The big table had been drawn to one side of the room, and was already spread with red felt pads. Onto these Isobel now dumped her burden. “Heavens, they’re heavy. Thank goodness we don’t use them every day.”
“But Isobel, you’ve done so much already. You must all have been so busy.”
“Yes, I suppose we have…” Isobel took the top tablecloth and shook it out of its folds with an expert flick of her long narrow wrists. “Have you brought the pot plants?”
“Yes, the Land Rover’s stacked with them, but I’ll need someone to help me carry them.”
“Watty can help you.” Isobel smoothed out the folds of the tablecloth, and then abandoned it to go in search of Watty. Anna trailed behind her. “Watty! Mrs. Watty, where’s Watty?”
“He’s around somewhere.” Mrs. Watty raised her voice over the sound of the polisher, but was obviously not going to switch it off, or do anything bout finding her husband.
“Watty! Oh, there you are. Can you help Mrs. Stoddart get some things out of the Land Rover? Oh, you’re doing the logs. I forgot. Well, where’s Rose? Mrs. Watty, where’s Rose?”
“I’ve no idea.” Mrs. Watty steered the polisher into a dark corner behind the curtains.
“Oh.” Isobel pushed her hair out of her face. She was beginning to get flustered, and no wonder, thought Anna. “I’ll find Rose,” Anna told her. “Don’t worry. You go back to your tablecloths.”
“She’s probably in the drawing room. Watty brought in some beech branches, and Rose said she’d arrange them, though she didn’t sound very confident. Perhaps you could help her.”
Mr. Anderson of the Tarbole Hotel, important in his new role of caterer, now appeared from the direction of the kitchen and asked Miss Armstrong if she could spare a minute. Isobel started back to her tablecloths, thought better of it, went after Mr. Anderson, then remembered Anna.
“I’m sorry, I must go. Can you manage?”
“Don’t worry,” said Anna. “I’ll find Rose.”
* * *
It was always like this. Anna remembered Fernrigg parties from childhood and they always followed the same pattern. Drinks and sitting out in the drawing room, supper in the dining room, dancing in the hall. Brian said that he found Tuppy’s parties tedious. He complained of the same people, in the same clothes, making the same conversation. But Anna liked things that way. She didn’t like things to change or be different.
Even the preparations, the apparent chaos, filled her with satisfaction, because she knew that by eight o’clock everything would be just the way it always was, ready and waiting for the guests to arrive, with nothing overlooked and no detail forgotten. Only this evening it would not be quite the same because Tuppy wouldn’t be there. But still she was there, Anna told herself, even if she wasn’t able to stand at the foot of the stairs in her antique blue velvet and the inherited diamonds. She would be upstairs, listening to the music, perhaps drinking a little champagne, remembering …
Mrs. Watty said, “Do you mind moving, Mrs. Stoddart? I’m just about to polish that bit of floor.” Anna apologized and got out of the way and went to look for Rose.
She found her in the drawing room, kneeling on the floor by the grand piano, trying to sort out the long twigs of beech which she had spread on an old sheet. There was a large pot beside her, patterned in roses, and some scraps of crumpled chicken wire. Rose’s expression, as she looked up and saw Anna, was distraught.
“Hello,” said Anna.
“Anna, thank heavens you’ve come. Everybody seems to take it for granted that I can do the most wonderful arrangements, and they won’t believe me when I tell them that I can’t even stick six daffodils into a jug without their collapsing.”
Anna took off her coat, laid it on a chair, and went to help. “You have to cut the stems different lengths, otherwise they stick up like a broom head. Where are the secateurs? Look, like this. And then…”
Rose watched admiringly as the arrangement took shape. “You are clever. How can you be so clever? How do you know what to do? Did somebody teach you?”
It was marvelous to be told she was clever. Anna said no, nobody had taught her. It was just a thing she loved to do, so maybe that was why she was good at it. “Aren’t there some chrysanthemums we can put with them? They could use a bit of color.”
“Isobel asked Watty to bring some in, but she also asked him to do about a dozen other things as well and the poor man’s nearly out of his mind.”
