Winter Solstice (52 page)

“Peter would say it’s a question of patience.”

“Patience was never one of my virtues. Not that I ever had many.”

Tabitha laughed.

“Rubbish. They’re just not the same as other people’s. Have more coffee.”

“No. That was delicious.” Elfrida got to her feet.

“Now I must get out of your way. Thank you for the glasses and for being a listening ear.”

“I’ll come and help you stow the boxes in your car. They’re not very heavy, just awkward. And we’ll all be with you tomorrow evening at six, dressed up in our Christmas bibs and fuckers. Very exciting. I can’t wait.”

Elfrida had not been gone for more than ten minutes when Oscar, breaking into The Times crossword, was interrupted by the appearance of Lucy. She wore her red padded jacket and her boots and was apparently on her way out.

“Oscar.”

“Hello, there, duck.” He laid down the paper.

“I thought you were wrapping Christmas presents.”

“Yes, I am, but I’ve run out of ribbon. Oscar, where’s Elfrida?”

“She’s gone to the Manse to borrow things from Tabitha Kennedy. She won’t be long.”

“I just wondered if there was anything she wanted me to get in the shop.”

“I think all she wanted was for Horace to be taken for a walk.”

“Well, I’ll go to the bookshop first, and then take Horace down to the beach.”

“It’s very snowy.”

“I don’t mind. I’ve got my boots on.”

“Well, be sure not to get attacked by Rottweilers.”

Lucy made a hideous face.

“Don’t even remind me.”

“I’ll tell Elfrida you’ll be back for lunch.”

Lucy went. In a moment, Oscar heard Horace’s cheerful pre-walk barking, and then the front door opened and slammed shut, and he was alone once more. He returned to his crossword. Six across. Period by river for one producing picture. He brooded over this. The telephone began to ring.

His immediate instinct was to leave it, to wait for some other person to answer the tiresome instrument. But then he remembered that he was the only person in the house, and so , in some irritation, he set the paper down, stowed his pen in his pocket, and, heaving himself out of his chair, went out onto the landing.

“Estate House.”

“I wonder, is Mr. Blundell there?” A female voice, very Scottish.

“Speaking.”

“Oh, Mr. Blundell, this is Sister Thomson from the Royal Western in Inverness. I’m afraid it’s sad news. Major Billicliffe died early this morning. I have your name as his next of kin.”

Old Billicliffe. Dead. Oscar found himself struggling to think of something to say. All he could come up with was “I see.”

“It was all very peaceful. He had a quiet end.”

“I’m pleased. Thank you very much for letting me know.”

“There are personal possessions you’ll want to collect. If you could …”

Oscar said, “Of course.”

“And any other arrangements …” Sister tactfully did not finish her sentence. But Oscar knew exactly what she was driving at.

He said, again, “Of course. Thank you. And for taking care of him. I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blundell. I’m very sorry. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Sister.”

He rang off, and because all at once he needed to sit down, went and perched on the bottom of the stab’s that led up to Lucy’s attic. Billicliffe was dead, and Oscar was not only his next of kin, but his executor. He found his head spinning with unworthy and pettish thoughts, and was grateful that Elfrida was not here, otherwise he might have voiced them aloud.

How typical of that old idiot to go and die now, of all times. A houseful of people, Christmas upon them, and the roads to Inverness impassable. If he had planned it all himself, Billicliffe could not have hit upon a more inconvenient moment to turn up his toes.

But then Oscar remembered leaving the old boy and stopped feeling resentful, and instead felt sad, because he had died alone, and Oscar and Elfrida, despite their best in tendons, had been unable to get to the hospital to visit him, make amends for their unsocial behaviour, and say goodbye.

He pondered for a bit as to what he should do next. The ball, it was obvious, was in his court, and it was Oscar who had to take the initiative, but he found himself with no idea of how to start. And it occurred to him, sitting like a beached whale at the foot of the stairs, that it was less than two months since that ghastly evening when he had been told that Gloria and Francesca were dead, but he had little recollection of the stunned days that followed. There had, of course, been a funeral, the Dibton church packed, the vicar, who had never been much of a preacher, struggling for words, and Oscar in his good black overcoat standing in the front pew. But how he had got there he could not say, and had no memory at all of the considerable organization which had preceded the occasion. He only knew that, sometime, Giles, Gloria’s eldest son, had turned up and taken over, while Oscar, rendered incapable by shock, had simply done what he was told. Giles, whom Oscar had never found the most engaging of young men, had nevertheless proved himself immensely efficient. All went on oiled wheels, and the entire nightmare process slipped by, and away, and so, into the past.

