September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  Ridiculous. She pulled herself together. Imagination. It was only Edie’s cousin, avid for company. With some effort, Virginia put a friendly expression on her face. “What are you doing here, Lottie?”

  “Fresh air belongs to everybody, I always say. Looking at the water?” She moved to Virginia’s side, to lean over the wall as she had been doing. But she was not as tall as Virginia and had to stand tiptoe, and crane her neck. “Seen any fish?”

  “I wasn’t looking for fish.”

  “Been to Mr Honeycombe’s, haven’t you? Lot of rubbish he’s got in there. Most of it only fit for a bonfire. But then, there’s no accounting for tastes. And as for what I’m doing, I’m out for a walk, same as you. On your own, Edie tells me over dinner. Edmund gone to America.”

  “Just for a few days.”

  “That’s not so nice. On business, is he?”

  “He wouldn’t go for any other reason.”

  “Oh, ho, ho, that’s what you think. Saw Pandora Blair this morning. Thin, isn’t she? Like a scarecrow. And that hair! Looks like dyed to me. Called out to her but she didn’t see me. Had dark glasses on. Could have had a good old chinwag about the old days. I was up at Croy, you know, resident housemaid. Old Lady Balmerino then. She was a lovely lady. Felt sorry for her, with a daughter no better than she should be. That was the time of the wedding. Lord and Lady Balmerino, but they were Archie and Isobel then. There was a dance at Croy the evening of the wedding. What a work. So many people staying you couldn’t turn round. ’Course, Mrs Harris was cook, old Lady Balmerino didn’t have to cook. There were some fine goings-on, but no doubt you’ve been told.”

  “Yes,” said Virginia, and tried to think of some way in which she could escape this unwelcome flood of words.

  “Scarcely out of school she was, Pandora, but she knew a thing or two, I can tell you. Men. She’d eat them for breakfast, and leave them chewed. A right wee whore.”

  She was smiling, her tone inconsequent and chatty, almost approving, so that the archaic word caught Virginia unawares and surprised her into saying, quite sharply, “Lottie, I don’t think you should say that about Pandora.”

  “Oh, you don’t?” Lottie was still smiling. “Not pleasant, is it, hearing the truth? Nice Pandora’s back, everybody is saying. But if I were you, I wouldn’t be too happy. Not with your husband. Not with her. Lovers they were, Edmund and Pandora. That’s why she’s back, mark my words. Come back for him. Eighteen years old, and Edmund a married man and the father of a wee bairn, but that didn’t stop them. That didn’t stop him, rutting in her own bed. Night of the wedding it was, and everybody dancing. But they weren’t dancing. Oh, no. They were up the stairs and thinking nobody noticed. But I noticed. Not much missed me.” Pink spots burned on Lottie’s sallow cheeks, her boot-button eyes were like a pair of nails, hammered into the sockets of her head. “I went after them. Stood at the door. It was dark. I heard. Never heard anything like it. You didn’t guess, did you? He’s a cool fish, that Edmund. Never let on. Never said a word. Just like the rest of them. They all knew. Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it? Edmund back in London and Pandora sulking in her bedroom, face swollen with tears, wouldn’t eat. And the way she spoke to her mother! But, of course, they’re all thick as thieves. That’s why Lady Balmerino gave me my notice. Didn’t want me around. I knew too much.”

  Still smiling. Hot with excitement. Mad. I must, Virginia told herself, keep very calm. She said, “Lottie, I think you are making all this up.”

  Lottie’s demeanour, with quite startling suddenness, changed. “Oh, am I?” The smile was wiped from her face. She backed away from Virginia and stood, foursquare, facing up to her as though they were about to engage in a contest of physical strength. “And why do you think your husband’s suddenly taken himself off to America? You ask him when he comes home to you, and I’ll doubt you enjoy his answer. I’m sorry for you, do you know that? Because he’ll make a fool of you, same as he did his first wife, poor lady. There’s no streak of decency in him.”

  And then, abruptly, it was over. Her venom spent, Lottie seemed to slump within herself. The colour seeped from her cheeks. She pursed her lips, brushed a scrap of lichen from the front of her cardigan, tucked a wisp of hair under her beret, patted it into place. Her expression became complacent, as though all was now well, and she was content to prink.

