Authors: Rosamunde Pilcher
"You're saying exactly what my wife has been telling me for the past year."
"I am sorry. But with hindsight, I think she is right. And I think that you and I are to blame and that we have both been mistaken. . . ."
They talked a little more, agreed to be in touch in a couple of days, and finally rang off.
He is one of those children. He is not ready for the demands of boarding-school life. We have both been mistaken.
Mistaken. That was the word that hammered home, like a nail driven into a block of wood. Your wife is right, and you are mistaken. It took a bit of time to accept the word, to accept the implications. He sat at his desk, slowly coming to terms with the fact that he had been almost disastrously wrong. It was not an exercise that he was accustomed to, and it took a little time.
But after a bit, he got to his feet. The fire had, he saw, died. He crossed the room and fed it with logs, as he had already done earlier in the evening. When the dry wood had caught and the comforting flames were once more leaping, he left the library and returned to the kitchen.
Here, he found things more or less back to normal. Once more, they were all sitting around the table, Henry on his mother's knee. Edie had made a pot of tea, and cocoa for Henry. Virginia still wore her fur coat. As he came in, they all looked towards him, and he saw Henry's tears had dried and a little colour had come back into his cheeks.
Edmund put a cheerful expression on his face.
"That's done then. . . ." He tousled his son's hair and pulled out a chair. "Is there a cup of tea for me?"
"What have you been doing?" Henry asked.
"Speaking to Mr. Henderson."
"Was he very cross?"
"No, not cross. Just a bit worried."
Henry said, "I'm very sorry."
"Are you going to tell us about it?"
"Yes. I suppose so."
"How did you get home?"
Henry took another mouthful of the steaming, sweet cocoa, and then laid his mug on the table. He said, "I caught a bus."
"But how did you get out of school?"
Henry explained. He made it all sound ridiculously simple. At bedtime, he'd dressed under the bedclothes, and then put his dressing-gown on. And then when the lights went out, he'd pretended he wanted to go to the lavatory. In the bathroom there was a large airing cupboard, and at the back of this he had hidden his overcoat. He'd swapped his dressing-gown for his overcoat and then climbed out of the window onto the fire escape. After that, he'd made his way down the back drive, and so onto the main road where the buses ran.
"But how long did you have to wait for a bus?" Virginia asked him.
"Only a little bit. I knew there was one coming."
"How did you know?"
"I had a bus timetable." He looked at Edie. "I took it out of your bag one day. I kept it."
"I wondered what had happened to my wee timetable."
"I took it. I looked up the bus to Relkirk, and I knew it would come. And it did."
"But didn't anybody ask you what you were doing all on your own?"
"No. I had on my Balaclava helmet and it was my disguise and only my eyes showed. I didn't look like a schoolboy because I didn't wear my school cap."
"How did you pay the fare?" Edmund asked.
"Vi had given me two pounds when she said goodbye to me. I didn't hand it in. I kept it in the inside pocket of my overcoat. I put the timetable there too, so that nobody would find it."
"And then you got to Relkirk?"
"Yes. I got to the bus station. And it was getting dark, and I had to find the other bus, the one that goes past Caple Bridge. There was a Strathcroy bus too, but I didn't want to catch that one in case somebody saw me, somebody who knew me. And it was quite difficult to find that bus because there were lots of buses and I had to read the names on all the fronts of them. But I did find it, but we had to wait for quite a long time before it started."
"Where did you get off that bus?"
"I told you. Caple Bridge. And then I walked."
"You walked from Caple Bridge?" Virginia looked at her small son in wonder. "But, Henry, that's five miles. ..."
"I didn't walk the whole of the way," he admitted. "I know I'm not allowed to get lifts, but I did get one at the very end from a very nice man in a sheep-float. And he took me to Strathcroy. And then . . ." His voice, which had sounded so clear and confident, began to shake again. "And then . . ." His eyes turned to Edie.
Edie took over. "Don't cry, pet. We won't talk about it if you don't want to. . . ."
"I want you to tell them."
So Edie did, in her most practical and down-to-earth fashion, but even this did not assuage the horror of Henry's terrible experience. At mention of Lottie, the colour seeped from Virginia's cheeks, and she drew Henry close and pressed her face to the top of his head and laid her hands across his eyes, as though she could shut out for ever the sight of Lottie Carstairs coming across Edie's bedroom floor to find out who stood beyond the window.
"Oh, Henry." She rocked him like a baby. "I can't bear it. . . . What a thing to happen. What a thing to happen to you."
Edmund, equally shaken, kept his voice calm.
"So what did you do, Henry?"
His father's level tones restored, a little, Henry's courage. He emerged, ruffled, from Virginia's embrace. He said, "I went to Mrs. Ishak. Her shop was still open and she was sweeping the floor. And she was very kind. And Mr. Ishak telephoned the police, and they came with the sirens going and a blue light flashing. We saw it from the shop. And then, when it had gone again, back to Relkiric, Mrs. Ishak put on her coat, and she and me walked here. And she rang the bell because the door was locked, and then the dogs barked, and Edie came." He reached for his cocoa and drained the mug, and then set the empty mug down on the table. He said, "I thought she was murdered! Lottie had put on her lilac cardigan and her mouth was all red, and I thought that she had killed Edie. . . ."
His face crumpled. It was all too much for him. He wept again, and they let him cry, and Edmund did not tell him to be a man but simply sat there, regarding his small and sobbing son with a growing admiration and pride. For Henry, at eight years old, had not only run away from school, but accomplished his flight in certain style. He'd planned the whole operation with undreamt-of courage, good sense, and forethought. He appeared to have been prepared for any contingency, and it was only the disastrous and unfortuitous reappearance of the wretched Lottie Carstairs that had finally defeated him.
