September (1990) (18 page)

But, down in the port, it was a different story. There were too many people about, and too much money being spent, to respect this time-honoured custom. The tourists did not want to know about siestas. They did not want to waste a moment of their costly holiday in sleeping. And the day visitors had nowhere to go. So, instead, they sat about in droves, red and perspiring, in the pavement cafes; or wandered aimlessly in air-conditioned gift arcades. The beach was littered with palm
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thatch umbrellas and half-naked, kippering bodies, and the Marina packed with seagoing craft of every description. Only the boat people seemed to know what was good for them. Usually bustling with activity, the yachts and launches dipped lazily in the swell of the oily water, and in the shade of canvas awnings supine bodies, brown as mahogany, lay about on the decks, as though already dead.

Pandora awoke late. She had tossed and turned her way through the night and finally, at four in the morning, taken a sleeping pill and fallen at last into a heavy, dream-troubled sleep. She would have slept on but the sound of Seraphina clattering away in the kitchen disturbed her. The clatter shattered the dream, and after a little, reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

The dream had been of rain, and brown rivers, and cold wet scents, and the sound of wind. Of deep lochs and dark hills with boggy paths leading to their snowcapped summits. But most important was the rain. Not falling straight, not thunderous and tropical as it was when it fell here, but gentle and misty. Rolling in on clouds, insidious as smoke . . .

She stirred. The images dissolved, were gone. Why should she dream of Scotland? Why, after all these years, did those old chilly memories come back to tug at her sleeve? Perhaps it was the heat of this cruel August, the endless days of relentless sunshine, the dust and the dryness, the hard-edged black shadows of noon. One yearned for that gentle, scented mist.

She turned her head on the pillow and saw, beyond the sliding glass doors that had stood open all night, the balustrade of the terrace, the glaring brilliance of geraniums, the sky. Blue, cloudless, already brazen with heat.

She propped herself up on an elbow and reached across the wide empty bed to the bedside table and her watch. Nine o'clock. More racket from the kitchen. The sound of the dishwasher churning. Seraphina was making her presence heard. And if she was here, that meant that Mario-her husband and Pandora's gardener-was already scratching away with his archaic hoe in the garden. Which precluded all possibilities of an early skinny-dip. Mario and Seraphina lived in the old town and came to work each morning on Mario's moped, roaring full throttle up the hill. Mario drove this noisy brute of a contraption with Seraphina perched behind him, riding, modestly, side-saddle, and with her strong brown arms wrapped around his waist. It was a wonder that the daily assault of din that proclaimed their arrival had not woken Pandora before this, but then the sleeping pills-were very strong.

It was too hot to go on lying in this rumpled, messy bed. She had been here long enough. Pandora threw aside the thin sheet and, barefoot and naked, crossed the wide expanse of marbled floor and went into her bathroom, ^he collected her bikini-no more than two scraps of knotted handkerchief-climbed into it, and then walked back through her bedroom, out onto the terrace, and down the steps that led to the swimming pool.

She dived. It was cool, but not cool enough for true refreshment. She swam. She thought of diving into the loch at Croy and coming up screaming with agony because the cold bit into every painful pore of one's body; it was a numbing cold that took all breath away. How could she have swum in what was virtually snow-water? How could she and Archie and all the rest of them have indulged in such masochistic pleasures? But what fun it had been. And then coming out, and struggling damply into warm sweaters, and lighting a fire on the pebbly shore of the loch, and cooking the best trout in the world over the smoky embers. Trout, ever since, had never tasted so good as at those impromptu camp-fire meals.

She swam on. To and fro, up and down the long pool. Scotland again. Not dreams now but conscious memories. So what? She let them have their way. Let them lead her away from the loch, down the rough turfy track that followed the course of the burn, tumbling and spilling its way down the hill, finally to join the Croy. Peaty water brown and frothy as beer, spilling over rocks and splashing into deep pools where the trout lurked in the shadows. Over the centuries this stream had cut for itself a little valley, and the banks of this were green and verdant, sheltered from the north winds and bright with wild flowers. Foxgloves grew, and starwort, sweet green bracken and tall purple thistles. One particular spot was special. They called it the Corrie and it was the venue for many spring and winter picnics when the winds from the north were too cold to light camp-fires by the loch.

