Under Gemini (20 page)

“You'd think he'd have got over it by now. Married again…”

“No. Not Hugh.”

They fell silent, winding wool. The ball was getting quite big. Flora changed the subject. She said, “I liked Anna.”

Tuppy's face lit up. “I am glad you liked Anna. I love her, but she's not easy to get to know. She's very shy.”

“She told me that she's always lived here.”

“Yes. Her father was a great friend of mine. He was called Archie Carstairs and he came from Glasgow. He'd made a great deal of money and everybody thought he was a very rough diamond—people were so silly and snobbish in those days—but I always liked him. He was a great sailing man—he used to cruise around in a very ostentatious ocean-going yacht. That's how he first came to Ardmore. He fell in love with the loch and the beautiful country, and indeed, who could blame him for that? There's nowhere like it in all the world. Anyway, just after the First World War, he built Ardmore House, and as the years went by he spent more and more time here, and eventually he retired to Ardmore. Anna was born there. Archie married late in life—I think he'd always been too busy making money to get married before—and so Anna was the child of quite elderly parents. In fact, her mother lived only for a few months after Anna was born. I often think, if her mother had survived, that Anna would have been a very different sort of person. But there it is, these things happen, and it's not for us to question why.”

“And Brian?”

“What about Brian?”

“How did she meet Brian?”

Tuppy gave a little smile. “Brian sailed into Ardmore loch one summer, in a shabby little boat that he'd brought single-handed from the South of France. By then Archie had started the Ardmore Yacht Club. It was his toy, a hobby to keep him busy in retirement, and also to make sure that he kept in touch with all his old sailing friends. Brian tied up and came ashore for a drink, and Archie got talking to him, and he was so impressed by Brian's feat of seamanship that he asked him back to Ardmore House for dinner. For Anna it was like young Lochinvar, riding in on a white horse. She looked at Brian and lost her heart and she's been in love with him ever since.”

“She married him.”

“Of course.”

“What did her father have to say about that?”

“He was fairly wary. He admired Brian and he even quite liked him, but he'd never intended him as his son-in-law.”

“Did he try to talk Anna out of it?”

“To give him his due, yes, I think he did. But the most unexpected people can be very stubborn. Anna was a woman by then, no longer a child. She knew what she wanted and she intended having it.”

“Was Brian in love with her?”

There was a long pause. Then Tuppy said, “No, I don't think so. But I do think that he was fond of her. And of course he was also fond of all the material things that being married to Anna represented.”

“You're saying—in a very nice way—that he married her for her money.”

“I don't want to say that, because I'm so fond of Anna.”

“Does it matter anyway, provided they're happy?”

“That's what I asked myself at the time.”

“Is she very rich?”

“Yes. When Archie died she inherited everything.”

“And Brian?”

“Brian has nothing but the settlement Archie made on him. I happen to know it was very generous, but the capital, the bulk of the wealth, is Anna's.”

“Supposing—the marriage broke up?”

“Then Brian's settlement would be dissolved. He would have nothing.”

Flora thought of Anna with her diffidence and her beautiful diamonds. And she was sorry for her, all over again, because it must be a cheerless thing to have your husband tied to you by nothing but money.

“Brian's very attractive.”

“Brian? Yes, of course he's attractive. Attractive and frustrated. He doesn't have nearly enough to do with himself.”

“They've never had any children?”

“Anna lost a child, that summer you and your mother were here. But I don't suppose you'd remember. You'd probably gone by then.”

The ball of wool was nearly finished. The last few strands lay across Tuppy's thin wrists. “She's pregnant again,” said Tuppy.

Flora stopped winding. “Anna? Is she? Oh, I am glad,”

Tuppy was instantly concerned. “I should never have said anything. It just slipped out. I wasn't meant to tell anyone. Hugh told me, just to cheer me up when I was feeling so ill. And I promised I'd keep it a secret.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Flora vowed. “In fact, I've forgotten it already.”

