September (1990) (70 page)

"I'm sorry."

She smiled at him, touched his cheek with her fingers. "Do you blame yourself for the mess I made of everything? Don't. I was born disaster material. We both know that. If it hadn't been you, it would have been somebody else. And if Harold Hogg hadn't been there, stinking-rich and panting with lust, then I'm certain I would have found some other equally impossible man to elope with. I would never have made you happy. I don't think Caroline made you happy. But now, I think, with Virginia, you are happy at last. So that makes me happy."

"What else makes you happy?"

"Even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you."

"Why did you come back to Croy?"

"Oh, a whim. An impulse. To see you all again."

"Will you stay?"

"I think not. Too restless, darling."

"That makes me feel guilty."

"Why?"

"I don't know. We all have so much."

"Me too. But mine are different things."

"I hate you being alone."

"Better that way."

"You are part of us all. You know that?"

"Thank you. That's the nicest thing you could say to me. That's just the way I want it to be. Just the way I want it to stay." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, and his senses were assaulted by her closeness, the touch of her lips, the scent of her perfume.

"Pandora ..."

"And now, darling, we've sat here long enough. . . . Don't you think we should go and find the others?"

It was past one o'clock in the morning, with festivities at their peak, when Noel Keeling, unable and unwilling to deal with the complexities of a dance called the Duke of Perth, found himself abandoned and alone, decided that he was in need of liquid refreshment, and headed for the bar. He was offered champagne, but his mouth was dry and he settled instead for a glass of ice
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cold lager. He had just set the glass to his lips and taken a long and refreshing swig when, all at once, Pandora Blair appeared at his elbow.

Since the dinner party, he had scarcely seen her all evening, which was a shame, because he thought her good news, and quite the most decorative and amusing female he had met for a long time.

"Noel."

It was gratifying to be sought out. He instantly laid down his glass and made space for her, and she settled herself beside him on an empty bar-stool and, havin
g m
ade herself comfortable, smiled conspiratorially into his face.

She said, "I have a favour to ask."

"But of course. Have a drink?"

She reached for a brimming glass of champagne and drank it like water.

He laughed. "Have you been on that the whole evening?"

"Of course."

"What's the favour?"

"I think it?s time I went home. Would you take me?"

Noel was, in truth, a little taken aback. It was the last thing he had expected.

"But why do you want to go home?"

"I think I've stayed long enough. Danced with everybody, said all the right things, and now I'm longing for my beddy-byes. I'd ask Archie to take me, but he's having such a jolly time, closeted in Angus Steynton's office with old General Grant-Palmer and a bottle of Glen Morangie; it seems a shame to spoil his fun. And everybody else is leaping about in the tent, doing tribal dances. Even Conrad, our not-so-sad Sad American."

"I'm surprised he knows how to do them."

"Archie and Isobel organized a little class at Croy on Wednesday evening and gave us lessons, but I never imagined he'd become totally hooked. Will you take me, Noel? Is it a perfectly horrid thing to ask?"

"No, of course not. Of course I'll take you."

"I've got my car, but I'm truly not fit to drive and I'm sure I'd fall asleep on the way back and end up in a ditch. And the others will need to get home. So perhaps I should leave it behind for them. . . ."

"I'll drive you in my car."

"You're an angel." She finished her champagne. "I'll go and get my coat. Meet you at the front door."

He thought about telling somebody what he was about to do, and then decided against it, because the drive to Croy wouldn't take longer than half an hour, and most likely he would never be missed. At the foot of the staircase he waited for her and was amused to find himself in a pleasant state of anticipation, as though he and Pandora were embarking on a small, shared, and secret assignation, one with possible romantic connotations. Which, on analysis, he realized had much to do with her, and he guessed that she had probably always had this effect on any man on whom she chose to beam her attention.

"Ready." She ran down the stairs, wrapped in her long, voluptuous mink. He took her arm and they went out, down the steps and across the gravel. The grass of the paddock was cold and wet, and the ground muddy, and he offered to sweep her up into his arms and carry her to his car, but she only laughed at him and pulled off her fragile sandals and walked beside him in her bare feet.

Old Hughie had disappeared, but they finally located Noel's Golf. He turned up the heater to warm her toes. "Do you want music?"

"Not particularly. It might interfere with the stars."

He backed, turned, drove away from Corriehill, down the fairy-lit driveway, and into the dark countryside. The warm interior of the car was pervaded with the scent of her perfume, and he had a strange feeling that in the future, whenever he smelt it again he would remember nowy this journey, this woman.

She began to talk. "It was a lovely party. Exactly right from beginning to end. Just the way they used to be, only even better. We used to have dances like that at Croy, ages ago, when we were all young. Christmas and birthdays. Magic. You'll have to come back to Croy, because things will get better now. They won't be gloomy any longer. Archie's better. He's his own man again. He's had a horrible, nightmare time, but he's over that. Come to terms with it."

For a little, she was silent. She sat, with her head turned away from him, her hair spilling over the soft fur of her coat. She stared from the window, as the light
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less, empty road streamed away behind them.

After a bit, she said, "Will you come back to Croy, Noel?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"Perhaps I'm asking something else. Perhaps I'm asking you about Alexa."

He was cautious. "What are you asking me?"

"I think you're wavering, dithering. You don't know what to do."

He was surprised by her perception. "Have you been talking to Vi?"

