Under Gemini (13 page)

“You were in Beirut,” Isobel told him. “And even if you had been here you wouldn't remember very much, because you were only two.”

“I can remember when I was two. I can remember lots of things.”

“Like what?” asked Antony skeptically.

“Like … Christmas trees?” he tried hopefully.

Everybody smiled but nobody laughed at him, Flora noticed. Thus, although he knew that nobody quite believed him, his dignity remained unimpaired.

“Anyway,” he added, “I would
certainly
have remembered Rose.”

So their welcome was not just on account of the fact that Rose was meant to be marrying Antony. The Schusters had apparently made a certain impact on their own account five years ago which was still happily recalled, and that made things easier.

Flora looked at her watch again. Five past eleven now, and she was wide awake. She got out of bed, and went across to the windows and drew the curtains and looked straight out over the garden to the sea.

The rain had stopped and the mist was dissolving. Far away outlines of the distant islands were faintly beginning to take shape.

The tide was out, revealing a small jetty and a steep pebble beach, toward which the garden sloped in a series of grassy terraces. Away to one side she glimpsed the netting of a tennis court. Below her, the leaves of flowering shrubs were scarlet and gold, and a rowan tree hung heavy with the weight of its berries.

Flora withdrew from the window, closed it, and went in search of a bath. That she found to be a coffin-like Victorian structure enclosed in polished mahogany with sides so high that it took considerable effort to get into it at all. The water was boiling hot, very soft, and stained brown with peat. The rest of the bathroom and its accessories were all strictly period. The soap smelt faintly medicinal, the towels were vast and white and very fluffy, and there was a jar on the bathroom shelf labeled “bay rum.” Altogether it was very old-fashioned and immensely luxurious.

Clean and dressed, having made her bed and hung up her clothes, Flora ventured out of her room. She walked to the end of the passage, to where the wide staircase led down to the big hall in a series of flights and landings. She stopped, listening for some sound of domestic activity, but heard nothing. She saw Tuppy's bedroom door, but was afraid of disturbing her in the middle of a nap, or in the midst of a session with her doctor or the brisk and businesslike nurse. She went downstairs and saw the smoldering fire in the huge hearth. She smelt the peat and thought it delicious.

Still there was no sound. Not really knowing her way around the house, Flora finally found the kitchen, where to her relief she saw Mrs. Watty standing at the table and plucking a bird. Mrs. Watty looked up through a drift of feathers.

“Hello, Rose. Have you had a nice wee rest?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Do you want a cup of coffee?”

“No, it's all right. I wondered, where is everybody?”

“Everybody's away on their own business. At least, as far as I know. Nurse is waiting for the doctor to come, and Miss Isobel's away to Tarbole for the errands for the party tonight, and Antony and Jason have gone over to Lochgarry to see if Willie Robertson can do something about patching up the potholes in the drive. Miss Isobel's been on at Antony each time he comes home to do something about those potholes, but you know how it is. There never seems to be enough time. But this morning he agreed and he and Jason went off about an hour ago. They'll be back for lunch.” Mrs. Watty took up a murderous knife and severed the chicken's head from its body. “So it looks as though you've been left to your own devices.”

Flora averted her eyes from the severed head. “Can't I do something to help you? I could lay a table or something. Or peel potatoes.”

Mrs. Watty gave a peal of laughter. “Mercy, that's all done. There's nothing for you to worry your head about. Why don't you go out for a wee walk? The rain's stopped and a bit of fresh air won't do you any harm. You should go down to the Beach House. Have a look at it. See if it's changed after all these years.”

“Yes,” said Flora. It was a good idea. Then she would know about the Beach House and be able to talk about it the way Rose might. “But I can scarcely remember how to get there.”

“Oh, you can't miss it. Just go away round the house and down the path to the sands. Mind, you should take a coat. I wouldn't trust the weather this morning, though the afternoon might be fine and bright.”

