Winter Solstice (5 page)

“To the very end of Cornwall. If you sneeze you’re in danger of falling over a cliff into the Atlantic.”

“Cornwall?” Now he was astounded.

“Why Cornwall?”

“Because I have a cousin who lives there. He’s called Jeffrey Sutton and he’s about three years younger than me. We’ve always been friends. He’s one of those nice people one can telephone, without reservations, and say, “Can I come and stay?” And you know he’ll say yes. And, moreover, sound pleased. So, Horace and I will drive down together.”

Oscar shook his head in some bewilderment.

“I never knew that you had a cousin. Or any sort of relation, for that matter.”

“The product of an immaculate conception, you mean?”

“Hardly that. But, admit, it is surprising.”

“I don’t think it’s surprising at all. Just because I don’t rabbit on all the time about my family.” Then Elfrida relented.

“But you’re not far wrong. I am a bit denuded. Jeffrey’s a special person and we’ve always kept in touch.”

“Has he a wife?”

“Actually, he’s had two. The first was a pain in the neck. She was called Dodie. I suppose he was charmed by her pretty looks and sweet air of helplessness. Only to discover, poor man, that he had tied himself to a woman of such self-absorption as to beggar belief. She was, as well, idle and un-domestic, and most of Jeffrey’s hard-earned salary went on paying the wages of cooks, cleaners, and au pairs in the faint hope of keeping some sort of an establishment going for his two daughters.”

“He remained constant and enduring, but finally, when both the girls were grown and educated and earning, he walked out. There was this girl, Serena, much younger than Jeffrey, and perfectly sweet. She was a gardener and ran a nice little business doing flowers for parties and looking after other people’s window-boxes. He’d known her for years. When he walked out on his marriage, he walked out on his job as well, wiped the dust of London from the soles of his shoes, and moved, with Serena, as far away from London as he could possibly get. When the very acrimonious divorce was over, he married Serena and almost at once started another little family. A boy and a girl. They live on a shoestring, keeping hens and doing bed and breakfast for summer visitors.”

“Happy ever after?”

“You could say that.”

“What about his daughters? What happened to them?”

“I’ve rather lost touch. The eldest was called Nicola. She married some man, and had a child, I think. She was always dreadfully disagreeable, dissatisfied and perpetually complaining about the unfairness of life. I think she was always terribly jealous of Carrie.”

“Carrie being her sister.”

“Precisely so. And a darling. Jeffrey’s nice personality all over again. About ten years ago, when I had to have some female operation, upon which, at this moment, Oscar, I shall not enlarge, she came to take care of me. She stayed for six weeks. I was on my own at the time, living in a grotty little flat in Putney, but she took it all in her stride and we got on like a house on fire.” Elfrida frowned, grappling with mental arithmetic.

“She must be about thirty now. Aged. How time flies.”

“Did she marry?”

“I don’t think so. Like I said, I’ve rather lost touch. Last time I heard, she was working in Austria for some big tour company. You know, being a ski rep, and making sure every tourist was in the right hotel. She always loved skiing more than anything. Whatever, I’m sure she’s happy. I think your tea will be black enough now.” She poured his mug-it was satisfactorily dark-and cut him a slice of the crumbling gingerbread.

“So you see I do have a family, if not a particularly close one.” She smiled at him.

“How about you? Confession time. Do you have any dotty relations you can boast about?”

Oscar put up a hand and rubbed it over his head.

“I don’t know. I suppose I do. But like you, I haven’t much idea where they are or what they’re up to.”

“Tell.”

“Well….” Thoughtfully, he ate a bit of gingerbread.

“I had a Scottish grandmother. How’s that for starters?”

“Hoots toots.”

“She had a great big house in Sutherland, and a certain amount of land, and a farm.”

“A lady of property.”

“I used to spend summer holidays with her. But she died when I was sixteen and I never went back.”

“What was her house called?”

“Corrydale.”

“Was it enormously grand?”

“No. Just enormously comfortable. Huge meals, and gum boots and fishing-rods lying around the place. Good smells; of flowers and beeswax polish, and grouse cooking.”

“Oh, delicious. Mouthwatering. I’m sure she was heaven.”

