September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  Behind her back, Pandora dug Isobel in the ribs, and then, looking unconcerned, stalked over to where an empty and reserved table stood by the window. Reaching it, she unobtrusively whisked the “Reserved” sign up and pushed this deep into the pocket of her coat. A brilliant and professional piece of sleight of hand. She then settled herself gracefully, disposed of her bag and parcels, spread the mink over the back of the chair, and reached for the menu.

  Isobel, horrified, hovered. “Pandora, you can’t…”

  “I have. Bloody woman. Sit down.”

  “But someone’s reserved it.”

  “But we’ve got it. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.” Isobel, who dreaded any sort of a scene, continued to hesitate, but Pandora took no notice of her waffling, and after a bit, with no alternative, she sat down as well, facing her blatantly criminal sister-in-law. “Oh, look, we can have a cocktail. And we can eat quiche and salad, or an omelette aux fines herbes.”

  “That woman’s going to be livid.”

  “I hate cocktails, don’t you? Do you suppose they have any champagne? Let’s ask when she comes gunning for us.”

  Which she did, almost immediately.

  “Excuse me, madam, but this table is resairved.”

  “Oh, is it?” Pandora’s eyes were bland and innocent orbs. “But there’s no sign.”

  “This table is resairved, and there was a sign upon it.”

  “Where can it be?” Pandora craned her neck to look under the table. “It’s not on the floor.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you will have to move and await your turn.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we’re not going to. Will you take our order, or would you rather send one of the waitresses?”

  The woman’s neck was growing red, like turkey wattles. Her mouth worked. Isobel felt rather sorry for her.

  “You know perfectly well that there was a resairved notice upon this table. The manager put it there himself this morning.”

  Pandora raised her eyebrows. “Oh, there’s a manager, is there? Then perhaps you would like to go and find him, and tell him that Lady Balmerino is here and wishes to order lunch.”

  Isobel, hot with embarrassment, felt her cheeks burn. Pandora’s adversary by now looked as though she was about to burst into tears. Humiliation stared her in the face. “The manager is not in this afternoon,” she admitted.

  “In that case, you are obviously in charge, and you have done all you can. Now, perhaps you will send a waitress over and we can order.”

  The poor woman, reduced to pulp by such nerveless authority, dithered for a moment, but finally collapsed, her ire deflating like a pricked balloon. In silence, gathering her tattered dignity about her, and with lips pressed together, she turned to go. But Pandora was remorseless. “Just one more thing. Would you be very kind and tell the barman that we’d like a bottle of his best champagne.” Her smile dazzled. “Iced.”

  No more objections, no more argument. It was over. Isobel stopped blushing. She said, “Pandora, you are shameless.”

  “I know, darling.”

  “Poor female. She’s practically in blubs.”

  “Silly old cow.”

  “And the Lady Balmerino bit…”

  “That’s what did the trick. These sort of people are the most appalling snobs.”

  It wasn’t any good trying to scold her. She was Pandora, generous, loving, laughing…and ruthless if she didn’t get her own way. Isobel shook her head. “I despair of you.”

  “Oh, darling, don’t be cross. We’ve had such a heavenly morning, and I’ll be good for the rest of the day and hump all your grocery boxes. Oh, look, there are Lucilla and Jeff. Laden with rather tatty carrier bags. What could they have been buying?” She waved, flapping a red-nailed hand. “Here we are!” They saw her, and came over. “We’ve ordered champagne, Jeff, so you’re not to be boring and say you’d rather have a can of Foster’s.”

  Over the champagne, Lucilla and Jeff were told, in lowered tones and with a certain amount of muffled mirth, the saga of the resairved table.

  Lucilla was amused, but at the same time almost as shocked as her mother, and Isobel was glad to see this. “Pandora, that’s dreadful. What’s going to happen to the poor people who did reserve the table?”

  “That’s the old bag’s problem. Oh, don’t worry, she’ll tuck them in somewhere.”

  “But it’s frightfully dishonest.”

