Authors: Rosamunde Pilcher
They had made two stops. One at the great house of
Croy, where Virginia had alighted to see whether the Balmerino party had already left. But the door was locked and they obviously had. The second stop was to open and shut the deer gate, and here Alexa had let out the two spaniels, who had run the rest of the way behind the slowly moving car. Noel wished that he had been let out to run with them, but by now it was a little too late to make such a suggestion.
For, it seemed, they were nearly there. Violet peered through the windscreen. "They've lit the fire!" she announced.-
Alexa screwed herself around to look, causing Noel even more discomfort. "How do you know?"
"I can see smoke."
"They must have brought their own kindling," said Edie.
"Probably used burnt leather," said Alexa. "Or rubbed two Boy Scouts together. I hope Lucilla's remembered the boat-house key. You can go fishing, Noel."
"At the moment, all I want to do is get a little feeling back into my legs."
"I'm sorry. Am I frightfully heavy?"
"No, not heavy at all. It's just that my feet have gone numb."
"Perhaps you're getting gangrene."
"Probably."
"It can happen in the wink of an eye, and then it spreads like wildfire, all through your body."
Edie was indignant. "For heaven's sake, Alexa, what a thing to say."
"Oh, he'll survive," Alexa told her airily. "Besides, we're very nearly there."
Which they were. The fiendish track levelled off, there were no more jolts, and the Subaru rolled onto smooth, sloping grass, coming to a halt. Virginia switched off the ignition. At once Noel opened the door, bundled Alexa gently out, and gratefully followed her. Standing, stretching his aching legs, he found himself assaulted by a blast of light, air, brightness, blueness, water, space, scents, wind. It was cold . . . colder than it had been down in the shelter of the valley, but so dazzled was he by all that he saw that he scarcely noticed the chill. As well he was impressed, as he had been impressed by the grandeur and apparent magnificence of Croy. He had not thought that the loch would be so large, so beautiful, and found it hard to come to terms with the fact that this immense tract of countryside, the hills and the moors, all belonged to one man. Everything was on such a huge scale, so lavish, so rich. Looking about him, he saw the boat-house, intricately gabled and windowed, the Land Rover already parked only a few yards away, the roughly constructed barbecue fireplace where smoke already rose into the clear air.
He saw two men down on the pebbly shore, searching for driftwood. He heard a grouse call high on the hill above him, and then, far distant, from some farther glen, the crack of guns.
The others were now all out of the car. Alexa had opened the back door and let out her little dog. Virginia's two spaniels had not yet turned up, but probably would in a moment or two. Violet was already making her way down towards the boat-house, and as she did a girl emerged from its open doors.
"Hello," she called. "You've got here. Happy birthday, Vi!"
Introductions were made all round, and as soon as this small chore was accomplished, everybody set to work, and it. became clear to Noel that there was a well
-
ordered pattern for these traditional occasions. The Subaru was unloaded, the fire built up with sticks and charcoal. Two large folding tables were manhandled from the boat-house and set up nearby, spread with large checkered cloths. Food, plates, salads, glasses were arranged on these. Rugs were spread on beds of leather. The two spaniels, out of breath and with tongues hanging, lolloped over the crest of the hill and headed straight for the water, where they cooled their feet, drank lustily, and then collapsed, exhausted. Edie Findhorn, tied up in a large white apron, unpacked sausages and beefburgers and, when the charcoal began to turn to ash, commenced her cooking. The smoke thickened. Her rosy cheeks grew rosier in the heat, and the wind blew her white hair into an aureole.
One by one, other cars appeared, disgorging yet more guests. The wine was opened, and they stood about with glasses in their hands, or made themselves comfortable on the spread tartan rugs. The sun continued to shine. Then Julian Gloxby, the rector of Strathcroy, appeared over the brow of the hill with his wife and Dermot Honeycombe. Because none of them owned a vehicle tough enough to deal with the road from Croy, they had made the journey on foot, and turned up looking distinctly puffed, despite the fact that they all wore walking boots and carried sticks. Dermot had a rucksack on his back, and from this he produced his contribution to the feast, which proved to be six quail eggs and a bottle of elderberry wine.
