Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories (32 page)

Fishing was special, because when you fished you thought about nothing else. She took the boat a long way up the loch and then shipped the oars and let the wind drift her back towards the shore. Now, there was enough breeze to stir the surface of the water, and she began casting.

She heard the car coming up the road, but was too engrossed to pay attention to it. There was another bite or two, and then at last she hooked a fish, and concentrating on nothing else, began gently to reel it in. She netted it out of the water, and dropped it in the bottom of the boat.

As if on cue, she heard a voice say, “Well done.”

Startled by this interruption from the business in hand, she looked up and saw, all at once, a number of surprising things. She had, without realizing it, drifted to within yards of the shore; the car she had heard on the road had stopped and was now parked a little way off; and Fergus, a solitary figure, stood on the bank and watched her.

He was bare-headed, the wind ruffling his dark hair. He wore a tweed jacket and a pair of corduroys, tucked into green rubber boots. Not dressed for fishing. Jenny sat in the rocking boat and looked at him, and wondered if he had come upon her by chance, or if, in fact, he had come looking, to ask why she had refused to come to the party, to try to persuade her to change her mind. If he did this, then they would have another argument, another row, and she knew that rather than repeat their last painful set-to, she would prefer never to have to speak to him again.

He grinned. He said again, “Well done. You handled that very neatly. I couldn’t have done better myself.”

Jenny did not reply. Instead, she busied herself in reeling in the loose line, securing the barbed fly. With care, she laid down the rod, and then looked up again at Fergus.

She said, “How long have you been there?”

“Ten minutes or more.” He put his hands in his jacket pockets. “I came to find you. Your mother told me you’d come up here. I want to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“Jenny, don’t get your hackles up. Let’s call it pax.”

It seemed only fair. “All right.”

“Come and get me then.”

Jenny made no move to do this, but even as they spoke she was being blown inshore, and as she hesitated, she felt the first bump as the keel touched stone. Before she realized what was happening, Fergus had waded out and grabbed the bow, thrown one long leg over the gunwale and was aboard.

“Now,” he said, “give me the oars.”

*   *   *

There didn’t seem to be very much alternative. With a couple of clean strokes, he had turned the light craft, and then they were headed back out into the middle of the loch. It was ten minutes or so before he looked about him, decided they had come far enough, shipped the oars, and turned up the collar of his jacket against the cold edge of the wind.

“Now,” he said, “we’re going to talk.”

It seemed sensible to take the initiative. “I suppose my mother told you that I didn’t want to come tonight. I suppose that’s what it’s all about.”

“Yes, it’s about that. And other things, too.”

She waited for him to enlarge on this, but he did not continue. Across the thwarts, they looked at each other, and then suddenly smiled. And all at once Jenny was filled with a curious contentment and peace. It was a long time since she’d sat in a boat with Fergus, in the middle of the loch, with the familiar hills folding away on all sides and the sky arched above them, and have him smile at her like that. It made it easier to be honest, not only with him, but with herself.

“It’s just that I don’t want to come. I don’t want to see Rose again. It’ll be different when you’re married to her. But now…” She shrugged. “It’s cowardice, I suppose,” she finally admitted.

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Perhaps it isn’t me. Perhaps I’m all twisted and back to front. You said that day by the summer-house that I was jealous, and, of course, you were quite right. I suppose I always thought of you as my property, but that’s wrong, isn’t it? No person can ever belong to another person, even after they’re married.”

“No man is an island.”

“I always thought that bits of a man had to be an island. You can’t creep inside somebody else’s head.”

“No. You can’t do that.”

“Just like you can’t go on being a child. You have to grow up whether you want to or not.”

He said. “Did you get that job in Creagan?”

“Yes, but it folds up in October when the shop closes down for the winter. I’ve decided that then I shall be enormously enterprising and find myself an occupation that’s very well paid and miles away. Like America or Switzerland.” She smiled, wryly. “Rose would approve of that.”

Fergus stayed silent. His eyes, watching her, were unblinking, intensely blue.

“And how,” she asked politely, “is Rose?”

“I don’t know.”

Jenny frowned. “But you have to know. She’s at Inverbruie.”

“She’s not an Inverbruie.”

“She’s not…?” A curlew flew overhead, its cry mournful, and the water slapped and whispered against the planking of the boat. “But Mother said…”

“She got it wrong. My mother didn’t say anything about Rose being here; your mother just took it for granted that Rose was with me. We’re not going to get married. The engagement’s off.”

“Off? You mean—? But why didn’t Mother tell me?”

