Under Gemini (2 page)

There did not seem to be anybody about, although this was not surprising. Jason was at school; Mrs. Watty would be in the kitchen, busy with lunch. Isobel—he wondered where he would find Isobel.

Just as the question entered his mind, he heard her footsteps coming across the drawing room floor, and the scratch of Plummer's paws on the patches of parquet between the rugs. The next moment she appeared through the open door, with the fat old spaniel hard on her heels.

She saw Hugh at once, and stopped dead, tilting back her head to look up at him. They stared at each other and then, recognizing his own anxieties reflected in her eyes, he hastily pulled himself together, rearranging his features into an expression of robust cheerfulness.

“Isobel, I was wondering where I'd find you.”

She said, in no more than a whisper, “Tuppy?”

“Not too bad.” Swinging his bag, his other hand in his trouser packet, he came downstairs.

“I thought … When I saw you standing there … I thought…”

“I'm sorry, I was thinking about something else. I didn't mean to give you a fright.…”

She was unconvinced, but she tried to smile. She was fifty-four, the gawky stay-at-home daughter who had never married, instead spilling the intensity of her affection onto her mother, the house, the garden, her friends, her dog, her nephews, and now Jason, the little great-nephew who had come to live at Fernrigg House while his parents were abroad. Her hair, which had been flaming red when she was a girl, was now sandy and streaked with white, but the style had not changed as long as Hugh could remember. Nor had the expression on her face, still child-like and innocent, perhaps on account of the sheltered life she had led. Her eyes were blue as a child's and sensitive as the sky on a squally day, reflecting every emotion like a mirror: shining with pleasure, or brimming with the tears over which she had never had any control.

Now, looking up at him, they were filled with anguish, and it was obvious that Hugh's hearty manner had done nothing to reassure her.

“Is she … is she going to…?” Her lips could not, would not, frame the dreaded word. He put a hand beneath her elbow and ushered her firmly back into the drawing room and shut the door behind them.

“She may die, yes,” he told her. “She's not a young woman and she's taken a battering. But she's tough. Like an old heather root. She has a good chance of pulling through.”

“I can't bear the thought of her being an invalid—not being able to get about and do all the things she wants to do. She would hate it so much.”

“Yes, I know. I do know.”

“What can we do?”

“Well…” He cleared his throat, running a hand down the back of his neck. “There is one thing which I think would cheer her up, and that would be for Antony to come over and perhaps bring that girl he's engaged to…”

Isobel rounded on him. She, too, could remember him as a little boy, and sometimes a very tiresome one. “Hugh, don't call her ‘that girl' in that horrid way. She's Rose Schuster and you know her as well as we all do. Not that that's very well, I admit, but at least you do know her.”

“I'm sorry.” Isobel was always fiercely protective of any person even remotely connected with the family. “Rose, then. I think Tuppy's longing to see her again.”

“We all are, but she's been with her mother in America. The trip was all planned before she and Antony got engaged.”

“Yes, I know, but she may be back by now. And Tuppy's fretting about it. Perhaps Antony could be nudged a little, persuaded to get Rose north and bring her over, even if it's only for a weekend.”

“He always seems to be so
busy.
”

“I'm sure if you explained the situation.… Tell him that perhaps it would be better not to put it off too long.”

As he feared, Isobel's eyes became instantly bright with tears. “You
do
think she's going to die.” Already she was fumbling up her sleeve for a handkerchief.

“Isobel, I didn't say that. But you know how Tuppy is about Antony. He's more of a son than a grandchild. You can see how much it means to her.”

“Yes. Yes, I do see.” Bravely Isobel blew her nose and stowed away her handkerchief. Searching for some diversion, her eyes alighted on the sherry decanter. “Have a drink.”

He laughed, easing the tension. “No, I won't, thank you. I'm going to see Mrs. Cooper. She's got palpitations again, and they'll worsen if she thinks I've been drinking.”

Isobel smiled, too, despite herself. Mrs. Cooper had always been something of a family joke. Together they went out of the room and across the hall. Isobel opened the front door onto the chill of the damp, mist-shrouded morning. The doctor's car, parked at the foot of the steps, was wet with rain.