Thus bidden, Flora fetched her coat from her room, came downstairs again and let herself out of the front door. The morning was cool and sweet and damp, smelling of dead leaves and peat smoke and, behind it all, the saltiness of the sea. She stood for a moment trying to get her bearings and then turned to the left, crossed the gravel in front of the house and so came to a path which led down between sloping lawns to a grove of rhododendrons.

When she finally emerged from the rhododendrons, she found herself in a newly planted stand of young firs. The path led on, however, through the saplings, until she came out at last by a gate in a drystone wall. Beyond and below this was heather, and then rocks, and then a beach of the whitest sand she had ever seen.

She realized that she had come out onto the southern shore of yet another sea loch. Now, at low tide, only a narrow channel of water split the two white beaches, and on the far side the land sloped up to a pleasant prospect of shallow green hills patchworked in sheepfolds and small fields where the new-cut hay stood in hand-built stooks.

There was a small croft with blue smoke rising from the chimney and a dog at the door, and sheep (as always in this part of the world) dotted over the hillside.

Making her way down to the water's edge, Flora searched for the Beach House. She spotted it almost instantly, unmistakably tucked into the curve of the bay, and backed by a copse of gnarled oak trees.

As she started to walk towards it, she noticed the wooden steps which led up over the rocks from the beach, and the closed and shuttered face of the little house. The walls were painted white, the roof slate-blue, and the doors and shutters green. She went up the steps and saw the flagged terrace where a fiberglass dinghy had been pulled up, and a wooden tub stood filled with the dying remains of the summer's geraniums.

She turned and leaned her back against the door and looked at the view and, like an actress with a new part to play, tried to think herself into the person of Rose. Rose at seventeen. What had she done with herself that summer? How had she spent her time? Had it been fine and hot so that she could sunbathe on the terrace? Had she gone out on the loch at high tide in the little dinghy? Had she swum and collected shells and walked the shining sands?

Or had it bored her stiff? Had she sulked the days away, yearning for New York or Kitzbühel or any of her other hunting grounds? Flora wished she knew and could be more sure about Rose. She wished there had been time to get to know her sister better.

She turned and backed away from the house, gazing at it, trying to learn something from it. But its shuttered façade was like a secret face, telling her nothing. She abandoned it and went back to the beach right down to the edge of the sea, where the glass-clear water lapped the sand, and shells lay for the gathering, smooth and unbroken in the peaceful inlet.

She picked up one and then another, and became so absorbed in this aimless occupation that she lost all sense of time. There was therefore no way of knowing how long she had been there when, quite suddenly, Flora became aware that she was being watched. Looking up from the shells, she saw a car parked by the edge of the narrow road at the head of the loch. It had not been there before. And by it, motionless, his hands in his pockets, stood a man.

They were perhaps a hundred yards apart. But at once, realizing that Flora had seen him, he took his hands out of his pockets, made the short descent down onto the beach, and began to walk across the sands toward her.

Immediately Flora was self-conscious. She and the approaching man were the only two souls in sight (if you discounted a number of greedy sea-birds), and various fantasies flashed through her mind.

Perhaps he was lost and wanted to ask the way. Perhaps he was looking for somewhere to spend next summer's holiday with his wife and family, and Beach House had caught his eye. Perhaps he was a sex maniac out for a walk. Flora wished she had thought to bring a dog with her.

But then she told herself not to be a fool, for even at this distance, his solid respectability proclaimed itself: in his size, which was exceptional, for he was very tall and broad in proportion, wide-shouldered and long-legged; in his purposeful, unhurried stride which covered the distance between them with the easy lope of a man used to walking; in his conventional, country clothes. Perhaps he was a farmer or a neighboring landowner. She imagined a large, drafty house and shooting parties in August.

The time had come to make some sort of acknowledgment rather than just stand there with her hands full of shells, staring at him. Flora tried a faint smile, but got no response. He simply continued to approach, bearing down on her like a tank. He was perhaps between thirty and forty, with a face set in strong lines; his hair, his suit, even his shirt and tie were of no particular color and totally unobtrusive. Only his eyes broke the pattern, being so bright and deep a blue that Flora found herself taken off guard. She had expected many things, but not this chill, this bright glare of antagonism.

