The Carousel

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  I said, “You’re a fraud. You may have broken your arm, but you’re as beautiful as ever.”

  “What rubbish! Do you hear that, Mr. Thomas, she says I’m beautiful. She must be either mad or blind. Now, what’s this? Your suitcase. And what are the dead flowers for? I don’t want any dead flowers…” Holding the poor things, she began to laugh again. “Now, Mr. Thomas, you’ll have to send me a bill. I can’t pay you just now—I’ve mislaid my handbag.”

  “I’ll pay, Phoebe.”

  “Of course you won’t. Mr. Thomas doesn’t mind, do you, Mr. Thomas?”

  Mr. Thomas assured her that he didn’t. He got back into his taxi, but Phoebe pursued him in order to put her head through the window and ask after Mrs. Thomas’s bad leg. Mr. Thomas began to tell her, at some length. Halfway through his dissertation, Phoebe decided she’d had enough. “So glad she’s better,” she said firmly, and withdrew her head from the window. Mr. Thomas, halted in full spate, was not in the least disconcerted. It was just Miss Shackleton, and heaven only knew, she had some funny ways. The old taxi was set into motion once more and the next moment had sped away, scattering gravel through the gate and up the road.

  “Now.” Phoebe took my arm. “Let’s get indoors. I want to hear all the news.”

  Together we went through the open door and into the house. I stood in the hall, looked about, and loved everything for being the same. I saw the polished floors scattered with rugs; the uncarpeted wooden staircase that led to the upper floor; the whitewashed walls hung, haphazard, with Phoebe’s tiny, jewel-bright oil paintings.

  The house smelt of turpentine and wood smoke and linseed oil and garlic and roses, but its greatest charm was the effect of airy lightness engendered by pale colours, lacy curtains, straw rugs, and polished wood. Even in the middle of winter, it always felt summery.

  I took a deep breath, savouring it all. “Heaven,” I said. “Heaven to be back.”

  “You’re in the same old room,” said Phoebe and then left me, heading for the kitchen. I knew she would spend some time trying to resuscitate Nigel’s poor flowers, even though she had more than enough of her own. I picked up my case and went upstairs to the room that had been mine since I was a very small girl. I opened the door and was assailed by a gust of cold air pouring in from the wide open window. I shut the door, and everything stopped billowing. Putting down my case, I went to the window and leaned out to gaze at the familiar view.

  The tide was out, and the evening smelt of seaweed. You were never far from the sea smells at Holly Cottage, because the house had been built on a grassy bluff overlooking a tidal estuary, which penetrated inland like a huge lake and was filled and emptied each day by the tides.

  Below the house was a wide seawall, where once a single-line railway siding had led to a busy shipyard. The shipyard was closed now and the railway sleepers removed, but the wall still stood, solid as a cliff. At high tide the water reached nearly to the rim of this wall, and in summer it made a good place to swim, but at low tide there was nothing but acres of empty sand, with a few weedy rocks and shallow pools scattered here and there and a dozen or so derelict fishing boats that had been pulled up on the shingle winters ago and for some reason never floated again.

  On this, the south side of the house, the garden was unexpectedly large. An irregularly shaped lawn, edged here and there with random flower beds, sloped down to a boundary hedge of escallonia. In the middle of this was a gate, and over the gate the clipped escallonia had been trimmed into an arch, which gave the garden a charmingly formal and old-fashioned aspect. To the right, beyond a high brick wall, where Chips Armitage used to grow peach trees, was a sizeable vegetable garden, and at the bottom of this, scarcely visible from the house, he had built his studio. All I could see was the pitch of the slate roof and, sitting on it, a single herring gull. As I watched, it spread its wings, screaming defiance at nothing in particular, and then took flight, soaring and gliding away, out over the wet, empty sands.

  I smiled, closed the window against the cold, and went down to Phoebe.

  We sat facing each other across the hearth rug, with a blazing log fire to warm us, and the light outside gradually dying into evening. There was a big brown teapot on the trolley, hand-painted earthenware cups and saucers, a plate of fresh scones, yellow farm butter, and homemade cherry jam.

