(18/20) Changes at Fairacre (12 page)

She skipped off down the path to collect her offspring from Mrs Pringle's. A stranger, seeing her for the first time, might have guessed her age at twelve or thirteen.

Mentally and morally, I thought, she was a good deal less than that, but it was nice of her to come and thank me, I decided charitably, as I went to get Tibby's evening meal.

Later that week I had another visitor. It was Amy, elegant in a cream trouser suit, and I hastened to brush down the sofa before she sat on it.

'I was stripping redcurrants an hour ago,' I told her, 'and I don't want you to sit on any stray ones.'

'But surely you do that in the kitchen?'

'Not when there's an old film of Fred Astaire's on,' I told her, lifting up a glossy report of some unknown firm which was at one end of the sofa.

Amy settled herself and turned the pages idly. 'I didn't know you had shares in this. James is one of its directors.'

'Aunt Clara left them to me,' I explained, 'with her seed pearls, and a nest of occasional tables which I handed on to one of my god-daughters.'

I saw her studying a page of photographs at the beginning of the booklet.

'I can't think why they put those in,' I said, peering over her shoulder. 'Far better to leave their shareholders in ignorance. It may be the fault of the photographer, of course, but at a quick glance, would you trust any of those with five bob?'

'There's James,' said Amy, pointing to one of the photographs.

I peered more closely. 'So it is. Well, he's certainly the best looking by a long way.'

'Of course,' agreed Amy smugly. 'Now sit down, and I'll tell you why I've come. You haven't a spot of sherry, I suppose? Not that stuff you won at our raffle, I mean.'

'I've got some Croft's.'

'Perfect.'

I poured out two glasses.

'I've been thinking,' said Amy, after an approving sip.

'Oh, Amy,' I wailed. 'Not another prospective husband for me? I've got such a load of trouble already.'

'No, no, no!' tutted Amy. 'How you do harp on
MEN
!'

I was too taken aback by this unjustified aspersion to retaliate, and she continued unchecked.

'It's really about James and his trip to Scotland. He's flying up, a few days before he planned, to meet this fellow.'

She tapped a finger on one of the photographs on the open page beside her.

'They're going house-hunting together before the main meeting.'

'House-hunting? You're not leaving Bent?'

'Nothing like that. They're both on the board of some charity trust for orphans, and they want to start up a home there for the Scottish lot. The point is this. I shall be driving up a little later, and hope you will come with me. James knows a lovely quiet hotel on the Tweed. Lots of salmon on the menu. What about it?'

'Oh, Amy! You are sweet to think of it, but I ought not -'

'My treat,' said Amy swiftly. 'My shares are doing well, and James wants you to keep me company as he'll be so tied up with business affairs. Do say you'll come. We'll take two days to go up, and two back, and have two there. It would do you good after all you've had to do these past weeks.'

She looked at me with such concern, almost tearfully, that I weakened at once.

'It sounds heavenly. Tell me more.'

She proceeded to give me details. A night in the Peak District on our way north. A leisurely drive along the A7 towards Kelso the next day. Visits to Mellerstain House and Floors Castle. It was apparent that Amy had been very busy working out routes, planning little treats such as these visits to lovely houses, and generally becoming acquainted with all that the neighbourhood had to offer.

'Then, yes please,' I said, 'I'd love to come. But I can't let you pay for me, Amy. It's too much.'

'If it makes you feel any better,' said my old friend, 'you can pay for the petrol, and any odd ice-creams.'

'Willingly,' I told her, 'but let -'

'But I warn you,' she said, 'my car is a thirsty one, and I have a great weakness for cornets and wafers.'

'As though I didn't know,' I told her, 'after all these years together.'

9 Holiday with Amy

IT is wonderfully exhilarating to set off on holiday. The days before, of course, and particularly the one immediately preceding departure, are fraught with as much anxiety as anticipation. Have you stopped the milk, the papers, the laundryman? Have you left enough cat food for Tibby? Should you switch off the electricity at the mains? If so, what about the fridge and the light that comes on automatically after dark? There is no end to the household problems.

Personal packing is comparatively easy. I have long given up trying to compete with other hotel visitors in the realms of sartorial chic. To be clean and decent, and not to shame dear Amy, is the limit of my ambitions these days.

Nevertheless, there are decisions to be made. The weather may be hot. It may be cold. Cotton frocks and a thick cardigan may be the basis for one's wardrobe, but it is necessary to have a little more flexibility.

Then there is the problem of underclothes. Should you take enough to ensure a change every day, and possibly an extra outfit in the unlikely event of falling into a Scottish burn or being soaked to the skin in a Scotch mist? Or would it be safe to hope that the hotel bathroom would have one of those clothes lines that pull out from the wall - and sag dangerously when a pair of tights is slung over it?

And what about a mackintosh? Should it be the heavy raincoat just back from the cleaners? The cost of its recent reproofing makes one feel it should be housed in a glass case rather than bundled into a suitcase or the boot of Amy's car. Perhaps the thin bedraggled one hanging on the peg behind the kitchen door might fit the bill?

But when one is actually in the car, cases stowed behind, keys and telephone number left with the neighbours, and handbag safely on one's lap, then the pleasure begins.

A certain recklessness takes over. What if one
has
forgotten toothbrush, handkerchieves, sun spectacles or talcum powder? Presumably all these can be bought in Scotland.

And what if I have forgotten to leave out the tin opener for Tibby's meal tins, or the bottles for the milkman, or that old piece of bread which I intended to throw out for the birds? Dear Alice and Bob Willet would see to it all.

'Amy,' I said, snuggling back into my luxurious seat, 'I am so happy!'

'That's the whole idea,' she responded, putting her foot down on the accelerator.

We sped northward in great spirits.

