WINTER SOLSTICE
by
ROSAMUNDE PILCHER


ISBN 0-312-97838-3

St.  Martin's Paperbacks

NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware
that this book is stolen property.  It was reported as "unsold and
destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher
has received any payment for this "stripped book."

St.  Martin's Press gratefully acknowledges the permission of David
Higham Associates on behalf of Macmillan Press Ltd.  to excerpt from
Charles Causley's poem "The Seasons in North Cornwall."

WINTER SOLSTICE

Copyright 2000 by Rosamunde Pilcher.  Cover photograph Darrell
Gulin/Stone.

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in
any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of
brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.  For
information address St.  Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY
10010.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-031713

ISBN: 0-312-97838-3

Printed in the United States of America

St.  Martin's Press hardcover edition / August 2000 St.  Martin's
Paperbacks edition / May 2001

St.  Martin's Paperbacks are published by St.  Martin's Press, 175
Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

10 987654321

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

there were times during the writing of this book when my lack of
knowledge on certain aspects precipitated a bad case of writer's block.
Therefore, I must thank those who gave liberally of their time and
expertise, and helped me get going again.

Willie Thomson, who put me in touch with James Sugden of Johnstons of
Egin, and so got the whole show on the road.

James Sugden, for sharing with me his vast knowledge and experience of
the Woollen Trade.

My neighbour, David Tweedie, for his legal advice.  David Anstice, the
clock man of Perthshire.

The Reverend Dr.  James Simpson, for his constant interest and wise
guidance.

And finally, Robin, who paid back a debt by digging his mother out of a
literary hole.

W;

XStrX

EL FRIDA

before Elfrida Phipps left London for good and moved to the country,
she made a trip to the Battersea Dogs' Home, and returned with a canine
companion.  It took a good-and heart-rending-half-hour of searching,
but as soon as she saw him, sitting very close to the bars of his
kennel and gazing up at her with dark and melting eyes, she knew that
he was the one.  She did not want a large animal, nor did she relish
the idea of a yapping lap-dog.  This one was exactly the right size.
Dog size.

He had a lot of soft hair, some of which fell over his eyes, ears that
could prick or droop, and a triumphant plume of a tail.  His colouring
was irregularly patched brown and white.  The brown bits were the exact
shade of milky cocoa.  When asked his ancestry, the kennel maid said
she thought there was Border collie there, and a bit of bearded collie,
as well as a few other unidentified breeds.  Elfrida didn't care.  She
liked the expression on his gentle face.

She left a donation for the Battersea Dogs' Home, and her new companion
travelled away with her, sitting in the passenger seat of her old car
and gazing from the window in a satisfied fashion, as though this were
the life to which he was happy to become accustomed.

The next day, she took him to the local Poodle Parlour for a cut,
shampoo, and blow-dry.  He returned to her fluffy and fresh and
smelling sweetly of lemonade.  His response to all this sybaritic
attention was a show of faithful, grateful, and loving devotion.  He
was a shy, even a timid, dog, but brave as well.  If the doorbell rang,
or he thought he spied an intruder, he barked his head off for a moment
and then retreated to his basket, or to Elfrida's lap.

It took some time to decide on a name for him, but in the end she
christened him Horace.

Elfrida, with a basket in her hand, and Horace firmly clipped to the
end of his lead, closed the front door of her cottage behind her,
walked down the narrow path, through the gate, and set off down the
pavement towards the post office and general store.

It was a dull, grey afternoon in the middle of October, with nothing
much to commend about it.  The last of autumn's leaves fell from trees,
with an unseasonably icy breeze too chill for even the most ardent of
gardeners to be out and about.  The street was deserted, and the
children not yet out of school.  Overhead, the sky was low with clouds,
that shifted steadily and yet never seemed to clear.  She walked
briskly, Horace trotting reluctantly at her heels, knowing that this
was his exercise for the day and he had no alternative but to make the
best of it.

The village was Dibton in Hampshire, and here Elfrida had come to live
eighteen months ago, leaving London forever and making for herself a
new life.  At first she had felt a bit solitary, but now she couldn't
imagine living anywhere else.  From time to time, old acquaintances
from her theatre days made the intrepid journey from the city and came
to stay with her, sleeping on the lumpy divan in the tiny back bedroom
that she called her work-room, which was where she kept her sewing
machine and earned a bit of pin money making elaborate and beautiful
cushions for an interior decorating firm in Sloane Street.

When these friends departed, they needed reassurance: "You're all
right, aren't you, Elfrida?"  they would ask.

"No regrets?  You don't want to come back to London?  You're happy?"
And she had been able to set their minds at rest.

"Of course I am.  This is my geriatric bolt-hole.  This is where I
shall spend the twilight of my years."

So, by now, there was a comfortable familiarity about it all.  She knew
who lived in this house, in that cottage.  People called her by her
name.

"Morning, Elfrida," or "Lovely day, Mrs.  Phipps."  Some of the
inhabitants were commuting families, the man of the house setting out
early each morning to catch the fast train to London and returning late
in the evening to pick up his car from the station park and drive the
short distance home.  Others had lived here all their lives in small
stone houses that had belonged to their fathers and their grandfathers
before that. Still others were new altogether, inhabiting the council
estates that ringed the village, and employed by the electronics
factory in the neighbouring town.  It was all very ordinary, and so,
undemanding. Just, in fact, what Elfrida needed.

Walking, she passed the pub, newly furbished and now called the Dibton
Coachhouse.  There were wrought-iron signs and a spacious car-park.
Farther on, she passed the church, with its yew trees and lych-gate,
and a notice-board fluttering with parish news.  A guitar concert, an
outing for the Mothers and Toddlers group.  In the churchyard, a man
lit a bonfire and the air was sweet with the scent of toasting leaves.
Overhead, rooks cawed.  A cat sat on one of the churchyard gate posts,
but luckily Horace did not notice him.

The street curved, and at the end of it, by the dull bungalow which was
the new Vicarage, she saw the village shop, flying banners advertising
ice-cream, and newspaper placards propped against the wall.  Two or
three youths with bicycles hung about its door, and the postman, with
his red van, was emptying the postbox.

There were bars over the shop window, to stop vandals' breaking the
glass and stealing the tins of biscuits and arrangements of baked beans
which were Mrs.  Jennings's idea of tasteful decoration.  Elfrida put
down her basket and tied Horace's lead to one^ of these bars, and he
sat looking resigned.  He hated being left on the pavement, at the
mercy of the jeering youths, but Mrs.  Jennings didn't like dogs in her
establishment.  She said they lifted their legs and were dirty
brutes.

Inside, the shop was bright with electricity, low-ceilinged and very
warm.  Refrigerators and freezers hummed, and it had strip lighting and
an up-to-date arrangement of display shelving which had been installed
some months ago, a huge improvement, Mrs.  Jennings insisted, more like
a mini  ROSAMUNDE PlLCHER

market.  Because of all these barriers, it was difficult to know at
first glance who was in the shop and who wasn't, and it was not until
Elfrida rounded a corner (instant coffee and teas) that she saw the
familiar back view, standing by the till and paying his due.

Oscar Blundell.  Elfrida was past the age when her heart leaped for
joy, but she was always pleased to see Oscar.  He had been almost the
first person she met when she came to live in Dibton, because she had
gone to church one Sunday morning, and after the service the vicar had
stopped her outside the door, his hair on end in the fresh spring
breeze, and his white cassock blowing like clean washing on a line.  He
had spoken welcoming words, made a few noises about doing flowers and
the Women's Institute, and then, mercifully, was diverted.

"And here's our organist.  Oscar Blundell.  Not our regular, you
understand, but a splendid spare wheel in times of trouble."

And Elfrida turned, and saw the man emerging from the darkness of the
interior of the church, walking out into the sunshine to join them. She
saw the gentle, amused face, the hooded eyes, the hair which had
probably once been fair but was now thickly white.  He was as tall as
Elfrida, which was unusual.  She towered over most men, being five feet
eleven and thin as a lath, but Oscar she met eye to eye and liked what
she saw there.  Because it was Sunday, he wore a tweed suit and a
pleasing tie, and when they shook hands, his grip had a good feel to
it.

She said, "How clever.  To play the organ, I mean.  Is it your
hobby?"

And he replied, quite seriously, "No, my job.  My life."  And then
smiled, which took all pomposity from his words.

"My profession," he amended.

A day or two later, and Elfrida received a telephone call.

"Hello, Gloria Blundell here.  You met my husband last Sunday after
church.  The organist.  Come and have dinner on Thursday.  You know
where we live.  The Grange.  Turreted red brick at the end of the
village."

"How very kind.  I'd love to."

"How are you settling in?"

"Slowly."

"Splendid.  See you Thursday, then.  About seven-thirty."

"Thank you.  So much."  But the receiver at the other end of the line
had already been replaced.  Mrs.  Blundell, it seemed, was not a lady
with time to waste.

The Grange was the largest house in Dibton, approached by a drive
through hugely pretentious gates.  Somehow none of this exactly fitted
in with Oscar Blundell, but it would be interesting to go, to meet his
wife and see his background.  You never really got to know people
properly until you had seen them within the ambiance of their own home.
Seen their furniture and their books and the manner of their
lifestyle.

On Thursday morning she had her hair washed, and the colour given its
monthly tweak.  The shade was officially called Strawberry Blonde, but
sometimes it came out more orange than strawberry.  This was one of the
times, but El- frida had more important things to worry about.  Clothes
were a bit of a problem.  In the end she put on a flowered skirt which
reached her ankles and a long cardigan-type garment in lime-green knit.
The effect of hair, flowers, and cardigan was fairly dazzling, but
looking bizarre was one of Elfrida's best ways of boosting her
confidence.

She set out on foot, a ten-minute walk, down the village, through the
pretentious gates, and up the drive.  For once, she was dead on time.
Never having been to the house before, she did not open the front door
and walk in, calling "Yoohoo," which was her normal procedure, but
found a bell and pressed it.  She could hear its ring coming from the
back of the house.  She waited, gazing about her at well-tended lawns
which looked as though they had just had their first cut of the year.
There was the smell of new-cut grass, too, and the damp scent of the
cool spring evening.

Footsteps.  The door opened.  A local lady in a blue dress and a
flowered apron, clearly not the mistress of the house.

"Good evening.  Mrs.  Phipps, is it?  Come along in, Mrs.  Blundell
won't be a moment, just went upstairs to fix her hair."

"Am I the first?"

"Yes, but not early.  Others'll be here soon.  Want me to take your
coat?"

"No, I'll keep it on, thank you."  No need to enlarge on this, to
explain the little silk blouse beneath the cardigan had a hole under
the sleeve.

"The drawing-room ..."

But they were interrupted.

"You're Elfrida Phipps.... I am sorry I wasn't here to greet you...."
And looking up, Elfrida saw her hostess descending the wide staircase
from a balustraded landing.  She was a large lady, tall and well-built,
dressed in black silk trousers and a loose, embroidered Chinese jacket.
She carried, in her hand, a tumbler half-full of what looked like a
whisky and soda.

"... I got a bit delayed, and then there was a telephone call.  Hello."
She held out her hand.

"Gloria Blundell.  Good of you to come."

She had an open, ruddy face with very blue eyes, and hair which, like
Elfrida's, had probably been tweaked, but to a more discreet shade of
soft blonde.

"Good of you to invite me."

"Come along in by the fire.  Thank you, Mrs.  Muswell; I expect the
others will just let themselves in... this way...."

Elfrida followed her through into a large room, much panelled in the
style of the thirties, and with a vast red brick fireplace where burnt
a log fire.  In front of the hearth was a leather-padded club fender,
and the room was furnished with hugely padded and patterned sofas and
chairs.  Curtains were plum velvet braided in gold, and the floor was
closely carpeted and scattered with thick, richly coloured Persian
rugs.  Nothing looked old or shabby or faded, and all exuded an air of
warmth and a cheerful masculine comfort.

"Have you lived here long?"  Elfrida asked, trying not to appear too
inquisitive.

"Five years.  The place was left to me by an old uncle.  Always adored
it, used to come here as a child."  She dumped her glass onto a handy
table and went to hurl another enormous log onto the fire.

"I can't tell you the state it was in.  Everything threadbare and
moth-eaten, so I had to have a really good refurbish.  Made a new
kitchen as well, and a couple of extra bathrooms."

"Where did you live before?"

"Oh, London.  I had a house in Elm Park Gardens."  She picked up her
glass and had a restoring swallow, and then set it down again.  She
smiled.

"My dressing drink.  I have to have a little boost before parties. What
would you like?  Sherry?  Gin and tonic?  Yes, it was a good place to
be and marvellously spacious.  And Oscar's church, Saint Bid- dulph's,
where he was organist, only ten minutes or so away.  I suppose we'd
have stayed there forever, but my old bachelor uncle was gathered, as
they say, and the Grange came to me.  As well, we have this child,
Francesca.  She's twelve now.  I've always thought it better to bring a
child up in the country.  I don't know what Oscar's doing.  He's meant
to pour drinks.  Probably forgotten about everything, and reading a
book.  And we have other guests to meet you.  The McGeareys.  He works
in the City.  And Joan and Tommy Mills.  Tommy's a consultant in our
hospital at Pedbury.  Sorry, did you say sherry or gin and tonic?"

Elfrida said gin and tonic, and watched while Gloria Blundell went to
pour her one from the well-provided table at the far end of the room.
She then replenished her own glass, with a generous hand for the
Scotch.

Returning, "There.  Hope it's strong enough.  You like ice?  Now, sit
down, be comfortable, tell me about your little cottage."

"Well... it's little."

Gloria laughed.

"Poulton's Row, isn't it?  They were built as railway cottages.  Are
you frightfully cramped?"

"Not really.  I haven't got much furniture, and Horace and I don't take
up much room.  Horace is my dog.  A mongrel.  Not beautiful."

"I have two Pekes, which are.  But they bite guests, so they're shut in
the kitchen with Mrs.  Muswell.  And what made you come to Dibton?"



"I saw the cottage advertised in The Sunday Times.  There was a photo.
It looked rather dear.  And not too expensive."

"I shall have to come and see it.  Haven't been inside one of those
little houses since I was a child and used to visit the widow of some
old station porter.  And what do you do?"

"Sorry?"

"Garden?  Play golf?  Good works?"

Elfrida hedged slightly.  She knew a forceful woman when she met one.

"I'm trying to get the garden straight, but it's mostly shifting
rubbish so far."

"Do you ride?"

"I've never ridden a horse in my life."

"Well, that's straightforward anyway.  I used to ride when my sons were
boys, but that's a long time ago.  Francesca's got a little pony, but
I'm afraid she's not all that keen."

"You have sons as well?"

"Oh, yes.  Grown up now and both married."

"But... ?"

"I was married before, you see.  Oscar's my second husband."

"I'm sorry.  I didn't realize."

"Nothing to be sorry about.  My son Giles works in Bristol and Crawford
has a job in the City.  Computers or something, totally beyond me.  Of
course, we had known Oscar for years.  Saint Biddulph's, Raleigh
Square, was our church.  He played divinely at my husband's funeral.
When we married, everybody was astonished.  That old bachelor, they
said.  Do you have any idea what you're taking on?

It was all marvellously intriguing.

"Has Oscar always been a musician?"  Elfrida asked.

"Always.  He was educated at Westminster Abbey Choir School, and then
went on to teach music at Glastonbury College.  He was choirmaster and
organist there for a number of years.  And then he retired from
teaching, moved to London, got the post at Saint Biddulph's.  I think
he'd have continued there until they carried him out feet-first, but
then my uncle died and fate decreed otherwise."

Elfrida felt a little sorry for Oscar.

"Did he mind saying goodbye to London?"

"It was a bit like pulling an old tree up by the roots.  But for
Francesca's sake, he put a brave face on it.  And here he has his music
room and his books and scores, and he does a \i J.e ^mate coa.c\vva^"
yvsX Vo Ys&p Yv\s> Yvasvd yr.  mxysvc.  \s \v\s> life.  He loves it
when there's an emergency and he can play for morning service in the
Dibton church.  And, of course, he's always sneaking over to have a
little quiet practice all on his own."  Behind Gloria, quietly, the
door from the hall had opened.  Talking away, she was unaware of this,
but, realizing that Elfrida's attention had strayed, turned in her
chair to peer over her shoulder.

"Oh, there you are, old boy.  We were just talking about you."

All at once, and all together, the other guests arrived, letting
themselves in and filling the house with the sound of their voices. The
Blundells went out to welcome them, and for a moment Elfrida was alone.
She thought it would be rather nice to go home now and have a solitary
evening mulling over all she had learned, but of course this was not to
be.  Almost before she could put the shameful thought out of her mind,
her hosts were back, their guests surged into the room, and the dinner
party was on its way.

It was a formal evening, lavish and traditional, with excellent food
and a great deal of splendid wine.  They ate smoked salmon and a
beautifully presented crown of lamb, and there were three puddings, and
bowls of thick cream, and then a creamy blue-veined Stilton.  When the
port was handed around, Elfrida noticed with some amusement that the
ladies did not leave the room, but stayed with the men, and although
she was now on to copious glasses of water, which she poured for
herself from a cut-glass jug, she saw that the other women enjoyed
their port, and Gloria, perhaps, most of all.

She wondered if Gloria, sitting in state at the head of the table, had
slightly overdone her alcoholic intake, and if,

when the time came for them to leave the table, she would heave herself
to her feet and fall flat on her face.  But Gloria was made of tougher
stuff, and when Mrs.  Muswell put her head round the door to say that
coffee was all ready in the drawing-room, she led the way with a steady
step, out of the dinning-room and across the hall.

They gathered around the fire, but Elfrida, lifting her cup of coffee
from the tray, saw through the uncurtained window a sky of deep
sapphire blue.  Although the spring day had been fitful, with showers
and glimpses of sunshine, while they sat over dinner the clouds had
dispersed, and a first star hung in the heavens over the top of a
distant budding beech.  There was a window-seat and she went to sit on
it, cradling the cup and saucer in her hands and watching the stars.

Presently she was joined by Oscar.

"Are you all right?"  he asked her.

She turned to look up at him.  So busy had he been through dinner,
pouring wine, clearing plates, handing around the delectable puddings,
that she had scarcely addressed him all evening.

"Of course.  Such a lovely evening.  And your daffodils will very soon
be in bud."

"You like gardens?"

"I've not had much experience.  But this one looks particularly
inviting."

"Would you like to take a little stroll and be shown around?  It's
still not dark."

She glanced at the others, settled down in the deep chairs around the
fire and in full flood of conversation.

"Yes, I would like that, but wouldn't it be rude?"

"Not at all."  He took her cup from her hand and carried it back to the
tray.  He set it down.

"Elfrida and I are going to have a stroll around the garden."

"At this hour?"  Gloria was astounded.

"It's dark and it's cold."

"Not so dark.  We'll be ten minutes."

"Right, but make sure the poor girl's got a coat.  It's chilly and damp
... don't let him keep you too long, my dear...."

"I won't...."

The others went back to their discussion, which was about the
iniquitous price of private education.  Elfrida and Oscar went out
through the door.  He closed it quietly behind him and then lifted from
a chair a thick leather coat lined in sheepskin.

"It's Gloria's ... you can borrow it," and he draped it gently over
Elfrida's shoulders.  Then he opened the half-glassed front door, and
they stepped outside into the chill and purity of the spring evening.
Shrubs and borders loomed in the dusk, and underfoot the grass was wet
with dew.

They walked.  At the far end of the lawn was a brick wall, fronted by
borders and broken by an archway with an imposing wrought-iron gate. He
opened this and they went through and were in a spacious walled garden,
neatly divided into geometrical shapes by hedges of box.  One quarter
was a rose garden, the bushes pruned and richly composted. Clearly,
when summer came, mere would be something of a display.

Faced with professionalism, she felt inadequate.

"Is this all your work?"

"No.  I plan, but I employ labourers."

"I'm not much good at flower names.  I've never had a proper garden."

"My mother was never lost for names.  If someone asked her the name of
a flower, and she had no idea what it was, she simply said, with much
authority, Inapoticum, Forge- tanamia.  It nearly always worked."

"I must remember that."

Side by side, they strolled down the wide gravel led pathway.  He said,
"I hope you didn't feel too distanced at dinner.  I'm afraid we're
something of a parochial lot."

"Not at all.  I enjoyed every moment.  I like to listen."

"Country life.  It teems with intrigue."

"Do you miss London?"

"From time to time, enormously.  Concerts and the opera.  My church.
Saint Biddulph's."

"Are you a religious person?"  Elfrida asked impulsively, 1 2
R.OSAMUNDE PlLCHER

and then wished that she hadn't Too soon for such a per But he remained
unfazed.

"I don't know.  But I have spent the whok of my life steeped in the
sacred music, the liturgies and magnific ats of the Anglican Church.
And I would find it uncomfortable to live in a world where I had no
person to thank."

"For blessings, you mean?"

"Just so."

"I understand, but even so I'm not a bit religious.  I only went to
church that Sunday because I was feeling a bit isolated and I needed
the company of other people.  I didn't expect the lovely music.  And
I'd never heard that setting of the Te Deum before."

"The organ is a new one.  Paid for by countless Bring and Buy sales of
work."

They trod in silence for a moment.  Then Elfrida said, "Do you count
that as a blessing?  The new organ, I mean."

He laughed.

"You are like a little dog, worrying a bone.  Yes, of course I do."

"What else?"

He did not immediately reply.  She thought of his home, his wife, his
enormously comfortable and lavish house.  His music room, his friends,
his obvious financial security.  She thought it would be interesting to
know how Oscar had come to marry Gloria.  Had he, after years of
bachelor dom small boys, meagre salaries, and dusty academic rooms,
seen, looming in the future, the emptiness of an elderly bachelor's old
age, and taken the easy way out?  The wealthy, forceful widow, the
capable hostess, good friend, competent mother.  Or perhaps it was she
who had done the stalking, and she who had made the decision.  Perhaps
they had simply fallen madly in love.  Whatever, it seemed to work.

The silence lay between them.  She said, "Don't tell me if you'd rather
not."

"I was simply trying to decide how to explain.  I married late in life
and Gloria already had boys by her previous marriage.  For some reason
it never occurred to me that I should

have a child of my own.  When Francesca was born, I was amazed, not
simply that she was there, a tiny human being, but so beautiful.  And
familiar.  As though I had known her always.  A miracle.  Now she is
twelve and I am still astounded by my good fortune."

"Is she here at home?"

"No, at a weekly boarding-school.  Tomorrow evening, I fetch her for
the weekend."

"I would like to meet her."

"You shall.  I like to think that you'll be charmed by her.  When
Gloria inherited this pile of a house, I kicked against leaving London.
But for Francesca I went with the tide and complied.  Here, she has
space and freedom.  Trees, the smell of grass.  Room to grow.  Room for
the rabbits and the guinea pigs and the pony."

"For me," said Elfrida, "the best is bird-song in the morning and big
skies."

"You too, I believe, have also fled from London?"

"Yes.  It was time."

"A wrench?"

"In a way.  I'd lived there all my life.  From the moment I left school
and left home.  I was at RADA.  I was on the stage, you see.  Much to
my parents' disapproval.  But I didn't mind about disapproval.  I never
have, really."

"An actress.  I should have known."

"And a singer, too.  And a dancer.  Revues and big American musicals. I
was the one at the back of the chorus line because I was so dreadfully
tall.  And then years of fortnightly Rep, and then bit parts on
television.  Nothing very illustrious."

"Do you still work?"

"Heavens, no.  I gave it up years ago.  I married an actor, which was
the most dreadful mistake for every sort of reason.  And then he went
off to America and was never seen again, so I kept myself by doing any
sort of job that came my way, and then I got married again.  But that
wasn't much use either.  I don't think I was ever a very good
picker."

"Was number-two husband an actor as well?"  His voice

was amused, which was exactly the way Elfrida wanted it to be.  She
seldom talked about her husbands, and the only way to make disasters
bearable was to laugh about them.

"Oh, no, he was in business.  Terribly expensive vinyl flooring.  One
would have thought I would have been marvellously secure and safe, but
he had that disagreeable Victorian conviction that if a man feeds and
houses his wife, and doles out some sort of a housekeeping allowance,
then he has kept his share of the marital bargain."

"Well," said Oscar, "and why not?  An old-established tradition, going
back for centuries.  Only then it was called slavery."

"How nice that you understand.  Turning sixty was one of the best days
of my life, because I got my old age pension book, and knew that I
could walk down to the nearest post office and be given money, cash in
hand, for doing nothing.  I'd never in my life been given something for
nothing.  It was like a whole new world."

"Did you have children?"

"No.  Never children."

"You still haven't explained why you moved to this particular
village."

"A need to move on."

"A big step."

It was nearly dark now.  Turning, Elfrida looked back towards the
house, and saw, through the lace-work of the wrought-iron gate, the
glow of the drawing-room windows.  Somebody had drawn the curtains. She
said, "I haven't talked about it.  I haven't told anybody."

"You don't need to tell me."

"Perhaps I've talked too much already.  Perhaps I drank too much wine
at dinner."

"I don't think so."

"There was this man.  So special, so loving, funny, and perfect.
Another actor, but successful and famous this time and I won't say his
name.  Brilliant.  We lived together for three years in his little
house in Barnes, and then he got Parkinson's disease and it took him
another two years to die.

It was his house.  I had to leave.  A week after his funeral I saw an
advertisement for the cottage in Poulton's Row.  In The Sunday Times.
And the next week I bought it.  I have very little money, but it wasn't
too expensive.  I brought my dear dog, Horace, with me for company, and
I have my old age pension, and I have a little job making cushions for
a rather snob interior designer in London.  It's not very arduous and
it keeps me busy and my head above water.  I always liked to sew, and
it's good to work with lovely, expensive materials, and each project is
different."  It all sounded very trivial.

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this.  It's not very
interesting."

"I find it fascinating."

"I don't see why you should.  But you're very kind."  It was dark now.
Too dark to see into his face, or read the expression in his hooded
eyes.

"I think perhaps it's time we went back to the others."

"Of course."

"I love your garden.  Thank you.  Sometime I must see it in the
daylight."

That was Thursday.  The following Sunday morning, it rained, not a
spring shower, but regular rain drumming down against the windows of
Elfrida's cottage and darkening the tiny rooms, so that she was forced
to switch on all the lights.  After she had put Horace out into the
garden for his morning wee, she made a cup of tea and took it back to
bed with her, intending to spend the morning warm, comfortable, and
idle, reading yesterday's newspapers and struggling to finish the
crossword.

But, just after eleven, she was interrupted by the ringing of the
front-door bell, a jangling device operated by a hanging chain.  The
noise it made was like nothing so much as an emergency fire alarm and
Elfrida nearly jumped out of her skin.  Horace, lying across the foot
of the bed, raised himself into a sitting position and let out a couple
of barks.  This was as much as he was prepared to do in the cause of
protecting his mistress, for he was of a cowardly nature and not in the
habit of snarling, nor biting intruders.



Astonished, but not alarmed, Elfrida climbed out of bed, pulled on her
dressing-gown, tied the sash, and made her way down the steep and
narrow staircase.  The stairs descended into her living-room, and the
front door opened straight onto the miniature front garden.  And there
she found a small girl, in jeans and sneakers and a dripping anorak.
The anorak had no hood, so the child's head was wet as the coat of a
dog that had just enjoyed a good swim.  She had auburn hair, braided
into plaits, and her face was freckled and rosy from the chill, damp
outdoors.

"Mrs.  Phipps?"

There were bands on her teeth, a mouthful of ironmongery.

"Yes."

"I'm Francesca Blundell.  My mother said it's such an awful day, would
you like to come for lunch?  We've got an enormous bit of beef and
there's heaps-" "But I've only just been to dinner-" "She said you'd
say that."

"It's terribly kind.  As you can see, I'm not dressed yet.  I hadn't
even thought about lunch."

"She was going to phone, but I said I'd bicycle."

"You biked?"

"I left it on the pavement.  It's all right."  A douche of water from
an overflowing gutter missed her by inches.

"I think," said Elfrida, "you'd better come in before you drown."

"Oh, thank you."  Briskly, Francesca accepted the invitation and
stepped indoors.  Hearing voices, and deciding that it was safe to
appear, Horace, with dignity, descended the stairs.  Elfrida closed the
door.

"This is Horace, my dog."

"He's sweet.  Hello.  Mummy's Pekes always yap for hours when there's a
visitor.  Do you mind if I take off my anorak?"

"No, I think it would be a very good idea."

This Francesca proceeded to do, unzipping the jacket and draping it
over the newel-post at the bottom of the banister, where it dripped
onto the floor.

Francesca looked about her.  She said, "I always thought these were the
dearest little houses, but I've never been in

side one of them."  Her eyes were very large and grey, fringed with
thick lashes.

"When Mummy said you were living here, I couldn't wait to come and
look.  That's why I hiked.  Do you mind?"

"Not a bit.  It's all rather cluttered, I'm afraid."

"I think it's perfect."

It wasn't, of course.  It was cramped and shabby, filled with the few
personal bits and pieces Elfrida had brought with her from London.  The
sagging sofa, the little Victorian armchair, the brass fender, the
battered desk.  Lamps, and worthless pictures, and too many books.

"I was going to lay and light a fire as it's such a grey day, but I
haven't got around to it yet.  Would you like a cup of tea or coffee or
something?"

"No, thank you, I've just had a Coke.  Where does that door go?"

"Into the kitchen.  I'll show you."

She led the way, opened the wooden door with the latch, and pushed it
ajar.  Her kitchen was no larger than a boat's galley.  Here a small
Rayburn simmered away, keeping the whole of the house warm; a wooden
dresser was piled with china; a clay sink stood beneath the window; and
a wooden table and two chairs filled the remainder of the space.
Alongside the window, a stable door led out into the back garden.  The
top half of this was glazed in small panes, and through this could be
seen the flagged yard and the narrow border, which was as far as
Elfrida had got in the way of making a flower-bed.  Ferns thrust their
way between the flags, and there was a honeysuckle scrambling over the
neighbour's wall.

"It's not very inviting on a day like this, but there's just room to
sit out in a deck-chair on a summer evening."

"Oh, but I love it."  Francesca looked about her with a housewifely
eye.

"You haven't got a fridge.  And you haven't got a washing machine.  And
you haven't got a freezer."

"No, I haven't got a freezer.  I have a fridge and a washing machine,
but I keep them in the shed at the bottom of the yard.  And I do all my
dishes in the sink, because there's no space for a dishwasher."



"I think Mummy would die if she had to wash dishes."

"It's not very arduous when you live on your own."

"I love all of your china.  Blue and White.  It's my favourite."

"I love it, too.  None of it matches, but I buy a bit whenever I find
something in a junk-shop.  There's so much now, there's scarcely space
for it."

"What's upstairs?"

"The same.  Two rooms and a tiny bathroom.  The bath is so small I have
to hang my legs over the side.  And a bedroom for me and a work-room
where I do my sewing.  If I have a guest, they have to sleep there,
along with the sewing- machine and scraps of material and order
books."

"Daddy told me you made cushions.  I think it's all exactly right.  For
one person.  And a dog, of course.  Like a doll's house."

"Have you got a doll's house?"

"Yes, but I don't play with it any more.  I've got animals.  A guinea
pig called Happy, but he's not very well.  I think he'll have to go to
the vet.  He's got horrible bare patches all over his fur.  And I've
got rabbits.  And a pony."  She wrinkled her nose.

"He's called Prince but he's a bit nappy sometimes.  I think I'd better
go now.  Mummy said I had to muck Prince out before lunch, and it takes
ages, 'specially in the rain.  Thank you for letting me see your
house."

"A pleasure.  Thank you for bringing that kind invitation."

"You'll come, won't you?"

"Of course."

"Will you walk?"

"No, I'll bring my car.  Because of the rain.  And if you ask me where
I keep my car, I'll tell you.  On the road."

"Is it that old blue Ford Fiesta?"

"It is.  And 'old' is the operative word.  But I don't mind provided
the wheels go round and the engine starts."

Francesca smiled at this, revealing, unembarrassed, her wired-up teeth.
She said, "I'll see you later then."  She reached for her anorak, still
dripping, pulled on the sodden garment, and tossed free her plaits. 
Elfrida opened the door for her.

"Mummy said, a quarter to one."

"I'll be mere, and thank you for coming."

"I'll come again," Francesca promised, and Elfrida watched her go
splashing down the path and through the gate.  A moment later, she was
off, on her bike, with a wave of her hand, pedalling furiously down
through the puddles and along the road, out of sight.

Oscar, Gloria, and Francesca were Elfrida's first friends.  Through
them, she met others.  Not just the McGeareys and the Millses, but the
Foubisters, who were old-established and held the annual summer church
fete in the park of their rambling Georgian house.  And Commander
Burton Jones, Royal Navy Retired, a widower and immensely industrious,
labouring in his immaculate garden, Chairman of the Public Footpath
Association, and principal chorister in the church choir.  Commander
Burton Jones (Bobby's the name) threw racy little drinks parties and
called his bedroom his cabin.  Then there were the Dunns, he an
immensely wealthy man who had bought and converted the old Rectory into
a marvel of space and convenience, complete with games-room and a
covered and heated swimming-pool.

Others, humbler, came into her life one by one, as Elfrida went about
her daily business.  Mrs.  Jennings, who ran the village shop and the
post office.  Mr.  Hodgkins, who did the rounds, once a week, with his
butcher's van, was a reliable source of news and gossip, and held
strong political views.  Albert Meddows, who answered her advertisement
(a postcard stuck up in Mrs.  Jennings's window) for garden help, and
tackled, single-handed, the sad disarray and crooked pavings of
Elfrida's back garden.  The vicar and his wife invited her to a fork
supper, in the course of which he repeated his suggestion that she join
the Women's Institute.  Politely declining-she did not enjoy bus trips
and had never made a pot of jam in her life-she agreed to involvement
with the primary school and ended up producing their annual pantomime
at Christmas.

All amiable enough and welcoming, but none of them El

frida found either as interesting or stimulating as the Blun- dells.
Gloria's hospitality was without bounds, and scarcely a week went by
when Elfrida was not invited to spend time at the Grange, for lavish
meals or some outdoor occasion like a tennis party (Elfrida did not
play tennis, but was happy to observe) or a picnic.  There were other,
more far-flung, occasions: the spring point-to-point at a nearby farm,
a visit to a National Trust garden, an evening out at the theatre at
Chichester.  She had spent Christmas with them, and New Year's Eve, and
when she threw her first little party for all her new friends (Albert
Meddows having resuscitated her garden, levelled the flagstones, pruned
the honeysuckle, and painted the shed), it was Oscar who volunteered to
be her barman and Gloria who produced copious eats from her own
spacious kitchen.

However, there were limits and reservations.  There had to be if
Elfrida was not to be absorbed by, and beholden to, the Blundells. From
the very first, she had recognized Gloria as a forceful woman-with,
possibly, a ruthless streak, so determined was she always that things
should go her way- and was more than aware of the dangers of such a
situation.  She had left London to make a life of her own, and knew
that it would be only too easy for a single and fairly impoverished
female to be swept along (and possibly drowned) in the churning wake of
Gloria's social energy.

So, from time to time, Elfrida had learned to step back, to keep to
herself, to make excuses.  A work overload, perhaps, or a prior
engagement, which could not possibly be broken, with some imagined
acquaintance whom Gloria did not know.  Every now and then, she escaped
from the confines of Dibton, packing Horace into the passenger seat of
her old car and driving far out across country, to some other county
where she was not known, and where she and Horace could climb a
sheep-grazed hill, or follow the path by some dark flowing stream, and
find at the end of it a pub full of strangers, where she could eat a
sandwich and drink coffee and relish her precious solitude.

On such occasions, distanced from Dibton, and with per r^

cept ions sharpened by a sense of perspective, it became possible to be
analytical about her involvement with the Blun- dells, and to catalogue
her findings, impersonal and detached as a shopping list.

The first was that she liked Oscar immensely; perhaps too much.  She
was well past the age of romantic love, but companionship was another
matter.  From their first meeting outside Dibton church, when she had
been instantly taken with him, she had come to enjoy his company more
and more.  Time had not proved that first impression wrong.

But the ice was thin.  Elfrida was neither sanctimonious nor a lady
with enormously high moral standards; indeed, all the time she lived
with him, her dear dead lover had been the husband of another woman.
But Elfrida had never met his wife, and the marriage was already on the
rocks by the time he and Elfrida found each other, and for this reason
she had never been consumed by guilt.  On the other hand, there was
another and not nearly so harmless scenario, and one which Elfrida had
witnessed more than once.  That of the single lady, widowed, divorced,
or otherwise bereft, being taken under the wing of a loyal girl-friend,
only to scarper with the loyal girl-friend's husband.  A reprehensible
situation and one of which she strongly disapproved.

But in Elfrida's case, it was not about to happen.  And she knew that
her awareness of danger and her own common sense were her greatest
strengths.

Second was that Francesca, at twelve years old, was the daughter whom,
if she had ever had a child, Elfrida would have liked to call her own.
She was independent, open, and totally straightforward, and yet
possessed of a sense of the ridiculous that could reduce Elfrida to
helpless laughter, and an imagination that was fed by voracious reading
of books.  Into these, Francesca became so absorbed that one could go
into a room, switch on the television, hold loud discussions, and
Francesca would not even raise her head from the printed page.  During
the school holidays, she frequently turned up at Poulton's Row, to play
with Horace or watch Elfrida at her sewing-machine, at the same time
asking end

less questions about Elfrida's theatrical past, which she clearly found
fascinating.

Her relationship with her father was unusually close and very sweet. He
was old enough to be her grandfather, but their delight in each other's
company went far beyond that of the normal parent and child. From
behind the closed music-room door could be heard the two of them
playing duets on his piano, and fumbling mistakes brought not
recrimination, but much laughter.  On winter evenings he read aloud to
her, the two of them curled up in his huge armchair, and her affection
for him was manifested in frequent hugs and.  loving physical contact,
thin arms wound about his neck and kisses pressed onto the top of his
thick white hair.

As for Gloria, Gloria was a man's woman, and so closer to her grown-up
and married sons than her lately conceived daughter.  Elfrida had met
these sons, Giles and Crawford Bellamy, and their pretty, well-dressed
wives, when they turned up at the Grange for a weekend, or drove down
from London for Sunday lunch.  Although not twins, they were strangely
similar-conventional and opinionated.  Elfrida got the impression that
neither of the brothers approved of her, but as she didn't much like
either of them, that was not bothering.  Their mother doted on them,
which was far more important, and when the time came for them to leave
for London or Bristol or wherever they lived, the boots of their
expensive cars loaded down with fresh vegetables and fruit from
Gloria's kitchen garden, she would stand, waving them away, like any
sentimental mother.  It was patently clear that in her eyes neither son
could do wrong, and Elfrida was pretty sure that if Gloria had not
approved of their chosen brides, then both Daphne and Arabella would
have got short shrift.

But Francesca was a different cup of tea.  Deeply influenced by Oscar,
she went her own way, followed her own interests, and found books and
music a good deal more alluring than the local Pony Club gymkhana. Even
so, she was never rebellious or sulky, and with good grace cared for
her bad-tempered little pony and exercised him regularly, riding around
the paddock that Gloria had set aside for

equestrian activities, and taking him on long hacks down the quiet
tracks by the little river.  Often, on these occasions, Oscar
accompanied her, mounted on an ancient sit-up and-beg bicycle, relic of
schoolmaster days.

Gloria let them be, possibly, Elfrida decided, because Francesca was
not that important to Gloria; not as absorbing or fulfilling as her own
hectic life-style, her parties, her circle of friends.  Important, too,
was her position as social mentor, and sometimes she reminded Elfrida
of a huntsman blowing his horn for attention and whipping in his
hounds.

Only once had Elfrida fallen from grace.  It was during a convivial
evening with the Foubisters, a dinner party of great formality and
style, with candles lit and silver gleaming and an aged butler waiting
at table.  After dinner, in the long drawing-room (rather chilly, for
the evening was cool), Oscar had moved to the grand piano to play for
them, and after a Chopin etude, had suggested that Elfrida should
sing.

She was much embarrassed and taken aback.  She had not sung for years,
she protested, her voice was hopeless.... But old Sir Edwin Foubister
added his persuasions.  Please, he had said.  I've always liked a
pretty tune.

So disarming was he that Elfrida found herself hesitating.  After all,
what did it matter if her voice had lost its youthful timbre, she
wobbled on the high notes, and was about to make a fool of herself? And
at that moment, she caught sight of Gloria's face, florid and set like
a bulldog in an expression of disapproval and dismay.  And she knew
that Gloria did not want her to sing.  Did not want her to stand up
with Oscar and entertain the little group.  She did not like others to
shine, to steal attention, to deflect the conversation away from
herself.  It was a perception of total clarity and somewhat shocking,
as though she had caught Gloria in a state of undress.

In different circumstances Elfrida might have played safe, gracefully
declined, made excuses.  But she had dined well and drunk delicious
wine, and emboldened by this, a tiny flame of self-assertion flickered
into life.  She had never allowed herself to be bullied, and was not
about to start.  So 24

she smiled into Gloria's threatening frowns, and then turned her head
and let the smile rest upon her host.  She said, "If you want, I should
like to, very much...."

"Splendid."  Like a child, the old man clapped his hands.

"What a treat."

And Elfrida stood, and crossed the floor to where Oscar waited for
her.

"What will you sing?"

She told him.  An old Rodgers and Hart number.

"Do you know it?"

"Of course."

A chord or two for introduction.  It had been a long time.  She
straightened her shoulders, filled her lungs.... "/ took one look at
you..."

Her voice had aged to thinness, but she could still hold, truly, the
tune.

"And then my heart stood still."

And she was all at once consumed by reason less happiness, and felt
young again, standing by Oscar, and, with him, filling the room with
the music of their youth.

Gloria scarcely spoke for the rest of the evening, but nobody
endeavoured to coax her out of her black mood.  While they marvelled
and congratulated Elfrida on her performance, Gloria drank her brandy.
When it was time to leave, Sir Edwin accompanied them out to where
Gloria's highly powered estate car was parked on the neatly raked
gravel.  Elfrida bade him good night, and got into the back of the car,
but it was Oscar who slipped in behind the driving wheel, and Gloria
was forced to take the passenger seat of her own vehicle.

Heading home, "How did you enjoy your evening?"  Oscar asked his wife.
Gloria replied shortly, "I have a headache," and fell silent once
more.

Elfrida thought, no wonder, but prudently didn't say it.  And that was
perhaps the saddest truth of all.  Gloria Blum dell, hard-headed and
with a stomach like a tin bucket, drank too much.  She was never
incapable, never hung over.  But she drank too much.  And Oscar knew
it.

Oscar.  And now, here he was, in Mrs.  Jennings's shop on a grey
October afternoon, picking up his newspaper and paying for a bag of dog
meal.  He wore corduroys and a thick tweedy-looking sweater, and sturdy
boots, which seemed to indicate that he had been gardening, remembered
these necessary errands, and come.

Mrs.  Jennings looked up.

"Afternoon, Mrs.  Phipps."

With his hand full of change, Oscar turned and saw her.

"Elfrida.  Good afternoon."

She said, "You must have walked.  I didn't see your car."

"Parked it round the corner.  That's it, I think, Mrs.  Jennings."

He moved aside to make space for Elfrida, and stood, apparently in no
sort of hurry to go.

"We haven't seen you for days.  How are you?"

"Oh, surviving.  A bit fed up with this weather."

"Dreadful, isn't it?"  Mrs.  Jennings chipped in.

"Chilly and muggy all at once, doesn't make you feel like doing
anything.  What have you got there, Mrs.  Phipps?"

Elfrida unloaded the contents of her basket, so that Mrs.  Jennings
could price them, and put it all through her till.  A loaf of bread,
half a dozen eggs, some bacon and butter, two tins of dog food, and a
magazine called Beautiful Homes.

"Want me to charge them?"

"If you would; I've left my purse at home."

Oscar saw the magazine.  He said, "Are you going to go in for some
domestic improvements?"

"Probably not.  But I find reading about other people's is therapeutic.
I suppose because I know I haven't got to get my paint-pot out.  A bit
like listening to somebody else cutting the grass."

Mrs.  Jennings thought this was very funny.

"Jennings put his mower away, back of September.  Hates cutting the
grass, he does."



Oscar watched while Elfrida reloaded her basket.  He said, "I'll give
you a ride home, if you like."

"I don't mind walking.  I've got Horace with me."

"He's welcome to join us.  Thank you, Mrs.  Jennings.  Goodbye."

"Cheerio, Mr.  Blundell.  Regards to the wife."

Together, they emerged from the shop.  Outside on the pavement, the
youths still loitered.  They had been joined by a dubious-looking girl
with a cigarette, raven-black hair, and a leather skirt that scarcely
reached to her crotch.  Her presence seemed to have galvanized the
young men into a pantomime of joshing, insults, and meaningless
guffaws.  Horace, trapped in the middle of such unseemly behaviour, sat
and looked miserable.  Elfrida untied his lead, and he wagged his tail,
much relieved, and the three of them made their way around the corner
and down the narrow lane where Oscar had left his old car.  She got
into the passenger seat, and Horace jumped up and sat on the floor,
between her knees, with his head pressed onto her lap.  As Oscar joined
them, slammed the door, and switched on die ignition, she said, "I
never expect to meet anyone in the shop in the afternoons.  Mornings
are the social time.  That's when you get all the chat."

"I know.  But Gloria's in London, and I forgot about the papers."  He
turned the car and nosed out into the main street.  School for the day
was over, and the pavements were busy with a procession of tired and
grubby children, trailing satchels and making their way home.  The man
in the churchyard had got his bonfire going, and grey smoke streamed up
into the still, dank air.

"When did Gloria go to London?"

"Yesterday.  For some meeting or other.  Save the Children, I believe.
She took the train.  I've got to meet her off the six-thirty."

"Would you like to come back and have a cup of tea with me?  Or would
you prefer to return to your gardening?"

"How do you know I've been gardening?"

"Clues dropped.  Woman's intuition.  Mud on your boots."

He laughed.

"Perfectly correct, Mr.  Holmes.  But I wouldn't say no to a cup of
tea.  Gardener's perks."

They passed the pub.  Another moment or so, and they had reached the
lane that ran down the slope towards the railway line and the small row
of terraced cottages that was Poulton's Row.  At her gate, he drew up,
and they decanted themselves; Horace, freed of his lead, bounded ahead
up the path, and Elfrida, lugging her basket, followed him.  She opened
the door.

"Don't you ever lock it?"  Oscar asked from behind her.

"Not for a village shopping spree.  Anyway, there's little to steal.
Come along in, shut the door behind you."  She went through to the
kitchen and dumped the basket on the table.

"If you feel very kind, you could put a match to the fire.  A day like
this needs a bit of cheer."  She filled the kettle at the tap and set
it on the stove.  Then she took off her jacket, draped it over the back
of a chair, and began to assemble a few items of mismatched china.

"Mugs or teacups?"

"Mugs for gardeners."

"Tea by the fire, or shall we sit in here?"

"I'm always happier with my knees under a table."

Without much hope, Elfrida opened cake-tins.  Two were empty.  The
third contained the heel of a gingerbread.  She put this on the table,
with a knife.  She took milk from the fridge and emptied the carton
into a yellow pottery jug.  She found the sugar-bowl.  From the other
room could now be heard crackling sounds and the snap of hot twigs. She
went to the doorway and stood, leaning against the lintel, observing
Oscar.  He was placing, with some care, a couple of lumps of coal on
the top of his small pyre.  Aware of Elfrida's presence, he
straightened and turned his head to smile at her.

"Blazing nicely.  Properly laid, with plenty of kindling.  Do you need
logs for the winter?  I can let you have a load, if you'd like."

"Where would I store them?"

"We could stack them in the front garden, against the wall."



"That would be marvelous, if you could spare a few."

"We've more than enough."  He dusted his hands on his trouser legs and
looked about him.

"You know, you have made this little place very charming."

"It's a muddle, I know.  Not enough space.  Possessions are a quandary,
aren't they?  They become part of you, and I'm not very good at
throwing things away.  And there are one or two little bits and pieces
I've been carrying about with me for years, dating back to the giddy
days when I was on the stage.  I was like a snail with its shell on its
back.  A silk shawl or the odd knickknack rendered theatrical lodgings
a little more bearable."

"I particularly like your little Staffordshire dogs."

"They were always part of my luggage, but they're not, actually, a
pair."

"And the little travelling clock."

"That travelled, too."

"It appears well-worn."

"

"Battered' would be nearer the truth.  I've had it for years; it was
left to me by an elderly godfather.  I... I have one thing which I
think might be very valuable, and it's that little picture."

It hung to one side of the fireplace, and Oscar found his spectacles
and put them on, the better to inspect the painting.

"Where did you get this?"

"A present from an actor.  We were both in a revival of Hay Fever at
Chichester, and at the end of the run he said that he wanted me to have
it.  A leaving present.  He'd picked it up in a junk-shop and I don't
think paid all that much for it, but was excited, because he was sure
that it was a David Wilkie."

"Sir David Wilkie?"  Oscar frowned.

"A valuable possession.  So why did he give it to you?"

But Elfrida would not be drawn.

"To thank me for mending his socks?"

He returned his gaze to the painting.  It took up little space, being
only about eleven inches by eight, and depicted an elderly couple in
eighteenth-century dress sitting at a

table on which lay a huge leather Bible.  The background was sombre,
the man's clothes dark.  But the woman wore a canary-yellow shawl and a
red dress, and her white bonnet was frilled and ribboned.

"I would say she's dressed for some celebration, wouldn't you?"

"Without doubt.  Perhaps, Elfrida, you should lock your front door."

"Perhaps I should."

"Is it insured?"

"It is my insurance.  Against a rainy day.  When I find myself on the
streets with only a couple of plastic bags, and Horace at the end of a
piece of string.  Then, and only then, will I think about selling
it."

"A hedge against disaster."  Oscar smiled and took off his
spectacles.

"Whatever.  It is the manner in which you have put your possessions
together that melds into such a pleasing whole.  I am sure you own
nothing that you do not think to be beautiful or know to be useful."

"William Morris."

"And, perhaps, the measure of good taste."

"Oscar, you say the nicest things."

At this moment, from the kitchen, Elfrida's kettle let out a startling
toot, which meant that it was boiling.  She went to retrieve it, and
Oscar followed, and watched while she made the tea in a round brown
teapot, which she set upon the wooden table.

"If you like builders' tea, you'd better wait for a moment or two.  And
if you'd rather, you can have lemon instead of milk.  And there's some
stale gingerbread."

"A feast."  Oscar pulled out a chair and settled himself, as though
relieved to get the weight off his legs.  She sat, too, facing him
across the table, and busied herself cutting the gingerbread.  She
said, "Oscar, I am going away."

He did not reply, and she looked up and saw, on his face, an expression
of horrified astonishment.

"Forever?"  he asked fearfully.

"Of course not forever."



His relief was very evident.

"Thank God for that.  What a fright you gave me."

"I'd never leave Dibton forever.  I've told you.  This is where I'm
going to spend my twilight years.  But it's time for a holiday."

"Are you feeling particularly exhausted?"

"No, but autumn always depresses me.  A sort of limbo between summer
and Christmas.  A dead time.  And I'm going to have another birthday
soon.  Sixty-two.  Even more depressing.  So , time for a change."

"Perfectly sensible.  It will do you good.  Where will you go?"

"To the very end of Cornwall.  If you sneeze you're in danger of
falling over a cliff into the Atlantic."

"Cornwall?"  Now he was astounded.

"Why Cornwall?"

"Because I have a cousin who lives there.  He's called Jeffrey Sutton
and he's about three years younger than me.  We've always been friends.
He's one of those nice people one can telephone, without reservations,
and say, "Can I come and stay?"  And you know he'll say yes.  And,
moreover, sound pleased.  So, Horace and I will drive down together."

Oscar shook his head in some bewilderment.

"I never knew that you had a cousin.  Or any sort of relation, for that
matter."

"The product of an immaculate conception, you mean?"

"Hardly that.  But, admit, it is surprising."

"I don't think it's surprising at all.  Just because I don't rabbit on
all the time about my family."  Then Elfrida relented.

"But you're not far wrong.  I am a bit denuded.  Jeffrey's a special
person and we've always kept in touch."

"Has he a wife?"

"Actually, he's had two.  The first was a pain in the neck.  She was
called Dodie.  I suppose he was charmed by her pretty looks and sweet
air of helplessness.  Only to discover, poor man, that he had tied
himself to a woman of such self- absorption as to beggar belief.  She
was, as well, idle and un- domestic, and most of Jeffrey's hard-earned
salary went on paying the wages of cooks, cleaners, and au pairs in the
faint

hope of keeping some sort of an establishment going for his two
daughters."

/ "What happened to the marriage?"  Oscar was clearly fascinated.

"He remained constant and enduring, but finally, when both the girls
were grown and educated and earning, he walked out.  There was this
girl, Serena, much younger than Jeffrey, and perfectly sweet.  She was
a gardener and ran a nice little business doing flowers for parties and
looking after other people's window-boxes.  He'd known her for years.
When he walked out on his marriage, he walked out on his job as well,
wiped the dust of London from the soles of his shoes, and moved, with
Serena, as far away from London as he could possibly get.  When the
very acrimonious divorce was over, he married Serena and almost at once
started another little family.  A boy and a girl.  They live on a
shoestring, keeping hens and doing bed and breakfast for summer
visitors."

"Happy ever after?"

"You could say that."

"What about his daughters?  What happened to them?"

"I've rather lost touch.  The eldest was called Nicola.  She married
some man, and had a child, I think.  She was always dreadfully
disagreeable, dissatisfied and perpetually complaining about the
unfairness of life.  I think she was always terribly jealous of
Carrie."

"Carrie being her sister."

"Precisely so.  And a darling.  Jeffrey's nice personality all over
again.  About ten years ago, when I had to have some female operation,
upon which, at this moment, Oscar, I shall not enlarge, she came to
take care of me.  She stayed for six weeks.  I was on my own at the
time, living in a grotty little flat in Putney, but she took it all in
her stride and we got on like a house on fire."  Elfrida frowned,
grappling with mental arithmetic.

"She must be about thirty now.  Aged.  How time flies."

"Did she marry?"

"I don't think so.  Like I said, I've rather lost touch.  Last

time I heard, she was working in Austria for some big tour company. You
know, being a ski rep, and making sure every tourist was in the right
hotel.  She always loved skiing more than anything.  Whatever, I'm sure
she's happy.  I think your tea will be black enough now."  She poured
his mug-it was satisfactorily dark-and cut him a slice of the crumbling
gingerbread.

"So you see I do have a family, if not a particularly close one."  She
smiled at him.

"How about you?  Confession time.  Do you have any dotty relations you
can boast about?"

Oscar put up a hand and rubbed it over his head.

"I don't know.  I suppose I do.  But like you, I haven't much idea
where they are or what they're up to."

"Tell."

"Well...."  Thoughtfully, he ate a bit of gingerbread.

"I had a Scottish grandmother.  How's that for starters?"

"Hoots toots."

"She had a great big house in Sutherland, and a certain amount of land,
and a farm."

"A lady of property."

"I used to spend summer holidays with her.  But she died when I was
sixteen and I never went back."

"What was her house called?"

"Corrydale."

"Was it enormously grand?"

"No.  Just enormously comfortable.  Huge meals, and gum boots and
fishing-rods lying around the place.  Good smells; of flowers and
beeswax polish, and grouse cooking."

"Oh, delicious.  Mouth-watering.  I'm sure she was heaven."

"I don't know about that.  But she was totally unpretentious and
enormously talented."

"In what way?"

"I suppose a talent for living.  And for music.  She was an
accomplished pianist.  And I mean, really accomplished.  I think I
inherited my small talent from her, and it was she who set me on the
road to my chosen career.  There was always music at Corrydale.  It was
part of my life."

"What else?"

"Sorry?"

"What else did you do?"

"I can scarcely remember.  Go out in the evenings and pot rabbits. Fish
for trout.  Play golf.  My grandmother was an avid golfer, and she
tried to get me going on the links, but I was never a match for her.
Then people came to stay, and we played tennis, and if it was warm
enough, which it mostly wasn't, I might bicycle to the beach and fling
myself into the North Sea.  At Corrydale, it didn't matter what you
did.  It was all very relaxed.  Good fun."

"So what happened?"

"My grandmother died.  The war was on.  My uncle inherited and went to
live there."

"Didn't he invite you for summer holidays?"

"Those days were over.  I was sixteen.  Into music.  Taking
examinations.  Other interests, other people.  A different life."

"Does he still live there?  Your uncle, I mean."

"No, he's in London now, in a mansion flat near the Albert Hall."

"What's his name?"

"Hector McLennan."

"Oh, splendid.  All kilts and a red beard?"

"Not any more.  He's very old."

"And Corrydale?"

"He made it over to his son, Hughie.  My cousin.  A feckless fellow,
whose one idea was to live a grand life and do things in tremendous
style.  He filled Corrydale with all his rather degenerate friends, who
drank his whisky and behaved badly.  To the despair of all the
respectable old retainers who had worked in the house and on the estate
for years.  It was all something of a scandal.  Then Hughie decided
that life north of the border was not for him, so he sold up and
scarpered off to Barbados.  As far as I know, he's still there, on to
his third wife, and leading the life of Riley."

Elfrida was envious.

"Oh, he does sound fascinating."

"No.  Not fascinating.  Boringly predictable.  We used to put up with
each other, but we were never friends."



"So everything's sold up, and you'll never return?"

"Unlikely."  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"Actually, I could go back.  When my grandmother died, she left Hughie
and me a house.  Between us.  But it's been rented for years to some
old couple.  Every quarter I get a trickle of rent, posted from the
factor's office.  I suppose Hughie gets the same, though it's scarcely
enough to pay for a couple of planter's punches."

"Is it a big house?"

"Not particularly.  It's in the middle of the little town.  It used to
be estate offices, but then it was converted to a dwelling-house."

"How too exciting.  I wish I had a house in Scotland."

"Half a house."

"Half a house is better than half a loaf.  You could take Francesca for
half a holiday."

"Never thought of it, to be truthful.  Never think about the place.  I
suppose one day Hughie will either offer to buy me out or suggest that
I buy him out.  But it's not something I worry about.  And I prefer not
to precipitate any action.  The less I have to do with Hughie McLennan,
the better."

"I think you're being frightfully feeble."

"Just keeping a low profile.  Now, when are you off?"

"Next Thursday."

"For how long?"

"A month."

"Will you send us a postcard?"

"Of course."

"And let us know when you return?"

"At once."

"We shall miss you," said Oscar, and she felt warmed.

The house was called Emblo Cottage.  It stood with its granite face to
the north wind and the Atlantic, and on this side, the windows were
small and few and deep-set, with windowsills wide enough for the potted
geraniums and scraps of driftwood and the shells that Serena loved to
collect.  Once, it had been part of Emblo, a prosperous dairy farm, and
the

dwelling of the resident cowman.  But the cowman retired and then died,
mechanization took over the milking parlours, agricultural wages
soared, and the farmer cut his losses and sold the cottage.  Since
then, it had belonged to three different owners, and had come on the
market for the last time just as Jeffrey had made the great decision to
cut loose from London, Dodie, and his job.  He saw the advertisement in
The Times, got straight into his car, and drove through the night in
order to view the property before any other person had time to put in a
bid.  He found a dank little place, dismally furnished for holiday
letting, crouched in an untended garden, and set about by stunted
sycamores leaning at right angles, away from the prevailing wind.  But
there was a view of the cliffs and the sea, and on the south side a
sheltered patch of lawn, where wisteria climbed the wall and there
still flowered a camellia bush.

He telephoned his bank manager, got a loan, and bought the place.  When
he and Serena moved in, there were birds' nests in the chimneys, old
paper peeling from the walls, and a smell of damp and mould that hung
over every room.  But it didn't matter.  They camped in sleeping bags
and opened a bottle of champagne.  They were together and they were
home.

That was ten years ago.  It had taken two of those years to get the
place in order, involving much hard physical labour, dirt, destruction,
inconvenience, and a succession of plumbers, builders, tilers, and
stone masons who trod around the place in mud-caked boots, boiled up
endless cups of tea, and indulged in long conversations as to the
meaning of life.

From time to time, Jeffrey and Serena became exasperated by their
slowness and unreliability, but it was impossible not to be beguiled by
these amateur philosophers, who seemed to know no sense of hurry,
content in the knowledge that tomorrow was another day.

Finally, all was done.  The workmen departed, leaving behind them a
small, trim, solid stone house, with kitchen and sitting-room
downstairs and a creaking wooden stair leading

to the upper floor.  At the back of the kitchen jutted out what had
once been a wash-house, slate-floored and airy, and here waterproofs
and rubber boots were dumped, and Serena kept her clothes washer and
her deep freeze.  There was as well a huge clay sink, which Jeffrey had
found abandoned in the ditch of a field.  Restored, it was constantly
in use, for washing eggs and mud-caked dogs, and for the buckets of
wild flowers which Serena loved to pick and arrange in oldfashioned
pottery jugs.  Upstairs were three white-painted bedrooms with sloping
ceilings, and a small bathroom, which had the best view of all from its
window, looking south, over the farmers' fields and up the slope of the
hill to the moor.

They were not isolated.  The farmhouse, with its considerable
outbuildings, stood only a hundred yards or so away, so that there was
a constant coming and going of traffic up and down the lane and past
their gate.  Tractors, milk lorries and cars, and small children who,
dumped by the school bus at the end of the road, walked their way home.
The farmer had a family of four, and these children were Ben and Amy's
best friends.  With them, they rode bicycles, went black berrying and
walked down to the cliffs with haversacks slung from their inadequate
shoulders to swim and picnic.

Elfrida had never seen this house, had never been to visit them.  But
now she was coming, and Jeffrey was filled with an old sensation,
almost forgotten, but which he finally acknowledged to himself, was
excitement.

Elfrida.  He was now fifty-eight, and Elfrida was ... ?  Sixty-one,
sixty-two?  It didn't matter.  As a boy, he had always thought the
world of her, because she was fearless and she made him laugh.  As an
adolescent, trapped in the inky disciplines of boarding-school, she had
been like a light in his life.  Gloriously attractive, admirably
rebellious, fighting parental opposition, and finally going on the
stage and becoming an actress.  Such determination, bravery, and
achievement had filled Jeffrey with admiration and devoted attachment.
Once or twice, she had actually come to his boarding school and taken
him out for an exeat Saturday or

Sunday, and he had boasted about her a little to his Mends, and kept
her waiting at the ghastly pseudo-Gothic red brick front door, because
he wanted others to see her there, sitting in her little red sports
car, with her dark glasses and her pineapple-coloured hair tied about
with a chiffon scarf.

"My cousin.  She's in some show or other.  In London," he said, with
marvelous casualness, as though it happened to everybody, every day.

"They brought it over from New York."

And finally he would go out to meet her, apologizing for his lateness,
climbing into the tiny bucket seat beside her, being driven away with
an impressive roar of the engine and a lot of flying gravel.  And when
he got back to school, he remained determinedly blase.

"Oh, we just went to the Roadhouse.  Had a swim in the pool and a
meal."

He was enormously proud of her and more than a little in love.

But time went by, they grew up, lost touch, and made their own lives.
Elfrida married some actor or other, and it all fell apart and then she
married another dreary character, and finally ended up with her
famously successful lover.  All seemed set for lifelong happiness, and
then the alliance was stunned by tragedy, his struggle with Parkinson's
disease and eventual death.

The last time Jeffrey had seen Elfrida it was in London, just after she
had met this exceptional man, whom she always referred to as Jimbo.

"Not his real name, darling, but my own name for him.  I never thought
it could be like this.  I never thought one could be so close, and yet
so different to a single human being.  He is everything I've never
been, and yet I love him more than any person or anything I've ever
known."

"What about your career?"  Jeffrey had asked.

"Oh, bugger my career," Elfrida had said, and collapsed into laughter.
He had never seen her so happy, so beautiful, so utterly fulfilled.

When his own unhappy marriage was falling to bits, Elfrida was always
there at the end of the telephone, ringing him up, ready with all sorts
of advice, both good and bad,

but, most important, endlessly sympathetic.  Once he took Serena to
meet her, and she rang the next evening and said, "Jeffrey, darling,
she is too sweet... cut your losses and concentrate on her."

"What about my daughters?"

"Grown up and self-supporting.  You must think of yourself.  Bite the
bullet.  Don't dither.  There's not time.  Only one life."

"Dodie ... ?"

"She'll manage.  She'll bleed you white for alimony.  She's not going
to give up her creature comforts.  Let her have the lot and go and be
happy."

Go and be happy.  He had done just that.

Five o'clock on a grey October evening.  The wind was getting up.  He
had done the hens, gathered in the eggs, shut away the clucking
creatures in their small domestic wooden houses.  It was growing dark.
Inside Errtblo Cottage, Serena had turned on the lights, and small
yellow windows glowed out into the dying light.  It was a Thursday, the
day when the wheelie bin had to be trundled down the lane in order for
the weekly dustbin lorry to empty it in the morning.  A wind had got
up, blowing in from the sea with an edge to it that tasted and smelt of
salt.  In this wind, the gorse-bushes jigged and rustled along the tops
of hedges.  Over its whine, he could hear the water of the stream
bubbling its way down the hill and along the edge of the lane.  Because
it felt cold, he went indoors to get a thick jacket.  Serena was
stirring something at the stove and the children were busy with their
homework at the kitchen table.

He said, "Wheelie bin."

"Oh, clever man, to remember."

"Back in five minutes."

"I shall watch out for Elfrida."

He trundled the bin down the rutted lane and set it in its place on the
verge of the road.  Across the road was a wooden gate which led into
another field, and Jeffrey went to lean against this.  Like any old
countryman, he felt for his

cigarettes, and lit one with his old steel lighter.  The day was dying.
He watched the sky darken, thick with cloud.  The sea was the colour of
slate, flecked with foam.  A rough evening.  Breakers boomed at the
foot of the cliffs and he could feel the damp of sea mist on his
cheeks.

He thought of a poem once read, long forgotten.

My room is a bright glass cabin, All Cornwall thunders at my door, And
the white ships of winter lie, In the sea roads of the moor.

He stayed until his cigarette was finished, then threw away the stub
and turned to go home.  And, at that moment, saw the headlights,
approaching from the east, blinking as the road twisted.  He leaned
against the gate and waited.  After a bit, an old blue Fiesta appeared,
cautiously taking the last narrow bend before the Emblo turning.  He
knew, instinctively, that it was Elfrida.  He stepped into the road,
waving his arms, and the car stopped, and he went and opened the door
and got in beside her.  He smelt her familiar perfume, the scent that
she had always used, that was part of her.

He said, "You mustn't park here.  This is the main road.  You will be
struck by a tractor or a German tour bus.  Turn into the lane."

Which she did, and then stopped again.

She said, "Hello."

"You made it."

"Five hours."

"Found the way?"

"Such a splendid map you drew for me."

"Who's this in the back?"

"Horace, my dog.  I told you he had to come."

"How wonderful that you are here.  I kept steeling myself for a
telephone call to say that you'd changed your mind."

"I'd never do that," Elfrida told him.  And then became practical.

"Is this your front drive?"



4"It is."

"Dreadfully narrow, darling."

"Wide enough."

"Forward, then."

He began to laugh.

"Forward."

She put the car into gear, and they lurched forward up the narrow
tunnel that was the lane.

"What sort of a journey did you have?"  Jeffrey asked.

"All right.  I was a bit nervous.  It's years since I've done such a
long drive; unknown motorways and thundering lorries I find a little
unnerving.  This car isn't exactly a Ferrari."

"Good enough."

As they approached the cottage, an outside light came on.  Serena,
clearly, had heard them grinding up the lane.  The light illuminated an
open space backed by a tall granite wall.  The road continued towards
the distant farm, but Jeffrey said, "Park here," and so she did.  At
once two sheepdogs appeared from nowhere, bounding towards them and
barking their heads off.

"Not to worry," Jeffrey assured her, "they're mine.  Tar- boy and
Findus, and they don't bite."

"Not even Horace?"

"Least of all Horace."

They climbed out of the car and let Horace free, and there was the
usual small skirmish as the three strange dogs met and circled and
smelt, and then Horace disappeared into the thicket of a handy bush
and, gratefully, lifted his leg.

Jeffrey was amused.

"What breed of a dog is Horace?"

"Unknown.  But loyal.  As well, trouble free and clean.  He can sleep
with me.  I've brought his basket."

He opened the boot of her car and heaved out a battered suitcase and a
large bulging paper carrier-bag.

"Have you brought your own supplies?"

"That's Horace's food and his bowl and stuff."  From the back seat of
the car she hauled his basket and another bulging carrier-bag.  Doors
were slammed shut, and Jeffrey led the way up a slate path and around
the corner of the house.  The wind from the sea pounced upon them, and
yellow squares of light, from windows and a half-glassed door, lay upon
the cobbles.  Jeffrey set down Elfrida's suitcase and opened the door.
She went through into the kitchen, and the two children looked up from
the table.  Serena turned from the stove and came, aproned and
open-armed, to greet them.

"Jeffrey, you actually found her.  So clever, he went down with the
wheelie bin and came back with you.  What a perfect bit of timing.  Did
you have a frightful drive?  Would you like a cup of tea and something
to eat?  Oh, and you haven't met the children, have you?  Ben.  And
Amy.  This is Elfrida, ducks."

"We know," said the boy.

"You've been talking about her for ages."  He was dark and his younger
sister blonde.  He got up from the table and came to shake hands, his
eyes scanning Elfrida's luggage with some interest.  He was expecting a
present but had been told not to mention this fact in case none was
forthcoming.  He had his father's eyes and olive skin, and a thatch of
heavy dark hair, and Elfrida guessed that in a few years' time, there
would be a clutch of broken girlish hearts in the surrounding
neighbourhood.

His father came through the door behind Elfrida and dumped the suitcase
at the foot of the stairs.

"Hi, Dad."

"Hi, Ben.  Finished your homework?"

"Yep."

"Good man.  And Amy.  You done, too?"

"I finished mine ages ago," Amy told him smugly.  She was shy.  She
came to her father and buried her face in his leg, so that all that
showed of her was her long flaxen hair, pale as milk, and the faded
blue of her dungarees.  Elfrida had always known about Ben and Amy,
but, seeing them now, marvelled that they were actually the children of
Jeffrey, although young enough to be his grandchildren.  She decided
that they were beautiful.  But then Serena was beautiful in her own
individual way.  Her hair was pale as Amy's but twisted up into a
chignon and fastened with a tortoiseshell clip.  Her eyes were a
brilliant blue, and her thin face dusted with freckles.  She wore
slender jeans, which made her legs look endless, and a blue pullover,
and she had knot

ted a silk scarf around her neck.  Because of the cooking, she had tied
the striped apron around her waist, and now made no effort to remove
it.

"What's the form?"  Jeffrey asked, and Serena told him.

"I'll make a cup of tea for Elfrida if she wants one.  Or she can sit
by the fire; or go up to her room and unpack; or have a bath.  Whatever
she wants."

"When's dinner?"

"Eight, I thought.  I'll feed Ben and Amy first."

Amy emerged from her father's legs.  She said, "Sausages."

Elfrida frowned.

"Sorry?"

"Sausages for our tea.  And mashed potatoes and baked beans."

"How delicious."

"But you're having something else.  Mum's been making it."

"Don't tell me, and then it will be a wonderful surprise."

"It's chicken and mushrooms."

"Amy!  " her brother yelled at her.

"Don't tell."

Elfrida laughed.

"It doesn't matter.  I'm sure it will be delicious."

"Now," said Serena, raising her voice slightly over the squabblings of
her offspring, "would you like a cup of tea?"

But other treats that had been mentioned were more tempting.

"What I'd really like is to go upstairs and unpack and have a bath.
Would that be inconvenient?"

"Not a bit.  We only have the one bathroom, but the children can go in
after you.  There's plenty of hot water."

"Bless you.  Then that's what I'll do."

"How about Horace?"  Jeffrey asked.

"Does he need to be fed?"

"Yes, of course he does.  Are you offering to do it for me?  Two scoops
of biscuits and a half-tin of meat.  And a bit of hot water."

"Is Horace a dog?"  asked Ben.

"Well, he's certainly not my husband."

"Where is he?"

"Outside.  Making friends-I hope-with your dogs."

"I want to go and see...."

"I do, too.... Wait for me...."

They were away, out into the dark garden, without extra sweaters, gum
boots or any wails of protest from their mother.  The door was left
swinging open, letting in gusts of cold air.  Jeffrey went quietly to
shut it, and then once more picked up Elfrida's suitcase.

"Come," he said, and led the way up the creaking wooden stair.

He showed her round, said, "See you in about an hour.  I'll give you a
drink," and left her, closing the door behind him.  The door had a
wooden latch.  Elfrida sat on the bed (a double one) and realized, all
at once, that she was dreadfully tired.  She yawned enormously, and
then looked about her at the charming room, minimal to the point of
sparseness but marvellously tranquil.  A bit like Serena.  White walls,
white curtains, rush matting on the floor.  A pine chest of drawers,
draped in white linen and lace.  Wooden pegs and a clutch of colourful
hangers for a wardrobe.  The duvet cover was blue gingham, and there
were books on the bedside table and new magazines and a blue pottery
mug in which sat a single hydrangea head, blotting-paper pink.

She yawned again.  She was here.  She had not lost the way or broken
down, nor been involved in any accident.  And Jeffrey had been out
there to meet her at the end of the lane, leaping out from the side of
the road like a footpad and waving her to a halt.  If he hadn't been so
instantly recognizable she could well have been frightened out of her
wits, but there could be no mistaking that tall, lanky figure.  Still
lithe and active, despite his advancing years, and in all likelihood
kept that way by the company of his youthful wife and little children.
Most important, he looked content.  He had done the right thing.  His
life seemed to have worked itself out, which was exactly what she had
always wished for him.

After a bit, she got off the bed, unpacked, and set about the place her
few belongings, turning the simple room into her own.  Then she
undressed, wrapped herself in her old robe, and went next door to the
little bathroom, where she

soaked for a little in a scalding bath.  When she got out of the bath
she had stopped yawning and felt tired no longer, but active and
cheerful and all ready for the evening ahead.  She dressed again, in
velvet trousers and a silk shirt, gathered up her carpet-bag, which was
filled with presents, and went downstairs, feeling like a sailor
descending a gangway onto a lower deck.  In the kitchen she found the
children eating their sausages, while their mother whipped up egg
whites in a bowl with an electric beater.  As Elfrida appeared she
looked up to smile, and said, "Go and be with Jeffrey... he's in the
sitting-room.  He's lit a fire."

"Can't I help?  I'm not much of a cook, but a dab hand at scouring
saucepans."

Serena laughed.

"Not a saucepan to be scoured."

"Will I see Ben and Amy again?"

"Of course.  They'll come and say good night after their bath."

"I had a wonderful bath.  Rejuvenating."

Ben said, "What does rejuvenate mean?"

"It means make younger," Serena explained.

"She doesn't look any younger."

"That's because I'm so old," Elfrida told him.

"Be sure to come and say good night, because I've got something for
you" she raised the carpet-bag-"in here."

"Can we look now?"

"No, you can look later, by the fire.  A bit like Christmas
stockings."

She found Jeffrey in the little sitting-room, ensconced like any old
gentleman by the fire, and reading The Times.  As she appeared, he
tossed this aside and rose cautiously to his feet.  Cautiously because
in this room, for some reason, the ceiling was exceptionally low, and
Jeffrey was clearly aware of the dangers of bashing his head on one of
the white-painted beams.  He was particularly vulnerable because he was
bald, his head burnt chestnut-brown by the sun; but the remaining hair
which circled his collar was still as dark as it had ever been.
Laughter lines fanned out over his thin cheeks, and he wore a navy-blue
sweater with a red

bandanna knotted around his neck in lieu of a tie.  Elfrida bad always
had an eye for a good-looking man, and it was gratifying to discover
that her cousin Jeffrey was as toothsome as ever.

He said, "How dashing you look."

"Clean, at least.  Heavenly bath."  She dumped down her carpet-bag,
lowered herself into the other armchair, and looked about her
appreciatively, seeing pictures that were familiar, others that were
not.  A blazing fire, jugs of dried grasses, family photographs in
silver frames, a few pieces of pretty old furniture.  There wasn't room
for much more.  She said, "You have made an enchanting house here."

"No credit to me, Elfrida.  All Serena.  A glass of wine?"

"Delicious, thank you.  It's like another world, isn't it, from the way
you used to live.  The house in Campden, and flogging off to the City
every day, and formal entertaining, and knowing all the right
people?"

He was on the other side of the room, pouring her wine.  He did not
immediately reply to her remarks, but seemed to be considering them.
Returning, he gave her the wineglass, and sat again in his wide-lapped
chair.  Across the hearth rug their eyes met.

She said, "I'm sorry."

"Why sorry?"

"Tactless.  You know I've never thought before I spoke."

"Not tactless.  Just truthful.  You're right.  Another world and one
not mourned.  Chasing after money, sending the girls to the right, and
so appallingly expensive, schools.  Hiring a butler every time we had a
dinner party.  Redesigning the kitchen because the Harley Wrights on
the other side of the square had redesigned theirs and Dodie couldn't
stand to be left behind.  Perpetually worried about the cash flow, the
state of the stock market, the demands of Lloyds, the possibility of
being made redundant.  Sometimes I went through the whole night without
sleeping.  And all about nothing.  But I had to walk out to discover
that."

"You're all right now?"

"In what way?"



"I suppose, financially."

"Yes, we're fine.  Even keel.  We haven't got much, but we don't need
it."

"What do you live on?  Your hens?"

He began to laugh.

"Scarcely.  But they provide an occupation and a tiny income.  Bed and
breakfast helps in the summer, but we only have one room, which is
yours, and the shared bathroom, so we can't charge too much.  There's a
derelict outbuilding between us and the farm, and from time to time we
think of putting in an offer and converting it into an annex for paying
visitors, but it's such an undertaking that we keep putting it off. But
Serena still works, doing flowers for weddings and parties and such,
and Ben and Amy are getting an excellent education at the local school.
 To me it's been a revelation, how simply one can live."

"And happy?"

"Happier than I ever thought possible."

"What about Dodie?"

"She's living in a flat near Hurlingham, very desirable, with a view of
the river.  Nicola's living with her.  Nicola's marriage fell to bits,
so the two of them are shacked up together, doubtless getting on each
other's nerves."

"And Nicola's child?"

"My granddaughter.  Lucy.  She's fourteen now.  Poor kid, she's living
there, too.  Can't be much fun for her, but there's not much I can do
about it.  I've tried asking her to come down to us and stay for a bit,
but Nicola has labelled me as a villain, and Serena as a witch, and
refuses to let her visit."

Elfrida sighed.  She could understand perfectly the hopelessness of the
situation.  She said, "How about Carrie?"

"Still in Austria or wherever.  She's got a good job with a travel
company, quite a responsible position."

"Do you see her?"

"Last time I was in London we had lunch together.  But our paths seldom
cross."

"Not married?"

"No."

"Does she come here?"

"No, but for the best of reasons.  She doesn't want to in- trade, to
make things awkward for Serena and Ben and Amy.  Anyway, she's nearly
thirty now.  Not a child.  She leads her own life.  If she wanted to
come to Emblo, she knows she only has to pick up the telephone."  He
paused, to set down his glass and reach for a cigarette and light it.
Elfrida said, "You haven't given up smoking?"

"No, I haven't given up and don't intend to.  Does that offend you?"

"Jeffrey, nothing in all my life has ever offended me.  You know
that."

"You look wonderful.  How are you?"

"Wonderful, perhaps."

"Not too lonely?"

"Getting better."

"It was cruel, what happened to you."

"Jimbo, you mean?  Darling man.  It was crueler for him than for me.  A
slow degeneration of a wonderful, brilliant man.  But no regrets,
Jeffrey.  I know we didn't have very long together, but what we did
have was special.  Not many people achieve such happiness, even for a
year or two."

"Tell me about your Hampshire hideaway."

"Dibton.  The village is rather ordinary and dull.  But somehow that
was what I wanted.  The house is a tiny railway cottage, one in a row.
All I need."

"Nice people?"

"Ordinary again.  Kind and friendly.  I think you could say I've been
made welcome.  I couldn't stay in London."

"Any special friends?"

She started telling him about the old Foubisters and Bobby Burton
Jones, the vicar and his wife, and the Sunday school pantomime.  She
told him about Mrs.  Jennings and Albert Meddows and the fabulously
wealthy Mr.  Dunn with his indoor swimming pool and immense
conservatory filled with red-hot geraniums and rubber plants.

Finally, she told him about the Blundells.  Oscar and Gloria and
Francesca.

"They've been truly, enormously kind.  Taken me under their wing, one
might say.  Gloria is

wealthy and generous.  The two don't always go together, do they?  She
owns the house they live in, it's called the Grange and is perfectly
hideous, but frightfully warm and comfortable.  She was married before,
so she's got two grown-up married sons, but Francesca is so original
and funny and sweet.  Gloria is an avid hostess, scarcely a day passes
when she isn't organizing some party or picnic, or a get-together or
committee meeting.  She's rather horsy and loves gathering a great gang
of friends and setting off for some point-to-point, with a bar in the
boot of her car, and her Pekingeses tied to the bumper barking their
heads off at anyone who passes."

Jeffrey was clearly amused.

"And does Oscar enjoy such occasions?"

"I don't know.  But he's a gentle, amiable man... a charmer, really ...
and he and Francesca go off together, and put bets on unlikely horses
and buy themselves ice-creams."

"What does he do?  Or is he retired?"

"He's a musician.  An organist.  A pianist.  A teacher."

"How clever of you to find such an interesting couple.  They clearly
adore you.  Probably because you've always had the effect of a good
strong gust of fresh air."

But Elfrida voiced her reservations.

"I have to be quite careful and strict with myself.  I do not intend to
become absorbed."

"Who wouldn't want to absorb you?"

"You mustn't be partisan."

"I was always on your side."

In later years, looking back to those weeks she spent at Em- blo, the
thing that Elfrida most clearly remembered was the sound of the wind.
It blew perpetually; at times shrunken to a lively breeze, at others
pounding in from the sea at gale- force strength, assaulting the
cliffs, howling down chimneys and rattling at doors and window-panes.
After a bit, she became used to its constant presence, but at night the
wind was impossible to ignore, and she would lie in the dark, hearing
it sweep in from the Atlantic, stream up across the moor,

the branches of an elderly apple tree tapping like a ghost at her
window.

It was-this wind made very clear-summer no longer.  October moving into
November and the nights drawing closer every evening.  The farmer's
cows, his handsome Guernsey dairy herd, trod down from the fields, for
the morning and evening milking, and churned to mud the lane that ran
between Emblo and the farmhouse.  After the evening milking, they were
turned out into the fields again, and were adept at seeking shelter in
the lee of a wall, or behind a tangle of thicket and gorse.

"Why can't they spend the night indoors?"  Elfrida wanted to know.

"They never do.  We have no frosts, there's plenty of grass."

"Poor things."  But, she had to admit, they looked sleek and happy
enough.

The daily routine of the little household took her over, and she slowed
herself to its pace.  There was always washing to be pegged out, shirts
to be ironed, potatoes to be dug, hens to be fed, and eggs washed.
After the first week, she realized with some surprise that for seven
days she had neither read a newspaper nor watched television.  The rest
of the world could have blown itself to pieces while all Elfrida
worried about was whether she could get the sheets off the line before
the next shower of rain.

Some evenings, she took over the kitchen and cooked supper for Ben and
Amy, so that Jeffrey and Serena were able to grab the chance of a
dinner out by themselves or a visit to the nearest cinema.  And she
taught the children to play rummy, and mesmerized them with stories
about the old days, when she was in the theatre.

One weekend, the fickle weather turned warm as spring, and the wind
dropped and the sun shone from a cloudless sky.  Determined to make the
most of the benevolent day, Serena gathered up the farmer's four
youngsters, packed a picnic, and they all set out to walk across the
fields towards the cliffs, a straggling party consisting of six
children, three

adults, and three dogs.  Amy and Elfrida, side by side, brought up the
rear.  The footpath crossed stone stiles and snaked down between the
gorse- and bramble bushes.

Elfrida spied blackberries.

"We should pick them," she told Amy.

"We could make blackberry jelly."

But Amy was wiser.

"No, we can't.  We can't pick blackberries after the beginning of
October, because that's when the Cornish witches do wees on them."

"How extraordinary.  How do you know that?"

"Our teacher told us.  But she didn't say wees, she said 'urinated.""
They reached the edge of the cliff and the whole breadth of the ocean
was revealed, extravagantly blue and glittering with sunshine.  The
path trickled on, a precipitous and dangerous-looking descent into a
secret cove.  It was low tide, and so there lay a tiny sickle of sand,
and rock-pools gleaming like jewels.

With some difficulty they all scrambled down, the dogs bounding
fearlessly ahead.  On the rocks, Amy left Elfrida and went to join the
others on the sand, where Jeffrey had already started everybody digging
a mammoth sand castle, and Serena searched for shells and pebbles with
which to decorate this edifice.

Now midday, there was a real warmth in the sun, so Elfrida shed her
jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her sweater.  Rugs and baskets and
haversacks had been dumped on a smooth flat rock, and she sat beside
them watching the restless sea, and felt mesmerized by its sheer size
and magnificence.  The colours of the water, the clearness was
breathtaking.  Streaks of blue, green, turquoise, purple, all laced and
streaked with white surf.  A heavy swell was running, and the breakers
formed far out, moving in and gathering height and weight before
finally crashing against the jagged granite coastline, sending up great
fountains of sizzling spray.  Overhead the gulls wheeled, and out
towards the horizon, a small fishing boat butted its way through the
turbulent water.

Staring, bewitched, she lost all sense of time, but after a

' bit was joined by Serena, come to unpack the picnic.  From the
haversacks she produced bottles, plastic cups, paper napkins, a bag of
apples.  As well there emanated the warm, mouth-watering smell of hot
pasties.

Elfrida was amazed.

"Whenever did you make pasties, Serena?  They take forever."

"I always keep a dozen or so in the deep freeze.  The children love
them."

"Me, too."

"I took them out last night.  I had a feeling it was going to be a good
day.  How about a drink?  You can have lager or wine.  Or lemonade, if
you're feeling abstemious."

"Wine would be perfect."

The bottle was wrapped in a wine cooler, and drunk from a plastic glass
tasted better than any wine had ever tasted before.  Elfrida turned
back to the sea.

She said, "This is heaven."

"In the summer we come most weekends.  It's easier now that both
children can do the walk themselves."

"What a happy family you are."

"Yes," said Serena, and smiled.

"I know.  So fortunate.  But I do know that, Elfrida.  I really do
know.  And every day I say thank you."

From time to time, Elfrida left Emblo and took herself off on her own,
driving her little car and leaving Horace behind in the company of
Jeffrey's sheep-dogs.  She found herself amazed that such a small tract
of country could be so wild, so remote, and yet so varied.  Roads,
freed of the summer tourist traffic, were narrow and winding, but all
she ever met was the occasional bus or butcher's van or tractor.  And
she would cross an empty moor, and the road would slip down into a tiny
valley thick with rhododendrons, where enviable gardens were still
verdant with hydrangeas and the dangling ballerina blossoms of
fuchsia.

One day, she made the trip into the neighbouring town, where she parked
her car and walked down into the warren of baffling lanes and
alley-ways that led to the harbour.  On

the harbour road were restaurants and gift shops and many small
galleries displaying every kind of art and sculpture.  She found a
bookshop and went in and took some time choosing two books for Ben and
Amy.  And so delightful was this that she browsed on and, thinking of
Francesca, bought a book for her as well.  She found it in the
second-hand section, The Island of Sheep, by John Buchan, and she
remembered reading it at school and becoming totally caught up in the
adventure.  This was a story Oscar and Francesca could read together,
the two of them squashed into a single huge armchair by the flickering
log-fire.

She had the books wrapped and went out into the street again,
continuing on her way.  In a craft-shop, she found brilliantly
patterned hand-knitted sweaters, and chose two.  One for Jeffrey and
one for Serena.  She bought postcards and a bottle of wine, and by now
considerably laden, set out once more walking away from the harbour and
into a maze of cobbled streets where washing hung, and window-boxes
were brilliant with nasturtium and pink petunias.  Another gallery.
Unable to resist, she paused to look in its window and saw a little
abstract painting, its frame bleached like driftwood, with all the
colours of Cornwall set into shapes that represented exactly her own
impressions and feelings about this ancient land.

Elfrida craved it.  Not for herself, but as a present.  She thought
that if Jimbo were still alive, she would have bought it for him,
because it was exactly the sort of image that he would have loved
beyond anything.  She imagined giving it to him, bringing it to his
house in Barnes where they had been so unimaginably happy together.
Watching him strip off the wrappings, watching his face, knowing that
his reaction would be one of delight and pleasure ... The picture
wavered and became watery.  She realized that her eyes had filled with
tears.  She had never cried for Jimbo, simply grieved and mourned
privately to herself, and tried to learn to live with the cold
loneliness of an existence without him.  She had thought that she had
achieved this, but it could not be so.  She wondered if perhaps she was
a

woman who could not live without a man, and if this was true, then
there was nothing she could do about it.

The tears receded.  Ridiculous.  She was sixty-two, snivelling like a
young girl who has lost her lover.  But still she stayed, staring at
the picture, wanting it.  Wanting to share her pleasure.  Wanting to
give.

The idea occurred to her that she could buy it for Oscar Blundell.  But
Oscar was not simply Oscar.  He was one half of Oscar and Gloria, and
Gloria would be completely bewildered by such a gift.... In her head
Elfrida could hear Gloria's voice.  Elfrida!  You can't be serious.
It's just a lot of shapes.  A child of four could do a better job than
that.  And which way up is it meant to be?  Honestly, Elfrida, you are
a hoot.  What possessed you to put down good money for a thing like
that?  You 'we been robbed.

No.  Not a good idea.  Reluctantly, she turned from the window of the
gallery and walked on, and left the streets behind her, and set out on
a path that climbed, in zigzags, to the top of the grass promontory
that divided the two beaches.  As she climbed, the wind became
blustery, and when she reached the shallow summit, she found herself
surrounded by ocean and sky, the whole blue curving rim of the horizon.
It felt a bit like being at sea.  And she came to a bench and sat upon
it, huddled in her sheepskin jacket and with her packages set about
her, like any old pensioner exhausted by shopping.

But she was not any old pensioner.  She was Elfrida.  She was here. She
had survived.  Was moving on.  But to what?  A sea-gull, scavenging for
crusts or some edible picnic titbit, swept down out of the air and
landed at her feet.  His eyes were cold and acquisitive, and his
aggression made her smile.  And she found herself longing for company.
Specifically, for Oscar.  She wanted him to be with her, just for a
single day, so that when she returned to Dibton, they could talk about
the wind and the sea and the gull, and remember, and marvel at the
magic of a special moment.

Perhaps that was the worst of all.  Not having someone to remember
things with.



When the day came to return to Dibton, Elfrida could scarcely believe
that she had been at Emblo for a month, so swiftly had the weeks sped
by.  They tried to persuade her, of course, to stay.

"You are welcome for as long as you like," Serena told her, and Elfrida
knew that she was totally sincere.

"You've been the best.  A lovely mixture of mother, sister, and friend.
We'll miss you so dreadfully."

"You're sweet.  But no, I must get back.  Pick up the thread of life
again."

"You'll come again?"

"Try and stop me."

She had planned to set off as early as possible, so that she could
reach Dibton before darkness fell.  At eight in the morning she was out
of doors, with Jeffrey loading her car.  The little family stood about
her, and Amy was in tears.

"I don't want you to go.  I want you to stay."

"Guests don't stay forever, Amy, my pet.  It's time to leave."

Horace, too, showed a disloyal reluctance to depart.  Every time he was
put into the car, he jumped out again, and finally had to be dragged by
his collar, deposited on the back seat, and the door shut behind him.
He gazed from the window, his furry face doleful and his dark eyes
agonized.

"I think," Ben observed, "that he's probably going to cry as well."

Neither Amy nor Ben was yet dressed, and they looked bizarre with
padded jackets and gum boots pulled over their pyjamas.  When her
brother made this remark, Amy's tears welled up once more, and her
mother stooped and picked her up and held her on her hip.

"Cheer up, Amy.  Horace will be fine once he's on his way."

"I don't want anybody to leave us."

The parting had gone on for long enough.  Elfrida turned to Jeffrey.

"Dear man, thank you a thousand times."  He had not yet shaved, and her
cheek grated against the stubble of his dark beard.

"And Serena..."  A swift kiss, a hand over Amy's flaxen head, and she
got firmly in behind the driving

wheel, slammed the door, turned on the ignition, and drove ^off.  They
stood and waved until the car was lost to view, but she had a pretty
good idea that they didn't go back indoors until the little Fiesta had
turned out onto the main road and she and Horace were truly on their
way.

Not the time to feel lonely and bereft.  The goodbye was not forever,
because she could return to Emblo any time she wanted.  In a year,
maybe, or sooner.  Jeffrey and Serena would always be there, and Ben
and Amy.  But that was the poignant bit, because Jeffrey and Serena
would remain more or less unchanged, while Ben and Amy would be taller,
thinner, fatter; growing street-wise, losing front teeth.  She would
never know Ben and Amy again as the small children she had come to love
during this particular period of their lives.  Like the holiday that
was over, those children would be gone forever.

To cheer herself up, Elfrida looked ahead, in positive fashion, which
she had always found a reliable method of dealing with a sense of loss.
She was going home.  To her own little nest, filled with her own
possessions.  The small and humble refuge that she shared with Horace.
She would open doors and windows, inspect her garden, put a match to
the fire.

Tomorrow, perhaps, she would telephone the Grange and speak to Gloria.
And there would be cries of delight that she was back again, and an
instant summons to come and see them immediately.  And when she went
Elfrida would take the book with her to give to Francesca.  The Island
of Sheep.  I chose it specially, because I loved it so much when I was
your age, and I'm sure you'll love it, too.

But first, of course, before even reaching Poulton's Row, Elfrida knew
that she must do some shopping.  There was no food in the cottage, and
she had cleaned out the refrigerator before she left.  So her first
port of call must be Mrs.  Jennings's mini-supermarket.  She began to
make a mental list.  Bread and milk.  Sausages, eggs, and butter.
Coffee.  Biscuits and some tins for Horace.  Perhaps a tin of soup for
her supper.  Something sustaining, like Cullen Skink ...

Half an hour later, she joined the motorway that led upcountry.  She
switched on her car radio and settled to the long drive.

The Dibton church clock stood at half past two as she drove into the
main street of the village.  Outside Mrs.  Jennings's slouched the
usual gang of louty youths, and a little farther on, she spied Bobby
Burton Jones trimming his privet hedge with a pair of shears.  Nothing
much seemed to have changed, except that most of the trees had shed
their leaves and there was a definite wintry feel to the air.

She parked the car, found her bag, and went into the shop.  It seemed
to be empty.  She picked up a wire basket and moved up the aisles,
taking what she needed from the shelves.  Finally, she presented
herself at the counter, where Mrs.  Jennings was doing sums on the back
of an envelope and had not heard her come in.

But now she looked up, saw Elfrida, laid down her pencil, and took off
her spectacles.

"Mrs.  Phipps.  Well, what a surprise.  I haven't seen you for weeks.
Have a good holiday, did you?"

"Wonderful.  Just back.  Haven't even been home yet, because I had to
buy some provisions."  She put the wire basket on the counter and
reached for a Daily Telegraph.

"You won't believe this, but I haven't read a newspaper for weeks.  To
be truthful, I didn't miss it."

Mrs.  Jennings made no comment on this.  Elfrida looked up and saw that
Mrs.  Jennings was staring at her, biting her lip and looking much
troubled.  Elfrida put the newspaper on top of the basket.  After a
bit, she said, "Is anything wrong, Mrs.  Jennings?"

Mrs.  Jennings said, "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"You haven't heard?"

Suddenly Elfrida's mouth was dry.

"No."

"Mrs.  Blundell."

"What about her?"

"She's dead, Mrs.  Phipps.  A car smash at Pudstone round

? about She was bringing the little girl home from a fireworks party.
November the fourth, it was.  A lorry.  Heaven knows how it happened.
She couldn't have seen it.  It was a dreadful night.  Pouring with
rain..."  Elfrida, stunned by shock, said nothing.

"I'm sorry, Mrs.  Phipps.  I thought you might have heard."

"How could I have heard?  I never read a paper.  Nobody knew where I
was.  Nobody knew my address."

"A tragedy, Mrs.  Phipps.  We couldn't believe it.  None of the village
could believe it."

"And Francesca?"  She made herself ask the question, dreading the
answer.

"She died, too, Mrs.  Phipps.  And the two little dogs who were in the
back.  You couldn't believe the photograph in the paper.  That great
car, smashed and flattened to bits.  They didn't stand a chance.  Only
good thing was the police said it was instant.  They couldn't, any of
them, have known a thing."  Mrs.  Jennings's voice shook a little.  She
clearly found it almost impossible to speak of what had taken place.

"You hear of things like this happening, but when it happens to folk
you know...."

"Yes."

"You've gone white as a sheet, Mrs.  Phipps.  Would you like me to make
you a cup of tea?  Come into the back shop...."

"No, I'm all right."  Which she was, because she was numb, quite calm
and cool, shocked beyond horror.  She said, "A funeral?"

"A couple of days ago.  Here in the village.  A huge turnout.  A real
tribute."

So she had missed even that chance to mourn and comfort.  She said,
"And Oscar.  Mr.  Blundell?"

"Hardly seen him.  At the funeral, of course, but not since then.  Kept
to himself.  Poor gentleman.  It doesn't bear thinking what he's been
through.  What he's going through."

She thought of Francesca, laughing and teasing her father, playing
duets with him on the piano, curled up in his

big armchair and the two reading a book together.  And I blotted the
image from her mind, because it was unb to remember.

She said, "Is he at the Grange?"

"Far as I know.  The boy's been delivering milk and papers and so
forth.  Suppose he's just gone into himself.  Natural, really.  The
vicar went to call, but he didn't even want to > see the vicar.  Mrs.
Muswell goes up to the Grange each day, just like she always did, but
she says he just stays in his music room.  She leaves a tray for his
supper on the kitchen table, but she says most times he doesn't even
touch it."

"Do you think he would see me?"

"I wouldn't know, Mrs.  Phipps.  Except that you and them were always
friends."

"I should have been here."

"Not your fault, Mrs.  Phipps."  Someone else had come into the shop.
Mrs.  Jennings put her spectacles on again, in a brave attempt to be
business-like.  She said, "I'll put these things through the till,
shall I?  It's nice to see you back.  We've missed you.  I feel I've
spoilt your homecoming.  I'm sorry."

"Thank you for telling me.  I'm glad it was you and not anybody
else."

She went out of the shop and got back into her car, where she sat for a
moment, feeling as though the day, her life, had been snapped into two
pieces; it could never be repaired and would never be the same again.
She had moved from the laughter and happiness of Emblo into a place of
loss and unthinkable pain.  And what upset her most was the fact that
she had had no knowledge of the tragedy, no inkling, not a suspicion.
For some reason, this made her feel guilty, as though she had reneged
on responsibilities, stayed on at Emblo when she should have been here.
In Dibton.  With Oscar.

After a bit, heavy-hearted, she started up the engine and moved on.
Bobby Burton Jones had finished clipping his hedge and disappeared
indoors, which was a relief because she didn't want to stop and talk to
anybody.  She drove down the main street of the village, passed by her
own turning.  As

f houses thinned out, she came to the great gates of the t, the house
that had been Gloria's.  She turned in, up s drive, and around the
curve where grew the huge cedar !%ee.  She saw the elaborate face of
the house, and outside the Jront door, a large black limousine upon the
gravel.

She parked a little way off and got out, and saw that be hind the wheel
of this impressive vehicle there sat a uniformed driver, wearing his
cap and reading a newspaper.  Hearing her, he glanced up, acknowledged
her presence with a nod of his head, and then went back to his racing
results.  He clearly was not expecting conversation.  She left him
there and went up the steps, and through the open doorway into the
familiar tiled porch.  The half-glassed door was closed, and she did
not ring the bell, but opened this and went inside.

It was tremendously quiet.  Only the lock of the long case clock,
snipping away at the passing seconds.  She stood for a little,
listening.  Hoping for comforting, domestic sounds from the kitchen, or
a thread of music from upstairs.  Nothing.  The silence was
suffocating, like a fog.

To her right, the drawing-room door stood open.  She crossed the hall,
thick carpets blanketing her footfall, and went through.  At first she
thought the room was empty, and she alone.  And then saw that a man sat
in the wing-chair by the empty fireplace.  Tweed trouser-legs, polished
brogues.  Not much else was visible.

"Oscar," she said softly, and moved forward, to look down at him, and
experienced the second stunning shock of that dreadful day.  For here
was Oscar, aged beyond belief, all at once an old man, bespectacled,
wrinkled and hunched in the padded chair, a gnarled hand clenched over
the ivory handle of an ebony stick.  Instinctively, her hand went to
her mouth, to stop a scream, or perhaps to conceal her despair.

He looked up at her and said, "My word," and instantly such relief
flooded through her that she thought her legs were going to give way.
Swiftly, before they did this, she sat with a thump on the padded
leather seat of the club fender.  They stared at each other.  He went
on, "I never heard you

coming in.  Did you ring a bell?  I'm a bit deaf, but I'd have heard
the bell.  I'd have come to the door...."

He was not Oscar, aged beyond belief, just another person resembling
him.  Maybe twenty or so years older than Oscar.  An old gentleman well
into his eighties, and speaking most courteously with a strong Scottish
accent.  His voice reminded her of a well-loved old doctor who had
looked after Elfrida when she was a small child, and for some reason
this made everything much easier to deal with.

"No," she told him.

"I didn't ring the bell.  I just walked in."

"You'll forgive me not getting up.  I'm a bit stiff and slow these
days.  Perhaps we should introduce ourselves.  I am Hector McLennan.
Oscar is my nephew."

Hector McLennan.  Who had once owned Corrydale, but now lived in
London, and whose son Hughie had wiped the dust of Britain from the
soles of his shoes and gone to live in Barbados.

She said, "Once, Oscar told me about you."

"And you, my dear?"

"Elfrida Phipps.  I have a house in the village.  I live on my own.
Gloria and Oscar were endlessly kind to me.  I'm sorry I was so rude
when I first came in.  I thought you were Oscar, and then of course I
realized my mistake."

"Oscar, aged by grief?"

"Yes.  I suppose so.  You see, I haven't seen him yet.  I've been in
Cornwall for a month with cousins, and only just heard about everything
from Mrs.  Jennings in the village shop.  I went in to buy bread ...
and things.  She told me."

"Yes.  A ghastly accident."

"What happened?"

The old man shrugged.

"Gloria drove her car onto the roundabout, right into the teeth of this
great articulated lorry."

"You mean, she never saw it?"

"It was very dark.  It had started to rain."

"Mrs.  Jennings said she'd been to a party with Francesca.  Fireworks
and such."

"That's so."

Elfrida bit her lip.  After a little, she said, "Sometimes, at

Ftbe end of a party, she'd have a strong drink."  And immediately
wished she hadn't said such a thing.  But the old man was unfazed.

"I know, my dear.  We all knew.  Sometimes she overdid it a wee bit.  A
dram too many at the end of a convivial evening.  Hard to say no,
perhaps.  And then to drive home.  Oscar knows this, better than any of
us.  He is consumed with guilt because he didn't take Francesa to the
fireworks party himself.  I think it never occurred to him that it was
anything more than a children's party, that Gloria wouldn't bring
Francesca straight home.  But I suppose there were other parents there,
and it just went on.  The rain started just before they set out.  And
then, a momentary lapse of concentration, a confusion of lights, a
heavy vehicle, a wet road..."  He spread his hand in a gesture that
said it all.

"Finished.  All over.  Lives wiped out."

"I've even missed the funeral."

"I missed it, too.  I had a touch of flu, my doctor forbade it.  This
is my first visit, though of course I wrote my letter of condolence,
and have been in touch over the telephone.  It was while I was speaking
to him that I became aware of his situation.  So as soon as I could, I
made the journey down from London to talk things through.  I am aged,
but I am still his uncle.  No doubt you saw my car and driver at the
door."

"Yes."  Elfrida frowned.

"You said 'his situation."  Does that have special meaning?"

"It most certainly does."

"Am I allowed to be told?"

"No secret, my dear.  Gloria has left everything, including this house,
to her sons.  The day after the funeral they presented themselves and
told Oscar he could no longer live here, because they intended
selling."

"And where do they imagine Oscar's going to live?"

"They suggested some old folks' home.  The Priory, I think it is
called.  They had brochures for him to read."  He added with gentle
irony, "They had clearly thought of everything."