  “You didn’t make these scones, Phoebe. You couldn’t, with only one hand.”

  “No, Lily Tonkins made them this morning. Darling woman, she comes in every day, and she’s simply taken over the kitchen. I never realised what a marvellous cook she is.”

  “But how did you break your arm?”

  “Oh, my dear, too stupid. I was down in the studio looking for some old folios of Chips’s … I knew they were on the top shelf of his bookcase, and I stood on a chair, and of course some worm, unknown to me, had burrowed into the wood, and the leg gave way, and down I came!” She roared with laughter as though it were the best joke in the world. She was still wearing her feathered hat. “Very lucky not to break my leg. I came back to the house, and by great good fortune there was the postman, delivering the afternoon mail. So I hopped in beside him and he drove me to the cottage hospital and they tied me up in this tiresome cast.”

  “You poor thing.”

  “Oh, never mind, it doesn’t hurt much; it’s just a nuisance, and maddening not being able to drive. I’ve got to go back to the hospital tomorrow to let the doctor see it … I suppose he thinks I’m going to get gangrene or something…”

  “I’ll drive you…”

  “You won’t have to, because they’re sending an ambulance. I’ve never been in an ambulance before. I’m rather looking forward to it. Now, how’s Delia?”

  Delia was my mother. I said she was well.

  “And what sort of a train journey did you have?” Before I could tell her, she remembered the arrangement she had made with Mrs. Tolliver. “Heavens, I forgot to ask about Charlotte Collis. Did Mr. Thomas remember to collect her at the station as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “How fortunate. I hope you didn’t mind sharing the ride with her. Personally, I thought Mrs. Tolliver might have gone to fetch the poor child herself, but she seemed to think it was pointless if Mr. Thomas was going anyway.”

  “I thought she might have come to meet her, too.”

  “How is she, poor little mite?”

  “She seemed a bit anxious. Not at all excited at the thought of staying with her grandmother. The only person she showed any enthusiasm for was you. She adores you.”

  “It’s funny, isn’t it. You’d think she’d rather be with children of her own age. Except that there aren’t many children in this village, and even if there were, she’s always been something of a loner. The first time we met, I found her wandering on the beach by herself. She said she was out for a walk, so I asked her back for tea and rang Mrs. Tolliver to say she was with me. After that she came quite often. She’s fascinated by my pictures and paints and sketchbooks. I gave her a sketch pad and some felt pens for herself, and she has a remarkable talent and a marvellous imagination. Then she loves being told stories; hearing about Chips and all the stupid things he and I used to do together. Extraordinary, really, in such a young child.”

  I said, “You know, I don’t think I ever knew that Mrs. Tolliver had a grandchild. I don’t think I ever realised that she had a daughter. Or a husband, for that matter. What happened to Mr. Tolliver?”

  “He died, some years ago. When Chips and I first came here, he was still alive, and they lived in great style. You know the sort of thing—a Bentley in the garage and two gardeners and a cook and a housemaid. Annabelle was impossibly spoiled and indulged—a real only child. But then Mr. Tolliver had a heart attack—keeled over on the seventh green of the golf course—and never recovered. After that nothing was quite the same again. Of course, Mrs. Tolliver never said anything—she’s the most reserved woman I know—but the big car was sold and a general cutting back rather ob
viously took place. Annabelle had been sent to some ridiculously expensive school in Switzerland, and she had to leave and come home and attend the local Comprehensive. She simply hated it. I think she felt that life had deliberately humiliated her. Silly girl.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Very beautiful, but without the vestige of a brain. After she was married and had her little boy, she used to come down for the summers and stay with her mother, and every time there were three or four lovelorn fellows dancing attendance. At a party you couldn’t see her for men. Just like bees round a honey pot.”

  “She’s in Majorca just now. Charlotte told me that much.”

