September (1990) (42 page)

Lovers they were. Edmund a married man, and the father of a wee bairn.

Edmund and Pandora. If it was true, Virginia knew that she had never imagined nor suspected for a single instant. In her innocence, she had not watched for evidence, had read no inner meaning into Edmund's casual words, his easy demeanour. "Pandora's home," he had told her; pouring himself a drink and going to the refrigerator to search for ice. "We've been asked for lunch at Croy." And Virginia had said, "How nice," and gone on frying beefburgers for Henry's supper. Pandora was simply Archie's errant young sister, back from Majorca. And when the great reunion happened, she had paid little regard to the brotherly kiss Edmund had planted on Pandora's cheek, their laughter, and the understandable affection of this greeting. And as for the rest of the day, Virginia had been more interested in the croquet game than curious to know what it was that Edmund and Pandora, watching from the swing seat, were talking about.

And what did it matter what they talked about? Be sensible. So what if they had had a wild and impetuous affair and ended up in Pandora's bed? Pandora at eighteen must have been sensational, and Edmund at the height of his virility. This is today, and adultery is no longer called adultery but extra-marital sex. Besides, it was all a long time ago. Over twenty years. And Edmund had not been unfaithful to Virginia, but to hi
s f
irst wife, Caroline. And now Caroline was dead. So it didn't matter. There was nothing to agonize over. Nothing . . .

They all knew. All thick as thieves. Didn't want me around. I knew too much.

Who knew? Did Archie know? Did Isobel? Did Vi know? And Edie? Because if they knew, they would have been watching, fearing perhaps that it was all going to happen all over again. Watching Edmund and Pandora. Watching Virginia, their eyes filled with a pity that she had never seen. Did they worry for Virginia as they must have worried for Caroline? Did they talk amongst themselves, like conspirators, agreeing to keep the truth from Edmund's second wife? Because if they had, then Virginia had been betrayed, and by the very people she was closest to and most relied upon.

And why do you think your husband's suddenly taken himself off to America? He'll make a fool of you, same as he did his first wife, poor lady.

This was the worst. These were the most dreaded doubts. Edmund had gone. Had he really had to fly off like that, or was New York simply a trumped-up excuse to get away from Balnaid and Virginia and to give himself time to work out his problems? His problems being that he loved Pandora, had always loved her, and now she was back and as beautiful as ever, and Edmund was once more trapped in marriage with yet another woman.

Edmund was fifty, a vulnerable age for restlessness and mid-life crises. He was not a man for showing emotion, and most of the time Virginia had no idea what he was thinking about. Her own self-doubt grew to terrifying proportions. Perhaps this time he would cut his losses and run, leaving Virginia with her marriage and her life tumbling in ruins. Leaving her and Henry lost in the rubble of what she had once thought totally impregnable.

It did not bear thinking about. She rolled over, burying her face in her pillow, shutting out the ghastly prospect. She would not acknowledge it. Would not let it be true.

You are lying, Lottie\

This is where we came in. Back to the beginning.

Chapter
7

Tuesday the Thirteenth

The rain
. W
as cruel, relentless, and unwelcome. It had started before daybreak, and Virginia awoke to the sound of it, and had known a dreadful sinking of the heart. As if things weren't bad enough on this dreaded day, without the elements turning against her. Perhaps it would stop. But the gods were not on anybody's side and the downpour continued, monotonously streaming down from a charcoal-grey sky, right through the long morning and the early afternoon.

Now, it was half past four, and they were on their way to Templehall. Because she had the two boys with her, and all their clobber-trunks, tuck-boxes, duvets, rugger balls, and book-bags-Virginia had left her own little car in the garage, and instead drove Edmund's Subaru, a four-wheel-drive work-horse that he used when he went into rough country, or up the hill. She was not used to driving this vehicle, and its unfamiliarity and her own uncertainty only served to heighten the sense of doom and hopelessness that had dogged her for nearly twenty-four hours.

