By now, the man behind the counter, recognizing a good customer when he saw one, had become Sam’s best friend. Between the two of them, after some discussion, they decided on a dozen bottles of special claret, four of champagne, and finally one of cognac.
All of this, gathered together on the counter, made an impressive show.
“How are we going to get all this home?” Lucy asked, but the grocer said he would deliver it in his van. So Sam gave him his name and the address of the Estate House, and produced his credit card once more. When all was accomplished, the grocer came out from behind his counter to open the door for them, which he did with something of a flourish, wishing them both a Happy Christmas.
“That,” said Lucy, “was much nicer than trudging round a supermarket. Who’s left now? You simply must have bought a present for everybody.”
“Carrie?”
“I thought the chocolates were for her.”
“I don’t think chocs are a very exciting present, do you?”
“How about a precious jewel? There’s a jeweller’s a bit farther down the street. I know, because Rory took me there to have my ears pierced and buy my sleepers.”
“Show me.”
But before they had reached the jeweller’s, Sam spied the little art gallery, which stood across the road.
“Let’s go and look,” he said, so they crossed the road to stand on the pavement and gaze through the window. Lucy did not think there was all that much to gaze at. A Blue and White jug with twigs in it, and a small painting, gold-framed, on a little easel. The picture was of roses in a silver jug. Three pink roses and one white one. And there was a sort of scarf lying on the table, and a bit of curtain.
For quite a long time, Sam didn’t say anything. Lucy looked at him and realized that, for some reason, his attention had been totally captured by the little still life. She said, “Do you like it?”
“Urn? What? Yes, I do. It’s a Peploe.”
“A what?”
“Samuel Peploe. A Scottish painter. Let’s go in.”
He opened the door, and Lucy followed. Inside, they found themselves in a surprisingly spacious room, the walls covered with pictures, and, as well, a number of other objects stood about: rather strange sculptures and hand-thrown pots which looked as if they might leak if filled with water. In the corner of the room was a desk, behind which sat a young man of amazing thinness, wearing a huge, baggy, hand-knitted sweater. He had a lot of flowing hair, and a stubbly chin, and as they appeared he hauled himself, in a fatigued sort of way, to his feet.
“Hi.”
Sam said, “Good morning. The painting in your window…”
“Oh, yes, the Peploe.”
“An original?”
“But of course. I don’t deal in prints.”
Sam kept his cool.
“May I see it?”
“If you want to.”
He went to the window and reached in and lifted the picture off its easel, and brought it back to where Sam stood, holding it out beneath the overhead lights.
Sam set down his burden of plastic carrier-bags.
“May I?” he asked, and gently took the heavy frame into his own hands. A silence fell while he inspected it, and the young man, apparently too exhausted to stand for a moment longer, leaned against the edge of the desk and folded his arms.
Nothing much happened after that. Lucy, bored with hanging around, wandered off to look at the other pictures on the walls (mostly abstracts), and bits of pottery and sculpture. There was one sculpture which was called Rationality Two, and consisted of two pieces of driftwood tied together with rusted wire. She saw that it cost five hundred pounds, and decided that if ever she needed to make a quick bit of cash, this would be as good a way as any.
Now, the two men were talking.
“Where did this come from?” Sam asked.
“An old house. Local. A sale. The old lady died. She had been a friend of Peploe when he was alive. I’m not sure the picture wasn’t a wedding gift.”
“You were astute to buy it.”
“I didn’t. I bought it off a dealer. You’re an admirer of Peploe?”
“My mother had one. I own it now. It’s in store in London.”
“In that case …”
“This isn’t for me….”
Lucy, chipping in, said, “Who’s it for, Sam?”
Sam had apparently forgotten about her, but now, reminded of her presence, laid the picture down on the desk.
“Lucy, this is going to take a bit of time. You don’t want to hang around.” He felt in his back pocket for his wallet, took it out, and peeled off three ten-pound notes, which he pressed into her hand.
“We still haven’t bought the fairy lights for the banisters. There’s an electrical store next to the grocer’s. You nip along and buy as many as you think you’ll need, and then come back here when you’ve got them.
