party, Verena's dance, all to be taken, one by one, without betraying a single base emotion. No doubt, no lust, no suspicion, no jealousy. Eventually, it would be all over. And when the September visitors were gone, and life was back to normal, Virginia, freed of commitments, would make plans for departure.
She waited for the dawn, from time to time turning on her bedside light to check the hour, but by seven o'clock she had had enough of this pointless occupation and was grateful to abandon her bed with its twisted sheets.
She drew back the curtains and was met by a pale-blue sky, a garden streaked with long, early shadows, and a thin ground mist hanging over the fields. All these were potential signs of a fine day. As the sun rose, the mist would be burnt away, and with a bit of luck, it might become really warm.
She knew a certain relief. To have been met by cold, grey, and rain, today of all days, would have been almost more than she could bear. Not simply because her spirits were low enough without extra depressions, but, as well, whatever the elements threw at them, Vi's birthday picnic, willy-nilly, would take place. For Vi was a stickler for traditions, and cared not if all her guests had to crouch beneath golf umbrellas, paddle about in rubber boots, and cook their damp sausages over a smoking, rain-sizzled barbecue. This year, it seemed, they were to be spared such masochistic pleasures.
Virginia went downstairs, dealt with the dogs, and made a cup of tea. She thought about starting to cook breakfast, abandoned this idea, and went back upstairs to dress and make her bed. She heard a car, dashed to the window, saw nothing. Just some person passing the gates as they headed down the lane.
She returned to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. At nine o'clock the telephone rang, and she sprang for it, expecting some explanation of Alexa, stuck in a motorway telephone kiosk. But it was Verena Steynton.
'Virginia. Sorry to ring so early. Are you out of bed?'
'Of course.'
'Heavenly day. You haven't got any damask table-cloths, have you? White ones, and huge. It's the one thing we never thought of, and of course Toddy Buchanan can't produce them.'
'I think I've got about half a dozen, but I'll have to take a look at them. They were Vi's; she left them behind when she moved out.'
'Are they really long?'
'Banquet-sized. She had them for parties.'
'You couldn't be an absolute saint and bring them up to Corrie-hill this morning, could you? I'd come and fetch them, only we're all going to be doing flowers, and I simply haven't got a moment to spare.'
Virginia was glad that Verena could not see her face. 'Yes. Yes, I could do that,' she said, sounding as obliging as possible. 'But I can't come until Alexa and Noel have arrived, and they aren't here yet. And then I've got to go to Vi's picnic…'
'That's all right… if you could just drop them in. Endlessly grateful. You are a love. Find Toddy and give them to him… and see you tomorrow if not before. Bye-eee…'
She rang off. Virginia sighed in some exasperation, because this morning the last thing she wanted to do was to drive the ten miles to Corriehill and then back again. However, after years of living in Scotland, she had become programmed to the local customs, and one of these was that in times of stress it was a case of all hands to the wheel-even if it was somebody else's-and putting a cheerful face on inconvenience. She supposed throwing a dance counted as a time of stress, but even so wished that Verena had thought of table-cloths before the last moment.
She wrote 'Table-cloths' on the telephone pad. She thought about the picnic and put a large chicken into the oven to roast. By the time it had cooked and cooled, hopefully Alexa would be here, and she would get her to carve it into handy chunks.
The telephone rang again. This time it was Edie.
'Would you be able to give me a lift to the picnic?'
'Yes, of course. I'll come and pick you up. Edie, I'm so sorry about Lottie.'
'Yes.' Edie sounded curt, which was the way she always sounded when she had been much upset but didn't want to talk about it. 'I felt bad.' Which left Virginia uncertain as to whether Edie felt bad because Lottie had had to go, or because of Virginia's involvement in the whole sorry affair. 'What time should I be ready?'
'I have to go to Corriehill with some table-cloths, but I'll try to be with you around twelve.'
'Has Alexa come yet?'
'No, not yet.'
Edie, imagining death and destruction, was instantly anxious. 'Oh my, I hope they're safe.'
'I'm sure. Perhaps heavy traffic.'
'Those roads scare the life out of me.'
'Don't worry. I'll see you at midday, and they'll be here by then.'
Virginia poured another mug of coffee. The telephone rang.
'Balnaid.'
'Virginia.'
It was Vi. 'Happy birthday.'
'Aren't I lucky with the weather? Has Alexa come?'
'Not yet.'
'I thought they'd have arrived by now.'
'So did I, but they haven't shown up yet.'
'I can't wait to see the darling child. Why don't you all come to Pennyburn early, and we'll have a cup of coffee and a chat before we head off up the hill?'
'I can't.' Virginia explained about the table-cloths. 'I'm not even certain where to find them.'
'They're on the top shelf of your linen cupboard, wrapped in blue tissue paper. Verena is a nuisance. Why didn't she think of asking you earlier?'
'1 suppose she's got a lot on her mind.'
'So when will you all be here?'
Virginia made calculations and laid plans. 'I'll send Noel and Alexa up to Pennyburn in the Subaru. And then I'll go to Corriehill in the small car, and on the way back I'll pick up Edie and bring her to Pennyburn. And then we'll pack all of us and all the picnic gear into the Subaru and go on from there.'
'What a splendid organizer you are. It must have something to do with having an American mother. And you'll bring rugs, won't you? And wineglasses for yourselves.' Under 'Table-cloths,' Virginia wrote 'Rugs, Wineglasses.' 'And I'll expect Noel and Alexa at about eleven o'clock.'
'1 hope they're not too exhausted.'
'Oh, they won't be exhausted,' Vi assured her breezily. 'They're young.'
Noel Keeling was an urban creature, born and raised in London, his habitat the city streets and weekend forays into the diminishing countryside of the Home Counties. From time to time his pleasures took him farther afield, and he'd fly to the Costa Smeralda on Sardinia, or the Algarve in southern Portugal, invited to join some house party, where he would play golf or tennis or indulge in a bit of yachting. Sightseeing, gazing at churches or chateaux, admiring great tracts of vineyards did not enter his plans for enjoyment, and if such an outing was suggested, he usually found good reason to opt out, and instead spend the time either lying by the swimming pool, or drifting down to the nearest town to sit beneath the awning of a pavement bar and watch the world go by.
Once, some years ago, he had come to Scotland to join a few friends in a week of salmon fishing. That time he had flown to Wick from London, there been met by another member of the party, and driven to Oykel Bridge. It had been raining. It rained the whole way to the hotel, and continued to rain for the remainder of their stay, the downpour interrupted at infrequent intervals by a slight clearing of the mist, which revealed a great deal of brown and treeless moorland and very little else.
His memories of that week were mixed. Each day was spent thigh-deep in the flood of the river, flogging the swollen waters for the elusive fish. And each evening was passed in a cheerful blur of conviviality, eating quantities of delicious Scottish food and drinking even larger quantities of malt whisky. The surrounding scenery had left no impression whatsoever.
But now, at the wheel of his Volkswagen Golf, and driving the last few miles of their long journey, he realized that he was not only on familiar ground, but also in unexpected territory.
The familiar ground was metaphorical. He was an -experienced guest, with long years of country weekend house parties behind him, and this was by no means the first time he had approached an unknown house to stay
