An Ocean Apart (27 page)

“Good girl,” he said, breathing out a sigh of relief. He shut the door and picked up his cases. “Right, come on. Let's get unpacked.”

By the time the sun had shed its last dying rays on the day, he had everything in order, his belongings put away and his empty suitcases pushed out of sight underneath the bed. Not knowing if Dodie had been fed, he took out a half-used can of dogfood from the fridge, at the same time selecting a couple of eggs for himself. He spooned the meat into a plastic dish, which he had located under one of the armchairs, and gave it to Dodie who, judging by the speed with which she wolfed it down, seemed to suffer little from her lack of dental power. Then, while his eggs boiled furiously on the cooker ring, he pulled down Carrie's collection of records and, holding them in the crook of his arm, he began to flick through the covers.

They were magical, every one of them of his vintage: Jefferson Airplane, The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, The Velvet Underground, The Rolling Stones. He selected Dylan's
Nashville Skyline,
and placed it on the table, then, pushing the remaining sleeves back together again, he carried them back to the shelf. As he reached up, the bottom record slipped from his grasp and fell with an ominous clatter to the floor. Swearing to himself and grimacing at the thought that it might be broken, he picked it up and slid the record out of its sleeve. It was undamaged. Blowing out a puff of relief, he reached up to replace it on the pile when the title on the cover suddenly caught his eye.
Motown Greatest Hits.
He paused, holding the sleeve in his hands, then slowly, as if tempting providence, he turned it over. It was there. Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. He looked at it for no more than three seconds, then, quickly and decisively, he returned it to the shelf, sliding it in as far as it possibly would go at the bottom of the pile. “Start afresh,” Carrie had said, “make this your new beginning.”

To the strains of Bob Dylan he ate his boiled eggs, seated in one of the sagging deck-chairs on the veranda, while Dodie, perched on the other, willed him with plaintive looks to share his food with her. He peeled the shell off the top of one of the eggs and threw the contents to Dodie, who missed it with the first snap of her jaws, but then consumed it voraciously once she had worked out where it had landed. Later, having washed up his plates, he left them to drip-dry on the draining-board, then, wiping his hands on the seat of his jeans, he walked over to the desk and turned on the little light above it. He shifted the fax machine as far into the corner as it would go, then, opening up his brief-case, he took out a sheet of paper and a pen, and settled himself down to write a long, clarifying fax to his parents.

Chapter
  
SEVENTEEN

“Oh, do get out of the way, boys!” Alicia shouted out, as she nearly tripped over the dogs on her way to the breakfast table, making the two brimming coffee-cups that she carried clatter unsteadily in their saucers. She was not in the best of humour that morning—she knew this, and it was so unusual for her to feel this way that it only seemed to aggravate her mood. Certainly the telephone ringing in the middle of the night hadn't helped, and although it had cut off almost immediately without even giving her the chance to lift the receiver, it had been enough to wake George. She had consequently spent the rest of the night with little chance of sleep, as he moved about restlessly in the bed, pulling the covers away from her, trying to find a position that would give him some relief from the nagging pain in his back. She was sure it was getting worse, and what's more, he now complained about—no, complained was the wrong word—remarked on other aches which seemed entirely unconnected with his war wound. She was worried—worried about this, and worried about the increasing demands put on him by the changes at Glendurnich. He had spent the whole weekend in the office with Duncan Caple, and now, on Monday morning, he couldn't even spare the time to come to have his breakfast.

She put down the cups on the table and walked over to the door and opened it. “Geordie!” she called out, her voice echoing around the hall.

“Yes?” George's distant voice sounded out from the drawing-room.

“What are you doing? Your breakfast is getting cold.”

“Just coming,” he replied.

Alicia returned to the dining-room and walked back to the far end of the table, sitting down heavily in her seat. She took a brittle piece of toast out of the rack and began to butter it, but only succeeded in making it break off into numerous shards on her plate. Sucking her teeth, she put on her glasses and picked up the newspaper and, giving it an annoyed shake, began scanning through the headlines just as George walked into the room.

“What have you been doing?” she said, looking at him over the top of her spectacles. Folding up the paper, she rose to her feet and walked over to the sideboard. “Your sausages are more like burnt offerings now.”

“Sorry about that, old girl,” he said, coming over to stand beside her. She gave him the plate, and he exchanged it with a long, handwritten fax. “This came in last night. I thought it must have been a fax when the phone cut off. It's from David.”

“Ah, right!” Alicia said, a lighter tone in her voice, as she walked back to the table and sat down. “It'll probably be about his arrival time at Glasgow.”

“Er, no, it's not,” George said. “Just read it.”

He took his plate over to the table and sat down next to his wife, and to avoid making eye contact with her while she read the fax, he picked up the paper and made a show of reading it, at the same time carving away at his over-cooked sausages. Alicia looked at him warily, understanding every one of his actions too well, and therefore realizing that the news was probably not going to be to her liking. She began to read.

George had laid his knife and fork together on the plate by the time Alicia folded up the fax and put it down on the table. She took off her spectacles and sat back in her chair without saying a word. George watched her, waiting to hear her reaction.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well,” Alicia replied, shaking her head slowly. “I don't really know what to say. On one hand—yes—I can understand his point about getting away, and—well, if he comes back something like his normal self, then—yes, it's a good idea. But then he's talking about a month, I would say, at the least! So, for a start, he won't be back for the children's leave-out, which he said he would be, and then there are all these sweeping changes at Glendurnich.” She paused. “I mean, I'm delighted that he seems to be better, but—well—my thoughts are now that if that's the case, then maybe he should come home, and start taking some of the pressure off you.” She picked up the fax and unfolded it, starting to read it through again. “It really
does
seem that he's much better, wouldn't you say?”