Eventually, the tears ceased. Henry had cried himself dry. Edmund gave him his clean linen handkerchief, and Henry sat up and blew his nose. He said, "I think I should like to go to bed now."
"Of course." Virginia smiled down at him. "Do you want a bath first? You must be feeling very cold and dirty."
"Yes, all right."
He got off her knee. He blew his nose again, went to his father to return the handkerchief. Edmund took it, and drew Henry close, and bent to kiss the top of his head.
He said, "There's just one thing you haven't told us." Henry looked up. "Why did you run away?"
Henry thought. And then he said, "I didn't like it. It felt all wrong. Like being ill. Headachy."
"Yes," said Edmund after a bit. "Yes, I see." He hesitated, and then went on. "Look, old boy, why don't you go up with Edie and get into that bath. Mummy and I have got to go to this party, but I'll ring Vi first and tell her you're in great shape, and we'll come up and say good night before you go to sleep."
"All right." Hemy put his hand into Edie's and they made for the door. But he turned back. "You will come, won't you?"
"Promise."
The door closed behind him. Edmund and Virginia were left alone.
With Henry gone, she sat slumped in the hard kitchen chair. There was no longer need to conceal the trauma of shock and strain, and beneath her make-up he saw her face pale and drawn, and her eyes shadowed, no longer bright with the evening's laughter.
She looked drained. He stood up and took her hand and pulled her to her feet. "Come," he said, and he led her out of the kitchen and along the passage to the empty library. The fire that he had rekindled still blazed, and the big, shadowy room was warm. She was grateful for the warmth. She went towards it, sank down on the fireside stool, and spread her hands to the flames. Her long, many-layered skirts flowed about her, and the collar of her fur coat supported her head, her clear-cut profile.
"You look like a particularly well-heeled Cinderella." She glanced up and sent him the ghost of a smile. "Would you like a drink?"
She shook her head. "No. I'm all right."
He went to his desk, switched on the lamp, and dialled the number for Croy. It was Archie who answered his call.
"Archie. Edmund here."
"Is Henry all right?"
"Yes, he's fine. Had a bit of an experience, but don't say anything to Vi. Just tell her that Edie's with him, and he's on his way to bed."
"Are you coming back here?"
Edmund watched his wife, sitting with her back to him, silhouetted against the firelight. He said, "No, I think not. We'll go straight to Corriehill and meet you all there."
"Right. I'll tell everyone. See you later, Edmund."
"Goodbye."
He put down the phone, went back to the fire, and stood, with one foot on the fender and a hand on the mantelpiece, gazing, as his wife gazed, at the flames. But the silence that lay between them was no longer one of enmity, but the peaceful communion of two people who, having together survived a crisis, felt no need for words.
It was Virginia who broke that silence. She said, "I'm sorry."
"What are you sorry about?"
"I'm sorry I said that. In the car. Telling you not to be angry. It was stupid. I should have known that you would never be angry with Henry."
"On the contrary, I feel proud of him. He did very well."
"He must have been so miserable."
"I think he just felt lost. I was wrong. You were right. Colin Henderson said as much. He's not ready, yet, for boarding-school."
"You mustn't blame yourself."
"That's a generous thing to say."
"No, it's not generous. I'm grateful. Because now we can stop arguing and quarrelling and destroying each other. And you had only the best intentions in mind. You thought it would be best for Henry. Everybody makes mistakes, sooner or later. A man who never made a mistake never made anything. It's over now. Let's leave it behind. Just be thankful that nothing dreadful happened to Henry, and that he's safe."
"Lottie happened to him. I should think that experience would be enough to give him nightmares for the rest of his life. . . ."
"But he dealt with it. Very sensibly. He got himself to Mrs. Ishak. Took care of himself, gave the alarm. It's no good brooding about it, Edmund."
He said nothing to this. After a bit, he moved away from the fire and sank down at one end of the grea
t s
ofa, his long legs, in their red-and-white tartan stockings and silver-buckled shoes, stretched out in front of him. The firelight winked on polished buttons and the jewelled hilt of his sporran.
She said, "You must be exhausted."
"Yes. It's been a long day." He rubbed his eyes. "But I think we have to talk."
"We can talk tomorrow."
"No. It has to be now. Before it's too late. I should have told you this evening, when I got back and you started telling me about Lottie. Lottie and her talk, her gossip. I said she was lying but that wasn't strictly true."
"You are going to tell me about Pandora." Virginia's voice was cool, resigned.
"It has to be done."
"You were in love with her."
"Yes."
"I'm frightened of her."
"Why?"
"Because she is so beautiful. Mysterious. Under that flood of chat, you never know what she's thinking. I can't begin to imagine what goes on inside her head. And because she knew you for ever, when I didn't know you, and that makes me feel left out and insecure. Why did she come back to Croy, Edmund? Do you know why she came?"
He shook his head. "No."
"I'm afraid of her still being in love with you. She still wants you."
"No."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Pandora's motives, whatever they are, have no importance. To me, all that matters is you. And Alexa. And Henry. You seem to have lost sight of that basic priority."
"You were married when you loved Pandora. You were married to Caroline. You had a baby. Was that so different?"
It was an accusation, and he accepted it.
"Yes. And I was unfaithful to both of them. But Caroline wasn't like you. If I tried to explain to you why I married her in the first place, I don't suppose you'd understand. It was something to do with the way things were at that time, the swinging sixties, and all of us young, and a certain restless materialism in the air. I was making my way, making money, making my mark on London society. She was part of my ambitions, part of what I wanted. Her parents were immensely wealthy and she was an only child, and I craved the security of being established, and the reflected dazzle of success."