Part 17 (1/2)

”That's just what I need.” He arrived home, after midnight, stumbling up the stairs. She heard him moving about in his dressing-room, dropping things, opening and shutting drawers, swearing at some cuff-link or b.u.t.ton.

After a little, she heard him getting into bed, and the light beyond the open door went out, and there was only darkness. And she wondered if he had chosen to sleep in his dressing-room out of consideration to Virginia, or whether there was some other, more sinister reason.

She soon knew. The society in which they moved, the narrow clique, was too small for secrets. ”Virginia darling, I told you to watch out for that naughty man of yours.”

”What's he done now?”

”You are marvellous, the way you never get ruffled. You obviously know all about it.”

”All about what?”

”Darling, the intimate dinner party that he had with Liz.”

”... Oh, yes, of course. Last Tuesday.”

”He is an old devil. I suppose he thought none of us would find out. But then Midge and Johnny Gray suddenly decided on the spur of the moment to go up to the Strathtorrie Arms for dinner, you know, there's a new manager now, and it's all frightfully dark and chic and you can get a very good dinner. Anyway, off they went, and of course there were Anthony and Liz, all snugged up in a corner. And you knew all the time!”

”Yes.”

”Any you don't mind?”

”No.”

That was the terrible thing. She didn't mind. She was apathetic, bored by Anthony and I he outrageous schoolboy charm that had, as far as Virginia was concerned, long since worn itself to shreds. And this was not the first affair. It had happened before and it would doubtless happen again, but still, it was daunting to look down the years ahead and see herself tied for ever to this tedious Peter Pan. A man so unperceptive that lie could gaily embark on a clandestine involvement, and yet conduct the whole affair on what was virtually his own front doorstep.

She thought about divorce, but knew that she would never divorce Anthony, not simply because of the children, but because she was Virginia, and she could no more embark, voluntarily, upon such a course, than she could have Mown to the moon.

She was not happy, but what could be the rood of broadcasting her failure, her disillusion, to the rest of the world? Anthony did not love In a, had never loved her. But then she had never loved him. If he had married Virginia to get his hands on Kirkton, then she had married Anthony on the rebound, in an emotional state of extreme unhappiness, and in a desperate bid to avoid the London Season that her mother had planned for her, culminating in the final nightmare of a coming-out dance.

She was not happy, but, to all intents and purposes, she had everything. A lovely house, a handsome husband, and the children. The children were worth everything. For them she would sh.o.r.e up her crumbling marriage, and for them she would create a world of security that they would never know again.

Anthony had been with Liz that night he was killed. He had called in at the Old Manse for a drink on his way back from Relkirk and was invited to stay for supper.

He rang Virginia.

”Liz has got the Cannons staying. She wants me to eat here and make up a four for bridge. I'll be home some time. Don't wait up.”

Liz's cupboard with the whisky bottle stood open, as always. And as always Anthony helped himself liberally and with a generous hand. It was two o'clock before he started home, a black and starless night of pouring rain. It had been raining for days and the river was in spate. Afterwards the police came with tape measures and bits of chalk, and they measured the skid marks, and hung over the broken rail of the bridge and stared down into the muddy, iwirling waters. And Virginia stood with them, in the drenching rain, and watched the divers

0 down, and there was a kindly sergeant who kept urging her to go back to the house, but she v< mldn't=”” go=”” because,=”” for=”” some=”” reason,=”” she=”” had=”” to=”” be=”” there,=”” because=”” he=”” had=”” been=”” her=”” husband=”” and=”” the=”” father=”” of=”” her=””>

And she remembered what he had said, that night he told her about Kirkton. I'm just sorry that it had to happen when we were both so young.

Chapter 8.

The quiet night moved slowly past, the seconds, the minutes, the hours, measured by the ticking of Virginia's wrist-watch which she had put on the table by her bed. Now, she reached out for it and saw that it was nearly three o'clock in the morning. She got out of bed, wrapped herself in the quilt and went to sit on the floor by the open window. It was the hour before dawn, dark and very still. She could hear, a mile or more away, the gentle movement, like breathing, of the sea. She could hear the soft shufflings and munchings of the Guernseys, grazing two or three fields distant; she could hear rustlings and whisperings and creepings from hedgerow and burrow, and the hooting of a night owl.

She found that she was devilled by the memory of Liz. Liz had come to Anthony's funeral wearing a face of grief and guilt so naked that instinctively one had turned away from it, not wanting to witness such pain. Soon afterwards her husband had taken her to the South of France for a holiday and Virginia had not seen her again.