George took a slice of toast and began buttering it, only to have as little success as his wife, a piece shooting off the side of his plate and onto the floor. He bent down laboriously to retrieve it.

“I don't think that he should come back just yet,” he said, his voice strained from the exertion of his quest.

“What do you mean?” Alicia said. “Geordie, just leave the toast. Effie's going to be hoovering in here later.”

“Dog's got it anyway,” George said, straightening up.

“Listen, Geordie, I'm afraid that I have to disagree with you, because I simply cannot allow you to continue to work at this pace much longer. It was fine to begin with, when you were only just standing in for David, but now so much is happening, and I really don't think it's doing you any good at all. He has got to come back and help you.”

George took a drink of his coffee and looked across at his wife.

“No, Alicia, I want him to stay out there. I was going to suggest it anyway before he left, that he should go to spend some time with the Richardsons in Massachusetts or the Penworths in Virginia, and that's why I bought him an open-ended ticket. So I'm quite happy that he's found this job.” He paused momentarily. “I really do think that if he comes home right now, my dear, there is every chance his recovery would be short-lived. I grant you that he does appear to be better, but remember, it was only three days ago that his prognosis was entirely the opposite. I would think that the mending process has only just begun, and I want to make damned sure that when he does return, he's as near back to his old self as possible, so that he's quite ready to take over his position as marketing director once more. I mean, to put it bluntly, the future of the family involvement with Glendurnich depends on him.”

Noticing the frown of concern registering on Alicia's face, George laid his hand reassuringly on top of hers. “Look, don't worry about me. I'm fine, I promise you. Anyway, today we have this new marketing director coming up from London, and even if it's not the ideal situation, at least he'll be taking some of the work-load off both Duncan and myself. To be quite honest, I've been feeling a bit guilty about some of the harsh words I've said about Duncan lately. He also expressed concern about my well-being over the weekend, and really he's as adamant as you that, once this new chap has settled in, I should take things a bit easier and not bother going into the office quite so frequently. And as far as the children are concerned, we'll just have them back here for the leave-out. These are all temporary measures, my darling.” Draining his coffee-cup, he stood up and walked round behind Alicia, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Listen, David has given us his fax number. I suggest we write back a really positive message to him, saying that we stand full square behind him and that he should go ahead with his plans. Do you agree?”

Alicia looked over her shoulder and, placing her hand on his, she smiled bravely up at him and nodded. “All right, agreed. But as long as you really do start taking it a bit easier, Geordie. I don't want anything to happen to you.”

George leaned over and planted a kiss on the top of his wife's head. “Nothing is going to happen to me.” He let out a laugh, and started to walk towards the door. “I'm not ready to kick the bucket yet!”

He turned round and gave her a wink, at the same time leaning heavily on his stick and jauntily kicking one heel up behind him.

Chapter
  
EIGHTEEN

The next morning, David was awoken both suddenly and prematurely by Dodie, who, having ventured onto his bed sometime during the night, felt that six o'clock was an apt time to give his face an unscheduled and somewhat unwelcome wash. With a start, he pushed her off the bed, then lay for a moment dazedly working out his new surroundings and listening to the birds noisily airing their dawn chorus outside in the garden.

From the other side of the room, the dog let out a wheak, and he turned his head on the pillow to see her standing hopefully by the door. He threw back the bedclothes and got to his feet and went over to open the door for her, and with two short barks, she slipped through the narrow gap and sped outside into the garden.

Having made himself a steaming cup of instant coffee, he was about to head to the bathroom when he stopped with a click of his fingers. He glanced at his watch and worked out what time it would be in Scotland. Exactly 11:05
A.M
. He went over and sat down at the desk and, picking up the telephone, dialled a number.

He was midway through a gulp of coffee when a female voice answered. “Good morning, Hatching's School.”

“Ah, hullo.” He put the coffee-cup down on the floor beside him. “Would it be possible to speak to Sophie Corstorphine?”

“Who's calling?”

“It's her father—from America.”

“Ah yes, Mr. Corstorphine. Now if I'm quick, I might just be able to catch her after break-time. Could you hold for a minute while I check her whereabouts?”

“Certainly.”

A light scratching on the front door heralded the return of Dodie. He pressed the “monitor” button on the telephone and went over to let her in, just as Sophie's voice sounded through the speaker.

“Hullo, Dad? Hullo? Hullo?”

David dived for the receiver and turned off the monitor. “Hullo, Sophie?”

“Hi, Dad!”

“That was quick! I wasn't expecting you to be found so fast.”

“No, well, I was just walking along the corridor on my way to a class when Miss Jenkins caught me. She says that you're still in America.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“What time is it over there?”

“Erm”—he looked at his watch—“precisely seven minutes past six in the morning.”

Sophie laughed. “Isn't it ridiculous! We've had French, Biology and Maths already today, and you've only just got out of bed!”

“Yeah, it does seem a bit unfair, doesn't it? Hang on a minute.” He paused long enough to hurl a cushion at the dog, who had just deemed his bed a suitable place to carry out her morning's ablutions. “So, how's everything going? Did Granny come down on Saturday?”

“Yes, she did
and
she was able to watch me playing tennis, seeing that Charlie's cricket match was cancelled. Clevely Hall had something like chicken-pox going round.”

“Right. So did you win?”

“No. Mr. Hunter thinks it's because Rosie Braithwaite and I chatter too much on court.”

“And do you?”

“Well, it's very difficult, Dad! If we suddenly think of something really important to say to each other, we have to say it straight away, otherwise we'll just forget!”

“So what was so important to say on Saturday?”

“Er,” Sophie giggled, “actually, we were wondering what kind of shampoo we should recommend to one of our opponents, because she had terribly greasy hair!”

David laughed. “Well, that sounds
really
important, Sophie. Worth throwing the match for!”