“It can’t be as bad as that.”
“Sam, it is.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think there’s very much you can do about it.”
“I shall buy her a splendid Christmas present. What do you think she would like?”
Carrie was amused.
“Have you still not done your shopping?”
“You must admit, I’ve scarcely had time. I shall go to Kingsferry tomorrow morning and get the lot.”
“Tomorrow? It’ll be a nightmare. Crowds on the pavements, queues in the shops.”
“In Kingsferry? I think not. Besides, I’m accustomed to buying presents in Regent Street; or Fifth Avenue on Christmas Eve. I rather enjoy the buzz and the din.
“I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus’ blaring out over the Tannoy. As well, there’s not time for dithering.”
Carrie laughed.
“It’s my idea of a bad dream, but I see your point. And after all your years of experience, Kingsferry High Street will not seem in the least alarming. You will shoulder your way, bravely, through the throng.”
“You still haven’t told me what to get for Lucy.”
Carrie considered this.
“How about little gold studs for her ears? Something pretty but not too over-the-top. For when she wants to take her sleepers out.”
“Rory gave her the sleepers. I don’t suppose she’ll ever want to take them out.”
“Still. Nice to know you’ve got another pair.”
“I’ll see.”
He fell silent. The silence lay between them, and felt comfortable. Outside, in the street, a car passed by, and somewhere a herring-gull was screaming its heart out from a windy chimney-pot. Sam reached for one of the packets of peanuts and opened it with great neatness and dexterity, shook a few out into the palm of his hand and offered them to Carrie.
She said, “I don’t really like peanuts.”
He ate a couple and tossed the packet back onto the table. He said, “I sympathize with Lucy. I decided the other morning that life at the Estate House is a bit like being on a cruise, with just a few other passengers … marvellously removed from all the stresses and strains of everyday life. I have a sinister feeling I could happily jog along, in low gear, for weeks. Achieving nothing.”
“I suppose, if you think about it, it’s all been a bit of a waste of time for you.”
He frowned.
“A waste of time?”
“Well, the whole point of your coming to Creagan was to inspect Hughie McLennan’s house. Perhaps to buy it. And that all fell through. A busted flush. So now you’re going to have to go and find some other place to live.”
“That is the least of my problems.”
“I’m not on anybody’s side. Half of me relishes the idea of Mr. Howard, the director of the mill, living at the Estate House, a suitably dignified environment for an important man. On the other hand, at the moment, it seems to be Oscar’s and Elfrida’s only home. Where they are happily settled for their twilight years.”
“I don’t think of Elfrida as twilight. More high noon. And it all boils down … as most things do … to the distasteful question of hard cash. A busted flush, maybe. But never a waste of time. Never think that.”
Carrie reached for her glass and took another mouthful of her fiery and comforting drink. She put the glass down on the scarred wooden surface of the table and looked up into Sam’s face. Never a waste of time…. And an extraordinary thing happened, because all at once it was as though she had never truly seen him before; and now all she knew for certain was that her recognition of him was too late, because he would go away, it would be all over, and she would probably never see him again.
Perhaps it was the warmth of the fire, or the effect of the Whisky Mac, because suddenly she felt dangerously emotional and quite unsure of herself. She thought of how injured victims, devastated by some dreadful accident, lay on hospital beds in comas, wired up to tubes and machines, whilst loved ones sat by them, holding hands, talking, hoping against hope, for some flicker of recognition or other sign. And then the miracle. The twitching eyelid, the nod of the head. The start of recovery.
Yesterday, at Corrydale, after her outburst of words and her angry weeping, Sam had taken her in his arms and held her until the tears ceased. And she had felt no warmth for him, no physical reaction to his closeness. Only a grudging gratitude for his comfort, and shame for herself, for behaving like a fool.
But now … the beginning of recovery, perhaps. The melting of the coldness that had been her only armour. To love. To be loved again … “Carrie … Can we talk?”
“What about?”
“You and me. Us” Carrie said nothing. After a bit, perhaps encouraged by her silence, he went on.
