Rosamunde Pilcher - September

Caple Bridge. The powerful car hummed along the winding curves of the narrow glen road. Tarmac glistened in the damp, whins and gorse were wreathed in mist. He opened the window and smelt the cool and incomparable air. He thought about seeing Alexa again. Thought about not seeing Henry. Thought about Virginia…

Their tenuous truce, he feared, had collapsed, and their final exchange, as he was on the point of leaving for New York, had been acrimonious. She had blasted her temper at him down the telephone, accusing him of selfishness, thoughtlessness, broken promises. Refusing to listen to his perfectly reasonable explanations, she had finally slammed down the receiver. He had wanted to speak to Henry, but she had either forgotten, or deliberately refrained from giving Henry his father's message. Perhaps, after a week without him, she had cooled down, but Edmund did not feel hopeful. Lately, she had taken to nursing grievances as though they were babies.

His saving grace would be Alexa. For Alexa, he knew Virginia would put on her best face, if necessary play-act her way through the weekend, performing a charade of enjoyment and affection. For this small mercy, at least, he would be grateful.

The road sign came up at him out of the mist. "Strathcroy." He slowed, changed down, crossed the bridge by the Presbyterian church, drove beneath the high branches of the elms, clattering with rooks, and through the open gates of Balnaid.

Home. He did not go around to the front of the house, but turned into the old stable-yard and parked the BMW there. Only one car, Virginia's, stood in the garage, and the back door, which led into the kitchen, was open. But this, he knew, did not necessarily mean that anybody was at home.

He switched off the ignition and waited, expecting, if not a delighted family spilling out of that door to greet him, then at least some sort of a welcome from his dogs. But he was met by silence. There did not appear to be anybody about.

He climbed wearily from his car, went to open the boot and collect his baggage. His suitcase, his bulging leather brief-case, his raincoat, the yellow plastic bag of Duty-Free. It was heavy with bottles, Scotch and Gordon's Gin, and generous packages containing French perfume for his wife, his daughter, his mother. He carried these indoors, out of the rain. He found a kitchen warm, swept, orderly but empty, the only sign of his dogs their unoccupied baskets. The Aga hummed to itself. Into the sink, a tap dripped gently. He put his suitcase and his raincoat on the floor, the bag of Duty-Free on the table, and went to the sink to tighten off the faulty tap. The dripping ceased. He listened for other sounds, but none disturbed the ensuing quiet.

Carrying his brief-case, he went out of the kitchen, down the passage, through the hall. There he paused for a moment, waiting for an opened door, footsteps, a voice, another person. The old clock ticked. Nothing more. He went on, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, past the drawing-room, to open the door of the library.

Nobody here either. He saw cushions, smooth and fat, on the sofa, an empty fireplace, a neat pile of Country Life magazines, an arrangement of dried flowers, their colours faded, smoky, and rusty. The window was open and let in a great draught of damp and chilly air. He set down his brief-case and went to close it, and then returned to his desk, where a week's mail was tidily stacked, awaiting his attention. He turned over an envelope or two, but knew that there was nothing there that could not wait for another day.

The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver.

"Balnaid."

It clicked, buzzed, and then went dead. Probably some person dialling the wrong number. He put the receiver back, and all at once could not bear the gloom of the empty room for a moment longer. The library at Balnaid, without a fire for companionship, was like a person without a heart, and only on the hottest days of summer was it ever allowed to go out. He found matches, lit the paper in the hearth, waited until the kindling crackled, added logs. The flames leaped up the chimney, warming and lighting, bringing the room alive. Thus he contrived his own welcome and felt marginally cheered.

He watched the flames for a bit, then put on the fire-guard and made his way back to the kitchen. He unloaded the whisky and the gin and put them in the cupboard, and then carried his suitcase and the Duty-Free bag upstairs. The ticking of the grandfather clock accompanied his tread. He crossed the landing and opened the door of their bedroom.

"Edmund."

She was there, had been in the house all the time. She sat at her dressing-table and was engaged in painting her nails. The room, so spacious and feminine-dominated by the enormous king-size double bed draped in antique-white linen and lace-was, uncharacteristically, in a state of some disarray. Shoes lay about, a pile of folded clothes stood stacked on a chair, wardrobe doors hung open. On one of these doors, from a padded hanger, was suspended Virginia's new evening dress, the one she had bought in London especially for the occasion tonight. The skirt, flaring out in layers of some filmy material, was spattered with a confetti of black spots. Without her inside it, it looked a bit sad and empty.

Across the room, they eyed each other. He said, "Hi."

She wore her white towelling robe and had washed her hair and set it on the huge rollers that Henry always told her made her look like some monster from outer space.

"You're back. I never heard the car-"

"I parked it by the garage. I thought there was nobody around."

He carried the suitcase through to his dressing-room and set it down on the floor. All his evening clothes were laid out on the single bed. His kilt, stockings, skean dhu, evening shirt, jacket, and waistcoat. The buttons of these shone like stars, as did the silver buckles on his shoes.

He went back into the bedroom. "You cleaned my buttons." "Edie did."

"That was kind." He went over to her side and stooped to give her a kiss. "A present for you." He put the box on her dressing-table.

"Oh, lovely. Thank you." She had finished painting her nails, but the varnish had not yet dried. She sat with fingers outspread, from time to time blowing on them to speed the process up. "How was New York?"

"Okay."

"I didn't expect you back so soon."

"I caught the early shuttle."

"Are you tired?"

"I won't be when I've had a drink." He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. "Is there anything wrong with the telephone?"

"I don't know. It rang about five minutes ago, but only once, and then it stopped."

"I answered it downstairs, but it went dead."

"It's done that once or twice today. But it's working for outgoing calls."

"Have you reported it?"

"No. Do you think we should?"

"I'll do it later." He leaned back on the piles of pillows, his head against the quilted bedhead. "How have things been with you?"

She inspected her nails. "All right."

"And Henry?"

"I don't know about Henry. I haven't heard and I haven't telephoned." She looked at him, and her brilliant blue gaze was cool. "I thought that perhaps telephoning was not quite the right thing to do. Untraditional, perhaps."

Which made it abundantly clear that he was not forgiven. But this was not the time to pick up the gauntlet and precipitate yet another row.

"Did you get him to Templehall?"

"Yes. I drove him. He didn't want to go with Isobel, so we took Hamish with us. Hamish was in one of his most disagreeable moods, Henry never said a single word the entire journey, and it peed with rain the whole way. Apart from that, it was a picnic."

"He didn't take Moo with him, did he?"

"No, he didn't take Moo."

"Thank God for that. And Alexa?"