The End of Summer (9 page)

"Oh, Gibson, we
are
disturbing you
..."

"Not at
all,
not at all
..."
He
put out his
hand
and
I
took it, and
it felt dry and gnarled as old tree bark. Without
his
inevitable tweed hat he looked strange and unfamiliar, as vulnerable as
a
policeman without his helmet, his bald head protected by only a few wisps of white hair. And I realised that, of all my friends at Elvie, he was the only one who had truly aged. His eyes were pale and rimmed with white. He was thinner, more stooped, his voice had lost its manly depth.

"Aye, we haird you were on your way home." He turned as Sinclair followed us into the hot, crowded little room. "An' you, too, Sinclair."

"Hello, Gibson."

Mrs Gibson bustled in behind him, organising us all. "He's just having his tea, Sinclair, but you can just sit down for a wee while, Gibson willna' mind. Now, you sit here, Jane, near the fire where it's nice and warm
..."
I sat, so close to the heat I thought I would roast
"...
would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes I'd
love
one."

"And a wee bit to
eat." She made
for
the
scullery, laying a
hand
on. her husband's shoulder
as
she passed behind
him, and
pressing
him back
on
to
his
chair. "Sit
down,
dearie, and
finish your haddock,
Jane won
't
niind
..."

"Yes, please finish it."

But Gibson
said
that
he had had
enough,
and
Mrs Gibson whisked
away his piate as
though
it were
indecent,
and went off to fill
her
kettle.
Sinclair pulled
a chair out from the
other
side of the
table, and sat
down,
facing Gibson across
the
electro-plated cake stand. He took out his cigarettes and gave the old keeper one and took one for himself, and then leaned across to light it. „How've you been?'' he asked.

"Oh, no' so bad
...
it's been a braw, dry summer. I hear you were after the pigeons today - how did you get on?"

They talked, and listening to their conversation and seeing them thus, the young strong man, and the old one, it was hard to remember that once Gibson had been the only man the boy Sinclair really respected.

Mrs Gibson bustled back with two clean cups - her best,
I
realised - and set them on the table, and poured tea, and offered us scones, iced "fancies" and shortbread, all of which we tactfully refused. Then she settled herself down on the opposite side of the fireplace and we gossiped cosily, and once more I was asked for news of my father, and gave it, and then I asked after her sons, and was told that Hamish was in the army, but George had managed to get into Aberdeen University where he was reading Law.

I was very impressed. "But that's wonderful. I never knew he was as clever as that!"

"He was always a very hard-working boy
...
a great one for the books."

"So neither Hamish nor George will follow their father."

"Och, it's not the same for the young ones. They don't want to spend their lives on the hill in all weathers
...
it's too quiet for them. And mind, you can't blame them. It's no life for a young man these days, and while we managed to bring them up all right, there's not the money in it these days. Not when they can earn three times as much with a job in a city, or a factory, or an office."

"Does Gibson mind?"

„No." She looked at him fondly, but he was too involved with Sinclair to notice her glance. "No, he was always anxious that they should do what they wanted, and do well for themselves. He encouraged Geordie all the way
...
and mind," added Mrs Gibson, unconsciously quoting Barrie, "there's nothing like a good education."

"Haven't you got pictures of them? I'd love to see how they look."

She was delighted at being asked. "I have them by my bed. I'll go and fetch them
..."

She bustled off, and I heard her footsteps, heavy-treaded, up the little staircase, and across the floor of the room above. Behind me, Gibson was saying, "Mind, there's nothing wrong with the old butts . . . when they were built, they were built to last
...
they're just a wee bit overgrown."

"And the birds?"

"Aye, there are ony number of birds. Mind, I got a couple of vixen and their cubs during the spring." "What about cows?"

"I've kept them awa'. And the heather's great, it was well burnt at the beginning of the season
..."
"You're not finding it too much for you?" "Och, I'm fit enough yet."

"My grandmother said you had a week or two in bed last winter."

„That was just a touch of the flu. The doctor gave me a bottle and I was richt as rain . . . you don't need to listen to what the women say
..."

Mrs Gibson, returning with the photographs, picked this up.

"What's that about women?"

"You're just a lot of auld hens," her husband told her. "Fussing over a wee bit flu
..."

"Ach, it wisna' so wee . . . and whit a time I had to keep him in bed," she added for Sinclair's benefit. She handed the photographs over for me to study, and warmed to the subject. "And I'm not so sure it was just flu
...
I wanted him to have an X-ray, but he wouldn't hear of it."

"You should, Gibson."

„Ach, I havna' time to be going to Inverness for all that caper
..."
and, as if bored by the subject of his health and wishing to change the subject, he shifted his chair in my direction in order to peer over my shoulder at the photographs of his sons: Hamish, a solid-looking corporal in the Camerons, and George, formally posed in a photographer's salon. "Geordie's at the University, did Mrs Gibson tell you? In his third year now, and he'll end up a lawyer. Do you mind the time he helped you build yon tree house?''

