Winter Solstice (21 page)

Oscar nodded.

“Nice woman. Nice woman…. Met her in the butcher’s. Said she’d get the boiler going. Not my responsibility any longer, or I’d have popped in for CD’s inspection.”

Oscar, feeling desperate, said, “The key?”

Major Billicliffe frowned in a bewildered fashion.

“Sorry?”

“The key. To the Estate House. If you could let me have it, and then we’ll get out of your way.”

“Ah, yes. Got it somewhere.” He knocked back his drink with one expert toss of his elbow, laid down the empty glass and heaved himself to his feet. Across the room once more, to an old roll-top desk, standing open and chaotically untidy. Stooping over mis, he root led hopelessly around for a moment or two, feeling into pigeon-holes, opening and shutting drawers. At last, “Eureka,” he exclaimed, and held up a large oldfashioned key tied to a crumpled label.

“Knew I’d put it somewhere. Get a bit forgetful these days.”

Oscar and Elfrida, finished with their meagre drinks, rose firmly to their feet. Oscar took the key from Major Billicliffe’s hand.

“Thank you. I am sorry we disturbed you.”

“Didn’t disturb me at all. Splendid to have a bit of company. Remember, I’m usually in the club most days. Don’t play as much as I used to. Good to have a crack with old chums, and you can get a jolly-good sandwich in the bar.” They eased their way towards the door.

“You must come and see me again. And perhaps I’ll pop in and call at the Estate House. See how you’re settling in.”

Elfrida smiled. She said, “Of course. But don’t come quite right away. Oscar’s not been very well, and we’ll need a little time.”

“Of course, of course. But we’ll certainly see each other around.”

Now, in the middle of his long walk, Oscar paused to watch the golfers, safe in the knowledge that the dreaded Billicliffe was not one of the four men. They had already positioned themselves, selected clubs, and not wishing to disturb them, nor deflect their attention, he stood motionless until the last player had whacked his ball into what appeared to be orbit. The light was already dying, and it occurred to Oscar that they would have to get their skates on if they were to be back in the clubhouse before dark. The golfer stooped to retrieve his tee, and in doing so, caught sight of Oscar.

Across the rolling fairway that lay between them, their eyes, for an instant, met. The other man raised a hand in greeting, or maybe simply an acknowledgement of Oscar’s consideration. Oscar returned his salute. Then the golfer stowed his driver into his bag, picked up the handle of his trolley, and set off after his friends, Oscar watched him go. A burly figure in his scarlet jacket and bright-blue trousers. He wondered if he was a visitor to Creagan-come perhaps from the United States-or a local resident. Moments later, he disappeared behind the natural hazard of a gorsy hillock, and Oscar and the dog continued on their way.

He was beginning to feel a bit weary. Below him, between the links and the dunes, he saw the stony track used by the greens keepers tractors, which led back to the town. Beyond curved the long sweep of the beach, and ahead, in the far distance, he could see, silhouetted against the grey clouds, the random rooftops and the church spire of the town. The effect was sombre as an old etching. It seemed a very long way off, and he wondered if perhaps he had bitten off more than he could chew. But then he spied the small wooden shelter provided for the convenience of golfers. As he approached, Oscar saw that it was divided into four segments, giving shelter from any prevailing wind, and each furnished with a small wooden bench. He decided to sit for a moment, to get his breath; he chose the most suitable compartment, was grateful for shelter, and made himself as comfortable as he could.

He thought about the golfers, companionably playing game deep into the dusk of a dying afternoon, and knew an envy that was almost resentment. They were together. Friends. Talking, joking, competing. They would have a drink in the clubhouse, part, return to their families. Ordinary men.

He wondered if he would ever be ordinary again.

Once, long ago, as a boy, Oscar had played golf, but never very proficiently. Perhaps he should take it up again. Should buy himself an expensive set of clubs, with a Big Bertha driver, and astonish everybody, including himself, with a startling prowess at pitch and putt. The prospect, though amusing, did not make him smile. Now, nothing much made him smile.

Grieving. He was still grieving. He had himself often used this innocuous word, writing to friends recently bereaved of wife, parent, even a child. It was a word that covered a multitude of unexperienced emotions. Sympathy was another. I send my deepest sympathy and my thoughts are with you, he would write, and sign the letter and duly post it with the knowledge of a necessary task performed to the best of his ability.

