Rosamunde Pilcher - September

She rang off. Virginia sighed in some exasperation, because this morning the last thing she wanted to do was to drive the ten miles to Corriehill and then back again. However, after years of living in Scotland, she had become programmed to the local customs, and one of these was that in times of stress it was a case of all hands to the wheel-even if it was somebody else's-and putting a cheerful face on inconvenience. She supposed throwing a dance counted as a time of stress, but even so wished that Verena had thought of table-cloths before the last moment.

She wrote "Table-cloths" on the telephone pad. She thought about the picnic and put a large chicken into the oven to roast. By the time it had cooked and cooled, hopefully Alexa would be here, and she would get her to carve it into handy chunks.

The telephone rang again. This time it was Edie.

"Would you be able to give me a lift to the picnic?"

"Yes, of course. I'll come and pick you up. Edie, I'm so sorry about Lottie."

"Yes." Edie sounded curt, which was the way she always sounded when she had been much upset but didn't want to talk about it. "I felt bad." Which left Virginia uncertain as to whether Edie felt bad because Lottie had had to go, or because of Virginia's involvement in the whole sorry affair. "What time should I be ready?"

"I have to go to Corriehill with some table-cloths, but I'll try to be with you around twelve."

"Has Alexa come yet?"

"No, not yet."

Edie, imagining death and destruction, was instantly anxious. "Oh my, I hope they're safe."

"I'm sure. Perhaps heavy traffic."

"Those roads scare the life out of me."

"Don't worry. I'll see you at midday, and they'll be here by then."

Virginia poured another mug of coffee. The telephone rang.

"Balnaid."

"Virginia."

It was Vi. "Happy birthday."

"Aren't I lucky with the weather? Has Alexa come?"

"Not yet."

"I thought they'd have arrived by now."

"So did I, but they haven't shown up yet."

"I can't wait to see the darling child. Why don't you all come to Pennyburn early, and we'll have a cup of coffee and a chat before we head off up the hill?"

"I can't." Virginia explained about the table-cloths. "I'm not even certain where to find them."

"They're on the top shelf of your linen cupboard, wrapped in blue tissue paper. Verena is a nuisance. Why didn't she think of asking you earlier?"

"1 suppose she's got a lot on her mind."

"So when will you all be here?"

Virginia made calculations and laid plans. "I'll send Noel and Alexa up to Pennyburn in the Subaru. And then I'll go to Corriehill in the small car, and on the way back I'll pick up Edie and bring her to Pennyburn. And then we'll pack all of us and all the picnic gear into the Subaru and go on from there."

"What a splendid organizer you are. It must have something to do with having an American mother. And you'll bring rugs, won't you? And wineglasses for yourselves." Under "Table-cloths," Virginia wrote "Rugs, Wineglasses." "And I'll expect Noel and Alexa at about eleven o'clock."

"1 hope they're not too exhausted."

"Oh, they won't be exhausted," Vi assured her breezily. "They're young."

Noel Keeling was an urban creature, born and raised in London, his habitat the city streets and weekend forays into the diminishing countryside of the Home Counties. From time to time his pleasures took him farther afield, and he'd fly to the Costa Smeralda on Sardinia, or the Algarve in southern Portugal, invited to join some house party, where he would play golf or tennis or indulge in a bit of yachting. Sightseeing, gazing at churches or chateaux, admiring great tracts of vineyards did not enter his plans for enjoyment, and if such an outing was suggested, he usually found good reason to opt out, and instead spend the time either lying by the swimming pool, or drifting down to the nearest town to sit beneath the awning of a pavement bar and watch the world go by.

Once, some years ago, he had come to Scotland to join a few friends in a week of salmon fishing. That time he had flown to Wick from London, there been met by another member of the party, and driven to Oykel Bridge. It had been raining. It rained the whole way to the hotel, and continued to rain for the remainder of their stay, the downpour interrupted at infrequent intervals by a slight clearing of the mist, which revealed a great deal of brown and treeless moorland and very little else.

His memories of that week were mixed. Each day was spent thigh-deep in the flood of the river, flogging the swollen waters for the elusive fish. And each evening was passed in a cheerful blur of conviviality, eating quantities of delicious Scottish food and drinking even larger quantities of malt whisky. The surrounding scenery had left no impression whatsoever.

But now, at the wheel of his Volkswagen Golf, and driving the last few miles of their long journey, he realized that he was not only on familiar ground, but also in unexpected territory.

The familiar ground was metaphorical. He was an -experienced guest, with long years of country weekend house parties behind him, and this was by no means the first time he had approached an unknown house to stay with strangers. In years gone by, he had devised a rating for weekends, awarding stars for comfort and pleasure.

But that was when he had been much younger and poorer, and in no position to turn down any invitation. Now, older and more prosperous, with friends and acquaintances to match, he could afford to be more selective, and was seldom disappointed.

But the game, if it was to be properly played, had its own appointed rituals. And so, in his suitcase stowed in the boot were not only his dinner jacket and a selection of suitably countrified clothes, but a bottle of The Famous Grouse for his host, and a generously large box of Bendick's handmade chocolates for his hostess. As well, this weekend involved birthday presents. For Alexa's grandmother, celebrating her seventy-eighth year this very day, there were shiny boxes of soap and bath-oil from Floris-Noel's standard offering to elderly ladies, both known and unknown; and for Katy Steynton, whom he had never met, a framed sporting print depicting a sad-eyed spaniel with a dead pheasant in its mouth.

Thus, bearing gifts, he abided by the rules.

The unexpected territory was a physical thing, the astonishingly beautiful county of Relkirkshire. He had never imagined such rich and prosperous estates, such verdant farmlands, immaculately fenced and grazed by herds of handsome cattle. He had not expected avenues of beech, roadside gardens filled with flowers in such profusion and such colour. Driving overnight, he had watched the light creep into an overcast and misty dawn, but now the sun had done its work, and the greyness was dissolved into a morning of brilliant clarity. With Relkirk behind them, the road was clear, fields gold with stubble, rivers sparkling, bracken turning to saffron-yellow, the skies enormous, the air crystal-clear, unpolluted by smoke or smog or any horror that the hand of man could produce. It was like going back in time to a world that one had thought gone for ever. Had he ever known such a world? Or had he known it once and simply forgotten that it had existed?

Caple Bridge. They crossed a river, deep in a ravine far below them, and then took the turning signposted "Strathcroy." The hills, still bloomy with heather, folded away on either side of the narrow winding road. He saw scattered farmsteads, a man driving a flock of sheep up through green pasture fields to the rough grazing beyond. Alexa, with Larry on her knee, sat beside him. Larry slept, but Alexa was palpably tense with the scarcely suppressed excitement of coming home, in truth, she had been in a state of happy anticipation for weeks, counting the days off on her calendar, searching the shops for a new dress, getting her hair cut, buying presents. For the last two days, she had been spinning like a top with last-minute arrangements; packing for the pair of them, ironing all Noel's shirts, emptying the refrigerator, and leaving with a neighbour the spare keys of her house in case it should be invaded by vandalizing bandits. All this was accomplished with the transparent enthusiasm and energy of a child, and Noel had witnessed her furious activity with fond tolerance, while refusing to pretend that he felt the same way.