“He works in Edinburgh. With Sanford Cubben. He’s the head of their Scottish office.”
Sanford Cubben, the vast international trust company. Noel made a few mental adjustments. “I see. How stupid of me. I imagined him in London.”
“Oh, you mean the New York bit. That’s nothing. He flies all over the world. Tokyo, Hong Kong. He’s not in this country very much.”
“So you don’t see much of him?”
“Sometimes when he’s passing through London. He doesn’t stay here, because he goes to the company flat, but he usually rings, and if there’s time, he takes me out for dinner at the Connaught or Claridge’s. It’s a great treat. I pick up all sorts of cooking ideas.”
“I suppose that’s as good a reason as any to go to Claridge’s. But…“He doesn’t stay here.”…who owns this house?”
Alexa smiled with total innocence. “I do,” she told him.
“Oh…” It was impossible to keep the disbelief from his voice. The dog was back in her lap. She stroked his head, played with the furry, pricked ears.
“How long have you lived here?”
“About five years. It was my grandmother’s house. My mother’s mother. We were always very close. I used to spend some part of all my school holidays with her. By the time I came to London to do my cooking course, she was a widow and on her own. So I came to stay with her. And then, last year, she died, and she left the house to me.”
“She must have been very fond of you.”
“I was terribly fond of her. It all caused a bit of family ill-feeling. My living with her, I mean. My father didn’t think it was a good idea at all. He was quite fond of her, but he thought I should be more independent. Make friends of my own age, move into a flat with some other girl. But I didn’t really want to. I’m dreadfully lazy about things like that, and Granny Cheriton…” Abruptly she stopped. Across the space that divided them, their eyes met. Noel said nothing, and after a pause she continued, speaking casually, as though it were of no importance. “…she was getting old. It wouldn’t have been kind to leave her.”
Another silence. Then Noel said, “Cheriton?”
Alexa sighed. “Yes.” She sounded as though she were admitting to some heinous crime.
“An unusual name.”
“Yes.”
“Also well-known.”
“Yes.”
“Sir Rodney Cheriton?”
“He was my grandfather. I didn’t mean to tell you. The name just slipped out.”
So that was it. The puzzle solved. That explained the money, the opulence, the precious possessions. Sir Rodney Cheriton, now deceased, founder of a financial empire that stretched world-wide, who, during the sixties and the seventies, had been associated with so many takeover bids and conglomerates that his name was scarcely ever out of the Financial Times. This house had been the home of Lady Cheriton, and the sweet-faced, unsophisticated little cook who sat, curled in her chair like a schoolgirl, was her granddaughter.
He was flabbergasted. “Well, who’d have thought it?”
“I don’t usually tell people, because I’m not all that proud of it.”
“You should be proud. He was a great man.”
“It isn’t that I didn’t like him. He was always very sweet to me. It’s just that I don’t really approve of huge takeovers and companies getting bigger and bigger. I’d like them to get smaller and smaller. I like corner shops and butchers where the nice man knows your name. I don’t like the thought of people getting swallowed up, or lost, or made redundant.”
“We can scarcely move backwards.”
“I know. That’s what my father keeps telling me. But it breaks my heart when a little row of houses gets demolished, and all that goes up in their place is another horrible office block with black windows, like a hen battery. That’s what I love about Scotland. Strathcroy, the village we live in, never seems to change. Except that Mrs McTaggart, who ran the newsagent’s, decided that her legs couldn’t take the standing any longer and retired, and her shop was bought by Pakistanis. They’re called Ishak, and they’re terribly nice, and the women wear lovely bright silky clothes. Have you ever been to Scotland?”
“I’ve been to Sutherland, to fish on the Oykel.”
“Would you like to see a picture of our house?”
He did not let on that he had already taken a good look. “I’d love to.”
Once more, Alexa set the dog on the floor and got to her feet. The dog, bored by all this activity, sat on the hearthrug and looked fed up. She fetched the photograph and handed it to Noel.
