Winter Solstice (26 page)

A thought struck her.

“I’ve got to buy furniture. We’re fairly short of everything here, because the house has never been anything more than semi-furnished for a let. The bedroom for Carrie is all right, but I thought I’d put Lucy up in the attic. It’s lovely and light, but there’s …” She hesitated. “… Would you come up and look at it with me? Tell me what I have to get?”

“Of course. Nothing I’d like more.” Tabitha had finished her coffee, and now pushed back the cuff of her sweater to look at her watch.

“And then I must fly. Peter’s got an early meeting in Buddy this afternoon, and I must feed him soup before he goes.”

“If you haven’t got time …”

“Of course I have. Come on, show me. I’m a dab hand at interior decoration.”

“On a shoestring.”

“I’m a minister’s wife. What else?”

They climbed the stairs to the upper floor and the attics. One, windowless, contained three old trunks, a dressmaker’s dummy, and a lot of cobwebs. The other, with its huge skylight and combed ceiling, was filled only with pale winter sunlight.

Tabitha was enchanted.

“What a wonderful room. Any young girl would die to have this all to herself. Are you going to put down a carpet? The floorboards are lovely. And it’s got a radiator, too, cosy as anything. You’ll need a bed, of course, and perhaps a chest of drawers. Or a little dressing-table. What about a television set?”

“We haven’t got a television set.”

“Yes, but teenagers go all peculiar without something to goggle at! Rory’s got an old one he doesn’t use any more. I’ll have a word with him about it. And a few lamps. And a blind for the skylight. Otherwise it might be a bit spooky.”

Elfrida said, “I’ve got a bit of money. Hector sent it. But not much. I thought a second-hand shop….”

“There’s a marvelous market in Buckly.”

“I’ve never been to Buckly.”

“I’ll take you. You can get everything there, off stalls.”

“Beds?”

“Oh, marvelous beds. And sheets, pictures, and objects of art. Also terrible old clothes, and wardrobes and carpets. Next week. Some afternoon … Tuesday? Would Tuesday be all right?”

Elfrida, whose diary had been sadly blank for nearly a month, simply nodded.

“Could we go in your car? Peter’s bound to need his.”

Elfrida nodded again.

“What fun we’ll have. I can’t wait.” She looked at her watch again.

“That’s settled then. Now I simply must fly or Peter will fume.”

When Tabitha had gone, Elfrida returned to finish her letter to Hector. here by seven o‘clock on the second day. This missive is taking a long time to write because I was interrupted by the arrival of Tabitha Kennedy, come to call. I am sure, very soon, Peter and Oscar will clear up their misunderstanding. Tabitha is lovely, and is going to take me to some market in Buckly to buy things for the house.

Thank you again for your kindness and generosity. I hope you keep well, and that the weather will be kinder so that you can get out and about.

With much love from us both, Elfrida She read this through, put it in an envelope, wrote the address, and found a stamp. Then she went downstairs, and in the kitchen did a cursory inspection of the contents of the fridge, deciding that all that was needed were vegetables and perhaps some fruit. Horace was sleeping in his basket and clearly did not wish to be disturbed, so she left him there, bundled herself up for the outdoors, and stepped out of the front door. This, she did not lock behind her. She had learned that, in Creagan, nobody locked doors.

The cold was deep-freeze, but the low sun had melted away some of the frost and the pavements were black and wet. Even so, Elfrida trod as carefully as any of the other shopping ladies, because right now she needed a broken leg as much as she needed a hole in the head.

She posted the letter and then crossed the street to Arthur Snead Fruit and Vegetables. For once the little shop was empty: just Mr. Snead, leaning on his counter, was reading the racing results. But seeing Elfrida, he straightened up and folded the newspaper away.

“‘Ullo, Mrs. Phipps. ‘Ow are you this fine morning?”