  Virginia said, “You are lying.”

  Lottie tossed her head and gave a little laugh. “Ask any of them.”

  “You are lying.”

  “Say what you please. Sticks and stones may break my bones…”

  “I shall say nothing.”

  Lottie shrugged. “In that case, what’s all the fuss about?”

  “I shall say nothing and you are lying.”

  Her heart was banging in her chest, her knees trembling. But she turned her back on Lottie and began to walk away; walking steadily and without haste, knowing that Lottie watched, determined to give her no satisfaction. The worst was never looking back. Her scalp crawled with terrified apprehension, the fear that, at any moment, she would feel Lottie’s weight leap upon her shoulders, dragging her to the ground with all the inhuman strength of a clawed monster from childhood nightmares.

  This did not happen. She reached the far bank of the river, and felt a little safer. She remembered the dogs and pursed her lips to whistle for them, but her mouth and her lips were too dry for whistling, and she had to try again. A tiny piping sound, a pathetic effort, but Edmund’s spaniels had had enough of abortive rabbiting, and almost immediately appeared, bounding through the bracken towards her, trailed with goose-grass and with twigs of thorny bramble entwined in their feathery fur.

  She had never been so glad to see them, so grateful for their instant obedience. “Good dogs,” She stopped to fondle them. “Good to come. Time to go home.”

  They ran ahead, down the lane. Leaving the bridge behind her, Virginia went after them, her pace still resolutely unhurried. She did not allow herself to look back until she reached the bend of the river, where the lane curved away beneath the trees. There, she stopped and turned. The bridge was still visible but there was no sign of Lottie.

  She was gone. It was over. Virginia took a deep breath and let it all out in a whimpering sigh that was not far from panic. Then the panic took over, and all thought of the cream jug flew out of her mind. Without shame, she bolted for home. Ran to Edie, to Henry, to the sanctuary of Balnaid.

  Back to the beginning.

  You are lying.

  Two o’clock in the morning and Virginia was still awake, her eyes, scratchy with fatigue, wide open, staring out into the soft darkness. She had tossed and turned, been either too hot or too cold, fought with pillows lumpy with pummelling. From time to time, she got out of the bed, wandered about in her nightgown, fetched a glass of water, drank it, tried again to sleep.

  It was no good.

  On the far side of the bed, Edmund’s side, Henry slumbered peacefully. Virginia, defiantly breaking one of Edmund’s strictest rules, had taken her son to bed with her. Every now and then, as though for reassurance, she put out a hand to touch him, to feel his gentle breathing, his warmth through the flannel of his striped pyjamas. In the huge bed, he seemed small as a baby, scarcely alive.

  She’d eat them for breakfast, and leave them chewed. A right wee whore.

  She could not get the appalling scene out of her mind. Lottie’s words went on and on, round and round like some scratchy old gramophone record, worn with playing. Circles of torment, never ceasing, never coming to any sort of conclusion.

  Lovers they were. Edmund a married man, and the father of a wee bairn.

  Edmund and Pandora. If it was true, Virginia knew that she had never imagined nor suspected it for a single instant. In her innocence, she had not watched for evidence, had read no inner meaning into Edmund’s casual words, his easy demeanour. “Pandora’s home,” he had told her, pouring himself a drink and going to the refrigerator to search for ice. “We’ve b
een asked for lunch at Croy.” And Virginia had said, “How nice,” and gone on frying beefburgers for Henry’s supper. Pandora was simply Archie’s errant young sister, back from Majorca. And when the great reunion happened, she had paid little regard to the brotherly kiss Edmund had planted on Pandora’s cheek, their laughter, and the understandable affection of his greeting. And as for the rest of the day, Virginia had been more interested in the croquet game than curious to know what it was that Edmund and Pandora, watching from the swing-seat, were talking about.

  And what did it matter what they talked about? Be sensible. So what if they had had a wild and impetuous affair and ended up in Pandora’s bed? Pandora at eighteen must have been sensational, and Edmund at the height of his virility. This is today, and adultery is no longer called adultery but extramarital sex. Besides, it was all a long time ago. Over twenty years. And Edmund had not been unfaithful to Virginia, but to his first wife, Caroline. And now Caroline was dead. So it didn’t matter. There was nothing to agonise over. Nothing…

  They all knew. All thick as thieves. Didn’t want me around. I knew too much.

