Winter Solstice (14 page)

Sam listened to all this with a curious mixture of irritation and compassion. Here was a man who had been handed treasure on a silver plate, and squandered the lot away. It was hard to be sympathetic, but Hughie’s bravura made him a sad character.

“… so I sold up and that was it. Moved to Barbados. Best thing I ever did.”

“Sold up. Just like that? Lock, stock, and barrel?”

“Well, hardly. The property went in lots. The farm was bought by the sitting tenant, and one or two of the cottages went to faithful old retainers who’d been living in them.

What remained-the house, stables, land-was sold to a chain who run country hotels. You know the sort of thing. Fishing available and the odd pot at a pheasant or grouse.”

Hughie knocked back the last of his gin and tonic and then sat gazing thoughtfully at the empty glass.

“Can I get you the other half?” Sam asked.

Hughie brightened.

“What a good idea. Not too much tonic.” Sam took the tumbler from his hand, and Hughie reached once more for his cigarettes.

Fixing the drink, “How long are you staying in London?” he asked.

“As short a time as possible. Flew in about four days ago. Leave on Wednesday. Headed for Nice. I’ve got an old friend there, Maudie Peabody, perhaps you know her? No? Oh, thank you, old boy. Kind of you. Maudie’s an old acquaintance of my early Barbados days. American. Rich as Croesus. Got a divine villa in the hills above Cannes. Spending Christmas with her, and New Year. Then back to Barbados.”

Sam returned to his position by the fire.

“You seem very well organized.”

“Oh, not too bad. Do one’s best. But lonely now, living on my own. Rather unsuccessful in the marriage stakes. And that’s bloody expensive. All my ex-wives want a cut of the lolly. What’s left of it!”

“Do you have children?”

“No. No children. I had mumps when I was at Eton and that put paid to procreating. Bloody shame, really. I’d have liked kids to look after me in my old age. Truth to tell, I’m a bit short of relations. Got my father, but we’re only just on speaking terms. He blew a fuse when I sold the place up, but there wasn’t a mortal thing he could do about it. There’s a cousin as well, a dull fellow. Lives in Hampshire. Tried to phone him, but there was no answer.”

“Where does your father live?”

“In solitary and comfortable state in a mansion flat near the Albert Hall. Haven’t got in touch yet. Putting it off. Probably drop in on my way back from France. Courtesy visit. We never find much to talk about….”

It was something of a relief to Sam when once more they were joined by Janey and Neil. Janey, apparently done with her cooking, had removed her apron. She looked aglow with pleasure, and came instantly across the room to put her arms around Sam’s neck and kiss him soundly.

“Neil’s told me. About the new job. I’m thrilled. You don’t mind my knowing, do you? So exciting, a real challenge. I’m really pleased for you. I can’t think of anything more exciting to take on.”

Across her head, Sam caught Neil’s eye. Neil looked a bit abashed.

“You didn’t mind me telling her?”

“Of course not.” He gave Janey a hug.

“Saved me the trouble.”

“What’s this?” Hughie pricked up his ears.

Janey turned to him.

“It’s Sam’s new job. He heard today. He’s going to the very north of Scotland to restart an old woollen mill.”

“Really?” For the first time Hughie’s attention and interest were caught by something and somebody other than himself.

“Scotland, eh? Whereabouts?”

Sam told him.

“Buckly. Sutherland.”

Hughie gaped.

“For God’s sake. Buckly. Not McTaggarts?”

“You know them?”

“Dear boy, like the back of my hand. Buckly’s only a few miles from Corrydale. Used to have all my shooting suits made of Buckly tweed. And Nanny used to knit my shooting stockings with McTaggarts’ wheeling. Old family firm. Been going for at least a hundred and fifty years. What the hell happened?”

“Old McTaggart died. Sons weren’t interested. They ran out of money, and the mill was finally finished off by a flood.”

“What a tragic story. Like hearing an old friend has died. And you are going to take over! When do you go north?”

“Soon.”

“Got a place to live?”

“No. All the mill’s domestic property has been sold off. I’ll camp in a pub, and look around for something to buy.”

Hughie said, “Interesting.” They all looked at him, but he did not enlarge on this, simply concentrated his attention on carefully stubbing out his cigarette.