When it was all over, Oscar felt that nothing of any importance would ever happen to him again, and he moved through the dead days like a zombie. Then Giles turned up once more at the Grange, to inform Oscar that he would have to move out, as Gloria’s house was going to be put up for sale. And Oscar felt no resentment at all. Giles was, once more, at the helm, and Oscar took the line of least resistance and simply went with the flow, agreeing to everything. It was only when some old folks’ home was mentioned that he experienced the first stirrings of alarm.

But now things were different, and it was his turn to take over. How had he got himself into such a situation? He thought back to that cold morning, when he had driven Major Billicliffe over the Black Isle to the hospital in Inverness. And how the old boy had talked, meandering on in an in comprehensible stream of reminiscences. Then “Prepare for the worst and hope for the best,” he had said, and asked Oscar to be his executor.

The lawyer. Oscar had, in his diary, made a note of the lawyer’s name. He got up off the stair, went into the sitting-room, and found his diary on his makeshift desk. He turned the pages. Murdo MacKenzie. It occurred to him that only Billicliffe would have a lawyer with such an outlandish name. Murdo MacKenzie, MacKenzie and Stout, South Street, Inverness.

There was no telephone number, so he looked it up in the book, copied it into his diary, and returned to the landing. He sat on the stairs again, lifted the telephone off the table and set it handily beside him, then punched the number.

He thought, there will have to be a funeral. A church. A wake. People will have to be told. I must tell Peter Kennedy. And an announcement in the newspaper. Just a few lines. But which paper? The National press, or the local… “MacKenzie and Stout.”

“Oh, good morning. I wonder, could I speak to Mr. Murdo MacKenzie?”

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Oscar Blundell. From Creagan.”

“Hold on a moment, please.”

Oscar’s heart sank. Others had spoken those words before, and he had been forced to wait a great deal longer than a moment, while listening to a tinkly rendering of “Greensleeves,” or some other soupy tune. But his fears were unfounded. Murdo MacKenzie came on the line almost at once.

“Mr. Blundell. Good morning. Murdo MacKenzie here. What can I do for you?”

A good Scottish voice, strong and capable-sounding. Oscar felt encouraged.

“Good morning. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve just heard … from the hospital… that Major Billicliffe died this morning. Major Godfrey Billicliffe,” he added, as though there could possibly be two.

“Oh, that’s sad news. I am sorry.” (He really sounded sorry, too.) “But not perhaps unexpected.”

“They called me first because they had my name as next of kin. And as well, of course, Major BiUicliffe asked me to be his executor. There didn’t seem to be anyone else.”

“No. He had no family. He told me about this arrangement, and said that you had agreed to take the duty on.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I suppose there will have to be a funeral, but where, and when and how? He has friends in Creagan, who will certainly want to be there, but as far as I know, the roads are still impassable, and there’s no hope in hell of anybody getting to Inverness. To say nothing of the fact that Christmas is just about on us. And an undertaker will have to be approached, of course, and the bank notified, and the registrar…”

Murdo MacKenzie smoothly intervened.

“Mr. Blundell, why don’t you leave all this to me? The first thing is that Major BiUicliffe left instructions with my office that he wished to be cremated, so that precludes a good many headaches. As for an undertaker, I can deal with that. There’s an excellent firm in Inverness who have a good reputation, and I know them well. How would it be if I got in touch with Mr. Lugg and made all the necessary arrangements?”

“That’s enormously kind of you … but… when?”

“I would suggest the end of next week. Before New Year. By then the weather should have eased off a bit, and you and any friends from Creagan should be able to make your way over the Black Isle and attend the ceremony.”

“But shouldn’t we have some sort of get-together… a cup of tea somewhere? I should be more than willing to foot the bill for that.”

“Mr. Lugg … the undertaker … can see to that as well. Perhaps the lounge of an hotel… or the function room. It depends how many people will be there.”