“It seems to me that we’ve met each other… got to know each other… at a bad time. We’re both, as it were, in something of a state of limbo. Perhaps we both need a bit of space to get our various houses in order. Also, neither of us is free. You’ve taken on the moral responsibility for Lucy, and I’m still married to Deborah.”
He watched for her reaction to all this, and his expression was both anxious and very serious. Carrie’s response was clearly of great importance to him.
“What are you telling me, Sam?”
“Just that, perhaps, we should give ourselves a bit of time. You go back to London, take repossession of your own house, get on top of your new job. And I shall get in touch with New York, and Deborah’s lawyer. I’m pretty certain by now she’ll have started proceedings. I don’t know how long it will take, but as we had no children, there should be no serious complications. Simply material matters. The apartment, the car, the money.”
“Is that what you really want? Divorce?”
“No.” He was bluntly honest.
“I don’t want it. Any more than I would choose to have a surgical amputation. But I have to sort out the past before I can embark on a new future. Get rid of a lot of emotional clobber.”
“Will Deborah be all right?”
“I hope so. She has as good a chance as most people, and the backing of a loving and devoted family.”
“Is it going to be painful?”
“Ending something that was once good is bound to be painful. But, done, and over, the hurting stops.”
Carrie said, “I know what you mean.”
He went on.
“I shall be living and working here, in Buddy. You’ll be in London. Hundreds of miles apart. But I know I shall be flying up and down to London like a yo-yo, for meetings and conferences and such. I thought perhaps… we could see each other again. Go to a concert; out to dinner. Start over. Afresh. As though none of this time had ever happened.”
Start over. Afresh. The two of them. Carrie said, “I wouldn’t want this time not to have happened.”
“I’m glad. It’s been extraordinary, hasn’t it? Magic. Like days stolen from another life, another world. When it is over, and I am gone, I shall wallow in nostalgia.” Carrie’s hand lay on the table between them, and the firelight was reflected and sparked facets of light from her sapphire-and-diamond ring. Without curiosity, < Who gave you your ring?” he asked.
“Andreas.”
“I hoped it might have been bequeathed to you by an elderly but devoted aunt.”
“No. It was Andreas. We were in Munich together. He saw it on a velvet tray in the window of an antique shop, and he went in and bought it for me.”
“You must wear it always,” Sam told her.
“It is so lovely on your hand. How shall I find you in London, Carrie?”
“Oversees. Bruton Street. It’s in the phone book. And I’ll be back in Ranfurly Road in February.”
“I haven’t been back to Fulham again since I sold my house in Eel Park and left for New York. Perhaps I shall come. Take a trip down Memory Lane. And you shall show me where you live.”
“Do that. I’ll cook you dinner.”
“No promises. No commitments.”
“No promises.”
“So we leave it like that.”
“We leave it like that?”
Sam said, “Good.” And, as though he were sealing then-agreement, he covered her hand with his own, and she turned up her palm and wrapped her fingers around his wrist. Their drinks finished, it was, perhaps, time to leave, but both were reluctant to go. So they stayed while the barman, slowly polishing glasses with a tea-towel, gazed at some quiz show. And the two old men, heads sunken into the collars of then-worn overcoats, sat on, ancient and silent as a pair of hibernating tortoises. They seemed unaware that, as they whiled away the last of the morning, the whole world had changed.
That evening, at six-thirty, Sam found himself once more in a pub, but now it was Creagan, and he was with Oscar.
“Let’s go and have a drink,” Oscar had suggested. They were alone in the sitting-room of the Estate House. Others were occupied elsewhere; Carrie and Elfrida clashing companionably about in the kitchen together, concocting dinner; food for the party tomorrow, and at the same time starting in on the long-term preparations for the Christmas feast. During the course of the afternoon, Rory Kennedy had appeared with large bunches of berried holly, and he and Lucy had set to decorating, and were still at it. They had gone up to the top of the garden and torn away from the wall long strands of dark-green ivy, and it was taking them much concentration and effort to twine this down the whole length of the banister, from attic to hall. Rory had been invited for supper, and accepted, which was just as well, because it all seemed to be taking a very long time.
