For, out of the past, Caleb Ash turned up with his girlfriend Iris, two guitars, a Siamese cat and nowhere to live.
“And who,” asked Shaun, “is Caleb Ash?”
“Oh, he was a friend of Gerald Cliburn’s in Aphros. One of those people who are always just on the verge of doing something, like writing a novel or painting a mural, or starting in business or building a hotel. But they never do. Anyway, Caleb’s the laziest man in the world.”
“And Mrs Ash?”
“Iris. And they’re not married.”
“Don’t you want to have them in the flat?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I think they’ll be an unsettling influence on Jody.”
“Will he remember them?”
“Of course. They were always in and out of our house.”
“And you didn’t like him?”
“I didn’t say that, Shaun. You can’t help liking Caleb Ash, he has all the charm in the world. But I don’t know, living at the bottom of the garden like that…”
“Can they pay the rent?”
“He says so.”
“Will they turn the place into a pigsty?”
“Not at all. Iris is very house-proud. Always polishing floors and stirring stews in great copper pots.”
“You make my mouth water. Let them have the place. They’re friends from the old days, you shouldn’t lose all your links, and I don’t see how his being there can do Jody any harm at all…”
* * *
And so Caleb and Iris and the cat and the guitars and the cooking-pots moved into the Stable Cottage, and Diana gave them a little bit of ground to make a garden, and Caleb paved it and grew a camellia in a pot and thus managed, out of nothing, to create a nostalgic Mediterranean ambience.
Jody, naturally enough, adored him, but from the start he was warned by Diana that he must visit Caleb and Iris only when he was invited, otherwise there was the danger that he would make a nuisance of himself. And Katy came out strongly anti-Caleb, especially when, by means of the local grapevine, she latched on to the fact that Caleb and Iris were not married and never likely to be.
“You’re not going down the garden to see that Mr Ash again, are you?”
“He asked me, Katy. Sukey the cat’s had kittens.”
“More of them Siamese things?”
“Well, they aren’t, actually. She had an affair with the tabby who lives at number eight in the mews, and they’re a sort of mixture. Caleb says they’ll stay that way.”
Katy busied herself with a kettle. She was put out. “Well, I don’t know, I’m sure.”
“I thought we might have had one.”
“Not one of them nasty yawling things. Anyway, Mrs Carpenter doesn’t want no animals around this house. You’ve heard her often enough. No animals. And a cat is animals so that’s that.”
* * *
The morning after the dinner-party, Caroline and Jody Cliburn emerged from the garden door at the back of the house, and walked down the flagged path towards the Stable Cottage. They made no pretence of concealing themselves. Diana was out and Katy in the kitchen … which faced out over the street … preparing lunch. They knew, moreover, that Caleb was in, for they had telephoned to ask if they could come over and he had said that he would be waiting for them.
The morning was cold, windy, very bright. The blue sky was reflected in puddles which had collected on the damp paving stones, and the sun was dazzling. It had been a long winter. Now, only the first green stumps of bulbs protruded from the black flowerbeds. All else was brown and withered and seemingly dead.
“Last year,” said Caroline, “at this time, there were crocuses. All over the place.”
But Caleb’s little patch of garden was more sheltered and sunny and there were already daffodils bobbing in his green-painted troughs, and some snowdrops clustered around the base of the sooty-barked almond tree in the middle of the patio.
Access to the flat was by an outside staircase which rose to a wide, decked terrace, rather like the balcony of a Swiss chalet. Caleb had heard their approaching voices, and when they ran up the steps was already out on the balcony to greet them, his hands on the wooden rail, looking like the skipper of some island caique, welcoming guests aboard.
And indeed, he had lived for so many years on Aphros that his features had taken on a strongly Greek cast, much as the faces of people who have been married for many years will grow alike. His eyes were so deep set that it was almost impossible to guess their colour, his face was brown, much lined, his nose a jutting prow, his hair thick and grey and curly. His voice was deep and rich. It always made Caroline think of rough wine and fresh new bread and the smell of garlic in a salad.
“Jody. Caroline.” He embraced them, one in each arm, and kissed them both with a wonderfully Greek lack of restraint. No one ever kissed Jody except, sometimes, Caroline. Diana, with her usual perception, guessed how much he hated it. But with Caleb it was different, a respectful salute of affection, man to man.
“What a pleasant surprise! Come along in. I’ve put the coffee-pot on.”
In the days of the American diplomat the little flat had had an air of New England neatness, cool and polished. Now, under Iris’s unmistakable influence, it was uncontrived, and colourful; unframed canvases lined the walls, a mobile of coloured glass hung from the ceiling, a Greek shawl had been flung over Diana’s carefully chosen chintzes. The room was very warm and smelled of coffee.
“Where’s Iris?”
“Out shopping.” He pushed up a chair. “Sit down. I’ll get the coffee.”
Caroline sat down. Jody followed Caleb and presently they returned, Jody carrying a tray with three mugs and the sugar bowl, and Caleb with his coffee-pot. Room was found for all this on a low table in front of the fire, and they settled themselves around it.
“You’re not in trouble?” Caleb asked cautiously. He was always wary of getting on the wrong side of Diana.