Conditions were miserable. What light there had been was already seeping from the sky, and she drove with headlights on and the windscreen wipers working full tilt. Tyres hissed on flooded patches of road, and oncoming cars and lorries sent up great waves of blinding mud. Visibility was almost nil, which was frustrating, because under normal conditions, the road that led from Relkirk to Templehall was an exceptionally scenic drive-through prosperous farmlands, alongside the banks of a wide and majestic river famous for its salmon, and past large estates, with distant glimpses of stately homes.

It would have eased the atmosphere had they been able to observe any of this. Remarking on beauty spots, pointing out some distant peak would have given Virginia something to talk about. As it was, she had tried engaging Hamish in lively conversation, hoping that this would divert Henry from his speechless misery, and that he might even join in. But Hamish was in a bad mood. Knowing that the freedom of summer holidays was over was bad enough, but worse was having to go back to school in the company of a new boy. A babe. That's what they called the little ones. The babes. Travelling with a babe was beneath Hamish's dignity, and he just prayed that none of his contemporaries would be around to witness his humiliating arrival. He was not going to be made responsible for Henry Aird, and had made this fact vociferously clear to his mother while she helped him lug his trunk down the stairs of Croy, and flattened, with a brush, his gruesome short haircut.

Accordingly, he had decided upon a course of noncommunication, and had soon put a stop to Virginia's advances by answering her in a series of non-committal grunts. She got the message, and after that the three of them had lapsed into a stony and wordless silence.

Which made Virginia wish that she hadn't brought the wretched boy; had let Isobel drive her own sulky son. But without him there, Henry might well have succumbed to tears, sobbed throughout the journey and arrived at Templehall sodden with weeping and in no fit state to deal with the rigours of his new and daunting future.

The prospect she found almost unendurable. I am hating this, she told herself. It is even worse than I imagined it would be. It is inhuman, hellish, unnatural. And worse is to come, because the moment waits when I have to say goodbye to Henry and drive away, and leave him standing, alien and alone. I hate Templehall, and I hate the headmaster, and I could strangle Hamish Blair. I have never had to do anything in my life that I have hated so much. I am hating the rain, hating the entire educational system, hating Scotland, hating Edmund.

Hamish said, "There's a car behind us. It wants to get past."

"Well, it can bloody wait," Virginia told him, and Hamish was silenced.

An hour later, she was back on the same road, driving the empty vehicle in the opposite direction.

It was over. Henry was gone. She felt numb. Nonexistent, as though the trauma of parting from him had robbed her of all identity. Just now, she would not think about Henry, because if she did she would weep, and the combination of tears, half-darkness, and relentless rain would most likely cause her to drive the Subaru off the road, or into the back of a ten-ton lorry. She imagined the crunch of metal, her own body flung like a broken doll to the side of the road, flashing lights, the howl of ambulances and police cars.

She would not think about Henry. That part of her life was over. But what was happening to her life? What was she doing here? Who was she? What was the reason for driving home to a house that stood dark and empty? She did not want to go home. She did not want to go back to Strathcroy. But where? Somewhere perfectly gorgeous, a million miles from Archie and Isobel and Edmund and Lottie and Pandora Blair. A place of sunlight and calmness and no responsibilities, where people would tell her she was marvellous, and she could be young again instead of about a hundred years old.

Leesport. That's it. She was driving to an airport to catch a jet to Kennedy, a limousine to Leesport. It wouldn't be raining there. It would be Long Island autumn weather, with blue skies and golden leaves and a crisp breeze blowing in over the Bay from the Atlantic. Leesport, unchanged. The wide streets, the crossroads, the hardware store and the drugstore, with the kids outside, wheeling about on their bicycles. Then, Harbor Road. Picket fences and shade trees and sprinklers out on lawns. The road sloping to the water, the yacht anchorage a coppice of masts. The gates of the country club, and then Grandma's house. And Grandma in the garden, pretending to rake leaves but in reality watching for the car, so that she could be out on the sidewalk the moment it drew up.

"Oh, honey, you're back." The soft, wrinkled cheek, the scent of White Linen. "It's been too long. Did you have a good journey? What a treat to see you!"

