There was a little bureau in the corner of her bedroom, which she had not even thought to investigate. Now she got up and went over to it, and lowered the flap. Inside, this being the well-ordered establishment that it was, she found embossed writing paper and envelopes, a blotting pad, and a pen in a silver tray. She pulled up a chair, took up the pen, drew a sheet of paper toward her, and wrote the date.
Thus she started what was to be a very long letter to her father.
8
BRIAN
Early the next morning, as Flora came down to breakfast the telephone rang. Crossing the hall, she hesitated. When nobody appeared to answer it, she answered it herself, going to sit on the edge of the chest and pick up the receiver.
“Hello.”
A woman spoke. “Is that Fernrigg?”
“Yes.”
“Is that Isobel?”
“No. Do you want Isobel?”
“Is … is that Rose?”
Flora hesitated. “Yes.”
“Oh, Rose, it’s Anna Stoddart.”
“Good morning, Anna. Do you want to speak to Isobel?”
“No, it doesn’t matter, you’ll do just as well. I only wanted to say thank you for the dinner party on Saturday. I … I enjoyed it so much.”
“I’m glad. I’ll tell Isobel.”
“I’m sorry about ringing so early, but I forgot to ring yesterday, and I’m just off to Glasgow. I mean, I’m leaving any moment now. And I didn’t want to go without saying thank you.”
“Well, I hope you have a good trip.”
“Yes, I’m sure I will. I’m only going for a couple of days. Perhaps when I get back you’d like to come over to Ardmore and see me. We could have lunch, or tea or something…”
Her voice trailed away uncertainly as though she felt she had already said too much. Flora could not bear her being so diffident. She said quickly, making her voice enthusiastic, “I’d love it. How kind of you. I’d love to see your house.”
“Really? That would be fun. I’ll maybe give you a telephone call when I get back.”
“You do that.” She added, “Have you heard about the dance yet?”
“Dance?”
“I thought perhaps it might have got through to you via the grapevine. There’s going to be a dance here next Friday night. Tuppy thought the whole thing up by herself yesterday morning.”
“This Friday?” Anna sounded incredulous, as well she might.
“This very Friday. Poor Isobel’s got to spend the morning on the telephone, ringing people up. I’ll tell her I’ve told you; and that’ll be one less call she’ll have to make.”
“But how exciting. I’m so glad you told me, because now I can get a new dress when I’m in Glasgow. I need a new dress anyway…”
Once more her voice faded uncertainly. Anna was obviously a person who found it difficult to round off a telephone call. Flora was just about to say, in a conclusive sort of way, well, have a good time, when Anna said, “Just a minute. Don’t ring off.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
There were a few murmurs from the other end of the line, and then Anna said, “Brian wants to talk to you. I’ll say goodbye.”
Brian? “Goodbye, Anna. Have a good time.” Then Brian Stoddart spoke in his light, clear voice.
“Rose!”
“Good morning,” said Flora warily.
“What an unearthly hour for a telephone conversation. Have you had your breakfast yet?”
“I’m just going to have it.”
“Has Antony gone?”
“Yes, he went yesterday after tea.”
“So you’re bereft. And Anna’s just on the point of abandoning me. Why don’t we keep each other company tonight? I’ll take you out for dinner.”
A number of thoughts chased themselves through Flora’s mind, the most important being that Anna was obviously aware of the conversation, so there could be nothing underhand about his invitation. But what would Tuppy think about it? And Isobel? And was it wise to spend an evening with that devious and attractive man? And even if his suggestion was innocent and harmless, did she particularly want to?
“Rose?”
“Yes, I’m still here.”
“I thought you’d gone. I couldn’t even hear heavy breathing. What time shall I pick you up?”
“I haven’t said that I’m coming yet.”
“Of course you’re coming, don’t be so coy. We’ll go to the Fishers’ Arms down in Lochgarry and I’ll stuff you with scampi. Look, I’ve got to go. Anna’s just on the point of departure, she’s waiting for me to go and see her off. I’ll pick you up about seven thirty, eight o’clock. That be all right? If Isobel’s feeling generous, she can give me a drink. Love to Tuppy, and thank Isobel for the party the other night. We both enjoyed it enormously. See you later.”
