The strong, long beams danced with falling snowflakes.
He felt adventurous.
Creagan, here I come.
There was, oddly enough, quite a lot of traffic on the road. Heavy transport driving north, churning along through the snow with windscreen wipers going full-tilt. Huge lorries stacked with timber; oil tankers and cattle floats. Cars returning home from work at the end of the day; a tractor, its warning light blinking like a star. Sam got stuck behind this for half a mile or more, and then it turned into a farmyard and he was able to pick up a bit of speed again.
The snowfall abruptly ceased. The shower blown away. There showed a scrap of clear sky, the curve of a crescent moon. He crossed a long bridge over a firth, and a couple of miles after that, his headlights touched the In road sign.
TOURIST ROUTE CREAGAN. 2 MILES.
He took the turning, and the single-track road alongside the shores of the sea loch. It was half-tide, and I saw the black gleam of water, and the mud-flats were wh with snow, and the impression was surreal, dreamlike. Farl away, a prick of light showed from a small house on the farther shore. After a bit, the road swung right, and he topped a hill of conifers, and then there was open country beyond, and in the distance the lights of a little town.
The sky darkened and it snowed again. He came into the town by way of a tree-lined road, and in the light of street lamps saw the church and the square and the old walled graveyard. He thought of Christmas cards. All that was missing was a crinolined lady carrying festive packages. He drove very slowly around the church, trying to get his bearings, wondering which was the empty, untenanted house that belonged to Hughie McLennan. Having accomplished a complete circuit without any satisfaction, he decided to ask for directions and drew in at the pavement edge. A couple were walking towards him arm in arm, clutching a number of carrier-bags and baskets. He rolled down the window.
“Excuse me.”
They stopped.
“Yes?” the man asked obligingly.
“I’m looking for the Estate House….”
“You’re there.” The man, amused, grinned.
“You’re here.” He jerked his head, indicating the house behind him.
“Oh. I see. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” They set off on their way.
“Good night,” Sam called.
“Cheerio.”
They had gone, and he sat, still in his car, and stared at the house, which he had noticed but passed by, because he knew it could not possibly be Hughie’s house. Hughie had said his house was empty, untenanted. He had said so. And this house had windows which, behind carefully drawn curtains, were filled with light. It was occupied, lived in?
Sam told himself that he should simply drive on. Leave it. A busted duck. But he did not like mysteries, and knew that this one would niggle at him unless he found out what was on. He reached into the cubbyhole for the key, turned off his lights, and climbed down from the Discovery into the falling snow. He crossed the pavement and opened the heavy wrought-iron gate and walked up to the front door. There was a bell, and when he pressed it, he heard a buzzing from somewhere inside the house.
He waited for a bit, with snow seeping down the back of his collar, and then pressed it again. All at once an outside light came on, and he stood there as though caught in a searchlight. Then there were footsteps, and the door was opened.
He was not quite sure who or what he had expected. An elderly pinafored lady, perhaps? Or a man in a V-necked pullover and bedroom slippers, resentful because some caller was disturbing his favourite television programme? What he didn’t expect was a tall, dark girl in jeans and a thick pullover. A sensationally good-looking girl, one who would have turned heads on Fifth Avenue.
They stared at each other. Then she said, without much enthusiasm, “Yes?”
“I’m sorry. But is this the Estate House?”
“Yes.”
“Hughie McLennan’s Estate House?”
“No. Oscar Blundell’s Estate House.”
Spotlighted, drowned in snowflakes, wet and cold, Sam held up the big labelled key. He said, “Perhaps I have made a mistake.”
She stared at the key. Then she stepped back, opening the door.
“I think,” she said, “you had better come in.”
That morning, the doctor, as he had promised, had popped into the Estate House, his face red with cold and his thick Harris tweed overcoat damp with freshly fallen snow and smelling of peat. He brought the bird book for Lucy, delivered it to her, and then was upstairs, two at a time-a man with not a moment to waste-to check on the invalid. Carrie told him, from her pillows, that she was much better, had had a good night’s sleep and felt a different person. But, with native caution, he suggested that she stay in bed for another day. Carrie knew that if she refused it would mean an argument with Elfrida, so she gave, gracefully, in.