Leave all the shopping behind; you don’t want to have to lug that with you. And if you see anything else you think we might need, get that, too. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Lucy. She pocketed the money (thirty pounds!) dumped the carrier-bags under a chair, and went. She had a pretty good idea that Sam wanted to get rid of her for two reasons. He didn’t want her to know how much the picture was going to cost, and he still hadn’t bought a present for her, and of course couldn’t do this with Lucy watching.
She set off, back down the street, the way they had come. She hoped Sam would not buy her a wobbly jug, but was pretty sure that he wouldn’t. She wondered if the Samuel Peploe was to be a present for Carrie. And thirty pounds would buy yards of fairy lights.
After some discussion and a certain amount of haggling, Sam and the hairy young man came to an agreement, which ended up with Sam’s buying the Peploe. While it was being wrapped up, and the necessary paperwork done, he went out and crossed the road and found, without much difficulty, the jeweller’s shop, its window filled with silver photograph frames and small, ornate clocks. Inside, he was shown a selection of earrings, and quickly chose a pair of gold studs fashioned like daisy heads. The girl who had served him put them into a box and a gold envelope, and he paid her, stuffed the box into his pocket, and went back to the art gallery, where all had been accomplished. The only problem was that the young man didn’t handle credit cards, so Sam had to write a cheque.
“Whom shall I make it out to?”
“Me.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Yes.” He produced a card.
“Tristram Nightingale.”
And Sam, writing the cheque, felt quite sorry for him. Lumbered with a handle like that, a man was allowed to be a bit charmless. As he signed his own name, Lucy reappeared, with yet another box to lug back to the car.
“Did you get them?” he asked.
“Yes. Four strings. I think that should be enough, don’t you?”
“Ample. We’ll get Rory to help us set them up.” He handed over the cheque and picked up the strongly wrapped parcel.
“Thank you very much.”
Tristram Nightingale laid the cheque on his desk, and then, as they gathered up their packages, he loped to. the door and opened it for them.
“Have a good Christmas,” he said as they went out.
“And the same to you,” said Sam, but as soon as they were out of earshot, he added, “With knobs on, Mr. Nightingale.”
“Mr. What “He’s called Tristram Nightingale. His parents must have been sadists. No wonder he hates the world.”
“What a dreadful name. Except you’d have thought that by now he’d have got used to it. Sam, who’s the picture for?”
“Carrie. Don’t tell her.”
“Of course I won’t. Was it frightfully expensive?”
“Yes, it was, but when things are as expensive as that, you don’t call it expensive. You say a good investment.”
“I think that’s a lovely present. And when she goes back to live in Ranfurly Road, she can hang it on her sitting-room wall.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“And she’ll remember Scotland and Creagan and everything.”
“I thought that, too.”
“Will you ever see her again?”
“I don’t know.” Sam smiled down at Lucy.
“I hope so.”
“I hope so, too,” said Lucy. And after a bit, “It’s been a good morning. Thank you for letting me come with you.”
“Thank you for coming. You were a tremendous help.”
By half past five that evening, the Estate House stood ready, dressed overall, for Elfrida’s party.
The front door wore a wreath of holly, and the overhead light clearly illuminated a thumb-tacked cardboard notice which read please walk in. This, Elfrida hoped, would preclude the hassle of ringing the bell and the repetitive running up and down to the dining-room for Christmas guests. Once through the door, the dining room Christmas tree was revealed in all its glory. At the far end of the hall the staircase rose tangled with holly and ivy, and sparkling with white fairy lights. Above the landing had been turned into a bar, where the big table from the sitting-room bay window (shunted to its new location by Oscar and Sam) was spread with a white cloth (one of Mrs. Snead’s best linen sheets) and neatly set out with bottles, ice-bucket, and rows of the polished glasses borrowed from Tabitha Kennedy.
All of this had taken some time and effort, and when Mrs. Snead and Arthur arrived to take charge of the last-minute preparations, like heating up the tiny pizzas and spearing hot sausages with cocktail sticks, everyone had disappeared to shave, bathe, change, and generally doll themselves up for the evening ahead. From behind closed doors came sounds of running taps, the buzz of electric razors, and the steamy fragrance of bath-oil.
Horace, sneaking upstairs for a bit of company that wasn’t the Sneads, found nobody around, so made his way into the sitting-room, and there settled down comfortably in front of a blazing fire.
