“It’s nothing to do with Tuppy’s tennis dress, charming though it is. It’s you. All bright-eyed and radiant. Sensational.”
“Champagne, perhaps.”
“No. Not champagne. If I didn’t know you better I’d say you were in love. Or loved.”
“That’s a pretty thought.”
“I still haven’t worked out why the hell it isn’t me.”
“We decided that ages ago. It’s something to do with chemistry.”
He pulled her into his arms and gave her a resounding kiss. “I shall have to go to night classes. Learn all about it.”
“Yes, you do that.”
They smiled. He said, “I’ve probably told you before, but you are the most super girl.”
* * *
In love. Or loved.
Antony was no fool. All evening Flora had been aware of Hugh. He stood, head and shoulders above the rest of Tuppy’s guests, his presence refusing to be either missed or ignored. But since they had made their entrance down the stairs together, they had neither looked nor spoken to each other, although his had been among the masculine arms which had swung her through the dance she had done with Jason.
It was as if they had an unspoken pact. As if he too had recognized that their relationship had become all at once so precious a thing, so delicate, that a clumsy word or a proprietary glance would be enough to snap it. The small, shared understanding was enough to fill Flora’s heart with hope. Those reflections, which would have done credit to a daydreaming fifteen-year-old, surprised her. She was, after all, twenty-two, and her grownup past lay littered with friendships and affairs and half-hearted infatuations. She thought of London: coming out of a restaurant to satin-wet streets and the dazzle of neon signs with her hand in some man’s hand, deep in his overcoat pocket. And that summer in Greece. She remembered a clifftop carpeted in wild anemones and her companion with his sun-browned body and thatch of sun-bleached hair. It was as though over the last few years she had given away small pieces of herself—had perhaps, broken a few hearts, and in return had her own heart chipped once or twice.
But it had never been love, just looking for love. Having been brought up by a single parent had made the search more confusing for Flora, because she had no example to follow, no idea of what she had really been looking for. But now, in the course of this incredible week, she had come upon it. Or rather, it had come upon Flora like some sudden explosion of light, taking her so unprepared that it had rendered her incapable of any sensible sort of reaction.
And it was different. Hugh was older. He had been married before. He was a hard-working doctor, tending to the needs of a remote, rural community. He would never be rich, and his future held no surprises. But with piercing certainty, Flora knew that he was the only man who could fill her life with the things that she really wanted: love, security, comfort, and laughter. She had found them all in his arms. And she wanted to be able to return to those arms whenever she felt the need. She wanted him beside her. She wanted to live with him—yes, in that terrible house—and stay in Tarbole for the rest of her days.
It had certainly never been like this before.
* * *
At midnight the members of the band, sweating with exhaustion after two encores of “The Duke of Perth,” laid down their instruments, mopped their brows with large handkerchiefs, and filed out in the direction of the kitchen, where Mrs. Watty waited to serve them supper and large tankards of export. As soon as that happened Antony and Jason, well-versed in procedure, produced the Fernrigg record player and the pile of records which Antony had brought with him from Edinburgh on the back seat of his car.
Most of the guests, even more exhausted than the band after the energetic dance, gravitated towards the dining room in search of sustenance and cool drinks. But Flora found herself sitting on the stairs with a young man who had driven all the way to Fernrigg from the far reaches of Ardnamurchan, where he ran a small salmon fishery.
He was in the middle of describing this venture to her when he realized that nearly everyone else had gone to eat supper.
“I’m sorry. Would you like something to eat? Would you like it here? I’ll fetch you something if you like.”
“It’s so kind of you, but in fact, I said I’d have supper with Hugh Kyle.”
“Hugh?” The young man looked about him. “Where is he?”
“I’ve no idea, but he’ll turn up.”
“I’ll go and look for him for you.” The young man stood up, dusting down the pleats of his kilt. “He’s probably stuck in some dark corner with an old fishing crony, exchanging unlikely yarns.”
“Don’t worry about me. Go and get some supper for yourself…”
“I’ll do that at the same time. I’d better hurry or all the cold turkey will have gone.”
He left her. The record player had started up. A different music filled the air and after the jig of the accordion and the scrape of the fiddle, it sounded strangely alien and sophisticated, and reminded Flora of a life that seemed to have finished a long time ago.
Dance in the old-fashioned way,
Won’t you stay in my arms.
Antony was dancing with a girl in a blue dress; Brian Stoddart, with the most elegant woman in the room, all black crepe and dangling earrings.
Just melt against my skin
And let me feel your heart.
She knew that Hugh would come and find her because he had promised. But after a little she began to feel ridiculous sitting on the stairs waiting to be claimed, and slightly anxious, like a young girl afraid of being stood up on her first date. The young man from Ardnamurchan did not return and Flora wondered if he had joined in the fishing discussion. Finally, unable to contain her impatience, she got up and went to search for Hugh herself. She went from one room to another, casually at first, and then less casually, and finally without shame, asking anybody she happened to find herself standing next to.
“Have you see Hugh Kyle? You haven’t seen Hugh anywhere, have you?”