He knew now that he had not had an inkling of what he was talking about. Grief was not a state of mind, but a physical thing, a void, a deadening blanket of unbearable pain, precluding all solace. His only protection, and one that he had built himself, was a palisade of non communication Here, in Creagan, he was spared the encounters, the chance meetings with a casual acquaintance. Spared the insult of the vicar’s churchly comfort, the pain of another’s embarrassment. The clumsy but well-meant condolences, eyes that did not meet his own.

During his walk, he had, as was his custom, observed sky, clouds, hills, birds. Had felt the wind on his cheeks and listened to the thunder of breakers on the shore. He had smelt the sweet strong scent of moss and ling … all with no reaction, no lift of the spirit, no marvel. No inspiration. No joy. It was a bit like looking at an indifferent painting, a huge landscape painstakingly executed, but lacking all soul.

He had always despised self-pity, and now, sitting huddled in the small wooden shelter, he fought it like a lion, striving to be positive, to count present blessings. First was the Estate House. The fact that he owned a bit of it and that it stood empty, a timely sanctuary to which he had fled. Second. was Elfrida. Her reappearance after her holiday in Cornwall had been of the utmost relief to Oscar. Her companionship had saved his reason, and in her own uncomplicated way she had got him through the blackest times, comforting by simply accepting his limitations. When he fell silent, she left him alone. When he felt compelled to talk, Elfrida listened.

And third was the knowledge that, even if he did not stay forever in this remote northern community where once he had been a boy and been happy, there was no need, or even the possibility, of returning to the house that had been Gloria’s. Already, her two sons had taken possession of the Grange, and put it on the market. And in a way Oscar was grateful to them, because their swift and not wholly commendable actions had spared him the ordeal of existing in a space haunted by memories of Francesca, and filled only with a cold and numbing silence.

I must go on, he told himself. Move forward, a step at a time. But at sixty-seven, with most of his life behind him, it sometimes seemed impossible to summon the energy. That deadening blanket, compounded of shock and terrible loss, had not only blinded and deafened him, but imbued every bone in his body with a dreadful and pervasive fatigue.

“I must go on.” This time he said the words aloud, and Horace, who had been lying at his feet, sat up and looked hopeful and even smiled. He was a very smiley dog. Oscar was grateful for his company. He got to his feet.

“Come on, old chap. Time we headed for home.”

By the time he finally reached the clubhouse it was dark, and Oscar was very tired. He trudged up the right-of-way that led between the fairways and saw the blaze of lights shining out from wide windows, behind which figures could be seen, relaxed as though in a friendly pub, sitting at tables, eating sandwiches, doubtless discussing their game.

Between the clubhouse and the first tee was a paved forecourt with raised beds which, in summer, would probably sport cheerful clumps of colour, begonias and geraniums. To the tide of the clubhouse was the car-park, now floodlit from above. A dozen or so vehicles were still standing there, and as Oscar wearily approached, he saw a well-worn estate car, with its tailgate down. On this a man was perched, in the act of changing his studded golf shoes for a pair of brogues. Oscar recognized the red wind-cheater and the bright-blue weatherproof trousers, but the long-peaked American cap had been removed, and cold light shone down upon a head of thick greying hair.

The man tied the last lace and got to his feet. By now, Oscar was alongside. For an instant he hesitated, debating as to whether he should stop and exchange a friendly word. Ask, perhaps, how the game had gone. But even as he wavered, the decision was taken out of his hands.

“Hello, there. Did you have a good walk?”

Oscar paused, then turned to face him.

“A bit too far, perhaps. I’m out of practice. How did you get along?”

“We gave up on the fifteenth. Chickened out. Too dark and too cold.” He stooped to retrieve his golf shoes, chucked them into the back of the car, and slammed shut the tailgate.

“Not the weather for an enjoyable game.” He came forward. Oscar saw a ruddy countryman’s face and a pair of piercingly blue eyes.

“Forgive me, but you’re Oscar Blundell.”

Oscar found himself disconcerted by being not only recognized, but identified. He said “Yes,” and it sounded like an admission.