After an appropriate pause he said, “It looks very comfortable.”
“It’s lovely. Those are my father’s dogs.”
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Edmund. Edmund Aird.” She went to replace the photograph. Turning, she caught sight of the gold carriage clock which stood in the middle of the mantelpiece. She said, “It’s nearly half past eight.”
“Good heavens.” He checked the time with his watch. “So it is. I must go.”
“You don’t have to. I mean, I could cook you something, give you supper.”
The suggestion was so splendid and so tempting that Noel felt bound to make some small noises of refusal. “You’re too kind, but…”
“I’m sure you haven’t got any food at Pembroke Gardens. Not if you’ve just come home from New York. And it’s no trouble. I’d like it.” He could tell from her expression that she was yearning for him to stay. As well, he was painfully hungry. “I’ve got some lamb chops.”
That did it. “I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”
Alexa’s face lit up. She was as transparent as clear spring water. “Oh, good. I’d have felt really inhospitable letting you go without something inside you. Do you want to stay here, or do you want to come down to the kitchen and watch me?”
If he stayed in this chair, he would fall asleep. Besides, he wanted to see more of the house. He heaved himself out of the chair. “I’ll come and watch you.”
Alexa’s kitchen was predictable, not modern at all, but quite homely and haphazard, as though it had not been planned, but simply come together over the years. It had a stone-tiled floor with a rush mat or two, and pine cupboards. A deep clay sink stood beneath the window, through which could be seen the little area with its steps leading up into the street. The sink was backed with blue-and-white Dutch tiles and the same tiles lined the walls between the cupboards. The tools of her trade were very evident: a thick chopping board, a line of copper saucepans, a marble slab for rolling pastry. There were racks of herbs and bunches of onions and fresh parsley in a mug.
She reached for a blue-and-white butcher’s apron and tied it around her waist. Over the thick sweatshirt this made her look more shapeless than ever and accentuated her rounded, blue-jeaned bottom.
Noel asked if there was anything he could do to help.
“No, not really.” She was already busy, turning on the grill, opening drawers. “Unless you’d like to open a bottle of wine. Would you like some?”
“Where would I find a bottle of wine?”
“There’s a rack through there…” She indicated with her head, her hands being occupied. “On the floor. I haven’t got a cellar, and that’s the coolest spot there is.”
Noel went to look. At the back of the kitchen an archway led into what had probably once been a small scullery. This too was stone-floored, and here stood a number of shining white electrical appliances. A dishwasher, a clothes washer, a tall refrigerator, and a huge chest deep-freeze. At the far end, a half-glassed door led directly out into the little garden. By the door, in country fashion, stood a pair of rubber boots and a wooden tub of gardening tools. An ancient raincoat and a battered felt hat hung from a hook.
He found the wine-rack beyond the deep-freeze. Crouching, he inspected a few bottles. She had an excellent selection. He chose a Beaujolais, went back to the kitchen.
“How about this?”
/> She glanced at it. “Perfect. That was a good year. There’s a corkscrew in that drawer. If you open it now, that’ll give it time to breathe.”
He found the corkscrew and drew the cork. It came, sweetly and cleanly, and he set the open bottle on the table. With nothing more to be done, he drew back a chair and settled himself at the table to enjoy the last of his whisky.
She had taken the chops from the refrigerator, assembled the makings of a salad, found a stick of French bread. Now she was arranging the chops on the grill-pan, reaching for a jar of rosemary. All this was accomplished deftly and with the greatest economy of effort, and it occurred to Noel that, working, she had become quite assured and confident, probably because she was engaged in doing the one thing she knew that she was really good at.
He said, “You look very professional.”
“I am.”
“Do you garden as well?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“All the clobber by the back door.”
“I see. Yes, I do garden, but it’s so tiny that It’s not really gardening. At Balnaid, the garden’s enormous, and there’s always something needing to be done.”
“Balnaid?”
“That’s the name of our house in Scotland.”
