Hector McLennan. Who had once owned Corrydale, but now lived in London, and whose son Hughie had wiped the dust of Britain from the soles of his shoes and gone to live in Barbados.
She said, “Once, Oscar told me about you.”
“And you, my dear?”
“Elfrida Phipps. I have a house in the village. I live on my own. Gloria and Oscar were endlessly kind to me. I’m sorry I was so rude when I first came in. I thought you were Oscar, and then of course I realized my mistake.”
“Oscar, aged by grief?”
“Yes. I suppose so. You see, I haven’t seen him yet. I’ve been in Cornwall for a month with cousins, and only just heard about everything from Mrs. Jennings in the village shop. I went in to buy bread … and things. She told me.”
“Yes. A ghastly accident.”
“What happened?”
The old man shrugged.
“Gloria drove her car onto the roundabout, right into the teeth of this great articulated lorry.”
“You mean, she never saw it?”
“It was very dark. It had started to rain.”
“Mrs. Jennings said she’d been to a party with Francesca. Fireworks and such.”
“That’s so.”
Elfrida bit her lip. After a little, she said, “Sometimes, at the end of a party, she’d have a strong drink.” And immediately wished she hadn’t said such a thing. But the old man was unfazed.
“I know, my dear. We all knew. Sometimes she overdid it a wee bit. A dram too many at the end of a convivial evening. Hard to say no, perhaps. And then to drive home. Oscar knows this, better than any of us. He is consumed with guilt because he didn’t take Francesa to the fireworks party himself. I think it never occurred to him that it was anything more than a children’s party, that Gloria wouldn’t bring Francesca straight home. But I suppose there were other parents there, and it just went on. The rain started just before they set out. And then, a momentary lapse of concentration, a confusion of lights, a heavy vehicle, a wet road…” He spread his hand in a gesture that said it all.
“Finished. All over. Lives wiped out.”
“I’ve even missed the funeral.”
“I missed it, too. I had a touch of flu, my doctor forbade it. This is my first visit, though of course I wrote my letter of condolence, and have been in touch over the telephone. It was while I was speaking to him that I became aware of his situation. So as soon as I could, I made the journey down from London to talk things through. I am aged, but I am still his uncle. No doubt you saw my car and driver at the door.”
“Yes.” Elfrida frowned.
“You said ‘his situation.’ Does that have special meaning?”
“It most certainly does.”
“Am I allowed to be told?”
“No secret, my dear. Gloria has left everything, including this house, to her sons. The day after the funeral they presented themselves and told Oscar he could no longer live here, because they intended selling.”
“And where do they imagine Oscar’s going to live?”
“They suggested some old folks’ home. The Priory, I think it is called. They had brochures for him to read.” He added with gentle irony, “They had clearly thought of everything.”
“You mean, they’re throwing him out? Into an old folks’ home? Oscar? They must be mad.”
“No. I don’t think they’re actually insane. Just avaricious and without heart. And they’ve got two hard wee wives as’ well, probably pushing from the back line to get every brass farthing they can lay their hands on.”
“Then Oscar must buy another house.”
Hector McLennan lowered his head and regarded Elfrida over the top of his spectacles. He said, “Oscar is not a man of means.”
“You mean he has no money?”
“A pension, of course. And a little put by. But not enough to buy a decent house at these days’ inflated prices.”
“Gloria’s sons, Giles and Crawford, must know that.” Another thought occurred to her.
“And Gloria must have known, too. Surely she could have left Oscar something. She was so generous, so giving of worldly goods.”
“Maybe she intended to. She was a relatively young woman. In all likelihood, it never occurred to her that she would die before Oscar. Or perhaps she simply never got around to making a new will, or even adding a codicil. We shall never know.”
“But he can’t go and live in an old folks’ home.” The very notion was an affront. Oscar, of all people, bundled in with a lot of old incontinent geriatrics, eating milk puddings and being taught to make baskets. Elfrida’s vision of an old folks’ home was a little fuzzy, on account of her never having been in one. She said firmly, “I won’t let it happen.”
“What will you do?”
“He can come and live with me.” But even as she said it she knew that this was an impractical suggestion. There was scarcely space for one at Poulton’s Row, let alone two. And where would she put his grand piano? On the roof or in the garden shed?