He rang off, and Flora was left holding the dead receiver. An outrageous man. Slowly, she put the receiver down. She thought, well … and then she began to smile, because really it was ridiculous. Brian’s charm, which had come gusting down the telephone wires towards her, was too obvious to be dangerous, or even important. The whole incident was too trivial to merit a great session of soul-searching. Besides, she liked scampi.
She realized that she was hungry and went in search of breakfast.
Jason had gone, borne off to school by Mr. Watty. Isobel was still at the kitchen table, reading a letter and drinking a final cup of coffee with Nurse. Mrs. Watty, at the window, was slicing steak for a pie.
“Did I hear the telephone ring?” she asked. She liked keeping in touch with what was going on.
“Yes, I answered it.” Flora sat down and filled a bowl with cornflakes. “It was Anna Stoddart, Isobel, saying thank you for the other night.”
Isobel looked up from her mail. “Oh, how kind,” she said vaguely.
“She’s just off to Glasgow for a couple of days.”
“Yes, she said something about that.”
“And Brian’s asked me to go out to dinner with him tonight.”
She watched Isobel’s face, waiting for the slightest shadow of disapproval. But Isobel only smiled. “What a nice idea. That is kind of him.”
“He said as I was without Antony and he was without Anna we might as well keep each other company. And he’s coming to pick me up at half past seven, and he says if you’re feeling generous you can give him a drink.”
Isobel laughed, but Mrs. Watty said, “He’s a cheeky devil.”
“Don’t you like him, Mrs. Watty?”
“Oh, I like him well enough, but he’s awful forward.”
“What Mrs. Watty means,” said Isobel, “is that he just doesn’t happen to be a dour Scot. I think it’s very nice of him to take pity on Rose.”
“And I told them about the dance on Friday so you don’t need to ring them up. And Anna’s going to buy herself a new dress.”
“Oh, dear,” said Isobel.
“What does that mean?”
“Anna’s always buying new clothes. She spends the earth on them, and they all look exactly the same.” She sighed. “I suppose we’ve all got to start thinking about what we’re going to wear next Friday. I could bring out that blue lace thing again, but everybody must be getting very tired of it.”
“You’re bonny in your blue lace,” Mrs. Watty assured her. “It’s no matter if people have seen it before.”
“And Rose. What are you going to wear, Rose?”
The question, for some reason, caught Flora quite unprepared. Perhaps because there had been so many other more important issues to worry about, the thought of what she would wear to Tuppy’s party had not even entered her head. She looked around at their expectant faces. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” she told them.
Nurse stared at Flora in some disbelief. She still remained rigidly opposed to the very idea of Tuppy’s party, but despite herself it was impossible not to be caught up in the general anticipation. She was also a great social snob, and now she could scarcely
believe that a young lady would come away to stay in a house like Fernrigg without packing at least one ballgown and possibly a tiara to wear with it.
“Haven’t you got anything in your suitcase?” she asked Flora.
“No. I only came for the weekend. I didn’t think I’d need a dress for a dance.”
There was a pregnant silence while they all digested this information.
“What about what you wore the other night?” suggested Isobel.
“That was just a woolen skirt, and a shirt.”
“Oh, no,” breathed Mrs. Watty. “The party’s to be in your honor. You’ll need something a little more dressy than that.”
She felt that she was letting them all down. “Could I buy something?”
“Not in Tarbole,” Isobel told her. “Not within a hundred miles could you buy something to wear.”
“Perhaps I should have gone to Glasgow with Anna.”
“Is there nothing in the house that we could alter?” asked Nurse. Flora had visions of herself in a dress made out of old slip-covers.
Isobel shook her head. “Even if there were, we’re none of us what you’d call dressmakers.”
Nurse cleared her throat. “I used to make all my own clothes when I was a girl. And perhaps I’ve got a little more time than the rest of you.”
“You mean you’d make something for Rose?”
