Authors: Rosamunde Pilcher
“Yes, of course. And Jason and I have promised to do the hens for Watty.” He looked at her and gave a snort of laughter. “Family life. So glamorous.” He stooped and kissed her, a proper kiss, on her mouth. When he drew away she asked, “Is that for Rose, or for Flora?”
“It's for you,” Antony told her.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
That evening the sun went down behind the sea in a welter of liquid golds and reds. Flora, having washed her hair and now trying to dry it with an old-fashioned device borrowed from Isobel, left the curtains drawn back and watched the sunset with something like disbelief. Gradually, as the light altered, the colors changed, and the islands turned pink and then a dusky blue. The sea was a mirror for the sky and when the sun had finally gone, it darkened to an inky indigo starred by the riding lights of fishing boats setting out from Tarbole for the night's work.
While all that was going on, the house rang with the pleasant sounds of the preparations for the evening's festivities. People went up and down stairs, called to each other, drew curtains, built up fires. There was the clatter of pots and china from the kitchen, and delicious smells of cooking presently began to drift upstairs.
What to wear was no problem for Flora, since she had brought only one possible outfit: a long skirt of turquoise wool, a silk shirt, and a wide belt to cinch the lot together. In fact, recalling the speed with which she had packed in London, she was amazed that she had brought even these. When she had done her hair and made up her eyes, she put them on, screwed on some earrings, and squirted herself with the Chamade that Marcia had given her for her birthday. The smell of it, in the way that smells are apt to do, brought back Marcia and her father and Seal Cottage so vividly that all at once Flora felt lost.
What was she doing here? The answer to the question was outrageous. The insanity of what she was doing hit her like a kick in the stomach, and she was overwhelmed with panic. Everything turned sour. She sat at the mirror staring at her own reflection and knew that the evening lay ahead of her like a nightmare of lies. She would make a fool of herself, give herself away, let Antony down. And they would all know that she was nothing but a lie on two legs, the worst sort of cheat.
Every instinct in her being told her to get out. Now. Before anybody could find out. Before anybody could be hurt. But how could she go? And where would she go? And hadn't she given Antony a sort of promise? Antony, who had embarked on the crazy deception with the best of intentions, and all for the sake of Tuppy.
She tried to pull herself together. After all, neither of them was going to get anything out of it. Neither of them stood to gain a mortal thing, except perhaps an uneasy conscience for the rest of their lives. It wasn't really going to affect anybody else.
Or was it? All afternoon Flora had resolutely not thought about the man on the beach. But now he came back again, that big antagonistic man, with his veiled threats that he had called a warning. While he existed there was no sense in pretending that the situation was simple. She could only hope that he had nothing to do with the Armstrongs. And, when one came down to basics, Tuppy was the only person who mattered.
Perhaps if a wrong thing were done for a good reason, that made it right.
And if ever there was a good reason, then it was Tuppy, the old lady in her room down the passage, waiting now for Flora to go and say goodnight to her.
Flora? No, not Flora. Rose.
She took a deep breath, turned away from the mirror, drew the curtains, turned off the lights, went out of her room and down the passage to Tuppy's door. She knocked and Tuppy called, “Come in.”
Flora had expected to find Antony there, but Tuppy was alone. The room was half-dark, lit only be the bedside lamps which cast a warm circle of light over the great bed at the end of the room. In it, supported by many pillows sat Tuppy, wearing a fresh lawn nightdress with lace at the throat and a bedjacket of palest blue Shetland wool, tied with satin ribbons.
“Rose! I've been waiting for you. Come and let me look at you.”
Flora obligingly stepped forward into the light and displayed herself.
“It's not very grand, but it's all I've got with me.” She went to the bedside to give Tuppy a kiss.
“I love it. So young and pretty. And you look so tall and slim with that tiny waist. There's nothing so pretty as a tiny waist.”
“You look pretty too,” Flora said, settling herself on the edge of the bed.
“Nurse dressed me up.”
“I love the bedjacket.”
“Isobel gave it to me last Christmas. It's the first time I've worn it.”
