The short journey took only moments. They sped through the gates of Croy and out into the village street. Another hundred yards or so, and then over the bridge. The trees; the open gates; Balnaid.
Virginia spoke at last. She said, "You mustn't be angry with him."
"Angry?" He could scarcely believe that she could be so unper-ceptive.
She said no more. He turned the BMW into the backyard, slammed on the brakes, switched off the engine. He was out of the car before she was, leading the way to the house, flinging open the door.
They were in the kitchen, Edie and Henry, sitting at the table. Waiting. Henry faced the door. His face was very white, and his eyes round with apprehension. He wore his grey school sweater and looked pathetically small and defenceless.
How the hell had he managed that long and solitary journey? The thought flashed through Edmund's mind, and was gone.
He said, "Hello, Henry."
Henry hesitated for only an instant, and then slipped off the chair and bolted for his father. Edmund scooped him up into his arms, and the boy, it seemed, weighed nothing, no more than a baby. Henry's arms were locked about his neck, and he could feel Henry's tears wet on his own cheek.
"Henry." Virginia was there, beside him. After a bit, gently, Edmund set Henry down on his feet. Henry's stranglehold loosened. He turned to his mother, and Virginia, in one graceful fluid movement, dropped to her knees, with no regard for her evening gown, and gathered him into her soft and furry embrace. He buried his face into her collar.
"Darling. Darling. It's all right. Don't cry. Don't cry…"
Edmund turned to Edie. She had risen to her feet, and down the length of the scrubbed kitchen table she and Edmund faced each other in silence. She had known him all his life, and he was grateful to her because there was no reproach in her eyes.
Instead she said, "I'm sorry."
"What for, Edie?"
"Spoiling your party."
"Don't be ridiculous. As if it could possibly matter. When did he get here?"
"About fifteen minutes ago. Mrs. Ishak brought him."
"Has anybody phoned from the school?"
"The phone's broken. Nobody can call."
He had forgotten. "Of course." So there were things to be seen to, practical matters of the utmost urgency. "In that case, I must go and do some telephoning."
He left them, Henry still weeping. Made his way through the quiet house to the library, switched on the lights, sat at his desk, dialled the number for Templehall.
The ringing sounded only once before the receiver was snatched up.
"Templehall."
"Headmaster?"
"Speaking."
"Colin, it's Edmund Aird."
"Oh…" The sound came down the line on a sigh of audible relief. Edmund found time to wonder how long the poor man had been trying to make some sort of contact. "I've been going insane trying to get in touch with you."
"Henry's here. He's safe."
"Thank God for that. When did he turn up?"
"About a quarter of an hour ago. I haven't heard the details. We're only just back ourselves. We were out for dinner. The message came through there."
"He disappeared just after bedtime. Seven o'clock. I've been trying to get hold of you ever since."
"Our phone's on the blink. No incoming calls."
"I finally found that out. When I did, I rang your mother, but there was no reply from her number either."
"She was at the same dinner party."
"Is Henry all right?"
"He seems to be."
"How the devil did he get home?"
"I've no idea. Like I told you, I've only just this minute got here myself. I've hardly spoken to him. I wanted to talk to you first."
"I'm grateful."
"I'm sorry you've been put to so much trouble."
"It's I who should apologize. Henry's your son, and I was responsible for him."
"You"-Edmund leaned back in his chair-"you don't know if anything in particular precipitated his flight?"
"No, I don't. Nor do any of my senior boys. Nor do any of my staff. He didn't seem either happy or unhappy. And it always takes a week or two for a new boy to settle down and get used to his new life, accept the change, and the unfamiliar environment. I kept an eye on him, of course, but he showed no signs of taking such dramatic action."
He sounded as upset and as puzzled as Edmund himself. Edmund said, "Yes. Yes, I see."
The Headmaster hesitated, and then he asked, "Will you send him back to us?"
"Why do you say that?"
"I just wondered if you wanted him to return."
"Is there any reason why he shouldn't?"
"From my point of view, absolutely no reason at all. He's a very nice boy, and I know I could make something of him. I, personally, would like to welcome him back at any time, but…"He paused, and Edmund got the impression that he was choosing his words with the utmost tact. "… but, you know, Edmund, every now and then a boy comes to Templehall who really shouldn't be away from home in the first place. I haven't had Henry long enough to be perfectly certain, but I think he is one of those children. It isn't just that he's young for his age; it's that he is not ready for the demands of boarding-school life."
"Yes. Yes, I see."
"Why don't you take a day or two to think it over? Keep Henry there till you've made up your mind. Remember, I really want him back. I'm not trying to shed my responsibilities, nor renege on my commitments, but I would seriously suggest that you reconsider the situation."
"And do what?"
"Return him to his local primary. It's obviously a good school, and he's been well-grounded. By the time he's twelve you can think again."
"You're saying exactly what my wife has been telling me for the past year."
"I am sorry. But with hindsight, I think she is right. And I think that you and I are to blame and that we have both been mistaken…"
They talked a little more, agreed to be in touch in a couple of days, and finally rang off.
He is one of those children. He is not ready for the demands of boarding-school life. We have both been mistaken.
Mistaken. That was the word that hammered home, like a nail driven into a block of wood. Your wife is right, and you are mistaken. It took a bit of time to accept the word, to accept the implications. He sat at his desk, slowly coming to terms with the fact that he had been almost disastrously wrong. It was not an exercise that he was accustomed to, and it took a little time.
But after a bit, he got to his feet. The fire had, he saw, died. He crossed the room and fed it with logs, as he had already done earlier in the evening. When the dry wood had caught and the comforting flames were once more leaping, he left the library and returned to the kitchen.
Here, he found things more or less back to normal. Once more, they were all sitting around the table, Henry on his mother's knee. Edie had made a pot of tea, and cocoa for Henry. Virginia still wore her fur coat. As he came in, they all looked towards him, and he saw Henry's tears had dried and a little colour had come back into his cheeks.
Edmund put a cheerful expression on his face.
"That's done then…" He tousled his son's hair and pulled out a chair. "Is there a cup of tea for me?"
"What have you been doing?" Henry asked.
"Speaking to Mr. Henderson."
"Was he very cross?"
"No, not cross. Just a bit worried."
Henry said, "I'm very sorry."
"Are you going to tell us about it?"
"Yes. I suppose so."
"How did you get home?"
Henry took another mouthful of the steaming, sweet cocoa, and then laid his mug on the table. He said, "I caught a bus."
"But how did you get out of school?"
Henry explained. He made it all sound ridiculously simple. At bedtime, he'd dressed under the bedclothes, and then put his dress-ing-gown on. And then when the lights went out, he'd pretended he wanted to go to the lavatory. In the bathroom there was a large airing cupboard, and at the back of this he had hidden his overcoat. He'd swapped his dressing-gown for his overcoat and then climbed out of the window onto the fire escape. After that, he'd made his way down the back drive, and so onto the main road where the buses ran.