September

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  Now, however, with the long journey behind them, with the sunlight streaming down from that vast and pristine sky, the clean air blowing through the opened window, the fresh prospects revealed at each bend of the road, her excitement suddenly became contagious, and he was filled with ridiculous elation — not happiness, exactly, but a surge of physical well-being that was perhaps the next-best thing. Impulsively, Noel took his hand off the wheel and laid it on Alexa’s knee, and at once she covered it with her own.

  She said, “I’m not saying ‘Isn’t it beautiful’ all the time, because if I do, it’ll just sound too banal for words.”

  “I know.”

  “And coming back is always special, but it’s more special this time because you’re with me. That’s what I’ve been thinking.” Her fingers twined with his. “It’s never been quite like this before.”

  He smiled. “I’ll be on my best behaviour and try to keep it that way.”

  Alexa leaned over and kissed his cheek. She said, “I love you.”

  Five minutes later, they had arrived. Reaching the little village, they crossed another bridge, passed through open gates and up a drive. He saw the lawns, the banks of rhododendrons and azaleas, glimpsed the open view through to the hills that lay to the south. He drew up in front of the house, the house familiar from Alexa’s photograph, but now reality, standing before him, solid and substantial, with the towering conservatory jutting out at one side. Virginia creeper, now turning crimson, framed the open front door, and before Noel had even switched off the ignition the two spaniels were there, not posed obediently at the top of the steps, but racing down them, in full cry and with ears flying, come to investigate the new arrivals. Larry, rudely awoken, gave as good as he got, yapping from Alexa’s arms as she got out of the car.

  Almost at once, right behind the dogs, Virginia appeared, wearing jeans and an open-necked white shirt and looking just as toothsome as she had in her sophisticated London clothes, that first and only time that Noel had met her.

  “Alexa. Darling. I thought you were never coming.” Hugs and kisses. Stretching the aches out of his arms and legs, Noel watched the loving reunion. “And Noel” — Virginia turned to him — “how lovely to see you.” He was kissed as well, which was pleasurable. “Did you have a frightful drive? Alexa, I can’t stand the din. Put Larry down and let them make friends right here in the garden, otherwise he’ll pee all over my carpets. Why are you so late? I’ve been expecting you for hours.”

  Alexa explained. “We stopped in Edinburgh for breakfast. Noel’s got some friends there called Delia and Calum Robertson. They live in the dearest little mews house just at the back of Moray Place. We woke them up by throwing stones at their window and they came down, let us in and cooked us bacon and eggs and weren’t a bit cross at being woken up. I should have phoned you, but I never thought. I am sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re here. But there’s not a moment to spare because you’ve got to be with Vi at eleven, and have coffee with her before we all head up the hill for the picnic.” She looked at Noel with some sympathy. “Poor man, you’re really being thrown in at the deep end, but Vi’s longing to see you both. Can you bear it? You’re not too exhausted after the long drive?”

  “Not a bit,” he assured her. “We shared the driving and the one who wasn’t at the wheel was able to have a kip…”He opened the boot of his car, and Virginia raised her eyebrows.

  “Heavens, what a lot of luggage. Come on, let’s hump it all in…”

  He was in his bedroom, left with his bags to settle himself in. The door stood open, and from down the passage, he could hear the voices of Alexa and Virginia, still with plenty to talk about. From time to time there was a burst of laughter. He went to close the door, finding himself in need of a moment of privacy before the next lot of demands were made upon him. He was to drive the Subaru, he had been told. There was some complication about tablecloths, but he and Alexa would have coffee with her grandmother, and later Virginia and Edie would join them, whereupon the entire party would drive up the hill for the celebratory picnic.

