September (1990) (44 page)

"So how do you fill your days?"

"So far," she told him, "I've filled them with Henry." She gazed at Conrad, in glum hopelessness, across the table, because he had nailed with a single question the sum total of all her apprehension. Henry was gone, torn from her against her will. You smother him, Edmund had told her, and she had been furiously hurt and angry, but the smothering and the mothering had been her daily occupation and her greatest joy.

Bereft of Henry, there was only Edmund.

But Edmund was in New York, and if he wasn't in New York, then he was in Frankfurt or Tokyo or Hong Kong. Before, she had coped with these long separations, partly because there had always been Henry for comfort and companionship, but also because she had been totally confident, wherever he might be, in Edmund's strength and constancy and love.

But now . . . the doubts and dreadful possibilities of last night's waking nightmares crowded in on her again. Lottie Carstairs, that madwoman ... but perhaps not so mad . . . telling Virginia things that she had never thought to hear. Edmund and Pandora Blair. Why do you think he's taken himself off to America? He'll make a fool of you, same as he did his first wife, poor lady.

Suddenly, it was all too much.

To her horror, she felt her mouth tremble, her eyes prick with tears. Across the table, Conrad watched her, and for a mad instant she thought about confiding in him, spilling out all the anguish of her miserable uncertainties. But then the tears swam into her eyes and his face dissolved into a watery mist, and Virginia thought, oh, bugger, I'm pissed. Just in time. The moment mercifully was over, and the dangerous temptation behind her. She must never speak about it to anybody, because if she did, then the words, said aloud, might make it all true. Might make it happen.

She said, "I'm sorry. So silly." She sniffed lustily, searched for a handkerchief, couldn't find one. Across the table, Conrad offered his own, white and clean and freshly ironed, and she took it thankfully and blew her nose. She said, "I'm tired and I'm miserable." She tried to make light of it. "I'm also slightly pissed."

He said, "You can't drive yourself home."

"I have to."

"Stay here the night and go back in the morning. We'll get a room for you."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

Tears poured again. "I have to get back for the dogs."

He did not laugh at her. He said, "Stay here for a moment. Order coffee. I just have to make a telephone call."

He laid down his napkin, pushed back his chair, and went. Virginia mopped her face, blew her nose again, glanced around the dining-room, anxious that no other person had noticed her sudden attack of weepy emotion. But the other diners were all absorbed in their dinners, munching stolidly at fried fish, or spooning their way through the "offly guid" trifle. The tears, mercifully, receded. The waitress approached to remove their plates.

"Did you enjoy your steak?"

"Yes, it was delicious."

"Are you taking sweet?"

"No. I don't think so, thank you. But if we could have some coffee?"

She had brought the coffee, and Virginia was already drinking the black and noxious stuff, which tasted as though it had been made out of a bottle, before Conrad returned to her. He drew back his chair and sat down. She looked at him inquiringly, and he said, "That's all settled."

"What have you settled?"

"I've cancelled my room, and cancelled the hire car for tomorrow. I'll drive you back to Strathcroy. I'll drive you home."

"Will you go to Croy?"

"No. They're not expecting me until tomorrow morning. I can go to the pub you mentioned."

"No, you can't, because they won't have a room. They're filled with grouse-shooting visitors who've taken Archie's moor." She sniffed away the last of her weeping, poured his coffee. "You can come to Balnaid. Stay the night there. The guest-room beds are all made up." She looked up, and caught the expression on his face. She said, "There's no problem," but even as she said this, knew that there was.

In the darkness, Conrad drove. It had stopped raining, as though the skies had run out of water, but the wind was from the south-west, and still damp, and the night stayed overcast. The road climbed and wound and dipped, and in the hollows lay pools of flood-water from the overflowing ditches. Virginia, bundled in her Barbour, thought of the last time that she had made this journey; the evening Edmund had met her off the shuttle and they had had dinner together in Edinburgh. Then the sky had been an artist's wonder of rose-pink and grey. Now the darkness was sombre and menacing, and the lights that shone from the windows of farmhouses scattered over the surrounding braes of Strathcroy gave little relief, seeming distant and unreachable as stars.

Virginia yawned.

"You're sleepy," Conrad told her.

"Not really. Just too much wine." She reached out and rolled down the window, and felt the cold, wet, mossy air pour over her face. The tyres of the Subaru hissed on the wet Tarmac; out of the darkness came the long call of a curlew.

She said, "That's the sound of coming home."

"You certainly live a long way from anywhere."

"We're just about there."

The street of the village stood empty. Even Mr. Ishak had closed up his shop, and the only lights were those that burnt from behind drawn curtains. On such a night people stayed at home, watched television, made tea.

"We turn left, over this bridge."

They crossed the river, turned into the lane beneath the trees, came to the open gates, the drive that led to the house. All was, predictably, in darkness.

"Don't go around to the front, Conrad. Park just here, at the back. I don't use the front door when I'm on my own. I've got the back-door key."

He drew up, turned off the engine. While the headlights still burnt, she climbed down and went to unlock the back door, reach inside and switch on a light. The dogs had heard the car and were waiting, and showed gratifying excitement at her return, hurling themselves at her feet and uttering small welcoming noises in the back of their throats.

"Oh, what good doggies." She crouched to fondle them. "I'm sorry I've been such a long time. You must have thought I was never coming home. Go on, out you both go and spend pennies, and I'll give you lovely biscuits before you go to bed."

They bundled happily out into the darkness, barked at the alien figure alighting from the Subaru, went to smell him, were patted and spoken to, and then, reassured, bounded off into the trees.