“It’s always like this,” Anna told her. “It seems to be disorganized, but it’s always all right in the end. And we can get some berries, or something, later. Where is this vase meant to be going?”
“Isobel thought on the piano.”
Rose stooped to lift the bowl and put it in its place. Anna watched her with admiration. She saw the long, slender legs, the tiny waist, the shine of dark hair, artlessly casual. It was just the way Anna had always longed to look, and yet she was without envy. Was this one of the better symptoms of pregnancy, or was it because she liked Rose so much?
She had never thought she could like Rose. Before, when Rose was younger and Brian had brought her and her mother to the Yacht Club for a drink, Anna had been paralyzed by shyness of Rose, even a little afraid of her disparaging eyes and her thoughtlessly rude remarks. She had dreaded meeting her again.
But Rose had changed. Perhaps, thought Anna, that had something to do with Antony. She couldn’t be sure of it; she only knew that Rose was a different person. Why, Anna hadn’t even minded when Brian had asked her out for dinner. In fact, it made Anna feel pleasantly worldly to be going off on her shopping spree, knowing that her husband was to be so charmingly diverted while she was away. That was real sophistication—something that Anna had yearned for, all her married life.
Perhaps she was really growing up at last. Perhaps she was learning to accept things.
“What do you think of that?” Rose asked her, stepping back from the piano.
Anna, still kneeling on the floor, said, “That’s just right. Rose, I want to tell you—Brian enjoyed his evening with you so much and he was so sorry about the oyster. He was really furious, and he rang up the Fishers’ Arms and gave the manager the most terrible telling off.”
“That wasn’t his fault.” Busy with broken branches and a few wet scraps of leaves, Rose knelt beside her. Her hair fell forward and Anna could not see her face. “And I’ve never thanked you for the azalea. You didn’t need to send it.”
“But of course I sent it. I felt responsible, in a way.”
“How is Brian?”
“He’s very well.” Anna amended this. “Except, of course, for his eye.”
“His eye?”
“Yes, poor man, he walked into a door. I don’t know how, but he gave himself the most terrible bang and he got quite a black eye.” She smiled, because Brian had looked funny, like a man in a farce. “But it’s all right now, and fading fast.”
Rose said, “How horrid for him.” And then, “Do you think we should go and pick berries now, or bring in the pot plants?”
“We’ll have to get Watty to help us do that.” Anna felt a little shy. “The thing is … well, nobody knows yet, but I’m not allowed to carry heavy things. Hugh told me not to. You see, I’m having a baby.”
“You are?”
Anna nodded. It was wonderful to have a confidante, another woman you could tell.
“Yes. In the spring.”
“I am pleased. And the spring’s the best time to have a baby. Like lambs and calves…” Rose became a little confused. “I mean, you’ve got all the summer in front of you.”
“I wondered…” Anna hesitated. The idea had been in the back of her mind for some time, but now she was sure. “I wondered if you’d be a godmother. I haven’t said anything to Brian yet, and of course I’d have to tell him, but I thought I’d ask you first. Anyway I want you to be a godmother. If you’d like to.” Rose was looking uncertain. “If you would,” she finished faintly.
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“Yes, of course,” said Rose. “I’d love to. I’m very flattered. The only thing is, well, I won’t be here much, and…”
“It doesn’t matter if you’re here or not. You’ll be somewhere. And one should always pick special friends for godparents.” The emotion of the situation became too much for Anna. She shied away from it, reverting to a safer subject where she felt on firmer ground. “Now, if we had some dahlias we could do a sort of sunburst on top of the bureau. Tuppy’s got lots of dahlias in her border. Let’s go out and pick the lot. Poor Watty, it’ll break his heart.”
* * *
By the middle of the afternoon, everything had come to a full stop. Because there was nowhere else to sit everybody had gathered in Mrs. Watty’s welcoming kitchen. Mrs. Watty, indefatigable, was making a batch of scones. Her husband, before getting into the fishmonger’s van and driving to Tarbole to collect Jason from school, sat at the kitchen table with a face like an undertaker, and drank tea. (The massacre of the dahlias had been the final straw.) Nurse was ironing, and Isobel, visibly wilting on her long legs, pushed her hair out of her face and announced that she was going to her room to put up her toes. She waited for comments but nobody argued with her. Her eyes lighted on Flora.
