Winter Solstice (18 page)

Small comfort, but at least the third person, whoever the visitor was, would preclude another row, anyway, for the time being. She waited for what was going to happen next. Which was nothing for about five minutes. And then, once more, the drawing-room door opened and closed, and somebody was approaching. Lucy shut her diary and leaned on it, her head turned to watch the doorknob. Her mother, come to impart the latest news about plans for Florida. Lucy, all at once, felt almost sick with apprehension. But then, there was a soft knock, and she knew it wasn’t Mummy, because Mummy never knocked, just barged in, invading privacy, disrupting whatever Lucy happened to be doing.

At a knock, Miss Maxwell-Brown always called out, “Come in,” but before she could bring herself to say this, the door opened slowly, and a head came around the edge of it.

“Am I interrupting?” She was smiling. Not her mother. Not Gran. Not some boring acquaintance of Gran’s. But… Carrie. Carrie? She’d only just been thinking of Carrie and now she was here, at the door, and not in Austria where Lucy thought she was, living a glamorous life of skiing holidays and luxury hotels. Carrie. And she used to have long hair, but now it was short and she was very thin, very tanned, and just as tall as Lucy remembered.

Carrie. Lucy found herself dumbfounded, without words. A turmoil of mixed emotions. Astonishment and incredulous delight that such a marvelous and unforeseen event was actually taking place. Carrie. She felt the warm blush of sheer pleasure creeping up into her cheeks. Things like this didn’t happen very often, and she couldn’t think of a word to say. Her instinct was to leap to her feet and fling herself into Carrie’s arms, but perhaps Carrie would think this dreadfully babyish. Perhaps … Carrie said, “Don’t goggle. It’s really me.”

Slowly Lucy got to her feet. She said, “Goodness.”

Carrie came into the room and gently closed the door behind her.

“Surprised?”

“Yes. I’d no idea. Have you been here ages?”

“About an hour. Chatting to Ma.”

“No. I mean in London.”

“A week.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Nobody did. Never mind, you know now.” She stooped and planted a kiss on Lucy’s cheek. She smelt gorgeous.

“You’ve grown. Stupid thing to say. I used to bend double to kiss you.” She looked about her.

“What a pretty room. It used to be very gloomy. And how tidy. Have you been giving it a spring clean?”

“Not this morning. And Gran did it up for me. She let me choose the colours.”

“Perfect. All sunny.” There was a small blue armchair by the bed, and Carrie sank into this, long legs stretched out, her neatly booted feet crossed at the ankles.

“Have you been working?”

“Yes. Homework.” Lucy picked up her diary, stowed it away, privately, in a drawer, and then sat again, swivelling her typist’s chair around so that she faced her aunt.

“When did you get back?”

“I said. A week ago. I would have let you all know I was coming, but it was all a bit precipitant.”

“How long are you home for?”

“Indefinitely. Chucked the ski job in. At the moment, I’m both homeless and unemployed, but it doesn’t matter. How’s everything with you?”

Lucy shrugged.

“All right.”

“There seems to be a certain crisis looming. Or perhaps it’s already loomed. Poor child, you must be wondering what on earth is going to happen next.”

This was in character, and Lucy was grateful. Carrie had always been completely direct, never avoiding awkward questions and coming straight to the point of any dilemma. Suddenly, Lucy felt much better, and even strong enough to ask, “Mummy didn’t buy two air tickets for Florida, did she?”

“Would you have minded?”

“Dreadfully.”

Carrie laughed.

“Don’t worry, she’s going on her own. So that little battle you’ve actually won. It must have been something of a fight.”

“Do you think I’m being really stupid, not wanting to go with her?”

“No, I think you’re absolutely right. You’d be like a sore thumb, a green gooseberry. Much better for Nicola to be on her own. But it does pose problems.”

“You mean Christmas?”

“No, I don’t mean Christmas. I mean you. What do you want to do? I bet you anything nobody’s even asked you that.”

“Not really.”

“I suggested you go to your father, but apparently he and Marilyn are off to the ski slopes with a lot of their friends.”::!

“I wouldn’t want to go with them. Marilyn doesn’t like me much and I’ve never been skiing, so I don’t suppose it would be all that much fun.”

“You haven’t got cosy school friends with cosy mothers you’d want to go and be with?”

