Authors: Rosamunde Pilcher
Quickly he reached for and pulled on his night-shirt, easier to deal with than pyjamas. He went to the adjoining bathroom, peed, and cleaned his teeth. In their vast bedroom, no lights burnt but moonlight flowed through the uncurtained window. On her side of the wide double bed, Isobel slept. But as he moved across the room, she stirred and woke.
"Archie?"
He sat down on his side of the bed.
"Yes."
"What time is it?"
"About twenty past one."
She thought about this. "Were you talking?"
"Yes. I'm sorry. I should have been helping you."
"It doesn't matter. They were nice."
He was unstrapping the harness, gently easing the padded leather cup away from his stump. When it was free, he bent to lay the hateful contraption on the floor beside the bed, the webbing arranged neatly, so that in the morning he could put it on again with the least possible inconvenience. Without it, he felt lopsided and strangely weightless, and his stump burnt and ached. It had been a long day.
He lay beside Isobel and pulled the cool sheets up to his shoulders.
"Are you all right?" Her voice was drowsy.
"Yes."
"Did you know that Verena Steynton's going to throw a dance for Katy? In September."
"Yes. Violet told me."
"I shall have to get a new dress."
"Yes."
"I haven't got anything to wear."
She drifted back to sleep.
As soon as it started, he knew what was going to happen. It was always the same. Forsaken, bleak streets, plastered with graffiti. Dark skies and rain. He wore a flak jacket and drove one of the armoured Land Rovers, but there was something amiss because he should have a companion and he was on his own.
All he had to do was to get to the safety of the barracks. The barracks was a requisitioned Ulster Constabulary police station, fortified to the hilt and bristling with armoury. If he could get there, without them coming, he would be safe. But they were there. They always came. Four figures, spread out across the road ahead, shrouded by the rain. They had no faces, only black hoods, and their weapons were trained upon him. He reached for his rifle, but it had gone. The Land Rover had stopped. He could not remember stopping it. The door was open and they were upon him, dragging him out. Perhaps this time they were going to beat him to death. But it was the same. It was the bomb. It looked like a brown paper parcel but it was a bomb, and they loaded it into the back of the Land Rover, and he stood and watched them. And then he was back behind the wheel and the nightmare had truly begun. Because he was going to drive it in through the open gates of the barracks, and it would explode and kill every man in the place.
He was driving like a lunatic and it was still raining, and he could see nothing, but would soon be there. All he had to do was to get through the gates, drive the explosive vehicle into the bomb pit, and somehow get out and run like Jesus before the bomb went off.
Panic was destroying him, and his ears roared with the sound of his own breathing. The gates swung up, he was through them, down the ramp, into the bomb pit. Its concrete walls rose on either side of him, shutting out the light. Escape. He tugged at the door handle but it was stuck. The door wouldn't open, he was trapped, the bomb was ticking like a clock, lethal and murderous, and he was trapped. He screamed. Nobody knew he was there. He went on screaming. . . .
He awoke, screaming like a woman, his mouth open, sweat streaming down his face . . . arms caught him. . . .
"Archie."
She was there, holding him. After a little, she drew him gently down onto the pillows. She comforted him like a child, with small sounds. She kissed his eyes. "It's all right. It was a dream. You're here. I'm here. It's all over. You're awake."
His heart banged like a hammer and he streamed with sweat. He lay still in her embrace and gradually his breathing calmed. He reached for a glass of water, but she was there before him, holding it for him to drink, setting the glass back on the table when he had had enough.
When he was quiet, she said, with a ghost of a smile in her voice, "I hope you haven't woken anybody up. They'll think I'm murdering you."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Was it . . . the same?"
"Yes. Always the same. The rain, and the hoods and the bomb and that fucking pit. Why do I have nightmares about something that never happened to me?"
"I don't know, Archie."
"I want them to stop."
"I know."
He turned his head, burying his face in her soft shoulder. "If only they would stop, perhaps then I could make love to you again."
Chapter
1
Monday the Fifteenth
The arrival of the morning post at Croy was a movable feast. Tom Drystone, the postman, driving his scarlet van, covered, during the day, an enormous area. Long, winding single-track roads led up into the glens, to remote sheep farms and distant crofts. Young wives, isolated with small children, would watch for his coming while hanging out lines of washing in the cold, fresh wind. Old people, living on their own, depended on him to deliver their prescriptions, pause for a chat, even sit down and drink a cup of tea with them. In winter-time, he swapped his van for a Land Rover, and only the worst of blizzards prevented him from somehow getting through and delivering the long-awaited letter from Australia, or a new blouse ordered from the Littlewoods catalogue, and when the howling northwest gales damaged telephone lines and power cables, he was very often the only source of communication with the outside world.
Because of this, even if he had been a dour-faced man with no small talk and a sharp tongue on him, Tom's daily appearance would always be welcome. But he was a cheerful fellow, born and bred in Tullochard, and so unfazed by anything that the wild country or the elements could throw at him. As well, when he was not being a postman, he was greatly admired for his ability to play the accordion, and was a kenspeckle figure at local ceilidhs, up on the platform with a glass of beer on the floor beside him, and leading the bank in an endless round of jigs and reels. This catchy music went with him everywhere, because, as he delivered the mail, he whistled.
It was now the middle of August. A Monday. A blowy day with a good deal of cloud. Not hot but, at least, not raining. Isobel Balmerino, tied up in an apron, sat at one end of the kitchen table at Croy and plucked three brace of grouse. They had been shot on Friday and hung in the game larder for three days. They should, perhaps, hang a little longer, but she wanted to be shed of the messy job and have the grouse safely in the deepfreeze before the next lot of Americans arrived.
