Snow in April by Rosamunde Pilcher
5
Oliver did not get back to Cairney until half past four. He was tired. Duncan Fraser, besides standing him a heavy luncheon, had insisted on discussing every aspect of the financial and legal details of the taking over of Cairney. Nothing had been left out and Oliver’s head swam with facts and figures. Acreages, yields, heads of cattle, the value of cottages, the condition of steadings and barns. It was necessary, of course, and right, but he had found it distressing, and he made the long drive home through the darkening afternoon in a state of black depression, trying to accept the truth; that, by giving up Cairney, even to Duncan, it was inevitable that he was giving up something of himself, and cutting away the last of the connections that held him to his youth.
The conflict within himself had left him drained of energy. His head ached, and he could think of nothing but the sanctuary of his home, the comfort of his own armchair, his own fireside, and possibly, a soothing cup of tea.
The house had never looked so secure, so welcoming. He took the Land-Rover around to the garage, parked it there, and went indoors, through the kitchen. He found Mrs Cooper, at her ironing board, but with her eyes on the door. When he appeared, she gave a sigh of relief, and set the iron down with a thump.
“Oh, Oliver, I hoped it was you. I heard the car, and I hoped it was you.”
Something in her face made him say, “What’s wrong?”
“It’s just the boy’s sister went out for a walk, and she’s not back yet, and it’s nearly dark.”
Oliver stood there, in his overcoat, and slowly digested this unwelcome piece of information.
“When did she go?”
“After lunch. Not that she ate anything, just picked away, didn’t take enough to keep a flea alive.”
“But it’s … half past four.”
“That’s just it.”
“Where’s Jody?”
“He’s in the nursery. He’s fine and not worried. I took him his tea, the wee lamb.”
Oliver frowned. “But where did she go?”
“She didn’t say. ‘I’m just going for a wee walk,’ she said.” Mrs Cooper’s face was drawn with anxiety. “You don’t think something could have happened?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Oliver, bitterly. “She’s such a fool, she could drown herself in a puddle.”
“Oh, poor wee soul…”
“Poor wee soul nothing, she’s a bloody nuisance,” said Oliver brutally.
He was headed for the back staircase, meaning to go and find Jody and pick his brains, but at that moment the telephone started ringing. Oliver’s first reactions were that at last the lines had been repaired, but Mrs Cooper slapped her hand over her heart and said, “Perhaps that’s the po-lice now.”
“Probably nothing of the sort,” said Oliver, but for all that he went, more swiftly than usual, out of the kitchen and along to the library to answer the call.
“Cairney,” he barked.
“Is that Cairney House?” A female voice, very refined.
“Yes it is, Oliver Cairney speaking.”
“Oh, Mr Cairney, this is Mrs Henderson speaking from the Strathcorrie Hotel.”
Oliver braced himself. “Yes?”
“There’s a young lady here, she came to inquire for her brother, who used to work here…”
Used to work? “Yes?”
“She said she’d been staying at Cairney.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I think perhaps you should come and fetch her, Mr Cairney. She doesn’t seem to be at all well, and she fainted and then she was very … sick.” She brought the word out reluctantly as though it were rude.
“How did she get to Strathcorrie?”
“She walked part of the way she said, and then she got a lift with the snow-plough.”
That meant that at least the road would be open. “And where is she now?”
“I put her to lie down … she seemed so unwell.”
“Does she know you’ve called me?”
“No. I thought better not to say.”
“Don’t say. Don’t say anything. Just keep her there till I come.”
“Yes, Mr Cairney. And I’m so sorry.”
“Not at all. You were quite right to call. We were worried. Thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
* * *
Caroline was asleep when he came. No, not asleep, but suspended in that delicious state between sleeping and waking; warm, and comforted by the touch of blankets. Until the sound of his deep voice cut through her drowsiness like a knife and she was instantly wide awake, alert and clear-headed. She remembered saying that she had come from Cairney and cursed her own careless tongue. But the pain was gone, and the sleep refreshed her, so when, without so much as a cursory knock, Oliver Cairney threw open her door and marched in, Caroline was ready for him, with all her defences up.
“Oh, what a shame, you’ve come all this way, and there’s really nothing wrong at all. Look.” She sat up. “I’m perfectly all right.” He wore a grey overcoat and a black tie and this reminded her of his brother and she went on in a rush. “It’s just that it was rather a long walk, at least it wasn’t all that long because I got a lift from the snow-plough.” He slammed the door shut and came to lean against the brass rail at the end of the bed. “Did you bring Jody?” she asked brightly. “Because we can stay here. They’ve got rooms, and we’d be better to wait here till Angus gets back. He’s away you see, just for another couple of days, with an American lady…”
Oliver said, “Shut up.”
No one had ever spoken to Caroline in that voice before and she was utterly silenced. “I told you to stay at Cairney. To wait.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because Jody told me about your brother. Mrs Cooper told Jody. And it was so terrible us turning up, just then. I was so sorry … I didn’t know…”
“How could you know?”
“… but at such a time.”
“It makes no difference one way or the other,” said Oliver bluntly. “How do you feel now?”