Virginia went on, switching on more lights. The big kitchen slumbered, the Aga was warm, the refrigerator gently hummed to itself. Conrad joined her, carrying his grip.

"Do you want me to put the car away?"

"No matter. We'll leave it in the yard for the night. Just take the keys out. . . ."

"I have. . . ." He laid them on the table.

In the uncompromising brightness, they regarded each other, and Virginia found herself overcome, quite suddenly, by a ridiculous shyness. To deal with this, she became businesslike and hostessy.

"Now. You'd like a drink? A nightcap. Edmund has some malt whisky he keeps for these occasions."

"I'm okay."

"But you'd like one?"

"Yes, I would."

"I'll get it. I won't be a moment."

When she came back bearing the bottle, he had taken off his coat and hat, and the dogs had returned from their nightly expedition and were already curled up on the beanbags by the Aga. Conrad, hunkered down, was making friends with them, talking softly, smoothing their high-domed well-bred heads with a gentle hand. As Virginia appeared, he stood up.

"I've closed the door, and locked it."

"How kind. Thank you. Actually, we often forget to lock doors. Thieves and robbers don't seem to be a problem in Strathcroy." She set the bottle down on the table, found a glass. "You'd better pour it yourself."

"You're not joining me?"

She shook her head, rueful. "No, Conrad, I've had enough for this evening."

He poured the malt and filled the tumbler from the cold tap. Virginia fed the dogs with biscuits. They took them politely, not snapping nor grabbing, and munched them appreciatively up.

"They're beautiful spaniels."

"Edmund's gun dogs, and very well behaved. With Edmund in charge, they don't dare be anything else." The biscuits were finished. She said, "If you'd like to bring your drink upstairs with you, I'll show you where you're sleeping." She gathered up his hat and coat, and Conrad collected his grip, and she led the way out of the kitchen, turning lights off and on as she went. Down the passage, across the big hall, and up the stairs.

"What a lovely house."

"It's big, but I like it that way."

He followed behind her. Below them, the old grandfather clock ticked the minutes away, but their feet made no sound on the thick carpets. The spare room faced over the front of the house. She opened the door and turned on the switch, and all was illuminated by the cold brilliance of the overhead chandelier. It was a large room, furnished with high brass bedsteads and a mahogany suite of Victorian furniture that Virginia had inherited from Vi. Taken unawares, it presented an impersonal face, without flowers or books. As well, the air was stuffy and unused.

"I'm afraid it doesn't look very welcoming." She dropped his hat and coat on a chair and went to fling open the tall sash window. The night wind flowed in, stirring the curtains. Conrad joined her and they leaned out, gazing into the velvety darkness. Light from the window drew a chequered pattern on the gravel beyond the front door, but all else was obscured.

He took a deep lungful of air. He said, "It all smells so clean and sweet. Like fresh spring water."

"You have to take my word for it, but we're looking at a wonderful view. You'll see it in the morning. Out over the garden to the fields and the hills."

From the trees by the church, an owl hooted. Virginia shivered and withdrew from the window. She said, "It's cold. Shall I close it again?"

"No. Leave it. It's too good to shut away."

She drew the heavy curtains, settling them so that there should be no chinks. "The bathroom's through that door." He went to investigate. "There should be towels* and the water's always hot if you want to take a bath." She turned on the small lights on the dressing table, and then the bedside light, and then went to switch off the cold brilliance of the chandelier. At once the high-ceilinged room was rendered cosier, even intimate. "I'm afraid there's no shower. This isn't a very modern establishment."

He emerged from the bathroom as Virginia turned back a heavy bed-cover, revealing puffy square pillows encased in embroidered linen, a flowered eiderdown. "There's an electric blanket if you want to turn it on." She folded the cover, laid it aside. "Now."

There was nothing more to occupy her hands, her attention. She faced Conrad. For a moment neither of them spoke. His eyes, behind the heavy horn-rims, were sombre. She saw his rugged features, the deep lines on either side of his mouth. He was still holding his drink in his hand, but now moved to set it down on the table beside the bed. She watched him do this, and thought of that hand gently fondling the head of one of Edmund's dogs. A kindly man.

"Will you be all right, Conrad?" An innocently intended question, but as soon as the words were spoken she heard them as loaded.

He said, "I don't know."

There's no problem, she had told him, but knew that the problem had lurked between them all evening and now could no longer be pushed out of sight. It was no good prevaricating. They were two grown-up people, and life was hell.

She said, "I'm grateful to you. I needed comfort."

"I need you. . . ."

"I had fantasies about Leesport. Going back to Grandma and G'ramps. I didn't tell you that."

"That summer, I fell in love with you. . . ."

"I imagined getting there. In a limousine from Kennedy. And it was all the same. The trees and the lawns, and the smell of the Atlantic blowing in over the Bay."

"You went back to England. . . ."

"I wanted someone to tell me I was great. That I was doing all right. I wanted not to be alone."

"I feel like shit . . ."

"It's two worlds, isn't it, Conrad? Bumping, and then moving apart. Light-years away from each other."

". . . because I want you."

"Why does everything have to happen when it's too late? Why does everything have to be so impossible?"

"It's not impossible."

"It is, because it's over. Being young is over. The moment you have a child of your own being young is over."

"I want you."

"I'm not young any more. A different person."

"I haven't slept with a woman. . . ."

"Don't say it, Conrad."

"That's what loneliness is all about."

She said, "I know."

Outside in the garden, nothing moved. Nothing stirred the dripping leaves of the rhododendrons. Eventually, a figure slipped away down the narrow paths of the shrubbery, leaving a trail of footmarks on the sodden grass, the indentations of high-heeled shoes.