“I don’t know about that. But she was totally unpretentious and enormously talented.”

“In what way?”

“I suppose a talent for living. And for music. She was an accomplished pianist. And I mean, really accomplished. I think I inherited my small talent from her, and it was she who set me on the road to my chosen career. There was always music at Corrydale. It was part of my life.”

“What else?”

“Sorry?”

“What else did you do?”

“I can scarcely remember. Go out in the evenings and pot rabbits. Fish for trout. Play golf. My grandmother was an avid golfer, and she tried to get me going on the links, but I was never a match for her. Then people came to stay, and we played tennis, and if it was warm enough, which it mostly wasn’t, I might bicycle to the beach and fling myself into the North Sea. At Corrydale, it didn’t matter what you did. It was all very relaxed. Good fun.”

“So what happened?”

“My grandmother died. The war was on. My uncle inherited and went to live there.”

“Didn’t he invite you for summer holidays?”

“Those days were over. I was sixteen. Into music. Taking examinations. Other interests, other people. A different life.”

“Does he still live there? Your uncle, I mean.”

“No, he’s in London now, in a mansion flat near the Albert Hall.”

“What’s his name?”

“Hector McLennan.”

“Oh, splendid. All kilts and a red beard?”

“Not any more. He’s very old.”

“And Corrydale?”

“He made it over to his son, Hughie. My cousin. A feckless fellow, whose one idea was to live a grand life and do things in tremendous style. He filled Corrydale with all his rather degenerate friends, who drank his whisky and behaved badly. To the despair of all the respectable old retainers who had worked in the house and on the estate for years. It was all something of a scandal. Then Hughie decided that life north of the border was not for him, so he sold up and scarpered off to Barbados. As far as I know, he’s still there, on to his third wife, and leading the life of Riley.”

Elfrida was envious.

“Oh, he does sound fascinating.”

“No. Not fascinating. Boringly predictable. We used to put up with each other, but we were never friends.”

“So everything’s sold up, and you’ll never return?”

“Unlikely.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“Actually, I could go back. When my grandmother died, she left Hughie and me a house. Between us. But it’s been rented for years to some old couple. Every quarter I get a trickle of rent, posted from the factor’s office. I suppose Hughie gets the same, though it’s scarcely enough to pay for a couple of planter’s punches.”

“Is it a big house?”

“Not particularly. It’s in the middle of the little town. It used to be estate offices, but then it was converted to a dwelling-house.”

“How too exciting. I wish I had a house in Scotland.”

“Half a house.”

“Half a house is better than half a loaf. You could take Francesca for half a holiday.”

“Never thought of it, to be truthful. Never think about the place. I suppose one day Hughie will either offer to buy me out or suggest that I buy him out. But it’s not something I worry about. And I prefer not to precipitate any action. The less I have to do with Hughie McLennan, the better.”

“I think you’re being frightfully feeble.”

“Just keeping a low profile. Now, when are you off?”

“Next Thursday.”

“For how long?”

“A month.”

“Will you send us a postcard?”

“Of course.”

“And let us know when you return?”

“At once.”

“We shall miss you,” said Oscar, and she felt warmed.

The house was called Emblo Cottage. It stood with its granite face to the north wind and the Atlantic, and on this side, the windows were small and few and deep-set, with windowsills wide enough for the potted geraniums and scraps of driftwood and the shells that Serena loved to collect. Once, it had been part of Emblo, a prosperous dairy farm, and the dwelling of the resident cowman. But the cowman retired and then died, mechanization took over the milking parlours, agricultural wages soared, and the farmer cut his losses and sold the cottage. Since then, it had belonged to three different owners, and had come on the market for the last time just as Jeffrey had made the great decision to cut loose from London, Dodie, and his job. He saw the advertisement in The Times, got straight into his car, and drove through the night in order to view the property before any other person had time to put in a bid. He found a dank little place, dismally furnished for holiday letting, crouched in an untended garden, and set about by stunted sycamores leaning at right angles, away from the prevailing wind. But there was a view of the cliffs and the sea, and on the south side a sheltered patch of lawn, where wisteria climbed the wall and there still flowered a camellia bush.