“I’m perfectly all right.”
“You fainted.” It sounded like an accusation.
“So silly, I never faint.”
“The trouble is, you never eat anything. If you choose to be so moronic you deserve to faint. Now get your coat on and I’ll take you home.”
“But I told you, we can stay here. We’ll wait for Angus here.”
“You can wait for Angus at Cairney.” He went over to the chair and picked up the black oilskin.
Caroline frowned. She said, “Suppose I don’t want to come? I don’t have to.”
“Suppose for once you do what you’re told. Suppose you think about someone other than yourself? Mrs Cooper was grey in the face when I got back, imagining every sort of ghastly disaster that might have happened to you.”
She felt a pang of guilt. “And Jody?”
“He’s all right. I left him watching television. Now, are you coming?”
There was nothing else to do. Caroline got off the bed, let him help her into the oilskin, trod her feet into the rubber boots, and then followed him meekly downstairs.
“Mrs Henderson!”
She appeared from her office, standing behind her desk like an obliging shop-assistant.
“Oh, you found her, Mr Cairney, that’s good.” She lifted the flap of the counter and came out to join them. “How are you feeling, dear?” she said to Caroline.
“I’m all right.” She added on an afterthought, “Thank you,” although it was hard to forgive Mrs Henderson for having telephoned for Oliver.
“It was no trouble. And when Angus gets back…”
Oliver said, “Tell him his sister’s at Cairney.”
“Of course. And I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
Caroline made for the door. Behind her Oliver thanked Mrs Henderson once again, and then they were both out in the cold, soft, windy twilight, and she was clambe
* * *
They drove in silence. The promised thaw had turned the snow to slush and the road over the hill was comparatively clear. Above, grey clouds were being bowled aside by a west wind leaving spaces of shining sky the colour of sapphires. Through the open window of the Land-Rover came the smell of turf and damp peat. Curlews rose from the margins of a small reed-fringed loch, and all at once it seemed possible that the empty trees would soon be in bud and the long-awaited spring almost upon them.
And Caroline was reminded of that evening in London, driving to Arabella’s with Hugh. She remembered the city’s lights reflected orange in the sky, and how she had rolled down the window and let the wind blow her hair and wished that she was in the country. It was only three–four days ago, and yet now it felt like a lifetime. As though it had happened to another girl in another time entirely.
An illusion. She was Caroline Cliburn with a hundred unsolved problems sitting on her plate. She was Caroline Cliburn and she was going to have to get back to London before all hell broke loose. She was Caroline Cliburn and she was going to marry Hugh Rashley. On Tuesday.
That was real. To make it more real she thought of the house in Milton Gardens awash with wedding presents. The white dress, hanging in her cupboard, the caterers coming in with their trestle-tables and their stiff white damask tableclothes. She thought of champagne glasses massed like soap bubbles, gardenias in a bouquet, the pop of corks and the cliché of speeches; and she thought of Hugh, considerate, organized Hugh, who had never so much as raised his voice to Caroline, let alone tell her to shut up.
This rankled still. Indignant at the memory, she let her resentments swell. Resentment at Angus, for letting her down just when she needed him most; swanning off in a car with some old American dowager, leaving no address, no date of return, nothing definite. Resentment at Mrs Henderson, with her diamanté spectacles and her air of humble efficiency, telephoning Oliver Cairney when the last thing Caroline wanted was his renewed interference. And finally resentment at Oliver himself, this overbearing man who had taken on more than could possibly be justified in the name of hospitable concern.
The Land-Rover ground its way over the crest of the hill and the road sloped away from them, leading back to Cairney. Oliver changed gear and the tyres bit deep into the slushy snow. The silence between them was thick with his disapproval. She wished that he would say something. Anything. All her resentments capsuled into an irritation that was directed solely at him. It grew until it could no longer be contained, and she said at last, frostily, “This is ridiculous.”
“What is ridiculous?” His chill voice matched her own.
“The whole situation. Everything.”
“I don’t know enough about the situation to comment on that. In fact, apart from knowing that you and Jody appeared at Cairney out of a snow storm, I am completely in the dark.”
“It isn’t your business,” said Caroline, sounding ruder than she had meant to.
“But what is my business is seeing that your brother doesn’t have to suffer from any more of your idiocies.”
“If Angus had been at Strathcorrie…”
He did not let her finish. “That’s hypothetical. He wasn’t. And I have a strange feeling that you weren’t too surprised. What sort of a guy is he, anyway?” Caroline maintained what she hoped was a dignified silence. Oliver said “I see” in the smug voice of one who understands all.
“No, you don’t. You don’t know a thing about him. You don’t even understand.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Oliver, unforgivably, for the second time, and Caroline turned away from him and stared out of the darkening window, so that he would neither see nor guess at the smarting prick of tears that suddenly stung her eyes.