“My mother was a manic gardener.” Having said this, Noel could not think why he had mentioned the fact. He did not usually talk about his mother unless somebody asked him a direct question. “Perpetually digging, or barrowing great loads of manure.”
“Doesn’t she garden any longer?”
“She’s dead. She died four years ago.”
“Oh, I am sorry. Where did she do her gardening?”
“In Gloucestershire. She bought a house with a couple of acres of wilderness. By the time she died, she’d transformed it into something very special. You know…the sort of garden people walk around in after lunch parties.”
Alexa smiled. “She sounds rather like my other grandmother, Vi. She lives in Strathcroy. Her name’s Violet Aird, but we all call her Vi.” The chops were grilling, the bread put to warm, the plates to heat. “My mother’s dead, too. She was killed in a car accident when I was six.”
“It’s my turn to be sorry.”
“I remember her, of course, but not really very well. I remember her mostly coming to say goodnight before she went out for a dinner party. Lovely airy dresses, and furs, and smelling of scent.”
“Six is very young to lose your mother.”
“It wasn’t as bad as it might have been. I had a darling nanny called Edie Findhorn. And after Mummy died we went back to Scotland and lived with Vi at Balnaid. So I was luckier than most.”
“Did your father marry again?”
“Yes. Ten years ago. She’s called Virginia. She’s much younger than him.”
“A wicked stepmother?”
“No. She’s sweet. A bit like a sister. She’s terribly pretty. And I’ve got a half-brother called Henry. He’s nearly eight.”
Now she was making the salad. With a sharp knife she chopped and shredded. Tomatoes and celery, tiny fresh mushrooms. Her hands were brown and capable, the nails short and unvarnished. There was something very satisfactory about them. He tried to recall the last time he had sat thus, slightly woozy with hunger and drink, and peacefully watched while a woman prepared a meal for him. He couldn’t.
The trouble was that he had never gone for domesticated females. His girlfriends were usually models, or young, aspiring actresses with immense ambition and little brain. All they had in common was their general appearance, for he liked them very young and very thin with tiny breasts and long, attenuated legs. Which was great for his own personal amusement and satisfaction, but not much use when it came to being good about the house. Besides, they were nearly all…however skinny…on some sort of diet, and while able to down enormous and expensive restaurant meals, were not interested in producing even the simplest of snacks in the privacy of either their own flats, or Noel’s.
“Oh, darling, it’s such a bore. Besides, I’m not hungry. Have an apple.”
From time to time there had come into Noel’s life a girl so besotted that she wished only to spend the rest of her days with him. Then much effort – perhaps too much – had been made. Intimate dinners by gas-fired logs, and invitations to the country and doggy weekends. But Noel, wary of commitment, had backed away, and the girls in question, after a painful period of abortive telephone calls and tearful accusations, had found other men and married them. So he had reached thirty-four and was still a bachelor. Brooding over his empty whisky glass, Noel could not decide whether this left him feeling triumphant or defeated.
“There.” The salad was ready. Now she began to mix a dressing with beautiful green olive oil and pale wine vinegar. Various herbs and seasonings were added, and the smell of these made his mouth water. With this done, she started to lay the table. A red-and-white-checked cloth, wineglasses, wooden mills for pepper and salt, a pottery butter dish. She took forks and knives from a drawer and handed them to Noel and he set the two places. It seemed an appropriate moment to pour the wine, so he did, and handed Alexa her glass.
She took it from him. In her apron and bulky sweatshirt, and with her cheeks glowing from the heat of the grill, she said, “Here’s to Saddlebags.”
He found himself, for some reason, much touched. “And here’s to you, Alexa. And thank you.”
It was a simple but splendid meal, living up to all Noel’s greedy expectations. The chops were tender, the salad crisp; warm bread to mop up juices and dressings, and all washed down by fine wine. After a bit, his stomach stopped groaning, and he felt infinitely better.
“I can’t remember food ever tasting so good.”
