Under Gemini

  Antony came, valiantly, to her rescue. “We told you, Isobel, Rose has to get back…”

  But from all sides his excuses were shouted down.

  “Oh, rubbish.”

  “Why does she have to go?”

  “So lovely for us all to have her.”

  “So lovely for Tuppy.”

  “No reason why she should go…”

  They were all smiling, beseeching her to stay. Beside her, Brian leaned back in his chair and said in a clear voice which silenced everybody else, “I’ve already made that suggestion. I think it’s the best idea in the world.”

  Even Anna, from across the table, was trying to persuade her. “Do stay. Don’t go back just yet.”

  Everybody had spoken except Hugh. Mrs. Crowther, from the other end of the table, noticed this. “How about you, Doctor? Don’t you think that Rose should spend a few more days with us?”

  They were all silent, looking expectantly toward Hugh, waiting for him to fall in with their suggestions, to agree with them.

  But he didn’t. “No, I don’t think she should stay,” he pronounced, and then added, too late to take the sting from his words, “Not unless she wants to.” He looked at Flora, and his cold blue stare was a challenge.

  Something happened to Flora: something to do with the wine she had drunk; something to do with that encounter on the beach this morning; something that was annoyance, and a good deal that was sheer contrariness.

  From across the years, from a long time ago, she heard her father’s cautionary voice. You’re cutting off your nose to spite your face.

  “If Tuppy wants me to stay,” she told them all, “of course I’ll stay.”

  * * *

  After the ordeal of the evening was over—after everybody had gone, the dogs had been taken out, the coffee cups had been carried into the kitchen, and Isobel had kissed them both and gone upstairs to bed—Antony and Flora faced each other across the dying fire.

  “Why?” asked Antony.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I thought you’d gone out of your mind.”

  “Perhaps I had. But it’s too late now.”

  “Oh, Flora!”

  “I can’t go back on my word. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “I don’t mind. If you can bear it, if you can cope and Tuppy wants it, then how can I mind? But…” He stopped.

  “But what?”

  “Believe it or not, it’s you I’m thinking about. You made me promise it would only be for a weekend.”

  “I know. But it was different then.”

  “You mean, we thought Tuppy was going to die, and now we know she isn’t?”

  “Yes. That and other things.”

  He sighed heavily and turned to look down at the fire and poke a dying log with the toe of his shoe. He said, “What the hell is going to happen now?”

  “It depends on you. You could tell Tuppy the truth.”

  “You mean, tell her that you’re not Rose?”

  “Would that be so impossible?”

  “Yes. Impossible. I’ve never lied to Tuppy in my life.”

  “Till now.”

  “O.K. Till now.”

  “I think you underestimate her. I think she’d understand.”

  “I don’t want to tell her.” He sounded like a stubborn little boy.

  “To be perfectly honest,” Flora admitted, “neither do I.”

  They stared at each other, hopeless. Then Antony grinned, but there was not much mirth behind it. “What a couple of cowards we are.”

  “A couple of scheming conspirators.”

  “And not, I’m beginning to think very successful ones.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She tried to turn it into a joke. “For beginners, we’re not doing too badly.”

  He said, in an aggrieved voice, “I wonder why the hell I can’t fall in love with you.”

  “That would solve everything, wouldn’t it? Especially if I were to fall in love with you at the same time.” It was getting chilly. Flora shivered and drew closer to what remained of the fire.

  He said, “You look tired. And no wonder. It was a hell of an evening, and you sailed through it with flying colors.”

  “I don’t think I did. Antony, Hugh, and Brian—they don’t like each other, do they?”

  “No, I don’t suppose they do. But then they’re so completely different, it’s not surprising. Poor old Hugh. I often wonder if he ever sits through a complete meal without the telephone ringing and calling him away.”

  Hugh had gone before they had even finished the second course. Summoned by Antony, who had answered the telephone, he had gone out into the hall, and minutes later, wearing his overcoat, put his head around the door to make his apologies and say goodnight. His departure had left a very empty space at the head of the table.