“And all the other details, probate and the bank and such. Freezing his account…”

“We’ll deal with those details.”

“And his personal possessions …” Oscar thought of Billicliffe’s washed-out flannel pyjamas, his hearing aids his battered leather suitcase. All too pathetic, and to his horror, he felt a ridiculous lump grow in his throat ” his possessions. They will have to be collected from the hospital.”

“I’ll telephone and have a word with the Ward Sister. Do you remember the number of the ward?”

Rather to his surprise, Oscar did.

“Fourteen.”

“Fourteen.” A pause while Murdo MacKenzie made a note or two.

“I’ll get my secretary to see to that.”

“I really can’t thank you enough. You’ve taken a great weight off my shoulders.”

“I know that Major Billicliffe did not want you to be inconvenienced in any way. So I shall telephone Mr. Lugg, and get back to you when I know what arrangements he’s been able to make. Have I got your telephone number?”

Oscar gave it to him.

“And you’re at the Estate House in Creagan?”

“That’s right.”

“No problems, then. And if any should arise, I’ll give you a ring.”

“It really is more than good of you. If you could keep in touch. Thank you again. And now, I’ll waste no more of-”

“Mr. Blundell!”

“Yes?”

“Don’t ring off. I have something else to say. I shall be writing to you, of course, but the post is a little unreliable at this time of the year, and as we’re talking now, perhaps I should put you in the picture.”

Oscar frowned.

“Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Once he was settled in hospital, Major Billicliffe rang me, and said that he wanted to see me. I live out on the Nairn Road, and pass the hospital on my way into the office, so I called in early last Monday morning. He was in bed, of course, and very frail, but perfectly lucid. He was worried about his will. Since his wife died he had not got around to making a new one, and he wished to do this right away.

He gave me instructions, the will was written that day, in my office, and he was able to sign it. You are his sole beneficiary, Mr. Blundell. He was not a man of property, nor great wealth, but he wants you to have his house at Corrydale, his car, and his dog. I’m afraid neither the car nor the dog are bequests you would have chosen, but those were his wishes. As for his money, he lived, very frugally, on his pensions, which of course, stop on his death. But he had, as well, a few savings, which, once all the funeral expenses have been settled, and any outstanding bills, should come to about two thousand five hundred pounds….”

Oscar sat on his stair, with the telephone to his ear, and could not think of a single thing to say.

“Mr. Blundell?”

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“I thought maybe the line had gone dead.”

“No. I’m here.”

“It’s not a substantial legacy, I’m afraid, but Major Billicliffe was anxious that you should know how much he appreciated your kindness to him.”

Oscar said, “I wasn’t kind.” But if the lawyer heard this, he ignored it.

“I don’t know if you know the house?”

“I went there once. Once only. To get the key. But of course I knew it in the old days, when it was the forester’s cottage, and my grandmother was living at Corrydale.”

“I did the conveyancing when Major Billicliffe bought it from the estate. It is quite a modest establishment, but I would say with distinct possibilities.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I am sorry to be so uncommunicative, but I am truly lost for words.”

“I understand.”

“I never thought… expected …”

“I’ll put it all down in writing in a letter to you, and then you can decide what you do next. And don’t worry about arrangements over this side. I’ll speak to Mr. Lugg, and put everything into his capable hands.”

“Thank you.” Oscar felt something more was expected of him.

“Thank you so very much.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Blundell. Goodbye. And have a good Christmas.”

He rang off. Slowly Oscar replaced the receiver. At the end of the day old Billicliffe had come up trumps. Oscar ran a hand over his bewildered head. He said aloud to the empty house, “Well, I’ll be buggered.”

He thought for a long time about the little house on the Corrydale Estate. Not during the Billicliffe time, but years ago, when the head forester and his homely wife had lived there. Then, it had been a hive of activity, with four children underfoot, three dogs, a cage with ferrets by the back door, and strings of washing flapping on the line. But always a good peat-fire in the hearth, a vociferous welcome for a small boy, and a hot plate of drop scones dripping in butter. Oscar tried to remember the layout of the place, but in those days he had never gone farther than the living-room, with its smell of paraffin lamps and baking bread.