"You mean, they're throwing him out?  Into an old folks' home?  Oscar?
They must be mad."



"No.  I don't think they're actually insane.  Just avaricio and without
heart.  And they've got two hard wee wives as' well, probably pushing
from the back line to get every brass farthing they can lay their hands
on."

"Then Oscar must buy another house."

Hector McLennan lowered his head and regarded Elfrida over the top of
his spectacles.  He said, "Oscar is not a man of means."

"You mean he has no money?"

"A pension, of course.  And a little put by.  But not enough to buy a
decent house at these days' inflated prices."

"Gloria's sons, Giles and Crawford, must know that."  Another thought
occurred to her.

"And Gloria must have known, too.  Surely she could have left Oscar
something.  She was so generous, so giving of worldly goods."

"Maybe she intended to.  She was a relatively young woman.  In all
likelihood, it never occurred to her that she would die before Oscar.
Or perhaps she simply never got around to making a new will, or even
adding a codicil.  We shall never know."

"But he can't go and live in an old folks' home."  The very notion was
an affront.  Oscar, of all people, bundled in with a lot of old
incontinent geriatrics, eating milk puddings and being taught to make
baskets.  Elfrida's vision of an old folks' home was a little fuzzy, on
account of her never having been in one.  She said firmly, "I won't let
it happen."

"What will you do?"

"He can come and live with me."  But even as she said it she knew that
this was an impractical suggestion.  There was scarcely space for one
at Poulton's Row, let alone two.  And where would she put his grand
piano?  On the roof or in the garden shed?

"That's stupid.  No, he can't."

"My notion," said the old man, "is that he should move away.  This
house, this village is too filled with poignant memory.  I think he
should cut loose.  That's why I drove down today to see him.  Mrs.
Muswell gave us lunch, and I put forward my suggestion.  But he seems
unable to make any sort of decision.  Doesn't seem to care what
happens."

"Where is he now?"

"He was called to the garden.  Some problem with the greenhouse heating
system.  I said I would wait until he returned, and then start back for
London.  Which is why you found me sitting here in my nephew's chair,
and looking, doubtless, like an old ghoul."

"You don't look like an old ghoul, and what was your suggestion?"

"That he goes back to Sutherland for a bit.  Corrydale, and the wee
Estate House.  Half of it belongs to him anyway, and my Hughie, who is
the co-owner, lives in Barbados and is likely to stay there."

"I thought it was let.  The house, I mean.  Occupied."

"No.  At the moment, it's standing empty.  An elderly couple, called
Cochrane, were living there, but the old man died, and the wife has
gone to stay with her daughter.  I discovered this from our erstwhile
factor, Major Billicliffe.  He's retired now, but he still lives on the
Corrydale estate.  At the time of Hughie's big sale, he bought his
house.  I gave him a telephone call, and we spoke at length.  He says
the place is in good condition, maybe needs a lick of paint, but
otherwise sound and dry."

"Is it furnished?"

"It was a furnished let.  There will be no frills, but the essentials
of day-to-day living should be there."

Elfrida thought this all over.  Sutherland.  She imagined it: peat bogs
and sheep.  Remote as the moon.  She said, "It's a long way for Oscar
to go all on his own."

"He's known at Corrydale and Creagan.  He's family.  His grandmother's
grandson, and my nephew.  People are kindly, and he will be remembered,
even though he's not been back for fifty years."

"But is he up to such an uprooting?  Such upheaval?  Why not return to
London, and be near the church where he was organist?  Wouldn't that be
more sensible?"

"A regression.  And one haunted, I should think, by memories of his
child."

"Yes.  You're right."



"And, saddest of all, he has abandoned his music.  It's as though the
best part of him has died."

"How can I help?"

"That's up to you.  A little gentle persuasion, perhaps?"

"I can try."  But she wondered where she was going to find the
strength.

They fell silent, gazing sadly at each other.  This silence was
disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps, the slow tread of a
person crossing the gravel in front of the house.  Elfrida raised her
head and watched Oscar pass by the long window.  All at once she was
nervous.  She got to her feet.

"He's coming now," she said.

The front door opened and closed.  They waited.  A long pause.  Then
the drawing-room door swung open, and he was there, surveying the pair
of them across the expanse of the thick carpet.  He wore old corduroys
and a heavy sweater, knitted and flecked like tweed.  His thick white
hair fell across his forehead, and he put up a hand to push it aside.
She had imagined him diminished, felled by tragedy.  But heart-break is
a hidden thing, and Oscar was a private man.

"Elfrida.  I knew you had come because I saw your little car."

She went to meet him, and he took her hands in his own and leaned
forward to kiss her cheek.  His lips were icy against her skin.  She
looked into his eyes.

"Dear Oscar.  I'm home again."

"How long have you been here?"

"About fifteen minutes.  I drove up from Cornwall this morning.  I went
into the shop, and Mrs.  Jennings told me.  I hadn't known.  I haven't
read a newspaper for a month.  So I came straight here and walked in on
your uncle."

"I

see."  He let go of her hands and turned to Hector, who sat in his
chair and watched their reunion.

"I am sorry I kept you waiting, Hector.  There were complications.
Something to do with a trip-switch.  But you have had Elfrida for
company."

"And very pleasant it has been, too.  Now I must be on my way."  Which
entailed something of a struggle, the old man

leaning on his stick and endeavouring to rise from the chair.  Oscar
moved forward to lend a hand, and after some effort on both their parts
got his uncle to his feet, supported by his stick, and prepared for
departure.

They all moved, at the old gentleman's pace, across the big room and
through to the hall.  There, Oscar helped him into his old-fashioned
overcoat and handed him his aged brown trilby.  Hector put this on at a
rakish angle.

"It was good of you to come, Hector, and I really appreciate it.
Splendid to see you."

"Dear boy.  Thank you for lunch.  And if you're in town, drop in."

"Of course."

"And give thought to my suggestion.  It may seem a little drastic, but
it would at least give you a breather.  You mustn't stay here."  It was
then that he remembered something, and began groping in the pocket of
his overcoat.

"Nearly forgot.  Wrote it down for you.  Billicliffe's telephone
number.  All you have to do is give him a ring; he's got the key of
your house."  He withdrew from the pocket a scrap of folded paper and
handed it over.

"Only thing is," he added, with a dry twinkle in his rheumy old eyes,
"don't leave it too late in the day.  He's inclined to hit the whisky
bottle, and doesn't make much sense after that."

But Elfrida was concerned by other, more practical, matters.

"How long has the house stood empty?"

"Couple of months.  But there's a Mrs.  Snead who's been going in and
out.  Keeping the place cleaned and aired.  Billicliffe arranged that,
but I've been paying her wages.  Doesn't do to let property
disintegrate."

"You seem," Elfrida told him, "to have thought of everything."

"Haven't much else to think about these days.  Now I must be off.
Goodbye, my dear.  I have much enjoyed meeting you.  I hope one day
we'll be able to renew our acquaintance."

"I hope so, too.  We'll come with you to the car."

Oscar put a hand beneath Hector's elbow, and they all proceeded out
through the front door and down the steps

onto the gravel.  The afternoon had turned chilly, and-a thin: rain
threatened.  The chauffeur, seeing them, got out of the big car and
went around to hold open the door of the passenger seat.  With some
effort on all sides, Hector was loaded into this, and his safety-belt
fastened.

"Goodbye, Oscar, dear boy.  My thoughts are with you."

Oscar embraced the old man.

"Thank you again for coming, Hector."

"I only hope I've been a wee bit of comfort."

"You have."  He stepped back and slammed shut the door.  The car
started up.  Hector waved a bent old hand, and they stood and watched
him go, borne off to London at a suitable and dignified pace.  They
stayed until the car was out of sight and they could no longer hear the
engine.  The ensuing silence was filled by the cawing of rooks.  It was
cold and damp.  Elfrida shivered.

Oscar said, "Come indoors."

"Are you sure you don't want me to leave as well?"

"No.  I want you to stay with me."

"Is Mrs.  Muswell here?"

"She leaves each day after lunch."

"Would you like me to make us a cup of tea?"

"I think that would be an excellent idea."

"May I bring Horace indoors?  He's been shut in the car all day."

"Of course.  He's safe now.  There are no Pekingeses to attack him."

Elfrida thought, oh, God.  She went across the gravel to where her
little car was parked, and set Horace free.  Gratefully he leaped out
and shot off across the lawn to a handy laurel bush, beneath which he
relieved himself at length.  When he was done with this necessary
operation, he scratched about for a bit, and then returned to them.
Oscar stooped and fondled his head, and only then did they all go back
into the house.  Oscar closed the door behind them and led the way into
the kitchen, where it felt comfortingly warm.  Gloria's kitchen, large
and efficient, from which such hospitable meals and copious amounts of
delicious food had WINTER SOLSTICE 67 to sate the appetites of her
many relations and

Now it was empty, and very neat, and Elfrida saw that , Mrs.  Muswell
had left a tray, with a single mug and a milk jog and a tin of
biscuits, on the table.  She was clearly doing her best to feed and
care for her solitary employer.

She found the kettle and filled it from the tap, and put it on the Aga
to boil.  She turned to face Oscar, who was leaning against the
comforting warmth of the stove.  She said, "I wish I was articulate and
brilliant at thinking of things to say.  But I'm not, Oscar.  I'm
sorry.  I just wish I'd known.  I would have come back from Cornwall. I
would at least have been at the funeral."

He had pulled out a chair and sat now at the kitchen table, and as she
spoke he put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands.
For a dreadful moment, she thought that he was weeping.  She heard
herself rabbiting on.

"I had no inkling.  Until today ..."

Slowly, he drew his hands from his face, and she saw that he did not
weep, but his eyes were filled with an anguish that was almost worse
than tears.

He said, "I would have been in touch, but I had no idea where you
were."

"That was because I had no idea that you might need to know."  She took
a deep breath.

"Oscar, I do know about loss and bereavement.  All the time that Jimbo
was so ill, I knew it was terminal, that he would never recover.  But
when he died, I found myself quite unprepared for the pain, and the
terrible emptiness.  And I know, too, that what I went through then is
simply one tiny fraction of what you are going through now.  And there
is nothing I can do to help, to ease you."

"You are here."

"I can listen.  If you want to talk, I can listen."

"Not yet."

"I know.  Too early.  Too soon."

"The vicar called, very soon after the accident.  Very soon after I had
been told that both Gloria and Francesca were dead.  He tried to
comfort, and mentioned God, and I found 68

myself wondering if he had taken leave of his senses.  You asked me
once if I was religious, and I don't think I was able to answer your
question.  I only knew that my music and my work and my choirs meant
more to me than any churchly dogma.  The "Te Deum."  Do you remember,
that first day we met, outside the church, and you said that you had
particularly enjoyed a certain setting to the "Te Deum."  The words,
and that music, once filled me with a certainty of goodness, and
perhaps eternity.

"We praise thee, O Lord.  We acknowledge thee to be the Lord.

All the earth doth worship thee, the Father Everlasting.

"Thundering away on the organ, pulling out all the stops, hearing the
boys' voices soar to the rafters.  That was when I truly believed, when
I knew a faith that I thought nothing could rock."

He fell silent.  She waited.  After a bit, she said, "And now,
Oscar?"

"It was all to do with God.  And I cannot believe in a God who would
take Francesca away from me.  I sent the vicar home.  He departed, I
think, in some umbrage."

Elfrida was sympathetic.

"Poor man."

"He will, no doubt, survive.  The kettle's boiling."

It was a welcome interruption.  Elfrida busied herself finding the
teapot and the tea, spooning tea, pouring the boiling water.  She found
another mug for herself, and carried everything over to the table and
sat facing Oscar, just as they had sat that day, an eternity ago,
before she went to Cornwall.  In her little house in Poulton's Row, and
Oscar with gardening mud on his boots.

"You like builders' tea, don't you?"

"Strong and black."

She poured her own mug and left the pot to stew.  She said, "Hector
told me about your stepsons and the house.  About selling it, I
mean."

"They think that I should book into the Priory, a Victorian mansion
converted for the benefit of desiccated gentlefolk."

"You won't go there."

"I admit, I would rather not."

"What do you want to do?"

"I would like to be left alone, to lick my wounds.  But I can't be left
alone here, because Giles and Crawford want me out of the way, so that
they can put the house on the market as soon as possible."

"Brutes."  She poured his tea, black as ink, and pushed the mug towards
him.  He reached for the jug, added some milk, and drank.

She said, "Hector McLennan told me his suggestion."

"I had a suspicion that he might have."

"Is it such a bad idea?"

"Elfrida.  It's mad."

"I don't see why."

"Then I'll tell you why.  Because Sutherland is the other end of the
country.  And I haven't been there for fifty years.  For all Hector's
optimism, I should not know a single soul.  The house will be half
empty, and hasn't been lived in for weeks.  I am not a naturally
domesticated animal.  I wouldn't know how to start to make it
habitable.  And who would I turn to?"

"Mrs.  Snead?"

"Elfrida."  It was a reproach, but Elfrida persisted.

"Is it very isolated?  Your house, I mean."

"No.  It's in the middle of Creagan, the little town."

It sounded to Elfrida perfectly suitable.

"Is it horrid?"  she asked.

"Horrid," he repeated.

"What words you use.  No.  It's simply a large, square, undistinguished
Victorian dwelling.  Not actually ugly.  But not blessed with redeeming
features.  And it has a garden, but that's not much joy in the middle
of winter."

"It won't always be winter."

"It's just that I can't imagine what the hell I would do with
myself."



"Well, one thing's for sure.  You can't stay here, Oscar.  And you go
into the Priory over my dead body.  So you must consider any available
alternative.  You could come and live with me at Poulton's Row, but as
you know there is scarcely space for me and Horace in that little
cottage."  Oscar made no comment on this wild suggestion.

"I thought perhaps you'd like to go back to London, but Hector said
no."

"He's right."

"Scotland," she mused.

"Sutherland.  It would at least be a fresh start."

"I am sixty-seven, and at the moment in no shape to start anything. And
although I can scarcely bear to speak to any person, I still dread
being alone.  Solitary.  Living alone is the worst.  Empty rooms.  Even
before I married Gloria, there were always colleagues, choristers,
schoolboys-a whole world of lively company.  My life was full."

"It can be again."

"No."

"Yes, Oscar, it can.  Never the same, I know.  But you have so much to
give people.  A generosity of spirit.  We mustn't waste it."

He frowned.

"You said 'we."

" "A slip of the tongue.  I meant you" Oscar had finished his tea, and
the mug stood empty.  He reached out for the teapot and poured himself
a refill, the tea blacker than ever and singularly unappetizing.

"Supposing I went to Scotland.  How would I travel so far?"

"There are planes and trains."

"I would want my car."

"Then drive.  You're in no hurry.  Take it in stages...."  El- frida
heard her voice drift into silence, and found herself unable to finish
her sentence.  Because the image of Oscar setting off by himself on
such a journey into the unknown filled her with desolation.  Gloria
should be there beside him, to share the driving, Francesca in the
back, with her computer games and her ingenuous chat.  In the boot of
the big car, the two yapping Pekes, included in the holiday, along with
golf clubs and fishing-rods.  All gone.  Dead.  Never again.

He saw her distress, and put out his hand and laid it over her own.

"You have to be brave, Elfrida, otherwise I shall go to pieces."

"I'm trying.  But I can't bear it for you."

"Suppose ... suppose we discuss your idea?  Suppose I went.  Drove to
Scotland, to Sutherland.  If I made that journey, would you come with
me?"

She was silenced; could think of nothing to say.  She stared into his
face, wondering if she had heard aright; if he really had made that
extraordinary proposal, or whether, confused by shock and sadness, her
imagination had made it all up.

"Come with you?"

"Why not?  Is it such a bad idea?  To go together?  Somehow we'll get
there.  We shall collect the key from Major Billicliffe, and find my
house, and take possession and spend the winter there."

"Christmas?"

"No Christmas.  Not this year.  Would that be so bad?  It's so far
north that the days will be short and the nights long and dark, and I
probably won't be a very lively companion.  But, by spring, perhaps, I
shall be stronger.  Time will have passed.  Here, as you so clearly
stated, I have no future.  Giles and Crawford want the house, so I
shall let them have it.  With all convenient speed."

"And my house, Oscar?  What should I do with my little cottage?"

"Let it.  Or shut it up.  It will be safe.  Your neighbours, I am sure,
will keep an eye on it."

He meant it.  He was asking her to go away with him.  He wanted her
company.  Needed her.  She, Elfrida.  Eccentric, disorganized, not
beautiful any longer; even a little raffish.  And sixty-two years
old.

"Oscar, I'm not sure that I'm that good a bet."

"You underestimate yourself.  Please come, Elfrida.  Help me."

How can I help?  she had asked Hector as they waited for

Oscar to return from the glasshouse.  And now it was he who answered
the question.

She had been impulsive all her life, made decisions without thought for
the future, and regretted none of them, however dotty.  Looking back,
all she regretted were the opportunities missed, either because they
had come along at the wrong time or because she had been too timid to
grasp them.

She took a deep breath.

"All right.  I'll come."

"Dear girl."

"I'll come for you, Oscar, but I owe it to Gloria as well.  I shall
never forget her kindness and generosity to a stranger.  You and Gloria
and Francesca were my first friends when I came to Dibton...."

"... Go on."

"I feel ashamed.  We've been talking, and this is the first time I've
said their names to you.  In Cornwall I spoke about you so much.
Telling Jeffrey about you all, telling him how good you'd been to me. I
went shopping and bought Francesca a book, and I very nearly bought a
picture for you and Gloria, but then I thought that Gloria wouldn't
really like it."

"Would I have liked it?"

"I don't know."  A lump had swelled in her throat, and it became
difficult to talk.  She was crying and could feel her mouth trembling,
but the tears, strangely, were something of a relief, warm and wet,
rolling down her cheeks.  Old people, she told herself, look dreadful
when they cry.  She tried to wipe the tears away with her fingers.

"I... I've only been to Scotland once.  To Glasgow, ages ago, with a
touring company.  We had pathetic audiences and it never stopped
raining ..."  Fumbling up her sleeve for a handkerchief, she found one
and blew her nose.  "... and I couldn't understand a single word anyone
said to me."

"There's a Glaswegian for you."

"It wasn't funny at the time."

"It's not funny now, but as always you've made me smile."

"Like a sort of clown?"

"No.  Not a clown.  Just a dear, funny friend."

r

SAM

at seven o'clock on the first dark Friday morning of December, Sam
Howard wheeled his trolley of luggage out into the Arrivals hall of
Heathrow Airport.  Beyond the barrier crowded the usual confusion of
people come to meet the plane.  Elderly couples, youths in trainers,
and tired mothers humping toddlers.  As well, uniformed drivers for the
VIPs- of which Sam was not one-and unidentified men holding up
mysterious notices, labelled in capitals.  mr.  wilson was one; and
abdul aziz consolidated traders another.

There was nobody to meet Sam.  No wife, no driver.  No welcome, however
tame.  He knew that outside the heated terminal building it would be
very cold, partly because they had been warned of the temperature in
London before the plane landed, but also because everybody was bundled
up in padded jackets, gloves, and scarves and woollen hats.  It had
been cold in New York, but a dry crisp cold that stimulated, with a
bitter wind blowing up the East River, and all the flags at mast-heads
flying stiff and square in the teeth of its blast.

His trolley was awkward, laden with two suitcases, a huge American golf
bag, and his brief-case.  He manoeuvred it towards the automatic exit
doors and out into the wet black cold of an English winter morning.
There, he joined the queue for taxis.  He had only to wait five minutes
or so, but even that was long enough to freeze the soles of his feet.
The taxi was covered, for some reason, in simulated newsprint, and the
driver a morose man with a walrus moustache.  Sam hoped that he was not
a talker.  He was not in the mood for conversation.

"Where to, guy?"

"Wandsworth, please.  SW17.  Fourteen Beauly Road."

"

"Op in."

The driver did not stir himself to help with luggage, apparently
having decided that Sam was young and fit enough to deal with it
himself.  Accordingly, he humped it aboard, stowed the golf clubs on
the floor, shoved the empty trolley out of the line of trouble, and
climbed in, slamming the door shut behind him.  The taxi, windscreen
wipers going full-tilt, trundled forward.

The short wait had chilled him.  Sam turned up the collar of his
navy-blue overcoat and leaned back against the fusty plastic of his
seat.  He yawned.  He felt tired and unclean.  He had travelled Club
Class, with a number of other business men, but before landing, they
had made discreet trips to the lavatory, to wash, shave, knot ties, and
generally freshen themselves up.  Probably, poor sods, they had early
meetings.  He did not have an early meeting and was grateful for this.
His first appointment was for Monday at twelve-thirty, when he had to
present himself at Whites for lunch with Sir David Swinfield, Chairman
of Sturrock and Swinfield, and Sam's ultimate boss.  Until then, his
time was his own.

He yawned again, and ran a hand over the raspy stubble of his chin.
Perhaps he should have shaved.  He would have felt a little less like a
vagrant.  It occurred to him that he probably looked like one, too,
dressed as he was in elderly and casual clothes: a thick pullover, a
pair of worn jeans, boat shoes.  His eyes were dry and gritty from lack
of sleep, but that was because he had spent the short night reading his
book.  And his stomach was slightly queasy, but that was doubtless the
result of eating a huge dinner at two o'clock in the morning UK time.

The taxi drew up at a red traffic light.  Suddenly the driver spoke,
flinging the question back over his shoulder.

"Been on 'oliday?"

"No," Sam told him.

"Fort ... you know ... the golf clubs."

"No, I haven't been on holiday."

"On business, then?"

"You could say.  I've worked in New York for six years."

"Blimey.

"Ow do you stand the pace?"

"It's okay.  Good.  You get used to it."

Rain streamed down.

"Not much of a mornin' for comin' "ome."  Green light.  They moved
forward again.

"No," Sam agreed.  He did not add, And I'm not coming home.  Because
right now, he did not have a home.  Which seemed to figure with the
vagrant image.  For the first time in his life, and he was now
thirty-eight, he found himself without bricks and mortar to call his
own.

Bundled gloomily in his overcoat, cocooned in the back of the taxi, he
thought of homes, remembering to the very beginning.  Yorkshire and
Radley Hill, where, an only child, he had been born and brought up.  A
large, solid, and comforting family home, filled with the smell of
wood-smoke and spring flowers and cakes baking.  The house was
surrounded by four acres of land, and it had a tennis court and a
little wood, where on autumn evenings he would stand with his gun,
waiting for the pigeons to fly in from the stubble fields.  To Radley
Hill he had returned from day-school, and then boarding-school, usually
with a friend in tow, come to spend the holidays.  It was a place
comfortable as an old tweed jacket, which he had thought would never
change, but of course it did.  Because, during his last year at
Newcastle University, his mother died, and after that nothing was ever
quite the same again.

The family business was a small woollen mill, in a small Yorkshire
town.  After Newcastle, Sam had intended to spread his wings, perhaps
get a job abroad, but with his mother gone, he hadn't the heart to
abandon his father, and, with a degree in engineering under his belt,
he went home to Yorkshire, to Radley Hill, and the mill.  For a few
years, father and son boxed along happily together, and business
boomed.  But then, recession hit, and the mill, which specialized in
fine worsteds and lightweight tweeds, came up against sophisticated
competition from Europe, an influx of imports, and a cash flow problem.
At the end of the day, Sturrock and Swinfield, the huge textile
conglomerate, based in London, moved in.  The little mill was taken
over.  Sam was given a job under the new umbrella, but his father, too
old a dog to learn new tricks, took early retirement.  But

digging his garden and playing the odd game of golf was not enough to
fend off the stress of loneliness, boredom, and enforced inactivity,
and he died twelve months later of a massive heart attack.

Radley Hill was left to Sam.  After some heart-searching, he put it on
the market.  It seemed the only sensible thing to do, for he was now
London-based, still working for Sturrock and Swinfield, and wise to all
the ups and downs of fluctuating markets and the business of woollen
brokering.  With the money he got for Radley Hill, he was able to buy
his first property, a garden flat in Eel Park Common, so close to the
tube station that at night he could hear the rattling of the trains.
But it had a scrap of garden that caught the evening sun, and once he
had furnished it with some of the smaller stuff from the old house in
Yorkshire, it felt familiar and homely.  He had been happy there,
living a carefree bachelor life, and in memory it was always sunlit and
filled with friends.  Countless impromptu parties, when the rooms
overflowed and guests ended up sitting on the tiny terrace.  t Crowded
winter weekends, when old colleagues from the North came down for
rugger matches at Twickenham.  And, of course, a number of poignant
love affairs.

He was in the throes of one of these when, out of the blue, came a
summons from Sir David Swinfield.  There, in the prestigious high-rise
office, far above the maze of the City of London, Sam was told that he
was being transferred to the United States, to New York.  The head of
the New York office, Mike Passano, had particularly asked for him.  It
was promotion, responsibility, a rise in salary.

"No reason not to go, Sam?"

New York.  He said, "No, sir," which was true.  No family ties, no
wife, no children.  Nothing that could not be abandoned.

"No reason."  It was the opportunity that he had subconsciously yearned
for ever since University.  A new job, a new city, a new country.  A
new life.

He took the current love affair out to dinner and tried to explain, and
she cried a bit and said that if he wanted, she'd come to New York with
him.  But he knew that wasn't what

he wanted.  Feeling a heel, he told her this, and she cried some more,
and when it was time to go he found a taxi for her and watched her
drive away.  He never saw her again.

He was equally ruthless about material possessions.  A chunk of his
life was over, and he had no idea when, if ever, he would return to
London.  Accordingly, he sold his car and his flat, putting only a few
favorite pieces of furniture, pictures, and books into store.  At the
office, he cleared his desk.  Someone threw a leaving party, and he was
able to say goodbye to all his friends.

"Don't stay too long," they told him.

"Come back soon."

But New York waited, and once arrived, he was seduced by all he found.
He took to the place like a duck to water, relishing every aspect of
the stimulating, cosmopolitan melting pot that made up the city.  Home,
there, was a walk-up in Greenwich Village, but after he married
Deborah, she persuaded him to move and they ended up in a fancy duplex
on East Seventieth Street.  He had always enjoyed the challenge of a
new home, new surroundings.  Doing a bit of painting, shunting
furniture around, and hanging pictures.  But Deborah didn't much want
any of the old Greenwich Village stuff in her beautiful new apartment,
and anyway, she had engaged the services of an interior designer, who
would die if that sagging old leather sofa were integrated into his
string-coloured d6cor.  There were a few spats, but not too many
because Sam usually gave in, and he was quite happy to have the old
leather sofa in his den, where he kept his computer and his fax
machine.  It felt friendly there, and sometimes, on weekends, when
Deborah thought he was working overtime, he could lie on the leather
sofa and watch football on television.

Homes.  East Seventieth Street had been the last, and that, too, had
gone.  Along with Deborah.

She had never been a moral coward.  She told him, face- to-face, that
she was leaving.  She was tired of playing second riddle to Sturrock
and Swinfield, and tired of being married to a workaholic.  There was,
of course, another man, and when she told Sam his name, he was both
appalled and filled with anxiety for her future.  He said as much, but
Deborah was adamant.  It was too late.  Her mind was made up.  He
could not persuade her.

He was furious, but he was hurt, too, bewildered and abased.  He
thought of that old-fashioned word, cuckold.  I am a cuckold.  I have
been cuckolded.

And yet, in a way, he understood.

The morning after her departure, he walked into the office and was met
with covert glances and sympathetic faces.  Some colleagues were
over-hearty, slapping him chummily on the shoulder, letting him know
they were his buddies.  There if he needed them.

Others, who had never particularly liked Sam, the Limey, showed signs
of snide amusement, resembling cats that had got at the cream.  He
realized then that probably they had all had a fair idea of what was
going on, and Sam, the leading actor in the drama, had been the very
last to know.

During the course of the day, Mike Passano appeared, breezing through
the open door, and coming to perch on the edge of Sam's desk.  For a
bit they talked day-to-day business, and then Mike said, "I'm sorry.
About Debbie, I mean.  Just wanted to let you know."

"Thanks."

"It's no comfort, but at least you haven't got kids to complicate
matters."

"Yeah."

"If you want to come over for dinner one evening ..."

"I'm okay, Mike."

"Right.  Well.  You can always take a rain-check."

He soldiered on for six weeks.  At the office he found every excuse to
stay at his desk long after others had left, returning late to an empty
apartment and no food.  Sometimes he stopped off at a bar and had a
sandwich and a Scotch.  Or two Scotches.  For the first time in his
life he suffered from insomnia, and during the day found himself
pervaded by an unfamiliar restlessness, as though not only his marriage
but everything else had gone stale.

Mike Passano said, "Take a vacation," but that was the last thing Sam
wanted.  Instead, it slowly became clear to WINTER SOLSTlCt him that
he had had enough of New York.  He wanted England.  He wanted to go
home.  He wanted misty skies and temperate green fields and warm beer
and red buses.

And then one evening, at the nadir of his despair, the telephone rang
in the apartment, and it was Sir David Swinfield from London.

"Is this a good time to talk, Sam?"

"As good as any."

"Hear things aren't running too smoothly for you."

"Bad news travels fast."

"Mike Passano told me.  Had a word this morning.  I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

"Do you feel like a change?"

Sam was cautious.

"What did you have in mind?"

"New idea.  New project.  Right up your street.  Might be
interesting."

"Where?"

"UK."

"You mean, leave New York?"

"You've had six years.  I'll square it with Mike."

"Who'd take over?"

"Lowell Oldberg?"

"He's inexperienced."

"So were you."

He had to get it right.

"Is this a demotion?"  Sam asked bluntly.

"No.  Just a shunt.  Upwards and onwards."  A pause.

"I want you back, Sam.  I need you.  I think it's time."

The house in Beauly Road was a semi-detached three-storey Victorian
villa, set back from the pavement by a front garden which had been
turned into a paved carport.  The rest of the quiet residential road
was lined on both sides with cars, an indication of the affluence of
the district.  There were as well trees, bare now, but which in summer
and in full leaf would give a country illusion, suggesting a pleasant
suburb far from the city of London.



On that black morning, it was still dark.  As Sam, surrounded by his
baggage, paid off the taxi, the front door of the house opened, letting
forth a stream of light, and a masculine, burly figure appeared.

"Sam."  Semi-prepared for his day in the City, Neil Philip wore the
trousers of a business suit and an enveloping navy-blue polo-neck
sweater.  He came down the path and through the gate.

"God, it's good to see you."

And Sam felt himself swept up into a huge and masculine embrace,
because Neil had never been a man to be shy about showing emotion.  It
was a bit like being hugged by a bear.  The taxi driver, still
expressionless, trundled away, and Neil stooped, scooped up the two
enormously heavy suitcases, and charged back towards the open door,
leaving Sam to hump the golf clubs and his briefcase.

"Janey's just getting the kids organized, she'll be down in a moment.
Did you have a good flight?  Bloody exhausted, probably."  He dumped
the suitcases at the foot of the stair.

"The kettle's on; would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Love one."

"Come on, then."

Sam shed himself of his overcoat and draped it over the banister.  From
upstairs he heard a child's voice complaining about something.  A pair
of small gum boots and a toy lorry sat side by side on one of the
stairs.  He followed Neil down the passage into a spacious family
kitchen, with a skylight and windows over the sink.  The curtains of
these were still closed, but overhead he could see the dark clouds,
stained with reflected light.  There were pine cupboards and a humming
fridge, and the table was set for breakfast.  A checked table-cloth,
packets of cereal, a milk jug, egg cups.

Neil spooned coffee into a jug and poured on boiling water.  The
delicious, fresh aroma filled the room.

"Do you want something to eat?"

"No, just coffee."

Sam pulled out a chair and took the weight off his feet.  He could not
imagine why he felt so weary, considering the

fact that he had been sitting down for at least seven hours.

"You're looking terrific, Neil."

"Oh, not so bad.  Surviving family life."  He found bread and put two
slices into an electric toaster.

"You've never seen this house, have you?  We bought it a couple of
years after you went to New York.  Upgrading, Janey called it.  And we
needed a garden for the children."

"Remind me."

"Sorry?"

"Ages.  Daisy and Leo.  One loses track."

"Daisy's ten, Leo six.  They're wildly excited about you staying.  Been
talking about it ever since your phone call.  How long can you stay?"

"It's not a holiday, Neil.  Business.  I've been summoned by the
Chairman.  Some new project."

"Goodbye to New York?"

"For the time being."

"Sam, I'm so sorry about Deborah, and everything."

"We'll talk about it, but not now.  There's too much to say."

"Let's weave our way down to the pub this evening, and you can spill it
all out over a pint.  But remember, you're welcome here for as long as
you like."

"You're more than kind."

"It's my nature, old boy, it's my nature."

The toast popped and Neil removed it from the toaster and put another
couple of slices in.  Sam watched him, the neat and precise movements
of a large and apparently ungainly man.  Neil still had a head of thick
dark hair, but there showed a sprinkling of grey.  He had put on weight
as well, as athletic men tend to do, but otherwise nothing else much
seemed to have changed.

Neil Philip was part of Sam's life.  They had been friends ever since
they met, on their first day at boarding-school, two apprehensive new
boys feeling their way into the system.  Neil was one of the regular
visitors invited to Radley Hill for the holidays, and Sam's mother had
ended up calling him her second son.  When Sam went to Newcastle, Neil
went to Edinburgh University, where he played Rugby like a fanatic and


spent one brilliant season as fly-half for Scotland.  After University,
meeting up again in London, in the Eel Park Common days, it was just as
though there had simply been a pause in the conversation.  When Neil
married Janey, at Saint Paul's, Knightsbridge, Sam had been their best
man.  And when Sam married Deborah, in the garden of her grandparents'
house in East Hampton, Neil and Janey had flown out to be with him, so
that Neil could be best man to Sam.  Sam was deeply grateful, because
otherwise the bridegroom would have been sadly short of family or
friends.

Neil poured coffee and put eggs on to boil.  From upstairs, voices grew
louder, and then there were scurrying feet on the stairs, and the two
children erupted into the kitchen, Daisy dressed in her school uniform,
and Leo wearing jeans and a pullover.  They stood staring at the
stranger.

Sam said, "Hi."

They stared, silent, all at once overcome.

"Say hi back," Neil told them.

Leo said, "I fort you'd be wearing a cowboy hat."

"They don't wear cowboy hats in New York, silly," his sister squashed
him.

"Well, what do they wear?"

"They probably don't wear anything."

"Who doesn't wear anything?"  Janey came through the door, dressed much
as her little son, and her arms were held wide, all ready for her
welcome.

"Oh, Sam, it's been too long.  It's so heavenly to see you."  He stood,
and she hugged and kissed him.

"God, you haven't shaved, you brute."

"I was too idle."

"It's been such ages since we saw you.  I do hope you can stay forever.
Daisy, you're never going to eat all those Cocoa Puffs, put some of
them into Leo's bowl."

The house was quiet, its owners all gone.  Neil to his daily grind,
Janey to take the children to school.  Sam had been shown his bedroom
and his bathroom.  He had a relaxing bath and shaved, and then, bundled
into the towel robe he

had found on the back of the bathroom door, fell into bed.  It was
light now.  Through the window he could see the lacy branches of a
plane tree.  Cars passed, swishing down the road.  Far overhead, a jet
moved across the sky.  He slept.

It rained for most of that weekend, but Monday morning was dry, with
even a few clear patches of sky blinking in and out beyond the sailing
clouds.  After watching a soggy football match on Saturday, organizing
a long wet walk in Richmond Park on Sunday, and playing a Monopoly
marathon after tea-time, Neil inspected the clear morning, said, with
faint bitterness, "Sod's law," and left for work.

The children were next to go, picked up by a neighbour and taken to
school.  A wonderfully black Jamaican lady appeared to push the vacuum
cleaner around the house, and Janey went off to shop.

"Do you want a key?"  she asked Sam.

"I'll be in after four o'clock."

"In that case, I don't need a key."

"When will you be back?"

"No idea."

"Well."  She smiled up into his face, gave him a quick kiss.

"Good luck."

Sam was not far behind her, suitably attired for the important
occasion, buttoned into his overcoat and armed with an umbrella of
Neil's, in case of unexpected downpours.  He closed the front door on
the strains of the Jamaican lady singing hymns as she scoured the bath.
At twenty-five past twelve, he walked up Saint James's Street,
presented himself to the porter at Whites, and asked for Sir David
Swinfield.  Sir David was in the bar, he was told, and expecting a
guest.

It was three-thirty before they emerged from the club, descending the
steps to the pavement where Sir David's car and driver waited.  Sir
David offered a lift, which Sam politely refused.  They parted, and he
stood and watched as the great black saloon slid out into the stream of
traffic and disappeared in the direction of Piccadilly.

Sam turned and set out to walk, at least part of the way,

back to Wandsworth.  He went by way of Green Park, and Belgrave Square,
Sloane Street, and the King's Road.  By now, the day had died and the
street lights had come on.  Shop windows shone and glittered with all
the paraphernalia of Christmas decoration and seductive consumerism. He
found himself astonished by this.  He had been so turned in upon
himself that he had forgotten about Christmas.  The months, lagging in
some respects, had shot past in others.  Christmas.  He had no idea
where he would be for the holiday, and could think of no person who
would be expecting a present from him, which was a bleak truth and
brought no credit upon himself.  However, the thought of presents
galvanized him into action, and he went into a flower shop and bought a
huge bouquet of white lilies for Janey; a little farther on, he paused
at a wine shop and purchased there brandy and a bottle of champagne for
Neil.  Burdened, he thought about the children, Daisy and Leo.  They
should have presents, too, but he couldn't think what on earth they
would like.  He would have to ask them.  Having already spent two days
in their company, he was pretty sure they would know.

By World's End, he had expended his energy and it had started to rain
again.  It was now nearly five o'clock and the traffic at its most
dense, crawling along at the pace of a snail, but after five minutes or
so he picked up a cab and gave the driver the address.  It took an
incredibly long time to get across the Wandsworth Bridge, and when they
finally trundled up the length of Beauly Road, he saw the lights
shining from behind the drawn curtains of number fourteen and felt
welcomed, as though he were coming home.

When he rang the bell, Janey came to let him in.

"There you are.  I thought you'd got lost."

She wore her jeans and a red pullover and her dark hair was bundled up
and fixed with a tortoiseshell clip.

"I've been taking exercise."

Janey closed the door.

"One would have thought a wet Sunday in Richmond Park might have lasted
the week.  How did you get on?  Lunch with the Chairman, I mean."

"It was all right.  I'll tell you but not at this moment."  He

handed her the lilies.

"These are for you.  A house present for a kind hostess."

"Thank you.  You didn't have to bring me flowers, but I'm glad you did.
And lilies.  They make the whole house smell like heaven.  Come into
the kitchen and I'll make you a cup of tea."

Pausing to take off his coat and hang it up on a peg along with a lot
of small overcoats and anoraks, he followed her, hefting the
carrier-bag with the bottles.  He put the brandy into Neil's wine
cupboard and the champagne in the fridge.

"Champagne."  Janey was filling the kettle, plugging it in.

"Does that mean a celebration?"

"Maybe."  He pulled out a chair and sat with his elbows on the table.

"Where are Daisy and Leo?"

"Upstairs, watching television or playing computer games.  They're
allowed to, once they've done their homework."

"Delicious smells in this kitchen."

"It's dinner.  I have gloomy news.  We have another guest."

"What's so gloomy about another guest?"

"This one's a pain."

"Why ask him?"

"I didn't.  He asked himself.  He's an old acquaintance of my parents,
and he's in London on his own and he's at a loose end.  He telephoned
and sounded pathetic, so I felt I had to invite him.  I'm really sorry,
because I wanted it to be just us three.  I've already told Neil.  I
rang him at the office, and he's livid, but he's going to try to get
home a bit early, to do the drinks and lay the table and light the
fire."

"I could do all that for you."

"You're the guest.  You have to go and have a shower and a rest and
make yourself beautiful."

"I suppose, to impress your unwanted friend."  Janey made a face.

"Come on, what's so gruesome about him?"

She had found a large flowered ewer, filled it with water, and was now
engaged in arranging her lilies.

"He's not really gruesome.  Just a bit boring.  Likes to be thought of
as an old roue.  When he's around, one instinctively whisks one's
behind out of reach of his fingers."



Sam laughed.

"One of those."

"You could say so.  He's been married three times, but he's on his own
right now."

"Where does he come from?"

"I think he was at school with my pa.  But now he lives in the Bahamas
or Barbados or somewhere.  He's been out there for ages."

"What's he doing in London?"

"Not sure.  En route for France, I think.  He's going to spend
Christmas in Nice."

"He sounds interesting."

"He isn't.  There.  Those look lovely.  Thank you again.  I'll put
them, pride of place, in the sitting-room."  The kettle boiled and she
reached for the teapot.

"I'm longing to hear about today, but I can't concentrate when I'm
cooking, and I've still got to make a pudding."

"It can wait."

"It was all right, Sam?  It was good?"

"Yes.  I think so."

"Too exciting.  I am pleased."

He drank his tea, and then, shooed out of her kitchen by Janey, went
upstairs.  He found Daisy and Leo in their playroom.  They had switched
off the television and were sitting at a battered table littered with
sheets of paper, which they seemed to be in the process of cutting up.
As well as scissors, they had assembled tubes of glue, felt pens, a
ball of coloured string, and a few scraps of gauzy ribbon.  Some form
of handcraft was clearly taking place.

They looked up.

"Hello, Sam."

"Hi.  What are you up to?"

"We're making Christmas cards," Daisy told him importantly.

"My art teacher showed us today, and I'm teaching Leo.  You paint glue,
and then spill glitter and it sticks.  But we've got to draw something
first."

"Like what?"

"Well, a Christmas tree.  Or a stocking.  Or a house with lighted
windows.  The only thing is it's a bit messy, and the glitter gets
everywhere.  Leo calls it tinkle.  Now, Leo, you

fold the paper like this, very neaterly.... It mustn't be all
skew-wiff...."

It was made obvious that they were in no need of his help.  He left
them and went to his room, stripped off his clothes, and took a
shower.

Have a shower and a rest and make yourself beautiful.  He had brought
The Times upstairs with him, and after his shower he put on the to
welling robe and collapsed on his bed, intending to read it.  But
concentration drifted, and he let the paper slip to the floor and
simply lay, staring at the ceiling.  Sounds emanated from beyond the
closed door.  The children's voices; a telephone ringing; Janey's
footsteps as she went to answer it.

"Hello," he heard her say.  He caught the mouth-watering smell of
dinner being prepared, and later heard taps turned on for the
children's bath.

It was a long time since he had been embraced into the bosom of a
proper family, and felt so cherished and wanted.  Investigating this
line of thought, he realized that Deborah's withdrawal had started
months before her announcement that she was leaving, but Sam had been
too preoccupied to notice the gradual erosion of their relationship.
The breakup of a marriage, he knew, could never be one partner's fault.
The other half, one way or another, had to shoulder some part of the
blame.

He found himself remembering Radley Hill, because the atmosphere of
this ordinary London house, where Neil and Janey were raising their
children, brought back secure and comforting memories of the place
where Sam had spent his boyhood.  Always the welcome, the lighted fire,
the scent from the kitchen of delicious and robust food.  Boots on the
porch, tennis rackets littering the hall, the voices of the youngsters
who were his friends, the sound of their footsteps clattering down the
stairs.  He wondered if he would ever achieve such a haven of family
life.  Up to now, in that respect, his efforts had met with failure. He
and Deborah could have had children, but she had never been
particularly keen on the idea, and he was reluctant to force the issue.
 Which, the way things had turned out, was just as well.  But

the house on East Seventieth Street, with just the two of them, had
never been more than simply a place to live.  True, the living-room had
been the envy of all their friends, so immaculately decorated in cream
and beige, with modem sculptures and cunningly lighted abstracts on the
walls.  And the kitchen was a marvel of modern convenience, but nothing
much had ever emerged from it except a slice of melon or a microwaved
pizza.  Deborah, partying, preferred to entertain in restaurants.

Radley Hill.  Looking back across the frantic, pressurized years of
urban life-the wheeling and dealing, the late nights, the long days,
the smells of subways and car fumes- he remembered Yorkshire, saw the
solid stone unpretentious house, the terrace, the lawns, his mother's
rose borders.  He thought of the little town where stood his father's
mill, where the wind swept aslant the smoke of chimneys, and the river,
flowing down from the hills, slipped along between the tree- shaded
streets and under curved bridges.  The sound of water running over
rocks was so familiar, so part of his life that one- simply stopped
hearing it.  He thought of the surrounding countryside, and long Sunday
hikes with his father; of fishing in the remote dark tarns that lay
cupped hi the moors, where the air was cold and clean, and the empty
spaces were pierced with the cry of curlews.... Outside, in the street,
a car drew up beneath his window.  The front door was opened and
slammed shut.  He heard Janey's voice.

"Neil?  Hi, darling."  And he knew that his friend was home.

He heaved himself off the bed, shucked off the towel robe, and
proceeded to dress himself in a suitable fashion for the evening which
lay ahead.  Pressed chinos, a clean shirt, a navy-blue cashmere
sweater, no tie.  Cream socks, polished loafers.  He brushed his hair,
splashed on a bit of aftershave, went downstairs.  The sitting-room
door stood open, and he went in and found Neil, in shut-sleeves,
engaged in polishing up some glasses to set out on the drinks table.
The room looked festive, prepared for entertaining.  Magazines and

books squared off, cushions fattened, the fire lighted.  The lilies Sam
had given Janey stood in their jug on a round, polished table,
surrounded by an arrangement of Battersea boxes.  Their scent, in the
warmth, already filled the air.  The clock in the middle of the
mantelpiece stood at a quarter past seven.

He said, "Hi."

Neil turned from his task.

"There you are.  Did you have a good kip?"

"I should have been beavering away, helping you."

"Not at all.  Sneaked home early to perform my hostly tasks."

"I gather we have company for dinner."

Neil pulled a face.

"Stupid old bugger.  Janey should have put him off, but she's got too
kind a heart."  He gave a final swipe at the last glass, set it neatly
down, and tossed the tea- towel aside.

"There, that's it.  All done and dusted.  Let's have a drink, and sit
down for a peaceful moment.  I want to hear all about everything before
our guest arrives and we have to start listening to him.  Scotch?  Soda
or water?  Or on the rocks?  You see, I have all the right phraseology,
in case you've forgotten how to speak the language."

"Soda sounds good.  Where's Janey?"

"Whipping cream."

"And the kids?"

"In bed, I hope.  Reading books.  If not, there'll be trouble."  He
poured their drinks, added ice, and brought the tumbler over to Sam.
Then, with a relieved sigh, he thumped himself down into one of the
comfortable chairs that stood at either side of the fire.

"So, tell me, how did the lunch go?"

Sam sat himself down in the opposite chair.

"All right, I suppose."

"Nothing gruesome?  No kindly suggestion of redundancy?"

Sam laughed.  It was a good feeling to have someone come straight to
the point, to be with a man he had known for most of his life, and from
whom he had never had a single secret.

"The very opposite."



"Really?  A new job, then?"

"Yeah."

"In the States?"

"No.  Here.  UK."

"Whereabouts?"

Sam did not answer at once.  He took a slug of his drink, cold and
crisp and smoky on his tongue, and then set down the glass on the low
table alongside.

"Ever heard of McTaggarts of Buckly?"

"What-the tweedy people in Sutherland?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Well, of course.  Any country gentleman worth his salt wears a
shooting suit made of Buckly tweed.  My father had one, or should I say
has.  Built like a bloody suit of armour."  He chuckled at the
thought.

"Don't tell me they're in trouble."

"Have been.  But Sturrock and Swinfield bought them out a few months
ago.  I'm surprised you didn't pick it up, but perhaps you don't read
The Financial Times" "Every day, but I missed that one.  Textiles don't
come into my line of business.  Extraordinary, McTaggarts going down
the drain."  He twisted his mouth into a rueful smile.

"Mind you, probably the eternal-light-bulb scenario.  Can't expect to
make money on a product that lasts forever."

"That, of course, was one of their problems.  And they never
diversified.  I suppose, an old-fashioned set-up, and saw no need.  But
even for the classic tweeds, the market has shrunk.  Great estates sold
up, and shooting-lodges standing empty.  No longer a call for tweeds
for the gamekeepers and the foresters.  But they've had other setbacks
as well.  Old McTaggart died a couple of years ago, and his two sons
weren't interested in the business.  One was already into computers and
the other running a huge garage on the outskirts of Glasgow.  They had
no desire to return.  I suppose life in the Far North had lost its
appeal."

"How extraordinary."  Neil let out a sigh.

"Oh, well, I suppose everyone has different aspirations.  So what
happened then?"

INTER SOLSTICE

"Well, first the sons did a bit of asset-stripping, selling off all the
mill houses; then they put the whole place on the market.  When there
wasn't much interest forthcoming, the work-force approached the local
Enterprise Company and together they undertook a management buy-out of
the business.  Problem is, there's not a bottomless source of
employment in that area, as you can well imagine.  Anyway, they're all
skilled workers, they've been in the trade father and son-weavers,
spinners, dyers-you name it."  Sam drained the last drops from his
glass.

"So, they were ticking along all right, getting a few new orders,
exports to the States, that sort of thing-then, bang, disaster struck.
It rained non-stop for two months; the river broke its banks and
flooded the mill to the height of a man's head.  They lost
everything-their stock, their computers, most of the machinery.  And
that was it The banks foreclosed, the LEG got their fingers burnt, and
the work-force faced up to a future without employment."

Neil got to his feet and came over to Sam and took his glass.

"God, that was really hard luck."

"I know.  So, in desperation, they approached Sturrock and Swinfield.
David Swinfield carried out a fairly extensive feasibility study on the
place, and it was duly rescued.  The mill's still in a hell of a mess,
though.  It hasn't been in operation since the flood, and all but three
of the workers are laid off."

Neil handed him his replenished glass.

"So, what's your part?"

"I'm to go and get it back on its feet again.  Run the place."

"Just like that?  Straightaway?"

"Not quite.  Even before the flood, the mill was pretty run-down.  Most
of the machinery was probably put in at the time of the Ark.  So it'll
be a year before it's all up and going again."

"I'm surprised that Swinfield's feasibility study showed that there was
any financial viability at all in the place.  I mean, do you think it's
still possible to make something of an industry in such a remote
location?  To be quite honest, I wonder if it's really worth the
hassle."

W 92

"Oh, I think so.  Of course, we'll have to diversify, but re| member,
the name of McTaggarts has terrific good will| throughout the world.
It's worth a hell of a lot if we're to < look closer at the luxury
markets."

"What?  Not the end of the good old heavyweight thorn- proofs for
country wear surely?  That would be tragic.  You'll have to keep making
those."

"Of course we will-and tartans too.  Those are McTaggarts'
stock-in-trade.  Tradition.  But they'll form only a part of our
production.  We'll be concentrating more on lighter, more colourful
textiles.  Jacketing fabrics for the Italian market, for instance.
Shawls, scarves, throws, sweaters.  You know, the fashion industry.
Both expensive and expendable."

"Cashmere?"

"Of course."

"So, forays into darkest China are on the cards?"

"David Swinfield already has agents in Manchuria."

"And what about machinery?"

"Probably source it in Switzerland."

"Which will mean a total retraining programme for the workforce."

"Yeah, but it'll be carried out on-site by the supplier's commissioning
team.  What unfortunately it will mean is a reduced workforce."

Neil was silent, assessing all this.  Then he sighed and shook his
head, looking a little bemused.

"It sounds exciting, but it's hard to see you settling down to life in
a peat bog.  After London and then New York.  It sounds on a par with
being posted as British Vice-Consul to the Andaman Islands.  Hardly a
leg up."

"It's what I know about and what I can do."

"Salary?"

"Upped."

"Bribery."

Sam smiled.

"Not at all.  Simply a bonus."

"And what will you do with yourself?  Your leisure time?  When you're
not working flat out on the mill floor, or trying to

get books to balance.  I hardly think Buddy is going to be a hive of
local gaiety.  You may well be forced to take up bingo."

"I shall fish.  Remember fishing with my father?  And I shall play
golf.  There are at least five wonderful links in the neighbourhood.  I
shall join clubs and make friends with old gentlemen in soup-stained
pullovers."

"More likely to be all kit ted up by Nick Faldo."

"Whatever."

"So you don't feel all this is a bit of a regression?"

"I'm going back to my roots, if that's regressing.  And oddly enough, I
relish the prospect of being a troubleshooter.  As well, I know about
running a small mill.  I learned it all from my father.  And he truly
loved the business.  He loved his machines the way other men loved
their cars.  And he used to touch great bales of tweed as though he
were caressing them, for the pleasure of feeling the woven wool beneath
his fingers.  Perhaps I'm the same.  I only know I've had enough of
marketing.  I can't wait to get back to the factory floor, back to the
start of it all.  Right now, I feel it's exactly what I need."

Neil eyed him across the hearth.  He said, "Don't be offended, but I am
not sure whether your chairman isn't being paternalistic."

"You mean because my personal life has fallen apart."

"Frankly, yes."

"Don't worry.  I asked him the same question over the Stilton.  But I'd
been earmarked for the Buckly Mill job long before he heard about
Deborah."

"Of course.  Silly question, really.  Sir David Swinfield didn't get
where he is by having a soft heart.  When do you go?"

"Soon as possible.  But there's a lot of planning and thrashing-out to
be done before I take off.  A meeting's set up for tomorrow morning
with the financial chaps.  A time schedule of reinvestment.  That sort
of thing."

"Where are you going to live once you get there?  I thought you said
that the McTaggart sons had sold off all the houses."



"Yeah, you're right.  But that's just a small matter.  I'll probably
stay in a pub or rent a house.  Never know, I might even shack up with
a raven-haired lassie with a turf-roofed cottage."

Neil laughed.

"And hoots, mon, to you!"  He glanced at the clock, shifted his
considerable weight in the chair, and yawned enormously, running his
fingers through his hair.

"Well, all I can say is best of luck, old boy."

"It just needs a good kick-start to get it going again."

Neil grinned.

"In that case, you'd better buy yourself a good pair of football boots,
because you're going to need them...."

He got no further for, at that moment, the doorbell rang.

Neil said, "Oh, hell," set down his glass and got to his feet.

"That'll be the old bore now."  But before he got any farther, they
heard the kitchen door open and Janey's swift footsteps pass down the
hall.  Then, her voice.

"Hello.  How are you?  How lovely to see you."  And she sounded nothing
but delighted, and Sam thought, not for the first time, what a
wonderfully kind girl she was.

"Come along in."  Murmurs of a male voice.

"Oh, chocolates.  How kind.  I'll have to keep them out of the way of
the children.  Did you walk from the tube, or were you able to get a
taxi?  Give me your coat, and I'll hang it up.  Neil's in here...."

The door opened.  Both men by now were standing, and Neil went forward
to greet his guest, who was being ushered into the room by his
hostess.

"Hello, there ..."

"Neil.  My word!  Good to see you.  It's been too long.  This is
enormously kind of you."

"Not at all..."

Janey said, "And look what he's brought me."  She had changed for the
evening into black velvet trousers and a white satin shirt, but over
these still wore her red-and-white- striped cook's apron.  She held up
a modest box of After Eight mints.

"Divine chocolates."

"Just a token.  Trying to remember how many years it is since I've seen
you both.  When was it?  A lunch with your parents, Janey.  Too long
ago...."

Standing with his back to the mantelpiece, Sam eyed the newcomer.  He
saw a man well into his sixties, but with the bearing and mannerisms of
a young blade from forty years ago.  He had probably once been
attractive, in a David Niven- ish sort of way; but now his features
were blurred, his cheeks veined, and his trim moustache, like his
fingers, stained with a lifetime of tobacco.  His hair was white,
thinning, but worn long on his collar, his eyes gleaming and very pale
blue, and his face and hands deeply tanned, and smudged with age-
spots.  He wore grey flannel trousers, brown suede shoes, a navy
blazer, brass-buttoned, and a blue-and-white-striped shirt.  From the
high, stiff collar streamed a silk tie of great flamboyance, striped in
startling shades of red, yellow, and peacock green.  His wrist-watch
was gold and there were gold links in the cuffs of his shirt.  He had
clearly made much effort with his appearance, and smelled strongly of
Eau Sauvage.

"... yes, ages," said Janey.

"It must be seven years.  When they were still living in Wiltshire.
Now, I must introduce you.  This is Sam Howard, who's staying with us
for a few days.  And Sam, this is Hughie McLennan."

"How do you do?"

"Good to meet you."  They shook hands.

"Sam and Neil have been friends forever... since they were at
school."

"No friend like an old friend.  God, the traffic in London is ghastly.
Never seen anything so chock-a-block.  Took me fifteen minutes to get a
taxi."

"Where are you staying?"  Neil asked.

"Oh, my club, of course, but not what it was.  Primed the porter, but
might just as well have saved myself a gold sovereign.  And the
trouble."

"Let me get you a drink, Hughie."

Hughie visibly brightened.

"Good suggestion."  He glanced at the table upon which stood the
bottles and glasses.

"Gin and tonic, if I may."  He patted pockets.

"You don't mind if I smoke, do you, Janey?"

"No.  No, of course I don't.  There's an ashtray somewhere."  She
searched, found one on her desk, emptied it of



paper-clips, and set it down on the table by the sofa.

"Hell, these days, nobody smokes.  New York is a nightmare.  Light up,
and a guy comes and shoots you dead."  He had taken from his blazer
pocket a silver case and extracted a cigarette, which he now ignited
with a gold lighter.  He blew out a cloud of smoke, immediately looked
much more relaxed, and put out a hand to take his glass from Neil.

"Bless you, dear boy.  Happy days."

"Do you want a drink, Janey?"

"I've got my cook's drink in the kitchen.  A glass of wine.  Talking of
which, Neil, could you come and open a bottle for dinner?"

"Of course.  Sorry.  I should have done it before.  Would you excuse
me, Hughie, just for a moment?  Sit down, make yourself comfortable.
Sam will keep you company...."

When they had gone, and the door closed, Hughie proceeded to do as he
had been invited.  With his drink and his ashtray conveniently to hand,
he settled himself in a corner of the sofa, one arm outflung, resting
on the deep cushions.

"Charming house, this.  Never been here before.  Last time" I was over,
they were still living in Fulham.  Known Janey since she was a child.
Parents are old friends."

"She told me.  You've come from Barbados, I believe."

"Yes, I've got a house in Speightstown.  Come back to London every now
and then, just to keep the old finger on the pulse, check up on my
stockbroker, get my hair cut, visit my tailor.  Sad thing is, friends
are getting a bit thin on the ground; every time I come, some other old
mucker has popped his clogs.  Sad, really.  Still, the truth is we're
all getting older."  He stubbed out his cigarette, took another long
swig of his gin and tonic, and fixed Sam with a speculative eye.

"You're on holiday?"

"You could say that.  Just for a few days."

"What line of business are you in?"

"Wool-brokering."  And then, because he did not want to talk about
himself, Sam carried on: "How long have you lived in Barbados?"

"About thirty years.  Ran the Beach Club for fifteen of them, but
chucked it in before I became a raving alcoholic.  Before that, I had a
place in Scotland.  It was handed over to me by a parsimonious father
who had no intention of paying death duties."

A mild interest stirred.

"What sort of place?"  Sam asked.

"Oh, a sizey estate.  Farms, land, that sort of thing.  A Victorian
pile of a house.  Shooting, good fishing."

"Did you live there full time?"

"Tried to, old boy, but the winters at that latitude are not a joke.
And to appreciate life to the full in the back of beyond, it's
necessary to have a bit of backup.  It was all very well for one's
grandparents, with servants and staff, and cooks and keepers, slaving
away for incredibly modest wages.  When I came along, it cost an arm
and a leg just to heat the bloody place.  Not to say ..."  He cocked an
eyebrow and gave a sly smile.

"Not to say that we didn't have a good time.  My first wife was a manic
hostess, and she made certain that Corry- dale was always bulging with
house guests.  I used to say she had house guests the way other people
had mice.  Food for an army and drink for a drunken army.  Memorable
days."  As he talked, recollecting his apparently halcyon past, Hughie
fondled his silken tie, stroking it, letting it slip through his
fingers.

"Of course, they couldn't last forever.  Then Elaine ran off with a
commodity broker, and after that there didn't seem much point
soldiering on.  As well, half the staff had left, and the bank manager
was making disagreeable noises...."

Sam listened to all this with a curious mixture of irritation and
compassion.  Here was a man who had been handed treasure on a silver
plate, and squandered the lot away.  It was hard to be sympathetic, but
Hughie's bravura made him a sad character.

"... so I sold up and that was it.  Moved to Barbados.  Best thing I
ever did."

"Sold up.  Just like that?  Lock, stock, and barrel?"

"Well, hardly.  The property went in lots.  The farm was bought by the
sitting tenant, and one or two of the cottages went to faithful old
retainers who'd been living in them.



What remained-the house, stables, land-was sold to a chain who run
country hotels.  You know the sort of thing.  Fishing available and the
odd pot at a pheasant or grouse."

Hughie knocked back the last of his gin and tonic and then sat gazing
thoughtfully at the empty glass.

"Can I get you the other half?"  Sam asked.

Hughie brightened.

"What a good idea.  Not too much tonic."  Sam took the tumbler from his
hand, and Hughie reached once more for his cigarettes.

Fixing the drink, "How long are you staying in London?"  he asked.

"As short a time as possible.  Flew in about four days ago.  Leave on
Wednesday.  Headed for Nice.  I've got an old friend there, Maudie
Peabody, perhaps you know her?  No?  Oh, thank you, old boy.  Kind of
you.  Maudie's an old acquaintance of my early Barbados days. American.
Rich as Croesus.  Got a divine villa in the hills above Cannes. 
Spending Christmas with her, and New Year.  Then back to Barbados."

Sam returned to his position by the fire.

"You seem very well organized."

"Oh, not too bad.  Do one's best.  But lonely now, living on my own.
Rather unsuccessful in the marriage stakes.  And that's bloody
expensive.  All my ex-wives want a cut of the lolly.  What's left of
it!"

"Do you have children?"

"No.  No children.  I had mumps when I was at Eton and that put paid to
procreating.  Bloody shame, really.  I'd have liked kids to look after
me in my old age.  Truth to tell, I'm a bit short of relations.  Got my
father, but we're only just on speaking terms.  He blew a fuse when I
sold the place up, but there wasn't a mortal thing he could do about
it.  There's a cousin as well, a dull fellow.  Lives in Hampshire.
Tried to phone him, but there was no answer."

"Where does your father live?"

"In solitary and comfortable state in a mansion flat near the Albert
Hall.  Haven't got in touch yet.  Putting it off.  Probably drop in on
my way back from France.  Courtesy visit.  We never find much to talk
about...."

It was something of a relief to Sam when once more they were joined by
Janey and Neil.  Janey, apparently done with her cooking, had removed
her apron.  She looked aglow with pleasure, and came instantly across
the room to put her arms around Sam's neck and kiss him soundly.

"Neil's told me.  About the new job.  I'm thrilled.  You don't mind my
knowing, do you?  So exciting, a real challenge.  I'm really pleased
for you.  I can't think of anything more exciting to take on."

Across her head, Sam caught Neil's eye.  Neil looked a bit abashed.

"You didn't mind me telling her?"

"Of course not."  He gave Janey a hug.

"Saved me the trouble."

"What's this?"  Hughie pricked up his ears.

Janey turned to him.

"It's Sam's new job.  He heard today.  He's going to the very north of
Scotland to restart an old woollen mill."

"Really?"  For the first time Hughie's attention and interest were
caught by something and somebody other than himself.

"Scotland, eh?  Whereabouts?"

Sam told him.

"Buckly.  Sutherland."

Hughie gaped.

"For God's sake.  Buckly.  Not McTaggarts?"

"You know them?"

"Dear boy, like the back of my hand.  Buckly's only a few miles from
Corrydale.  Used to have all my shooting suits made of Buckly tweed.
And Nanny used to knit my shooting stockings with McTaggarts' wheeling.
Old family firm.  Been going for at least a hundred and fifty years.
What the hell happened?"

"Old McTaggart died.  Sons weren't interested.  They ran out of money,
and the mill was finally finished off by a flood."

"What a tragic story.  Like hearing an old friend has died.  And you
are going to take over!  When do you go north?"

"Soon."

"Got a place to live?"

"No.  All the mill's domestic property has been sold off.  I'll camp in
a pub, and look around for something to buy."



Hughie said, "Interesting."  They all looked at him, but he did not
enlarge on this, simply concentrated his attention on carefully
stubbing out his cigarette.

At last, "Why interesting?"  asked Janey.

"Because I have a house."

"Where do you have a house?"

"Not Corrydale, but Creagan.  Even closer to Buddy."

"Why do you have a house in Creagan?"

"It was the old estate office, and where the factor's family lived.
Quite large, solid, Victorian.  With a garden at the back.  But my
grandmother decided it was too far from Corrydale, for day-to-day
convenience, and she put the factor and his family into more suitable
accommodation, within the walls of the park.  The old Estate House she
left to me.  And to my cousin.  We are joint owners."

Neil frowned.

"So who lives there now?"

"It's standing empty.  An old couple called Cochrane have been renting
it out for the past twenty years, but one has died, and the other gone
off to live with some relation.  To 6e truthful, one of the reasons I'm
in London is to put it on the market.  I could do with a bit of the old
ready.  Tried to ring Oscar ... he's the other owner ... to talk things
over, but couldn't get hold of him.  He's probably died.  Bored himself
to death, no doubt."

Janey ignored this little spurt of malice.  She said, "Would he be
willing to sell out his half of the house?"

"Can't imagine why he shouldn't.  No earthly use to him.  I have, in
fact, a date with Hurst and Fieldmore tomorrow morning, thought I'd
sound them out, see if they'd handle a sale."

"But your cousin ..."

"Oh, I can square things off with him when I get back from France."

"So what are you saying, Hughie?"

"That your friend Sam needs a house and I have one for sale.  Suit him
down to the ground, I should reckon.  Short commute to business, close
to the shops, championship golf course.  No man could ask for more." He
turned his head to look at Sam.

"No harm done, going to cast your eye over the

place.  We could come to some arrangement.  A private deal would suit
me very well."

Sam said cautiously, "How much are you asking?"

"Well, there's been no valuation, for obvious reasons.  But..."  Hughie
dropped his eyes, brushed a little cigarette ash from the knee of his
trousers.

"A hundred and fifty thousand?"

"Between you and your cousin?"

"Exactly so.  Seventy-five each."

"How soon can you get in touch with him?"

"No idea, old boy.  He's being elusive.  He could be anywhere.  But
there is no reason why you shouldn't go and have a look at the
place."

"Is there some agent or person I should get in touch with?"

"No need."  Hughie heaved himself sideways and felt in his trouser
pocket.  From this he withdrew a large oldfashioned key, attached to a
red label upon which was written in large capitals, estate house.  He
held it up like a trophy.  Janey was amazed.

"Do you carry it with you all the time?"

"Silly girl, of course not.  Told you, I was going to see Hurst and
Fieldmore tomorrow, was going to hand it over then."

Sam took the key.

"How do I get in touch with you?"

"Give you my card, old boy.  You can fax me in Barbados.  And Maudie's
telephone number in the south of France, just in case you make a snap
decision."

"I'll certainly look at the house, and thank you.  But of course
nothing can be official without your cousin's approval."

"Course not.  No underhand shenanigans.  Everything above-board, cut
and dried.  But still, a viable proposition."

There fell another pause.  Then Janey said, "It is the most
extraordinary coincidence.  I'm sure it's an omen.  A marvelous omen.
Of everything going right, and everything going well.  Shouldn't we
celebrate?  Sam gave us a bottle of champagne.  Why don't we open it
and drink a toast to Sam, Me- Taggarts, and happy days in his new
house?"

"Splendid idea," said Hughie.

"But if you don't mind, I'd much prefer another gin and tonic."

CARRIE

that night, Carrie dreamed of Austria and Oberbeuren.  In the dream,
the sky was a deep blue and the snow so dazzling that every frozen
flake glittered like a jewel.  She was skiing.  An empty pi ste
Floating down through the white fields that spread to infinity on
either side.  There were black pine trees, and the pi ste ran between
these trees, and she was alone.  And then, emerging from the pines, she
realized that she was not alone, because, far ahead, she saw another
lone skier, a black silhouette, hurtling away from her, down the slope,
dancing Christianias in the snow.  She knew that the skier was Andreas,
and she wanted him to know that she was there, so that he would wait
for her.  She called his name.  Andreas.  Stop and let me be with you.
Let us ski down together.  She could hear her voice blown away by the
wind, and the sound of her skis on the beaten surface of Has pi ste
Andreas.  But he was gone.  And then she topped a rise and saw that he
had heard her call and was waiting.  Turned, leaning on his sticks,
watching for her.  His head tipped up, his dark goggles pushed to the
top of his head.

He was smiling.  White teeth in a deeply tanned face.  Perhaps his
flight had been just a tease.  Andreas.  She reached his side and
stopped, and only then saw that it was not Andreas at all, but another
man, with a wolfish grin and eyes hard as grey pebbles.  And the sky
was not blue any longer but storm-dark and she was afraid.... The sense
of fear awoke her, eyes flying open to the darkness.  She could hear
the beating of her heart.  Disoriented, she saw a strip of uncurtained
window, the street lights beyond.  Not Austria, not Oberbeuren, but
London.  Not her pine-scented apartment with the balcony beyond the
windows, but Putney, and the spare bedroom of her friends, Sara and
David Lumley.  Not frosty, starlit skies, but the drip of

grey rain.  The dream receded.  Andreas, who had never been truly hers,
was gone.  It was all over.

She reached out a hand and found her watch on the bedside table.  Six
o'clock on a dark early-December morning.

The empty bed felt desolate.  She found herself overcome with a
physical yearning, a desperate need for Andreas, for him to be there,
his smooth and muscular body close to her own.  To be back where they
both belonged, in the huge carved bed beneath the sloping beams:
lovers, bundled in goose-down and bliss.  She turned on her side,
hugging herself for comfort and warmth.  It will be all right.  It's
like an illness, but I will recover.  She closed her eyes, turned her
face into the pillow, and slept again.

At nine o'clock she awoke once more, and saw that the gloomy winter
morning had begun to lighten.  By now, David and Sara would already
have departed, set off for work, and she knew that she was alone in
their house.  Already, she had been there for a week, and in that time
had accomplished little; seen nobody, done nothing about finding
herself a new job.  Sara and David, infinitely understanding, had left
her alone, and Carrie's only contact with her family had been to call
her father in Cornwall and have a long and comforting conversation with
him, lasting almost an hour.

"You will get in touch with your mother, won't you?"  he had said, and
she had promised that she would, but kept finding good reasons for
putting off this course of action.  But a week was too long, and she
knew that it could be postponed no longer.  Today, this very morning,
she would telephone Dodie.  Surprise, she would say, sounding cheerful.
I'm back.  Here.  In London.

And there would be astonishment, and explanations and excuses, and then
arrangements made for their reunion.  She did not dread this, but
neither did she much look forward to seeing either her mother or her
sister, Nicola.  She knew that they would have much to tell her and
none of it would be good news.  However, blood runs thicker than water,
and the sooner it was done, and over with, the better.

She got out of bed and pulled on her dressing-gown and

went downstairs.  The kitchen was neat and shining.  Sara was an
exemplary housekeeper, despite a full-time job.  She had even found
time to leave a note for Carrie, propped against the pot plant that
stood in the middle of the.  table.

Have a good day.  There's bacon in the fridge and orange juice.  David
has a late meeting, but I'll be home the usual time.  If you go to
Safeway, could you buy a vcg.  for supper.  Cauliflower will do.  And
some Lapsang Souchong tea-bags.

Love X Sara

Carrie boiled a kettle, made coffee, put bread in the toaster.  She
drank the coffee but didn't eat the toast.  The telephone sat on the
dresser and looked at her, like a bad conscience.  By the time she had
drunk three cups of coffee, it was a quarter to ten.  Surely, even
Dodie Sutton would be up and about by now.  She reached for the
receiver and punched the number.  The rain dripped against the window.
She heard the ringing tone.  She waited.

"Hello."

"Ma."

"Who's that?"

"Carrie."

"Carrie?  Are you ringing up from Austria?"

"No.  London.  I'm here.  Home."

"At Ranfurly Road?"

"No.  Ranfurly Road's been let for three years.  Three months' notice
on either side.  I'm homeless."

"Then where are you?"

"In Putney.  With friends.  Just across the river from you."

"How long have you been back?"

"About a week.  But there's been a lot to do, otherwise I'd have called
before."

"A week!  Is this a holiday?"  Dodie's voice was querulous, as though
in some way her daughter had pulled a fast one on her.

"No, not a holiday.  I chucked my job in.  Decided I'd done it for long
enough."

"I always imagined you were there for good.  We haven't seen you for
years.  What happened?"

"Nothing happened.  Just a whim."

"Will you get another job?"

"Have to.  Look, Ma, I thought I'd come and see you.  Are you going to
be in today?"

"I'm in this morning.  This afternoon I have to go and play bridge with
old Leila Maxwell.  She's got cataracts, poor thing, and can scarcely
see the cards, but it's the least one can do."

Carrie persisted.

"How about lunch, then?"

"Here, you mean?"

"I'll take you out if you'd rather."

"No.  I can manage.  Soup and pate or something.  Would that be all
right?"

"Perfect.  How's Nicola?"

"Oh, my dear girl, such drama."

Carrie's heart sank.

"Drama?"

"I think she's gone mad.  I'll tell you all about it when you come."  A
pause, and then Dodie added, some bright idea having obviously just
occurred to her, "Actually, all this might be rather fortuitous.  You
coming home, I mean.  She'll be back for lunch, but perhaps you could
get here a bit earlier and we can have a private chat about it all."

Carrie began to wish that she hadn't telephoned after all.  She said,
"And what about Lucy?"

"Lucy's here, too.  She's got a morning off school, something to do
with the boiler being replaced.  She's in her room, swotting for some
exam or other.  She spends most of her time in her room, so she won't
disturb us."

"I'd like to see her."

"Oh, yoU will, you will.  What time will you be here?"

"Eleven-thirty?  I'll probably walk."

"Haven't you got a car?"

"Yes, but the exercise will do me no harm."

"It's a vile day."



"I'll survive.  See you later then, Ma."

"I'll expect you."  And Dodie rang off.  After a little, Carrie put the
receiver down, sat and looked at it for a moment, and then found
herself laughing.  Not from joy, but wryly, because her mother's chill
and ambiguous welcome was exactly what she had both dreaded and
expected.

It had always been thus.  A lack of communication, an antipathy,
perhaps, that Carrie had come to terms with and learned to accept even
before she entered her teens.  Being with other families, seeing how
they behaved with each other, had compounded her perception, and had it
not been for the presence of her father, she could well have grown up
with no knowledge of loving or being loved.

She had never quite worked out why Jeffrey Sutton had married Dodie in
die first place.  Perhaps because she was pretty, flirtatious, and
engaging, and as a young woman had the ability to turn herself into
exactly the sort of companion any potential husband would wish to spend
his life with.  Only to discover, too late, that it was all a
calculated act.  On Dodie's side, in Jeffrey she saw not only an
attractive and virile man, but security as well, for his job as a City
broker was sound, his career climbing steadily, and his colleagues were
blessed with the social background that Dodie had always craved.

Nicola was their first child, and then, five years later, Carrie
arrived.  So different were the sisters, so little did they have in
common, it seemed that each belonged solely to a single parent.  As
though Dodie had produced Nicola without co-operation from Jeffrey, and
Jeffrey had fathered Carrie, in some miraculous fashion, entirely by
himself.

He was her father, her friend, her ally ... the strong partner of a
marriage that could only be called a misalliance.  It was Jeffrey who
drove his daughters to school, while their mother lay in bed, sipped
China tea, and read novels.  Carrie remembered him returning home from
work, the sound of his latchkey in the door, and running downstairs to
welcome him, because Dodie hadn't returned from her bridge game, and
only the au pair clashed about in the kitchen.  Grubby

and exhausted after a demanding day at his work, he would dump his
brief-case and shuck himself out of his overcoat, and come upstairs to
help with homework, or listen to piano practice.  It was Jeffrey who
brought fun into family life, always ready with a spontaneous idea for
a picnic, an outing, a holiday.  It was he who had first taken Carrie
skiing at Val d'lsere when she was only ten, to stay in a rented villa
and be part of a cheerful house party consisting of two other families.
It was one of the best holidays of Carrie's life, and the start of a
passion that had never left her, but Nicola had turned down the
invitation, partly because she was hopelessly unathletic, but also
because she liked being on her own with Dodie, so that the two of them
could go shopping together, and buy new dresses for Nicola to wear to
all the Christmas parties to which she had been invited, and had no
intention of missing.

Clothes, boys, and parties were Nicola's passionate interests, and it
surprised nobody when she became engaged, and then married, when she
was twenty-one.  The young man in question was called Miles Wesley and
was all that Dodie had ever dreamt of for her elder daughter.  He had a
grandmother called Lady Burfield, parents with an enviable property in
Hampshire, had been educated at Harrow, and held a respectable job with
Hurst and Fieldmore, an old-established property agent with branches
all over the country.  Miles was in the head office, in Davies Street,
learning the ropes of selling huge sporting estates, grouse moors, and
tracts of expensive fishing rights.  No mother could have wished for
more, and Dodie had a lovely time planning a wedding that would be the
envy of all her friends, and a talking point for some years to come.

Carrie was not a bridesmaid at this wedding because she refused to be.
Now fifteen, she was tall, lanky, and working passionately at her
lessons, because she wanted, above all else, to get a place at
University.  Her general appearance was the despair of her mother, who
abhorred the worn jeans, heavy boots, and baggy T-shirts that Carrie
favoured, and nearly fainted away when Carrie brought back from the Ox


fam shop a leather jacket that looked like nothing so much as a dead
sheep.

When the word "bridesmaid" was mentioned, Carrie made her position
instantly clear.

She said no.

There were terrible rows.

"How can you be so selfish?"  Dodie wanted to know.

"Easily."

"You only have one sister; you could think of her."

"Look, Ma, I wouldn't do it even for the Queen.  I'm five feet nine
inches tall, and I'm just not bridesmaid material.  And I'm not walking
down any aisle looking like a great pink taffeta meringue.  A complete
idiot."

"You know perfectly well it won't be pink taffeta.  Nicola and I have
chosen deep-rose chiffon."

"Even worse."

"You never think of anybody but yourself."

"This time, that's just what I'm doing.  Nicola won't mind.  She's got
masses of pretty girl-friends just dying to be bridesmaids.  Anyway,"
Carrie yawned, "I'm not all that dotty about church weddings."  She
found it amusing, sometimes, to wind her mother up a bit.

"Why can't they just nip round the corner to the Registry Office?  Just
think of the money you'd save.  On the other hand, that would mean no
wedding presents and yummy cheques."

"That is the most unkind thing to say."

"Just practical."

Dodie took a deep breath and kept her voice low and even.

"If people wish to give Nicola a cheque for a wedding present, then I
know it will be gratefully received.  They have, after all, got to
furnish their new flat.  Refrigerators, lamps, carpets.  Nothing's
cheap, you know."

"Or they could put all that lovely lolly into a special account, and
use it to pay for the divorce...."

Dodie left-the room, slamming the door behind her.  The subject of
bridesmaids was not mentioned again.

Carrie was the first person Jeffrey confided in.  She was nineteen now
and at Oxford University, reading English and philosophy, and relishing
every moment of her new life.  One Sunday morning, he telephoned from
London.

"You doing anything today?"

"Nothing special."

"I thought I might give you lunch."

"What a treat."

"Your mother's with Nicola.  Lucy's running a temperature, so there was
a cry for help.  I'll be with you around twelve."

Carrie was thrilled.

"I'll be ready."

It was a golden day in October, and when he had collected Carrie from
outside her residence, he drove her out into the country and stood her
lunch at Le Manoir de Quatre Saisons.  An enormous and expensive treat.
After lunch, they wandered into the garden and sat in the benign Indian
summer warmth, and there was bird-song and leaves drifted down, like
copper pennies, onto the grass.

It was then that he told her about Serena, about meeting her, and
seeing her, and falling in love.  "... I have known her for five years
now.  She is young enough to be my daughter, but she means everything
to me, and I don't think I can live without her any longer."

Her father with a lover.  Another woman.  And Carrie had never had the
faintest suspicion.  It was hard to come up with something to say.

"Are you shocked, Carrie?"

"Of course I'm not.  Just taken unawares."

"I am going to leave you all and be with her."  Carrie looked at him,
and saw the pain in his dark eyes.

"This is a terrible thing I am doing to you."

"No.  Just telling me the truth."

"I would have gone before, taken Serena with me.  But I couldn't leave
until I felt that both you and Nicola were ... settled, I suppose.
Adult.  I had to be around while you needed me, while I could still be
of use to you.  Now, it's different.  You, I am pretty sure, can stand
on your own feet.  And Nicola is a married woman with a little girl of
her own.  I can only hope that she is content.  Miles has always seemed
a decent sort of chap, if a bit wet.  I think she probably runs rings
around him, but that's his lookout."

"Poor man."  She thought of his own marriage to Dodie.  She said, "All
these years, have you been very unhappy?"

Jeffrey shook his head.

"No.  There have been moments of great joy, mostly when I was with you.
But I'm worn out of keeping up appearances, and making the best of
things.  I'm exhausted by the grind of trying to make enough money,
struggling on, working flat-out.  I need a different life.  I need warm
love and companionship and laughter, and Dodie is incapable of letting
me experience any of these things.  As you probably realize, we haven't
shared a bed for years.  I want a home where friends drop in and sit at
the kitchen table, and share spaghetti and a bottle of wine.  I want to
open the front door at the end of a day and hear someone call my name.
In the mornings I want to shave and smell bacon and eggs cooking, and
coffee perking.  And it's not just the male menopause, it's a deep need
that's been simmering for years."

"I wasn't going to say male menopause."

"I know you weren't."

Another family had come out of the hotel into the warm afternoon
sunshine.  A young mother and father and a little boy.  The little boy
found a croquet mallet and a ball and was attempting to hit the ball
with the mallet.  After three misses, his father came to stand behind
him, his hands wrapped around his son's, to show him how.

Carrie said, "You've done everything you could for us all.  No man
could have done more.  If you feel this way, you must go."

"What about your mother?"

"She'll be devastated, of course, and her pride will be bruised.  But I
know she's never put much into your marriage, and perhaps, at the end
of the day, she's a person better on her own."  Carrie sighed.

"You have to be realistic,

Dad.  She'll get a good divorce lawyer and make you pay."

"I know that.  A price I'll have to pay."

"What about your job?"

"I shall chuck it in."

"Won't you miss the cut and thrust?"

"No.  I've got as high up the ladder as I ever will.  And I'm tired of
the rat race, and the anxiety and the perpetual driving competition to
keep up front.  Perhaps I was never a very ambitious animal.  And now
I'm selfish.  Do you think it's wrong, at my great age, to want to be
happy?"

"You know what I think."

For a bit they didn't say anything, simply sat there in a sort of
silent harmony.  Then Jeffrey spoke again.

"This is about you, now.  There's a trust fund for you; I set it up
when you were born.  Nicola, too, but hers has mostly gone on that
ridiculous wedding.  The point is, it's sitting in the bank, breeding a
bit of interest, and I think it would be sensible if you cashed it in
and used it to buy yourself a house.  In London, or somewhere. Property
is always a good investment; I like to think of you being
independent.... It's not a great deal of money, but it would pay for a
fairly modest house.  What do you think?"

"I think I like the idea."  Carrie leaned forward and kissed her
father's cheek.

"You're sweet.  Thank you.  We won't lose each other, will we?  We'll
write letters and faxes and telephone, wherever you end up.  We'll keep
in touch."

He smiled, and looked less stressed than she had seen him look for a
long time.  He had, clearly, had a lot on his mind.  He said, "Next
Sunday, if I come back to Oxford and bring Serena with me, would you
like to meet her?"

"Of course I would.  But she mustn't think I'm too important, that I'm
ever going to come between you.  I don't want to be a reason for Serena
to feel guilty or remorseful.  This must be where old responsibilities
end, and your new life begins.  Just make sure, this time, that it's
all happiness."

"And you, my darling?  What about you?  Have you a love in your
life?"

 "Dozens," she teased.

"Safety in numbers."

"No chance of another top-heavy wedding?"

"Not a ghost.  Not for years.  I have far too many other things to do
with my life.  And now, on top of everything else, I've got to go and
buy myself a house.  What a lot of plans we've laid and what a lot of
things we've discussed."

"Don't be too light-hearted.  We're in for a traumatic time."  She took
his hand in hers.  She said, "Allies, Dad.  Shoulder to shoulder."

Jeffrey was right.  They were in for a traumatic experience, and sounds
of resentment and recrimination were to echo for a long time.  At the
end of the day, though, most people had to agree that Dodie had done
very well for herself and made the best of a sorry situation.  As
Carrie had foreseen, she let Jeffrey get away with nothing, and ended
up with the family house in Campden Hill, her car, most of Jeffrey's
worldly goods, and much of his money.  He contested nothing, and could
scarcely have done more to make amends.

As soon as she heard that Carrie had bought herself a small terrace
house in Ranfurly Road, Dodie put the Camp- den Hill house on the
market (swearing dramatically that it was too filled with unhappy
memories for her to be able to stay there), sold it at a socking
profit, and moved herself into a charming old-fashioned apartment in
Fulham, looking south over the river to Putney, and with private
gardens alongside Hurlingham.

"My little lonely nest," she told her friends, sounding both wistful
and plucky, and everyone said she was marvelous, but in truth she was
as content as she had ever been, with her bridge, and her little
drinkie parties, and the unfailing panacea of shopping and returning
home with designer bags and boxes stuffed with tissue paper and
goodies.  With friends, she began to take holidays abroad, cushioned in
Club Class to Paris, or Mediterranean cruises in immaculately run
liners, where there was every opportunity to dazzle in a newly acquired
wardrobe of clothes.  On one of these cruises she met Johnnie
Struthers, a retired Group Captain

and a widower.  He clearly fancied Dodie, and from time to time, when
he was in London, telephoned and took her out to dinner.

She was happy.  And then, seven years after Dodie's own divorce, Nicola
Wesley discovered that the mild-mannered Miles was having it off with
another woman, and grabbed this opportunity to flounce out of a
marriage that had become both predictable and boring.  She flounced, of
course, to her mother, and her mother's spacious and pretty apartment.
All of which might have been quite fun and companionable, had not
Nicola brought with her seven-year-old Lucy, and Dodie knew that her
halcyon days were over.

The coffee-pot was empty, the dregs of her cup grown cold.  Carrie got
to her feet, threw the uneaten toast into the trash- bin, rinsed out
the pot, put the cup and saucer into the dishwasher.  She went
upstairs, took a shower, washed her short hair, and dressed.  Lately
she had not bothered too much about how she looked, simply slopped
around in old jeans and with no make-up on her face, but this morning
she knew that the time had come to take a bit of trouble, if only for
Dutch courage.

So, slim camel-coloured trousers, a cashmere polo-neck sweater,
polished boots.  Gold earrings, gold chains around her neck.  She
sprayed scent, checked her leather shoulder bag, took her coat from the
wardrobe, went downstairs.

The front-door keys lay in a brass bowl on the chest in the hall,
alongside a blue bowl of white hyacinths.  Over this chest was a long
mirror, and as she pulled on her coat and did up the buttons, her
reflection gazed back at her.  She paused, regarding herself.  Saw a
tall, slender, dark-haired girl... or perhaps, more accurately, a tall,
slender, darkhaired woman.  After all, soon she would be thirty.
Chestnut- brown hair shone with cleanliness, a lock like a bird's wing
swept across her forehead.  Her eyes, accentuated by shadow and
mascara, were large and dark as coffee, and her face still tanned from
the reflected sunlight of the snow-fields.  She looked all right.
Confident.  Not a person to be pitied.



She did up the buttons of the coat, a dark-grey loden piped with forest
green, that had been bought, a year ago, in Vienna.  And Andreas had
been with her, and helped to choose the coat, and then insisted on
paying for it.

You will wear it forever, he told her, and you will always look a
million dollars.

It had been a day of bitter cold and thin snow, and after they had
bought the coat, they had walked through the streets, arm in arm, to
Sacher's and there lunched in some style, and ... Don't think about
it.

Dodie had been waiting for her.  She was there almost at once, dealing
with the double lock, and flinging the door open.

"Carrie!"

She looked much as she always had-no older, no thinner, no fatter.
Small and trim, with dark, neatly dressed hair flashed with a streak of
white which was entirely natural, and so enviable.  She wore a little
cardigan suit, the skirt fashionably short, and court shoes decorated
with square gold buckles.  A still-pretty woman, with apparently
everything going for her.  Only her mouth gave her away, moulded by the
years into an expression of constant discontent.  Carrie had always
been told that the eyes are the mirror of the soul, but had long ago
decided that a person's mouth is the true giveaway of character.

She stepped through the door, and Dodie closed it carefully.  There
were to be no outflung arms then, no hugs, no exclamations of motherly
delight.

"Hello, Ma.  How are you?"  she asked, shedding her coat.

"You're looking marvelous."

"Thank you, dear.  You're looking well, too.  So brown.  As though
you'd just returned from a holiday in the sun.  Put your coat on the
chair.  Do you want coffee or anything?"

"No, I've just finished breakfast."  Now they kissed, formally,
touching cheeks.  Dodie's cheek was soft and fragrant.

"I didn't get up till nine."

"Lovely to have a lie-in.  Come along...."

She turned and led the way into her sitting-room.  The clouds on this
wintry day all at once parted, and for an instant the room was filled
with dazzling winter sunshine.  It was a pleasant room, with large
windows facing south onto a balcony, and beyond, the view of the river.
Alongside it, divided by a double door which always stood open, was
Dodie's dining-room.  Carrie saw the mahogany table, the pretty
sideboard, all part of her childhood, and come from the family house in
Campden Hill.  There were a great many flowers about the place and the
air was heavy with the heady scent of white lilies.

"Where is everybody?"  she asked.

"I told you.  Lucy's in her room, and-" "Is she not very social?"

"Not noticeably so.  She's quite happy there.  She's got her desk and
her computer and a little television."

In the white marble fireplace, there flickered a small mock-coal
electric fire.  Dodie settled herself beside this, in her own chair.
She had been reading the newspaper when Carrie rang the bell, and now
reached for it, with a delicate pink-nailed hand, folded it, and set it
on the coffee-table.

Another cloud rolled in and the sunshine was gone.

"It was good of you to come so promptly.  I wanted to tell you about
everything, this ridiculous drama that's suddenly blown up."

"Nicola?"

"She'll be back soon."

Carrie lowered herself into the chair on the other side of the white
sheepskin hearth rug

"Where's she gone?"

"Travel agent."

"Is she planning a trip?"

"I think she's gone mad.  I said that, didn't I, over the telephone.
She's met this man.  He's an American.  She met him at some party a few
weeks ago, and they've been seeing each other ever since."

Carrie thought it sounded quite hopeful, and not at all as though her
elder sister had gone mad.



"What sort of American?"  she asked cautiously.

"Oh, quite presentable.  A business man.  Railways, or steel or
something.  He's based in Cleveland, Ohio, wherever that is.  He's
called Randall Fischer.  And now he's gone back to America, and he's
invited Nicola to go and spend Christmas with him."

"In Cleveland, Ohio?"

"No, he's got a place in Florida.  Apparently he always spends
Christmas there."

It all sounded so reasonable that Carrie could not imagine what the
drama was about.

"Is he married?"

"He says he's divorced."

"In that case he probably is.  Have you met him?"

"Of course I have.  Once or twice she's brought him here for a drink,
and one night he took us both out to dinner.  To Claridge's.  He was
staying there."

"In that case, he must be loaded."  Carrie frowned.

"Don't you like him, Ma?"

"Oh, he's all right, I suppose.  About fifty.  Not particularly
attractive."

"Does Nicola think he's attractive?"

"I suppose she does."

"So what is so dire?"

"I think she's being foolhardy.  She really knows nothing about the
man."

"Ma, she's thirty-five.  Surely by now she can look after herself, make
her own mistakes if she wants to."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?  Enlighten me."

"Don't you see, Carrie?  It's Lucy."

"You mean Lucy is not included in the invitation?"

"She most certainly has been included, but she refuses to go.  She says
she doesn't want to go to Florida, she won't know anybody, there won't
be anything for her to do, and Randall doesn't really want her anyway.
He's only asked her because he feels he has to."

Carrie was sympathetic.

"I see her point.  What age is she?  Fourteen.  She'd probably feel
like a fish out of water,

and I'll admit it's a bit embarrassing watching your own mother in the
throes of a love affair."

A faint flush was creeping up Dodie's neck, a sure sign that she was
becoming rattled.  She disliked any form of disagreement, and hated
being put in a position where she had to argue her point.

"It's such a wonderful opportunity for Lucy.  To travel.  See another
bit of the world."

"Not if she doesn't want to."

"But what will she do?"

Now, thought Carrie, we 're getting to the nub of the matter.

"For Christmas, you mean?  Stay with you, I suppose.  After all, this
seems to be her home for the time being.  It's been her home since her
parents divorced.  Where else would she go?"

Dodie did not at once reply.  Instead, restless, she got to her feet
and walked away from Carrie and stood at the window, gazing down at the
river.  Carrie waited.  Then her mother turned.

"I can't deal with her on my own.  I have a life to lead.  I have plans
made, invitations.... I may go down to Bournemouth and stay there with
the Freemans.  They go every year to the Palace Hotel.  They've invited
me to join them."  Her tone of voice made it perfectly clear that Lucy
was not included in this giddy scheme.

"I'm not as young as I was, Carrie.  My child-caring days are over. And
I'm not going to change my plans for a stubborn little girl."

No, Carrie thought, I don't suppose for a moment you'd even contemplate
such a thing.

After a bit, she said, "What about her father?  Miles.  Can't she go
and spend Christmas with him and his new wife?  Or does she never see
him now?"

"Oh, yes, she sees him."  Dodie came back to her chair and sat again,
perched forward, tense.

"Every now and then, she spends a Sunday with them, but without
noticeable enthusiasm."

"They don't have children, do they?"

"No.  And I doubt if they ever will.  She's a career woman."  Dodie
spoke the words with a curl of her lip.

"Babies won't ever interfere with her life."



"So they wouldn't have Lucy for Christmas?"

"As a matter of fact, in desperation, I telephoned Miles and put the
idea to him.  I had to do it, because Nicola refuses to speak to him or
even say his name.  But Miles and his wife are going to Saint Moritz to
ski for Christmas, with a grownup party.  Lucy's never skied and she's
hopeless with people she doesn't know.  Miles said it was out of the
question, and she'd just spoil it for everybody."

Carrie began to feel desperately sorry for the child, slung in limbo
between two feuding and unsympathetic parents.  She said, trying not to
sound too cool, "In that case, you seem to have come to a deadlock."

"Nicola is absolutely determined to go to Florida.  She can be very
selfish, you know.  And after all I've done for her...."

"Perhaps she just wants to grab the chance of a bit of fun."

"A bit of fun."  Bitterly, Dodie repeated the words, making them sound
almost indecent.  Carrie watched her.  All at once, it seemed, Dodie
did not want to meet her daughter's eyes.  She glanced down, fiddled
with the cuff of her little jacket, adjusted a gold button.  She said,
"That's what I meant when I spoke to you on the telephone.  About your
abrupt return from Austria coming at a fortuitous time."

"You mean me.  I take Lucy off your hands."

Dodie looked up.

"Have you plans laid?"

"Ma, I'm only just back from Austria.  I haven't had time to lay a
plan.  I haven't even got a house, and won't get Ran- furly Road back
until the end of February.  I'm living out of a suitcase.  I'm really
not in a position to have someone to stay."

"I didn't mean that.  I thought maybe ... your father..."

"Jeffrey?"

"You call him Jeffrey now?"

"I've called him Jeffrey ever since the divorce.  He's my father, I
know, but he's also Serena's husband, and my friend."

As she spoke their names, Dodie flinched delicately, but Carrie,
knowing that she was being cruel, ignored this.

"And I don't think that's a viable idea, either."

"But he's Lucy's grandfather.  Surely ..."

"Look, Ma.  I've already spoken to Jeffrey.  I called him the day after
I got back.  We had a long conversation.  We talked about Christmas
then, but he's got Serena's brother and his wife and baby coming down
to spend the holidays with them.  Emblo is going to be bursting full,
not an inch for two more people."

"You could suggest..."

"No.  It's not fair to Serena.  She can't have us, and she'll be
riddled with guilt because she can't have us.  I'm not going to ask."

"Oh."  Dodie let out a sigh and sat back in her chair, as though at the
end of her tether, and looking like a balloon that has had all the air
let out of it, shrunken and suddenly older.

"I really can't go on like this much longer.  It's too unsettling.  No
co-operation from anybody, least of all my own family."

"But, Ma ..."

She did not finish.  There came the sound of a key in the lock of the
front door, and then the door opening and shutting again.

"Nicola's back," Dodie said unnecessarily, and she pulled herself
together and put a hand to her hair, and was sitting, brightly
expectant, when Nicola came into the room.  Carrie got up and turned to
face her sister.

She said, "Hi."

"Carrie!"  Nicola's jaw dropped in astonishment.

"What on earth are you doing here?  I thought you were in Austria."

"I was," Carrie told her, "but I'm back now."

The sisters eyed each other.  They had never been close, never been
friends, never shared secrets.  And it occurred to Carrie that Nicola,
as she matured, was growing to look even more like their mother.  The
same height, the same neat figure, thick dark hair.  The same small,
mean-tempered mouth.  Put side by side, and they could easily have been
mistaken for a pair of cross little twins.

Whenever she thought of Nicola, Carrie always had a mental picture of
her wearing some little outfit.  Skirts and sweaters co-ordinating.
Shoes matching handbags, a silken  rosamunds pilcher scarf toning
exactly with her lipstick.  A bit like one of those cardboard cut-out
dolls they used to dress in paper outfits with folding tabs to fix them
in place.  A paper sun-dress for the beach, a furry-collared coat for a
winter walk, a crinoline and poke-bonnet for the fancy-dress party.
Now, Nicola did not let her down, for there was the immaculately
tailored trouser suit, beneath a car coat of faux leopard.  Her sack
bag was of chocolate-brown suede and the suede was exactly the same
shade as her high-heeled boots.

Nicola laid down her handbag on the seat of a chair that stood against
the wall.  She began to unbutton her jacket.

"Back for good?"  she asked.

"I don't know.  I'll have to see."  Carrie moved forward and gave her
sister a kiss, which Nicola, perfunctorily, returned.

"But when did you get home?"  She shrugged out of her jacket and tossed
it down on top of her bag.

"About a week ago.  But I've been fairly occupied, so I didn't ring Ma
till this morning."

"Well, I never did."  She gave Dodie a cold look.

"I suppose Mother's been telling you about all the drama.  Getting you
on her side."  Dodie and Nicola were clearly, at this moment, on the
worst of terms.  Carrie decided that Lucy must have been having a
hellish time between the pair' of them.

Dodie looked hurt.

"Nicola, that's not fair," she protested.

"No, but I bet it's true."  Nicola settled herself with a thump in the
middle of the sofa.

"Anyway, it's too late now.  I've booked my flight.  I'm going on the
eighteenth of December.  For two weeks."

A pregnant silence followed this defiant announcement.  Dodie turned
her head away and stared at the flickering electric coals.  Disapproval
emanated from every bone in her body.  Nicola caught Carrie's eye and
made a face, as if the two of them were in alliance against their
mother.  Carrie did not return her glance, because, at that moment, she
didn't like either of them very much.

But it was no good getting caught up in the ongoing row.  She said, as
evenly as she could, "There seems to be a problem with Lucy."

"She was asked to Florida, but she refuses to come with me."

"I do see her point."

"Oh, you would."

"Ma suggested that I look after her for Christmas."

"You?"  Nicola made the word insulting.  And then she thought for an
instant, and said it again, and this time it didn't sound insulting at
all, but quite different.  A brilliant notion that had not previously
occurred to her.

"You."

"But I can't."

"Why not?"

"No house.  No home."

"Ranfurly Road?"

"Still let."

Dodie now chose to chip in to the conversation.

"I thought Carrie might have taken Lucy to stay with your father.  In
Cornwall.  But apparently that's out of the question as well."

"Why?"  Nicola demanded.

Carrie told her.

"A dearth of space."

"And bloody Miles and his bloody wife won't have her, the selfish sods.
Excuses, excuses on all sides."  She chewed her thumb-nail.

"Anyway, I'm going.  I'm going to Florida with Randall, and nobody's
going to stop me.  I haven't had a holiday forever, and I'm going."

Carrie, sympathetic in a way, but thinking of Lucy, tried reasoning.

"But, Nicola ..."

She got no further.  Nicola rounded on her.

"It's all very well for you."  Carrie wondered how many thousands of
times in her life she had heard that familiar wail.  It's all very well
for you.

"You've never had a family, you don't know what it's like being tied,
day in, day out, to a child.  Term time, and holidays.  Keeping Lucy
amused, dealing with problems at school.  All on your own.  As far as I
can see, your life has been one long holiday.  Nothing but skiing, and
having a good time.  Mountains and young people and gliihwein parties.
And never coming back from Austria.  It's years since we set eyes on
you.  Not a care in the world."

Carrie, with some difficulty, kept her voice even.

"Nicola,

you clearly haven't the faintest idea what I've been doing.  My job was
public relations officer for a prestigious travel firm, and each
morning nine people had to report in to my office.  I had a secretary,
and an apartment of my own, and in high season, I very often worked
seven days a week.  So let's hear a little less about
irresponsibility."

"It's not the same."  Mulish, Nicola stuck to her grudge.

"Not the same as bringing up a child."

Carrie gave up.

"Look, this isn't getting us anywhere."

Nicola ignored her.

"It's up to you, Mother.  You'll have to forget about Bournemouth for
the moment...."

Dodie, not unnaturally, became incensed.

"I shall do no such thing."

"You can scarcely leave Lucy here on her own...."

"And why should I be the one to make the sacrifice ... Carrie suddenly
knew that she could listen to this pointless sniping no longer.  The
two of them were entrenched, and all the argument in the world was not
going to come to any sensible conclusion.

"Do stop" she told them sharply.

Rather surprisingly, they did.  After a bit, Nicola said, "So, have you
got any bright suggestions, Carrie?"

"I don't know.  I only know that we're talking about your daughter, not
about a dog that has to go into a kennel.  If you don't mind, I'd like
to go and have a chat with her, since she couldn't talk less sense than
either her mother or her grandmother."

"Thank you very much."

"Where's her room?"

"Next to the kitchen."  Nicola gave a jerk of her head.

"At the back ..."

Carrie went to the door.  As she opened it, her mother spoke again.

"See if you can persuade her to be a good girl and simply ... go."

Carrie did not reply.  She went from the room and closed the door
gently behind her.

lucy farnham Court had been built at a time when middle-class families
were still expected to employ resident servants.  Therefore each
apartment had been designed with a small and undistinguished room for a
housemaid or a hard-worked cook-general.  Lucy Wesley, when she came to
live with her grandmother after her parents' divorce, had been given
this room, and did not really care that it was both cramped and sunless
because it was her own.

The window, veiled in folds of white voile, looked out onto the well in
the centre of the building, at the bottom of which was a paved
courtyard with a few tubs containing shrubs and bulbs which the hall
porter was meant to keep trim and watered, so there was virtually no
view.  But the walls were yellow, which imparted the illusion of
sunlight, and Lucy had her bed, piled with teddies, and a large table
with drawers for doing her homework, and lots of shelves for her huge
collection of books.  Her computer sat on the table, and there were
lamps and a small television set, and a sheepskin rug on the blue
carpet.  When her school friends came to visit, they were always loud
with envy and admiration, mostly because the space belonged to Lucy
only, and she didn't have to share it with some tiresome younger sister
and a clutter of sibling's possessions.

It was a very tidy room because Lucy was an extremely tidy person.  On
the shelves, her books stood in straight and regimented lines; her bed
was smooth, her clothes folded.  At school, her desk was the same, with
pencils sharpened and exercise books squared and neatly stacked.  Once
a week, Mrs.  Burgess, who came to clean for her grandmother, went
through Lucy's room with hoover and duster and left it smelling
strongly of lavender polish.  But from time to time, driven by a sort
of housewifely compulsion, Lucy cleaned it again herself, polishing the
mirror of her dressing-table and

the silver frame that held the photograph of her father.