He said, “And promise to ring me if you're the least bit worried.”

“I will. But with Nurse here, I know I won't worry so much.”

It was Hugh who had insisted that they get a nurse. Otherwise, he said, Tuppy must go into a hospital. On being faced with the daunting prospect of a resident nurse, Isobel's mind had shot off at panicky tangents. Tuppy must be very ill; and where would they find a nurse? And would Mrs. Watty raise objections? And would there be umbrage taken and bad feeling in the kitchen?

But Hugh had seen to it all. Mrs. Watty and Nurse had made friends, and Isobel was able to sleep at nights. He was, in truth, a tower of strength. Seeing him off Isobel asked herself, perhaps for the hundredth time, what they would all do without him. She watched him get into his car and drive away, down the short drive between the sodden rhododendrons, past the lodge where the Wattys lived, and through the white gates which were never closed. She waited until he had gone. The tide was at the flood, and she could hear the gray waves breaking against the rocks below the garden.

She shivered, and returned indoors to phone Antony.

The telephone in the old-fashioned house stood in the hall. Isobel sat on the chest, and looked up the number of Antony's office in Edinburgh. She could never remember telephone numbers and had to look up even the most day-to-day people, like the grocer, and the man at the railway station. With one eye on the book, she dialed carefully and sat waiting for someone to reply. Her thoughts, anxious, darted in all directions: the dahlias would be dead tomorrow; she must pick some more; would Antony have already gone out for lunch? She mustn't be selfish about Tuppy. There was a time for everybody to die. If she could no longer work in her precious garden nor take Sukey for little walks, then she would not want to live. But what an unbearable void she would leave in all their lives! Despite herself, Isobel prayed wildly.
Don't let her die. Don't let us lose her just yet. Oh, God, be merciful unto us
 …

“McKinnon, Carstairs, and Robb. Can I help you?”

She was jerked back to reality by the bright young voice. Feeling for her handkerchief again, she wiped her eyes and composed herself. “Oh, I am sorry, I wondered if it would be possible to speak to Mr. Armstrong. Mr. Antony Armstrong.”

“Who's speaking, please?”

“Miss Armstrong. His aunt.”

“Just a moment.”

There came a couple of clicks, a pause, and then, wonderfully, Antony's voice. “Aunt Isobel.”

“Oh, Antony…”

He was immediately alert. “Is anything wrong?”

“No. No, not wrong.” She mustn't give a false impression. She must pull herself together. “Hugh Kyle's been. He's just left.”

“Is Tuppy worse?” Antony asked bluntly.

“He … he says she's holding her own wonderfully. He says she's as strong as an old heather root.” She tried to make it light-hearted, but her voice let her down woefully. She could not get out of her mind that deeply grave expression that she had caught on Hugh's face. Had he really been telling her the truth? Had he been trying to spare her in some way? “He … he had a few words with Tuppy, though, and it seems that all she wants is to see you, and for you to bring Rose over. And I wondered if you'd heard from Rose—if she was back from America?”

There was only silence from the other end of the line, and trying to fill it, Isobel rattled on.

“I know how busy you always are, and I don't want to worry you.…”

“That's all right.” Antony spoke at last. “Yes. Yes, she is back in London. I had a letter from her this morning.”

“It means so much to Tuppy.”

Another pause, and then steadily, Antony asked, “Is she going to die?”

Isobel couldn't help it. She dissolved into tears, furious with herself, but unable to check them. “I … I don't know. Hugh tried to reassure me, but I've never seen him look so concerned. And it would be so dreadful, unthinkable really, if anything should happen to Tuppy and she had never seen you and Rose together. It meant so much to her, your getting engaged. If you could bring Rose, perhaps it would make all the difference. It would give her a reason…”

She couldn't go on. She hadn't meant to say so much, and she could see nothing through the tears. She felt defeated, at the end of her tether, and as though she had been alone for too long. She blew her nose again and finished helplessly. “Do try, Antony.”

