Authors: Rosamunde Pilcher
"If there's any trouble, let me know."
"I certainly will," Violet promised him, and put down her receiver.
Knowing that the dilemma of Edie's cousin had been dealt with and that Lottie was probably being returned to the Relkirk Royal that very afternoon did more than the slug of Violet's best brandy to restore Virginia's equilibrium.
"When are you taking her?"
"Now," Violet told her. She had already changed her shoes and was buttoning herself into her jacket.
"Supposing Lottie refuses to go?"
"She won't."
"Supposing she has a tantrum in the car and tries to strangle you?"
"I shall have Edie with me, and she will stop her. I know this will be,a great relief to dear Edie. She can't object."
"I'd come with you, only . . ."
"No. I think you must keep well out of the way."
"You'll give me a ring when it's all safely over?"
"Of course."
"Just take care." Virginia put her arms around Violet and kissed her. "And thank you. I love you, and I never get around to telling you."
Violet was touched, but had other things now on her mind. "Dear girl." Absently, she patted Virginia's shoulder, as she laid her plans for dealing with Lottie and Edie. "I'll see you tomorrow at the picnic."
"Of course. And Alexa and Noel will be there too."
Alexa and Noel. More family, more friends arriving. So many people, so many demands, so many decisions, so much to be resolved. I am seventy-eight tomorrow, Violet reminded herself and wondered why she was not sitting peacefully in a wheelchair with a lace cap on her head. She reached for her handbag, found her car keys, opened the front door. Alexa and Noel.
"I know," she told Virginia. "I hadn't forgotten."
She had feared a terrible scene with Lottie, but at the end of the day it was all quite painless. She found Lottie sitting in Edie's armchair watching television and looking as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Violet paused to exchange a few pleasantries with her, but Lottie was far more interested in the fat lady on the screen who was demonstrating how to make a pleated lampshade out of an old piece of wallpaper. Through the kitchen window, Violet spied Edie in her garden, pegging out her daily line of washing. She went to join her and tell her, quietly and out of earshot of her cousin, all that had been decided and all that had been arranged.
Edie, who had been, of late, looking tireder by the day, now looked as though she was about to cry.
She said, "I'm no' wanting to send her away."
"Edie, it's getting too much for all of us. It's always been too much for you, and now she's started persecuting Virginia and spreading the most distressing rumours. You know what I'm talking about."
Of course Edie knew, but between them nothing needed to be spoken.
"I was afraid," Edie admitted.
"She's sick, Edie."
"Have you told her?"
"Not yet." ~
"What will you say?"
"Just that Dr. Martin wants to see her again. To keep her in the Relkirk Royal for a day or two."
"She'll be furious."
"I don't think so."
Edie pegged out the last of her washing, stopped to pick up the empty laundry basket. She did this as though it weighed a ton, as though Edie were hefting all the worries of the world.
She said, "I should have kept an eye on her."
"How could you?"
"I blame myself."
"Nobody could have done more." Violet smiled. "Come. We'll all have a cup of tea, and then I'll tell her what's happening while you put her belongings into a suitcase."
Together they made their way up the long garden and back to the cottage.
"I feel," said Edie, "like a murderer. She's my cousin and I've failed her."
"It's she who's failed you, Edie. You haven't failed her. Just as you've never failed any of us."
By six o'clock in the evening, the whole distasteful episode was over, and Lottie was once more incarcerated in the Relkirk Royal under the care of a kindly Ward Sister, and the incredibly youthful Dr. Martin. Mercifully, she had made no objections when Violet told her what was about to happen, simply announced that she hoped that Dr. Faulkner would take a bit more notice of her, and then raised her voice to remind Edie not to forget to pack her best green cardigan.
She had even come to the door of the hospital, with Ward Sister in attendance, and waved them a cheerful goodbye as Violet drove Edie away down the road between the dismally formal gardens that Lottie had thought so beautiful.
"You mustn't worry about her, Edie."
"I can't help it."
"You have done all you can. Been a saint. You can always visit Lottie. It's not the end."
"She's such a poor soul."
"She needs professional care. And you have more than enough to do. Now you must put it all behind you and enjoy yourself again. It's my picnic tomorrow. No long faces for my birthday."
Edie, for a little, sat silent. And then, "Have you iced your cake?" she asked, and they made plans for the picnic, and by the time Violet dropped her back at her cottage, she knew that they were over the worst.
She drove back to Pennyburn, let herself indoors through the back door and heaved a sigh of relief because she was safely home again. The birthday cake still sat on the table where she had left it. Seventy-eight years old. No wonder she was feeling utterly drained.
The icing had become too hard for Smarties, so it would have to do just the way it was. She put it in a tin, then went into her sitting-room, poured herself a large, strong whisky and soda, sat at her desk, and made the last, but vitally Important, telephone call of the day.
"Templehall School."
"Good evening. This is Mrs. Geordie Aird speaking. I am Henry Aird's grandmother, and I would like to speak to the Headmaster."
"This is the Headmaster's secretary speaking. Can I take a message?"
"No, I'm afraid you can't."
"Well, the Headmaster's busy at the moment. Perhaps I could ask him to ring you?"
"No. I should like to speak to him now. If you would go and find him, and tell him that I am waiting."
The secretary hesitated, and then said reluctantly, "Oh. Very well. But it may take some minutes."
"I shall wait," Violet told her majestically.
She waited. After a long time, she heard, from some distant uncarpeted passageway, the approaching tread of footsteps.
"Headmaster speaking."
"Mr. Henderson?"
"Yes."
