Winter Solstice (41 page)

“So why are you here?”

“He had the key with him. He said, as I was coming north, why not have a look at the house. He told me it was empty. That an old couple had been living here, renting it out, but that the husband had died, and the wife gone elsewhere to live. With that, he simply took the key out of his pocket and handed it over to me.”

“Wasn’t that rather trusting?”

“Very. But under the circumstances, I suppose he reckoned I was as good a bet as any.”

“And a straight sale would save agents’ fees?”

“Precisely.”

“Did he mention a sum?”

All the time they were talking, Sam had not moved in his rather inadequate and upright chair. His stillness was remarkable, and across the space that lay between diem, his eyes stayed on Oscar, his regard intent. Now, down to the nitty-gritty, he did not blink, showed no sign of discomfiture. He said, “A hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Would you be prepared to pay that?”

“I haven’t seen over the house yet.”

“But if you wanted to buy it… ?”

“Of course.”

“Split down the middle, seventy-five thousand?”

“That’s right.”

“Suppose I wanted more?”

“It’s negotiable. I’m simply quoting your cousin.”

“I see.” Oscar finished his drink, and without saying anything, Sam Howard got to his feet, went to get the empty glass, and took it over to refill it. He brought it back and handed it to Oscar. He said, “Now that you know how it all came about, I really have to apologize to you both. I’ll give you Hughie’s key, and we’ll forget the entire business. It’s just that I had to tell how it all came about. So that you understand.”

“Of course.” Oscar looked at the fresh drink in his hand.

“Thank you,” he said, and set it on the table beside him.

Elfrida, who had managed, with some difficulty, to keep silent and not butt into the conversation, now felt that the time had come to get her word in.

“You’ve made everything extremely clear, Mr. Howard….”

“Sam.”

“All right. You’ve made everything extremely clear, Sam, but I still haven’t worked out how you got here?”

“I drove north a couple of days ago.”

“Is this your first visit to the mill?” Oscar asked.

“Yes.”

“You said you were called back from New York in November. And now it’s nearly Christmas. Sounds as though Sturrock and Swinfield have been dragging their feet a bit.”

Sam grinned, acknowledging this.

“I expect it does. But I went with the Chairman to Switzerland to cost the new machinery we’re going to buy. We were there for a good week.”

Elfrida asked, “Are you staying in Buddy?”

“No. At an hotel in Inverness. This afternoon was my first meeting with the workforce. There was a good deal to be thrashed out. When it was over, and I’d had a beer with Fergus Skinner… he’s the local representative, who’d organized it all… I started back to Inverness, and then had this idea that I’d make the diversion to Creagan, and come and pease the joint, as it were. A passer-by told me that this was fee Estate House, and it was so obviously lived in and ten-rated that my curiosity was aroused; so I got out of the car and rang the bell. I was never much good at mysteries.”

“I see.” Elfrida decided it was all very exciting. She could picture it. The handsome stranger, the ring of the doorbell, and… Carrie. Going downstairs to open the door and let him in.

She looked at Carrie, curled up in the other armchair. All this time, she had not said a single word. Sometimes it was impossible to guess what Carrie was thinking, and this was one of them.

She said, “Carrie, I hope you have asked Sam to stay for dinner.”

Carrie began to laugh. She turned her head, and a glance passed between her and Sam that Elfrida decided was almost conspiratorial. As though, already, they had an amusing secret to share. And then he smiled, and all at once looked much younger, less mature. Less serious and responsible.

He said, “More confessions.”

What on earth had they been up to?

“More confusion,” Elfrida remarked, quite sharply, and Carrie took pity on her.

“Elfrida, Sam is staying the night with us. I’ve asked him and he has to. All the roads to Inverness are blocked with snow. We rang the AA and they told us. And there is not an hotel or a guest-house open, as you know, so we have another guest for the night. Do you mind? I’m sorry. Do you mind very much?”

Elfrida said, “I can’t think of anything I would like more.” And it was almost impossible to keep the pleasure out of her voice.

