about seeing your mother again tomorrow.'
'Yes.' That was much better. 'What time do you think she'll come?'
'Well, you've got a busy day tomorrow, out with Willy Snoddy and his ferrets. I should think about tea-time. When you get back, she'll be here.'
'Do you think she'll bring me a present from London?'
'Sure to.'
'Perhaps she'll bring you a present, too.'
'Oh, I don't expect a present. Besides, it's my birthday soon, so I'll get one then. She always gives me something quite special, something that I never realized how much I wanted.'
'What day is your birthday?' He had forgotten.
'The fifteenth of September. The day before the Steyntons' party.'
'Are you going to have the picnic?'
Vi always arranged a picnic for her birthday. Everybody came, and they all met up at the loch and lit a fire and cooked sausages, and Vi brought her birthday cake in a big box, and when she cut it, the assembled party stood around and sang 'Happy Birthday to You.' Sometimes it was a chocolate cake, and sometimes it was an orange cake. Last year it had been an orange cake.
He remembered last year. Remembered the inclement day, the racing wind and the scattered showers that had dampened nobody's enthusiasm. Last year he had given Vi a picture that he had drawn with his felt pens, and which his mother had had framed and mounted, just like a proper picture. Vi had it hanging in her bedroom. This year he was giving her the bottle of rhubarb wine that he had won in the raffle at the church sale.
This year… He said, 'This year, I shan't be there.'
'No. This year, you'll be at boarding-school.'
'Couldn't you have your birthday earlier, so that I could be there?'
'Oh, Henry, birthdays don't work that way. But it won't be the same without you.'
'Will you write me a letter, and tell me all about it?'
'Of course I will. And you shall write to me. There'll be such a lot that I will want to hear.'
He said, 'I don't want to go.'
'No. I don't suppose you do. But your father thinks that you should go, and he nearly always knows best.'
'Mummy doesn't want me to go, either.'
'That's because she loves you so. She knows that she'll miss you.'
He realized then that this was the first time he and Vi had talked about his going away. This was because Henry did not even want to think about it, let alone discuss it, and Vi had never brought the subject up. But now they had started speaking about it, he discovered that he felt easier. He knew that he could say anything to Vi, and knew, too, that she would never repeat it.
He said, 'They've been quarrelling. They've been cross with each other.'
'Yes,' said Vi. '1 know.'
'How do you know, Vi?'
'I may be old, but I'm not stupid. And your father is my son. Mothers know lots about their sons. The good bits and the not-so-good bits. It doesn't stop them loving them, but it makes them a little bit more understanding.'
'It's been so horrid, with them so unkind to each other.'
'It must have been.'
'I don't want to go away to school, but I
Vi sighed. 'If you want to know what I think, Henry, I think they've both been very short-sighted and selfish. But I haven't been able to say anything, because it's none of my business. That's another thing a mother mustn't do. She must never interfere.'
'I really want to go home tomorrow, but…' He gazed at her, his sentence left unfinished, because he didn't really know what he was trying to say.
Vi smiled. When she smiled her face creased into a thousand wrinkles. She laid her hand on his. It felt warm and dry, and rough from all the gardening she did.
She said, 'There's an old saying, that parting makes the heart grow fonder. Your mother and father have had a few days apart, on their own, with time to think things over. I'm sure they'll both have realized how wrong they both have been. You see, they love each other very much, and if you love someone, you need to be with them, close to them. You need to be able to confide, to laugh together. It's just about as important as breathing. By now, I'm certain that they will have found this out. And I'm just as certain that everything will be just as it was before.'
'Really certain, Vi?'
'Really certain.'
She sounded so certain that Henry felt that way too. Such a relief. It was as though a huge weight had dropped from his shoulders. And this made everything much better. Even the prospect of leaving home and parents and being sent to board at Templehall had lost some of its fearfulness. Nothing could be as bad as thinking that his home would never be the same again. Reassured, and filled with grateful love for his grandmother, he held out his arms, and she leaned forward, and he embraced her, hugging her tight around her neck and pressing kisses on her cheek. When he drew back, he saw that her eyes were very shiny and bright.
She said, 'It's time to sleep.'
He was ready for it, now suddenly drowsy. He lay back on the pillow and felt beneath it for Moo.
Vi laughed at him, but gently, teasing him. 'You don't need that old bit of baby blanket. You're a grown-up boy now. You can make fairy cakes, and do jigsaw puzzles, and remember the names of all those wild flowers. I think you can do without Moo.'
Henry screwed up his nose. 'But not tonight, Vi.'
'All right. Not tonight. But tomorrow, maybe.'
'Yes.' He yawned. 'Maybe.'
She stooped to kiss him, and then got up off the bed. The springs creaked once more. 'Good night, my lamb.'
'Good night, Vi.'
She turned out his light and went out of the room, but she left the door open. The darkness was soft and blowy and smelt of the hills. Henry turned on his side, curled up in a ball, and closed his eyes.
7
Friday the Twenty-sixth
When, ten years ago, Violet Aird bought Pennyburn from Archie Baimerino, she had become owner of a sad and drab little house with little to commend it save its view and the small stream that tumbled down the hill on the western march of its land. It was from this stream that the house took its name.
It stood in the heart of Archie's estate, on the face of the hill that sloped up from the village, and access was by the Croy back drive and then a rutted track overgrown by thistles and fenced by sagging posts and broken barbed wire.
The garden, such as it was, lay on the slope to the south of the house. This too was surrounded by rotting posts and straggling wire, and consisted of a small drying-green, a weedy vegetable patch, and dismal evidences of hen-keeping-leaning wooden sheds, much wire netting, and nettles grown waist-high.
The house was built of dull coloured stone, with a grey-tiled roof and maroon paintwork in a sad state of repair. Concrete stairs led up from the garden to the door, and inside were small and lightless rooms, hideous peeling wallpaper, the smell of damp, and the persistent drip of some faulty tap.
In fact, so unattractive was the entire property that Edmund Aird, viewing it for the first time, strongly recommended that his mother abandon the idea of ever living there and start to look for somewhere else.
But Violet, for reasons of her own, liked the house. It had stood empty for some years, which accounted for its dereliction, but despite the mould and the gloom, it had a pleasant feel to it. And it had that little burn within its lands, tumbling away down the hill. And, as well, the view. Inspecting the house, Violet would pause from time to