  Who knew? Did Archie know? Did Isobel? Did Vi know? And Edie? Because if they knew, they would have been watching, fearing perhaps that it was all going to happen all over again. Watching Edmund and Pandora. Watching Virginia, their eyes filled with a pity that she had never seen. Did they worry for Virginia as they must have worried for Caroline? Did they talk amongst themselves, like conspirators, agreeing to keep the truth from Edmund’s second wife? Because if they had, then Virginia had been betrayed, and by the very people she was closest to and most relied upon.

  And why do you think your husband’s suddenly taken himself off to America? He’ll make a fool of you, same as he did his first wife, poor lady.

  This was the worst. These were the most dreaded doubts. Edmund had gone. Had he really had to fly off like that, or was New York simply a trumped-up excuse to get away from Balnaid and Virginia and to give himself time to work out his problems? His problems being that he loved Pandora, had always loved her, and now she was back and as beautiful as ever, and Edmund was once more trapped in marriage with yet another woman.

  Edmund was fifty, a vulnerable age for restlessness and mid-life crises. He was not a man for showing emotion, and most of the time Virginia had no idea what he was thinking about. Her own self-doubt grew to terrifying proportions. Perhaps this time he would cut his losses and run, leaving Virginia with her marriage and her life tumbling in ruins. Leaving her and Henry lost in the rubble of what she had once thought totally impregnable.

  It did not bear thinking about. She rolled over, burying her face in the pillow, shutting out the ghastly prospect. She would not acknowledge it. Would not let it be true.

  You are lying, Lottie.

  This is where we came in. Back to the beginning.

  27

  Tuesday the Thirteenth

  The rain was cruel, relentless, and unwelcome. It had started before daybreak, and Virginia awoke to the sound of it, and had known an awful sinking of the heart. As if things weren’t bad enough on this dreaded day, without the elements turning against her. Perhaps it would stop. But the gods were not on anybody’s side and the downpour continued, monotonously streaming down from a charcoal-grey sky, right through the long morning and the early afternoon.

  Now, it was half past four, and they were on their way to Templehall. Because she had the two boys with her, and all their clobber — trunks, tuck-boxes, duvets, rugger balls, and book-bags — Virginia had left her own little car in the garage, and instead drove Edmund’s Subaru, a four-wheel-drive workhorse that he used when he went into rough country, or up the hill. She was not used to driving this vehicle, and its unfamiliarity and her own uncertainty only served to heighten the sense of doom and hopelessness that had dogged her for nearly twenty-four hours.

  Conditions were miserable. What light there had been was already seeping from the sky, and she drove with headlights on and the windscreen wipers working full-tilt. Tyres hissed on flooded patches of road, and oncoming cars and lorries sent up great waves of blinding mud. Visibility was almost nil, which was frustrating, because under normal conditions, the road that led from Relkirk to Templehall was an exceptionally scenic drive — through prosperous farmlands, alongside the banks of a wide and majestic river famous for its salmon, and past large estates, with distant glimpses of stately homes.

  It would have eased the atmosphere had they been able to observe any of this. Remarking on beauty spots, pointing out some distant peak would have given Virginia something to talk about. As it was, she had tried engaging Hamish in lively conversation, hoping that this would divert Henry from his speechless misery, and that he might even join in. But Hamish was in a bad mood. Knowing that the freedom of summer holidays was over was bad enough, but worse was having to go back to school in the company of a new boy. A babe. That’s what they called the little ones. The babes. Travelling with a babe was beneath Hamish’s dignity, and he just prayed that none of his contemporaries would be around to witness his humiliating arrival. He was not going to be made responsible for Henry Aird, and had made this fact vociferously clear to his mother while she helped him lug his trunk down the stairs of Croy, and flattened, with a brush, his gruesome short haircut.

  Accordingly, he had decided upon a course of non-communication, and had soon put a stop to Virginia’s advances by answering her in a series of noncommittal grunts. She got the message, and after that the three of them had lapsed into a stony and wordless silence.

