Winter Solstice (29 page)

He said, “A peat-fire. I’d forgotten about peat. Sometimes when I put the dog out at night, I can smell the smoke from chimneys. I must try and get hold of some, just for that smell.”

“I’m very fortunate; one of my parishioners has his own peat-patch, and he keeps me supplied. Now come and sit down and make yourself comfortable. Would you like a cup of coffee?” Oscar did not immediately reply, and Peter looked at his watch.

“A quarter to six. We could jump the gun, and enjoy a glass of Laphroaig. I keep it, but only for special occasions.”

Malt whisky. Laphroaig. Irresistible.

“I think I’d like that more than anything.”

“I thought you might, so I am prepared.” And Oscar saw on the desk-along with a word processor, a stack of books, papers in some disarray, and a telephone-a small tray, neatly set with the bottle of Laphroaig, two small tumblers, and a jug of water. So much for the coffee. He was touched.

“The girls aren’t back yet?”

“No.” Oscar lowered himself into one of the chairs, which was surprisingly soft and comfortable. Above him, in the centre of the mantelpiece, stood a clock, the sort that is presented to retiring ministers or schoolmasters after forty years of loyal service. It had a soft, solid tick, smooth and sweet as a carefully set metronome.

“I think they planned on treating themselves to a tea-party once they’d finished their shopping.”

“I’m sure. I hope they were successful.” Carrying the two glasses, Peter handed Oscar his drink, and then settled down in the other armchair, facing his visitor. He raised his glass.

“Slainte.”

“Good health.”

The Laphroaig was like nectar. Clean, delicious, slipping down his throat. Warming.

Peter went on.

“Buddy’s rather a depressing town at the moment. Most of the people are unemployed. The woollen mill went to the wall, and for skilled weavers and spinners, there is little alternative work.”

Oscar frowned.

“The woollen mill? Not McTaggarts?”

“Yes. McTaggarts.”

“Gone bust? I had no idea. Astonishing. It’s like being told the Rock of Gibraltar has crumbled. What happened?”

Peter told him.

“The old man died, the sons weren’t interested. The workforce got a bit of financial help, a grant, and took it over themselves. They were doing all right, and then we had a spell of dreadful weather, the river burst its banks, and the place was flooded. Everything lost, destroyed.”

Oscar was appalled.

“Is that the end of it, then?”

“There’s some word of a take-over. One of those big textile conglomerates. Sturrock and Swinfield. From London. But so far, nothing very much seems to have happened, and the people in Buddy are beginning to fear the worst. Which is, that nothing is ever going to happen.”

“What a tragedy.” Oscar frowned.

“I can’t think why I haven’t heard about this before. I suppose … just now… I don’t read the newspapers properly, and certainly not the City pages. And here, I only take The Times and The Telegraph, so I don’t get the local news. As well, I haven’t talked to many people. Except Mrs. Snead. That, of course, is why I am here. To apologize to you. I should have come before, but I didn’t.”

“Please. Don’t feel bad. I realized that I had taken you unawares, and I should have waited for a more suitable occasion to make myself known to you. I hope you weren’t too upset”

“I don’t know what came over me. It was ridiculous.”

“Please, think no more of it. No harm has been done. Another time, you must join me there, for tea, or for a drink, or whatever you want. The best would be if you felt like joining the club, and then, when the good weather starts again, we could have a game. You do play?”

“I used to play with my grandmother when I was a boy, but I was never much good, even then.”

“I’d be delighted to give you a game.”

“I have no clubs.”

“We’ll borrow some from the pro. It’s such a splendid course, it would be sad to live here and not experience at least one round. Your grandmother was a good golfer. When I came here, I heard a lot about her prowess. She was Lady Champion two years running. One way or another she must, by all accounts, have been an exceptional lady.”

“Yes, she was.”

“And musical, too.”

“Yes. And an inspired gardener. She was extremely accomplished.” Oscar took another sip of the Laphroaig, and then set the glass down on the table beside him, where it glowed like a jewel in the soft light of the lamp. He said, “Godfrey Billicliffe also invited me to join the Golf Club. But I’m afraid, at mat particular moment, we were in the throes of a rather traumatic encounter. Both Elfrida and I were exhausted after our long journey. All we wanted was to get the key of our house and escape. I’m afraid we were very offhand.”

