Cooper Jilly: Emily

‘He tried to this morning,’ I hissed, ‘but your dear brother walked in in the middle.’

‘The trouble is,’ whispered Marina, ‘that Rory feels frightfully guilty about you because everything’s worked out for him, now he can marry me. If you went off with Finn it would make things much easier for everyone.’

‘I don’t want to go off with Finn,’ I said, my voice rising. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, riding roughshod over everyone’s lives, don’t you ever think that Hamish and I might have feelings?’

Marina turned her great headlamp eyes on me: ‘I’d never hang around being a bore to a man who couldn’t stand me — I’ve got too much pride, you obviously haven’t.’

‘Shut up you two,’ said Buster.

We were silent but the whole forest must have heard my heart thudding.

Then suddenly the pigeons came sailing over the view over the pine tops, and with a deafening crash the guns went off. It was like being in the middle of a thunderstorm, except that the sky was raining pigeons. The deafening fusillade lasted about three minutes.

Some of the birds escaped unscathed, others came down directly. The guns charged about looking for booty. Dogs circled, cursed by their masters. Alexei stood proudly with two birds in each hand. There were congratulations and verdicts. Walter Scott rushed grinning up to me, his mouth full of feathers.

‘Must be some more in here,’ said Buster, disappearing into the undergrowth. A minute later his great red face appeared and he said in a low voice, ‘Rory, come here a minute.’ Rory, followed by Walter Scott, went into the undergrowth.

There was a pause, then Rory came out, his face ashen in the half light, shaking like a leaf.

‘What’s the matter, darling?’ Marina ran forward. ‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s Hamish,’ said Rory. ‘There’s been an accident. I’m afraid he’s blown his brains out.’ His face suddenly worked like a small boy about to cry. ‘Don’t look, Marina, it’s horrible.’

Marina gave a scream and rushed into the wood after Buster. Rory disappeared to the right: next moment I heard the sound of retching.

Marina emerged a minute later, her eyes mad with hysteria. ‘There, you see,’ she screamed at me, ‘Rory killed him, he killed him for me, because he thought Hamish wasn’t going to let me go. Now who do you think Rory loves?’

‘Don’t be bloody silly, Marina,’ said Buster, coming out of the copse. ‘Of course Rory didn’t kill him, poor old boy obviously did himself in.’

Rory, having regained his composure, had returned.

‘I didn’t, Marina,’ he said, as she ran forward and collapsed in his arms. ‘I swear I didn’t.’

‘Well, it’s my fault then,’ she sobbed. ‘I told Hamish to do it, I told him how much I loathed and hated him, how much he disgusted me. I goaded him into it. Oh, Rory, Rory, I’ll never forgive myself.’

I turned away. I couldn’t bear the infinitely tender way he was holding her in his arms, stroking her hair, and telling her everything would be all right. Suddenly there was an unearthly wailing: everyone jumped nervously, then we realized it was Hamish’s red setter howling with misery.

‘She was the only one,’ said Rory, ‘who gave a damn for the poor old bugger.’

I can’t really remember much of getting back.

Rory took me home; he was in a terrible state, shaking like a leaf. He came in and poured a stiff whisky and downed it in one gulp.

‘Look, I must go to her.’

I nodded mechanically. ‘Yes, of course you must.’

‘I’m frightened this will unhinge her; I feel sort of responsible, do you understand?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Do you want to come too?’

I looked at him for the last time, taking in the brown fur rug on the sofa, the yellow cushions, the gold of his corduroy jacket, his dark hair and deathly pale face, the smell of turpentine, the utter despair in my heart. I shook my head, ‘I’d rather stay here.’

‘I won’t be long,’ he said, and was gone.

So Hamish had loved Marina after all. What was it that Marina had said that afternoon — that she’d never hang around being a bore to a man who couldn’t stand her.

So the game had ended that never should have begun. I’m not a noble character, but I know when I’m licked.

For the second time in two months I packed my suitcase. I had no thought of going to Finn. Finn fancied me, but he didn’t really love me. Not as Rory understood love. And now I couldn’t have Rory, I didn’t want second best.

I left a note.

‘Darling,

Hamish has set you and Marina free, now I’m going to do the same. Please be happy and don’t try and find me.

Emily.’

Mist swathed the Irasa hills, the lochs lay about them like steel and silver medallions in the moonlight. A small, chill wind whispered among the heather. I walked the narrow track that twisted down the hill to the ferry. I caught the last boat of the day. There was scarcely anyone on it. I stood on deck, and watched the castle and everything I loved in the world getting dimmer and dimmer until they vanished in a mist of tears.

I shall never remember how I got through the next ten days. I went to ground in a shabby London hotel bedroom. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. I just lay dry-eyed on my bed like a wounded animal, shocked by incredulous grief and horror.

I toyed with the idea of going to see my parents, or ringing up Nina, but I couldn’t bear the expressions of sympathy, then the whispering, and later, the ‘I told you so’s’, and ‘We always knew he was a bad lot’, and much later — the ‘Pull yourself togethers’. Sooner or later I knew I would have to face up to life, but I hadn’t got the courage to get in touch with them yet, nor could I face the bitter disappointment I would feel if Rory hadn’t rung them and tried to contact me.

But why should he contact me? He must be blissfully happy now with Marina. The idea of them together rose black and churning. Sometimes I thought I was going mad. Even my unconscious played tricks on me. Every night I dreamed of Rory and woke up in tears. In the street I saw lean, dark, tall men and, heart thumping, would charge forward, shrinking away in horror when I realized it wasn’t him.

I hoped I would find it easier as the days went by, but it got much worse. What I hadn’t anticipated was going slap into the infinitely bosky lushness of a late London spring. Everything was far further on than it was in Scotland. Outside my bedroom window the new lime-green leaves of the plane trees swung like little cherubs’ wings, ice-cream pink cherry trees were dropping their blossom on the long grass. Huge velvety purple irises and bluebells filled the Chelsea gardens. Everywhere, too, there was an atmosphere of sexiness, of sap rising, of pretty girls walking the streets in their new summer dresses, of men whistling at them, of lovers entwined in the park, everything geared to ram home my loss to me.

‘He’s gone, he’s gone, and when thou knowest this thou knowest how dry a cinder this world is.’

The day of the opening of Rory’s exhibition came and went. With heroic self-control, I stuck to the hotel and didn’t hang around in the coffee bar opposite in the hope of getting a glimpse of him. I couldn’t face the anguish of seeing him with Marina.

But next morning I dragged myself up and went out and bought the papers, and crept back to the hotel to read them. The reviews were very mixed: some of the critics loathed the paintings, some adored them, but everyone agreed that a dazzling new talent had arrived. There were also several pictures of Rory looking sulky and arrogant, and impossibly handsome. The Nureyev of the Art world, the gossip columns called him.