“Has Antony been to see you yet?”
“He was in about half an hour ago.”
“Did you sleep this afternoon?”
“A little. And what did you do?”
Flora began to tell her, and Tuppy lay back on her pillows and listened. The light fell on her face, and Flora was suddenly afraid for her, because all at once Tuppy looked frail and exhausted. There were dark smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes, and her hands, gnarled and brown as old tree roots, fidgeted restlessly with the hem of the sheet as Flora talked.
And yet it was a wonderful face. Probably as a girl she had not been beautiful, but in old age the bone structure, the vitality, came into their own, and Flora found her fascinating. Her skin, fine and dry, tanned by a lifetime of being outdoors, was fretted by wrinkles; to touch her cheek was like touching a withered leaf. Her white hair was short and curled disarmingly about her temples. The lobes of her ears had been pierced for earrings and had stretched, deformed by the weight of the old-fashioned jewelry she had worn all her life. Her mouth was the same shape as Antony's, and they shared the same warm, sudden smile. But it was Tuppy's eyes which held your attention, deep-set eyes, shining periwinkle blue, bright with interest in everything that was going on.
“⦠And then we came home, and the boys went off to feed the hens and collect the eggs and I washed my hair.”
“It looks lovely. Shiny. Like well-polished furniture. Hugh's just been in to see me, and I was telling him all about you. He's downstairs now, having a drink with Antony. So nice he could come. He's such a busy man, poor pet. In a way it's his own fault, though. I'm always on at him to get a partner. The practice had grown too much for any single man over these last years. But he swears he can manage on his own. I think he prefers it that way. Then there isn't time for him to brood and be unhappy.”
Flora remembered Antony talking about Hugh Kyle.
He's lived here on and off, all his life.
He must be a happy man.
No. I don't really think he is.
“Is he married?” she asked, without thinking.
Tuppy sent her a sharp look. “Don't you remember, Rose? Hugh's a widower. He was married, but his wife was killed in a car accident.”
“Oh, Oh, yes, of course.”
“It was all so sad. We've known Hugh all our lives. His father was the Tarbole doctor for years, and we watched Hugh growing up. He was always such a clever, bright little boy. He was working in London for his F.R.C.S., but when his wife died he threw the whole thing over and came back to Tarbole to take over from his father. He was still in his twenties then, and I could hardly bear it for him. Such a waste of all the promise, all that talent.”
“Perhaps he should get married again.”
“Of course he should, but he won't. He says he doesn't want to. He's got a housekeeper called Jessie McKenzie, but she's very slapdash and careless and between the two of them they manage to run a very cheerless establishment.” Tuppy sighed. “But what can one do? We can't run other people's lives for them.” She smiled, her eyes bright with amusement. “Even I can't run Hugh's life for him, hard though I try. You see, I've always been an impossibly bossy, interfering person. But my family and friends know this, and they've come to accept it quite graciously.”
“I think they probably enjoy it.”
“Yes.” Tuppy became thoughtful. “You know, Rose, lying here this afternoon, I had such a good idea⦔ Her voice faltered a little, and she reached out and took Flora's hand in her own, as though the physical contact would give her some of the younger person's strength. “Do you
have
to go back with Antony?” Flora stared at her. “I mean, Antony has to get back to Edinburgh because of his job, but I thought perhapsâdo you have a job in London?”
“Well, no, not exactly, but⦔
“But you have to get back?”
“Yes, I suppose I should. I mean⦔ It was Flora's turn to falter. She found herself, horrifyingly, without words.
“Because,” Tuppy went on, more forcefully now, “if you didn't have to get back, you could stay here. We all love you so much, and two days is scarcely long enough to get to know you again. And there are so many things I want to do. I really ought to do. About the wedding⦔
“But we don't know when we're getting married!”
“Yes, but there are lists to be made of people who ought to be invited. And then there are things here that belong to Antony, that he should have when he sets up an establishment of his own. Some silver that was his father's and pictures that belong to him. And furniture, and his grandfather's desk. All those things should be arranged. It isn't good to leave everything in the air.”