  “Antony … do you like Hugh?”

  “Yes, I like him enormously. When I was growing up he was the person I most wanted to be like. He played rugger for Edinburgh University and I thought he was a sort of god.”

  “I don’t think he likes me. I mean, for some reason, he doesn’t like Rose.”

  “You’re imagining things. He can be pretty dry, I know, but…”

  “Could he and Rose ever have had … some sort of an affair?”

  Antony was shocked into silence by genuine astonishment. “Hugh and Rose? Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Well, there’s something.”

  “But not that. It could never have been that.” He took her by the shoulders. “Shall I tell you something? You’re tired, you’re overwrought, and you’re imagining things. And I’m tired, too. Do you realize that I haven’t been to sleep for thirty-six hours? It’s just beginning to hit me. I’m going to bed.” He kissed her firmly. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” said Flora. “Goodnight, Antony.” And because by then there was nothing else to do and no more to be said, they put the guard on the fire, turned off the lights, and with their arms around each other, more for support than anything else, went slowly up the shadowed stairs.

  * * *

  Tuppy awoke early to the sound of a bird singing from the beech tree outside her window and to a warm sensation of happiness.

  It was a long time since this had happened. In recent years, her awakenings had been deviled by forebodings—anxieties for her precious family, for her country, for the whole disastrous state of the world. She disciplined herself, each day, to read the papers, to watch the nine o’clock news on the television, but often, particularly in the early mornings, she wished that she didn’t have to. Sometimes it seemed as if the cold light of dawn held no promise, no hope for any of them, and on such mornings it took a real effort on Tuppy’s part to get up, put on her clothes, compose her features into their usual cheerful expression, and go downstairs to breakfast.

  But this morning it was different. She seemed to be floating sweetly into consciousness from some particularly happy dream. For a second she was afraid to stir, even to open her eyes, for fear of the dream dissolving and cold reality taking its place.

  But slowly it was borne upon her that it was true. It had really happened. Isobel had come upstairs at the end of dinner to say that Rose had finally been persuaded and had promised to stay on at Fernrigg after Antony had returned to Edinburgh.

  She was not going away.

  Tuppy opened her eyes. She saw the rail at the end of her bed, gleaming in the first place shine of light from the window. It was Sunday. Tuppy loved Sundays, which, once she had been to church, she liked to spend in celebrations of family, friends, and food. It had always been thus. At Fernrigg seldom did they sit down fewer than twelve to Sunday lunch. Afterward, according to the season, there might be tennis, or putting competitions on the bumpy lawn, or long blustery walks along Fhada sands. Later, everyone would gather for tea, perhaps on the terrace, or by the drawing-room fire. There would be hot scones dripping with butter and blueberry jelly; chocolate cake and fruit cake; and a special s
ort of ginger biscuit which Tuppy had had sent from London. Then perhaps there would be a card game or reading the Sunday papers, and if there were any children present, reading aloud.

  The Secret Garden, The Wind in the Willows, A Little Princess—all the old-fashioned books. How many thousands of times has she read them aloud! Once upon a time there was a very beautiful doll’s house. The other evening it had been Jason. But with his small frame tucked into the curve of her arm, the crown of his head sweet-smelling from his bath, just under her chin, he could have been any of them. The little boys. So many little boys. Sometimes when she was tired, and time and memories became confused, she forgot when they had been born and when they had died.

  James and Robbie, her baby brothers, playing with their lead soldiers on the hearth rug. And Bruce, her own child, wild as a gypsy, running barefoot, and everybody shaking their heads and saying it was because he didn’t have a father. And then Torquil, and Antony, and now Jason.

  They had perhaps looked different, but they had all kindled the same pleasures in Tuppy’s heart, as well as clouding her life with the most appalling anxieties: broken arms and bleeding knees, measles and whooping cough. Say, Thank you. Say, Please can I get down? Tuppy, don’t get into a fuss or anything, But Antony’s just fallen out of the fir tree.

