"It's been so horrid, with them so unkind to each other."
"It must have been."
"I don't want to go away to school, but I hate them being cross with each other. I simply hate it. It makes the house feel all headachy and ill."
Vi sighed. "If you want to know what I think, Henry, I think they've both been very short-sighted and selfish. But I haven't been able to say anything, because it's none of my business. That's another thing a mother mustn't do. She must never interfere."
"I really want to go home tomorrow, but…" He gazed at her, his sentence left unfinished, because he didn't really know what he was trying to say.
Vi smiled. When she smiled her face creased into a thousand wrinkles. She laid her hand on his. It felt warm and dry, and rough from all the gardening she did.
She said, "There's an old saying, that parting makes the heart grow fonder. Your mother and father have had a few days apart, on their own, with time to think things over. I'm sure they'll both have realized how wrong they both have been. You see, they love each other very much, and if you love someone, you need to be with them, close to them. You need to be able to confide, to laugh together. It's just about as important as breathing. By now, I'm certain that they will have found this out. And I'm just as certain that everything will be just as it was before."
"Really certain, Vi?"
"Really certain."
She sounded so certain that Henry felt that way too. Such a relief. It was as though a huge weight had dropped from his shoulders. And this made everything much better. Even the prospect of leaving home and parents and being sent to board at Templehall had lost some of its fearfulness. Nothing could be as bad as thinking that his home would never be the same again. Reassured, and filled with grateful love for his grandmother, he held out his arms, and she leaned forward, and he embraced her, hugging her tight around her neck and pressing kisses on her cheek. When he drew back, he saw that her eyes were very shiny and bright.
She said, "It's time to sleep."
He was ready for it, now suddenly drowsy. He lay back on the pillow and felt beneath it for Moo.
Vi laughed at him, but gently, teasing him. "You don't need that old bit of baby blanket. You're a grown-up boy now. You can make fairy cakes, and do jigsaw puzzles, and remember the names of all those wild flowers. I think you can do without Moo."
Henry screwed up his nose. "But not tonight, Vi."
"All right. Not tonight. But tomorrow, maybe."
"Yes." He yawned. "Maybe."
She stooped to kiss him, and then got up off the bed. The springs creaked once more. "Good night, my lamb."
"Good night, Vi."
She turned out his light and went out of the room, but she left the door open. The darkness was soft and blowy and smelt of the hills. Henry turned on his side, curled up in a ball, and closed his eyes.
7
Friday the Twenty-sixth
When, ten years ago, Violet Aird bought Pennyburn from Archie Baimerino, she had become owner of a sad and drab little house with little to commend it save its view and the small stream that tumbled down the hill on the western march of its land. It was from this stream that the house took its name.
It stood in the heart of Archie's estate, on the face of the hill that sloped up from the village, and access was by the Croy back drive and then a rutted track overgrown by thistles and fenced by sagging posts and broken barbed wire.
The garden, such as it was, lay on the slope to the south of the house. This too was surrounded by rotting posts and straggling wire, and consisted of a small drying-green, a weedy vegetable patch, and dismal evidences of hen-keeping-leaning wooden sheds, much wire netting, and nettles grown waist-high.
The house was built of dull coloured stone, with a grey-tiled roof and maroon paintwork in a sad state of repair. Concrete stairs led up from the garden to the door, and inside were small and lightless rooms, hideous peeling wallpaper, the smell of damp, and the persistent drip of some faulty tap.
In fact, so unattractive was the entire property that Edmund Aird, viewing it for the first time, strongly recommended that his mother abandon the idea of ever living there and start to look for somewhere else.
But Violet, for reasons of her own, liked the house. It had stood empty for some years, which accounted for its dereliction, but despite the mould and the gloom, it had a pleasant feel to it. And it had that little burn within its lands, tumbling away down the hill. And, as well, the view. Inspecting the house, Violet would pause from time to time to glance out, rubbing a clear space on the dusty glass of the windows, seeing the village below, the river, the glen, the distant hills. She would never find another house with such a view. The view and the burn seduced her, and she disregarded her son's advice.
Doing it all up had been tremendous fun. It had taken six months to complete the work, and during that time Violet-politely spurning Edmund's invitation to remain at Balnaid until such time as she could move into her new abode-camped in a caravan that she had rented from a tourist park a few miles up the glen. She had never lived in a caravan before, but the idea had always appealed to her gypsy instincts and she leaped at the chance. The caravan was parked at the back of the house, along with the concrete mixers and barrows and shovels and daunting piles of rubble, and from the open door she could keep an eye on the workmen, and dash out to have a word with the long-suffering architect the moment she spied his car come bumping up the road. For the first month or two of this cheerfully vagabond existence, it was summer, and the only hazards were the midges and a leaky roof whenever it rained. But when the winter gales blew, the caravan trembled beneath their blast and rocked unsteadily at its temporary mooring, not unlike a small boat in a storm. Violet found this quite exciting and relished the dark and gusty nights. She could lie in her bunk, which was far too short and too narrow for such a sizy lady, listening to the keening wind and watching the clouds racing across the cold, moonlit skies.
But she did not spend all her time alternately bullying and cajoling the builders. To Violet, a garden was even more important than a house. Before the workmen had started in on their labours, she had already engaged a man with a tractor, who tore up all the old fence posts and broken wire. In their place she planted a beech hedge on either side of her driveway and all around her small plot of land. After ten years, this was still not high, but thick and firm, always leafy, and so providing good shelter for birds.
Within this hedge, on either side, she planted trees. To the east, conifers. Not her favourites, but quick-growing and good for keeping the worst of the coldest wind at bay. On the west, overhanging the stream, grew gnarled elder, willows, and double white cherries. At the foot of the garden she had kept her planting low, in order to conserve the view. Azaleas grew there, and potentillas, with drifts of spring bulbs in the rough grass.
There were two curving flower-beds, one herbaceous and one filled with roses, and between them a good-sized lawn. This was on the slope and tricky to cut. Violet had bought an electric lawn-mower, but Edmund-interfering again-decided that she was likely to sever the flex and electrocute herself, and so engaged the services of Willy Snoddy to come once a week and do the job for her. Violet knew perfectly well that Willy was a great deal less competent than she herself at handling complicated equipment, but she went along with the arrangement as being the line of least resistance. Every now and then Willy, being laid low with a killing hangover, did not turn up, and then Violet, quite happily and efficiently, cut the grass herself.
But she did not tell Edmund that she had done so.
As for the house, that she had transformed, turning it back to front and opening out all the poky and ill-proportioned rooms. Now the main entrance stood to the north and the old front door had become a glassed garden door, opening straight out of her sitting-room. The concrete stairs she had demolished, and in their place stood a semi-circular flight of steps built of old stone salvaged from a fallen dyke. Aubrietia and scented thyme grew from crannies between these rocks and smelt delicious when one trod upon them.