  Which made Virginia wish that she hadn’t brought the wretched boy; had let Isobel drive her own sulky son. But without him there, Henry might well have succumbed to tears, sobbed throughout the journey and arrived at Templehall sodden with weeping and in no fit state to deal with the rigours of his new and daunting future.

  The prospect she found almost unendurable. I am hating this, she told herself. It is even worse than I imagined it would be. It is inhuman, hellish, unnatural. And worse is to come, because the moment awaits when I have to say goodbye to Henry and drive away, and leave him standing there, alien and alone. I hate Templehall, and I hate the headmaster, and I could strangle Hamish Blair. I have never had to do anything in my life that I have hated so much. I am hating the rain, hating the entire educational system, hating Scotland, hating Edmund.

  Hamish said, “There’s a car behind us. It wants to get past.”

  “Well, it can bloody well wait,” Virginia told him, and Hamish was silenced.

  An hour later, she was back on the same road, driving the empty vehicle in the opposite direction.

  It was over. Henry was gone. She felt numb. Nonexistent, as though the trauma of parting from him had robbed her of all identity. Just now, she would not think about Henry, because if she did she would weep, and the combination of tears, half-darkness, and relentless rain would most likely cause her to drive the Subaru off the road, or into the back of a ten-ton lorry. She imagined the crunch of metal, her own body flung like a broken doll to the side of the road, flashing lights, the howl of ambulance and police cars.

  She would not think about Henry. That part of her life was over. But what was happening to her life? What was she doing here? Who was she? What was the reason for driving home to a house that stood dark and empty? She did not want to go home. She did not want to go back to Strathcroy. But where? Somewhere perfectly gorgeous, a million miles from Archie and Isobel and Edmund and Lottie and Pandora Blair. A place of sunlight and calmness and no responsibilities, where people would tell her she was marvellous, and she could be young again instead of about a hundred years old.

  Leesport. That’s it. She was driving to an airport to catch a jet to Kennedy, a limousine to Leesport. It wouldn’t be raining there. It would be Long Island autumn weather, with blue skies and golden leaves and a crisp breeze blowing in over the Sound from the Atlantic. Leesport, unchanged. The wide streets, the crossroads, the hardware store and the drugstore, with t
he kids outside, wheeling about on their bicycles. Then, Harbor Road. Picket fences and shade trees and sprinklers out on lawns. The road sloping to the water, the yacht anchorage a coppice of masts. The gates of the country club, and then Grandma’s house. And Grandma in the garden, pretending to rake leaves but in reality watching for the car, so that she could be out on the sidewalk the moment it drew up.

  “Oh, honey, you’re back.” The soft, wrinkled cheek, the scent of White Linen. “It’s been too long. Did you have a good journey? What a treat to see you!”

  Indoors, and the other smells. Wood-smoke, sun oil, cedar, roses. Braided rugs and faded slip-covers. Cotton curtains blowing at open windows. And Gramps coming in from the sundeck, with his glasses on top of his head and The New York Times under his arm…

  “Where’s my sweetheart?”

  Through the murky gloom, clusters of lights now shone ahead. Relkirk. Back to reality, and Virginia now realised that here she was going to have to stop for a little. She needed to go to the loo, freshen up. Find a bar, have a drink, be made to feel human again. She needed warmth and the syrupy comfort of musak and low lights. No reason to hurry home because there was nobody there to hurry to. A sort of freedom, perhaps. Nobody to care how late she was, nobody to worry about what she was doing.

  She drove into the old city. Cobbled streets were awash, rain shimmered in the streetlights, pavements were crowded with shoppers and workers, booted, mackintoshed, carrying umbrellas and bags, all hurrying home to the comfort of their firesides and tea.

  She made for the King’s Hotel because it was familiar and she knew where to find the Ladies’. It was an old-fashioned edifice and in the middle of the town, so had no car-park of its own. Instead, Virginia found a space on the opposite side of the road and parked the Subaru there, beneath a dripping tree. As she locked the door, a taxi drew up outside the hotel. A man got out, wearing a raincoat and a tweed hat. He paid the driver off, and, carrying a grip, went up the steps that led from the pavement to the revolving door. He disappeared. Virginia paused for traffic to pass, and then ran across the road and followed him inside.