to do his nightly rounds, which he called putting the house to bed. He checked locks on doors and snibs on windows, fireguards and electrical plugs. In the kitchen, he found the dogs asleep. He filled a tumbler with water and drank it. Finally he trod up the stairs.

  But he did not go immediately to his own bedroom. Instead he walked down the passage and saw the shaft of light, still burning, beneath the door of Lucilla’s room. He tapped and opened the door and found her in bed, reading by lamplight.

  “Lucilla.”

  She looked up, marked her page and laid her book asi
de. “I thought you’d gone to bed hours ago.”

  “No. I’ve been working.” He came to sit on the edge of her bed. “Did you have a good evening?”

  “Yes, it was fun. Toddy Buchanan in his usual good form.”

  “I wanted to say goodnight, and I wanted to say thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “Coming home. Bringing Pandora.”

  His hand lay on her eiderdown. She laid her own on top of it. Isobel’s nightgowns were white lawn trimmed with lace, but Lucilla slept in a green T-shirt with “Save the Rain Forests” printed across the chest. Her long dark hair was spread like silk on her pillow, and he was filled with love for her.

  “You’re not disappointed?” she asked him.

  “Why should I be disappointed?”

  “Often when you’ve looked forward to something for years, you feel a bit let down when it actually happens.”

  “I don’t feel let down.”

  “She is beautiful.”

  “But dreadfully thin, don’t you think?”

  “I know. There’s nothing of her. But she’s so hyper that she burns everything up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that. She sleeps a lot, but when she’s awake she’s charging on every cylinder. Supercharging, I would say. Being with her all the time is really quite exhausting. And then she passes out as though sleep is the only thing that’s going to top up her batteries.”

  “She was always like that. Mrs Harris used to say, ‘That Pandora. Either up in the clouds or doon in the midden.’”

  “Manic-depressive.”

  “Surely not as bad as that.”

  “Tending that way.”

  He frowned. And then asked the question that had been niggling around at the back of his mind all evening. “You don’t think she’s on drugs?”

  “Oh, Dad.”

  He immediately wished that he had not mentioned his fears. “I only ask you because I imagine you know more about these things than I do.”

  “She’s certainly not a junkie. But perhaps she does take something to bubble her along. A lot of people do.”