The Corrie. She did not let her memories linger there but hurried them on. The track steepened, winding between great rock formations, cliffs of granite older than time. A final turn and the glen lay spread far below, sunlit, rolling with cloud shadows, revealed in all its pastoral beauty. The Croy a glittering thread, its two arched bridges just visible through the trees; the village reduced by distance to a child's plaything, set out on some nursery carpet.

A pause for contemplation and then on again. The track levelled off. The deer-fence lay ahead and the tall gate. Now visible, the first of the trees. Scots pines, and beyond them the green of the beeches. Then Gordon Gillock's house, with Mrs. Gillock's washing line flying a bunting of laundry, and the gun dogs, disturbed, exploding into a cacophony of frenzied barking from their kennels.

Nearly home. The track a proper road now, Tarmacked, leading between farm buildings, stone steadings, and barns and byres. The smell was of cattle and dung. Another gate and past the farmhouse with its bright cottage garden and drystone wall smothered in honeysuckle. The cattle-grid. The drive lined with rhododendrons . . .

Croy.

Enough. Pandora jerked her wayward memories back into line as though they were over-eager children. She had no wish to go farther. Enough of self-indulgence. Enough of Scotland. She swam a final length and then climbed the shallow steps up and out of the pool. The stones beneath her bare feet were already hot. Dripping, she made her way back into the house. In her bathroom, she showered, washed her hair, put on a fresh dress, loose and sleeveless, the coolest garment she owned. She left her bedroom, crossed the hall, went into the kitchen.

"Seraphina."

Seraphina swung around from the sink where she was busily engaged in scrubbing a bucket of mussels. She was a small, squat, brown woman with sturdy bare legs thrust into espadrilles, and dark hair drawn back into a knot at the nape of her neck. She always wore black because she was perpetually in mourning. No sooner was she out of mourning for one old grandparent or distant relation than another of her clan passed on and she was back in mourning again. The black dresses all looked exactly the same, but as if to make up for their gloom, her pinafores and aprons were invariably brightly coloured and hectically patterned.

Seraphina went with the Casa Rosa. Previously, she had worked for fifteen years for the English couple who had originally built the villa. When, two years ago, due to family pressures and uncertain health, they reluctantly returned to England, Pandora, searching for some place to live, had bought the property from them. Doing this, she discovered that she had inherited Seraphina and Mario. At first Seraphina was not certain whether she wished to work for Pandora, and Pandora was in two minds about Seraphina. She was not exactly attractive and very often looked quite grumpy. But tentatively they tried out a month together, and then the month stretched to three months, and then to a year, and the arrangement, quite comfortably, settled itself, without anything actually being said.

"Senora. Buenos dias. You are awake."

After fifteen years with her previous employers, Seraphina spoke reasonable English. Pandora was grateful for this small mercy. Her French was fluent but Spanish a closed book. People said it was easy because of havin
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one Latin at school, but Pandora's education did not include Latin and she was not about to start now.

"Any breakfast?"

"Is on the table. I bring the coffee."

The table was set on the terrace, which faced out over the driveway. Here it was shady and cooled by any breeze that blew from the sea. Crossing the sitting
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room, Pandora's eye was caught by a book that lay on the coffee-table. It was a large and lush volume, sent as a present from Archie for her birthday. Wainwright in Scotland. She knew why he had sent it. He never stopped, in his simple and transparent way, trying to lure her home. Because of this, she had not even opened it. But now she paused, her attention caught. Wainwright in Scotland. Scotland again. Was this a day to be drenched in nostalgia? She smiled at herself, at this weakness that had suddenly come upon her. Why not? She stooped and picked up the book and carried it out onto the terrace. Peeling an orange, she opened it on the table.