She missed him dreadfully, not simply as a person, but because, like a
piece of furniture that had lost a leg, with his going all sense of
family had collapsed, fallen sideways, crooked and useless; and Lucy
knew mat it was unmendable and would never be the same again.  She had
been seven years old at the time of her parents' divorce.  A bad age
(though could there possibly be such a thing as a good age?).  Still a
small child, but old enough to know exactly what was happening.  Which
was that the fabric of existence had come apart, and that she and her
mother were left to put together the detritus of all that remained.
They had moved in with Gran, and Lucy had thought for a bit that this
was a temporary arrangement, but slowly accepted the fact that it was
for good.  For some reason, despite disagreements and occasional rows,
it seemed to suit both women, and as nobody ever bothered to ask Lucy's
opinion, she kept it to herself.

From time to time, she saw her father, but his new wife, who was called
Marilyn, was wary of involvement, and clearly had no interest in
children or stepdaughters, or anything except her absorbing job;
otherwise, surely, she would have had babies of her own by now.  She
and Miles did not even have a proper house with a garden, but a flat,
and it was the sort of flat that, if you couldn't be bothered to cook
dinner, you telephoned and a snacky sort of meal was delivered at the
door, on a trolley.

Marilyn was certainly not the sort of person one could confide in, and
Lucy felt she could no longer confide in her father, because of divided
loyalties on both their parts.  Sometimes she felt that she would burst
if she didn't find someone adult to talk to.  Her headmistress, Miss
Maxwell- Brown, was exactly that sort of a person, and had, every now
and then in the course of a private interview, intimated quite clearly
that if Lucy had something to say, then Miss Maxwell-Brown was more
than happy to listen.  But Lucy's reserve, and that same tiresome
loyalty, got in the way.  And she was terrified of anybody being sorry
for her, as though she were some sort of orphan.  So, "No, I'm all
right," she

had insisted.

"Really, everything's all right."  And, reluctantly, Miss Maxwell-Brown
would let her go.

Now, at a quarter to twelve on a Friday morning, she had finished her
homework (it had taken since after breakfast) and was writing in her
diary.  The diary was fat as a little Bible, leather-bound, and with
its own tiny lock and key.  It had smooth thick paper that was a
pleasure to write upon, and had been a present from Cornwall.  Happy
Christmas, Lucy, was written upon the flyleaf, from Grandfather,
Serena, Amy, and Ben.

They never forgot Christmas and birthdays, which was good of them,
because Lucy had been a baby when that particular marriage broke up,
and she had no memory of Jeffrey Sutton, and of course had never met
Serena, or Amy or Ben.  Sometimes, when life felt really bleak, she lay
in bed and wove fantasies about them, about being asked to go and stay
and-even less likely-being allowed by Mummy and Gran to make the trip.
She planned it all in her mind.  A taxi to Paddington and then the
train, and being met somewhere with a palm tree and a blue sea, being
taken to a house in a wonderful garden, close to a beach, perhaps, and
where the sea winds would blow in through the open window of her
bedroom.  And having Ben and Amy would be like having brothers and
sisters of her own.

Lucy had kept up the diary ever since the day she had received it.  It
wasn't so much a diary as a notebook, because there were no dates, just
lovely clean pages, which meant that you wrote the date yourself, and
then the day's doings underneath.  Sometimes, there was little to
record, but other days, if she had been to the cinema or to a concert
with the rest of her class, there was quite a lot to remember, and she
could use up two or three pages.  She got a lot of satisfaction
writing, with her best pen, on the thick creamy paper.  She had a
passion for notebooks, paper, pens, the smell of ink, all the tools of
writing.  Stationery shops were her most favourite, and she seldom
emerged from one without a little box of coloured paper-clips, a packet
of postcards, or a new red-ink Biro.



She wrote:

Mummy has gone to the travel agent this morning.  She went right after
breakfast.  She and Gran are scarcely speaking to each other because of
Christmas and Bournemouth and Florida.  I wish they would understand
how I would hate Florida.  You can't swim all day in a pool, and I
don't like Randall that much, or ice-cream, or watching videos.

The diary was better than having nobody to confide in, but a person
would be better.  She laid down her pen and gazed out at the grey
morning beyond the floaty, white voile curtains.  She thought about
Carrie, Mummy's younger sister, and a splendid aunt.  Carrie would be
perfect, because she talked to you as though you were a grown-up, and
yet was always prepared to do exciting and innovative things.  Before
she disappeared to Austria and never came home again, Carrie had been
Lucy's saviour, the giver of special treats, like going to see La Fille
Mal Gardee at the Opera House, or outings to Kew on the first warm
spring days.  Carrie made even the National History Museum fun and
interesting; and once they had gone down the river together in a boat,
all the way to Tower Bridge, and had lunch on board.  All of London,
seen from the water, had become a foreign city, unfamiliar, with towers
and spires washed in sunlight.

She picked up her pen again.

I wouldn't have minded spending Christmas with Dad and Marilyn, but
they 're going away to ski.  Marilyn says it's a long-standing
engagement.  I'm sure Daddy would have put it off but of course she
wouldn 't let him.  I don't know what has to be so special about
Christmas anyway, and why everybody makes such a fuss.  Anyway, this
afternoon I'm going to the pictures with Emma Forbes and then back to
tea with her.

While Lucy sat in her bedroom, doing homework and

now writing in her diary, beyond the closed door, Gran was living her
own tidy life.  Every now and then during the course of the morning,
Lucy had heard the telephone ring, and Gran's low voice, chatting away.
And, about an hour ago, someone had rung the bell and come to visit,
and as Lucy finished her French, she was aware of the soft murmur of
conversation from behind the drawing-room doors at the end of the
passage.  She had no idea who it could be, and did not particularly
care.  Some boring friend of Gran's.  But now, she heard the whine of
the ascending lift, and then the rattle of a latchkey in the front
door, and knew that her mother had returned, back from the travel
agent.

The awful thing was that, despite Lucy's insistence that she wasn't
going to go to Florida, she couldn't be too sure that, in desperation,
Mummy might not have booked two flights, and Lucy, willy-nilly, would
be dragged along with her.  After all, at fourteen, there wasn't much
one could do, except sulk for two weeks and loathe every moment of it,
and hopefully spoil it all for everybody.  She was perfectly capable of
all this, and her mother knew that she was perfectly capable, but
still, there remained the daunting possibility.  She raised her head,
like an alert dog, to listen.  But the footsteps passed her door and
went down the passage, towards the sitting-room.  The door opened and
shut.  Voices again.  She closed her eyes and wished that she could
close her ears as well.

Small comfort, but at least the third person, whoever the visitor was,
would preclude another row, anyway, for the time being.  She waited for
what was going to happen next.  Which was nothing for about five
minutes.  And then, once more, the drawing-room door opened and closed,
and somebody was approaching.  Lucy shut her diary and leaned on it,
her head turned to watch the doorknob.  Her mother, come to impart the
latest news about plans for Florida.  Lucy, all at once, felt almost
sick with apprehension.  But then, there was a soft knock, and she knew
it wasn't Mummy, because Mummy never knocked, just barged in, invading
privacy, disrupting whatever Lucy happened to be doing.



At a knock, Miss Maxwell-Brown always called out, "Come in," but before
she could bring herself to say this, the door opened slowly, and a head
came around the edge of it.

"Am I interrupting?"  She was smiling.  Not her mother.  Not Gran.  Not
some boring acquaintance of Gran's.  But... Carrie.  Carrie?  She'd
only just been thinking of Carrie and now she was here, at the door,
and not in Austria where Lucy thought she was, living a glamorous life
of skiing holidays and luxury hotels.  Carrie.  And she used to have
long hair, but now it was short and she was very thin, very tanned, and
just as tall as Lucy remembered.

Carrie.  Lucy found herself dumbfounded, without words.  A turmoil of
mixed emotions.  Astonishment and incredulous delight that such a
marvelous and unforeseen event was actually taking place.  Carrie. She
felt the warm blush of sheer pleasure creeping up into her cheeks.
Things like this didn't happen very often, and she couldn't think of a
word to say.  Her instinct was to leap to her feet and fling herself
into Carrie's arms, but perhaps Carrie would think this dreadfully
babyish.  Perhaps ... Carrie said, "Don't goggle.  It's really me."

Slowly Lucy got to her feet.  She said, "Goodness."

Carrie came into the room and gently closed the door behind her.

"Surprised?"

"Yes.  I'd no idea.  Have you been here ages?"

"About an hour.  Chatting to Ma."

"No.  I mean in London."

"A week."

"I didn't know."

"Nobody did.  Never mind, you know now."  She stooped and planted a
kiss on Lucy's cheek.  She smelt gorgeous.

"You've grown.  Stupid thing to say.  I used to bend double to kiss
you."  She looked about her.

"What a pretty room.  It used to be very gloomy.  And how tidy.  Have
you been giving it a spring clean?"

"Not this morning.  And Gran did it up for me.  She let me choose the
colours."

"Perfect.  All sunny."  There was a small blue armchair by

the bed, and Carrie sank into this, long legs stretched out, her neatly
booted feet crossed at the ankles.

"Have you been working?"

"Yes.  Homework."  Lucy picked up her diary, stowed it away, privately,
in a drawer, and then sat again, swivelling her typist's chair around
so that she faced her aunt.

"When did you get back?"

"I said.  A week ago.  I would have let you all know I was coming, but
it was all a bit precipitant."

"How long are you home for?"

"Indefinitely.  Chucked the ski job in.  At the moment, I'm both
homeless and unemployed, but it doesn't matter.  How's everything with
you?"

Lucy shrugged.

"All right."

"There seems to be a certain crisis looming.  Or perhaps it's already
loomed.  Poor child, you must be wondering what on earth is going to
happen next."

This was in character, and Lucy was grateful.  Carrie had always been
completely direct, never avoiding awkward questions and coming straight
to the point of any dilemma.  Suddenly, Lucy felt much better, and even
strong enough to ask, "Mummy didn't buy two air tickets for Florida,
did she?"

"Would you have minded?"

"Dreadfully."

Carrie laughed.

"Don't worry, she's going on her own.  So that little battle you've
actually won.  It must have been something of a fight."

"Do you think I'm being really stupid, not wanting to go with her?"

"No, I think you're absolutely right.  You'd be like a sore thumb, a
green gooseberry.  Much better for Nicola to be on her own.  But it
does pose problems."

"You mean Christmas?"

"No, I don't mean Christmas.  I mean you.  What do you want to do?  I
bet you anything nobody's even asked you that."

"Not really."

"I suggested you go to your father, but apparently he and

Marilyn are off to the ski slopes with a lot of their friends."::!

"I wouldn't want to go with them.  Marilyn doesn't like me much and
I've never been skiing, so I don't suppose it would be all that much
fun."

"You haven't got cosy school friends with cosy mothers you'd want to go
and be with?"

Lucy felt a bit abashed, because she hadn't.  She had school friends of
course, lots of them, but nobody special, nobody with a motherly
mother.  Emma Forbes was about her closest friend, and her mother was
the editor of a magazine and always dashing off to meetings.  Lucy
scarcely knew her, and Emma had to be tremendously independent and
organize her own social life with the help of a latchkey and a Swedish
au pair.  So far, for all their chat and giggles and time spent
together, Emma had not even mentioned Christmas.

Carrie was waiting.  Her dark eyes watched, and were filled with
kindness.  Lucy said, "I did think perhaps I could go to Cornwall.  To
Grandfather.  The only thing is that I've never been and I can't even
remember him, and I've never met Serena, or Ben, or Amy.  And Gran's
always horrid about him and won't talk, or say their names, but I
thought perhaps if she didn't have any alternative, they might let me
go."

"Would you like that?"

"Yes, I think I would.  The only thing is, I've never been...."  Her
voice trailed away.

"And perhaps they wouldn't want me anyway."

Carrie said, "I think it's a wonderful idea, and I think one day you
should go.  But not this Christmas, because I spoke to Jeffrey when I
got back from Austria, on the telephone, and I know they've got a
houseful.  Their house isn't very big anyway, tiny, in fact, and it's
going to be stuffed to the gunwales with visitors."

Hope died.

"Oh, well.  It doesn't matter...."

"But you should certainly go one day.  In the spring, perhaps.  They'd
love it, and you'd love all of them.  So we'll have to come up with
something else."

We was significant.

"We?"

r- Yes.  You and me.  Orphans of the storm together.  What 757 I we
do?"

"You mean, for Christmas?"

"Of course, for Christmas."

"In London?"

"I think London would be rather dull, don't you?  Perhaps we should go
away."

"But where?"

There seemed to be no answer to this.  They gazed at each other, and
then Carrie got to her feet and went to the window, raising the voile
curtain and staring down into the cheerless area three floors below.
She said, "I've an idea.  I just had it, this moment."  She dropped the
curtain and turned, and came to perch on the edge of Lucy's desk.  She
said, "Have you ever heard of Elfrida Phipps?"

Lucy shook her head, wondering what was coming next.

"She's heaven.  A cousin of Jeffrey's.  Your gran could never stand
her, because she was rather wild and louche and an actress, and always
had lots of boy-friends and husbands.  They never had, what you might
call, a lot in common, and your gran thoroughly disapproved of Elfrida.
But I always loved her, and when I was at Oxford I started seeing her
again, and we made terrific friends."

"How old is she?"

"Oh, ancient.  Over sixty.  But more fun than anyone you ever knew."

"Where does she live?"

"She used to live in London, but then her... well, he wasn't her
husband, but she adored him ... he died and she moved to the country.
Once, ages ago, she was ill after an operation, and I stayed with her
until she was better, and we've always kept in touch.  Now, she's
living in a little village in Hampshire; she says the house is weeny.
But there'd be space for you and me.  And if there isn't space, Elfrida
will make it.  Would that be a good idea, do you think?  Shall we give
it a try?"

"You and me?"

"And Elfrida."



"For two weeks?"

"Of course."

"Would she mind?"

"I would bet my bottom dollar that she'll jump at it."

"How will we ask her?"

"I'll ring.  I've got her number."

"Now?"

"No, not now.  When I get back to Putney.  We don't want the others to
know our plans until they're all cut and dried.  Then we'll present
them as a fait accompli."

"If she doesn 't have us for Christmas ... ?"

"We mustn't think so negatively.  We must be positive.  And at the
moment, don't say a word.  It shall be our secret."  Carrie pushed back
the cuff of her cashmere sweater and looked at her watch.

"Heavens, it's nearly one o'clock.  I'm starving, aren't you?  Your
gran said she'd give us soup and pate, but I'm not sure if that's going
to sustain me.  Why don't I take all four of us out to lunch.  Is there
somewhere cheap and cheerful not too far away?"

"There's Rosetti's.  It's a five-minute walk."

"Italian?"

"Spaghetti and stuff."

"My favorite food.  What do you say?  Shall we go and round up our
mothers and tell them they're in for a treat?"

Lucy remembered Emma.

"I'm going to the cinema this afternoon with a girl-friend.  I have to
meet her at two-thirty."

"How do you get there?"

"Tube."

"No problem.  We'll have lunch, and then I'll stand you a taxi.  You
won't be late."

It was getting better and better.  Restaurant lunches and taxis.  Lucy
wondered if Carrie, returned from Austria, was now rich.  She certainly
looked rich, in her beautiful clothes and with her shining locks of
hair and her glamorous makeup ... just as good as the attenuated models
who posed in leather and fur between the glossy pages of Gran's
favourite, Vogue.  She felt as though, suddenly, she had walked from a
dark and cold corner into a blaze of warm sunshine.  All part

of being relieved, shed of worry, and having Carrie back again, a
benevolent presence who was making everything all right.  To her
horror, emotion caused Lucy's eyes to mist over with ridiculous tears
and she felt her face begin to crumple, like a baby's.

"Oh, Carrie ..."

"Hey, don't cry.  There's nothing to cry about.  We're going to have a
great time."  And she opened her arms, and Lucy stood, and leaned
against her aunt, and pressed her cheek into the soft cashmere of her
sweater, smelling her scent again.  She was really here.  Mercifully,
before they could fall, the stupid tears receded, and in a moment she
was able to find a handkerchief and lustily blow her nose.

"I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about.  Now, wash your face and find a jacket or
something, and I'll go and break the happy news to the others."

"Just about lunch?"

"Just about lunch.  We won't say a word about our plans until we've got
them all cut and dried.  A secret, between you and me."

She found Dodie in the little kitchen, endeavouring, in a half-hearted
sort of way, to organize the promised snack.  She had started to lay
the table and was on the point of opening a tin of soup.

Carrie said, "Don't open it."

Dodie, startled, turned to face her younger daughter.

"Why not?"  She looked out of place in a kitchen, dressed as she was in
her neat, formal domes, and without a hair out of place.  She hadn't
even tied on an apron, and held the soup tin at arm's length, as though
the opener might bite her.

"Because we're all going out to lunch.  My treat.  Lucy and I have
decided a little self-indulgence is in order.  She suggested someplace
called Rosetti's.  Is that all right by you?"

"Well.  Yes."  But Dodie still sounded doubtful.

"I thought we'd agreed on soup and pate.  Here."

"You're quite right.  We did.  But minds have been changed."



"It's almost one o'clock.  Will we get a table?"

"Why not?  Would you like to ring them up?  Do you know the number?"

"I think so."

"Then do that.  And keep the can of soup for your supper.  Where's
Nicola?"

"In the drawing-room."

"Sulking?"

"No.  Delighted with herself."

"Let's make a pact.  Over lunch, no word of Florida.  Lucy's had
enough."

"Well, I most certainly have."

Carrie found Nicola deep in an armchair, turning over the pages of the
new Harpers and Queen that she had bought on her way home from the
travel agent.

"Are you planning a new wardrobe for Florida?"

Nicola closed the magazine and dropped it on the floor.

"I know what you think, Carrie, and I don't give a damn."

"Why should you care?  And why shouldn't you go if you want to?"

"Do you really mean that?"

"Anything's better than hanging around here, creating discord and being
resentful."

"Thank you very much."

"Oh, Nicola ..."  Carrie sat on the arm of the sofa.

"Let's call a pax.  We're going out for lunch.  It'll cheer us up.  And
we're not going to talk about Florida, or Bournemouth or Christmas, or
anything."

"Is this Lucy's idea?"

"No, mine.  And I must congratulate you.  She's sweet- looking and
sweet-natured, which is more than one can say about most
fourteen-year-old girls.  You've done a good job."

"Well."  Nicola, with the wind thus taken out of her sails, allowed
herself a wry smile.

"Thank you."  And then hastily added, "But it's not been easy."

"I don't suppose bringing up children ever is.  I wouldn't know.  Now,
come on, get your skates on.  Ma's ringing the restaurant to be sure
there's a table for us.  And Lucy and I

are going to eat great mounds of carbonara."

Over their mother's fireplace was a gold-framed Venetian minor, which
reflected back all the pretty charm of the double room.  Nicola stood
up and went to inspect herself in this, touching her hair and drawing
her little finger across her painted lips.  Then, through the mirror,
her eyes met those of Carrie's.  She said, "There is still a problem,
though, isn't there?"

"I'll try to find a solution."

"Carrie, why did you come back from Austria?"

"Oh."  Carrie shrugged.

"A snap decision."

"Well, whatever the reason, I'm grateful."  Nicola reached for her fur
jacket, and then spoilt it all by saying, "At least it takes some of
the pressure off me."

The lunch out proved a good idea.  Both Dodie and Nicola relished the
restaurant life, and their spirits lifted visibly even as the little
party walked the short distance from Farn- ham Court to Rosetti's.  The
cold of the grey December day was a good excuse for Dodie to wrap
herself into her new black fur-trimmed coat, and as she led the way
through the glassed doors and into the warm and delicious-smelling
interior of the restaurant, various charming and smiling Italians moved
forward to greet her, to relieve her of her coat, to make her feel both
pretty and important.  The place was not large, and there were a number
of diners already ensconced, but a corner table had been reserved for
them, and once they were all sitting, Carrie wasted no time and ordered
a round of drinks.  Gin and tonics for Dodie and Nicola, Coke for Lucy,
and a Tio Pepe for herself.  Then she chose a bottle of wine to drink
with their meal.  Relaxed by alcohol, and soothed by the pleasant
atmosphere of the little restaurant, tensions gradually loosed off, and
conversation became, if not sparkling, then reasonably easy.

They had, after all, not been together for some years, and there was a
great deal of chat and gossip to catch up on.  Old friends, old
acquaintances, distant relatives.  Carrie was told about Dodie's
cruises in the Mediterranean and about one

particular Greek island with which she had fallen in love.

"My dream would be to build a little house there."  And Carrie,
questioned, told them a bit about Oberbeuren and the magic of the
mountains in summer, when walkers came to stay at the big hotel and the
white ski-slopes became green pastures where cattle grazed and cowbells
rang out in the glass-clear air.

Dodie and Nicola kept their word, and no mention was made of Christmas,
Florida, or Bournemouth.

By the time they had finished their coffee and Carrie was dealing with
the bill, it was time for Lucy to go.  One of the obliging waiters went
out and stood on the cold pavement, with his long white apron flapping
in the wind, until he caught the eye of a cruising taxi-cab and flagged
it down.  Carrie gave Lucy some money to pay the fare, and they saw her
safely aboard.  Perched forward on the seat, she opened the window.

"Carrie, I haven't said thank you.  It was a lovely treat."

"My pleasure.  Enjoy the movie.  And I'll ring you."

"Don't let it take too long."

"Soon as I can.  Shan't waste a moment."

Nicola was more practical.

"Lucy, when will you be home?"

"About seven."

"Take care."

"I will."

The taxi rolled away and they stood and watched it go, and then turned
and began to stroll back down the pavement in the direction of the
river.  At the corner of Farnham Road, they paused to say goodbye.

"You've cheered us up no end."  Dodie, warmed by quantities of good
food and drink, was prepared to be generous.

"So lovely to have you home again.  Keep in touch.  Let us know what
you plan to do."

"Yes, of course.

"Bye, Ma."  She dropped a kiss on her mother's cheek.  "

"Bye, Nicola.  Shall I see you before you fly off?"

"Oh, probably.  I'll be around.  Thanks for the lunch."

"If I don't see you, have a great time."

"I have every intention of doing just that."

They parted.  Carrie watched them go, the two ridiculously identical
women, each totally bound up in her own affairs and problems.  They
didn't change.  She turned and went on walking, and it wasn't until she
was half-way across Putney Bridge, the east wind cold and damp on her
cheeks, that she remembered Sara's note on the kitchen table, and the
fact that Carrie was meant to buy a vegetable for dinner, and a packet
of Lapsang Souchong tea-bags.  So, halfway up Putney High Street, she
went into a Pakistani grocery and loaded up with cauliflower and leeks,
and some tiny new potatoes.  She bought the tea-bags as well, and a
nutty brown loaf, and a couple of bottles of Jacobs Creek wine.  The
handsome young man behind the till stowed all these into a carrier-bag,
and took her money.

"My God," he remarked, "this is a cold day and no mistake.  You will be
grateful to be getting home."

She agreed and thanked him, and went out again, and the overcast winter
afternoon was already sinking into dusk.  Cars drove with lights on,
and shop windows spilled bright squares out onto the dank pavements. By
the time she had reached the Lumleys's little terrace house, Carrie's
hands felt frozen, and it was quite painful to remove her glove and
struggle with the latchkey.  Indoors, she turned on the hall light,
dealt with the alarm, and was grateful for the warmth."  She went into
the kitchen and dumped the carrier-bag on the table, and then, still in
her coat, filled the kettle and plugged it in.  She drew the
blue-and-white-checked curtains and unpacked the groceries, by which
time the kettle had boiled, and she made a mug of tea.  Finally, she
took off her coat and draped it over the back of a chair, found her
handbag with her address book, and settled down by the telephone.

Elfrida Phipps, Poulton's Row, Dibton.  Carrie lifted the receiver and
punched in the number.  She heard the double tone of Elfrida's
telephone, and waited.  She waited for a long time, but there was no
reply, and clearly Elfrida had never got around to investing in an
answer phone  Perhaps

she was out.  Carrie gave up, drank her tea, and then went upstairs to
hang up her coat and change her shoes.  Downstairs again, she dealt
with the sitting-room curtains and lit the fire.  After that, she
returned to the kitchen and had another shot at reaching Elfrida.  Once
more, no joy.  After the third try, by which time Carrie had peeled the
potatoes for dinner, dealt with the cauliflower, and made a marinade
for some chicken breasts, she began to be a little concerned.  It was,
after all, a long time since they had been in touch.  Elfrida had never
been a great letter writer, preferring the telephone, but she had
always been there.  Perhaps, dreadful thought, she had died.  This
possibility hit Carrie out of the blue, but then common sense got the
better of her, and she knew that if anything had happened to Elfrida,
then Jeffrey would have let her know.

Jeffrey.  She would ring her father.  Jeffrey would surely know the
whereabouts of his cousin.  His number at Emblo was one that Carrie
knew by heart, so she lifted the receiver once more and put through the
call.  This time she was successful, and he answered almost at once.

"Jeffrey Sutton."

"Jeffrey, it's Carrie."

"Darling girl.  How are you?"

"I'm fine.  Cold, though."

"Isn't it hellish weather?  We're almost being blown off the cliff."

"How are Serena and Ben and Amy?"

"They're well.  Serena's taken the car to fetch them from school.  So
I'm sitting in solitary state writing cheques and paying bills.  What
can I do for you?"

"Have you a moment to talk?"

"How long a moment?"

"Like an hour."

"For heaven's sake, what's up?"

"I'm looking for Elfrida.  I've been ringing the Dibton number, but
there's no reply."

"She's not there."

"Not the reT

"She's in Scotland."

"What is she doing in Scotland?"

"She went last month.  She's been there ever since."

"Why didn't you tell me when I rang you up last week?"

"There seemed to be other, more important things to talk about.  Like
you."

"Yes."  Carrie felt a bit shamefaced.

"Well.  I'm sorry."

"I didn't realize that Elfrida's whereabouts were so important to
you."

"Well, it's important now.  Why did she go to Scotland?"

Jeffrey said, "It's a long story," and proceeded to tell her.  That, in
Dibton, Elfrida had these friends.  A family called Blundell.  They had
been enormously hospitable to Elfrida, and she was clearly very fond of
them.  But then disaster, tragedy, had struck, and Mrs.  Blundell and
her daughter had both been killed in a horrendous road accident.  Mr.
Blundell, devastated, had left Dibton and escaped to Scotland, where,
it seemed, he owned some small property.  Elfrida had gone with him.

Listening in some horror to this sorry tale, Carrie found herself
becoming increasingly bewildered.  She knew Elfrida very well.  Knew
her to be kind-hearted and impetuous, without ever much thought for the
day ahead.  But even so, it all sounded a bit precipitous.

She said, voicing the first thought that came into her head, "Is she in
love with this man?"

"I don't know, Carrie.  I don't really know what's going on.  She told
me about it over the telephone, and she sounded more distressed than
elated."

"In that case, she isn't in love with him.  She's just being caring."

"She told me that he had asked her to go with him, for company and
solace, and she'd said yes."

"What sort of solace?  I ask myself."

"They were leaving the next day, driving, doing the long journey in
stages."

"Whereabouts in Scotland are they?"

"Sutherland.  Far North.  I've got the address and the tele

phone number somewhere.  I didn't want Elfrida disappearing into the
blue without any person knowing where she was."

"Has she been in touch since she got there?"

"No.  I imagine she has other matters to occupy her mind."

It was all very frustrating.  Carrie said, "Oh, damn."

"What's that for?"

"I really wanted Elfrida.  I wanted to get hold of her.  To talk to
her."

"Is there some problem?"

"You could say so."

"With you?"

"No.  Not me.  Your granddaughter, Lucy Wesley."

"Explain."

So then it was Carrie's turn to talk.  To try to make clear to her
father, in as few words as possible, the hopeless situation that
existed at Farnham Court.  Nicola taking off to spend Christmas in
Florida with her new American boyfriend.  Lucy refusing to accompany
her.  Dodie refusing to be left with Lucy, and instead planning a
genteel festive season at the Palace Hotel, Bournemouth.  And both
Nicola and Dodie refusing to compromise or give way a single inch.

"So there's an impasse," she finished.

"What about Lucy's father?"

"Going skiing.  Doesn't want her.  It's all so dreadfully unfair, and
she's such a nice child, she deserves better.  I don't mind taking her
on for Christmas, but I haven't got a house or a job or anything, so I
thought of Elfrida."

"You should come to us."  Jeffrey sounded agonized with guilt and
Carrie hastened to reassure him.

"Jeffrey, we can't possibly come to Emblo.  I know there's no space and
it's not fair on Serena."

"Then why don't you ring Elfrida in Scotland.  She can only say no, and
she'd love a chat.  You can hear the whole saga of Mr.  Blundell from
her own lips, and then you'll be far more in the picture than I am."

Carrie hesitated.

"Doesn't it seem a bit intrusive?"

"I don't think so."

"I haven't seen Elfrida, nor spoken to her, for so long."

"All the more reason to telephone.  Look, don't ring off; I'll find
that number and her address.  I put it down somewhere...."

Carrie hung on.  Faint noises could be heard, of drawers being opened
and slammed shut, the rustling of papers.  It's a stupid idea, she told
herself.  We can't possibly go so far just to spend Christmas.  And
then, another voice, Why not?

"Carrie?"  He was back.

"Got a pencil and paper?"  Hastily, Carrie scrabbled around and found
Sara's shopping list, and a Biro stuck in a blue-and-white mug.

"This is the phone number."  She took it down.

"And this is the address.  The Estate House, Creagan, Sutherland."

"Sounds frightfully grand."

"I don't think it is."

"How do you spell Creagan?"

He spelt it out for her.

"Perhaps I should write a letter," Carrie was beginning to lose her
nerve.

"That's feeble.  And it'll take too long.  Telephone.  Right away.
Speak to Elfrida.  And, Carrie ..."

"Yes."

"Send her my love."

OSCAR

in mid-winter, it was an alien land.  Monotone beneath a sky scoured
white by the wind.  The hills, sweeping down to the coast, were already
topped by an icing of snow, and the snow merged with the clouds so that
the summits of the hills were lost to view, veiled, blurred, as though
already absorbed by the doleful heavens.

It was alien because Oscar did not remember the landscape thus. Always,
as a boy, he had come in the summer to visit his grandmother at
Corrydale, and in summer, so far north, the afternoons had stretched on
and on until ten or eleven o'clock at night, and at bedtime the shadows
of trees fell long, across golden sun-washed lawns.

He walked, with Horace.  He had left the house after lunch, setting out
with a stout stick to help him on his way, and insulated against the
cold by a fleece-lined jacket and an ancient tweed hat pulled low over
his brow.  His boots were sturdy, built for walking, and once he had
traversed the streets of the little town and climbed the hill to the
gate above the golf links, he was able to step out at some speed; so
after a bit he forgot about feeling cold and was aware of his body,
warm beneath all the layers of wool, and the quickened pace of his
heartbeat.

Horace bounded cheerfully ahead, and they followed a footpath high
above the links, winding between thickets of gorse.  After a mile or
so, this path led over a stile and along the track of a disused
railway, where once, coming from London, Oscar had chuntered his way
into Creagan on the small branch line, with many stops for level
crossings and gates to be opened.

The sea lay to his right, beyond the links and the dunes.
Steel-coloured beneath the winter sky, cheerless; the tide far out.  He
stopped to listen and heard the breakers on the beach, driven in by the
wind, and the cry of gulls.  Observing

the gulls, he saw, to his mild surprise, that there were a few hardy
golfers out, brightly dressed figures striding down the fairways,
hauling their clubs on trolleys behind them.  He remembered that when
his grandmother played golf, she had always employed a caddie, and
always the same man, an old reprobate called Sandy, who knew every
curve and hazard of fairway and green, and advised her accordingly.  A
good deal of the time, Sandy teetered on the verge of drunkenness, but
when he caddied for Mrs.  McLennan, he wore the when of a sober judge
and behaved accordingly.

The old railway track petered out into a thicket of broom, and rounding
this stretch, Oscar saw that they had reached the end of the links, the
turn of the course, and the ninth tee.  Now, the next stretch of
coastline revealed itself, another wide and shallow bay, an old pier,
and a cluster of fisher cottages, huddled down, single-storied,
crouched from the teeth of the wind.

It was then that he heard the voices.  A man calling, a murmur of
conversation.  He turned his head and saw, below him, a group of four
men making their way to the tee.  Oscar was instantly wary, fearing
that one of them might be Major Billicliffe, and he would be spied, and
forced into introductions and convivial chat.  He stood very still,
hoping to render himself invisible, but his fears were, thankfully,
ill-founded.  Major Billicliffe, tall as a tree and with his skinny
shanks draped in tweedy plus-fours, was not one of the group.  Instead,
Oscar saw the four sturdy figures bundled up in coloured jackets and
waterproof trousers, wearing white golf shoes and long-peaked American
caps.  Billicliffe would never be so trendy.

Major Billicliffe was the main reason that Oscar had kept a low profile
ever since their arrival in Creagan.  From time to time, urged by
Elfrida, he had nipped across the road to the supermarket, to stock up
on beer or to buy a loaf of bread, and his daily outing was a trip to
the news agent to pick up The Times and The Telegraph.  On these
occasions he kept an eye open, just in case Billicliffe should be
bearing down



upon him, loud with greeting and invitations to his terrib house.

Elfrida thought Oscar was being feeble.

"He's harmless, Oscar, just a stupid old man.  You must be firm if you
meet him.  Polite but firm."

"He is a terrifying bore."

"You can't cower indoors for the rest of your life.  It's
ridiculous."

"I am cowering indoors because the weather is inclement, to say the
least of it."

"Rubbish.  You spent the whole of Saturday raking leaves in the garden.
In the pouring rain."

"Billicliffe can't get into my garden."

"He could see you over the wall.  He's tall enough."

"Don't even suggest it."

This walk with Horace was Oscar's first real foray into the
countryside, and he had started out because all of a sudden he was
restless, filled with nervous energy, and knew a physical need to
stretch his legs.  Even the prospect of encountering Major Billicliffe
did not put him off, and, as Elfrida constantly pointed out, he could
not spend the rest of his life cowering indoors, ducking behind a sofa
every time the front-door bell rang.

It was all very unfortunate.  Because Billicliffe, retired factor of
Corrydale, was the man who had had custody of the key of the Estate
House, and calling upon him, to take possession of this key, had been
their first priority.

The occasion had not been propitious.  At the end of a long winter
drive from Hampshire, which had taken two days, both Oscar and Elfrida
were exhausted.  They had travelled by the Al, battling with rain,
long-distance lorries, and manic car drivers speeding past in the fast
lane.  Crossing the border into Scotland, climbing Soutra, the rain had
turned to sleet, and then snow, and conditions had become even more
dicey.

Elfrida had suggested stopping once more for a restful night, but Oscar
simply wanted to get there, and so they had pressed on, farther and
farther north, and at the summit of

chter the snow had been six inches deep and they had I along, hoping
with every mile that the storm would Ffenp for just a few hours.

Darkness fell early, and the final miles were achieved in Bight-time
conditions.  As well, Oscar found that his memory failed him, and he
became confused by new road systems and bypasses which had been built
since his long-ago boyhood visits.

"Why does everything have to change?"  he complained pettishly,
struggling to read the map by the light of a torch.

"For the better," Elfrida told him firmly.

"At least we're not threading our way along a single-track lane."

Finally, they were crossing the new bridge that spanned the firth.

"In the old days," Oscar remembered, "we had to drive over the hills
and about five miles inland."

"You see.  Things are better.  Where do we go next?"

"We have to turn left, back onto the old road, heading west."

"Will the old road still be there?"

"If it isn't, we're scuppered."

But it was there, and in the dark, they turned off the fast
dual-carriage way and set out into the country.  By now Elfrida was
getting very tired.  Finding Billicliffe's house was the final,
frustrating straw.

"He's in old Ferguson's cottage," Hector had told Oscar when asked for
instructions and directions.

"Used to be head forester.  You remember him.  Turn into the main gates
and follow your nose.  I'll ring him and tell him you're coming."

But somehow, in the darkness, they lost all sense of distance, and so
overshot the main gates, and too late, Oscar saw the sign as it flashed
past.

# &

CORRYDALE COUNTRY HOTEL.  AA.  RAC.  XXXV

So then they had to find someplace to turn and retrace their steps.
This took a long time, and there was a muddy



farmyard with a ferociously barking dog.  Back again, at a snail's
pace, and this time they were more successful.  Once through the gates,
Oscar peered around him, trying to find landmarks, but ended up
becoming more confused than ever.

"I don't remember any of this," he complained, sounding as though his
amnesia were all Elfrida's fault.

"Things change, Oscar.  Things change."

"I can't see a single bloody house anywhere."

"Well, we can't drive round in circles for the rest of the night."

Elfrida was beginning to sound a little desperate.  Oscar hoped she
wasn't about to lose her cool, because she had been so wonderfully calm
for two days, and he didn't think he could bear it if she became as
despairing as he already felt.

"Are you sure we're on the right road?"

But Oscar, by now, wasn't sure.  He wasn't sure about anything any
longer.  He said sadly, "Perhaps we are too old for wild-goose
chases."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, of course we're not.  And it's not a
wild-goose chase, it's a key chase.  We've got to get the key.  All we
have to do is find the stupid cottage."

Which, in the end, of course they did.  Quite by chance, turning left
onto a rutted lane that seemed to lead nowhere.  But instead, all at
once, there was a light, shining through naked trees.  They found an
open gate and a short driveway leading to a single small stone house,
with a single curtained window lighted from within.

"Is this it?"  Elfrida asked in doubtful tones.

Recognizable.  Remembered.  Oscar breathed a sigh of relief.

"This," he told her, "is it."

"Thank God for that."

She turned the car in through the gate and drew up in front of the
small house, the tyres scrunching on pebbly gravel.  Their headlights
illuminated a rural wooden porch- way, a closed door.  Elfrida switched
off the engine.  At once, nearly frightening them both out of their
wits, the quiet was ripped apart by a cacophony of deep-throated
barking, and furious, eerie howls.

Elfrida said, "For heaven's sake."

"A dog," Oscar observed.

"A mastiff.  A Rottweiler.  A hound.  A Baskerville hound.  I'm not
getting out of this car.  I would prefer to keep all my limbs."

But then there came the sound of a human voice, raised in fury, and a
slammed door.  The barking stopped.  In the back seat, poor patient
Horace sat up and gazed in a timid fashion out of the window.  It was
clear that he didn't wish to lose a limb either.  They waited.

Oscar said, "We're just going to collect the key, and get on our way.
No socializing."

"Whatever you want."

The door of the cottage was opened.  Within shone the dim illumination
of a small lobby.  A lanky, gangling figure stood there, sagging at the
knees in order to peer out beneath the low lintel, and with a hand up
to shade his eyes against the glare of the car lights.  Elfrida,
obligingly, turned them off.

"That you?  Blundell?  Been waiting ..."

The sentence was not finished, simply left hanging in the air.

Oscar and Elfrida got out of the car, both stiff and aching with
exhaustion.  Oscar felt his knees creaking.  The outside ah- was
bitterly cold.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, although indeed they could scarcely have
arrived earlier.

"Difficult, driving in the dark.  It's all unfamiliar.  We've come for
the key, and then ..."

He had been going to say, "... we'll be on our way," but Major
Billicliffe overrode him.

"Of course.  Got it here.  Come along in.  Just going to have a
sniffer.  You'll join me."

"Well..."

"Splendid to see you.  Been looking forward.  Come in out of the
cold."

He stood aside, holding the door open in an hospitable manner, and
after a moment's hesitation Oscar capitulated, although all he wanted
was no further delay; to complete this hideous journey, get to Creagan
and take possession of

his house.  But it seemed that they were in for a social encounter,
with drinks.

"Thank you," he said weakly, and put out a hand to steer Elfrida in
front of him.

"This is my friend, Elfrida Phipps.  She came to share the driving with
me."

"Splendid.  Splendid.  Hell of a long way.  Charmed to meet you,
ma'am."  He took Elfrida's hand, and for a mad moment Oscar thought he
might be about to press a kiss upon it, so courtly and old-worldly was
his manner.

Elfrida said, "Hello."

"Now, let's get the door closed, and shut the damned cold away.  Come
along...."

They followed him into a small, low-ceilinged sitting- room, where a
tiny fire in a tiled grate did little to warm the air.  All seemed to
be in a state of sad confusion.  Sagging leather chairs, a wrinkled
rug, a carpet covered in dog's hairs, ashtrays brimming with pipe
ash.

At the back of the room was another door, behind which the enraged dog
had been shut away.  Whines and heavy breathing emanated from beyond,
and every now and then they heard a thump and a rattle of a latch, as,
frustrated beyond measure, the imprisoned brute flung his weight
against the door.

Elfrida, naturally enough, began to look a bit nervous.

"What kind of dog is it?"  she asked.

"Labrador," Major Billicliffe told her.

"Dear old bitch.  Wouldn't hurt a fly."

Over the fire was a mantelpiece crowded with an array of
objects-tarnished mugs, a golf ball, a clock which had stopped at a
quarter past twelve, some dog-eared postcards and invitations, and a
leather box in which Major Billicliffe kept his hearing aids.  Before
doing anything else, he retrieved these and proceeded to fit them into
his huge red ears.  Oscar and Elfrida watched, fascinated, while he
made a few squeaking adjustments with the tip of his finger, before he
was finally satisfied.  He then turned back to them, wearing an
expression of satisfaction, as though a difficult job had been well
done.

"That's better.  Take them out most of the time.  Sometimes forget
where I've put 'em.  Now, what can I get you?"

He made his way across the room to where stood an old trolley on
wheels, laden with bottles and with one or two smeary glasses set out
on the bottom shelf.

"Bar's open."

Oscar longed for a cup of tea, but knew that that would take much
longer to prepare.

"A Scotch would be splendid.  Very small.  A lot of water...."

"And the lady?"

Elfrida looked a bit nonplussed.  She, as well, was clearly longing for
a hot cup of tea.  But she said bravely, "A sherry?"

"Got some somewhere.  Where's the bottle?"  He held it up.  It
contained a very small quantity of liquid.

"Just enough for one."

Pouring drinks, he talked.  Oscar and Elfrida stood by the miserable
fire and did not interrupt.  "

"Fraid the housekeeping's a bit hit-and-miss these days.  Wife died,
you know, couple of years ago.  Miss her like hell, but what can one
do?  I've got a female who's meant to come and clean."  Oscar watched
him splashing clumsily about with bottles and jugs, spilling water on
the carpet, lifting a glass with a trembling hand.  To look at, Major
Billicliffe was something of an old wreck, knock-kneed as a horse on
its way to the knacker's yard, and with thin, stockinged legs that
ended in a pair of enormous black unpolished brogues.  His head was
bald, sparsely covered with a few strands of grey hair, and his eyes
rheumy.  A tobacco-stained moustache overhung yellowed, uneven teeth.
It was hard to imagine him as a dapper upright officer in any regiment
of the British Army.

"Hector rang me and said you'd be coming.  Delighted.  About time we
had a bit of new blood about the place.  How is the old boy?  Funny
we've never met before, you and I, but then, it's years.... I've been
here since the sixties, came straight out of the Army.  Well, not
quite.  Did a course at Cirencester first, had to qualify.  Factor. Not
a job any fool can do.  Good fishing.  The wife found it a bit lonely. 
Didn't fish.  Walked the dogs.  The old telly saved her reason."  He

had achieved their drinks, and now, with a glass in either^ hand, came
shambling over to deliver them.

"The whisky looks a bit pale.  Sure that's all right?"

"Perfect," Oscar lied.

Major Billicliffe returned to the trolley in order to deal with his own
thirst.  Which seemed to require an enormously dark whisky in a small
tumbler.

"Ought to be some eats about the place.  A crisp.  Sit down, make
yourselves comfortable."

"We mustn't be too long."

"Won't take you five minutes to get to Creagan."  Without much
alternative, Oscar and Elfrida perched on a sofa, side by side.  The
sofa stank of dog.  Across the hearth rug Major Billicliffe lowered his
tremendous height into the only armchair, his bony knees knobbly
beneath the worn tweed of his knickerbockers.

"I'm retired now, of course.  Good of Hector to let me buy this
cottage, but it was standing empty anyway.  And Hughie couldn't care
less.  The days of farm workers and tied cottages are over.  All
contractors now.  Damned great machinery.  Liked working for Hector,
but it didn't last long.  Hector went, Hughie came, and fairly put the
cat amongst the pigeons.  Orgies, he used to have in the big house.
Bloody orgies.  Disgraceful.  Set a rotten example.  Is that drink all
right?  Couldn't deal with the fella at all.  Parted brass rags, as
they say in the Royal Navy, but by then I'd had a bellyful and was
ready to go out to grass.  Now, everything's different.  Hughie
buggered off to Barbados and sold the place up.  Hotel.  You probably
saw the sign.  All plate glass and bathrooms.  And the bar prices are
daylight robbery.  Never go near the place.  All that's left of the
estate now is the Home farm, and young Thomson ... his father used to
be tenant farmer... bought it when the estate was sold up.  Seems to be
doing all right.  But I never go near the hotel.  Told you.  Take my
pleasures in the Golf Club.  Do you play golf?  Quite a jolly little
group of us down there.  You should join.  Put your name up if you
like.  Short walk from the Estate House.  Nice old pair, been living
there for years.  Cochrane was their

e. Then he upped and died and she's gone south to live with her
daughter.  Lucky for you, perhaps.  Then, there's libs.  Snead ...
keeps an eye on the place.  Comes and goes.  Think Hector pays her a
retainer.  He never said."

Oscar nodded.

"Nice woman.  Nice woman.... Met her in the butcher's.  Said she'd get
the boiler going.  Not my responsibility any longer, or I'd have popped
in for CD's inspection."

Oscar, feeling desperate, said, "The key?"

Major Billicliffe frowned in a bewildered fashion.

"Sorry?"

"The key.  To the Estate House.  If you could let me have it, and then
we'll get out of your way."

"Ah, yes.  Got it somewhere."  He knocked back his drink with one
expert toss of his elbow, laid down the empty glass and heaved himself
to his feet.  Across the room once more, to an old roll-top desk,
standing open and chaotically untidy.  Stooping over mis, he root led
hopelessly around for a moment or two, feeling into pigeon-holes,
opening and shutting drawers.  At last, "Eureka," he exclaimed, and
held up a large old-fashioned key tied to a crumpled label.

"Knew I'd put it somewhere.  Get a bit forgetful these days."

Oscar and Elfrida, finished with their meagre drinks, rose firmly to
their feet.  Oscar took the key from Major Billicliffe's hand.

"Thank you.  I am sorry we disturbed you."

"Didn't disturb me at all.  Splendid to have a bit of company.
Remember, I'm usually in the club most days.  Don't play as much as I
used to.  Good to have a crack with old chums, and you can get a
jolly-good sandwich in the bar."  They eased their way towards the
door.

"You must come and see me again.  And perhaps I'll pop in and call at
the Estate House.  See how you're settling in."

Elfrida smiled.  She said, "Of course.  But don't come quite right
away.  Oscar's not been very well, and we'll need a little time."

"Of course, of course.  But we'll certainly see each other around."



Now, in the middle of his long walk, Oscar paused to watch the golfers,
safe in the knowledge that the dreaded Billicliffe was not one of the
four men.  They had already positioned themselves, selected clubs, and
not wishing to disturb them, nor deflect their attention, he stood
motionless until the last player had whacked his ball into what
appeared to be orbit.  The light was already dying, and it occurred to
Oscar that they would have to get their skates on if they were to be
back in the clubhouse before dark.  The golfer stooped to retrieve his
tee, and in doing so, caught sight of Oscar.

Across the rolling fairway that lay between them, their eyes, for an
instant, met.  The other man raised a hand in greeting, or maybe simply
an acknowledgement of Oscar's consideration.  Oscar returned his
salute.  Then the golfer stowed his driver into his bag, picked up the
handle of his trolley, and set off after his friends, Oscar watched him
go.  A burly figure in his scarlet jacket and bright-blue trousers.  He
wondered if he was a visitor to Creagan-come perhaps from the United
States-or a local resident.  Moments later, he disappeared behind the
natural hazard of a gorsy hillock, and Oscar and the dog continued on
their way.

He was beginning to feel a bit weary.  Below him, between the links and
the dunes, he saw the stony track used by the greens keepers tractors,
which led back to the town.  Beyond curved the long sweep of the beach,
and ahead, in the far distance, he could see, silhouetted against the
grey clouds, the random roof-tops and the church spire of the town. The
effect was sombre as an old etching.  It seemed a very long way off,
and he wondered if perhaps he had bitten off more than he could chew. 
But then he spied the small wooden shelter provided for the convenience
of golfers.  As he approached, Oscar saw that it was divided into four
segments, giving shelter from any prevailing wind, and each furnished
with a small wooden bench.  He decided to sit for a moment, to get his
breath; he chose the most suitable compartment, was grateful for
shelter, and made himself as comfortable as he could.

He thought about the golfers, companionably playing

game deep into the dusk of a dying afternoon, and knew an envy that was
almost resentment.  They were together.  Friends.  Talking, joking,
competing.  They would have a drink in the clubhouse, part, return to
their families.  Ordinary men.

He wondered if he would ever be ordinary again.

Once, long ago, as a boy, Oscar had played golf, but never very
proficiently.  Perhaps he should take it up again.  Should buy himself
an expensive set of clubs, with a Big Bertha driver, and astonish
everybody, including himself, with a startling prowess at pitch and
putt.  The prospect, though amusing, did not make him smile.  Now,
nothing much made him smile.

Grieving.  He was still grieving.  He had himself often used this
innocuous word, writing to friends recently bereaved of wife, parent,
even a child.  It was a word that covered a multitude of unexperienced
emotions.  Sympathy was another.  / send my deepest sympathy and my
thoughts are with you, he would write, and sign the letter and duly
post it with the knowledge of a necessary task performed to the best of
his ability.

He knew now that he had not had an inkling of what he was talking
about.  Grief was not a state of mind, but a physical thing, a void, a
deadening blanket of unbearable pain, precluding all solace.  His only
protection, and one that he had built himself, was a palisade of non
communication  Here, in Creagan, he was spared the encounters, the
chance meetings with a casual acquaintance.  Spared the insult of the
vicar's churchly comfort, the pain of another's embarrassment.  The
clumsy but well-meant condolences, eyes that did not meet his own.

During his walk, he had, as was his custom, observed sky, clouds,
hills, birds.  Had felt the wind on his cheeks and listened to the
thunder of breakers on the shore.  He had smelt the sweet strong scent
of moss and ling ... all with no reaction, no lift of the spirit, no
marvel.  No inspiration.  No joy.  It was a bit like looking at an
indifferent painting, a huge landscape painstakingly executed, but
lacking all soul.



He had always despised self-pity, and now, sitting hudi| died in the
small wooden shelter, he fought it like a lion, striving to be
positive, to count present blessings.  First was the Estate House.  The
fact that he owned a bit of it and that it stood empty, a timely
sanctuary to which he had fled.  Second.  was Elfrida.  Her
reappearance after her holiday in Cornwall had been of the utmost
relief to Oscar.  Her companionship had saved his reason, and in her
own uncomplicated way she had got him through the blackest times,
comforting by simply accepting his limitations.  When he fell silent,
she left him alone.  When he felt compelled to talk, Elfrida
listened.

And third was the knowledge that, even if he did not stay forever in
this remote northern community where once he had been a boy and been
happy, there was no need, or even the possibility, of returning to the
house that had been Gloria's.  Already, her two sons had taken
possession of the Grange, and put it on the market.  And in a way Oscar
was grateful to them, because their swift and not wholly commendable
actions had spared him the ordeal of existing in a space haunted by
memories of Francesca, and filled only with a cold and numbing
silence.

/ must go on, he told himself.  Move forward, a step at a time.  But at
sixty-seven, with most of his life behind him, it sometimes seemed
impossible to summon the energy.  That deadening blanket, compounded of
shock and terrible loss, had not only blinded and deafened him, but
imbued every bone in his body with a dreadful and pervasive fatigue.

"I must go on."  This time he said the words aloud, and Horace, who had
been lying at his feet, sat up and looked hopeful and even smiled.  He
was a very smiley dog.  Oscar was grateful for his company.  He got to
his feet.

"Come on, old chap.  Time we headed for home."

By the time he finally reached the clubhouse it was dark, and Oscar was
very tired.  He trudged up the right-of-way that led between the
fairways and saw the blaze of lights shining out from wide windows,
behind which figures could be seen, relaxed as though in a friendly
pub, sitting at tables, eating sandwiches, doubtless discussing their
game.  Be

i the clubhouse and the first tee was a paved forecourt i raised beds
which, in summer, would probably sport cheerful clumps of colour,
begonias and geraniums.  To the tide of the clubhouse was the car-park,
now floodlit from above.  A dozen or so vehicles were still standing
there, and as Oscar wearily approached, he saw a well-worn estate car,
with its tail-gate down.  On this a man was perched, in the act of
changing his studded golf shoes for a pair of brogues.  Oscar
recognized the red wind-cheater and the bright-blue weatherproof
trousers, but the long-peaked American cap had been removed, and cold
light shone down upon a head of thick greying hair.

The man tied the last lace and got to his feet.  By now, Oscar was
alongside.  For an instant he hesitated, debating as to whether he
should stop and exchange a friendly word.  Ask, perhaps, how the game
had gone.  But even as he wavered, the decision was taken out of his
hands.

"Hello, there.  Did you have a good walk?"

Oscar paused, then turned to face him.

"A bit too far, perhaps.  I'm out of practice.  How did you get
along?"

"We gave up on the fifteenth.  Chickened out.  Too dark and too cold."
He stooped to retrieve his golf shoes, chucked them into the back of
the car, and slammed shut the tailgate.

"Not the weather for an enjoyable game."  He came forward.  Oscar saw a
ruddy countryman's face and a pair of piercingly blue eyes.

"Forgive me, but you're Oscar Blundell."

Oscar found himself disconcerted by being not only recognized, but
identified.  He said "Yes," and it sounded like an admission.

"I knew you'd come back to Creagan."  (What else did he know?) "I've
only been here for twenty years, so I never met your grandmother, Mrs.
McLennan.  But I did have the pleasure of a good friendship with
Hector.  Just for a short while, before he handed Corrydale over to
Hughie and went south to live.  I'm Peter Kennedy, by the way."  He
stuck out a hand, which Oscar took in his own gloved one.

"Welcome to Creagan."

"Thank you."

 "You must be exhausted.  That's a long hike in the teeth of the wind.
I'm just going in for a cup of tea.  Would you care to join me?"

Oscar was silenced, hesitating, torn by conflicting emotions.  It was
true.  He was bone-weary, and the thought of sitting down for a bit in
the warmth, indulging in the solace of a restoring and hot cup of tea,
was a very tempting one.  On the other hand, he was not sure if he felt
brave enough to go into that brightly lighted and convivial clubhouse.
He would perhaps be introduced, have to talk to strangers, answer
questions.

But there was something so warm and genuine about his new friend, so
disarming and sincere, that he could not bring himself to refuse the
invitation outright.  Instead, he searched for some excuse.

"I have the dog."

"We'll put him in my car.  He'll come to no harm for a little while."

"I..."  It had to be said.

"I would prefer not to encounter Major Billicliffe."

Peter Kennedy's cheerful face creased into an understanding smile.

"Don't worry."  He laid a hand on Oscar's arm.

"He went home five minutes ago.  I saw him drive off."

"You'll think me uncharitable."

"No.  I don't think that.  So you'll join me?"

"Yes.  Yes, I will.  I would like to.  Thank you very much."

"I'm delighted."

They dealt with Horace, incarcerating him in the back of Peter
Kennedy's estate car, along with the shoes and the golf bag.  He gazed
at them reproachfully through the back window, but Oscar hardened his
heart.

"I won't be long," he told the dog.

They walked together, side by side, around the corner of the clubhouse,
and up the shallow flight of steps that led to the main door.  Peter
Kennedy opened this and held it for Oscar to go through into a foyer,
hectically carpeted and lined with cabinets containing silver trophies
and shields.  Portraits of former captains glowered down at them.  To
the

light, glassed doors fed into the main room, furnished with tables and
comfortable chairs, and with a small bar in the corner.  As they
entered, one or two people looked up, but by and large nobody took much
notice of them.

"We'll go and sit over there.  There's a free table, and we'll be
quiet...."

But before they could do this, a swing door by the side of the bar flew
open, and an elderly waitress appeared.  She wore a black skirt and a
white blouse, and her white hair was marvellously waved and dressed.
Spying them, she was at once all smiles.

"Mr.  Kennedy.  I didn't think we'd be seeing you this evening."

"Hello, Jessie.  Are we too late for a cup of tea?"

"Never too late.  You must be frozen, out playing on a day like this."
Her eyes turned to Oscar, who had removed his tweed hat and was
standing there, bundled up in all his layers of coats and sweaters.

"Have you been playing, too?"

"No.  Just walking."

"Jessie, this is Mr.  Oscar Blundell.  He's come to stay at the Estate
House."

"Oh, my, that's who you are.  I'd heard you'd moved in, but I haven't
seen you around.  Are you a golfer, too?"

"I'm sorry, no."

"We'll have to rectify that.  Now, Mr.  Kennedy, where do you want to
sit?"

But before there was time to tell her, an interruption occurred.  From
across the long room there came a shout, a deep voice ringing out like
a clarion, startling everyone, and causing frowns from a group who were
crouched around the television.

"Peter!  Come away over, and have a word.  I haven't seen you for a
week or more."

Peter Kennedy swung around, and Oscar, following his gaze, saw, in the
far corner, a heavily built and aged man sitting in a wheelchair, with
a tumbler of whisky ready to hand on the table in front of him.

"Peter!"  He was waving a knotted stick, as though it

were possible that he had neither been heard nor seen.

"Come and give me all the news."

"Would you mind, Oscar, if I left you for a moment?  It's old Charlie
Beith, and I must go and pay my respects...."

"Of course."

"I'll be just a moment.  Jessie will take care of you."  He went,
making his way down the length of the room.

"What a great surprise," he was saying.

"Are you having a day out, Charlie?"  And the old man in the wheelchair
greeted him with such delight and affection that Oscar felt that he was
in some way intruding, and turned away.

Jessie took charge.

"Come and sit down and get comfortable.  Take your coat off, or you'll
not feel the benefit when you go out again.  Would you like a scone?
And do you prefer Indian or China tea?"

Oscar said, "I'm sorry, but who is that?"

"Charlie Beith?  He's a real character, over ninety, though you'd never
know it.  Used to farm out at Toshlands, years ago.  His grandson's
running the place now.  He was doing fine till a couple of years ago,
when he had a stroke.  He lives in the old people's home, and Mr.
Kennedy's a regular visitor.  One of his daughters brought him up here
this evening, just for a bit of a change and some cheerful company.
He's as bright as a button up top."

"In fact," Oscar hesitated, "I didn't mean the old man.  I meant Peter
Kennedy.  I've only just met him in the car-park.  He knew my uncle.
But I don't know ..."

"You mean you don't know what he does or who he is?  You must be the
only soul in Creagan who doesn't.  He's our minister.  The minister of
the church."

The minister.  The vicar.  The rector.  Whatever.  The man whose job it
was to comfort not only the physically, but the emotionally crippled as
well.  Peter Kennedy's spontaneous friendliness had seemed genuine, but
this new knowledge rendered it depressingly suspect.  Did he already
know why Oscar had returned to Creagan?  Had he been told about the
ghastly deaths of Oscar's wife and child?  And if so, who ... ?

But I did have the pleasure of a good friendship with Hector.

Had Hector, with only the best of intentions, been in touch with Peter
Kennedy?  Explained the situation?  Suggested, perhaps, a pastoral
visit?  Comforting chats; counselling; a gentle urging back to a church
in which Oscar no longer believed?

Jessie said, "Are you all right?"

He looked into her concerned and motherly face and realized that his
own was suffused with heat, his forehead wet with sweat.  A heat
kindled not by the warm room and his layers of outdoor clothes but an
inner turmoil that was frighteningly akin to panic.  He knew that he
could not stay there, or he would suffocate.

With a huge effort, he made himself speak.

"I am sorry.  It's very warm.  I've just remembered ..."  His voice
sounded unreal, like a voice from another room.

"I promised.  I must get home.  A telephone call..."

"But what about your tea?"

"I'm afraid I can't...."  Backing off, he tried to apologize again.

"I'm sorry.  Please explain to Mr.  Kennedy.  Another time..."

He turned away from her, and carefully, slowly, made for the door.  The
plate glass was heavy to open, and swung shut behind him.  He crossed
the foyer and opened the second set of doors, and stepped out into the
bitter air.  The cold wind was an assault, and he stopped to steady
himself, to let the icy air fill his lungs.  He could feel the sweat
chilling on his brow and pulled on his old tweed hat.  He was all
right.  He was surviving.  All he had to do was get himself home.  To
be safe.  Alone with Elfrida.  He went down the steps and crossed over
to the car-park and retrieved Horace from Peter Kennedy's car.  Then he
was on his way, walking at a tremendous pace, dragging the dog behind
him.  Escaping.

EL FRIDA

in Dibton, the Women's Institute was great on mystery tours.  These
usually took place on a Saturday afternoon, and entailed the ladies'
being piled into a bus and whirled off to some unknown destination.
Quite often, this was a Stately Home, with gardens to be viewed, and a
gift shop where they could buy flowered tea-towels, bookmarks, and
packets of home-made fudge.  After the shopping, tea would be partaken
at some local hotel.  A proper tea, with fish and chips.  Then they
would all pile into the bus once more, and be driven home.

These outings were very popular.

Spirited away so abruptly, by circumstances outside her control, to the
north of Scotland, to "Creagan and the Estate House was, Elfrida
decided, the mystery tour of all time.  From the moment she and Oscar
departed from Dibton, she had no idea of what lay in store for her, and
there never came an appropriate moment to ask.  So precipitant had been
their departure, so swift the packing process, and so brief the time
for goodbyes, that nit-picking details of their destination lost all
importance.  They just had to get away.

There were, of course, essential arrangements to be made.  Oscar's car
had to be serviced, checked, and filled with petrol.  He saw to that.
His stepsons, Giles and Crawford, were informed of his imminent
departure, and his bank manager alerted as to his change of address. As
for Elfrida, she handed the key of Poulton's Row over to her neighbour,
with as few explanations as possible, and asked her, as well, to keep
an eye on the poor little Ford Fiesta, abandoned on the pavement
outside her cottage.

"When will you be back, Mrs.  Phipps?"

"I've truly no idea.  But I'll keep in touch.  Here's the car key as
well.  Use it if you want, it'll do it good."  Rather as though it were
an old dog, needing daily exercise.

"I've

turned the water off at the mains, and locked all the windows."

"But where are you going?"

"I think, to Scotland."

Then Oscar had to get in touch with Hector McLennan and put him in the
picture, while Elfrida telephoned her cousin Jeffrey in Cornwall and
tried to explain to him the circumstances of what she was about to do.
She did not make a very good job of this, and it took him some time to
get the hang of the situation.  When he finally did, however, he only
said "Good luck," and once she had given him the address and the
telephone number of Oscar's house, he let her go and rang off.

Without any clear idea of what sort of clothes she would need, she
packed a suitcase with an assortment of garments (warm) and shoes
(stout).  Then, an ancient, squashy, zipped bag, for her most precious
things, the possessions that had always travelled everywhere with her.
The silk shawl, wrapped around the little painting by Sir David Wilkie.
The Staffordshire dogs; her clock; her current piece of tapestry.  On
top went a few photographs in silver frames, and half a dozen books.
That was all.  Oscar's luggage was scarcely more bulky.  A leather
hold-all, packed by Mrs.  Muswell, a bulging brief-case, and his
fishing gear.

"Do you intend to go fishing, Oscar?"

"No idea.  But I can't travel to Scotland without my rod.  It would be
almost sacrilegious."

There was space for all this in the back of Oscar's Volvo, and still
room for Horace, his blanket, biscuits, and water bowl.  Horace, like
Elfrida, had no idea what was in store for him, but leaped happily into
the car and made himself comfortable, clearly deeply relieved that he
was not going to be left behind.  He did not trust suitcases standing
about the place.

"We are travelling light," Elfrida observed to Oscar, but he was too
anxious and distracted to make any comment on her remark.  Instead, he
turned away to give last-minute instructions to his loyal Mrs. Muswell,
who had stood by him all through the dark days, and now stood on the
doorstep,

clearly much distressed, as though at any moment she might burst into
tears.

"Mrs.  Muswell."

"Send me a postcard," she told him bravely, but her voice was not
steady.

"Of course.  Goodbye.  And thank you for everything."  And he gave her
a quick peck on the cheek, which caused Mrs.  Muswell to go to pieces.
As they drove away from the Grange, Elfrida saw through the back window
the gallant pinafored figure blowing her nose and wiping her eyes with
a handy handkerchief.

"What will become of her?"  Elfrida asked, feeling like a traitor.

"Giles has promised he'll see her right.  She should have no difficulty
in finding a job.  She's a marvelous woman."

After that they stopped talking.  Elfrida drove most of the way, only
letting Oscar take over when she became dangerously weary.  tiredness
can kill roadside signs shouted at the cars and lorries which streamed
north on the Al.  take a break.  And she would draw the car to the side
of the road at the next lay-by or motorway halt, and change seats with
him.

During the first day he scarcely spoke at all, and she let him be
silent and did not even suggest that they listen to Classic FM on the
car radio.  From time to time they stopped to give Horace a run,
stretch their own legs, have something to eat, or a cup of tea.  The
weather was cold and bleak and darkness fell early, and after that,
driving became even more stressful.  Because of this, they left the
motorway and drove to a small Northumberland town that Oscar
remembered.  And there, in the main square, found an old coaching inn
that he remembered as well, and it didn't seem to be too modernized or
changed.  Better still, the management were kindly about Horace, and
allowed him in, provided he and his blanket stayed upstairs.

On the second morning, as soon as the shops were open, Elfrida walked
out into the little town, found a small supermarket, and bought
provisions for their eventual arrival.  A can of soup, bread, butter,
bacon and eggs.  A packet of cof163 fee, a carton of milk.  The man in
the shop packed all this into a grocery box for her, and then she spied
a bottle of whisky (medicinal?) and bought that, too.

The second day's driving was a bit better.  Horrible weather, but at
least Oscar was more communicative.  He eyed the passing fields and
farms, pointed out landmarks, gazed warily at the sky, and made his own
gloomy forecasts.  But yet it was not the time for chatter, for the
stream of questions to which she ached to know the answer.  What will
it be like, Oscar?  How big is the Estate House?  Will anybody have
left it warm, and will there be any hot water?  Will it be clean, and
will there be sheets?  Will people be friendly to us, and will they
know you?  Or will they shun us?

It was all unimaginable.  But, she told herself, grinding in second
gear up the slippery slope of Soutra, with the windscreen wipers going
full-tilt, and all the world drowned in the whiteness of a sudden sleet
storm, this is an adventure.

As a young woman, an actress, she had travelled the length and breadth
of Britain with touring companies, without ever knowing what awaited
her at the end of the journey.  Her memories of those days were a blur
of provincial towns, musty theatres, and theatrical lodgings that smelt
of boiled cabbage.  But she had been young, doing a job she loved, and
had been very happy.  Each rattling train journey was a challenge, each
grimy theatre, a new discovery.  A little of that old excitement warmed
her now, and she had to remind herself that she was no longer that
young and ardent girl, but an elderly lady of sixty-two.  At least, I
am not lonely.  Not bored.  Nor dead.

The encounter with Major Billicliffe had been the final hurdle.  With
that accomplished and the key safely in Oscar's pocket, the hard grind
of the two-day journey was behind them, and the last few miles were
easy, almost carefree.  Oscar drove.  It was cold, but the snow had
ceased, and the dark road ran downhill towards the sea, between dense
stands of conifers.  Elfrida opened her window and heard the soughing
of wind in their branches, and smelt pine and a sturdy whiff of salty
air.  Then the trees fell away, and all about them were

duney hillocks and stunted pines, and ahead could be seen a straight
silvery line that was the sea.  Far away, across the water, a
lighthouse blinked, a pinprick in the darkness.  Then ahead, the glow
of street lights, and houses with windows lighted behind drawn
curtains.  A street of stone houses, like a terrace, but each house a
different shape and height from its neighbour.  She saw the church
looming, the lighted clock like a round lantern, high in its tower. The
hands stood at seven o'clock.  Now larger, handsome houses, set back
behind tall stone walls.  Creagan.  It seemed deserted.  No one trod
the streets; no cars.  No sound, not even the cry of gulls. Another
turning, another street.  Oscar drew up at the pavement's edge. He
turned off the engine.  For a moment he was still.  Elfrida waited.
Then he laid his hand over hers.

He said, "Dear girl.  We're here."

The Estate House.  So Elfrida saw it for the first time, by the light
of street lamps.  Square and solid, set back from the road behind a
wrought-iron railing and a forecourt of sea- pebbles.  The face of the
house was a child's drawing, with a door and five windows.  Above
these, set in the slope of the slated roof, two dormers jutted.  They
got out of the car, and Elfrida set Horace free.  He had not forgotten
the growls and howls of Major Billicliffe's hound, and was, sensibly,
wary.  But finally reassured, he leaped down into the road, and began
tentatively to sniff for unfamiliar smells.

Oscar unlatched the gate and went up the path.  Elfrida and Horace
followed him.  With the key he opened the door.  It swung inward and he
felt for a light switch and found one, and turned it on.

They entered, and Elfrida instantly felt the warmth and smelt the
cleanliness of a place newly scrubbed and polished.  Ahead, a staircase
rose to a half-landing and an uncurtained stair window.  On either
side, doors stood closed, but at the end of the hall a third door was
open.  Oscar went down the hall and through this and turned on another
light.

Elfrida closed the front door behind her, sealing away the chill of the
winter evening.  She followed Oscar and found him in a kitchen where
stood an old-fashioned painted dresser and a wooden table.  Beneath the
window was a clay sink, and at its side a capacious gas cooker, dating
back, perhaps, forty years or more.

Oscar said, "Hardly all-singing, all-dancing."  He sounded a bit
apologetic.

"It's fine," Elfrida assured him, and meant it.

"Someone has left us a letter."  It lay in the middle of the table, a
sheet of lined paper, weighted down with a jam jar.  Oscar removed
this, handed the letter to Elfrida, and she read it aloud.

"I have turned on boiler (oil).  You will need to order more oil.  Beds
made up in 2 rooms.  Bath-water hot.  Coal and wood in shed.  Some of
the windows won't open.  Milk in fridge (scullery).  Will pop in
tomorrow to see you are all right.

"Yours J. Snead (Mrs.)"

Oscar said, "Mrs.  Snead?"

"Yes."

"Elfrida, are you about to cry?"

"I might be."

"Why?"

"Relief."

That had all happened three weeks ago.  It was December now, a Friday,
and five o'clock on a dark mid-winter afternoon.  Oscar, who had set
out after lunch with Horace at his heels, had still not returned.
Elfrida blotted out images of him dead of a heart attack, his body
prone at the foot of a sand dune.  He was simply taking his time.
Hopefully enjoying his first real expedition into the country, feeling
better for the exercise, and filling his lungs with restoring fresh
air.  The decision to go had been his alone, and she had been careful
not to appear too enthusiastic, fearful of giving him the impression
that she longed to be rid of him.

She stood in the kitchen, at the gas stove, boiling a kettle.  She made
a mug of tea and took it upstairs to the sitting- room.  They called it
the sitting-room, but indeed it was a

drawing-room, formal and spacious, with a huge bay window looking out
over the street and the church.  Hours could be wasted simply sitting
on the window-seat and watching the world go by.  Cars coming and
going, delivery vans, and grit lorries.  Shoppers pausing on the
pavement to chat; strings of chattering children, like sparrows,
walking to and from school.

The room was furnished, as was all the house, with the bare minimum of
furniture.  A thick Turkey carpet.  A sofa and two chairs.  A table
against the wall, a glass-fronted bookcase, in which a few old books
leaned against each other.  No pictures, no ornaments.  No clue as to
the interests and lives of previous occupants.  In a way, Elfrida found
this lack of decoration and clutter quite therapeutic.  Without
pictures, knickknacks, small bits of silver, and sets of decorative
porcelain to divert the eye, it was possible to appreciate the lovely
proportions of the room, the ornate cornice and the plaster rose in the
centre of the ceiling, from which depended a charming Victorian
chandelier.

Arriving, unpacking, she had put her modest stamp upon the place.  The
David Wilkie now hung opposite the fireplace, above the heavy oak
table, which Oscar used as a desk.  The Staffordshire dogs and her
clock occupied the empty marble mantelpiece.  From Arthur Snead Fruit
and Vegetables she had bought a bunch of chrysanthemums, found a yellow
jug, and created a not very ambitious arrangement Her half-done
tapestry lay across the seat of a chair.  Earlier on, she had lighted
the fire.  Now, she fed it with coal and logs and then went to the
window, to sit and watch for Oscar.  But no sooner had she settled
herself, with her mug between her hands, than the telephone rang.  This
was startling because it had scarcely ever rung since they had taken up
residence.  Elfrida hoped it was not Major Billicliffe.  She set the
mug down on the floor and went to answer the call.  The telephone stood
on the first-floor landing, on a small chest, just outside the
sitting-room door.  She picked up the receiver.

"Hello."  "Elfrida."

"Yes."

"It's Carrie.  Carrie Sutton."

"Carrie.  Where are you?"

"In London.  How are you?"

"All right."

"Jeffrey told me you were in Scotland.  Gave me your number.  Elfrida,
I've got something to ask you.  It's a favour.  It's a huge favour."

"Ask away."

"It's about Christmas."

It was, necessarily, a very long telephone call.  Finally they were
finished.  Elfrida replaced the receiver at the same moment she heard
the front door, downstairs, open and close, and knew that Oscar and
Horace were home.  She leaned over the banister and called.

"Are you safely back?"

"Yes.  We're here."

She went downstairs.  In the hall, he was shedding himself of jacket
and hat, hanging them on the bentwood hat stand.  Horace had already
reached for the kitchen and his drinking bowl and his warm basket.

"You've been ages."

"We went for miles.  The other end of the links and back.  I'd
forgotten it was so far."  He put up a hand and ran it over his hair.
He looked, she thought, exhausted.

She said, "A cup of tea?"

"I think I'm ready for something stronger."

"A Scotch.  Go upstairs.  There's a fire.  I'll bring it to you."

In the kitchen, she poured his drink and put the kettle on again and
made herself another mug of tea, because she knew that the first one
would by now be cold.  Horace was already asleep.  She left him and
went upstairs with the mug in one hand and the tumbler in the other.
She found Oscar standing with a hand on the mantelpiece, gazing down
into the fire.  He turned his head as she came in and smiled
gratefully.

"How good you are...."

He took the drink and lowered himself carefully into one

of the armchairs, stretching out his legs before him.  Elfrida went to
draw the curtains, shutting away the night.

"I didn't draw them before because I was sitting in the window,
watching for you.  Doing a Sister Anne."

"Did you think I was dead?"

"Imagination does terrible things."

"I was delayed.  Outside the Golf Club, I met a man.  We talked.  He
asked me into the club for a cup of tea, and I accepted.  Then he went
to speak to an old man in a wheelchair, and I asked the waitress who he
was.  He is called Peter Kennedy, and he is the minister."

Elfrida waited.  Finally, "So, Oscar?"

"I thought of him knowing about what had happened.  The crash.  Gloria
and Francesca both dead.  It occurred to me that perhaps Hector had
forewarned him.  I had thought him simply a friendly chap.  But I am
afraid he was being kind, sorry for me.  I don't want to be helped.  I
want to be left alone.  So I didn't stay.  I walked away.  Came
home."

"Oh, Oscar."

"I know.  Rude and manner less

"I'm sure he'll understand."

"I hope so.  I liked his face."

"There's time.  Give yourself time."

He took a deep breath that sounded like a terrible sigh.  He said, "I
hate myself."

"Oh, my dear, never do that."

"Do you reproach me?"

"No.  I understand."  She drank some tea, scalding and comforting.  She
sat facing him in a little wide-lapped Victorian chair upholstered in
tartan.  The firelight was warm on her shins.  She said, "Perhaps this
isn't an opportune moment, but I have to ask you something.  I have to
tell you something."

"Not, I hope, that you are about to leave me."

"No, not that.  I have had a telephone call.  Jeffrey's daughter,
Carrie Sutton.  She has returned from Austria.  She wants to come and
spend Christmas with us."

"But we are not having Christmas."

"Oscar, I told her.  A lamb chop for lunch and no tinsel.  I told her
that that was what you and I had agreed.  She understands.  It makes no
difference to her.  She says she's not interested in Christmas
either."

"Then let her come."

Elfrida hesitated.

"There is a complication."

"A man?"

"No.  Jeffrey's grandchild.  Carrie's niece.  Lucy.  If Carrie comes,
then Lucy must come, too."

There was a very long silence.  Oscar's eyes turned from Elfrida's face
and gazed into the fire.  For a moment he looked as old as his uncle
had looked that dreadful day when Elfrida had come unexpectedly upon
the old man and thought for a frightening instant that he was Oscar.
She said, "I told Carrie I would have to ask you.  I would have to tell
you about the child."

"How old is she?"

"Fourteen."

"Why does she have to come?"

"Oh, I don't know."  Elfrida shrugged.

"Some story about her mother going to Florida for Christmas to stay
with a friend, and the daughter doesn't want to go with her.  And
Dodie, the grandmother, doesn't want the child.  The sort of selfish
muddle that is always happening in my family."  Oscar made no comment
on this.  Elfrida bit her lip.  She said, "I can ring Carrie and tell
her no.  I can tell her that it is too soon.  A little girl around the
place would be more than painful for you.  It could be unbearable.  I
understand, and I shan't think any the less of you if you say no."

He looked at her, his gentle features filled with affection.

"I love your directness, Elfrida."

"It is the only way."

"If they come..."

"I'll say no Christmas."

"But the child ... ?"

"She will be with Carrie.  They can do what they want.  Go to church.
Sing carols, give each other presents."

"It sounds a little bleak for a youngster."



"And for you, Oscar?"

"It can make no difference.  It can change nothing.  You want them
here, I think.  Then tell them to come."

"You're sure?  You're certain?"  He nodded.

"You are a dear, kind, brave man."

"There's space for them?"

"The attics are empty.  Perhaps we could buy a bed, and Lucy shall
sleep up there."

"We'll need to buy more than a bed."

"Not very much more."

"It's what you want.  That's all that matters.  Tell them they're
welcome.  Come whenever they want.  They will be company for you.  I'm
afraid I am not very lively company."

"Oscar, lively company was not the point of us coming here together."

He drank a bit of his whisky, seemingly deep in thought.  Then he said,
"Telephone Carrie now.  If they take the train or come by aeroplane, we
can send a taxi to meet them at Inverness.  If they're driving, warn
her about the snow."

She was filled with gratitude for his generosity of spirit.  To have
him sitting there mulling over such mundane details made her feel a
great deal better.  He was being hostly, almost as though it were he
who had issued the invitation, and not had it dumped upon him.  She
finished her tea and pulled herself to her feet.

"I'll ring her.  Right away."  She made for the door, and men turned
back.

"Thank you, Oscar."

lucy

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 8TH

I've already written down all the wonderful things that happened today,
about Carrie coming back, and going out for lunch, and her saying maybe
she and I can go away for Christmas somewhere.  The cinema was really
good, too.  Well, now it is ten-thirty and I'm just going to bed.
Writing this in my dressing-gown.  What happened was I had a bath after
supper and washed my hair, and while it was drying went into the
kitchen to make a hot chocolate.  Then the phone rang, and Mum came to
find me and to say it was Carrie wanting to talk to me.  I think they
'd already had a chat.  I picked up the kitchen telephone and waited
till I'd heard the click and knew Mum had put the other phone down so
wasn't going to listen.  She does sometimes.

And then Carrie told me.  We are going to Scotland for Christmas.
Elfrida, Grandpa's cousin, is staying there with a friend and they both
want us to go.  It's a place called Creagan, and they say the house is
quite big.  It is so exciting, I could burst.  Carrie says it's too far
to drive in the middle of winter, so we're going to fly to Inverness
and then a taxi will meet us and drive us the rest of the way.  We're
going on December 15th, and she's already booked seats.

Elfrida's friend is called Oscar, but Carrie doesn't know what he's
like because she's never met him.

I said, had she told Mum and Gran, and she said no.  And I said would I
tell them, and she said no again, because Gran never much approved of
Elfrida and it would be better if Carrie told them herself, so she's
coming over some time tomorrow to break the news and calm Gran down if
she starts being difficult.  Mum won't say a word, because all she can
think about is Randall and Florida.

I asked Carrie what I should pack, and she said fur coats

and snow-shoes, but of course that was just a joke.

I can't believe I am going to Scotland.

I am already counting the days.

Carrie says it probably won't be very Christmassy on account of Oscar
and Elfrida being so old.  But compared with going away with Carrie,
Christmas doesn 't matter a bit, and I never liked Christmas pudding
much anyway.  She says there is a beach, and the North Sea.

I simply can't wait.

EL FRIDA

Now, Saturday morning and Elfrida was the first downstairs.  She had
dressed in thick corduroy trousers and two sweaters and was glad of
these when she opened the back door to let Horace out into the garden.
During the night, there had been a deep frost.  All was iced and
sparkling, and her footsteps left marks on the thick, crunchy grass of
the little lawn.  It was not yet light, and she and the dog emerged
into the glow of a street lamp which lighted the stepped lane that led
up the hill.  Horace hated the cold, so she stayed with him, waiting
while he nosed to and fro, shot up to the top of the garden where he
smelt a rabbit, and took much time in finding exactly the right spot to
do his wees.  Standing freezing cold and trying to be patient, she
looked up at the sky, and saw it turning sapphire-blue and quite clear.
In the east, over the sea, the glow of dawn was a streak of pink,
although the sun had yet to edge its way over the horizon.  It was, she
decided, going to be a fine day, and was grateful.  They had had enough
of grey skies, howling winds, and rain.

Finally Horace was done, and they scurried indoors, to the warmth, and
Elfrida slammed shut the door behind her.  Then she put the kettle on,
found the frying-pan and the bacon.  She laid the table with a checked
cloth, and cups and saucers.  She cracked two eggs.  Oscar enjoyed a
cooked breakfast, and although Elfrida did not eat it with him, she
relished the smell of bacon frying.

Cautiously, she made toast.  Making toast in this oldfashioned kitchen
was something of a hazard, because the toaster was elderly and past its
best, and behaved accordingly.  Sometimes it popped up two quite
reasonable, nicely browned slices.  Other times, it regurgitated two
uncooked slices of bread.  But if in a bad temper, it forgot to turn
itself off, with the result that the kitchen was filled with dark
smoke, and the blackened crusts on offer were so disgusting that not
even the sea-gulls would eat them.

Every now and then Elfrida told herself that they should buy a new
toaster.  There was a small shop in the High Street, William G. Croft
Electrical Goods, its windows filled with microwaves, hair dryers,
steam irons, and waffle makers, along with a number of other gadgets
that Elfrida could happily live without.  But a toaster was essential.
One day she had gone into William G. Croft's to price the cheapest, but
quailed at the expense, and departed without having made a purchase.

It was all a bit difficult, because without the little income
engendered by her home industry of stitching cushions, she found
herself chronically short of money, and Mondays, when she could go to
the post office and collect her old age pension, couldn't come around
quickly enough.  She supposed that the sensible thing to do would be to
find a tenant for Poulton's Row, and rent this out on a quarterly
basis, thus ensuring a small trickle of cash, but the logistics of
achieving this, organizing from Sutherland a let in Hampshire, were too
much, and so the tentative idea was abandoned.  As for Oscar, she had
no idea whether or not he was in the same dilemma and was not about to
ask.  Probably he had a little bit put by, a stock or a share, but she
knew that it was Gloria who had footed the bills for the day-to-day
expenses incurred by the lush and generous life-style of the Grange.

So she struggled on with the old inherited toaster, having decided that
if she did find herself with a bit of spare cash, she preferred to
spend it on books or flowers.

Today, it was in a good mood, and the smell of bacon mingled with the
scent of fresh hot coffee.  Coffee was most important.  She was sitting
at the table drinking her first cup when Oscar came downstairs to join
her, and at once Elfrida noticed his appearance.  Normally, he wore a
thick shirt under a warm pullover.  Very informal.  No necktie.  But
this morning he had put on, not only one of his better shirts, but a
tie, a waistcoat, and his good tweed jacket.

She eyed him in some astonishment.

"You're looking very smart."  "Thank you.  I'm pleased you noticed."

"What's the occasion?"

He retrieved his plate of bacon and eggs from the hot plate where she
had left it to keep warm.

"Because it's Saturday?"

"Not good enough."

"Because I must not allow myself to become a shabby, shambling old
wreck."

"Putting on a tie isn't going to make that much difference."

He sat down, and she poured his coffee.

"Thank you.  No, you're quite right.  I have made a small effort,
because I am going calling."

Elfrida was genuinely surprised, but took great pains not to show this.
She was also intrigued.

"Who are you going to call on?"

"Rose Miller."

"Who is Rose Miller?"

"A very old friend."

"You've never mentioned her.  Should I be jealous?"

"I don't think so.  She must be eighty-five if she's a day.  She was my
grandmother's parlour maid  She lives on the Corrydale estate in a very
small cottage with a thatched roof.  I am going to go and pay my
respects."

"Why have you suddenly decided to go and see your grandmother's parlour
maid  You've been keeping such a low profile, anyone might think you're
an escaped fugitive."

"Do you mind?"

"Oh, dear Oscar, I'm absolutely delighted.  But I don't entirely
understand your change of heart."

He set down his coffee-cup.  When he spoke again, his voice was
different, no longer bantering.  He said, "It was yesterday.  Meeting
that man.  Peter Kennedy, the minister.  Behaving so stupidly, so
rudely.  And there's another thing.  During the last few weeks, I've
thought of myself as anonymous, but of course I'm not.  If Peter
Kennedy knows about me, then so will many other people.  They're just
too polite and thoughtful to come banging on our door.  This is a small
place and news spreads like wildfire.  By now Rose Miller is

bound to have heard I've come back.  And she will be intensely hurt if
I don't get in touch with her.  So I have decided to go.  I shall buy
her a bunch of flowers from Arthur Snead, and together she and I will
take a trip down Memory Lane.  You don't need the car, do you?"

"No.  That is the best of living here.  I can walk across the square to
the supermarket, I can walk down the street to the butcher, and on the
way home I can go into the bookshop and browse.  If I felt so inclined,
I could have a little foray into the antique shop, and come back with a
Victorian teapot.  Or even have my hair tweaked."

"Do you mean there's actually a hairdresser in Creagan?"

"Of course.  Over the barber's shop.  Where else?"

She leaned across the table to remove his empty plate, and to pour
herself her second cup of coffee.  The gingham curtains were still
drawn, so she pulled them back, and saw the lightening sky.

Suddenly, she felt more cheerful than she had for a long time.  Things,
slowly, were looking up.  The day would be fine.  Icily cold, but fine.
Oscar was going calling, and next week, Carrie and Lucy Wesley would be
here.  Thinking about it, she decided that perhaps yesterday had been
the turning point, although she had not recognized it as such.

"I shall go for a walk," Oscar had announced.

"Stretch my legs, and get some fresh air.  I'll take Horace with me."
Elfrida, clearly, was neither expected nor invited to join them.  Which
was just as well, because she had no wish to go out, tramping through
the wind and the rain.  She managed not to show her surprise, and
simply told him to wrap up warmly against the bitter weather.

But, perhaps fortuitously, Oscar had met this man, this Peter Kennedy.
And, for whatever reason, had been engaged in conversation, and treated
with friendliness and hospitality.  The fact that, like a dog biting
the feeding hand, Oscar had panicked and walked out on him was probably
of less consequence to Peter Kennedy than it was to Oscar, who had
been, clearly, much ashamed of his behaviour.  Perhaps, during the
night, he had lain awake, filled with remorse.  Perhaps going to visit
old Rose Miller was a way of reparation, las first voluntary step back
into the company of others.

"What time will you go, Oscar?"  She brought her cup ; back to the
table.

"To keep your assignation with Rose?"

"It's not an assignation, because she doesn't know I'm coming."

"Yes, but assignation sounds so much more exciting."

"I thought about half past ten.  Would you consider that a suitable
time?"

"Perfect.  She'll be up and about, and she will give you a cup of tea
and perhaps a biscuit."  She drank her coffee.

"Maybe, while you're at Corrydale, you should look in on Major
Billicliffe."

"I hoped you wouldn't say that."

"Oh, Oscar, you are being feeble.  He's a harmless old git, and
probably dreadfully lonely.  It's unkind to go on living here and just
pretending he doesn't exist.  After all, he was all ready with the key,
and a rather dim little drink."  Oscar, silent, did not look
enthusiastic.

"You could just drop in, casually, to pass the time of day.  Perhaps
ask him along for a drink or something when Carrie and Lucy are here.
You could say it was a party."

Cunningly, Oscar steered the discussion off at a tangent.

"When are they coming?"

"Friday.  I told you.  They're flying to Inverness on Friday morning,
and I've asked the taxi-man to go and get them."

"I didn't know we had a taxi-man."

"Alec Dobbs."

"I thought Alec Dobbs was the undertaker."

"He is, but he does taxis as well."

"Useful fellow."

Elfrida sipped her coffee.  She had now forgotten about Major
Billicliffe and was thinking instead about Carrie's and Lucy's
arrival.

"There isn't much time, is there?  I'll have to get around to finding
some furniture for the attic.  There must be a second-hand shop around
somewhere.  I shall make inquiries."

"Whom will you ask?"

"The butcher?  Or the news agent?"

"Or the undertaker?"

"Mrs.  Snead, of course!  Mrs.  Snead will be bound to know...."

This fascinating discussion might have gone on forever had they not
been disturbed by the shrilling ring of the front- door bell, which
caused Horace, startled out of his wits, to sit up in his basket and
bark with agitation.

Elfrida shushed him, and went out of the kitchen and down the hall. The
doorbell had been the postman, and there were two letters on the mat. 
Which seemed another good omen, because they had scarcely had any
correspondence delivered since the day they arrived.

She stooped and picked up the letters and carried them back to Oscar.

"One is for you, typed and business-like, and probably from your bank
manager.  And the other is for me."

"Now it's my turn to be jealous."

"I don't think so."  She felt for her spectacles in the pocket of her
sweater and put them on.  She eyed the envelope suspiciously.

"Rather neat, spiky old writing."  She picked up a knife and slit the
envelope and took out the letter.  She turned the page over to find the
signature, and smiled.

"Oscar, it's from Hector.  That dear old man, writing to us."  She sat
down and unfolded the thick blue paper.

"And a chequel A cheque for five hundred pounds."

Oscar's jaw fell.

"Five hundred pounds?  Are you sure?"

"See for yourself.  Made out to you."  She handed it over.  He stared
at it in some bewilderment, and then said, "Perhaps you'd better find
out what it's all about."

So Elfrida read aloud.

"My dear Oscar and Elfrida, "I have not written before, because I
wanted to give you both time to settle in.  I trust you had a safe
journey and found the Estate House in good condition.

"I have to confess that, after you left, I felt impelled to write a
letter to Peter Kennedy, the minister of the parish church in Creagan.
I know your desire for privacy and anonymity, to give you the
opportunity to come to terms with the tragedy which you have suffered.
But I could not help worrying about you, and Peter is a good man, and a
good friend, and I knew I could trust him to keep your sad
circumstances to himself.  He was a regular visitor to Corrydale before
I handed it over to Hughie, and I much enjoyed his company and his keen
mind.  I expect he will be in touch, and would like you to accept his
concern, and possible offer of comfort.

"I hope you are not offended by my action.

"I am also a little anxious in case the Estate House is under-furnished
and under-equipped.  As you know, I have not seen it for years,
although, since the Cochranes departed, I have arranged for its
day-today upkeep.  As I feel responsible for persuading you to leave
Hampshire and take up residence in Creagan, I would be happy to supply
any extras that you feel would make life more comfortable.  So I am
enclosing a cheque for five hundred pounds which I hope will be
sufficient for your needs.

"The weather in London is still grey and cold.  I do not go out very
much, but observe it from my window.

"I hope you are both well.  I would appreciate a letter or a telephone
call to set my mind at rest.

"I saw in The Times that the Grange is on the market.  The boys have
lost no time.

"With my best wishes to you both, "Sincerely, "Hector"

In silence, she folded the letter and put it back into its envelope.
She said, "I shall write this morning."

"It's enormously generous.  And we really don't need anything."



"Oh, yes we do," Elfrida told him firmly.

"Like what?"

"Like a new toaster that doesn't burn the toast, or blow upJ or
electrocute me.  This one is archaic.  And I've got to gettl bed for
Lucy, and it would be nice to have curtains on the stair window."

"I never noticed any of these things," said Oscar, looking I a bit
ashamed.

"Men never do."

"Perhaps you could buy a dishwasher?"

"Idon't want a dishwasher."

"Ora microwave?"

"I don't want a microwave either."

"Or a television set?"

"I never look at television.  Did you?"

"Only the news.  And "Songs of Praise."  And the proms."

"But aren't we lucky, Oscar, to have such simple needs?"

"We are certainly fortunate."  He picked up the cheque and eyed it.

"In more ways than one.  Before I go and see Rose, I shall call in at
the Bank of Scotland and open a joint account for the two of us.  And
you shall go mad, buying furniture."

"But the money's not for me."

"It is for both of us."

"And will the Bank of Scotland be so obliging?"

"I have banked with them since I was a boy.  I can see no
difficulties."

"You are being dynamic, Oscar.  And you won't forget the flowers for
Rose?"

"No.  I shall not forget."

The day turned into one of dazzling brightness.  The red sun rose in
the eggshell-blue sky, and there was not a breath of wind.  Ladies,
shopping, trod cautiously down the pavements, anxious not to slip or
fall, and they wore thick boots and were muffled up in woollen hats and
gloves.  But the cold did not stop them from pausing to gossip, their
breath clouding like steam as they chattered away.

The church, behind the black lacework of bare trees,

was golden in the sunlight.  Over its spire gulls wheeled, jackdaws
settled on the weather-vane at its peak.  Frost iced the grass of the
ancient graveyard, and cars, driven : down from remote hill farms, wore
blankets of snow.  One of (hem had a Christmas tree sticking out of the
open tailgate.  Having done a little cursory housework, made beds, set
The fire, and humped a basket of logs up from the outdoor shed, Elfrida
sat in her bay window and observed all this seasonal activity.  Oscar
had departed, having spent some effort on de freezing his windscreen
and getting the wipers to work.  Elfrida hoped that Rose Miller would
be pleased to see him, and guessed that she would.

She turned to the \ab\e, ttve \hm s\m warm otv \\ei back, and started
her letter to Hector.

The Estate House December 9th

Dear Hector, How very good of you to write, and thank you, from Oscar
and myself, for your very generous cheque.  It is more than welcome for
a number of reasons.  We are a bit short of essentials, but have
managed very well without them.  But now I have a young cousin, Carrie
Sutton, coming to stay for Christmas, and she is bringing her niece,
Lucy, who is fourteen, so it will be good to be able to cheer the place
up a bit and make it more homely.  We do need a new toaster, but that's
about all, though I shall buy some furniture for Lucy's worn (she's
going to sleep in the attic!) and your cheque will come in very useful
for that reason.  I shall find a second-hand shop.

Oscar is well.  He has been very withdrawn ever since we got here, and
I have, from time to time, become a little depressed about him,
wondering if he ever would emerge from his cloud of grief and begin to
go forward again.  He did not want to see anybody, nor even speak to
any person.  Yesterday, however, he took

Horace, my dog, for a long walk, and by the Golf Club was approached by
Peter Kennedy.  He liked him very much, and said he had a nice face. He
was invited into the clubhouse for tea, and went, but then realized
that Peter Kennedy was the minister, took fright, and fled.

He was terribly upset about this, but I think the incident brought him
up short, and he realizes he can't hide away forever.  So this morning
he has gone in the car to pay a call on Rose Miller at Corrydale.  It
is his first voluntary step out into the world of other people, and I
am filled with gratitude and hope that the Kennedys won't be far
behind.  But, whatever happens, Oscar mustn't be goaded, but allowed to
take it all at his own pace.

We are really all right, and the days pass peacefully.  This is a very
tranquil part of the world, and I take my dog Horace for long walks on
the beach, sometimes returning after the sun has set.  We have no
television, but really don't need one.  Oscar brought his little radio
with him, and we pass the long evenings playing canasta and listening
to Classic FM.

We had a long drive up from Hampshire, and were So intent was she upon
her letter, so unheeding of voices in the street below, that she did
not hear the wrought-iron gate open and shut, nor the tread of
footsteps up to the front door.  When the doorbell rang, she was so
startled that she dropped her pen.  From downstairs Horace, as usual,
filled the house with panic-stricken barking.  She got up and went out
of the room and ran downstairs.

"Oh, Horace, be quiet!"  Down the hall to open the heavy door, swinging
it wide to the sunshine, to the penetrating cold, to an unknown female
figure.

"Sorry about the dog...."

"No matter..."

Her visitor was a woman perhaps in her late thirties, tall and slender
and marvellously unconventional in her appearance.

She had very dark, almost raven-black hair, cut in a fringe and
hanging loose and straight to her shoulders.  She wore a battered
Barbour over a long red woollen skirt and what looked like Doc Marten
boots.  A tartan muffler was wound about her neck, framing a face
beautifully boned and innocent of make-up.  Her cheeks were tanned,
rosy this morning with cold, and her eyes deep-set and dark as black
coffee.  In one hand she carried a plastic shopping bag, and in the
other a little rural basket containing eggs.

She smiled.

"Hello.  You're Elfrida Phipps?  I hope I'm not disturbing you, but I'm
Tabitha."  Elfrida was no wiser, and puzzlement clearly showed on her
face.

"Tabitha Kennedy.  Peter Kennedy's wife."

"Oh."  Elfrida made much effort not to appear too astonished.  She had
never seen any person in her life less likely to be a minister's
wife.

"How really nice to meet you."  She stepped back indoors, holding open
the door.

"Do come in."

But Tabitha Kennedy hesitated.

"Not if you're busy.  I just brought you some eggs.  From my hens."

"I'm not busy and fresh eggs are a real treat.  Come on, I'll give you
a cup of coffee."

Tabitha stepped through the door, and Elfrida closed it behind her.

"Do you mind coming into the kitchen... ?"  She led the way.

"I'll put the kettle on, and then we'll take our coffee upstairs.  Or
would you rather have tea?"

"I'd die for a cup of coffee, I'm frozen.  Peter's got the car, so I
had to walk down the hill.  I thought I was going to fall flat on my
back, it's so icy."  She followed Elfrida into the kitchen, put the
basket of eggs on the table, and hung her plastic bag over a chair.

"Oscar's got the car, too.  He's gone to Corrydale to call on someone
called Rose Miller."

"Goodness, there'll be a reunion.  Rose always adored Oscar.  Never
stops talking about him.  Do you know I've never been in here?  If I
did come to the Estate House, it was very formal, straight up the
stairs and into the big room.  The Cochranes were a funny old couple,
very reserved.  Not, you might say, into entertaining.  But once a
year, Peter and I

were asked for tea and polite conversation.  It was always a bit of an
ordeal.  How are you settling in?"

Elfrida, having filled the kettle and put it on to boil, began reaching
for a tray, and cups and saucers.

"We're fine."

Tabitha looked about her.

"This kitchen reminds me of an exhibit in one of those National
Heritage museums.  My grandmother had one the very same.  I don't
suppose the Cochranes went in for gadgets, but if they did, Mrs.
Cochrane has certainly removed the lot.  Have you got a dishwasher?"

"No.  But I've never had one, so it doesn't matter."

"How about a clothes washer?"

"There's an archaic one in the scullery.  It takes hours, but it does
work.  And my dryer is the washing line at the top of the garden."

"A scullery!  Can I look?"

"Of course."

"This door?  Better and better.  Tiled floors and clay sinks, and
wooden draining boards.  But you've got a fridge."

"I hardly need one in this weather."

Tabitha closed the scullery door and came back into the kitchen, to
pull out a chair and sit at the table.

"Do you use the big upstairs sitting-room?"

"All the time, though it's a lot of running up and down stairs."

"What about the ground-floor rooms?"

"One's a very gloomy Victorian dining-room.  Lots of heavy, dark
mahogany furniture, and plush curtains, and an upright piano with
candle sconces.  The other, I think, was the original estate office.  I
don't suppose the Cochranes ever used it.  There's still an old
roll-top desk, and a table with special drawers for collecting rents.
I'm afraid we've kept the doors shut on both of them.  We either eat in
here or by the fire."

"Much simpler."

"And Oscar doesn't seem to mind."

Tabitha said, "I'm glad Oscar's not here.  One of the reasons I've come
is to apologize, and now I shan't have to."

^ "Apologize?  For what?"

"Peter sent me.  He's afraid he was rather crass and pushy yesterday
afternoon.  He hopes so much that he didn't upset Oscar."

"I think Oscar feels he's the one to apologize.  It was rude, just
running away like that, but he panicked and fled.  He was filled with
remorse.  He knew he'd behaved dreadfully badly."

"Hector wrote and told us about his wife and his child dying in that
appalling car accident.  It takes a long while to move out of something
like that, and get back into life again."

"It's called grieving."

"I know.  It can't have been easy for you."

"As a matter of fact, it's been hellish."

Elfrida heard herself come out with this, and was amazed that the
impulsive words had been spoken, because the moments of hellishness she
had never acknowledged, nor admitted, even to herself.

"I think frustration is the worst, because there is not a mortal thing
one can do to help.  And then, impatience.  And then guilt for feeling
impatient.  More than once, I've had to bite my tongue.  And another
thing is, I'm quite a sociable animal.  I don't mean endless parties,
but I like making friends and getting to know people, but because of
Oscar I've had to keep a low profile.  I've probably created a very
snooty impression."

"I'm sure not."

"Mrs.  Snead has been my lifeline.  We have long conversations over
cups of tea."

"I'm glad she's working for you."

"Today ... today I have a feeling that the hellish time might just
about be behind us.  For Oscar's sake, I hope it is.  He's such a sweet
man, he didn't deserve what happened.  Perhaps going to see Rose Miller
is a step forward."

"We were always there, Peter and I, but we decided you both needed a
bit of time.  It's sometimes difficult to gauge exactly the right
moment...."

"Don't think about it.  Please."



"If Peter came to see Oscar, would that be a good idea?  They could put
things right between them."

"I think it's a marvelous idea, but tell him to telephone first."

"I'll do that."

The coffee was made, the jug set on the tray.  Elfrida picked it up.

"Let's go upstairs.  It's more comfortable."

She led the way, and Tabitha followed.

"I'm always impressed by this beautiful staircase.  It gives such a
grand feel to your entrance.  Peter says the banisters are made of
Baltic pine, brought back as ballast on the herring boats."  She paused
on the half-landing to gaze out at the garden.  This, still frosted,
and bleak with mid-winter, climbed the slope of the hill in a series of
terraced lawns, with a path and small flights of steps running up its
centre.  At the very top was a stand of pines, filled with jackdaw
nests.

"I'd forgotten how much land there is.  You can't see it from the lane
because of the high wall.  I love a walled garden.  Old Cochrane was a
great gardener.  He kept the Manse supplied with free lettuces."

"Oscar gardens, but so far he's just swept up a few leaves."

"In spring, there are daffodils and the terraces are purple with
aubrietia.  And there's a lilac, too...."

Elfrida, laden with the tray, went on upstairs, and behind her, Tabitha
continued her running commentary.

"It hasn't just got a grand feel, it really is imposing.  The size is
unexpected, like Dr.  Who's Tardis ... it all gets bigger and
bigger...."  Low sun streamed through the open sitting-room door.  "...
And I always thought this drawing- room one of the loveliest.... Oh,
look, you've been allowed to keep the chandelier.  That must have come
from Corry- dale."  She looked around her at the empty walls and spied
the little painting that Elfrida had brought with her from Dibton.

"Heavens, what a darling."  She moved to inspect it more closely.

"This wasn't here, was it?"

"No.  It's mine."  Elfrida set the tray down on the table by the
window.

"It's a David Wilkie.  It has to be."

Elfrida was impressed.

"Yes, it is.  I've had it for years.  I take it with me to every house
I live in."

"How did you come by such a precious possession?"

"It was given to me."

Tabitha laughed.

"Someone must have liked you very much."

"It looks a bit like a stamp on a blotting pad; too small for such an
expanse of wall."

"But enchanting."

Elfrida went to put a match to the fire.

"Do we need a fire?"  Tabitha asked.

"Everything feels so warm."