Oscar was the first to emerge. He closed the bedroom door behind him and stood alone, for a moment, to savour the Christmas transformation of his house, prepared and ready for an influx of guests. He saw the neat arrangement of polished glasses, like so many soap-bubbles; the green-and-gold of champagne bottles jammed into a bucket of ice, the crisp white linen of napkin and table-cloth. The drawn stair curtains shut away the night, and the stairwell, all four flights of it, was entwined with dark ropes of greenery, red-berried holly, and starry lights. So much, he thought wryly, for the bleak Winter Solstice, which was all he had promised Elfrida. And he decided that the Estate House, normally so minimal and austere, but now dressed and adorned to the nines, was a bit like a strait-laced elderly but much-loved aunt who had put on her best finery and precious jewels for some special occasion, and ended up looking not bad at all. Oscar, too, had made an effort, and wore a favourite old smoking jacket and his best silk shirt. Elfrida had chosen his tie, and insisted he wear his gold-embroidered black velvet slippers. He could scarcely remember when he had last dressed himself up, but the silk shirt felt luxurious against his skin, and he had slapped on some Bay Rum and sleeked down his thick white hair.
Elfrida, whom he had left at her mirror, still in her dressing-gown, and screwing in her earrings, had told him that he looked toothsome.
From the kitchen came Snead voices and other sounds of culinary activity. Mrs. Snead had arrived, not in her track suit, but wearing her best black dress, with sequins twinkling from the bodice. She had also had her hair done for the occasion, and decorated this new coiffure with a black satin bow. As he had dressed, chatting the while to Elfrida, Oscar had not allowed himself to think back to his last Christmas at the Grange. The lavishness of that time, and the hospitality on a scale that beggared belief. Huge meals, too many guests, too many presents, too huge a tree. But somehow Gloria had got away with it all, the sheer size of everything tempered by her enjoyment, her generosity of spirit.
He had not allowed himself to think back, but now, in a rare moment of solitude, he did. And it all seemed so long ago… he could scarcely realize it was only twelve months … and it felt a bit like recalling a time out of another existence. He thought of Francesca. Remembered her running down the great staircase at the Grange, wearing a black velvet dress that was a present from her mother, and with her hair flying loose. She had always seemed to be running, as though time were so precious that there was not a moment of it to be wasted.
Only a short while ago, this memory would have shattered him with grief. But now, Oscar simply felt grateful, because Francesca would always be part of his life, part of his being. And because, after all that had happened, he had somehow survived. And, more, found himself surrounded and sustained by friends.
Below, he heard the kitchen door open, and Mrs. Snead’s voice giving Arthur his orders. Arthur then appeared up the staircase bearing a tray of what Mrs. Snead called “canaypes.” A bowl of nuts and small biscuits spread with pat and such. Arthur wore his best grey flannel trousers and his Bowling Club blazer, emblazoned with a gold emblem on the breast pocket.
Climbing the last flight, he spied Oscar.
“Well, there you are, Mr. Blundell, and don’t you look dressy. Mrs. Snead said to bring these up, and put them round the sitting-room.
“Of stuff’s coming later. Only thing is, “Orace sneaked off. Bet‘e’s sitting by the fire. Don’t want ‘im eating all the goodies.”
“We’ll put them out of his reach, Arthur.”
He led Arthur into the big room, which looked warm and welcoming and unnaturally neat and tidy. Every light and lamp had been turned on, and the fire blazed. Elfrida had filled jugs with holly and white chrysanthemums, but the best was the huge vase of Stargazer lilies that little Lucy had given Elfrida for Christmas. Arthur had delivered them during the course of the morning, all wrapped in cellophane and tied with a large pink bow, and Elfrida had nearly burst into tears, so touched and delighted had she been. They stood now on a small table by the sofa, their exotic petals slowly opening out in the warmth of the room, exuding their heavy, almost tropical fragrance.
They set out the nuts and crisps, well out of reach of Horace, who lay by the fire pretending to be fast asleep. Oscar wondered if he should boot the dog downstairs again, but left him where he was, because he looked so comfortable. Once they had disposed of the little dishes at a safe height, Oscar and Arthur returned to the bar, where they found Sam, looking sleek in his dark suit and an enviable blue-and white-striped shirt.