  And the milestones. Learning to swim, learning to ride a bicycle, being given the first air gun. That was the worst of all. Never never let your gun pointed be at anyone. She had made them say it every night, aloud, before they said their prayers.

  And there was going away to school, and the miserable counting of days, and the hideous tear-stained goodbyes at Tarbole station, with the new trunk packed, the tuck box, the faces already grimed with railway dust.

  The little boys were part of a long golden thread stretching back into the past. But the miracle was that the same thread reached steadfastly on into the future. There was Torquil—solid, capable Torquil, doing so well for himself, married to Teresa, living in Bahrein. Torquil had never caused Tuppy a mite of worry. But Antony now was a different kettle of fish. Restless, volatile, attractive, he had in his time brought dozens of girls back to Fernrigg, and yet never, it seemed, was it the right girl. Tuppy had begun to give up hope of his ever marrying and settling down. But now, out of the blue, he had met up with Rose Schuster again, and Tuppy’s faith in miracles was restored once more.

  Rose. Could he, she asked herself, in a thousand years, have found a more enchanting girl? As though Antony had presented Tuppy with some precious gift, her natural reaction was a desire to share her pleasure with the rest of the world. Not just the Crowthers and the Stoddarts, who were, after all, such close neighbors as to be almost family, but everybody.

  The notion took seed and began to take shape in her active brain. The dinner party last night had, Isobel assured her, been a complete success. But Tuppy had had no part in it and had been frustrated beyond words by the distant hum which was all that she could glean of the dinner-table conversation. And Hugh, the overbearing brute, had forbidden visitors, so that Tuppy was denied even the pleasure of fresh faces and a little local gossip.

  But by the end of the week.… She did a few calculations. Today was Sunday. Antony was going to leave Rose at Fernrigg and then return next weekend to spirit her away once more. They had a week. There was plenty of time.

  They would have a party. A proper party. A dance. The very word conjured up the sound of music, and all at once her head was filled with the jig and beat of a Highland reel.

  Diddle diddle dum dum, dum dum dum.

  Her toes beneath the sheets began to beat time of their own accord. Excitement took hold of her, and as the seed of the idea exploded into inspiration, she forgot about being ill. The prospect of dying, which she had never taken seriously anyway, faded into insignificance. All at once there were a hundred more important things to think about.

  It was nearly daylight. She reached out her hand to turn on her lamp and look at the time by the small gold clock which sat by her bed. Seven thirty. Cautiously, she drew herself up in her bed and pushed the pillows into shape with her elbows. She reached for her spectacles and then her bedjacket, which seemed to take rather a long time to put on. With clumsy fingers she tied the ribbon bow at the neck. Then she opened the drawer in her bedside table and found a pad of writing paper and a pencil. At the head of the clean sheet of paper she wrote:

  Mrs. Clanwilliam

  Her writing, which had once been so beautiful, seemed spidery, but what did that matter? She thought a little, her mind ranging round the neighborhood, and continued:

  Charles and Christian Drummond

  Harry and Frances McNeill

  It would have to be on Friday. Friday was a good night for a dance, because Saturday was apt to slip into the small hours of the Sabbath, and that would offend people. Antony would have to get Friday afternoon off in order to be at Fernrigg in good time, but she had no doubt that he would be able to arrange this.

  She wrote:

  Hugh Kyle

  Elizabeth McLeod

  Johnny and Kirsten Grant

  In the old days all the food, including the cold salmon, the great roast turkeys, the mouth-melting puddings, had all come out of the Fernrigg kitchen, but Mrs. Watty could scarcely be expected to cope with that on her own now. Isobel must speak to Mr. Anderson at the Station Hotel in Tarbole. He had a perfectly adequate cellar and a capable chef. Mr. Anderson would see to the catering.

  More names went on the list. The Crowthers and of course the Stoddarts, and that couple that had come to live in Tarbole—he had something to do with deep-freezing.

  Tommy and Angela Cockburn

  Robert and Susan Hamilton

  Diddle diddle dum dum, dum dum dum.

