Jessie took charge.
“Come and sit down and get comfortable. Take your coat off, or you’ll not feel the benefit when you go out again. Would you like a scone? And do you prefer Indian or China tea?”
Oscar said, “I’m sorry, but who is that?”
“Charlie Beith? He’s a real character, over ninety, though you’d never know it. Used to farm out at Toshlands, years ago. His grandson’s running the place now. He was doing fine till a couple of years ago, when he had a stroke. He lives in the old people’s home, and Mr. Kennedy’s a regular visitor. One of his daughters brought him up here this evening, just for a bit of a change and some cheerful company. He’s as bright as a button up top.”
“In fact,” Oscar hesitated, “I didn’t mean the old man. I meant Peter Kennedy. I’ve only just met him in the car-park. He knew my uncle. But I don’t know …”
“You mean you don’t know what he does or who he is? You must be the only soul in Creagan who doesn’t. He’s our minister. The minister of the church.”
The minister. The vicar. The rector. Whatever. The man whose job it was to comfort not only the physically, but the emotionally crippled as well. Peter Kennedy’s spontaneous friendliness had seemed genuine, but this new knowledge rendered it depressingly suspect. Did he already know why Oscar had returned to Creagan? Had he been told about the ghastly deaths of Oscar’s wife and child? And if so, who … ?
But I did have the pleasure of a good friendship with Hector.
Had Hector, with only the best of intentions, been in touch with Peter Kennedy? Explained the situation? Suggested, perhaps, a pastoral visit? Comforting chats; counselling; a gentle urging back to a church in which Oscar no longer believed?
Jessie said, “Are you all right?”
He looked into her concerned and motherly face and realized that his own was suffused with heat, his forehead wet with sweat. A heat kindled not by the warm room and his layers of outdoor clothes but an inner turmoil that was frighteningly akin to panic. He knew that he could not stay there, or he would suffocate.
With a huge effort, he made himself speak.
“I am sorry. It’s very warm. I’ve just remembered …” His voice sounded unreal, like a voice from another room.
“I promised. I must get home. A telephone call…”
“But what about your tea?”
“I’m afraid I can’t….” Backing off, he tried to apologize again.
“I’m sorry. Please explain to Mr. Kennedy. Another time…”
He turned away from her, and carefully, slowly, made for the door. The plate glass was heavy to open, and swung shut behind him. He crossed the foyer and opened the second set of doors, and stepped out into the bitter air. The cold wind was an assault, and he stopped to steady himself, to let the icy air fill his lungs. He could feel the sweat chilling on his brow and pulled on his old tweed hat. He was all right. He was surviving. All he had to do was get himself home. To be safe. Alone with Elfrida. He went down the steps and crossed over to the car-park and retrieved Horace from Peter Kennedy’s car. Then he was on his way, walking at a tremendous pace, dragging the dog behind him. Escaping.
In Dibton, the Women’s Institute was great on mystery tours. These usually took place on a Saturday afternoon, and entailed the ladies’ being piled into a bus and whirled off to some unknown destination. Quite often, this was a Stately Home, with gardens to be viewed, and a gift shop where they could buy flowered tea-towels, bookmarks, and packets of home-made fudge. After the shopping, tea would be partaken at some local hotel. A proper tea, with fish and chips. Then they would all pile into the bus once more, and be driven home.
These outings were very popular.
Spirited away so abruptly, by circumstances outside her control, to the north of Scotland, to “Creagan and the Estate House was, Elfrida decided, the mystery tour of all time. From the moment she and Oscar departed from Dibton, she had no idea of what lay in store for her, and there never came an appropriate moment to ask. So precipitant had been their departure, so swift the packing process, and so brief the time for goodbyes, that nit-picking details of their destination lost all importance. They just had to get away.
There were, of course, essential arrangements to be made. Oscar’s car had to be serviced, checked, and filled with petrol. He saw to that. His stepsons, Giles and Crawford, were informed of his imminent departure, and his bank manager alerted as to his change of address. As for Elfrida, she handed the key of Poulton’s Row over to her neighbour, with as few explanations as possible, and asked her, as well, to keep an eye on the poor little Ford Fiesta, abandoned on the pavement outside her cottage.
“When will you be back, Mrs. Phipps?”
“I’ve truly no idea. But I’ll keep in touch. Here’s the car key as well. Use it if you want, it’ll do it good.” Rather as though it were an old dog, needing daily exercise.