  “I know. I’ve heard all about that. I think Mrs. Tolliver rather felt that she should come back and look after Charlotte herself. She was annoyed about the school boiler blowing up. She felt it was inefficient. I was horrified. It might have killed all the children. But Mrs. Tolliver was far more concerned at the prospect of having Charlotte to stay.”

  “But doesn’t she like Charlotte?”

  “Oh, I think she quite likes her,” Phoebe told me in her airy way. “But she’s never been interested in children, and I think she finds Charlotte very dull. And, as well, she’s never had the child on her own before. I think she’s wondering what on earth she’s going to do with her.”

  Outside, the wind was getting up, rattling the window sashes and whistling around the corners of the house. It was nearly dark, but the room in which we sat was warm with dancing firelight. I reached for the kettle that simmered on a brass hob near the flames and refilled the teapot.

  “What about Annabelle’s husband?”

  “Leslie Collis? I could never stand him, gruesome man.”

  “I thought he was gruesome, too. He didn’t even kiss Charlotte good-bye. How did Annabelle meet him?”

  “He was staying at the Castle Hotel in Porthkerris with three other stockbrokers, or whatever it is he does in the City. I don’t know how they met, but the moment he set eyes on her, that was it.”

  “He couldn’t have been attractive.”

  “In a funny way, he was. He had a certain sort of dark, flashy charm. Spent money like water, drove around in a Ferrari.”

  “Do you think Annabelle was in love with him?”

  “Not for a moment. Annabelle was in love only with herself. But he could give her everything that she’d ever wanted, and she didn’t like being poor. And of course Mrs. Tolliver encouraged it madly. I don’t think she ever forgave her poor husband for leaving her in straitened circumstances, and she was determined that Annabelle should marry well.”

  I thought about this. Then I poured myself another cup of tea and lay back against the cushions of the deep and friendly old chair. I said, “I suppose all mothers are the same.”

  “Don’t tell me Delia’s been at you again.”

  “Oh, no, she’s not been at me. But there’s this man … he brought me those chrysanthemums…” And I told her about Nigel Gordon and the invitation to Scotland.

  Phoebe listened sympathetically, and when I had finished, she said, “I think he sounds very nice.”

  “He is. That’s the trouble. He’s terribly nice. But my mother’s already got wedding bells banging to and fro and keeps reminding me that I’m twenty-three and ought to be settling down. Perhaps if she didn’t go on about it so, I might marry him.”

  “You mustn’t marry him unless you can’t imagine life without him.”

  “That’s just it. I can. Quite easily.”

  “We all need different things from life. Your mother needs security. That’s why she married your father, and a fat lot of good it did her, because she never took the time to get to know him before she made that spectacular entrance up the aisle. But you’re a special person. You need more than a man to bring you flowers and pay the bills. You’re intelligent and you’re talented. And when you do settle down with a man, it is absolutely vital that he makes you laugh. Chips and I laughed all the time, even when we were poor and unsuccessful and didn’t know how we were going to pay the grocer’s bill. We were always laughing.”

  I smiled, remembering them together. I said, “Talking of Chips, did you know that Daniel Cassens has an exhibition on at the Chastal Gallery? I read a rave review in the Times this morning.”

  “I read it too. So exciting. Dear, clever boy. I intended going up to London for the opening day, but then I went and broke this stupid arm and the doctor said I wasn’t to travel.”

  “Is he in London? Daniel, I mean.”

  “Heaven knows where he is. Probably still in Japan. Or Mexico, or somewhere mad. But I’d love to see that exhibition. Perhaps, if I’m able, I’ll come back to London with you and we’ll go together. What fun that would be! Something to look forward to.”

  That night I had a dream. I was on some island—a tropical island, palm-fringed and white-sanded. It was very hot. I was on a beach, walking down towards the silent, glass-clear sea. I meant to swim, but the water, when I reached it, was only inches deep, scarcely covering my ankles. I walked for a long time, and then, all at once, the sand fell steeply away, and I was out of my depth, swimming, and the water was dark as ink and the current like a rushing river. I felt myself borne along on its flow, towards the horizon. I knew that I should turn back, swim for the beach, but the current was too strong, and there was no resisting it. So I stopped fighting and let myself be carried along, knowing that I could never return, but so marvellous was the sensation of going with the tide that I did not care.