But nobody had seen him. She never found him. And it was not until later that she learned that there had been a telephone call, that a premature baby was on its way, and Hugh had already gone.
* * *
The storm blew up during the course of the evening, and by the early hours of the morning had reached full force. For Tuppy’s guests, putting on cloaks and coats preparatory to departure, it came as something of a shock. They had arrived on a calm evening, and now they had to leave in this. The opening and shutting of the front door caused gusts of cold air to sweep into the house. Smoke billowed from the hall fire and the long curtains bellied in the draught. Outside, the garden shone with black rain, the gravel was puddled, and the air filled with flying leaves and small branches and twigs newly torn from trees.
At last, running down the streaming steps, hunched into coats and scarves, heads bent against the wind, the last couple left. Antony shut the front door and, with some ceremony, locked and bolted it. The household trailed exhaustedly up to bed.
But there was too much noise for sleep. The seaward side of the house took the brunt of the storm’s fury. The squalls came in great gusts, shaking the very structure of the solid old walls, and the voice of the wind rose to something very like a scream. And beyond all this, distant but menacing, was the surging boom of long rollers driven inshore by the swell of the turbulent ocean to smash themselves into clouds of white spume on the margins of Fhada sands.
Flora curled up for comfort, wide-eyed, dry-eyed, and listened to it. She had finished the evening with a mug of black coffee, and the thud of her own heart was as disturbing as a clock which chimes through the dark hours of the night. Her head was filled with jigging music, with random images, with voices. She had never lain so wide awake.
The first gray rays of dawn were beginning to seep into the sky before she finally fell into a restless and dream-haunted sleep, peopled by strangers. When she awoke, it was day once more, still dark and gray to be sure, but the
endless night was behind her. She opened her eyes, grateful for the cold light, and saw Antony standing by her bed.
He looked weary and unshaven and slightly bleary-eyed, his copper head tousled as though he had not taken the time to comb it. He wore a tweedy turtleneck sweater and an old pair of corduroys, and he carried two steaming nursery mugs and he said, “Good morning.”
Flora dragged herself out of sleep. Automatically she reached for her watch, but, “It’s half past ten,” he told her. “I brought you some coffee. I thought you might need it.”
“Oh, how kind.” She stretched, tried to blink the sleep out of her eyes, pulled herself up on the pillows. He handed her the mug and she wrapped her hands around it and sat holding it, yawning.
He found her dressing gown and put it round her shoulders, turned on the electric fire, and came to sit beside her on the edge of the bed.
“How are you feeling?”
“Ghastly,” she told him.
“Drink some coffee and you’ll feel better.”
She did so, and it was scalding and strong. After a little she asked, “Is everybody up?”
“They’re gradually surfacing. Jason’s still asleep, I shouldn’t think he’ll appear till lunchtime. Isobel’s been up for an hour, and I doubt whether Mrs. Watty and Watty went to bed at all. Anyway, they’ve been beavering away since eight o’clock this morning, and by the time you put in an appearance, I doubt if you’d realize that there’s been a party at all.”
“I should have got up and come to help.”
“I’d have let you sleep, only this arrived by the morning post.” He put his hand into his back trouser pocket and produced an envelope. “I thought perhaps you’d want to see it.”
She took it from him. She saw her father’s handwriting, the Cornwall postmark. It was addressed to Miss Rose Schuster.
Flora laid down the mug of coffee. She said, “It’s from my father.”
“I thought it might be. You wrote to him?”
“Yes. Last Sunday. After you’d gone back to Edinburgh.” She looked at him in apology and went on feeling guilty, trying to explain. “I had to tell somebody, Antony, and you’d made me promise not to tell anyone here. But I figured my father didn’t count. So I wrote to him.”
“I hadn’t realized the need to confess was so strong. Did you tell him everything?”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t think he’d be very impressed.”
“No,” Flora agreed miserably. She began to slit the envelope.
“Do you want me to go away and let you read it in peace?”
“No, I’d much rather you stayed.” Cautiously, she unfolded the letter. She saw, “My dearest Flora.”
“Well, I’m still his dearest Flora so perhaps he isn’t too upset.”
“Did you think he would be?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I thought about it.”
With the comforting presence of Antony beside her, she read the letter:
Seal Cottage
Lanyon
Lands End
Cornwall
My dearest Flora,
I have already addressed the envelope of this letter as instructed by you. It is on the desk beside me now, proof that a lie, however well-meant, can never be contained or controlled but spreads like a disease, inevitably involving more and more people.
I was glad that you wrote to me at such length. Your letter took some reading and as you seem anxious for some sort of response, I shall try to deal with your problems in a fairly abbreviated way.
Firstly, Rose. The coincidence of your meeting like that was something that I always hoped would never happen. But it did, and so I owe you an explanation.
Your mother and I decided to separate within a year of getting married. We would have parted then and there, only she was eight months pregnant, and all the arrangements for the baby’s birth had been made locally, so we continued to live together for that last month. During that time, we agreed that she should have the custody of the child, and bring it up by herself. She was going back to make a home with her parents, and she seemed quite happy to do this.