"It's Mrs. Geordie Aird, Henry Aird's grandmother. I'm sorry to bother you, but it's important that you give Henry a message from me. Will you do that?"
"What is the message?" He sounded rather impatient, or cross.
"Just tell him that Lottie Carstairs is back in hospital, and no longer living with Edie Findhorn."
"Is that all?" He sounded disbelieving.
"Yes, that's all."
"And it's important?"
"Vitally important. Henry was very worried about Miss Findhorn. He will be most relieved to know that
Lottie Carstairs is no longer living with her. It will be a weight off his mind."
"In that case, I'd better write it down."
"Yes, I think you had better. I shall repeat it." Which she did, raising her voice and enunciating clearly, as though the Headmaster might be stone-deaf. "Lottie Carstairs Is Back In Hospital. And No Longer Living With Edie Findhorn. Have you got that?"
"Loud and clear," said the Headmaster, revealing a thin vein of humour.
"And you'll tell Henry, won't you?"
"I'll go at once and find him."
"You're very kind. I'm sorry I bothered you." She thought about asking for Henry, inquiring as to his well-being, and then decided against it. She didn't want to be labelled as an old fuss-pot. "Goodbye, Mr. Henderson."
"Goodbye, Mrs. Aird."
At the top of the long climb where the roughly bulldozed road crested the summit of Creagan Dubh, Archie halted the Land Rover and the two men climbed down and stood to survey the wondrous view.
They had come, that afternoon, from Croy by way of the track that led through the farmstead and the deer
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fence, alongside the loch, and so up into the wilderness of the hills. Now, the Wester Glen lay far behind and below them, the waters of the loch blue as a jewel. Ahead, the main glen of Creagan plunged down in a succession of corries and spurs to where the purling waters of a narrow burn glittered like a bright thread in the spasmodic sunshine. To the north, ramparts of empty countryside folded away into infinity. The light was fitful, constantly changing, so that distant peaks were shadowed with a blue bloom, and cloud lay upon them like a blanket of smoke.
In the gardens of Croy, it had felt pleasantly warm, with sunlight streaming down through golden trees an
d o
nly a faint breeze to cool the air. But here, so high had they come, that same air blew pure and clear as iced water, and the north-west wind had a cutting edge to it, buffeting across the open moorland with no tree nor any sort of obstruction to stand in its way.
Archie opened the back of the Land Rover and his two dogs, who had been waiting for some time for just this moment, leaped down. He reached in and pulled out two disreputable old weatherproof coats, much dirtied and torn, but with thick woollen linings.
"Here." He tossed one over to Conrad, and then, propping his stick against the rear of the Land Rover, pulled on the other. Its pockets were ripped and there were blood-stains down the front of it, witness to some long-since slaughtered hare or rabbit.
"We'll sit down for a bit. There's a spot a few yards in . . . we can get out of the wind. . . ."
He led the way, stepping off the stony surface of the road and into the high heather, using his stick as a third leg to get him through the thick of it. Conrad followed, observing his host's painful progress but making no offer to assist. After a little, they came to an outcrop of granite, weathered by a million years of exposure, crusted with lichen and jutting like some ancient monolith from its deep bed of heather. Its natural shape provided a place to sit and a not-very-comfortable back rest against which to lean but, settled, they achieved some shelter from the worst of the wind.
The dogs had been ordered to heel, but the younger one was not as disciplined as her mother, and as Archie made himself as comfortable as he could, and reached for his field-glasses, she scented game, bolted off in high excitement and put up a covey of grouse. Eight birds exploded out of the heather only yards from where they sat. Go-Back Go-Back they called, sailing down into the depths of the glen, jinking beneath the skyline, settling far below, disappearing.
Conrad, in amazed delight, watched their flight. But
Archie snarled at the dog, and, drooping with shame, she returned to his side, leaning her head against his shoulder and apologizing profusely. He put his arm around her and drew her close, forgiving her small misdemeanour.
"Did you mark them?" he asked Conrad.
"I think so."
Archie handed over his glasses. "See if you can find them."
With the field-glasses to his eyes, Conrad searched. Distance sprang into detail. In the deep clumps of heather at the foot of the glen, he scanned painfully for the vanished birds, but could see no trace, mark no movement. They had gone. He gave the glasses back to Archie.
"I never imagined I'd see grouse so close."
"After a lifetime, they never fail to amaze me. So wily and brave. They can fly at eighty miles an hour, and use every trick to outwit a man with a gun. They're the most demanding adversaries, which is why they provide such incomparable sport."
"But you shoot them ... ."
"I've shot grouse all my life. And yet, as I grow older, I shoot less frequently and, I must admit, with some reservation. My son Hamish, so far, has shown no qualms, but Lucilla hates the whole business and refuses to come out with me." He sat hunched in his ragged old coat, with his good leg drawn up and his elbow resting on his knee. His worn tweed cap was pulled low over his forehead, shading his eyes against the fitful blasts of sunlight. "She feels very strongly that they are wild birds, and so part of God's creation. By wild, I mean that they are self-perpetuating. It is impossible to rear them as one might rear pheasants, because to put chicks from a hatchery out onto these moors would mean instant and certain death from predators."
"What do they feed on?"
"Heather. Blaeberries. But mostly heather. Because of that, a well-keepered moor is regularly burnt in strips. By law, burning is controlled. It's only allowed during a few weeks in April, and if you haven't burnt by then, it has to be left for another year."
"Why do you burn?"
"To encourage new growth." He pointed with his stick. "You can see the black strips on the Mid Hill where we burnt this year. The longer heather is left to give the birds good protective cover."