"That's the best.  An oil-fired boiler and central heating.  When we
came, I was so afraid it would all be piercingly cold, but we're snug
as bugs.  The boiler does the water, too, so scalding baths."

"And of course these old Victorian houses were so solidly built there's
not a draught in the place."

The fire kindled, snapped, and crackled.  Little flames leaped. Elfrida
put on a chunk of coal, another log.

"Shall we sit by the window?"

"Let's.  The sun is so gorgeous."  Tabitha unwound her muffler and
unzipped her Barbour, which she took off and tossed onto a chair before
coming to settle herself on the window- seat.

"Do you sit here and watch all the goings-on?  Already you must know
enough about us locals to write a book."

"It is pretty fascinating."  Elfrida pushed aside the letter she had
been writing to Hector.

"Have you lived here long?"

"About twenty years.  We were married just before Peter came here as
minister."

"How old were you?"

"Twenty."  Tabitha made a face.

"Some of the parishioners didn't approve at all, but at the end of the
day, it all worked out.  Both our children were born in the Manse."

"How old are they?"

"Rory's eighteen.  Just left school.  We sent both of our offspring to
the local Academy.  He's got his Highers and a place at Durham
University, but he's not taking it up till next year.



So we're into his Gap year, and goodness knows what he's going to do
with himself.  Peter says he doesn't care provided the boy is either
earning or learning.  And Clodagh's twelve, and for some reason, mad on
horses.  We haven't worked out why she had to choose such an expensive
hobby."

"She might have gone for hang-gliding."

Suddenly, they were both laughing, and it was lovely to be gassing to a
girl-friend over a cup of coffee as though they had known each other
forever.

She looked at Tabitha, sitting there in her black polo-neck sweater,
and with her young girl's hair, and was filled with curiosity.

"Do you like being a minister's wife?"

"I adore being married to Peter.  And I'm not totally a minister's
wife, because I teach art at the school.  I'm a qualified teacher, with
all the right degrees.  Five mornings a week."

"Are you an artist?"

"Yes, I paint and draw.  But I teach crafts as well.  Pottery and
sewing.  The senior girls stitched all the kneelers in the church.  It
was a huge project.  And every mother in Creagan has a rather wobbly
pot for her begonias."

Elfrida said, "I was an actress."  And then felt a bit shy, and wished
she hadn't said it, because it sounded as though she were capping
Tabitha's talent.

But Tabitha was gratifyingly amazed.

"Were you really?  Actually, I'm not a bit surprised.  I can just see
you on the stage."

"I wasn't exactly Ibsen material.  It was light stuff.  Musical
comedies, that sort of thing.  I was in Rep for years, playing every
sort of part from teenager to ragged crone."

"Were you famous?"

"No, not a bit.  But I was always working, however humbly."

"That's what matters, isn't it?  Doing what you like, and being paid
for it.  That's how I feel, too.  Really good for one's self-respect.
Peter understands.  It's one of the reasons I like him so much.  I
can't wait for you to meet him.  I'd ask you up to the Manse, but
perhaps we'd better wait until he and Oscar have sorted themselves out.
Once they've done that, I'll issue invitations.  Which means a
telephone call."

"I can't think of anything I'd like more."

"What are you doing for Christmas?"

"I don't think we're doing anything.  It's Oscar.  And I understand
because it can be a dreadfully emotive time.  But it is tricky because
I've got a cousin coming to stay next Friday and she's bringing her
niece with her.... I've told them we won't be very festive, but they're
coming anyway."

"How old is she?"

"Carrie?  About thirty.  But the niece is fourteen.  She's called Lucy,
and I've never met her.  I just hope she isn't too shy.  Or too un-shy,
for that matter.  I... I hope she won't be bored."

"There's so much going on in Creagan at Christmas, she'll have a
wonderful time.  All the local children get together-" "She won't know
the local children."

"We'll introduce her to Rory and Clodagh and then she'll meet them
all."

Elfrida felt a bit doubtful about this.

"Won't they mind?"

"Mind?  Why should they mind?"

"Well... a strange child.  From London."

"All the more reason to take care of her," said Tabitha, and suddenly
Elfrida caught a steely glimpse of the schoolteacher, keeping order.
And the minister's wife, raising her children to true Christian
standards.  And knew that Tabitha Kennedy, for all her bohemian
appearance and youthful attitudes, was a person to be reckoned with.
Heightened respect made her like her even more.

A thought struck her.

"I've got to buy furniture.  We're fairly short of everything here,
because the house has never been anything more than semi-furnished for
a let.  The bedroom for Carrie is all right, but I thought I'd put Lucy
up in the attic.  It's lovely and light, but there's ..."  She
hesitated.  "... Would you come up and look at it with me?  Tell me
what I have to get?"

"Of course.  Nothing I'd like more."  Tabitha had finished her coffee,
and now pushed back the cuff of her sweater to look at her watch.

"And then I must fly.  Peter's got an early meeting in Buddy this
afternoon, and I must feed him soup before he goes."



"If you haven't got time ..."

"Of course I have.  Come on, show me.  I'm a dab hand at interior
decoration."

"On a shoestring."

"I'm a minister's wife.  What else?"

They climbed the stairs to the upper floor and the attics.  One,
windowless, contained three old trunks, a dressmaker's dummy, and a lot
of cobwebs.  The other, with its huge skylight and combed ceiling, was
filled only with pale winter sunlight.

Tabitha was enchanted.

"What a wonderful room.  Any young girl would die to have this all to
herself.  Are you going to put down a carpet?  The floor-boards are
lovely.  And it's got a radiator, too, cosy as anything.  You'll need a
bed, of course, and perhaps a chest of drawers.  Or a little dressing-
table.  What about a television set?"

"We haven't got a television set."

"Yes, but teenagers go all peculiar without something to goggle at!
Rory's got an old one he doesn't use any more.  I'll have a word with
him about it.  And a few lamps.  And a blind for the skylight.
Otherwise it might be a bit spooky."

Elfrida said, "I've got a bit of money.  Hector sent it.  But not much.
I thought a second-hand shop...."

"There's a marvelous market in Buckly."

"I've never been to Buckly."

"I'll take you.  You can get everything there, off stalls."

"Beds?"

"Oh, marvelous beds.  And sheets, pictures, and objets dart.  Also
terrible old clothes, and wardrobes and carpets.  Next week.  Some
afternoon ... Tuesday?  Would Tuesday be all right?"

Elfrida, whose diary had been sadly blank for nearly a month, simply
nodded.

"Could we go in your car?  Peter's bound to need his."

Elfrida nodded again.

"What fun we'll have.  I can't wait."  She looked at her watch again.

"That's settled then.  Now I simply must fly or Peter will fume."

When Tabitha had gone, Elfrida returned to finish her letter to
Hector.

here by seven o 'clock on the second day.  This missive is taking a
long time to write because I was interrupted by the arrival of Tabitha
Kennedy, come to call.  I am sure, very soon, Peter and Oscar will
clear up their misunderstanding.  Tabitha is lovely, and is going to
take me to some market in Buckly to buy things for the house.

Thank you again for your kindness and generosity.  I hope you keep
well, and that the weather will be kinder so that you can get out and
about.

With much love from us both, Elfrida

She read this through, put it in an envelope, wrote the address, and
found a stamp.  Then she went downstairs, and in the kitchen did a
cursory inspection of the contents of the fridge, deciding that all
that was needed were vegetables and perhaps some fruit.  Horace was
sleeping in his basket and clearly did not wish to be disturbed, so she
left him there, bundled herself up for the outdoors, and stepped out of
the front door.  This, she did not lock behind her.  She had learned
that, in Creagan, nobody locked doors.

The cold was deep-freeze, but the low sun had melted away some of the
frost and the pavements were black and wet.  Even so, Elfrida trod as
carefully as any of the other shopping ladies, because right now she
needed a broken leg as much as she needed a hole in the head.

She posted the letter and then crossed the street to Arthur Snead Fruit
and Vegetables.  For once the little shop was empty: just Mr.  Snead,
leaning on his counter, was reading the racing results.  But seeing
Elfrida, he straightened up and folded the newspaper away.

"

"Ullo, Mrs.  Phipps.

"Ow are you this fine morning?"

Arthur Snead was the other half of Mrs.  Snead, who al

ways referred to him as Arfur.  The Sneads had proved a: comforting
bonus when Elfrida first arrived in Creagan, not simply because Mrs.
Snead cleaned the Estate House and was a mine of useful information,
but because they were Cockneys, and Elfrida, having lived in London for
so much of her life, relished the sound of their familiar voices, which
somehow had helped her to feel a little less isolated.  The Sneads had
arrived in Creagan five years ago from Hackney.  Elfrida had heard all
about this unlikely move over several cups of tea with Mrs.  Snead.
About how Arfur 'ad started life with a barrow in the North End Road,
and finally managed to buy a little shop of 'is own.  Then the council
developers 'ad come and slapped a compulsory purchase on 'im and 'e'd
been so fed up, 'e'd seen this ad, in a gardening magazine-'e'd always
taken that magazine because of 'is allotment... grew wonderful
marrows-and 'e'd said to Mrs.  Snead, "Ow about it, old girl?  And Mrs.
Snead, loyal to the end, had said, Okay, Arfur, and they'd come. Bought
the shop, and the little flat over it, and never looked back.  A nice
class of people they were, 'is customers, and 'e'd joined the bowling
club, and got 'ooked on sea-fishing.  As for Mrs.  Snead, she was now a
member of the Church Guild, went on outings, and from time to time,
sang in the choir.

Respected and accepted by the local community, they were still known,
without malice, as White Settlers.

"You'll need to watch out, my darling, I've 'ad your man in this
morning, buying chrysanths for another lady."

"I know.  Someone called Rose Miller, and I'm managing not to be
jealous.  Have you got any sprouts?"

"Nice bit of broccoli.  Came in this morning.  The lorry 'ad a really
bad time getting over the 'ill.  Says there's snow six inches deep up
there.  And there's Cyprus potatoes."

She bought the broccoli and the potatoes and some tangerines in a net
bag, and two rather sad-looking grapefruit which Arfur let her have at
half price.

"Going straight 'ome, are you?"

"No."  Elfrida had made up her mind.

"I'm going to buy a new toaster.  The one we've got is lethal."

"Well, leave your bags 'ere, and I'll jump them across the road for
you.  Put them inside the front door."

"You are kind.  Why do potatoes have to be so heavy?  Thank you,
Arthur."

And so, unburdened, on down the street to William G. Croft Electrical
Goods.  The door gave a ting as she went inside, and Mr.  Croft, in his
khaki overall, emerged from the open door of his back room, where he
spent most of his time mending vacuum cleaners or tinkering with
television sets.  He recognized her instantly from her previous
visit.

"Good morning, Mrs.  Phipps, and so you're back again."

"Yes.  Toasters.  But this time I'm going to buy one."

"And did the other one blow up?"

"No.  But it might at any moment."

"And which was the model that you looked at?"

"The cheapest.  But I think I'd like something a little more ...
modern."

"I have the very thing...."

He fetched it, in its box, and on the counter unpacked it for Elfrida's
inspection.  It was extremely smart, streamlined and bright blue.  He
showed her how it worked, which wasn't very difficult, and how, if you
turned a knob, you could have very pale toast or you could have very
dark toast.

"And it has a year's guarantee," Mr.  Croft finished, as though this
made it irresistible.  Which, of course, it was.  El- frida said she
would have it.

"The only thing is, I haven't enough money to pay for it right now.
Would you keep it and I'll come back tomorrow, or another day."

"There's no need for that, Mrs.  Phipps.  You take it with you now, and
pay for it the next time you're passing."

"Are you sure?"

"I have no fears that you'll be running away with it."

So she took the toaster home, unpacked it, and plugged it in and made
herself two perfect pieces of toast, which she spread with Marmite and
ate.  She threw the old one in the bin, and as she did so, heard the
front door open and shut and knew that Oscar had returned.  Munching

m

tHUt, she went out into the hall to meet him.

"You're back.  How was Rose Miller?"

"In splendid form."  He took off his hat and hung it on the newel-post
at the foot of the banister.

"We had a great crack, and a glass of elderberry wine."

"So much for cups of tea."

"Why are you eating toast?"

"I bought a new toaster.  Come and look."  She led him back into the
kitchen.

"Isn't it smart?  You told me I would go mad buying things, so I did.
Only thing is, I haven't paid for it yet.  I said I'd go back
tomorrow."

"I'll come with you."  He took off his thick jacket and pulled out a
chair and sat down.  Elfrida eyed him.  For a man who had just returned
from sipping elderberry wine with an old admirer, he looked tired and
preoccupied.  Perhaps the elderberry wine had been a bit too strong for
eleven o'clock in the morning.

"Are you all right, Oscar?"

"Yes, I'm fine.  I did what you told me, Elfrida.  I went to see Major
Billicliffe."

"Oh, good man."

"No.  Not good.  I don't feel good at all."

"Why not?  What happened?"

He told her.

Rose Miller's cottage at Corrydale was situated on the little road
beyond the erstwhile factor's house, and he had passed it by on the way
to pay his call.  Another day, he had said to himself.  Billicliffe can
wait until another day.  But then, primed with elderberry wine and on
his way home, he had heard the dog howling.  The sound was as arresting
as a cry for help, and Oscar had been instantly rendered alert with
concern.  There could be no question of driving by.  He had turned his
car into the lane that led to the small stone house with its rural
porch, and, turning off the engine, had heard the dog howling once
more.

Listening, Elfrida was aghast, already dreading the end of the story.

"What did you do?"

"Got out of the car and went to ring the bell, but nothing happened
except the dog stopped howling and started barking.  So then, I tried
the door, and it was open.  I went in, and called out, but no
answer."

"Perhaps he'd forgotten to put his hearing aids in."

"No one there.  And the dog had been shut in that same back place,
hurling itself at the door, just as it did on our first evening."

"You didn't let it loose?"

"Not then.  Not then, I didn't."

"Was there nobody there?"

"Then I tried the other ground-floor room.  The chaos there was even
worse than that sitting-room.  Drip-dry shirts hanging over the backs
of chairs, old papers and boxes piled on a table, golf clubs all over
the floor.  But there was a staircase, so I went up and opened the door
at the top, and peered in.  And there was the old boy, in bed...."

"He wasn't dead?"

"For a moment, I thought he was.  And then I said his name, and he
stirred...."

"Thank heavens for that."

He had not been dead.  But he looked ghastly, and was clearly very
unwell.  However, realizing that he had a visitor, he had tried to
rally himself, pulled himself up on his pillows, put on a brave face.
When Oscar drew up a chair and sat at his bedside and asked what was
wrong, Major Billicliffe explained.  He had been feeling pretty rotten
for a month or two now.  Ghastly gripes in his stomach, a
disinclination to eat.  Yesterday, his cleaning lady had turned up, and
been so concerned by his appearance that she had telephoned the Creagan
G.P."  Dr.  Sinclair.  The long and the short of it was that Dr.
Sinclair abandoned his morning surgery and drove immediately to
Corrydale, where, after a fairly thorough examination, he told Major
Billicliffe that he thought it best if he went over to the hospital in
Inverness, just for a few days, for tests, in order to get to the root
of his troubles.  He had left sedatives and a pain-killer, and the
district nurse would call in every day."



"When does he have to go to Inverness?"

"Monday.  Dr.  Sinclair's booked him in."

"And how will he get there?"

This, of course, was the problem.  An ambulance would probably make the
long journey from Inverness and pick the old boy up, but if the roads
were impassable because of the snow, men it would probably mean a
helicopter.  Telling Oscar all this, saying the word helicopter, Major
Billicliffe's weak voice had faltered, and Oscar realized that the old
man, the old soldier, was very frightened.  Not simply by the idea of
being whisked away in a helicopter, but by the prospect of hospitals,
tests, doctors, illness, pain, and a possible operation.

It was at this juncture that Oscar had begun to feel responsible. There
didn't seem to be anyone else.  So he had suggested to Major
Billicliffe that he, Oscar, should come in his car, and drive him,
personally, to Inverness.  To the hospital.  Where he would stay until
the old man was safely installed.

At the offer, Major Billicliffe had become quite emotional.

"But why?"  he had asked, fumbling for a grubby handkerchief to wipe
away the weak tears of an invalid.

"Why should you bother about a stupid old duffer like me?"

And Oscar had told him.

"Because I should like to.  Because you are part of Corrydale.  Because
of my grandmother and Hector."  Major Billicliffe looked unconvinced.
Oscar finished, "Because you are my friend."

Elfrida was much touched.

"You are sweet.  And that was exactly the right thing to do.  He won't
be nearly so afraid if you are there."

"I just hope to God we don't get stuck in a snowstorm."

"Oh, cross that bridge when you get there.  What about the dog?"

"I went downstairs and let her loose in the garden.  She was bursting
for a pee.  And not fierce at all, just a dear old Labrador needing a
bit of attention.  Her name, incidentally, is Brandy."

"Interesting."

"After she'd dealt with her little problem, I put her into the car and
took her back to Rose Miller, and filled Rose in

with all that had occurred.  She was very distressed that she'd had no
idea of what was going on.  That he had been under the weather, and
that she hadn't been round to his house to see if there was anything
she could do.  By the time I left, she was already girding herself up
to go and do a bit of tidying up and cooking for him.  At eighty-five
years old, there's nothing she loves so much as a challenge.  Funnily
enough, she seems to be quite fond of old Billicliffe.  She kept
saying, "He's mad on the whisky, but he's a dear, good chentleman, and
too proud to ask for help."

" "And what about the poor dog?"

"Rose is going to arrange for her nephew, Charlie Miller, to look after
the dog until Billicliffe comes back from hospital.  He works on the
estate, for the hotel people, and there's a shed for the dog to sleep
in, and Charlie will feed her and take her around with him."

"You seem to have arranged everything."

"I think he'll be all right.  It's only two days, and then he'll be in
hospital."

"Oh, Oscar, what a morning you've had."

"But I'm glad I went."  He smiled.

"So that's it.  How about you?  Besides buying a toaster, what else
have you been up to?"

"I've had a lovely morning.  Better than yours.  I wrote to Hector, and
Tabitha Kennedy came to see me.  I've so much to tell you."

"Then tell me over lunch.  Let's treat ourselves.  I need cheering up.
Let's celebrate clear consciences and Hector's generosity.  Let's go to
the pub, and we'll have a sandwich, or perchance a pie, and I'll stand
you a gin and tonic, and we'll drink to ..."  He hesitated.

"Us?"

"Lunch.  Out.  Do you mean that?"

"Of course."

"Oh, Oscar."  For a ridiculous moment, Elfrida felt a bit weepy, but
instead came around the table, put her arms about him, and hugged.

It was a good day.

OSCAR

after a late breakfast on Sunday morning, Oscar, bundled up as usual
against the cold, walked down the street to the news agent's to pick up
the weekly wedge of Sunday papers.  The little town was empty and
quiet.  No cars at this early hour, and only the sound of the gulls and
the jackdaws, forever hovering and wheeling and settling on the church
tower.  It was another brilliant day, cloudless and with no breath of
wind.  All was petrified by frost, and his footsteps rang on the
deserted pavements.  He felt as isolated as an Arctic explorer.

Returning, he met Elfrida and Horace setting out for a good long walk
along the beach.  Elfrida wore a thick woollen hat, like a tea-cosy,
pulled down over her ears, and her blanket coat, trimmed with fringe.

She said, "Come with us," but he declined her invitation, because he
wished to settle down with the Arts section and catch up with all that
was happening in London.  Galleries, operas, and concerts.  He also
enjoyed reading the gardening articles.  World news, for the moment,
was going by the board.

"How long will you be?"  he asked her.

"No idea, but home in time to grill your chop.  And I've put a rice
pudding in the oven."

Oscar liked rice pudding.  Elfrida had made him one before, and it had
been splendid, creamy and rich, and lightly spiced with lemon zest.

"Which way are you going?"  he asked her.

"Along the dunes.  Why?"

"If you are not back by dark, I shall call up a posse and come
searching."

"I promise you, I shall tread carefully, like Agag."

"Do that."

They parted.  He went indoors, and up the stairs to their

magnificent sitting-room.  Elfrida had laid the fire, so he lit it, and
then went downstairs again and out to the shed, to fill a second basket
with logs.  If the fire burnt all day, then one basket was not
sufficient to last until bedtime.  With the flames blazing nicely, he
selected the Arts section and settled down in considerable comfort to
read.

The church bells disturbed him.  The tower clock told him that it was
half past ten.  He dropped the paper, went over to the window-seat, and
perched there, half-turned so that he looked down onto the street.  He
found it fascinating, on Sunday mornings, how the empty town slowly but
steadily began filling up.

The church was coming to life, preparing itself for the weekly influx.
The main doors had been opened, and vergers, elders-whatever they
called them-in dark suits or kilts strode up the path from the gate and
disappeared inside.  Oscar recognized Mr.  W. G. Croft, who had sold
Elfrida their new toaster.  Presently he heard, as though from very far
away, the tones of the organ.

"Sheep May Safely Graze."  Muffled by stone-thick walls, but
recognizable, to Oscar's professional ear, as a good instrument, and
competently played.  So often, in country churches, an organist had to
do his best with an aged and breathless piece of equipment and a creaky
choir, so that he was obliged, while pedalling, to sing loudly, in
order to lead the congregation and give them some idea of the tune.

At first, Oscar had found having the church so close as a neighbour a
little disconcerting.  A constant reminder, nudging at his shoulder, of
all he had lost.  He watched the cars draw up and groups of people
converging, walking from street corners, stepping down the hill.  He
knew that he only had to cross the road and he would be swept up into
the stream, and, like a swimmer caught in a current, sucked through
those imposing doors and into the soaring nave.

The windows of the church were tall, arched in gothic style.  But from
the outside, the colours and patterns of the stained-glass were dimmed.
He knew that to appreciate their jewel-like beauty one had to view
them from within, the light

of day streaming through the colours and throwing lozenges of ruby and
sapphire and emerald onto worn flagstones.

Perhaps this was symbolic.  Perhaps, isolated from the church, there
were other delights, pleasures, comforts, that, because of his present
state of mind, he deliberately denied himself.

It was an interesting supposition, but disturbing, too, and one on
which he did not wish to dwell.  He left the window and went back to
the fire and his newspaper.  But when the congregation in the church
across the street began to sing their first hymn, he lowered the paper
and listened, staring into the flames.

"Hark, a thrilling voice is sounding, Christ is nigh, it seems to say.
Cast away the dreams of darkness O ye children of the day."

A good old classic Advent hymn.  He remembered rehearsing the choir at
the school where he had taught, imploring them to sing as though they
truly believed the message of hope.

He thought, I must get in touch with Peter Kennedy.

But Sunday was the busiest day of a rector's week.  Perhaps tomorrow.
Or the next day.

Meantime ... he settled his spectacles and endeavoured to concentrate
his mind on The Sunday Times and an erudite critique of Jonathan
Miller's production of Fidelia at Covent Garden.

Monday, December 11th

Monday was one of Mrs.  Snead's days, the other being Thursday.  She
came at nine on the dot, while Elfrida and Oscar were still drinking
the last of their breakfast coffee, and her arrival was heralded by the
slam of the back door when she let herself in.  Then a pause while, in
the scullery, she divested herself of anorak, headscarf, and boots,
hanging the garments on her useful hook.  She always carried a flowered
plastic shop

ping bag in which were stowed her working clothes, an apron and a
trendy pair of trainers.  Oscar and Elftida waited.  Then Die door was
flung open, and bang, she was there.

"Morning, all."

An entrance, thought Oscar, that any actress would be proud of.

"Morning, Mrs.  Snead."

"Blimey, it' sparky  Rubbing her hands together to get her circulation
going, Mrs.  Snead kicked shut the door behind her.

"There's a wind goes through you like a knife."

Elfrida put down her coffee-cup.

"Have a cup of tea."

"I wouldn't mind, before I get started in.  Kettle's boiled, 'as it?"
She caught sight of the new toaster.

"Well, just look at what we've got 'ere.  Love the colour.  Been
shopping, 'ave you?  About time, too, that other old thing was a
killer.  What did you do with it?  Bin it, I "ope."  She clashed
around, finding a mug and a tea-bag and the milk carton.  Her tea made,
she pulled out a handy chair and sat to join them.

"What's this I'm 'earing about Major Billicliffe?"

They both stared at her.  Then Oscar said, "News travels fast."

"Charlie Miller was in Arfur's yesterday evening, buying a cabbage.

"E told 'im.  Says 'e's got to look after the dog.  Say 'e's going to
Inverness to the 'ospital.

"Ope it's nothing serious."

"We hope so, too, Mrs.  Snead.  And Oscar's going to drive him over."

"Charlie said something like that to Arfur."  She eyed Oscar.

"You up to it, Mr.  Blundell?  It's a long way."

"I think I'll manage, Mrs.  Snead."

"At least it's not snowing.  What time do you 'ave to be off?"

"As soon as I've finished breakfast."

"Got a mobile phone, 'ave you?  Ought to 'ave a mobile phone."

"No, I haven't got one.  But we shall be all right."

"Well, let's 'ope so, anyway.  No point in being pessimistic.  Now,
Mrs.  Phipps, before I forget, Arfur says to ask you, do you want a
Christmas tree, and if so 'e'll reserve one."



"A Christmas tree?"  Elfrida looked uncertain.

"Well... I don't know."

"You must 'ave a tree.  Wouldn't be Christmas without a tree."

"Yes.  Perhaps.  But we thought we wouldn't bother."

"A tree's no bother.  It's fun.  Decorating and all that."

Elfrida appealed to Oscar.

"What do you think?"

He decided it was time to put her out of her misery.

"That's very thoughtful of you, Mrs.  Snead, but we're getting our
Christmas tree from Corrydale."

Elfrida's jaw dropped.  And for once in her life, she was quite cross
with him.

"We're getting one from Corrydalel Why didn't you say?  Here I am
telling Mrs.  Snead we don't want a tree, and the next thing you're
telling me you've already booked one.  You are impossible."

"I'm sorry."

"When did you organize all this?"

"On Saturday, when I went to see Rose.  I told you, Charlie works in
the gardens there.  They've got a whole plantation of Christmas trees,
and Rose said she'd speak to him, and he'd cut us a good one."

"You should have said."

"There was so much else to tell you, I forgot.  I thought it would be
nice for Carrie and Lucy."

Elfrida stopped being cross.

"That was a lovely idea.  When is it coming?"

"We have to telephone Charlie, and go and fetch it."

By now, Mrs.  Snead had pricked up her ears.

She was a small, spare lady, with tightly per med grey hair, and always
wore sparkling, dangly earrings.  Sitting there with her head cocked
and her bright eyes not missing a trick, she reminded Oscar of a cheeky
sparrow.

"

"Having visitors, are you?"

"I haven't had time to tell you yet, Mrs.  Snead.  But my cousin and
her niece are coming for Christmas.  Lucy's the niece.  She's
fourteen."

Mrs.  Snead was highly delighted.

"That's really lovely.

That'll cheer you up, 'having young people around the place.  When are
they coming?  And where do you want them to sleep?  We'll need to get
the rooms cleaned up and polished."

"I thought I'd put Lucy up in the attic."

"The attic!  But there's not a stick of furniture."

"There will be, after tomorrow.  Tabitha Kennedy's going to take me to
the market in Buckly.  She says we can buy anything there."

Mrs.  Snead sniffed.

"It's not new stuff," she warned.

"All second-'and."

"It'll be good enough, I'm sure."

"I'd 'ave thought you'd 'ave liked a nice suite."  She was clearly
disappointed in Elfrida's lowly taste.

"Saw one in Inverness last time I was there.  Lovely, it was.  Walnut
veneer with filigree brass and les  And the bed 'ad a peach satin
'eadboard and valance."

"It sounds very pretty, Mrs.  Snead, but a bit grand.  And I don't want
to have to drive all the way to Inverness."

Mrs.  Snead, pondering over this new domestic situation, sipped her
tea.  She said, "We're a bit short of sheets and stuff.  You don't want
to buy them second-'and.  Never liked the thought of a used blanket.
There's a draper in Buckly, not much good for clothes, but they run a
line in soft furnishings.  You could 'ave a word with Tabitha Kennedy
and pop in there."

"Til do that."

"Oh, well."  Mrs.  Snead finished her tea and sprang to her trainered
feet, to fling the dregs of her mug into the sink.

"Sitting 'ere chatting won't get the baby bathed.  Where'd you want me
to start, Mrs.  Phipps?"

"Let's get going on the attic.  Get it swept and scrubbed and the
skylight cleaned, and then, when any furniture arrives, it can be
carried straight upstairs and put into place."

"

"Go's going to do the carrying, I'd like to know?"  Mrs.  Snead could
be quite protective and fierce.

"Not you and Mr.  Blundell, I 'ope.  You'll give yourselves 'ernias."

"I shall organize a van.  With removal-men."



"You can borrow Arfur if you like."

"That's very kind...."

"

"E's 'andy with a screwdriver.  I will say that for "im."  With this
parting shot, Mrs.  Snead collected brooms, dusters, and her tin of
polish, and set off up the stairs.  A moment or two later could be
heard the roaring of the ancient Hoover, accompanied by Mrs.  Snead's
voice.

"I want to be Bobby's girl," she sang.

Elfrida stifled a giggle.  Oscar said, "Not only does Mrs.  Snead dust
for us, but brings with her music that takes me back over the years.
She is indeed a remarkable lady."

"What memory does her singing evoke for you, Oscar?"

"Schoolboys' studies, smelling of sweaty gym shoes and throbbing with
pop."

"That's not very romantic."

"I was a bachelor schoolmaster.  Romance did not fly my way."  He
looked at his watch.

"Elfrida, I must be going."

"You will take care, won't you?"

"I shall endeavour to."

"It's beside the point, but I think you're a saint."

"I shall ask Mrs.  Snead to polish my halo."

"Oscar..."

"What is it?"

"Good luck."

That night, the wind veered around to the east, and in the early hours
of the morning Oscar awoke to the whining, piping sound of an imminent
gale and the rattle of rain flung at window-panes.  He lay awake for a
long time, thinking about Godfrey Billicliffe.  At last he knew his
Christian name, because he had learned it in the course of helping the
Ward Sister to fill in countless forms, before leaving the sick old man
to her tender mercies.

The undertaking had not been as demanding as he had feared.  The drive
to Inverness had gone smoothly, and old Billicliffe, encouraged by
caring attention, had talked nonstop the entire way over.  Oscar had
learned much about his life.  His career in the Army, his spell in
Germany with the

\ Army of the Rhine.  How he had met his wife in Os.  How they had
married in Colchester.  How they had never been blessed with children.
Oscar, at the wheel of his ear, was thankfully not expected to make
much response to this stream of reminiscence.  From time to time, all
that was required was a casual agreement, or a nod of the head,
whereupon Godfrey Billicliffe bumbled on.

It was not until they were speeding down the motorway across the Black
Isle, and Inverness was in view across the water, that Major
Billicliffe fell silent.  For a moment Oscar wondered if he had fallen
asleep, but glancing sideways saw his passenger was still awake.
Perhaps simply brooding.  After a bit he started talking again, but now
it was not about the past that he spoke, but his present and his
future.

"Been thinking, Oscar..."

"What have you been thinking about?"

"What's going to happen.... Turning my toes up ..."

"You're not going to turn your toes up," Oscar assured him, hoping that
he sounded robust.

"Never know ... Not as young ... Have to be prepared.  Ready and
prepared for all contingencies.  Learned that in the Army.  Prepare for
the worst and hope for the best."  Another long pause.

"Wondered ... up to you, of course ... if you'd agree to be my
executor.  Good to know ... Capable hands..."

"I'm not so sure my hands are capable."

"Rubbish.  Hector McLennan's nephew.  Not that his son was great shakes
... you ... different kettle of fish.  Friends all dead.  Thought you
might... Appreciate it..."

His unfinished sentences Oscar found maddening.  He said, as calmly as
he could, "If you want.  If it would set your mind at rest, I'd be
happy to be your executor.  But..."

"Splendid.  All settled.... Tell my lawyer.  Nice feller.  Did all the
conveyancing when I bought my house from the Corrydale Estate.  Keen
fisherman.  Liked the cut of his jib."

"Has he got a name?"

Major Billicliffe gave a snort, which perhaps was meant to be laughter
at Oscar's quirky question.

"Course he's got a  L __ ~J ~ - M--e stout South Street, Inverness."

"Murdo MacKenzie."  ..

AwafclMfeysiteim *= S""* "^ X ^?As*sa=-e ^ ^ "^f coursl The nurse, I am
sure, will bring one to your bed'Blr<iifferent from the old days," said
Major Billicliffe, as though he had once languished in the military
hospital at Scutari.

"Medical officers' rounds and bedpans.  And a matron like a
sergeant-major JVoteJ^sb/aA^K: .. . "XooKOIbering, he fell silent once
more, and did not speak again until they had reached their
destination.

The hospital was the Royal Western.  Oscar found it without too much
difficulty, and once arrived, matters were taken out of his hands, and
all he had to do was accompany Major Billicliffe on his way.  A porter
appeared with a wheelchair and took over the new arrival, while Oscar
walked alongside, carrying the necessary suitcase, a heavy and battered
bit of equipment fashioned from what looked like elephant hide.
Upstairs in a huge lift, and then the long corridors of polished
linoleum, and finally the ward.  Ward 14.  The Ward Sister was ready
and waiting for admission, with her clipboard and her forms.  All went
smoothly until she came to Next of Kin.

"Next of Kin, Major Billicliffe?"  Suddenly, he looked bewildered.

"Sorry?"

"Next of Kin.  You know.  Wife.  Children.  Brothers or sisters."

He shook his head.

"I have none.  I have no one...."

"Oh, come along, there has to be someone."  Oscar could not bear it.

"Me," he said firmly.

"I am Major Billicliffe's next of kin.  Oscar Blundell.  You can write
it down.  The Estate House.  Creagan."

Sister did so.

"Have you got a telephone number?"  Oscar gave it to her.

NX/JNTER SOLSTICE

Finally, all was written, recorded, and signed.  And it was time for
Oscar to leave.  He said goodbye.

"You'll come again?"

"Of course.  Provided we don't get snowed in."

"Thank you for bringing me.  Obliged...."

"Not at all."

And he walked away from the old man and his suitcase, | and told
himself that it wasn't his fault.  There was no reason ste feel as
shifty as a traitor.

; Ife could have done no more.  Later, when there was news of ftc
invalid, he and Elfrida would set out on the long drive once more, and
go to visit Godfrey Billicliffe.  Elfrida, if anybody WOUld Cheer
hilW^.Ate^^^KJwfcStj V^aVarsv^rape*.

K c\o\A oi Wmo.  struck the house.  Oscar turned into the pillows and
closed his eyes, and all at once found himself thinking about
Francesca.  This often happened in the dark hours of a restless night,
and he dreaded the inevitable aftermath, a torment of rekindled,
anguished loss.  Francesca.  Soundless, his lips formed her name.
Francesca.  He slid his hand beneath his pillow to rumble for his
handkerchief, knowing that he would probably weep.  But instead of
weeping, he became aware of a sort of quiet, as though he were more at
ease with himself than he had felt for weeks.  Francesca.  He saw her
running across the sunlit lawns of the Grange, towards him.  And the
image stayed, poignant, but especially sweet.

Holding it close, he slept.

Tuesday, December 12th

The next morning dawned a day of dismal weather.  The sparkle of the
big freeze was drowned in showers of sleety rain, driven in from the
sea, and the street was filled with bobbing wet umbrellas.  At midday,
the huge gritting lorry appeared, trundling back to its depot, with
snow crusted beneath its mudguards and windscreen wipers going
full-tilt.

Elfrida had bought herself a notebook, and over lunch,

which was soup and some Stilton she had found in the supermarket, she
made lists.

"I've got to think of everything," she told Oscar importantly.

"There isn't time for forgetting.  They'll be here on Friday.  Do you
think Lucy will want a dressing-table?"

Oscar, who was trying to do The Times crossword puzzle, set it nobly
aside and removed his spectacles, as though the better to think.

But "I have no idea" was all he could come up with.

"And a bed, of course...."

With some effort, he applied himself to the problem.

"A wardrobe?"

"We'd never get a wardrobe under those combed ceilings.  Some hooks on
the wall would do."  She wrote, in her notebook.  Hooks.

"And coat-hangers."  She wrote Coathangers.

Oscar sat back in his chair and watched her with amusement.  He had
never seen Elfrida so focused and organized.  For a moment she reminded
him, in the nicest possible way, of Gloria; planning and plotting and
writing lists and making things happen.

"When does Mrs.  Kennedy come?"

"Half past two, she said she'd be here.  I said I'd drive her in your
car.  You don't need it, do you?"

"No."

"If you felt frightfully energetic, you could take Horace for a
walk."

Oscar, hedging, said, "I'll see," and went back to his crossword.

But when Tabitha Kennedy arrived, Elfrida was up at the top of the
garden, un pegging a line of wet washing which should never have been
pegged out in the first place.  So, when the doorbell rang, it was
Oscar who went downstairs to open the door.

She was booted and rain coated but her head was bare, and her dark hair
blew in the wind.  She put up a hand to push a strand from her cheek,
"Hello.  I'm Tabitha."

"Of course.  Come in out of the wet.  Elfrida won't be a

moment, she's getting a lot of wet clothes off the line.  I'm Oscar
Blundell."

"I know."  She had a lovely smile.

"How do you do."  They shook hands.

"I hope I'm not too early."

"Not at all.  Come upstairs, it's more comfortable than standing around
here."

He led the way, and she followed, chatting as though she had known him
forever.

"Isn't it disappointing, the rain, after all that lovely frosty
weather?  There've been burst pipes all over the place and the
plumber's run off his feet."  In the sitting-room, the fire burnt
brightly, and a pot of Arthur Snead's forced hyacinths filled the air
with their fragrance.

"Oh, aren't they heaven.  They really smell of spring, don't they?  I
said to Elfrida we'd have to go in your car, but Peter's at home today,
so he let me bring our car.  Anything rather than come shopping with
me.  He hates shopping more than anything."

"I sympathize.  It's very good of you to help Elfrida out."

"I'll love it.  I adore spending other people's money.  We'll probably
be quite late back.  The market won't close till five, and by then
we'll both be ready for a restoring cup of tea."

Downstairs, a door slammed, and Elfrida's footsteps came running up the
stairs.  She appeared at the door in her blanket coat and her tea-cosy
hat.

"Tabitha, I am sorry; have you been waiting?  It's on days like this
that I long for an electric dryer.  But only on days like this.  Now, I
just have to get my bag, and my list, and the car keys...."

"You don't need them," Tabitha told her.

"I'm driving you."

They departed at last, in some excitement, reminding Oscar of a couple
of young girls setting off to enjoy themselves.  He stood at the window
and watched them go, getting into the well-worn estate car, slamming
doors, fixing seat-belts, moving away across the square and out of
sight.

He was alone.  Horace slept by the fire.  Aware of his own
procrastination, Oscar made another attempt to finish the crossword,
but was defeated and laid the newspaper aside.  There were other
things, he knew, that he had to do.  He pulled himself out of his chair
and went across the room to the heavy

M9

oak table which stood against the wall opposite the fireplace, and
which he used as a desk.  He made space, pushing aside a file or two
and his brief-case, and settled down to write two long-overdue letters.
One was to Hector McLennan, thanking him for his generosity, and doing
his best to sound positive and reassuring.  The second was to Mrs.
Muswell, who had looked after Oscar during the worst time, and whom he
had abandoned so abruptly.  The memory of her standing, weeping, at the
door of the Grange as he and Elfrida drove away had been pricking his
conscience ever since.  Now, he assured her that he was well, thanked
her for her loyalty, and said that he hoped she had found other
congenial employment.  He sent his best wishes.  He signed his name.

He folded the letters, addressed envelopes, found stamps.  They were
ready for posting.

Peter's at home today.

Now.

He went out of the room, where, on the landing, stood the telephone. He
found the phone book, looked up the number, memorized it, and punched
the digits.  He heard the ringing tone, but only once, as though the
instrument stood on a desk, at a man's elbow, ready for instant
response.

"Creagan Manse."  The warm, familiar voice.

"Peter Kennedy."

At half past five, Oscar, bundled up and hatted, let himself out of the
Estate House and set off on the stepped lane that led up the hill.
Elfrida and Tabitha Kennedy had not yet returned, so he left the light
burning in the hall, as a welcome for when they eventually came home.
And a note for Elfrida on the kitchen table.  Gone out for a while.  1
shan't be late.  He left Horace as well, having done his duty and taken
the dog for a walk and fed him his biscuits and lambs' hearts.  Lambs'
hearts, for Horace were the treat of all time, and he had guzzled the
lot and then retired to his basket for a snooze.

He walked between high walls and garden trees.  It was very dark, an
overcast evening, but the wind had dropped

and a drizzling rain fell.  At the top of the lane, a steepish climb,
he paused to get his breath, and then continued on his way along the
footpath that leaned up against the slope of the hill.  The town
dropped below him.  He looked down on the other gardens, roof-tops, the
lines of the streets marked with lamps.  In the tower of the church,
the clock face shone like a full moon.

A little farther on-by now his eyes had adjusted to the darkness-and he
could make out the long line of the distant coast, stretched like an
arm out to sea, and holding in its fingers the intermittent pinprick
signal of the lighthouse.  There were no stars.

A gate led out into a wide road, lined on the right-hand side by large
stone-built Victorian houses set in spacious gardens.  The first house
was the Manse.  Oscar remembered its location from sixty years ago,
when he was sometimes brought for tea by his grandmother, and to play
with the then-incumbent's children.  He remembered the house and the
family who lived there, but had forgotten all their names.

A light burnt over the door.  He went up the path, sea- pebbles
crunching beneath the soles of his boots.  The front door had been
painted bright blue.  He pressed the bell.

Suddenly he shivered.  He told himself that it was because of the cold
and the damp.

He heard the inner door open, and then the blue door was flung wide,
and he was dazzled by light.  Peter Kennedy stood there, warm with
welcome.  He wore a thick polo-neck sweater and a pair of worn
corduroys and looked comfortingly un churchly

"Oscar!  Come away in."  He looked over Oscar's shoulder.

"Did you not bring your car?"

"No.  I walked."

"Good man."

He went indoors, into the hall.  Saw the Turkish carpet, the fumed-oak
hall-stand, the antique cist on which stood a neat stack of parish
magazines.  A riding hat had been dumped on the newel-post of the
banister, and on the bottom stair stood a pair of football boots and a
stack of clean and

folded laundry.  All left there, Oscar guessed, until the next obliging
person would collect them and bear them upstairs.

"... take your coat off.  The children are both out, so we've got the
place to ourselves.  I've a fire on in my study.  I've had an afternoon
of it, catching up on paperwork and writing a long-overdue article for
The Sutherland Times?  Oscar divested himself of gloves, jacket, and
hat, and Peter Kennedy took them from him and laid them on an
impressive oak chair, which looked as though it might, at one time,
have seated a bishop.

"Now, come along in...."

He led the way into his study, a bow-windowed front room which had
probably been intended as the dining-room of the original house.  It
was thickly curtained against the dreich evening, and softly lit by
three lamps-one on the huge littered desk, and two more burning on
either side of the fire, where stood two ancient leather armchairs.
Walls were lined with shelves of books, and after the airy emptiness of
the Estate House, all felt safe and dark and warm.  A bit like going
back to the womb.

As well, there was a marvelous smell, which Oscar finally traced to the
chunks of carefully stacked peat smouldering in the fire basket.

He said, "A peat-fire.  I'd forgotten about peat.  Sometimes when I put
the dog out at night, I can smell the smoke from chimneys.  I must try
and get hold of some, just for that smell."

"I'm very fortunate; one of my parishioners has his own peat-patch, and
he keeps me supplied.  Now come and sit down and make yourself
comfortable.  Would you like a cup of coffee?"  Oscar did not
immediately reply, and Peter looked at his watch.

"A quarter to six.  We could jump the gun, and enjoy a glass of
Laphroaig.  I keep it, but only for special occasions."

Malt whisky.  Laphroaig.  Irresistible.

"I think I'd like that more than anything."

"I thought you might, so I am prepared."  And Oscar saw on the
desk-along with a word processor, a stack of books, papers in some
disarray, and a telephone-a small tray,

neatly set with the bottle of Laphroaig, two small tumblers, and a jug
of water.  So much for the coffee.  He was touched.

"The girls aren't back yet?"

"No."  Oscar lowered himself into one of the chairs, which was
surprisingly soft and comfortable.  Above him, in the centre of the
mantelpiece, stood a clock, the sort that is presented to retiring
ministers or schoolmasters after forty years of loyal service.  It had
a soft, solid tick, smooth and sweet as a carefully set metronome.

"I think they planned on treating themselves to a tea-party once they'd
finished their shopping."

"I'm sure.  I hope they were successful."  Carrying the two glasses,
Peter handed Oscar his drink, and then settled down in the other
armchair, facing his visitor.  He raised his glass.

"Slainte."

"Good health."

The Laphroaig was like nectar.  Clean, delicious, slipping down his
throat.  Warming.

Peter went on.

"Buddy's rather a depressing town at the moment.  Most of the people
are unemployed.  The woollen mill went to the wall, and for skilled
weavers and spinners, there is little alternative work."

Oscar frowned.

"The woollen mill?  Not McTaggarts?"

"Yes.  McTaggarts."

"Gone bust?  I had no idea.  Astonishing.  It's like being told the
Rock of Gibraltar has crumbled.  What happened?"

Peter told him.

"The old man died, the sons weren't interested.  The work-force got a
bit of financial help, a grant, and took it over themselves.  They were
doing all right, and then we had a spell of dreadful weather, the river
burst its banks, and the place was flooded.  Everything lost,
destroyed."

Oscar was appalled.

"Is that the end of it, then?"

"There's some word of a take-over.  One of those big textile
conglomerates.  Sturrock and Swinfield.  From London.  But so far,
nothing very much seems to have happened, and the people in Buddy are
beginning to fear the worst.  Which is, that nothing is ever going to
happen."

"What a tragedy."  Oscar frowned.

"I can't think why I

haven't heard about this before.  I suppose ... just now... I don't
read the newspapers properly, and certainly not the City pages.  And
here, I only take The Times and The Telegraph, so I don't get the local
news.  As well, I haven't talked to many people.  Except Mrs.  Snead.
That, of course, is why I am here.  To apologize to you.  I should have
come before, but I didn't."

"Please.  Don't feel bad.  I realized that I had taken you unawares,
and I should have waited for a more suitable occasion to make myself
known to you.  I hope you weren't too upset" "I don't know what came
over me.  It was ridiculous."

"Please, think no more of it.  No harm has been done.  Another time,
you must join me there, for tea, or for a drink, or whatever you want.
The best would be if you felt like joining the club, and then, when the
good weather starts again, we could have a game.  You do play?"

"I used to play with my grandmother when I was a boy, but I was never
much good, even then."

"I'd be delighted to give you a game."

"I have no clubs."

"We'll borrow some from the pro.  It's such a splendid course, it would
be sad to live here and not experience at least one round.  Your
grandmother was a good golfer.  When I came here, I heard a lot about
her prowess.  She was Lady Champion two years running.  One way or
another she must, by all accounts, have been an exceptional lady."

"Yes, she was."

"And musical, too."

"Yes.  And an inspired gardener.  She was extremely accomplished."
Oscar took another sip of the Laphroaig, and then set the glass down on
the table beside him, where it glowed like a jewel in the soft light of
the lamp.  He said, "Godfrey Billicliffe also invited me to join the
Golf Club.  But I'm afraid, at mat particular moment, we were in the
throes of a rather traumatic encounter.  Both Elfrida and I were
exhausted after our long journey.  All we wanted was to get the key of
our house and escape.  I'm afraid we were very offhand."

"He can be daunting.  I understand.  I understand, as well, that you
drove him to hospital yesterday morning."

"How did you know that?"

Peter Kennedy smiled.

"There are few secrets in this small community.  No, don't worry; it
wasn't idle gossip.  Dr.  Sinclair rang me to put me in the picture. It
was very good of you."

"Did you know he was ill?"

"No.  I don't think anybody knew.  He's been something of a problem
ever since his wife died-gone downhill at a frightening pace.  Lonely,
I think, but too proud to admit it, and none of us had the nerve to
suggest that he sell up and move into the Old People's Home."

"My stepsons exhorted me to go into a retirement home in Hampshire, but
that was because they had inherited their mother's house and wanted me
out of the way so that they could put it up for sale.  I found the
notion dire.  Like the beginning of the end."

"How did you guess there was something amiss?"

"I went to see Rose Miller.  On the way home, I heard Billicliffe's dog
howling.  So I called in.  To set my mind at rest, I suppose.  Both
Elfrida and I had been feeling rather bad about the old boy.  And I
found him upstairs in bed, obviously very poorly.  He was frightened,
too.  Frightened of the prospect of ambulances or helicopters.  He
seemed so dreadfully alone.  Saying I'd drive him to Inverness in my
car was the least I could do."

"I have to go to Inverness on Friday for a meeting with the moderator.
I'll pop into the hospital and pay a visit.  See how he's getting
on...."

"I said I would stand as his next of kin.  So my name and telephone
number are on all the countless forms we had to fill in, and I imagine
that if there is any news, then I shall be informed."

"Well.  Keep me in touch."

"Of course."

"Now.  Tell me about your uncle.  Hector.  How is Hector?"

"Growing older.  Living in London.  He came down to see 2/6

me after... after the funeral.  He didn't come to the funeral, because
he'd had flu and his doctor, very rightly, forbade him.  It was Hector
who suggested that I leave Hampshire and come back here...."

"I know, Oscar.  He wrote me a long letter.  I was so dreadfully sorry.
I wanted to come right away, to talk with you, and to let you know that
if there was anything I could do ... could say.  But my instinct told
me mat for the time being you needed to be on your own.  I hope you
didn't get the impression that I was either uncaring or inattentive."

"No.  I didn't think that."

"Sometimes ... just to talk.  To a stranger.  A person disassociated
... is very often easier."

"Like confiding in a man met on a train journey.  A man you know you
will never see again."

"Not entirely."  Peter smiled.

"Because I hope you will see me again."

"It's difficult to know where to start.  It all seems to go a long way
back."

"Life tends to."

"I never thought I should be married.  I thought, always, that I would
remain a bachelor all my life.  I had my work, as a schoolmaster,
teaching piano and training the choir.  For company, other masters and
their wives.  My passion was music.  The school was Glastonbury, a
lesser-known public school, but excellent for all that.  I was very
happy there.  And then I grew older, and the headmaster retired, and a
new, younger man came to take his place.  The head had always been a
close friend, and although his replacement was perfectly competent,
pleasant, and traditional, I decided, after a year, that the time had
come for a change.  As well, I had been offered the post as organist
and choirmaster at Saint Biddulph's in London.  I thought about it for
a bit, but not very long.  The music at Saint Biddulph's had always
been renowned for its excellence, and the choir was secure, funded by a
generous endowment that had been made by a grateful parishioner some
years before.  So I changed direction and moved to London.  I lived in
a comfortable, spacious

flat on the second floor of an old terraced house, only live minutes or
so from the church, and the ladies of the parish made certain that I
had a competent housekeeper and was well cared for.

"They were halcyon days.  I suppose, the peak of my fairly modest
career.  Two of the choristers were professional concert singers, there
was enthusiasm from the public, and we were able to enlarge our
repertoire and perform, on special occasions, some ambitious chorales.
Palestrina's Salvete Flares Martyrum, Schubert's setting of the
Twenty-Third Psalm, Fame's Requiem.  Glorious stuff.

"I met the Bellamys soon after my arrival at Saint Bid- dulph's.  They
lived in some style in a house in Elm Park Gardens, and from the first
were enormously hospitable and kind to me.  When George Bellamy became
ill, I used to go to their house to keep him company, play backgammon
with him.  When he died, I arranged the music for his considerably
important funeral.

"After the funeral, I thought that Gloria would no longer want me
coming and going.  That the reason for my visits was now over.  But she
continued to invite me to various small social affairs.  A drinks party
or a dinner or a Sunday luncheon.  Sometimes we went to the cinema
together, or spent a day at Kew.  I thought little of it, but much
enjoyed her company.  And then, one day, in a quite matter-of-fact
fashion, she said that she thought it would be a good idea if we
married.  She explained that she did not enjoy living without a man,
and she felt that I, in my advancing years, would be glad of a wife to
take care of me.  It all sounds, I know, a little cold-blooded, but die
truth is that I was extremely fond of her, and she, I think, of me.  We
were neither of us in our first flush of youth, and so old enough to
make a success of what others saw simply as a marriage of
convenience.

"She was a wonderful wife.  Warm, generous, and kindhearted.  I had
never, since I was a boy coming to Corrydale, known such material
comforts, such ease of living.  She and George had sons, Giles and
Crawford, but now they were adult, had fled the nest, and set up
establishments of their

own.  And Gloria was still a comparatively young woman and brimming
with physical vitality.  When she told me she was pregnant, I was quite
ridiculously incredulous.  I had never, in all my life, imagined that I
would become a father.  And when Francesca was born, that tiny child, I
was filled with a wonder which I don't suppose I shall ever experience
again.  It was as though a miracle had occurred.  And she never stopped
being a miracle.

"Sometimes, as she grew older, and was running about and talking
nineteen-to-the-dozen, and generally making the usual din that all
children make, I would watch her, and still find it unbelievable that
she was actually mine, that I had helped to create this beguiling,
beautiful, miniature human being.

"Then Gloria was left this house in the country, in Hampshire, and we
moved from London and started our new life in Dibton.  I have to admit
that I missed Saint Biddulph's, but music was still part of my life.  I
taught a little, and from time to time played the organ for Morning
Service in the village church."

Here, Oscar paused, to reach for his glass and to take another sip of
the Laphroaig.  A glowing lump of peat slipped, with a whisper, into
the bed of the fire.  The clock gently ticked on.

Peter spoke.

"Your friend.  Elfrida.  Have you known her for always?"

"No.  We didn't meet until she came to live in our village.  She was
alone, and Gloria made friends with her, and generally took Elfrida
under her wing.  She was amusing, full of life, and we all enjoyed her
company.  Francesca was forever bicycling off to visit her in her
little cottage.  She made Francesca laugh.  She was in Cornwall,
staying with a cousin, at the time of the accident.  She returned after
the funeral, with no idea at all of what had happened.  When Hector
suggested I leave Hampshire and return to Creagan, I knew I couldn't do
it on my own.  The journey seemed too arduous, and I dreaded being
alone.  So I asked Elfrida to come with me.  It is a measure of her
generous heart that she

agreed.  She is company for me, and in the blackest moments has always
been able to make me smile.  When I first met El- frida, I remember she
asked me if I was religious.  I told her that it is hard not to believe
when you have been steeped in the liturgies and traditions of the
Anglican Church for most of your life.  And that I felt I needed some
being to thank.

"Because I was fortunate.  I was content.  The marriage was working
well, and because of Francesca, I could have no regrets.  But Gloria
was a very strong, forceful character.  And her considerable wealth was
her own.  She had to be handled, at times, with enormous tact.  She
loved company, people, parties, and sometimes she drank too much.  I
don't mean that she was an alcoholic ... well, not exactly ... simply a
serious social drinker.  Often, after an evening out, I would drive us
home, in her car, and she resented that, and would be sullen-faced the
next morning.  I feel disloyal to her even talking about this.  But I
knew her weakness, just as I knew her many strengths.

"The day of the bonfire and the Guy Fawkes party, she said she was
taking Francesca, and it occurred to me that I should go, too.  But I
had a man coming to see me about building a new fence for the paddock.
It was a job I had been wanting to see done and finished, and I didn't
feel inclined to put him off.  Besides, it was simply a children's
party.  A big tea, and fireworks.  They would be home by seven at the
latest.

"And, of course, it was a children's party.  But there were adults
there, too, most of them Gloria's friends.  And after the fireworks
were over, and the children were still running about in the dark, in
the garden, waving sparklers and working off their excitement, the
adults went indoors for a drink.

"I don't know how much she had.  There wasn't, thank God, an autopsy.
Driving conditions were appalling, sudden heavy rain, the roads running
with water.  As well, there had been some repair on the roundabout and
lights had been left flashing to warn of this.  Perhaps they confused
her.  We'll never know.  The lorry driver said that her car had driven
out, at some speed, straight into his path, as he swung around from the
right.  It was, of course, his right-of-way.  There was

not a mortal thing he could do.  A split second.  And Gloria's car was
destroyed, unrecognizable, and Gloria and Francesca were both dead.

"The news was broken to me by the police.  A nice young sergeant.  Poor
boy.  I cannot describe my reaction, because I felt nothing.  Numb.
Empty.  Devoid of any emotion.  And then, gradually, the void filled
with a bitter rage and resentment, against whoever, or whatever, had
allowed this thing to happen to me.  The world, I know, is filled with
horror, and one becomes hardened.  Horrified, but hardened.  Watching
television images of destroyed villages, starving children, monumental
natural disasters.  But this was me.  This was my life, my being.  My
wife.  My childl If a God was there... and I had never been totally
certain that he was ... I didn't want to have any part of him.

"Our cleric in Dibton called to comfort.  He told me that God sends
people only what they are strong enough to bear.  And I rounded on him,
and said that I wished I were as weak as water, and still had my child.
And then I sent him away.  We never got around to the guilt.  I knew
Gloria's weakness.  I should have been with them.  I should have been
behind the wheel of the car.  If only.  If only is my nightmare."

"If only is like hindsight.  A useless exercise.  The accident seemed
to me to have been one composed of several tragic circumstances.  Who
knows?  Perhaps you would have died, too, Oscar, and then an even
larger hole would have been left in the lives of those who knew and
loved you all.... As for God, I frankly admit that I find it easier to
live with the age- old questions about suffering than with many of the
easy or pious explanations offered from time to time.  Some of which
seem to verge on blasphemy.  I hope so much that no one has sought to
try and comfort you by saying that God must have needed Francesca more
than you.  I would find it impossible to worship a God who deliberately
stole my child from me.  Such a God would be a moral monster."

Oscar was astounded.

"Is that," he asked at last, "what you really believe?"

Peter nodded.

"It is what I truly believe.  Thirty years in

the ministry has taught me that the one thing we should never say when
a young person dies is "It is the will of God."  We simply don't know
enough to say that.  I am in fact convinced that when Francesca died in
that terrible accident, God's was the first heart to break."

"I want to move on, to go on living, to be able to accept; to-be able
to give again.  I don't like taking all the time.  I've never been that
sort of person."

"Oh, Oscar.  It will be all right.  Because of your profession, the
Church has been so much part of your life for so many years that you
will be as familiar as I am with the great biblical promises about life
and death.  The problem is that traumatic grief can often render them
unreal.  For a while, what you are probably going to need most is not
people who will quote the Bible to you, but close friends who will
continue to hold your hand, and lend you a listening ear when you want
to speak about Francesca."

Oscar thought about Elfrida, and Peter paused for a moment, as though
to give him time to argue this new conception.  But Oscar did not say
anything.

"Life is sweet," Peter went on.

"Beyond the pain, life continues to be sweet.  The basics are still
there.  Beauty, food, and friendship, reservoirs of love and
understanding.  Later, possibly not yet, you are going to need others
who will encourage you to make new beginnings.  Welcome them.  They
will help you move on, to cherish happy memories and confront the
painful ones with more than bitterness and anger."

Oscar remembered the dark night, and the image of Francesca, and how,
for the first time, it had not reduced him to the painful tears of
loss, but had filled his being with a peaceful comfort.  Perhaps that
had been the start of his recovery.  Perhaps this conversation, this
interview, whatever one called it, was the continuance.

He did not know.  He only knew that he felt better, stronger, not so
useless.  Perhaps, after all, he hadn't done so badly.

He said, "Thank you."

"Oh, my friend, I wish I could give you so much more."

"No.  Don't wish that.  You have given me enough."

lucy lucy had flown only twice in her life.  Once was to France, where
she had been invited for a summer holiday with the family of a
schoolfriend.  The second trip was to the Channel Islands with her
mother and her grandmother.  That was during Easter, and they had
stayed in the sort of hotel where you had to change for dinner.

Both times she had found it tremendously exciting, but today she made
an effort to be consciously casual about the whole business, so that
any person who happened to look her way would get the impression that
she was a seasoned, vastly experienced traveller.

Her clothes helped.  Because her mother, perhaps to assuage unadmitted
stirrings of guilt, had taken Lucy to the Gap, and there bought her
daughter a number of delectable things.  So she was wearing the new
jeans, warm ones, lined in red brushed cotton.  Her boots were pale
suede with thick rubber soles, and her jacket scarlet, quilted and
padded, a bit like being bundled up in an eiderdown.  As well, they had
bought two thick polo-neck sweaters, one navy and one white; a black
miniskirt; and two pairs of thick black tights.  The final item was her
rucksack, navy-blue canvas piped in red, in which Lucy had packed her
diary, her purse, a brush and comb, and a bar of chocolate.  Last night
she had washed her hair, and this morning brushed it back into a long
ponytail, secured with a cotton scrunchie.  She felt sleek and neat.  A
credit to Carrie.

Carrie looked, as always, immensely elegant, in long boots, her loden
coat, and a black fox fur hat.  Lucy was very aware of heads turning to
watch as Carrie walked by, pushing their trolley with the luggage.  The
only thing was, poor Carrie had a bit of a cold.  It wasn't the sort of
cold that made her look ugly, simply a bit frail.  She said she had
started feeling rough a day or so ago-there was a lot of flu going

about-but it was only a cold, and she had dosed herself with
medicaments and would be fine once she started breathing the clean,
cold Scottish air.

They checked in, went through Security, and waiting for their flight to
be called, Lucy began to feel safe.  Ever since the plans had been laid
for Christmas, she had not only been counting the days, but at the same
time been prey to a number of nervous forebodings.  Something, she was
sure, was bound to happen to put a stop to her going with Carrie.
Somebody would fall ill, or Gran would decide all at once that Lucy
should not stay with Elfrida Phipps, of whom she did not approve, and
whom Lucy was longing to meet.  Perhaps, in America, Randall Fischer
would have a heart attack, or die, and the phone would ring in London
to tell Lucy that she was not to come.

But, miraculously, disaster did not strike, and at last they were in
the plane, and unless the aircraft actually fell out of the sky, Lucy
knew that nothing now could stop them.  She sat with her forehead
pressed against the little window, staring down at an England spread
like a greenish-grey quilt and patterned with slow-moving cloud
shadows.

For, extraordinarily enough, it was a lovely, peaceful morning.  Cold,
but not raining, and with no wind-chill to freeze the bones.  Above the
clouds, the sky was a pure, pale blue, the horizon hazy.  Lucy thought
about people on the ground looking up, and seeing their jet stream, and
perhaps wondering where the plane was heading.  Just as she looked down
on what appeared to be stretches of uninhabited country, the only clue
to any sort of industry being a tiny puff of smoke from a group of
cooling towers.  She wondered which was the real life.  Who were the
real people.

The stewardess came around with little trays of food.  Rolls and
butter, marmalade, a sliver of bacon, a tiny bunch of green grapes.
There was coffee or tea, and both Carrie and Lucy had coffee.
Everything was teeny, doll-sized, all fitted neatly onto a little
plastic tray.  Lucy was hungry and ate everything, and when Carrie
didn't want her roll, Lucy ate hers as well.  After the trays had been
taken away, Carrie read

the paper and Lucy turned back to gaze out of the window, because she
didn't want to miss a single inch of Scotland.

She thought perhaps when they got there, it would be raining, or even
snowing, but the skies remained wonderfully clear.  When the plane
began to lose height, the terrain below them slowly took shape, and she
saw snow on the tops of mountains and a lot of dark fur which turned
into plantations of conifer.  Then the blue gleam of the sea, boats,
and a bridge over a wide firth.  The plane banked and turned before
coming in to land, and to the west stood bastions of snowcovered
mountains, all glittering in the pale sunshine.  Lucy knew that they
could not have looked more beautiful and told herself that this had to
be a good omen.

Carrie folded her paper and stowed it away.  They smiled at each
other.

"All right?"  Carrie asked.  Lucy nodded.

They landed, huge tyres thumping on tarmac.  She saw the terminal
building... it looked a bit like a large golf clubhouse ... and there
were flags flying in a brisk breeze.

"We are going to be met," Carrie had told her.

"Whom by?"

"A taxi from Creagan.  The driver's called Alec Dobbs."

"How shall we know him?"

"He'll be holding a board with "Sutton' written on it."

And once they had reclaimed their suitcases from the carousel, he was
there, in the Arrivals Hall.  A solid-looking man in a padded
wind-cheater, with a faded tweed cap pulled down over his brow.  As
well, a number of other fascinating individuals stood about.  A lanky
old man in a deerstalker hat.  A trousered lady with wild white hair
and weather-beaten cheeks and ... best of all... a man in a faded and
tattered kilt.  Lucy could not help staring because his blue knees
looked so cold.

"... Well, and it is good to see you," Alec Dobbs was saying.

"And did you have a good flight?"  Not a bit like the usual run of taxi
drivers, more like an old friend.  He shook hands with both of them
before gathering up their suitcases as though they weighed nothing, and
leading the way out.  The sun, low in the sky, was palely shining, but
it felt considerably colder than London, and there was still an edging
of old snow around the border of the car-park.  The air smelt of pine,
and when Lucy breathed it in, the inside of her nose felt so cold that
she sneezed.  She had never been to Switzerland, but decided that this
was probably how Switzerland felt, with the sunshine and the snow and
the pine trees, all arched by a pristine, cloudless sky.

His car was a four-wheel-drive Subaru.  Loading their luggage in the
back, he explained, "I have another car, a big Rover, which would be
more comfortable for you, but we have high ground to cross on the Black
Isle, and the snow is still lying."

Carrie got into the back of the Subaru, and Lucy sat beside Alec.

"Have you a lot of snow?"  she asked him, because she had never
experienced a white Christmas, and longed to do so .  A white Christmas
truly would be the icing on the cake.

"Not a great deal, but it stays, which means there is more to come." He
had a soft voice, precise and gentle.  It was the first time Lucy was
to hear the voice of Sutherland.

"How long a drive is it to Creagan?"

"An hour and a quarter, perhaps.  No more."  Lucy looked at her watch.
It was eleven-fifteen.  They would be there, probably, about half past
twelve.  In time for lunch.  She hoped it would be something hot and
robust.  Despite the two rolls, she was beginning to be hungry again.

"Is this the first time you have come to Creagan?"

"I've never been to Scotland before."

"Well, well, you have treats in store.  And you will be staying in a
fine house.  It stood empty for too long.  It is good to have people
living there again."

Carrie leaned forward.

"How is Elfrida?"  she asked.

"Mrs.  Phipps?"

"She is fine, I see her about the place, doing her shopping, walking
the dog.  It was she who came in to order the car for you.  She
telephoned this morning to be certain that I had not forgotten you."

"Do you live in Creagan?"  Lucy asked him.



"All my life.  I was born there, and my father before me.  When he
retired, I took over his business."

"Driving taxis?"

"It is not only taxis I drive."

Lucy frowned.

"What else?"

"Hearses," he told her, and there was an edge of laughter in his
voice.

"I'm the undertaker."

Lucy was, momentarily, silenced.

It was a spectacular drive.  The road led through farmlands and over
bridges, and on the high ground the tyres of the Subaru scrunched over
snow.  It followed the shores of a long tidal sea loch, and ran through
small villages with grey stone cottages flush on the pavement, along
with pubs and shops and sturdy no-nonsense churches surrounded by old
graveyards filled with lichened, leaning headstones.  Then the last
bridge, over another firth, stretching like a long arm of blue water up
into the folds of the western hills.

Alec spoke.

"Only another ten minutes now," he told them, "and we'll be there."

All at once some of the excitement died, and Lucy began to feel a bit
nervous.  It wasn't just arriving in an unknown place, and to a strange
house, but the prospect of finally meeting her hosts, Elfrida and
Oscar.  Elfrida she wasn't so worried about, because Carrie had spoken
so much about her, and she sounded as though she was ageless and
tremendous fun.  But Oscar Blundell, Elfrida's friend, was a different
prospect altogether.  To start with, he was a man, and Lucy was not
used to the company of men.

But that was not all.  Because Carrie had told her all about Oscar, and
why Elfrida had come with him, to this little northern town, to keep
him company.  His wife and his daughter, who was twelve and called
Francesca, had both been killed in a terrible motor smash.  Carrie had
not enlarged on this catastrophe, and had turned away Lucy's horrified
questioning.  Simply said that it had been an accident, nobody was to
blame, but Oscar was still in the throes of coming to terms with what
had happened.

Francesca was twelve.  Lucy was fourteen.

"Will he want

me?"  she had asked.

"Won't it be awful for him, having a person of my age around the place?
Do you think he will hate me?"

Carrie had smiled and given her a hug.

"I said that to El- frida, on the telephone.  And she spoke to Oscar
about it, and he was quite adamant that we have to go for Christmas.
And it's his house we're going to stay in, so he is our host, and he
has invited us.  And nobody could ever hate you."

But still, it was all a bit complicated and daunting.  Right now, Lucy
could do without complications.  She had enough of them in London.

Now, quite suddenly, there was a feeling of the seaside.  Duney
hillocks on either side of the road where grew stunted pines and clumps
of heather, and a certain light that reflected off the sea.  She rolled
down the window and caught the smell of salt.  The road ran downhill,
and ahead of them was the little town, and they were in the main street
almost before she realized it.  And it wasn't grey and sombre like the
other villages they had come through, but built of golden sandstone
that seemed to reflect the glow of the thin winter sunshine.  Houses on
either side stood back behind walled gardens, and there were handsome
buildings, and trees, and an unexpected impression of prosperity and
space.

Carrie hadn't said much during the course of the drive, but now she
spoke.

"How extraordinary.  It's like the Cotswolds.  Like a Cotswold town."

Alec smiled.

"A lot of visitors make that observation.  But I have never been to the
Cotswolds."

"Golden stone.  Wide streets.  And the gardens ..."

"What many people do not realize is that we have, because of the Gulf
Stream, a climate similar to Eastbourne.  There can be rain storms
boiling in the hills, and we play golf or walk on the beach in the
sunshine."

Lucy said, "A sort of mini-climate."

"Exactly so."

The street widened out into a square, in the middle of which stood a
large and lovely church and an old graveyard, all enclosed by a stone
wall.  The church had a tower crested

by a golden weathercock, and gulls and jackdaws wheeled about overhead.
The gulls made a noise like summer holidays.  The tower clock pointed
to twenty-five minutes past twelve.

"We have made good time," Alec observed.  He drove, at stately pace,
right around the churchyard wall, and drew up at the pavement's edge.

"Is this it?"  Lucy asked.

He switched off his engine.

"This is it."

They got out of the Subaru, but before Alec could even unlatch the
gate, there came the sound of frantic barking, and the next moment the
front door of the house was flung open, and down the path came Elfrida
Phipps and her vociferous dog.

"Carrie!  Oh, my darling girl."  She flung her arms around Carrie.

"You're here, you're here.  I've been so looking forward ... so excited
... could hardly wait..."

Lucy, standing aside, watched.  Elfrida was very tall and very thin,
and she had a lot of rather wild hair the colour of marmalade.  She
wore trousers of some particularly garish tartan and a huge, thick grey
sweater.  Her eyelids were very blue and she wore a lot of lipstick.
Lucy could understand instantly why Gran didn't approve.  Kissing, she
had left lipstick on Carrie's cheek.

Carrie said, "Elfrida, you look wonderful.  Scotland clearly agrees
with you."

"Darling, it's bliss.  Bitterly cold, but bliss."

"You have to meet Lucy."

"But of course."  She laughed.

"Isn't this ridiculous, Lucy?  We're relations, and we've never set
eyes on each other.  But your grandfather was my most favourite cousin
and we used to have wonderful, wild times together."  She put her hands
on Lucy's shoulders.

"Let me look at you.  Yes, I thought so.  Pretty as paint.  This is my
dog, Horace, who, I am pleased to say, has stopped barking.  He's been
looking forward to meeting you because he hopes you'll take him on long
walks on the beach.  Oh, Alec, you've got the suitcases.  Is that all?
Would you be a saint and carry them upstairs for

us?  Come along, everybody, and we'll go into the house out of the
cold, and you can meet Oscar...."

They all streamed up the path and into the house in single file,
Elfrida leading the way, then the dog, then Carrie, Lucy, and finally
Alec, laden with luggage.  He kicked the front door shut behind them,
and they went down a long hall and up a wide staircase.  Lucy liked the
feeling of the house.  Solid and secure, with sturdy banisters and a
thick stair carpet.  And the smell of old polished wood and well-worn
furniture, and the faint suggestion of something delicious cooking in
the kitchen.

Elfrida was still talking.

"How was the flight?  Not too bumpy?  Thank goodness there isn't a
howling gale."

They had reached the first-floor landing.  The pleasing staircase rose
on, to the upper floor.  On the far side of the landing a door stood
open through which streamed a shaft of sunlight.

Elfrida raised her voice to call.

"Oscar!  Here they are!"  And then, in her ordinary voice again.

"He's in the sitting- room.  You two go and say hello, and I'll show
Alec where to put the suitcases.  Carrie's in here, Alec, and then
Lucy's upstairs.  Can you deal with another climb ... ?"

Carrie looked at Lucy, and smiled reassuringly.  She took Lucy's hand
in her own, which was comforting, and, hand in hand, they went through
the open, sunlit door into a beautiful sitting-room, white-walled, not
over-furnished, but filled with light.  A little fire was burning in
the grate, and a tall bow-window faced out across the street, and the
church was so close, you felt you could reach out a hand and touch
it.

He was waiting for them, standing with his back to the fireplace.  He
was as tall as Elfrida, but not so thin as she, and he had a fine head
of silvery hair, and a quiet and kindly face, not rugged, but strangely
unlined.  His eyes were hooded, and drooped at the corners.  He wore a
checked shirt and a woollen tie, and over these, a blue Shetland
sweater.

Carrie said, "Oscar.  How do you do?  I'm Carrie Sutton."

"My dear...."  He came forward to greet them, and Lucy

thought he must find himself a little astonished to be welcoming a
guest as sensationally glamorous as Carrie.  But pleased, as well.

"How good to see you.  Have you had a peaceful journey?"  They shook
hands.

"Perfect," Carrie told him.

"No problems."

"And Alec found you all right?  Elfrida's been mad with excitement all
morning, rushing to the window to see if you had come."

"It's so good of you to have us."  Carrie looked about her.

"And what a marvelous house you have."

"I own only half.  I am part-owner."

"That doesn't make it any less special."  She let go of Lucy's hand,
and put an arm around her shoulder.

"This is my niece, Lucy Wesley."

Lucy swallowed her nervousness.  She said, "How do you do?"  He looked
down at her, and she willed herself to meet his eyes.  For what seemed
a long time, he said nothing.  She knew that he must be thinking of his
own daughter, twelve years old, and now dead.  She knew that he must be
comparing her with Francesca, and was probably swamped by mixed
emotions, including pain.  She hoped that she compared favourably.
There wasn't much else she could do.  And then he smiled at her, and
took her hand between his own, and his clasp was warm and friendly, and
after that she wasn't nervous any longer.

"So you are Lucy?"

"Yes."

"And you are going to have to sleep in the attic."

Carrie laughed.

"Oscar, you don't make it sound very tempting."

"Attics never do sound tempting.  Old trunks and the heads of defunct
moose.  Don't worry, Lucy.  Elfrida has made it entrancing for you."

"Now."  He let go of Lucy's hand and looked out of the window, at the
clock on the church tower.

"It's half past twelve.  Why don't you both go and find your rooms and
get settled, and then we'll have a drink, and then lunch?  Elfrida has
spent much of the morning concocting a shepherd's pie.

She thought you would need something heartening to eat after your long
journey."

Lucy's spirits rose.  The worst, the initial encounters, were over.
Elfrida was funny, and Oscar was kind.  And El- frida had said she was
as pretty as paint.  And they were going to eat shepherd's pie for
lunch.

They ate in the kitchen.

"We've got a dining-room," Elfrida explained, "but it's so dark and
gloomy, we never eat there.  And there isn't a hatch through from the
kitchen or I would spend my time scuttling to and fro with dishes."

"Much nicer in here," said Carrie, and Lucy agreed with her.  A long
table, a gingham cloth, unmatched wooden chairs ... all comfortably
informal.  It wasn't a smart kitchen.  Dodie, Lucy knew, would die if
she were asked to do anything under such old-fashioned conditions.  For
one thing, it was rather dark and lightless, facing out onto the wall
of the neighbouring garden.  And there were bars on the windows, to
keep out intruders, or possibly to stop overworked cooks and
kitchen-maids from escaping.  And yet, like the rest of the house, it
had a pleasant, settled feel about it, and there was a big sideboard,
painted dark green, with an assortment of china displayed, and hooks
for jugs, mugs, and cups.

They ate the shepherd's pie, which was delicious, and then a pudding
made of stewed apples and meringue, and there was a jug of cream, and
after that Carrie and Elfrida had coffee.  But Oscar did not want
coffee.  Instead, he looked at his watch and said, "If Horace and I do
not set out for a walk now, then we won't be home before darkness
falls."  He looked down the length of the table at Lucy.

"Would you like to come with us?"

"For a walk?"

"We could go on the beach.  And then you will know the way."

She felt very gratified to be invited.

"Yes, I'd love to."

"Perhaps, Oscar," said Elfrida, "you could wheel her round the town
first and show her where the shops are.  It won't take more than five
minutes, and then you can head for the dunes."



"Certainly, if that's what she'd like.  Have you got a warm coat,
Lucy?"

"I've got my new jacket."

"And a warm hat.  The sea-wind can freeze your ears off."

"Yes, I've got that, too."

"Then go and get ready, and we'll set off together."

"Shall I help to clear the table?"  Lucy asked.

Elfrida laughed.

"How well brought up you are.  Of course not.  Carrie and I will do
that when we've finished our coffee.  Off you go with Oscar before it
gets too cold."

Five minutes later, they set off together, the elderly man, the girl,
and the dog.  Horace wore his lead, and Lucy held its other end in her
gloved hand.  She had pulled a thick woollen hat down over her ears,
and zipped herself into her new jacket.  Oscar wore a heavy wind-proof
with a checked lining, and a tweed hat which she thought suited him,
and made him look distinguished and handsome.

As they went through the gate, "We'll do the town first," he told her,
and so they did.  Down the street, all around the church wall.  The
gift shop, the chemist, the bookstore, the butcher, the news agent.

"This is where I come to pick up the morning papers.  If I want to be
lazy and lie in my bed, then you can do it for me."

The petrol pumps, a shop displaying knitted sweaters, a small hotel, a
window full of beach toys, the supermarket.  Beneath a leafless tree,
Lucy paused to look through a wrought-iron gate, up a flagged path, to
where a side door of the church stood open.

For some reason, she longed to go inside.  She could see a porch,
stoutly door matted and then an inner, closed door.

"Is the church open?"  she asked.

"Always.  Just this side door.  For visitors, I suppose."

"What's it like inside?"

"I don't know, Lucy.  I have never been."

"Can we go now?  Just for a moment...."

He hesitated.

"I..."

"Oh, do, let's.  Churches are so nice when they're empty.  Like empty
streets.  You can see their shape.  Just for a moment."

He took a deep breath, and for a moment she thought he was going to
refuse, to say, There's not time.  Or, Another day.  But he let it all
out in what sounded like a deep sigh.

"All right," he said.

Lucy opened the gate, which squeaked on its hinges, and they went up
the path.  Inside the porch, they found a notice.

VISITORS WELCOME, BUT PLEASE, NO DOGS.

So they tied the end of the lead to the handle of the outer door, and
left Horace sitting on the doormat.  He did not look pleased.

Inside, the church was empty.  Their footsteps rang on the flagged
floor and echoed up into the roof.  Sunlight poured through the
stained-glass windows, and three of the arms of the cruciform shape
were lined with pews, all facing the central aisle, so that it was a
little like three churches.  The walls were stone, and the arched
ceiling soared upwards, high above them, the plaster between the curved
beams painted the blue of a summer sky.

Lucy wandered off to investigate.  She read the words on old memorial
slabs, people from another age who had been true servants of God and
regular worshippers.  There were a lot of noble and titled names, as
well as ordinary people.  It was all much larger than she thought it
would be, and by the time she had inspected everything, from the ornate
font to the kneelers, each handsomely upholstered in hand-stitched
needlepoint, Oscar had tired of standing, and was settled comfortably
in the front pew, waiting for her.

She felt a bit guilty and went to sit beside him.

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"For being so long."



"I am pleased that you are interested in such things."

"Carrie told me that you were an organist.  That you taught music."

"That's true.  I was choirmaster as well."  He looked down at her.

"Do you play the piano?"

"No.  I've never started to learn.  Mummy said it would take too much
time out of lessons and games and homework and things.  Anyway, there
isn't a piano in my grandmother's flat."

"Would you like to play?"

"Yes, I think I would."

"It's never too late to start.  Do you listen to music?"

Lucy shrugged.

"Only pop and such."  She thought about this.

"Except sometimes, at school, we get taken to concerts.  We went to an
open-air concert in Regents Park this summer.  There was a huge stage
and a proper orchestra."

Oscar smiled.

"Did it rain?"

"No, it was a fine evening.  And at the end of the concert they played
the Music for the Royal Fireworks, and there was a fireworks display at
the same time.  I really loved that.  The music and the bangs and the
lights and the rockets all went along together, and made everything
doubly exciting.  Now, if I hear the music again, I can see fireworks
as well, and the night sky, all filled with every sort of star."

"An experience."

"Yes.  It was lovely."  She sank her chin into her new jacket and gazed
up at the tall stained-glass window which faced them.  She said, "I
wouldn't want a birthday in the middle of winter.  I wouldn't want to
be born on Christmas Day."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, you'd probably only get one present.  And for
another, it's usually rather dark and gloomy weather."

"When is your birthday?"

"July.  Much better.  Only thing is, I'm usually at school."

"Still, it's summer."

"Yes."

Oscar thought for a moment, and then he said, "Actually, I don't think
Christ was born in wintertime.  I dunk he was probably born in the
spring."

"Really?  Why do you say that?"

"Well, the shepherds were guarding their flocks, which probably meant
that it was lambing time.  And they were watching out for wolves, in
case they came and ate the babies.  And for another, scientific
evidence tells us that there was a strangely bright star at that time,
two thousand years ago, and in that place."

"Then why don't we have Christmas in the spring?"

"I think the early Christians were a cunning lot.  They simply adapted
what was left to them by the pagan inhabitants of the countries which
they converted.  There had always been the celebration of the Winter
Solstice, the shortest day of the year.  I suppose to cheer themselves
up, those pre-Christians had something of a party, lit fires, caroused,
burnt candles, plucked mistletoe, baked cakes."  Oscar smiled.

"Got drunk; indulged in lustful practices."

"So the early Christians just used the same party?"

"Something like that."

"But added other bits as well."

"Their belief in the Son of God."

"I see."  Considered, it seemed a very practical arrangement.

"What about Christmas trees?"

"They came from Germany.  Brought by Albert, Victoria's Prince
Consort."

"And turkeys?"

"Turkeys came from America.  Before that, goose was the traditional
bird."

"And carols?"

"Some old, some new."

"And wassailing?  What does wassailing mean?  I've never known."

"Just boozing.  A wassail was a drink of spiced ale."

"And stockings?"

"I don't think I know where stockings are from."



Lucy was silent for a moment.  Then she said, "Do you like
Christmas?"

"Parts of it," Oscar told her, sounding cautious.

"I don't really like it much.  There's such a build-up and then it's
sort of... disappointing."

"Which proves that we should never expect too much."  High above them,
the church clock struck half past two.  The chimes were distant,
melodious, muffled.  Oscar said, "Perhaps we have lingered long
enough."

Lucy fell silent.  The church was very quiet.  From what seemed like
far away, other sounds impinged.  A passing car, a man's voice calling
out.  The long cry of a wheeling seagull high above the clock tower.
She looked upwards, and there noticed, for the first time, the discreet
up lighters high above, fitted within the lip of the carved stone
cornice.  They were not lighted now, which was why she had not seen
them before, but... She said, "It must be lovely in here when all those
lights are on.  Like floodlights, like sunshine, shining on the blue
ceiling...."

"I expect they turn them on on Sundays for Morning Service."

"I'd like to see that."

He said quietly, "If you want to, you can."  And then he got to his
feet.

"Come along.  We're meant to be having a walk.  We have to get as far
as the beach, and before very long it will be dark."

CARRIE

oscar, Lucy, and Horace were gone, off for their walk.  The heavy front
door of the Estate House slammed shut behind diem, and Carrie and
Elfrida were left alone, still sitting at the kitchen table, with the
remains of lunch, and their coffee.  They smiled at each other.  Two
women of different generations, but old friends, who had not been
together, alone, for too long, and now relished their peaceful
privacy.

Carrie said, "What a perfectly sweet man."

Elfrida, she thought, for all her sixty-two years, looked as vital and
energetic as a young girl.  Her slenderness became her, the
uncompromising blaze of suspect hair, the eccentric clothes, the slash
of lipstick, all declaimed a healthy denial of advancing years.  Her
very presence was like a shot in the arm.

"Isn't he?"  she said, with satisfaction.

"I'm so pleased they've made friends.  Lucy was apprehensive.  I told
her, of course, about his wife and his daughter, and she was afraid
that Oscar mightn't want her about the place, reminding him of
Francesca.  She thought he might find her presence distressing.  Even,
that he might hate her."

Elfrida was sympathetic.

"Poor little thing.  But perceptive, too.  And I don't think Oscar
knows how to hate any person.  And if he did, he would never say so,
nor ever show it.  We had a slight hiccup when we arrived here, in the
shape of a rather sad old bore from whom we had to collect the key of
the house.  I must say, he was rather disquieting.  Kept telling Oscar
that he'd put him up for the Golf Club, and they would meet over a
drink.  Oscar was terrified.  He spent the first couple of weeks
cowering indoors, or scuttling across the road to the supermarket with
his hat pulled over his eyes like a criminal, in mortal fear of meeting
Major Billicliffe and having to ask him back for a gin.  But then he
discovered the old chap was actually quite ill.  He found him
languishing in his

bed, under the doctor, as they say.  And the next thing was that he'd
offered to drive him over to the hospital in Inverness, because he felt
so sorry for him.  Major Billicliffe's a widower, and all alone.  So
you see, Oscar's not very good at hating.  You could never call him one
of your consistent, paid-up, professional haters."

"I think he's a darling.  I just hope it's not going to be too much for
you both.  Having us here."

"It's brilliant, just what we need."

"It doesn't have to be an all-singing, all-dancing Christmas.  Lucy and
I both have a fairly low expectation of what is known as the Festive
Season."

"Us, too.  Though, once he knew you were coming, Oscar did, privately,
order a Christmas tree."

"Lucy will love that.  She can decorate it.  Poor child, my mother was
never much good at creating a magic atmosphere, and Nicola's too idle.
But I truly think Dodie's grateful to you.  Because now she can go and
spend her giddy holiday in Bournemouth with a clear conscience."

"How is she?"

"Just the same."  No more needed to be said.

"And Nicola?"

"Ditto.  Unlike wine, they do not improve with age."

"And your father?"

"Haven't seen him.  But we spoke on the telephone."

"I had such a wonderful month with them all, at Emblo, in October.  And
then I got home to hear this terrible thing that had happened to Oscar.
It was like moving out of one world and into another.  Life can change
with such shocking abruptness."

"I know."  Carrie thought about Andreas, and then didn't think about
him.  She said again, "I know."

A silence fell.  Carrie finished her coffee and set down the little
cup.  She knew what was coming next, which it did.

"And you, Carrie?"

"Me?  I'm fine."

"I don't think you are.  For one thing, you look tired and pale.  And
dreadfully thin."

"Look who's talking.  Admit, Elfrida, we'd neither of us have ever won
a prize for the most voluptuous."

"Why did you suddenly come back from Austria?"

Carrie shrugged.

"Oh, reasons.  Whims."

"I don't believe that."

"Sometime, I'll tell you.  I promise.  But not just at this moment."

"You're not ill?"

"No.  I'm fighting a cold and I am a bit tired, but I am not ill."

"Did you chuck up your job?"

"Yes."

"Will you get another?"

"I think so.  In fact, the travel company I worked for overseas
telephoned the other evening, and the next day I went along and saw
them.  I've been offered a job... a good job... in the London office. I
haven't accepted yet, but I probably will when I go back after
Christmas."

"And your house?"

"Let till February.  Until then, I can camp with friends or rent."

"I feel you're unhappy.  I wish I could help."

"You are helping.  By having us here."

"Not very exciting."

"I don't want excitement."

Elfrida was silenced.  She finished her coffee, and then sighed, and
ran a hand through her unruly, fiery hair.

"In that case, I will say no more.  Now...."  Her manner changed, she
became cheerful, in charge once more.

"What would you like to do this afternoon?  Perhaps a nap.  I'll find a
hot- water bottle...."

Bed and a hot-water bottle.  Carrie could not remember how long it was
since some other person had cherished her.  Had said, You look tired.
And, How about a little rest?  She had spent too many years being
strong, looking after others and their problems.  Cancelled
reservations; faulty ski-tows; unsuitable bedrooms; trains and buses
that ran, through no fault of their own, late.  The lack of snow, or
the fact that

there was too much of it.  A band playing too loudly into the early
hours of the morning; lost passports, money, hair dryers.... And then
returning to London to be faced with another set of family problems
which needed to be surmounted.

She realized that she was tired of being strong.  Tired of being the
sturdy pillar against which everybody leaned.  Upstairs was her
bedroom.  Her suitcase already in possession.  She had gone there to
shed her coat and comb her hair before lunch, and had seen, with some
satisfaction, the enormous double bed, downy and soft, with its white
cover, and great brass bedstead like the polished rails of some
well-kept ship.  She had longed, right then and there, to climb beneath
the blankets and sleep.

Perhaps a nap.  She was filled with grateful love for El- frida.  She
said, "I don't think there's anything I'd like more.  But first, can I
be shown your house?  So that I know my way around.  It seems so
enormous, I might get lost.  I'd imagined the two of you domiciled in
some little cottage, and here you are in a veritable mansion."

"Of course."  Elfrida got to her feet.

"What about the washing-up?"

"I'll do it later.  We haven't got a dishwasher, but I've never had
one, so it doesn't matter.  And I rather like splashing around in
time-honoured fashion with lots of suds.  Come along...."

She led the way out of the kitchen, and Carrie followed her down the
hall to the two ground-floor rooms.

"It all used to belong to the Corrydale Estate," Elfrida explained,
sounding a bit like a tour guide.

"The factor and his family lived here, so that's why it's so huge.  We
inherited only the most essential bits of furniture, and there's no
point cluttering ourselves up with possessions."  She opened a door.

"This was the estate office, and as you can see, it's totally
uninhabitable.  Like a junk-shop.  And this is our dining-room.  Utter
gloom."

It was indeed daunting, redolent of long, dull meals and boiled
cabbage.

"But I love the table," said Carrie.

"And a sideboard built for massive haunches of venison.  And a piano!
Shall we have concerts?"

"I should think so.  God knows when it was last tuned."

"But Oscar plays."

"Not just now.  These days, he listens to music, he doesn't make it."

They went upstairs.

"Lucy's in the attic.  I did it all up for her, but I'm sure she'll
want to show you herself.  And you've seen the sitting-room, and the
bathrooms, and this"-she opened another door-"is the second spare
bedroom.  I could have put her in here, but it's very small and a bit
dreary.  The attic seemed to me a much more attractive space for her,
and I had all the fun of putting it together."

Carrie peered into the small and undistinguished room, almost totally
taken up with another enormous bed.  It was, clearly, unoccupied, and
for the first time she began to feel a bit uncomfortable, not knowing,
but suspecting, what was going to happen next.  Her interest in seeing
over the house had been just that.  Interest.  Not curiosity.  But her
innocent request felt now a bit like taking the lid off Pandora's
box.

"Elfrida ... ?"  Elfrida either didn't hear, or took no notice.
Instead, she opened the final door with a flourish that had a touch of
defiance about it.

"And this," she said, "is us."

It was a spacious and important room, the master bedroom of the
original house, with tall windows facing out over the light of the
dying afternoon, the street, and the church.  In it stood a looming
Victorian wardrobe, a pretty Victorian dressing-table, and a chest of
drawers.  And an enormously high and wide bed.  Over this was spread
El- frida's scarlet silk shawl, the embroidery faded, the fringe
beginning to fray, but still marvellously opulent and recognizable from
the old days and Elfrida's house in Putney, where Carrie had stayed
with her for six weeks or more, nursing Elfrida back to health after an
operation.

And other possessions.  A man's ivory brushes on the chest of drawers,
a pair of brogues neatly placed beneath a chair,

dark-blue pyjamas folded on a pillow.  And a pleasant masculine smell,
compounded of polished leather and Bay Rum.

There fell a small silence.  Then Carrie looked at Elfrida and caught
on her face a faintly abashed expression, and was amused, because
Elfrida had never betrayed the smallest sense of shame about her many
and varied sexual encounters.

Now, she said, "You're not shocked?"

"Elfrida, I'm me.  I'm not Dodie."

"I know you're not."

"You're sleeping together?"

Elfrida nodded.

"You're lovers?"

"We are."

Carrie thought of that charming, distinguished man, with his thick
white hair and gentle face.  She said, "I'm glad."

"I'm glad you're glad.  But I have to tell you.  Explain."

"You don't have to explain to me."

"No, but I want to."

"We drove together from Dibton to Scotland.  I drove most of the way,
and the conditions were horrible and the Al heavy with traffic.  It had
been a traumatic few days before we left, saying goodbyes and making
arrangements, and I think we were both exhausted.  Oscar scarcely spoke
at all.  By the time it was dark we'd had enough of the motorway and we
got off it at some junction and drove down into Northumberland.  Oscar
said there was some little town he remembered with an old hotel in the
main street, and by some miracle we found the town and the hotel was
still there.  So I sat in the car with Horace, and Oscar went in to see
if they had rooms for us, and if they minded the dog as well.

"After a bit, he came out and said that they didn't mind about the dog,
but they only had one room with a double bed.  By then I was so tired,
I'd have slept in a cupboard, so I told Oscar to go in and book it, and
we wrote Mr.  and Mrs.  Oscar Blundell in the register, and I felt like
a giddy girl sneaking off for the weekend with her boyfriend.

"We had baths, and a drink, and dinner; then, because we

had an early start the next morning, we went upstairs.  There then took
place a ridiculous conversation, with Oscar saying he would curl up on
the sofa, and me saying I would sleep on the floor with Horace.  And
then, suddenly, we were too tired to argue, and we just got into bed
together and fell fast asleep.

"But what I didn't know was that Oscar was having these terrible
nightmares.  He told me later that he'd been having them ever since the
crash, that he put off going to bed at night because he was so filled
with dread, so afraid.  That night, he woke me with his screams, and
for a moment I was terrified, and then I knew I had to wake him.  So I
did, and he was weeping ... it was so awful for him ... and I gave him
a drink of water and calmed him down, and I put my arms around him and
held him close and after a bit he went back to sleep again.  After
that, I would never let him be alone during the night.  When we came
here, he was a bit worried at first about what people would think, what
they would say.  We have a sweet woman who comes and cleans for us,
Mrs.  Snead.... He was afraid she would gossip, and there would be
disapproval and bad feeling.  And I said I didn't care if there was, I
wasn't going to leave him.

"I think, Carrie darling, that all this might sound a little suspect.
Opportunist.  As though, the moment Gloria was dead, I crashed into
Oscar's life and leaped into bed with him.  But truly, it wasn't like
that.  I'd always liked him immensely, but he was Gloria's husband, and
I liked her, too, though perhaps not quite as much as I liked Oscar.
It's rather difficult to explain.  But everything I have done, every
choice I have made was only with the best of intentions in mind.  He
asked me to come to Scotland with him, and because he was a man on the
verge of' desperation I agreed.

"It could have been a disaster, but instead we have a relationship
which I think is a comfort to both of us.  We first made love about a
week after we got here.  It was, of course, inevitable.  He is a very
attractive man, and for some reason

he seems to find battered old me attractive, too.  Since then, the
terrible dreams have begun to fade, and sometimes he sleeps through
till morning.  There are still nightmares, but not nearly so frequent.
And if you do hear shouts in the middle of the night, don't be alarmed,
because I am with Oscar.

"I've kept nothing secret, told no lies.  I confided in Mrs.  Snead,
privately, at the first opportunity, the circumstances of our design
for living.  Mrs.  Snead is a Londoner and quite unshockable, as well
as being a good friend and a mine of useful information.  When I had
finished explaining, all she said was "I think, Mrs.  Phipps, it would
be a cruel thing to let that man suffer, if you can give 'im a spot of
comfort in 'is hour of need."  So that was that.  And now you know."

For a moment neither of them said anything.  Then Carrie sighed.

"Poor Oscar.  But how much poorer he would be without you."

"And Lucy?  What shall we do about Lucy?  She doesn't look a stupid
child.  Ought you to tell her?"

"Let's not make an issue.  If she asks questions, I shall tell her the
truth."

"We're so old, she'll be astonished."

"I don't think so.  Her own grandfather has a very young wife and a
couple of little children.  Nothing new to Lucy.  She's clearly taken a
shine to Oscar and she'll be thrilled, as I am."  Carrie put her arms
around Elfrida's skinny shoulders and hugged.

"It's all so sweet.  Needing each other and finding each other."

"Oscar's not out of the woods yet by any means.  He still has a long
way to go.  Some days he's been so depressed that he scarcely speaks.
But I've learned to leave him alone.  He has to deal with his grief in
his own way."

"It can't have been easy."

"Oh, darling Carrie, nothing is.  And now we must waste no more time,
otherwise the day will have died.  I shall find you a hot-water bottle,
and you shall go to sleep."

lucy friday, december 15

We are here, and it is now ten o'clock at night and it has been a long
day.  Carrie came to Gran's flat about half past eight in the morning,
and she had a taxi waiting, and then we drove on to Heathrow.  Mummy
and Gran were still at the flat.  Mummy doesn't fly to Florida till
Tuesday.  They were still in their dressing-gowns and being very kind.
I think they both felt a bit guilty about all the discussions and
crossness.  They gave me Christmas presents, all wrapped, and I put
them in my suitcase.  Mummy gave me one hundred fifty pounds and Gran
gave me fifty more pounds for spending money.  I have never felt so
rich and am frightened of losing my purse, but it's all right, quite
safe in my new haversack.

The flight was all right and not bumpy and we had a son of breakfast on
the plane.  At Inverness a nice man called Alec was there to meet us
and drove us here.  There was snow on a hill and it took about an hour
and a quarter.

Creagan is very old, pretty, and full of quite large houses and a huge
church.  This is an amazing house, it is much bigger than it looks and
is on three storeys.  It was rented out, and a lot of the furniture,
Oscar told me, came from Carry- dale, the big house he used to stay in
when he was a boy and had a grandmother there.  I say a lot of
furniture, but in fact there isn 't much, and no pictures or anything.
The sitting- room and bedrooms are on the first floor, but I am up
again, and in an attic, which Elfrida has done up especially for me.
She didn't have to paint it, as it's all white and quite fresh, but she
has had to buy furniture, which was very kind of her.

So.  My worn.  It has a sloping ceiling and a skylight (no window) and
a striped blind on the skylight, but I don't suppose I shall ever pull
it down, as I am able to lie in bed and look up at the sky.  Like being
out of doors.

The bed is dark wood, and there is a blue-and-white

striped duvet and a tartan rug in case I feel cold.  There is a white
dressing-table, with a swing mirror and little drawers, and a chest of
drawers as well.  Then, a bedside table, a lamp, and a very useful
table against one of the non-sloping walls.  I think it must once have
been a kitchen table, as it's a bit battered, but just right for
writing up diary or writing letters, et cetera.  Then there are two
chairs and some hooks on the wall for me to hang my clothes.  I haven't
brought very many.  The floor is scrubbed floorboards and in the middle
is a wonderful thick rug with lots of bright colours, and by my bedside
there is a sheepskin for stepping out onto on cold mornings.  I find it
all so different and romantic.

Elfrida and Oscar are really nice.  I thought they would be terribly
old.  They are old, but don't look it, or talk like it.  Elfrida is
very tall and thin with orangey hair, and Oscar is also tall, but not
quite so thin.  And he has a lot of white hair, a very soft voice,
gentle eyes.  Before we left London, Carrie told me about his wife and
his daughter Francesca being killed in a terrible car smash.  And their
dogs as well.  I was rather dreading meeting him, because it is
difficult sometimes to know what to say to someone who has suffered
something so awful.  But he is really nice and didn 't seem at all
upset when he saw me and Carrie.  We had lunch, and then he asked me to
go out for a walk with him and Horace.  Horace is Elfrida's dog.  So we
went, and it wasn 't too cold, and we looked at shops and sat in the
church for a bit, and then we went out again, and crossed the golf
links and went to the beach.  The beach is lovely, long and clean, with
no plastic bottles or rubbish.  Lots of shells.  I picked up two
scallops.  I shall go again, and take Horace with me.

I am really happy.  I've never lived in such a big house, but it has a
nice feel, as though well-to-do and cheerful people had always lived
here.  It has a big garden, too, at the back, but not much growing
there at this time of year.  Tomorrow I shall explore.

OSCAR

oscar, rather to his surprise, was having a bonfire.

At Dibton, at the Grange, he had become an enthusiastic gardener,
mostly because he was retired, and a little piano teaching and the
occasional Sunday-morning duty in the village church still left him
with time on his hands.  To begin with, he was totally inexperienced.
Had never even watered a window-box.  But, starting up, he realized
that long- forgotten wisdoms came floating up from his subconscious,
wisdoms left over from the holidays he had spent at Corry- dale with
his grandmother, a natural gardener so experienced and accomplished
that others came to view the glories of Corrydale and seek her
advice.

The practical aspects he taught himself-by trial and error, and by
intensive study of huge gardening tomes.  As well, he had the help of
the two local men who came in to cut grass, do a bit of forestry, and
deal with the heavy digging.  Before long, his new hobby had absorbed
him, and he enjoyed the physical exercise, the pleasures of planning
and planting, and the simple satisfaction of being out of doors.

Coming to Creagan in the middle of winter, there wasn't much he could
do about the steep terraced garden that climbed the slope behind the
Estate House.  He had swept up a number of dead leaves and cleared
blocked drains, and that was all.  But this morning, at breakfast,
Elfrida had complained about an overgrown lilac bush that spilt out
over the path and got in her way when she went up to the washing- line
with her basket of wet laundry.

Oscar said that he would deal with the wayward lilac.

After breakfast, he took down the key of the potting- shed from its
hook on the dresser, and went out to investigate.  It was a strange
sort of day, overcast, and with only a slight movement of chill air.
From time to time the clouds parted to reveal a scrap of blue sky, but
looking, he could

still see the snow lying on the hills, which meant there was more to
come.

He managed to turn the rusty key and tug the warped wooden door open,
revealing a dark and musty interior scarcely lit by a small cob webby
window.  There was a potting-table, on which lay a lot of earth, some
broken flowerpots, a stack of yellowed newspapers, and a few archaic
tools, like dibbers and bill hooks  There was no mower or trimmer, nor
any piece of modem equipment, but around the walls, on huge masonry
nails, hung heavy old forks and spades.  A rake, a hoe, a rusted saw, a
formidable scythe.  All were in dire need of care and attention, and he
thought he would clean and oil them all, but could find no oilcan
amongst the chaos and decided that that particular job must wait.

In a box filled with nuts, bolts, and rusted spanners, he found a pair
of secateurs, ancient but more or less workable.  Using these, he went
out and dealt with the lilac, which left him with a pile of branches in
need of disposal.  There was no wheelbarrow, and indeed a wheelbarrow
would be useless in this precipitous plot, so he found a ragged potato
sack, stuffed the branches into this, and lugged it up to the top of
the garden where, behind an old plum tree, there were the blackened
remains of some previous bonfire.

He decided, then, to clear out the potting-shed and burn all the
rubbish while it was a dry, still day, and while he was in the mood.

There was a great deal of it, and it took several journeys up and down
the path to get it all collected.  He made spills out of the newspaper,
chopped up some rotted wooden seed- boxes, and got his fire started.
Soon it was blazing nicely, and he was raking up leaves and getting
quite warm.  He took off his jacket, hung it on the plum tree, and
worked in his sweater.  The thick smoke rose and billowed and made
everything smell of autumn.  Then he started in on some smothering ivy,
cutting and tearing it back off the old stone wall, and so intent was
he on this labour that he did not hear the back gate open and shut, and
he did not see the man who walked up the path behind him.

"Oscar."

Startled, Oscar swung around, to face Peter Kennedy.  Peter was dressed
for golf, in his red jacket and with his long- peaked baseball cap
pulled down over his brow.

