for her."
"Well, it hasn't happened yet. Maybe it'll never happen.
"We can scarcely wish poor Lottie Carstairs dead, which seems the only alternative."
She looked at Archie and saw, somewhat to her surprise, that he was near to laughter. "You know something, Vi? You're depressing me."
"Oh, I am sorry." She struck him a friendly blow on the knee. "What a miserable old gasbag I am. Take no notice. Tell me, what news of Lucilla?"
"Last heard of, roosting in some Paris garret."
"They always say that children are a joy. But at times they can be the most appalling headaches. Now, I must let you get home and not keep you chattering. Isobel will be waiting for you."
"You wouldn't like to come back to Croy and have more tea?" He sounded wistful. "Help amuse the Americans?"
Violet's heart sank at the prospect. "Archie, I don't think I feel quite up to doing that* Am I being selfish?"
"Not a bit. Just a thought. Sometimes I find all thi s b arking and wagging tails daunting. But it's nothing compared with what poor Isobel has to do."
"It must be the most dreadfully hard work. All that fetching and carrying and cooking and table-laying and bed-making. And then having to make conversation. I know it's only for two nights each week, but couldn't you chuck your hands in and think of some other way to make money?"
"Can you?"
"Not immediately. But I wish things could be different for you both. I know one can't put the clock back, but sometimes I think how nice it would be if nothing had changed at Croy. If your precious parents could still be alive, and all of you young again. Coming and going, and cars buzzing up and down the drive, and voices. And laughter."
She turned to Archie, but . H is face was averted. He gazed out over her washing-green, as though Violet's tea-towels and pillowcases and her sturdy brassieres and silk knickers were the most absorbing sight in the world.
She thought, And you and Edmund the closest of friends, but she did not say this.
"And Pandora there. That naughty, darling child. I always felt that when she left she took so much of the laughter with her."
Archie stayed silent. And then he said "Yes," and nothing more.
A small constraint lay between them. To fill it, Violet busied herself, gathering up her belongings. "I mustn't keep you any longer." She opened the door and clambered down from the bulky old vehicle.
"Thank you for the ride, Archie."
"A pleasure, Vi."
"Love to Isobel."
"Of course. See you soon."
She waited while he turned the Land Rover, and watched him drive away, along the lane, and on up th e h ill. She felt guilty, because she should have gone with him, and drunk tea with Isobel, and made polite chat to the unknown Americans. But too late now, because he was gone. She searched in her handbag for her key and let herself into her house.
Alone, Archie continued on his way. The road grew steeper. Now there were trees ahead, Scots pine and tall beeches. Beyond and above these, the face of the hillside thrust skywards, cliffs of rock and scree, sprouting tufts of whin and bracken and determined saplings of silver birch. He reached the trees; and the road, having climbed as high as it could, swept around to the left and levelled out. Ahead, the beech avenue led the way to the house. A burn tumbled down from the hilltops in a series of pools and waterfalls and flowed on down the hill under an arched stone bridge. This stream was Pennyburn, and lower down the slope it made its way through the garden of Violet Aird's house.
Beneath the beeches all was shaded, the light diffused, limpid and greenish. The leafy branches arched thickly overhead, and it felt a little like driving down the centre aisle of some enormous cathedral. And then, abruptly, the avenue fell behind him and the house came into view, set four-square on the brow of the hill, with the whole panoramic vista of the glen spread out at its feet. The evening breeze had done its work, tearing the clouds to tatters, lifting
"Well, it hasn't happened yet. Maybe it'll never happen.
"We can scarcely wish poor Lottie Carstairs dead, which seems the only alternative."
She looked at Archie and saw, somewhat to her surprise, that he was near to laughter. "You know something, Vi? You're depressing me."
"Oh, I am sorry." She struck him a friendly blow on the knee. "What a miserable old gasbag I am. Take no notice. Tell me, what news of Lucilla?"
"Last heard of, roosting in some Paris garret."
"They always say that children are a joy. But at times they can be the most appalling headaches. Now, I must let you get home and not keep you chattering. Isobel will be waiting for you."
"You wouldn't like to come back to Croy and have more tea?" He sounded wistful. "Help amuse the Americans?"
Violet's heart sank at the prospect. "Archie, I don't think I feel quite up to doing that* Am I being selfish?"
"Not a bit. Just a thought. Sometimes I find all thi s b arking and wagging tails daunting. But it's nothing compared with what poor Isobel has to do."
"It must be the most dreadfully hard work. All that fetching and carrying and cooking and table-laying and bed-making. And then having to make conversation. I know it's only for two nights each week, but couldn't you chuck your hands in and think of some other way to make money?"
"Can you?"
"Not immediately. But I wish things could be different for you both. I know one can't put the clock back, but sometimes I think how nice it would be if nothing had changed at Croy. If your precious parents could still be alive, and all of you young again. Coming and going, and cars buzzing up and down the drive, and voices. And laughter."
She turned to Archie, but . H is face was averted. He gazed out over her washing-green, as though Violet's tea-towels and pillowcases and her sturdy brassieres and silk knickers were the most absorbing sight in the world.
She thought, And you and Edmund the closest of friends, but she did not say this.
"And Pandora there. That naughty, darling child. I always felt that when she left she took so much of the laughter with her."
Archie stayed silent. And then he said "Yes," and nothing more.
A small constraint lay between them. To fill it, Violet busied herself, gathering up her belongings. "I mustn't keep you any longer." She opened the door and clambered down from the bulky old vehicle.
"Thank you for the ride, Archie."
"A pleasure, Vi."
"Love to Isobel."
"Of course. See you soon."
She waited while he turned the Land Rover, and watched him drive away, along the lane, and on up th e h ill. She felt guilty, because she should have gone with him, and drunk tea with Isobel, and made polite chat to the unknown Americans. But too late now, because he was gone. She searched in her handbag for her key and let herself into her house.
Alone, Archie continued on his way. The road grew steeper. Now there were trees ahead, Scots pine and tall beeches. Beyond and above these, the face of the hillside thrust skywards, cliffs of rock and scree, sprouting tufts of whin and bracken and determined saplings of silver birch. He reached the trees; and the road, having climbed as high as it could, swept around to the left and levelled out. Ahead, the beech avenue led the way to the house. A burn tumbled down from the hilltops in a series of pools and waterfalls and flowed on down the hill under an arched stone bridge. This stream was Pennyburn, and lower down the slope it made its way through the garden of Violet Aird's house.
Beneath the beeches all was shaded, the light diffused, limpid and greenish. The leafy branches arched thickly overhead, and it felt a little like driving down the centre aisle of some enormous cathedral. And then, abruptly, the avenue fell behind him and the house came into view, set four-square on the brow of the hill, with the whole panoramic vista of the glen spread out at its feet. The evening breeze had done its work, tearing the clouds to tatters, lifting
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