  I woke with the dream still sharp and clear in my mind. I could remember every detail of it. I lay in bed, thinking about the clear water and the sensation of peace as I was borne along in the wash of that warm and tranquil sea. All dreams have meaning, and I wondered how some professional would analyse this one. It occurred to me, in an unworried sort of way, that it might be about dying.

  Chapter 3

  THE EARLY MORNING turned into a beautiful day. Breezy and bright, the blue sky was patched with large, sailing white clouds blown in from the Atlantic. The sun blinked in and out of these clouds, and during the morning the flood tide slowly filled the estuary, creeping up the sands, filling the tide pools, and finally, by about eleven o’clock, reaching the seawall below the house.

  Phoebe had gone to keep her appointment at the Cottage Hospital, borne there in some style by the local ambulance. For the trip she had donned yet another hat, black velours, bound by a tussore scarf, and she had waved enthusiastically through the open window as though she were setting off on a jaunt. She would be back for lunch. I had offered to prepare this, but Lily Tonkins, already busy with the vacuum cleaner, said that she already had a bit of lamb in the oven, so I found a sketch pad and a stick of charcoal, stole an apple from the fruit bowl, and took myself out of doors.

  And now, at eleven o’clock, I sat on the grassy slope above the seawall, with the sun a dazzle on the wind-ruffled waters of the estuary and the morning freshness filled with the scream of gulls. I had done a rough sketch of the derelict fishing boats with their ramshackle chains and anchors, their empty masts piercing the sky. As I filled in some detail of a weather-scarred hatchway, I heard the morning train from Porthkerris come through the cutting behind Holly Cottage and draw up at the little halt by the edge of the shore. It was a very small and infrequent train, and a moment or two later it gave a hoot and moved on again, around the curve of the line and out of sight.

  So engrossed was I in maddening perspectives that I was scarcely aware of this happening, but when I next looked up to study the keel of an upended dinghy, a movement caught the corner of my eye. I looked and saw a solitary figure walking towards me. He approached from the direction of the station, and I presumed that he had alighted from the train, crossed the line, and so followed the track of the disused siding. There was nothing unusual about this. People often took the train from Porthkerris to Penmarron and then walked back to Porthkerris, following the footpath that led for three miles or more along the
edge of the cliff.

  I lost interest in my drawing. I laid down the sketch pad, picked up my apple, and began to eat it. I watched the stranger’s progress. He was a tall man, long-legged, with an easy, loping stride. His clothes at first were simply a blur of blue and white, but as he came closer I saw that he wore denim jeans and a faded shirt, and over this a white knitted jacket, the sort that people bring home from holidays in Ireland. The jacket was unbuttoned, flying open in the wind, and a red and white handkerchief, like a gipsy’s, was knotted around his throat. His head was bare, his hair very dark, and though he did not appear to be in any sort of hurry, he was covering the ground at considerable pace.

  He looked, I decided, a man who knew where he was going.

  Now he had come to the far end of the seawall. Here he paused and looked out over the dazzling water, shielding his eyes from the glare. A moment later he moved on once more, and it was then that he spied me, sitting there in the long grass, eating my apple, watching him.

  I thought that he would probably walk past me, perhaps with a casual “good morning,” but as he drew level with me, he stopped and stood there, with his back to the water, his hands in the pockets of that voluminous jacket, his head tilted back. A gust of wind ruffled his dark hair. He said, “Hello.”

  His voice was boyish, his demeanour youthful, but his thin, brown face was not a boy’s face, and there were strong lines etched around his mouth and his deeply set eyes.

  “Hello.”

  “What a lovely morning.”

  “Isn’t it?” I finished my apple and tossed the core away. A gull instantly pounced on it and bore it off to consume in private.

  “I just got off the train.”

  “I thought you must have. Are you going to walk back to Porthkerris?”