Arthur Snead was the other half of Mrs. Snead, who al ways referred to him as Arfur. The Sneads had proved a: comforting bonus when Elfrida first arrived in Creagan, not simply because Mrs. Snead cleaned the Estate House and was a mine of useful information, but because they were Cockneys, and Elfrida, having lived in London for so much of her life, relished the sound of their familiar voices, which somehow had helped her to feel a little less isolated. The Sneads had arrived in Creagan five years ago from Hackney. Elfrida had heard all about this unlikely move over several cups of tea with Mrs. Snead. About how Arfur ‘ad started life with a barrow in the North End Road, and finally managed to buy a little shop of ‘is own. Then the council developers ‘ad come and slapped a compulsory purchase on ‘im and ‘e’d been so fed up, ‘e’d seen this ad, in a gardening magazine-‘e’d always taken that magazine because of ‘is allotment… grew wonderful marrows-and ‘e’d said to Mrs. Snead, “Ow about it, old girl?” And Mrs. Snead, loyal to the end, had said, Okay, Arfur, and they’d come. Bought the shop, and the little flat over it, and never looked back. A nice class of people they were, ‘is customers, and ‘e’d joined the bowling club, and got ‘ooked on sea-fishing. As for Mrs. Snead, she was now a member of the Church Guild, went on outings, and from time to time, sang in the choir.

Respected and accepted by the local community, they were still known, without malice, as White Settlers.

“You’ll need to watch out, my darling, I’ve ‘ad your man in this morning, buying chrysanths for another lady.”

“I know. Someone called Rose Miller, and I’m managing not to be jealous. Have you got any sprouts?”

“Nice bit of broccoli. Came in this morning. The lorry ‘ad a really bad time getting over the ‘ill. Says there’s snow six inches deep up there. And there’s Cyprus potatoes.”

She bought the broccoli and the potatoes and some tangerines in a net bag, and two rather sad-looking grapefruit which Arfur let her have at half price.

“Going straight ‘ome, are you?”

“No.” Elfrida had made up her mind.

“I’m going to buy a new toaster. The one we’ve got is lethal.”

“Well, leave your bags ‘ere, and I’ll jump them across the road for you. Put them inside the front door.”

“You are kind. Why do potatoes have to be so heavy? Thank you, Arthur.”

And so, unburdened, on down the street to William G. Croft Electrical Goods. The door gave a ting as she went inside, and Mr. Croft, in his khaki overall, emerged from the open door of his back room, where he spent most of his time mending vacuum cleaners or tinkering with television sets. He recognized her instantly from her previous visit.

“Good morning, Mrs. Phipps, and so you’re back again.”

“Yes. Toasters. But this time I’m going to buy one.”

“And did the other one blow up?”

“No. But it might at any moment.”

“And which was the model that you looked at?”

“The cheapest. But I think I’d like something a little more … modern.”

“I have the very thing….”

He fetched it, in its box, and on the counter unpacked it for Elfrida’s inspection. It was extremely smart, streamlined and bright blue. He showed her how it worked, which wasn’t very difficult, and how, if you turned a knob, you could have very pale toast or you could have very dark toast.

“And it has a year’s guarantee,” Mr. Croft finished, as though this made it irresistible. Which, of course, it was. Elfrida said she would have it.

“The only thing is, I haven’t enough money to pay for it right now. Would you keep it and I’ll come back tomorrow, or another day.”

“There’s no need for that, Mrs. Phipps. You take it with you now, and pay for it the next time you’re passing.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have no fears that you’ll be running away with it.”

So she took the toaster home, unpacked it, and plugged it in and made herself two perfect pieces of toast, which she spread with Marmite and ate. She threw the old one in the bin, and as she did so, heard the front door open and shut and knew that Oscar had returned. Munching toast, she went out into the hall to meet him.

“You’re back. How was Rose Miller?”

“In splendid form.” He took off his hat and hung it on the newel-post at the foot of the banister.

“We had a great crack, and a glass of elderberry wine.”

“So much for cups of tea.”

“Why are you eating toast?”

“I bought a new toaster. Come and look.” She led him back into the kitchen.

“Isn’t it smart? You told me I would go mad buying things, so I did. Only thing is, I haven’t paid for it yet. I said I’d go back tomorrow.”

“I’ll come with you.” He took off his thick jacket and pulled out a chair and sat down. Elfrida eyed him. For a man who had just returned from sipping elderberry wine with an old admirer, he looked tired and preoccupied. Perhaps the elderberry wine had been a bit too strong for eleven o’clock in the morning.

“Are you all right, Oscar?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I did what you told me, Elfrida. I went to see Major Billicliffe.”

“Oh, good man.”

“No. Not good. I don’t feel good at all.”

“Why not? What happened?”

He told her.