Lucilla and Alexa stood at the table and buttered baps, those sweet white bread rolls mandatory for any Scottish picnic. Violet chased wasps away from her cake, and Alexa's dog stole a red-hot sausage and burnt his mouth.
The party was on its way.
Virginia said, "I shall make you a present." She pulled rushes, one by one, from a clump of reeds that grew on the bank.
"What will you make me?" asked Conrad.
"Wait, and watch, and see."
With the picnic consumed, and the coffee drunk, they had walked away from the others, along the length of the dam wall, and then made their way up the eastern shore of the loch where, over the years, the winds and high waters had eroded away the peaty bank and formed a narrow beach of shingly pebbles. No one else had followed them, and save for the two Balnaid spaniels, they were quite alone.
He stood, without impatience, and watched her. From the pocket of her corduroy trousers she took a scrap of sheep wool gleaned from a barbed-wire fence. She twisted this into a thread, and with it tied the rushes together into a bunch. Then she spread them, and started plaiting and folding, the rushes revolving like the spokes of a wheel. In her fingers, a little basket formed, which, finished, was about the size of a teacup.
He was fascinated. "Who taught you to do that?"
"Vi. And she was taught as a child by an old tinker woman. There." She tucked in the last of the rush ends, and held it up for him to admire.
"That's neat."
"Now I shall fill it with moss and flowers, and you will have an arrangement to put on your dressing-table."
She looked about her, spied moss growing on a rock, tore it loose with her finger-nails and crammed it into the little basket. They strolled on, Virginia pausing every now and then to pick a harebell, or a sprig of heather, or a stem of cotton-grass, which were added to her miniature creation. Finally satisfied, she held it out to him. "Here you are. A memento, Conrad. A souvenir of Scotland."
He took it. "That's really neat. Thank you. But I don't need a souvenir, because I'm not ever going to forget. Any of it."
"In that case," she said lightly, "you can throw it away."
"I wouldn't do that."
"So, put it in a tooth-mug of water, then it will neither wither nor die. You can take it back to Americ
a w
ith you. But you'll have to hide it in your sponge-bag, or the customs man will get you for importing germs."
"Perhaps I could dry it, and then it would last for ever."
"Yes, perhaps you could."
They walked on, into the wind. Small brown waves ran up upon the shore, and out on the water, two fishing boats drifted gently, the fishers silent, absorbed, casting their rods. Virginia paused, stooped for a flat stone and chucked it expertly, causing it to bounce half a dozen times before it finally sank and disappeared for ever.
She said, "When are you going?"
"Sorry?"
"When are you going back to the States?"
"I've a flight booked next Thursday."
She searched for another stone. She said, "I'll maybe come with you." She found one, threw it. A failure. It disappeared at once. She straightened, turned to face him. The wind blew her hair across her cheeks. He looked down into her amazing eyes.
He said, "Why should you do that?"
"I just feel a need to get away."
"When did you decide?"
"I've been thinking about it for some months."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"All right. Yesterday. I decided yesterday."
"How much have I got to do with this decision?"
"I don't know. But it's not just you. It's Edmund and Henry as well. Everything. Everything's on top of me. I need time on my own. I need to stand back, and take the long view and get things into perspective."
"Where will you go?"
"To Leesport. To the old house. To Gramps and Grandma."
"Will I be around?"
"If you want to be. I hope you will be."
"I'm not sure if you appreciate the implications."
"Don't I, Conrad?"
"We'll be skating on pretty thin ice."
"We don't need to go out onto the middle of the ice. We can stay around the edge."
"I don't think I'll want to do that."
"I'm not sure about me, either."