Indoors, and the other smells. Wood-smoke, sun oil, cedar, roses. Braided rugs and faded slip-covers. Cotton curtains blowing at open windows. And Grandpa coming in from the sundeck, with his glasses on top of his head and The New York Times under his arm. . . .

"Where's my sweetheart?"

Through the murky gloom, clusters of lights now shone ahead. Relkirk. Back to reality, and Virginia now realized that here she was going to have to stop for a little. She needed to go to the loo, freshen up. Find a bar, have a drink, be made to feel human again. She needed warmth and the syrupy comfort of Musak and low lights. No reason to hurry home because there was nobody there to hurry to. A sort of freedom, perhaps. Nobody to care how late she was, nobody to worry about what she was doing.

She drove into the old city. Cobbled streets were awash, rain shimmered in the street lights, pavements were crowded with shoppers and workers, booted, mackintoshed, carrying umbrellas and bags, all hurrying home to the comfort of their firesides and tea.

She made for the King's Hotel because it was familiar and she knew where to find the Ladies'. It was an old-fashioned edifice and in the middle of the town, and so had no car-park of its own. Instead, Virginia found a space on the opposite side of the road and parked the Subaru there, beneath a dripping tree. As she locked the door, a taxi drew up outside the hotel. A man got out, wearing a raincoat and a tweed hat. He paid the driver off, and, carrying a grip, went up the steps that led from the pavement to the revolving door. He disappeared. Virginia paused for traffic to pass, and then ran across the road and followed him inside.

The Ladies' was on the far side of the foyer, but the man had paused at the reception desk. He had taken off his hat and was shaking the rain from it.

"Yes?" The receptionist was a sulky-looking girl, with fat pink lips and frizzy straw-coloured hair.

"Good evening. I have a room booked. I called about a week ago, from London."

An American. His voice husky but lightly pitched. Something about it caught Virginia's attention, as though a hand had tugged at her sleeve. Half-way across the floor, she paused to glance at him. Saw a tall, broad-shouldered back view, dark hair streaked with grey.

"What name did you say?"

"I didn't, but it's Conrad Tucker."

"Oh, yes. If you'd like to sign here . . ."

Virginia said, "Conrad."

Startled, he swung around to face her. Across the space that divided them, they stared at each other. Conrad Tucker. Older, growing grey. But Conrad. The same heavy horn-rimmed spectacles, the same indelible tan. For a second his expression remained blank, then slowly, incredulously, he smiled.

"Virginia."

"I don't believe this. . . ."

"Well, I'll be god-damned."

"I thought I recognized your voice."

"What are you doing here . . . ?"

The boot-faced girl was not amused. "Excuse me, sir, but would you mind signing?"

"I live near here."

"I never knew . . ."

"And you . . . ?"

"I'm staying . . ."

"And how will you be paying, sir?" Boot face again. "By credit card or cheque?"

"Look," said Conrad to Virginia, "this is hopeless. Give me five minutes and I'll meet you in the bar and we'll have a drink. Can you do that? Have you time?"

"Yes, I have time."

"I'll get settled, wash up, and then join you. How's that?"

"Five minutes."

"No more.

The ladies' room, frilled and chintzy, was mercifully empty. Virginia had shed her grotty old Barbour, been to the loo, and now stood at the mirror gazing at her own reflection, and feeling more disorientated than ever by the astonishing unexpectedness of her encounter with Conrad. Conrad Tucker, not seen nor thought of for twelve years or more. Here, in Relkirk. Come from London, and for what reason she could not imagine. She only knew that she had never been so glad to see a known face, because now, at least, she had someone to talk to.

She was not dressed for socializing. Blue jeans and an old grey cashmere sweater with a muffler of a collar. Her appearance was scarcely better. Hair lank with rain, her face clean of make-up. She saw the lines on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth, and th
e d
ark bruises beneath her eyes, evidence of her sleepless night. She reached for her bag, found a comb, fixed her hair, fastened it back from her face with an elastic band.