September

'I don't know____________________'

'Virginia…'

'Oh…' In a burst of exasperation, she jerked another roller free, flung it at her own reflection in the mirror, and then rounded on him. 'I don't know. I don't know. I can't think straight any longer. And I don't care. Why should I care? What does it matter to me that you and Pandora Blair once had a raging love affair? As far as I'm concerned, it's all lost in the mists of time and absolutely nothing to do with me. I only know that it happened when you were already a married man-married to Caroline-and that you were the father of a child. The simple fact is that that doesn't make me feel very secure.'

'You don't trust me?'

'Sometimes I think I don't even know you.'

'That is a ludicrous statement.'

'All right, so it's ludicrous. But unfortunately we can't all be as cold and objective as you. And if it is ludicrous, you can put it down to human frailty, except that I don't suppose you even know what that means.'

'I'm beginning to realize I know only too well.'

'It's us I'm talking about, Edmund. You and me.'

'In that case, perhaps it would be better to postpone this conversation until you are a little less overwrought.'

'I am not overwrought. And I am not a child any longer, I am not your little wife. And I think perhaps that this is as good a time as any to tell you that I'm going away for a bit. I'm going back to Long Island, to Leesport, to spend some time with my grandparents. I've told Vi. She says you can stay with her. We'll close the house.'

Edmund said nothing. She looked at him and saw his poker-face empty of expression, the handsome features still, the hooded eyes giving nothing away. No hurt showed, no anger. She let the silence lengthen, waiting for him to react to her announcement. For a mad moment, she imagined him flinging reserve to the wind, coming to her side, taking her in his arms, covering her with kisses, loving her, making love to her…

'When did you plan all this?'

Tears pricked behind her eyes, but she set her teeth and willed them away.

'I've been thinking about going for months. I finally made up my mind after Henry went. Without Henry, there is no reason not to go.'

'When are you leaving?'

'I've got a seat on a Pan Am flight out of Heathrow next Thursday morning.'

'Thursday? That's less than a week away.'

'I know.' She turned back to her mirror, pulled free the last of the rollers, reached for her comb, began to draw it through the tangled curls, smoothing out the snarls. 'But there is a reason, and you may as well be told that reason now, because if I don't tell you, some other person will. A strange thing has happened. You remember last Sunday Isobel telling us that she had some unknown American coming to stay? It turned out that he's a man called Conrad Tucker, and we knew each other years ago, in Leesport.'

'The Sad American.'

'Yes. And he is sad. His wife has just died of leukemia and he's been left with a little daughter. He's been over here for a month or ^more, but he's returning to the States on Thursday.' She laid down tbe comb, tossing the shining, clean hair away from her face, turned back to face him. 'It seemed,' she said, 'a good idea to make the journey together.'

'Was that his idea or your idea?'

'Does it matter?'

'No. I don't suppose it makes any difference at all. When are you planning to return?'

'I don't know. I have an open-ended ticket.'

'I don't think you should go.'

'That has an ominous ring to it, Edmund. It wouldn't be a warning?'

'You're running away.'

'No. I am simply taking advantage of a freedom that has been forced upon me. Without Henry, I am in a sort of limbo, and I've got to come to terms with being bereft of him, and I can't do that here. I need time to sort myself out. To be on my own. To be my own person. You have to try, just for once in your life, to see a situation from another person's point of view. In this case, mine. And perhaps, as well, you could try to give me some credit for being honest with you.'

'I would have been astonished had you done anything else.'

After that, there did not seem to be anything else to say. Beyond the open windows, the misty autumn evening sank into an early dusk. Virginia switched on the lights of her dressing-table, and then stood up and moved to close the heavy chintz curtains. From downstairs, sounds reached their ears. A door opening and shutting, dogs barking, voices raised.

She said, 'Noel and Alexa. They're back from their walk.'

'I'll go down.' He got to his feet, stretched his arms, swallowed a yawn. 'I need a drink. Do you want one?'

'Later.'

He made for the door. 'What time are we expected at Croy?'

'Half past eight.'

'You can have your drink in the library before we leave.'

'There's no fire.'

'I lit it.'

He went out of the room. Listening, Virginia heard him traverse the landing, start down the stairs. And then Alexa's voice. 'Fa!'

'Hello, my darling.'

He had left the door open. She went to shut it and then returned to her dressing-table, with some idea of starting to do something about her face. But tears, so long controlled, rose in her eyes, overflowed, streamed down her cheeks.

She sat and watched her own weeping reflection.

The country bus, stopping and starting and taking its time, trundled through the twilit countryside. Leaving Relkirk, it had been full, with every seat occupied, and one or two passengers standing. Some of the people were returning home from work, others had been shopping. A lot of them seemed to know each other, smiling and chatting as they climbed on board. Probably they travelled together every day. There was a man with a sheep-dog. The dog sat between his knees and gazed without ceasing into the man's eyes. The man didn't have to buy a ticket for the dog.

Henry sat at the front, just behind the driver. He was squashed in by the window, because a hugely fat lady had chosen to sit beside him.

'Hello, pet,' she'd said, as she settled herself, her massive bottom shunting him sideways and her bulging thighs taking up most of the space. She had two laden message bags with her, one of which she put at her feet, and the other on her lap. From the top of this bag stuck out a head of celery and a bright pink celluloid windmill. Henry decided that she was taking it home for her grandchild.

She had a round, kind face, not unlike Edie, and beneath the brim of her sensible hat, her eyes screwed up in a friendly way. But when she spoke to him, Henry did not answer her; he simply turned away and gazed from the window, although there was nothing to be seen except rain.

He wore his school stockings and shoes, his new tweed overcoat, which was much too big for him, and his Balaclava helmet. The Balaclava helmet had been a good idea; and he was proud of himself for thinking of it. It was navy-blue and very thick, and he had pulled 't right down over his face, like a terrorist, so that only his eyes showed. It was his disguise, because he did not want anybody to recognize him.

The bus made slow progress, and they had already been travelling for nearly an hour. Every mile or so, they drew to a halt at some crossroad, or lonely cottage, to allow people to get off. Henry watched as the seats emptied; passengers gathered up their possessions and alighted one by one, to set off on foot, to walk the last bit of their journey home. The fat lady beside him got out at Kirkthomton, but she didn't have to walk, because her husband had come to meet her in his little farm truck. As she struggled to her feet, she said, 'Goodbye, pet,' to