September (1990) (49 page)

Across the small space that divided them, her eyes met Virginia's. And Virginia's were filled with pleading, because all she wanted was for Violet to assure her that the whole fabrication was a pack of lies.

Violet sighed. She said, with total inadequacy, "Oh dear."

"It's true then. And you did know."

"No, Virginia, we didn't know. We all had a pretty shrewd idea, but we didn't know, and we never spoke about it to each other, and we all went on behaving as though it had never happened."

"But why?" It was a cry of despair. "Why did you all shut me out? I'm married to Edmund. I'm his wife. How did you imagine that I wouldn't find out? And from that dreadful woman, of all people. It's a sort of betrayal, as though you didn't trust me. As though you thought I was some sort of innocent child, not old enough nor mature enough to deal with the truth."

"Virginia, how could we tell you? We didn't even know for certain. We simply suspected, and being the people that we are, we brushed it all away under the carpet and hoped that it would stay there. She was eighteen, and Edmund had known her since she was a child. But he'd been in London, and he'd married and had Alexa, and he hadn't seen Pandora for years. And then he came north for Archie?s wedding, and there she was again. Not a child any longer but the most ravishing, wicked, delicious creature you've ever seen in your life. And I have an idea that she had always been in love with Edmund. When they met again, it was like an explosion of fireworks. We all saw the fireworks but we turned away and did not watch. There was nothing we could do except hope that the fireworks would burn themselves out. And it wasn't as though there was any chance of it going on for ever. Edmund had commitments in London. His wife, his child, his job. When the wedding was over, he went away, back to his own responsibilities."

"Did he go willingly?"

Violet shrugged. "With Edmund it's impossible to know. But I remember seeing him off, in his car, from Balnaid, and saying goodbye, and very nearly saying something more. Something ridiculous. Like I'm sorry' or 'Time is a great healer' or 'You'll forget Pandora,' but at the end of the day I lost my nerve and I never said anything."

"And Pandora?"

"She went into a sort of teen-age decline. Tears, sulks, misery. Her mother confided in me, and was in the greatest distress about it all, but truly, Virginia, what could we say? What could any of us do? I suggested sending Pandora away for a little ... to do some sort of a course, or perhaps go to Paris or to Switzerland. At eighteen she was still very young in many ways, and some worthwhile project . . . learning a language or working with children . . . might have diverted her misery. Given her the chance to meet other young people and the chance to get over Edmund. But I'm afraid she'd always been most dreadfully spoilt, and in a strange way her mother was frightened of Pandora's tantrums. Whether anything was ever said, I don't know. All I do know is that Pandora simply hung around Croy for a month or two, making everybody's lives utterly miserable, and the next thing was she'd run off with that dreadful Harold Hogg, rich as Croesus and old enough to be her father. And that, tragically enough, was the end of Pandora."

"Until now."

"Yes. Until now."

"Were you concerned when you knew she was coming back?"

"Yes.,A little."

"Do you think they are still in love with each other?"

"Virginia, Edmund loves you." Virginia said nothing to this. Violet frowned. "You surely know that."

"There are so many different sorts of love. And sometimes, when I really need it, Edmund doesn't seem to have it to give."

"I don't understand."

"He took Henry away from me. He said I smothered him. He said I only wanted to keep Henry because he was some sort of a possession, a toy I wanted to go on playing with. I begged and pleaded and finally had that dreadful row with Edmund, but nothing made any difference. It was like arguing with a brick wall. Brick walls don't love, Vi. That isn't love."

"I shouldn't say this, but I am on your side as far as Henry is concerned. However, he is Edmund's child, and I truly believe that Edmund is doing what he think
s b
est for Henry."

"And then this week he swanned off to New York, just when I really needed him here. Taking Henry to Templehall and leaving the poor little scrap was the worst thing I've ever had to do in the whole of my life."

"Yes," said Vi inadequately. "Yes, I know." They fell silent. Violet considered the miserable sityation, went back in her mind on all they had been saying. And then realized that there was a small discrepancy. She said, "Virginia, all this happened on Monday. But you came to see me today. Has something else occurred?"

"Oh." Virginia bit her lip. "Yes. Yes, it has."

"Lottie again?" Violet scarcely dared to ask.

"Yes. Lottie. You see . . . Vi, you remember last Sunday, having lunch at Croy and all of us teasing Isobel about her house guest, the Sad American? Well, on my way back from Templehall, I stopped off at the King's Hotel to go to the loo, and I met him there. And I know him. I know him quite well. He's called Conrad Tucker and we used to play tennis together in Leesport, about twelve years ago."

This was about the most cheerful thing Violet had been told since Virginia appeared. She said, "But how very nice."

"Anyway, we had dinner together, and then it seemed silly, his staying in Relkirk when he was coming to Croy the next day, so he came back to Balnaid with me, and stayed there. I took him up to Croy this morning and left him with Archie. And then I went to Corriehill with some flower vases for Verena. And then I came home and I found Lottie in the kitchen."

"In the kitchen at Balnaid?"

"Yes. She was waiting for me. She told me . . . that last night she'd been at Balnaid, standing in the garden, in the dark and the rain, when Conrad and I came back. She watched us. Through the windows. None of the curtains were drawn. She watched us going upstairs. . . ." Virginia met Violet's horrified gaze, opened her mouth and shut it again. Finally, she said, "She called me a whore. Called Conrad a fancy man. Raved on about lust and fornication . . ."

"She is obsessed."