  He was not dismayed by the prospect; on the contrary, he found himself quite looking forward to anything that the day might bring. He opened his suitcase and began in a desultory fashion to unpack. He hung up his dinner jacket in the towering Victorian wardrobe, dug around for Vi’s birthday present, his hairbrushes, his wash-bag. He put the brushes on the dressing-table and went to inspect the bathroom. There he was confronted by a seven-foot bath with gargantuan brass taps, a marbled floor, tall mirrors, fluffy white bathsheets neatly folded over a heated rail. He felt worn and grubby after his overnight drive, and, on an impulse, turned on the taps, tore off his clothes, and took the quickest, hottest bath of his life. Much refreshed, he dressed again, and, buttoning his clean shirt, walked to the window to observe the pleasing view beyond the boundary of the garden. Fields, sheep, hills. Out of the quiet came the liquid call of a curlew. It rose and died away, and he tried to remember when he had last heard that haunting, evocative sound, but could not.

  Virginia Aird was half-American; young, vital, and chic. Once, on a business trip to the United States, Noel had stayed in the home of a colleague who lived in New York State. The house was ranch-type, set in lawns that ran into the lawns of the next-door property, and had been designed with convenience and ease of maintenance as first priorities. Centrally heated, marvellously thought out, and equipped with every sort of modern appliance, it should have been the most comfortable place in the world in which to spend a winter weekend. But somehow, none of it added up, because his hostess, although delightful, hadn’t the first idea about having guests to stay. Despite the fact that she was possessed of an all-singing, all-dancing kitchen, she never cooked a single meal. Each evening, they dressed up and went out to the local country club for dinner, and the only food that emerged from that kitchen was fried eggs or microwaved beefburgers. But that was not all. In the living room was an open fireplace, but the grate was filled with pot plants, and instead of a comfortingly blazing log fire, the sinfully comfortable couches and armchairs were arranged around the focal point of the television, and Sunday afternoon was spent gazing at a football match, the rules and shibboleths of which Noel found incomprehensible. There was another television set in his bedroom, and the bathroom off this was meticulously equipped with shower, shaving sockets, and even a bidet, but the largest of the navy-blue matching towels was so minute that it barely covered his private parts, and this small inconvenience caused Noel to yearn wistfully for the comfort of his own, immense, white, thirsty bathsheets. But worst of all was the discomfort and pain of blocked sinuses, caused by sleeping in a heated room, the window of which refused to open.

  It was churlish and ungrateful to find fault, because they had been immensely kind, but he had never, in his life, been so glad to get away from anywhere.

  The curlew called again. Peace. And…he turned back to the bedroom, stuffing his shirttails into his jeans…a marvellous, Edwardian opulence. As opulent as Ovington Street, but all on a massive and masculine scale. The great bath, built for the largest of men. The monster towels, the heavy curtains, swagged back with ropes of silk. He thought again about Virginia, and knew that although he had harboured no fears of a repeat of that sojourn in suburban America, he had scarcely expected her to be the mistress of a house that seemed to have been decorated and furnished fifty years ago and never altered since.

  But he approved. He felt very much at home. He liked the feeling of the place, the solid comfort, the pleasant country-house smell, the gleam of polish on well-tended furniture, the crispness of fresh linen, the sense of family. Pulling on clean socks, a thick sweater, brushing his hair, he found himself whistling. He caught his own eye in the mirror and grinned at his reflection. Already, he had started to enjoy himself.

  Finally ready, and bearing Vi’s birthday present, he left his bedroom and went downstairs and, following the sound of feminine voice
s, found himself in Virginia’s kitchen. Not all-singing, all-dancing, but large and homely, and filled, not only with sunshine, but with the fragrant smell of fresh coffee. Alexa, professionally, had carved a cold chicken and was packing the pieces into a plastic box, and Virginia, now wearing an apron over her jeans, was filling a vacuum flask with coffee. As Noel appeared, she set down the jug and screwed on the stopper.

  “Everything all right?” she asked him.

  “More than all right. I had a bath, and now I’m ready for anything.”

  “Is that a present for Vi? Put it in this big box, with all of ours…” It was a grocery carton already crammed with oddly shaped and brightly wrapped packages.

  He added his own. “Somebody’s given her a bottle.”

  “Henry. It’s rhubarb wine. He won it at the church sale. Noel, the Subaru’s out at the back. Perhaps you could put the box in with all the other stuff, and then you can give it to Vi when you and Alexa get to Pennyburn.”

