Winter Solstice (44 page)

Elfrida, having hung her washing out in the still, cold air, had taken Horace for a small walk. Just up the hill to the closed and shuttered hotel, and home by the station. Otherwise, she said, his muscles would atrophy and he would never move from his basket again. Oscar was by the fire in the sitting-room, reading his newspaper. He had clearly been much relieved when told he didn’t have to go shopping.

So Lucy sat at the table in her bedroom, and made her own plans. This morning she would shop for her Christmas presents. She had given Mummy and Gran theirs before she left London, but there were still a lot more to go. Having her holiday money made everything much easier, because it meant she wouldn’t have to penny-pinch.

Elfrida, Oscar, Carrie. Now she added Sam. And Mrs. Snead. And Rory. And perhaps Clodagh, too; otherwise it might look a bit odd.

She couldn’t think of anybody else.

She found her haversack and put the list into it and checked on her purse, which bulged in satisfactory fashion She put on her padded jacket and her boots and went downstairs. On the way, she looked around the open sitting-room door.

“Oscar.”

“Yes, my duck.”

“Oscar, I’m going out to do some shopping.”

“Right.”

“When Elfrida gets back, will you tell her?”

“I shall do that.”

She left him and went on downstairs. Christmas, all at once, was becoming real. Over breakfast, plans had been laid, and Lucy was told that they were going to have Christmas dinner in the evening, a proper grownup party. In London, where Christmas was usually a fairly tame affair, the great feast always took place at lunch-time, which meant there was an awful lot of day left over. But a party in the evening meant that there would be something to look forward to all day, and Lucy could wear her new black miniskirt and her white sweater. Going down the long hall thinking about this, she paused, and then, on an impulse, opened the door of the desolate and disused dining-room. It was dark and gloomy and in dire need of a good dust and polish, but in her imagination she saw it lit by firelight and candles and groaning with delicious foods. Things like crystallized fruits and a pudding aflame with brandy. And goblets of wine, and the glow of china and gleaming silver dishes filled with nuts and chocolates.

An idea took shape, but there wasn’t time, right now, to think it through, so she closed the door and then let herself out of doors, into the cold sweet morning and the dazzle of snow. Across the street stood a big council lorry, with an extending ladder, and two burly men were occupied in draping strings of fairy lights around and over the branches of the bare trees which stood within the churchyard wall.

She started off down the pavement to do the rounds of the modest shops. By now, they too were in the festive spirit, with mock snow sprayed on windows and displays arranged with red satin bows and plastic holly. In the ironmonger’s window a chain-saw wore a tinsel ribbon and a card saying SUITABLE FOR CHRISTMAS GIFTING.

Lucy wondered who would fall for that one.

She came to the jersey shop, went inside, and found every sort of pullover, cardigan, tam-o’-shanter, sock, and glove. Knitted thistles on the front of sweaters, ethnic patterns that looked as though they had been designed by some mad Peruvian. In the end she unearthed a red cashmere scarf, very fine and very long, which she knew would look quite perfect wound around Carrie’s elegant neck.

And it would keep her cosy as well.

Next was the bookshop. And there, to serve her, was Mr. Rutley, who ran the place, and whom she had already met at the Manse. He greeted Lucy like an old friend, and was immensely helpful. After a bit of browsing, discussion, and changing minds, she chose a book for Oscar, a coffee-table book filled with full-page colour photographs of old Scottish country houses, castles, and gardens. She was sure that he would love it. Mr. Rutley said that if he didn’t, he could change it, but Lucy knew that even if he didn’t like the book, Oscar wouldn’t dream of changing it, because he was that sort of person, and would rather fall down dead than hurt someone’s feelings.

For Sam, at Mr. Rutley’s suggestion, she got an ordnance sur very map of Creagan and the surrounding district, which included Buddy. It seemed a bit dull, but on the other hand was probably the most useful thing he could own, coming as he was to live and work in the neighbourhood. As well, it was quite expensive. So Lucy bought it, and some cards, and wrapping paper with holly, and some glittery string. Mr. Rutley put it all into a carrier-bag and took her money.

“I hope we’ll see you all again over Christmas, Lucy.”

“Yes. I do, too. Thank you.”

“Have fun.”