"Heavens, I never heard you."

"I didn't mean to sneak up on you.  But I'm on my way to the Golf Club,
I'm playing at half past ten.  I saw the smoke from the fire, and
guessed I'd find you here."

"What can I do for you?"

"Nothing, really.  But I wanted to tell you that I was in Inverness
yesterday, and I dropped in at the hospital to see Godfrey
Billicliffe."

"That was good of you.  How is he?"

Peter shook his head.

"Not good news, I'm afraid.  He's very ill.  He has cancer...."

Cancer.  Oscar said, "Oh, God."

"... I think, he already had his own private suspicions, fears.  But
never said a word to anybody.  He told me he'd been feeling unwell for
a long time, but had never gone to see the doctor.  Just dosed himself
with pain-killers and whisky.  He didn't want to be told ... he was
frightened of the truth."

"He was frightened that day I found him in his bed."

"I know."

Oscar thought about the sick old man, remembered the weak tears that
had brimmed his rheumy eyes.

"Does he know?"  he asked.

"Yes.  He persuaded the young consultant to tell him."

"How long has he got?"

"A little time.  He's dying.  But he's comfortable and quite peaceful,
I think, rather enjoying all the attention and the nurses taking care
of him.  It will be a relief."

"I must go and see him."

"No.  He asked me to tell you no.  He's doped and frail, and already
has the look of a man on his way out of this world.  But he asked me to
send you his regards and to say how grateful he was for your
kindness."

"I didn't do anything."



"You did: And you were there when he most needed a friend."

Oscar kicked, with the toe of his boot, a smouldering twig into the
heart of his fire.  For a moment, remembering his reluctance even to
speak to old Billicliffe, dodging around street corners in mortal dread
of meeting him, he hated himself.

He said, "Did you speak to the doctor in the hospital?"

"Yes.  When I'd said goodbye, I tracked the consultant down, and he
confirmed what I already knew."

"What can I do?"

"Little, really.  Perhaps write him a note.  Send him a card.  He'd
like that."

"It seems a bit tame."

"He really is quite peaceful.  Not struggling, not distressed.  Sleeps
most of the time, but when he did open his eyes, he recognized me, and
we spoke and he was perfectly lucid.  I think, accepting."

Oscar sighed hugely.

"Well, I suppose that's it, then."  He thought of practicalities.

"I'm down as his next of kin."

"They'll let you know.  Or myself.  We'll keep in touch."

"Thank you for telling me."

"I knew that you would want to know.  Now I must be off, and leave you
to your bonfire."

Oscar laid down his rake.

"I'll come with you to the gate."

They walked down the path in single file.  At the gate, Peter paused.

"There's something else.  It occurred to me that perhaps you might be
missing your music."  He felt in the pocket of his red golf jacket and
produced a small brass key.

"The church is always open, but the organ locked.  I have discussed it
with Alistair Heggie, our organist, and he is happy for you to use it
any time you feel so inclined.  Here...."  Before Oscar could protest,
Peter had taken his wrist and pressed the key into his outstretched
palm, closing his fingers about it.

Oscar said, "Oh, no...."

"You don't have to.  You might not even want to.  But I'd like to think
that you can, if the impulse takes you, and if you feel it would
help."

"You are too kind."

"Just put it somewhere safe."  Peter grinned.

"It's our only spare."  He turned as if to go, and then turned back
again.

"I think my brain is going soft.  I very nearly forgot.  Another of the
reasons I came in search of you.  Tabitha says would you all like to
come up to the Manse for a drink and a mince pie on Tuesday evening at
six.  Everybody's welcome.  Nothing formal.  Don't dress up.  Our
children will probably be around...."

"TAiesday."  Oscar, still holding the key, made a mental note.  He must
not forget to tell Elfrida.

"Tbesday at six.  I think we'd like that very much."

"Splendid."  Peter went through the gate and latched it behind him.

"We'll see you then."

"Have a good round.  And thank you for coming."

ucy

on Monday morning, when Lucy descended from her private eyrie in the
attic, she saw, on the first-floor landing, that Carrie's bedroom door
was closed.  Her first thought was that perhaps Carrie had overslept,
and wondered if she should wake her up, and then, fortuitously, decided
against it.

Downstairs, she found only Oscar and Elfrida in the midst of breakfast.
This morning Oscar was eating sausages, and Lucy hoped there would be
some for her.  Sausages for breakfast was one of her ideas of heaven.

"Lucy."  As she appeared through the door, he laid down his coffee-cup,
and smiled.

"How are you this morning?"

"I'm fine, but where's Carrie?"

"Carrie's really not well."  Elfrida got up from the table to collect
Lucy's sausages from the hot plate

"I don't think she's got flu, but she certainly isn't throwing this
horrible cold off.  Two sausages, or three?"

"Three, please, if there's enough.  Is she still in bed?"

"Yes, I looked in to see her, and she said she'd coughed all night, and
hadn't been able to sleep, and was feeling thoroughly fed up with
herself.  I took her up a cup of tea, but she doesn't want anything to
eat.  When the Health Centre opens at nine, I'm going to ring Dr.
Sinclair and ask if he'll come around and have a look at her."

"Does he make house calls?"

"The Health Centre's only across the road."

Lucy sat down to her sausages.

"In London, doctors never do house calls.  You have to go and sit in
the waiting room with all the other sick people.  Gran always says you
come out with more things wrong with you than when you went in.  Do you
think she's going to be all right?  Carrie, I mean.  She must be all
right for Christmas."

"We'll see what Dr.  Sinclair says."

"Can I go and see her?"

l WINTER SOLSTICE

'$ "I shouldn't, until we know what's wrong.  It might be {rightfully
contagious and then you'd come out in spots.  Or running sores.  Like
poor Job."

Lucy ate her sausages, which were delicious, and Elfrida poured her a
cup of coffee.  She said, "It's really disappointing, because we'd
planned a long walk on the beach this morning, with Horace."

"No reason why you shouldn't go."

"Will you come, Oscar?"

"I can't, this morning.  I've got a lot of letters to write, and then
I'm going to get my hair cut.  After that I'm going to the bookshop to
order two books, and then I am going to pick up the meat from the
butcher."

"Oh, I see."  It was hard not to sound downcast.

He smiled.

"You can go on your own.  Take Horace.  He will guard you.  You can be
a lone explorer."

Lucy brightened.

"Can I?"

"Of course."

She mulled over this new prospect of freedom while she ate her
sausages, and found that she was rather taken with the idea of setting
out, with the dog, all by herself.  For obvious reasons she was not
allowed to go for long, solitary walks in London, and if she did have
some arrangement made with Emma, her mother always had to know where
she was going, and when she would be back.  But here, in Creagan, it
was obvious that such precautions were not necessary.  Elfrida and
Oscar didn't even lock their front door.  In the town, cars and lorries
drove very slowly, and shoppers quite often walked in the middle of the
road, stopping from time to time to chat, and on the streets and
pavements there always seemed to be unaccompanied children
skateboarding or otherwise flocking around in gangs.  The day that
Oscar had taken her as far as the beach, she had seen youngsters
climbing rocks, riding bicycles, and not an adult in view.  As for
sinister men in raincoats, drunks, or drug addicts, they simply didn't
seem to exist in this wholesome climate.  Perhaps, like germs and
mildew, they did not flourish in the cold.

The back door opened and slammed shut.



"Mrs.  Snead," said Oscar, and in a moment she was with them, bursting
into the kitchen, wearing a pink track suit and a dashing pair of
trainers.

"Oh, it's 'orrible again," she told them.

"Black clouds.  Looks like snow to me."  She saw Lucy.  "

"Ullo, what are you doing 'ere?  Come to stay?  Where's your auntie?"

She had a head of tight grey curls and wore pink glass earrings to
match her track suit.

"She's in bed.  She's not well."

"Oh, that's too bad.  Seen the doctor, 'as she?"

"Elfrida's going to ring him up and ask him to come."

"Well."  Mrs.  Snead gazed at Elfrida.

"What a turn-up for the books.  I mean, 'having an invalid.  And only
just got 'ere.  That's bad luck.  You're Lucy, aren't you?  Mrs. Phipps
told me about you.  What do you think of your room?  We 'ad a lovely
time doing it all up for you.  It was just an empty old attic
before."

"Have a cup of tea, Mrs.  Snead," said Elfrida, and Mrs.  Snead said
that would be very nice, and proceeded to make herself a mug, with a
tea-bag, and then settled down at the table to drink it.

Lucy knew that Gran would disapprove violently of such familiar
carryings-on, and, perversely, liked Mrs.  Snead all the more.

The morning progressed.  Mrs.  Snead Hoovered, Lucy and Oscar washed up
the breakfast dishes, and Elfrida went off to telephone the doctor.  At
ten o'clock, the doorbell rang, and Lucy ran downstairs to let him in,
but he had already done so, and she found him wiping his boots on the
front-door mat.

"Hello, there," he said when he saw her.  He had a very Highland voice,
but he was quite young, with a wind-burnt face and gingery eyebrows,
like caterpillars.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Lucy Wesley.  I'm staying here."

"That's nice.  Now, where's the invalid?"

"She's upstairs...."

Elfrida was hanging over the banister.

"Dr.  Sinclair.  You are a saint to come."  He climbed the stair, but
Lucy did not follow him.  Instead, she went back into the kitchen,
where

Mrs.  Snead was sorting laundry for the clothes washer.  That the
doctor come?  I 'ope it's not serious."

"I thought it was just a cold.  She felt rotten flying up, I know. It's
so miserable for her."

"Oh, cheer up, she'll be all right.  Now, would you like to do
something for me?

"Op upstairs and bring down the towels in Mrs.  Phipps's bathroom.  And
then I'll give you the clean ones to put in their place."

Dr.  Sinclair did not take long.  He and Elfrida went into Carrie's
room, and Lucy, collecting towels, heard their voices behind the closed
door.  It was reassuring to have him here, but she hoped that he would
not diagnose some sinister bug, an illness that would demand
antibiotics and two weeks in bed.  When he had finished with Carrie, he
and Elfrida did not at once come downstairs, but went into the drawing-
room, to talk to Oscar.

Lucy, having finished her laundry duties, hung about for a bit in the
hall, and then could wait no longer, and went to join them.  The three
of them were sitting on the window- seat, talking about somebody called
Major Billicliffe.  Major Billicliffe, it seemed, was in hospital in
Inverness and very ill.  They all wore rather long faces.  And then
Elfrida turned and saw her standing in the open door, and smiled.

"Don't look so worried, Lucy."

The doctor got to his feet.

"Is Carrie all right?"  Lucy asked him.

"Yes, she'll be all right.  All she needs is a bit of rest.  Sleep and
lots of drinks, and I've left a prescription for that cough.  Leave her
in peace, and she'll be up and about in a couple of days."

Lucy was much relieved.

"Can I go and see her?"

"I'd leave her for a moment."

Elfrida said, "Why don't you take Horace for his exploring walk?"

"Where are you going, Lucy?"  the doctor asked.

"I thought along the beach."

"Are you interested in birds?"

"I don't know their names."



"There are beautiful birds on the beach.  I'm calling in tomorrow to
see your aunt, so I'll bring my bird book with me, and then you can
look them up."

"Thank you."

"Not at all.  Not at all.  Well, I must be off.  We'll be in touch, Mr.
Blundell.  Goodbye, Mrs.  Phipps."

And he was away, running downstairs, letting himself out, slamming the
front door shut behind him.  Lucy, looking from the window, saw him get
into his car and drive off to his next call.  There was a dog on the
passenger seat, gazing from the window.  A big springer spaniel with
floppy ears.  And she decided it must be nice, being a country GP and
having a dog in your car.

Mrs.  Snead was right.  It was a daunting sort of day, though not
actually raining.  Which was odd, because the weekend had been so soft
and still, and Oscar had been able to have his bonfire.  With Horace on
his lead, Lucy let herself out of the Estate House, went through the
gate, and set off across the square, and then turned up the road that
led to the Golf Club.  There were not very many golfers around, and
only a few cars in the park.  The right-of-way led across the links,
curving up and over the natural undulations of the land, and when she
reached a shallow summit she saw the whole horizon, cold and still as
steel, and a great arc of sky, grey with low cloud.  It was half-tide,
and small waves washed up onto the shining wet sand.  Far away, she
could see the lighthouse, and when she reached the little car-park,
flocks of kittiwakes were pecking over the rubbish bins, as though
expecting crusts or stale sandwiches.  Horace saw them and, of course,
barked, and they all fluttered off, pretending to be frightened, flew
around for a moment, and then settled down again to their scavenging.

Lucy undipped Horace's lead and he ran ahead of her, down the ramp and
onto the sands.  In the shelter of the dunes the sand was deep and soft
and difficult for walking, so she went out onto the wet hard sand, and
looking back, saw her own footsteps, with Horace's footpads circling
them, like a line of stitching.

There were rocks, and small rock-pools at the point, and then the big
beach, curving northwards.  Ahead, a long way off, the hills folded in
on each other, grey and forbidding, and dusted with snow.  The sky
beyond them was dark as a purple bruise, and she felt the light wind on
her face, so cold it was like opening a deep freeze.

She was alone.  Not another soul, not another dog on the beach.  Only
birds skimming over the shallow breakers.

In this enormous, empty, airy world, she saw herself tiny as an ant,
reduced to total unimportance by the sweep and size of nature.  A
nonentity.  She rather liked the feeling of being without identity, of
knowing that nobody knew exactly where she was, and that if she met
somebody, they wouldn't know who she was.  So, she belonged to nobody
but herself.  She walked hard, keeping warm, pausing only every now and
then to pick up a scallop shell or a particularly eye catching pebble
or shard of glass worn smooth by the sea.  She put these treasures in
her pocket.  Then Horace found a long piece of seaweed, which he
carried in his mouth like a trophy.  Lucy tried to get it from him, and
it turned into a game, with Horace running and Lucy chasing.  She found
a stick and flung it into the waves, and Horace forgot about the
seaweed and dropped it, and went galloping into the water, only to
discover that it was too cold and wet for comfort before beating a
startled retreat.

The beach ended at another outcrop of rocks, with pools and crannies of
pebbles, and there was a strong reek of seaweed.  Lucy paused to get
her bearings.  Hillocky dunes separated the beach from the golf links,
and as she hesitated, trying to decide which way to go next, Lucy heard
the sound of a motor and saw, above the rocks, a tractor come trundling
towards her, over a rise.  The tractor pulled a bogie, so it wasn't
moving very fast.  But clearly, there had to be a sort of road.  She
decided that she would walk home that way, and with some difficulty
hauled her way up a sandy cliff and into the dunes.  Horace bounded
ahead of her, and out of sight.  The dunes made a little hill, thick
with rough grass and rushes, and reaching the summit, she saw the
track.



Horace was already down there, waiting for her.  But not looking Lucy's
way.  He had, it was obvious, sensed strangers.  He stood, ears
pricked, with his plumy tail up like a flag.  Watching.  Lucy looked,
and saw, coming up the slope from the direction of the town, another
dog walker, striding out in purposeful manner.  She was dressed in
boots, thick trousers, and a sheepskin coat, and wore a tam-o'-shanter
slanted at a cocky angle over cropped grey hair.  Her dog, running
free, spied Horace and stopped dead.  The two animals eyed each other
for a long moment, and Lucy was all at once petrified with dread,
because the other dog was a Rottweiler.

"Horace."  She had meant to call him, but her mouth was dry, and his
name came out in an agonized whisper.

Horace either didn't hear her, or pretended not to.  And then, stupid
mutt that he was, began to bark.  The Rottweiler slowly moved forward,
his shining body tense, muscles flexed.  A snarling sound came from
deep in his throat, and his dark lips rolled back from his teeth.
Horace, holding his ground, gave another timid bark, and with that, the
Rottweiler pounced.

Lucy screamed.  Horace screamed as well, a dog-scream that sounded like
a howl for help.  He was being flattened, bitten, and bruised, and
however he struggled, could not escape.

The dog's owner was of no use at all.  She had a chain leash in her
hand, but it was obvious that she was too wary to start manhandling her
pet while he was in this frame of mind.  Instead she produced a pea
whistle, which she blew sharply, and proceeded to shout orders, like a
sergeant-major.

"Brutus!  Brutus!  Down, boy!  Down!  To heel!..."

The Rottweiler took absolutely no notice whatsoever.

"Brutus!"

"Get hold of him," Lucy wailed, hysterical with horror.  Horace,
Elfrida's darling dog, was about to be murdered.

"Do something.  Stop him!"

She had forgotten about the approaching tractor.  Now, like the cavalry
in some old Western, it trundled into view, in the nick of time; the
door was flung open, the driver jumped down and, sprinting the last few
yards and without showing

; (he slightest fear or hesitation, went straight into action, tending
his heavy boot into the muscled backside of the Rottweiler.

"Get off, you bloody brute!"  The startled Rottweiler abandoned Horace
and turned to attack this new enemy, but die young man grabbed his
studded collar and, with some strength, hauled him away from his
prey.

Lucy, in a thousand years, could never have imagined any person being
so level-headed, strong, and brave.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"  he demanded of the
dog's owner, grabbing the chain leash from her hand and somehow
clipping it to the collar of the snarling, struggling beast.  He then
dragged the animal towards her, and she took the leather loop in both
her hands.

There then followed the most stupendous row.

"Don't you swear at me-" "Why didn't you keep the dog on its chain?"

"He was attacked" Now that danger was over, she became belligerent. Her
voice was not the voice of Sutherland.  In fact, she sounded as though
she came from Liverpool or Manchester.

"He was no such thing.  I saw it all-" "There's no harm in Brutus
unless he's attacked...."  She was having a terrible time trying to
control her dog and became quite red in the face with effort.

"He's a monster-" "Roobish!"

"Where do you live?"

"And what's that got to do with you, young man?"

"Because if you lived here, you'd know better than to walk a savage dog
on a public footpath."

"I do not live here," said the woman, as though this were something to
be proud of.

"I'm a visitor.  Staying with my sister in her caravan."

"Well, go back to her caravan, and take your dog and shut him up."

"Don't speak to me in that tone of voice."

"I'll speak to you any way I like.  I work for the Golf Club; I'm one
of the staff."



"Oh, hoity-toity, are you...."

"Take that dog and go.  Just go.  If I see him running free again, I'll
report you to the police."

"And I shall complain of impudence-" But at this point, Brutus took
charge.  He had spied two innocent golfers striding down the fairway,
and with his blood up, and a desperate need to sink his teeth into some
other throat, set off on the hunt.  His owner, willy-nilly, went too,
trailed in his wake, her short, trousered legs going like pistons.

"Never been so insulted," she threw back over her shoulder.  Clearly a
woman who liked to have the last word.

"I'm not forgetting this...."  They heard no more.  She was out of
earshot, and her voice blown away by the wind.

She was gone.

Lucy, by now, was sitting on the wet, prickly grass with Horace
gathered up in her arms, his head pressed against the front of her new
red jacket.  The young man came to kneel beside her.  She saw that he
was very young, his face wind- burnt, his eyes blue.  He had short
yellow hair which looked as though he had dyed it, and there was a gold
ring in his left ear.

He said, "Are you all right?"  And Lucy, to her eternal shame, burst
into tears.

"Yes ... but Horace Here."  Gently he touched and examined poor Horace,
stroked the long hair off his face, making comforting, murmuring noises
as he did so.

"I think he'll be all right.  Just superficial cuts and bruises."

"He only barked" Lucy sobbed.

"He always barks.  He's so stupid.  I thought he was going to be
dead."

"Lucky he isn't."

Lucy sniffed.  She couldn't find a handkerchief.  She wiped her nose
with the back of her hand.

"He's not even my dog.  He's Elfrida's.  We just came for a walk."

"Where from?"

"Creagan."

"I'll take you back in the tractor.  I can take you as far as flje
clubhouse.  Can you walk from there?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Well done.  Come along then."

He helped her to her feet, stopped to lift Horace up, and, carrying
him, led the way back to the tractor.  This he had abandoned with doors
open and the engine throbbing.  Lucy clambered up into the cab.  There
was only one seat, but she perched herself on the very edge of this,
and Horace was placed at her feet, where he sat and leaned heavily
against her knee.  Then the young man jumped up beside her, slammed the
door shut, and put the tractor in gear.  Lurching over the bumps and
with the bogie rattling away behind them, they moved forward.

Lucy had stopped crying.  Tentatively, she asked, "Do you think Horace
will be all right?"

"When you get home, give him a bath, with disinfectant; you'll be able
to gauge the damage then.  If there are any really bad bites, he might
need stitches.  Might need to go to the vet.  He'll be bruised, that's
for sure.  And stiff for a couple of days."

"I feel so guilty.  I should have looked after him better."

"Not a thing you could do.  I think that female must be barmy.  If I
see her hellish animal again, I'll shoot it."

"He's called Brutus."

"Brutus the Brute."

Despite everything, Lucy found herself smiling.  She said, "Thank you
so much.  For helping."

"You're staying at the Estate House, aren't you?  With Oscar
Blundell?"

"Do you know him?"

"No, but my father does.  My father's Peter Kennedy, the minister.  I'm
Rory Kennedy."

"I'm Lucy Wesley."

"That's a pretty name."

"I think it's horrible."  It was rather snug, sitting high up in the
cabin of the tractor, sharing a single seat with this ReSAMUNDE
PlLCHER

: and kind young man.  She liked the feel of his sturdy body pressed
against her own, the oily smell of his thick jacket, the warmth of
unaccustomed physical contact.

"It sounds like a missionary."

"Well, there are worse things.  I've got a small sister called Clodagh.
She doesn't like her name either.  She wants to be called Tracey
Charlene."

This time Lucy laughed.

"Didn't I see you in church yesterday?"  he asked.

"Yes, but I didn't see you.  I suppose because there were so many
people.  I wanted to see the lights turned on, shining on the ceiling.
It's beautiful.  Elfrida came with me.  Carrie would have come, too.
She's my aunt.  But she's had this cold and she stayed indoors.  This
morning the doctor came, and she's got to stay in bed.  There's nothing
awful wrong with her.  She just has to rest.  Otherwise, she'd have
been with me, and probably that dogfight would never have happened."

"Nothing worse than a dogfight.  But not a thing you could have done to
stop it."

This was comforting.

"Do you work on the golf course?"

"Yes, for the time being.  This is the start of my Gap year.  I
finished Highers in July, and next year I go to Durham University.  I
caddied for Americans all summer.  That was really lucrative, but
they've all gone home, so I'm helping out for the head green keeper

"What are you going to do then?"

"I want to go to Nepal.  I can get a job there, teaching in a
school."

Lucy was impressed.

"What will you teach?"

"Reading and writing, I suppose.  Just little kids.  And sums.  And
football."

She thought about this.  She said, "I'm rather dreading my Gap year."

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen."

"You've time enough to make plans."

"The thing is, I don't want to go somewhere strange and scary.  All by
myself."

"Scary?"

"You know.  Crocodiles and revolutions."

He grinned.  He said, "You've been watching too much television."

"Perhaps I'll just stay at home."

"Where do you live?"

"London."

"Do you go to school there?"

"Yes.  A day-school."

"Up here for Christmas?"

"I came with Carrie.  I live with my mother and my grandmother.  My
mother is going to America for Christmas.  In fact, she's flying out
tomorrow.  And my grandmother is going to Bournemouth.  So Carrie and I
came here."

"What about your father?"

"They're divorced.  I don't see him much."

"That's rough."

Lucy shrugged.

"It's all right."

"My mother told me I have to lend you my old TV.  Do you want it?"

"Have you got one?"

"Sure."

"Well, it would be kind of you, but I'm managing very well without
one."

"I'll look it out."  For a bit they thumped along in silence, up and
over the bumpy track.  Then he said, "I believe you're all coming up to
the Manse for a drink tomorrow evening.  There's a hooley in the school
hall, at seven o'clock.  Clodagh and I are going.  Do you want to come
with us?"

"What's a hooley?"

"A dance."

Lucy was at once filled with anxiety.  She hated dancing, could never
remember which was right and which was left.  She had been to parties,
but never a dance.  And at parties she was usually consumed and
silenced by shyness.

She said, "I don't know."

"What don't you know?"

"If I want to come to a dance."



"Why not?  It's just the school-kids, practising reels for the hogmanay
parties.  Good fun."

Reels.

"I don't know how to do reels.  I don't know the steps."

"So it's high time you learned."  Still she hesitated, but then he
turned his head to smile down at her, in a friendly and encouraging
manner, and rather to her own surprise she found herself saying, "All
right.  Yes.  Thank you.  Do ... do I have to dress up?"

"Heaven forbid.  Jeans and trainers."

All the time they had been talking, it had been growing threateningly
dark.  It was now that the first large white flakes of snow began to
fall.  They drifted from the leaden sky and lay on the front of the
tractor, and gathered against the windscreen.  Rory turned on the
wipers.  He said, "I wondered when that would start.  You could see the
snow-clouds, coming down from the north.  I heard the weather forecast
this morning, and they said we're in for some heavy falls."

"Is it going to be a white Christmas?"

"Would you like that?"

"I've never had a white Christmas."

"Good for sledging.  Hard work for the road men and the snow ploughs

By now they were near the end of their journey, grinding up the slope
that led to the clubhouse.  Rory turned the tractor into the car-park,
killed the engine, opened the door, and climbed down.

"Will you be all right now?"

Snow settled on his hair and the shoulders of his thick donkey jacket.
Lucy clambered down behind him, and he reached into the cab and lifted
Horace down and set him on his feet.  Horace gave himself a shake, and
even wagged his plumy tail.  The snow drifted and swirled all about
them, and the ground beneath their feet was already iced with crunchy
flakes.  Lucy felt one settle on her nose and brushed it away.  She
took the lead from her pocket and Rory clipped it onto Horace's
collar.

"That's it, then."  He grinned down at her.

"You get home now."

"Thank you so much."

"See you tomorrow evening."

"Yes."

She walked away from him, down the hill, into the falling snow.
Bravely, Horace limped along beside her.  A disinfectant bath, Rory had
told her, and then, perhaps, a visit to the vet.  She hoped Elfrida
would not be too upset, but was pretty sure that she wouldn't.  She
would be sympathetic and would understand that none of it had been
Lucy's fault.  Behind her, she heard the tractor start up, and turned
back to wave, but there was too much falling snow in the way for Rory
to see.

She trudged on, feeling quite shattered by emotion and excitement.  It
had been a momentous outing.  A long walk, a dogfight, a tractor ride,
a snowstorm, and an invitation to a dance.  She could scarcely wait to
get home and tell Oscar and Elfrida all about it.

EL FRIDA

it was an enormous relief to Elfrida when she heard the front door open
and Lucy's voice calling out.  It was now nearly midday, but dark as
evening, and the world beyond the kitchen window blanketed with falling
snow.  Ever since the snow started, drifting down from a granite sky,
she had been worrying about Lucy, blaming herself for being
irresponsible and letting the child go off on her own, imagining every
sort of horror.  Oscar, upstairs by the fire, was not nearly so
concerned.  He read his newspaper and assured Elfrida, each time she
rushed to gaze from the window, that the girl was sensible, she had the
dog with her, she couldn't be mollycoddled for the rest of her life.

All of which Elfrida knew was true; so she returned to the kitchen to
do something about lunch, peeling potatoes, but keeping her ear cocked,
like a dog.  When she heard Lucy in the hall, calling her name, she
abandoned the potatoes and rushed out to meet her, wiping her hands on
her cook's apron.  Lucy and Horace stood on the doormat, both encrusted
in snow, and with a terrible story to tell.

It was told in the warm kitchen, while Lucy shed her coat and hat and
pulled off her boots.  "... This horrible dog, a Rottweiler... and it
didn't have a lead ... and it went for Horace and bit him, and then
there was a tractor... Rory Kennedy ... and he was frightfully brave
... and had a dreadful row with the Rottweiler lady ... shouting at
each other ... she stumped off... and Rory Kennedy brought us back to
the Golf Club in his tractor and then it snowed.  And, oh, Elfrida, I
am sorry, but I couldn 't stop it.  And poor Horace has got bites and
bruises.  Rory said we have to give him a disinfectant bath, and maybe
take him to the vet.  Have we got any disinfectant?  Because if not, I
can go down to the chemist and get some.... It was so frightening.... I
think he might have killed Horace...."

She was clearly much upset by the whole incident, but, in an
extraordinary way, excited as well, having come through the entire
adventure and brought Horace home alive.  Her cheeks were pink, and her
eyes bright.  She was a sweet child, of course, but serious-minded, and
docility did not suit a fourteen-year-old.  This metamorphosis was
hopeful, and El- frida forgot about all her anxieties, and knew that by
sending Lucy off on her own she had done exactly the right thing.

As for Horace, he sat on the floor and looked sorry for himself.

"What happened, Horace?"  Elfrida asked him.

"Were you attacked by a savage hound?"

"He did bark," Lucy had to admit.

"But not very much."

"Only stupid dogs bark at Rottweilers."

Elfrida went upstairs for a bottle of Dettol, and Lucy filled the big
clay sink in the scullery with warm water and then they lifted Horace
into this, and all the snow that was stuck to his paws and his chest
melted away.  There wasn't a shower, but Elfrida found an old jug and
used this to pour the hospital-smelling water over his back and his
legs and his neck.

He sat in sodden, suffering silence, but by the end of his bath Elfrida
had discovered no serious wounds, simply a series of nips and punctures
which would in time heal themselves.  His stomach was badly bruised and
one of his ears a bit torn, but by and large he appeared to have
emerged from his battering with little lasting harm.

Lucy sighed with relief.

"So we won't have to take him to the vet?"

"I don't think so.  Just as well.  I don't actually know where the
nearest vet is, but in this snow, we couldn't drive anywhere."  She let
the water out, lifted Horace out of the sink, and carried him into the
kitchen, wrapped like a Bedouin in a thick clean bath towel.  Gently,
she patted him dry.

"Now we've got two invalids.  Perhaps we should put up a notice saying
estate house nursing home."

Lucy was struck by guilt.

"How awful.  I actually forgot about Carrie.  Is she still asleep?"



"I expect so.  I haven't heard a sound."

"Where's Oscar?"

"In the sitting-room."

"I must go and tell him everything that's happened."

"He'll be enthralled.  But, darling, your jeans are soaked.  I think
first you should go and get some dry clothes on.  Bring the wet things
down and we'll string them up on the pulley."

"All right."  Lucy started to go, but at the open door turned back.

"Elfrida."

"What is it, duck?"

"Rory Kennedy's terribly nice.  And he's got dyed hair."

"Dyed hair?"  Elfrida put on an expression of horror.

"What would your grandmother say?"

Lucy told her, in Dodie's voice.  "

"Dis-gusting!"

" And she grinned and was gone, and Elfrida heard her running, two at a
time, up all the stairs to her attic bedroom.

It was three o'clock that afternoon before Elfrida went to check on
Carrie.  The snow had stopped, but the dark day was already dropping
into evening, and she had had to turn on lights and draw curtains.

She gently tapped on Carrie's door, and opened it.

"Carrie?"

"I'm awake."

In the half-light, Elfrida saw her head turn on the white pillow.  She
moved forward to switch on the little bedside light.  Carrie stretched,
and then smiled at her.

"What time is it?"

"Three o'clock."

"It's like night."

"I know.  It's been snowing.  We've had about four inches.  But it's
stopped for the moment."  She went to close the window and draw the
thick curtains, and me small bedroom at once became enclosed and cosy,
with the single light burning and corners thick with shadow.  Elfrida
perched herself on the edge of the huge bed.

"How do you feel?"

"Stunned.  How could I sleep so long?"

"You were tired out.  Would you like something to eat?  Or a cup of
tea?"

Carrie thought about this.

"I'd adore a cup of tea.  And I've got to go to the loo."

She climbed out of bed; long thin arms and legs and a long night-dress.
She reached for her dressing-gown and wrapped herself in it, tying the
sash tightly about her narrow waist.  Elfrida left her and went
downstairs to boil a kettle.  She set a tray for the two of them, and
found some very delicious and expensive biscuits which Oscar, on one of
his shopping expeditions, had been impelled to buy.  She carried the
tray upstairs and found Carrie back in bed, having washed her face and
cleaned her teeth and combed her dark hair.  She had put scent on, too,
her own special perfume, and clearly felt much more presentable.

"Elfrida, you are an angel.  I am sorry.  So much trouble."

"No trouble at all.  I'm just so happy you were able to have a rest."

"It's so quiet.  Where is everybody?"

"Once the snow stopped, Oscar and Lucy decided to go shopping.  Just in
the town.  They've gone to look for decorations for the Christmas
tree."

"Where will they find them?"

"No idea.  Probably the ironmonger.  Lucy took Horace for his walk and
had a tremendous adventure...."  She told Carrie the long saga of
Horace and the Rottweiler, and Carrie was suitably horrified, but
impressed, too, by Lucy's composure, the manner in which she had
conducted herself.

"What an adventure!  Quite frightening, but probably just what she
needs.  She leads such a dull, unexciting life in London with Dodie and
Nicola.  They are both of them such selfish brutes, and neither has a
scrap of imagination.  I can't imagine what my life at Lucy's age would
have been like if it hadn't been for Jeffrey.  And of course, she
hasn't got a Jeffrey, and she hasn't got a proper father.  Dodie and
Nicola have such terribly limited horizons, there can be no stimulation
at

all.  All they talk about is other people-mostly bitching-or
clothes."

"What does the poor child do all day?"

"Most of the time, she's at school.  She's got a nice little room of
her own in the flat, and a friend called Emma...."

"I suppose she never sees a man.  Or a boy."

"The school is all-girls, and if she does visit her father, the dreaded
Marilyn is always much in evidence.  Jealous, probably, stupid cow."

"I think she was rather taken by Rory Kennedy.  Quite apart from being
immensely brave and rescuing Horace, he has dyed hair.  And an
earring."

"Too exciting."

"We've all been asked up to the Manse tomorrow evening for a drink with
the Kennedys.  I'd love you to be able to come, because I want you to
meet Tabitha Kennedy, but perhaps you aren't feeling up to such wild
sociality."

"I'll see."

"And then, apparently, there's some shindig on in the school hall, all
the children are going to dance reels.  Rory asked Lucy if she'd go
with him and his sister, and she's all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed
about this, and says she's going to wash her hair tonight."

Carrie drank her tea, which was scalding-hot and smoky- tasting because
Elfrida had made it with Lapsang Souchong tea-bags.  She said rather
sadly, "I have an awful feeling that when the time comes to go back to
London, we're going to have terrible sadness and tears."

"Don't say it.  I can't bear to think about it."

"I've been thinking about this job with the travel company.  In London.
I've decided I'll take it.  Maybe just for a year.  Then I can be
around for Lucy, try to brighten things up for her a bit.  I'll
bludgeon Dodie into submission, force her to let me take Lucy to
Cornwall to stay with Jeffrey and Serena.  You know, she's never seen
Jeffrey.  She was just a baby when they divorced, and Dodie's
resentment and grudges show no signs of abating."

"Poor woman."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because she has nothing else to think about.  More tea?"  Carrie held
out her empty cup and Elfrida refilled it.

"Did Nicola ring today?"

"Nicola?  Were you expecting a call?"

"No.  But tomorrow she's flying to Florida.  I thought she might have
called to say goodbye to Lucy.  But she obviously hasn't."

"Lucy never spoke about it.  To be truthful, I think she's too
preoccupied with doggy adventures, Rory Kennedy, and buying Christmas
tree decorations with Oscar."

"Good for Lucy."

They fell silent, sipping tea, companionable.  The house was very
quiet.  Elfrida said, as casually as she could, "Is this a good time to
talk?"

Carrie raised her head, and her beautiful dark eyes gazed into
Elfrida's face.

"Talk?"

"You said you would tell me.  Some time.  Later.  Why you left Austria.
Why you came home so precipitantly.  Why you are taking this job in
London.  Perhaps now, with no person to interrupt, is as good as any.
I'm not prying, I just want to know.  Not so much about Austria, as why
you are so worn out and sad-looking."

"Is that how I look?"

"But no less beautiful."

"Oh, Elfrida, what a star you are.  I don't feel beautiful.  I feel old
and finished.  I'm nearly thirty now.  It's like a watershed.  And I
don't know what's waiting for me on the other side of the hill.  Since
I last saw you, the years have gone so fast.  Thirty once seemed an age
away.  Now, before I know it, I shall be forty and then fifty and I
have to make something of my life.  But the simple prospect of
decisions and meeting new people and finding old friends drains me of
all energy."

"That's probably why you caught this horrible cold.  Why a small virus
has laid you so low."

"Psychosomatic, you mean?"



"No, I don't mean that.  I mean physically vulnerable."

"Vulnerable.  I never thought any person would use that word about
me."

"Everybody is vulnerable."

"I thought I was strong."  Carrie had finished her tea, and Elfrida
took the empty cup, and got off the bed to put the tray down on the
floor.  Then, she went back to the bed and made herself comfortable,
leaning her back against the brass foot rail

"What happened, Carrie?"

"I'd been in Oberbeuren for about a year, done a winter season and a
summer season.  The pay was substantial and I'd found an apartment of
my own, and I was doing what I liked doing better than anything else in
the world.  It was a good time.  And then I met Andreas.  He arrived
with the first of the snow, he came with a party of men friends.... It
was a yearly date they'd kept, a sort of stag-party that had started
when they were all at University.  They stayed in the big hotel, and I
met him then.  He was a banker from Frankfurt.  A prestigious family
business, and his father was head of it.  He was married with two
children.  I knew from the very beginning that he was married, but I
wasn't a young innocent any longer, and I told myself that I could
handle it.  I didn't mean to fall in love with him, and I don't think
he intended to fall in love either, but it happened.  It just
happened.

"He was the most attractive man I had ever met; and the most generous
and amusing of companions, a brilliant skier, blissful in bed.  He
wasn't Germanic-looking at all, not fair nor blue-eyed.  In fact, he
was very dark, and tall and thin, rather intellectual in appearance. He
could have been a writer or a professor.  But he wasn't.  He was a
banker.

"He came to Oberbeuren quite often that first winter.  He flew into
Munich in the company plane, and drove from there up into the
mountains.  Then he didn't stay in the hotel, but with me.  And it was
like a private world that nobody else could enter.  I thought, when the
snow melted, that he would go, too, but he loved the mountains in
summer just as much

as wintertime, and we walked, whole days on end, and swam in icy lakes,
and slept in remote inns.  And we'd wake in some goose-feather bed, and
hear the cowbells as the herds came in for the morning milking.

"He travelled all over Europe on business and sometimes I would join
him, in Vienna, or Luxembourg, or Munich.  In Vienna it was winter, and
we walked to the Christmas Market, and bought gingerbread biscuits, and
sparkly stars and little painted wooden decorations.  And we went to
the opera that night and listened to Rosenkavalier, and afterwards had
dinner at the Three Hussars.

"Then, about six months ago, he came again to Oberbeuren.  He looked
tired and a bit preoccupied.  When I asked him if anything was wrong,
he told me that he had asked his wife if she would divorce him. Because
he wanted to marry me.  I felt torn in all directions.  I remembered
Jeffrey and Serena; I told myself how happy they were together.  But I
remembered, too, the acrimony and bitterness of that particular
divorce.  I didn't know his wife, except that she was called Inga.  I
could not imagine any woman not being totally in love with a man like
Andreas.  So I felt guilty and ecstatic at the same time.  But I didn't
look ahead, because there was no point.  I'd lived with Andreas, from
day to day, for so long.  I could scarcely remember the time when he
had not been there or been the most important thing in my life.

"He didn't talk about the divorce again.  He came to the mountains and
we were together, and sometimes he would say things like, "When we are
married, we shall build a house here, and come every weekend, and I
shall bring my children.  You shall meet my children!"

"But I never made any sort of reply because I was afraid; it seemed
like tempting providence.

"Then he said he had seen a lawyer.  Later, that he had told his
parents.  Told them his marriage was over, and he was going to get a
divorce.

"I think there must have been a monumental row.  Andreas's family were
important in Frankfurt; rich, well- connected, influential.  As well,
they were Catholic.  I can

imagine how it must have been for him.  And yet I can't.  I only knew
that I didn't have the strength to be the one to say goodbye.  So what
happened to me was up to him.  Andreas.  It was his decision.

"He held out for about three months, and he was so strong and so sure,
and so reassuring that I truly believed he would see it through, stick
to his guns, and tear himself loose.  But I think in the end the
pressure was too much.  He was obviously deeply fond of his wife and
adored his children.  He respected his parents and relished his
life-style.  I think he had probably been told that if he tore the
family apart, then he was finished.  Out on his ear.

"It's all so banal, isn't it?  One has heard it all before.  A story
out of an old melodrama or a Victorian opera.  By the time Andreas told
me that it had to end, our love, and that he was going back to
Frankfurt and Inga and the children, I had steeled myself to accept his
decision.  But when the time came to say goodbye, and I knew I would
never see him again, I felt as though all life was draining from my
body; it was like bleeding to death, or something ghastly like that.

"I thought I could stay in Oberbeuren and try to get on with my work,
but I couldn't.  I couldn't keep my mind on anything, and the job was
too demanding and important to be done at half-cock.  So I went to my
boss and told him I was lighting out.  Going back to London.  I stayed
long enough for them to pick a replacement... an efficient girl who'd
worked under me ... and then I flew home.

"I have dreams about Andreas still.  Sometimes they're frightening,
other times, he's there to tell me it was all a mistake, and that Inga
didn't want him any more, and we could be together again.  Those times
I wake up feeling so happy...."

There was a long silence, and then Carrie stirred, and smiled.  She
said, "So that's it."

"My darling girl.  Thank you for telling."

"Boring, really.  Like I said, banal."

"Not a bit."

Til recover.  I'll recover from Andreas and I'll recover from my little
cold in the head.  Life goes on.  I'm here with you.  I shall pull
myself together and do my best to be cheerful."

"You don't have to pretend anything."

"Will you tell Oscar?"

"If you want me to."

"Just a quick precis.  I'd like him to know.  It will make things
easier for both of us."

"All right."  Elfrida sighed deeply.

"Carrie, you mustn't think this is the end of laughter and loving. Life
is so extraordinary.  Wonderful surprises are just around the most
unexpected corners.  From where you're standing, it may seem a bit
bleak and empty, but look at me!  I thought I was alone for the rest of
my life, in my little geriatric bolt-hole in Hampshire.  And the next
thing, I'm in the north of Scotland living with Oscar Blundell."

"Oscar's not married."

"No."  Elfrida thought of Jimbo and sighed again, confused by the
twists and turns of fate.  She said, "The world is full of married
men."

"Not for me, Elfrida.  Never again."

From downstairs there came the sound of the heavy front door being
opened and shut, and the cheerful voices of Oscar and Lucy, returning
from their shopping.

Elfrida pulled herself together and climbed off the high bed.

"I must go and make fresh tea for Oscar.  Shall I tell Lucy to come and
see you?"

"Yes, do.  I want to hear the adventure of the dogfight from her own
lips.  And to be told about her new friend."

"You won't tease?"

"Oh, Elfrida.  As if I would.  I still can remember exactly how it
feels to be fourteen."

AM

Sthey stood at the bar of the Duke's Arms in Buckly, an austere little
pub that had made no concessions to either the tourist trade or trendy
decor.  The walls were pitch-pine tongue-and-groove, the lighting
bleak, the floor worn dark- brown linoleum.  The owner stood behind the
bar, and did not appear to be enjoying his job.  Around the place were
small round tables and uninviting chairs, and in a tiny fireplace a
peat-fire smouldered.  Over the fireplace an enormous stuffed fish,
with cold eyes, hovered in its glass case, and all smelt of old beer
and whisky.

Fergus Skinner said, "What'll it be?"

"A half of lager, please."

"Will you not take a dram?"

"I'm driving."

Fergus had brought Sam here, crossing the snowy road from the church
hall after the meeting.  It was, he told Sam, his customary haunt,
unfrequented by stray women, and a place where a man could sit and
enjoy a peaceful dram without some person approaching and engaging him
in conversation.

"Yes, yes," he said now, acknowledging Sam's situation.

"Well, that is a pity, but it cannot be helped."  And he ordered a
large Bells for himself.

"I'm walking."  But if this was meant to be funny, there was not a
gleam of humour in his eye.

He was a tall man, in his early forties, but looking older, with the
dark hair and pale skin of a true Highlander.  His features were
strong-deep-set eyes, a beak of a nose, a long lantern jaw-and his
expression sombre.

But his appearance belied him.  Fergus Skinner had been foreman at the
mill in the old days, and when the McTaggart family broke up, it was he
who had rallied the workforce, approached the Local Enterprise Company,
and organized

die management buy-out.  Almost unanimously, he had been voted in as
manager of the new enterprise, and the demise of the business,
destroyed by the natural disaster of flood, had been harder on Fergus
Skinner than anyone else.

But he remained undefeated, because probably the only alternative was
to go under, and he was too strong a man for that.  When Sam rang him
from London, from the offices of Sturrock and Swinfield, asking him to
set up some sort of a meeting with the work-force, Fergus Skinner had
done his stuff.  Put up notices alerting the public and inserted
various announcements in the local papers.  Because of this, the
meeting had been well attended, so much so that latecomers found
standing room only.

Now, they carried their drinks to a wobbly table by the fireside.  The
only other customer was a very old man, who sat in a corner brooding
over his glass and a drooping cigarette.  He seemed uninterested in
either of them.  On the wall a round clock, standing at half past five,
ticked solidly.  The barman, polishing a glass, gazed at a small
black-and-white television set, but had turned the sound so low it was
scarcely audible.

A lump of glowing peat slipped with a whisper into the embers of the
fire.  Fergus raised his glass.

"Your good health."

"And the future."  The lager, un-iced, tasted warm.

"The future."

It had been a good meeting, held in the Buckly Church Hall because the
mill was still in a state of desolation and disrepair; damp and
chillingly cold.  Sam and Fergus had sat upon the raised platform, and
Sam had seen not only men, but women as well, and here and there the
odd child, too small to be left alone at home.

To begin with, the atmosphere had been cautious, and not exactly
friendly.  These people, out of work for too long, were not going to
take any rosy promises for granted.  Sam, getting to his feet, had
started by introducing himself as the new general manager of
McTaggarts, who would be taking overall charge of the reconstruction of
the ruined mill and the restart of the business.  The response to this
was silence, and m

6e knew they probably regarded him as simply a money man, ] sent from
London by Sturrock and Swinfield.  So he told them a bit about his
background.  A Yorkshire boy, born and" bred to the woollen industry,
and a family mill very like mat of the McTaggarts of Buckly.  How they,
too, had been faced with financial difficulties, and been rescued by
Sturrock and Swinfield, which was why he, Sam, was there today.

The atmosphere relaxed a little.  People shifted, settled down hi their
chairs.

He carried on.

It took a long time.  He went through the whole process.  The
feasibility study and the restructuring.  A business built on
traditions and good will but moving forward.  So, new products.  New
markets.  New machinery.

At the start of the meeting, he had asked for questions.  Now hands
were held up.

"Will that mean retraining?"

He told them yes.  Other questions came thick and fast.

"Would there be redundancies?"

He said yes, there would be.  To begin with.  But once the new mill was
up and going, there would come gradual expansion, and so, new job
creation.

A woman rose to her feet and asked if there would be work for her, a
hand finisher, or would it all be done with this new sophisticated
machinery?  Sam told her that with the luxury goods they intended
manufacturing there would always be work for hand finishers.

The most vital question was, When?  How soon would they get back to
work?

At the soonest, nine months.  At the latest, a year.

Why so long?

There was a great deal to be done.  If any person wanted proof of this,
plans were already drawn up and the blueprints on display boards at the
back of the hall.

The outward appearance of the old mill would remain the same.  Inside,
it would be gutted and totally rebuilt.  There would be a shop to
attract tourists, and the architect had, in his plans, made provision
for a small tea-shop and refreshment bar, both of which would offer
increased employment.

fb*ABd who would get the building contracts?

Sam explained that Sir David Swinfield was anxious that 11 tradesmen
should come from thereabouts, and that all local builders, plumbers,
electricians, and joiners should be approached.  So, after the New
Year, tenders would be sent out, and subsequent estimates considered.

Finally, it all became something of a general discussion, which was
exactly the way Sam wanted it to be.  Before the meeting wound up, he
came down off the platform, to be amongst them all; to clarify the
blueprints, to listen to problems, and to try to reassure.  By the end,
he felt that he hadn't exactly made a lot of friends, but that he had
won some trust, and hopefully, cooperation.

It was a better start than he had expected, and no worse than he had
feared.

Fergus stooped to place another lump of peat onto the dying fire.

"And when," he asked, "will you be coming up to Buckly to live?"

"I'm here now, Fergus."

"But you will be going back to London?"

"Yes, of course.  I'll probably be up and down like a yoyo, but I'm
based here now."

"And where are you staying?"

"At the moment, in Inverness, in a hotel."

"But you will be going home for Christmas?"

Sam hesitated.  He was going to be working closely with Fergus, and
decided that it was best to be brutally frank with the man and put all
his personal cards on the table.  That way, nothing would be muddled or
misconstrued.

"You know, at the moment, I don't have a home.  My home was in New
York.  I don't even have a family.  My wife and I are separated.  She's
still in the United States."

Fergus said, "That is a terrible thing.  To have no home."

Sam grinned.

"It's not so bad.  Anyway, with the mill I've so much to occupy my time
and my mind that I haven't even thought about Christmas.  I could go
back to London and be with friends, but at the moment I'd rather just
concentrate on the job."



"You can hardly drive to and from Inverness every day.  Even with the
new bridges, it's a long journey."

"I'll find something here.  I'll rent or lodge.  Til be fine."

"You would be very welcome in my house.  My wife would be delighted and
we have space."

"You're more than kind, but I'm better on my own."  He had finished his
modest drink.  He glanced up at the clock.

"I think I should be off.  Like you said, it's a long drive."

"But you have a good car.  A Land Rover Discovery.  And a new one, too,
it looks to me."

"Yes, it's new.  I bought it in London when I knew I would be living up
here.  I drove it north three days ago.  It's a great vehicle."

"Yes, yes, indeed.  My son has a Land Rover."

"What is your son's job?"

"He is a gamekeeper.  He was not interested in the woollen trade,
preferred to be out of doors.  He was always mad on the nature.  As a
boy he brought home wounded birds and sick squirrels, kept them in
cages and nursed them back to health.  There was always some poor wild
animal in the corner of our kitchen.  My wife once remarked to me that
it was a good thing we didn't live in Kenya."

And he said this in such a serious manner that it took an instant for
Sam to realize he was making a joke.

They went outside, and it was snowing again.  Across the road, outside
the church hall, Sam's dark-green Discovery stood coated in an inch of
white.

Fergus said, "I think, before you set off for Inverness, you should
telephone the AA.  Get a check on conditions.  The Black Isle can be a
hazard on such a night as this."

"Maybe.  I'll see how I go."

"Will I be seeing you before the New Year?"

"Bound to.  I'll call you.  Keep in touch."

"It has been a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure's mine, Fergus."

They said goodbye, shaking hands.  Fergus walked away, down the long
narrow street blanketed in heavy snowflakes,

I tod leaving a line of fresh footprints behind him.  Sam saw him go,
and then climbed up into the big car, slammed shut the door behind him.
He reached into his coat pocket for the ignition key, and brought out
two keys.  The one for his car and the big, old-fashioned key to Hughie
McLennan's Estate House, attached to its label with a knot of string.

For a moment, Sam debated.  The meeting had been something of an
ordeal, taking much of his energy, but it was safely over, and he felt
elated rather than tired.  It would be good to get back to base, to a
bath and a drink in the bar, and dinner.  But on the other hand,
surely, while he was so close to Creagan, it would be worthwhile taking
the short detour to the town and casting his eye over the place;
orienting himself, locating Hughie's house.  No need to go inside. Just
discover how it looked, assess its possibilities, decide if it would be
worth returning, to inspect, with an eye to buying.

For a bit he sat and vacillated, and then decided to toss a coin.
Heads, he would head straight for Inverness.  Tails, and he would call
in at Creagan.  He found a ten-pence bit and tossed it, then took his
hand away-it was tails.  He stowed the ten-pence bit and the Estate
House key in the cubbyhole on the dashboard, started up the engine, and
switched on the lights.

The strong, long beams danced with falling snowflakes.

He felt adventurous.

Creagan, here I come.

There was, oddly enough, quite a lot of traffic on the road.  Heavy
transport driving north, churning along through the snow with
windscreen wipers going full-tilt.  Huge lorries stacked with timber;
oil tankers and cattle floats.  Cars returning home from work at the
end of the day; a tractor, its warning light blinking like a star.  Sam
got stuck behind this for half a mile or more, and then it turned into
a farmyard and he was able to pick up a bit of speed again.

The snowfall abruptly ceased.  The shower blown away.  There showed a
scrap of clear sky, the curve of a crescent moon.  He crossed a long
bridge over a firth, and a couple

of miles after that, his headlights touched the In road sign.

TOURIST ROUTE CREAGAN.  2 MILES.

He took the turning, and the single-track road alongside the shores of
the sea loch.  It was half-tide, and I saw the black gleam of water,
and the mud-flats were wh with snow, and the impression was surreal,
dreamlike.  Farl away, a prick of light showed from a small house on
the farther shore.  After a bit, the road swung right, and he topped ||
hill of conifers, and then there was open country beyond, and in the
distance the lights of a little town.

The sky darkened and it snowed again.  He came into the town by way of
a tree-lined road, and in the light of street lamps saw the church and
the square and the old walled graveyard.  He thought of Christmas
cards.  All that was missing was a crinolined lady carrying festive
packages.  He drove very slowly around the church, trying to get his
bearings, wondering which was the empty, untenanted house that belonged
to Hughie McLennan.  Having accomplished a complete circuit without any
satisfaction, he decided to ask for directions and drew in at the
pavement edge.  A couple were walking towards him arm in arm, clutching
a number of carrier-bags and baskets.  He rolled down the window.

"Excuse me."

They stopped.

"Yes?"  the man asked obligingly.

"I'm looking for the Estate House...."

"You're there."  The man, amused, grinned.

"You're here."  He jerked his head, indicating the house behind him.

"Oh.  I see.  Thank you."

"You're welcome."  They set off on their way.

"Good night," Sam called.

"Cheerio."

They had gone, and he sat, still in his car, and stared at the house,
which he had noticed but passed by, because he knew it could not
possibly be Hughie's house.  Hughie had said his house was empty,
untenanted.  And this house had

vs which, behind carefully drawn curtains, were filled i light.

Sam told himself that he should simply drive on.  Leave it.  l busted
duck.  But he did not like mysteries, and knew that : one would niggle
at bun unless he found out what was ', on.  He reached into the
cubby-hole for the key, turned f his lights, and climbed down from the
Discovery into the Sidling snow.  He crossed the pavement and opened
the heavy **rought-iron gate and walked up to the front door.  There
"Was a bell, and when he pressed it, he heard a buzzing from somewhere
inside the house.

He waited for a bit, with snow seeping down the back of his collar, and
then pressed it again.  All at once an outside light came on, and he
stood there as though caught in a earchlight.  Then there were
footsteps, and the door was opened.

He was not quite sure who or what he had expected.  An Elderly
pinafored lady, perhaps?  Or a man in a V-necked pullover and bedroom
slippers, resentful because some caller was disturbing his favourite
television programme?  What he didn't expect was a tall, dark girl in
jeans and a thick pullover.  A sensationally good-looking girl, one who
would have turned heads on Fifth Avenue.

They stared at each other.  Then she said, without much enthusiasm,
"Yes?"

"I'm sorry.  But is this the Estate House?"

"Yes."

"Hughie McLennan's Estate House?"

"No.  Oscar Blundell's Estate House."

Spotlighted, drowned in snowflakes, wet and cold, Sam held up the big
labelled key.  He said, "Perhaps I have made a mistake."

She stared at the key.  Then she stepped back, opening the door.

"I think," she said, "you had better come in."

CAKKIE

that morning, the doctor, as he had promised, had popped < into the
Estate House, his face red with cold and his thick Harris tweed
overcoat damp with freshly fallen snow and smelling of peat.  He
brought the bird book for Lucy, delivered it to her, and then was
upstairs, two at a time-a man with not a moment to waste-to check on
the invalid.  Carrie told him, from her pillows, that she was much
better, had had a good night's sleep and felt a different person.  But,
with native caution, he suggested that she stay in bed for another day.
Carrie knew that if she refused it would mean an argument with Elfrida,
so she gave, gracefully, in.

When the doctor had gone, in as abrupt a manner as he had arrived,
Elfrida came upstairs and put her head around the door.

"What did he say?"

"I'm all right, but I have to stay here for another day.  I'm sorry."

"Why sorry?"

"Such a nuisance."

"Don't be so silly.  Not a nuisance.  Do you want a hot- water
bottle?"

"No.  Warm as toast."

"Rather a shame, you'll miss our little party tonight.  With the
Kennedy family.  But you can meet them another time.  I'm rather
excited about it.  Too stupid, but you know this is the first time
Oscar and I have been out anywhere.  We did have lunch in the pub one
day, but that's the sum of it."

"I shall stay here and oversee your supper."

"It doesn't need much overseeing.  I made a kedgeree which I shall put
in the oven.  And if we don't eat it tonight we can eat it tomorrow for
lunch.  Kedgeree is an accommodating dish."

"Elfrida, you've been reading too many cookbooks."

Heaven forbid."

The day progressed, and through her window Carrie the weather and was
glad she did not have to be out Saow showers came and went; the sky was
grey.  From to time she heard the faint keening of wind, whining the
old house.  It was all rather cosy.  She remembered 18 a chM being ill,
and in bed, and the awareness of others getting on with the business of
day-to-day life without her, letf having to participate in any sort of
way.  Telephones rang, cod someone else hurried to answer the call.
Footsteps came and went; from behind the closed door, voices called and
answered.  Doors opened and shut.  She heard Oscar stumping upstairs
and down again, and knew that he was filling fireside baskets with
logs.  Towards noon, there came smells of cooking.  Onions frying, or
perhaps a pot of soup on the boil.  The luxuries of self-indulgence,
idleness, and total irresponsibil- I ity were all things that Carrie
had long forgotten.  Lucy was a frequent visitor.

"Carrie, do look.  Isn't Dr.  Sinclair kind?  He's lent me his bird
book, so that I'll know the names next time I'm on the beach."

"How thoughtful of him."

"I wouldn't mind having a doctor like him in London.  Ours is
dreadfully unfriendly, and we have to wait for ages."  She put the book
aside.

"Carrie, I don't know what to wear tonight.  For this dance thing."  At
the moment she was obviously more preoccupied with what was going to
happen this evening than with the names of seabirds.

"What are the choices?"

"Well, I've got my new jeans, but they might be a bit hot for dancing
around.  I've got my old ones and they're clean and Elfrida ironed them
for me.  Or do you think I should wear my new miniskirt and the black
tights?"

"Did Rory say anything about what to wear?"

"He said jeans and trainers."

"Then wear jeans and trainers.  Your old clean ones and that
red-and-white-striped cotton sweater.  I love you in that.  It's so
French.  And it's always better to be under

dressed rather than overdressed.  I'd keep your miniskirt fall
Christmas."  1 "Christmas.  It's so queer.  I haven't thought much
about | Christmas and it's only six days away, and nobody seems all the
least bit worried, or preparing.  By this stage, Gran usu1 ally gets a
migraine, she says there's so much to see to."  \ "Well, Oscar's
ordered a tree, and you've bought the decorations."

"I know, but I must go and get some presents.  For him and Elfrida.  I
don't know what to get.  And there's other things.  Food.  Do you think
we're even going to have a Christmas dinner?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, but I think, yes.  Probably.  It's just
that Elfrida's always been very laid-back.  It'll all be accomplished
at the very last moment."

"What about stockings?"

"I think we'll probably give stockings a miss.  Would you mind?  It's
not as though you still believed in Father Christmas, and coming down
the chimney, and all that."

"No, of course I don't.  And anyway, I think stockings are a bit silly.
Except the tangerine and the bag of golden chocolate pennies."

"I'll hang those on the tree for you."

"Will you, Carrie?  You know, it's rather nice, isn't it, having a
different Christmas.  Not knowing what it's going to be like."

"I hope it will be fun for you ... with three old grownups."

"I shall be grown up, too.  That's what's so special."

Oscar, Elfrida, and Lucy finally departed at a quarter to six, for the
little party at the Manse.  The snow showers had not stopped all day,
and by now the roads were thick with the stuff and quite hazardous.

As neither Oscar nor Elfrida relished the prospect of driving up to the
Manse by way of the road, fearful of skids or drifts, they decided to
walk up the hill by way of the lane.  All hugely muffled, hatted, and
booted, they came, one by

, to say goodbye, and Carrie told them to have a wonderl time and she
would hear all about it when they returned.  |%r "I don't suppose we'll
have an awful lot to tell," Elfrida "unless they've asked other guests,
and one of them gets drunk."

"You can always hope."

Lucy was the last.  Carrie thought she looked extremely pretty, with
her bright eyes and her excited smile.  She wore her new red padded
jacket and her boots and her big woollen hat, and had her little
haversack slung over her shoulder.

"What's in your haversack?"

"My trainers and a comb.  And a bar of chocolate."

"You'll have such fun."

"I don't know when I'll be home."

"It doesn't matter.  Nothing matters.  Rory will probably deliver you.
If you want, you can ask him in.  For a beer or something.  Whatever
you want.  Someone will be around."

"Can I really?  Well..."  She debated this.

"I'll see."

"You do that.  Now, off you go."

"

"Bye, Carrie."

"Goodbye, darling."  They hugged and Lucy kissed her.

"Have a great time."

They went at last, and Carrie heard the back door slam behind them. She
waited five minutes or so, just in case something had been forgotten
and they all trooped back again, but this didn't happen, so she got out
of bed and ran a wonderful scalding bath, soaked for ages, then put on
jeans and her thickest sweater, did her hair, splashed on some scent,
and at once felt a great deal better.  / am recovered, she told her
reflection in the mirror.

She went out of her room and downstairs to check on the kedgeree and
Horace.  Both seemed in good health, although Horace was very quiet,
and suffering from his bruises.  To make up for his injuries he was
being fed like a prince, on lambs' hearts and gravy, and was not
required to venture forth farther than just outside the back door.

Carrie stopped to fondle his head.

"Do you want to come upstairs by the fire?"  she asked him, but Horace
did not.  He

closed his eyes and went back to sleep again, warm in his basket and
with his tartan rug.

She found a bottle of wine, poured herself a glass, and went back to
the sitting-room.  Here, the curtains were drawn, the fire blazing, and
a single lamp left burning by one of the fireside chairs.  She put
another log on the pyre and settled down with Oscar's morning
newspaper.

Outside, in the street, a few cars swished slowly to and fro, but the
snow deadened all sound, and most people by now were safely at home.
She was in the middle of a feature article about a well-known, if
elderly actress who had done a television series in London; it had
become enormously popular and she had found herself basking in global
fame.  Carrie had just got to the Hollywood bit when, causing her
almost to jump out of her skin, the fearsome buzz of the doorbell
drilled through the house.

Under normal circumstances, this would have been followed up by
Horace's manic barking.  But he had not forgotten yesterday's salutary
experience with the Rottweiler, and this did not happen.

Carrie said, "Damn."  She lowered the paper and waited.  Perhaps it was
some person whose car had broken down and now wanted to borrow a
telephone.  Or a local tradesman delivering a bill or a Christmas card.
Or three small children in a row, all set to sing "Away in a Manger."

Perhaps, if she did nothing, they would all go away.

The bell shrilled again.  No use, she'd have to go.  In some
exasperation she tossed the paper down, sprang to her feet, and ran
downstairs, turning on switches as she went, so that the hall was a
blaze of light.  The big door was unlocked, and she flung it open to
the snow and the cold and the solitary man who stood there, with the
beam of the outside light streaming down upon him.  He had dark, very
short hair, and wore a thick navy-blue overcoat, the collar turned up
around his ears.  His hair, his coat, his ears were all liberally
sprinkled in snowflakes, as though somebody had dusted him with icing
sugar, like a cake.

She glanced over his shoulder and saw the large and prestigious vehicle
parked in the road.  So this was neither a man seeking help nor a
tradesman nor a carol singer.

She said, "Yes?"

"I'm sorry.  But is this the Estate House?"

His voice was pleasant, his accent... more of an intonation than an
accent... was familiar.  American?

"Yes."

"Hughie McLennan's Estate House?"

Carrie frowned.  She had never heard of anyone called Hughie
McLennan.

"No.  Oscar Blundell's Estate House."

It was his rum to hesitate.  And then he held up in his gloved hand a
large key, with a label knotted to it with string.  On the label was
written, in large black capitals with a waterproof pen, estate house.
As unsubtle as a clue in an old-fashioned mystery film.  But how had he
... ?  He said, "Perhaps I have made a mistake."

There must be, of course, explanations, but it was too cold to stand
there on the doorstep and listen to them.  Carrie stepped back, opening
wide the door.

"I think," she said, "you had better come in."

But he hesitated.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course.  Come on."

He went past her, into the house, and she closed the door against the
cold and turned to face him.

He looked a bit embarrassed.

"I'm really sorry.  I hope I didn't disturb you."

"Not at all.  Hadn't you better take your coat off?  We'll hang it
here, there's a radiator and it'll dry."

He had put the key back into his pocket and now pulled off his leather
gloves and unbuttoned his overcoat and shucked it off.  She saw that he
was conventionally, even formally, dressed, in a dark-grey flannel suit
and a tie.  She took the heavy coat from him and hung it on the old
bentwood hat stand.

"Perhaps," he said, "I should introduce myself.  Sam Howard."

"Carrie Sutton."  They did not shake hands.

"Come up to the sitting-room.  There's a fire on there."



She led the way, and he followed behind her; up the stairs, across the
landing, and into the huge sitting-room.  Entering, he observed, as
newcomers invariably did, "What an amazing room."

"It's unexpected, isn't it?"  She went to pick up the abandoned
newspaper.

"And lovely during the daytime, because it's always full of light." She
laid the paper on the table by her chair.

"Would ... would you like a drink or something?"

"You're more than kind.  I'd love to, but I'm driving."

"Where are you driving to?"

"Inverness."

"Inverness.  In this weather?"

"I'll be okay."

Carrie doubted this, but gave a mental shrug.  It was no business of
hers.  She said, "Then why don't we both sit down, and you can tell me
why you have the key to Oscar's house."

His expression was rueful.

"To be honest, I'm not quite sure."  But he came and settled himself in
Oscar's chair, and at once looked quite relaxed and at home, and not at
all as though he had just walked in out of the snow, unexpected and
unasked.  She thought that he had an interesting face, neither handsome
nor homely.  Unremarkable, but interesting.  His eyes, deeply set, were
unusual.  He leaned back hi the chair, his long legs crossed at the
ankles.

"But I am sure we can clear up the confusion.  Tell me, did Mr.
Blundell once live in Hampshire?"

"Yes, he did."

"And does he have an elderly uncle living in London?"

"I've no idea."

"And a cousin called Hughie McLennan?"

"I'm afraid you're asking the wrong person.  I'm just a guest.  I don't
really know anything about Oscar's family.  This is the first time I've
met him, and I've had flu and I have been in bed, so there hasn't been
much opportunity for finding things out about each other."

"I see."

"And Oscar and Elfrida... she's a sort of cousin of mine, and Oscar's
friend... they're out.  They've gone out for

drinks.  They won't be back till about eight o'clock."  She glanced at
the little clock in the middle of the mantelpiece.

"It's nearly seven now.  If you wanted to wait-" "No, I can't wait.  I
must be on my way."

"But I still don't know why you have a key to this house."

"I was given it by Hughie.  He wants to put the property on the market.
Put it up for sale."

Carrie stared at him.

"For sal eT She could feel her jaw drop.

"But it's Oscar's house."

"I think they are joint owners."

"I know they're joint owners.  Oscar told me.  But even so, Hughie
McLennan, whoever he is, has no right to put a house up for sale when
he doesn't even own it."

"Yes."  He agreed with her.

"It does seem a bit suspect."

"And why would you want to come and look at it anyway?  Do you want to
buy it?"

He said cautiously, "I thought I might."

"What for?"

"To live in.  I have a new job, in Buddy.  Getting McTaggarts, the
woollen mill, back on its feet again.  I shall be based here, and I'll
need somewhere to live."

"Where's Buckly?"

"About twelve miles south.  I've just come from there.  Spent the
afternoon having a meeting with the workforce."

"Wouldn't it be better to live in Buckly?"

"The mill accommodation has all been sold off.  It probably would be
more convenient, but I was told about this place, given the key, and
thought I'd come and, just quickly, drive around, have a look at the
town.  To be truthful, I thought the house would be empty.  But then I
saw the lights on, and decided to ring the bell and solve the
mystery."

"But we haven't solved it."

"No.  Not really.  And we won't until I speak to Mr.  Blun- dell.  And
I'm afraid there's not time for that.  Maybe, another day.... Right
now, I think I should make tracks."

"And / think it's important that you see Oscar.  It's only fair on him
that he should know what has happened ... what is happening."



"I really must...."  He was on his feet.  Carrie stood, tOffM and went
to the big bay window and drew back the heavy curtain.  Outside lay a
wintry scene.  Snow fell heavily, i steadily, and his Discovery, parked
at the pavement's edge, i was already blanketed.  No cars moved, and no
person trod : the streets.  She thought of the road to Inverness, the
long miles, the hill that climbed the Black Isle from the bridge over
the Cromarty firth.

She, unlike Elfrida and Oscar, was not nervous of driving in snow.  She
had spent three winters in the mountains of Austria, and after that,
nothing much fazed her.  But this, obscurely, was different.  There was
a relentlessness to this weather.  This snow was not going to stop, nor
be blown away.  The storm was here for the night.

She turned.  He had stayed by the fireside.  She said, "I don't think
you should go."

"You don't?"

"Come and look."

He joined her, and together they gazed out at the clearly deteriorating
conditions.  First he didn't say anything, and Carrie felt a bit sorry
for him.

"It really is bad."

"Yeah.  Fergus Skinner, the manager at the mill, said I should phone
the AA and get a report.  I didn't think it was necessary at the time,
but perhaps I was mistaken."

"I would say that would be a good idea."

"I have my mobile, but no number."

"I'll find it for you."

She went out onto the landing and came back with the phone book and
looked up the emergency number.

"Here it is.  Do you want to write it down?"

He produced a pen, she read it out, and he wrote it on the margin of
the phone book, and then took his mobile from his pocket.

She left him sitting by the window, with the opened curtain and a
backdrop like a stage setting.  She put another log on the fire and
stood, watching the fresh flames.

He got through almost at once.  Inquired about road conditions, the A9
to Inverness.  Then, a long silence as he listened.  Then, "How about
tomorrow?"  Another pause, ay.  I get the picture.  Thank you.
Goodbye."

Across the room, they looked at each other.  She didn't I ny anything,
but knew that the news was the worst.  He con- finned this.

"You were quite right.  The road is impassable.  To be honest, I had no
idea it would be so bad."

"I'm sorry."

"I..."  He was stowing away his mobile.

"I think I'd better be off.  Get out of your way."

"Where?"

"Sorry?"

"Where will you be off to?"

"There'll be some guest-house, hotel... I'll check in there."

"There is no hotel or guest-house open in Creagan at this time of year.
Everything closes down for the winter.  You'll find nothing."

"But surely ..."

She said, "You'll have to stay here.  With us."

"Here?  But I can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"You don't know me.  I'm a stranger.  I can't just come and-" "Of
course you can.  Anyway, there doesn't seem to be an alternative.
There's an empty bedroom, I know.  An empty bed.  It would be
ridiculous not to use it."

"But..."

Carrie smiled.  Now that matters were settled, and she had won her
point, she was rather enjoying his discomfiture.

"What do they say?  Any port in a storm."

"But... Mr.  Blundell..."

"I expect he will be delighted to have another guest.  And most
interested in what you have to tell him.  And his companion Elfrida
will be pleased, I'm sure.  There's nothing she likes better than
unexpected arrivals and impromptu house parties.  You don't even have
to worry about dinner.  There is a kedgeree in the oven, and plenty of
hot bath

water.  All mod cons.  What more could any man want?"

He shook his head, defeated by her insistence.

"Nothing, I guess."

"A toothbrush?"

"I have one in the car.  And my electric razor.  But if it's all right
by you, I should make another call."

"Feel free."  (He obviously needed to ring home, wherever that was;
explain to his wife what had happened.) "You don't want anybody
worrying."

He took out his mobile once more and punched the numbers.  Carrie
wondered if she should make some excuse and go from the room, not
wishing to overhear a private and personal conversation: loving words,
messages for the children.  But before she could do this he had got
through and was speaking to the receptionist at some hotel in
Inverness.

"Just to let you know I shan't be back tonight.  I'm stuck here, in
Creagan, in a snowstorm.  I'm all right.  Staying with friends.  Maybe
back tomorrow.  Just keep the room.  Thanks.

"Bye."

Call finished.

"Is that all?"  Carrie asked.

"That's it."

"No more calls?"

He slipped his mobile back into his jacket pocket and shook his head.

"Nope."

"Right.  Well.  In that case, why don't you have that drink?"

"Well, that would be very kind."

"I shall have to go down to the kitchen and bring something up for you.
We don't keep a drinks tray up here, because there isn't a drinks
table.  Oscar's wine-cellar is a slate shelf in the scullery."

"Let me come and help."

"No, you stay here and make yourself comfortable.  What would you like?
There's everything."

"Scotch?"

"Soda, water, or ice?"

"On the rocks?"

"Fine.  I shan't be a moment."

She ran downstairs, and in the scullery found a tray on which she
loaded the whisky bottle, the filled ice bucket, a glass, and then the
bottle of wine.  She carried the tray upstairs and found her visitor,
not by the fire, but on the other side of the room, gazing intently at
Elfrida's little picture.  In order to do this, he had put on a pair of
horn-rimmed spectacles which made him look rather scholarly.

When Carrie appeared, he took these off.

"What a fine lit.  tie painting."

"Yes.  It belongs to Elfrida.  She brought it with her from Hampshire.
She's had it for years.  It's a David Wilkie.  She says it's her
insurance policy, against the day when she runs out of money and
doesn't want to become a bag lady.  As you can see, there are no other
pictures in this room, so it looks a bit lost."

"It's certainly a treasure ... here, let me have that."  He took the
tray and held it while Carrie made space on Oscar's table, shunting
aside a few files and papers.  She said, "I'll let you do your own
drink."

"How about you?"

"I'm onto the wine."

"Can I refill your glass?"

"Certainly, if you'd like to."

She went back to her chair by the fire and watched him, liking the neat
movements of his hands.  Intrigued, in an objective sort of way,
because his appearance at the Estate House, his reason for being there,
and his reason for staying on (bad weather) all seemed like a sort of
contrivance.  The plot of a play, perhaps.  The start of a film which
could turn out to be disturbing, even terrifying.

He came across the room, with her wine and his whisky, handed her her
glass, and then sat again where he had sat before.

He said, "Good health."

"And to you, too."

"You said you'd just had flu?"

"Not very badly.  I slept it off."

"And you're visiting?"



"I live in London.  I have a young niece; I brought her with me.  We're
staying for Christmas and the New Year."

"Has she gone to the drinks party, too?"

"Yes, and then on to some sort of reel party with all the other
children of the town.  Goodness knows when she'll be home.  Do you know
this part of the world well?"

"No.  I don't know it at all.  I come from Yorkshire.  Then I was based
in London for a bit, and then New York for six years."

Carrie smiled to herself because she had been right about the accent.

"Hence the Scotch on the rocks."

"Exactly so."

"What is your job?"

"I'm basically a wool-broker.... I work for Sturrock and Swinfield."

She was impressed.

"Goodness."

"They bought out my father's woollen mill in Yorkshire some years ago,
and I've been with them ever since."

"New York and all?"

"New York and all."

"This is going to be a bit of a culture change, isn't it?  Working up
here."

"Yes," he agreed with her.

"A bit."

"What did you say the mill was called?"

"McTaggarts of Buddy."

"Is it a going concern?"

He said bluntly, "No," and then briefly enlarged on this.  Explained
the chain of events that had brought it down.

"And is this what you are expected to take on?"

"Not entirely on my own."

"You mean you have Sturrock and Swinfield behind you?"

"That's right.  And capital, expertise, architects, and designers."

"And when it's all up and going, what will you produce?"

"Everything.  A very wide scope.  Traditional tweeds and tartans, but
as well we'll head for new markets.  The fashion trade.  Luxury wool
lens

"When will you be in production?"

"The mill has to be gutted and rebuilt.  So, maybe nine months.  A
year."

"Why don't you just bulldoze it away and start afresh?"

"Because it's a particularly beautiful old building.  Stone, with steep
gables and long arched windows.  It's over a hundred and fifty years
old.  Part of the little town.  It would be vandalism to destroy it."

"And you have to have someplace to live?"

"Yes."  He smiled.

"But I can't sort that one out until I've spoken to your host."

"Did Hughie McLennan, whoever he is ... did he mention a price?"

"Yes."

"Am I allowed to be told?"

"A hundred and fifty thousand.  Between the two cousins.  The two
owners."

"So if Oscar gave Hughie seventy-five thousand, he could buy him
out."

"He could."

"It's not that much money, is it?"

"By today's standards, no."

"But Oscar mightn't have seventy-five thousand.  In fact, I'm pretty
sure he hasn't.  And he's so unworldly, he wouldn't know where to lay
his hands on such a sum.  Anyway"she shrugged-"it's absolutely none of
my business and nothing to do with me.  I just think it would be nice
if he could stay here."

"I promise you, I'm not going to throw him out."

"You couldn't.  It's his house."

"Half house."

"Sitter's rights.  The security of his own bricks and mortar."

Suddenly, defusing a small tension, he laughed.

"You're so right about that.  I bought my first flat, freehold, when I
went to work in London.  It was a great feeling.  That's some years ago
now."

"Where was your flat?"

"Eel Park Common."



"How funny."

"Why funny?"

"I've got a little house in Ranfurly Road.  That's only about half a
mile away."

"Is that where you live?"

"I will, in February, when I get the tenants out."  Sam looked a bit
confused, and Carrie suddenly felt sorry for him, because, perhaps, she
had not been particularly forthcoming.  The thing was, she didn't
really want to talk about herself.

"I've been in Austria for three years, in Oberbeuren, working for a
travel firm called Oversees.  That's why I let my house.  But now I'm
back, based in London again.  I'm still with the firm, but I've been
offered a job in their head office, in Bruton Street."

"Are you going to take it?"

"Yes.  Why not?"

"You'll miss Austria and the mountains."

Carrie said, "Yes."  For a moment, neither of them spoke, and the
silence was fraught with unsaid words.  Then she moved in her chair and
looked across at him.

"Your glass is empty.  Would you like another drink?"

EL FRIDA

oscar and Elfrida, arm in arm, and making their way with tremendous
caution, walked home together.  It was nearly eight o'clock, very dark,
with thickly falling snow, but there were street lamps all the way and
so no need for the torch which Oscar, with some forethought, had tucked
in his pocket.  As they proceeded along the footpath that led along the
top of the hill, the town was spread below them, and they could see,
beyond the topmost leafless branches of other people's trees, the round
lighted face of the clock tower.  All looked so transformed, so magical
that Elfrida was compelled to stop and gaze.

She said, "Oscar, I do wish I could paint."

As she had a firm hold of his arm, he had to stop, too.

"Is this an appropriate moment to dwell on the might-have- been?"  he
asked.

"Why not?"

"I have snow trickling down the back of my neck."

"But wouldn't it be lovely to be able to capture such a scene?  To pin
it down forever?  The snow, falling into the light of street lamps and
bright windows.  And the clock, like a constant moon.  The only thing
one couldn't paint would be the smell of peat-smoke."

"It would, I agree, be a satisfying exercise.  But please, let us go
home."

The lane sloped steeply down alongside the wall of Oscar's garden.
There was a handrail there, and they descended in single file, holding
on to this like passengers leaving an aircraft.  At the bottom was
their back gate, and the bright light suspended over their own back
door.

Safely home.

In the scullery, emulating Mrs.  Snead, they shed wet coats,
snow-encrusted boots, and sodden hats, and hung them about the place to
dry.  Elfrida said something about  supper, but Oscar wanted to wait
for a bit.  He was full of smoked-salmon sandwiches and mince pies.  As
well, he had been prudently abstemious, because of the walk home, and
wanted a large whisky before settling down to yet more food.

Elfrida went ahead of him, and in the kitchen greeted her dog with
loving words, and was opening the oven door to peer at the
good-tempered kedgeree when she heard him say, "My whisky has gone.  My
bottle of whisky is not here."

"Are you sure?"

He joined her as she closed the oven door, looking a bit put out,
which, because he was Oscar, wasn't very much.

"It's walked."

"Perhaps Carrie felt like a tot."

"I thought she was meant to be still in bed."

"You can still be in bed and feel like a tot.  Haven't you got another
bottle?"

"Yes, but that one was open."

"Let's investigate."

They went out of the kitchen and upstairs, but on the landing, Elfrida
paused.  For, from behind the closed door of the sitting-room, she
heard the low murmur of voices.  Oscar heard them, too.  They looked at
each other in some mystification.  Oscar said, "I think I know where my
bottle is."

"Shh."  Silently, Elfrida tiptoed to Carrie's half-open bedroom door.
She peered in, and then returned to Oscar's side.

"Not there," she told him in a dramatic whisper.

"Empty bed."

Oscar, gamely joining in, also dropped his voice.

"And she has a visitor."

"Who can it be?"

"A mystery.  Why don't we go and find out?"

Which they did.

Opening the sitting-room door, they came upon a peaceful and
companionable scene.  The lovely room, curtained and softly lighted.
The fire blazing, the two most comfortable chairs drawn up to its
warmth.  And in them, looking as though they had known each other
forever, Carrie and a complete stranger.  Possibilities instantly
flashed through Elfrida's

mind.  An old acquaintance of Carrie's, perhaps, come in search of her.
A long-time admirer, staunchly constant.... Carrie turned her head and
saw them, and at once rose to her feet.

"Elfrida.  You're back.  We didn't hear you.  Did you have a good
party?"

"Yes, it was splendid.  But you're not meant to be out of bed."

"I got bored."

By now the unknown man was also on his feet, standing in front of the
fire, and waiting to be introduced.  Elfrida's first impression of this
stranger was one of business-like formality, in his beautifully cut
dark-grey suit, his neat tie, and his closely barbered head of hair. He
was tall and longlegged, with a tanned complexion that accentuated his
light hazel eyes.  And despite her sixty-two years, she knew a fris son
of physical attraction that dimmed in no way her affection for Oscar. 
It was just a sort of recognition, an ardent memory jof how things,
once, had been for her.

"Elfrida, this is Sam Howard.  Elfrida Phipps.  And my host, Oscar
Blundell."

"How do you do?"  They all shook hands.

Sam Howard said, "I'm really sorry about this intrusion."

"Why is it an intrusion?"

"Because I'm in your house, unasked...."

At this juncture, Oscar spied his whisky bottle.

"There it is!  I wondered where it had gone."

Carrie laughed.

"Did you think I was secretly boozing?  I am sorry.  I brought it up to
give Sam a drink.  Do you want one?"

"Badly.  I purposely had an abstemious evening, so that I would be fit
to walk Elfrida home through the snow."

"In that case," said Carrie, "I shall give you one.  But I'll need to
get down and get some more glasses.  What about you, Elfrida?  I'm
having a glass of wine...."

"I'll join you."  Elfrida suddenly felt tired.  She sat, with some
relief, in the middle of the sofa, with her long legs stretched out in
front of her.

"I've been standing for two hours, eating sandwiches and mince pies."

 "Anyone else there?"

"Oh, yes, a proper party.  Three other couples; all so chatty and
welcoming."

"How about Lucy?"

"She disappeared with the Kennedy children to some other room, and
hasn't been seen since.  They'd gone to the reeling by the time we
left.  Just the way it should be."

"That's good.  I'll get those glasses and another bottle of wine.  And
soda for Oscar...."

She left them, and Elfrida heard her running downstairs.  Oscar by now
had sat himself down in his own armchair and they were left with the
strange man.  Oscar, Elfrida knew, had no idea what he was going to say
to him, and so she came to his rescue.  She did this by smiling in her
most friendly fashion, and saying, "Now tell us exactly who you are,
and why you're here.  You must be an old friend of Carrie's."

"Actually, I'm not."

He reached for a chair and pulled it up to sit near Elfrida, leaning
forward to speak to her, with his hands clasped between his knees.

"I never met her before this evening."

"Goodness," said Elfrida faintly.

He began to explain, and they listened.  He was Sam Howard.  He worked
for Sturrock and Swinfield, the textile conglomerate that had taken
over the defunct woollen mill in Buddy.  McTaggarts.  He was coming
here to work as managing director.

Elfrida was none the wiser, but Oscar picked it up at once.

"Peter Kennedy told me about McTaggarts' being taken over, but I didn't
realize that things were already moving."

"They aren't exactly moving yet, but we're on our way."

"That's splendid news."

"I hope so."

"When does it all get going again?"

"We have to rebuild the place first."

Elfrida interrupted.

"What happened?"

"There was a long series of misadventures," Oscar told her.

"And then a flood which destroyed everything."  He

turned back to Sam.

"Have you been in this business for a long time?"

"All my life, really.  My father owned a small mill in Yorkshire."

"Well, bless my soul.  Where are you based?  In London?"

"I have been.  But I've been working in New York for the last six
years.  Then, in November, I got called back to London, to take this
project over."

"Does this mean you're going to be living up here?"

Now Carrie reappeared, with a second tray bearing bottles and glasses.
Sam sprang to his feet and went to relieve her of this, and they spent
a moment or two juggling for space on Oscar's table, shifting the ice
bucket and setting out the glasses.  The wine bottle was still frosted
from the fridge, and Sam drew the cork neatly, poured wine for E1frida,
and brought it over to her.

"How about you, sir?"

"Oh...."  Oscar looked gratified.  It was pleasant to sit by the fire
and have some other man deal with hostly duties.

"A whisky and soda would be splendid.  And no ice."

Sam poured the drink for him.

"Does that look about right?"

"Perfect."

He topped up Carrie's glass.

"What about you?"  Elfrida asked him, but he said he was all right, he
hadn't finished his second drink, and then he rescued it from the
little table by the fire and returned to his chair at her side.

Carrie said, "How far have you got?"

"Sorry?"

"Explanations."

"We've heard all about the woollen mill," Elfrida told her.

"Surely there's not more excitement to come?"

"You'd be surprised, Elfrida."  She was back in her chair, curled up
like a cat.

Elfrida waited.

"Surprise me, then."

Sam Howard took over again.

"This is all rather personal and very complicated.  Just say that
before I came up here, after I got back from New York, I was staying in
London

with old friends-Janey and Neil Philip.  They have a house in
Wandsworth.  One evening, an old acquaintance of Janey's parents came
for dinner.  He was called Hughie McLennan."

He paused, perhaps deliberately, giving time for this bombshell to sink
in.  Which seemed, to Elfrida, forever.  Then Oscar spoke.

"Hughie!  You wouldn't be talking about my cousin Hughie?"

"Yes, I think I probably am."

"But Hughie's in Barbados."

"No.  He was back in London.  To see friends and deal with various
business matters, I guess.  Then he was going off to spend Christmas
and the New Year with somebody called Maudie Peabody in the south of
France."

"What an extraordinary coincidence."

"We talked for a bit, and then he learned ... I think Janey told him
... that I was coming up here, to Buddy, to take over at McTaggarts.
And he asked me where I was going to live.  And I said I didn't have
any place, but that I'd have to find somewhere.  And from his pocket he
produced the key to this house.  He said he owned half of it, and his
cousin the other half.  But that he wanted to sell."

Oscar said, "Well, I'll be buggered," and Elfrida decided that his bad
language, under the circumstances, was really very mild.

"What a little shyster he is.  Always was.  Why the hell didn't he get
in touch with me?"

"To give him his due, I think he did try to telephone.  You lived in
Hampshire, I believe.  He rang Hampshire, but got no reply."

"His father ... Hector.  Hector knew where I was, that I'd come here,
back to Creagan.  Why didn't Hector tell him?"

"I think he hadn't seen his father.  And didn't plan to get in touch
until he came back from France, before he returned to Barbados."

"Well, what a turn-up for the books."  Oscar, shattered at the perfidy
of his cousin, took an enormous slug of his whisky, and brooded a bit
over the whole monstrousness of the situation.

"Why did he suddenly decide to sell this place?  We've boxed along for
so many years, sharing the

trickle of rent, I never imagined he'd want to put it on the market.
And certainly not without discussing it with me."

"My guess is that he needs a bit of ready cash."

"Not surprised.  Alimony for three ex-wives must cost a bomb.  But then
he always went through money like a hot knife through butter."  He
thought of something else.

"Did you come to this arrangement through an agent?"

"No.  He intended going to Hurst and Fieldmore the day after I met him.
But decided that a private sale would be more satisfactory on all
sides."

"You knew I shared the ownership?"

"Yes, he told me."

"And what did you say?"

"I said nothing could possibly be arranged until you, his cousin, had
been consulted."

"So why are you here?"

"He had the key with him.  He said, as I was coming north, why not have
a look at the house.  He told me it was empty.  That an old couple had
been living here, renting it out, but that the husband had died, and
the wife gone elsewhere to live.  With that, he simply took the key out
of his pocket and handed it over to me."

"Wasn't that rather trusting?"

"Very.  But under the circumstances, I suppose he reckoned I was as
good a bet as any."

"And a straight sale would save agents' fees?"

"Precisely."

"Did he mention a sum?"

All the time they were talking, Sam had not moved in his rather
inadequate and upright chair.  His stillness was remarkable, and across
the space that lay between diem, his eyes stayed on Oscar, his regard
intent.  Now, down to the nitty-gritty, he did not blink, showed no
sign of discomfiture.  He said, "A hundred and fifty thousand."

"Would you be prepared to pay that?"

"I haven't seen over the house yet."

"But if you wanted to buy it... ?"

"Of course."



"Split down the middle, seventy-five thousand?"

"That's right."

"Suppose I wanted more?"

"It's negotiable.  I'm simply quoting your cousin."

"I see."  Oscar finished his drink, and without saying anything, Sam
Howard got to his feet, went to get the empty glass, and took it over
to refill it.  He brought it back and handed it to Oscar.  He said,
"Now that you know how it all came about, I really have to apologize to
you both.  I'll give you Hughie's key, and we'll forget the entire
business.  It's just that I had to tell how it all came about.  So that
you understand."

"Of course."  Oscar looked at the fresh drink in his hand.

"Thank you," he said, and set it on the table beside him.

Elfrida, who had managed, with some difficulty, to keep silent and not
butt into the conversation, now felt that the time had come to get her
word in.

"You've made everything extremely clear, Mr.  Howard...."

"Sam."

"All right.  You've made everything extremely clear, Sam, but I still
haven't worked out how you got here?"

"I drove north a couple of days ago."

"Is this your first visit to the mill?"  Oscar asked.

"Yes."

"You said you were called back from New York in November.  And now it's
nearly Christmas.  Sounds as though Sturrock and Swinfield have been
dragging their feet a bit."

Sam grinned, acknowledging this.

"I expect it does.  But I went with the Chairman to Switzerland to cost
the new machinery we're going to buy.  We were there for a good
week."

Elfrida asked, "Are you staying in Buddy?"

"No.  At an hotel in Inverness.  This afternoon was my first meeting
with the work-force.  There was a good deal to be thrashed out.  When
it was over, and I'd had a beer with Fergus Skinner... he's the local
representative, who'd organized it all... I started back to Inverness,
and then had this idea that I'd make the diversion to Creagan, and come
and

pease the joint, as it were.  A passer-by told me that this was fee
Estate House, and it was so obviously lived in and ten- rated that my
curiosity was aroused; so I got out of the car and rang the bell.  I
was never much good at mysteries."

"I see."  Elfrida decided it was all very exciting.  She could picture
it.  The handsome stranger, the ring of the doorbell, and... Carrie.
Going downstairs to open the door and let him in.

She looked at Carrie, curled up in the other armchair.  All this time,
she had not said a single word.  Sometimes it was impossible to guess
what Carrie was thinking, and this was one of them.

She said, "Carrie, I hope you have asked Sam to stay for dinner."

Carrie began to laugh.  She turned her head, and a glance passed
between her and Sam that Elfrida decided was almost conspiratorial.  As
though, already, they had an amusing secret to share.  And then he
smiled, and all at once looked much younger, less mature.  Less serious
and responsible.

He said, "More confessions."

What on earth had they been up to?

"More confusion," Elfrida remarked, quite sharply, and Carrie took pity
on her.

"Elfrida, Sam is staying the night with us.  I've asked him and he has
to.  All the roads to Inverness are blocked with snow.  We rang the AA
and they told us.  And there is not an hotel or a guest-house open, as
you know, so we have another guest for the night.  Do you mind?  I'm
sorry.  Do you mind very much?"

Elfrida said, "I can't think of anything I would like more."  And it
was almost impossible to keep the pleasure out of her voice.

It was nearly midnight.  Elfrida lay in bed, and beside her, Oscar read
his book, Love in the Time of Cholera.  The lamp on his side of the bed
was the only illumination, and the rest of the room was shadowed.  The
thick curtains had been opened a little, no more than a chink, allowing
a shaft of light to penetrate from the street below, and a draught of
icy



air from their slightly opened window.  Fortunately, both Oscar and
Elfrida agreed on such small matters, as neither could sleep in stuffy
darkness.

The shaft of light fell across the brass rail at the foot of the bed,
making it gleam like gold.  The vast mahogany wardrobe, polished weekly
by Mrs.  Snead, loomed against the wall, and on the old-fashioned
dressing-table stood El- frida's silver-framed photographs, her
ivory-backed hand mirror, her bottle of scent.  It was her room.  Their
room.  Oscar's house.

She thought back over the many events of the evening, most of them
unexpected.  She, Oscar, Sam, and Carrie had finally sat down to their
supper in the kitchen at nine o'clock, by which time the kedgeree was a
bit dried out, but nobody seemed to mind too much, and certainly nobody
complained.  With the kedgeree they had eaten peas (frozen, from the
top of the old fridge), and then peaches and cream, and Oscar had
opened a bottle of white wine, and, when that was done, another bottle.
They were on to coffee when Lucy and Rory Kennedy returned from their
dancing, both looking red-cheeked from leaping about, or perhaps the
cold walk home from the school hall.

Lucy looked a bit surprised to see another person at the table, but was
introduced to Sam, and the circumstances of his presence explained to
her.  She was much impressed.

"Do you mean you're snowed inT she asked incredulously.

"Seems so," said Sam.

"It's too exciting.  Like an Agatha Christie.  By tomorrow, one of us
may be murdered."

"Not by me."

"Oscar, then.  Oscar, you'll have to be the villain.  You creep around
at night with a knife, or a rope to strangle people with.  And in the
morning, nobody will know it's you, and the police will come, and a
frightfully clever detective."

"Why do I have to be the villain?"  Oscar protested.

"Because you're the nicest of all of us, and it's always the most
unlikely person.  It's got to be you."

Oscar then asked about the reel party in the school hall, and it seemed
that Lucy had had the most marvelous time, and done all the dances
except a terribly difficult one called The Duke and Duchess of
Edinburgh, which you had to learn.  And there had been a proper band,
and lemonade to drink when you got really hot and thirsty.

Carrie was amused.

"Rory, who organized all this?"

"The headmaster, and one or two of the senior boys.  It was good.
Everybody came.  Even the little kids."

Oscar offered Rory a beer, but he said he'd rather have hot chocolate,
and Lucy said she wanted hot chocolate, too, and that she would make it
for both of them.  Space was made at the table, and they pulled up
chairs and joined the party, drinking hot chocolate and eating biscuits
out of Elfrida's tin.

Finally, Rory said it was time he went home.  He got to his feet, and
Sam asked him, "What's the weather doing?"

"Well, it's stopped snowing, but that's about all you can say for it.
I'll tell my dad that I met you.  And about McTaggarts and things
starting up again.  He'll be delighted."

"Don't let him be too delighted.  It's going to take a bit of time."

"Well," said Rory philosophically, "you've got to start somewhere.
Lucy, I'll try to get that television set down tomorrow afternoon; it
all depends on what's going on at the golf course.  Not much, I should
think.  There might be a bit of sledging, but if there is, I'll let you
know.  Give you a buzz."

He departed by way of the back door, because it was handier for home,
and Lucy saw him off.  She came back into the kitchen smiling, and then
the smile was almost at once lost in an enormous yawn.

Carrie put out an arm and drew her close.

"You're tired.  Go to bed."

"Can I have a hot bath first?"

"Of course.  You had fun?"

Lucy kissed her.

"It was the best."

While Oscar and Sam sat over their coffee, and the brandy which Oscar,
surprisingly, produced from his slate-shelf



wine-cellar, Carrie and Elfrida washed up the dishes and then went
upstairs to raid Mrs.  Snead's linen cupboard and mate up the last
spare bed for Sam.  They found sheets and pillowcases, a bath towel,
and an extra blanket in case he felt cold.  Carrie inspected the
wardrobe, which was empty save for two coathangers, and from which
emanated a strong smell of moth-balls.  Elfrida went back to the
cupboard and returned with a duster and a lace-trimmed linen runner,
and after she had done a swift clean-up, placed the runner on the top
of the chest of drawers.  Carrie set and wound the bedside clock.

"What more," asked Elfrida, "could any man need?"

"Fresh flowers?  Face tissues?  A mini-bar?"

"By the time Oscar's finished with him, the last thing he'll need is a
mini-bar.  I haven't even got a spare toothbrush."

"He's got one.  He told me.  And a razor.  He'll be fine."

"Jimmy-jams?"

"He probably sleeps in the buff anyway."

"And how do you know?"

"Instinct, Elfrida.  Feminine instinct."

Suddenly, they were both laughing.  Carrie said, "You're a saint.  I
had to ask him to stay, but the best was knowing you wouldn't mind."

"I think it's lovely.  I've always loved a full house.  And this is a
house for parties and people.  Oscar and I have been rattling around in
it for too long.  Now it's full."  She said this in tones of greatest
satisfaction.

"Stretched to its limits.  A family house.  Just the way it should
be."

A family house.  Elfrida lay in bed and felt the house around her, like
a shield, a carapace, a refuge.  It was a house that she had liked from
the very start, and had come to love.  Filled with friends, it had
become a home.  Oscar's home.  But Hughie wanted to sell it, and
somehow the very thought of Oscar's having to go along with Hughie's
plans, and leave the only place that had ever belonged to him, was
almost more than Elfrida could bear.

Oscar had come to the end of his chapter.  He marked his book and
closed it, and laid it down on the bedside table.

"Are you still awake?"  he asked.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm just awake."

He turned off the light, but it was not dark because of the chink in
the curtains.

She said, "Oscar."

"What is it?"

"If Hughie wants to sell his half of this house, couldn't you buy him
out, and then it would all be yours?  For always."

"Seventy-five thousand."

"You ... you don't have seventy-five thousand?"

"If I sold everything I owned, I might scrape up twenty."

"You could get a mortgage."

"Not for that amount.  Not at my age.  And I've always had a horror of
mortgages.  People say, "Get a mortgage," but what they really mean is,
"Borrow money."  It frightens me.  I've never had much, but I've never
been in debt.  I couldn't start now."

"If I had seventy-five thousand, would that help?"

"If you had seventy-five thousand, it would belong to you.  It wouldn't
be to bail me out."

"I love this house so much."

"Do you, dear girl?"

"It is so strong, so unpretentious, so ... adaptable.  Can't you feel
it, like a heartbeat, keeping us all going, sheltering; taking care of
us all?"

"I think I am not as fanciful as you."

"You can't lose it, Oscar."

"Hughie can't sell it without my consent."

"But he needs the money."  She lay silent, carefully framing hi her
mind what she was going to say.

"Oscar.  Listen to me.  If I sold my little picture, my David Wilkie,
how much do you think that would fetch?"

"That is your treasure."

"No, it is my insurance.  And perhaps now is the time to release it."

"It is your insurance.  Not mine."



"Oscair, we are together.  We are too old to prevaricate about such
small details."

"Seventy-five thousand is not a small detail.  It is a lot of money."

"If it is worth what I think it is, then we should sell it.  If we
don't get the seventy-five thousand for it, then we can fill in the gap
with a mortgage.  It's sense.  Why keep a little picture if you can buy
security?  If you could buy this house?  If you could live here for the
rest of your days?  You'd like that, wouldn't you?  You'd like to be
here, for always?  I can't bear to think of this darling place going to
other people.  I want you to have it.  I want you to be here."

For a long time, Oscar did not say anything.  Then he reached for her
hand and took it in his own.  His hand felt warm and she was close to
him.

He said, "You are the dearest person."

"Go to sleep."

"You are the most generous."

"We'll talk about it," she told him.

"In the morning."

ucy

l' wednesday, december ioth

It is half past eight in the morning, and I am writing my diary.  I
should have written it last night, but I was so tired I just had a bath
and went to bed, so got up early this morning to write it down before I
forget.

It was fabulous.

We walked up to the Kennedys' house, because Oscar didn't want to drive
the car in the thick snow.  I have never seen such snow except in
photographs.  It didn 't take very long because we took a short cut.
The Kennedys's house is called the Manse, because Peter Kennedy is the
minister.  It is a big old place, not unlike this one, but very
furnished and with things everywhere.

Carrie didn't come with us because of her cold.

When we got there, other people were there as well.  We were all
introduced.  Mrs.  Kennedy is called Tabitha, and is very pretty and
young-looking, and unusual.  Rory told me she teaches art in the
school.  Then we left all the grownups in the sitting-room and went
into the kitchen, and there were three other boys there, friends of
Rory's from school, and his sister Clodagh, who is twelve, and very
skinny and sharp with bright-blue eyes and fair pigtails.  We all.  sat
around and drank Coke, and Clodagh was very flirty.  The table was
already laid, and we had a sort of high tea there, an enormous macaroni
and cheese and salads, and then a very rich chocolate cake and
ice-cream.  When that was finished, we all got ready again and walked
down the hill and along the road to the school.  About half a mile. The
school is old, but has lots of new buildings around it, and the gym was
one of them.  They call it the hall, but it's a gym as well.

There were lots and lots of children of all ages, from about seven to
grown-up.  The headmaster is called Mr.  Mcintosh, but they all call
him Waterproof behind his back,

but I bet he knows about this.  He was quite young and very nice. There
was a platform at one end of the hall and a proper band.  An
accordionist, a drummer, and a fiddler.  There was a terrible din, and
everybody was larking around, and then Mr.  Mcintosh told everybody to
be quiet, in quite a soft voice, and they were.  He said it was time to
get started and we were going to do a Strip the Willow because it
wasn't too difficult for little ones and learners (me).

Rory and the others who had been with us helped get everyone into line,
with partners and things.  It didn't seem to matter who your partner
was.  Boys danced with boys, and girls with girls, if they wanted,
which seems to me a very sensible arrangement.  Two boys wanted to
dance with Clodagh, but Rory said he would do it with me.

We stood about half-way up the line so I could see roughly what it was
all about.  The music was very lively and jiggy and made you feel you
couldn 't stand still, with a tremendous beat from the drum.  It wasn
't a very difficult dance, just spinning round and round with your
partner, or some other person in the line, and then coming all the way
back again.  Sometimes you were armed by a huge boy who pulled you just
about off your feet, and then the next one would be tiny, and you'd
have to be careful not to spin him off his feet.

By the end we were all hot and breathless, but there was lemonade and
then we started again.

We did an eight some reel, but with sixteen people, which makes it all
the more complicated.  And then something called Hamilton House, which
was fun because you set out with one boy and then spin with another.
And then the Dashing White Sergeant, when you go all round the room in
threes, the lines in opposite directions, so by the end you have met
absolutely everybody.  Then the Gay Gordons, but Rory said that was a
silly dance, so we didn 't do it but drank lemonade.  I didn't dance
with him all the time, but with lots of other people who were friendly,
even though I didn't know their names, and came and asked me.  Most
people were in jeans and old clothes, but some boys wore their kilts,
with Rugby shirts, or old tweed waistcoats.

The time absolutely flew, and it was so strange because however
breathless and hot you felt, as soon as the music struck up again, you
simply didn 't want to stay off the floor.

It all ended at about ten o'clock, and nobody wanted to go home, but
once the band had gone, there wasn't much point, so we all went out to
the cloakroom and found our things again, and put them on.  Clodagh and
the others went back to the Manse.  One of the boys had a sledge and
they took turns dragging each other along the wad and up the hill.  But
Rory walked back to Oscar's house with me.  It was such a beautiful
night, with the snow still falling softly, and everything smothered in
it.