Lucy felt a bit abashed, because she hadn’t. She had school friends of course, lots of them, but nobody special, nobody with a motherly mother. Emma Forbes was about her closest friend, and her mother was the editor of a magazine and always dashing off to meetings. Lucy scarcely knew her, and Emma had to be tremendously independent and organize her own social life with the help of a latchkey and a Swedish au pair. So far, for all their chat and giggles and time spent together, Emma had not even mentioned Christmas.

Carrie was waiting. Her dark eyes watched, and were filled with kindness. Lucy said, “I did think perhaps I could go to Cornwall. To Grandfather. The only thing is that I’ve never been and I can’t even remember him, and I’ve never met Serena, or Ben, or Amy. And Gran’s always horrid about him and won’t talk, or say their names, but I thought perhaps if she didn’t have any alternative, they might let me go.”

“Would you like that?”

“Yes, I think I would. The only thing is, I’ve never been….” Her voice trailed away.

“And perhaps they wouldn’t want me anyway.”

Carrie said, “I think it’s a wonderful idea, and I think one day you should go. But not this Christmas, because I spoke to Jeffrey when I got back from Austria, on the telephone, and I know they’ve got a houseful. Their house isn’t very big anyway, tiny, in fact, and it’s going to be stuffed to the gunwales with visitors.”

Hope died.

“Oh, well. It doesn’t matter….”

“But you should certainly go one day. In the spring, perhaps. They’d love it, and you’d love all of them. So we’ll have to come up with something else.”

We was significant.

“We?” r-Yes. You and me. Orphans of the storm together. What 757 I we do?”

“You mean, for Christmas?”

“Of course, for Christmas.”

“In London?”

“I think London would be rather dull, don’t you? Perhaps we should go away.”

“But where?”

There seemed to be no answer to this. They gazed at each other, and then Carrie got to her feet and went to the window, raising the voile curtain and staring down into the cheerless area three floors below. She said, “I’ve an idea. I just had it, this moment.” She dropped the curtain and turned, and came to perch on the edge of Lucy’s desk. She said, “Have you ever heard of Elfrida Phipps?”

Lucy shook her head, wondering what was coming next.

“She’s heaven. A cousin of Jeffrey’s. Your gran could never stand her, because she was rather wild and louche and an actress, and always had lots of boyfriends and husbands. They never had, what you might call, a lot in common, and your gran thoroughly disapproved of Elfrida. But I always loved her, and when I was at Oxford I started seeing her again, and we made terrific friends.”

“How old is she?”

“Oh, ancient. Over sixty. But more fun than anyone you ever knew.”

“Where does she live?”

“She used to live in London, but then her… well, he wasn’t her husband, but she adored him … he died and she moved to the country. Once, ages ago, she was ill after an operation, and I stayed with her until she was better, and we’ve always kept in touch. Now, she’s living in a little village in Hampshire; she says the house is weeny. But there’d be space for you and me. And if there isn’t space, Elfrida will make it. Would that be a good idea, do you think? Shall we give it a try?”

“You and me?”

“And Elfrida.”

“For two weeks?”

“Of course.”

“Would she mind?”

“I would bet my bottom dollar that she’ll jump at it.”

“How will we ask her?”

“I’ll ring. I’ve got her number.”

“Now?”

“No, not now. When I get back to Putney. We don’t want the others to know our plans until they’re all cut and dried. Then we’ll present them as a fait accompli.”

“If she doesn‘t have us for Christmas … ?”

“We mustn’t think so negatively. We must be positive. And at the moment, don’t say a word. It shall be our secret.” Carrie pushed back the cuff of her cashmere sweater and looked at her watch.

“Heavens, it’s nearly one o’clock. I’m starving, aren’t you? Your gran said she’d give us soup and pate, but I’m not sure if that’s going to sustain me. Why don’t I take all four of us out to lunch. Is there somewhere cheap and cheerful not too far away?”

“There’s Rosetti’s. It’s a five-minute walk.”

“Italian?”

“Spaghetti and stuff.”

“My favorite food. What do you say? Shall we go and round up our mothers and tell them they’re in for a treat?”

Lucy remembered Emma.

“I’m going to the cinema this afternoon with a girl-friend. I have to meet her at two-thirty.”

“How do you get there?”

“Tube.”

“No problem. We’ll have lunch, and then I’ll stand you a taxi. You won’t be late.”