At last, “Why interesting?” asked Janey.

“Because I have a house.”

“Where do you have a house?”

“Not Corrydale, but Creagan. Even closer to Buddy.”

“Why do you have a house in Creagan?”

“It was the old estate office, and where the factor’s family lived. Quite large, solid, Victorian. With a garden at the back. But my grandmother decided it was too far from Corrydale, for day-to-day convenience, and she put the factor and his family into more suitable accommodation, within the walls of the park. The old Estate House she left to me. And to my cousin. We are joint owners.”

Neil frowned.

“So who lives there now?”

“It’s standing empty. An old couple called Cochrane have been renting it out for the past twenty years, but one has died, and the other gone off to live with some relation. To 6e truthful, one of the reasons I’m in London is to put it on the market. I could do with a bit of the old ready. Tried to ring Oscar … he’s the other owner … to talk things over, but couldn’t get hold of him. He’s probably died. Bored himself to death, no doubt.”

Janey ignored this little spurt of malice. She said, “Would he be willing to sell out his half of the house?”

“Can’t imagine why he shouldn’t. No earthly use to him. I have, in fact, a date with Hurst and Fieldmore tomorrow morning, thought I’d sound them out, see if they’d handle a sale.”

“But your cousin …”

“Oh, I can square things off with him when I get back from France.”

“So what are you saying, Hughie?”

“That your friend Sam needs a house and I have one for sale. Suit him down to the ground, I should reckon. Short commute to business, close to the shops, championship golf course. No man could ask for more.” He turned his head to look at Sam.

“No harm done, going to cast your eye over the place. We could come to some arrangement. A private deal would suit me very well.”

Sam said cautiously, “How much are you asking?”

“Well, there’s been no valuation, for obvious reasons. But…” Hughie dropped his eyes, brushed a little cigarette ash from the knee of his trousers.

“A hundred and fifty thousand?”

“Between you and your cousin?”

“Exactly so. Seventy-five each.”

“How soon can you get in touch with him?”

“No idea, old boy. He’s being elusive. He could be anywhere. But there is no reason why you shouldn’t go and have a look at the place.”

“Is there some agent or person I should get in touch with?”

“No need.” Hughie heaved himself sideways and felt in his trouser pocket. From this he withdrew a large old-fashioned key, attached to a red label upon which was written in large capitals, estate house. He held it up like a trophy. Janey was amazed.

“Do you carry it with you all the time?”

“Silly girl, of course not. Told you, I was going to see Hurst and Fieldmore tomorrow, was going to hand it over then.”

Sam took the key.

“How do I get in touch with you?”

“Give you my card, old boy. You can fax me in Barbados. And Maudie’s telephone number in the south of France, just in case you make a snap decision.”

“I’ll certainly look at the house, and thank you. But of course nothing can be official without your cousin’s approval.”

“Course not. No underhand shenanigans. Everything above-board, cut and dried. But still, a viable proposition.”

There fell another pause. Then Janey said, “It is the most extraordinary coincidence. I’m sure it’s an omen. A marvelous omen. Of everything going right, and everything going well. Shouldn’t we celebrate? Sam gave us a bottle of champagne. Why don’t we open it and drink a toast to Sam, Me-Taggarts, and happy days in his new house?”

“Splendid idea,” said Hughie.

“But if you don’t mind, I’d much prefer another gin and tonic.”

That night, Carrie dreamed of Austria and Oberbeuren. In the dream, the sky was a deep blue and the snow so dazzling that every frozen flake glittered like a jewel. She was skiing. An empty piste. Floating down through the white fields that spread to infinity on either side. There were black pine trees, and the pi ste ran between these trees, and she was alone. And then, emerging from the pines, she realized that she was not alone, because, far ahead, she saw another lone skier, a black silhouette, hurtling away from her, down the slope, dancing Christianas in the snow. She knew that the skier was Andreas, and she wanted him to know that she was there, so that he would wait for her. She called his name. Andreas. Stop and let me be with you. Let us ski down together. She could hear her voice blown away by the wind, and the sound of her skis on the beaten surface of the piste. Andreas. But he was gone. And then she topped a rise and saw that he had heard her call and was waiting. Turned, leaning on his sticks, watching for her. His head tipped up, his dark goggles pushed to the top of his head.