When the doctor had gone, in as abrupt a manner as he had arrived, Elfrida came upstairs and put her head around the door.
“What did he say?”
“I’m all right, but I have to stay here for another day. I’m sorry.”
“Why sorry?”
“Such a nuisance.”
“Don’t be so silly. Not a nuisance. Do you want a hot-water bottle?”
“No. Warm as toast.”
“Rather a shame, you’ll miss our little party tonight. With the Kennedy family. But you can meet them another time. I’m rather excited about it. Too stupid, but you know this is the first time Oscar and I have been out anywhere. We did have lunch in the pub one day, but that’s the sum of it.”
“I shall stay here and oversee your supper.”
“It doesn’t need much overseeing. I made a kedgeree which I shall put in the oven. And if we don’t eat it tonight we can eat it tomorrow for lunch. Kedgeree is an accommodating dish.”
“Elfrida, you’ve been reading too many cookbooks.”
Heaven forbid.”
The day progressed, and through her window Carrie the weather and was glad she did not have to be out. Snow showers came and went; the sky was grey. From to time she heard the faint keening of wind, whining around the old house. It was all rather cosy. She remembered as a child being ill and in bed, and the awareness of others getting on with the business of day-to-day life without her, left having to participate in any sort of way. Telephones rang, and someone else hurried to answer the call. Footsteps came and went; from behind the closed door, voices called and answered. Doors opened and shut. She heard Oscar stumping upstairs and down again, and knew that he was filling fireside baskets with logs. Towards noon, there came smells of cooking. Onions frying, or perhaps a pot of soup on the boil. The luxuries of self-indulgence, idleness, and total irresponsibility were all things that Carrie had long forgotten. Lucy was a frequent visitor.
“Carrie, do look. Isn’t Dr. Sinclair kind? He’s lent me his bird book, so that I’ll know the names next time I’m on the beach.”
“How thoughtful of him.”
“I wouldn’t mind having a doctor like him in London. Ours is dreadfully unfriendly, and we have to wait for ages.” She put the book aside.
“Carrie, I don’t know what to wear tonight. For this dance thing.” At the moment she was obviously more preoccupied with what was going to happen this evening than with the names of seabirds.
“What are the choices?”
“Well, I’ve got my new jeans, but they might be a bit hot for dancing around. I’ve got my old ones and they’re clean and Elfrida ironed them for me. Or do you think I should wear my new miniskirt and the black tights?”
“Did Rory say anything about what to wear?”
“He said jeans and trainers.”
“Then wear jeans and trainers. Your old clean ones and that red-and-white-striped cotton sweater. I love you in that. It’s so French. And it’s always better to be under dressed rather than overdressed. I’d keep your miniskirt fall Christmas.”
“Christmas. It’s so queer. I haven’t thought much about Christmas and it’s only six days away, and nobody seems all the least bit worried, or preparing. By this stage, Gran usually gets a migraine, she says there’s so much to see to.”
“Well, Oscar’s ordered a tree, and you’ve bought the decorations.”
“I know, but I must go and get some presents. For him and Elfrida. I don’t know what to get. And there’s other things. Food. Do you think we’re even going to have a Christmas dinner?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but I think, yes. Probably. It’s just that Elfrida’s always been very laid-back. It’ll all be accomplished at the very last moment.”
“What about stockings?”
“I think we’ll probably give stockings a miss. Would you mind? It’s not as though you still believed in Father Christmas, and coming down the chimney, and all that.”
“No, of course I don’t. And anyway, I think stockings are a bit silly. Except the tangerine and the bag of golden chocolate pennies.”
“I’ll hang those on the tree for you.”
“Will you, Carrie? You know, it’s rather nice, isn’t it, having a different Christmas. Not knowing what it’s going to be like.”
“I hope it will be fun for you … with three old grownups.”
“I shall be grown up, too. That’s what’s so special.”
Oscar, Elfrida, and Lucy finally departed at a quarter to six, for the little party at the Manse. The snow showers had not stopped all day, and by now the roads were thick with the stuff and quite hazardous.