“That’s stupid. No, he can’t.”
“My notion,” said the old man, “is that he should move away. This house, this village is too filled with poignant memory. I think he should cut loose. That’s why I drove down today to see him. Mrs. Muswell gave us lunch, and I put forward my suggestion. But he seems unable to make any sort of decision. Doesn’t seem to care what happens.”
“Where is he now?”
“He was called to the garden. Some problem with the greenhouse heating system. I said I would wait until he returned, and then start back for London. Which is why you found me sitting here in my nephew’s chair, and looking, doubtless, like an old ghoul.”
“You don’t look like an old ghoul, and what was your suggestion?”
“That he goes back to Sutherland for a bit. Corrydale, and the wee Estate House. Half of it belongs to him anyway, and my Hughie, who is the co-owner, lives in Barbados and is likely to stay there.”
“I thought it was let. The house, I mean. Occupied.”
“No. At the moment, it’s standing empty. An elderly couple, called Cochrane, were living there, but the old man died, and the wife has gone to stay with her daughter. I discovered this from our erstwhile factor, Major Billicliffe. He’s retired now, but he still lives on the Corrydale estate. At the time of Hughie’s big sale, he bought his house. I gave him a telephone call, and we spoke at length. He says the place is in good condition, maybe needs a lick of paint, but otherwise sound and dry.”
“Is it furnished?”
“It was a furnished let. There will be no frills, but the essentials of day-to-day living should be there.”
Elfrida thought this all over. Sutherland. She imagined it: peat bogs and sheep. Remote as the moon. She said, “It’s a long way for Oscar to go all on his own.”
“He’s known at Corrydale and Creagan. He’s family. His grandmother’s grandson, and my nephew. People are kindly, and he will be remembered, even though he’s not been back for fifty years.”
“But is he up to such an uprooting? Such upheaval? Why not return to London, and be near the church where he was organist? Wouldn’t that be more sensible?”
“A regression. And one haunted, I should think, by memories of his child.”
“Yes. You’re right.”
“And, saddest of all, he has abandoned his music. It’s as though the best part of him has died.”
“How can I help?”
“That’s up to you. A little gentle persuasion, perhaps?”
“I can try.” But she wondered where she was going to find the strength.
They fell silent, gazing sadly at each other. This silence was disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps, the slow tread of a person crossing the gravel in front of the house. Elfrida raised her head and watched Oscar pass by the long window. All at once she was nervous. She got to her feet.
“He’s coming now,” she said.
The front door opened and closed. They waited. A long pause. Then the drawing-room door swung open, and he was there, surveying the pair of them across the expanse of the thick carpet. He wore old corduroys and a heavy sweater, knitted and flecked like tweed. His thick white hair fell across his forehead, and he put up a hand to push it aside. She had imagined him diminished, felled by tragedy. But heart-break is a hidden thing, and Oscar was a private man.
“Elfrida. I knew you had come because I saw your little car.”
She went to meet him, and he took her hands in his own and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. His lips were icy against her skin. She looked into his eyes.
“Dear Oscar. I’m home again.”
“How long have you been here?”
“About fifteen minutes. I drove up from Cornwall this morning. I went into the shop, and Mrs. Jennings told me. I hadn’t known. I haven’t read a newspaper for a month. So I came straight here and walked in on your uncle.”
“I see.” He let go of her hands and turned to Hector, who sat in his chair and watched their reunion.
“I am sorry I kept you waiting, Hector. There were complications. Something to do with a trip-switch. But you have had Elfrida for company.”
“And very pleasant it has been, too. Now I must be on my way.” Which entailed something of a struggle, the old man leaning on his stick and endeavouring to rise from the chair. Oscar moved forward to lend a hand, and after some effort on both their parts got his uncle to his feet, supported by his stick, and prepared for departure.
They all moved, at the old gentleman’s pace, across the big room and through to the hall. There, Oscar helped him into his oldfashioned overcoat and handed him his aged brown trilby. Hector put this on at a rakish angle.
“It was good of you to come, Hector, and I really appreciate it. Splendid to see you.”
“Dear boy. Thank you for lunch. And if you’re in town, drop in.”
“Of course.”