  Noel picked up the birthday box and carried it across the kitchen and out through the open back door. In the yard beyond, the Subaru, a sturdy four-wheel-drive vehicle, was parked, waiting, its rear compartment already half filled with assorted clobber. To Noel a picnic meant a sandwich eaten in a field, or perhaps a well-chosen hamper from Fortnum’s, complete with champagne, to be ceremoniously opened on the lawns of Glyndebourne. Preparations for today, however, seemed to be more on the scale of an army manoeuvre. Rugs, umbrellas; fishing rods, creels, and bags; a paper sack of charcoal, another of kindling; grids and tongs; dogs’ bowls; a bottle of water, cans of beer; a basket filled with brightly coloured plastic plates and a number of plastic wineglasses. There were a roll of paper towel, a bundle of rainproof gear, Alexa’s camera, a pair of field-glasses.

  He loaded the box of presents, and as he did this was joined by Alexa with yet another basket containing the coffee flask and the box of cold chicken, some mugs, dog-leads, and a whistle.

  “It looks,” he told her, “as though we are going camping for at least two weeks.”

  “We have to be prepared for all eventualities.” He took the basket from her and found a corner for it. “And we should go. We’re late already.”

  “What about the dogs?”

  “They all come with us. We’ll have to squash them in with all this stuff.”

  “Can’t they sit on the back seat?”

  “No, because there are five of us going up the hill, and neither Vi nor Edie is noticeably slender.”

  “We could take my car as well.”

  “We could, but we wouldn’t get very far. Wait till you see the track. It’s precipitous and very rough. This is the only car that will make it.”

  Noel was protective of his Volkswagen, and so this ended the argument. The three dogs were rounded up, bundled aboard, and the doors shut in their faces. Their expressions were resigned. Alexa and Noel climbed up into the front seats, Noel at the wheel. Virginia, still in her apron, came to wave them away. “I’ll be with you about twelve-fifteen,” she told them. “Have a good time with Vi.”

  They set off, around the back of the house, through the gates, over the bridge. As he drove, Alexa gave him all the up-to-date local news. “Fa’s in New York. I heard all about it while I was carving the chicken. But he’s meant to be getting back some time tomorrow, so he’ll be there for the party. And Lucilla Blair’s at Croy…she’s come back from France…and Pandora Blair. She’s Archie Balmerino’s sister, so you’ll meet both of them.”

  “Will they all be at the picnic?”

  “I expect so. Not sure about Pandora, though. I’m longing to see her because I never have. Just heard about her. She’s the black ewe of the Balmerino family, with a wonderfully risqué reputation.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “Well, don’t get too excited. She’s at least ten years older than you.”

  “I always did go for the more mature lady.”

  “I don’t think ‘mature’ is quite the right word for Pandora. And there’s another man staying at Croy called Conrad Tucker. He’s an American, and an old friend of Virginia’s. Isn’t that extraordinary? And poor Virginia had to take Henry to school herself, on account of Fa not being here. She said it was really horrible and she doesn’t want to talk about it. And she hasn’t yet heard from darling Henry, so we don’t know how he’s getting on. She says she doesn’t want to ring the headmaster and ask in case he thinks she’s a fussing parent.” By now they were trundling down the village street. “I don’t know why she shouldn’t telephone. I don’t see why she shouldn’t talk to Henry if she wants to. Turn left here, Noel, through these gates and up the hill. This is Croy now. Archie Balmerino’s land. I think he’s shooting today, but we’re all going to dinner with them tomorrow, before the dance, so you’ll meet him then…”

  The road climbed steeply, through farmland that had once been parkland. The leaves of stately beeches were turning gold, and ahead the hills thrust their summits into the sparkling autumn sky. Despite the warmth of the sun, there was a nippy breeze, and Noel was glad of his thick sweater.