It was nearly midnight. Elfrida lay in bed, and beside her, Oscar read his book, Love in the Time of Cholera. The lamp on his side of the bed was the only illumination, and the rest of the room was shadowed. The thick curtains had been opened a little, no more than a chink, allowing a shaft of light to penetrate from the street below, and a draught of icy

  air from their slightly opened window. Fortunately, both Oscar and Elfrida agreed on such small matters, as neither could sleep in stuffy darkness.

The shaft of light fell across the brass rail at the foot of the bed, making it gleam like gold. The vast mahogany wardrobe, polished weekly by Mrs. Snead, loomed against the wall, and on the oldfashioned dressing-table stood Elfrida’s silver-framed photographs, her ivory-backed hand mirror, her bottle of scent. It was her room. Their room. Oscar’s house.

She thought back over the many events of the evening, most of them unexpected. She, Oscar, Sam, and Carrie had finally sat down to their supper in the kitchen at nine o’clock, by which time the kedgeree was a bit dried out, but nobody seemed to mind too much, and certainly nobody complained. With the kedgeree they had eaten peas (frozen, from the top of the old fridge), and then peaches and cream, and Oscar had opened a bottle of white wine, and, when that was done, another bottle. They were on to coffee when Lucy and Rory Kennedy returned from their dancing, both looking red-cheeked from leaping about, or perhaps the cold walk home from the school hall.

Lucy looked a bit surprised to see another person at the table, but was introduced to Sam, and the circumstances of his presence explained to her. She was much impressed.

“Do you mean you’re snowed inT she asked incredulously.

“Seems so,” said Sam.

“It’s too exciting. Like an Agatha Christie. By tomorrow, one of us may be murdered.”

“Not by me.”

“Oscar, then. Oscar, you’ll have to be the villain. You creep around at night with a knife, or a rope to strangle people with. And in the morning, nobody will know it’s you, and the police will come, and a frightfully clever detective.”

“Why do I have to be the villain?” Oscar protested.

“Because you’re the nicest of all of us, and it’s always the most unlikely person. It’s got to be you.”

Oscar then asked about the reel party in the school hall, and it seemed that Lucy had had the most marvelous time, and done all the dances except a terribly difficult one called The Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh, which you had to learn. And there had been a proper band, and lemonade to drink when you got really hot and thirsty.

Carrie was amused.

“Rory, who organized all this?”

“The headmaster, and one or two of the senior boys. It was good. Everybody came. Even the little kids.”

Oscar offered Rory a beer, but he said he’d rather have hot chocolate, and Lucy said she wanted hot chocolate, too, and that she would make it for both of them. Space was made at the table, and they pulled up chairs and joined the party, drinking hot chocolate and eating biscuits out of Elfrida’s tin.

Finally, Rory said it was time he went home. He got to his feet, and Sam asked him, “What’s the weather doing?”

“Well, it’s stopped snowing, but that’s about all you can say for it. I’ll tell my dad that I met you. And about McTaggarts and things starting up again. He’ll be delighted.”

“Don’t let him be too delighted. It’s going to take a bit of time.”

“Well,” said Rory philosophically, “you’ve got to start somewhere. Lucy, I’ll try to get that television set down tomorrow afternoon; it all depends on what’s going on at the golf course. Not much, I should think. There might be a bit of sledging, but if there is, I’ll let you know. Give you a buzz.”

He departed by way of the back door, because it was handier for home, and Lucy saw him off. She came back into the kitchen smiling, and then the smile was almost at once lost in an enormous yawn.

Carrie put out an arm and drew her close.

“You’re tired. Go to bed.”

“Can I have a hot bath first?”

“Of course. You had fun?”

Lucy kissed her.

“It was the best.”

While Oscar and Sam sat over their coffee, and the brandy which Oscar, surprisingly, produced from his slate-shelf

  wine-cellar, Carrie and Elfrida washed up the dishes and then went upstairs to raid Mrs. Snead’s linen cupboard and mate up the last spare bed for Sam. They found sheets and pillowcases, a bath towel, and an extra blanket in case he felt cold. Carrie inspected the wardrobe, which was empty save for two coathangers, and from which emanated a strong smell of moth-balls. Elfrida went back to the cupboard and returned with a duster and a lace-trimmed linen runner, and after she had done a swift clean-up, placed the runner on the top of the chest of drawers. Carrie set and wound the bedside clock.