"It's still standing, too. It hasn't blown down yet."

„Onything Geordie did, he always did well. He's a great lad.''

We stayed to gossip a little longer, and then Sinclair pushed back his chair and said that it was time to go. The Gibsons came out to see us off, and the dogs, hearing voices again, started up their barking, so we all went over to the kennels to talk to them. There were two, both bitches, one gold and the other black. The one had a soft, creamy coat, and an endearing expression, with dark tip-tilted eyes.

I
said, "She looks like Sophia Loren."

"Oh, aye," said Gibson. "She's bonnie. She's on season just now, so
I
'm taking her over to Braemar tomorrow. There's a man there with a good dog. I thought maybe we'd see if we could get a litter of pups."

Sinclair raised his eyebrows. "You're going tomorrow? What time?"

"I'll be leaving around the back end of nine."

"What's the weather forecast? What sort of a day is it going to be?''

"We should have a bit of a wind tonight, blow all this murk away. It's a good forecast for the weekend."

Sinclair turned to smile at me. "What do you say?"

I had been playing with the dog and scarcely listening to all this. "Uh?"

"Gibson's going to Braemar tomorrow morning. We could get a lift, walk back home through the Lairig Ghru . . ." He turned back to Gibson. "Could you get up to Rothiemurchus in the evening and meet us?"

"Oh aye, I could do that. About what time would that be?"

Sinclair considered. "About six? We should be in by then." He looked at me again. "What do you say, Jane?"

I had never walked the Lairig Ghru. In the old days, every summer, it had been done by someone from Elvie, and I always longed to go, but was never included in the party because my legs were not considered sufficiently long. But now
...

I looked up at the sky. The cloud of the morning had never cleared and was now turning, as the day died, to a fine mist. "Is it really going to be a good day?"

"Oh, aye, and verra warm."

Gibson's opinion was enough. "I'd like to do it. More than anything."

"Well that's settled. Nine o'clock at the house then?"

"I'll be there," promised Gibson, and we thanked them for the tea and left them, walking down the hill and across the wet road, and so to Elvie. The dank air hung with moisture and beneath the copper beeches it was very dark. I was suddenly depressed. I had wanted nothing to change . . . had wanted Elvie to be exactly as I remembered it, but seeing Gibson, so aged, had brought me up with a jolt. He had been ill, he said. One day he would die. And the thought of death, in that chill, in-between hour, made me shiver.

Sinclair said, "Cold?"

"I'm all right. It's been a long day."

"Are you sure you want to go tomorrow? It's a hell of a walk."

"Yes, of course." I yawned. "We'll have to get Mrs Lumley to give us a picnic."

We came out from under the beeches and the forbidding north aspect of the house reared before us, silhouetted against the lowering sky. A single light burned, shining yellow across the blue dusk. And I decided that before dinner I would have a hot bath, and then I would not feel cold and depressed any longer.

I was right. Lapped in silky Scottish water, I dozed. It was still early, so I found a hot-water bottle in the bathroom cupboard and filled it from the tap and went to bed for an hour, lying in the darkness with the curtains undrawn and listening to the endless honking and gabbling of the wild geese.

After this, I dressed again, and with a vague idea of making my first night home something of an occasion, took trouble to pile up my hair and to use every sort of artifice on my eyes. Then I took down my only formal garment, a gold-and-black caftan in heavy silk, all embroidered and frogged in gold, which my father had found in an obscure Chinese shop in a back street of San Francisco and had been unable to resist.

It made me look very regal. I fixed on my earrings, splashed some scent around and went downstairs. I was early, but I wanted to be early. As I lay in bed. I had made a small plan and wanted the place to myself.

My grandmother's drawing-room, made ready for the evening, had an impact as visually charming as a stage set. The velvet curtains had been closed against the darkness, the cushions plumped, magazines straightened, and the fire made up. The
room was softly lit by a pair of lamps, and flamelight
was
reflected
in brass
fender
and
coal scuttle,
and
from
lovingly
polished
wooden
surfaces all over the room. There
were flowers
everywhere, and boxes filled with cigarettes,
and
the small table which
did duty as a
bar
was neatly lined
up
with bottles and
glasses,
an
ice-bucket and a
small
dish
of
nuts.

Over on the other side of the room, flanking the fireplace, was a highly decorated bombe cabinet, with glass-fronted bookshelves
on
top, and three deep, heavy drawers beneath.
I
went over to this, and pushing a small table out of the way, knelt to open the bottom drawer. One of the handles had broken and the drawer was very heavy, and I was struggling with it when I heard the door open again and someone came
in.
Feeling foiled,
I
swore to myself, but there wasn't time
to
get to my feet before a voice said, from just behind me, "Good evening."

It was David Stewart.
I
looked up over my shoulder, and found him standing over me, looking unexpectedly romantic in a dark blue dinner jacket.

I was too surprised to be polite.
"I
'd completely forgotten you were coming for dinner."