The Creagan pub was a great deal more cheerful than the Duke’s Arms in Buckly (although Sam guessed that he would always remember that charmless spot with much affection). Here, seasonal festivities seemed to have started, and there were unknown faces at the bar. In one corner a noisy party was already well under way; young men in elegantly battered tweeds and their trendy girl-friends with London voices. They had doubtless driven down the glen from some remote family shooting-lodge opened up for Christmas and the New Year, and filled with house guests. They were, thought Sam-conveniently forgetting that he, once, had behaved just as boisterously-making an unnecessary and embarrassing amount of din.
But it all felt very lively. Open fires burnt, and decorations were festooned all about the place, tastefully entwined with holly, and cardboard Bambis and Father Christmases twinkling with glitter.
It took a bit of time to shoulder up to the bar, and then to catch the attention of the frantic barman, but finally Oscar did this and ordered two Famous Grouses, one for Sam, on the rocks, and one for himself, with tap-water. They then had something of a search for a place to sit, and ended up at a small, unoccupied table in a dark corner, away from the fire. It didn’t matter. It was quite warm enough.
Oscar said, “Cheers,” took a mouthful of his drink, set down the glass, and got straight down to business.
“… I thought it would be easier to talk here than at home. The telephone is inclined to ring, or some person comes flying in with questions on their lips. I didn’t want us to be disturbed.”
“Oscar, this all sounds very sinister.”
“Not sinister at all, dear boy. But slightly complicated. And I wanted to talk to you on my own.”
“What’s happened?”
“What has happened is that Major Billicliffe has died. You have heard, maybe … you know about Major Billicliffe?”
“The old factor who was in hospital.”
“Exactly so.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We are all sorry, for different reasons. Whatever, he has died. I think he had been ill for a long time, far longer than any of us suspected. To cut a long story short, Sam, he has left me his house at Corrydale.”
“But that’s wonderful news.”
“I am not so sure. It’s in a fairly neglected state….”
“Carrie and I looked at it when we went to get the Christmas tree. A bit desolate, perhaps, and completely snowed up, but I would have thought a good little property. And, of course, that marvelous view, down the fields and the trees to the water.”
“As well,” Oscar went on, sounding like a man determined to make a clean breast of things, “he has left me his car, and his Labrador, and a small amount of money.”
Sam made a face.
“I can’t be too enthusiastic about the car. It looked to me as though it would never start up again.
As for the dog, I think that’s the one Charlie Miller had with him? Perhaps he can be persuaded to keep it?”
“Yes.”
“Oscar, this is really good news. What will you do with the cottage? Put it on the market? Or you could turn it into a holiday let, a nice little earner, as they say.”
“Yes,” said Oscar.
“I could. But Elfrida and I think that we might go and live there. I know it sounds a little outlandish, and it all depends on Elfrida’s reaction when she actually gets to see over the place. You see, she’s never been to Corrydale. Before you all came, we didn’t do very much, I’m afraid. Kept a bit of a low profile. Kept ourselves to ourselves. And she knew that, in a strange way, I rather dreaded going back to a place where once, so long ago, I had been so happy.”
“I understand.”
“We did drop in, of course, on our first night, because we had to collect the key to the Estate House. But it was dark and cold, we were tired, and old Billicliffe was not the neatest of housekeepers. We couldn’t wait to get away. When he was ill and I went to see him in bed, it looked even worse, and both our impressions of the place are so dismal that we shall have to think deeply before we make up our minds and do a total assessment of the situation.”
“Would you like to live there?” Sam asked.
“Is it not very remote?”
“Not really. A bit off the road, but neighbours all about. The Home Farm, the Millers, and Rose, who used to be my grandmother’s parlour maid A little community. The house will probably need a bit spent on it, and we’ll have to try to work that out, but the idea does have possibilities.”
Sam said, “It did seem somewhat neglected, but the roof wasn’t fallen in, nor windows broken. How much space would you have?”
“All the estate houses were the same design. Two up and two down. Originally. Little kitchens and bathrooms were added on after the war.”
“Would that be big enough for you both?”
“I think so. We have, between us, few possessions.”