  The postmistress, Mrs. Cooper, had a husband who played the accordion and who could rustle up, if persuaded, a small band. Just a fiddle and some drums. Isobel must arrange that. And Jason would come to the party. Tuppy saw him dressed in the little kilt and velvet doublet that had belonged to his grandfather.

  The page was nearly full, but still she wrote:

  Sheamus Lochlan,

  The Crichtons

  The McDonalds

  She turned to a fresh page. She had not been so happy in years.

  * * *

  It was Isobel who broke the news to the rest of the Fernrigg household. Isobel, who had gone upstairs to say good morning to her mother and retrieve her breakfast tray, returned to the kitchen in what appeared to be a state of mild shock.

  She laid down the tray on the table with something approaching a thump. Violence was so out of character with Isobel, that they all stopped what they were doing and looked at her. Even Jason, with a mouthful of bacon, ceased to chew. Something was obviously wrong. Isobel’s wayward hair looked as though she had lately run distracted fingers through it, and the expression on her gentle face held part exasperation and part a sort of grudging pride.

  She did not speak at once, but simply stood there, lanky in her tweed skirt and her best Sunday sweater, defeated, and apparently lost for words. Her very silence claimed instant attention. Mrs. Watty, peeling potatoes for lunch, sat, waiting with knife poised. Nurse McLeod, taking last night’s glasses from the dishwasher and giving them a final and unnecessary polish, was equally attentive. Flora laid down her coffee cup with a small chiming sound.

  It was Mrs. Watty who broke the silence. “What is it?”

  Isobel pulled out a kitchen chair and flopped into it, long legs stretched out before her. She said, “She wants to have another party.”

  Tuppy’s household, with the debris of last night still very much in evidence, received this information in wordless disbelief. For a moment the only sound to break the silence was the slow ticking of the old-fashioned clock.

  Isobel’s eyes went from one blank face to the other. “It’s true,” she told them. “It’s to be next Friday. It’s to be a dance.”

  “A dance?” Nurse McLeod, with visions of her pat
ient dancing reels, drew herself up with all the authority of her profession behind her. “Over my dead body,” she declared.

  “She has decided,” Isobel went on, as though Nurse had said nothing, “that Mr. Anderson from the Station Hotel shall do the catering, and she is going to get Mrs. Cooper’s husband to organize a band.”

  “For heaven’s sakes,” was all Mrs. Watty could come up with.

  “And she has already drawn up a long list of people who are to receive invitations.”

  Jason, who could not think what all the drama was about, decided to finish his bacon. “Am I being invited?” he asked, but for once he was ignored.

  “You told her no?” asked Nurse, coming forward and fixing Isobel with a steely eye.

  “Of course I told her no.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She took absolutely no notice whatsoever.”

  “It’s out of the question,” said Nurse. “Think of the upheaval, think of the noise. Mrs. Armstrong is not well. She is not up to such carryings on. And she’s not by any chance imagining that she’s going to come to the party?”

  “No. On that score you can rest easy. At least,” Isobel amended, knowing her mother, “I think you can.”

  “But why on earth?” demanded Mrs. Watty. “Why does she want another party? We haven’t got the dining room straight after last night yet.”

  Isobel sighed. “It’s for Rose. She wants everybody to meet Rose.”

  They all turned their eyes upon Flora. Flora, who had more reason than any of them to be completely horrorstruck by this latest bombshell, found herself blushing. “But I don’t want a party. I mean, I said I’d stay on because Tuppy wanted me to, but I had no idea she had that up her sleeve.”

  Isobel patted her hand, comforting her. “She hadn’t, last night. She thought it all up in the early hours of the morning. So it’s none of it your fault. It’s just Tuppy with her mania for entertaining.”

  Flora searched about for some practical objection. “But surely, there’s not enough time. I mean, a dance. If you’re going to send out invitations, there’s not even a week…”

  But that, too, had been thought of. “The invitations are to be by telephone,” Isobel told them, and added in a resigned voice, “with me doing the telephoning.”