It was indeed a coffee-table book, built for browsing. Pen-and-ink drawings, beautifully executed maps, and a simple text. Coloured photographs sprang from every page. The silver sands of Morar. Ben Vorlich. The Falls of Dochart. The old names resounded satisfactorily, like a roll of drums.

She began to eat the orange. Juice dripped on the pages of the book, and she brushed them carelessly away, leaving stains. Seraphina brought her coffee but she never looked up, so engrossed was she.

Here the river; after a long and sedate journey, suddenly erupts into a furious rage, descending in a turbulent cataract of white foam along a wide and rocky channel in a remarkable display of thrashing waters. The flow of the rapids is interrupted by wooded islands, one of which was the burial place of the clan MacNab, and a bower o
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ovely trees enhances a scene of outstanding beauty. . . .

She poured coffee, turned a page and read on.

Wainwright in Scotland consumed her day. She carried it from the breakfast table to a long chair by the pool and then, after lunch, took it to bed with her. By five o'clock, she had read it from cover to cover. Closed at last, she let it drop to the floor.

It was cooler now, but for once she had scarcely been troubled by the heat. She got off her bed and went out of doors and swam once more, then dressed in white cotton trousers and a blue-and-white shirt. She did her hair, her eyes, found earrings, a gold bracelet. White sandals. She sprayed on scent. Her bottle was nearly finished. She would have to buy more. The prospect of this small luxurious purchase filled her with pleasure.

She said goodbye to Seraphina and went out of the front door and down the steps to where her car was parked in the garage. She got in and drove down the winding hill and so out onto the wide road that led to the port. She parked her car in the courtyard of the post office and went in to collect her mail. She put this in her leather-strapped basket and then left her car and walked slowly through the still-crowded streets, pausing to glance into shop windows, to assess a dress, to price a delectable lacy shawl. At the scent shop, she went in and bought a flagon of Poison, then went on, always walking in the direction of the sea. She came at last to the wide, palm-fringed boulevard that ran parallel to the beach. At the end of the day it seemed as busy as ever, the sands crowded and people still swimming. Far out, windsurfers' sails caught the evening breeze, dipping like birds' wings out across the surface of the water.

She came to a little cafe where a few tables stood empty on the pavement. The waiter came and she ordered coffee and cognac. Then, leaning back in the uncomfortable iron chair, pushing her sunglasses up onto the top of her head, she reached into the basket and took out her letters. One from Paris. One from he
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awyer in New York. A postcard from Venice. She turned it over. Emily Richter, still staying at the Cipriani. A large stiff white envelope, addressed to Croy and readdressed in Archie's handwriting. She opened it and read, in disbelief and then with some amusement, Verena Steynton's invitation.

At Home

For Katy

Extraordinary. As though she were receiving a summons from another age, another world. And yet a world which, by some strange coincidence, like it or not, she had inhabited for the whole of the day. She knew uncertainty. Was it an omen of some sort? Should she pay heed? And if it was an omen, did she believe in omens in the first place?

At Home For Katy. She remembered other invitations, "stiffies" she and Archie had called them, propped on the mantelpiece of the library at Croy. Invitations to garden parties, cricket matches, dances. Dances galore. There had been a week in September when one scarcely slept, somehow surviving with the stolen naps in the backs of cars, or a doze in the sun while others played tennis. She remembered a wardrobe filled with ball dresses, and she herself perpetually complaining to her mother that she had nothing to wear. Everybody had seen the ice-blue satin because she'd worn it at the Northern Meetings, and anyway, some man had spilt champagne all down the front and the stain wouldn't come out. And the rose-pink? The hem was torn and one of the straps had come loose. Whereupon her mother, the most indulgent and patient of women, instead of suggesting that Pandora find a needle and thread and mend the rose-pink, would put her daughter into the car and drive to Relkirk or Edinburgh and there suffer the traumas of Pandora's capricious whims, trudging from shop to shop until the most beautiful-and inevitably most costly-dress was finally run to earth.