Lottie Carstairs. She must be nearly sixty now, and yet she had not changed so much since those days when she had worked at Croy and caused every person in the house untold annoyance and aggravation, with her stealthy tread and her habit of always appearing just when least wanted or expected. Archie always swore that she listened at keyholes, and he had been perpetually throwing doors open in the expectation of catching Lottie there, crouched and eavesdropping. In the afternoons, Edmund remembered, she had always worn a brown woollen dress with a muslin apron tied over it. The muslin apron was not Lady Balmerino's idea but Lottie's. Archie said it was because she wanted to appear servile. The brown dress had stains under the armpits, and one of the worst things about Lottie was her smell.
The family complained vociferously and Archie demanded that his mother take some step to rectify the situation. Either sack the bloody woman or do something to ensure a little personal daintiness. But poor Lady Balmerino, with Archie's wedding on her mind, every bed filled with guests and a party planned at Croy on the evening of the great day, did not feel strong enough to sack her housemaid. And she was far too kind-hearted actually to send for Lottie, face her fair and square, and tell her that she smelt.
Under attack, she fell back on feeble excuses.
"I must have someone to clean the rooms and make the beds."
"We'll make our own beds."
"Poor thing, she's only got one dress."
"Well, buy her another."
"Perhaps she's nervous."
"Not too nervous to wash. Give her a bar of Lifebuoy."
"I'm not certain that that would make much difference. Perhaps… for Christmas… I could give her some talcum powder…?"
But even this timid notion came to nothing, for, soon after the wedding, Lottie dropped the tray and broke the Rockingham china, and Lady Balmerino was finally driven to firing her. By Christmas Lottie was gone from Croy. Now, trapped in Mr. Ishak's shop, Edmund wondered if she still smelt. He was not about to risk finding out. Trying not to make it too obvious, he moved a pace or two away from her.
"Yes," he said, sounding as pleasant and friendly as he could. "Of course, I remember you…"
"Those days at Croy! The year Archie was wed to Isobel. Oh my, what times those were. I remember you coming up from London for the wedding and around the place all that week, helping Lady Balmerino with one thing and another."
"It seems a long time ago."
"Yes."
"And all of you so young. And old Lord and Lady Balmerino so good and kind. Croy's changed now, I hear, and not for the better. But then, hard times come to everybody. It was a sad day when Lady Balmerino died. She was always so good to me. She was good to my parents too. My mother and my father died. You knew that, didn't you? I've been wanting to talk to you, but somehow I missed you in the village. And all of you so young. And Archie with his two good legs… fancy getting his leg shot off! Never heard of anything so ridiculous…"
Oh, Mrs. lshak, come back quickly. Please, Mrs. Ishak, come back to me.
"… hear all your news from Edie, of course; very worried about Edie, she's grown so fat, can't be good for her heart. And all of you so young. And that Pandora! Flying around the place like a spinning top. Dreadful way she went, wasn't it? Funny she never came home. Always thought she might come back for Christmas, but no. And not to be there for Lady Balmerino's funeral, well, I'm sorry and I don't like to say such things, but in my view, it was downright un-Christian. But then, she always was a wee fly-by-night… in more ways than one… you and I know that, don't we?"
At this point she burst into a peal of manic laughter and actually struck Edmund a playful, but quite painful, blow on his arm. His immediate and instinctive reaction was to hit her right back, a good punch, bang, square on the end of her long, inquisitive nose. He imagined it crumpling, concertinaed, into her face. He imagined the headlines in the local newspapers: "Relkirkshire Landowner Assaults Strathcroy Lady In Village Supermarket." He thrust his hands, the fists balled, into his trouser pockets.
"… and your wife's been in London? Nice. And the wee boy with his gran. Seen him sometimes around the place. He is peaky, isn't he?" Edmund could feel the blood rising to his cheeks. He wondered how long he could continue to control himself. He could not remember when any person had cast him into such a confusion of impotent rage. "… small for his age, I'd say… not strong…"
"I am sorry, Mr. Aird, to keep you so long." It was Mrs. Ishak's soft voice that finally stilled the flood of Lottie's mindless malice. Mrs. Ishak, bless her darling heart, come to his rescue with the cardboard crate of tonic water borne before her like a votive offering.
"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Ishak." And not a moment too soon. "Here, let me take that." He went to relieve her of the heavy load. "I wonder, can you put that down to my account?" He could easily pay in cash but did not wish to linger a moment longer than he had to.
"Of course, Mr. Aird."
"Thank you." The crate was transferred. With its weight safely in his arms, he turned to take his leave of Lottie and make his escape.
But Lottie had jumped the gun and was gone. Abruptly and disconcertingly, she had simply disappeared.
9
Tuesday the Thirtieth
"Has she always lived in Majorca, this aunt of yours?"
"No. She's only been here for about two years. She lived in Paris before that, and New York before that, and then California before that," Lucilla said.
"A rolling stone."
"Yes, I suppose you could call her that, except that she's gathered lots of lovely moss."
Jeff laughed. "What's she like?"
"I don't know because I've never seen her. By the time I was born, she was gone, married to an immensely wealthy American and living in Palm Springs. It seemed to me that she must be the most glamorous woman in the world. So wicked and sophisticated like someone out of those old 1930 plays, with men falling for her like ninepins, and always unashamedly outrageous. She eloped when she was eighteen. Such a frightfully brave thing to do. I'd never have had the nerve. And she was beautiful."
"Will she still be beautiful?"
"I don't see why not. After all, she's only about forty, not over the hill yet. There's a portrait of her at Croy in the dining-room. It was painted when she was about fourteen and even then she was a stunner. And photographs too, all over the place, in frames or the old albums that my grandfather used to fill with snapshots. I used to welcome wet afternoons because then I could spend them poring over those old albums. And when people talked about her, even if they started by being disapproving because she'd been so thoughtless and uncaring to her parents, they always ended up by remembering some funny anecdote about Pandora, and then of course there could be nothing but laughter."
"Was she surprised when you spoke to her on the telephone?"
"Of course she was. But pleased surprised, not horrified surprised. You can always tell. At first she could hardly believe it was me. But then she just said 'Of course you can come. As soon as possible. And stay for as long as you like.' And she gave me directions and hung up." Lucilla smiled. "So you see, we're good for at least a week."
They had hired a car, a little Seat, the cheapest they could get, and were now well on their way across the island, driving over flat, intensely cultivated countryside, dotted here and there with slow-moving windmills. It was afternoon and the road ahead of them shimmered in the heat. On their left, far-distant and hazy, marched a range of impassable-looking mountains. On the other side, somewhere out of sight, lay the sea. For air, they had opened all the windows of the car, but the wind was scorching and dusty and very dry. Jeff was driving and Lucilla sat beside him, holding the scrap of paper on which she had scribbled the directions that Pandora had given her over the telephone.