  “I think you’re being very ungrateful. If it wasn’t for my quickthinking enterprise, we’d all be standing in a queue with aching shoppers’ feet. Anyway, she was offhand and rude to me. And I don’t like being told I can’t have anything I really want.”

  Archie, left on his own and forbidden by his wife to leave the purlieus of the house, decided to fill in the time before their guest arrived by clearing up the first of the fallen leaves that littered the lawn beyond the gravel sweep. He would then perhaps find time to cut it, and all would look orderly for the party on Friday night. With only his dogs for company, he duly drove his garden tractor out of the garage and set to work. The Labradors, who had imagined that he was about to take them for a small walk, sat about and looked bored, but diversion was on its way, for Archie had only completed a couple of runs before a Land-Rover came spinning up the front drive, turned in over the cattle-grid, and came to a halt a few yards from where he laboured.

  It was Gordon Gillock, the Croy keeper, with his two spaniels penned into the back of the vehicle. A cacophony of barking instantly erupted, from both inside and outside the Land-Rover, but all four dogs were swiftly silenced by a stream of routine abuse from Gordon, and quiet was once more achieved.

  Archie stopped his machine and switched off the engine, but stayed where he was, seated, because that was as good a place as any to engage in conversation.

  “Hello, Gordon.”

  “Good morning, milord.”

  Gordon was a lithe and stringy Highlander in his early fifties but looking, with his black hair and dark eyes, a good deal younger. He had come to Croy as an under-keeper in the days of Archie’s father, and had been in the family’s employ ever since. Today he wore his working clothes, which meant an open-necked shirt and a tweed hat, stuck with fishing flies, that had seen many years of windy weather. But on shooting days, he wore a collar and tie and a knickerbocker suit with a deerstalker of the same tweed, and was a good deal better-dressed than most of the other gentlemen out on the moor.

  “Where have you come from?”

  “Kirkthornton, sir. I took thirty brace of birds down to the game dealer.”

  “Did you get a good price?”

  “Not so bad.”

  “What’s happening tomorrow?”

  “That’s why I’m here, sir. Wanted a word. Mr Aird’s not going to be with us. He’s away in America.”

  “I know. He rang me before he left. We’re shooting Creagan Dubh?”

  “That’s right, the main glen. I thought, first thing we’d drive the Clash, and then come in the other way over Rabbie’s Naup.”

  “What about the afternoon? Should we try the Mid Hill?”

  “It’s up to you, sir. But mind, the birds are getting pretty wild. They’ll be coming in fast over the butts and the guns will need to keep their wits about them.”

  “They know they’re responsible for seeing that all the shot birds are picked up and brought down the hill? No runners abandoned. I don’t want any wounded birds left to die.”

  “Oh aye, they know that. Mind, there are some good dogs this year.”

  “You were walking on Monday. How did you get on?”

  “There was a fair wind and a lot of water about. Then an eagle and a buzzard started working overhead, and that scared the daylights out of the grouse. They either wouldn’t get up or they flew in all directions. But there was some good shooting. We finished with thirty-two brace.”

  “Any deer?”

  “Oh aye, a big herd. Saw them on the skyline sticking their heads up
over the Sneck of Balquhidder.”

  “And how about that damaged bridge over the Taitnie burn?”

  “I’ve seen to that, sir. It was just about down, with the rain we’ve been having and the water in spate.”

  “Good. We don’t want any of the London gentlemen suffering a ducking. How about beaters for tomorrow?”

  “I’ve got sixteen.”

  “And flankers? The last time we drove, a lot of the birds slipped away because of poor flanking.”

  “Aye, they were a useless pair of buggers. But tomorrow I’ve got the schoolmaster’s son and Willy Snoddy.” The keeper caught Archie’s eye and the two of them grinned. “He’s an unreliable old villain but a rare flanker.” Gordon shifted his weight, took off his hat, scratched the back of his neck, and then put his hat on again. “I was up at the loch early yesterday morning. Caught him there with that old lurcher of his, lifting your trout out of the water. He’s there evenings forbye, making full use of the late rise.”