"With your husband and your family an ocean away, I won't just feel like shit, but probably start behaving like one."
"That's a risk I'm prepared to take."
"In that case, I'll say no more."
"That's what I want you to say."
"Except that I'm flying Pan Am, eleven o'clock in the morning, out of Heathrow."
"I'll see if I can get on the same plane."
The worst part of growing old, Violet decided, was that happiness, at the most inappropriate of times, eluded one. She should feel happy now, but did not.
Now was the afternoon of her birthday, and to all intents and purposes everything was perfect. No woman could ask for more. She sat, cushioned in heather, high above the loch, and, despite a sinister
-
looking bruise of cloud that gathered in the west, the sun continued to
. S
hine, streaming down from a pristine autumn sky. Far below, but clearly visible, as though viewed through the wrong end of a telescope, the picnic party went about its business; small groups had dispersed to engage in their own activities. The two boats were out on the water. Julian Gloxby and Charles Ferguson-Crombie fished from one of them, Lucilla and her young Australian friend from the other. Dermot had drifted off on his own to search for wild flowers. Virginia and Conrad Tucker had made their way out along the top of the dam wall, and now could be seen walking, side by side, along the narrow shore on the far side of the loch. Edmund's two spaniels accompanied them. From time to time they paused, as though dee
p i
n conversation, or stooped to pick up some small flat pebble and send it skimming and jumping out over the glittering water. The others had chosen to stay where they were, gathered about the remains of the fire, lazing in the sunshine. Edie and Alexa sat together. Mrs. Gloxby, seldom seen off her feet, had brought her knitting and a book and was enjoying a spot of peace.
Small sounds reached Violet's ears. The buffet of the wind, a raised voice, the splash of oars, a bird-call. Every now and then the crack of guns from the far glen was carried towards them, borne on the wind across the summit of Creagan Dubh.
Everything just as it should be, and yet her heart lay heavy. It is because, she told herself, I know too much. I am the recipient of too many confidences. I should like to be ignorant, and so, blissful. I should like to be unaware of the fact that Virginia and Conrad Tucker . . . that personable and attractive American ... are lovers. That Virginia has come to a certain crisis in her life; that, with Henry gone, she is capable of making some disastrous decision. I should like not to know that Edie is still agonizing over poor Lottie.
And at the same time, there were uncertainties that she would prefer resolved. I should like to feel confident that Alexa is not about to have her heart broken, that Henry is not eating his heart out for his mother. I should like to know exactly what is going on in Edmund's unfathomable mind.
Her family. Edmund, Virginia, Alexa, Henry, and Edie. Love and involvement brought joy, but as well could become a hideously heavy millstone slung about one's neck. And the worst was that she felt useless because there was not a mortal thing she could do to help resolve their problems!
She sighed. The sigh was clearly audible, and realizing this, Violet, with some effort, pulled herself together, assumed a cheerful expression, and turned to the man who lay propped on one elbow beside her.
She said the first thing that came into her mind. "I love the colours of the moor because they remind me of the most beautiful tweed. All russets and purple, and larch-green and peat-brown. And I love the beautiful tweeds because they remind me of the moor. How clever people are to be able to emulate nature so perfectly."
"Is that what you've been thinking?"
He was no fool. She shook her head. "No," she admitted. "I was thinking . . . that it's not the same."
"What isn't the same?" asked Noel.
Violet was not certain why he had come with her. She had not invited him to join her on her walk, and he had not suggested that he might accompany her. She had simply started out, up the hill, and he had fallen into step beside her, as though without words they had made some pre-arranged , assignment. And they had climbed together, Violet leading the way up the narrow sheep-track, pausing every now and then to admire the expanding view, to watch the flight of a grouse, to pick a sprig of white heather. Reaching the summit, she had settled herself down for a small breather, and he had made himself comfortable beside her. She was touched that he had chosen to be with her, and a little more of her reserve towards him melted away.