“What more,” asked Elfrida, “could any man need?”

“Fresh flowers? Face tissues? A mini-bar?”

“By the time Oscar’s finished with him, the last thing he’ll need is a mini-bar. I haven’t even got a spare toothbrush.”

“He’s got one. He told me. And a razor. He’ll be fine.”

“Jimmy-jams?”

“He probably sleeps in the buff anyway.”

“And how do you know?”

“Instinct, Elfrida. Feminine instinct.”

Suddenly, they were both laughing. Carrie said, “You’re a saint. I had to ask him to stay, but the best was knowing you wouldn’t mind.”

“I think it’s lovely. I’ve always loved a full house. And this is a house for parties and people. Oscar and I have been rattling around in it for too long. Now it’s full.” She said this in tones of greatest satisfaction.

“Stretched to its limits. A family house. Just the way it should be.”

A family house. Elfrida lay in bed and felt the house around her, like a shield, a carapace, a refuge. It was a house that she had liked from the very start, and had come to love. Filled with friends, it had become a home. Oscar’s home. But Hughie wanted to sell it, and somehow the very thought of Oscar’s having to go along with Hughie’s plans, and leave the only place that had ever belonged to him, was almost more than Elfrida could bear.

Oscar had come to the end of his chapter. He marked his book and closed it, and laid it down on the bedside table.

“Are you still awake?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m just awake.”

He turned off the light, but it was not dark because of the chink in the curtains.

She said, “Oscar.”

“What is it?”

“If Hughie wants to sell his half of this house, couldn’t you buy him out, and then it would all be yours? For always.”

“Seventy-five thousand.”

“You … you don’t have seventy-five thousand?”

“If I sold everything I owned, I might scrape up twenty.”

“You could get a mortgage.”

“Not for that amount. Not at my age. And I’ve always had a horror of mortgages. People say, “Get a mortgage,” but what they really mean is, “Borrow money.” It frightens me. I’ve never had much, but I’ve never been in debt. I couldn’t start now.”

“If I had seventy-five thousand, would that help?”

“If you had seventy-five thousand, it would belong to you. It wouldn’t be to bail me out.”

“I love this house so much.”

“Do you, dear girl?”

“It is so strong, so unpretentious, so … adaptable. Can’t you feel it, like a heartbeat, keeping us all going, sheltering; taking care of us all?”

“I think I am not as fanciful as you.”

“You can’t lose it, Oscar.”

“Hughie can’t sell it without my consent.”

“But he needs the money.” She lay silent, carefully framing in her mind what she was going to say.

“Oscar. Listen to me. If I sold my little picture, my David Wilkie, how much do you think that would fetch?”

“That is your treasure.”

“No, it is my insurance. And perhaps now is the time to release it.”

“It is your insurance. Not mine.”

“Oscar, we are together. We are too old to prevaricate about such small details.”

“Seventy-five thousand is not a small detail. It is a lot of money.”

“If it is worth what I think it is, then we should sell it. If we don’t get the seventy-five thousand for it, then we can fill in the gap with a mortgage. It’s sense. Why keep a little picture if you can buy security? If you could buy this house? If you could live here for the rest of your days? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to be here, for always? I can’t bear to think of this darling place going to other people. I want you to have it. I want you to be here.”

For a long time, Oscar did not say anything. Then he reached for her hand and took it in his own. His hand felt warm and she was close to him.

He said, “You are the dearest person.”

“Go to sleep.”

“You are the most generous.”

“We’ll talk about it,” she told him.

“In the morning.”

Wednesday, December 10th

It is half past eight in the morning, and I am writing my diary. I should have written it last night, but I was so tired I just had a bath and went to bed, so got up early this morning to write it down before I forget.

It was fabulous.

We walked up to the Kennedys’ house, because Oscar didn’t want to drive the car in the thick snow. I have never seen such snow except in photographs. It didn‘t take very long because we took a short cut. The Kennedys’s house is called the Manse, because Peter Kennedy is the minister. It is a big old place, not unlike this one, but very furnished and with things everywhere.

Carrie didn’t come with us because of her cold.