“But Tuppy, you're not meant to be worrying about Antony and me. That isn't why we came back to see you. You're meant to be resting, getting strong again.”
“But I may not get strong. I may never get better. Now, don't put on that prissy face, one must face facts. And if I don't, then it makes everything so much easier if all these tiresome little details have already been seen to.”
There was a long pause. At last Flora, hating herself, said, “I really don't think I can stay. Please forgive me. But I must go tomorrow with Antony.”
Disappointment clouded Tuppy's face, but only for an instant. “In that case,” she said, smiling, and giving Flora's hand a little pat, “you'll just have to come back to Fernrigg again before too long, and we'll have a little session then.”
“Yes, I'll try to do that. I ⦠I'm truly sorry.”
“My dear child, don't look so tragic. It's not the end of the world. Just a silly idea I had. And now, perhaps you should go downstairs. Our guests will be arriving and you must be there to greet them. Off you run.”
“I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Of course. Goodnight, my dear.”
Flora leaned forward to kiss her goodnight. As she did so, the door behind them opened and Jason appeared in his dressing gown, with his bedtime book under his arm.
“I'm just going,” Flora assured him, getting up off the edge of the bed.
He closed the door. “You look nice. Hello, Tuppy, did you have a good sleep this afternoon?”
“A splendid sleep.”
“I didn't bring
Peter Rabbit,
I brought
Treasure Island,
because Antony says it's time I made myself brave enough to listen to it.”
“Well, if it's too frightening,” said Tuppy, “we can always stop and try something else.”
He handed her the book and without more ado climbed into the large soft bed beside her, arranging the sheets and blankets over his knees, and generally making himself snug.
“Did you have a good supper?” asked Flora.
“Yes, delicious. I'm all burpy with Coke.” Wanting her to go away so that he and Tuppy could get on with the story, he added, “Hugh's downstairs, but not anybody else yet.”
“In that case,” said Flora, “I'd better go down and say good evening.”
She left them, closed the door behind her, and stood there, her hands pressed to her cheeks, trying to compose herself. She felt as though she had come through some dreadful ordeal, and hated herself for feeling this way. The disappointment she had seen in Tuppy's eyes would haunt her, she felt, for the rest of her life. But what else was there to say? What else could she have done, but refuse to stay?
Why couldn't life remain simple? Why did everything have to be complicated by people, emotions, and human relationship? What had started out as well-intended and innocent deception, was turning ugly, swelling out of all proportion. How could Flora have known what she was letting herself in for? Nothing Antony had said could have prepared her for the impact that Tuppy's warm and loving personality had made upon her.
She sighed deeply, bracing herself for the next hurdle. She started downstairs. The carpet felt thick beneath the soles of her gold slippers. There was a fresh arrangement of beech leaves and chrysanthemums on the windowsill. The hall had been tidied for the expected company, the curtains drawn across the french windows, the fire made up. The drawing-room door stood half-open and from beyond it came the sound of voices.
Antony was speaking. “What you're telling, us, Hugh, is that Tuppy's going to make some sort of a recovery. Is that it?”
“Certainly. I've said so all along.”
The voice was deep, the intonation dismayingly familiar. Flora stopped dead, not meaning to eavesdrop but all at once unable to move.
“But Isobel thought⦔
“What did Isobel think?”
Isobel replied, sounding both nervous and foolish, “I thought ⦠I thought you were trying to protect me. To keep it from me.”
“Isobel!” The voice was filled with reproach. “You've known me all my life. I would never keep anything from you. You must realize that. Most certainly if it was to do with Tuppy.”
“It ⦠it was the expression on your face.”
“Unfortunately”âhe sounded as if he were trying to make a joke of itâ“I can do nothing about the expression on my face. I was probably born with it.”
“No, I remember.” Isobel was being very definite. “I came out of the drawing room, and you were standing halfway up the stairs. Just standing there. And there was a look on your face that frightened me. I knew it had to be about Tuppy⦔