But of course, it wasn’t a baby, it was twins. When Pamela was told, she became quite hysterical, and by the time I was allowed to see her, had made up her mind that she could not possibly cope with two babies. She would take one. And I would take the other.
The prospect, I don’t mind admitting, appalled me. But Pamela, with that announcement off her chest, dried her eyes, and the babies, in two bassinets, were trundled into the room.
It was the first time either of us had seen you. Rose lay like a little flower, sleeping, with silky dark hair and seashell fists curled up under her chin. You, on the other hand, were bawling your head off and seemed to be covered with spots. Your mother was no fool. She reached out for Rose, Sister put the sleeping baby into her arms, and the choice had been made.
But I made a choice too. I couldn’t bear you crying. You sounded heartbroken. I picked you up out of your crib, and held you up and you gave a great burp and stopped crying. You opened your eyes and we looked at each other. I’d never held a child before that was so tiny and so new, and I was completely unprepared for the effect it would have on me. I found myself filled with pride, fiercely possessive. You were my baby. Nothing and nobody was going to take you away from me.
So that is how it all came about. Should I have told you? I never knew the answer. Probably I should. But you were such a happy child, so complete and self-contained, it seemed insane to introduce unnecessary questions and possible insecurities into your young life. Pamela had gone, taking Rose with her. The divorce went through and I never saw either of them again.
Heredity and environment are puzzling factors. Rose sounds as though she were turning into a very passable replica of her mother. And yet I cannot allow myself to believe that under different circumstances, you would have turned into someone selfish, thoughtless, or dishonest.
Which is why your present situation leaves me so concerned. Not just for yourself and the young man, but for the Armstrongs. They sound the sort of people who deserve more than an empty deception. I advise you both to tell them the truth as soon as you can. The consequences may be unhappy, but you have no one to blame but yourselves.
When you have done this, I want you to come home. This—as I used to say when you were small—is not an asking, but a telling. There are many things we need to talk about, and you can take a little time to lick your wounds and recover from what has obviously been a traumatic episode.
Marcia sends her love with mine. You are my own child, and I am your loving
Father
She came to the end and wondered if she was going to cry. Antony waited. Flora looked up into his sympathetic face.
She said, “I’ve got to go home.”
“To Cornwall?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Right away.”
She handed him the letter to read. While he did this, she finished her coffee and got out of bed, pulling on her dressing gown and tying the cord. She went to the window and saw the low scud of black clouds. The tide had reached the flood, and cold gray water broke and streamed over the rocks beyond the garden. A few tattered gulls braved the weather, their wings banked to the wind. The lawn below the window was littered with leaves and the remains of broken slate which had blown from some roof.
Antony said, “That’s a nice letter.”
“He’s a nice man.”
“I feel I should come with you. Take the brunt of the storm.”
Flora was touched. She turned from the window to reassure him. “There’s no need. Besides, you have enough problems of your own to sort out. Right here.”
“Do you want to go today?”
“Yes. Perhaps I can get a train from Tarbole.”
“The London train leaves at one o’clock.”
“Would you drive me to Tarbole?”
“I’d drive you to the
ends of the earth if it would help.”
“Tarbole will do very nicely. And now I must get dressed. I must go and see Tuppy.”
“I’ll leave you.” He laid down the letter, picked up the two empty mugs, and made for the door.
“Antony,” she said. He stopped and turned back. She took off the engagement ring. It was a little tight, and it took some effort to get it over her knuckle, but it was off at last. She went to lay it in his hand, and then reached up to kiss his cheek.
“You’d better put it somewhere safe. One day, you’re going to need it again.”
“I don’t know. I can’t help feeling that it’s not very lucky.”
Flora said encouragingly, “You’re just a superstitious Highlander. Where’s your thrifty streak? Just think how much it cost.”
He grinned, and put it into his pocket. “I’ll be downstairs when you want me,” he told her.
* * *
She dressed and tidied her room, as though to leave it neat were the only thing that mattered. She picked up the letter from her father, and went out of the room and down the passage to where, she knew, Tuppy was waiting for her.
She knocked on the door. Tuppy called “Yes?” and Flora went in. Tuppy was reading the morning paper, but now she laid it down and took off her spectacles. Across the room, their eyes met, and she looked so grave that Flora’s heart sank, and perhaps this showed in her face, for Tuppy smiled, and said lovingly, “Flora!” and the relief of not being called “Rose” any longer was so great that Flora simply shut the door and went across the room like a homing pigeon, straight into Tuppy’s arms.
“I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to say I’m sorry. I don’t know how to ask you to forgive me.”
“I don’t want you to start apologizing. What you and Antony did was very naughty, but I’ve had the night to think it over, and I realize now that you did it with the best intentions in the world. But then, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I was so angry with Antony last night, I really could have slapped him.”
“Yes, he told me.”
“I suppose he thought I was on my last gasp, and ready to accept anything, even a lie. And as for Rose, thank goodness he’s not going to marry her. Any girl who could treat Antony the way she did—running away with another man—without even having the good manners to explain. I think it was very thoughtless and cruel.”