"Darling, I never talk to anyone. Not about things that matter."

"Alexa matters."

"That's what I thought. You see, I have a funny feeling that you and I are rather alike. I never really knew What I wanted, and then when I got it, I discovered I'd never really wanted it at all. And that's because I was looking for something that didn't exist."

"Are you talking about a particular man, or a way of life?"

"Both, I think. Don't they go together? And perfection. The ultimate. But it never happens, because it doesn't exist. Loving isn't finding perfection, but forgiving horrible faults. I suppose it's all a matter of compromise. And recognizing the moment when it's time to decide whether you're going to. fish or cut bait."

Noel said, "I love Alexa, but I am not in love with her." He thought about this statement and then smiled. "You know, I've never said those words aloud before. Not to myself. Not to anybody. Not about anybody."

"How does it feel, saying them aloud?"

"Frightening. I'm afraid of making promises, because I've never been much good at keeping them."

"Fear is the worst reason for doing anything, or for doing nothing. It's negative. Like not doing something because of what people will say. Pandora, you can't behave like that! Whatever will people say? As if it mattered. No, that won't do. You'll have to think of a better excuse."

"All right, how about this one? Uncommitted, I stay in charge of my own life."

"That's all right when you're young. But the unattached men about town very often end up as lonely and pathetic old bachelors, if they're not very careful. The sort that hostesses invite to dinner parties to make up the numbers. And afterwards, they drive themselves home to an empty flat and only a faithful doggie to take to bed."

"That's a jolly prospect."

"You only have one life. You don't get second chances. Let something really good slip through your fingers and it's gone forever. And then you spend the rest of your life trying to find it again . . . lurching from one unsatisfactory affair to another. And after a bit the day comes when you know it's all for nothing. Useless. Just a waste of time and effort."

"So what is the answer?"

"I don't know. I'm not you. I suppose a little courage and a lot of faith." She thought about this. "I sound just like a headmistress on Speech Day. Or a politician. 'Let us put our hands to the plough, and look forward, for there lies the way ahead.' " She began to laugh. " 'Vote for Blair, and get free corn plasters.' "

He said, "You are advocating compromise."

Her laughter died. "There are worse things. This evening is the first time I ever met Alexa, but I watched her at dinner . . . watching you,1 and her face filled with love. She is a giver. She is gold."

"I know all that."

"So, I rest my case."

Silence once more, and now just a little way left to go. Down the long glen, and the lights of Strathcroy were dimmed; only the sparse street lamps shed their glow. The interior of the car had become very warm.

Noel lowered the window a little and felt the fresh cold air on his face and heard the sound of the river running alongside the road.

They reached the first of the cottages, the gates of Croy, the front drive. He changed down, sped up the hill. The house awaited them, its windows dark. Only Archie's Land Rover stood parked in solitary state outside the front door. Noel drew up, switched off the ignition. The night was quiet; only the wind moved.

"There you are. Safely home."

She turned to him, her smile full of gratitude. "You've been really sweet. I hope I haven't ruined your fun. And I'm sorry if I've interfered."

"I can't quite work out why you said all those things."

"Probably because I've drunk too much champagne." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Good night, Noel."

"Will the door be open?"

"Of course. It's never locked."

"I'll see you in."

"No." She restrained him with a hand on his arm. "I'll be all right. Don't come. Qo back to Alexa."

She got out of the car and slammed shut the door. In the beam of his headlamps she walked away from him across the gravel and up the steps. He watched her go. The big door opened, she turned to wave, slipped inside. The door closed. She was gone.

Even Tom Drystone could not play forever. At the end of two rousing rounds of "The Duke of Perth," finishing off with the distinctly non-Scottish strains of "The Girl I Left Behind Me," he pulled a long and breathless chord from his accordion, laid it on the floor, rose to his feet, and announced, over the microphone, that he and his colleagues were away for their supper. Despite exaggerated groans of despair and a good deal of derogatory badinage, he stuck to his guns and led his perspiring team of musicians across the dance floor and in the general direction of well-earned refreshment.

In the resultant lull the abandoned dancers, for a moment, stood about in aimless fashion, but almost at once were assailed by mouth-watering smells of frying bacon and fresh coffee drifting through from the house. These reminded the assembled company that it was some hours since they had last eaten, and there started a general exodus, headed for sustenance. However, as the marquee slowly emptied, a young man-spontaneously, or perhaps previously instructed by Verena
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stepped up onto the platform, took his place at the piano, and began to play.

"Virginia . . ." She was already half-way up the stone steps that led into the house. She turned and saw Conrad behind her. "Come and dance with me."

"Don't you want bacon and eggs?"

"Later. This is too good to miss."

It was good. The sort of soft, pervasive mood music that went back a long way, a long time, to expensive, sophisticated restaurants and darkened night-clubs and sentimental movies that left you with tear-filled eyes and a wad of damp Kleenex.

Bewitched. "I'm wild again, beguiled again . . ."

She gave in. "All right."

She turned back, stepped into his arms. Conrad drew her close, laid his cheek against her hair. They danced, scarcely moving, hardly aware of other couples, who, succumbing to the seduction of the plangent piano, had taken once more to the floor.

He said, "Do you think this guy knows how to play 'The Look of Love'?"

She smiled to herself. "I don't know. You could as
k h
im."

"It's been a good party."

"I'm impressed by your reeling."