Four birds plucked and two to go. Feathers floated everywhere. Isobel gathered them cautiously, bundling them into newspaper, stowing the bundles into a black plastic dustbin bag. Spreading fresh newspaper and starting in on number five, she heard whistling.
The back door flew open, and Tom Drystone burst cheerfully in on her. The draught caused a cloud of feathers. Isobel let out a wail, and he hastily shut it behind him.
"I see the laird's keeping you busy." The feathers settled. Isobel sneezed. Tom slapped a pile of mail down on the dresser. "Can you not get young Hamish to give you a hand?"
"He's away. Gone to Argyll for a week with a school friend."
"What kind of day did they have at Croy on Friday?"
"Disappointing, I'm afraid."
"They got forty-three brace over at-Glenshandra."
"They were probably all ours, flown over the march fence to call on their friends. Do you want a cup of coffee?"
"No, not today, thanks. I've a full load on board. Council circulars. Well, I'll be off…"
And he was away, whistling before he had even banged the door shut behind him.
Isobel went on tearing feathers out of the grouse. She longed to go and inspect the letters, see if there was anything exciting, but was firm with herself. She would finish the plucking first. Then she would clear away all the feathers. Then she would wash her hands and look at the mail. And then she would embark upon the bloody job of cleaning the birds.
The post-van sped away. She heard footsteps approaching down the passage from the hall. Painful and uneven. Down the few stone steps, one at a time. The door opened and her husband appeared.
"Was that Tom?"
"Didn't you hear the whistle?"
"I'm waiting for that letter from the Forestry Commission."
"I haven't looked yet."
"Why didn't you tell me you were doing those grouse?" Archie sounded more accusing than guilty. "I'd have come to help."
"Perhaps you'd like to clean them for me?"
He made a distasteful face. He could shoot birds, and wring the neck of an injured runner. He could, if pressed, pluck them. But he was squeamish about cutting them open and pulling out their innards. This had always been a small cause of friction between himself and Isobel, and so he swiftly changed the subject. As she had known he would.
"Where is the mail?"
"He put it on the dresser."
He limped over to collect it, brought it back to the other end of the table, well out of reach of the general mess. He sat down and leafed through the envelopes.
"Hell. It's not here. I wish they'd put their skates on. But there's one from Lucilla…"
"Oh, good, I hoped there would be…"
"… and something very large and stiff and thick, which might be a summons from the Queen."
"Verena's writing?"
"Could be."
"That's our invitation."
"And two more, similar, to be forwarded on. One for Lucilla, and another for"-he hesitated-"Pandora."
Isobel's hands were still. Down the long, feather-strewn table, their eyes met. "Pandora? They've asked Pandora?"
"Apparently."
"How extraordinary. Verena never told me she was going to ask Pandora."
"No reason why she should."
"We'll have to send it on to her. Open ours and let's see what it looks like."
Mrs. Angus Steynton At Home For Katy Friday, 16th September 1988
RSVP
Corriehill
Tullochard
Dancing 10 p.m. Relkirkshire
Archie did so. "Very impressive." He raised his eyebrows. "Embossed, copperplate, and gold edges. The sixteenth of September. Verena's left it pretty late, hasn't she? I mean, that's scarcely a month away."
"There was a disaster. The printers made a mistake. They printed the first batch of invitations on the wrong side of the paper, and so she sent them all back and they had to be done again."
"How did she know they were printed on the wrong side of the paper?"
"Verena knows about things like that. She's a perfectionist. What does it say?"
"It says, 'Lord and Lady Balmerino. Mrs. Angus Steynton. At Home. For Katy. Blah Blah. Dancing at ten. R.S.V.P.' " He held it up. "Impressed?"
Without her glasses, Isobel screwed up her eyes and peered. "Very impressed. It'll look splendid on the mantelpiece. The Americans will think we've been invited to something Royal. Now, read me Lucilla's letter. That's much more important."
Archie slit the flimsy envelope with the French stamp and postmark and unfolded two sheets of cheap, lined, and very thin paper.
'Looks as though she's written it on lavatory paper.
'Read it."
" 'Paris. August sixth. Darling Mum and Dad. Sorry I've been such ages in writing. No time for news. This is just a short note to let you know my movements. Am leaving here in a couple of days and going down to the south. I am travelling by bus, so no need to anguish about hitch-hiking. Going with an Australian boy I've met called Jeff Howland. Not an art student but a sheep-farmer from Queensland, with a year off to bum round Europe. He has friends in Ibiza, so we might possibly go there. I don't know what we'll do when we get to Ibiza, but if there is the chance of getting over to Majorca, would you like me to go and see Pandora? And if you would, will you send me her address because I've lost it. And I'm a bit short of cash, so could you possibly float me a loan till my next allowance comes through? Send all do Hans Bergdorf, PO Box 73, Ibiza. Paris has been heaven but only tourists here just now. Everybody else has disappeared to beaches or mountains. Saw a blissful Matisse exhibition the other day. Lots of love, darlings, and don't worry. Lucilla. PS. Don't forget the money.' "
He folded the letter and put it-back into the envelope.
Isobel said, "An Australian."
"A sheep-farmer."
"Bumming round Europe."
"At least they're travelling by bus."
"Oh well, I suppose it could be worse. But thinking that she might go and see Pandora… isn't that extraordinary? We don't mention Pandora's name for months and all at once it keeps popping up everywhere we turn. Is Ibiza very far from Majorca?"
"Not very."
"I wish Lucilla would come home."
"Isobel, she's having the time of her life."
"I hate her being short of money."
"I'll send her a cheque."
"I miss her so."
"I know."
She was done with plucking, the feathers all painfully collected and stowed in the black rubbish bag. The six small corpses lay in a pathetic row, their heads askew, their clawed feet pointed like dancers. Isobel reached for her lethally sharpened knife and without ado sliced into the first little flaccid body. Then she laid down the knife and plunged her hand into the bird. She withdrew it, red with blood, drawing out a long string of pearly, greyish entrails. These piled in surprising profusion onto the newspaper. The smell was overwhelming.
Archie sprang to his feet. "I'll go and write that cheque." He gathered the mail. "Before I forget." And he headed for his study, firmly closing the kitchen door behind him, shutting away the small scene of domestic carnage.
At his desk, he held Pandora's envelope for a moment or two. He thought about writing to her. Tucking a letter from himself in with Verena's invitation. It's a party, he would say. It'll be fun. Why not come home for it, and stay with us at Croy? We would so love to see you. Please, Pandora. Please.