"She must go, or she will tell Edmund." Before Violet's eyes, Virginia all at once went to pieces, her face crumpling like a child's, tears brimming into her blue eyes and overflowing, streaming down her cheeks. "I can't bear any more, Vi. I can't bear everything being so horrible. She's like a witch, and she hates me so much ... I don't know why she hates me. . . ."

She groped for a handkerchief but could not find one, so Violet handed over her own, lawn and lace
-
trimmed and little use for damming such a flood of misery.

"She is jealous of you. Jealous of all normal happiness. ... As for telling Edmund, he will know, as we all know, that it is nothing but a pack of lies."

"But that's just it," Virginia wailed. "It's true. That's what's so ghastly. It's true."

"True?"

"I did sleep with Conrad. I went to bed with him because I wanted to, and I wanted him to make love to me."

"But why?"

"Oh, Vi. I suppose we needed each other."

It was a desperate admission, and watching her weeping daughter-in-law, Violet found herself flooded with compassion. That Virginia, of all people, should have been driven to such lengths was a clear indication of the state that her marriage had been allowed to reach. But, thinking it over, it was perfectly understandable. The man, Conrad Tucker or whatever he was called, had just lost his wife. Virginia, in a turmoil over Edmund's motivations, had just lost her beloved son. They were old friends. For comfort, people turned to old friends. She was a desirable woman, sexual and attractive, and the American was in all probability a personable man. But still, Violet wished, beyond all else, that it had never happened. More than that, she wished that she had never been told.

Only one essential stood out, crystal-clear.

She said, "You must never tell Edmund."

Virginia blew her nose on the sodden handkerchief. "Is that all you have to say?"

"It's the only important thing to say."

"No reproaches? No recriminations?"

"What took place is none of my affair."

"It was wrong."

"But, under the circumstances, understandable."

"Oh, Vi." Virginia slipped out of the chair, onto her knees, put her arms around Violet and buried her face in Violet's considerable bosom. "I'm sorry."

Violet laid a hand on her hair. She said sadly, "We are all of us human."

For a little, they stayed as they were, comforted by closeness. Virginia's sobs gradually stilled. Presently, she drew away from Violet and sat back on her heels. She blew her nose in a final sort of fashion.

She said, "There's just one more thing, Vi. When Edmund's back, and the dance is all over, I'm thinking of going back to Long Island for a little. To stay with Gramps and Grandma. I need to get away. I've been wanting to go for some months but it never worked out, and now that I have no Henry, it seems a good time."

"And Edmund?"

"I thought . . . Edmund could stay with you?"

"When did you think of leaving?"

"Next week?"

"Is that wise?"

"You tell me."

"Just remember that you can't run away from reality any more than you can run away from guilt."

"Reality being Edmund and Pandora?"

"I didn't say that."

"But that's what you're thinking, isn't it? You just told me she'd always been in love with him. And I'm certain that she's no less beautiful now than she was at eighteen. And they share something that I can't share with Edmund, which is a thousand memories of youth.

And in a funny way, those are always the most enduring and the most important."

"You are important, and I don't think you should leave Edmund just now."

"I've never minded before. All the times he has to go away and leave me, I've never known jealousy or worried about what he was up to. I tell him I don't care what he does provided I don't have to watch him doing it. A joke. But it's not a joke now. If anything's going to happen, I don't want to be a witness."

"You underestimate your friends, Virginia. Do you imagine that Archie would stand by and watch, and do nothing?"

"If Edmund wants his own way, then Archie would be no match for him."

"Pandora will not stay at Croy for ever."

"But she's there now. And now is going to be my problem."

"Do you dislike her?"

"I think she's charming."

"But you don't trust her?"

"At the moment I don't trust anybody, least of all myself. I need to stand back, make a re-appraisal, get things in perspective. That's why I'm going back to the States."

"I still think that you shouldn't go."

"I think I have to."

There did not seem to be anything more to be said. Violet sighed. "In that case, we'll talk no more about it. Instead, we must be practical and take steps. One thing, very clear, is that Lottie must go. Back to hospital. She is a deadly mischief-maker and I fear for Edie. I shall see to that immediately. And while I'm making my telephone call, I suggest that you go and wash your face and tidy your hair, and then find my brandy bottle, which is in the dining-room sideboard, and a couple of glasses. We shall both have a cheering medicinal tot and then we shall feel much stronger and much better."

Virginia did as she was told. While she was out of the room, Violet heaved herself out of her chair and went to her desk. She looked up the number of the Relkirk Royal, dialled, and asked to be put through to Dr. Martin. A little wait while the telephonist bleeped him, and then he came on the line.

"Dr. Martin?"

Violet, at some length, explained who she was, and her connection with Lottie Carstairs.

"You know who I'm talking about, Dr. Martin?"

"Yes, of course."

"I'm afraid that she is really not fit to be out of hospital. She behaves in a most irrational fashion, and is distressing and upsetting a lot of people. As for Miss Findhorn, with whom she is staying, I think it is really all too much for her. She's not a young woman, and Lottie is too much of a responsibility for her."

"Yes." The doctor sounded thoughtful. "I see."

"You don't seem surprised."

"No, I'm not surprised. I discharged her into the care of Miss Findhorn because I thought that maybe going back into ordinary life and living in a regular household would help to restore her to some sort of normality. But it was always a risk."

"It seems that the risk has not paid off."

"No. I realize that."

"Will you take her back into your care?"

"Yes, of course. I'll speak to my Ward Sister. Will you be able to drive Miss Carstairs into the hospital? It might be better than sending an ambulance. And bring Miss Findhorn with you. It's important that she is there, as she is the patient's next of kin."

"Of course. We'll be with you some time this afternoon."