But now she knew that she must go back to Scotland and soon, if it was only to square things up with Liz. To convince Liz that no blame could ever be laid at her door, to make-as far as was humanly possible-friends with her again. She thought of returning to Kirkton and this time her imagination did not turn and run but took the journey quietly and without horror. Off the road it went, and down over the bridge and the river, and up the drive between the lush meadows of the park. It came to the curving sweep in front of the house, and went up the steps and in through the front door, and now there was no longer the old familiar sensation of loneliness, of being trapped. But simply a sadness that the lives of the people who had lived in this beautiful house had achieved no lasting cohesion, but had unravelled like a length of badly spun yarn, and finally shredded away.

She would sell the house. Somewhere, some lime, her subconscious had made the decision and now presented it to her conscious mind as a fait accompli How much this phenomenon had to do with Eustace, Virginia could not at the moment comprehend. Later on, no doubt, it would all work itself out. For now the relief was enormous, like the shedding of a load carried loo long, and she felt grateful, as though another person had stepped in and made the decision for her.

She would sell Kirkton. Buy another house, a little house . . . somewhere. Again, later on, it would all work itself out. She would make a new home, new friends, create a garden, buy a puppy, a kitten, a canary in a cage. Find schools for the children, fill the holidays with pleasures she had previously been too diffident to attempt. She would learn to ski; they would go on skiing holidays together. She would build kites and mend bicycles, let Cara read all the books she ever wanted, and go to Nicholas's sports days wearing the right sort of hat, and achieve marvellous things like winning the egg-and-spoon race.

And it would happen because she would make it happen. There was no more Eustace, no more dreams, but other good things were constant. Like pride, and resolution, and the children. The children. And she smiled, knowing that, like the arrow on the compa.s.s for ever pointing north, whatever she did and however she behaved, she was always left, facing squarely in their direction.

She was beginning to be cold. The first lightening of dawn was beginning to creep up into the sky. She got up off the floor, took a sleeping-pill and a gla.s.s of water and climbed back into bed. When she opened her eyes again the sun, high in the sky, was s.h.i.+ning full in her face, and from downstairs came a terrible racket, a banging at the front door and a voice calling her name.

”Virginia! It's me. Alice! Wake up, or are you all dead?”

Dazed with shock and sleep, Virginia stumbled out of bed, across the floor, and hung out of the window. ”Alice! Stop making such a din. The children are asleep.”

Alice, foreshortened, turned up an astonished face. Her voice dropped to an exaggerated stage-whisper. ”I'd begun to think you'd all pa.s.sed out. It's past ten. Come down and let me in!”

Yawning, incapable, Virginia groped for her dressing-gown, pushed her feet into slippers and went downstairs, pausing at the open door of the children's room on the way. To her surprise they were still asleep, undisturbed by Alice's shouting. She thought, we must have been late last night. We must have been much later than I realized.

She unlocked the door, to let in a flood of suns.h.i.+ne and Alice. Alice wore a crisp blue linen dress, a silk scarf over her head. As usual she was bright-skinned, clear-eyed, maddeningly awake.

”Do you usually wake up at this hour?”

”No, but ...” Virginia swallowed a yawn. ”... I couldn't get to sleep last night. Eventually I took a pill. It must have knocked me out.”

”And the children?”

”I didn't give them a pill, but they're still asleep. We were late, we were out all day.” She yawned again, forced her eyes open. ”How about some coffee?”

Alice looked amused. ”You certainly look as though you'll need some. I tell you what. I'll make it, you go and get yourself woken up, and put some clothes on. It's no good talking to you when you're in this state.” She laid her handbag on the table in a purposeful way. ”I must say, this really isn't too bad a little house, is it? And here's the kitchen. A little poky, perhaps, but perfectly adequate . . .”

Virginia ran a bath, got into it and washed her hair. Afterwards, she went upstairs, wrapped in a towel, and took clean clothes from the drawer, and a cotton dress, as yet unworn, from the wardrobe. She pushed her feet into sandals, combed her sleek wet hair into place, and feeling clean and strangely hungry, went back downstairs to Alice.

She found her thoroughly organized, the kettle on the gas, the jug ready with the coffee, mugs laid out on the table.

”Oh, there you are . . . we're just about ready . . . I thought we'd have proper coffee; I get so fed up with this wishy-washy stuff, don't you?”

Virginia sat on the edge of the table. ”When did you get back from London?”

”Last night.”

”How was it? Did you have fun?”

”Yes, but I didn't come here to talk about London.”

”In that case, what brought you here at ten o'clock on a Monday morning?”

”Curiosity,” said Alice. ”Sheer, undiluted curiosity.”