“I knew you’d come back to Creagan.” (What else did he know?) “I’ve only been here for twenty years, so I never met your grandmother, Mrs. McLennan. But I did have the pleasure of a good friendship with Hector. Just for a short while, before he handed Corrydale over to Hughie and went south to live. I’m Peter Kennedy, by the way.” He stuck out a hand, which Oscar took in his own gloved one.

“Welcome to Creagan.”

“Thank you.”

“You must be exhausted. That’s a long hike in the teeth of the wind. I’m just going in for a cup of tea. Would you care to join me?”

Oscar was silenced, hesitating, torn by conflicting emotions. It was true. He was bone-weary, and the thought of sitting down for a bit in the warmth, indulging in the solace of a restoring and hot cup of tea, was a very tempting one. On the other hand, he was not sure if he felt brave enough to go into that brightly lighted and convivial clubhouse. He would perhaps be introduced, have to talk to strangers, answer questions.

But there was something so warm and genuine about his new friend, so disarming and sincere, that he could not bring himself to refuse the invitation outright. Instead, he searched for some excuse.

“I have the dog.”

“We’ll put him in my car. He’ll come to no harm for a little while.”

“I…” It had to be said.

“I would prefer not to encounter Major Billicliffe.”

Peter Kennedy’s cheerful face creased into an understanding smile.

“Don’t worry.” He laid a hand on Oscar’s arm.

“He went home five minutes ago. I saw him drive off.”

“You’ll think me uncharitable.”

“No. I don’t think that. So you’ll join me?”

“Yes. Yes, I will. I would like to. Thank you very much.”

“I’m delighted.”

They dealt with Horace, incarcerating him in the back of Peter Kennedy’s estate car, along with the shoes and the golf bag. He gazed at them reproachfully through the back window, but Oscar hardened his heart.

“I won’t be long,” he told the dog.

They walked together, side by side, around the corner of the clubhouse, and up the shallow flight of steps that led to the main door. Peter Kennedy opened this and held it for Oscar to go through into a foyer, hectically carpeted and lined with cabinets containing silver trophies and shields. Portraits of former captains glowered down at them. To the light, glassed doors fed into the main room, furnished with tables and comfortable chairs, and with a small bar in the corner. As they entered, one or two people looked up, but by and large nobody took much notice of them.

“We’ll go and sit over there. There’s a free table, and we’ll be quiet….”

But before they could do this, a swing door by the side of the bar flew open, and an elderly waitress appeared. She wore a black skirt and a white blouse, and her white hair was marvellously waved and dressed. Spying them, she was at once all smiles.

“Mr. Kennedy. I didn’t think we’d be seeing you this evening.”

“Hello, Jessie. Are we too late for a cup of tea?”

“Never too late. You must be frozen, out playing on a day like this.” Her eyes turned to Oscar, who had removed his tweed hat and was standing there, bundled up in all his layers of coats and sweaters.

“Have you been playing, too?”

“No. Just walking.”

“Jessie, this is Mr. Oscar Blundell. He’s come to stay at the Estate House.”

“Oh, my, that’s who you are. I’d heard you’d moved in, but I haven’t seen you around. Are you a golfer, too?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

“We’ll have to rectify that. Now, Mr. Kennedy, where do you want to sit?”

But before there was time to tell her, an interruption occurred. From across the long room there came a shout, a deep voice ringing out like a clarion, startling everyone, and causing frowns from a group who were crouched around the television.

“Peter! Come away over, and have a word. I haven’t seen you for a week or more.”

Peter Kennedy swung around, and Oscar, following his gaze, saw, in the far corner, a heavily built and aged man sitting in a wheelchair, with a tumbler of whisky ready to hand on the table in front of him.

“Peter!” He was waving a knotted stick, as though it were possible that he had neither been heard nor seen.

“Come and give me all the news.”

“Would you mind, Oscar, if I left you for a moment? It’s old Charlie Beith, and I must go and pay my respects….”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be just a moment. Jessie will take care of you.” He went, making his way down the length of the room.

“What a great surprise,” he was saying.

“Are you having a day out, Charlie?” And the old man in the wheelchair greeted him with such delight and affection that Oscar felt that he was in some way intruding, and turned away.