It was a cry from the heart. He said, sounding almost as shaken as she did, “I didn't realize…”

“I think I've only just realized myself.”

“I'll get hold of Rose. Somehow, I'll fix it. We'll be over next weekend. I promise.”

“Oh, Antony.” Relief washed over her. They would come. If Antony said he would do something, he always kept his word, come hell or high water.

“And don't be too worried about Tuppy. If Hugh says she's as tough as a heather root, she probably is. She'll run rings round the lot of us, and most likely outlive us all.”

Immensely comforted, Isobel raised a little laugh. “Well, it's not beyond the bounds of possibility.”

“Nothing is,” said Antony. “Anything can happen. See you next weekend.”

“Bless you.”

“Think nothing of it. And my love to Tuppy.”

2

MARCIA

Ronald Waring said, perhaps for the fifth time, “We should go home.”

His daughter Flora, bemused with sun and sleepy from swimming, said, “I know,” also for the fifth time, and neither of them moved. She sat perched on a sloping face of granite, staring down into the jewel-blue depths of the immense rock pool in which they had had their evening swim. The sun, sliding down out of the sky, poured the last of its warmth onto her face. Her cheeks were still salty from the sea; wet hair clung to her neck. She sat with her arms wrapped around her legs, her chin on her knees, her eyes narrowed against the dazzle of the sea.

It was a Wednesday, and the last of a perfect summer's day. Or was September officially autumn? Flora couldn't remember. She only knew that in Cornwall, the summer had a charming way of spinning itself out beyond the end of the season. Down here, sheltered by the cliffs, there was no breath of wind, and the rocks, soaked by a day's sunshine, were still warm to the touch.

The tide was coming in. The first trickle of water had slid between two limpet-encrusted rocks and emptied itself into the pool. Soon the trickle would swell to a flood, and the mirror surface of the water be shattered by the vanguard of the long Atlantic rollers. Finally, the rocks would become engulfed, and the pool submerged and lost until the next low tide should set it free again.

She could not remember how many times they had sat together, just as they sat now, mesmerized by the fascination of a flooding September tide. But this evening it was even more difficult to drag themselves away, because it was the last time. They would go up the cliff path, pausing from time to time as they always did, to look back at the ocean. They would take the path that led across the fields to Seal Cottage, where Marcia was waiting for them, with supper in the oven and flowers on the table. And after supper Flora would wash her hair and finish her packing, because tomorrow she was going back to London.

It had all been planned, and it was something that Flora had to do, but at this moment she could scarcely bear to contemplate the idea. For one thing, she always hated leaving her father. She looked at him where he sat on the rock a little below her. She saw his leanness, the deep tan of his skin, his long bare legs. He wore a disreputable pair of shorts and an ancient shirt, much darned, with the sleeves rolled back off his forearms. She saw his thinning hair, tousled from the swim, and the jutting jawline as he turned his head to watch a cormorant skimming by just above the surface of the sea.

She said, “I don't want to go tomorrow.”

He turned to smile up at her. He said. “Then don't.”

“I have to. You know that. I have to go out into the world and start being independent again. I've been home too long.”

“I'd like you to stay for always.”

She ignored the sudden lump in her throat. “You're not meant to say things like that. You're meant to be brisk and unsentimental. You're meant to push your chick out of the nest.”

“You promise me you're not going because of Marcia?”

Flora was truthful. “Yes, of course in a way I am, but that's not the point. Anyway, I adore her, you know that.” When her father did not smile, she tried turning it into a joke. “All right then, she's a typical wicked stepmother, how's that for a reason? And I'm escaping before I find myself locked in a cellar with the rats.”

“You can always come back. Promise me you'll come back if you can't find a job, or if things don't work out.”

“I shall find a job with no difficulty whatsoever, and everything's going to work out.”

“I still want the promise.”

“You have it. But you'll probably regret it when I turn up on your doorstep again in a week's time. And now”—she picked up her bathing towel and a pair of threadbare espadrilles—“we should go home.”