*   *   *

It was midday and they were onto the last hank of wool before Hugh appeared. They heard his footsteps up the stairs and along the passage. There came a cursory thump on the door, and the next moment he was in the room with them. He wore his workday suit. His bag swung from his hand and a stethoscope spilled from the pocket of his jacket.

“Good morning,” he said.

Tuppy eyed him. “You don't look as though anybody had ever told you that Sunday is meant to be a day of rest.”

“I forgot it was Sunday when I woke up this morning.” He came to the foot of the bed and straight to the point. “What's all this I've been hearing?”

Tuppy made an exasperated face. “I knew they'd tell you before I had a chance to.”

He set down his bag on the floor and leaned his arms on the brass rail at the end of her bed. “Then you tell me now.”

The end of the wool slipped off Tuppy's wrists and onto the last fat ball.

“We're going to have a little party next Friday for Rose and Antony,” Tuppy told him, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“How many people does a little party consist of?”

“About … sixty.” She met his eye. “Seventy?” she amended hopefully.

“Seventy people bouncing about in the hall, drinking champagne and talking nineteen to the dozen. What do you think that's going to do to your state of health?”

“If anything, it will improve it.”

“Who's going to organize all this?”

“It has already been organized. It took me exactly half an hour before breakfast. And now I shall wash my hands off the entire affair.”

He looked, naturally, skeptical. “Tuppy, I find that hard to believe.”

“Oh, don't be such an old stick-in-the-mud. Everybody's carrying on as though we were going to give a state ball.”

Hugh looked at Flora. “And what does Rose think about it?”

“Me?” Flora had been gathering up the balls of wool, putting them back into the paper bag. “I … I think it's a lovely idea, but if you think it's going to be too much for Tuppy…”

“Don't be such a turncoat, Rose,” Tuppy interrupted crossly. “You're just as bad as the rest of them.” She turned back to Hugh. “I've told you, it's all planned. Mr. Anderson will do the catering, Rose will do the flowers, Watty will clear the hall of furniture, and Isobel will telephone everybody and ask them to come. And if you don't take that expression off your face, Hugh,
you
will not be asked.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“Me? Not a thing. I shall simply sit here and stare into space.”

Her blue gaze was innocent. Hugh cocked his head and watched her warily. “No visitors,” he said.

“What do you mean, no visitors?”

“I mean, nobody nipping upstairs to see you and having little chats.”

Tuppy looked bitterly disappointed. “Not even one or two?”

“Start with one or two, and by the end of the evening your bedroom would be like Piccadilly Underground at rush hour. No visitors. And I won't even take your word on it. I shall post Nurse at the door as a sentry, armed with a pike or a bedpan or whatever weapon she chooses. And that, Mrs. Armstrong, is the deal.” He straightened up and came around to the side of the bed. “And now, Rose, if you'd be so kind as to go and find Nurse, and tell her I'm here.”

“Yes, of course.” Thus dismissed, Flora kissed Tuppy quickly, got off the bed, and went out of the room. Nurse was already on her way upstairs, and they met on the landing.

Nurse's face was grim. “Is Dr. Kyle with Mrs. Armstrong?”

“Yes, he's waiting for you.”

“I hope he's put an end to this scatter-brained idea of hers.”

“I'm not sure. But I rather think the party is on.”

“The Lord save us,” said Nurse.

Mrs. Watty was more philosophical about it all. “Well, if it's a party she wants, why shouldn't she have it?” She added, “It's not as though we can't manage. Why, there've been so many parties given in this house that we could probably manage standing on our heads.”

“I'm meant to be doing the flowers.”

Mrs. Watty looked amused. “So you've been given your own wee job. Mrs. Armstrong's very good at giving people jobs to do.”

“Yes, but I'm hopeless at flowers. I can't even put daffodils in a jug.”

“Oh, you'll manage fine.” She opened a cupboard and counted out a pile of plates. “Was the doctor easily persuaded?”

“Not easily, but he was persuaded. On condition that Tuppy doesn't have any visitors. Nurse is going to be put to stand guard at her door.”

