"Then this is what we'll do. We'll stay here for a week, just the three of us, and you shall have the time of your lives. And then we'll take my car, and we'll catch the ferry to Spain. And we'll drive through Spain and France, taking our time and making a pleasure of the journey. When we get to Calais, we'll cross over to England. And we'll head north, and we'll go to Scotland, and we'll go home. Back to Croy. Oh, Lucilla, say you think it's a wonderful idea."
"It's certainly totally unexpected," was all Lucilla could come up with, but if Pandora noticed a certain lack of enthusiasm in her voice, she gave no indication of doing so. Swept along on her own excitement, she turned to Jeff. "And you? How does it sound to you? Or do you think I'm out of my mind?"
"No."
"You wouldn't mind coming to Scotland with us?"
"If that's what you and Lucilla want, I'd be delighted."
"Then it's all settled!" She was triumphant. "We'll all stay at Croy with Isobel and Archie, and we'll all go to the Steyntons' lovely party."
"But Jeff hasn't been asked," Lucilla pointed out.
"Oh, that's no problem."
"And he won't have anything to wear."
Pandora dissolved into laughter. "Darling, you do disappoint me. I thought you were an unworldly artist, and all you seem to do is worry about clothes! Don't you see, clothes don't matter. Nothing matters. The only thing that matters is that we're going back home, together. Just think what fun we're going to have. And now we must celebrate!" She sprang to her feet. "The perfect moment to open that second bottle of champagne!"
SEPTEMBER
1
Thursday the Eighth
Isobel Balmerino, at her sewing-machine, stitched the last name-tape, hamish blair, onto the last new handkerchief, cut the thread, folded the handkerchief, and laid it on top of the pile of clothes that stood on the table beside her. All done. All that remained were those garments which required that the name-tapes be hand-sewn… rugger stockings, an overcoat, and a grey polo-necked pullover, but these could be done at leisure, in the evening, and by the fireside.
She had not had such a session of name-tapes since Hamish first went to Templehall, four years ago, but he had grown during the summer holidays to such an alarming extent that she had been forced to wheel him into Relkirk, school-clothes list in hand, and start all over again. The expedition, as she had known it would be, had been both painful and expensive. Painful because Hamish did not want to think about going back to school, hated shopping, hated new clothes, and miserably resented being done out of a single day of his holiday freedom. And expensive because the regulation uniform could only be purchased at the most up-market and costly shop in the town. The overcoat, the polo-necked sweater, and the rugger stockings were bad enough, but five new pairs of enormous leather shoes were almost more than Isobel, and her bank balance, could take.
With some idea of cheering Hamish up, she had bought him an ice-cream, but he had devoured this morosely and without joy, and they had returned to Croy in an uncommunicative and mutually unfriendly silence. Once home, Hamish had immediately taken himself off, armed with his trout rod, and wearing an expression which implied that he had been grossly mistreated. Isobel was left to hump the parcels and boxes upstairs, where she had slung them into the foot of his wardrobe and firmly shut the door, then made her way to the kitchen to boil a kettle for a cup of tea and start preparing dinner.
The horrible experience of spending vast quantities of money that she could not afford left her feeling quite sick, and Hamish's patent ingratitude did not help. Peeling potatoes, she said a silent goodbye to any dreams of buying herself a new dress for the Steyntons' dance. The old navy taffeta would have to do. Letting herself feel martyred and ill done by, she toyed with the notion of freshening it up with a touch of white at the neck.
But that had all happened two weeks ago, and now September was here. That made everything better, and for a number of reasons. The most important was that, until next May, she was finished with the business of paying guests. Scottish Country Tours had shut up shop for the winter, and the last lot of Americans, complete with baggage, souvenirs, and tartan bonnets, had been waved away. The tiredness and depression that had dogged Isobel all summer was dissolved almost instantly by her sense of freedom and the knowledge that, once more, she and Archie had Croy to themselves.
But this was not all. Born and bred in Scotland, she experienced each year this lifting of the spirits as August slipped away, off the calendar, and one could stop pretending that it was summer. Some years, it was true, there came seasons like the old days, when the lawns grew dry from lack of rain and golden evenings were spent watering the roses and sweet peas and the rows of young lettuces in the vegetable garden. But too frequently the months of June, July, and August were nothing but a long and soggy endurance test of frustration and disappointment. Grey skies, chill winds, and dripping rain were enough to dampen the enthusiasm of a saint. The worst were those dark and muggy days when, in desperation, one eventually retreated indoors and lit a fire, whereupon the sky instantly cleared and the late afternoon sun dazzled out over the sodden garden, tantalizingly too late to be of use to anybody.
This summer, in particular, had been specially disappointing, and with hindsight Isobel realized that the weeks of dark clouds and sunlessness had done much to contribute to her low spirits and physical exhaustion. The first snap of frost was actually welcome, and she was able to put away her cotton skirts and shirts with some satisfaction and revert once more to friendly old tweeds and Shetland pullovers.
But even after splendid summers, September in Relkirkshire was special. Those first light frosts cleared the air, so that the colours of the countryside took on a stronger and richer hue. The deep blue of the skies was reflected in loch and river, and with the harvest safely in, the fields stood golden with stubble. Harebells grew in wayside ditches, and the scented heather, coming into full bloom, stained the hills with purple.
And then, most important of all, September meant fun. A packed season of socializing before the darkness of a long winter closed in on them all, when the bitter weather and snow-packed roads isolated scattered communities and precluded any form of contact. September meant people. Friends. For this was when Relkirkshire came truly into its own.
By the end of July, the last of the annual invasion of holiday-makers had, by and large, left; tents were packed up and caravans towed away, as the tourists headed for home. In their stead, August brought the vanguard of a secondary immigration from the south, regular visitors who returned each year to Scotland for the sport and the parties. Shooting lodges that had stood forlornly empty for most of the year were once more opened up, and their owners, driving north up the motorway in Range Rovers loaded to the gunwales with rods, guns, small children, teenagers, friends, relations, and dogs, took happy and grateful repossession.
As well, local households swelled, not with Americans nor paying guests but with the young families who belonged to these establishments and had, by necessity, moved south to London to live and work, saving their yearly vacations to return home at just this time. All bedrooms were occupied, attics turned into temporary accommodation for gangs of grandchildren, and sparse bathrooms worked overtime. Huge quantities of food were produced, cooked, and eaten every day at dining-room tables elongated by extra leaves.
And then, September. In September, all at once, everything came to life, as though some celestial stage-manager had made his countdown and pulled the switch. The Station Hotel in Relkirk was transformed from its customary Victorian gloom to a cheerful, crowded meeting-place for old friends, and the Strathcroy Arms, taken over by the syndicate of businessmen who paid Archie reassuring sums of money for the privilege of shooting grouse over his moor, fairly buzzed with activity and sporting talk.