He telephoned his bank manager, got a loan, and bought the place. When he and Serena moved in, there were birds’ nests in the chimneys, old paper peeling from the walls, and a smell of damp and mould that hung over every room. But it didn’t matter. They camped in sleeping bags and opened a bottle of champagne. They were together and they were home.

That was ten years ago. It had taken two of those years to get the place in order, involving much hard physical labour, dirt, destruction, inconvenience, and a succession of plumbers, builders, tilers, and stone masons who trod around the place in mud-caked boots, boiled up endless cups of tea, and indulged in long conversations as to the meaning of life.

From time to time, Jeffrey and Serena became exasperated by their slowness and unreliability, but it was impossible not to be beguiled by these amateur philosophers, who seemed to know no sense of hurry, content in the knowledge that tomorrow was another day.

Finally, all was done. The workmen departed, leaving behind them a small, trim, solid stone house, with kitchen and sitting-room downstairs and a creaking wooden stair leading to the upper floor. At the back of the kitchen jutted out what had once been a wash-house, slate-floored and airy, and here waterproofs and rubber boots were dumped, and Serena kept her clothes washer and her deep freeze. There was as well a huge clay sink, which Jeffrey had found abandoned in the ditch of a field. Restored, it was constantly in use, for washing eggs and mud-caked dogs, and for the buckets of wild flowers which Serena loved to pick and arrange in oldfashioned pottery jugs. Upstairs were three white-painted bedrooms with sloping ceilings, and a small bathroom, which had the best view of all from its window, looking south, over the farmers’ fields and up the slope of the hill to the moor.

They were not isolated. The farmhouse, with its considerable outbuildings, stood only a hundred yards or so away, so that there was a constant coming and going of traffic up and down the lane and past their gate. Tractors, milk lorries and cars, and small children who, dumped by the school bus at the end of the road, walked their way home. The farmer had a family of four, and these children were Ben and Amy’s best friends. With them, they rode bicycles, went black berrying and walked down to the cliffs with haversacks slung from their inadequate shoulders to swim and picnic.

Elfrida had never seen this house, had never been to visit them. But now she was coming, and Jeffrey was filled with an old sensation, almost forgotten, but which he finally acknowledged to himself, was excitement.

Elfrida. He was now fifty-eight, and Elfrida was … ? Sixty-one, sixty-two? It didn’t matter. As a boy, he had always thought the world of her, because she was fearless and she made him laugh. As an adolescent, trapped in the inky disciplines of boarding-school, she had been like a light in his life. Gloriously attractive, admirably rebellious, fighting parental opposition, and finally going on the stage and becoming an actress. Such determination, bravery, and achievement had filled Jeffrey with admiration and devoted attachment. Once or twice, she had actually come to his boarding school and taken him out for an exeat Saturday or Sunday, and he had boasted about her a little to his Mends, and kept her waiting at the ghastly pseudo-Gothic red brick front door, because he wanted others to see her there, sitting in her little red sports car, with her dark glasses and her pineapple-coloured hair tied about with a chiffon scarf.

“My cousin. She’s in some show or other. In London,” he said, with marvelous casualness, as though it happened to everybody, every day.

“They brought it over from New York.”

And finally he would go out to meet her, apologizing for his lateness, climbing into the tiny bucket seat beside her, being driven away with an impressive roar of the engine and a lot of flying gravel. And when he got back to school, he remained determinedly blase.

“Oh, we just went to the Roadhouse. Had a swim in the pool and a meal.”

He was enormously proud of her and more than a little in love.

But time went by, they grew up, lost touch, and made their own lives. Elfrida married some actor or other, and it all fell apart and then she married another dreary character, and finally ended up with her famously successful lover. All seemed set for lifelong happiness, and then the alliance was stunned by tragedy, his struggle with Parkinson’s disease and eventual death.

The last time Jeffrey had seen Elfrida it was in London, just after she had met this exceptional man, whom she always referred to as Jimbo.

“Not his real name, darling, but my own name for him. I never thought it could be like this. I never thought one could be so close, and yet so different to a single human being. He is everything I’ve never been, and yet I love him more than any person or anything I’ve ever known.”