“It’s not anything very special.”
“But perfect.” He took more salad. “Any time you need a recommendation, let me know.”
“Don’t you ever cook for yourself?”
“No. I can fry bacon and eggs, but if pushed I buy gourmet dishes from Marks and Spencer and heat them up. Every now and then, if I’m desperate, I go and spend an evening with Olivia, my London sister, but she’s as useless in the kitchen as I am, and we usually finish up eating something exotic, like quails’ eggs or caviare. A treat, but not very filling.”
“Is she married?”
“No. She’s a career lady.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s Editor-in-Chief of Venus.”
“Goodness.” She smiled. “What illustrious relations we both seem to have.”
Having devoured everything on the table, Noel found himself still peckish, and so Alexa produced cheese and a bunch of pale-green seedless grapes. With these, they finished the last of the wine. Alexa suggested coffee.
By now it was growing dark. Outside, in the dusky blue street, the lights had come on. Their glow penetrated the basement kitchen, but mostly all was shadowy. Noel was, all at once, overcome by a mammoth yawn. When he had dealt with this, he apologised. “I’m sorry. I really must get home.”
“Have some coffee first. It’ll keep you awake until you reach your bed. I tell you what — why don’t you go upstairs and relax, and I’ll bring your coffee up to you. And then I’ll phone for a taxi.”
Which sounded an eminently sensible idea.
“Right.”
But even saying the word took much conscious effort. He was aware of arranging his tongue and his lips in the correct position to make the appropriate sound, and knew that he was either drunk or on the point of flaking out from lack of sleep. Coffee was an excellent idea. He put his hands on the table and levered himself to his feet. Going up the basement stairs, headed for the drawing room, was even more of a trial. Halfway up he stumbled but somehow managed to keep his balance and not to fall flat on his face.
Upstairs, the empty room waited, quiet in the bloomy twilight. The only illumination came from the streetlights, and these were reflected from the brass fender and the facets of the crystal chandelier that hung fro
m the middle of the ceiling. It seemed a pity to dispel the peaceful dusk by turning on switches, so he didn’t. The dog was asleep on the chair that Noel had previously occupied, so he sank down in a corner of the sofa. The dog, disturbed, awoke and raised his head, and stared at Noel. Noel stared back. The dog turned into two dogs. He was drunk. He had not slept for ever. He would not sleep now. He was not sleeping.
He was dozing. Sleeping and waking at the same time. He was in the 747, droning back over the Atlantic, with his fat neighbour snoring alongside. His chairman was telling him to go to Edinburgh, to sell Saddlebags to a man called Edmund Aird. There were voices, calling and shouting; the children playing in the street on their bicycles. No, they were not in the street, they were outside, in some garden. He was in a cramped and steeply ceilinged room, peering from the peephole of a window. Honeysuckle fronds tapped on the glass. His old room, in his mother’s house in Gloucestershire. Outside on the lawn, a game was in progress. Children and adults played cricket. Or was it rounders? Or baseball? They looked up and saw his face through the glass. “Come down,” they told him. “Come down and play.” He was pleased that they wanted him. It was good to be home. He went out of the room and downstairs; stepped out into the garden, but the cricket game was over, and they had all disappeared. He did not mind. He lay on the grass and stared at the bright sky, and everything was all right. None of the bad things had happened after all, and nothing had changed. He was alone, but soon somebody would come. He could wait.
Another sound. A clock ticking. He opened his eyes. The street-lamps no longer shone, and the darkness had gone. It was not his mother’s garden, not his mother’s house, but some strange room. He had no idea where he was. He lay flat on his back on a sofa, with a rug over him. The fringe of the rug tickled his chin, and he pushed it away. Staring upwards, he saw the glittering droplets of the chandelier, and then remembered. Moving his head, he saw the armchair, with its back to the window; a girl sat there, her bright hair silhouetted against the morning light beyond the uncurtained window. He stirred. She stayed silent. He said her name. “Alexa?”