“I’ve turned the water off at the mains, and locked all the windows.”
“But where are you going?”
“I think, to Scotland.”
Then Oscar had to get in touch with Hector McLennan and put him in the picture, while Elfrida telephoned her cousin Jeffrey in Cornwall and tried to explain to him the circumstances of what she was about to do. She did not make a very good job of this, and it took him some time to get the hang of the situation. When he finally did, however, he only said “Good luck,” and once she had given him the address and the telephone number of Oscar’s house, he let her go and rang off.
Without any clear idea of what sort of clothes she would need, she packed a suitcase with an assortment of garments (warm) and shoes (stout). Then, an ancient, squashy, zipped bag, for her most precious things, the possessions that had always travelled everywhere with her. The silk shawl, wrapped around the little painting by Sir David Wilkie. The Staffordshire dogs; her clock; her current piece of tapestry. On top went a few photographs in silver frames, and half a dozen books. That was all. Oscar’s luggage was scarcely more bulky. A leather hold-all, packed by Mrs. Muswell, a bulging briefcase, and his fishing gear.
“Do you intend to go fishing, Oscar?”
“No idea. But I can’t travel to Scotland without my rod. It would be almost sacrilegious.”
There was space for all this in the back of Oscar’s Volvo, and still room for Horace, his blanket, biscuits, and water bowl. Horace, like Elfrida, had no idea what was in store for him, but leaped happily into the car and made himself comfortable, clearly deeply relieved that he was not going to be left behind. He did not trust suitcases standing about the place.
“We are travelling light,” Elfrida observed to Oscar, but he was too anxious and distracted to make any comment on her remark. Instead, he turned away to give last-minute instructions to his loyal Mrs. Muswell, who had stood by him all through the dark days, and now stood on the doorstep, clearly much distressed, as though at any moment she might burst into tears.
“Mrs. Muswell.”
“Send me a postcard,” she told him bravely, but her voice was not steady.
“Of course. Goodbye. And thank you for everything.” And he gave her a quick peck on the cheek, which caused Mrs. Muswell to go to pieces. As they drove away from the Grange, Elfrida saw through the back window the gallant pinafored figure blowing her nose and wiping her eyes with a handy handkerchief.
“What will become of her?” Elfrida asked, feeling like a traitor.
“Giles has promised he’ll see her right. She should have no difficulty in finding a job. She’s a marvelous woman.”
After that they stopped talking. Elfrida drove most of the way, only letting Oscar take over when she became dangerously weary. tiredness can kill roadside signs shouted at the cars and lorries which streamed north on the Al. take a break. And she would draw the car to the side of the road at the next lay-by or motorway halt, and change seats with him.
During the first day he scarcely spoke at all, and she let him be silent and did not even suggest that they listen to Classic FM on the car radio. From time to time they stopped to give Horace a run, stretch their own legs, have something to eat, or a cup of tea. The weather was cold and bleak and darkness fell early, and after that, driving became even more stressful. Because of this, they left the motorway and drove to a small Northumberland town that Oscar remembered. And there, in the main square, found an old coaching inn that he remembered as well, and it didn’t seem to be too modernized or changed. Better still, the management were kindly about Horace, and allowed him in, provided he and his blanket stayed upstairs.
On the second morning, as soon as the shops were open, Elfrida walked out into the little town, found a small supermarket, and bought provisions for their eventual arrival. A can of soup, bread, butter, bacon and eggs. A packet of coffee, a carton of milk. The man in the shop packed all this into a grocery box for her, and then she spied a bottle of whisky (medicinal?) and bought that, too.
The second day’s driving was a bit better. Horrible weather, but at least Oscar was more communicative. He eyed the passing fields and farms, pointed out landmarks, gazed warily at the sky, and made his own gloomy forecasts. But yet it was not the time for chatter, for the stream of questions to which she ached to know the answer. What will it be like, Oscar? How big is the Estate House? Will anybody have left it warm, and will there be any hot water? Will it be clean, and will there be sheets? Will people be friendly to us, and will they know you? Or will they shun us?
It was all unimaginable. But, she told herself, grinding in second gear up the slippery slope of Soutra, with the windscreen wipers going full-tilt, and all the world drowned in the whiteness of a sudden sleet storm, this is an adventure.