As neither Oscar nor Elfrida relished the prospect of driving up to the Manse by way of the road, fearful of skids or drifts, they decided to walk up the hill by way of the lane. All hugely muffled, hatted, and booted, they came, one by, to say goodbye, and Carrie told them to have a wonderful time and she would hear all about it when they returned. “I don’t suppose we’ll have an awful lot to tell,” Elfrida “unless they’ve asked other guests, and one of them gets drunk.”
“You can always hope.”
Lucy was the last. Carrie thought she looked extremely pretty, with her bright eyes and her excited smile. She wore her new red padded jacket and her boots and her big woollen hat, and had her little haversack slung over her shoulder.
“What’s in your haversack?”
“My trainers and a comb. And a bar of chocolate.”
“You’ll have such fun.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be home.”
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Rory will probably deliver you. If you want, you can ask him in. For a beer or something. Whatever you want. Someone will be around.”
“Can I really? Well…” She debated this.
“I’ll see.”
“You do that. Now, off you go.”
“Bye, Carrie.”
“Goodbye, darling.” They hugged and Lucy kissed her.
“Have a great time.”
They went at last, and Carrie heard the back door slam behind them. She waited five minutes or so, just in case something had been forgotten and they all trooped back again, but this didn’t happen, so she got out of bed and ran a wonderful scalding bath, soaked for ages, then put on jeans and her thickest sweater, did her hair, splashed on some scent, and at once felt a great deal better. I am recovered, she told her reflection in the mirror.
She went out of her room and downstairs to check on the kedgeree and Horace. Both seemed in good health, although Horace was very quiet, and suffering from his bruises. To make up for his injuries he was being fed like a prince, on lambs’ hearts and gravy, and was not required to venture forth farther than just outside the back door.
Carrie stopped to fondle his head.
“Do you want to come upstairs by the fire?” she asked him, but Horace did not. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep again, warm in his basket and with his tartan rug.
She found a bottle of wine, poured herself a glass, and went back to the sitting-room. Here, the curtains were drawn, the fire blazing, and a single lamp left burning by one of the fireside chairs. She put another log on the pyre and settled down with Oscar’s morning newspaper.
Outside, in the street, a few cars swished slowly to and fro, but the snow deadened all sound, and most people by now were safely at home. She was in the middle of a feature article about a well-known, if elderly actress who had done a television series in London; it had become enormously popular and she had found herself basking in global fame. Carrie had just got to the Hollywood bit when, causing her almost to jump out of her skin, the fearsome buzz of the doorbell drilled through the house.
Under normal circumstances, this would have been followed up by Horace’s manic barking. But he had not forgotten yesterday’s salutary experience with the Rottweiler, and this did not happen.
Carrie said, “Damn.” She lowered the paper and waited. Perhaps it was some person whose car had broken down and now wanted to borrow a telephone. Or a local tradesman delivering a bill or a Christmas card. Or three small children in a row, all set to sing “Away in a Manger.”
Perhaps, if she did nothing, they would all go away.
The bell shrilled again. No use, she’d have to go. In some exasperation she tossed the paper down, sprang to her feet, and ran downstairs, turning on switches as she went, so that the hall was a blaze of light. The big door was unlocked, and she flung it open to the snow and the cold and the solitary man who stood there, with the beam of the outside light streaming down upon him. He had dark, very short hair, and wore a thick navyblue overcoat, the collar turned up around his ears. His hair, his coat, his ears were all liberally sprinkled in snowflakes, as though somebody had dusted him with icing sugar, like a cake.
She glanced over his shoulder and saw the large and prestigious vehicle parked in the road. So this was neither a man seeking help nor a tradesman nor a carol singer.
She said, “Yes?”
“I’m sorry. But is this the Estate House?”
His voice was pleasant, his accent… more of an intonation than an accent… was familiar. American?
“Yes.”
“Hughie McLennan’s Estate House?”
Carrie frowned. She had never heard of anyone called Hughie McLennan.
“No. Oscar Blundell’s Estate House.”
It was his rum to hesitate. And then he held up in his gloved hand a large key, with a label knotted to it with string. On the label was written, in large black capitals with a waterproof pen, estate house. As unsubtle as a clue in an old-fashioned mystery film. But how had he … ? He said, “Perhaps I have made a mistake.”