  “Do you see him?”

  “He sneaks up the back lane from the village, but, aye, I’ve spied him more than once.”

  “I know he poaches, Gordon, and so does the local bobby. But he’s done it all his life, and he’s not going to stop now. I don’t say anything. Besides” — Archie smiled — “if he’s flung into jail, we’re short of a flanker.”

  “True enough, sir.”

  “What about the beaters’ money?”

  “Went to the bank this morning, sir, collected it then.”

  “You seem to have got it all well organised, Gordon. Thank you very much for dropping in. And I’ll see you tomorrow…”

  Gordon and his dogs departed, and Archie continued with his leaf-sweeping. He had just about completed the task when he heard a second car coming up the back drive from the village, and decided that this time, in all likelihood, it would be the Sad American in his hired car. He wished to hell he knew what the bloody man was called. In preparation, he once more stopped the tractor and switched off the engine, and as he eased himself cautiously on to his two feet, the car came down the avenue towards him and he realised that it was Edmund’s Subaru, and so not the Sad American after all. Virginia was at the wheel, but a man sat beside her. The Subaru drew to a halt, and as Archie, awkwardly stiff, limped forward, they got out of the car and came to meet him.

  “Virginia.”

  “Hello, Archie. I’ve brought your guest to stay with you.” Archie, at a loss, turned to the stranger. Tall, well-built, quite handsome in a weathered sort of way. Not young, and wearing heavy horn-rimmed spectacles. “Conrad Tucker; Archie Balmerino.”

  The two men shook hands. Archie said, “I’m sorry…I thought you were coming under your own steam, in a hired car…”

  “I intended doing that, but…”

  Virginia interrupted. “I’ll explain. It’s the most extraordinary coincidence, Archie. I met Conrad yesterday evening in the King’s Hotel, in Relkirk. Out of the blue. And of course we’re very old friends. We knew each other in Long Island when we were young. So instead of spending the night at the hotel as he’d planned, he came back to Balnaid with me and stayed there.”

  So all was clear. “But what a fortuitous meeting, and what a good idea.” And then Archie added, for Conrad’s benefit, “The ridiculous thing is that my wife was either never told, or forgot, your name, and so Virginia would never have known that our house guest was yourself. I’m afraid sometimes we’re dreadfully vague.”

  “It’s very good of you to have me.”

  “Anyway…” Archie hesitated, wishing that Isobel was here. “…this is all splendid. Come along. Let’s go indoors. There’s nobody here but me because the others have all gone shopping. Have you got a bag, Conrad? What’s the time? A quarter to twelve. The sun’s not over the yardarm yet, but I think we could have a gin and tonic…”

  Virginia said, “No, Archie,” and she sounded jumpy and unlike herself. Archie looked at her with closer attention and saw the pallor beneath her tan and the dark rings under her eyes. She seemed upset and he was concerned for her, and then remembered that only yesterday she had had to take Henry to Templehall and leave him there. Which explained everything.

  He felt very sympathetic and said kindly, “Why not? It’ll do you good.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to stay, but I have to take some stuff up to Corriehill for Verena. Flower vases. Things like that. If you don’t mind, I think I’d better get home.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “We’ll all see each other tomorrow at Vi’s picnic.”

  “Not me. I’m shooting. But Lucilla and Jeff and Pandora will take Conrad along with them.”

  Conrad had retrieved his bag from Virginia’s car and was standing waiting for what was going to happen next. Virginia went to him and gave him a kiss. “See you tomorrow, Conrad.”

  “Thanks for everything.”

  “It’s been great.”

  She got back into the Subaru and drove away, back under the trees and down the hill. When she had gone, Archie turned to his guest. “How very nice that you already know Virginia. Now, come along and I’ll show you where you’re sleeping…”

  He led the way up to the door and into the house, and Conrad, slowing his pace down to his host’s halting step, followed him.