Carrie had said to ask him in for a beer, so I did, and he came in. And
then, more surprises.  They were all in the kitchen, finishing supper. 
And Carrie was up and about, and a strange man was there, too. He is
called Sam Howard, and is going to live up here, and run some old
woollen mill in Buddy.  Very nice-looking and I should say just about
the right age for Carrie.  I thought perhaps he was an old friend, but
it seemed he'd been snowed in, couldn't get back to Inverness, and was
staying the night.  We 'd seen a rather handsome Range Rover thing
outside in the street, but hadn't put two and two together.

Anyway, we had hot chocolate and some biscuits with them, and then Rory
went home.  But he says he is coming today with the television set for
my room.  Not that I need one, because so many things are happening
here all the time that I don't think I shall have time to look at it.

The best is knowing that things are going to go on happening.  I've
never felt like this before.  In London, a treat is over and there aren
't any more, but being here there are unexpected treats every single
day.

Now I suppose I had better get dressed and go down and eat breakfast.
There is a smell of bacon drifting up which is very appetizing.

EL FRIDA

el frida was, as usual, the first downstairs in the morning.  On the
turn of the stairs, she drew back the curtains (a marvellously grand
and threadbare pair that she had bought at the market in Buckly), and
gazed out at the day.  Actually, it was the night, because it was still
dark, but it had stopped snowing, and by the light of the street lamp
she could see the garden, all shape and form obliterated.  Bushes and
trees drooped beneath the weight of the snow, and shrubs, pillowed, had
lost all identity.  It was very still and quiet.

She went on downstairs and into the kitchen.  Horace, it seemed, was
beginning to recover.  As she opened the door, he clambered out of his
basket and came to greet her, plumy tail waving.  She stroked and
patted him, and they held a small conversation, and then she opened the
back door and he stepped out.  When he came indoors again, his face
wore an expression of indignation.  He had not expected such
inconvenience, especially in his present delicate state of health.

He returned to his basket and sulked.

Elfrida dealt with breakfast.  Laid the table, made coffee, found
bacon.  It was the last of the bacon and they would have to buy more.
In fact, she was really going to have to start thinking about Christmas
food; she had been putting this off from day to day, but now there was
so little time left that probably all the shops would be denuded and
she wouldn't be able to buy so much as a mince pie.  She found an old
envelope and a pencil, and as she fried the bacon, started in on a
tentative list.  She wrote bacon.  And then tangerines.  And then
decided not to write anything else until she had her first cup of
coffee.

She was drinking this when the kitchen door opened, and Sam Howard
appeared.  Elfrida was wearing her tartan trousers and a dark-blue
sweater with knitted sheep grazing

about all over it, but Sam was still in his sharply cut and formal suit
because, of course, he had nothing else to wear.  He looked a bit out
of place, and Elfrida's first thought was for his comfort.

She said, "I shall lend you a sweater."

"I clearly look as peculiar as I feel.  Overdressed."

"Not at all.  You look very nice.  But a bit like a chairman about to
make a speech.  How did you sleep?"

"In great comfort.  I remember beds like that in my mother's house."

"I have cooked you bacon for breakfast."

"I smelt it, wafting up the stair."

"I'll fry you an egg."

"I can do that.  I'm extremely handy."

"Not in your best jacket.  It will smell of cooking.  I shall go now
and find you something a little less formal."

She went upstairs.  Oscar was in the bathroom shaving, so she raided
his chest of drawers and unearthed a pleasing blue Shetland jersey with
a polo-neck.  Back in the kitchen, she found Sam in his shirt-sleeves,
neatly frying himself his egg.  She tossed him the sweater.

"Too cold for shirt-sleeves."  And he caught it and pulled it on, his
head emerging from the ribbed collar like the head of a swimmer rising
from the deep.

"That's much better," Elfrida told him.

"Now you can relax."

He fried the egg and flipped it onto the plate, and added a couple of
rashers of bacon.  Elfrida put more bread into her new toaster, and
then filled his coffee-cup.  They sat at the table together, and it
felt companionable.

"The snow has stopped...."

"I feel so bad about last night...."

They both spoke at the same instant, and then stopped, waiting for the
other to carry on.

Elfrida said, "Why do you feel bad?  It was no trouble at all.  All we
did was feed you on some rather dried-up kedgeree and put a pair of
sheets on a bed."

"I didn't actually mean that, although it was very kind of you.  I
meant barging in, clutching the key of your house, and

saying I'd come to buy it.  I lay awake last night and went quite cold
with embarrassment at the thought.  I just hope I didn't offend Oscar,
or upset him."

"Oscar's not that sort of a man.  For a moment he was a bit cross, but
with Hughie, not with you.  And I must agree, I think Hughie has
behaved in a shabby fashion.  But according to Oscar, he's never done
anything else.  However, I can't pronounce, because I've never met him.
Did you like him?  Hughie, I mean."

"Not really.  Very smooth.  Rather passe.  Kept fondling his tie."

Elfrida recognized the tiresome habit at once.

"Oh, I hate men who do that.  I can just see him."

"The key's still in my coat pocket.  I'll give it to Oscar."

"He's not that worried."

"I..."  Sam set down his knife and fork and reached for his
coffee-cup.

"I... suppose Oscar wouldn't think of buying Hughie out?"

"We talked about it last night.  You have to understand Oscar and I
haven't known each other for all that long.  But, at the beginning of
November, his wife and child were killed hi a terrible car crash, and
he had to leave Hampshire, and I came with him.  We share a bedroom and
a bed, but we have no foreseeable future together.  I am not, as yet,
permanently a part of his life, simply a sort of spare wheel, to keep
the car going until he's sorted himself out.  So it is difficult for
me, either to press him into some sort of action, or even to make
suggestions."

"Will he go back to Hampshire?"

"No.  The house he lived in, with Gloria, is already on the market."

"So this is his only property?"

"Yes.  And it's half a property."

"But wouldn't it be sensible for him to buy Hughie out?"

"Yes.  Sensible, but not financially possible.  I have only just found
this out."

"You mean he doesn't have the wherewithal?"

"Exactly that."

"A mortgage?"

"Won't think about it."

"I see."  Sam returned to his bacon and eggs, but his presence was so
strong and sympathetic that Elfrida went on.  Confiding in him, as she
felt she could confide in no other person.

"I said, we talked about it last night.  He told me that if he sold
everything he owned, he couldn't raise more than twenty thousand.  And
I said, "Oscar, I have my little picture."

" He looked up, and across the breakfast table, their eyes met and
held.  And Elfrida guessed that this possibility had already occurred
to him.

"You are talking about your David Wilkie?"

"Exactly.  It was given to me, years ago.  I've never had it valued,
because I've never insured it.  But like any old woman living on her
own, I have always allowed myself to believe it is worth a lot of
money.  My backup, in possible times of penury and trouble."

"Would you sell it?"

"For Oscar, I would do anything.  Short of leaping off a cliff or
shooting myself.  And after all, what is a little picture?  It's given
me pleasure for many years, but we have to keep some sense of
proportion.  Surely, to be able to own such a lovely house as this is
of more importance."

"I agree with you," said Sam.

"You've no idea how much it's worth?"

"Not really.  And this is scarcely the time and the place to start
getting it appraised.  I am a stranger in this part of the world.  I
have no connections of any sort, and wouldn't know where to start.
There's an antique shop across the road, but that's about as far as I
can go."

Sam was silent for a bit.  And then he said, "Janey Philip ... she's
married to my oldest friend.  I was staying with them in London when I
met Hughie.... Janey used to work for Boothby's, the fine art dealers;
I could ring her.  I'm sure she'd have some bright suggestions."

"It's a bit close to Christmas to start trying to sell pictures."

"We don't have to do it right away."



"And the snow.  The snow precludes everything.  Are you still snowed in
with us, Sam?  I hope so."  He put down his coffee-cup and started
laughing.  She frowned.

"What's so funny?"

"You.  Most people would be desperate to get rid of the stranger."

"I don't feel you're a stranger.  But I suppose it was a stupid thing
to say.  You obviously want to get on.  Get back to Inverness."  She
finished, "Get home."

"Elfrida, I am going no farther than Inverness."

"But... home ... ?"

"At this precise moment I haven't got one.  Except an apartment in New
York.  That's where I lived for six years, but my wife and I separated,
and then I had to come back to the UK to do this job in Buckly."

"Oh, Sam, I'm sorry."

"Why sorry?"

"Your wife ... I didn't know."

"Just one of those things."

Separated.

"So you're still married?"

"Yes."

"Children?"

"No."

"Parents?"  Elfrida persisted, beginning, even to herself, to sound a
bit desperate.

"My parents are both dead.  Our old Yorkshire home sold up."

"So what will you do for Christmas?"

"I haven't thought about it.  Christmas, at the moment, is a
non-starter.  I'll probably just stay in Inverness until the orgies of
hogmanay are over, and then get back to Buckly and start getting the
show on the road.  At the moment, to be truthful, that's all-important.
I'm giving family and celebrations a miss this year."

"You must spend Christmas with us."

"Elfrida..."

"No.  I mean it.  I couldn't bear you to be sitting in an hotel lounge
in Inverness, wearing a paper hat and being all

alone.  It's ludicrous.  Oscar and I didn't mean to have Christmas
either.  We thought we'd go pagan and celebrate the Winter Solstice
with a lamb chop.  But then Carrie and Lucy asked themselves, and Oscar
went out and ordered a Christmas tree, and he and Lucy bought some
decorations.  And I'm just sitting here, thinking about food.  I'm
useless at this sort of thing, and all I've written down is bacon and
tangerines.  But we could gather a bit of holly and go and shoot a
turkey, or whatever one does.  And anyway, it's the people who count,
isn't it?  The friends you spend Christmas with?  Don't go.  It would
be such fun for all of us to be together."

She finished, and he was silent, and she wondered if, as usual, she had
overdone it and made a fool of herself.

"Oh, Sam, you do what you want to do.  That's all that's important."

He said, "You're the most hospitable, generous person I think I've ever
met.  But I tell you what I'll do.  I'll ring the AA and see what's
happening on the roads.  If they're clear, men I'll go back to
Inverness and get out of your hair.  I really have a hell of a lot of
work to do.  If they're still impassable, then I'll accept, with much
gratitude, your invitation."

"Oh, good.  I'll pray for blizzards.  Do my snow dance."

"What will Oscar say?"

"He'll say, "Splendid," and go and read his newspaper."

Sam pushed back the cuff of Oscar's sweater and looked at his beautiful
Rolex watch.  He said, "It's nearly nine o'clock.  If you don't mind, I
shall go now, to incarcerate myself in my bedroom with my mobile phone,
and start making calls."

"Why don't you do that?  But first have another cup of coffee."

Carrie was the next to appear.

"Where is everyone?  I thought I heard voices."

"You did.  It was Sam.  But he's gone back to his room to do
telephoning."

"There's still the most dreadful lot of snow."  Carrie poured coffee
and put another bit of bread in the toaster.  She took a rasher of
bacon and ate it with her fingers.  Then she VPCii^Afl/^XXViW^-
j^^Zrf^AS^V sat down and saw C6e old envelope, wrt the seaftof Vrrt* *
shopping list.

"What's this?  Bacon and tangerines.  We are going to have an orgy."
... "I was trying to start in on Christmas.  I simply must pull myself
together and try to make a plan or two.  I've been procrastinating, and
now we've only got four days."

"Why don't you let me take over?  I'm a professional organizer, and
there's nothing I like more than making lists.

^vtvemrsi %^Etrv I &o sxixi- a *>- -mstmmo rvs.\vo>Y "There's a
supermarket across the bridge, at Kingsferry.  You'd have passed it on
your way here from the airport.  It's called Price Rite  The only thing
is, I'm not sure if you'll get there in this snow.  It depends whether
the road's been cleared.  But when Sam's spoken to the AA, we'll
know."

Price Rite  Sounds hopeful."

"You can buy everything, from dog biscuits to rose manure.  I've only
been there once, because, just being the two of us, we didn't seem to
need an enormous amount of food.  But we do now."

"Is Sam going back to Inverness?"

"Depends: If he's marooned, then I've asked him to stay.  Over the
festive season, as they say."

Carrie's face showed no expression.  She simply said, "In that case
we'll be five in the house ..."  and drew the envelope towards her,
picked up the pencil, and started in.

"Now.  Are we going to have a Christmas feast?"

"Yes.  I suppose.  Christmas-day lunch?  Or dinner?"

"Oh, dinner, much more festive."

"We'll never get a turkey into that little oven."

"Then we'll have chickens.  Two chickens."

Carrie wrote furiously.  Chickens.  Brussel sprouts.  Potatoes.  Cloves
for bread sauce.  Frozen peas.  Carrots.  Masses of fruit.  Butter.
French bread.  Cranberry sauce.  Cinnamon sticks... "And the wine?"

"Oscar will want to deal with the wine."

"Smoked salmon?"

"My favorite."

It^SSVT^fSf _* *^^ * TlS^f

"ZlatfaifiS anefftuJ?Manx fries?"

"Could you buy them?  I'm useless at pastry.  We can cheat, and soak
them in brandy.  Christmas cake.  I'll make the cake.  Christmas
pudding."

"Should we have a cold ham?  Terribly useful for Boxing Day and
sandwiches."

"Brilliant.  And a big pot of soup.  I'll make it."  For once, Elfrida
felt competent and efficient.  Soup was her speciality, c\ dKfi*Y sxocV
sn& as\>j \ ia&9 Nege\2ib\e.  She caf teA it garbage broth.

"And perhaps crisps and dips in case we decide to have a party."

"A party?"

"Shouldn't we?"

"Who would we ask?"

"Well..."  Elfrida considered the options, which were not many.

"The Kennedy family.  And the doctor and his wife.  And the nice
bookshop man and his wife.  They were at the Manse yesterday, and he
and Oscar got on like a house on fire...."

Oscar, on cue, came through the door.

"With whom did I get on like a house on fire?"

"The bookshop man."

"He's called Rutley.  Stephen Rutley.  And his wife is Anne."

"How clever you are to remember.  Oscar, we are going to have a little
party.  So we shall ask them."

"When shall we have a little party?"

Carrie and Elfrida looked at each other, because this had not been
decided.  Then Carrie said, "Saturday.  Saturday night is party
night."

"The day before Christmas Eve."

Oscar said, "I shall have to buy some drink."

"If the bridge is open, Carrie's going to Price Rite in Kingsferry to
do all the shopping.  Perhaps you could go with her."

"Yes, perhaps I could.  Elfrida, somebody seems to have finished the
bacon."

"Oh, Oscar, I'm sorry.  That was me," Carrie admitted.

"I ate the last bit.  I'll fry you some more."



"There isn't any more," Elfrida told her.  But it didn't matter,
because there were sausages in the | fridge and Carrie cooked those
instead, and then Lucy appeared and Elfrida left them at it and went
upstairs, feeling J much happier now that a few plans had already been
made and she was spared the ordeal of an hour or more spent in Price
Rite pushing a trolley down the crowded Christmas aisles and searching
hopelessly for the ground coffee.

In her bedroom, she did a little desultory tidying up, making the bed
and spreading upon it her red siik shawl.  She folded clothes and put
them away and then sorted out the contents of the linen basket in the
hope of doing a wash and hanging it out on the line to dry.  Which,
perhaps, she could, because out of doors the sun was creeping up into a
clear sky, and all the snow sparkled where the light touched it, and
shadows were a wonderful smoky-blue.  Below, in the street, the morning
was on its way.  The first of the shopping ladies; slow-moving cars; a
man at the wheel of a van, sitting, parked, and eating a restorative
ham roll.  A girl came out of the bakery with a broom and started
brushing the pavement She wore her overall and a stout pair of rubber
boots.  Overhead, the seagulls wheeled, and perched on the weather-vane
of the church, preening their feathers in the fine morning.

She tore herself away from the lovely sight, gathered up the laundry,
and dumped it on the bathroom floor.  Later, she would take it
downstairs.  She went into the sitting-room, still dim and shrouded
from last night, drew back the curtains, and the low sun flooded in and
filled all with light.  The detritus of the previous evening stood
about.  Empty glasses, Oscar's whisky bottle; cushions squashed, chairs
in disarray.  She collected glasses and tidied up a bit, and then knelt
to deal with the remains of last night's fire.  Her most un favourite
task, but one which had to be done each morning.  Oscar always said to
leave it for him to do, but his job was humping logs and it seemed a
bit unfair to let him cope with a bucketful of ashes as well.

She was brushing the hearth when, from behind her, she heard Sam
speak.

"Elfrida.  I'll do that."

"Oh."  She turned and he was standing in the open door- I'; way.  He
closed the door behind him, and she abandoned the hearth-brush and
stood up, dusting her hands on the seat of her tartan trousers.

"Don't worry.  I do it every morning.  I'll finish it later.... What's
the news?"

He looked rueful.

"I'm afraid you've got me for Christmas."

"Wonderful."  She made no attempt to keep the satisfaction out of her
voice.  And then thought it might be tactful to be a bit sorry for
him.

"Poor Sam.  You're stuck.  You have no choice.  Come and tell me."

She went to the window-seat, and he came and sat beside her.  Through
the glass the thin sun felt almost warm.

"The roads are passable until the Cromarty Bridge, but the Black Isle
is a no-go area, and Inverness is totally snowed up.  No traffic in, no
traffic out."

"They must have had much more snow than us."

"Yes.  It seems they did."

"Carrie and Oscar are planning a huge shopping expedition to Price Rite
That's across our bridge.  Do you think they'll be able to make it?"

"They'll make it that far, no problem.  The snow ploughs have been out.
It's just farther south that the trouble starts."

"Have you telephoned your hotel?"

"Yes, I've done that.  And to my chairman, David Swin- field, in
London.  And I've spoken to Janey as well...."

"Janey ... ?"  Elfrida frowned, having already forgotten who Janey
was.

"Janey Philip.  I told you.  Neil's wife."

"Oh, yes, of course.  Sorry.  The one who used to work for
Boothby's."

"That's right.  She was most helpful.  She went off and found one of
the current Boothby catalogues and did a bit of research.  And there's
a Boothby's local representative for this part of the world.  He lives
at Kingsferry House, and he's called Sir James Erskine Earle

"Heavens."  Elfrida was much impressed.

"How frightfully grand."



"She gave me his phone number as well, but I haven't rung him yet.  I
thought I'd better have a word with you first Just be sure that you
really do want to sell your picture ... or at least have it
appraised."

"I've barely mentioned it to Oscar."

"Do you want to talk it over with Oscar?"

Elfrida thought about this, and then said, "No, because he might try to
persuade me not to."

"An appraisal doesn't mean you have to sell.  And, whatever, you really
should insure it."

"I don't suppose I'd be able to afford the premiums."

"So what do you say?  Shall I give him a ring?"

"Yes.  Do that.  See what he says."

He left her, and Elfrida stayed where she was, gazing across the room
to where her little treasure hung, lonely in the middle of a large
empty expanse of wall.  It had been part of her life for so long ...
the old couple sitting at the table with their family Bible; he so
sombrely attired, she proud in her red dress and her daffodil-yellow
silk shawl.  Their faces watchful, wise, and kind.  Their stillness
emanating a certain dignity, a repose.  They had been comforting
companions for a number of years and seen her through a number of
distraught and desolate days.  She was very fond of them.

But they were not as important as Oscar.

Five minutes later, Sam was back, looking pleased with himself.

"All fixed."  He settled himself beside her once more.

"You spoke to him?  Sir James Erskine Earle

"Yes.  No trouble.  He answered the phone himself.  And he's coming
over to Creagan this afternoon.  It's to do with the War Memorial; he's
on some committee or other.  He's going to drop in about four o'clock
and cast his eye over your painting.  He sounded rather interested."

"Oh, Sam."  All at once, Elfrida felt a bit nervous.

"I'm not sure if I can wait that long."

"You'll have to."

"We'll give him a cup of tea.  I'll buy some scones.  Did he sound
nice?"

"Perfectly amenable."

"It... it's rather exciting, isn't it?"

"It could be."

"Shall I tell Oscar?"

"I would, if I were you.  You don't want to start feeling
underhanded."

"No.  You're quite right.  Thank you, Sam, for your trouble."

"My pleasure.  The least I can do.  Now, you said Carrie and Oscar were
going over to Kingsferry to shop.  Instead, why don't I take her, and
then I can help loading trolleys and carting everything home?"

Elfrida thought this a marvelous idea, and for more reasons than one.

"Brilliant.  How kind you are.  Oscar will be delighted.  He loathes
shopping."

"I have ulterior motives."  (Better and better.) "Because I must buy
clothes.  I can't go round looking like a tailor's dummy for the next
five days.  Do you think Kingsferry would rise to a Gent's Outfitters?
And a chemist, because I haven't got any toothpaste."

Elfrida said brightly, "Of course," but felt slightly let down because
she had hoped his ulterior motive was getting Carrie to himself.

"And I should like to buy some wine for Oscar ... perhaps I should have
a word with him before I go."

"That would be a good idea.  About wine, Oscar has strong opinions."

"And rightly so."

Outside, in the brightening morning, the sea-gulls clamoured, perched
on the ridge of the high roof, floating and circling around the tower,
relishing the clear air.  Elfrida turned her head to watch them.  She
said, "In one way, I should like you to have this house.  It has such
dignity and solidity, just right for the important head of a company."
She looked at him sitting there in Oscar's blue sweater, and it already
felt as though he had been with them all forever.

"It's strange, isn't it, the way things happen?  You with your key, and
then the snow tumbling down.  And here we all are.  And it is very
satisfactory having young and competent people around us

again.  Carrie organizing everything, and you making decisions that I
never could.  I've always been useless at decisions.  I've always
worked on impulse, and some have been disastrous.  Oscar and I have
been two old things for too long.  Mrs.  Snead said visitors would
cheer us up, but it's more than that.  And I know that without actually
talking about it we've both been dreading Christmas.  Under the
circumstances, I felt it could be nothing but a bitter and sad time.
But now, with you and Lucy and Carrie with us, it can't be as emotive
as we had feared."  She thought about this, and then smiled.

"Whatever, there's nothing we can do to stop it happening.  So we might
as well make it fun.  Perhaps it will be like one of those parties one
longs not to have to go to; and then it turns out to be one of the most
memorable and the best.  Do you know what I mean?"  Sam said he knew
exactly what she meant.

lucy

JjALF past ten in the morning, and everyone was occupied.

Sam and Carrie had departed in Sam's impressive Discovery for
Kingsferry and Price Rite  Before they could go, however, a certain
amount of physical labour had been necessary, and Sam had found a
shovel in Oscar's shed and cleared the snow from the path that led from
front door to gate, and then a broom, with which he had brushed piled
snow from his car.  And had squirted anti-freeze on his windscreen.
Finally Carrie joined him, and they set off on their expedition
together, armed with a list that went on forever, and which had taken a
great deal of time and communal thought to compose.  Carrie wore her
loden coat and her black fur hat, and Sam was buttoned up into a
handsome navy-blue overcoat that made him look very successful, which
he probably was.  Driving away, they left an opulent impression.

Elfrida, having hung her washing out in the still, cold air, had taken
Horace for a small walk.  Just up the hill to the closed and shuttered
hotel, and home by the station.  Otherwise, she said, his muscles would
atrophy and he would never move from his basket again.  Oscar was by
the fire in the sitting-room, reading his newspaper.  He had clearly
been much relieved when told he didn't have to go shopping.

So Lucy sat at the table in her bedroom, and made her own plans.  This
morning she would shop for her Christmas presents.  She had given Mummy
and Gran theirs before she left London, but there were still a lot more
to go.  Having her holiday money made everything much easier, because
it meant she wouldn't have to penny-pinch.

Elfrida, Oscar, Carrie.  Now she added Sam.  And Mrs.  Snead.  And
Rory.  And perhaps Clodagh, too; otherwise it might look a bit odd.

She couldn't think of anybody else.

330

She found her haversack and put the list into it and checked on her
purse, which bulged in satisfactory fashion She put on her padded
jacket and her boots and went downstairs.  On the way, she looked
around the open sitting-room door.

"Oscar."

"Yes, my duck."

"Oscar, I'm going out to do some shopping."

"Right."

"When Elfrida gets back, will you tell her?"

"I shall do that."

She left him and went on downstairs.  Christmas, all at once, was
becoming real.  Over breakfast, plans had been laid, and Lucy was told
that they were going to have Christmas dinner in the evening, a proper
grown-up party.  In London, where Christmas was usually a fairly tame
affair, the great feast always took place at lunch-time, which meant
there was an awful lot of day left over.  But a party in the evening
meant that there would be something to look forward to all day, and
Lucy could wear her new black miniskirt and her white sweater.  Going
down the long hall thinking about this, she paused, and then, on an
impulse, opened the door of the desolate and disused dining-room.  It
was dark and gloomy and in dire need of a good dust and polish, but in
her imagination she saw it lit by firelight and candles and groaning
with delicious foods.  Things like crystallized fruits and a pudding
aflame with brandy.  And goblets of wine, and the glow of china and
gleaming silver dishes filled with nuts and chocolates.

An idea took shape, but there wasn't time, right now, to think it
through, so she closed the door and then let herself out of doors, into
the cold sweet morning and the dazzle of snow.  Across the street stood
a big council lorry, with an extending ladder, and two burly men were
occupied in draping strings of fairy lights around and over the
branches of the bare trees which stood within the churchyard wall.

She started off down the pavement to do the rounds of the modest shops.
By now, they too were in the festive spirit,

with mock snow sprayed on windows and displays arranged with red satin
bows and plastic holly.  In the ironmonger's window a chain-saw wore a
tinsel ribbon and a card saying

SXSYIABLE VOR CHRISTMAS GIFTING.

Lucy wondered who would fall for that one.

She came to the jersey shop, went inside, and found every sort of
pullover, cardigan, tam-o'-shanter, sock, and glove.  Knitted thistles
on the front of sweaters, ethnic patterns that looked as though they
had been designed by some mad Peruvian.  In the end she unearthed a red
cashmere scarf, very fine and very long, which she knew would look
quite perfect wound around Carrie's elegant neck.

And it would keep her cosy as well.

Next was the bookshop.  And there, to serve her, was Mr.  Rutley, who
ran the place, and whom she had already met at the Manse.  He greeted
Lucy like an old friend, and was immensely helpful.  After a bit of
browsing, discussion, and changing minds, she chose a book for Oscar, a
coffee-table book filled with full-page colour photographs of old
Scottish country houses, castles, and gardens.  She was sure that he
would love it.  Mr.  Rutley said that if he didn't, he could change it,
but Lucy knew that even if he didn't like the book, Oscar wouldn't
dream of changing it, because he was that sort of person, and would
rather fall down dead than hurt someone's feelings.

For Sam, at Mr.  Rutley's suggestion, she got an ordnance sur very map
of Creagan and the surrounding district, which included Buddy.  It
seemed a bit dull, but on the other hand was probably the most useful
thing he could own, coming as he was to live and work in the
neighbourhood.  As well, it was quite expensive.  So Lucy bought it,
and some cards, and wrapping paper with holly, and some glittery
string.  Mr.  Rutley put it all into a carrier-bag and took her
money.

"I hope we'll see you all again over Christmas, Lucy."

"Yes.  I do, too.  Thank you."

"Have fun."

The chemist was next.  That was much quicker.  Some lavender soap for
Mrs.  Snead, and for Clodagh, little hair or ^.OS A.M.XJ T* DE
F~I.LCHE.lt naments that she could clip to the end of her pigtails.
Rory .  was a bit difficult because Lucy hadn't the faintest idea what
he would really like.  It would be easier to choose if she had a
brother of her own, or even a friend who was a boy.  Then she saw a big
bottle of Badedas.  Her father had always used Badedas, in the safe old
days when she was a little girl, before the divorce.  He would soak in
his bath, and the scented steam, smelling of chestnut oil, would fill
the upstairs half of their house.  Perhaps Rory would like to soak in
Badedas after a long day's stint on the golf course.  She wavered for a
moment or two, and then, unable to come up with a better idea, bought
it.

Elfrida was the most difficult.  What could one give to El- frida that
would begin to pay back for all the laughs and the spontaneous
affection that she had given Lucy?  There was no inspiration in the
chemist's shop, so she went out and walked on down the street, past
Arthur Snead Fruit and Vegetables.

Then, struck by a brilliant idea, she retraced her steps and went
through the door, which went ping when she shut it.

"Mr.  Snead?"

"

"Ullo, there."

"I'm Lucy Wesley.  I'm staying at the Estate House.  Mrs.  Snead is a
friend of mine."

"Oh, yes.  She told me about you."

"If I ordered some special flowers for Elfrida, would you be able to
deliver them on Christmas Eve?"

He looked a bit doubtful, pursing up his lips.

"Christmas Eve's a Sunday, darling."

"Well, Saturday, then.  Saturday would be better, actually, because
they're going to have a little party."

"The truth is, darling, it's dicey just now, with the snow.  Nothing's
getting through from Inverness, and that's where all my regular stuff
comes from.  What were you thinking of?  Chrysanths?  Carnations?"

Lucy screwed up her nose.

"Not really."

"I've got Stargazer lilies in the back.  Delivered yesterday, when the
roads were still open.  But they're pricey."

"Stargazers?"

>

"Lovely tfgnt buds, and in the cool.  Should just be starting to open
in a day or two."

"Could I see one?"

"Course you can."

He disappeared through a door at the back of his shop and reappeared
holding a single stem of creamy, elliptical, tightly closed buds.  They
looked just the same as the ones Gran bought from the flower-seller on
the street corner in Fulham, and they sometimes lasted as long as two
weeks.

"How many have you got there?"

"I've got a dozen in there, but like I said, they're pricey.  Three
pounds a stem."

Three by six was eighteen.  Eighteen pounds.  But they would look so
beautiful in Elfrida's sitting-room.  They would open slowly, spreading
out into pale-pink petals, and fill the whole house with their heady
fragrance.  She said, "I'll have six and pay you now, but would you
keep them here until Saturday and then bring them over?"

"Course I will.  And tell you what, I'll wrap them in special paper and
put a big pink bow on."

"I've got a card.  I bought it in the bookshop.  If I write the card,
you can put it in with the flowers."

"I'll do that very thing."

He lent her a. pen and she wrote the card.

ElfridaHappy Christmas and lots of love from Lucy

She put it into its envelope and wrote el frida phi pps licked it down,
and gave it to Mr.  Snead, and then handed over the eighteen pounds.  A
terrible lot to spend on flowers, but worth it.

Mr.  Snead rang up his till.

"If you're wanting mistletoe, let me know.  I've got a branch or two,
but it sells like hot cakes."

Mistletoe was synonymous with kissing.

"I'll see," said Lucy cautiously.

She said goodbye and set off for home, laden with pur

chases and feeling tremendously Christmassy.  Once back, she would go
straight upstairs to her bedroom, close the door, and settle down to
wrapping all her presents in holly paper, tying them up in glittery
string, and then hiding them in her bottom drawer.  As she crossed the
square, she saw the car parked outside Oscar's house, an old estate car
with its tail-gate open, but thought nothing of it, because in Creagan
people parked their cars all over the place, wherever they could find
space.  However, as she pushed the front door open, she heard voices
from the kitchen and, investigating, there found Elfrida, stirring a
pot on the cooker, and Rory Kennedy.  On the kitchen table stood the
television set, and a small black plastic trolley with wheels.

When she appeared in the open doorway, laden with shopping bags, they
stopped talking, and turned to smile.  Rory said, "Hi," and he was
wearing a grey fleecy jacket and rubber boots, and looked hugely
masculine.  Because his presence was so unexpected, Lucy was all at
once lost for words, and yet delighted all at the same time.

"Hello.  I... I thought you were coming later on.  Like tea-time.  I
thought you'd be working."

"Not much to do on the golf course in weather like this.  The green
keeper sent us all home.  So I borrowed Dad's car and brought the set
down for you."

Lucy looked at it.  It seemed much more sophisticated than the one she
had in London.

"I thought it would be old.  It doesn't look old at all."

"It's colour.  Just that I got myself a bigger one.  I brought the
stand as well, in case you didn't have anywhere to put it."

Elfrida lifted her pot off the cooker and put it down on an iron
trivet.  She said, "I think it's amazing.  We'll all be coming up to
the attic to sit and goggle.  Lucy, perhaps you'd better show Rory
where it's got to go in your bedroom."

"It's four flights of stairs," Lucy told Rory.

He grinned.

"I think I could just about manage."

She led the way, her carrier-bags bumping against her legs.

"You been shopping?"  Rory asked, from behind her.  She thought that
only he would be able to carry something

very heavy up so many stairs and still have breath left over for
conversation.

"Yes.  Christmas presents.  I didn't have time in London."

The top landing and the door that led into her room.  She went through
and dumped the carrier-bags on her bed, and Rory followed her and put
the television set carefully down on the floor.  Straightening, he
looked appreciatively about him.

"Hey, this is a cool room.  And lots of space.  Do you always keep it
as tidy as this?"

"Sort of," Lucy told him casually, not wanting him to think her
pernickety.

"Clodagh's room's a perpetual tip.  Ma's always getting at her to put
her things away.  I'll nip down and get the table and then we'll get it
set up."

When he had gone, pounding down the stairs again, she quickly bundled
all the carrier-bags in the empty bottom drawer and shut it firmly.  It
would be a shame if he guessed about the Badedas.

In a moment he was back with the little trolley.  They found a suitable
power socket, and Rory put the set on the table and plugged it in.
There was no aerial point, but the set had its own aerial, and Rory
switched it on and then riddled with the aerial until the picture
stopped being fuzzy and became quite clear.

"It's really good," Lucy marvelled.

"I can get it better."  He was sitting cross-legged on the rug, intent
on what he was doing.  He punched knobs, switched channels.

"Superman" was on for children, and then an old black-and-white film.
Then a lady showing them how to make Christmas cards decorated with
cut-outs from a seed catalogue.  Rory checked the sound, gave the
internal aerial another tweak.  Lucy settled herself on the floor
beside him.

"... and then you finish it off with a little bow of pretty ribbon.
Like this.  I think you'll agree any person would be delighted to
receive such a personal card...."

Rory said, "Not me," and punched another button.  A broadly Scottish
announcer was telling them about the

ROSAMUNDE PlLCHER

weather, which, in the foreseeable future, was not conducive to
hill-walking or climbing.

"Do you want me to leave it on?"  Rory asked.

"No.  I know how to work it now."

He switched it off.

"Just don't touch the aerial.  I think I've got it as good as it
gets...."

"It's really kind of you to let me borrow it, and to bring it."

"No problem.  Finishes everything off."  He looked about him once more
in admiring fashion.

"Is this all the stuff my mother helped buy?  It's great.  She loves
going to the Buddy market more than anything; she always comes back
with some bargain.  A tatty old linen pillowcase, or a china fairing,
or something useless.  Our house is full of junk, but there always
seems to be room for more.  At home, in London, do you have a room like
this?"

"No.  It's not nearly so big.  And it hasn't any sort of lookout from
the window.  But it's pretty.  And at least I don't have to share it
with anybody.  I've got my books there, and my computer.  My things."

"What's it like, living in a city?"

"It's all right."

"Must be great, all those museums and exhibitions and concerts and
plays.  I've only been once.  My dad took me when he had to attend some
conference, and we stayed in an hotel, and went to a theatre every
night.  It was hot weather, and we used to have our meals in pubs,
sitting out on the pavement, and watching all the weirdos wandering
past.  It was good.  More exciting than Creagan."

"It's different if you live there all the time."

"Suppose so."

"It can be quite nice if you've got a proper house with a garden.  When
I was little we had a house in Kensington with a proper garden, and
that didn't feel like living in a city because there was always a bit
of green grass, trees, flowers, and things.  But then my parents
divorced and now we live in a flat, me and my mother and my
grandmother.  It's near the river and it's got a balcony and a nice
view, but there's nowhere to be.  To go and lie on a bit of lawn and
read a

" boric.  My friend Emma... she's at school with me ... she fives in a
proper house and sometimes we have a barbecue in the garden."

She couldn't think of anything else to tell him, and was painfully
aware that it all sounded very dull.

After a bit he asked, "Are you homesick?"

She looked at him in astonishment.

"Homesick?"

"Well, you know ... missing your mother.  Your things.  Everything.
Clodagh's hopeless.  She won't even go away for a night, bawls like a
baby."

"No," Lucy heard her own voice, all at once surprisingly sharp and
strong.

"No, I'm not homesick.  I'm not even thinking about going back to
London.  I'm simply putting it out of my mind."

"But..."

"You don't understand.  It's not like here.  It's not like this house.
Like your house.  Full of people and friends your own age coming and
going.  It's my grandmother's flat, and she doesn't want my friends
around the place.  She gets headaches, she says.  Sometimes Emma comes,
but Gran doesn't really like her much, and so it's always a bit tense,
and we spend most of the time in my room.  Once she came, and both
Mummy and Gran were out, so we spent the whole afternoon in the bath,
washing our hair and putting on scent and painting our toenails with
silver polish.  When I'm in Emma's house, it doesn't seem to matter
what we do.  Her mother's out most of the time, working.  She edits a
magazine.  And the au pair is usually quite fun and lets us cook and
make disgusting puddings."

She stopped, giving Rory an opportunity to comment in some way on this
flood of confidence, but he said nothing.  After a bit, Lucy went on.

"It's so different here.  You can do anything, and if there's nothing
to do, you can go out and shop and walk about, or go to the beach, or
exploring, or out at night and nobody stops you.  And here, they all
call me duck, or darling, but at the same time they treat me like a
grown-up.  As though I were a person, not a child.  Gran and Mummy call
me Lucy.  Just

that.  But I never feel I'm a proper person.  I'm fourteen now, and
sometimes I feel I've done nothing except go to school.  It wouldn't be
so bad if I had a brother or a sister.

"Specially a brother.  Because just being with women all the time can
be dreadfully lowering.  They talk about such unimportant things.  Like
clothes, or restaurants, or other people...."

"Where do you go to school?"

"It's called Stanbrook.  Quite near where we live.  I get the tube, two
stops.  I really like it, and the teachers, the head; and I met Emma
there.  We do things like go to concerts and art exhibitions, and we go
swimming and do games in the park.  But it's all-girls, and sometimes I
think it would be really fun to go to a comprehensive.  You'd meet so
many different people."

Rory said, "How about your father?"

"I don't see him much, because Mummy doesn't like me seeing him; and
anyway he's got a new wife, and she doesn't want me around much either.
I've got a grandfather, called Jeffrey Sutton.  He's Carrie's father.
But he lives in Cornwall with a new young wife and two little new
children."

"Can't you go and stay there?"

"Yes, I could, but Gran's bitter about him, and unforgiving, and his
name is scarcely ever mentioned.  One day I'll really be brave and
strong and say I want to go and stay.  But I suppose I'll have to wait
until I'm a bit older to do that."

"You don't have to wait.  You have to do it now" "I think," said Lucy
sadly, "I haven't the nerve.  I simply hate rows and asserting myself.
I did have one row with Mummy and Gran about having my ears pierced.
Everyone at school has got pierced ears, but they wouldn't let me. It's
such a little thing, but the row went on for days, and I couldn't bear
it, so I just caved in.  I'm dreadfully feeble about things like
that."

Rory said, "I think you'd look good with pierced ears.  You could have
gold rings."  He grinned.

"Like me."

"I wouldn't just have one.  I'd have two."

"Get them done here.  There's a jeweller in Kingsferry."

"My mother would die."

"Your mother's in America?"

"How did you know that?"

"Elfrida told Ma and she told me."

"She's got a boy-friend, Randall Fischer.  She's in Florida with him.
She went for Christmas.  That's why I came here with Carrie.  I was
asked, too, but I didn't want to go.  I'd just have been in the way.
Besides," she added, "I don't really like him much."

He said nothing to this, and it occurred to Lucy that he was very good
at listening.  She wondered if this gift came naturally to him, or
whether his father had taught him the importance of silence at the
appropriate time.  And she remembered that day in London when Carrie
had suddenly appeared, just when Lucy was yearning for a confidante.
She had thought that she could talk to Carrie, could open her heart to
her, but Carrie, returning from Austria, was obscurely different, and
clearly in no mood for confidences.  Withdrawn, perhaps, was the word,
as though some part of her had stayed in another place.  But Rory
Kennedy was different.  Rory had time to listen, and was clearly
sympathetic.  Lucy found herself filled with grateful affection.

She said, "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to say all this.  It's just that
it's all been so much fun.  Being with Elfrida and Oscar, and learning
to do reels, and all the other people of my own age.  And thinking that
Christmas this year is going to be a real one, and not just eating
roast pheasant with Mummy and Gran, or even going out to some boring
restaurant because they can't be bothered to cook.  And the snow and
everything.  And the church.  And the fairy lights going up...."

Her voice trailed away.  She was finished.  There was nothing more to
say.  She thought of the flat and London, and then stuffed the image
away at the back of her mind and slammed down an imaginary lid.  There
was no point remembering.  No point thinking about having to return. No
point in spoiling this moment, this hour, this day.  Now.

He was watching her.  She met his eyes, and smiled.  He said, "Do you
want to come sledging this afternoon?"

"Are you going?"

 ROSAMUNDE PlLCHER

"Why not?  I'll ring up some of the others.  We'll go to the golf
course... there are some really good slopes."  He glanced at his
watch.

"It's nearly twelve.  We'll need to get off early, before it gets dark.
How about you come back home with me now and we'll get my ma to give us
some food, and get hold of the others?"

Lucy said, "I haven't got a sledge."

"We've got three or four in the garage.  You can borrow one of those."
He pulled himself to his feet.

"Come on."

"But won't your mother... ?"

"We, she won't mind.  She won't complain, and there'll be enough food
to feed an army.  There always is."  He reached down and took her arm
and hauled Lucy to her feet.

"Stop being so worried," he told her.

"Stop putting difficulties in your own way."

"Is that what I'm doing?"

"Not any more."

EL FRIDA

the Kingsferry shopping expedition had been highly successful.  Not
only had Sam and Came brought back with them a load of cardboard boxes
stuffed with food, vegetables, cereals, fruit, and Christmas goodies,
but boxes of wine, crates of beer, mixers, Coke, and six bottles of
Grouse whisky.  Moreover, they had managed to run down the whereabouts
of the Gent's Outfitters, where Sam had kit ted himself out with a
wardrobe of country clothes-corduroy trousers, warm shirts, a thick
ribbed sweater, a pair of Timberland boots, and a Barbour jacket.

Sam put his new clothes on for lunch, and they all admired his suave
and casual appearance.  After lunch, he shrugged himself into his
Barbour, and he and Oscar set off to walk to the Golf Club, where Sam
had made an appointment with the secretary, because he wished to talk
about the possibility of becoming a member.  Elfrida, watching them go
as they strode side by side down the snowy pavement, thought that they
looked companionable.  It was good for Oscar to have a bit of masculine
company.

So she and Carrie were left to prepare for the arrival, at four
o'clock, of Sir James Erskine-Earle.  The first thing to decide was
where they should give him his tea.  Elfrida thought the kitchen ... no
point in standing on ceremony.  But Carrie said that was all right for
someone you knew, but perhaps Sir James would be a bit put out if asked
to put his knees under the kitchen table and drink his tea from a
mug.

Elfrida saw her point.

"Then we'll have it in the sitting- room."

"What, all perched around the fireside?"

"Why not?"

"Men hate perching.  Unless they're trained to it, like vicars.  They
can't manage cups, saucers, and fairy cakes all at the same time.
Let's have it on the table in the bay window ... all laid out and
proper, like Mother used to do."

"I shall have to find a dainty tea cloth

"Bet there's one lurking in Mrs.  Snead's cupboard.  Shall I make some
scones?"

Elfrida was impressed.

"Can you?"

"Of course.  And you can go and buy iced fancies from the baker."

Elfrida put on her blanket coat and went.  The baker didn't sell iced
fancies, but had ginger breads instead, so she bought one, and a jar of
home-made bramble jelly.

"Are you having a party, Mrs.  Phipps?"  asked the girl, giving Elfrida
her change.  And Elfrida said, no, not exactly, just somebody coming
for afternoon tea.

Back at the Estate House, Carrie's scones were already in the oven and
smelling delicious.  Elfrida produced the gingerbread and the jam,
found a tray, and stacked it with the best, if mismatched, plates,
cups, and saucers.  She found a sugar-bowl and a butter dish, and even
a butter-knife.

"We are going to be very genteel," she said.  She found teaspoons, and
gave the inside of the teapot a good scour.

Upstairs, she unearthed a tea-cloth from Mrs.  Snead's linen cupboard.
Starched and ironed, it looked quite festive spread upon the old table.
She laid out five plates and small knives, the cups and saucers, the
butter dish, and the jam jar.  There weren't any flowers, but perhaps
Sir James Erskine Earle wouldn't mind too much about that.

She turned from the table with the empty tray in her hand and looked
across the room at her little picture, which, perhaps, after today,
would be gone forever.  It was hanging very slightly crooked, so she
went over to set it straight, giving it a loving pat, as though it were
a child encouraged to be on its best behaviour.

"If I may not have time to say goodbye," she told it, "I will now. It's
been lovely having you."

Oscar and Sam returned from the Golf Club in good time, and good heart.
The interview with the club secretary had been satisfactory.  Sam had
been told that there was a waiting list for members, but as he was
going to be a resident of Buddy, it

would probably be possible to jump the queue.  They had been introduced
to the captain and a few other members, admired portraits and trophies,
and then walked home.

Oscar had, clearly, enjoyed his small outing.  Recalling his only other
visit to the Golf Club, which had ended so disastrously with a
panic-stricken escape, Elfrida gave silent thanks and wanted to hug
him.  But instead she went upstairs to comb her flaming hair and put on
another layer of lipstick.

When he came, on the dot of four o'clock, Sir James Erskine-Earle was
something of a surprise.  The front-door bell shrilled and Elfrida ran
down to let him in, and was a little taken aback to be faced by a man
so young.  And although he had come straight from some meeting about
the War Memorial, he was attired as though for gardening, in elderly
tweed knickerbockers and a jacket that seemed to have lost most of its
buttons.  His shirt collar was frayed and his V- necked pullover had a
small hole in it.  When she opened the door he removed his tweed cap,
and she saw his mousy hair, cut like a schoolboy's.

"Mrs.  Phipps?"

"Yes.  Sir James ..."  They shook hands.

"Please come in."  Leading him upstairs, "It is so good of you to come
at such short notice," she said.

"Not at all."  He had a charming voice and an ingenuous smile.

"I always enjoy such occasions, when I am asked to cast my eye over
something special."

She led him into the sitting-room and introduced him to the others, who
were all standing about looking a bit ill at ease, as though it were
they whom Sir James Erskine Earle had come to appraise.

"Oscar Blundell.  And Carrie, my niece.  And Sam Howard, who is coming
to run the old woollen mill in Buddy."

"We spoke on the phone, I think.  How splendid to meet you.  You're
with Sturrock and Swinfield?  I was at Eton with one of the Swinfields,
but I think not your chairman."  He looked about him.

"This is a most surprising house.  From the outside one has no idea of
its splendour.  It was part of Corrydale, I understand."



"Yes, but hasn't been for some years," Oscar told him.

"Perhaps you knew my uncle, Hector McLennan?"

"No, not well.  I was working in London for some years.  I didn't come
north until my father died and we all came to live at Kingsferry.  Bit
of a culture shock for my family, but they seem to have taken it in
their stride."  He moved, inevitably, over to the window, as newcomers
always did.  It was dark, but Elfrida had not drawn the curtains, and
across the street the twinkling Christmas fairy lights shone like
jewels against the old stone face of the church.

"What an outlook.  And so close to the church.  You must be able to
hear the organ from here.  Marvellous instrument.  We're so
fortunate...."  He turned back to face them all.

"But I mustn't waste your time rubber-necking.  Where is this picture
you want me to see?"

"It's ..."  Elfrida cleared her throat.

"It's here."

"I see.  In solitary state."

"We have no other pictures."

"May I take it down?"

"But of course."

He crossed the room, gently took the frame in his hands and lifted it
down, holding it as delicately as if it were a piece of the finest
porcelain.

"What a lovely thing."  He tilted it beneath the light of the lamp that
stood on Oscar's table.

"Sir David Wilkie."

"Yes.  I've always believed so."

"A portrait of his parents.  Did you know that?  Painted, I suppose,
about 1835."

"I didn't know it was his parents.  I thought just a sweet elderly
couple."

A silence fell.  All faintly unnerved, they waited for his verdict. Sir
James Erskine-Earle took his time, first reaching into the pocket of
his reprehensible jacket to bring out a pair of rimless spectacles.
Putting these on, he now resembled a young and penniless student.
Perhaps a medical student, for his hands were as sensitive as a
surgeon's.  Peering, he examined.  Touched with his fingertips, turned
the painting over, and closely inspected the back.

Finally, he laid the picture carefully down on Oscar's table.

"How did you come by it, Mrs.  Phipps?"

"It was a present.  A long time ago.  Thirty years.  From a Mend."

"And do you know where he bought it?"

"I think in a junk-shop.  In Chichester."

"Yes."  He nodded.

"That figures."

"I've ... I've always believed ... been led to believe ... that it's an
original.  But I've never had it appraised, nor insured."

He looked at her, the reflected light from the lamp flashing from his
spectacles, and he smiled.  That engaging, youthful smile.  He turned
to lean against the table and took his spectacles off.  He said, "I am
really sorry, but it's not the original.  It's a copy."

The stunned silence that followed was because nobody could think of
anything to say.

"It is a most charming and beautifully executed work, but it isn't the
original."

Oscar found his voice.

"How can you know?"

"For one thing, it's not signed.  The style, the subject, I agree, is
unmistakably Wilkie's, but there is no signature.  The other reason I
know that it is a copy is that, oddly enough, the original passed
through Boothby's sale-room in Bond Street only about a year ago.  It
went to a dealer from the United States who was bidding for some museum
or other.  It was larger than your little painting, Mrs.  Phipps, which
leads me to believe that this copy was never intended as a forgery, but
more as a work of respect and admiration.  A student, perhaps, wishing
to emulate the master's style.  It is certainly an extraordinary
simulation ... the brushwork, the colour, the light.  A beautiful piece
of art.  If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, one wonders
who it was who set himself to embark upon such a painstaking task."

Again, silence fell upon the room.  Finally, Elfrida made herself ask
the dreaded question.

"What is it worth, Sir James?"

"Please.  Jamie."



"Well... Jamie ... what do you think it is worth?"  * "If it had been
the original, I should have said in the region of eighty-five thousand
pounds.  I can't remember the exact sum it went for, but something like
that."  \ "And as it isn't the original, but only a copy?"  j "A
thousand?  Maybe more, maybe less.  It would depend | on the market. 
Nothing is worth anything unless somebody wants it."

A thousand.  A copy, and worth only a thousand.  Elfrida's little
nest-egg, her insurance against an impoverished and lonely future.  A
thousand.  In a funny way, for herself, she didn't particularly mind.
There was no point in selling it, and so she could go on enjoying it
for the rest of her life.  But for Oscar she knew an agonizing
disappointment.  All her plans for buying Hughie out and ensuring
Oscar's security were to come for nothing.  All her dreams reduced to
dust, to rubbish.  She saw them as though being swept away, out of
reach, so much flotsam in a swift-flowing river.  Gone.

For a dreadful moment she thought she might be about to burst into
tears.  In some despair she turned to Carrie, and Carrie's beautiful
dark eyes were upon her, warm with sympathy and understanding.  Elfrida
opened her mouth to say something, but there were no words, and Carrie
came to her rescue.

"I think," said Carrie, "that I shall go downstairs and boil a kettle,
and we'll all have a restoring cup of tea."

And then Sam spoke, for the first time since he had been introduced to
Jamie Erskine-Earle.

"I'll come with you, lend you a hand."

Elfrida knew perfectly well that it didn't take two people to boil a
kettle, but she was grateful to Sam for his tact, and for removing his
presence from a difficult situation.  She found herself wishing that
Sir James Erskine-Earle would remove himself, too.  Asked, he had come
to appraise her little painting, and she knew that it wasn't his fault
that it was a fake, but his knowledge and expertise had spoilt so much,
and now Oscar would have no alternative but to sell his half of the
house.  She didn't mind so much about Sam having it.  But she minded
dreadfully about Oscar not having it.

When the others had gone and closed the door behind them, there was a
pregnant silence.  Perhaps Jamie Erskine Earle sensed Elfrida's
resentment, for he said, again, "I am so sorry."

She knew impatience; with herself and with him.

"Oh, U for goodness' sake.  It's not your fault."

Carefully, precisely, he rehung the little picture.  The old lady in
her yellow shawl gazed benevolently down at him, as Elfrida found
herself incapable of doing.  He said, "At least... it will continue to
give you joy."

"It will never be quite the same as before."

Oscar, sensing tension, moved into the conversation.

"It is very precious to Elfrida, nevertheless.  I am relieved that she
has no reason to let it go."

"Oh, Oscar, I have every reason.  It's simply ^picture.  But not for a
thousand.  That sort of money is laughable."

"Elfrida.  It will be all right."

She turned her back on both of them and went to the fire, in need of
something to do that might assuage her disappointment; she took a log
from the basket and hurled it onto the flames.  She stood watching it
catch, and flame.

And then, behind her, Jamie spoke again.

"I'm sorry, I do hope you don't think I'm being curious, but who is the
owner of that interesting little clock?"

For an instant, Elfrida thought that she had misheard.  She turned to
frown at him in puzzlement.

"The clock!"

"It caught my eye.  So unusual..."

Oscar told him, "It is Elfrida's."

"I wonder ... may I look?"

Elfrida nodded.  She moved aside, and Jamie Erskine Earle put his
spectacles on again and came to her side and took the little clock down
from its place in the middle of the mantel shelf  For the second time
she and Oscar watched in silence while he examined it with minute care.
Waiting, Elfrida decided that if he told her it was a worthless
bibelot, no more, she would brain him with the coal shovel.

He said, "A travelling chronometer.  Marvellous.  How did you come by
this little treasure?"



"Do you mean treasure as sentimental, or treasure as i trove?"

He answered politely.

"I'm not sure."

Brusquely, she told him.

"It was left to me by an el godfather.  An old sea-faring man."  And
then, knowing i she sounded thoroughly cross, relented a little.

"You can see, one dial is for hours, one for minutes, and one for
seconds.  I j have to wind it every day.  I suppose I could get it
fitted with a battery, but it seems ..."

"Heaven forbid.  It's far too rare."

"Rare?  Surely it's just an old-fashioned seagoing clock?"

"Practical.  But handsome, too."

She looked at it, in his hands, and all at once the clock took on a new
lustre, as everyday and familiar objects sometimes do when admired by
another.  The outside leather was worn, but inside still rich and dark;
and the lid, which folded across like the cover of a book, was lined
with a bruised pad of velvet the colour of coral.  Around the circular
face, which contained the dials, the leather was decorated with a
wreath of miniature golden leaves, and this pattern was repeated around
the edge of the frame.  The key, the hinges, the tiny locks were
brass.

She said, "I don't even know how old it is.... Perhaps you can tell
me."

"Alas, I am not a clock expert.  But," he added, "I have a colleague
who is.  If you want... if you will let me ... I can show it to him."

"Why?"

"Because I think it is special."

"How special?"

"We used the word 'treasure."" "You mean, you think it's worth
something?"

"I would rather not say.  I'm not sufficiently specialized."

"It wouldn't be worth seventy-five thousand pounds, would it?"  She
asked the question bluntly, expecting a rueful shake of the head, or
even derisive laughter.

But Jamie Erskine-Earle did not laugh.  He said, "I really

it know.  Mrs.  Phipps, would you ... would you let me s it away with
me?  If I can't get hold of my colleague I |!  can speak to him on the
telephone, or send him a photograph PAe clock.  I shall, of course,
give you a receipt for it, and I keep it under lock and key."  >
Suddenly it was ludicrous.

"In Hampshire," she told him, "in my little cottage in Dibton, it sat
on the mantelpiece in my downstairs sitting-room, and I never even
locked the door."

"Then may I congratulate you on your good luck.  It's not insured," he
added, and he was stating a fact, not asking a question.

"No, of course it's not.  It's just a little thing I've had for years
and take everywhere with me."

"If I may reiterate, a very special little thing.  May I take it with
me?"

"Of course."

"If I could have ... a box ... or something to wrap it in.  My
handkerchief is not exactly suitable."

Oscar went to his table and pulled out a drawer and unearthed a sheet
of bubble wrap which he had salvaged from a parcel of new books.

"Will this do?"

"Perfect.  And a sheet of writing-paper for a receipt?  I usually carry
a pad of official forms, but of course, today I have left them at
home."

He gave Oscar the clock and Oscar wrapped it into a bulbous bundle, and
Jamie Erskine-Earle sat at his desk and wrote out his receipt.

"I had better keep that," Oscar told him.

"Elfrida is inclined to lose things."  And he stowed it away in the top
pocket of his jacket.

"There's just one thing," said Elfrida.

"Yes, Mrs.  Phipps?"

"Don't let's talk much about the clock when Sam and Carrie come back.
We all got too worked up about the David Wilkie, and I couldn't bear
raised and dashed hopes again.  Can we just say that you think I should
insure it, and you're going to give me a valuation?"



"Of course.  A splendid explanation.  And one, moreovo, s that happens
to be true...."

That evening, trying to do something about supper, Elfrida felt that
she had spent the entire afternoon on a rollercoaster.  And because of
all the excitement, disappointment, and then re-kindled expectations,
she had clean forgot all about Lucy.  She was stirring a bolognese
sauce in a fairly distracted and unconcentrated fashion when Lucy
turned up, coming into the kitchen by way of the back door.

Elfrida glanced at the old kitchen clock.  It was nearly seven.  She
stared at Lucy, trying to remember what the child had been doing all
day.

Lucy said, "Yes, it's me."

"Oh, darling, I'm sorry."

"You look as though I was the very last person you expected to see."

"I'm doing my preoccupied act.  So much has been happening here, and
you just floated out of my.  mind.  But now you've floated in again,
which is very delightful."

"What's been happening?"  Lucy pulled off her woollen hat and then
began to undo the fastenings of her jacket.

"Have I missed something?"

"Not really.  Just a nice man came for tea.  Carrie made scones.  I
think he ate most of them."

"Who was the nice man?"

"He's called Sir James Erskine-Earle.  He lives at Kings- ferry
House."

Lucy said, "I've just been to Kingsferry.  With Rory."

"I thought you'd gone sledging."

"Yes, we did, but then it got dark, so we went back to the Manse for
tea, and then Rory and I went to Kingsferry."

"Have you been shopping again?"

"No.  Not exactly."

Elfrida, her attention caught, became intrigued.  Lucy's expression was
secret, teasing.  As though she couldn't stop smiling.

"You look like the Cheshire cat.  What have you been up to?"

Lucy put up a hand and tossed her long hair back from her neck, and
Elfrida saw the gleam of gold.

"I've had my ears pierced.  The jeweller in Kingsferry did it for me.
Rory took me.  And he bought me the sleepers for Christmas.  Real
jewellery.  Earrings."

"Oh, darling ..."

"I've been wanting them for ages...."

"Let me look."

"But Mummy wouldn't let me...."

"They're wonderful.  So grown up.  They make you look so grown up. What
a generous present."

"I don't think," said Lucy, "I've ever been given anything I wanted
more."

Lucy wednesday, december 2OTH

/ think this has been one of the best days of my life.  Lots and lots
of snow everywhere and it all looks so pretty.  This morning I did
Christmas shopping, and then when I got back, Rory was here, talking to
Elfrida, with the television set he is going to lend me.  He carried it
up to my room and made it work and then we sat and talked, and somehow
he was so easy to talk to that I just told him everything; about boring
London and having to live in the flat, and Mummy and Gran and Randall
Fischer.  And about Dad and Marilyn, and about the family in Cornwall.
It was so wonderful having someone listen and not interrupt and keep
trying to cheer me up or jolly me along, or even to say I was talking a
lot of rubbish.  Or didn 't know what I was talking about.

He just listened.

When I'd run out of things to say, we drove back to the Manse and Mrs.
Kennedy made us beefburgers.  Rory rang some friends and we all went
sledging on the golf course, which was tremendous fun and totally
exhausting.  We sledged till it got dark and then went back to the
Manse for tea, and then Rory asked his father if we could borrow the
car again, and Mr.  Kennedy said yes, so Rory took me to Kingsferry. It
is a very old and unexpected sort of town, with lots of shops.  We
parked the car and went to the jeweller, and the man there pierced my
ears, in a moment, and it didn't hurt a bit.  He fixed in little gold
rings called sleepers.

I had told Rory that I wasn't allowed to have them at home, and he said
I wasn 't at home now, I was with him; and he paid for the piercing and
the rings, and said it is his Christmas present for me.

On the way back in the car, we talked some more, and I feel as though I
have reached a turning point, or a water

Al^X,*81*to nm ember a number fthi^I get good marks at school, so I am
not stupid.

Ij I don't assert myself a bit, nobody else is going to.

I have to assert myself by reasoned conversation, not talks.

If I want to go to Cornwall to see my grandfather and Senna and Amy and
Ben, then I should go.  There is absolutely nothing to stop me.  I can
make my own arrangements, get my grandfather to invite me, and simply
go.

I must be more enterprising.  I can take care of myself.  I know about
things like Ecstasy tablets at parties; and about drunks and druggies
and flashers and sex maniacs and homely old men who come and talk to
you at bus stations.

Perhaps I should think about going to a co-educational boarding-school
to do my A levels.  Last two years of school.  I'd never thought of
that.  I shall put the idea into Mummy's head, and make her talk it
through.  I shall get Miss Maxwell-Brown on my side.  And that would
only be two years away.

Just having something new to plan and look forward to makes me feel
much more determined.

I wish I had a brother like Rory.

No, I don't.  Because if he was my brother it wouldn't be the same.

My earrings don't hurt.  When Gran and Mummy see them, they will know
that I have changed.  That I am doing what I want.  That I can make my
own decisions.  I'm not a little child any more.

They had someone for tea here called Sir James Erskine- Earle.  He has
taken Elfrida's clock to value it for insurance.  Carrie said he ate
six scones.

Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life.

SAM

sam opened his eyes to darkness and bitter cold.  It was the cold that
had woken him, and he realized that his eiderdown quilt had slipped off
the bed and he was shivering beneath the inadequate comfort of two
blankets and an icy, monogrammed linen sheet.  The curtains at his
window were, as always, drawn back, and the window open-though not very
wide-and a blast of air assailed him, chill as the sensation on opening
a deep freeze.  During the night, it was obvious the temperature had
dropped to an uncomfortable low.

He heaved himself over, reached down for the quilt and dragged it back
into place.  He was still cold, but its soft, downy weight was a
comfort.  Waiting for warmth, he reached out a hand, turned on his
bedside light, and looked at his watch.  Hah7 past seven in the
morning.

His room, by now familiar, lay about him, the corners deep in shadow.
There was not much furniture.  A huge wardrobe, which contained all he
at the moment possessed, and a Victorian wash-stand doing duty as a
dressing-table.  It had a liver-coloured marble top, and on it stood a
large flowered bowl and a ewer for water.  The only mirror was inside
the wardrobe door, and there was one small, ornate chair.  Not a room
for working in, nor a room for sitting in, but perfectly adequate for
the business of sleeping.

And making business-like calls on his mobile phone.

He lay, slowly unfreezing, and wondered why it all rendered him such
satisfaction.  He decided that the proportions of the room were exactly
right; the empty walls undemanding, the threadbare curtains of faded
cretonne, long enough to lie in festoons upon the worn carpet,
reminiscent of his mother's curtains in the old house at Radley Hill.
They were hung by brass rings, upon a brass pole with pineapple
filials, and when drawn made a satisfactory clatter.

This sound brought back the sound of his mother's voice.

"Darling, wake up.  It's nearly time for breakfast."

Nostalgia, perhaps, but at its best.

The whole house was the same.  The spaciousness, the handsome
half-empty rooms, with their elaborate cornices and tall panelled
doors.  The shallow-stepped staircase, rising in flights to the attics,
with its banister of polished Baltic pine, the old-fashioned but
perfectly recognizable kitchen; the bathrooms panelled in white-painted
tongue-and-groove, complete with original Victorian fittings, and
lavatory cisterns with chains and handles with pull written on them.

It had all felt, from that very first embarrassing evening, a bit like
coming home.

From the first moment, the house had appealed to Sam.  Spoken to him,
welcomed him.  He thought back over the extraordinarily coincidental
chain of events that had brought him here, at this particular time, and
then left him marooned, so that he had no choice but to stay.  With
hindsight, it seemed as though it had all been carefully mapped out by
fate.  Some-hopefully benign-being; the influence of his star sign,
perhaps, or the incomprehensible magnetism of ancient lay lines.

Meeting Hughie McLennan in London had been the first link in the chain.
Being handed the key of Hughie's house'in Creagan.  Tossing a coin as
he had sat in his car outside the church hall in Buddy.  If it had come
up heads, he would have driven straight back to Inverness, and in all
likelihood would have been able to traverse the road across the Black
Isle before the snow rendered it impassable.  But instead it had come
up tails, and he had diverted, in order to drive to Creagan.

If Sam had found the house shuttered and unoccupied, as he expected it
to be, he would not have dallied.  Simply locating the place was all he
had had in mind, and its position, size, and air of solid Victorian
dignity would have been enough to ensure that he return for a more
detailed viewing.  But it hadn't been empty.  Lights had blazed from
upstairs windows, and, with curiosity aroused, he had left his car by
the pavement's edge, walked up the path, and rung the bell.



After that, he had been caught, and there was no going back.

Now he had lived here for two days, in the company of four other
vaguely connected people, and would be staying until after Christmas
was a thing of the past.  He had intended spending this time sorting
out his own private priorities for the mill, working with laptop and
calculator.  But idleness had been forced upon him, on account of
laptop, calculator, files, essential telephone numbers, and papers all
having been left behind in his hotel room in Inverness.  All he had
brought to the meeting in Buckly were his mobile phone, a slim
brief-case, and the key to the Estate House.

Because work was impossible, he had found it extraordinarily easy to
switch off and slow down into a state of mind that he had not
experienced for years.  Horizons shrank.  Priorities were altered.  It
felt a little like being on board a ship, isolated from the rest of the
world but intensely involved with the other passengers.  Strangers who
were slowly becoming as close as the family he no longer possessed. The
house, like that ship, contained them all, and did so with a certain
grace, as though content to have the spacious rooms filled once
more-doors standing open, fires lighted, voices calling, footsteps on
the stairs.

A good house, and Sam wanted it.  That was the problem.  He wished to
buy it from Hughie and Oscar, and have it for his own.  Its location
was perfect.... It would take him only twenty minutes, no more, to
drive the empty roads to the mill each morning, and home again at the
end of the day's work.  He could step out of the front door and walk to
the Golf Club.  Short of a can of beer or a loaf of bread or a pint of
milk, he only had to cross the square to the little supermarket.

As well, it would be a house with a future.  His future.  Owning it,
Sam would never have to leave.  Unlike a tiny terrace house, or a
picturesque, rose-smothered cottage, it was capable of accommodating
anything he chose to throw at it.  It was this awareness of longevity
that most attracted him.  He would soon be forty.  He didn't want to go
on moving;

buying and selling, starting anew.  He wanted this to be the last
start.  He wanted to stay.  Here.

But half of it belonged to Oscar Blundell, and this was where he and
Elfrida lived.  It, and each other, seemed to be all they had.  A dull
fellow, Hughie had told Sam.  My cousin is a dull fellow.  But Sam
didn't think Oscar was dull in the tea st  He liked him enormously and
this made nothing easier.

If Sam had been Hughie, he would have kept his mouth shut about
Elfrida's little picture.  He would never have taken the trouble to
telephone Janey in London and find out the whereabouts of the local
Boothby's representative, Sir James Erskine-Earle.  The thought of
selling the painting had occurred to Elfrida, but she was so vaguely
unworldly about practical matters that she would never have got around
to doing anything dynamic on her own.  At the end of the day, the visit
from James Erskine-Earle had solved nothing, because the painting was a
fake.  So they were all back where they had started.  In a way Sam
wished the David Wilkie had been rare, authentic, and worth a million,
so that he could put his own pipe-dreams away and go off and look for
somewhere else to live.

And yet... he couldn't get rid of the feeling that here, in this
square, unadorned, solid Victorian town house, he was destined to
settle and spend the rest of his days.

Useless reflections.  With some effort he put them out of his mind and
got out of bed to close the window.  His room was at the back of the
Estate House, and in the light of the street lamp which stood by the
wooden gate he saw the terraced garden, climbing up to the stand of
pines, all petrified with cold, glittering with frost.  There was not a
breath of wind.  No sound.

As a boy in Yorkshire, he had from time to time risen very early and
gone out for a long hike, up into the moors to some elevated crag from
which he could watch the sun rise.  No dawn was quite the same as
another, and the filling of the sky with light had always seemed a
miracle.  He remembered returning home after these early expeditions,
running down grassy paths and leaping streams, bursting with high
spirits

and energy, aware that much of his happiness came of knowing that a
huge breakfast would be waiting for him when he finally got home.

It was a long time since he had watched a sunrise.  Today, the shortest
day of the year, was perhaps as good a morning as any to repeat the
experience.  He dressed, laced his boots, pulled on his Barbour, felt
in the pockets for his thick leather driving gloves.  He went quietly
out of his room, closing the door behind him with elaborate care, and
then downstairs.  In the empty kitchen, he found Horace snoozing in his
basket.

"Want a walk?"

Horace, recovered from his encounter with the Rottweiler, did.  Sam
found Elfrida's shopping list and scribbled a note to her, and then
went down the hall and took from the coat-stand his tweed cap and a
muffler which did not belong to him but felt comforting knotted around
his neck.  He turned the key of the front door and opened it, and
stepped out into the still, dark, paralysing cold of the morning.  Iced
snow crunched beneath his boots.  As he opened the gate, he heard the
sound of an engine and saw the great gritting lorry, headlights
beaming, snow-plough secured, lumber across the square and down the
street towards the main road.

Sam and the dog set off in the other direction.

They went by way of the Golf Club and the beach, leaving the street
lamps of the town behind them.  The sky was clear, and a single star
hung in the dark heavens, but a mist lay along the distant margins of
the sea.  The tide was far out, the sand frozen, and shallow rock-pools
hard as iron.  The wind, stirring from the north, had an edge to it
like a knife, and he pulled the soft folds of his muffler up and around
his chin.  He thought of other lands on this latitude, only a bit south
of sixty degrees.  To the west, beyond the Atlantic, Labrador, the
Hudson Bay.  To the east, Scandinavia and the wastes of Siberia. There,
a man stepping out of doors for five minutes in mid-winter would
probably freeze to death.  And yet, here he was, striding like any
holiday-maker down a beach with a dog at his heels, and not unduly
perturbed by the cold.

The Gulf Stream was, indeed, a marvelous invention.

At a brisk pace, he covered the length of the beach, and then turned
inland.  He climbed over the dunes, crossed the track, the two fairways
of the golf course, and then strode up die steep slope that lay beyond,
a winding path which led uphill between thick clumps of gorse.  By the
time he reached the top he was warm with exertion, and Horace panting
furiously.  He came to a fence and a stile.  By now the dark of the sky
had paled to grey, and the star was gone.  He leaned against the stile,
sheltered from the north by the thick wind-break of the gorse, and
turned to face the sea.  He saw the long line of the horizon, the bay
sweeping out to the point where the lighthouse still blinked.  Beyond
it, to the south-east, the sky was stained with pink, the coming light
diffused by mist.  It was as good a viewpoint as any.  He looked at his
watch and saw that it was eight-forty.  He sat on the wooden step of
the stile and waited.

The dog sat at his knee.  Sam pulled off his glove and laid his hand on
the dog's head and touched the soft, silky fur, the velvety ears.  The
world, the empty universe belonged, at that moment, to just the two of
them.  From this small elevation, it seemed limitless, new-minted,
pristine, as though only yesterday had been the day of the Creation.

He remembered, for no particular reason, that afternoon in London when
he had walked down the King's Road in the wet dusk, the streets clogged
with shoppers and traffic, and told himself that there was no person in
the world who would expect a Christmas present from him.  So he had
arrived in Creagan totally unprepared.  But now he must, sometime, get
busy, so that on Christmas morning he would have packages to hand out.
Four of them.  There were four.  Or maybe five, including the
mysterious Mrs.  Snead, whom he had not yet encountered.  Oscar,
Elfrida, Lucy, Carrie.

Carrie.

Losing Deborah, closing up the apartment, leaving New York and
returning to London and his new job, the last thing on his mind had
been the possibility of another woman coming into his life.  Right now,
he needed an emotional involve tifUNDE PlLCHER

meat as he needed a hole in the head.  But Carrie had been waiting for
him, the last link on that extraordinary chain of coincidences,
compounding the sensation that he was a helpless pawn in fate's game.
He had walked, in the snow, through the gate of the Estate House, up
the path, and pressed the bell.  And it was Carrie who, eventually, had
opened the door to him.

Carrie, with her smooth cap of chestnut hair, her dark and expressive
eyes, her slenderness, her long neck.  Her slanting eyebrows, the
fascinating mole at one end of her mouth.  Her voice, deep-toned, with
an underlying suggestion of laughter, so that he could never be sure
when she teased or when she was serious.  Her wrists were narrow, her
hands long- fingered and capable, with unpainted nails, and she wore on
her right hand an antique sapphire-and-diamond ring which looked as
though it might have once been pressed upon her by some besotted man,
mad to marry her.  Or perhaps left, as a bequest, by an adoring elderly
relation.

She was totally without artifice.  If she had nothing to say, she said
nothing.  If she spoke, or aired an opinion, it was deliberate,
considered, intelligent.  She did not seem to know the meaning of small
talk, and while others chatted, over meals or an evening drink, she was
always attentive, but often silent.  Her relationship with Elfrida and
Lucy was, however, deeply affectionate and caring.  With the young
girl, Carrie was quite protective, but not in a smothering way.  Lucy
came and went, but always there were endearments for her, casual hugs,
a listening ear.  Laughter.

As for Sam, he found it impossible to guess what Carrie thought of him.
She was totally at ease, hi charge of the situation, but at the same
time reserved to the point of withdrawal.  The one time he had got her
to himself for more than five minutes-which was when they had driven to
Kings- ferry to do the huge supermarket shopping-he had thought that he
could break through this barrier, but every time the conversation
veered around to Carrie and her private Me, she had fallen silent, and
then, speaking, turned the conversation into a totally different
direction.  When Sam, with

seme difficulty, had run to earth the Gent's Outfitters in Kingsferry,
he had expected that she would come into the shop with him; make
suggestions, choices; even joke about his choice of boxer shorts and
pyjamas (which the Gent's Outfitters called Intimate Apparel); or
insist on choosing Sam some dreadful and unsuitable tie.  But she did
none of these things.  Instead, she crossed the road to the ironmonger,
where she bought Elfrida a new baking dish and a pudding bowl.  So Sam
did his intimate shopping on his own, and when he got back to the car
she was waiting for him, reading The Times, and not overly interested
in his purchases.

He found himself wondering if she had once been married, but knew that
he could never pluck up the nerve to ask such a question.  It was,
after all, nothing to do with him.  That first evening, while they sat
and waited for Oscar and Elfrida to return from their party, she had
imparted a little casual information about herself.

That was all.  She enlarged on nothing, volunteered no gratuitous
information, and he was left with the sense of a strong door firmly
shut between them, and nothing was going to persuade Carrie to open
it.

About Lucy, she was more open.  She spoke, as well, about her own
father, and when she did this, her voice warmed, her lovely eyes shone,
and she became quite animated and informative.  Her father was called
Jeffrey, and lived, with his second and much younger wife, in
Cornwall.

"He's an amazing man," Carrie had said.

"The most giving of men.  He stayed with my mother, in some
unhappiness, until Nicola and I were both adult and on our own, and
only then did he light out and leave us all, and go off with Serena. If
Lucy had had a father like Jeffrey, things would be so different for
her.  He wasn't just my father, he was my best friend.  He opened every
door, never stopped praising and encouraging.  With a man like that
behind me, I always believed I could do anything."

Anything.  But sometime, somewhere along the line, something had gone
wrong.  And Carrie was not about to confide in Sam.



The less she spoke, the less she gave away, the more he longed to know.
He wondered if this obsession was the beginning of falling in love with
her.  Otherwise, why should it matter so much?  And what was the point
of falling in love with a woman already deeply committed to her career
and her ill-assorted family, who would never, in a thousand years,
jettison the lot and come to live in the north of Scotland with Sam
Howard?

All this quite apart from the fact that he was still married to
Deborah.

The dog shifted and whined.  Horace was growing cold.  Sam was cold,
too, but did not move.  For, when he looked again, he saw that the
faint shell-pink had exploded into an aureole of red and yellow, with
vaporous streaks like flames.  And over the shallow hills of the
distant headland inched the first sliver of an orange sun.  The curved
rim of dazzling light touched the shifting sea, smudged shadows on the
undulations of the sand, and drained darkness from the sky, so that
gradually it was no longer sapphire-blue, but faded to aquamarine.

He watched, and lost all sense of time as the orange orb sailed up, out
from behind the far side of the world.  And it was the same fresh
miracle that it had always been, and he forgot about being cold.  The
pinprick blink from the lighthouse, all at once, ceased.  The new day
had begun, and after today, the days would start to grow longer, and
then it would be another year, and Sam, thinking about it, found
himself unable to imagine what it might hold in store for him.

He walked back to Creagan at a brisk pace, following the narrow path
that led along the top of the snow-covered links.  The mist was
dissolving, and the sky was a pale, pure blue, quite cloudless.  By the
time he reached the first of the houses, he saw that the morning was
already on its way: cars came and went, shops were open; the first of
the shoppers were out, with their baskets and plastic bags.  The
butcher was sweeping snow from his front step, and a young mother
pulled her bundled baby along in a little wooden sledge.  He was
ravenously hungry.

Letting himself into the house, he realized that it, too, was a hive of
busy activity.  From upstairs came the drone of a Hoover, and a female
voice singing an old Beatles song.

"/ love you, yeah yeah yeah...."

The redoubtable Mrs.  Snead, no doubt, come to muck them all out.

From the open kitchen door flooded light, and mouthwatering smells of
bacon and coffee.  He unclipped Horace's lead, took off his outer
clothes, and went through the open door.  There he found only Carrie,
sitting surrounded by the detritus of other people's breakfasts.  She
was drinking coffee and reading The limes, but looked up, saw him, and
said, "Good morning."

That first evening, a mere two days ago, when he had so gracelessly
barged in, out of the dark and the snow, clutching Hughie McLennan's
key, he had been knocked sideways by the unexpected glamour of the girl
who had opened the door to him.  She had, he later learned, been struck
down by a bout of flu, or some unknown bug, and had only just risen
from a bed of sickness, and because of this had looked pale, frail, and
intensely vulnerable.  He had still thought her sensational.  But now
the flu was a thing of the past, cast off by the resilience of youth,
and this morning she wore a red cashmere sweater and the bright colour
rendered her vital, radiant, and more attractive than ever.  In his
present mood of well-being he knew a physical urge to touch her, to
sweep her up into his arms, embrace her, break down imagined barriers,
and start to talk.

"Did you have a good walk?"

Mad impulses, prudently, retreated.

"Too far, perhaps.  Horace is exhausted."  Horace, slopping the water
on the floor, was treating himself to a noisy drink.

"You must be frozen."

"No.  I am warm from exertion.  But starving."

"There's bacon."  She laid the newspaper down and got to her feet.



"I guessed."

"I'll make fresh coffee."

"Carrie, I can do that."

"No."  A plate sat on the wanner, covered by another plate.  With
oven-gloved hands she lifted it, set it down on the table, and with a
certain flourish removed the top plate.  He saw not only bacon, but
eggs, a sausage, and a fried tomato.  Everything sizzled.

"I can.  You start eating."

He looked at the feast in some amazement.

"Who cooked all this?"

"I did.  I reckoned you'd be hungry."

He felt much touched.

"You are sweet."

"No problem."

He sat, and buttered a slice of toast.

"Where is everybody?"

Carrie filled the kettle and plugged it in.

"Oh, around and about.  They've all finished breakfast.  Mrs.  Snead
has come, and I think Elfrida's making beds.  Oscar's telephoning.  We
have to go and fetch the Christmas tree this morning.  He wondered if
you would do that, in your car.  Easier to load trees in, and Oscar's a
bit nervous of driving in snow."

"Where do I have to go for it?"

"Corrydale Estate.  That's who he's phoning now.  Some man called
Charlie Miller.  It's all ordered and everything, but he just wanted to
be sure that Charlie was around when we went."

"We?  Are you coming with me?"

"Oscar's drawn a map.  I shall have to come, to be your navigator.
Besides, I want to go to Corrydale.  Oscar's told me all about it.  How
his grandmother used to live there, and then his uncle, and then
Hughie.  And Oscar used to spend holidays there when he was a little
boy.  He says the grounds and the garden used to be amazing, but of
course it's different now, because it's an hotel.  Anyway, I'd like to
see it.  The hotel's empty, so if Charlie Miller says we can, we could
have a nose-around."

Sam, eating bacon, was filled with a silent satisfaction.

r~

He could think of no better way of spending this fine morning than
driving Carrie to Corrydale, collecting the Christmas tree, and having
a nose-around.  It would be interesting to see what Hughie McLennan had
once owned and then squandered.  But he only said, "Right," and went on
eating, because he didn't want Carrie to sense his pleasure, and then
start backing off.

She spooned the ground coffee into the jug and poured on the boiling
water.

"Shall I make more toast?"

"That would be kind."

She made toast, and then poured coffee for him, refilled her own cup,
and returned to her chair.  Sam wondered if they were about to spend a
few companionable moments together, but inevitably they were
interrupted by Lucy, running downstairs and bursting in upon them.

"Carrie, Mrs.  Snead says she's going to do a white wash and do you
want anything done?  Hello, Sam.  Did you and Horace have a lovely
walk?"

"We certainly did."

"When did you go?"

"About eight.  It was still dark.  We saw the sun rise."

"Oh, how lovely.  I wish you'd taken me.  I've never seen a proper
sunrise.  It must have been pretty, with all the snow on the golf
course.  Like Switzerland, or somewhere."

Carrie said, "Sam and I are going to Corrydale to fetch the Christmas
tree.  Do you want to come with us?"

"Oh ..."  Lucy made an agonized face.

"Oh, I would love to, but... well... I've promised Mrs.  Snead I'd help
her.  Do something.  So I can't.  And I really want to go and look at
Corrydale."

Sam, loving Lucy for not coming, said, "I'll take you another time."

"Will you?  Is that a promise?  Oscar says it's the most wonderful
place in the world, and that his grandmother used to have the most
beautiful azaleas, in every single colour.  And the grounds go down to
the water, too, and he used to have a boat."

From upstairs, Mrs.  Snead screeched.

"Lucy!  What about that laundry?  I want to get it all collected...."



Carrie made a comic face.

"We'd better do what we're told, otherwise we'll be in trouble.  Come
on, Lucy...."

And Sam, left on his own, drank hot fresh coffee and felt as contented
as a well-fed schoolboy with a treat in the offing.

Oscar's little map of directions to Corrydale proved to be a meticulous
plan of all that lay within the protection of the boundary wall.  Which
appeared to be a small maze of roads and drives, stands of woodland,
and a long shoreline.  Each estate worker's house had been drawn, in
some detail, and named.  Billicliffe's house; Rose Miller's house; the
gamekeeper's house; Home Farm (Mains of Corrydale).  The last was the
gardener's house (Charlie Miller), alongside the walled garden, and the
tractor shed.  A little way off along another winding driveway that ran
parallel to the water, and standing, in some grandeur, all on its own,
he had drawn Corrydale House, surrounded by formal gardens and with
stepped terraces leading down to the meadows on the fringe of the
firth.

It reminded Sam of the end papers of a Pooh Bear book, but Carrie said
it was a work of art and should be framed.

The road they followed took Sam and Carrie into new territory, where
neither had ventured before.  Instead of crossing the bridge over to
Kingsferry, they forked right before reaching this and went by way of
the old road, which headed west, winding through farmland, dipping and
climbing, tunnelling down tall avenues of skeletal beech trees.  All
was thick with snow, but the morning had kept its promise and the sky
was cloudless, the air sparkling with cold.  There was little traffic,
and few people about.  A tractor, chuntering across a field with a load
of hay for a huddle of sheep; a woman, hanging washing out in the
still, freezing air; a red post-van, making its way up a rutted
farm-lane.

On their left lay the great sea loch, penetrating inland for fifteen
miles or more.  The tide was at half-flood, and the water as blue as in
summer.  On the far shore, massive hills reared up into the sky, all
blindingly white, save where dark

I WINTER SOLSTICE

rock stood sheer, or conics of scree tumbled, like waterfalls of
stone.

Carrie said, "It's all huge, isn't it?  Even the sky seems twice as big
as it does anywhere else."  She wore a black padded parka and her fur
hat, and had put on dark glasses against the glare.

"No fog or pollution, I suppose.  A clarity of air.  Did you know that
five of the finest salmon rivers in Scotland flow into this loch?"

"Who told you that?"

"Oscar."

"I supposed he fished them as a boy."

"Lucky boy."

Carrie scrutinized Oscar's map.

"I think quite soon we'll be there.  We come to the wall first, and
then the main gate's about a quarter of a mile-" The boundary wall
appeared, almost at once, on the left- hand side of the road.  Beyond
this could be seen handsome trees, carefully positioned, suggesting
parkland.  The main gate, when they came to it, was flanked by two
towering wellington ias  A small lodge blew a plume of smoke into the
air, and there was a line of washing out in the little garden, and a
child's plastic tractor abandoned on the front- door step.

They saw the notice.

it it it it

CORRYDALE COUNTRY HOTEL.  AA.  RAC.  XXXX

Carrie said, "Here we go."

Sam turned in through the gates, and the formal drive led downhill
between an avenue of huge oak trees.  It was ridged with the tracks of
other vehicles, recently come this way, and the snow barred with the
blue shadows of the trees.  After about a quarter of a mile, the road
forked, and here stood a wooden signpost.  To the right, hotel
visitors.  This track, unused, was white with virgin snow.  Ahead, home
farm and sawmill, so they continued on their way.  Carrie scanned
Oscar's map.

J*t

"Next, we come to another fork and we go left again a we see
BilliclifFe's house."

"And who is Billicliffe?"

"He used to be the factor here.  Elfhda and Oscar had.1 go and call on
him to get their key.  Elfrida told me he wa *| bit of an old bore, and
the house was a tip, and they were both a little unkind about him.  And
then he confounded everybody by becoming extremely ill, and Oscar had
to drive him to hospital.  Where he is now ... here's the fork ia the
road.  So we go left...."

The tyre tracks continued.  Clearly a well-used access.  There then was
revealed, set back from the verge, the first of the estate workers'
cottages.

"Here," said Carrie, "is where Major Billicliffe lives."

Sam, curious, slowed down to take a look at it.  A small, stone-built
house, soundly constructed, with a rural porch and two dormer windows
set in the slated roof.  A short driveway led from gate to door, where
stood parked, and wearing at least ten inches of snow, an elderly
VauxhaU, rusted, sad, and abandoned.  The windows of the house were
tightly closed, no light showed, and no smoke rose from the chimney.

"What a gloomy little place," Carrie remarked.

"Nothing's at its best when it's desolate."

They moved on, slowly, tyres crunching in icy ruts; exploring.  The
road twisted and turned in charmingly random fashion.  Another corner,
and now Rose Miller's cottage was there, a different kettle of fish
altogether; snug and trim, with lace curtains at the windows, and a few
cheerful hens clucking around the small garden.  She had lighted her
fire, and peat-smoke filled the air with its delicious smell.

They meandered on.  Past the farmhouse, and a farmyard reeking with the
good smell of manure, was a field of sheep, and then another little
cottage, the gamekeeper's, with kennels, and a run at the back of the
house from which two spaniels appeared, barking their heads off.

"Good thing," said Carrie, "we didn't bring Horace with us.  He'd have
a heart attack and die."

the loch was in view again, with fields running i the water.  More
trees, another cottage, and then the k wall of the enclosed garden, a
handsome stone edifice wrought-iron gates set in the middle.  The big
tractor shed stood at the back of this, with wide I standing open, and
alongside it stood parked a venerakaBd mud-spattered Land Rover.  Sam
drew up alongside I they climbed out of the car.  As they did so, a
young man from the shed with an old yellow Labrador at his iiMb.  The
young man wore a boiler suit and rubber boots, tod on his head a
deerstalker, the peak tipped forwards, over his nose.

"Charlie Miller?"

"Yes, that is me.  Now, stay down, Brandy, and don't jump up on the
lady.  You're a stupid old bitch with no manners."

"I don't mind," Carrie smiled.

"You would if she covered you with paw marks."  He turned to Sam.

"You'll be Sam Howard."

"That's right.  And this is Carrie Sutton."  Charlie Miller said,
"Pleased to meet you," and he and Cafrie shook hands.

"Oscar phoned me.  You've come for the It's in the shed, if you'd like
to come away in."  r?  He led the way, and they followed into the dim
interior of the shed, which clearly accommodated a number of functions.
Sam saw a pile of potato pallets, a stack of sawn logs, a number of old
fruit boxes, turnips bagged in netted sacks.  There was a good smell of
earth, sawdust, and engine oil.  Leaning against an aged Ferguson
tractor was their cut tree.  "... Oscar said six-foot would be tall
enough, so I picked this one out.  It's a good shape, and no broken
branches."

"Looks fine to me."

"Two pounds a foot.  Twelve pounds.  Have you got a stand for it?"

"I really wouldn't know.  Oscar didn't say."

"I've this."  Charlie produced, from some corner, a rough wooden
contraption knocked together with masonry nails.

"The farmer's boy made them, selling at two-fifty each."



Sam eyed it doubtfully.

"Is it going to work?"

"Oh, yes, it'll work all right."

"Right."  Charlie set it down by the tree.

"So that's fourteen-fifty you owe me."  He was obviously not a man to
beat about the bush.

Sam dug out his wallet and handed over fifteen pounds.

"Tell the farmer's son to keep the change.  He deserves it, if only for
enterprise."

"I'll tell him," said Charlie, and the notes disappeared into the
pocket of the boiler suit.

"Will I load the tree for you?"

"If you would.  I've put the back seats down; there should be enough
space...."

"No problem."

Carrie now spoke.

"Charlie, do you think it would be all right if we went for a walk?
We've never been to Corrydale before, and we wanted to look around, see
the house.  But if it's private, or we're not allowed...."

"You're allowed, all right.  Go anywhere you please.  The hotel is
closed anyway.  And there's not much to look at in the gardens."

"We don't mind.  Which is the best way to go?"

"Back the road you came, and then, at Major Billicliffe's house, take
the left fork, and that will bring you to the gardens and the house.
There's a path from there down through the trees to the water, and a
track leads back to here, along the shore.  While you're walking I'll
net the tree and load it, and if I'm not here when you're back, I'll be
away for my dinner."

"Thank you."

"No trouble.  Have a good walk, now."

They set off, footsteps scrunching on frozen ruts, the air sweet as
chilled wine, the thin sunshine warming their backs and causing
flurries of melted snow to drift down from the upper branches of trees.
These, leafless, made patterns like black lace against the brilliant
blue of the sky.  They went by the farm, the gamekeeper's house, and by
the garden gate of Rose Miller's delectable dwelling.

"It's the sort of place," Canie observed, "where you feel you could
happily snug up and spend the rest of your life."

After Major Billicliffe's deserted cottage they left the road and took
the path that led towards the main house.  It was heavy walking,
because now the snow was virgin and untouched, and quite deep.

Carrie said, "There must, once, have been a lot of money.  This is a
huge establishment, with all those estate cottages, the farm, and the
walled garden and everything.  I wonder where it all came from?  The
wealth, I mean."

"Industry, probably.  Shipbuilding, steel, that sort of thing.  Or Far
Eastern connections.  Shipping, tea, teak.  I don't know.  We'll have
to ask Oscar."

"Oscar doesn't seem to have anything" "No.  I don't think he does have
much."

"What's happened to it all?  The money, I mean."

"What's happened everywhere.  Old people died, and death duties claimed
enormous chunks of the estate.  The cost of living soared.  The war
changed everything.  After the war, there was a gradual decline.  Then
chaps like Hughie McLennan took possession, squandered the last of the
capital, and finally sold up.  In the south of England, all this land
would probably be littered with bijou bungalows and private building
estates.  But here, because of its remoteness, and the fact that the
hotel chain took over the house, it's managed to stay looking-at
least-the way it always has done."

"Why didn't Oscar inherit?  He would have made a lovely laird."

"I suppose he didn't qualify.  Hughie was the son of the eldest son.
Primogeniture.  Just bad luck on everyone he proved to be such a little
shit."

"It seems unfair, doesn't it?"

"Carrie.  Life is unfair."

"I'm so sorry for Oscar.  He deserves better.  He and El- frida.  They
deserve some place to live together that they can call their own and
know that they don't have to leave.  I would like to be rich so that I
could take care of them both ... buy them a desirable residence and
settle them for

life.  I wish we hadn't been there when they were told that the David
Wilkie was a fake and worth so little.  Elfrida was so filled with
hope.  And so certain that she owned a little treasure that would get
them through and give them security.  It was painful to see her so
destroyed and downcast.  Embarrassing.  I was embarrassed."

"I was the same," Sam reminded her.

"But it's different for you."

"Why different?"

"Because if they have no money, Oscar will be forced to sell you his
half of the Estate House, and then you will have what you came for."

"Do you think I am that sort of a monster?"

"I don't know.  I don't know you well enough.  I don't know how you
think."

He let this pass.  There was no point in precipitating a row so early
on their expedition.  Instead, "Will they stay together, do you think?"
he asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine.  I think they probably will.  Neither
of them has anybody else.  But where will they stay?"

"Where they are.  If Oscar doesn't want to sell, then Hughie can't."

"So what will you do?"

"Look for someplace else."

"In Buckly?"

"I don't know.  So far, I've hardly seen the neighborhood in daylight,
let alone investigated property for sale."

For a bit Carrie said nothing to this.  They were walking at a brisk
pace, her long legs keeping pace with his own as they trudged through
the snow.  To their left, the snow-fields swept down to the water of
the loch; on their right a small wood of ancient beeches revealed dells
and paths between the massive tree-trunks, and the snow was patterned
with the tracks of rabbits and birds.  Overhead, rooks cawed, and from
the empty shores came the long bubbling cry of a curlew.

She said abruptly, "I would like to see your mill."

Sam had never imagined her being remotely interested, and found himself
taken aback by this suggestion.

"Would youT' "You sound disbelieving."

"It's just that there's not much to see.  Large, empty, damp spaces,
some dye vats, and a few bits of salvaged machinery."

"But you told me it was a listed building.  That, in itself, would be
interesting.  Can you get access?  Have you got a key?"  She was
serious.

"Of course."

"Shall we go one day?"

"If you want."

"I like seeing buildings and houses stripped down.  Empty places, bare
walls.  I like imagining how they were, and trying to visualize what
they could become.  You must feel rather excited about it all, longing
to get your teeth into the challenge.  Putting it together, and getting
it going again."

"Yes."  He thought about it, and the seemingly insurmountable problems
which had yet to be addressed.

"I am.  But at the same time it's a fairly daunting prospect.  Every
now and then I shall doubtless become frustrated, impatient, and even
violently angry, but difficulties can be stimulating, particularly if
some other person believes you can solve them.  And in Buckly, I have a
good man, Fergus Skinner, on my side.  I've a lot of faith in him."

"It's still a long stride from working in New York."

"If I were a much younger man, I probably wouldn't have taken the job
on.  But I'm thirty-nine now.  Been there, done that.  And for me this
is exactly the right time to change course.  For all the high finance
in the world, nothing is so satisfactory as going back to the grass
roots of the business."

"Downgrading."

"In a sense, yes.  But, you see, I was born and bred into the woollen
trade, and I secretly believe that there is nothing so good-looking, so
comfortable, so exactly right, as a familiar, well-tailored tweed
jacket.  It'll stand up to anything the elements choose to hurl at it,
and by evening be perfectly acceptable at anybody's dinner table.  I
love the smell and the if

feel of tweed.  I love the sound of well-tuned cog-wheels, the clack of
looms, the monstrous pistons of the carding machines.  And I like the
people who work them, the men and women who have spinning and weaving
and dyeing in their blood, going back two or three generations.  So I
am in my own world."

"I think you're fortunate."

"Because of my job?"

"Not just."  Carrie stopped, her head thrown back, to watch a buzzard
floating high in the sky.

"Because of coming to live up here.  In this enormous, clean, unsullied
place."  She went on walking.

"Just think, you can play golf, shoot grouse and pheasants, and fish in
one of those salmon rivers you told me about."  She thought about
this.

"You do fish?"

"Yes.  I used to fish with my father in Yorkshire when I was a boy. But
for trout, not salmon.  And I'm not over keen on shooting."

"Nor me.  Darling little wild birds tumbling out of the sky.  And then
you eat them at the Savoy, and they look about the size of canaries."

By now, ahead, could be seen the wall of the formal garden, topped by
an ornate wrought-iron fence.  The path led to a wrought-iron gate
flanked by gate posts bearing stone armorial lions, and entwined by
thorny roses, blackened now by winter.

They reached the gate and there paused, gazing through the lattice of
intricate curlicues at the garden which lay beyond; lawns climbing in
stepped terraces, and drawing their eyes to the first sighting of
Corrydale House.  A Victorian mansion, gabled and turreted, built of
red stone, some of which was smothered in Virginia creeper.  It was
large and perhaps a little pretentious, but attractive in a prosperous
and settled sort of way.  The windows were all shuttered from the
inside, but facing south, glass panes flashed and shone with reflected
sunshine.  There was a tall white flag-pole at one side of the top
terrace, but no flag flew from its masthead.

"Nice," said Carrie, after a bit.

"What good times Oscar must have had."

Sam said, "Would you like to live here?"

"Do you mean in this house?  In this place?"

"No.  I just mean here.  In Creagan.  In Sutherland."

"I have a job.  In London.  I have to have a job.  I have to earn my
living."

"Supposing you didn't?  Would you be content?  Could you bury yourself
in such an environment?"

"I don't know.  I think I'd need notice.  To weigh up all the pros and
cons.  And to leave London, I'd need to be free.  No commitments.  No
responsibilities."

"Aren't you free?"

"There's Lucy."

"Lucy?"

"Yes, Lucy."  She unlatched the gate and opened it, and beyond was a
wide path, straight as a rule, leading across the garden towards a
distant stand of beech trees.  In the middle of this path, in line with
the flights of steps which climbed the terraces to the house, stood a
stone sundial and a curved wooden seat.  Another flight of steps led
down to a parterre garden, sheltered by shrubberies of rhododendron and
azalea.  Its formal structure, radiating from a stone statue of some
mythical goddess, was composed of curves, circles, ellipses, all edged
in box, and, buried in snow, resembled nothing so much as an artist's
design drawn on thick white paper with a stump of charcoal.

"... Lucy is the main reason for taking this London job.  Somebody has
to be there for her.  Somebody has to winkle her out of that dull,
enclosed, totally female life she's forced to lead.  Through no fault
of her own.  She doesn't really stand a chance.  I have to try to give
her one."

Sam considered this.  He said tentatively, "She seems to me to be quite
a well-adjusted child.  Happy, even."

"That's because she is happy.  Here.  With Elfrida and Oscar and people
coming and going.  And, of course, Rory Kennedy.  Going back to London
is going to be a real letdown."

Sam found himself resenting this maiden-aunt attitude.  Carrie was too
young, too beautiful, to start structuring her life simply for the sake
of one small niece.

 ROSAMUNDE PlLCHER

"She'll probably be all right," he said.

"She's young enough to be resilient; in time, she'll make her own
escape."

"No."  Carrie was adamant.

"You don't know her selfish little mother.  You can't say that."

"So, what will you do with Lucy?"

"Oh, I dqn't know.  Just be around; on the end of the telephone. There.
Perhaps at Easter I'll take her away again.  To Cornwall to stay with
Jeffrey.  He is, after all, her grandfather.  Or maybe we could go
skiing.  His children are old enough.  Jeffrey took me skiing for the
first time when I was about ten, and I loved it so much, it started a
whole new passion."

"Will you go back to Oberbeuren... ?"

"No."  She had said the word almost before he had finished asking the
question.

"Not Oberbeuren.  Somewhere else.  Arosa, or Grindelwald, or Val
d'lsere."

"You could go to the States.  Colorado or Vermont.  Sounds a long way
to travel, but it would certainly be cheaper."

"Vermont."  Carrie, with her hands in the pockets of her parka,
strolled along beside him.

"Have you skied in Vermont?"

"Yes.  A number of times.  We used to drive up for weekends from the
city."

"We," Carrie repeated.

"You and your wife, you mean?"

So this was it.  The nub around which they had both been circling, the
moment of truth, the point of no return.  He said, "Yes.  With my wife.
We're separated."

"Elfrida told me that."

"Deborah.  I was working in New York.  I went out to East Hampton, for
a weekend with a friend; and we got asked to this party, and I met her
then.  Her grandfather had a great house down there; lands, beach,
horses, paddocks, swimming pool.  The lot.  When we got married, we
were married on the lawn at East Hampton in front of her grandfather's
house.  There were seven hundred guests, ten bridesmaids, and ten
ushers all dressed up like penguins.  Deborah looked ravishing and I
was happy to be swept along in a current that I couldn't control or
resist.  Then we bought this apartment in

the Upper Seventies, and it was all done up regardless of cost, and
that kept her happy for some time; but when it was finished and the
interior designer had finally departed, I think that's when she started
to get bored and restless.  I had to travel all over the States, and
sometimes she went back to East Hampton while I was away, and other
times, she simply occupied herself having a good time."

"Children?"

"No.  She didn't want babies.  Not so soon.  Someday, perhaps, she'd
promise me, but not just now.  Anyway, sometime last summer, she met
this guy again.  She'd known him when she was at college.  Since those
days he'd been married twice, but was on the loose again.  In New York.
Rich; smooth; pretty stupid.  Randy as a tom-cat.  They started what is
politely known these days as 'a relationship."  I never guessed.  I
never knew until she told me she was leaving me because she wanted to
be with him.  And I was devastated.  Not just because I was losing her.
But because I knew she had fallen for a shit.  And I knew, too, that he
was the sort of guy who, marrying his mistress, was simply creating
another job vacancy."

"But you're not divorced?"

"No.  There's hardly been time.  Six weeks after she departed I got a
call from David Swinfield, asking me to come back to London.  And since
then... well, I've just procrastinated.  Let it slide.  Had other
business to occupy my mind.  No doubt, sooner or later, I'll be on the
receiving end of a lawyer's letter, and after that the ball will
roll."

"Will she be greedy and demand great wads of alimony?"

"I don't know.  It depends on the lawyer.  I don't think so.  She was
never that sort of a person.  Anyway, Deborah has money of her own. Too
much, maybe.  Perhaps that was one of our problems.  My problems."

"Are you still in love with her?"

"Oh, Carrie ..."

"I know.  But you feel responsible.  You have anxieties about her
future.  You're afraid she's going to be hurt, to be dumped.  You still
feel protective."

After a bit, "Yeah," Sam admitted.

"I suppose I do."



"If she wanted ... if she beckoned, demanded ... would you go back to
her?"

He thought about this.  He said, "No."

"Why not?"

"Because my life has changed direction.  Because Deborah is part of the
past and I've left that behind.  I'm here now.  And this is where I'm
staying, because I have a job to do."

"She's still your wife."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That if you've been married to a person, they're part of you.  You can
never be free.  You belong to them."

She spoke with such bitterness that Sam all at once knew that he only
had to push a bit further and the closed door which had stood between
them would finally, creakily, open.

He turned to her.

"Carrie ..."

But she strode on, and he had to catch her up and take her by the arm
and jerk her around to face him.  The black orbs of her sunglasses
stared up at him, and he put up a hand and took them off, and saw, to
his horror, that her dark eyes were shining with tears.

"Carrie.  Tell me."

"Why?"  She was angry, blinking the tears away.

"Why should I tell you?"

"Because I've been honest with you."

"I never made a deal.  It's none of your business and I don't want to
talk about it.  It's not worth talking about.  And you wouldn't
understand."

"I could try.  And I think I would understand.  I've been through bad
times myself.  The worst was knowing that everybody was aware of what
was going on except thickheaded me.  Taking one day at a time, and each
day like being on a treadmill and getting nowhere.  Trying to come to
terms with a total rejection."