“Oh no,” said Caroline automatically. But, on thought, she amended this. “At least not really.”
“Tell me,” said Caleb. So Caroline told him. About the letter from Angus and Jody not wanting to go to Canada, and the ideas he had for finding his brother again.
“So we’ve decided to go to Scotland. Tomorrow. That’s Tuesday.”
Caleb said. “Are you going to tell Diana?”
“She’d talk us out of it. You know she would. But we’ll leave her a letter.”
“And Hugh?”
“Hugh would talk me out of it as well.”
Caleb frowned. “Caroline, you’re meant to be marrying the man in a week.”
“I am marrying him.”
Caleb said “Hmm” as though he scarcely believed her. He looked down at Jody, sitting beside him. “And you. What about you? What about school?”
“School finished on Friday. This is holidays.”
Caleb said “Hmm” again. Caroline became apprehensive. “Caleb, don’t you dare to say you don’t approve.”
“Of course I don’t approve. It’s an insane idea. If you want to talk to Angus, why don’t you telephone?”
“Jody doesn’t want to. It’s too complicated trying to explain something like this over the telephone.”
“And anyway,” said Jody, “you can’t persuade people on the telephone.”
Caleb grinned wryly. “You mean you think Angus will take some persuading? I agree with you. You’re going to ask him to come to London, set up house, change his entire life style.”
Jody ignored this. “So we can’t telephone,” he said stubbornly.
“And I suppose writing a letter would take too long?”
Jody nodded.
“Telegram?”
Jody shook his head.
“Well, that seems to have taken care of the alternatives. Which brings us to the next point. How are you going to get to Scotland?”
Caroline said, in what she hoped was a winning fashion, “That’s one of th
e reasons, Caleb, we wanted to talk it over with you. You see, we have to have a car, and we can’t take Diana’s. But if we had your little car, the Mini van, if you could spare it … You and Iris? I mean, you don’t use it that much and we’ll take the most tremendous care of it.”
“My car? And what am I meant to say when Diana comes storming down the garden with a long string of uncomfortable questions?”
“You could say it had gone to be serviced. It’s only a tiny white lie.”
“It’s more than a white lie, it’s tempting Providence. That car’s not been serviced since I bought it seven years ago. Suppose it breaks down?”
“We’ll risk it.”
“And money?”
“I’ve got enough.”
“And when do you reckon on getting back?”
“Thursday, or Friday. With Angus.”
“You’re hopeful. What if he won’t come?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
Caleb stood up, restless and undecided. He went to the window to see if Iris was coming, to help him extricate himself from this hideous dilemma. But there was no sign of her. He told himself that these were the children of his best friend. He sighed. “If I agree to help you and if I do lend you my car, it’s only because I think it’s time for Angus to shoulder a few responsibilities. I think he should come back.” He turned to face them. “But I have to know where you’re going. The address. How long you’ll be…”
“The Strathcorrie Arms, Strathcorrie. And if we aren’t back by Friday, you can tell Diana where we’ve gone. But not before.”
“All right.” Caleb nodded his great head and looked as though he were about to put it into a noose. “It’s a deal.”
They composed a telegram to Angus.
WE WILL BE AT STRATHCORRIE ON TUESDAY EVENING TO DISCUSS IMPORTANT PLAN WITH YOU LOVE JODY AND CAROLINE.
This done, Jody wrote a letter which would be left behind for Diana.
Dear Diana.
I had a letter from Angus and he is in Scotland so Caroline and I have gone to look for him. We will try to be home by Friday. Please don’t worry.
But the letter for Hugh was not so easy and Caroline struggled over its composition for an hour or more.
Dearest Hugh.
As Diana will have told you, Jody had a letter from Angus. He came home from India by sea, and is now working in Scotland. We both feel it is important that we should see him before Jody goes to Canada and so by the time you get this we will be on our way to Scotland. We hope to be back in London on Friday.
I would have discussed it with you but you would have been duty bound to tell Diana and then we should have been talked out of going and would never have seen him. And it is important to us that he knows what is going to happen.
I know it is a terrible thing to do, going off like this the week of our wedding without telling you. But all being well, we’ll be home on Friday.
My love,
Caroline.
By the Tuesday morning, the first fine flurry of snow had fallen and then stopped, leaving the ground speckled like the feathers of a hen. The wind, however, had not let up at all, the cold was still extreme and from the look of the lowering, khaki-coloured sky, there was worse weather to come.
Oliver Cairney took one look at it, and decided that it was a good day to stay indoors and try and sort out some of Charles’s affairs. It proved a poignant business. Charles, efficient and painstaking, had neatly filed every letter and document relevant to the working of the farm. Tying up the estate was going to be simpler than he had feared.
But there were other things as well. Personal things. Letters and invitations, an out-of-date passport, hotel bills and photographs, Charles’s address book, his diary, the silver fountain pen he had been given for his twenty-first, a bill from his tailor.
Oliver remembered his mother’s voice, reading aloud a poem to them; Alice Duer Miller.
What do you do with a woman’s shoes.
After a woman is dead?