Rose Miller’s cottage at Corrydale was situated on the little road beyond the erstwhile factor’s house, and he had passed it by on the way to pay his call. Another day, he had said to himself. Billicliffe can wait until another day. But then, primed with elderberry wine and on his way home, he had heard the dog howling. The sound was as arresting as a cry for help, and Oscar had been instantly rendered alert with concern. There could be no question of driving by. He had turned his car into the lane that led to the small stone house with its rural porch, and, turning off the engine, had heard the dog howling once more.

Listening, Elfrida was aghast, already dreading the end of the story.

“What did you do?”

“Got out of the car and went to ring the bell, but nothing happened except the dog stopped howling and started barking. So then, I tried the door, and it was open. I went in, and called out, but no answer.”

“Perhaps he’d forgotten to put his hearing aids in.”

“No one there. And the dog had been shut in that same back place, hurling itself at the door, just as it did on our first evening.”

“You didn’t let it loose?”

“Not then. Not then, I didn’t.”

“Was there nobody there?”

“Then I tried the other ground-floor room. The chaos there was even worse than that sitting-room. Drip-dry shirts hanging over the backs of chairs, old papers and boxes piled on a table, golf clubs all over the floor. But there was a staircase, so I went up and opened the door at the top, and peered in. And there was the old boy, in bed….”

“He wasn’t dead?”

“For a moment, I thought he was. And then I said his name, and he stirred….”

“Thank heavens for that.”

He had not been dead. But he looked ghastly, and was clearly very unwell. However, realizing that he had a visitor, he had tried to rally himself, pulled himself up on his pillows, put on a brave face. When Oscar drew up a chair and sat at his bedside and asked what was wrong, Major Billicliffe explained. He had been feeling pretty rotten for a month or two now. Ghastly gripes in his stomach, a disinclination to eat. Yesterday, his cleaning lady had turned up, and been so concerned by his appearance that she had telephoned the Creagan G.P.” Dr. Sinclair. The long and the short of it was that Dr. Sinclair abandoned his morning surgery and drove immediately to Corrydale, where, after a fairly thorough examination, he told Major Billicliffe that he thought it best if he went over to the hospital in Inverness, just for a few days, for tests, in order to get to the root of his troubles. He had left sedatives and a pain-killer, and the district nurse would call in every day.”

“When does he have to go to Inverness?”

“Monday. Dr. Sinclair’s booked him in.”

“And how will he get there?”

This, of course, was the problem. An ambulance would probably make the long journey from Inverness and pick the old boy up, but if the roads were impassable because of the snow, men it would probably mean a helicopter. Telling Oscar all this, saying the word helicopter, Major Billicliffe’s weak voice had faltered, and Oscar realized that the old man, the old soldier, was very frightened. Not simply by the idea of being whisked away in a helicopter, but by the prospect of hospitals, tests, doctors, illness, pain, and a possible operation.

It was at this juncture that Oscar had begun to feel responsible. There didn’t seem to be anyone else. So he had suggested to Major Billicliffe that he, Oscar, should come in his car, and drive him, personally, to Inverness. To the hospital. Where he would stay until the old man was safely installed.

At the offer, Major Billicliffe had become quite emotional.

“But why?” he had asked, fumbling for a grubby handkerchief to wipe away the weak tears of an invalid.

“Why should you bother about a stupid old duffer like me?”

And Oscar had told him.

“Because I should like to. Because you are part of Corrydale. Because of my grandmother and Hector.” Major Billicliffe looked unconvinced. Oscar finished, “Because you are my friend.”

Elfrida was much touched.

“You are sweet. And that was exactly the right thing to do. He won’t be nearly so afraid if you are there.”

“I just hope to God we don’t get stuck in a snowstorm.”

“Oh, cross that bridge when you get there. What about the dog?”

“I went downstairs and let her loose in the garden. She was bursting for a pee. And not fierce at all, just a dear old Labrador needing a bit of attention. Her name, incidentally, is Brandy.”

“Interesting.”

“After she’d dealt with her little problem, I put her into the car and took her back to Rose Miller, and filled Rose in with all that had occurred. She was very distressed that she’d had no idea of what was going on. That he had been under the weather, and that she hadn’t been round to his house to see if there was anything she could do. By the time I left, she was already girding herself up to go and do a bit of tidying up and cooking for him. At eighty-five years old, there’s nothing she loves so much as a challenge. Funnily enough, she seems to be quite fond of old Billicliffe. She kept saying, “He’s mad on the whisky, but he’s a dear, good gentleman, and too proud to ask for help.”