As a young woman, an actress, she had travelled the length and breadth of Britain with touring companies, without ever knowing what awaited her at the end of the journey. Her memories of those days were a blur of provincial towns, musty theatres, and theatrical lodgings that smelt of boiled cabbage. But she had been young, doing a job she loved, and had been very happy. Each rattling train journey was a challenge, each grimy theatre, a new discovery. A little of that old excitement warmed her now, and she had to remind herself that she was no longer that young and ardent girl, but an elderly lady of sixty-two. At least, I am not lonely. Not bored. Nor dead.
The encounter with Major Billicliffe had been the final hurdle. With that accomplished and the key safely in Oscar’s pocket, the hard grind of the two-day journey was behind them, and the last few miles were easy, almost carefree. Oscar drove. It was cold, but the snow had ceased, and the dark road ran downhill towards the sea, between dense stands of conifers. Elfrida opened her window and heard the soughing of wind in their branches, and smelt pine and a sturdy whiff of salty air. Then the trees fell away, and all about them were duney hillocks and stunted pines, and ahead could be seen a straight silvery line that was the sea. Far away, across the water, a lighthouse blinked, a pinprick in the darkness. Then ahead, the glow of street lights, and houses with windows lighted behind drawn curtains. A street of stone houses, like a terrace, but each house a different shape and height from its neighbour. She saw the church looming, the lighted clock like a round lantern, high in its tower. The hands stood at seven o’clock. Now larger, handsome houses, set back behind tall stone walls. Creagan. It seemed deserted. No one trod the streets; no cars. No sound, not even the cry of gulls. Another turning, another street. Oscar drew up at the pavement’s edge. He turned off the engine. For a moment he was still. Elfrida waited. Then he laid his hand over hers.
He said, “Dear girl. We’re here.”
The Estate House. So Elfrida saw it for the first time, by the light of street lamps. Square and solid, set back from the road behind a wroughtiron railing and a forecourt of sea-pebbles. The face of the house was a child’s drawing, with a door and five windows. Above these, set in the slope of the slated roof, two dormers jutted. They got out of the car, and Elfrida set Horace free. He had not forgotten the growls and howls of Major Billicliffe’s hound, and was, sensibly, wary. But finally reassured, he leaped down into the road, and began tentatively to sniff for unfamiliar smells.
Oscar unlatched the gate and went up the path. Elfrida and Horace followed him. With the key he opened the door. It swung inward and he felt for a light switch and found one, and turned it on.
They entered, and Elfrida instantly felt the warmth and smelt the cleanliness of a place newly scrubbed and polished. Ahead, a staircase rose to a half-landing and an uncurtained stair window. On either side, doors stood closed, but at the end of the hall a third door was open. Oscar went down the hall and through this and turned on another light.
Elfrida closed the front door behind her, sealing away the chill of the winter evening. She followed Oscar and found him in a kitchen where stood an oldfashioned painted dresser and a wooden table. Beneath the window was a clay sink, and at its side a capacious gas cooker, dating back, perhaps, forty years or more.
Oscar said, “Hardly all-singing, all-dancing.” He sounded a bit apologetic.
“It’s fine,” Elfrida assured him, and meant it.
“Someone has left us a letter.” It lay in the middle of the table, a sheet of lined paper, weighted down with a jam jar. Oscar removed this, handed the letter to Elfrida, and she read it aloud.
“I have turned on boiler (oil). You will need to order more oil. Beds made up in 2 rooms. Bath-water hot. Coal and wood in shed. Some of the windows won’t open. Milk in fridge (scullery). Will pop in tomorrow to see you are all right.
“Yours J. Snead (Mrs.)”
Oscar said, “Mrs. Snead?”
“Yes.”
“Elfrida, are you about to cry?”
“I might be.”
“Why?”
“Relief.”
That had all happened three weeks ago. It was December now, a Friday, and five o’clock on a dark midwinter afternoon. Oscar, who had set out after lunch with Horace at his heels, had still not returned. Elfrida blotted out images of him dead of a heart attack, his body prone at the foot of a sand dune. He was simply taking his time. Hopefully enjoying his first real expedition into the country, feeling better for the exercise, and filling his lungs with restoring fresh air. The decision to go had been his alone, and she had been careful not to appear too enthusiastic, fearful of giving him the impression that she longed to be rid of him.