Mrs. Watty shook her head. “Poor Dr. Kyle, what a time he does have, to be sure. As if he didn't have enough to worry about without us unloading more trouble onto his shoulders. And, seemingly, he has no help at the moment. Jessie McKenzie—she's meant to be his housekeeper—well, two days ago I hear she took the Skye Ferry over to Portree. Her mother lives there and seemingly the old lady's poorly.”

“Oh, dear.”

“It's not that easy to get help in Tarbole. Most of the women are working with the fish these days, packing herrings, or in the smokehouses.” She glanced at the clock, remembered her roasting joint, and forgot about Dr. Kyle's woes. Cautiously she stooped to open her oven door, and they were assailed by fragrant steam and the sizzling of fat.

“Is Antony not up yet?” Mrs. Watty drove a skewer into the flank of the roast. “I think it's time you went and gave him a call. Otherwise he'll sleep through the day, and the next thing it'll be time for him to start for home.”

Flora went to do this, but as she crossed the hall, she heard Hugh come out of Tuppy's room, and start down the upstairs landing. She had reached the foot of the stairs when he appeared. When he saw her, she stopped and, without really knowing why, waited for him to descend.

He was wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, which made him look distinguished. When he had reached her side he set down his bag, took off the spectacles, towing them in a case, and slipped the case into the pocket of his jacket. He looked at Flora. “Well?” he prompted, as though she should have something to say to him. To her surprise, Flora found that she had.

“Hugh, last night … You didn't want me to say I'd stay on, did you?”

He seemed unprepared for such forthrightness. “No. But I have a feeling that that is what made you change your mind.”

“Why didn't you want me to stay?”

“Call it premonition.”

“Of trouble?”

“If you like.”

“Does Tuppy's party count as trouble?”

“We could have done without it.”

“But it's on?”

“At the moment it is.” She waited for him to enlarge on this, and when he didn't, she became persistent. “But it will be all right? I mean, Tuppy will be all right?”

“Yes, provided she does as she's told. Nurse McLeod is rigidly disapproving. Her opinion of me has sunk to rock bottom. But, in fact, it may prove to be the small stimulus that Tuppy needs. And if it doesn't…” He stopped, letting the unsaid words speak for themselves.

He looked so worn down by all this that despite herself Flora was sorry for him. “Never mind,” she said, trying to sound cheerful, “at least she's doing what she most loves doing. Like the old man of ninety, being asked how he wants to die, and choosing to be shot by a jealous husband.”

Hugh's face broke into a smile, spontaneous as it was unexpected. She had never seen him smile properly before and was caught unaware by its sweetness, by the way it altered his whole face. For an instant she caught a glimpse of the young, light-hearted man that he had once been.

He said, “Exactly so.”

The morning had been gray and gentle, very still. But now a breeze had got up, clouds were being blown aside, as they stood there at the foot of the stairs, the sun broke through and all at once everything was bathed in its liquid, golden light. It poured into the hall through the two tall windows which stood on either side of the front door. The beams became filled with floating dustmotes and previously unnoticed details sprang into vivid clarity and importance: the texture of his suit, shabby and, in places, growing threadbare; the pockets sagging with the weight of various articles which he had stuffed into them; his pullover, which had an inept darn, right in the middle; and his hand, which he had placed over the newel post as he talked. She saw the shape of it, the long fingers, the signet ring, the scrubbed and clean look.

She saw that he was tired. He was still smiling at the small joke she had made, but he looked bone-weary. She thought of him coming out to dinner last night, getting dressed in his best, searching the cheerless house for a clean shirt, because his housekeeper had left him to go off to Portree to visit her mother.

She said, “Last night, the telephone call you had—I hope it wasn't anything serious.”

“Serious enough. A very old man, getting older, and a daughter-in law at the end of her tether. He'd got out of bed to go to the lavatory and he'd fallen down the stairs.”

“Did he hurt himself?”

“By a miracle, no bones were broken, but he's bruised and badly shocked. He should be in a hospital. There's a bed for him in Lochgarry Hospital, but he won't go. He was born in the house he lives in now, and that's where he wants to die.”