“He can be daunting. I understand. I understand, as well, that you drove him to hospital yesterday morning.”

“How did you know that?”

Peter Kennedy smiled.

“There are few secrets in this small community. No, don’t worry; it wasn’t idle gossip. Dr. Sinclair rang me to put me in the picture. It was very good of you.”

“Did you know he was ill?”

“No. I don’t think anybody knew. He’s been something of a problem ever since his wife died-gone downhill at a frightening pace. Lonely, I think, but too proud to admit it, and none of us had the nerve to suggest that he sell up and move into the Old People’s Home.”

“My stepsons exhorted me to go into a retirement home in Hampshire, but that was because they had inherited their mother’s house and wanted me out of the way so that they could put it up for sale. I found the notion dire. Like the beginning of the end.”

“How did you guess there was something amiss?”

“I went to see Rose Miller. On the way home, I heard Billicliffe’s dog howling. So I called in. To set my mind at rest, I suppose. Both Elfrida and I had been feeling rather bad about the old boy. And I found him upstairs in bed, obviously very poorly. He was frightened, too. Frightened of the prospect of ambulances or helicopters. He seemed so dreadfully alone. Saying I’d drive him to Inverness in my car was the least I could do.”

“I have to go to Inverness on Friday for a meeting with the moderator. I’ll pop into the hospital and pay a visit. See how he’s getting on….”

“I said I would stand as his next of kin. So my name and telephone number are on all the countless forms we had to fill in, and I imagine that if there is any news, then I shall be informed.”

“Well. Keep me in touch.”

“Of course.”

“Now. Tell me about your uncle. Hector. How is Hector?”

“Growing older. Living in London. He came down to see 2/6 me after… after the funeral. He didn’t come to the funeral, because he’d had flu and his doctor, very rightly, forbade him. It was Hector who suggested that I leave Hampshire and come back here….”

“I know, Oscar. He wrote me a long letter. I was so dreadfully sorry. I wanted to come right away, to talk with you, and to let you know that if there was anything I could do … could say. But my instinct told me mat for the time being you needed to be on your own. I hope you didn’t get the impression that I was either uncaring or inattentive.”

“No. I didn’t think that.”

“Sometimes … just to talk. To a stranger. A person disassociated … is very often easier.”

“Like confiding in a man met on a train journey. A man you know you will never see again.”

“Not entirely.” Peter smiled.

“Because I hope you will see me again.”

“It’s difficult to know where to start. It all seems to go a long way back.”

“Life tends to.”

“I never thought I should be married. I thought, always, that I would remain a bachelor all my life. I had my work, as a schoolmaster, teaching piano and training the choir. For company, other masters and their wives. My passion was music. The school was Glastonbury, a lesser-known public school, but excellent for all that. I was very happy there. And then I grew older, and the headmaster retired, and a new, younger man came to take his place. The head had always been a close friend, and although his replacement was perfectly competent, pleasant, and traditional, I decided, after a year, that the time had come for a change. As well, I had been offered the post as organist and choirmaster at Saint Biddulph’s in London. I thought about it for a bit, but not very long. The music at Saint Biddulph’s had always been renowned for its excellence, and the choir was secure, funded by a generous endowment that had been made by a grateful parishioner some years before. So I changed direction and moved to London. I lived in a comfortable, spacious flat on the second floor of an old terraced house, only live minutes or so from the church, and the ladies of the parish made certain that I had a competent housekeeper and was well cared for.

“They were halcyon days. I suppose, the peak of my fairly modest career. Two of the choristers were professional concert singers, there was enthusiasm from the public, and we were able to enlarge our repertoire and perform, on special occasions, some ambitious chorales. Palestrina’s Salvete Flares Martyrum, Schubert’s setting of the Twenty-Third Psalm, Fame’s Requiem. Glorious stuff.

“I met the Bellamys soon after my arrival at Saint Biddulph’s. They lived in some style in a house in Elm Park Gardens, and from the first were enormously hospitable and kind to me. When George Bellamy became ill, I used to go to their house to keep him company, play backgammon with him. When he died, I arranged the music for his considerably important funeral.