"I wasn't rejected," Carrie shouted at him, and all at once her face
creased up like a child's and she was in floods of tears.  Furious with
herself, she pushed at him, trying to escape from his grip, but he held
her shoulders between his hands and would not let go, because if he
did, he felt she might fall to pieces, and his strength was the only
thing that

kept her whole.

"I wasn't rejected.  I was loved.  We were in love, and all we wanted
was to be together.  But the odds were too great.  Stacked against us.
Too many demands, responsibilities, traditions.  His job, his family,
his wife, his children, his religion, his money.  I was simply his
mistress.  Living in the back streets of his life.  I didn't stand a
chance.  Never did.  And what I really hate is that I always knew.  I
hate myself for shutting my eyes, burying my head in the sand like a
stupid ostrich.  Pretending everything would work out.  I'm thirty, for
God's sake.  I thought I could handle it.  And finally, when Andreas
walked away from me, I went to bits.  So now you know, Sam, and now you
can stop trying to find out.  And perhaps you can accept the fact that
I'm really not very interested in married men.  And if you start being
sympathetic or sorry for me, I shall scream."

He opened his mouth to protest, but at that moment, with a wrench of
her body, she slid out of his hold and set off, at a run, away from
him, stumbling in the snow, righting herself, carrying on.  He went
after her, and caught her once more.

"Oh, Carrie ..."  and this time she did not fight him.  Perhaps she was
too tired, too breathless with sobs.  He took her into his arms and she
leaned against him, her shoulders heaving, weeping into the front of
his Barbour.

Holding her, having her in his arms, was something he had been wanting
to do all day.  She felt slender, weightless, and he told himself that
he could feel the beating of her heart through all their combined
layers of winter clothing.  The fur of her hat tickled his cheek, and
her skin smelt sweet and cool.

"Oh, Carrie."  It was shameful to feel so elated when she suffered from
such desolation and wretchedness.  Trying to comfort, he said, "It will
be all right."

"It won't be all right."

So cold, so adamant was her voice, that he was suddenly wise, realizing
that it was hopeless to continue mouthing pointless platitudes.
Standing there, with his arms about her, Sam found himself
uncharacteristically confused and disoriented.  Normally, his instincts
did not let him down; instead

they told him how to deal with any situation, emotional or otherwise.
But right now he knew all at once that he was totally at a loss. Carrie
was beautiful, intelligent, and desirable, but also complicated. And
perhaps because of this, she remained an enigma.  To truly understand
her was going to take much patience and a lot of time.

He accepted this.  He said again, "It will be all right."

"You don't know."

Now he had the confidence and the good sense not to argue.  After a
bit, her furious weeping calmed down.  She made motions as though to
pull herself together.  Gently, Sam put her away from him, and watched
as she wiped at tear-stained cheeks with her padded glove.

He said, "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Sorry, because this wasn't what I had planned or anticipated.  I
didn't mean to upset you so.  This was simply an outing, to pick up a
Christmas tree and go for a walk.  No ulterior motives.  It just went
wrong."

"Not your fault.  So stupid ..."

"I talked about Deborah because sometimes I need to.  I didn't mean to
wind you up."

"I know.  Let's forget it.  Pretend it never happened.  Walk on, the
way we'd planned."

"We did talk.  To talk is always good.  I thought we never would."

"Is talking so good?  I'm not so sure."

"Clears the air.  Makes things easier to understand."

"I don't know that I want to be understood.  Just left alone.  Perhaps
right now I'm better off that way.  Independent.  Not belonging to any
person."

Sam said, "Don't be too sure about that."  But he did not say it
aloud.

Lucy thursday, december aisr

This morning Carrie and Sam went and got the Christmas tree.  And Mrs.
Snead and I spring-cleaned the dining room.  It was dreadfully dusty
and deserted.  We put a notice on the door saying do not disturb, so
that nobody came in.  Mrs.  Snead lit a bit of paper in the fireplace
to be sure that the chimney wasn '(full of jackdaw nests, but the smoke
all went up and she said it was quite clean, so we shall be able to
have a huge fire, which will make all the difference.

And there were a couple of big cardboard crates which seemed to be
filled with crumpled newspaper, but we explored and found some silver
candlesticks, four of them, dreadfully tarnished but very handsome.  We
took all the rubbish across the hall and added them to the collection
in the old office.  There are very thick, sort of tapestry, curtains,
which were a bit dusty, so we found a step-ladder in the scullery, took
them down, and took them into the garden to shake them, and then hung
them up again.  I cleaned the window, while Mrs.  Snead washed all the
fireplace tiles.  We moved the table, and Mrs.  Snead Hoovered.  Then
we polished all the furniture, and then we spread newspaper and cleaned
the candlesticks, which took ages, because they are very ornate and
patterned.  Finally, while I went out and bought some candles (tall and
cream, a bit like church candles), Mrs.  Snead went upstairs to look
for table-cloths in her linen cupboard.  There weren 't any, but she
found an old linen sheet, which is just as good, and we put a thick
blanket underneath to protect the table.  That's as far as we got,
because she had to go home and give Arthur Snead his dinner, but with
the candlesticks and everything, and the fire all laid, it really looks
wonderfully festive.

I didn 't want anybody to know about it, so that it would be a
surprise, but just before lunch Carrie and Sam got back

ROSAMUNDE PlLCHER

with the Christmas tree, and there was a great discussion as to where
we should put it.  We thought the sitting-worn, but Elfrida 's having
this party on Saturday and as there will be quite a lot of people, she
thought it might take up too much space.  Then Oscar suggested the
landing, but there's going to be a table there for drinks, and it would
get in the way of people going up and down the stairs.  So then I had
to admit about the dining-worn, and they all trooped downstairs, to
inspect what we had been doing.  It was lovely because everybody was
thrilled, and it all smelt polishy, and Elfrida said she had no idea
the dining-room could ever look so festive.  And of course, that was
exactly the right place for the tree.  So Sam went out and brought it
in and he'd bought a sort of stand for it as well, so that made
everything much easier.  And Elfrida fetched her red silk shawl from
her bed and draped it around the stand to hide the raw wood and the
nails.  It looked beautiful and is a lovely shape and size.  I love the
smell of trees coming indoors; it's like pine essence for the bath.

In the afternoon, Oscar collected all the decorations we 'd bought and
we tied them on the tree.  Sam fixed the lights and the star on the top
branch.  And Elfrida produced a whole roll of lovely tartan ribbon she
'd bought for tying up her presents, but she said sticky tape would be
just as good.  So we cut it and made lovely bows and put them all over
the tree, and with the tinsel and the lights turned on, it is the
prettiest I think I've ever seen.

Carrie told me that Corrydale is lovely and that sometime I have to go
to see it all.  She said there was snow everywhere and blue shadows and
sunlight, and that there are gardens stretching right from the house
down to the water, and lots of big old trees.  In a way, I wish I had
gone with them to get the tree, but had to do the dining-room while
Mrs.  Snead was here because I promised to help.

Tomorrow we have to get started on the party.  Elfrida has rung Tabitha
Kennedy and is going to borrow some glasses because we haven't got
enough.  And Carrie is in charge of the food.  This afternoon, after we
'd dealt with the Christmas

tree, we went to the baker's together and ordered sausage rolls and
little quiches and pizzas.  And then we ordered smoked salmon to put on
brown bread.  The party is to start at six and Mrs.  Snead and Arthur
are going to come and help.  / hadn't realized that throwing a party
was quite so much hard work.  Perhaps that's why Mummy and Gran never
throw parties in London.

Rory has been asked, of course, and Clodagh.  I shall wear my new black
miniskirt and my black tights and my new white sweater.  I would like
to fix my hair up into a sort of knot so that my earrings will show.

ELFR1DA

in mid-winter, waking to darkness in this cold and northern country,
Elfrida would open her eyes and have no clue as to the time.  After a
little, she would fumble for her watch and squint at its luminous face,
and if it was two in the morning would probably clamber out of bed,
wrap herself in her dressing-gown, and stumble off to the bathroom.
Sometimes it was 5 a.m. Or eight in the morning, and time to get up,
but even then, not a glimmer of light showed in the sky, and all was
black as midnight.

This morning, she reached out a hand, and found her watch, and it was
half past seven.  Beside her, Oscar still slept.  She got quietly out
of bed, so as not to disturb him, reached for her thick dressing-gown,
pushed her feet into slippers, and went to close the window.  Outside,
she saw, it was snowing again, not heavily, but sleety flakes driven in
by a wind from the sea.  These swirled and blew around the church and
through the black branches of the graveyard trees, the light of the
street lamps turning them to gold.  The effect was so spectacular that
Elfrida knew she had to share it with some other person.  Oscar would
not appreciate being woken, so she left him, went out of the room,
turned on lights, and went downstairs to the kitchen, where she boiled
a kettle and made two cups of tea.  Upstairs again to the sitting-room,
where she drew back the curtains and set the two mugs on the table by
the window.  Then she went on up to the attic to wake Lucy.

She slept, looking innocent as a small child, her hand tucked under the
sweet curve of her cheek, her long hair tumbled around her neck.  Her
bed stood beneath the sloping window set into the roof.  The blind was
undrawn, the glass blanketed with wet snow.  Elfrida switched on the
bedside light.

"Lucy."

She stirred, turned, yawned, opened her eyes.

"Lucy."

"Umm?"

"You awake?"

"I am now."

"I want you to get up.  I want to show you something.  I've made a cup
of tea for you."

"What time is it?"

"Nearly a quarter to eight."

Sleepily, Lucy sat up, rubbing her eyes.

"I thought it was the middle of the night."

"No.  Morning.  And so beautiful.  Everyone else is still sleeping, but
I wanted to show you."

Lucy, still fuddled with sleep, got out of bed and pulled on her
camel-hair dressing-gown.

She said, "It's cold."

"It's the wind.  It's snowing again."

They went downstairs, through the quiet house.  The sitting-room was
filled with light from out of doors.

"Look," said Elfrida and led the way across the room and settled
herself on the window-seat.

"It's so amazing, I had to wake you and show you.  I was afraid that
the snow would have stopped, and you wouldn't see it.  But it's just
like it was when I woke up."

Lucy, staring, sat beside her.  After a little, she said, "It's like
one of those glass balls I used to have.  It was full of water, and it
had a little church; and when you shook it, there was a snowstorm."

"That's just what I thought.  But these flakes are golden because of
the lights; like flecks of gold."

Lucy said, "It's the sort of thing people draw on Christmas cards, and
you think it could never be like that."

"And the streets so clean!  Not a footprint, not a car track.  As
though there was nobody else in the world except us."  She fell silent,
and then thought of something.

"I suppose there'll be blizzards and drifts on the main roads.  I'm
glad we don't have to go anywhere."  Lucy shivered.

"Here, have some hot tea."



ROSAMUNDE PlLCHER

Lucy took her tea and drank gratefully, her thin fingers wrapped around
the mug, savouring its warmth.  In silence they both stared at the
scene beyond the window.  Then a single car appeared, circling the
church, and heading off in the direction of the main road.  It drove
cautiously, grinding along in second gear, and left a pair of dark
tracks in its wake.

When it was gone, "What time is it in Florida?"  Lucy asked.

Elfrida was taken aback.  Lucy never talked about Florida; nor about
her mother; nor about her mother's new friend.  She said casually, "I
don't know.  Five hours ago, I suppose.  About three in the morning.
Warm and humid, I expect.  It's hard to imagine.  I've never been to
Florida.  I've never been to America."  She waited for Lucy to enlarge
on this, but Lucy said nothing.

"Wouldn't you like to be there?"  Elfrida asked gently.

"Blue skies and palm trees and a swimming pool."

"No.  I should hate it.  That's why I didn't go."

"But lovely for your mother.  Like a wonderful holiday."

"I don't like Randall Fischer much."

"Why not?"

"He's sort of smooth.  Creepy."

"He's probably very nice and totally harmless."

"Mummy thinks so, anyway."

"Well.  That's nice for her."

"I'd rather be here, a thousand times over, than Florida.  This is
really Christmas, isn't it?  It's going to be a real one."

"I hope so, Lucy.  I'm not sure.  We'll just have to wait and see."

"Oscar."

Oscar, settled by the fire, looked up from his newspaper.

"My dear."

"I am about to leave you on your own."

"Forever?"

"No.  For about half an hour.  I telephoned Tabitha Kennedy, and I'm
going up to the Manse to borrow some extra glasses for our party.  She
has spare boxes that she

keeps for parish dos, and she says we can have them."

"That's very kind."

"I shall have to use the car.  I shall drive at five miles an hour and
take every precaution."

"Would you like me to come with you?"

"If you want."

"I should prefer to stay here, but am ready and willing to be of any
service."

"Perhaps when I get back you could help me unload the boot and bring it
all indoors."

"Of course, give me a shout."  He thought for a moment.

"It's very quiet.  Where is everybody?"

"Sam and Carrie have gone to Buddy.  And Lucy's incarcerated in her
attic, tying up her Christmas presents.  If you wanted, you could both
take Horace for a little walk.  It's stopped snowing."

Oscar did not look particularly delighted by this suggestion.  He
simply said, in a non-committal way, "Yes."

Elfrida smiled, and stooped to kiss him.

"Take care," she told him, but he had already resumed his reading.

Out of doors, the wind was bitter and the snow treacherous.  Elfrida,
bundled up in boots and the blanket coat and woollen hat, emerged from
the warmth of the house and paused to gaze up at the sky.  She saw
clouds wheeling in across a fitful sky, and gulls, blown hither and
thither in the freezing air.  Oscar's car was covered in snow.  Elfrida
brushed the fresh fall from the windscreen with her gloved hand, but
there was ice beneath it, so she got in, got the engine started, and
turned on a bit of heat.  Presently the ice trickled away, and she
contrived two arcs of clear glass.  Cautiously, she set off, chugging
along down the street, then turning up the hill that led to the Manse.
The gritting lorry had already passed this way, and so, with some
relief, she reached her destination without a skid or other mishap.

She parked at the Manse gate, trod up the path of the front garden,
knocked the snow from her boots, rang the bell, and then stepped into
the porch and opened the inner door.



"Tabitha."

"I'm here.  In the kitchen."

Elfrida saw that the minister's house was already decked out for
Christmas.  A tree (not very large) stood at the foot of the stair,
strung with tinsel and stars, and rather worn- looking paper chains had
been festooned overhead.  Through the open door at the back of the
hall, Tabitha Kennedy appeared, bundled up in an apron and with her
dark hair gathered back into a pony-tail.

"What a day!  So lovely to see you.  I've got coffee perking.  Come in
quickly and shut the door.  You didn't walk up?"

Elfrida unbuttoned her blanket coat and hung it on the newel-post of
the banister.

"No, I was intrepid and brought the car.  Had to.  I couldn't begin to
carry two crates of glasses home.  I'd have slipped on the lane,
probably broken my leg, and certainly broken the glasses."  She
followed Tabitha back into the kitchen.

"Good smells."

"I'm baking.  Mince pies, sausage rolls, two cakes, and shortbread
biscuits.  You know, I like to cook, but Christmas is becoming beyond a
joke.  I've been at it all morning, and there's still stuffing to make
and brandy butter.  And the.  Christmas cake to ice, and a ham to be
boiled.  The thing is, so many parishioners call round at this time of
the year, with cards, or presents for Peter, and they all have to be
asked in and watered and fed, if only out of appreciation."

"I'm sorry.  You're so busy and I'm interrupting."

Tabitha poured coffee into a mug.

"Not at all, it's an excuse to sit down for five minutes.  Pull out a
chair, make yourself comfortable."  She dumped the mug on the table.

"What I'd really like is to be out of doors.  We should be walking on
the beach, or sledging on the golf course; shedding all
responsibilities instead of being slave-driven by the demands of the
Festive Season.  I'm sure it was never intended to be such labour.
Every year I swear I'll simplify and all I ever do is complicate."

Seduced by the fragrant smell of coffee, Elfrida did as she was told.
The Manse kitchen was very nearly as oldfashioned as the one at the
Estate House, but a great deal

1 more cheerful, with Clodagh's artwork stuck up on the panels of
doors, and an old desk piled with papers and family photographs.
Clearly, this was Tabitha's domain, and where die not only cooked and
fed her family, but organized her busy life, did her telephoning and
wrote letters.  Now she poured a mug of coffee for herself and settled
down on the other side of the table.

"Tell me all the news.  What's happening with you?"

"Nothing much.  I left Oscar reading the paper, and Sam and Carrie have
gone off to Buckly to look at the woollen mill."

"Sam's the mysterious stranger who walked in out of the snow?  He's
still with you?"

"He's staying over Christmas.  The weather's so awful and he doesn't
seem to have anywhere else to go."

"Goodness, how sad.  Have he and Carrie made friends?"

"They seem to have," said Elfrida cautiously.

"Rather romantic."

"Tabitha, he's married."

"Then why isn't he with his wife?"

"She's in New York."

"Are they non-speaks?"

"Separated, I think.  Don't know the details."

"Oh, well," said Tabitha, sounding philosophical.

"It takes all sorts."

"It's so odd to think you haven't even met him.  It feels as though
we've all been together for months, but really it's only been a few
days.  Whatever, you'll meet both Sam and Carrie tomorrow evening.
Drinks at the Estate House, six to eight."

"I put the boxes out in the hall.  Six wineglasses and six tumblers and
a couple of jugs.  Are you going to need plates?"

"I don't think so.  We're not actually feeding people.  Just little
snacky things.  Carrie's doing those."

"How many guests do you expect?"

"I think we're about seventeen.  You and Peter and Rory and
Clodagh..."

"Clodagh probably won't come.  She's been invited to a

supper party and a sleepover with a schoolfriend.  Do you mind?"

"Not a bit.  Much more fun for her."

"But Rory will definitely be there.  Who else?"

"Jamie Erskine-Earle and his wife."

"Jamie and Emma?  I didn't know you'd met them."

"He came to appraise my David Wilkie painting.  But it's a sham and not
a David Wilkie at all, so that's another pipedream down the drain."

"Were you thinking of selling it?"

"I might have.  But not now."

"Isn't he a hoot?  Jamie, I mean.  Looks about fifteen, but not only an
expert in his field, but as well, the father of three lusty sons.  Have
you met Emma?"

"Only spoken to her on the phone when I invited them to come."

"She's really nice, and the most down-to-earth, outspoken creature you
ever met.  She breeds Shetland ponies, works dogs, and oversees
everything at Kingsferry.  Jamie's far more interested in chasing up
antiques, identifying prick candlesticks, and unearthing forgotten
portraits.  Emma's the one who runs the farm and helps with the
lambing, and gets the roof mended.  Who else have you asked?"

"The bookshop Rutleys."

"Good."

"And Dr.  Sinclair and his wife."

"Good again."

"I don't know their names."

"Geordie and Janet."

"And the Sneads."

"Mrs.  Snead and Arthur?"

"Well, when she knew I was asking a few people in, Mrs.  Snead offered
to come help, and hand round, and wash glasses.  But I couldn't bear to
think of her being incarcerated in the kitchen all the time, so I told
her to come and join in and bring Arthur with her.  She said Arthur
could have a tray and hand round drinks."

Tabitha drank her coffee.  Then she set down her mug, and across the
table, her eyes met Elfrida's.  Tabitha said, "How is Oscar?"

"He's all right.  He still likes being quiet.  Left alone with his
newspaper and his crossword."

"Peter gave him the spare key to the church organ.  Did you know
that?"

"No.  Oscar never said.  He never told me."

"Peter thought it might help.  Oscar's music.  That it would be a sort
of therapy."

"He's never used it.  He's only been into the church once, and that was
with Lucy because she wanted to look around.  To my knowledge, he's
never been back."

"I don't imagine it would afford him much comfort."  .

"Comfort isn't what Oscar needs.  He just wants to be left alone, to
get through the days at his own pace.  As for all our house guests,
expected and unexpected ... I think in a funny way he quite enjoys all
the coming and going.  He's very fond of Lucy.  But, Tabitha, it still
isn't right.  Oscar and I are very close, and yet I know that part of
him is still withdrawn, even from me.  As though that part of him was
still in another place.  Another country.  Journeying, perhaps.  Or in
exile.  Across a sea.  And I can't be with him, because I haven't got
the right sort of passport."

"Peter would say it's a question of patience."

"Patience was never one of my virtues.  Not that I ever had many."

Tabitha laughed.

"Rubbish.  They're just not the same as other people's.  Have more
coffee."

"No.  That was delicious."  Elfrida got to her feet.

"Now I must get out of your way.  Thank you for the glasses and for
being a listening ear."

"I'll come and help you stow the boxes in your car.  They're not very
heavy, just awkward.  And we'll all be with you tomorrow evening at
six, dressed up in our Christmas bibs and fuckers.  Very exciting.  I
can't wait."

OSCAR

el frida had not been gone for more than ten minutes when Oscar,
breaking into The Times crossword, was interrupted by the appearance of
Lucy.  She wore her red padded jacket and her boots and was apparently
on her way out.

"Oscar."

"Hello, there, duck."  He laid down the paper.

"I thought you were wrapping Christmas presents."

"Yes, I am, but I've run out of ribbon.  Oscar, where's Elfrida?"

"She's gone to the Manse to borrow things from Tabitha Kennedy.  She
won't be long."

"I just wondered if there was anything she wanted me to get in the
shop."

"I think all she wanted was for Horace to be taken for a walk."

"Well, I'll go to the bookshop first, and then take Horace down to the
beach."

"It's very snowy."

"I don't mind.  I've got my boots on."

"Well, be sure not to get attacked by Rottweilers."

Lucy made a hideous face.

"Don't even remind me."

"I'll tell Elfrida you'll be back for lunch."

Lucy went.  In a moment, Oscar heard Horace's cheerful pre-walk
barking, and then the front door opened and slammed shut, and he was
alone once more.  He returned to his crossword.  Six across.  Period by
river for one producing picture.  He brooded over this.  The telephone
began to ring.

His immediate instinct was to leave it, to wait for some other person
to answer the tiresome instrument.  But then he remembered that he was
the only person in the house, and so , in some irritation, he set the
paper down, stowed his pen in his pocket, and, heaving himself out of
his chair, went out onto the landing.

"Estate House."

"I wonder, is Mr.  Blundell there?"  A female voice, very Scottish.

"Speaking."

"Oh, Mr.  Blundell, this is Sister Thomson from the Royal Western in
Inverness.  I'm afraid it's sad news.  Major Billicliffe died early
this morning.  I have your name as his next of kin."

Old Billicliffe.  Dead.  Oscar found himself struggling to think of
something to say.  All he could come up with was "I see."

"It was all very peaceful.  He had a quiet end."

"I'm pleased.  Thank you very much for letting me know."

"There are personal possessions you'll want to collect.  If you could
..."

Oscar said, "Of course."

"And any other arrangements ..."  Sister tactfully did not finish her
sentence.  But Oscar knew exactly what she was driving at.

He said, again, "Of course.  Thank you.  And for taking care of him.
I'll be in touch."

"Thank you, Mr.  Blundell.  I'm very sorry.  Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Sister."

He rang off, and because all at once he needed to sit down, went and
perched on the bottom of the stab's that led up to Lucy's attic.
Billicliffe was dead, and Oscar was not only his next of kin, but his
executor.  He found his head spinning with unworthy and pettish
thoughts, and was grateful that Elfrida was not here, otherwise he
might have voiced them aloud.

How typical of that old idiot to go and die now, of all times.  A
houseful of people, Christmas upon them, and the roads to Inverness
impassable.  If he had planned it all himself, Billicliffe could not
have hit upon a more inconvenient moment to turn up his toes.

But then Oscar remembered leaving the old boy and stopped feeling
resentful, and instead felt sad, because he had died alone, and Oscar
and Elfrida, despite their best in

tendons, had been unable to get to the hospital to visit him, make
amends for their unsocial behaviour, and say goodbye.

He pondered for a bit as to what he should do next.  The ball, it was
obvious, was in his court, and it was Oscar who had to take the
initiative, but he found himself with no idea of how to start.  And it
occurred to him, sitting like a beached whale at the foot of the
stairs, that it was less than two months since that ghastly evening
when he had been told that Gloria and Francesca were dead, but he had
little recollection of the stunned days that followed.  There had, of
course, been a funeral, the Dibton church packed, the vicar, who had
never been much of a preacher, struggling for words, and Oscar in his
good black overcoat standing in the front pew.  But how he had got
there he could not say, and had no memory at all of the considerable
organization which had preceded the occasion.  He only knew that,
sometime, Giles, Gloria's eldest son, had turned up and taken over,
while Oscar, rendered incapable by shock, had simply done what he was
told.  Giles, whom Oscar had never found the most engaging of young
men, had nevertheless proved himself immensely efficient.  All went on
oiled wheels, and the entire nightmare process slipped by, and away,
and so, into the past.

When it was all over, Oscar felt that nothing of any importance would
ever happen to him again, and he moved through the dead days like a
zombie.  Then Giles turned up once more at the Grange, to inform Oscar
that he would have to move out, as Gloria's house was going to be put
up for sale.  And Oscar felt no resentment at all.  Giles was, once
more, at the helm, and Oscar took the line of least resistance and
simply went with the flow, agreeing to everything.  It was only when
some old folks' home was mentioned that he experienced the first
stirrings of alarm.

But now things were different, and it was his turn to take over.  How
had he got himself into such a situation?  He thought back to that cold
morning, when he had driven Major Billicliffe over the Black Isle to
the hospital in Inverness.  And how the old boy had talked, meandering
on in an in comprehensible stream of reminiscences.  Then "Prepare for
the worst and hope for the best," he had said, and asked Oscar to be
his executor.

The lawyer.  Oscar had, in his diary, made a note of the lawyer's name.
He got up off the stair, went into the sitting- room, and found his
diary on his makeshift desk.  He turned the pages.  Murdo MacKenzie. It
occurred to him that only Billicliffe would have a lawyer with such an
outlandish name.  Murdo MacKenzie, MacKenzie and Stout, South Street,
Inverness.

There was no telephone number, so he looked it up in the book, copied
it into his diary, and returned to the landing.  He sat on the stairs
again, lifted the telephone off the table and set it handily beside
him, then punched the number.

He thought, there will have to be a funeral.  A church.  A wake. People
will have to be told.  I must tell Peter Kennedy.  And an announcement
in the newspaper.  Just a few lines.  But which paper? The National
press, or the local... "MacKenzie and Stout."

"Oh, good morning.  I wonder, could I speak to Mr.  Murdo MacKenzie?"

"Whom shall I say is calling?"

"Oscar Blundell.  From Creagan."

"Hold on a moment, please."

Oscar's heart sank.  Others had spoken those words before, and he had
been forced to wait a great deal longer than a moment, while listening
to a tinkly rendering of "Greensleeves," or some other soupy tune.  But
his fears were unfounded.  Murdo MacKenzie came on the line almost at
once.

"Mr.  Blundell.  Good morning.  Murdo MacKenzie here.  What can I do
for you?"

A good Scottish voice, strong and capable-sounding.  Oscar felt
encouraged.

"Good morning.  I'm sorry to bother you, but I've just heard ... from
the hospital... that Major Billicliffe died this morning.  Major
Godfrey Billicliffe," he added, as though there could possibly be
two.

"Oh, that's sad news.  I am sorry."  (He really sounded sorry, too.)
"But not perhaps unexpected."

"They called me first because they had my name as next of kin.  And as
well, of course, Major BiUicliffe asked me to be his executor.  There
didn't seem to be anyone else."

"No.  He had no family.  He told me about this arrangement, and said
that you had agreed to take the duty on."

"That's why I'm calling.  I suppose there will have to be a funeral,
but where, and when and how?  He has friends in Creagan, who will
certainly want to be there, but as far as I know, the roads are still
impassable, and there's no hope in hell of anybody getting to
Inverness.  To say nothing of the fact that Christmas is just about on
us.  And an undertaker will have to be approached, of course, and the
bank notified, and the registrar..."

Murdo MacKenzie smoothly intervened.

"Mr.  Blundell, why don't you leave all this to me?  The first thing is
that Major BiUicliffe left instructions with my office that he wished
to be cremated, so that precludes a good many headaches.  As for an
undertaker, I can deal with that.  There's an excellent firm in
Inverness who have a good reputation, and I know them well.  How would
it be if I got in touch with Mr.  Lugg and made all the necessary
arrangements?"

"That's enormously kind of you ... but... when?"

"I would suggest the end of next week.  Before New Year.  By then the
weather should have eased off a bit, and you and any friends from
Creagan should be able to make your way over the Black Isle and attend
the ceremony."

"But shouldn't we have some sort of get-together... a cup of tea
somewhere?  I should be more than willing to foot the bill for that."

"Mr.  Lugg ... the undertaker ... can see to that as well.  Perhaps the
lounge of an hotel... or the function room.  It depends how many people
will be there."

"And all the other details, probate and the bank and such.  Freezing
his account..."

"We'll deal with those details."

"And his personal possessions ..."  Oscar thought of

W/NTER SOLSTICE

Billicliffe's washed-out flannel pyjamas, his hearing aids his battered
leather suitcase.  All too pathetic, and to his horror, he felt a
ridiculous lump grow in his throat " his possessions.  They will have
to be collected from the hospital."

"I'll telephone and have a word with the Ward Sister.  Do you remember
the number of the ward?"

Rather to his surprise, Oscar did.

"Fourteen."

"Fourteen."  A pause while Murdo MacKenzie made a note or two.

"I'll get my secretary to see to that."

"I really can't thank you enough.  You've taken a great weight off my
shoulders."

"I know that Major Billicliffe did not want you to be inconvenienced in
any way.  So I shall telephone Mr.  Lugg, and get back to you when I
know what arrangements he's been able to make.  Have I got your
telephone number?"

Oscar gave it to him.

"And you're at the Estate House in Creagan?"

"That's right."

"No problems, then.  And if any should arise, I'll give you a ring."

"It really is more than good of you.  If you could keep in touch. Thank
you again.  And now, I'll waste no more of-" "Mr.  Blundell!"

"Yes?"

"Don't ring off.  I have something else to say.  I shall be writing to
you, of course, but the post is a little unreliable at this time of the
year, and as we're talking now, perhaps I should put you in the
picture."

Oscar frowned.

"Sorry, I don't understand."

"Once he was settled in hospital, Major Billicliffe rang me, and said
that he wanted to see me.  I live out on the Nairn Road, and pass the
hospital on my way into the office, so I called in early last Monday
morning.  He was in bed, of course, and very frail, but perfectly
lucid.  He was worried about his will.  Since his wife died he had not
got around to making a new one, and he wished to do this right away.
He gave me instructions, the will was written that day, in my office,
and he was able to sign it.  You are his sole beneficiary, Mr.
Blundell.  He was not a man of property, nor great wealth, but he wants
you to have his house at Corrydale, his car, and his dog.  I'm afraid
neither the car nor the dog are bequests you would have chosen, but
those were his wishes.  As for his money, he lived, very frugally, on
his pensions, which of course, stop on his death.  But he had, as well,
a few savings, which, once all the funeral expenses have been settled,
and any outstanding bills, should come to about two thousand five
hundred pounds...."

Oscar sat on his stair, with the telephone to his ear, and could not
think of a single thing to say.

"Mr.  Blundell?"

"Yes, I'm still here."

"I thought maybe the line had gone dead."

"No.  I'm here."

"It's not a substantial legacy, I'm afraid, but Major Billicliffe was
anxious that you should know how much he appreciated your kindness to
him."

Oscar said, "I wasn't kind."  But if the lawyer heard this, he ignored
it.

"I don't know if you know the house?"

"I went there once.  Once only.  To get the key.  But of course I knew
it in the old days, when it was the forester's cottage, and my
grandmother was living at Corrydale."

"I did the conveyancing when Major Billicliffe bought it from the
estate.  It is quite a modest establishment, but I would say with
distinct possibilities."

"Yes.  Yes, of course.  I am sorry to be so uncommunicative, but I am
truly lost for words."

"I understand."

"I never thought... expected ..."

"I'll put it all down in writing in a letter to you, and then you can
decide what you do next.  And don't worry about arrangements over this
side.  I'll speak to Mr.  Lugg, and put everything into his capable
hands."

"Thank you."  Oscar felt something more was expected of him.

"Thank you so very much."

"A pleasure, Mr.  Blundell.  Goodbye.  And have a good Christmas."

He rang off.  Slowly Oscar replaced the receiver.  At the end of the
day old Billicliffe had come up trumps.  Oscar ran a hand over his
bewildered head.  He said aloud to the empty house, "Well, I'll be
buggered."

He thought for a long time about the little house on the Corrydale
Estate.  Not during the Billicliffe time, but years ago, when the head
forester and his homely wife had lived there.  Then, it had been a hive
of activity, with four children underfoot, three dogs, a cage with
ferrets by the back door, and strings of washing flapping on the line.
But always a good peat-fire in the hearth, a vociferous welcome for a
small boy, and a hot plate of drop scones dripping in butter.  Oscar
tried to remember the layout of the place, but in those days he had
never gone farther than the living-room, with its smell of paraffin
lamps and baking bread.

Now it belonged to him.

Oscar looked at his watch.  It was five minutes past noon, and all at
once, he longed for a drink.  Usually, he never drank in the middle of
the day, and if he did, only a glass of lager.  But now he needed-ie
really needed-a sophisticated and restoring gin and tonic, to settle
himself, and give him the necessary Dutch courage to deal with this
new, and totally unexpected, turn of events.

He pulled himself to his feet and went downstairs, and through the
kitchen to his slate-shelf wine-cellar.  There he " found half a bottle
of Gordon's and a bottle of tonic, and he took these back into the
kitchen, got a glass, and poured himself a restoring slug.

The front door opened.

"Oscar!"  Elfrida had returned.

"I'm here."

"Can you come and help me?"

He went out to greet her, bearing his glass.  He said, "I am secretly
drinking.  I have become a secret drinker."

Elfrida did not look greatly disturbed.

"Oh.  Well done.  I've got two huge boxes in the back of the car...."

She had left the front door open behind her.  He put a hand

over her shoulder and pushed it shut.  He said, "Later."

"But..."

"We'll bring them in later.  Come.  I want to talk to you.  I have
something to tell you."

Her eyes went wide.

"Is it dire?"

"Not dire at all.  Take off your coat and come into the kitchen, where
we can sit and be peaceful."

"Where's Lucy?"

"She has taken Horace shopping.  To buy ribbon, and then to go for a
walk.  And Sam and Carrie are not yet back.  So, for once, we are on
our own.  Let us not waste a bit of peace.  Do you want a gin and
tonic?"

"If we've really started lunch-time boozing, I'd prefer a glass of
sherry."  Elfrida unbuttoned her coat, slung it on the end of the
banister, and followed him into the kitchen.

"Oscar, you're looking quite flushed and excited.  What has been going
on?"

"I shall tell you."

She sat at the table, and he brought her her glass of sherry, and then
sat, too.

"Cheers, my dear girl."

"And to you, Oscar."

The gin and tonic was pretty strong, but quite delicious and exactly
what his stomach needed.  He set down the glass and said, "If I tell
you, quite slowly, because it's rather complicated, will you listen and
not ask questions until I've got to the end?  Otherwise, I shall become
confused."

"I'll try."

"Right.  The first is that Major Billicliffe died this morning.  I had
a phone call from the hospital."

Elfrida put her hand over her mouth.

"Oh, Oscar."

"I know.  We never got to see him.  We never sat at his bedside and fed
him grapes.  But truly, with the roads the way they are, we could never
have made the journey."

"It's not that so much.  It's just so sad.  To be all alone, and
dying...."

"He wasn't alone.  He was in a ward, with kindly nurses and people
around him all the time.  Not nearly as alone as he's been since his
wife died."

"I suppose so."  Elfrida thought about this, and then sighed.

"What a complication.  And you were his next of kin ... does that mean
... ?"

He said, "Now, listen."

And so he told her.  About telephoning the lawyer, Murdo MacKenzie, and
having all responsibility removed from his shoulders by a man clearly
experienced in such matters.  He told her about the Inverness
undertaker, Mr.  Lugg, in whom Murdo MacKenzie had such touching faith;
and how Mr.  Lugg would be the right person to see to everything, from
crematorium to function rooms.

"But when will the funeral be!"  Elfrida asked.

"The end of next week, we thought.  By then all the Creagan people
should be able, with a bit of luck, to get there.  The snow can't lie
forever.  Sooner or later, there must come a thaw."

"We should put an announcement in some paper...."

"Mr.  MacKenzie has taken that on as well."

"... And let the local people know ..."

"I'll ring Peter Kennedy."

"Oh, dear.  What a terribly inconvenient time to die."

"Exactly what I thought, and then had to pull myself together and stop
being unChristian."

"Oh, well.  I suppose that's it."

"No, Elfrida.  That's not the end."

"More?"

"Billicliffe's will was out-of-date.  His wife had died, and he had to
write a new one.  He has made me his sole beneficiary.  No, don't say a
word till I've finished.  It means he has left me his house, his motor
car, his dog, and his fortune.  His fortune, all bills and expenses
paid, is in the region of two thousand five hundred pounds.  All his
savings.  He has been living on his pension."

"His house?  He's left you his house?  How terribly touching.  Sweet,
So kind.  Did he really have no other family?  No relation?"

"Nobody."

"Poor lonely man.  Oh, Oscar, and we were so horrid about him."



"Just between ourselves."

"Hiding behind the sofa in case he called!"

"Don't remind me."

"What will you do with the house?"

"I don't know.  I haven't had time to think.  Sell it, I suppose.  But
it would have to be emptied of Billicliffe clobber first, and probably
fumigated."

"What's it like?"

"You know.  You saw.  A tip."

"No, I mean, how many rooms?  Is there a kitchen?  A bathroom?"

"I suppose, in estate agent jargon, you'd say two up, two down, kitchen
and bathroom probably added on, after the war, sticking out at the
back."

"Which way does it face?"

Oscar had to work this one out.

"North at the front door, south on the other side."

"And a garden?"

"Yes, I suppose a bit of land.  I can't really remember.  Mrs.
Ferguson, the forester's wife, used to grow potatoes and leeks.  And
there was an apple tree...."

Elfrida was silent for a moment, chewing this information over.  And
then, astonishingly, she said, "Why don't you go and live there?"

Oscar stared at her in total disbelief.

"Live there?  All on my own?"

"No, stupid, I'll come with you."

"But you thought the house was horrible."

"No house is impossible.  There's no such thing as a place that cannot
be improved, enlarged, redecorated.  I'm sure when the forester lived
there, it was a dear little place.  It was hearing aids, dog hairs,
brimming ashtrays, and smeary glasses that made it all so disgusting.
Nothing to do with the bricks and mortar."

"But I have a house.  I have this house."

"You only own half a share.  That's not very secure.  You could sell
your half and then you'd have seventy-five thou md pounds and you could
spend that on Major Billicliffe's house and live happily ever after."

"You mean ... sell out here?  Leave Creagan ... ?"

"Oh, Oscar, don't sound so horrified.  It's really quite a good idea.
Sam Howard wants it, and Hughie McLennan is obviously agog to get rid
of his half.  I know you love it here, and I do, too, but admit, it is
big and faintly unfurnished; and when Sam and Carrie and Lucy have
gone, we're going to be alone again, rattling around like a pair of
peas in a drum.  And another thing, I always think of here as a family
house.  It's not meant for a couple of old dears like us.  It should
have young people, and children growing up...."

"Sam hasn't got any children."

"No, but he's bound to get married again ..."  Elfrida did not finish
her sentence.  In the silence which followed, with some reluctance, she
looked Oscar in the eye.

He said, "Not Carrie."

"Why not Carrie?"

"You mustn't match make

"It's impossible not to.  They're so perfect together."

"They're not perfect at all.  He never stops being amiable and Carrie
is remote and prickly as a gorse-bush."

"She's vulnerable just now.  And yesterday, they were away for ages,
getting the Christmas tree.  Carrie said they were exploring Corrydale,
but I can't believe that they paced along for two hours without some
exchange of words."

"All that's happened is that they have been flung together by
circumstances...."

"Maybe so."  Elfrida sighed.

"You're probably right.  But, discounting Carrie, this is exactly the
right establishment for a man like Sam Howard.  The business man, the
manager of the resuscitated woollen mill, an important member of the
community.  I can just see him entertaining business colleagues from
Japan and Germany.  Giving his chairman a weekend of golf.  Besides-and
this is the most important thing-Sam really wants this house.  I think
he feels right here, he feels at home.  And wouldn't it be better to
sell it to

him than to some stranger?  And have seventy-five thousand pounds to
put in your pocket?"

"Elfrida, I am not a man of means.  If I did sell the Estate House,
then that money would have to be squirrel led away for old age and
senility.  I couldn't be mad enough to sink the lot into Major
Billicliffe's cottage and leave myself with' nothing put by."

"We don't know how much we'd have to spend... on tidying things up, I
mean."

Oscar said, "A lot."

But Elfrida would not be put off.

"Then supposing I sell my house in Hampshire, and we use that money
for-" Oscar, quite firmly for him, said, "No."

"Why not?"

"Because that is your house.  It's about all you own, and you must
under no circumstances sell it.  Rent it out if you can find someone
who wants to live there, but you must never sell."

"Oh, well."  She became resigned, and Oscar felt a brute.

"It was a good idea while it lasted, but I suppose you're right."  Then
she perked up again.

"Whatever, it's all terribly exciting, and no wonder you're looking
flushed.  One thing is certain, we must go and look around the poor
little place, inspect it from attic to cellar.  And rescue the car
before it dies!  of cold in the snow.  And the dog.  What shall we do
with the dog?"  Suddenly, she was laughing.

"What shall we do with our Baskerville hound, baying in the night, and
flinging its weight against locked and bolted doors?"

"To be honest, I prefer Horace.  Perhaps I can bribe Charlie Miller to
keep the dog.  I'll have a word with Rose...."

Upstairs, on the landing, the telephone began to ring.  Elfrida said,
"Damn.  Why are phones so intrusive?"

"Leave it.  Pretend we're out."

"I wish I had the strength of mind.  But I haven't."  She pulled
herself to her feet and went out of the room.  Oscar heard her running
upstairs, and almost at once the insistent ringing ceased.  From the
upper floor, faintly, floated El- frida's voice.

"Hello."

sat on, patiently waiting for her to return to him, over her wild
ideas, and wishing he could go along them.  But, if he did sell the
Estate House to Sam, then ; sum released would be his only capital, his
buffer against impoverished old age.  They would certainly go and look
Billicliffe's house, that was only sensible.  Perhaps, led and painted
up a bit, it wouldn't be so bad.  But still, poky and dark place in
which to live after the spacious ;ur of the Estate House.  He would
miss, unbearably, airy, sunny rooms, the sense of space, the good,
solid s\ of security.  It would, indeed, be painful to sell out... even
to a friend like Sam Howard ... and leave it forever.

Upstairs, Elfrida still talked.  He could hear the murmur of her voice,
but not the words she spoke.  Every now and then, she fell silent for
some time and then spoke again.  He could not imagine who could be on
the other end of the line.  He hoped that it was not sinister or
disturbing news.

He had finished his gin and tonic.  Standing up to rinse out the glass
under the tap, he remembered the two boxes of borrowed glasses still
incarcerated in the boot of the car.  He went out of the kitchen and
down the hall, and out through front door into the piercing cold.  He
trod down the path and through the gate to where his old car stood and
opened the boot.  The boxes were unwieldy and y, and he had to make two
journeys, carrying them one a time.  He put the second one down on the
kitchen table and then went back to shut the front door.  As he did
this, he beard the ting of the telephone, the noise it always made when
one replaced the receiver.  He stood at the foot of the stairs, his
face upturned, waiting for Elfrida to appear.  When the didn't, he
called her name.

"Elfrida."

She did not say anything.  She simply came down the ttairs, with an
expression on her face that he could not fathom.  He only knew that he
had never seen her eyes so bright, had never seen her look so young,
with a radiance about her that had nothing to do with the noonday light
shining through her flaming shock of hair.



"My dear..."

"Oscar."  She reached him, standing on a stair him, put her arms around
him and pressed her against his own.

"Something simply utterly wonderful I happened to me."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Yes, but I think we both must be sitting down."

So he took her hand and led her back into the kitchen, and they sat
once more facing each other across the table.

"That was Jamie Erskine-Earle.  About my little clock.  You know he
said he was going to show it to a colleague is Boothby's.  Well, the
colleague is hi London, and in this weather there was no way Jamie
could get it south.  But he sent him a fax, with a detailed description
of the clock, and faxed him some photographs as well.  And the
colleague.,. whoever he is ... telephoned back from London this
morning.  And he said the clock was a very special item.  A very rare
timepiece.  And it's French, and it was made by one J. F. Houriet,
about 1830.  Its official description is a Silva Chronometer
Tourbillon.  Just imagine, Oscar, all these yean I've owned a Silver
Tourbillon, and never had the faintest suspicion.  And then he wanted
to know how I had come by] it, and Jamie told nun that I'd inherited it
from an elderlj| sea-faring godfather, but of course I've never had any
idea c how it came into his possession.  Anyway, Jamie said that it
really is something of a treasure, and I should certainly haw it well
insured.  So I plucked up my courage and said, "Is it valuable?"  And
he said, "Yes."  And I asked what it was worth, and he said at auction
... possibly ... guess, Oscar!"

"Impossible.  Put me out of my misery.  Tell me."

"Seventy to eighty thousand pounds," Elfrida gleefully shouted at
him.

"I have misheard you.  It can't be true."

"You haven't misheard me and it is true.  Jamie said hii colleague said
that it's a very serious piece to any collector.  Don't you adore the
word serious!  Get it into a Boothby's sale of Important Clocks,
Watches, and Marine Chronometers, and the figure might rise even
higher."

"I am left without words."

"And all this time, I told myself it was my little painting Iwt would
be my insurance and keep me out of the poor- jouse.  But instead, my
true treasure was my clock.  Isn't it a ucky thing that nobody nicked
it off the mantelpiece at Poulton's Row?"

"I might put it more strongly than that.  Especially as you never
locked your front door.  It was always a lovely thing to own.  You
aren't thinking of selling it?  You mustn't sell it."

"Oh, Oscar, for goodness' sake, of course I'm going to sell it.  Don't
you see, with that money we can really transform Billicliffe Villa into
the most desirable of residences.  Build a conservatory.  Fling out a
ballroom wing...."

"Elfrida."

"... And buy a microwave."

"Elfrida, listen.  That money, if you sell the clock, belongs to
you."

"Oscar, listen.  It belongs to us.  And we'll end our days in a
charming little cottage filled with sunlight, just the way this house
always is.  And we shall grow potatoes, and leeks, if you want, and we
shall have Rose Miller for a neighbour, and a four-star country hotel
in the garden.  Who could ask for more?  It's so exciting.  Isn't it
tremendously, wonderfully exciting?"

"Of course it is.  But, dear girl, we must be practical.  We must be
sensible."

"I hate being sensible!  I want to go out and dance in the street.
Shout our good news from the rooftops."

Oscar considered this, as though it were a perfectly viable suggestion.
And then he said, "No."

"No?"

"Just for the moment, what I would like is for nothing to be said about
anything until I've had a chance to get Sam on his own and explain the
situation.  He must know that we are thinking of selling up here,
because I am certain that he will want first refusal.  Not having to
start searching for another property will be a great weight off his
mind.  He has, at the moment, quite enough to think about without
wondering where, he's going to Aive.  Ks vieYl, he's not going to be
with us forever, so ve sho\i\d put him in the picture before be leaves
us and we don't see him again.  He may need time to think it all
through; perhaps raise the cash.  We don't know.  But I feel he must be
our first consideration."

"Yes.  You're absolutely right.  When will you tell him?"

"I shall take him down to the pub this evening."

"And the others?  Carrie and Lucy?"

"After I've spoken to Sam."

"What if Billicliffe's house proves to be a total disaster?"

"Then we shall have to think again."

"I can't wait to go and look at it.  You and I. But we can't go this
afternoon because of the snow.  The roads are horribly skiddy.  And we
can't go tomorrow because of the party."

"Sunday?"

"Christmas Eve."

"As good a day as any.  Sunday morning."

"All right.  We'll go on Sunday morning.  Perhaps we should ask Sam to
drive us hi his car.  That should preclude us ending up in a ditch."
She thought about this, and then came up with an even brighter idea.

"I know.  We'll all go.  Carrie and Lucy as well."

Oscar was wary.

"That will entail five different people all coming up with then- own
opinions and ideas."

"All the better.  I'm sure Sam will be wonderfully practical.  He'll
talk about things like soffits, and rap walls, and be knowledgeable
about rising damp.  And I've had another brilliant idea.  If we went to
Corrydale in the morning, and it wasn't raining or snowing, we could
take a lunch picnic.  A winter picnic.  I shall make a pot of my
garbage soup.  Oscar, have we got a key for Major Billicliffe's
house?"

Oscar had not thought about a key.

"No."

"Then how shall we get in?"

"Rose Miller will have one.  Or know some person who has.  I have to
ring her anyway, to let her know that the old boy has died, though
she's probably heard by now.  And I must call Peter Kennedy."

CARRIE

they drove to Buckly by way of the narrow back road that wound along
the coast.  The prospects about them could not have been more
wintry-white hills and grey skies running with clouds, driven on a wind
that blew from the north, from the Arctic seas, and across great tracts
of snow-covered moors.  The car crested a shallow hill, and Carrie saw,
below them the sea loch at half-tide, the dark conifer forests on the
farther shore, and the huddle of white cottages above a disused and
ruined pier.

She had never been this way before.

"What is the loch called?"  she asked.

He told her.

"Loch Fhada.  It's a bud sanctuary."

They turned along the shore road.  The beach was rocky and
inhospitable.  The sea, racing in on the flood, was as grey as the
skies above and flecked with spray.  Far out, on a sandbank, a number
of seals rested, and as she watched, a flight of ducks moved in from
the east, to land on an isolated pool not yet drowned by the running
tide.

At the far end of the loch, a road bridge spanned the water, and beyond
this was wild country, a glen of scrub and bracken and dead water,
edging up into the hills.  At the main road they turned north, and the
gritters had been out, and the snow was dirtied by traffic and by the
mud thrown up by lorries and tractors.  Between the road and the sea
lay farmland; sheep huddled in the lee of dry stone dikes, and small
farmsteads sported bravely smoking chimney-pots reeking of peat.  A
tractor was crossing a field trailing a bogey laden with hay, and a
woman emerged from a door to throw crusts to her flock of gobbling
geese.  Farther on, they came upon a man trudging along the side of the
road, a solitary figure walking head-down against the weather; he held
a long crook and his sheep-dog ran at his heels.  As they approached,
he paused to let them by and raised a mittened hand in greeting.



"He looks," said Carrie, "as though he had been painted by Breughel."

She remembered farms in the south of England, so bosky and green.  And
her father's small holding in Cornwall, where the milk cows grazed out
of doors all winter.  She said, "I can't imagine working a farm in
weather like this.  It seems a question of survival rather than
anything else."

"They're always prepared for bad weather.  Winters have always been
harsh.  And they're a tough breed."

"They'd need to be."

They were on their way to view the woollen mill which was to be Sam
Howard's future.  Now, Carrie wished that she had never come up with
that suggestion, so casually made.  / should like to see your mill, she
had said, with no idea that he would be so enthusiastic about the
prospect of showing her around.  And that had been before all that
happened later; and this morning, of course, it was too late to back
out, to make some excuse, to pretend that she wasn't particularly
interested after all.

Too late.  Too late to blot out that outburst of passionate honesty,
the truth that she had been so careful to keep to herself, concealed
and hopefully unsuspected.  She told herself that she couldn't conceive
how it had all come about, knowing perfectly well what had precipitated
the breakdown of defenses, the opening up of her own unhappy heart.

It was Corrydale.  The place.  The sunlit snow, the aromatic scent of
pine trees, the dark-blue skies, the mountains on the far side of the
glittering firth.  The warmth of the low sun seeping through the
padding of her jacket; the crunch of fresh snow underfoot; the dazzle,
the pleasure of breathing pure cold air down into her lungs.  Austria.
Oberbeuren.  And Andreas.  The place and the man; indivisible. Andreas,
here.  Now.  Walking beside her, talking incessantly, his voice always
with that undertone of laughter.  Andreas.  Making plans, making love. 
So strong was the illusion that she thought she could smell the cool,
fresh, lemony scent of his aftershave.  And even as she felt his
presence so strongly, she had known that it was simply a figment of her
own heightened imagination.  Because Andreas was gone. Back to Inga and
his children, leaving Carrie with such a devastating sense of pain and
loss that all at once it was no longer possible to remain cool and
rational.

Sam, talking about his wife, his broken marriage and the end of his job
in New York, had simply compounded her misery, and when he had come out
with that horrible word "rejected," she had turned on him in the sort
of rage that she had never believed she was capable of, the furious
words had broken free, and it was only tears that stemmed the outburst.
A flood of tears that left her ashamed and humiliated, and when she had
tried to run away from her own humiliation, Sam had pulled her back,
taken her into his arms and held her close, as he might have held an
inconsolable child.

She thought now, that in a book, in a film, that moment would have been
the end.  The final embrace, after reels of antagonism and
misunderstanding.  The camera after backing off into a long shot,
panning up to the sky, to a skein of home-flying geese or some other
meaningful symbol.  Throbbing theme music, and the credits rolling, and
the good sensation of a happy ending.

But life didn't stop at the end of the story.  It just moved on.  Sam's
embrace, his arms around her, the physical contact, the closeness had
comforted, but not melted her own coldness.  She was not changed.  She
was still Carrie, thirty years old, and with the love of her life gone
forever.  Perhaps that was the way she wanted to be, with a heart
frozen like the winter landscape all about them.  Perhaps that was the
way she wanted to stay.

Elfrida had said, so sadly, The world is full of married men.  It was
better not to get too close to another person.  The closer you got, the
more likely you were to get hurt.

McTaggarts of Buckly.

The mill stood on the outskirts of the small town, set back from the
road behind a stone wall and an imposing wroughtiron double gateway.
This was wide enough to allow the passage of a horse and cart, and
overhead curved a decorative

archway crowned by an ornate device vaguely heraldic in appearance.

The gate, this morning, stood open, and beyond was a spacious area set
about with circular raised flower-beds contained by walls of
cobble-stones.  All lay under snow, and the flower-beds were empty, but
Carrie guessed that in summertime there would be a fine show of
geraniums, lobelia, aubrietia, and other municipally approved
plantings.

The snow was virgin, unmarked by footprints or tyre tracks.  They were,
it was clear, the first and only visitors of the day.  Passing beneath
the gateway, Carrie had, through the windscreen, her first sighting of
the mill, and could at once perfectly understand why the environmental
authorities had deemed it worthy of being listed.  There was an
industrial chimney, of course, rearing up beyond the pitched roof, and
other, more utilitarian sheds and storehouses set about, but the main
building was both impressive and good-looking.

Built of local stone, its fa9ade was long and pleasingly symmetrical. A
central pediment was topped by a clock tower.  Beneath this, a single
window on the first floor, and then, below again, an important double
door over which arched an elegant glass fanlight.

On either side of the pediment, the two wings were set with a double
row of windows, all formally fenestrated.  The sloping roof was slate,
pierced by skylights, and here and there the stonework was softened by
the dark and glossy green of climbing ivy.

Sam drew up in front of the big door, and they stepped down into the
snow.  Carrie stood for a moment looking around, and Sam came to stand
at her side, his hands deep in the pockets of his Barbour.

After a bit, "What do you think?"  he asked.

"I think it's very handsome."

"I told you.  No question of bulldozing the lot and starting anew."

"I was expecting a dark, Satanic mill.  Or a factory.  This looks more
like a well-established public school.  All that's missing are a few
playing fields with goal-posts."

"The original null buildings are round at the back, nearer to the
river.  This block was put up in 1865, so it's relatively new.  It was
conceived as a form of window-dressing.  Offices, sale-rooms,
conference rooms; that sort of thing.  There was even a reading room
for the employees, a good example of Victorian paternalism.  On the
first floor, the space was for finished goods, and, above again, in the
lofts, wool stores.  You have to remember that the business has been
going since the middle of the eighteenth century.  The river, of
course, was the reason that the original mill was sited in this
particular spot."

Carrie said, "It all looks in such good order.  Hard to believe it's
suffered a fatal flood."

"Well, brace yourself.  You're in for a shock."

He produced, from his pocket, a considerable key, fitted this into the
brass lock, turned it, and pushed the door open.  He stood aside, and
Carrie went past him and into a square, high-ceilinged reception
hallway.

And devastation.

It was empty.  The high-tide mark of the floodwater reached to nearly
five feet.  Above this, handsome flock wallpaper had survived, but,
below, all colour had been soaked away, and it peeled from the wall in
ruined tatters.  The floor, too, bare boards, was much damaged: old
planks rotted and broken; gaping holes revealing original joists and
the dark cavities of deep foundations.  There hung, over all, the
pervading and depressing smell of mould and damp.

"... This was the reception area.  For visitors, or new customers; an
important first impression.  I believe it was all furnished and
carpeted in some style, and with portraits of various McTaggart
founders glowering down from the walls.  You can see that the plaster
cornice survived, but the flood rendered everything else beyond repair
and it all had to be jettisoned."

"How long did it take for the water to go down?"

"About a week.  As soon as possible, industrial blowers were installed
to try to dry things out, but too late to save anything in here."



"Has the river ever flooded before?"

"Once.  About fifty years ago.  After that a dam and a sluice were
constructed in order to control the level of the water.  But this time
the rain was relentless, and to make matters worse, there was a very
high tide, and the river simply burst its banks."

"It's almost impossible to imagine."

"I know.  Come and see.  Careful where you walk.  I don't want you
falling through the floorboards."

Another door stood at the back of the hallway.  Sam opened this, Carrie
followed, and it was a bit like going through the green baize door of a
large house with servants' quarters.  For it led into a stone-floored
space as big as a warehouse and glass-roofed for light.  It was empty,
echoing, and piercingly cold.  Here and there were evidences of past
industry, like the mountings set into the flags where once had stood
the weaving looms, and at the far side an open- treaded wooden stair
led to an upper gallery.

It felt dead, and sadly desolate.

"What went on here?"  Carrie asked, and her voice rang back at her from
the soaring roof and the empty, stained walls.

"This is a weaving shed.  Fergus Skinner-he was the guy in charge of
the mill at the time of the flood-told me some of what happened.  That
night, they went on working here until eleven o'clock, because even as
the water trickled in, they were still hoping that the flood would
abate.  But it didn't, and the rest of the night they spent lifting
everything they could off the floor.  A desperate but hopeless task.
What was possible to salvage was-the spinning frames, although they
were badly damaged.  Old wooden scouring machines survived, and the
teasel-raising machines.  Financially, the worst disaster was the
ruination of all the finished goods.  Orders worth thousands, packed
and ready for delivery.  It was that loss, really, that finally
finished McTaggarts off."

"Was the office on the ground floor?"

"Unfortunately, yes.  Fergus Skinner told me that he remembered wading
in there, to see if he could salvage any tiling, but the water was
waist-level by then, the computers drowned, and letters of credit
floating towards him down the aisle...."

"What happened the next day?  The work-force ... ?"

"All laid off.  No alternative.  But as soon as the waters subsided,
about a hundred men turned up to salvage what they could.  Half of the
machinery had to be scrapped including the German electronic shuttle
looms which had only recently been installed.  So much for modem, and
extremely expensive, technology.  What did survive was some of the
older, less sophisticated machinery.  Looms which had been bought
second-hand, and were already forty or fifty years old.  The engineers
stripped down the carding machine and cleaned it off before the rust
set in, so that can be set up again.  And there was some specialist
machinery from Italy, but that's hi store right now, and we plan to
send it back to Milan for refurbishment and reuse."

Carrie, fascinated and attentive, was, nevertheless, starting to feel
tremendously cold.  Damp chill crept up through the thick soles of her
boots, and all at once she shivered.  Sam saw this, and was
remorseful.

"Carrie, I'm sorry.  Once I start expounding, I forget everything else.
Do you want to go?  Have you had enough?"

"No.  I want to see it all.  I want you to show it all to me, and tell
me what you're going to do, about the new plans, and where everything's
going to be.  At the moment, I am completely bewildered by the prospect
of doing anything at all.  It's mind-boggling.  Like being given a
totally impossible task."

"Nothing is impossible."

"But still... being the guy in charge."

"Yes, but with the resources of a huge conglomerate behind me.  That
makes a hell of a difference."

"Even so.  They chose you to take on the job.  I wonder why?"

Sam grinned, and all at once looked, not simply boyish, but at the same
time, bursting with eager confidence.  He knew what he was talking
about.  He was on his home ground.



He said, "I suppose because, basically, I'm a Yorkshire boy.  And where
there's muck, there's brass.  Now, come, before you freeze, and I'll
show you the rest...."

By the time the tour was finished, and they stepped once more into the
outdoors, Carrie was chilled to the bone.  She stood in the snow,
waiting while Sam closed and locked the door behind him, and then he
turned and saw her, hunched into her thick grey loden coat, with her
hands dug deep into the pockets.

"You look frozen, Carrie."

"I am."

"I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have kept you so long."

"I liked it.  It's just that my feet are frozen."

"I hope you weren't bored."

"Not at all.  Fascinated."

He looked at his watch.

"It's half past eleven.  Shall we go back to Creagan, or would you like
a heartening drink?  From the look of you, a Whisky Mac might be the
best thing."

"Hot coffee would do the trick."

"Whatever.  Come along, get back into the car, and we'll warm you
up."

So they drove away from the deserted mill, over the cobbles, under the
handsome gateway, and then turned right and went on down the road and
into Buckly, making their way along narrow winding streets and across a
small square where stood the War Memorial.  There weren't many people
about, but little shops had their lights on, and brave Christmas
decorations in windows.  Then over a stone bridge that spanned the
ravine of a river in spate, and beyond this, Sam drew up by the
pavement outside a gloomy-looking establishment with the duke's arms in
curly gold capitals above the door.  Carrie eyed it without much
enthusiasm.

"I am sure," Sam told her, "that in Buckly there are more lively spots,
but this happens to be the only one I know.  And it is, in its own way,
unique."

"It doesn't look a riot of fun."

"We shall make it so."

They got out of the car and crossed the pavement as Sam led the way,
pushing open the door and letting loose a warm and beery smell.
Gingerly, Carrie followed.  Inside, it was dark and seedy, but
gloriously overheated.  A coal-fire glowed and flickered in the
old-fashioned hearth, and over the mantelpiece hung an enormous fish in
a glass case.  Small, wobbly tables held brewery beer-mats and
ashtrays, and there seemed to be only two other customers, both of them
silent, male, and very old.  Behind the bar, the proprietor was intent
on a small black-and-white television set, with the sound turned down
to a murmur.  A clock ticked, and a bit of coal collapsed in the fire
with a whisper.  The atmosphere was so dour that Carrie wondered if
they should simply turn about and tiptoe away again.

But Sam had other ideas.

"Come on," he said, and his voice rang around the room, in a very
off-putting way.

"Sit here, close to the fire."  He pulled a chair away from a table.

"I'm sure you'll get a cup of coffee if you really want one, but would
you try a Whisky Mac?  It's the most warming drink in the world."

It sounded more tempting than coffee.

"All right."

She sat, pulled off her gloves and unbuttoned her coat, then spread her
hands to the heat of the fire.  Sam went over to the bar, and the
barman dragged himself away from the television set and took his order.
After that, in the way of all countrymen in pubs, they fell into
conversation, their voices low, as though they spoke secrets.

Carrie pulled off her fur hat and laid it on the chair beside her; she
ran her fingers through her hair.  Doing this, she looked up and caught
the eye of the old man who sat beneath the window.  It was a rheumy
eye, and blazed with disapproval, and Carrie guessed that the Duke's
Arms was not an establishment frequented by women.  She tried smiling
at him, but he only munched on his dentures and returned his attention
to his beer.

The exchange at the bar continued.  Sam stood with his back to her, in
the classic attitude of a man at ease in his pub,

with one foot on the brass rail and an elbow on the polished counter.
Very slowly, as they talked, the barman assembled Sam's order, pausing
every now and then to check up on what the television set had to say.

Carrie leaned back on the hard chair-back, stretched out her legs, and
watched them, and thought that this morning she had seen, for the first
time, the other side of Sam, the man who had walked in out of the snow
only three or four days ago and been forced by the vile weather to
stay.  He had become, with no apparent effort, nor forced bonhomie, an
integral part of an ill-assorted little household.  Absorbed as easily
as an accomplished and experienced house guest.

She thought of him dealing, unasked, with a number of not very exciting
day-to-day tasks.  Like humping great baskets of logs, filling the coal
bucket, walking the dog, carving a roast pheasant, and even gutting the
salmon which Elfrida, in a mad moment, had been impelled to buy from
the man who sold fresh fish from the back of his van.  Uncomplaining,
Sam had shovelled snow, pushed trolleys around the supermarket, stocked
up Oscar's wine-cellar, and brought the Christmas tree home.  Even
better, he had set it up on its dicey-looking wooden stand, and then
managed to unravel and get working the annual headache of the
Christmas-tree lights.

For this noble effort, Oscar was particularly grateful.

On another level altogether, he had proved to be something of an asset
when Elfrida decided to sell her picture, producing Sir James
Erskine-Earle out of nowhere, like a rabbit out of a hat.  The fact
that that particular project had come to nothing, and the picture was
pronounced a fake, had upset Sam considerably, as though the
worthlessness of the painting was somehow all his fault.

He was a man hard to dislike.  He and Oscar (nobody's fool) had supped
at once into a companionable friendship that belied the years that lay
between them.  Left alone together, they never ran out of things to
talk about, because Oscar enjoyed sharing memories of the days when he
was a boy and had travelled to spend summers with his grandmother at
Corrydale.  Because of his knowledge, not only of the people, but the
countryside, he was able to fill Sam in with much local information and
a great many anecdotes about the district in which Sam was coming to
live and work.

On Oscar's part, he clearly enjoyed the company of another man, a
stranger, maybe, but one whom he had taken to instantly.  He was
fascinated by the progress of Sam's career, the boyhood in Yorkshire,
the years in London and New York, and now the challenge of getting a
defunct business on its feet again.  Remembering the old McTaggarts,
and the sturdy tweeds that had come from the looms, he was amazed by
the enormously exciting plans that had already been drawn up by
Sturrock and Swinfield-the expensive machinery ordered from
Switzerland, the marvels of modern technology, the marketing prospects
for new and luxury products, and the programme for retaining the
workforce, McTaggarts' most valuable asset.

From time to time, with all the world set to rights, they had ambled
off together, to visit the Golf Club, or drop into the Creagan pub for
a peaceful, manly dram.

Elfrida, as well, was entranced by her visitor.  But then, she had
never been able to resist the charms of an attractive man, especially
one who laughed at her dotty remarks and was capable of concocting a
perfect dry Martini.  As for Lucy, she had confided to Carrie one
night, when Carrie had gone up to Lucy's attic to kiss her good night,
that she thought Sam was almost as good-looking as Mel Gibson.

Amused, "You like him then?"  Carrie had asked.

"Yes.  He's gorgeous.  And he's comfortable.  I usually feel a bit shy
with men.  Like other girls' fathers.  But Sam's like the sort of uncle
one's known forever.  Or somebody's very oldest friend."

And that was how it had been.  And that was how, for Carrie, it might
have stayed, had it not been for the traumatic events of yesterday.

And this morning.

Nothing, really, had happened.  It was just that, treading be

hind him, following Sam through the cold and lofty spaces of the
mill... the echoing passages, the deserted stores and dye sheds, Carrie
was made aware, for the first time, of his alta ego.  Before her eyes,
he seemed to change.  Grew in stature, spoke with confidence and
authority.  He vividly described to her the devastation of the flood
and the destruction of machinery, computers, electronic looms.
Explained the plans for the future, quoting figures-prices, profits,
mark-ups-that made her head reel.  Once or twice he had tried to make
clear to her the details of some technicality of spinning or weaving,
which she could scarcely understand because it was a bit as though he
were talking in a foreign language.  Irritated by her own stupidity,
she felt diminished and also confused, because Sam, back in his own
world, was strangely transformed.  No longer the amiable house guest of
the last few days, but a man in charge, a man to be reckoned with, and,
at the end of the day, a man you would not choose to cross.

He returned to her at last, bearing their drinks and two packets of
peanuts.

"Sorry."  He set these down on the table, and drew up a second chair.

"Conversation."

"What were you talking about?"

"Football.  Fishing.  The weather.  What else?"  He had bought himself
a pint of bitter.  He raised the tall glass.  Across the table their
eyes met.

"Slainte."

"I don't speak the language."

"It's Gaelic for "Down the hatch."

" Carrie took a mouthful of her drink, and hastily set down the
glass.

"Heavens, that's strong."

"The classic warmer when you're out on a winter hill.  That, or cherry
brandy."

"What's the weather going to do?"

"There's a thaw on the way.  That's why our friend is glued to the box.
The wind is moving around to the southwest, and there are milder air
streams on the way."

"No white Christmas?"

"Wet white rather than freezing white.  And the road to Inverness is
open again."

"Does that mean you're going to disappear instantly?"

"No."  He shook his head.

"I've been asked for Christmas, so I'm staying.  Anyway, I've nowhere
else to go.  But on Boxing Day, I must come down to earth with a bang,
pack my bags and leave."  His smile was wry.

"It's going to feel a bit like the end of the holidays and having to go
back to school."

"Never mind.  Lots of fun and games in the pipeline.  El- frida's
party, for one."

"I have to be here for that.  I've promised to mix a jug of Pimms."

"Don't make it too strong.  We don't want any untoward behaviour.  Like
Lady Erskine-Earle and Arfur Snead dancing Highland Flings together."

"That would be disastrous."

"When ... when you get to Inverness, will you stay there?"

"No.  I have to be in London next week.  The head office is open for a
couple of days before the New Year, and David Swinfield's set up a
meeting.  Then, I think, Switzerland again.  I shan't be back here
until about the twelfth of January."

"Lucy and I go on the third.  We're booked on the morning flight."  She
bit her lip, thinking about this.

"I'm not looking forward to it.  I think Lucy is going to be desolate,
and I don't know what I'm going to say to cheer her up.  I only know I
wouldn't want to be her, leaving all the fun and the freedom behind and
going back to that dull flat, and a mother who won't be particularly
delighted to see her."

"It can't be as bad as that."

"Sam, it is."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't think there's very much you can do about it."

"I shall buy her a splendid Christmas present.  What do you think she
would like?"

Carrie was amused.

"Have you still not done your shopping?"

"You must admit, I've scarcely had time.  I shall go to Kingsferry
tomorrow morning and get the lot."

"Tomorrow?  It'll be a nightmare.  Crowds on the pavements, queues in
the shops."

"In Kingsferry?  I think not.  Besides, I'm accustomed to

buying presents in Regent Street; or Fifth Avenue on Christmas Eve.  I
rather enjoy the buzz and the din.

"I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus' blaring out over the Tannoy.  As
well, there's not time for dithering."

Carrie laughed.

"It's my idea of a bad dream, but I see your point.  And after all your
years of experience, Kings- ferry High Street will not seem in the
least alarming.  You will shoulder your way, bravely, through the
throng."

"You still haven't told me what to get for Lucy."

Carrie considered this.

"How about little gold studs for her ears?  Something pretty but not
too over-the-top.  For when she wants to take her sleepers out."

"Rory gave her the sleepers.  I don't suppose she'll ever want to take
them out."

"Still.  Nice to know you've got another pair."

"I'll see."

He fell silent.  The silence lay between them, and felt comfortable.
Outside, in the street, a car passed by, and somewhere a herring-gull
was screaming its heart out from a windy chimney-pot.  Sam reached for
one of the packets of peanuts and opened it with great neatness and
dexterity, shook a few out into the palm of his hand and offered them
to Carrie.

She said, "I don't really like peanuts."

He ate a couple and tossed the packet back onto the table.  He said, "I
sympathize with Lucy.  I decided the other morning that life at the
Estate House is a bit like being on a cruise, with just a few other
passengers ... marvellously removed from all the stresses and strains
of everyday life.  I have a sinister feeling I could happily jog along,
in low gear, for weeks.  Achieving nothing."

"I suppose, if you think about it, it's all been a bit of a waste of
time for you."

He frowned.

"A waste of time?"

"Well, the whole point of your coming to Creagan was to inspect Hughie
McLennan's house.  Perhaps to buy it.  And that all fell through.  A
busted flush.  So now you're going to have to go and find some other
place to live."

"That is the least of my problems."

"I'm not on anybody's side.  Half of me relishes the idea of Mr.
Howard, the director of the mill, living at the Estate House, a
suitably dignified environment for an important man.  On the other
hand, at the moment, it seems to be Oscar's and Elfrida's only home.
Where they are happily settled for their twilight years."

"I don't think of Elfrida as twilight.  More high noon.  And it all
boils down ... as most things do ... to the distasteful question of
hard cash.  A busted flush, maybe.  But never a waste of time.  Never
think that."

Carrie reached for her glass and took another mouthful of her fiery and
comforting drink.  She put the glass down on the scarred wooden surface
of the table and looked up into Sam's face.  Never a waste of time....
And an extraordinary thing happened, because all at once it was as
though she had never truly seen him before; and now all she knew for
certain was that her recognition of him was too late, because he would
go away, it would be all over, and she would probably never see him
again.

Perhaps it was the warmth of the fire, or the effect of the Whisky Mac,
because suddenly she felt dangerously emotional and quite unsure of
herself.  She thought of how injured victims, devastated by some
dreadful accident, lay on hospital beds in comas, wired up to tubes and
machines, whilst loved ones sat by them, holding hands, talking, hoping
against hope, for some flicker of recognition or other sign.  And then
the miracle.  The twitching eyelid, the nod of the head.  The start of
recovery.

Yesterday, at Corrydale, after her outburst of words and her angry
weeping, Sam had taken her in his arms and held her until the tears
ceased.  And she had felt no warmth for him, no physical reaction to
his closeness.  Only a grudging gratitude for his comfort, and shame
for herself, for behaving like a fool.

But now ... the beginning of recovery, perhaps.  The melting of the
coldness that had been her only armour.  To love.  To be loved again
... "Carrie ... Can we talk?"



"What about?"

"You and me.  Us" Carrie said nothing.  After a bit, perhaps encouraged
by her silence, he went on.

"It seems to me that we've met each other... got to know each other...
at a bad time.  We're both, as it were, in something of a state of
limbo.  Perhaps we both need a bit of space to get our various houses
in order.  Also, neither of us is free.  You've taken on the moral
responsibility for Lucy, and I'm still married to Deborah."

He watched for her reaction to all this, and his expression was both
anxious and very serious.  Carrie's response was clearly of great
importance to him.

"What are you telling me, Sam?"

"Just that, perhaps, we should give ourselves a bit of time.  You go
back to London, take repossession of your own house, get on top of your
new job.  And I shall get in touch with New York, and Deborah's lawyer.
I'm pretty certain by now she'll have started proceedings.  I don't
know how long it will take, but as we had no children, there should be
no serious complications.  Simply material matters.  The apartment, the
car, the money."

"Is that what you really want?  Divorce?"

"No."  He was bluntly honest.

"I don't want it.  Any more than I would choose to have a surgical
amputation.  But I have to sort out the past before I can embark on a
new future.  Get rid of a lot of emotional clobber."

"Will Deborah be all right?"

"I hope so.  She has as good a chance as most people, and the backing
of a loving and devoted family."

"Is it going to be painful?"

"Ending something that was once good is bound to be painful.  But,
done, and over, the hurting stops."

Carrie said, "I know what you mean."

He went on.

"I shall be living and working here, in Buddy.  You'll be in London.
Hundreds of miles apart.  But I know I shall be flying up and down to
London like a yo-yo, for meetings and conferences and such.  I thought
perhaps... we could see each other again.  Go to a concert; out to
dinner.  Start over.  Afresh.  As though none of this time had ever
happened."

Start over.  Afresh.  The two of them.  Carrie said, "/ wouldn't want
this time not to have happened."

"I'm glad.  It's been extraordinary, hasn't it?  Magic.  Like days
stolen from another life, another world.  When it is over, and I am
gone, I shall wallow in nostalgia."  Carrie's hand lay on the table
between them, and the firelight was reflected and sparked facets of
light from her sapphire-and-diamond ring.  Without curiosity, < Who
gave you your ring?"  he asked.

"Andreas."

"I hoped it might have been bequeathed to you by an elderly but devoted
aunt."

"No.  It was Andreas.  We were hi Munich together.  He saw it on a
velvet tray hi the window of an antique shop, and he went in and bought
it for me."

"You must wear it always," Sam told her.

"It is so lovely on your hand.  How shall I find you in London,
Carrie?"

"Oversees.  Bruton Street.  It's in the phone book.  And I'll be back
in Ranfurly Road hi February."

"I haven't been back to Fulham again since I sold my house in Eel Park
and left for New York.  Perhaps I shall come.  Take a trip down Memory
Lane.  And you shall show me where you live."

"Do that.  I'll cook you dinner."

"No promises.  No commitments."

"No promises."

"So we leave it like that."

"We leave it like that?"

Sam said, "Good."  And, as though he were sealing then- agreement, he
covered her hand with his own, and she turned up her palm and wrapped
her fingers around his wrist.  Their drinks finished, it was, perhaps,
time to leave, but both were reluctant to go.  So they stayed while the
barman, slowly polishing glasses with a tea-towel, gazed at some quiz
show.  And the two old men, heads sunken into the collars of then- worn
overcoats, sat on, ancient and silent as a pair of hibernating
tortoises.  They seemed unaware that, as they whiled away the last of
the morning, the whole world had changed.

SAM

that evening, at six-thirty, Sam found himself once more in a pub, but
now it was Creagan, and he was with Oscar.

"Let's go and have a drink," Oscar had suggested.  They were alone in
the sitting-room of the Estate House.  Others were occupied elsewhere;
Carrie and Elfrida clashing companionably about in the kitchen
together, concocting dinner: food for the party tomorrow, and at the
same time starting in on the longterm preparations for the Christmas
feast.  During the course of the afternoon, Rory Kennedy had appeared
with large bunches of berried holly, and he and Lucy had set to
decorating, and were still at it.  They had gone up to the top of the
garden and torn away from the wall long strands of dark-green ivy, and
it was taking them much concentration and effort to twine this down the
whole length of the banister, from attic to hall.  Rory had been
invited for supper, and accepted, which was just as well, because it
all seemed to be taking a very long time.

The Creagan pub was a great deal more cheerful than the Duke's Arms in
Buckly (although Sam guessed that he would always remember that
charmless spot with much affection).  Here, seasonal festivities seemed
to have started, and there were unknown faces at the bar.  In one
corner a noisy party was already well under way; young men in elegantly
battered tweeds and their trendy girl-friends with London voices.  They
had doubtless driven down the glen from some remote family
shooting-lodge opened up for Christmas and the New Year, and filled
with house guests.  They were, thought Sam-conveniently forgetting that
he, once, had behaved just as boisterously-making an unnecessary and
embarrassing amount of din.

But it all felt very lively.  Open fires burnt, and decorations were
festooned all about the place, tastefully entwined with holly, and
cardboard Bambis and Father Christmases twinkling with glitter.

It took a bit of time to shoulder up to the bar, and then to catch the
attention of the frantic barman, but finally Oscar did this and ordered
two Famous Grouses, one for Sam, on the rocks, and one for himself,
with tap-water.  They then had something of a search for a place to
sit, and ended up at a small, unoccupied table in a dark corner, away
from the fire.  It didn't matter.  It was quite warm enough.

Oscar said, "Cheers," took a mouthful of his drink, set down the glass,
and got straight down to business.

"... I thought it would be easier to talk here than at home.  The
telephone is inclined to ring, or some person comes flying in with
questions on their lips.  I didn't want us to be disturbed."

"Oscar, this all sounds very sinister."

"Not sinister at all, dear boy.  But slightly complicated.  And I
wanted to talk to you on my own."

"What's happened?"

"What has happened is that Major Billicliffe has died.  You have heard,
maybe ... you know about Major Billicliffe?"

"The old factor who was in hospital."

"Exactly so."

"I'm sorry."

"We are all sorry, for different reasons.  Whatever, he has died.  I
think he had been ill for a long time, far longer than any of us
suspected.  To cut a long story short, Sam, he has left me his house at
Corrydale."

"But that's wonderful news."

"I am not so sure.  It's in a fairly neglected state...."

"Carrie and I looked at it when we went to get the Christmas tree.  A
bit desolate, perhaps, and completely snowed up, but I would have
thought a good little property.  And, of course, that marvelous view,
down the fields and the trees to the water."

"As well," Oscar went on, sounding like a man determined to make a
clean breast of things, "he has left me his car, and his Labrador, and
a small amount of money."

Sam made a face.

"I can't be too enthusiastic about the car.  It looked to me as though
it would never start up again.

As for the dog, I think that's the one Charlie Miller had with him?
Perhaps he can be persuaded to keep it?"

"Yes."

"Oscar, this is really good news.  What will you do with the cottage?
Put it on the market?  Or you could turn it into a holiday let, a nice
little earner, as they say."

"Yes," said Oscar.

"I could.  But Elfrida and I think that we might go and live there.  I
know it sounds a little outlandish, and it all depends on Elfrida's
reaction when she actually gets to see over the place.  You see, she's
never been to Corrydale.  Before you all came, we didn't do very much,
I'm afraid.  Kept a bit of a low profile.  Kept ourselves to ourselves.
And she knew that, in a strange way, I rather dreaded going back to a
place where once, so long ago, I had been so happy."

"I understand."

"We did drop in, of course, on our first night, because we had to
collect the key to the Estate House.  But it was dark and cold, we were
tired, and old Billicliffe was not the neatest of housekeepers.  We
couldn't wait to get away.  When he was ill and I went to see him in
bed, it looked even worse, and both our impressions of the place are so
dismal that we shall have to think deeply before we make up our minds
and do a total assessment of the situation."

"Would you like to live there?"  Sam asked.

"Is it not very remote?"

"Not really.  A bit off the road, but neighbours all about.  The Home
Farm, the Millers, and Rose, who used to be my grandmother's parlour
maid  A little community.  The house will probably need a bit spent on
it, and we'll have to try to work that out, but the idea does have
possibilities."

Sam said, "It did seem somewhat neglected, but the roof wasn't fallen
in, nor windows broken.  How much space would you have?"

"All the estate houses were the same design.  Two up and two down.
Originally.  Little kitchens and bathrooms were added on after the
war."

"Would that be big enough for you both?"

"I think so.  We have, between us, few possessions."

"And the Estate House?"

"That's why I want to talk to you.  If we go to Corrydale, Elfrida and
I want you to have my share of the Estate House.  That means that you
can get in touch with Hughie, and tell him that you wish to buy us both
out."

"If you move to Corrydale?"

"Yes."

"What if Elfrida decides against living there?  What if you both have
second thoughts once you've really looked at the place?"

"Then we shall all have to think again.  But somehow I don't expect
that will happen.  It will doubtless need a certain amount of money
spent on it to make it sound, and dry and warm.  Painting and such,
probably new window- sashes.  That sort of thing.  But between us, we
could manage.  And if I get seventy-five thousand for my share of the
Estate House, then we should have no problems, financially speaking."

"Seventy-five thousand, Oscar?"

"That was the sum you mentioned."

"No.  That was the sum Hughie mentioned.  What you have just told me
changes everything."

"I don't understand."

"Your cousin Hughie, I think, is strapped for cash.  And he needs it
quickly.  That was why he was so keen to press his door key into my
hand, and so anxious to avoid the added expense of an estate agent's
cut.  Personally, I think the Estate House is worth a great deal more
than one hundred and fifty thousand.  So you must be hard-headed,
Oscar.  Before we talk any more, you must get a surveyor hi to do an
independent valuation.  Willing seller, willing buyer.  And after that,
consult a lawyer to deal with the conveyancing of the property.  You
may be told... I think you will... that the house is worth a good deal
more than one hundred and fifty thousand.  Personally I should add
another fifty thousand.  Possibly more."

Oscar gaped.

"Two hundred thousand?"

"At least.  Another thing, Oscar.  You may decide to put it on the open
market...."



"No.  I want to sell it to you."

"A private deal?"

"Yes."

"In that case, by law, I should have to make an offer well over the
valuation price."  Sam smiled.

"So it seems, Oscar, that you might do rather well."

"I am bewildered.  Whose side are you on?"

"Yours.  And Elfrida's.  You have a wonderful property here, and I want
desperately to buy it from you.  But I couldn't look myself in the eye
if it wasn't all accomplished in a totally business-like fashion."

"Do you have that sort of money?"

"Yes.  And if I didn't, I have Sturrock and Swinfield, solid as a rock,
behind me.  There are some advantages in working for an enormous
conglomerate."

Oscar shook his head, quite bemused by the turn of events.  He said,
"Well, I'll be buggered."

Sam laughed.

"Don't get over-excited.  Not until you've fully inspected your other
piece of property."

"Billicliffe's place, you mean.  Elfrida thought we might all go over
on Sunday morning and take a look at it.  Make a bit of an occasion.
Take a picnic lunch.  If it buckets with rain or snow, we'll have a
picnic indoors.  I must find out who has got the key.  I'll ring Rose.
She'll know."

"Are you sure you want all of us there?  You mustn't be influenced. You
and Elfrida must make up your own minds.  You owe that much to
yourselves."

"Of course you must all come.  Elfrida needs you, to tap walls and
check out for death-watch beetle."

"That's putting temptation in my way.  I might pretend not to find
it."

"I don't think you'd do that."  Oscar gave a crack of his head.

"You're a good man, Sam."

"A saint.  And to prove it, and seal the bargain, let me get you the
other half.  It would seem we're both men of property and deserve to
toast one another."

Lucy friday, december 22ND

Why I love it here so much is because things that you want to happen,
happen exactly on time.  Today was absolutely filled with unexpected
events.  It's still dreadfully cold, and windy, too, which makes it
even more cold, but somehow it's all part of everything that's going
on.  It hasn't snowed any more, but there's still snow everywhere, and
the streets are half slush and half frozen stuff.  Going shopping, you
have to walk in the middle of the street.

Anyway, this morning, I packed up all my Christmas parcels, ran out of
ribbon but got more, and took Horace for a walk at the same time.  We
went to the beach, and we were both jolly glad to get home and into the
warm.  In the afternoon, Rory turned up with lots of berried holly that
he'd nicked from the hotel garden (the hotel is closed), and all
afternoon he helped me decorate, and we put the holly over pictures
(what pictures there are) and in a big jug on the landing.  And then we
got ivy, and found some green string, and we twined the ivy down the
banisters from the top of the house to the bottom.  There were a few
little bugs in the ivy, but they disappeared after a bit, probably to
make cosy little dens all over the place.  The ivy smells very
strongly, but it's a nice Christmassy smell.  It took us a long time;
so long that Elfrida asked Rory to stay for supper, so that we could
finish it all.  While we were doing this, Elfrida and Carrie were
cooking in the kitchen, and getting everything ready for the next
couple of days.  For tea, there were hot scones, which Carrie had
made.

About six, while they were still cooking supper, Oscar and Sam went off
to the pub for a drink, and when they got back, Rory and I had finished
all the ivy and holly, and Oscar said he thought it all looked very
beautiful.  Sam said it needed a long, long string of fairy lights,
twined over the ivy, but of course we hadn 't got that, so he said he's
going shop

ping in Kingsferry tomorrow, and that he'll buy some for us, and bring
them home.

I think he is a most thoughtful and generous person.

Supper was spaghetti and bolognese sauce and cheese, and then mince
pies and cream.  And over supper, when we were all talking away, Oscar
told us to stop talking and listen.  So we did.

He told us that he has got another house.  Major Billicliffe, who was
the factor at Corrydale, has died in hospital in Inverness, and he has
made a will and left all he owns to Oscar, which includes this little
cottage on the Corrydale Estate.

I've never been there, but of course Sam and Carrie have, and they saw
it the day they went to get the tree.  And Elfrida has been there, but
only once, in the dark.

Anyway, what Oscar wants to do is to sell his share of this house to
Sam, who wants it, and he and Elfrida will go and live in this other
little place.  I can't bear to think of them not being here, but
Elfrida says it is a bit big for them, and I can understand that,
because when we go it will be very empty for them.  She says that
between them they have got enough money to make Major Billicliffe's
little house very nice, and they have got neighbours so won't be alone
in time of emergency.

But nothing can be cut and dried until we have all gone to Corrydale to
look it over.  So we are going on Sunday morning, and Sam is going to
drive us in the Range Rover, and we are going to take a picnic.  I said
could Rory come, too, and Elfrida said, But of course.  We are going in
the morning, so that we can get home before it gets dark, and with a
bit of luck the sun will shine and it will be a real picnic.

Now it is ten o 'clock at night, and I am really tired.

I do hope we all like the new cottage.  In a way, I think it would be
lovely for Oscar and Elfrida to live in the country.  And it means that
he will return to Corrydale, which was his grandmother's house, when he
was small.  Like a wheel, going full circle.  He is so darling, I
really want the little cottage to be perfect, so that when I am back in
London, I can think of them both there, together.

My presents look really festive, all wrapped up.  When I had finished
them, I put them under the tree in the dining room.  And I found some
parcels there already, and I had a good look.  They were for all of us
from Carrie.  With a bit of luck, there'll be lots more.

EL FRIDA PARTY

that morning, Sam was the first downstairs.  Eight o'clock and the rest
of die household still slept.  In die kitchen, he put a kettle on to
boil, and then opened up the back door and let Horace out into die
garden.  The weather was totally changed.  The barman at the Duke's
Arms had been right... or at least, his television set had been right.
The dark morning air had lost its freezing bite; during the night the
wind had dropped and moved around from the north to the west, and at
the top of die garden, die pines soughed in tiiis gender breeze.  By
the light of the street lamp, Sam saw that in places the snow had
seeped away, revealing patches of rough, tufty grass, and there was the
fresh smell of moss and damp earth.

When Horace finally returned to him, he went back indoors, and there
found Lucy, fully dressed and making toast "Hello.  What are you
doing?"

"I've been awake since seven.  I was reading, and men I heard someone
go downstairs, so I got up.  Are you going to Kingsferry?"

"Yes.  Do you want to come?  I'm going to do Christmas shopping before
all die crowds move in.  You can come and help me carry parcels."

The roads were wet but die hard ice had gone, and the overcast sky
gradually was lightening.  Crossing die bridge over a flood-tide, they
saw die deep waters of die firth, die colour of dark slate, penetrating
westward into hills which still had not yet shed their snow, and
probably would not until die end of winter.  To die east, die sea was
tossed into rough little waves by die offshore wind, and a pair of
curlews flew, low, over the scrubby sea fields where die Highland cat
de grazed.

"It's a bit like an old painting, isn't it?"  Lucy observed.

"You know, die sort people who have huge houses have hanging in tiieir
dining-rooms."

"I know exactly what you mean.  Not exactly cheerful, but
impressive."

"Are you looking forward to living up here, in Scotland?"

"I think so.  I think I'm going to like it very much."

"I'd like to come in summer.  See it then.  Rory Kennedy says it's
really good fun.  They go windsurfing.  And Tabitha told me that there
are incredible wild flowers on the dunes, and all the gardens in
Creagan are filled with roses."

"Hard to imagine at this time of year."

"Are you really going to live in the Estate House?"

"If Oscar wants to sell it to me."

"It's pretty big for one person."

"Perhaps I shall use all the rooms in rotation."

"Will you change it all, and make it frightfully new and convenient?"

"I don't know, Lucy."  He remembered the apartment in New York,
unrecognizable by the time Deborah and her interior designer had
finished with it.

"I rather like it just the way it is."

"My grandmother loves what she calls doing rooms over.  The
sitting-room in her flat is all pinks and blues and lots of little bits
of china."

"Is it a big flat?"

"Yes, it is.  Quite big.  And it has a nice view over the river.  But
my room's at the back and I look out over the well, so I don't have a
view."  And then, as though fearful of sounding complaining, she added,
"But I do like it, and it's all mine."

"It's good to have your own space."

"Yes."  She was quiet for a moment, and then said, "Actually, I'm not
thinking about London just now.  Usually I'm quite pleased to be going
back to school and seeing friends again.  But this time I'm not looking
forward to it one little bit."

"I feel the same.  Boxing Day and I head back to Inverness to get my
nose to the grindstone again."

"But you're coming back.  To live here forever."

"You can come back, too," he reminded her.

"Stay with Elfrida and Oscar."



"But it won't be the Estate House.  And the new cottage, if they do go
and live there, mightn't have a spare bedroom."

"I don't think a small detail like that would faze Elfrida.  She'd put
you in the bath, or on the sofa, or in a tent in the garden."

"In the summer that might be rather fun."

Now, ahead of them, lay the lights of Kingsferry, the church spire, and
the tower of the Town Hall.

"Do you know what you're going to give everybody?"  Lucy asked.

"No idea," Sam admitted.

"I hope to be inspired."

They drove into the High Street as the Town Hall clock struck nine, and
saw that already the morning was well on its way.  Shops had opened;
cars swept slushily by; people bought morning rolls and newspapers; and
a parked van was unloading crates of fruit and vegetables, bundles of
holly, and tiny Christmas trees.  The car-park behind the church was
already half-full, but Sam found a slot and paid his ticket, and they
set off together on foot.

Shopping was not one of Lucy's favourite things.  Sometimes, in London,
she went with her mother, and started out quite enthusiastically, but
after two hours of trailing around overheated stores, waiting for
Nicola to make up her mind about which pair of shoes to buy, or what
colour lipstick, she became bored, complained of the heat, and demanded
to be allowed to go home.

But shopping with Sam wasn't like that at all.  A revelation, in fact.
In and out of shops they went, like a dose of salts (as Mrs.  Snead
would say), making snap decisions and never asking the price of
anything.  Sam paid all the bills with his credit card, and Lucy began
to suspect that he must be frightfully rich.

The goodies piled up, bundled into plastic carrier-bags.  A sea-green
cashmere cardigan for Elfrida, fur-lined gloves for Mrs.  Snead.  In
the stationer's he chose a Mont Blanc fountain pen for Oscar, and a
desk diary of the finest Italian leather.

Lucy spied some rolls of gold paper.  She said, "Have you got stuff for
wrapping up all your presents?"

"No."

"Shall we get some?  And ribbon and cards?"

"You choose it.  In New York, if you buy something, the girl says, "Do
you want it gift-wrapped?"  and you say, "Yes," and she goes away and
does it for you.  I haven't wrapped a present for years, and I'm very
bad at it."

"I shall do it for you," Lucy announced, "but you'll have to write the
messages."  She went off and returned with six rolls of paper, some
packets of red labels with holly on them, and a ball of red-and-gold
ribbon.

By now there was quite a lot to carry, but Sam was by no means
finished.  In an old-fashioned grocery store which smelt a bit like the
ground floor of Fortnum and Mason and had italian warehouseman written
in gold above the door, he spent much time choosing all sorts of
delicious treats.  Smoked salmon and quails' eggs, and a jar of
caviare; huge boxes of Bendicks chocolates, and a Stilton cheese in an
earthenware pot.

By now, the man behind the counter, recognizing a good customer when he
saw one, had become Sam's best friend.  Between the two of them, after
some discussion, they decided on a dozen bottles of special claret,
four of champagne, and finally one of cognac.

All of this, gathered together on the counter, made an impressive
show.

"How are we going to get all this home?"  Lucy asked, but the grocer
said he would deliver it in his van.  So Sam gave him his name and the
address of the Estate House, and produced his credit card once more.
When all was accomplished, the grocer came out from behind his counter
to open the door for them, which he did with something of a flourish,
wishing them both a Happy Christmas.

"That," said Lucy, "was much nicer than trudging round a supermarket.
Who's left now?  You simply must have bought a present for
everybody."

"Carrie?"

"I thought the chocolates were for her."

"I don't think chocs are a very exciting present, do you?"

"How about a precious jewel?  There's a jeweller's a bit farther down
the street.  I know, because Rory took me there to have my ears pierced
and buy my sleepers."

"Show me."

But before they had reached the jeweller's, Sam spied the little art
gallery, which stood across the road.

"Let's go and look," he said, so they crossed the road to stand on the
pavement and gaze through the window.  Lucy did not think there was all
that much to gaze at.  A Blue and White jug with twigs in it, and a
small painting, gold-framed, on a little easel.  The picture was of
roses in a silver jug.  Three pink roses and one white one.  And there
was a sort of scarf lying on the table, and a bit of curtain.

For quite a long time, Sam didn't say anything.  Lucy looked at him and
realized that, for some reason, his attention had been totally captured
by the little still life.  She said, "Do you like it?"

"Urn?  What?  Yes, I do.  It's a Peploe."

"A what?"

"Samuel Peploe.  A Scottish painter.  Let's go in."

He opened the door, and Lucy followed.  Inside, they found themselves
in a surprisingly spacious room, the walls covered with pictures, and,
as well, a number of other objects stood about: rather strange
sculptures and hand-thrown pots which looked as if they might leak if
filled with water.  In the corner of the room was a desk, behind which
sat a young man of amazing thinness, wearing a huge, baggy,
hand-knitted sweater.  He had a lot of flowing hair, and a stubbly
chin, and as they appeared he hauled himself, in a fatigued sort of
way, to his feet.

"Hi."

Sam said, "Good morning.  The painting in your window..."

"Oh, yes, the Peploe."

"An original?"

"But of course.  I don't deal in prints."

Sam kept his cool.

"May I see it?"

"If you want to."

He went to the window and reached in and lifted the picture off its
easel, and brought it back to where Sam stood, holding it out beneath
the overhead lights.

Sam set down his burden of plastic carrier-bags.

"May I?"  he asked, and gently took the heavy frame into his own hands.
A silence fell while he inspected it, and the young man, apparently too
exhausted to stand for a moment longer, leaned against the edge of the
desk and folded his arms.

Nothing much happened after that.  Lucy, bored with hanging around,
wandered off to look at the other pictures on the walls (mostly
abstracts), and bits of pottery and sculpture.  There was one sculpture
which was called Rationality Two, and consisted of two pieces of
driftwood tied together with rusted wire.  She saw that it cost five
hundred pounds, and decided that if ever she needed to make a quick bit
of cash, this would be as good a way as any.

Now, the two men were talking.

"Where did this come from?"  Sam asked.

"An old house.  Local.  A sale.  The old lady died.  She had been a
friend of Peploe when he was alive.  I'm not sure the picture wasn't a
wedding gift."

"You were astute to buy it."

"I didn't.  I bought it off a dealer.  You're an admirer of Peploe?"

"My mother had one.  I own it now.  It's in store in London."

"In that case ..."

"This isn't for me...."

Lucy, chipping in, said, "Who's it for, Sam?"

Sam had apparently forgotten about her, but now, reminded of her
presence, laid the picture down on the desk.

"Lucy, this is going to take a bit of time.  You don't want to hang
around."  He felt in his back pocket for his wallet, took it out, and
peeled off three ten-pound notes, which he pressed into her hand.

"We still haven't bought the fairy lights for the banisters.  There's
an electrical store next to the grocer's.  You nip along and buy as
many as you think you'll need, and then come back here when you've got
them.



Leave all the shopping behind; you don't want to have to lug that with
you.  And if you see anything else you think we might need, get that,
too.  Okay?"

"Okay," said Lucy.  She pocketed the money (thirty pounds!) dumped the
carrier-bags under a chair, and went.  She had a pretty good idea that
Sam wanted to get rid of her for two reasons.  He didn't want her to
know how much the picture was going to cost, and he still hadn't bought
a present for her, and of course couldn't do this with Lucy watching.

She set off, back down the street, the way they had come.  She hoped
Sam would not buy her a wobbly jug, but was pretty sure that he
wouldn't.  She wondered if the Samuel Peploe was to be a present for
Carrie.  And thirty pounds would buy yards of fairy lights.

After some discussion and a certain amount of haggling, Sam and the
hairy young man came to an agreement, which ended up with Sam's buying
the Peploe.  While it was being wrapped up, and the necessary paperwork
done, he went out and crossed the road and found, without much
difficulty, the jeweller's shop, its window filled with silver
photograph frames and small, ornate clocks.  Inside, he was shown a
selection of earrings, and quickly chose a pair of gold studs fashioned
like daisy heads.  The girl who had served him put them into a box and
a gold envelope, and he paid her, stuffed the box into his pocket, and
went back to the art gallery, where all had been accomplished.  The
only problem was that the young man didn't handle credit cards, so Sam
had to write a cheque.

"Whom shall I make it out to?"

"Me."

"Do you have a name?"

"Yes."  He produced a card.

"Tristram Nightingale."

And Sam, writing the cheque, felt quite sorry for him.  Lumbered with a
handle like that, a man was allowed to be a bit charmless.  As he
signed his own name, Lucy reappeared, with yet another box to lug back
to the car.

"Did you get them?"  he asked.

"Yes.  Four strings.  I think that should be enough, don't you?"

"Ample.  We'll get Rory to help us set them up."  He handed over the
cheque and picked up the strongly wrapped parcel.

"Thank you very much."

Tristram Nightingale laid the cheque on his desk, and then, as they
gathered up their packages, he loped to.  the door and opened it for
them.

"Have a good Christmas," he said as they went out.

"And the same to you," said Sam, but as soon as they were out of
earshot, he added, "With knobs on, Mr.  Nightingale."

"Mr.  What "He's called Tristram Nightingale.  His parents must have
been sadists.  No wonder he hates the world."

"What a dreadful name.  Except you'd have thought that by now he'd have
got used to it.  Sam, who's the picture for?"

"Carrie.  Don't tell her."

"Of course I won't.  Was it frightfully expensive?"

"Yes, it was, but when things are as expensive as that, you don't call
it expensive.  You say a good investment."

"I think that's a lovely present.  And when she goes back to live in
Ranfurly Road, she can hang it on her sitting-room wall."

"That's what I thought."

"And she'll remember Scotland and Creagan and everything."

"I thought that, too."

"Will you ever see her again?"

"I don't know."  Sam smiled down at Lucy.

"I hope so."

"I hope so, too," said Lucy.  And after a bit, "It's been a good
morning.  Thank you for letting me come with you."

"Thank you for coming.  You were a tremendous help."

By half past five that evening, the Estate House stood ready, dressed
overall, for Elfrida's party.

The front door wore a wreath of holly, and the overhead light clearly
illuminated a thumb-tacked cardboard notice which read please walk in.
This, Elfrida hoped, would pre 11 to *-.  <.( ** jAr.nss repetitive
running up and do^n^dining-room Christmas guests.  Once <* to ^^ din ^
standing knee ee was !&*** ^^^JLjb********** ^"leT^oUy and ivy, and
sparkling with WMe fair yen ights.

lAb ove the landing had been turned into a bar, where the big table
from the sitting-room bay window (shunted to its new location by Oscar
and Sam) was spread with a white cloth (one of Mrs.  Snead's best linen
sheets) and neatly set out with bottles, ice-bucket, and rows of the
polished glasses borrowed from Tabitha Kennedy.

All of this had taken some time and effort, and when Mrs.  Snead and
Arthur arrived to take charge of the last-minute preparations, like
heating up the tiny pizzas and spearing hot sausages with cocktail
sticks, everyone had disappeared to shave, bathe, change, and generally
doll themselves up for the evening ahead.  From behind closed doors
came sounds of running taps, the buzz of electric razors, and the
steamy fragrance of bath-oil.

Horace, sneaking upstairs for a bit of company that wasn't the Sneads,
found nobody around, so made his way into the sitting-room, and there
settled down comfortably in front of a blazing fire.

Oscar was the first to emerge.  He closed the bedroom door behind him
and stood alone, for a moment, to savour the Christmas transformation
of his house, prepared and ready for an influx of guests.  He saw the
neat arrangement of polished glasses, like so many soap-bubbles; the
green- and-gold of champagne bottles jammed into a bucket of ice, the
crisp white linen of napkin and table-cloth.  The drawn stair curtains
shut away the night, and the stairwell, all four flights of it, was
entwined with dark ropes of greenery, red- berried holly, and starry
lights.  So much, he thought wryly, for the bleak Winter Solstice,
which was all he had promised Elfrida.  And he decided that the Estate
House, normally so minimal and austere, but now dressed and adorned to
the nines, was a bit like a strait-laced elderly but much-loved aunt
who had put on her best finery and precious jewels for some special
occasion, and ended up looking not bad at all.  Oscar, too, had made an
effort, and wore a favourite old smoking jacket and his best silk
shirt.  Elfrida had chosen his tie, and insisted he wear his
gold-embroidered black velvet slippers.  He could scarcely remember
when he had last dressed himself up, but the silk shirt felt luxurious
against his skin, and he had slapped on some Bay Rum and sleeked down
his thick white hair.

Elfrida, whom he had left at her mirror, still in her dressing-gown,
and screwing in her earrings, had told him that he looked toothsome.