“You too, Rose. You’ve been busy as a bee all day. Go and have a rest.”
But Flora didn’t want a rest. Instead she felt a deep need to be out of doors, away from the house, on her own.
“I thought I might take Plummer for a walk.”
Isobel brightened. “Oh, could you bear to? He’s been following me around all day with such reproachful eyes, and I haven’t the energy to take him myself.” Flora glanced at the clock. “When do you think Antony will be here?”
“Any moment now. He said he was leaving Edinburgh at lunchtime.” Isobel stretched her lanky length. “I’m going to bed before I fall down.”
She departed. Watty noisily sipped his tea. Flora went to get a coat.
She found Plummer in the hall, looking defeated by its unfamiliar appearance. He hated change the way he hated suitcases stacked by the front door. Ignored and forgotten, he had taken refuge in his basket, which had been hidden away beneath the stairs.
When Flora called him he gazed at her, hurt and dejected. When he finally realized that she was going to take him for a walk, his joy knew no bounds. He leapt from his basket, his paws skidding on the polished floor, his old tail wagging like a piston. Delighted noises came from the back of his throat. Outside, he dashed to find something to carry and came prancing back to Flora with a stick in his mouth so long that it trailed on the ground behind him. Thus burdened, Flora and Plummer set out.
It was cool, gray, very still. The sun had not broken through all day and the road was still wet from the previous day’s rain. They went out of the gate and turned down the road which led to Tarbole. After a mile or so the road dipped and ran alongside the water for a hundred yards or so. A small beach lay revealed, which Plummer instantly went to investigate, but Flora, bundled in her coat against the chill, settled herself on the low sea-wall to wait for Antony.
There were few cars. As each one appeared over the top of the hill she looked up to see if it was Antony. She sat there for half an hour and was beginning to get cold before he finally appeared. She recognized his car at once, got off the wall, and stood in the middle of the road, windmilling frantically with her arms to make him stop. He saw her, slowed down, and pulled the car over to the side of the road.
“Flora.” He was out of the car, and they met in the middle of the road and hugged. She could not remember when she had been so pleased or so relieved to see anybody.
“I’ve been waiting for you. I wanted to see you before anyone else did.”
“How long have you been here?”
“It feels like ages, but I don’t suppose it was very long.”
“You look cold. Come on, get into the car.”
She started to do so then remembered Plummer, who was finally sighted at the farthest end of the little beach, pursuing some apparently fascinating odor. Flora called, but he took no notice. Antony whistled and Plummer’s ears pricked up. He turned, gazing expectantly in their direction. Antony whistled again and that did it. Plummer galloped back, scrambled handily up the rocks, leapt the wall like a puppy, and flung himself at Antony. It took some time to persuade him to get onto the back seat of the car, along with a suitcase, a crate of beer, and a stack of gramophone records.
“What are the records for?” Flora asked as she settled herself beside Antony.
“They’re for tonight, when the band goes off to eat buns and drink whisky. The party falls to bits if the music stops, and Tuppy’s records are practically prewar, so I thought I’d bring a few of my own. But first things first.…” He turned toward her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“You are a ninny. The minute I turn my back you start eating bad oysters. Isobel rang me up in a panic. I think she thought you were going to die on her. Were you having dinner with Brian?”
“Yes.”
“I thought that’s what she said.” He seemed amused by this, but also unperturbed. “That’ll teach you to go gallivanting with the Casanova of Arisaig. And what about the party tonight? Has Isobel collapsed yet?”
“Just about. I left her heading for her bed and a little nap. And Anna Stoddart and I cut all Tuppy’s dahlias and Watty won’t speak to us.”
“It happens every time. And how’s Tuppy?”
“Looking forward to seeing you. She says she’s getting better every day. And she may be allowed up next week, just for an hour or two every day.”