  Back at Balnaid, in her flower pantry, searching for jugs, urns, bowls, old soup tureens, Virginia was grateful for domestic occupation. At the moment she needed neither idle hands nor an empty mind. Especially an empty mind. She assembled her loot and then collected pin-holders and screwed-up pieces of chicken wire, essential for keeping top-heavy flower arrangements in place. Making two or three trips, she carried everything out to the Subaru and stowed it all neatly into the back of the car.

  Meanwhile, she made plans. Tomorrow morning early, Alexa and Noel and Alexa’s dog would be arriving, having driven up from London overnight. They would be at Balnaid for breakfast. When I come back from Corriehill, she told herself, I shall get the bedrooms ready for Alexa and Noel. Bedrooms. Not a bedroom. In London they slept together, in a double bed, but Virginia knew that if she were to put them in a double bed at Balnaid, Alexa would be embarrassed, and even more put out than her father.

  Tomorrow. She would think about tomorrow. She would not think about yesterday, nor the day before. Nor last night. They were over. Finished with. Done. Nothing could be changed and nothing could be altered.

  When the bedrooms were finished, she would emulate Isobel and make lists, visit Mrs Ishak and do an enormous shop. The dogs would have to be walked. After that she might do some cooking, make a cake or a pot of soup. Or brownies for tomorrow’s picnic. By then it would be evening, and then night, and the long, lonely, soul-searching days would be over. She would sleep in her empty bed, in her empty house. Without Edmund, without Henry. But the morning would bring Alexa and Noel, and with them for company surely things must get better; life would seem less impossible and easier to bear.

  She drove to Corriehill and found the place in a turmoil. Alien vans and lorries were parked on the gravel outside, and inside, the house appeared to have been taken over by armies of workmen, as though the family were on the point of moving out, or moving in. In the hall, most of the furniture and the rugs had already been shunted aside, electric cables snaked in all directions, and the open doors of the dining room revealed that this, by means of festoons of darkly striped material, had been transformed into a lightless cave. The nightclub. She paused to admire but was almost instantly asked to move aside by a young man with long hair who staggered, with bent knees, beneath the weight of some piece of audio equipment.

  “Do you know where I can find Mrs Steynton?”

  “Try the marquee.”

  Picking her way through the confusion, Virginia made for the library and saw, for the first time, the gargantuan tent that had been erected on the lawn the day before. It was very tall and very wide, and took most of the daylight from the rooms inside. The french doors
of the library had been removed, and house and marquee were joined by the umbilical cord of a wide, tented passageway. She went down this and stepped into the aqueous, filtered gloom that was the interior of the marquee, saw the soaring tent-poles, tall as masts, the yellow-and-white striped lining. On the top of tall ladders, more electricians were perched fixing the overhead lights, and at the far end a couple of burly men were constructing, with trestles and planks, a platform for the band. There was the smell of trodden grass and canvas, rather like an agricultural show, and in the middle of it all she found Verena with Mr Abberley, who was in charge of the entire operation, and apparently being given a piece of Verena’s mind.

  “…but it’s ridiculous to say we’ve got the measurements wrong. You took the measurements.”

  “The thing is, Mrs Steynton, that the floor comes in prefabricated units. Six-by-three. I explained when you ordered my largest tent.”

  “I never imagined there would be a problem.”

  “And there’s another thing. Your lawn’s not level.”

  “Of course it’s level. It used to be a tennis court.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s not. Sinks down in that corner a foot or more. That means wedges.”

  “Well, use wedges. Just be certain the floor doesn’t collapse.”

  Mr Abberley looked hurt. “My floors never collapse,” he told her, and took himself off to mull over the situation.

  Virginia said, “Verena.” Verena turned. “I don’t seem to have come at a very good time.”

  “Oh, Virginia.” Verena ran fingers through her hair in a most uncharacteristic fashion. “I’m going demented. Have you ever seen such a mess?”

  “I think it looks fantastic. Terribly impressive.”

  “But it’s so huge.”

  “Well, you’re having a huge party. When it’s full of flowers and people and the band and everything, it’ll be quite different.”

  “You don’t think it’s all going to be the most dreadful flop?”