It was getting better and better. Restaurant lunches and taxis. Lucy wondered if Carrie, returned from Austria, was now rich. She certainly looked rich, in her beautiful clothes and with her shining locks of hair and her glamorous makeup … just as good as the attenuated models who posed in leather and fur between the glossy pages of Gran’s favourite, Vogue. She felt as though, suddenly, she had walked from a dark and cold corner into a blaze of warm sunshine. All part of being relieved, shed of worry, and having Carrie back again, a benevolent presence who was making everything all right. To her horror, emotion caused Lucy’s eyes to mist over with ridiculous tears and she felt her face begin to crumple, like a baby’s.

“Oh, Carrie …”

“Hey, don’t cry. There’s nothing to cry about. We’re going to have a great time.” And she opened her arms, and Lucy stood, and leaned against her aunt, and pressed her cheek into the soft cashmere of her sweater, smelling her scent again. She was really here. Mercifully, before they could fall, the stupid tears receded, and in a moment she was able to find a handkerchief and lustily blow her nose.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. Now, wash your face and find a jacket or something, and I’ll go and break the happy news to the others.”

“Just about lunch?”

“Just about lunch. We won’t say a word about our plans until we’ve got them all cut and dried. A secret, between you and me.”

She found Dodie in the little kitchen, endeavouring, in a half-hearted sort of way, to organize the promised snack. She had started to lay the table and was on the point of opening a tin of soup.

Carrie said, “Don’t open it.”

Dodie, startled, turned to face her younger daughter.

“Why not?” She looked out of place in a kitchen, dressed as she was in her neat, formal domes, and without a hair out of place. She hadn’t even tied on an apron, and held the soup tin at arm’s length, as though the opener might bite her.

“Because we’re all going out to lunch. My treat. Lucy and I have decided a little self-indulgence is in order. She suggested someplace called Rosetti’s. Is that all right by you?”

“Well. Yes.” But Dodie still sounded doubtful.

“I thought we’d agreed on soup and pate. Here.”

“You’re quite right. We did. But minds have been changed.”

“It’s almost one o’clock. Will we get a table?”

“Why not? Would you like to ring them up? Do you know the number?”

“I think so.”

“Then do that. And keep the can of soup for your supper. Where’s Nicola?”

“In the drawing-room.”

“Sulking?”

“No. Delighted with herself.”

“Let’s make a pact. Over lunch, no word of Florida. Lucy’s had enough.”

“Well, I most certainly have.”

Carrie found Nicola deep in an armchair, turning over the pages of the new Harpers and Queen that she had bought on her way home from the travel agent.

“Are you planning a new wardrobe for Florida?”

Nicola closed the magazine and dropped it on the floor.

“I know what you think, Carrie, and I don’t give a damn.”

“Why should you care? And why shouldn’t you go if you want to?”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Anything’s better than hanging around here, creating discord and being resentful.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Oh, Nicola …” Carrie sat on the arm of the sofa.

“Let’s call a pax. We’re going out for lunch. It’ll cheer us up. And we’re not going to talk about Florida, or Bournemouth or Christmas, or anything.”

“Is this Lucy’s idea?”

“No, mine. And I must congratulate you. She’s sweet-looking and sweet-natured, which is more than one can say about most fourteen-year-old girls. You’ve done a good job.”

“Well.” Nicola, with the wind thus taken out of her sails, allowed herself a wry smile.

“Thank you.” And then hastily added, “But it’s not been easy.”

“I don’t suppose bringing up children ever is. I wouldn’t know. Now, come on, get your skates on. Ma’s ringing the restaurant to be sure there’s a table for us. And Lucy and I are going to eat great mounds of carbonara.”

Over their mother’s fireplace was a gold-framed Venetian minor, which reflected back all the pretty charm of the double room. Nicola stood up and went to inspect herself in this, touching her hair and drawing her little finger across her painted lips. Then, through the mirror, her eyes met those of Carrie’s. She said, “There is still a problem, though, isn’t there?”

“I’ll try to find a solution.”

“Carrie, why did you come back from Austria?”

“Oh.” Carrie shrugged.

“A snap decision.”

“Well, whatever the reason, I’m grateful.” Nicola reached for her fur jacket, and then spoilt it all by saying, “At least it takes some of the pressure off me.”