She stood in the kitchen, at the gas stove, boiling a kettle. She made a mug of tea and took it upstairs to the sitting-room. They called it the sitting-room, but indeed it was a drawing-room, formal and spacious, with a huge bay window looking out over the street and the church. Hours could be wasted simply sitting on the window-seat and watching the world go by. Cars coming and going, delivery vans, and grit lorries. Shoppers pausing on the pavement to chat; strings of chattering children, like sparrows, walking to and from school.
The room was furnished, as was all the house, with the bare minimum of furniture. A thick Turkey carpet. A sofa and two chairs. A table against the wall, a glass-fronted bookcase, in which a few old books leaned against each other. No pictures, no ornaments. No clue as to the interests and lives of previous occupants. In a way, Elfrida found this lack of decoration and clutter quite therapeutic. Without pictures, knickknacks, small bits of silver, and sets of decorative porcelain to divert the eye, it was possible to appreciate the lovely proportions of the room, the ornate cornice and the plaster rose in the centre of the ceiling, from which depended a charming Victorian chandelier.
Arriving, unpacking, she had put her modest stamp upon the place. The David Wilkie now hung opposite the fireplace, above the heavy oak table, which Oscar used as a desk. The Staffordshire dogs and her clock occupied the empty marble mantelpiece. From Arthur Snead Fruit and Vegetables she had bought a bunch of chrysanthemums, found a yellow jug, and created a not very ambitious arrangement Her half-done tapestry lay across the seat of a chair. Earlier on, she had lighted the fire. Now, she fed it with coal and logs and then went to the window, to sit and watch for Oscar. But no sooner had she settled herself, with her mug between her hands, than the telephone rang. This was startling because it had scarcely ever rung since they had taken up residence. Elfrida hoped it was not Major Billicliffe. She set the mug down on the floor and went to answer the call. The telephone stood on the first-floor landing, on a small chest, just outside the sitting-room door. She picked up the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Elfrida.”
“Yes.”
“It’s Carrie. Carrie Sutton.”
“Carrie. Where are you?”
“In London. How are you?”
“All right.”
“Jeffrey told me you were in Scotland. Gave me your number. Elfrida, I’ve got something to ask you. It’s a favour. It’s a huge favour.”
“Ask away.”
“It’s about Christmas.”
It was, necessarily, a very long telephone call. Finally they were finished. Elfrida replaced the receiver at the same moment she heard the front door, downstairs, open and close, and knew that Oscar and Horace were home. She leaned over the banister and called.
“Are you safely back?”
“Yes. We’re here.”
She went downstairs. In the hall, he was shedding himself of jacket and hat, hanging them on the bentwood hat stand. Horace had already reached for the kitchen and his drinking bowl and his warm basket.
“You’ve been ages.”
“We went for miles. The other end of the links and back. I’d forgotten it was so far.” He put up a hand and ran it over his hair. He looked, she thought, exhausted.
She said, “A cup of tea?”
“I think I’m ready for something stronger.”
“A Scotch. Go upstairs. There’s a fire. I’ll bring it to you.”
In the kitchen, she poured his drink and put the kettle on again and made herself another mug of tea, because she knew that the first one would by now be cold. Horace was already asleep. She left him and went upstairs with the mug in one hand and the tumbler in the other. She found Oscar standing with a hand on the mantelpiece, gazing down into the fire. He turned his head as she came in and smiled gratefully.
“How good you are….”
He took the drink and lowered himself carefully into one of the armchairs, stretching out his legs before him. Elfrida went to draw the curtains, shutting away the night.
“I didn’t draw them before because I was sitting in the window, watching for you. Doing a Sister Anne.”
“Did you think I was dead?”
“Imagination does terrible things.”
“I was delayed. Outside the Golf Club, I met a man. We talked. He asked me into the club for a cup of tea, and I accepted. Then he went to speak to an old man in a wheelchair, and I asked the waitress who he was. He is called Peter Kennedy, and he is the minister.”
Elfrida waited. Finally, “So, Oscar?”
“I thought of him knowing about what had happened. The crash. Gloria and Francesca both dead. It occurred to me that perhaps Hector had forewarned him. I had thought him simply a friendly chap. But I am afraid he was being kind, sorry for me. I don’t want to be helped. I want to be left alone. So I didn’t stay. I walked away. Came home.”