The chemist was next. That was much quicker. Some lavender soap for Mrs. Snead, and for Clodagh, little hair ornaments that she could clip to the end of her pigtails. Rory was a bit difficult because Lucy hadn’t the faintest idea what he would really like. It would be easier to choose if she had a brother of her own, or even a friend who was a boy. Then she saw a big bottle of Badedas. Her father had always used Badedas, in the safe old days when she was a little girl, before the divorce. He would soak in his bath, and the scented steam, smelling of chestnut oil, would fill the upstairs half of their house. Perhaps Rory would like to soak in Badedas after a long day’s stint on the golf course. She wavered for a moment or two, and then, unable to come up with a better idea, bought it.

Elfrida was the most difficult. What could one give to Elfrida that would begin to pay back for all the laughs and the spontaneous affection that she had given Lucy? There was no inspiration in the chemist’s shop, so she went out and walked on down the street, past Arthur Snead Fruit and Vegetables.

Then, struck by a brilliant idea, she retraced her steps and went through the door, which went ping when she shut it.

“Mr. Snead?”

“’Ullo, there.”

“I’m Lucy Wesley. I’m staying at the Estate House. Mrs. Snead is a friend of mine.”

“Oh, yes. She told me about you.”

“If I ordered some special flowers for Elfrida, would you be able to deliver them on Christmas Eve?”

He looked a bit doubtful, pursing up his lips. “Christmas Eve’s a Sunday, darling.”

“Well, Saturday, then. Saturday would be better, actually, because they’re going to have a little party.”

“The truth is, darling, it’s dicey just now, with the snow. Nothing’s getting through from Inverness, and that’s where all my regular stuff comes from. What were you thinking of? Chrysanths? Carnations?”

Lucy screwed up her nose. “Not really.”

“I’ve got Stargazer lilies in the back. Delivered yesterday, when the roads were still open. But they’re pricey.”

“Stargazers?”

“Lovely tight buds, and in the cool. Should just be starting to open in a day or two.”

“Could I see one?”

“Course you can.”

He disappeared through a door at the back of his shop and reappeared holding a single stem of creamy, elliptical, tightly closed buds. They looked just the same as the ones Gran bought from the flower-seller on the street corner in Fulham, and they sometimes lasted as long as two weeks.

“How many have you got there?”

“I’ve got a dozen in there, but like I said, they’re pricey. Three pounds a stem.”

Three by six was eighteen. Eighteen pounds. But they would look so beautiful in Elfrida’s sitting-room. They would open slowly, spreading out into pale-pink petals, and fill the whole house with their heady fragrance. She said, “I’ll have six and pay you now, but would you keep them here until Saturday and then bring them over?”

“Course I will. And tell you what, I’ll wrap them in special paper and put a big pink bow on.”

“I’ve got a card. I bought it in the bookshop. If I write the card, you can put it in with the flowers.”

“I’ll do that very thing.”

He lent her a pen and she wrote the card.
Elfrida, Happy Christmas and lots of love from Lucy.

She put it into its envelope and wrote Elfrida Phipps, licked it down, and gave it to Mr. Snead, and then handed over the eighteen pounds. A terrible lot to spend on flowers, but worth it.

Mr. Snead rang up his till.

“If you’re wanting mistletoe, let me know. I’ve got a branch or two, but it sells like hot cakes.”

Mistletoe was synonymous with kissing.

“I’ll see,” said Lucy cautiously.

She said goodbye and set off for home, laden with pur chases and feeling tremendously Christmassy. Once back, she would go straight upstairs to her bedroom, close the door, and settle down to wrapping all her presents in holly paper, tying them up in glittery string, and then hiding them in her bottom drawer. As she crossed the square, she saw the car parked outside Oscar’s house, an old estate car with its tailgate open, but thought nothing of it, because in Creagan people parked their cars all over the place, wherever they could find space. However, as she pushed the front door open, she heard voices from the kitchen and, investigating, there found Elfrida, stirring a pot on the cooker, and Rory Kennedy. On the kitchen table stood the television set, and a small black plastic trolley with wheels.

When she appeared in the open doorway, laden with shopping bags, they stopped talking, and turned to smile. Rory said, “Hi,” and he was wearing a grey fleecy jacket and rubber boots, and looked hugely masculine. Because his presence was so unexpected, Lucy was all at once lost for words, and yet delighted all at the same time.

“Hello. I… I thought you were coming later on. Like tea-time. I thought you’d be working.”