“If it would help…”
At this suggestion, Mrs. Watty turned from her meat slicing, her kindly face at variance with the murderous-looking knife in her hand. “What about the attic? Those trunks in the attic are just full of old things that once belonged to Mrs. Armstrong. And lovely materials…”
“Mothballs,” said Isobel. “They all smell of mothballs.”
“A good wash and a blow on the line would see to that.” The idea took hold. Mrs. Watty laid down her knife, washed her hands, and said that she for one was going upstairs to look, and there was no time like the present. It seemed there wasn’t. In no time, all four of them were trooping up to the attics.
These were huge, stretching from one end of the house to the other. They were also dimly lit, cobwebby, and smelling of camphor and old cricket boots. A number of fascinating objects which Flora would have loved to inspect stood about: a weighing machine of the old type with brass weights and a measuring stick attached to the side; a Victorian doll’s pram; a dressmaker’s dummy; some brass ewers once used for carrying hot water.
But Mrs. Watty snapped on a dingy light and made her way straight to the line of trunks which stood ranged along the wall. They were of immense size and weight, with rounded lids and leather handles for carrying. Together Mrs. Watty and Isobel lifted the lid of the first. It was stuffed with clothes. The smell of mothballs was indeed distressingly strong, but out came the garments, each one more ornate and impossible than the one before: black silk with jet embroidery; tea-rose satin with a fringed skirt; a drooping bouclé jacket lined with shredded chiffon, which Isobel assured Flora used to be known as a bridge coat.
“Did Tuppy really wear all these things?”
“Oh, in her day, she could be quite dressy. And of course, being such a thrifty old Scot, she’s never thrown a thing away.”
“Whatever’s that?”
“It’s an evening cape.” Isobel shook out the crumpled velvet and blew on the fur collar. Out of the fur flew an intrepid moth. “I can remember Tuppy wearing this…” Her voice grew dreamy as she recalled far-off days.
It became more and more hopeless. Flora was on the point of suggesting that she go now to Tarbole, catch the next train to Glasgow and buy herself something there, when Mrs. Watty pulled out something that had obviously once been white, in lawn and lace. Like an old handkerchief, Flora thought, but it was a dress with a high neckband and long sleeves.
Isobel recognized it in some excitement. “But that was Tuppy’s tennis dress.”
“Tennis dress?” Flora was incredulous. “She surely didn’t play tennis in that?”
“Yes, she did when she was a girl.” Isobel took it from Mrs. Watty and held it up by the shoulders. “What do you think, Nurse? Could we do anything with that?”
Nurse handled the cobweb cotton with experienced fingers, pursing up her lips. “There’s nothing wrong with it … and there’s lovely work there.”
“But it’s much too short for me,” objected Flora.
Nurse held it against her. It was too short, but there was, Nurse opined, a good hem. “I could let it down and you’d never notice.”
Secretly Flora thought it was awful. But at least it wasn’t old slip-covers, and anything was better than having to make the trip to Glasgow.
“It’s completely transparent. I’d have to wear something underneath.”
“I could line it,” said Nurse. “In some pretty shade. Perhaps pink.”
Pink. Flora’s heart sank, but she said nothing. Mrs. Watty and Isobel looked at each other for inspiration. Then Mrs. Watty remembered that when Isobel’s bedroom curtains had been replaced they had ordered too much lining cotton. A length of it, good as new, must still be lying around somewhere. Finally, after a certain amount of pondering and poking around, Mrs. Watty, with a cry of triumph, produced it from the top drawer of a yellow-varnished dressing table.
“I knew I’d put it somewhere. I just couldn’t mind where.”
It was a pale eggshell blue. She shook it out of its folds and held it behind the drooping garment of yellowed lawn that was to be Flora’s ball dress.
“What do you think?” she asked Flora.
The blue at least was better than pink. Perhaps when washed the dress wouldn’t be too bad. She looked up and saw that they were all watching her dubious face, anxious for her approval. Like three ill-assorted fairy godmothers, they waited to turn her into the belle of the ball. Flora felt ashamed of her own lack of enthusiasm. To make up for it, she now smiled as though delighted and told them that if she had searched for a week, she couldn’t have found a more perfect dress.