From the kitchen came Snead voices and other sounds of culinary
activity.  Mrs.  Snead had arrived, not in her track suit, but wearing
her best black dress, with sequins twinkling from the bodice.  She had
also had her hair done for the occasion, and decorated this new
coiffure with a black satin bow.  As he had dressed, chatting the while
to Elfrida, Oscar had not allowed himself to think back to his last
Christmas at the Grange.  The lavishness of that time, and the
hospitality on a scale that beggared belief.  Huge meals, too many
guests, too many presents, too huge a tree.  But somehow Gloria had got
away with it all, the sheer size of everything tempered by her
enjoyment, her generosity of spirit.

He had not allowed himself to think back, but now, in a rare moment of
solitude, he did.  And it all seemed so long ago... he could scarcely
realize it was only twelve months ... and it felt a bit like recalling
a time out of another existence.  He thought of Francesca.  Remembered
her running down the great staircase at the Grange, wearing a black
velvet dress that was a present from her mother, and with her hair
flying loose.  She had always seemed to be running, as though time were
so precious that there was not a moment of it to be wasted.

Only a short while ago, this memory would have shattered him with
grief.  But now, Oscar simply felt grateful, because Francesca would
always be part of his life, part of his

being.  And because, after all that had happened, he had somehow
survived.  And, more, found himself surrounded and sustained by
friends.

Below, he heard the kitchen door open, and Mrs.  Snead's voice giving
Arthur his orders.  Arthur then appeared up the staircase bearing a
tray of what Mrs.  Snead called "canaypes."  A bowl of nuts and small
biscuits spread with pat and such.  Arthur wore his best grey flannel
trousers and his Bowling Club blazer, emblazoned with a gold emblem on
the breast pocket.

Climbing the last flight, he spied Oscar.

"Well, there you are, Mr.  Blundell, and don't you look dressy.  Mrs.
Snead said to bring these up, and put them round the sitting-room.

"Of stuff's coming later.  Only thing is, "Orace sneaked off.  Bet 'e's
sitting by the fire.  Don't want 'im eating all the goodies."

"We'll put them out of his reach, Arthur."

He led Arthur into the big room, which looked warm and welcoming and
unnaturally neat and tidy.  Every light and lamp had been turned on,
and the fire blazed.  Elfrida had filled jugs with holly and white
chrysanthemums, but the best was the huge vase of Stargazer lilies that
little Lucy had given Elfrida for Christmas.  Arthur had delivered them
during the course of the morning, all wrapped in cellophane and tied
with a large pink bow, and Elfrida had nearly burst into tears, so
touched and delighted had she been.  They stood now on a small table by
the sofa, their exotic petals slowly opening out in the warmth of the
room, exuding their heavy, almost tropical fragrance.

They set out the nuts and crisps, well out of reach of Horace, who lay
by the fire pretending to be fast asleep.  Oscar wondered if he should
boot the dog downstairs again, but left him where he was, because he
looked so comfortable.  Once they had disposed of the little dishes at
a safe height, Oscar and Arthur returned to the bar, where they found
Sam, looking sleek in his dark suit and an enviable blue-and
white-striped shirt.

"You know Sam Howard, don't you, Arthur?"

"Don't think I've 'ad the pleasure.  Pleased to meet you."

"Arthur's going to be our barman, Sam."

Sam said, "I'm sure you know how to open a bottle of champagne,
Arthur."

"Well, I can't say I've 'ad that much practice, being a beer man
myself.  But on the telly, like the Grand Prix, it's all a bit of
shaking, and then squirting each other, like a fire 'ose.  Dreadful
waste of good booze, I always thinks."

Sam laughed.

"Good fun, but I agree with you.  A terrible waste.  Actually, it's no
problem.  You don't want any loud pops, corks hitting the ceiling, or
gallons of froth."  He took a bottle from the ice bucket.

"Just untwist the wire, and then the gentlest easing out of the cork...
like this.  And you don't turn the cork.  You hold it, and turn the
bottle...."  He demonstrated the subtle art, the cork slipped gently
out with the softest of sounds, and the golden wine creamed into the
waiting glass without a drop spilt.

"Well, that's very neat, I must say," said Arthur.

"I never knew it could be done so quiet."

Elfrida, with the final eyelash tweaked into place, gazed at her
reflection in the long mirror of the wardrobe.  She had put on black
silk trousers and a filmy little black blouse, over which she wore a
loose green silk coat.  Dangling earrings and long strings of beads
were the same jade green as the coat, and her eyelids were blue, her
mouth scarlet, and her hah- a freshly twinked blaze of Same.

She hoped that all her new friends in Creagan would not think she had
gone over the top.

Emerging from her bedroom, she found Arthur Snead all ready for duty by
the makeshift bar.

"Arthur!  You look so handsome.  Where's Mrs.  Snead?"

"Just finishing off the last of the mini kievs, Mrs.  Phipps.  She'll
be up in a mo'.  I 'ope you don't mind my saying so, but you look very
dashing.  Would hardly 'ave recognized you, meeting you in the
street."

"Oh, thank you, Arthur.  Is everybody present and ready?"

"All inside, by the fire.  Guests ought to be 'ere any moment now."



"They're meant to walk in.  But if they don't, be a saint and go down
and open the door."

"I'll do that, Mrs.  Phipps.  And now, 'ow about a nice glass of
bubbly?  The others are already at it.  Dutch courage, Mr.  Blundell
said.  Not that I think 'e needs much courage on such an occasion of
celebration."

He poured her a glass, and carrying it, she went to join the others.
The room, and they, all looked wonderfully sophisticated and glamorous,
like an illustration from some really glossy magazine.  Lucy had
somehow put her hair up, and with her long black legs and her elegant
neck and her earrings, looked all at once about seventeen.  As for
Carrie, she was, this evening, ravishingly beautiful, with a glow to
her skin and a shine in her dark eyes that Elfrida had not seen for
years.  She had put on a sleeveless black dress, simple as a T-shirt,
but with a skirt that flowed softly from her slender hips to her
ankles.  On her feet were sandals that were no more than a couple of
sparkling straps and a pair of very high heels, and her only jewellery
were her sapphire ring and a pair of diamond ear-studs.

Seeing her, Elfrida could not imagine how any man could stop himself
falling in love with her, but Sam was playing his cards very close to
his chest, and seemed to take Carrie's sensational appearance entirely
for granted.  Which, perhaps, was a hopeful sign.  Elfrida wanted above
all else for Carrie to be happy again, but Oscar was right.  This was
too soon for conjecture; too early for matchmaking.  One just had to be
content with what had happened so far.  Which was that Sam had turned
up, out of nowhere, in the first place.  And that he and Carrie seemed,
at last, to have made friends.

They were all talking, but Oscar, standing by the fireplace, saw
Elfrida as she came through the door.  Their eyes met, and for an
instant it was as though it were just the two of them, alone in the
brilliantly lighted room.  And then he set down his glass and came
across to take her hand.

"You look quite wonderful," he told her.

"/ thought I looked a bit like a battered old actress.  Which of course
I am.  But a happy one."  She kissed his cheek cautiously, so as not to
leave a smudge of lipstick.

"And you, Oscar?"  They understood each other very well.

"All right?"

He nodded.  Downstairs, some person, mistakenly, rang the doorbell.
Horace leaped to his feet, burst into a cacophony of barking, fled out
of the room and down the stairs.

Elfrida began to laugh.

"So much," she said, "for my carefully laid plans."

"I'll go," said Lucy instantly.  (Probably hoping it was the Kennedys
and longing for Rory to be astonished by her new and grown-up image.)
She disappeared after Horace, and the next moment there floated upwards
the sound of voices.

"Are we the first?  Are we too early?"  And Lucy replying, "Of course
not.  We're waiting for you.  Let me take your coats.  Everybody's
upstairs."

Elfrida's party, at last, was on its way.

A quarter past eight, and it was all over.  Rutleys, Sinclairs, and
Erskine-Earles had departed to the sound of goodbyes and thank-yous
ringing down the deserted street.  Only the Kennedys lingered, and that
was because they had been late arriving in the first place, coming to
the Estate House straight from the annual party at the Old People's
Home.  Peter, wearing his dog-collar, announced himself awash with tea
and buns, but that didn't stop him gratefully downing a dram, and
plunging enthusiastically into another roomful of slightly less
geriatric friends.

Now, a certain languor prevailed.  Sam had built up the fire, and all
had collapsed into chairs, grateful to get the weight off their feet
Rory and Lucy were down in the kitchen, helping Mrs.  Snead and Arthur
with the last of the clearing up.  Cheerful noises and much laughter
floated up the stairs, and it was obvious that the party, below stairs,
continued.

Elfrida, sunken gratefully into cushions, and with her shoes toed off,
said, "I can't believe it's gone so quickly.  We've all been beavering
away all day, and the next thing you know, it's eight o'clock and
guests start looking at their watches and saying it's time to go."

"That's the sign of a good party," said Peter.  And added,

"Time flies when you're enjoying yourself."  He sat in the wide-lapped
chair by the fireside, and his wife was on the hearth rug leaning in
comfort against his knees.

"I liked Lady Erskine-Earle," said Carrie.

"She looked like a dear little Highland pony, all dressed up in
cashmere and pearls."

Tabitha laughed.

"Isn't she a star?"

"She and Mrs.  Snead chatted for hours."

"That's because they're both on the fund-raising committee for the
church.  And the Women's Institute.  Elfrida, asking the Sneads was a
huge bonus.  No fear of pregnant pauses with Mrs.  Snead and Arthur on
the go."

"Arthur was not a barrow boy for nothing," Oscar pointed out.

"He never misses a trick.  When he wasn't being either butler or guest,
he found time to do a little business as well.  Orders for New Year's
Eve.  Chrysanthemums for Emma Erskine-Earle, and six avocados for Janet
Sinclair.  Incidentally, I think Janet Sinclair's a charming person. We
hadn't met her before.  Only the doctor, when he came to see Carrie."

"And what is more," Carrie told Oscar, "she's an architect.  She works
three days a week in a practice in Kingsferry."

"And," Peter added, "she's extremely efficient.  She designed a new
wing for the Old People's Home, and did a good job.  Only thing is, it
makes the rest of the place look a bit gloomy."  He laid down his
glass, shifted slightly in his chair, as though his wife's weight
against his knees might be giving him cramp, and looked at his watch.

"Tabitha, my love, we should be on our way."

"Oh, don't go," Elfrida begged.

"Unless you have to.  This is the best bit of a party.  Talking it all
over with the last of the friends.  Stay, and we'll have a kitchen
supper.  We'll finish up all the scraps, and we've got some soup, and
there's more smoked salmon.  Sam gave it to us.  And a delicious
Stilton...."

"Are you sure?"  Tabitha was clearly tempted.

"If we go back to the Manse it's only scrambled eggs."

"Of course you must stay...."

Here, Carrie took over.

"In that case, / shall be in charge."

She got up from the sofa.

"I'll go and see what's happening in the kitchen, and find something
for us all to eat.  No, Sam, you stay and chat.  You've done your part
for the evening."

Elfrida was grateful.

"Darling, you are sweet.  If you want any help give me a shout."

"I'll do that."

She went out of the room and closed the door behind her.  On the
landing, all that was left of Elfrida's party was the table with the
white cloth.  Bottles and glasses had all been cleared away.  The
Sneads, Rory, and Lucy had clearly been hard at work.

The telephone began to ring.  Carrie looked at it in some astonishment,
because for some reason it was the last thing she expected to happen.
It had only rung once when she picked up the receiver.

"Hello."

"Who's that?"  The female voice was clear as a bell, but there was a
tiny hiccup of hesitation on the line.

"It's Carrie."

"Carrie.  It's Nicola.  From Florida."

"For heaven's sake.  How are you?"

"I'm great.  Fine.  What are you doing?"

"Just had a party.  We're all sitting around recovering."

"Is Lucy there?"

"Yes, she's downstairs, helping to do all the clearing up.  She's been
having the time of her life.  How's Florida?  Is the sun shining?"

"Non-stop.  Everything's wonderful."

"Hold on.  I'll go and find Lucy...."

Carrie laid the receiver on the table and went downstairs.  In the
kitchen, she saw that all the washing up and putting away had already
been accomplished, and Mrs.  Snead was now pulling on her mock Persian
lamb coat and fastening the silver buttons.  Arthur was enjoying the
last of a final beer, Rory leaned against the sink, and Lucy was
sitting on the kitchen table.

Mrs.  Snead was still in full flow.

"Well, I must say, that was a really good do..."  she was saying.  She
hiccuped

slightly and Carrie saw that the bow on her coiffure had slipped a bit,
giving her a rakish appearance.  "... and here's Carrie.  I was just
saying, Carrie, that was a really good do.  Nice company, too...."

"I certainly enjoyed it," Carrie told her.

"Lucy, you must run upstairs quickly, your mother's on the
telephone."

Lucy's head jerked around; her eyes met Carrie's and in them Carrie saw
an expression of alarm.

"Mummy?"

"Yes.  From Florida.  Go quickly, because it costs a bomb."

Lucy slipped down from the table.  She looked at Rory, and then back at
Carrie, and then went out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Discreetly, Carrie closed the door behind her.

"Fancy that," said Arthur.

"All the way from Florida."

"It's still afternoon there.  Five hours' difference, you know."  Mrs.
Snead informed them all importantly.  Having buttoned her coat, she
took off her suede court shoes and pulled on stout boots, in readiness
for the short walk home.

"Lucy's been a real help, I must say.  We got through it all like a
dose of salts, didn't we, Rory?  And Arfur's put the empties out in the
scullery, and a few scraps of sausages I put on a plate for Horace.  He
can 'ave them for 'is dinner tomorrow."

Carrie was grateful.

"You've both been marvelous.  You made the party."

Arthur drained his beer and set down the empty glass.

"I'd like to agree with my wife.  A very nice bunch of customers.  And
tell your friend I'm grateful to know 'ow to open a bottle of
champagne.  A real little art that one is.  Next time we 'ave a Bowling
Club party, I'll be able to demonstrate my skill."

"Oh, Arfur, you are a one" "I always say, it's a good day when you
learn something."

Mrs.  Snead gathered up her possessions, her handbag and the plastic
carrier into which she had put her good shoes.

"We'll say good night, then, Carrie."

"Good night, Mrs.  Snead.  And have a great Christmas."

"Same to you.  And tell Mrs.  Phipps I'll be in Thursday as usual."

When they had gone, arm in arm, out into the night, and the back door
had closed behind them, Rory said, "What's Lucy's mother ringing
about?"

"I don't know, Rory."  Carrie took Elfrida's apron from its hook and
tied it on over her filmy black dress.

"Probably just to say Happy Christmas."

"It's not Christmas yet."

"Perhaps she's just getting her word in early.  Elfrida's asked you and
your parents to stay for supper, so I came down to try and get
something organized."

"Do you want me to help?"

"I think you've already done your share."

"I don't mind.  I'd rather do that than make small talk."

"It seemed to me you managed rather well."

"It's not so bad if you know people.  What do you want done?"

"Well, if you really mean it... perhaps you could lay the table.  For
eight of us.  Knives and forks are in that drawer, and the plates are
in that cupboard.  And there's smoked salmon in the fridge.  I think
it's all sliced.  You could maybe put it on a plate, and then we'll
have to butter some bread."

She went into the icy scullery and returned to the kitchen bearing an
enormous pot filled with Elfrida's latest brew of soup.  She lit the
gas ring on the cooker, turned the flame down low, and put the pot on
top of this to heat through slowly.

Behind her, Rory said, "Lucy talked to me."

Carrie turned her head to look at him.

"Sorry?"

"Lucy."  Laying the table, he squared off a knife and fork.

"She talked to me.  About London and everything.  Her parents divorced.
Her grandmother.  About not really wanting to go back."

"Oh, Rory."  He did not look at her, simply went on with what he was
doing.

"I'm sorry."

"What have you got to be sorry about?"

"Because in a way I feel responsible.  Guilty, perhaps.  Because I
shouldn't have stayed away so long.  Stayed in Austria, and somehow
lost touch with my family.  Everybody was all right.  Except Lucy.  It
wasn't until I got back that I realized how impossible life must be
for her.  It's not that anybody's unkind to her... in a way, she has
everything.  But she misses her father.  And she's never been
encouraged to get in touch with her grandfather... my father.  There's
so much acrimony.  It's not good to live with."

"Couldn't she go to boarding-school?  That, at least, would be a
different environment."

Carrie was surprised by such perception in a young man of only
eighteen.

"Perhaps she should, Rory.  But, you see, I am simply a maiden aunt.  I
don't dare make too many controversial suggestions in case I'm cast out
into the wilderness as well."  She thought about this.

"And her school is good.  She has a splendid headmistress whom she's
really fond of...."

"But it's all girls."  Rory had now finished laying the table.  He
said, "Where's the smoked salmon?"

"In the fridge.  In the scullery."

He went to get it.  Carrie took a loaf of brown bread from the crock
and then returned to the cooker to give the soup a stir.  When he
returned, she cleared a space for him, and found a large oval meat dish
on which to arrange the delicate rosy slices.  Rory slit the cellophane
with a knife and began, neatly, to separate the slices of smoked
salmon, and lay them out in overlapping layers.  Carrie took a couple
of lemons from the fruit bowl and started cutting them into wedges.

Rory worked on, intent and business-like, and Carrie watched him, and
saw his unlikely bright-yellow hair, the ring in his ear, the blunt
features, youthful but strong, well on his way to manhood.  Helping the
Sneads, probably washing up, he had rolled up the sleeves of his
dark-blue cotton shirt, and his forearms were tanned and his hands
strong and capable.  Carrie could perfectly understand why Lucy liked
him so much.  She only prayed that Lucy, at fourteen, had not fallen in
love.  Because they were too young for love.  Rory had his sights set
on getting to Nepal, and a teenage infatuation at this moment in time
was almost bound to result in a broken heart.

She said, "You've been so kind to her, Rory.  A lot of guys your age
simply wouldn't have bothered."

"I felt sorry for her...."

"I wonder why."

"She seemed so lonely."

"But sweet.  She's a sweet child."  She could not resist a small
tease.

"And you bought sleepers for her ears."

He looked at her and grinned.

"Oh, come on, Carrie.  That was just giving the finger to her mum.
Anyway, she wanted her ears pierced.  So what?  It's part of growing
up."  He stood back to survey the plate of neatly arranged slices of
salmon.

"There, that's it.  Is that going to be enough?"

"Have to be.  We're keeping the other lot for Christmas Day."

"Wonder how Lucy's getting on?"

"Perhaps I'd better go and see.... You come, too.  You've worked hard
enough."

"No, I'll stay here.  Be the chef.  I quite like cooking.  I used to
make gingerbread men with my mum.  You go back to the others.  I'll
butter the bread, and there are still some little pizzas left over.  I
might put them in the oven.... Do you want me to open a bottle of wine
or anything like that... ?"

Finally, Came unwound herself from Elfrida's apron, hung it on a hook,
and left Rory to it.  She went out of the kitchen and upstairs.  The
landing stood empty.  The receiver was back on the telephone.  No sign
of Lucy.  She hesitated for a moment, all at once experiencing a pang
of unexplained disquiet.  And then, just as before, the telephone
rang.

Carrie picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Who is that speaking?  Is that the Estate House?  I want to speak to
Carrie."

Unmistakable.  Carrie's heart sank.

"Yes," she said, "I'm here.  Hello, Ma."

"It's you.  Oh, thank heavens.  My dear, has Nicola been on to you?"

"Yes.  She rang from Florida.  About twenty minutes ago.  But she
wanted to talk to Lucy."

"Did she tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"Oh, my dear, she's married.  She's married to Randall

Fischer.  This morning.  They had a kind of whirlwind ceremony in a
church called the Wee Chapel of the Angels, or something, and they're
married.  She didn't even let me know she'd got engaged, that they were
planning this.  I had simply no idea.  Until I got this call from
Florida...."

Carrie told herself that she had to keep calm, or everything was going
to go to bits.

"She rang you before she rang Lucy?"

"Yes.  She wanted to make arrangements."

"What sort of arrangements?"

"For Lucy, of course.  What else, do you think?  When she's getting
back from Scotland, and that sort of thing...."

Oh, God, thought Carrie.  Here we go again.

"... She's talking about a honeymoon, not flying back to London until
the end of the month.  She's going to cancel her flight back.  Postpone
it.  And she expects me to be in London so that I can get Lucy back to
school.  But I've planned to stay here, in Bournemouth, until the end
of January, and I cannot see why I should change all my arrangements.
It's really too much, Carrie.  I'm simply not up to it.  I told her so.
I said, "I'm not up to it, Nicola."  But you know how selfish and
unkind she can be if she doesn't get her own way.  And now of course
she's besotted with this man.  And he's all she's thinking about."

"Is she going to spend the rest of her life in America?"

"I suppose so.  If you marry an American, I suppose that's what you
have to do."

"What about Lucy ... ?"

"Oh, Lucy will just have to do what she's told for once.  The immediate
problem is who is going to look after her until her mother gets
home?"

Carrie did not answer this question.  She simply stood there, holding
the receiver, aware of a great wave of impatience and fury directed at
both her mother and her sister.  She had felt this way before, many
times, and doubtless would again, but she could not remember ever
having been so angry.  She thought of Randall Fischer and silently
cursed him off for his tactlessness, his lack of imagination, of
feeling.  Surely he could have persuaded Nicola to give her family some
warning before he marched her off to the Wee Chapel of the Angels and
stuck a ring on her finger?  He could not have caused more trouble if
he had been a fox sneaking into a chicken coop, setting up a
panic-stricken cackling and causing feathers to fly.  She knew that if
she made any remark, it would be wrong, finally precipitating a useless
slanging-match that would solve nothing.

"Carrie?"

"Ma... I think it would be better if I rang you back."

"Have you spoken to Lucy?"

"No.  Not yet.  This is the first I've heard of the happy news."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"No."

"You've got my number?  Here, in Bournemouth."

"Yes, I've got it.  I'll call you."

"When?"

"Sometime.  Tomorrow, maybe."

"Don't leave it too long.  I'm worried sick."

"I'm sure."

"Oh, and darling ... you will have a lovely Christmas, won't you?"

"Lovely," Carrie told her.

She put the receiver down and stood for a moment, giving herself time
to cool down, gather her wits, and face facts.  Nicola was now Mrs.
Randall Fischer.  She had married him in Florida, in the Wee Chapel of
the Angels.  Carrie tried to picture the ceremony.  Blue skies and palm
trees; Randall Fischer in a white suit, and Nicola in some little
concoction suitable for such an occasion.  Had there been friends to
witness the marriage?  Had some old chum of Ran daU been wheeled in to
give Nicola away?  Had the old chum's wife stood in as matron of
honour, wearing an ankle-length gown and a corsage of orchids?  And
after the ceremony, had the four of them driven to the local country
club, there to be fSted by anyone who happened to be around... ?

But it was all unimaginable.  And how or when it had taken place didn't
really matter because it was done, and

could not be undone, and there was so much emotional debris littered
around, waiting to be picked up, that Carrie felt she scarcely knew
where to start.

Lucy.  Lucy was the first.  She had been given the joyous news over the
telephone by her mother, had put down the receiver and disappeared. But
where?  Lucy didn't much like Randall Fischer, and had
uncharacteristically rebelled at the very suggestion that she might
spend the two weeks of Christmas in his company, and in Florida.

But this ... ?  If Nicola had her way, this would be permanent, for
good.  Lucy at fourteen uprooted, transported to another country,
another culture, a whole new and probably unwelcome life.

Suddenly Carrie was filled with apprehension.  Where was Lucy?  Had she
slammed down the telephone, run silently downstairs, out of the front
door, and disappeared ... headed for the sea, the beach, the dunes, the
bitter cold?  If there had been a cliff nearby, it would have been more
easy for Carrie to imagine the child flinging herself from its edge and
crashing to death on rocks far below.... Trembling with anxiety, she
pulled herself together, put such gruesome images out of her mind, and
became sensible.  She took a deep breath and climbed the stairs to
Lucy's attic.  The landing light was on, but the bedroom door firmly
closed.  Carrie knocked.  No reply.  Gently she opened the door.  All
was darkness.  She reached for the light, and switched it on.

"Lucy?"  And her voice betrayed her anxiety.

A sulky hump under the blue-and-white duvet did not move or answer, but
Carrie felt quite weak with relief, for at least she was here, and
safe, and hadn't fled from the house, out into the darkness, to the
dunes, the beach, and the lonely sea.... "Lucy."  She went into the
room, closing the door behind her, and crossed over to the bed and sat
on the edge of it.

"Go away."

"Darling, it's Carrie."

"I don't want to talk."

"Darling, I know.  Gran rang from Bournemouth.  She told me."

"I don't care if she told you or not.  It doesn't make any difference.
Everything's spoilt now.  Everything.  It always is.  They always
do."

"Oh, Lucy...."  Carrie laid her hand on the duvet, meaning to comfort,
but Lucy jerked her shoulder and spurned the tentative comfort of
touch.

"I wish you'd go away and leave me alone."

Her voice was choked.  Filled with tears.  She had been crying, and now
she was angry and resentful.  Carrie understood, but still felt loath
to leave her.

"To be truthful, I think your mother shouldn't have done this, and
certainly she shouldn't have sprung it on you over the telephone,
expecting you to be delighted.  But I suppose we have to try to see her
point of view...."

All at once, Lucy flung the duvet aside and turned up her face to
Carrie's.  It was swollen and stained with weeping, her hair, which she
had put up so carefully, tangled and in strands around her cheeks.  She
was ugly with anger and misery; and Carrie realized, with despair, that
the anger was directed, not simply against her mother, but Carrie too
... because they were all adult, and there was not a single adult who
could be trusted.

"Of course you take her side," Lucy shouted at Carrie.

"She's your sister.  Well, I hate her.  I hate her because of all this,
and because I've never mattered.  I matter even less now.  And I won't
go and live in America, or Florida or Cleveland or anywhere.  And I
hate Randall Fischer, and I don't want to talk about it.  I just want
to be left alone.  So go awayl" And she flung herself away from Carrie,
pulled the duvet over her head, and buried her face in an already
sodden pillow.  She was crying again, wailing and sobbing;
inconsolable.

Feebly, Carrie tried again.

"The Kennedys are all staying for supper...."

"I don't care if they are."  Scarcely audible from beneath the folds of
duvet.

"I could bring your supper up here."

"I don't want supper, I want you to go away...."

Impossible.  Carrie stayed for a moment, and then, knowing that it was
hopeless to persist, got to her feet, went out of the room, and closed
the door once more behind her.

She felt completely shattered, and without any idea of what to do next.
She stood at the top of the stairs and heard the voices of the others
in the sitting-room, still gathered around the fire.  A burst of
carefree laughter.  She went downstairs, and for the third time that
evening, as she reached the landing, the telephone rang yet again.

Nothing could get much worse.  She picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Carrie.  Is that Carrie?"

"Nicola."

"Yes, it's me again."  The voice was high-pitched, furiously
indignant.

"I've been trying to ring back for the last ten minutes.  I couldn't
get through.  Lucy put the phone down on me.  I was telling her-" "I
know what you were telling her."

"And she put the phone down on me.  I couldn't finish what I was
saying.  I want to talk to her again.  Go and get her.  She has no
right to ring off like that...."

"I think she has every right.  She thought you were calling to say
Happy Christmas, and all you do is blurt out the fact that you've
married Randall Fischer, and expect her to be delighted."

"So she should be.  A lovely new father, a heavenly house, a heavenly
place to live.  If only she'd come with me, she'd have seen it all for
herself.  Why does she have to be so against anything I do?  I've done
everything for her, isn't it about time she started thinking about
other people's happiness?  Doesn't it mean anything to her that I'm so
happy?  At last...."

"Nicola-" "... Mother's the same.  She even resents me staying on a bit
longer so that we can have a honeymoon...."

"Nicola, / don't resent anything.  I'm pleased for you.  Honestly.  But
you have a child to consider, and she's not a baby.  You can scarcely
expect her to be over the moon when it seems that her whole life is
going to be turned upside down...."

"I don't want to listen to this.  I can't imagine what all the fuss is
about.  Just go and get her for me."

"No, I won't.  I can't.  She's up in her room, bundled in her duvet,
and crying her heart out.  I've tried to speak to her, but she's too
upset even to talk to me.  And there are practicalities as well.  We go
back to London after the New Year, and Lucy has to go back to school.
Who's going to be there for her?  Mother wants to stay in
Bournemouth."

"Can't you even do that for me?"

"I haven't got a house to live in."

"Well, you can go to Mother's flat and be with Lucy there.  Get her
back to school...."

"Nicola, I have a new job waiting for me-" "Oh, your career, I suppose.
Your great career.  That was always more important than any of us.  I
should have thought just for once-" "/ should have thought just for
once you'd think about other people and not yourself all the time."

"Think about myself all the time!  That is the most unkind thing to
say.  This is the first time in years, since Miles walked out and left
me, that I've thought about myself... At least Randall appreciates me.
I have at last got someone in my life who appreciates me...."

Carrie stopped trying to be nice.

"Oh, don't talk such a load of codswallop."

"I'm not going to listen...."  Nicola's voice soared in righteous
indignation, and Carrie relented.

"Nicola.  Look.  Sorry.  This is getting us nowhere.  I've got your
number in Florida.  I'll try and work something out, and I'll ring
back."

"Tell Lucy to ring me."

"I don't think there's much chance of that in the foreseeable future.
But try not to get in too much of a state.  And I will try to work
something out."

Finally, grudgingly, "All right," said Nicola.

"And have a good Christmas."

But Nicola, as always, missed the irony.  She said, "Same to you," and
rang off.

r What Carrie wanted, above all, was for it to be yesterday, and none
of this to have happened.  To be in the empty, deserted woollen mill,
alone with Sam Howard; walking through the chill and echoing sheds,
following his tall figure, up stairways, across catwalks.  She wanted
to be back in the Duke's Arms, with the hot fire, the warming drink,
the two old men, and the murmur of the barman's television.  And no
person to think about but herself and the man who sat across the table
from her, talking about their tenuous and highly uncertain future.

But this was now, and everything was changed.  She ran a hand through
her hair, straightened her shoulders, turned, and opened the
sitting-room door.  Beyond it, they were all still there, in the same
chairs, the same positions, as though nothing untoward could possibly
have taken place.  They had been joined, she saw, by Rory, who,
finished with his chef's duties down in the kitchen, had come upstairs
to find out what was happening, and why nobody had appeared to partake
of the informal and makeshift meal.  He sat now, opposite his mother,
cross-legged on the hearth rug with a glass of lager in his hand.

They were all talking peacefully amongst themselves, but when Carrie
appeared, conversation drifted away, and heads were turned as she came
through the door, as though her appearance was either long overdue or
unexpected.

She said, "Here I am," which was banal, and closed the door behind
her.

"Sorry to keep you all waiting."

Elfrida said, "Darling, what's been going on?  So many telephone calls.
Rory said Lucy's mother had phoned from Florida.  Nothing wrong, I
hope?"

"No.  Nothing wrong."  Which was true but utterly untrue all at the
same time.

"Just everything.  Another family crisis, but it's my family, so please
don't be too concerned."

"Carrie.  It sounds dire.  Tell us."

Carrie said, "I don't know where to start," and Sam, who had been
sitting at the far end of the room, got up from his chair and came over
to her side.  He said, "Would you like a drink?"

She shook her head, wondering if she appeared either deathly pale or
flushed with unbearable exertion.  He reached for a chair and drew it
forward, next to Elfrida.  Carrie sat down with a grateful thump, and
felt Elfrida take her hand.

"Darling Carrie, tell us."

So she did.

"Nicola's just been on the telephone.  Lucy's mother," she enlarged for
the benefit of the Kennedys, who could not possibly know who Nicola
was.

"My sister.  She went out to Florida to stay with this man called
Randall Fischer.  And this morning they got married.  It was the first
we'd heard of it.  She rang to speak to Lucy, and told her then.  Lucy
hung up on her, in mid-flow, as it were, and is now in tears in her
bedroom, swearing black and blue that she never liked Randall Fischer
and she will never go to live in America.  Then my mother came on the
telephone to tell me the news.  Nicola apparently has postponed her
flight home, and is determined to have a honeymoon with Randall before
she finally comes back to London.  My mother is in hysterics about
this, because she wants to stay in Bournemouth until the end of the
month, and refuses to return just so that she can be with Lucy.  Then
Nicola got back on the phone again, to tell me that Lucy had hung up on
her, and the upshot of that was that we had the usual sisterly
difference of opinion, and only just stopped short of a flaming row."

Elfrida said, "I can't bear it," which, Carrie decided, was the
understatement of the year.

She went on.

"So the crisis is immediate and also longterm.  Immediate, because
there is nobody in London to take care of Lucy and get her to school.
Except, of course, dogs body me.  And of course, if necessary, I'll do
it, and stay in my mother's flat until either she or Nicola gets back
to London.  But the long-term problem is a different kettle of fish
altogether.  The long-term problem is Lucy's future.  Nicola's married
an American, and quite naturally, will make her home out there.  I
think she relishes the prospect.  Lucy, on the other hand, never wanted
to go to America with her, even for a holiday.  She doesn't
particularly like Randall, and to be truthful, I don't think she's all
that fond of her mother."



They had all listened attentively and with growing concern, but now, as
Carrie fell silent, nobody said anything.

Then Tabitha spoke.

"Oh, dear" she said, which was inadequate, but sympathetic.

"She doesn't have to go and live in America," Elfrida ventured
hopefully.

"How about going to her school as a boarder?"

"It's a day school, Elfrida.  And there are still holidays."

"Your mother ... ?"

"You know as well as I do, Ma would never cope on her own.  Wouldn't
even try."

"Perhaps Lucy's father..."

"No way.  Number-two wife would never consider it."

"But..."

"This is all ridiculous...."  A new voice broke into the argument, or
the discussion, or whatever it could be called.  Rory Kennedy.  In some
surprise, Carrie turned her head to look at him, and saw that he had
got to his feet, was no longer sitting comfortably on the hearth rug
but stood before them all, his back to the fire, and his blue eyes
blazing with indignation.  Taken entirely by surprise, nobody
interrupted him or stopped him speaking.

"... It's ridiculous.  You're all talking in circles, taking it for
granted that Lucy will go back to London, just as though nothing had
happened.  But she can't go.  She's miserable enough there, she told me
so, and what's happened just now only makes everything more impossible
for her.  She has few friends, she has no proper home, and she's never
felt loved.  What has made her really happy has been staying here, with
Elfrida and Oscar.  In Creagan.  She told me she'd never been so happy
as she is here.  She never wanted to go back to London in the first
place.  So don't send her back.  Keep her here.  She can stay with
Elfrida and Oscar.  Mum and Dad will be around, and Clodagh, and she's
made friends with our friends.  Then she can go to day school in
Creagan.  Dad can fix that with Mr.  Mcintosh.  He'll squeeze her in
somehow.  He'll find a place for her.  That is what I believe you
should all do.  I think if you let her go back to London, without any
sort of plan for the future, it would be criminal.  Unhappy teenagers
do terrible stupid things.  We all know that.  Lucy belongs to you all
far more than she belongs with her mother.  So this is where she should
be.  I think you have a moral obligation to do the right thing for her.
Which is to keep her here, in Creagan."

He stopped, red-cheeked from the warmth of the fire and the passion of
his feeling.  For a moment an astounded silence filled the room, as all
the adults stared at Rory in speechless but respectful astonishment.
Rory, perhaps feeling that he had gone too far, looked a bit sheepish,
gave the hearth rug a kick, and apologized.

"Sorry," he said.

"I didn't mean to speak out of turn."  Silence again.  Then Peter
Kennedy gently shifted Tabitha's weight from his knees and got to his
feet, to stand beside his son.

"You didn't speak out of turn," he told him, laying a hand on the boy's
shoulder.

"I think you are right.  Well said, Rory."

Lucy lay and stared at the sloping ceiling of her bedroom, exhausted by
weeping and beginning to feel remorseful about the way she had behaved
to Carrie.  She was not in the habit of having tantrums, and was not
quite sure about her next move.  Nothing was going to be all right
again until she told Carrie she was sorry, was hugged, and forgiven,
but she could not bring herself to get out of bed, comb her hair, wash
her face, and go downstairs to face everybody.  The Kennedys were all
still here, and staying for supper, but that only made everything
worse.

She felt headachy, drained, and yet tremendously hungry.  She thought
about the satisfaction of slamming down the telephone on her mother's
voice, all the way from the United States, telling Lucy that she was
now married to Randall Fischer, that Lucy had a new father, that they
were all going to be happy ever after living in well-heeled style, and
with the blissful warmth of Gulf Stream, Florida.  Listening to her
mother burbling on, lyrical with excitement and as insensitive to
others' feelings as she had always been, had all at once

become too much, and Lucy, unable to listen to one more word, had
simply put the receiver back on the telephone.

Now, alone and desolate, she told herself that she had been a coward.
She should, then and there, while they were still speaking, have
unleashed upon her mother the full force of her indignation and shock.
She should have let her know, at once, that she was terrified at the
very thought of being uprooted, forced to move to a foreign country and
accept the fact that her entire existence was about to be turned upside
down.

But now it was too late.

She longed to be older.  To be eighteen, and so an adult, with the
weight of British law behind her.  At eighteen, she could refuse to
budge; could stay where she felt familiar and secure; make a life and a
future for herself.  But being fourteen was a hopeless age.  Too old to
be uncomplainingly shunted around, like a brown paper parcel.  And too
young for independence.  Things before had been bad enough.  Now, they
had become-or were about to become-impossible.

Above her bed, her head, was the skylight.  Beyond the glass, the
darkness was rendered opaque by the reflected glow of the street lights
below.  But she could see a star, and imagined the skylight slowly
opening to a gust of freezing, sea-smelling air, and herself being
drawn, as though by some irresistible force, out of her bed, up, flying
through the open hatchway, seeing the planet drop away beneath her, the
stars grow larger every second.... Like a rocket, she would head for
the moon, and there would never be any coming back.

A sound.  A step on the stair.  Carrie.  Perhaps it was Carrie.  If it
was Carrie, Lucy was very much afraid that, without wishing to, she was
about to start bawling again, and hated the feeling that she seemed to
have lost control of her own emotions.

A tap on the door.  She lay with her cheek on the sodden pillow, and
said nothing.  The door opened.

"Lucy?"

It wasn't Carrie.  It was Oscar.  And Lucy was tremendously embarrassed
that he should find her thus, all rumpled r and fusty and untidy and
tear-stained.  Why had he come up?  Why had they let him come to fetch
her?  Surely Carrie could have returned to her, or Elfrida?

She said nothing.

He said, "Do you mind?"  And then, when she still did not reply, he
crossed the floor, leaving the door behind him ajar, and came to sit on
the edge of her bed.  His weight was strangely comforting, pulling the
duvet tight around her body, and she shifted her position to make more
space for him.  She drew a long, shuddering breath, and said, "No, I
don't mind."

He said, "How are you feeling?"  As though he were a kindly doctor, and
she had been ill for a long time.

She said, "Awful."

"Carrie told us what happened."

"I was horrible to her."

"She didn't tell us that.  Just that you were upset.  And who can
wonder, having that bit of news sprung on you over the telephone?  I
always dislike being given news over the telephone.  Somehow, one feels
so impotent and removed, simply because one can't see the other
person's face."

Lucy said, "It wouldn't be so bad if I really liked him.  Randall, I
mean."

"Perhaps you would get to like him."

"No.  I don't think so."  She looked at Oscar, saw the hooded eyes that
always made him seem a bit sad, the gentle expression on his face, and
thought that you liked people instantly, just as she had always liked
Oscar.  And that all the time in the world would never render her as
close to Randall Fischer as she had instantly felt with Oscar.

She said, "I was so horrid to Carrie."  Her eyes filled again with
tears, but it didn't matter now, and it was important to tell him.

"I shouted at her and told her to go away, and she was being so sweet.
I feel dreadful about her."

She sniffed lustily, and felt her mouth trembling like a baby's; but
Oscar only reached into the breast pocket of his lovely velvet jacket
and produced a much-laundered linen handkerchief which smelt of Bay
Rum.  He gave it to her, and she took it gratefully and blew her
nose.



After that she felt a bit better.  She said, "I don't usually shout at
people."

"I know you don't.  And the wicked thing is, that when we're really
upset, we always take it out on the people who are closest and whom we
love the most."

"Do we?"  She was amazed to be told mis.

"Always."

"I can't imagine you ever shouting at anybody."

He smiled, his rare, warm smile that always seemed to change his whole
demeanour.  He said, "You'd be surprised."

"It was just that... I feel so awful, because I suppose I should be
pleased.  But it was ..."

"I know.  A shock."

"... If it was someone I really knew, who lived in England, then it
wouldn't be quite so bad.  But I don't want to have to go and live in
America and go to school there and everything.  London's not much, but
at least I know where I am.  I can't stay with Gran because she always
makes a fuss about everything, and wants to do her own thing, go out
and see her friends, and have bridge parties.  When she has bridge
parties, she doesn't even like me going into the room to say hello. And
she hates it when Emma comes because she says we make so much noise.  I
couldn't be with her, Oscar."

"No."

His hand lay on the duvet She gave him back his handkerchief and he
took it, and then took Lucy's hand in his own.  It felt warm and safe
over her fingers, a physical contact, a sort of lifeline, that made it
easier to talk.  She said, "I don't know what will happen.  That's the
worst.  I don't know what I'm going to do.  And I'm not old enough to
do anything."

He said, "I don't think you have to do anything.  I think others have
to do it for you."

"Who?"

"Like me."

"You?"

"Now just listen.  Here's a suggestion.  Downstairs, we've all been
having a little chat, and we've come up with an idea.  Supposing, after
the New Year, you don't go back to London with Carrie?  You stay here
with Elfrida.  And 7 shall go back to London with Carrie, and go and
see your grandmother in Bournemouth."

Lucy was alarmed.

"What are you going to say to her?"

"I am going to suggest that, until your mother's new life is sorted out
somewhat, you should remain in Creagan, with Elfrida and myself.  Just
for the time being."

"But what about school?  I have to go back to school."

"Yes, of course you do, but how about taking a term off from your
school in London, and going to school in Creagan instead?  Peter
Kennedy is a good friend of the headmaster's, and he will have a word
with him, and see that you get a place in the suitable class.  It's a
very good school, and I am sure there would be no objections from your
present headmistress."

"Miss Maxwell-Brown?"

"Is that her name?"

"I can't simply leave school."

"I'm not suggesting that.  Just take a term off.  Plenty of children do
this sort of thing if their parents are sent abroad, or other
circumstances dictate.  I am sure Miss Maxwell- Brown would be
perfectly amenable to let you go for a single term, and keep the
options open for your return, when this crisis has settled down, and we
are all aware of what is expected of us."

"You mean..."  Lucy felt that she had to get the facts right, because
what Oscar was telling her sounded almost too good to be true.

"You mean, I wouldn't go back to London after the New Year?  Just stay
on with you and Elfrida?"

" "If you want to.  Yours must be the decision."

She was silent for a moment or two, mulling this over.  It seemed to
her that the whole situation was fraught with obstacles.  One of them
being Elfrida.

"Gran doesn't approve of Elfrida," she told Oscar bluntly.

Oscar laughed.

"So I believe.  But she will, I am sure, approve of me: I shall present
myself as a schoolmaster and a church organist, with an impeccable
background and an unsullied reputation.  Will she be able to resist
that?"



Lucy said, with a quirk of humour, "Not if it means getting shed of
me."

"And your mother?"

"She won't care either.  She never did, much.  She'll care even less
now that she's got Randall."

"So no objections from her?"

"I wouldn't think so."

"Carrie's going to telephone them both tomorrow.  She can outline our
plans.  It is, after all, just until Easter.  After that we'll have to
think again."

"I won't change, Oscar.  I won't ever want to go and live in
America."

"I don't see why you should have to.  You should visit, of course, and
it would be interesting and educational; it's always good to see
another country, and learn how others live.  But I believe that,
basically, you should stay where you feel most happy."

"I've never been so happy, or at home, as I have here."

"Then why don't we settle for that.  Stay on, for as long as you wish,
with Elfrida and me, in Creagan.  Go to the local school.  Get your
GCSEs.  After that, you should spread your wings a bit.  Maybe a
co-educational boarding-school where you could take your A levels.  I
know several splendid establishments where I am sure you would enjoy
every moment.  With my school masterly connections, I could make
inquiries and get prospectuses, and we could all talk it over together.
Go and inspect them.  Let you make your own choice."

"That's what Rory said, when we talked about things.  A co-educational
boarding-school."

"He's a wise lad.  He is your champion.  It was he who stirred us all
to action when Carrie broke the news about your mother re-marrying.

"You have to do something," he told us.  And of course he was quite
right."

"But, Oscar ..."

"What now?"

"You and Elfrida don't want me living with you for two years."

"Why not?"

"Because you're old.  Like Gran.  She always says she can't cope.
Because she's a grandparent."

Oscar laughed.

"Oh, Lucy, grandparents are wonderful inventions.  All over the world,
grandparents are, for one reason or another, bringing up their
grandchildren, having a great time, and doing a good job.  I think it
would be fun."

"But I'm not your grandchild, so would you want me?  Really want me?"

"More than anything."

"Wouldn't I be in the way?"

"Never."

"Supposing you move to the cottage at Corrydale, and sell this house to
Sam...."

"Well?"

"... you wouldn't have space for me."

"We haven't seen the house yet.  And if necessary, we shall redesign
it.  And there will be a special apartment, labelled "Lucy's Room."

" "Oscar, I don't know why you are so kind."

"Because we love you.  Perhaps we need you.  Perhaps I am being
selfish, but I don't want to let you go.  I need a young person about
the place.  I have got used to the sound of your voice, and footsteps
on the stairs, and doors bursting open.  And laughter.  I shall hate it
if you leave.  Probably go into a decline."

Lucy said, "When I first came here... when Carrie and I flew up from
London and came here, to Creagan, I was terribly nervous because she
had told me about your daughter...."

"Francesca."

"She had told me about Francesca, and I was afraid that I would
distress you ... remind you of her... make you dreadfully sad again."

"You remind me of her, but it didn't make me sad."

"What did she look like?"

"Long hair, and freckles on her nose.  She had bands on her teeth.  She
was two years younger than you.  She was always on the go, never still,
except when she and I settled down in my armchair and read aloud to
each other."



"My dad and I used to do that.  When I was little and we were all still
together.  We read The Borrowers.  And when he wanted to tease, he
called me Arietty.  And he put Badedas in his bath and made the whole
house smell piny.  What else did Francesca like doing?"

"Everything.  She had a little pony, and an old bicycle, and a guinea
pig in a hutch, and a bedroom full of books.  On wet days, she used to
go into the kitchen and make biscuits.  They were always either burned
or raw, and I used to have to eat them and swear they were delicious.
And we listened to music together, and played duets on the piano...."

"Was she good at the piano?"

"Not very."

"Was she good at lessons?"

"Not very."

"What was she really good at?"

"Living."

"That's important, isn't it?"

Their eyes met, and they gazed at each other, both silenced by die
enormity of what Oscar had just said.  It was as though he had spoken
witiiout thought, and the word hung between them like a lie.  Francesca
had been good at living, but now she was dead, her young life ended
with the brutal finality of a fatal car crash.

Lucy did not know what to say.  To her horror she saw Oscar's eyes fill
with tears, his mouth tremble.  Then, in an abrupt movement, he covered
his eyes with his hand.  He tried to speak, but words did not come;
instead, a sound was torn from deep in his chest, a sob of utter
despair.

She had never before seen a grown-up weep, rendered incapable by an
almost overwhelming grief.  She stared at him, wondering what she could
do to comfort, and saw him shake his head, denying his own weakness,
somehow struggling for control of his unbearable emotion.  After a bit,
to her huge relief, he took his hand from his face and reached into his
breast pocket for his handkerchief.  Then he blew his nose, made an
effort to smile at her, reassuring.  He said, "Sorry."

"It doesn't matter, Oscar.  I don't mind.  Really I understand."

"Yes, I think you do.  Death is part of living.  I have to remember
that, but from time to time the truth eludes me."

"Living is important, isn't it?  And remembering?"

"More important than anything else."  He stowed his handkerchief away
once more.

"That first day, the day you arrived, you and I sat in the church and
talked about Christmas and the Winter Solstice.  It was then that I
remembered Francesca, for the first time, without total desolation.  I
remembered having exactly the same conversation with her a year or so
ago.  Trying to explain about the Christmas star and the scientists'
theory of time.  And she listened but was not convinced.  She didn't
want to be convinced.  She liked the story just as it was.

"In the bleak midwinter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as
iron, Water like a stone.

"That was the way she wanted Christmas to be, and for Francesca it
wouldn't have been magic any other way.  Because the carols and the
darkness and the presents were all part of a time when life took
flight, and the whole world soared to the stars."

Lucy said, "That's how this Christmas is going to be."

"Stay with us."

"I do love you, Oscar."

"There's a lot of love around.  Don't ever forget that."

"I won't."

"Do you want to come downstairs now, and join the others, and have some
supper?  If they've left any for us...."

"I have to comb my hair and wash my face."

"In that case."  He relinquished her hand with a little pat, got off
the bed, and went to the door.  She watched him go.  As he left the
room, he turned back for a final reassuring smile.

"Don't be too long, my duck."

CHRISTMAS EVE

christmas Eve.

In this fickle northern climate, one woke each morning without any idea
of what the elements were about to reveal, but today had dawned
astonishingly pure and gentle, like a day stolen from spring.  The thaw
had melted the snow away from streets and fields, and only the hills
still wore their white mantles, summits glittering in the light of the
low sun streaming down from a cloudless sky.  A sun that, because there
was no breath of wind, even managed to engender a faint warmth.  Birds
sang from leafless trees, and in the Estate House garden a few early
snowdrops pierced the rough, untended grass beneath the lilac bush.

At Corrydale, in Rose Miller's garden, stood a bird table laden with
scraps and crusts, and with a bag of nuts dangling.  Pigeons and
starlings were out in full and greedy force, while tits and robins
pecked at the nuts and the scraps of fat which Rose had threaded on a
piece of string.  They hovered, and paused, then flew off into the
safety of a nearby hawthorn bush, so that its twiggy branches trembled
and swayed with fluttering wings and feathered activity.

Because of the fine day, and the fact that the roads were clear,
Elfrida and Oscar had come to Corrydale on their own, hi Oscar's car.
The others, Carrie, Sam, Lucy, and Rory Kennedy, were driving over
later, because Carrie reckoned that she had to wait until after noon
before getting on the telephone to her sister in Florida.  She had
already spoken to Dodie Sutton, holed up in her hotel bedroom hi
Bournemouth, and the conversation had gone more smoothly than any of
them had dared to hope.  Dodie was clearly much relieved to be shed of
the sole responsibility for Lucy, and even spoke quite warmly of
Elfrida's kindness and hospitality, conveniently forgetting that, at
one time, she had not had a good word to say for her ex-husband's
raffish, theatrical cousin.

"Oscar will come and see you in Bournemouth," Carrie had promised.

"He says he would like to meet you, and if you want, talk things over."
And Dodie had raised no objection to this suggestion either, and said
that she would be pleased to stand him afternoon tea in the residents'
lounge of the Palace Hotel.

So now, there was only Nicola to be dealt with, to be told of the
tentative plans for her daughter, encouraged to fall in with them, and
gently coaxed into agreement.  Having listened to Carrie speaking to
Dodie, all sweetness and understanding, Elfrida was pretty sure she
would do as good a job on Nicola.  Objections, should there be any,
would be token.  Nicola wouldn't care much what happened to anybody,
provided her own chosen path lay smooth and free of any sort of
angst.

As well, Carrie had volunteered to assemble and bring the picnic.
Elfrida had started making suggestions about hot soup and ham rolls,
but Carrie and Sam had shooed her out of the kitchen, and sent her and
Oscar, feeling quite irresponsible and light-hearted, on their way.

So now, from the window of Rose Miller's sitting-room, Elfrida watched
the birds.  Rose's garden was empty of flowers and vegetables save for
a few rotting Brussels sprouts, but the beds were neatly dug and the
earth raked, all ready for planting time.  The garden ran, a long and
narrow plot, down the slope of the hill.  At its foot was a wooden
fence and some gnarled beech trees, and then, beyond, the sea-fields of
Cor- rydale sweeping down to the blue firth and the hills on the
farther shore.  Elfrida was much interested in this prospect, because
she knew that the view from Major Billicliffe's house would be almost
identical. Today, with the clear winter air, the colours so sharp and
brilliant, the lacy branches of trees so black, she could not imagine
any outlook more beautiful.

Behind her, Oscar and Rose sat on either side of the fireplace, where
burnt a glowing stack of peat, and drank the fresh coffee which Rose
had made for them.  Rose was talking.  She had not done much else since
Oscar and Elfrida had arrived, as arranged, at half past eleven.

"... Of course, the poor chentleman let the house get in a terrible
state.  Betty Cowper, she's the tractor-man's wife,

she did what she could for him after his wife died, but she has three
children of her own and a man to care for, and she swore it was an
uphill task.  Once we'd heard he'd passed on, she and I went along and
did our best to clear the place up.  Most of his clothes were in a
terrible state, fit for nothing but a bonfire, but there's a few things
that would maybe do for the charity shop, and we packed them in
suitcases.  He didn't seem to own anything of value, but we left his
ornaments and possessions and books and such where they were, so you'll
be able to do what you want with them."

"That was good of you, Rose."

"Betty gave the place as good a clean as possible, scrubbed the kitchen
floor and such, and the bathroom, which was in a terrible state.  A
disaster.  Poor lonely man.  It's sad to think of him dying alone, with
no family.  You said the funeral would maybe be at the end of the week?
Will you let me know?  I'd like to be there."

"Of course .. . and it's going to be a cremation.  But we'll take you
with us to Inverness, in the car."

"It wasn't his fault the wee place fell into such disrepair.  But no
doubt you'll be altering things for yourself, and if you get the
builders in, they'll tear the place apart and make a lot of dust."

Oscar said, "We haven't finally decided if we're going to take up
residence."

"And why should you not?"  Rose sounded quite indignant.

"Major Billicliffe would never have left it to you in his will had he
not thought that you would live there.  Just imagine -the chance to
come back and live at Corrydale again after all these years."

"It might not be large enough, Rose.  You see, we may have another
young person coming to live with us."

Rose let out a hoot of unexpectedly earthy laughter.

"Don't tell me you're having a wee baby."

Oscar remained unfazed by this wild suggestion.

"No.  No, Rose, not that.  But you remember, I told you we were
expecting visitors for Christmas.  Lucy is fourteen, but her mother has
just remarried, in America, and rather than send her back to London,
she's going to stay with Elfrida and me for a bit, and go to the school
in Creagan."

"But that will be splendid.  And good for us all to have another young
person about the place.  She can be Mends with Betty Cowper's family.
They're a bit younger, but a cheery bunch.  And it's paradise for
children here at Corrydale.  They have the whole estate to themselves
for bicycle riding, and no fear of being knocked to Kingdom Come by
some great lorry."

Elfrida turned from watching the birds, and went to join Oscar and Rose
to sit in an antique wheel-back chair and reach for her coffee-cup.

She said, "Perhaps we could make Major Billicliffe's house a little
larger.  Build on an extra room, or something.  We'll have to see."

"You'll need to get the planning permission," Rose warned sagely.  For
all her years, she was up to all the tricks of the local authorities.

"Tom Cowper put up a greenhouse without the permission, and as near as
a whisker he just about had to tear it down again.  And where is the
little girl now?"

Elfrida explained.

"They're driving over later.  Lucy and her aunt, Carrie, who's a cousin
of mine.  And Rory Kennedy.  And Sam Howard.  Sam was an unexpected
guest.  He called in at the Estate House, and then got stuck there by
the snow.  Couldn't get back to Inverness."

"And who is he?"

"He's going to run McTaggarts in Buddy."

"Well, I never did!  What a party you'll be for Christmas.  When Oscar
telephoned me to tell me you were coming today and bringing a picnic, I
got the key from Betty and went along and laid a wee fire, in case the
place was cold for you.  But on a day like this, you could eat a picnic
in the garden.  It's as though the good Lord wanted you to see it at
its best."

"Yes," said Elfrida.

"It does seem a bit like that."

Rose was both old and tiny, but spry as a bird.  She wore a tweed
skirt, a blouse with a brooch at the collar, and a red Shetland
cardigan; and her bright dark eyes seemed to see everything without the
help of spectacles.  Her hair, thin and white, was dragged back from
her brow in a little bun, and  ROSMAUNDE PlLCHEfc.

the only apparent sign of ageing showed in her hands, which were worn
and knuckled with arthritis.  Her house was just as neat, colourful,
and confident as she herself; polished tables stood awash with scraps
of china, mementos, and snapshots, and over the fireplace was an
enlarged photograph of Rose's brother in seaman's uniform, who had been
drowned at sea when the Ark Royal was sunk during the Second World War.
Rose had never married.  Her whole life had been dedicated to Mrs.
McLennan and to Corrydale House.  But she was not in the least
sentimental, and the fact that the house was now a hotel and no longer
belonged to the family was one that she took entirely in her stride.

She said, "And what will you all be doing tomorrow?"  Elfrida
laughed.

"I'm not sure.  Opening presents, I suppose.  We've got the tree in the
dining-room.  And then we're going to have Christmas dinner in the
evening."

"Christmas dinner!  I remember Christmas dinner parties at Corrydale in
the old days, with the long table set with all the lace mats and the
candlesticks.  There was always a house party, friends and cousins and
relations, and everybody dressed up in dinner jackets and evening
gowns.  Christmas Eve, it was the same.  Very formal.  And men, after
Christmas Eve dinner, all the house party would get into motors and
drive to Creagan for Midnight Service in the church-and there was a
car, too, for the staff, and anyone who wanted to go.  And what a
sensation they created, walking into the church and down the aisle, all
dressed up, and Mrs.  McLennan, in long black taffeta sweeping the
floor and her mink coat, leading the way.  People liked to see that. So
elegant and festive.  And the men in their good overcoats and their
black ties.  You won't remember that, Oscar."

"No.  I was never at Corrydale for a Christmas."

"When Hughie was here, all the old traditions went out the door.  I
don't think he ever went to the church, even on Christmas Eve.  Sad,
when you think about it.  That he, such a fusion less creature, should
be the one to take over the place, and let it all slip through his
fingers."  She shook her head and sighed at the iniquities of the
hopeless Hughie.

"But that's all in the past now.  And how about you, Oscar?  Will you
be going to the Midnight Service?  No need for a car.  Just step across
the street."

Elfrida did not look at Oscar.  She had finished her coffee and now
laid the empty cup and saucer down on the little table alongside her
chair.

"No, Rose.  I shan't be going.  But maybe the others ..."

Oh, Oscar, Elfrida thought sadly.

But she said nothing.  His apartness, his withdrawal, was his own
problem, and one which only he could deal with.  It was a bit, she
decided, as though he had had a disagreement, a row with an old friend.
As though words had been spoken which could never be unspoken, and
until one of them proffered the hand of friendship, the impasse
remained.  Perhaps by next year, she told herself.  Another twelve
months and he would feel himself strong enough to take this last
hurdle.

She said, "/ shall certainly go.  The church at night is so beautiful,
and as you say, it's just a step across the street.  The others can do
what they want, but I think Lucy will want to come, and certainly
Carrie.  How about you, Rose?  Will you be there?"

"I wouldn't miss it for anything.  My nephew Charlie said he'd drive me
into Creagan."

"We'll see you, then."

Oscar remembered something.  Or perhaps he just wanted to change the
subject.

"Rose, I had another small bequest from Major Billicliffe, but one
about which I do not feel so enthusiastic.  The dog."

"Did he leave you his dog?  Brandy?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Do you not want her?"

"No.  I don't think I do."

"In that case, Charlie will keep her.  He likes the old girl, and she's
company for him when he's working in the shed.  And his children would
be heart-broken to see her go."

"Are you sure?  Hadn't we better speak to Charlie first?"

"I'll speak to Charlie," Rose told him, in tones which

boded ill for nephew Charlie should he not fall in with her plans.

"He'll keep the dog, all right.  And now, how about another cup of
coffee?"

But it was time to leave.  They all got to their feet, and Rose took
the key from inside an old flowered teapot which stood on the
mantelpiece.  This she gave to Oscar.  Then she came to the door to see
them out.

"Why do you not leave your motor here, and walk to Major Billicliffe's
house?  It's only a step, and there's not much parking space."

"It won't be in your way?"

"And why should it be in my way?"

So they did as she suggested, only pausing to open the door of the car
and let Horace out, because while they had been chatting with Rose, he
had remained incarcerated, in case he chased a rabbit, or put up a
pheasant, or otherwise misbehaved himself.  He leaped lightly down, and
was at once delighted by local smells.

"For a dog," observed Elfrida, "this must be a bit like being let loose
in the perfume department of Harrods.  Eau d'autre chi en  He's going
to buy a bottle and dab it behind his ears."

High above, rooks cawed from empty branches, and Elfrida, gazing
skywards, saw the white, ruler-straight line of a jet stream being
dragged across the blue sky by a four- engine passenger airplane.  It
was so high that she could scarcely see the plane, just the jet stream,
but it was headed north-west, flying, she guessed, from Amsterdam.

"Do you ever think, Oscar, that in that tiny dot, people are eating
nuts and reading magazines and ordering gin and tonics?"

"In truth, it never occurred to me."

"I wonder where they're going?"

"To California?  Over the Pole."

"Over the North Pole for Christmas.  I'm glad I'm not going to
California for Christmas."

"Are you?"

"I'd rather be going to Major Billicliffe's house for a picnic.  We
must find a new name for it.  We can't go on calling it Major
Billicliffe's house now that he is no more."

"It used to be the forester's house.  But I believe that in the
fullness of time it will simply become Oscar Blundell's house.  Doesn't
that make sense?"

"Oscar, everything you say makes sense."

A few moments, and they had traversed the hundred yards or so that lay
between the two cottages, and were there, standing in the open gateway
of Oscar's new property.  It was a twin of Rose's house, but not nearly
so appealing, and the rusted car parked before the front door did
nothing to enhance a first impression.  Elfrida, with Oscar at her
side, remembered that first dark evening when, exhausted after the long
journey, they had finally run Major Billicliffe's abode to earth, and
come to collect the key of the Estate House.  So much had happened
since then that she felt as though years had passed.  They walked up
the driveway, the soles of their boots scrunching on sea-pebbles, and
Oscar put the key in the lock, turned it, and then the brass knob.  The
door swung inwards, and she followed him, fingers crossed, indoors, and
so into the little sitting-room.

It felt very cold, and a bit dank, but not nearly as bad as Elfrida had
remembered and feared.  The window at the back of the room let in a
flood of sunshine, and Betty Cowper and Rose, between them, had
scoured, cleaned, emptied ashtrays, shaken rugs, polished furniture,
dispatched much rubbish, and scrubbed floors.  Over all hung the smell
of strong soap and carbolic disinfectant.  The roll-top desk had been
closed, and the trolley which Major Billicliffe had called his bar
cleared of old bottles and used glasses.  Even the dingy cotton
curtains had been washed and ironed.  In the fireplace were laid paper
and sticks, all ready for kindling, and there was a brass bucket
(polished) filled with coal, and a pile of dry logs on the hearth.

Oscar said, "First things first," removed his jacket, and knelt to set
a match to the newspaper and to start the sticks crackling.  At the
back of the room stood the door against which poor Brandy, howling and
frustrated, had, from time

to time, flung herself, causing Elfrida to be frightened out of her
wits.  Now, she went, cautiously, to open this, and found herself in a
mean and chill little kitchen, built of breeze- blocks and with
utilitarian steel-framed windows.  It had a clay sink, a wooden
draining-board, a tiny refrigerator, and a gas cooker.  A small table
was spread with an oilcloth, and worn linoleum covered the floor.  Not
much else.  A half- glassed door to her left led out onto a bit of
paving, where stood a broken wheelbarrow, a digging fork, and a
dried-out tub containing dead geraniums.  There was no sign of a hot
pipe or any sort of heating and it all felt cold as charity.

She went back to Oscar, who was piling coal onto flames.  She watched
him add a log or two.  She said, "How did the Major keep himself
warm?"

"Probably didn't.  I don't know.  We'll find out."  He pulled himself
to his feet, dusting off his hands on the seat of his corduroys.

"Come.  Let us go and explore."

It did not take very long.  They went through the small lobby into the
other room; Major Billicliffe's dining-room, where Oscar remembered the
old man's drip-dry shirts draped over the backs of the chairs.  But
here, too, Betty and Rose had been busy, and all was cleaned and put to
rights.  The old cardboard boxes and piles of newspapers had
disappeared; the table was decently polished and set about with four
chairs.

From this room, stairs, very steep and narrow, led to the upper floor,
and they ascended and inspected the two bedrooms.  In Major
Billicliffe's bedroom, only a couple of ancient leather suitcases,
firmly closed, remained as evidence of the former occupant.  They were,
Elfrida guessed, packed with his more respectable clothes.  The bed was
covered with a fresh cotton counterpane, and rag rugs had been
laundered.

"We could move in tomorrow," Elfrida observed.  And then hastily added,
in case Oscar should take her at her word, "If we wanted to."

"Dear girl, I don't think we want to do that."

The second bedroom was smaller, and the bathroom, if not exactly the
disaster that Rose had predicted, spartan to a degree, and not
conducive to long soaks in scented water.  The bath, which stood on
feet, was stained and rusted, the basin cracked, and the linoleum
beginning to curl up at the corners.  A clean, threadbare towel hung on
a wooden towel- rail, and a bar of Lifebuoy soap sat on the basin.

The best thing about the bathroom, like the kitchen, was the view.
Elfrida, with some difficulty, got the window open and hung out.  It
was very still and quiet, but she could hear the movements of the
trees, like a whisper, in some mysterious, unfelt breeze.  And then two
curlews flew by, headed for the water, calling their sad and lonely
cry.  Below her, the garden lay untended and neglected.  Rough grass,
clumps of weed, two rusted wash-poles with a bit of rope suspended
between them.  Nothing, it seemed, had been done for years, and yet she
did not feel either depressed or disheartened.  The view, the same view
that she had admired from Rose's window, was there.  The sloping
fields, the dazzling blue water, and the distant hills.  And she
thought that, for a house that was not exactly bursting with happy
memories, it had a good feel to it.  It had been neglected, but was not
without hope.  It simply needed, like any human being, a bit of
laughter and some tender loving care, and it would leap into life
again.  The only thing was, they'd have to do something about keeping
themselves warm.

From behind her, Oscar spoke.

"I am going to go out of doors," he told her.

"To inspect my policies."

"You do that.  You'll burst with pride when you see your ragwort."

She heard him go downstairs, whistle for Horace.  She waited.
Presently, he appeared beneath her, having let himself and the dog out
of the kitchen door.  She watched him, foreshortened, stand in the
sunshine and look about him.  Then, with Horace at his heels, he set
out to walk down the length of his plot, and, when he came to the end,
and the sagging fence that was his boundary, he leaned an elbow on one
of the posts and stood there, watching the sea-birds on the shore of
the firth.

Elfrida thought, I must buy him a pair of field-glasses.



And she thought that he looked comfortable, and at ease with himself. A
countryman who had finally come home.

She smiled, shut the window, went out of the bathroom, and crossed the
narrow passage into the smaller bedroom for a quick reassessment,
because this would have to be for Lucy.  She eyed it professionally,
trying to decide if there would be space to put a desk for homework.
Which there would, if they replaced the enormous fumed-oak double bed
with a single divan.  The only thing was, it faced north and so was a
bit lightless.  Maybe something could be contrived, on the western
aspect.... She heard the sound of the approaching car, and, going to
peer through the window, saw Sam's Discovery bumping down the drive
from the main road, swinging around the turn, and drawing to a stop at
the open gate.  The back door opened and Lucy tumbled out.

"Elfrida!"

She sounded joyous.  As though everything, for once in her life, was
going to work out.  Feeling ridiculously hopeful and happy, Elfrida
turned and went from the room and ran down the narrow stairway to fling
open the front door and hold wide her arms.  Lucy bolted into them and
was already imparting information, in high excitement, before Elfrida
could say a word.

"Oh, Elfrida, it's all right.  Carrie got hold of Mummy, and she was
frightfully surprised and had to have it all explained to her twice
before she finally understood what we all want to do.  And Carrie was
marvellously persuasive, and told Nicola that she had to think about
herself and Randall, and have a lovely honeymoon, and take her tune
before coming back to England.  And Mummy said that they want to go to
Hawaii for their honeymoon, and then go to Cleveland to see Randall's
other house there, so she'll need masses of time.  And she said it was
very, very kind of you to have me, and I could stay with you."

Elfrida, relieved and delighted as she was, managed to remain
practical.

"What about school?  School in London, I mean."

"Oh, Mummy's going to see to all that.  Ring Miss Maxwell-Brown and
explain, and ask Miss Maxwell-Brown to keep my place open for me next
summer, just in case I want to go back then.  And she wanted to speak
to you, but Carrie said you were here, and Mummy said she'd ring back
and speak to you another time.  Elfrida, isn't this the sweetest house?
What's the old car doing there?"

"Rusting."

"Where's yours?"

"At Rose's."

"We thought maybe you'd flogged it at a garage and bought that one
instead."

"You never thought any such thing."

"Does it go?"

"I don't know."

"Rory will get it started.  Oh, and Elfrida, he's had a letter.  He's
going to Nepal in the middle of the month.  Isn't that exciting?  The
only thing is, he won't be here when I'm here, but he's coming back in
August to be ready for.  University.  Elfrida, is this the
sitting-room?  And look, you've already lit a fire!  It's too cosy.
Where's Oscar?"

"Out in the garden."

"How do I get to him?"

"Through the kitchen.  Out the door..."

With no hanging about, Lucy went, galloping down the garden and calling
Oscar's name.  Then Carrie appeared, staggering through the door with a
huge shopping basket, spouting thermos flasks and bottles slung over
her arm.

"Hefe we all are.  Sorry, I hope we haven't kept you waiting."  She
dumped the basket on the floor, then, straightening up, raised a
clenched fist as a sign of victory.

"Done it," she told Elfrida.

"Got through to Nicola, talked her into a good mood, and everything's
okay.  Parental approval has been bestowed.  Lucy can stay and go to
school in Creagan, and Nicola says she'll be in touch about
contributing a bit of cash to the household for board and lodging."

"I never thought of that," Elfrida admitted.

"No, I don't suppose you did.  And, as well, she will honour

you with her presence next time she comes back to this country.  I
suppose that means driving north in some fantastic car with Randall
Fischer at the wheel, in order to flaunt her newfound riches and cast a
beady eye over you and Oscar...."

"Carrie, don't be unkind."

"She'll probably patronize."

"It doesn't matter.  We've got our way.  Oh, well done."  They hugged
in triumph.  Then Carrie drew away, and her expression became
serious.

"Elfrida, you promise it's not going to be too much for you?"

Elfrida shook her head.

"I don't think so."

"It's a lot you're taking on."

"Don't say that.  Ever."

"What's the house like?"

"Cold.  That's why we lit the fire."

"Can I nose around?"

"Of course."

"Is this the kitchen?"

"Isn't it.  gruesome

"But full of sunshine!  Oh, look, there's Oscar...."  She drifted out
into the garden by way of the kitchen door.

"Oscar!"

Elfrida picked up the basket, humped it into the kitchen, and set it
down on the table.  As she did this, she was joined by Sam, hefting a
grocery box close to his chest.  It looked very heavy.

"Is this all picnic?"  she asked in some amazement.

"A feast.  Where shall I put it?"

"Here, by the basket.  Where's Rory?"

"Trying to deal with Major Billicliffe's old car.  It looks dreadful
standing there.  Have we got the ignition key?"

"I've no idea."

"We can take the brake off and shove it out of the way.  It lowers the
tone of your newly acquired property."  He went to the window and stood
looking down the garden to where Oscar, Carrie, and Lucy had started to
walk back to the house.  He said, "What an amazing view.  It's a good
house, Elfrida.  It's got a good solid feel to it."

And she felt warmed, like a mother whose child is praised for its
beauty.

"That's what I think, too."

The Christmas Eve picnic at Corrydale, the first one they ever had
there, was something of a movable feast.  It started with a glass of
wine by the fireside, in the warmth of the blazing logs, but slowly
progressed out of doors, because the day was so beautiful that it
seemed almost sacrilegious to be inside.  Rory and Lucy were the first
to make their way out into the garden, and the others, one by one,
joined them, to perch on kitchen chairs, or cushions from the sofa, or
the thick rug that Rory fetched from Sam's car.  The air was cold, but
the sun beamed down upon them, and in the shelter of the house there
was no breath of wind.

Carrie and Sam had done a splendid job.  They had brought hot soup
laced with sherry, drunk from mugs; fresh rolls filled with thick
slices of ham and English mustard; a bacon-and-egg quiche; chicken
drumsticks; tomato salad; crisp green apples; and chunks of cheddar
cheese.  Finally a flask of fresh, boiling-hot coffee.

Elfrida, sitting on a cushion with her back against the wall, turned
her face up to the sun and closed her eyes.

"That was the best picnic ever.  Thank you, Carrie.  I feel quite
stunned with wine.  Maddened by drink.  I could be in Majorca."

Oscar laughed.

"Discount the fact that you're still wrapped up in your blanket
coat."

Rory and Lucy, having finished their picnic and shared between them a
large bag of potato crisps and a bar of chocolate, had disappeared,
gone indoors to inspect the layout of the little house.  Now, they
appeared again.

"It's so nice, Oscar," Lucy told him.

"The only thing," said Rory bluntly, "is you're going to have to do
something about the heating problem.  It's arctic."

Carrie protested.

"Rory, it's been standing empty, and there's been snow.  Come on, it's
December.  Nothing's particularly warm in December."

"No," Oscar said firmly.

"Rory's right.  Heating will be our first priority.  Where are you two
off to now?"



"We thought we'd take Horace for a walk, down to the water and the
beach."

Oscar tipped back the last of his coffee.

"I shall come with you."  He had eaten his picnic sitting on the step
of the kitchen door.  Now he set down the mug and held out a hand to
Rory, who took it and pulled Oscar to his feet.

"After that feast, I need exercise.  Who's coming with us?"

"I shall," said Carrie.

"I shan't," said Elfrida firmly.

"Why can't you all sit around, just for a moment?  It's all so
blissfully peaceful."

"If we do, it will be dark before we know it, and too late for a walk.
What about you, Sam?"

"I shall stay with Elfrida.  I would like to do a building
inspection."

Showing Sam Howard around Major Billicliffe's house was quite different
from looking at it with Oscar.  With Oscar, Elfrida had simply gone
from room to room, and ended up grateful that it was neither as poky
nor as decrepit as they had feared.  But Sam was infinitely more
practical and meticulous, just as she had suspected he would be.  He
tapped walls, turned taps, inspected window frames and power points,
and made no comment when she revealed to him the horrors of the
breeze-block bathroom.  Finally they were finished, and back in the
sitting-room.  The fire was dying, so she put another couple of logs on
the embers and stirred it up with a poker.  Sam had said so little,
made so few observations, that she began to feel afraid that, mentally,
he had condemned Oscar's inheritance, and was about to break the news
that, in his opinion, it was unfit for human habitation.

"What do you think, Sam?"  she asked nervously.

"I think it has great possibilities.  And the location is out of this
world ... hang on a moment, I just have to fetch something from the
car.  Is there electricity?  Could we have a light or two on?  It's
beginning to get a bit dark in here...."

When he had gone, she turned on lights.  A faint gleam emanated from an
overhead shade.  Was the bulb on its last legs, or was this simply
another example of Major Billi cliffe's parsimonious life-style?  A
lamp by the fireside, another on the desk.  After that, things looked a
bit better.  When Sam returned she saw that he had brought with him a
yellow scratch-pad and a ball-point pen.

They sat together on the sofa.

"Now," said Sam, reaching into his pocket for his spectacles and
putting them on, "let's talk turkey.  Do you intend living in the place
just as it is, or do you want to change a few things?"

"It depends," said Elfrida cautiously.

"On what?"

"How much it would cost?"

"Supposing ..."  He began to draw a plan on the scratchpad.

"Supposing to begin with, you demolished the existing kitchen and
bathroom.  They're ugly, impractical, and shut out the light from the
south.  And then, I think, you should demolish the wall dividing the
living-room and the lobby ... it's only plasterboard, and doesn't seem
to support anything.  Then you'd have one big, open-plan room.  And my
suggestion would be that you make the dining-room into a kitchen, and
maybe build a small dining area out to the south.  The south and west
walls could be glassed ... you'd get all the view and every ray of sun.
And it would give you a sheltered corner for sitting out.  A little
terrace.  Good for warm summer evenings."

"What would we do about the staircase?"

"Move it around to the back wall."

"And things like fridges and washing machines?  Appliances, I think the
word is."

"Incorporate them into a fitted kitchen.  There's a chimney there
already, so you could install an Aga or a Raeburn.  Continual steady
heat, winter and summer, and if you're visited by a heat wave, which
isn't very likely in this part of the world, you just open all the
doors and windows."

"Would that do instead of central heating?"

"I would reckon so; this house is so well-built, and of stone, that
once you get it properly insulated, it'll stay warm.  As well, you've
got this fire in your sitting-room.  As for the bedrooms, you could put
in electric radiators, and heat your

water by electricity as well.  It's enormously efficient, and if you
have a power cut, you've still got the Aga."

"Bathroom?"

"A new one."  He sketched it in on his rough plan.

"Over the dining room."

"Lucy would have to use it, too."

"No problem."

"The small bedroom, where she would sleep, is terribly dark."

"Once you've got rid of the old bathroom, and the passage, she'd have a
southern wall for another window."

Elfrida gazed at his simple suggestions, all drawn out for her on the
yellow scratch-pad, and was astonished that he had so quickly solved
the dilemma.  And as for a single open-plan living space, she rather
liked it.  She imagined herself and Oscar sitting, just as she was now,
by the fire, with the comfort of a modem kitchen at the far end of the
room.

"The lobby?"  she ventured.

"Get rid of it.  It's simply a draught trap.  But double glazing and a
new front door will keep the cold out."

Elfrida chewed her thumbnail.  She said, "How much will all this
cost?"

"Honestly, I don't know."

"Would it... would it cost more than eighty thousand pounds?"

He laughed, his face creasing up with amusement.

"No, Elfrida.  I don't think it would cost as much as that.  You're
not, after all, rebuilding.  Simply adapting.  The roof seems to be
sound, which is the most important thing.  No sign of damp.  But I
think you should get a surveyor in.  And you'd be better off to have
all the electricity rewired.  Even so, eighty thousand should be more
than adequate."  He took off his spectacles and looked at her.

"Have you got eighty thousand?"

"No.  But I hope to have.  Jamie Erskine-Earle is going to sell my
little clock for me.  We never told you, but apparently it is very
rare.  A collector's piece.  Worth a lot of money.  So I told him to
sell it."

"Eighty thousand?"

"That's what he said.  Top price, eighty-five."

"In that case you have no problems.  I am delighted for you!  Go for
it, Elfrida."

"We'll have to get an architect.  And planning permission.  And things
like that."

"How about the doctor's wife?  Janet Sinclair.  She's an architect.
Give her the job.  The bonus there is that she's local, and she'll know
all the best builders and joiners and plumbers."

"How long will it take?"

"I suppose six months.  I don't know."

"We'll have to stay in the Estate House until it's ready for us to move
in."

"Of course."

"But you, Sam?  You want the Estate House."

"I can wait.  I'm certainly not about to throw you out onto the
streets."

"But you'll be working in Buckly.  So where will you live?"

"I'll be okay."

A brilliant idea occurred to Elfrida, and in her impulsive way, she
immediately shared it with him.

"You can live with us.  At the Estate House.  You and Lucy and Oscar
and me.  You've already got a room there.  You might just as well
stay."

Again, Sam laughed.

"Elfrida, these are the sort of suggestions you should think about very
deeply."

"Why?  Why should I think?"

"Because you may change your mind.  And you must talk it over with
Oscar.  He may not like the idea at all."

"Oh, Oscar will love to have you.  And so shall I. It will be a new job
for me.  Letting out lodgings.  You know, I've been a lot of things in
my time.  An actress, albeit not a very good one.  A waitress, when I
wasn't working.  A lady of not very respectable repute.  A cushion
stitcher.  And now I shall become a landlady.  Oh, please say yes.  I
feel the Estate House is already yours, in a strange way, even though
you don't

own it yet.  As though you were always meant to come and live there.
And that's where you should be."

"Thank you," said Sam.

"In that case, I accept, subject, of course, to Oscar's approval."

The sun was beginning to dip down out of the sky by the time the
walkers returned.  Oscar and Carrie were first, with Horace, who was
badly in need of a cooling drink.

"How was it?"  Elfrida asked, searching a cupboard for a suitable bowl
for a dog.

"Perfect," Carrie told her, unknotting her scarf.

"Such a heavenly place.  And all the birds down on the shore!  Ducks
and cormorants and gulls ... how did you and Sam get on?"

"Sam is brilliant.  He's practically drawn the plans.  You must come
and look, Oscar.  We hardly have to do anything.  Just knock bits down
and build other bits, and get rid of a wall and find an Aga.  Don't
gape, Oscar, it's all very straightforward.  And we'll ask Janet
Sinclair to be our architect.  And Sam says we must have it all
surveyed and rewired, but he doesn't think there's a thing wrong
anywhere ... come and see...."

It was half an hour before Rory and Lucy finally joined them, by which
time Oscar had seen and listened to all Sam's ideas, been persuaded,
and given his consent.  Carrie approved as well.

"You know, I've always loved the idea of an open-plan ground floor,
specially in a small house.  And with the new extension, it means
you'll get masses more light.  Sam, you are clever.  You actually are
very clever.  How did you learn so much about knocking down walls and
drawing plans?"

"For the last two months I've been living with plans and projects and
elevations and architects' blueprints.  I'd be pretty dumb if I hadn't
absorbed a bit of know-how...."

Now the light was fading.  Carrie looked at her watch and said that it
was time to go back to Creagan.  Lucy still had to finish laying the
table for Christmas dinner, and Carrie was going to cook a large and
satisfying dish that they could eat that evening.

"Are we going to Midnight Service, Elfrida?"

"I think so.  Oscar doesn't want to come, but I'll go."

"Me, too.  And Lucy and Sam are coming as well.  We'll have a late
meal, otherwise it's a very long evening."

Oscar said, "We'll play cards.  I found some packs of cards in the
bottom drawer of the bookcase.  Who knows how to play three-pack
Canasta?"

"Samba, you mean?"  said Sam.  "7 know how.  There was a great craze
for it in New York when I was there."

"I can't play," said Lucy.

"Never mind," he told her.

"You can play with me."

Eventually, having packed up the remains of the picnic, found hats and
gloves, and generally sorted themselves out, the first party took their
leave in Sam's car.  Elfrida, Oscar, and Horace were left behind, to
lock up and follow later, but they went out of doors to see the others
off.

By now, at only four o'clock, the blue dusk had crept in, and a fine
new moon, delicate as an eyelash, hung above them in the sapphire sky.
The snow-capped hills became almost luminous in the strange half-light,
and the ebbing tide was draining the firth, revealing sweeps of beach
and sandbank.  Curlews still flew, skimming the shore, but other birds
were silent, their song finished for the day.

The big Discovery, tail-lights shining, disappeared up the drive. Oscar
and Elfrida waited by the door until they could hear the sound of its
engine no longer, and then turned and went back inside.

Elfrida said, "I don't want to go.  I don't want to leave.  I don't
want today to end."

"Then we'll stay for a little."

"If I had any tea, I would make you a cup."

"We'll have one when we get back."

He sank tiredly down on the sofa, where, earlier, Sam Howard had sat.
He had walked, with the young ones, farther than he intended, and felt
weary.  Elfrida put the last bit of wood on the fire and then sat
opposite him, stretching her cold fingers to the blaze.

She said, "We will live here, won't we, Oscar?"

"If you want."



"I do.  But do you?"

"Yes.  I admit, I did have reservations, but now that I have seen it
again, and Sam has come up with all these ideas and possibilities, I
think it is exactly what we should do."

"It's exciting.  A new start.  Architects and builders, and everything
made new.  One of my most favourite smells is that of wet plaster.  And
the next most favourite is the smell of fresh paint."

"Furniture?"

"We can manage with what's here for the time being.  Maybe look around,
pick up some pretty bits at auction.  The first priority is to get the
place the way we want it.  Warm and light and airy.  With an Aga, and a
good-looking kitchen.  Warmth is the most important.  I can't imagine
how Major Billicliffe lived here for so long without dying of
hypothermia."

"He was one of the old school.  A thick tweed jacket and long woolly
underfugs, and no nonsense about feeling the cold."

"You won't ever be like that, will you, Oscar?  I couldn't bear it if
you started wearing long woolly underfugs."

"No.  With a bit of luck I won't ever do that."

The shadows lengthened.  Beyond the window, the bare trees faded into
the darkness.  Elfrida sighed.

"I suppose we should go.  I mustn't leave everything to Carrie...."

But Oscar said, "Wait.  I want to talk."

"What about?"

"Us."

"But-" She had been about to say, We've been talking about us all day,
but Oscar interrupted her.

"Just listen.  Just listen to me."  And his voice sounded so serious
and intent that she got up from her chair and went to sit beside him,
close, on the old sofa, and he put out his hand and laid it upon her
own.  And she remembered his doing this once before, as they sat at the
kitchen table at the Grange, with Gloria and Francesca dead, and
neither of them able to find the words to comfort each other.

"I'm listening," she told him.

"This is a new step we're going to take.  Together.  A real commitment.
Doing up this house, spending serious money, and coming to live here.
As well, for the foreseeable future, Lucy is coming, too.  Don't you
think perhaps the time has come for us to get married?  To be man and
wife?  It's a formality, I know, because if we tried, we could scarcely
be more married than we already are.  But it would put a seal on our
union ... not in a moral sense, but an affirmation of our trust in the
future."

Elfrida realized that her stupid eyes were filling with tears.

"Oh, Oscar...."  She drew her hand away and began to search for her
handkerchief.  Old people, she had once told him, look hideous when
they cry.  "... You don't need to do this.  It's only months since they
died.  So little time to grieve and recover.  And you mustn't think of
me ... because I'm not that sort of person.  I will stay with you
happily for the rest of my life, but I don't want you to feel you have
to marry me...."

"I don't feel that.  I love you and I honour you just the way things
are, and I don't suppose either of us gives a jot what other people
think or choose to say.  All things being equal, I should happily
settle for carrying on just the way things are.  But we now have Lucy
to consider."

"What difference does she make to how we live our lives?"

"Oh, my dearest Elfrida, just think.  So far the people of Creagan have
accepted us with great kindness, even forbearance.  No questions.  Not
a single soul has cast a stone, not even a tiny pebble.  But for Lucy
it is different.  She is going to the local school.  Children are not
always very kind.  Rumours can be started, and even in this day and
age, parents can be mean-spirited.  I wouldn't want any of that sort of
thing to rub off on Lucy.  As well, we have Nicola's new husband to
consider.  We know nothing about him, and he's probably a perfectly
decent chap, but he might turn out to be one of those high-minded
individuals with a strong and unforgiving moral code.  Sometime Nicola
is bringing him to visit us.  We don't want to give either of them a
valid reason

for spiriting Lucy off to Cleveland, Ohio, against her will."

"You mean, he wouldn't want to leave her with us, simply because we
live in sin?"

"Exactly so."

"So for her sake, we should be married."

"Put baldly, yes."

"But Gloria ..."

"Gloria, of all women, would understand."

"It's such a short time, Oscar."

"I know."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I am sure.  Because one thing is truly certain, and that is that
you have helped me to start again, and it is you who have made a dark
and painful time not only bearable and possible, but even joyful as
well.  I think you carry joy around with you.  We can't go back.  Life,
for both of us, can never be the same as it was, but it can be
different; and you have proved to me that it can be good.  I told you a
long time ago that you could always make me laugh.  As well, you have
made me love you.  Now, I cannot imagine an existence without you.
Please marry me.  If I wasn't feeling so bloody stiff, I'd get down on
one knee."

"I'd hate you to do that."  Elfrida, having at last found her
handkerchief, now blew her nose.

"But I'd like to marry you very, very much.  Thank you for asking me."
She put her handkerchief away, and once more he took her hand.

"So.  We are betrothed.  Shall we break the news or keep it to
ourselves?"

"Let's keep it to ourselves.  Secretly relish.  Just for the time
being."

"You are right.  There is so much going on.  Let us get Christmas
behind us, and then I shall take you to Kingsferry and buy you a
diamond ring, and after that, we can announce our happiness to the
world."

"I have to be truthful," Elfrida admitted.

"I'm not all that mad on diamonds."

"Then what would you like me to buy you?"

"An Aquamarine?"

And Oscar laughed, and kissed her.  And they might have sat on, in the
gloaming, for the rest of the evening, but the last of the logs had
burnt out, and the house, with the sun gone, grew cold again.  It was
time to leave.  Outside, the air, so quickly, had chilled and it was
winter again.  A wind stirred from the north, shivering the leafless
branches of the big beech tree that stood opposite their gate.

Elfrida, her hands deep in the pockets of her coat, looked about her.
The moon was rising, the first star pricked.

"We'll be back," she said, to no one in particular.

"Of course."  Oscar locked his front door, took her arm, and with
Horace at their heels, they walked, in the deep-blue evening light,
down the pebbled path.

Christmas Eve

It's nearly eight o'clock in the evening, and there's still masses to
do.  I must write everything down, otherwise it will be lost forever.
So much has happened.  The worst was Mummy ringing yesterday in the
middle of Elfrida's party to say that she has married Randall Fischer.
I think it was the worst thing that ever happened to me, because all I
could think about was having to go and live in America, and lose all my
friends, or else have to live with Gran in London on my own.  And not
fit in or be wanted in either place.  It was really dire.  I had
horrible hysterics and made myself feel quite ill and was beastly to
Carrie, but that's all over now.

Anyway, now it is all sorted out, and I'm going to stay here, in
Creagan, with Elfrida and Oscar for the time being, and go to
day-school in Creagan.  Rory was the one who told everybody that I must
do this, and I am so pleased that he and I had time to talk, when he
was fixing the television.  So that he knew exactly how I felt, even if
nobody else did.  I think he is really my best friend.  He is going to
Nepal in the mid

die of next month and is tremendously excited about it.  I shall miss
him, but will see him again, I am sure, when he gets back in August.
Whatever has happened by then, I shall make a point of seeing him, and
I shall be fifteen then.  Fifteen sounds much older than fourteen.

So this morning I woke up and knew that everything was going to be all
right, and it was like having a huge weight off my mind.  Carrie rang
Gran and told her about our plans, and she went along with them; and
then later she rang Mummy in Florida, and with a bit of coaxing,
persuaded her, too.  Actually, it didn't take very long.  And then I
had a chat with Mummy, and managed not to sound too delighted, in case
she took offence and changed her mind.

So then Rory appeared, and we got a picnic together, and Sam drove us
over to Corrydale.  I have always longed to go there and see it all. It
is beautiful and it was a beautiful day, with no clouds or wind and
really quite warm.  Oscar's little house is too sweet, tucked away on
the estate with a few other little houses in view, great big trees, and
a long view of the water and over hills.  It was tremendously quiet:
only bird-song, and no sound of traffic or anything.  The house isn't
very big and is fairly shabby and dreadfully cold, but Oscar had lit a
fire which made it look cosy.  There are only two bedrooms, and the one
I shall have is a bit gloomy, but Elfrida says it will be better when
they have done a few alterations.  Sam thought up lots of clever ideas,
and when it is finished it will look really nice.  It has a garden, a
bit weedy, and a sort of little terrace where we all went out and ate
our picnic.  Elfrida says there are other children, called Cowper, who
live nearby at the farm, and they go to the Creagan school, too; so
maybe when term starts, I can get a lift in the mornings with them.

We all came back with Sam, and left Rory at the Manse and then came
home.  Carrie made a huge dish called an egg tortilla for us to have
for supper: it has potatoes and leeks in it, and eggs, bacon, and heaps
of other delicious things.  While she did this, I finished laying the
table for Christmas dinner, and put on the candles and the crackers and
dishes of chocolate, and folded the napkins.  There's a bowl of holly
in the middle of the table and it looks really festive, and when we've
lit the fire, will look exactly right, like a Christmas card.  Carrie
said all that was missing was a Jolly Cardinal.

Then we 're going to play cards to fill in the long evening, and then
we 're all going to Midnight Service, except Oscar, who says he doesn
't want to come.

I don't know how long it will be before they are able to move to
Corrydale, because of all the work that has to be done there.  I would
love to be there in the summer, but Elfrida says we "II have to see.
Meantime, it's lovely here.  And Sam is going to come and be our lodger
until everything is sorted out.

I can't believe that I could be so miserable and despairing one day,
and so utterly happy the next.

The next time I write in my diary, Christmas will be over.

Elfrida endeavoured to fan out her enormous hand of cards, and at the
same time decide what she was going to throw away.  She had run out of
twos and threes, and was now in the uncomfortable position of trying to
work out whether or not Carrie had a pair in her hand, and if so, a
pair of what?  The discard pack was too large for comfort, they were
nearing the end of the game, and if Carrie picked it up now, Elfrida
and Sam would be defeated.

"Come along now, Elfrida."  Oscar was getting tired of the long wait.

"Be brave.  Throw something you don't want."

So she gritted her teeth, threw the eight of hearts, and waited
anxiously for Carrie to let out a shout of glee and pounce.  But Carrie
shook her head, and Elfrida relaxed with a sigh of relief.



"I can't stand the nerves!  If I wasn't going to church, I should have
another large drink."

It was now ten past eleven, and they were on the last hand.  So far,
Sam and Elfrida were ahead on points, but the tension would continue
until the final card was turned.  Elfrida had played Samba long ago,
when limbo was still alive, and they had sometimes whiled away the
evening with a couple of friends.  But she had forgotten some of the
rules, and it was not until she started playing again that the old
tricks and shibboleths came back to her.  Oscar and Sam were both old
hands and up to all the nuances of the game, but Carrie and Lucy were
starters.  Carrie quickly picked it up, and Lucy played with Sam, who
was kindly and patient about explaining; and by the end of the first
hand he was allowing her to make the choices of discard, and not
becoming annoyed when she made the wrong one.

Carrie picked up two cards, put them into her hand, and was then able
to finish a Samba.  Oscar let out a grunt of approval.  She threw the
four of spades.

"If you pick that up, Sam, I shall strangle you with my bare hands."

"I can't."

Lucy said, "There are only four cards left."

"When they're finished, the game's done," Sam told her.

"Pick two up, Lucy, and see what we've got...."

From the landing, the telephone rang.

Oscar said, "That damned telephone.  Who's ringing us at this hour?"

Elfrida said, "I'll go."

But Oscar already had laid down his cards and was getting to his feet.
He went out of the room, closing the door behind him.  Elfrida heard
him say, "Estate House."

And then silence, as the caller spoke, and then a murmured reply.  The
next moment, he was back with them, settling down in his place on the
window-seat, picking up his cards again.

Elfrida was curious.

"Who was it?"

"Nothing much.  A mistake."

"You mean, wrong number?"

Oscar gazed at his cards.

Sam said, "If you've the wrong number, why did you answer the phone?"
And Lucy giggled at the old joke, sitting with her head to one side,
trying to decide what she should throw.

In the end, they ran out of cards, and nobody won.  But Sam pulled the
score-pad towards him, totted up all the figures, and announced that he
and Elfrida were the overall winners, and that he hoped that Oscar was
about to come up with a valuable prize.

"I am about to do no such thing," Oscar informed him with dignity.

"You were extremely lucky and held all the best cards; nothing to do
with skill."  And with that, he laid his cards on the table and got to
his feet.  He said, "I'm going to take Horace for a walk."

Elfrida stared at him in some astonishment.  He often took Horace out
into the garden last thing at night, but never for a walk.

"A walk?  Where are you going?  Down to the beach?"

"I don't know.  I just feel the need of some fresh air and to stretch
my legs.  Horace might as well come with me.  I may not be back by the
time you set off for church, but leave the door open, and I'll still be
up when you all return.  Have a good time.  Sing nicely, Lucy."

"I will," she promised him.

He left them, closing the door behind him.

Elfrida's expression was puzzled.

"Funny.  You'd have thought he'd had enough exercise today to last him
for a week."

"Oh, leave him, Elfrida," said Carrie, gathering up all the cards and
starting to sort them out into three separate packs, one blue, one red,
and one flowered.

"Help me, Lucy.  You can do the flowered ones.  I think that's a
marvelous game.  There comes a subtle moment when you stop playing
Samba and start playing Canasta.  The scoring's a bit complicated,
though.  You'll have to write it down for me, Sam, so that I don't
forget."

"I'll do that."



The cards were sorted, stacked, and put away.  Elfrida went around the
room puffing up cushions and picking up newspapers from the floor.  The
fire was low, but she left it, and stood the guard in front of the
smouldering wood ashes.

"We shouldn't be too long making our way, I think.  There's bound to be
a huge congregation, and we want to be able to get a seat."

"It's like going to the theatre," said Lucy.

"Will it be cold in the church?  Should I wear my red jacket?"

"Yes, definitely, and your warm boots."

Alone in her bedroom, Elfrida combed her hair, put on a bit more
lipstick, and sprayed herself with scent.  Then she took her blanket
coat from the wardrobe, buttoned it up, and put on her tea-cosy hat.
She sat on the bed and pulled on her fur-lined boots.  Some money for
the collection.  A handkerchief in case she felt emotionally touched by
carols, and a pair of gloves.

All ready.  She surveyed her reflection in the long mirror.  Elfrida
Phipps, soon to become Mrs.  Oscar Blundell.  She thought that she
looked terrific.  Here I come, God.  And thanks.

She went out of her room and downstairs to the kitchen, to check that
all was in order for Christmas morning, and that she hadn't left the
gas on, or the kettle boiling itself dry, which she quite often did.
And in the kitchen, in his basket, she found Horace.

She frowned.

"Horace, I thought Oscar had taken you for a walk."

He gazed at her and thumped his tail.

"Did he leave you behind?"

Horace closed his eyes.

"Where's he gone?"

Horace did not tell her.

She went upstairs again and into the sitting-room.

"Oscar?"  But the sitting-room was dark, empty, and all the lights
switched off.  No Oscar.

On the landing she found Sam, pulling on his good navyblue overcoat.

"Oscar's disappeared."

"He's walking Horace," Sam reminded her.

"No, Horace is back in the kitchen.  In his basket.  It's a mystery!"

Sam grinned.

"Oscar's probably sneaked off to the pub."

"What a suggestion."

"Don't worry.  He's a big boy now."

"I'm not worrying."  And of course she wasn't.  Just puzzled as to
where Oscar could possibly have taken himself.

Lucy ran downstairs from her attic.

"All ready, Elfrida.  Do we need collection?"

"Yes.  Have you got any?"

"Is a pound enough?"

"Fine.  Where's Carrie?"

"She's still getting ready."

"Well, you and I will go, Lucy, and bag a pew for the four of us....
Sam, will you wait for Carrie, and come over with her?"

"Of course ..."

Elfrida and Lucy ran downstairs.  Sam heard them open and slam shut the
big front door.

He stood there on the landing, in the emptied house, and waited for
Carrie.  Soft sounds came from behind her closed bedroom door: drawers
being opened, a cupboard door shut.  He felt no sense of impatience. He
had waited, during the course of his life, for countless women to
appear-sitting at bars, standing around in the foyers of theatres,
whiling away the time at the table of some small Italian restaurant. He
had waited, more times than he could remember, for Deborah, who had
never been punctual for anything.  So now, in the house which would,
one day, belong to him, he waited for Carrie.

"Oh, Sam."  She came out of her room, slammed shut the door behind her,
saw him there, and looked a bit abashed.

"Are you waiting for me?  I am sorry.  I couldn't find my silk scarf."
She wore her loden coat, her fur hat, her long, shining boots.  The
errant scarf, all pinks and blues, was softly wound around her slender
throat, and although all of this was by now dearly familiar to him, he
knew that he had never seen her more beautiful.

"Where are the others?  Have they already gone ... ?"

He said, "Yes," and put his hands on her shoulders, drew her close, and
kissed her.  Something he had been longing to do ever since that first
night, when she had opened the door to him, and found him standing on
the doorstep in the falling snow.  So, now, it took a long time.  When
at last they drew apart, he saw that she was smiling, and her dark eyes
had never seemed so lustrous.

He said, "Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas, Sam.  Time to go."

Elfrida and Lucy crossed the street.  The square, lamplit, was already
busy with cars arriving and people walking, converging on the church.
There was, it was clear, going to be a huge congregation.  Voices
called out, country people greeting each other, falling into step as
they made their way.

"Elfrida!"

They stopped and saw Tabitha, Rory and Clodagh behind them, having
walked down the steep lane from the Manse.

"Hello!  I thought we were early, but it seems we're not.  I've never
seen so many people...."

"I know, it's fun, isn't it?"  Tabitha wore a tartan coat and had wound
a red muffler around her neck.

"It's always like this.  People come for miles.... The only thing is,
we've had a bit of a setback.  Alistair Heggie, the organist, has got
flu, so we won't have any proper music."

Elfrida was horrified.

"You mean, we've got to sing carols unaccompanied?  I can't bear
it...."

"Not quite.  Peter rang Bill Croft, the television man, and he's come
to the rescue and set up a ghetto blaster, and we're going to use taped
music.  It's a bit of a come-down, but better than nothing."

"Oh, that is disappointing ... poor Peter."

"Oh, it can't be helped.  Come on, with a bit of luck we'll get a pew
to ourselves."

They crossed the street to the wide gates and the path beyond, which
led to the wide flight of stone steps and the double doors of the
church.  Tonight, these had been flung wide open. Light from inside
streamed out onto the cobbles, and Elfrida could hear the taped music
from within the church.  A choir.  Singing carols.

"God rest ^ou, wcttj ^ent\emen, Let nothing you dismay."

It sounded a bit mechanical and tinny.  A bit, thought Elfrida, like a
portable gramophone played on a picnic.  Inappropriate and somehow
inadequate.

"For Jesus Christ our"

Silence.  Either the tape player had broken down, or some person had
inadvertently switched off the electricity.

"Oh, no!"  said Rory.

"Don't say the ghetto blaster's got flu."

And then it started.  A great surge of sound from the organ.  Huge
chords and waves of music filled the church, overflowed out through the
open doors, resounded up and out into the night.

Elfrida stopped dead.  She looked at Tabitha, and Tabitha's eyes were
wide and innocent.  For a long moment, neither of them spoke.  Then
Elfrida said, "Did Peter ring Oscar?  About a quarter past eleven?"

Tabitha shrugged.

"No idea.  Come on, kids, see if we can find somewhere to sit."

And she turned and ran up the steps, with her two children and Lucy at
her heels.

After a moment, Elfrida followed.  A nice man with a beard was waiting
for her.  He said, "Good evening, Mrs.  Phipps," and handed her a
hymn-book.  She took it automatically, neither looking at him nor
thanking him.  She walked into the church and saw that it was already
nearly filled, the congregation shuffling into their places, leaning to
chat to neighbours or to others sitting behind them.  The music
thundered all about her, filling the huge void of the soaring

arched ceiling, echoing down the long nave.  She began to walk down the
centre aisle, which was paved in red and blue.  Walking in to the music
was like stepping into a pounding sea of sound.

A hand touched her arm.  She stopped.

"Elfrida.  Here."  It was Lucy.

"We're keeping seats for you and Sam and Carrie."

She took no notice.  Did not move.

The Christmas tree, lavishly decorated and twinkling with lights, stood
in the middle of the transept, between the pulpit and the lectern.
Beyond this, against the north wall of the church, the organ pipes
soared.  The organist's seat was enclosed by an oaken stall, so that he
was not visible to the seated assembly.  But Elfrida was standing.  And
she was tall.  An overhead spotlight shone down upon him, and she could
clearly see his head, his profile, and the thick white hair, rendered
unruly by the unselfconscious exuberance of his own performance.

Beethoven.

"Ode to Joy."

And Oscar Blundell, playing his heart out.  Reconciled.  Returned. Back
where he belonged.

ROSAMUNDE PILCHER has had a long and distinguished career as a
novelist and short-story writer, but it was her phenomenally successful
novel The Shell Seekers that captured the hearts of all who read it and
won her international recognition as one of the most-loved storytellers
of our time.  Hie Midi Seekers was followed by September and then hv
Coming Hmt and Winter Solstice, which were also immediately embraced by
Mrs.  Pitcher's devoted readers to become worldwide bestsellers.  She
lives in Perthshire, Scotland, with her husband, Graham, and their
dachshund, Daisy.