“And give thought to my suggestion. It may seem a little drastic, but it would at least give you a breather. You mustn’t stay here.” It was then that he remembered something, and began groping in the pocket of his overcoat.
“Nearly forgot. Wrote it down for you. Billicliffe’s telephone number. All you have to do is give him a ring; he’s got the key of your house.” He withdrew from the pocket a scrap of folded paper and handed it over.
“Only thing is,” he added, with a dry twinkle in his rheumy old eyes, “don’t leave it too late in the day. He’s inclined to hit the whisky bottle, and doesn’t make much sense after that.”
But Elfrida was concerned by other, more practical, matters.
“How long has the house stood empty?”
“Couple of months. But there’s a Mrs. Snead who’s been going in and out. Keeping the place cleaned and aired. Billicliffe arranged that, but I’ve been paying her wages. Doesn’t do to let property disintegrate.”
“You seem,” Elfrida told him, “to have thought of everything.”
“Haven’t much else to think about these days. Now I must be off. Goodbye, my dear. I have much enjoyed meeting you. I hope one day we’ll be able to renew our acquaintance.”
“I hope so, too. We’ll come with you to the car.”
Oscar put a hand beneath Hector’s elbow, and they all proceeded out through the front door and down the steps onto the gravel. The afternoon had turned chilly, and-a thin: rain threatened. The chauffeur, seeing them, got out of the big car and went around to hold open the door of the passenger seat. With some effort on all sides, Hector was loaded into this, and his safety-belt fastened.
“Goodbye, Oscar, dear boy. My thoughts are with you.”
Oscar embraced the old man.
“Thank you again for coming, Hector.”
“I only hope I’ve been a wee bit of comfort.”
“You have.” He stepped back and slammed shut the door. The car started up. Hector waved a bent old hand, and they stood and watched him go, borne off to London at a suitable and dignified pace. They stayed until the car was out of sight and they could no longer hear the engine. The ensuing silence was filled by the cawing of rooks. It was cold and damp. Elfrida shivered.
Oscar said, “Come indoors.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to leave as well?”
“No. I want you to stay with me.”
“Is Mrs. Muswell here?”
“She leaves each day after lunch.”
“Would you like me to make us a cup of tea?”
“I think that would be an excellent idea.”
“May I bring Horace indoors? He’s been shut in the car all day.”
“Of course. He’s safe now. There are no Pekingeses to attack him.”
Elfrida thought, oh, God. She went across the gravel to where her little car was parked, and set Horace free. Gratefully he leaped out and shot off across the lawn to a handy laurel bush, beneath which he relieved himself at length. When he was done with this necessary operation, he scratched about for a bit, and then returned to them. Oscar stooped and fondled his head, and only then did they all go back into the house. Oscar closed the door behind them and led the way into the kitchen, where it felt comfortingly warm. Gloria’s kitchen, large and efficient, from which such hospitable meals and copious amounts of delicious food had to sate the appetites of her many relations and Now it was empty, and very neat, and Elfrida saw that , Mrs. Muswell had left a tray, with a single mug and a milk jog and a tin of biscuits, on the table. She was clearly doing her best to feed and care for her solitary employer.
She found the kettle and filled it from the tap, and put it on the Aga to boil. She turned to face Oscar, who was leaning against the comforting warmth of the stove. She said, “I wish I was articulate and brilliant at thinking of things to say. But I’m not, Oscar. I’m sorry. I just wish I’d known. I would have come back from Cornwall. I would at least have been at the funeral.”
He had pulled out a chair and sat now at the kitchen table, and as she spoke he put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. For a dreadful moment, she thought that he was weeping. She heard herself rabbiting on.
“I had no inkling. Until today …”
Slowly, he drew his hands from his face, and she saw that he did not weep, but his eyes were filled with an anguish that was almost worse than tears.
He said, “I would have been in touch, but I had no idea where you were.”
“That was because I had no idea that you might need to know.” She took a deep breath.
“Oscar, I do know about loss and bereavement. All the time that Jimbo was so ill, I knew it was terminal, that he would never recover. But when he died, I found myself quite unprepared for the pain, and the terrible emptiness. And I know, too, that what I went through then is simply one tiny fraction of what you are going through now. And there is nothing I can do to help, to ease you.”