By afternoon the bulky letter addressed to Ronald Waring had still not been posted. For one thing, Flora had no stamp. For another, she had no idea where to find a letter box. After lunch, when Isobel asked her what she would like to do, Flora remembered the letter.
“Would you mind if I went to Tarbole? I’ve got a letter I want to post.”
“I wouldn’t mind in the least. In fact, it would be splendid because I’ve run out of hand cream and you can buy me some.” She added, “And you can fetch Jason from school and that will save Watty a journey.” A thought occurred to her. “I suppose you can drive a car?”
“Yes, if nobody minds my borrowing one.”
“You can take the van,” Isobel told her placidly. “Then it doesn’t matter if you do hit something.”
The word went round that a trip was being made to Tarbole, and at once Flora was inundated with errands to be performed. Nurse needed fine sewing needles and blue silk to match the lining of the new dress. Tuppy wanted face tissues and four ounces of extra strong peppermints. Flora, with her shopping list in her hand, went into the kitchen to search out Mrs. Watty.
“I’m going to Tarbole. And I’m going to fetch Jason from school. Do you want me to get anything for you?”
“Does Watty know that he doesn’t have to go to Tarbole?”
“No, I’m going to tell him on my way out. Isobel said I could take the van.”
“Well, if Watty isn’t going,” said Mrs. Watty, heading for her fridge, “then you can deliver this for me.” And she withdrew, from the fridge, a large steak pie in an enamel dish.
“Where do you want me to take that?”
“This is for Dr. Kyle.” She took grease-proof paper from a drawer, tore off a generous sheet, and wrapped the pie in it. “I was making one for the dinner tonight, and I said to Miss Isobel, I might just as well make one for that poor man without his housekeeper. At least, he’ll have one square meal in the day.”
“But I don’t know where he lives.
I don’t know where his house is.”
“In Tarbole, up at the top of the hill. You can’t miss it,” Mrs. Watty added, which made Flora certain that she would, “because you’ll see the new surgery tacked onto the side. And there’s a brass plate on the gate.”
She handed Flora the parceled pie. It was extremely heavy and should nourish Dr. Kyle, she reckoned, for at least four days.
“What shall I do with it? Leave it on the front doormat?”
“No.” Mrs. Watty obviously thought Flora was being dense. “Take it inside into the kitchen and put it in the refrigerator.”
“What if the door’s locked?”
“Then the key will be on the ledge, inside the porch, on the righthand side.”
Flora gathered up the rest of her things. She said, “Well, I just hope I leave it in the right house,” and made her way out through the back door, leaving Mrs. Watty in fits of laughter, as though she had made a joke.
Watty was found in the vegetable garden. Flora gave him the message about Jason and said that Miss Armstrong had said that she could take the van. Watty told her that it was in the garage, and the key in the ignition. He added that the van had no peculiarities.
It may have been easy to drive, but for all that it was a peculiar van:—Tuppy’s pride, Mrs. Watty’s shame, and the joke of Tarbole. Tuppy, having decided that the old Daimler used too much petrol and that another, smaller, car was needed for day-to-day runs, had bought it secondhand off Mr. Reekie, the Tarbole fishmonger. And although Watty, bidden by his wife, had given it a coat of paint, the lettering on the side was still clearly visible:
Archibald Reekie
Fish of Quality
Freshly Smoked Kippers Delivered Daily
Flora, seeing it for the first time, thought it had great class. She got in behind the wheel, turned on the engine and, with only a small amount of gear-crashing, sped toward Tarbole.
The little town was a seething mass of activity that afternoon. The harbor was full of boats and the quays were packed with lorries. The air was full of the sounds of engines running and the churning of cranes, shouted orders, the gush of high-pressure hoses, and the endless screaming of the hungry gulls. There were people everywhere: fishermen in yellow oilskins, lorry drivers in overalls, harbor officials in their uniforms. There were women in rubber boots and striped aprons, and all of them were involved in the complicated business of unloading the fish from the boats, gutting it, packing it, loading it into the waiting lorries, and sending it on its way.