“Oh, Oscar.”
“I know. Rude and manner less “I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“I hope so. I liked his face.”
“There’s time. Give yourself time.”
He took a deep breath that sounded like a terrible sigh. He said, “I hate myself.”
“Oh, my dear, never do that.”
“Do you reproach me?”
“No. I understand.” She drank some tea, scalding and comforting. She sat facing him in a little wide-lapped Victorian chair upholstered in tartan. The firelight was warm on her shins. She said, “Perhaps this isn’t an opportune moment, but I have to ask you something. I have to tell you something.”
“Not, I hope, that you are about to leave me.”
“No, not that. I have had a telephone call. Jeffrey’s daughter, Carrie Sutton. She has returned from Austria. She wants to come and spend Christmas with us.”
“But we are not having Christmas.”
“Oscar, I told her. A lamb chop for lunch and no tinsel. I told her that that was what you and I had agreed. She understands. It makes no difference to her. She says she’s not interested in Christmas either.”
“Then let her come.”
Elfrida hesitated.
“There is a complication.”
“A man?”
“No. Jeffrey’s grandchild. Carrie’s niece. Lucy. If Carrie comes, then Lucy must come, too.”
There was a very long silence. Oscar’s eyes turned from Elfrida’s face and gazed into the fire. For a moment he looked as old as his uncle had looked that dreadful day when Elfrida had come unexpectedly upon the old man and thought for a frightening instant that he was Oscar. She said, “I told Carrie I would have to ask you. I would have to tell you about the child.”
“How old is she?”
“Fourteen.”
“Why does she have to come?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Elfrida shrugged.
“Some story about her mother going to Florida for Christmas to stay with a friend, and the daughter doesn’t want to go with her. And Dodie, the grandmother, doesn’t want the child. The sort of selfish muddle that is always happening in my family.” Oscar made no comment on this. Elfrida bit her lip. She said, “I can ring Carrie and tell her no. I can tell her that it is too soon. A little girl around the place would be more than painful for you. It could be unbearable. I understand, and I shan’t think any the less of you if you say no.”
He looked at her, his gentle features filled with affection.
“I love your directness, Elfrida.”
“It is the only way.”
“If they come…”
“I’ll say no Christmas.”
“But the child … ?”
“She will be with Carrie. They can do what they want. Go to church. Sing carols, give each other presents.”
“It sounds a little bleak for a youngster.”
“And for you, Oscar?”
“It can make no difference. It can change nothing. You want them here, I think. Then tell them to come.”
“You’re sure? You’re certain?” He nodded.
“You are a dear, kind, brave man.”
“There’s space for them?”
“The attics are empty. Perhaps we could buy a bed, and Lucy shall sleep up there.”
“We’ll need to buy more than a bed.”
“Not very much more.”
“It’s what you want. That’s all that matters. Tell them they’re welcome. Come whenever they want. They will be company for you. I’m afraid I am not very lively company.”
“Oscar, lively company was not the point of us coming here together.”
He drank a bit of his whisky, seemingly deep in thought. Then he said, “Telephone Carrie now. If they take the train or come by aeroplane, we can send a taxi to meet them at Inverness. If they’re driving, warn her about the snow.”
She was filled with gratitude for his generosity of spirit. To have him sitting there mulling over such mundane details made her feel a great deal better. He was being hostly, almost as though it were he who had issued the invitation, and not had it dumped upon him. She finished her tea and pulled herself to her feet.
“I’ll ring her. Right away.” She made for the door, and men turned back.
“Thank you, Oscar.”
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 8TH
I’ve already written down all the wonderful things that happened today, about Carrie coming back, and going out for lunch, and her saying maybe she and I can go away for Christmas somewhere. The cinema was really good, too. Well, now it is ten-thirty and I’m just going to bed. Writing this in my dressing-gown. What happened was I had a bath after supper and washed my hair, and while it was drying went into the kitchen to make a hot chocolate. Then the phone rang, and Mum came to find me and to say it was Carrie wanting to talk to me. I think they‘d already had a chat. I picked up the kitchen telephone and waited till I’d heard the click and knew Mum had put the other phone down so wasn’t going to listen. She does sometimes.