“After the funeral, I thought that Gloria would no longer want me coming and going. That the reason for my visits was now over. But she continued to invite me to various small social affairs. A drinks party or a dinner or a Sunday luncheon. Sometimes we went to the cinema together, or spent a day at Kew. I thought little of it, but much enjoyed her company. And then, one day, in a quite matter-of-fact fashion, she said that she thought it would be a good idea if we married. She explained that she did not enjoy living without a man, and she felt that I, in my advancing years, would be glad of a wife to take care of me. It all sounds, I know, a little cold-blooded, but the truth is that I was extremely fond of her, and she, I think, of me. We were neither of us in our first flush of youth, and so old enough to make a success of what others saw simply as a marriage of convenience.

“She was a wonderful wife. Warm, generous, and kindhearted. I had never, since I was a boy coming to Corrydale, known such material comforts, such ease of living. She and George had sons, Giles and Crawford, but now they were adult, had fled the nest, and set up establishments of their own. And Gloria was still a comparatively young woman and brimming with physical vitality. When she told me she was pregnant, I was quite ridiculously incredulous. I had never, in all my life, imagined that I would become a father. And when Francesca was born, that tiny child, I was filled with a wonder which I don’t suppose I shall ever experience again. It was as though a miracle had occurred. And she never stopped being a miracle.

“Sometimes, as she grew older, and was running about and talking nineteen-to-the-dozen, and generally making the usual din that all children make, I would watch her, and still find it unbelievable that she was actually mine, that I had helped to create this beguiling, beautiful, miniature human being.

“Then Gloria was left this house in the country, in Hampshire, and we moved from London and started our new life in Dibton. I have to admit that I missed Saint Biddulph’s, but music was still part of my life. I taught a little, and from time to time played the organ for Morning Service in the village church.”

Here, Oscar paused, to reach for his glass and to take another sip of the Laphroaig. A glowing lump of peat slipped, with a whisper, into the bed of the fire. The clock gently ticked on.

Peter spoke.

“Your friend. Elfrida. Have you known her for always?”

“No. We didn’t meet until she came to live in our village. She was alone, and Gloria made friends with her, and generally took Elfrida under her wing. She was amusing, full of life, and we all enjoyed her company. Francesca was forever bicycling off to visit her in her little cottage. She made Francesca laugh. She was in Cornwall, staying with a cousin, at the time of the accident. She returned after the funeral, with no idea at all of what had happened. When Hector suggested I leave Hampshire and return to Creagan, I knew I couldn’t do it on my own. The journey seemed too arduous, and I dreaded being alone. So I asked Elfrida to come with me. It is a measure of her generous heart that she agreed. She is company for me, and in the blackest moments has always been able to make me smile. When I first met Elfrida, I remember she asked me if I was religious. I told her that it is hard not to believe when you have been steeped in the liturgies and traditions of the Anglican Church for most of your life. And that I felt I needed some being to thank.

“Because I was fortunate. I was content. The marriage was working well, and because of Francesca, I could have no regrets. But Gloria was a very strong, forceful character. And her considerable wealth was her own. She had to be handled, at times, with enormous tact. She loved company, people, parties, and sometimes she drank too much. I don’t mean that she was an alcoholic … well, not exactly … simply a serious social drinker. Often, after an evening out, I would drive us home, in her car, and she resented that, and would be sullen-faced the next morning. I feel disloyal to her even talking about this. But I knew her weakness, just as I knew her many strengths.

“The day of the bonfire and the Guy Fawkes party, she said she was taking Francesca, and it occurred to me that I should go, too. But I had a man coming to see me about building a new fence for the paddock. It was a job I had been wanting to see done and finished, and I didn’t feel inclined to put him off. Besides, it was simply a children’s party. A big tea, and fireworks. They would be home by seven at the latest.

“And, of course, it was a children’s party. But there were adults there, too, most of them Gloria’s friends. And after the fireworks were over, and the children were still running about in the dark, in the garden, waving sparklers and working off their excitement, the adults went indoors for a drink.