Anyway, we'll soon see for ourselves. I must go, Vi. I'm making bramble jelly and it's just about to boil over. See you Sunday.'
'So kind. And I'm thrilled about Lucilla…'
But the brambles claimed Isobel. ' 'Bye, Vi.' And she rang off.
Pandora.
Vi put down her receiver, took off her spectacles, and rubbed her aching eyes. She had been tired before, but Isobel's news, delivered with such joy, left her with the sensation that she was being beleaguered. As though impossible demands were about to be made of her, and vital decisions to be made.
She lay back in her chair and closed her eyes, wished that Edie were here, her oldest and dearest friend, so that she could confide, and discuss, and be comforted. But Edie was in her cottage, lumbered with Lottie, and even a telephone call was out of the question, with Lottie listening to every word and drawing her own dangerous conclusions.
Pandora. Now thirty-nine, but because Violet had not seen her since she was eighteen, she had stayed, in Violet's mind, perpetually that enchanting teenager. Like a person already dead. People who had died never aged, just stayed in the memory the way they had once been. Archie and Edmund had matured to middle age, but not Pandora.
Which was ridiculous. Everybody grew older at the same speed, like people at airports being carried along by those moving walkways. Pandora was thirty-nine and had lived a life, if all accounts were to be believed, that was anything but quiet and peaceful. Experience would have left its mark, drawing lines, wrinkling skin, dulling the bright lustre of that amazing hair.
But it was almost impossible to imagine. Violet sighed, opened her eyes, reached for her drink. This would not do. She must pull herself together. The implications of the situation had nothing to do with her. She would make no decision because there was none to be made. She would simply continue to do what she had always done, which was to observe, disregard, and keep her counsel.
Edmund Aird, returning home to Balnaid from Edinburgh at seven o'clock in the evening, walked through his front door just as the telephone started to ring. Standing in the hall, he paused, but when no one immediately answered the call, he laid his brief-case down on the table and went to the library, to sit at his desk and pick up the receiver.
'Edmund Aird.'
'Edmund. Archie here.'
'Yes, Archie.'
'Isobel asked me to call you. She wants you and Virginia and Henry to come for lunch on Sunday. We've asked Vi as well. Can you make it?'
'How very kind of Isobel. I think so… just a moment…'He reached in his pocket for his diary, laid it on the blotter, turned the pages. 'As far as I'm concerned, that would be fine, but I'm only just back and I haven't spoken to Virginia yet. Do you want me to go and find her?'
'No, don't bother. You can ring me if you can't come, and if we don't hear, we'll expect you all at about a quarter to one.'
'We look forward to it.' Edmund hesitated. 'Is this for some occasion we should know about, or just a routine invitation?'
Archie said, 'No.' And then said, 'Yes. I mean, it is an occasion. Lucilla's coming home tomorrow…'
'That's great news.'
'She's bringing some Australian with her.'
'The sheep-farmer?'
'That's right. And she's bringing Pandora.'
Edmund, with some deliberation, closed his diary. It was bound in navy-blue hide, with his initials in gold in one corner. It had been in his stocking last Christmas, a present from Virginia.
'Pandora?'
'Yes. Lucilla and the sheep-farmer went to stay with her in Majorca. They've all come back together, driving through Spain and France. Got to London this morning.' Archie paused, as though waiting for some comment from Edmund. But Edmund did not speak and, after a bit, Archie went on. 'I forwarded an invitation from Verena Steynton, so I suppose she thought it might be fun to come home for the party.'
'It's as good a reason as any.'
'Yes.' Another pause. 'Sunday then, Edmund?'
'Yes, of course.'
'Unless we hear from you.'
'We look forward to it. Thank you for calling.'
He rang off. The library, the house were silent. It occurred to him that perhaps Virginia and Henry were out somewhere, and he was totally alone. This sense of solitude grew, became oppressive. He found himself straining his ears, needing the reassurance of a raised voice, the clatter of dishes, the bark of a dog. Nothing. Then, from beyond the open window, came the long, bubbling call of a curlew, flying low over the fields beyond the garden. A cloud covered the sun, and the cool air stirred. He put the diary back in his pocket, smoothed his hair with his hand, straightened his tie. He needed a drink. He got up from the chair, left the room, and went in search of his wife and his son.
4
Saturday the Tenth
Lucilla said, 'I've never come home in such style before.'
'How did you come before?' Jeff was driving. He had been at the wheel the whole of their long journey north.
'In trains from school. Or driving a ratty little car from Edinburgh. Once I flew from London, but that was in the days when Dad was still a soldier and the War Office paid my fare.'
It was half past three, a Saturday afternoon, and now there were only twenty miles to go. They had made good time. The motorway was behind them, Relkirk bypassed, and the winding road comfortingly familiar, leading them to Strathcroy and home. The river kept them company, and ahead lay the hills. The air was clear, the sky enormous, and the fresh breeze, sweeping in through opened windows, sweet and heady as young wine.
Lucilla could scarcely believe their good fortune. It had been raining in London and pouring in the Midlands, but as they crossed the Border, she had watched the clouds disintegrate, disperse, roll away to the east, and Scotland welcomed them with a blue sky and trees just on the point of turning gold. Lucilla thought that this was extremely obliging of her native country and felt as pleased as if she, personally, had stage-managed the miraculous transformation, but deliberately made no comment on either their luck or the stunning scenery. She had known Jeff for long enough to discover that he did not appreciate, and was even embarrassed by, over-effusion.
They had set off at ten o'clock this morning, checking out of the Ritz, and watching the majestic porters load Pandora's dark-red Mercedes with her impressive array of matched luggage, along with their own humble backpacks. Pandora had forgotten to tip the porters, so Lucilla had had to do it for her. She knew that she would never get it back, but after a night of total luxury with dinner and breakfast thrown in, she felt that it was the least she could do.
To begin with, Pandora had sat in the front of her magnificent car, cosy in her mink, because after the nailing heat of a Majorcan August, she felt in need of its opulent comfort. The cold and the rain were not what she had expected. While Jeff drove them out of the city, jousted with traffic, achieved the motorway, she kept up an endless stream of inconsequential chat. Later, she fell silent, gazing out of the window at the grey and dull countryside through which they swept, in the fast lane, at eighty miles an hour. The windscreen wipers worked flat out, immense juggernauts sent up blinding, muddy showers of spray, and even Lucilla had to admit that it was all thoroughly disagreeable.
'Goodness, it's ugly.' Pandora snuggled deeper into her fur.
'I know. But it's just this bit.'