He came at last to a halt, not a yard from where she stood, standing braced against the slope of the beach, with his weight on one foot. A wind stirred and blew a strand of hair across Flora's cheek. She pushed it away. He said, “Hello, Rose.”

I'm not Rose.

“Hello,” said Flora.

“Are you reviving happy memories?”

“Yes. I suppose I am.”

“How does it feel to be back?” His voice held the soft cadence of the West Highlands. So he was a local man. And he knew Rose. But who was he?

“It feels nice,” said Flora, wishing that her own voice would sound more sure of itself.

He slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “You know, I never believed that you'd actually come back.”

“That's not a very kindly welcome. Or is it?”

“You were never a fool, Rose. Don't let's pretend that you ever expected anything else from me.”

“Why shouldn't I come?”

He nearly smiled at that, but it did nothing to improve his expression.

“I don't think either you or I need to ask that question.”

Somewhere, deep in the pit of Flora's stomach, small stirrings of annoyance began to make themselves felt. She did not like being so openly disliked.

“Did you walk all the way down the beach, just to tell me that?”

“No. I came to tell you one or two other things. To remind you that you are no longer an artless teenager. You're engaged to Antony. A grownup woman. I simply hope, for your own sake, you've learned to behave like one.”

If she felt intimidated, she was determined not to show it.

“That sounds like a threat,” said Flora as jauntily as she could.

“No. Not a threat. A warning. A friendly warning. And now, I'll bid you good day and leave you to your shells.”

And with that he turned and left her, moving away from her as abruptly as he had come, apparently unhurried, but covering the ground with his long-legged stride and astonishing swiftness.

Flora, rooted to the ground, watched him go. In no time, it seemed, he had reached the rocks, mounted them easily, got into his car, turned it, and driven back onto the road which led to Tarbole.

Still she stood there like one punch-drunk, holding the shells, her mind seething with questions. But out of all this emerged only one possible answer. Rose, at seventeen, had had some sort of an ill-fated affair with that man. Nothing else she could think of could explain such resentment, such ill-concealed dislike.

She dropped the shells abruptly and began to walk, slowly at first and then more quickly, back towards the comfort of Fernrigg. She thought of finding Antony, of telling him, of taking him into her confidence; and then on second thought decided against it.

After all, she was not really involved. She was Flora, not Rose. She was only here at Fernrigg for two days. They would be leaving tomorrow night, and then she would never see any of them again. She would never see that man again. He had known Rose, but that did not mean he was a friend of the Armstrongs. Even if he were an acquaintance, it seemed highly unlikely that Tuppy Armstrong would ever ask such a disagreeable person to her house.

Having come to this conclusion, Flora vowed to put the entire incident out of her mind. But it was hard not to suspect that Rose had, perhaps, not behaved as well as she might.

After that it was something of a relief, as she emerged from the rhododendron grove, to see Antony and Jason walking across the grass toward her, coming to find her. They both wore disreputable jeans and large bulky sweaters. There were holes in the toes of Jason's canvas sneakers, and his shoe laces were undone. When he saw Flora, he started to run to meet her, tripped on the lace, fell flat on his face, got up immediately, and continued running. Flora caught him as he reached her, picked him up, and swung him around.

“We've been looking for you,” he told her. “It's nearly lunchtime, and it's shepherd's pie.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was so late.” She looked up over his head at Antony.

“Good morning,” he said, and unexpectedly, stooped to kiss her. “How are you?”

“Very well.”

“Mrs. Watty told us you'd come out for a walk. Did you find the Beach House?”

“Yes.”

“Everything all right?”

He was not asking about the Beach House, but about Flora, about how she felt, how she was coping with the situation into which he had plunged her. His concern touched her, and because she did not want him to think that anything untoward might have happened, she smiled and told him firmly that everything was perfect.