so that the colours of the countryside took on a stronger and richer hue. The deep blue of the skies was reflected in loch and river, and with the harvest safely in, the fields stood golden with stubble. Harebells grew in wayside ditches, and the scented heather, coming into full bloom, stained the hills with purple.
And then, most important of all, September meant fun. A packed season of socializing before the darkness of a long winter closed in on them all, when the bitter weather and snow-packed roads isolated scattered communities and precluded any form of contact. September meant people. Friends. For this was when Relkirkshire came truly into its own.
By the end of July, the last of the annual invasion of holiday-makers had, by and large, left; tents were packed up and caravans towed away, as the tourists headed for home. In their stead, August brought the vanguard of a secondary immigration from the south, regular visitors who returned each year to Scotland for the sport and the parties. Shooting lodges that had stood forlornly empty for most of the year were once more opened up, and their owners, driving north up the motorway in Range Rovers loaded to the gunwales with rods, guns, small children, teenagers, friends, relations, and dogs, took happy and grateful repossession.
As well, local households swelled, not with Americans nor paying guests but with the young families who belonged to these establishments and had, by necessity, moved south to London to live and work, saving their yearly vacations to return home at just this time. All bedrooms were occupied, attics turned into temporary accommodation for gangs of grandchildren, and sparse bathrooms worked overtime. Huge quantities of food were produced, cooked, and eaten every day at dining-room tables elongated by extra leaves.
And then, September. In September, all at once, everything came to life, as though some celestial stage- manager had made his countdown and pulled the switch. The Station Hotel in Relkirk was transformed from its customary Victorian gloom to a cheerful, crowded meeting-place for old friends, and the Strathcroy Arms, taken over by the syndicate of businessmen who paid Archie reassuring sums of money for the privilege of shooting grouse over his moor, fairly buzzed with activity and sporting talk.
At Croy, the invitations stood stacked'on the mantelpiece in the library, and covering every type of convivial occasion. Isobel's contribution to the general jollity was an annual buffet lunch party before the Strathcroy Games. Archie was Chieftain of these Games and led the opening parade of village worthies, their stride tactfully slowed to match his halting gait. For this important ceremony, he wore his regimental balmoral and carried a drawn sword. He took his responsibilities with great solemnity and, at the end of the day, presented prizes, not only for piping and Highland dancing but also for the sweater most expertly knitted from hand-spun wool, the lightest of sponge cakes, and the winning pot of home-made strawberry jam.
Isobel kept her sewing-machine in the old linen room at Croy, mostly for reasons of convenience but also because it was her favourite and most private retreat. Not large, but quite spacious enough, it had windows facing west, out over the croquet lawn and the road that led up to the loch, and on bright days was always filled with sunshine. The curtains were white cotton, the floor brown linoleum, and the walls were lined with large white- painted cupboards in which were stowed all the household sheets and towels and spare blankets and fresh bed- covers. The solid table on which stood the sewing-machine was also useful for cutting out and dressmaking, and the ironing-board and the iron stood ready for instant use. As well, there was always a comforting nursery smell of laundered linen and the lavender bags that Isobel tucked in with her crisp piles of pillowcases, and this contributed in no small way to create an extraordinary aura of timelessness and tranquillity.
Which was why, with the name-tapes finished, she made no immediate effort to move but stayed, sitting on the hard chair, with her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. The view beyond the open window led, up beyond the trees, to the first gentle summits of the hills. All was washed in golden sunlight. The curtains stirred in the breeze, and that same breath of air shivered through the branches of the silver birches that stood on the far side of the lawn.
A leaf dropped, drifting like a tiny kite.
It was half past three and she was alone in the house. Indoors all was still, but from the farmyard she heard distant hammering and the barking of one of the dogs. For once in her life she had time to herself, there being no commitment nor person urgently requiring her attention. She could scarcely remember when she had last found herself in such a situation, and her thoughts drifted back to childhood and youth and the lazy, aimless joys of empty days.
A floor creaked. Somewhere a door slammed shut. Croy. An old house with a heartbeat all its own. Her home. But she remembered the day, over twenty years ago, when Archie had first brought her here. She was nineteen and a tennis party had been arranged, with afternoon tea served in the dining-room. Isobel, the daughter of an Angus solicitor, and neither beautiful nor assured, had found herself overwhelmed by the size and grandeur of the place, and as well by the glamour and sophistication of Archie's other friends, all of whom seemed to know each other frighteningly well. Already hopelessly in love with Archie, she could not imagine why he had bothered to include her in the general invitation. Lady Balmerino appeared to be equally perplexed, but had been kind, making certain Isobel sat next to her at the tea-table, and taking pains to see that she was not left out of any conversation.
But there was another girl, long-legged and blonde, who seemed already to have claimed Archie for her own, and made this very clear to the assembled company, teasing him, and catching his eye across the table as though they shared a million private secrets. Archie, she was telling them all, belonged to her, and no other person would be permitted to take possession.
But, at the end of the day, Archie had made up his own mind to marry Isobel. His parents, once they had got over their astonishment, were patently delighted and welcomed Isobel into the family not as Archie's wife but as another daughter. She was fortunate. Gentle, funny, hospitable, unworldly, and totally charming, the Balmerinos were adored by everybody and Isobel was no exception.
From the farm, she heard one of the tractors starting up. Another leaf fluttered to the ground. It occurred to Isobel that now could be an afternoon that had happened long ago, as though time had slipped backwards. The sort of afternoon when dogs sought for shade, and cats basked on window-sills, their furry bellies turned to the sun. She thought of Mrs. Harris, with one of the younger maids in tow, emerging from the kitchen and headed for the walled garden, there to fill a bowl with the last of the raspberries, or reach for the bloomy Victoria plums, capturing their sweetness before the wasps got at them.
All of Croy the way it once had been. Nobody had gone away. Nobody had died. They were still alive, those two dear old people; Archie's mother out with her roses, snipping away at the dead heads and finding time to chat with one of the gardeners while he raked the dusty gravel; and Archie's father in the library, stealing a little snooze with his silk handkerchief spread across his face. Isobel only had to go and find them. She imagined doing this, making her way down the stairs, crossing the hall to stand at the open front door. She saw Lady Balmerino in her straw gardening, hat coming in from the garden, carrying the basket filled with snippings and faded rose petals. But when she looked up and saw Isobel, she would frown and show some confusion because the middle-aged Isobel would be unfamiliar to her as a ghost… 'Isobel!'
The voice, raised, impinged upon her daydreams. Isobel was aware that it had already called, more than once, but she had scarcely heard. Who was wanting her now? Reluctantly she collected herself, pushed back the chair and got to her feet. Perhaps to be left alone for more than five minutes was too much to expect. She went out of the room and down the nursery passage to the head of the stairs. Leaning over the bannister, she saw below her the foreshortened view of Verena Steynton standing in the middle of the hall, having walked into the house through the open front door.
'Isobel!'
'I'm here.'
Verena tilted her head and looked up. 'I was beginning to think there was nobody in.'
'Only me.' Isobel started down the stairs. 'Archie's taken Hamish and the dogs to the Buchanan-Wrights' cricket match.'
'Are you busy?' Verena did not look as though she had been busy. As usual, she was immaculately and suitably turned out, and surely had just been to the hairdresser.
'I've been sewing Hamish's name-tapes for school.' Instinctively, Isobel put a hand to her hair, as though the casual gesture might improve her own tousled head. 'But I've finished now.'
'Can you spare me a moment?'
'Of course.'
'I've got lots to tell you and two favours to ask. I meant to phone but I've been in Relkirk all day and then, driving home, I thought it much simpler and nicer just to call in.'