Steeling himself, he tore up the letters, sorted the photographs, threw away stubs of sealing wax, ends of string, a broken lock without a key, a dried-up bottle of India ink. By the time the clock struck eleven, the wastepaper basket was overflowing and he had just got up to collect the rubbish and cart it out into the kitchen when he heard the slam of the front door. It was half-glassed and made a cavernous sound which echoed around the panelled hall. Carrying the wastepaper basket, he went out to see who it was, and came face to face with Liz Fraser walking down the passage towards him.
“Liz.”
She wore trousers and a short fur coat; the same black hat that she had worn yesterday, pulled deep over her ears. As he watched, she took it off and with the other hand ruffled up her short dark hair. It was an oddly nervous, uncertain gesture, entirely at odds with her sleek appearance. Her face was rosy from the cold and she was smiling. She looked marvellous.
“Hallo, Oliver.”
She reached his side, leaned over the mound of crumpled paper to kiss his cheek. She said, “If you don’t want to see me, say so, and I’ll go away again.”
“Who said I didn’t want to see you?”
“I thought maybe—”
“Well, don’t think maybe. Come and I’ll make you a cup of coffee. I need one myself and I’m tired of being on my own.”
He led the way towards the kitchen, pushing the swing-door open with the seat of his pants, letting her go ahead of him, with her long legs and her fresh, open-air smell all mingled up with Chanel No. 5. “Put the kettle on,” he told her. “I’ll go and get rid of this lot.”
He went through the kitchen, out of the back door and into the bitter cold, managed to get his load out of the wastepaper basket and into the dustbin without too much of it blowing away, crammed the lid back on the dustbin and returned thankfully to the warmth of the kitchen. Liz, looking incongruous, was at the sink, filling the kettle from the tap.
Oliver said, “My God, it’s cold!”
“I know and this is meant to be spring. I walked over from Rossie Hill and I thought I would die.” She carried the kettle over to the Aga, lifted the heavy lid, and placed the kettle on the hob. She stayed by the stove, turning to lean against its warmth. Across the room they faced each other. Then they spoke at the same time.
“You’ve had your hair cut,” said Oliver.
“I’m sorry about Charles,” said Liz.
They both stopped, waiting for the other to go on. Then Liz said, looking confused, “I had it done for swimming. I’ve been staying with this friend in Antigua.”
“I wanted to thank you for coming yesterday.”
“I … I’ve never been to a funeral before.”
Her eyes, ringed with eye-liner and black mascara, were suddenly bright with unshed tears. The short, elegant haircut exposed the length of her neck and the clear line of the determined chin that she had inherited from her father. As he watched, she began to undo the buttons of her fur coat, and her hands were brown too, the almond-shaped nails painted a very pale pink, and she wore a thick gold signet ring and a cluster of fine gold bracelets on one slender wrist.
He said, inadequately, “Liz, you’ve grown up.”
“Of course. I’m twenty-two now. Had you forgotten?”
“How long is it since I’ve seen you?”
“Five years? It’s five years at least.”
“What’s happened to the time?”
“You were in London. I went to Paris, and every time I came back to Rossie Hill, you were always away.”
“But Charles was here.”
“Yes. Charles was here.” She fiddled with the lid of the kettle. “But if Charles ever noticed my appearance, he certainly never remarked on it.”
“He noticed all right. He was just never very good at saying what he felt. Anyway, to Charles, you were always perfect. Even when you were fifteen with pigtails and bulging jeans. He was only waiting for you to grow up.”
&
nbsp; She said, “I can’t believe he’s dead.”
“I couldn’t either, until yesterday. But I think I’ve accepted it now.” The kettle began to sing. He left the side of the stove and went to find mugs and a jar of instant coffee and a bottle of milk from the fridge. Liz said, “Father told me about Cairney.”
“You mean about selling up?”
“How can you bear to, Oliver?”
“Because there’s no other choice.”
“Even the house? Does the house have to go?”
“What would I do with the house?”
“You could keep it. Use it for week-ends and holidays, just to keep a root in Cairney.”
“That sounds like an extravagance to me.”
“Not really.” She hesitated slightly and then went on in a rush. “When you’re married and have children, you can bring them here, and they can do all the lovely things you used to do. Run wild, and build houses in the beech tree, and have ponies…”
“Who said I was thinking of getting married?”
“Father said that you said that you weren’t going to get married until you were too old to do anything else.”
“Your father tells you a lot too much.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“He always did. He indulged you and let you in on all his secrets. You were a spoiled little brat, did you know that?”
She was amused. “Them’s fighting words, Oliver.”
“I don’t know how you’ve survived. An only child with two doting parents who didn’t even live together. And if that wasn’t enough, you always had Charles, spoiling you rotten.”
The kettle boiled, and he went over to pick it up. Liz lowered the lid back on to the hotplate. She said, “But you never spoiled me, Oliver.”
“I had more sense.” He poured the water into the mugs.
“You never took any notice of me at all. You were always telling me to get out from under your feet.”
“Ah, but that was when you were a little girl, before you became so glamorous. Incidentally, you know, I didn’t recognize you yesterday. It was only when you took off your dark glasses that I realized who it was. Gave me quite a turn.”
“Is that coffee ready?”