The kitchen was vast and Victorian, filled with every evidence of her busy life. A dresser was stacked with a set of chipped ironstone dinner-ware, a notice-board was pinned with postcards, addresses, scribbled reminders to ring the plumber. The dogs' baskets lay near the great four-oven Aga, and large bunches of drying flowers hung from hooks in the ceiling, once employed for curing hams. Over the Aga was a drying rack, on a pulley, where sodden tweeds were hoisted after a day on the hill, or ironed linen, still not quite dry, put to air. This was not a wholly satisfactory arrangement because if there were kippers for breakfast, then pillowcases smelt faintly of fish, but as Isobel had no airing cupboard, there was nothing to be done about it.
Once, a long time ago in old Lady Balmerino's day, this pulley had been the source of a long-standing family joke. Mrs. Harris was then resident cook, and a splendid cook but not one troubled by any silly prejudices concerning hygiene. Her habit had been to keep, on the Aga, an enormous black iron stock-pot simmering with bones and the remains of any vegetable she thought fit to scrape off a plate. With this, she made her famous soups. One year a house party stayed fo
r t
he shooting. The weather was appalling, so the rack above the Aga constantly drooped with soaked jackets, knickerbockers, sweaters, and hairy stockings. The soup that fortnight got better and better, more and more tasty. Guests begged for recipes. "How do you do it, Mrs. Harris? The flavour! Quite delicious." But Mrs. Harris simply bridled and smugly said that it was just a wee knack she'd picked up from her mother. The week ended and the house party left, tucking large tips into Mrs. Harris's boiled red hand as they left. When they had gone, the stock-pot was finally emptied for scouring. At the bottom was found a felted and none-too
-
clean shooting stocking.
Four birds plucked and two to go. Feathers floated everywhere. Isobel gathered them cautiously, bundling them into newspaper, stowing the bundles into a black plastic dustbin bag. Spreading fresh newspaper and starting in on number five, she heard whistling.
The back door flew open, and Tom Drystone burst cheerfully in on her. The draught caused a cloud of feathers. Isobel let out a wail, and he hastily shut it behind him.
"I see the laird's keeping you busy." The feathers settled. Isobel sneezed. Tom slapped a pile of mail down on the dresser. "Can you not get young Hamish to give you a hand?"
"He's away. Gone to Argyll for a week with a school friend."
"What kind of day did they have at Croy on Friday?"
"Disappointing, I'm afraid."
"They got forty-three brace over at Glenshandra."
"They were probably all ours, flown over the march fence to call on their friends. Do you want a cup of coffee?"
"No, not today, thanks. I've a full load on board. Council circulars. Well, I'll be off. . . ."
And he was away, whistling before he had even banged the door shut behind him.
Isobel went on tearing feathers out of the grouse. She longed to go and inspect the letters, see if there was anything exciting, but was firm with herself. She would finish the plucking first. Then she would clear away all the feathers. Then she would wash her hands and look at the mail. And then she would embark upon the bloody job of cleaning the birds.
The post-van sped away. She heard footsteps approaching down the passage from the hall. Painful and uneven. Down the few stone steps, one at a time. The door opened and her husband appeared.
"Was that Tom?"
"Didn't you hear the whistle?"
"I'm waiting for that letter from the Forestry Commission."
"I haven't looked yet."
"Why didn't you tell me you were doing those grouse?" Archie sounded more accusing than guilty. "I'd have come to help."
"Perhaps you'd like to clean them for me?"
He made a distasteful face. He could shoot birds, and wring the neck of an injured runner. He could, if pressed, pluck them. But he was squeamish about cutting them open and pulling out their innards. This had always been a small cause of friction between himself and Isobel, and so he swiftly changed the subject. As she had known he would.
"Where is the mail?"
"He put it on the dresser."
He limped over to collect it, brought it back to the other end of the table, well out of reach of the general mess. He sat down and leafed through the envelopes.
"Hell. It's not here. I wish they'd put their skates on. But there's one from Lucilla . . ."
"Oh, good, I hoped there would be. . . ."
". . . and something very large and stiff and thick, which might be a summons from the Queen."
"Verena's writing?"
"Could be."
"That's our invitation."
"And two more, similar, to be forwarded on. One for Lucilla, and another for"-he hesitated-"Pandora."
Isobel's hands were still. Down the long, feather
-
strewn table, their eyes met. "Pandora? They've asked Pandora?"
"Apparently."
"How extraordinary. Verena never told me she was going to ask Pandora."
"No reason why she should."
"We'll have to send it on to her. Open ours and let's see what it looks like."
Mrs. Angus Steynton
At Home
For Katy
Friday, 16th September 1988
.
Dancing 10 p
. M
.
Corriehill
Tullochard
Relkirkshire
Archie did so. "Very impressive." He raised his eyebrows. "Embossed, copperplate, and gold edges. The sixteenth of September. Verena's left it pretty late, hasn't she? I mean, that's scarcely a month away."
"There was a disaster. The printers made a mistake. They printed the first batch of invitations on the wrong side of the paper, and so she sent them all back and they had to be done again."
"How did she know they were printed on the wrong side of the paper?"
"Verena knows about things like that. She's a perfectionist. What does it say?"
"It says, 'Lord and Lady Balmerino. Mrs. Angus Steynton. At Home. For Katy. Blah Blah. Dancing at ten. R
. S. V. P
.' " He held it up. "Impressed?"