By lunchtime we were in the neighbourhood of Warwick, and I was beginning to look out hopefully for a cafe.

'Don't bother,' said Amy. 'I've brought a picnic. Just keep your eyes skinned for a leafy lane to the left.'

We soon found it, a lovely lane with ferns growing from the banks, and some pink campions among the cow parsley, and we got out thankfully. Even a car as large and magnificent as Amy's cannot quite overcome the stiffening of the human frame.

Amy produced one of those splendid wicker hampers that I always associate with Glyndeboume or glorious Goodwood. There were plates and glasses and cutlery and even two large linen napkins. We sat on the bank amidst the verdure with this splendid object between us. Amy had made smoked-salmon brown sandwiches, and egg and cress white ones. Lettuce hearts nestled in a plastic box. Pears and peaches supplied dessert, and two flasks contained coffee and hot milk respectively. There was even a bottle of sparkling wine to go with the smoked salmon.

I thought of my own slapdash picnics, comprising cut bread with crusts left on, and the contents usually hanging out in a ragged manner, followed by a banana or an apple from the garden. I was lucky if I remembered to put in a piece of paper torn from the kitchen roll at the last minute.

'This is superb,' I said, trying not to make my napkin too disgusting with peach juice. 'How do you manage to do everything so elegantly?'

'My mother taught me,' she answered. 'She was terribly strict about standards. One of her favourite maxims was: "Never let yourself
go\
" And she lived up to it too. I don't think I ever saw her untidy, even in her last illness. She really was remarkable.'

'You take after her,' I told her. 'She would be proud of you.'

'Mind you,' said Amy, packing away plates and boxes briskly, 'she was very bossy with it.'

My private thought was that dear old Amy took after her mother in that too, but it would have been churlish to say so after consuming such a memorable meal.

'Thank you for that marvellous lunch,' I said instead.

We were in the Peak District for our one night stop in time for a refreshing cup of tea, before unpacking.

Then we walked along the path by the River Dove which had remarkably few visitors just then. We stopped to hang over the rail of a wooden bridge, and fell companionably silent as we watched the bright water cascading over the boulders beneath us.

What a benison water is, I thought, watching a wagtail enjoying the spray. Whether we drink it, wash in it, swim in it or simply stand and stare at it, as we were doing now, it has the power to refresh, to soothe, and to exhilarate. It has much the same beneficial properties as sleep, I thought, remembering Macbeth's tributes to that panacea. Certainly, gazing downward with the waters of the Dove below, and listening to the rustle of the Dovedale foliage above me, I could feel the pain of Dolly's absence, and the many petty domestic and school frustrations and worries ebbing away from me. Amy had been absolutely right. I needed to get away from Fairacre now and again.

It was Amy who returned first to the present. 'Let's go on. We haven't worked up an appetite for a four-course dinner yet.'

'Speak for yourself,' I retorted. But we went on all the same, and peace went with us.

The hotel in Scotland was old and grey, and full of years and tranquillity. It stood amid acres of grass dotted here and there with clumps of fir trees. The flowerbeds close to the house were bright with freshly-planted annuals, and some climbing roses, pink and white and red, nodded against the stone walls.

James and Amy had a bedroom on the first floor and from their windows they could see to the nearby valley where the river Tweed ran its course eastward to Berwick-on-Tweed.

I had a room on the ground floor which overlooked a particularly pretty part of the garden, with a bird bath and flowering shrubs, a private small garden of my own, it seemed, adjoining the larger grounds.

James joined us in time for dinner, and was good company. James is one of those fortunate people who really loves his neighbour, and likes to hear all about that neighbour's affairs. I have rarely seen him tired or depressed despite the busy life he leads, and tonight he looked as dashing as ever.

I told him about the photographs of his fellow directors in the only shares brochure which falls through my letterbox, and how he was by far the most handsome. Needless to say, he fairly glowed at the compliment. How vain men are!

'And Ted and I came across two decent little houses at the end of a terrace on the outskirts of Glasgow. I think something could be done with them, and we've asked the architect to see if they could house six children.'

'Who looks after them?' I inquired.

'There will be two foster parents. That's the principle of this charity - family units, not too big, in a smallish house. So far it seems to work. Now, tell me about the journey. Were you very long on the M6? It's quick but tedious, I find.'

Our meal was delicious, and afterwards we strolled in the grounds watching a number of thrushes stabbing the lawns to find their supper. At Fairacre, thrushes are in short supply these days, and it was good to see that they flourished here in the Border country.

I said my goodnights early, for I could hardly keep awake. It was seven o'clock when I woke to a fine sunny morning, and I reckoned that I had slept solidly for nine hours.

That day, James returned to his labours while Amy and I explored the market town of Kelso, some three miles away. We admired its fine square, its friendly shop keepers and, above all, the cleanliness of its streets.

We noticed this throughout our visiting. North of the Border, it seemed, people liked to see things clean and tidy. Caxley streets these days are littered with rubbish thrown down by the people too idle to walk six steps to a nearby litter bin. In the lanes around Fairacre I frequently pick up Coke tins, bottles, crisp packets, cigarette cartons and other detritus which the consumers have simply cast out of their car windows, careless of the damage these things can do to animals and plants, as well as making the countryside hideous.

We went on to visit Floors Castle standing close to the ubiquitous river Tweed which we crossed and recrossed dozens of times during our stay. It was magnificent, and Amy and I coveted the Dresden and Meissen porcelain more than anything else in that delectable array of pictures and furniture.

However, the next day we decided to visit Mellerstain, not far away, and its Adam elegance won us completely.

'"Comparisons,"' quoted Amy, as we gazed upwards at the superbly decorated ceilings, '"are odious," but I think I'd rather live here.'