He was smiling. White teeth in a deeply tanned face. Perhaps his flight had been just a tease. Andreas. She reached his side and stopped, and only then saw that it was not Andreas at all, but another man, with a wolfish grin and eyes hard as grey pebbles. And the sky was not blue any longer but storm-dark and she was afraid…. The sense of fear awoke her, eyes flying open to the darkness. She could hear the beating of her heart. Disoriented, she saw a strip of uncurtained window, the street lights beyond. Not Austria, not Oberbeuren, but London. Not her pine-scented apartment with the balcony beyond the windows, but Putney, and the spare bedroom of her friends, Sara and David Lumley. Not frosty, starlit skies, but the drip of grey rain. The dream receded. Andreas, who had never been truly hers, was gone. It was all over.

She reached out a hand and found her watch on the bedside table. Six o’clock on a dark early-December morning.

The empty bed felt desolate. She found herself overcome with a physical yearning, a desperate need for Andreas, for him to be there, his smooth and muscular body close to her own. To be back where they both belonged, in the huge carved bed beneath the sloping beams: lovers, bundled in goose-down and bliss. She turned on her side, hugging herself for comfort and warmth. It will be all right. It’s like an illness, but I will recover. She closed her eyes, turned her face into the pillow, and slept again.

At nine o’clock she awoke once more, and saw that the gloomy winter morning had begun to lighten. By now, David and Sara would already have departed, set off for work, and she knew that she was alone in their house. Already, she had been there for a week, and in that time had accomplished little; seen nobody, done nothing about finding herself a new job. Sara and David, infinitely understanding, had left her alone, and Carrie’s only contact with her family had been to call her father in Cornwall and have a long and comforting conversation with him, lasting almost an hour.

“You will get in touch with your mother, won’t you?” he had said, and she had promised that she would, but kept finding good reasons for putting off this course of action. But a week was too long, and she knew that it could be postponed no longer. Today, this very morning, she would telephone Dodie. Surprise, she would say, sounding cheerful. I’m back. Here. In London.

And there would be astonishment, and explanations and excuses, and then arrangements made for their reunion. She did not dread this, but neither did she much look forward to seeing either her mother or her sister, Nicola. She knew that they would have much to tell her and none of it would be good news. However, blood runs thicker than water, and the sooner it was done, and over with, the better.

She got out of bed and pulled on her dressing-gown and went downstairs. The kitchen was neat and shining. Sara was an exemplary housekeeper, despite a full-time job. She had even found time to leave a note for Carrie, propped against the pot plant that stood in the middle of the. table.

Have a good day. There’s bacon in the fridge and orange juice. David has a late meeting, but I’ll be home the usual time. If you go to Safeway, could you buy a veg for supper. Cauliflower will do. And some Lapsang Souchong tea-bags. Love X Sara.

Carrie boiled a kettle, made coffee, put bread in the toaster. She drank the coffee but didn’t eat the toast. The telephone sat on the dresser and looked at her, like a bad conscience. By the time she had drunk three cups of coffee, it was a quarter to ten. Surely, even Dodie Sutton would be up and about by now. She reached for the receiver and punched the number. The rain dripped against the window. She heard the ringing tone. She waited.

“Hello.”

“Ma.”

“Who’s that?”

“Carrie.”

“Carrie? Are you ringing up from Austria?”

“No. London. I’m here. Home.”

“At Ranfurly Road?”

“No. Ranfurly Road’s been let for three years. Three months’ notice on either side. I’m homeless.”

“Then where are you?”

“In Putney. With friends. Just across the river from you.”

“How long have you been back?”

“About a week. But there’s been a lot to do, otherwise I’d have called before.”

“A week! Is this a holiday?” Dodie’s voice was querulous, as though in some way her daughter had pulled a fast one on her.

“No, not a holiday. I chucked my job in. Decided I’d done it for long enough.”

“I always imagined you were there for good. We haven’t seen you for years. What happened?”

“Nothing happened. Just a whim.”

“Will you get another job?”

“Have to. Look, Ma, I thought I’d come and see you. Are you going to be in today?”

“I’m in this morning. This afternoon I have to go and play bridge with old Leila Maxwell. She’s got cataracts, poor thing, and can scarcely see the cards, but it’s the least one can do.”