And then Carrie told me. We are going to Scotland for Christmas. Elfrida, Grandpa’s cousin, is staying there with a friend and they both want us to go. It’s a place called Creagan, and they say the house is quite big. It is so exciting, I could burst. Carrie says it’s too far to drive in the middle of winter, so we’re going to fly to Inverness and then a taxi will meet us and drive us the rest of the way. We’re going on December 15th, and she’s already booked seats.
Elfrida’s friend is called Oscar, but Carrie doesn’t know what he’s like because she’s never met him.
I said, had she told Mum and Gran, and she said no. And I said would I tell them, and she said no again, because Gran never much approved of Elfrida and it would be better if Carrie told them herself, so she’s coming over some time tomorrow to break the news and calm Gran down if she starts being difficult. Mum won’t say a word, because all she can think about is Randall and Florida.
I asked Carrie what I should pack, and she said fur coats and snow-shoes, but of course that was just a joke.
I can’t believe I am going to Scotland.
I am already counting the days.
Carrie says it probably won’t be very Christmassy on account of Oscar and Elfrida being so old. But compared with going away with Carrie, Christmas doesn‘t matter a bit, and I never liked Christmas pudding much anyway. She says there is a beach, and the North Sea.
I simply can’t wait.
Now, Saturday morning and Elfrida was the first downstairs. She had dressed in thick corduroy trousers and two sweaters and was glad of these when she opened the back door to let Horace out into the garden. During the night, there had been a deep frost. All was iced and sparkling, and her footsteps left marks on the thick, crunchy grass of the little lawn. It was not yet light, and she and the dog emerged into the glow of a street lamp which lighted the stepped lane that led up the hill. Horace hated the cold, so she stayed with him, waiting while he nosed to and fro, shot up to the top of the garden where he smelt a rabbit, and took much time in finding exactly the right spot to do his wees. Standing freezing cold and trying to be patient, she looked up at the sky, and saw it turning sapphire-blue and quite clear. In the east, over the sea, the glow of dawn was a streak of pink, although the sun had yet to edge its way over the horizon. It was, she decided, going to be a fine day, and was grateful. They had had enough of grey skies, howling winds, and rain.
Finally Horace was done, and they scurried indoors, to the warmth, and Elfrida slammed shut the door behind her. Then she put the kettle on, found the frying-pan and the bacon. She laid the table with a checked cloth, and cups and saucers. She cracked two eggs. Oscar enjoyed a cooked breakfast, and although Elfrida did not eat it with him, she relished the smell of bacon frying.
Cautiously, she made toast. Making toast in this old-fashioned kitchen was something of a hazard, because the toaster was elderly and past its best, and behaved accordingly. Sometimes it popped up two quite reasonable, nicely browned slices. Other times, it regurgitated two uncooked slices of bread. But if in a bad temper, it forgot to turn itself off, with the result that the kitchen was filled with dark smoke, and the blackened crusts on offer were so disgusting that not even the seagulls would eat them.
Every now and then Elfrida told herself that they should buy a new toaster. There was a small shop in the High Street, William G. Croft Electrical Goods, its windows filled with microwaves, hair dryers, steam irons, and waffle makers, along with a number of other gadgets that Elfrida could happily live without. But a toaster was essential. One day she had gone into William G. Croft’s to price the cheapest, but quailed at the expense, and departed without having made a purchase.
It was all a bit difficult, because without the little income engendered by her home industry of stitching cushions, she found herself chronically short of money, and Mondays, when she could go to the post office and collect her old age pension, couldn’t come around quickly enough. She supposed that the sensible thing to do would be to find a tenant for Poulton’s Row, and rent this out on a quarterly basis, thus ensuring a small trickle of cash, but the logistics of achieving this, organizing from Sutherland a let in Hampshire, were too much, and so the tentative idea was abandoned. As for Oscar, she had no idea whether or not he was in the same dilemma and was not about to ask. Probably he had a little bit put by, a stock or a share, but she knew that it was Gloria who had footed the bills for the day-to-day expenses incurred by the lush and generous lifestyle of the Grange.