“Isn’t that great?” Without warning he leaned forward and kissed her. “You feel thin. Your face is all bones.”
“I’m all right.”
“You’ve hated it, haven’t you, Flora? The whole bloody business.”
“No.” She had to be truthful. “No, I haven’t hated it. I’ve just hated myself. I feel mean and small and every day it’s worse, because I get fonder and fonder of them all. One minute I’m Rose and I’m going to marry you and I’m not lying. And the next minute I’m Flora again, and I am. I don’t know which is worse. Antony, that promise I made—I’ve kept it. And you’ll keep yours, won’t you? You’ll tell Tuppy the truth?”
He sat back, turning his profile to her, and stared dejectedly ahead, his hands on the driving wheel. He said at last, “Yes,” and Flora felt sorry for him.
“It’s awful, I know. In a way, I wish we could go back and you could tell her now and get it over, but with the party and everything…”
“I’ll tell her tomorrow.” That was final. He did not want to talk about it any more. “And now for God’s sake, let’s get home. I’m hungry and I want tea.”
“Mrs. Watty’s made scones.”
“And let’s put tomorrow out of our minds. Don’t let’s talk about it any more.”
With that ostrich-like remark, he reached for the ignition key, but Flora stopped him.
“There is just one more thing.” She put her hand into her pocket. “This.”
“What’s this?”
“It’s a postcard.”
“Pretty crummy-looking postcard.”
“I know. I threw it in the wastepaper basket, and then I thought perhaps you’d better see it, so I took it out again. That’s why it’s all bent.”
He took it from her cautiously. “Paris?” He turned it over, instantly recognized the writing, and read it through in silence. When he had finished there was a long silence. Then he said, “What a bitch.”
“That’s why I dropped it into the wastepaper basket.”
He read it again, and his sense of humor got the better of him. “You know, in a way, Rose is quite a bright girl. She set this whole thing up, and you and I fell for it, like a couple of suckers. Or I did. The joke is definitely on me. And if one can remain detached, I suppose it’s quite a good one. ‘Decided to stop off for a couple of days.’ Do you suppose s
he ever got to Spetsai?”
“Perhaps she met another man on the plane. Perhaps she’s in Gstaad or Monaco or…” Flora cast about for the most unlikely place she could think of and came up with, “Acapulco?”
“I wouldn’t know.” He gave Flora back the postcard. “Throw it in the fire when we get back to Fernrigg.” He started up the car. “And that will be the end of Rose. Wherever she is, she’s gone.”
Flora did not reply. She knew that Rose hadn’t gone. And she wouldn’t go until Antony told Tuppy the truth.
10
HUGH
The band arrived just as Antony was on his way upstairs to change. They came in a small battered car belonging to and driven by Mr. Cooper, the postmistress’s husband, and players and instruments were packed in so tightly that it took some time and thought to get them finally extricated.
That achieved, Antony led them into the house and showed them to their assigned space in a corner of the hall. There they established themselves—Mr. Cooper with his accordion; the fiddler (a retired roadman, some relation of Mrs. Cooper); and the drummer, a long-haired lad in high boots whom Antony recognized as a Tarbole boy, deckhand on his uncle’s fishing boat. The three had decked themselves out in a sort of spurious uniform—blue shirts and tartan bow-ties—thus presenting a brave show.
Antony gave them all a nip of whisky, and at once they got down to business and started to warm up—the old man tuning his fiddle and Mr. Cooper playing long, trilling arpeggios on the keyboard of the accordion.
Time was running short. Antony left them and ran upstairs to search out his evening clothes, which he was much relieved to find ready and waiting, laid out on his bed: shoes, stockings, garters, skean dhu; shirt, tie, waistcoat and doublet, kilt and sporran. The shoe buckles, silver buttons and skean dhu had all been polished, and his gold studs and cuff links arranged on the top of his chest of drawers. Somebody, probably Mrs. Watty, had been busy, and he blessed her heart, because as usual he had left everything to the last minute, and had resigned himself to a frantic search for the mislaid pieces of equipment.