  “Now we turn down this lane. It used to be really grotty, a broken-down track leading to an old gardener’s cottage, but Vi did it all up when she bought the place from Archie. She’s a manic gardener. I’ve told you that already. But just look at her view. Of course, she’s in the teeth of the wind, but it’s better now that the beech hedge has grown…”

  The little house stood blinding white in the sunshine, set in a garden of green lawns and bright flower-beds. As Noel drew up at the front door, this opened and a large and well-built lady emerged to greet them, her arms outstretched, and the brisk breeze playing havoc with her grey hair. She wore a very old tweed skirt, a cardigan, ankle socks, and sturdy brogues, and Alexa, jumping down from the car, was almost instantly swept up into her grandmother’s mammoth embrace.

  “Alexa. My darling child, what a joy to see you.”

  “Happy birthday.”

  “Seventy-eight, my darling. Isn’t it terrible? Old as Methuselah.” She kissed Alexa, and then, looking over her granddaughter’s head, watched as Noel came around the front of the Subaru. Their eyes met, and held. Violet’s gaze was steady and bright; sharp, but not unkindly. I am, Noel told himself, being summed up. He put on his most open smile. “How do you do? I’m Noel Keeling.”

  Violet released Alexa and held out her hand. He took it in his own, a healthy handshake, the palm warm and dry, the fingers strong. She was not a beautiful old lady, and probably had never been so, but he saw much liveliness and wisdom in her weather-beaten features, and all the lines on her face looked as though they had been put there by laughter. His liking for her, his immediate and wordless rapport with her, was instinctive, and he knew that she was the sort of person who, although quite capable of implacable enmity, could as well become the truest and most staunch of friends. All at once he wanted her on his side.

  And then she said an odd thing. “We’ve never met?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Your name. Keeling. It rings a bell.” She shrugged, let loose his hand. “No matter.” She smiled, and he realised that if she had never been beautiful, then she had once been possessed of a great physical attraction. “How very nice of you to come and see us all.”

  “I must wish you a happy birthday. We’ve a box of presents for you.”

  “Bring them inside. I’ll open them later.”

  He returned to the car, opened the doors, calmed the dogs, retrieved the birthday box, closed the doors again. By the time he had achieved all this, Alexa and her grandmother had disappeared into the house, and Noel followed them into a small hallway, and so through to an airy sitting room filled with light, and with a glassed door giving out on to the old lady’s delectable garden.

  “Put the box down there! I won’t open them yet, because I want to hear all your news. Alexa, the coffee and the cups are in the kitchen, would you fetch the tray in for me?” Alexa disappeared to
do this. “Now, Noel…I can’t call you Mr Keeling because nobody does these days, and you must call me Violet…where would you like to sit?”

  But he did not want to sit. As always in new surroundings, he wanted to prowl, nose, get the feel of things. It was a charming room, with pale-yellow walls, bright rose-chintzed curtains, and cream carpets, fitted snug to the wainscot. Violet Aird had not lived here for many years, he knew, and there was a freshness and a lightness about everything, evidence of recent refurbishment; but her furniture, her pictures, her bibelots, her books and her china had obviously all moved with her from some previous abode, presumably Balnaid. The chairs and sofa were loose-covered in coral linen, and an ebony cabinet, its doors standing open, was lined in that same coral, and contained a collection of Famille Rose porcelain. Everywhere he looked, Noel’s eye fell upon a clutter of either enviable or practical objects, the squirrel hoard of an elderly lady, gathering about her, like a store of nuts, the comforting possessions of a lifetime. Here were hand-worked cushions, a wicker basket filled with logs, a brass fender, a pair of bellows, her sewing box, her little television set, stacks of magazines, bowls of pot-pourri. As well, every horizontal surface was cluttered with small and decorative objects. Enamel boxes, jugs of fresh flowers, a copper bowl filled with purple heather, silver-framed photographs, small arrangements of Dresden china.

  She was watching him. He looked at her and smiled. He said, “You follow the rules of William Morris.”

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  “You have nothing in your house that you don’t know to be useful nor think to be beautiful.”

  She was amused. “Who taught you that?”

  “My mother.”

  “It’s an outmoded concept.”