Rosamunde Pilcher - September

He drank some more. His thirst was assuaged, but his other need stayed with him. Fresh water and Alexa. It occurred to him that these two basic necessities, which, immediately, were more urgent than anything else in life, were in some strange way a reflection of each other. Adjectives flowed through his mind. Clean, sweet, pure, transparent, good, innocent, unsullied. They applied to both the element and the girl. And then, the final accolade. Life-giving.

Alexa.

He prided himself that it was he who was responsible for her flowering from gawky youngster to confident woman-finding out that she was a virgin had been one of the most astonishingly disarming experiences of his life-but as well he knew that it had been a two-way deal, and he had been on the receiving end of a great cornucopia of love and companionship and undemanding acceptance, for although she had been blessed with worldly riches, her gifts had not all been material. Being with Alexa had been a good interlude in his life, one of the best, and whatever happened in the future, he knew that he would always remember it with gratitude.

And what was going to happen? But he did not, at the moment, wish to consider this. More pressing to concentrate on now. Alexa. She slept in her own bed, in her childhood bedroom, only a few yards distant, across the landing and down a passage. He thought about going in search of her, silently opening and closing her door, slipping in between the sheets beside her. She would make space for him, turn to him, her arms ready for him, her body waking for him…

He considered this course of action for a bit and then decided against it, for, he 1assured himself, practical rather than high-minded reasons. He knew from experience that it was all too easy to lose one's way in the unlit corridors of other people's country houses, and did not relish being discovered in some broom cupboard, along with the Hoover and a lot of old dusters. And here, at Balnaid, he had not even got the water-tight excuse of going to the loo, because he had a perfectly good bathroom of his own.

And yet, even without these excuses, and putting more worthy reasons out of his mind, he still found himself wondering if he could pluck up the nerve to go in search of her. It had something to do with this house. There was an atmosphere he had sensed as soon as he walked through the door, a feeling of family, which rendered the notion of clandestine corridor-creeping simply out of the question. His long conversation with Vi, out on the hill during the afternoon, had further strengthened his conception of Balnaid. It was as though all the generations who had lived here were still around the place, in residence, living and breathing, going about their daily occupations, watching, and perhaps judging. Not just Alexa and Virginia, but Violet and her stalwart and much-loved Geordie. And before them, the old people, Sir Hector and Lady Primrose Akenside, solidly entrenched, highly principled, and still in charge of a house brimming with individuals; children in the nurseries, guests in the spare rooms, and housemaids and parlourmaids snoring away in the attics upstairs. This was the sort of enduring household that, as a boy, trapped in London, Noel had longed to be part of. A well-ordered and lavish life-style with all the attendant delights of the outdoors. Tennis parties and picnics, on an even more elaborate scale than the one that had taken place this afternoon. Ponies, and guns and fishing-rods, and devoted gillies and keepers only too eager and ready to give the young gentleman a guiding hand.

This morning, driving up to Strathcroy with Alexa beside him, dazzled by the countryside and the colours and the sparkling air, he had been overwhelmed by the sensation that in some way he was driving back to the past, to a world that he had once known and yet forgotten. Now, he accepted that he had never known that world but, having found it, was reluctant to let it go. For the first time in his life, he felt that he belonged.

And Alexa?

He heard Violet's voice. If you have to hurt her, then you must do it now, before it is too late.

The words had an ominous ring to them. It was possible that it was already too late, in which case he had reached the watershed of his relationship with Alexa, and with Vi's warning ringing in his ears, knew that the time had come to take stock. Before the weekend was over, some sort of a decision had to be made.

He saw himself, as though from some great distance, teetering on that watershed, endeavouring to make the vital choice as to which path he would follow. He could go back the way he had come, which meant leaving Alexa, saying goodbye, trying to explain, packing his bags, moving out of Ovington Street; returning to the basement flat in Pembroke Gardens, placating his tenants, informing them that they must find some other place to roost. It meant going back to the old life, somehow getting himself back into social circulation. Calling up friends, meeting in bars, eating in restaurants, trying to find the telephone numbers of all those emaciated and beautiful women, feeding them, listening to their conversation. It meant driving to the country on Friday evenings, and then struggling back to London, on roads choked with traffic, the following Sunday night.

He sighed. But he'd done it all before, and there was no reason why he should not do it again.

The other alternative, the other path, led the way to commitment. And for Alexa, and everything she represented, he knew that this time it had to be total. A lifetime of assumed responsibility- marriage and probably children.

Perhaps it was time. He was thirty-four, but still devilled by the uncertainties of immaturity. Basic and deep-rooted insecurities rattled their bones at him, like a lot of gruesome skeletons lurking in a forgotten cupboard. Perhaps it was time, but the prospect filled him with terror.

He shivered. Enough. The wind was rising. A gust rattled the open window-frame. He discovered that he was chilled to the bone, but, like an icy shower, the cold air had finally stilled his unrequited ardour. Which settled at least one problem. He got back into bed, bundled in blankets, and turned off the light. For a long time he lay awake, but when he finally turned and slept again, he had still made no decision.

Friday the Sixteenth

The rain started soon after he left Relkirk. As the country road climbed, heading north, mist drifted down from the hilltops, and his windscreen was beaded with damp. He switched on the wipers. It was the first rain he had seen for over a week, for New York had sparkled in the warmth of an Indian summer, sunshine reflected from towers of glass, flags snapping in the breeze outside Rockefeller Center, vagrants enjoying the last of the seasonal warmth, stretched out on the benches of Central Park, with their bags and bundles of meagre possessions gathered all about them.

Edmund had spanned two worlds in a single day. New York, Kennedy, Concorde, Heathrow, Turnhouse, and now back to Strathcroy. Under normal circumstances, he would have taken time to drop in at the office in Edinburgh, but this evening was the night of the Steyntons' dance, and for this reason he had elected to drive directly home. Getting out his Highland finery was apt to take some time, and there was the possibility that neither Virginia nor Edie had remembered to clean the silver buttons on his jacket and his waistcoat, in which case he would have to buckle down to the task himself.

A dance. They would, very likely, not get to bed until four o'clock in the moming. By now he had lost track of his own time-clock, and knew a certain weariness. Nothing, however, that a slug of whisky would not dispel. His wrist-watch still stood at New York time, but the clock on his dashboard told him that it was half past five. The day was not yet dead, but the low clouds rendered visibility murky. He switched on his sidelights.