In the dusk the house stood foursquare, yellow lights suffused from behind drawn curtains. Oliver stopped the Land-Rover at the door and got out, and slowly, reluctantly, Caroline climbed down too, and followed him up the steps and passed him as she stood aside, holding the door open, letting her go ahead. Feeling like a naughty child, brought to book, she would not even look at him. The door slammed shut behind them, and at once, as though this sound were a signal, there came the sound of Jody’s voice. A door opened, his footsteps came up the passage from the kitchen. He appeared at a run, then stopped dead when he saw that only two people stood there. His eyes went to the door behind Caroline and then back to her face. He was very still.
“Angus?” he said.
He had been expecting her to bring Angus back with her. She said, hating having to tell him, “Angus wasn’t there.”
There was a silence. Then Jody said casually, “You didn’t find him.”
“He’s been there, working there. But he’s gone away for a few days.” She went on, trying to sound confident. “He’ll be back. In a day or so. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“But Mrs Cooper said you were ill.”
“I’m not,” said Caroline quickly.
“But she said…”
Oliver interrupted. “All that’s wrong with your sister is that she never does what she’s told and she never eats anything.” He sounded thoroughly put out. Jody watched as he unbuttoned his tweed overcoat and slung it over the end of the banister. “Where’s Mrs Cooper?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Go and tell her everything’s all right. I’ve brought Caroline back and she’s going to bed and to have some supper and tomorrow she’ll be as right as rain.” And when Jody still hesitated, Oliver went over and turned him and gave him a gentle shove in the direction from whence he had appeared. “Go on. There’s nothing to worry about. I promise you.”
Jody departed. The kitchen door swung shut, distantly, they heard his voice, relaying the message. Oliver turned to Caroline.
“And now,” he said with deceptive pleasantness, “you are going upstairs to bed, and Mrs Cooper will bring you some supper on a tray. It’s as simple as that.”
The tone of his voice kindled an old, rare stubbornness. A stubbornness that had, from time to time, won Caroline her own way in childhood; had finally broken down her stepmother’s objections to the Drama School. Hugh, perhaps, had early recognized this streak in her character, for his handling of her had always been tactful to a degree, coaxing, suggesting, leading her by a string when she would have refused to be driven.
Now, she pondered on the idea of making a final terrible scene, but, as Oliver Cairney continued to stand, waiting, politely implacable, her resolution faded. Finding excuses for her surrender, she told herself that she was tired, too tired for any further arguments. And the thought of bed and warmth and privacy was suddenly very appealing. Without a word, she turned away from him and went upstairs, a step at a time, her hand running the length of the long, polished banister rail.
When she had gone Oliver made his way back to the kitchen where he found Mrs Cooper preparing supper and Jody at the scrubbed table, struggling with an elderly jigsaw which, when completed, would be a picture of an old-fashioned steam engine. Oliver remembered the jigsaw, remembered doing it with his mother and Charles to help. Whiling away long wet afternoons, waiting for the rain to stop so that they could get out of doors again to play.
He leaned over Jody’s shoulder. “You’re doing very well,” he told him.
“I can’t find that bit. With the sky and the bit of branch. If I could find that bit, I could join this other chunk up.”
Oliver started to search for the elusive piece. From the stove Mrs Cooper said, “Is the young lady all right?”
Oliver did not look up. “Yes, she’s all right. She’s gone to bed.”
“What happened to her?” Jody asked.
“She fainted and then she was sick.”
“I hate being sick.”
Oliver grinned. “So do I.”
“I’m sieving a nice wee bowl of broth,” said Mrs Cooper. “When you’re not well, the last thing, you want is a supper that lies heavy
Oliver agreed that indeed you didn’t. He ran the missing piece of the jigsaw to earth and handed it to Jody.
“How’s that?”
“That’s it.” Jody was delighted at Oliver’s cleverness. “Oh, thank you, I’ve been looking and looking at that bit and never even saw it was the right one.” He looked up to smile. “It helps having two people to do it, doesn’t it? Will you go on helping?”
“Well, right now I’m going to have a bath and then I’m going to have a drink, and then we’ll have supper together, you and I. But after supper, we’ll see if we can finish the jigsaw.”
“Was it yours?”
“Mine, or Charles’s, I can’t remember.”
“It’s a funny sort of train.”
“Steam engines were splendid. They made such a magnificent noise.”
“I know. I’ve seen them on films.”
* * *
He had his bath and dressed and was on his way downstairs, headed for the library and the drink he had promised himself when he remembered, out of the blue, that he was due to dine, that very evening, at Rossie Hill. The shock of this, however, was not so great as the sense of surprise that he had forgotten the appointment at all. But, despite the fact that he had seen Duncan Fraser at lunchtime, and had even spoken of the projected dinner, the frantic events of the afternoon and evening had succeeded in driving it clean out of his head.
And now it was half past seven and he was dressed not in a dinner-suit, but in an old polo-necked sweater and a pair of washed-out corduroys. For a moment he hesitated, pulling at his lower lip, and trying to decide what to do, but his mind was finally made up by the image of Jody, who had spent a lonely and distressing afternoon, and whom Oliver had promised company for the evening, and assistance with the jigsaw puzzle. That settled it. He went along to the library, picked up the receiver and dialled the Rossie Hill number. After a moment Liz herself answered the call.