“Not much to do on the golf course in weather like this. The green keeper sent us all home. So I borrowed Dad’s car and brought the set down for you.”

Lucy looked at it. It seemed much more sophisticated than the one she had in London.

“I thought it would be old. It doesn’t look old at all.”

“It’s colour. Just that I got myself a bigger one. I brought the stand as well, in case you didn’t have anywhere to put it.”

Elfrida lifted her pot off the cooker and put it down on an iron trivet. She said, “I think it’s amazing. We’ll all be coming up to the attic to sit and goggle. Lucy, perhaps you’d better show Rory where it’s got to go in your bedroom.”

“It’s four flights of stairs,” Lucy told Rory.

He grinned.

“I think I could just about manage.”

She led the way, her carrier-bags bumping against her legs.

“You been shopping?” Rory asked, from behind her. She thought that only he would be able to carry something very heavy up so many stairs and still have breath left over for conversation.

“Yes. Christmas presents. I didn’t have time in London.”

The top landing and the door that led into her room. She went through and dumped the carrier-bags on her bed, and Rory followed her and put the television set carefully down on the floor. Straightening, he looked appreciatively about him.

“Hey, this is a cool room. And lots of space. Do you always keep it as tidy as this?”

“Sort of,” Lucy told him casually, not wanting him to think her pernickety.

“Clodagh’s room’s a perpetual tip. Ma’s always getting at her to put her things away. I’ll nip down and get the table and then we’ll get it set up.”

When he had gone, pounding down the stairs again, she quickly bundled all the carrier-bags in the empty bottom drawer and shut it firmly. It would be a shame if he guessed about the Badedas.

In a moment he was back with the little trolley. They found a suitable power socket, and Rory put the set on the table and plugged it in. There was no aerial point, but the set had its own aerial, and Rory switched it on and then riddled with the aerial until the picture stopped being fuzzy and became quite clear.

“It’s really good,” Lucy marvelled.

“I can get it better.” He was sitting cross-legged on the rug, intent on what he was doing. He punched knobs, switched channels.

“Superman” was on for children, and then an old black-and-white film. Then a lady showing them how to make Christmas cards decorated with cut-outs from a seed catalogue. Rory checked the sound, gave the internal aerial another tweak. Lucy settled herself on the floor beside him.

“… and then you finish it off with a little bow of pretty ribbon. Like this. I think you’ll agree any person would be delighted to receive such a personal card….”

Rory said, “Not me,” and punched another button. A broadly Scottish announcer was telling them about the weather, which, in the foreseeable future, was not conducive to hill-walking or climbing.

“Do you want me to leave it on?” Rory asked.

“No. I know how to work it now.”

He switched it off.

“Just don’t touch the aerial. I think I’ve got it as good as it gets….”

“It’s really kind of you to let me borrow it, and to bring it.”

“No problem. Finishes everything off.” He looked about him once more in admiring fashion.

“Is this all the stuff my mother helped buy? It’s great. She loves going to the Buddy market more than anything; she always comes back with some bargain. A tatty old linen pillowcase, or a china fairing, or something useless. Our house is full of junk, but there always seems to be room for more. At home, in London, do you have a room like this?”

“No. It’s not nearly so big. And it hasn’t any sort of lookout from the window. But it’s pretty. And at least I don’t have to share it with anybody. I’ve got my books there, and my computer. My things.”

“What’s it like, living in a city?”

“It’s all right.”

“Must be great, all those museums and exhibitions and concerts and plays. I’ve only been once. My dad took me when he had to attend some conference, and we stayed in an hotel, and went to a theatre every night. It was hot weather, and we used to have our meals in pubs, sitting out on the pavement, and watching all the weirdos wandering past. It was good. More exciting than Creagan.”

“It’s different if you live there all the time.”

“Suppose so.”

“It can be quite nice if you’ve got a proper house with a garden. When I was little we had a house in Kensington with a proper garden, and that didn’t feel like living in a city because there was always a bit of green grass, trees, flowers, and things. But then my parents divorced and now we live in a flat, me and my mother and my grandmother. It’s near the river and it’s got a balcony and a nice view, but there’s nowhere to be. To go and lie on a bit of lawn and read a ” boric. My friend Emma… she’s at school with me … she fives in a proper house and sometimes we have a barbecue in the garden.”