“She didn’t know. I haven’t got around to telling my own parents yet. I wanted to tell you before I told anyone else.”

For some reason, this was so touching that Jenny wondered if she were about to burst into tears. “But, why? Why, Fergus?”

“You just said it. No person can belong to another person.”

“Didn’t—didn’t you love her?”

“Yes, I did. I loved her very much.” He could say that, and she didn’t feel jealous in the least, just sad for him because it hadn’t worked out. “But you marry a life as well as a person, and Rose’s life and mine seemed to run along parallel lines, like railway tracks, without ever actually touching.”

“When did all this happen?”

“A couple of weeks ago. That’s why I came north for the weekend; I wanted to explain it to my parents, and let my mother see I wasn’t dying of a broken heart.”

“And aren’t you?”

“Perhaps a little bit, but not enough to show.”

“Rose loved you.”

“For a bit she did, yes.”

Jenny hesitated, and then said it, “
I
love you.”

*   *   *

It was Fergus’s turn to look as though he were about to burst into tears. “Oh, Jenny.”

“You might as well know. You’ve probably always known. I never thought I could say that to anybody, least of all to you, but for some reason it seems to be quite easy. I mean, you don’t have to do anything about it, but you might as well know. It doesn’t change anything. I shall still find that marvellous job and winkle myself away from Creagan into the wide, wide world.”

She smiled, expecting him to smile back at her, approving of this sensible, mature scheme. But he did not smile. For a long moment he simply looked at her, and she felt her own smile die beneath the sadness in his face. Then he said, “Don’t.”

Jenny frowned. “But, Fergus, I thought that was what you wanted. For me to get away from Creagan, and stand on my own feet.”

“I couldn’t bear you to go away and stand on your own feet,” he told her bluntly.

“Well, whose feet am I going to stand on?”

The absurdity of her question somehow made everything all right again. He was caught unawares by this absurdity, and despite himself, began to laugh, wryly, as much at himself as at her. “I don’t know. I suppose mine. The truth is, that you’ve been part of my life for so long that I don’t think I can bear the thought of your going away and leaving us all. Leaving me. Life would be so dreadfully dull. There’d be nobody to argue with. Nobody to yell at. Nobody to make me laugh.”

Jenny thought about this. She said, “You know, if I had an ounce of pride, I would go away. I’d be the sort of girl who didn’t want to be loved on the rebound from some other person.”

“If you had an ounce of pride, you wouldn’t have told me that you loved me.”

“You must have known.”

“I only know that you were there long before Rose.”

“So what was Rose?”

Fergus fell silent. Then he said tentatively, “A pause in the conversation?”

“Oh, Fergus.”

“I—I think I’m asking you to marry me. We’ve wasted enough time as it is. Perhaps I should have had the sense to do it a long time ago.”

“No.” She was suddenly very wise. “A long time ago would have been too soon. I thought you belonged to me then. But now, like I said, I know that nobody can ever belong to anybody else. Not totally. And yet, it’s only when you think that you’re going to lose something that you realize how precious it is.”

“I found that out too,” said Fergus. “What a very good thing that we both found it out at the same time.”

Out in the middle of the water, it was becoming chilly. Jenny, despite herself, shivered.

“You’re cold,” said Fergus. “I’ll take you back.” He reached for the oars, took his bearings with a glance over his shoulder and turned the little boat.

Jenny suddenly remembered. “But I can’t go back yet, Fergus. I’ve only caught one trout and we’ll need three for supper.”

“To hell with supper. We’ll go out. We’ll take all the parents and I’ll stand the lot of you dinner at the Creagan Arms. We might even rustle up some champagne and it can be an engagement party—if you like!”

Now they were heading home, back towards the mooring, the little craft skimming across the choppy waters of the loch. The wind blew from behind her. She turned up the collar of her jacket and dug her hands deep into its capacious pockets. She smiled at her love. She said, “I like.”

L
AST
M
ORNING

Laura Prentiss woke to the unfamiliar hotel bedroom and the sounds of her husband making shaving noises from beyond the open bathroom door. Perhaps out of deference to his sleeping wife, Roger had left the bedroom curtains closed, and when Laura groped first for her spectacles and then for her watch, she saw, with some surprise, that it was already half past eight.

“Roger.”

He appeared, in his pyjama trousers and a face half-covered in lather.

“Good morning.”

“I’m afraid to look. What sort of a day is it?”

“Fine.”

“Thank heavens for that.”

“Cold, with a bit of wind. But fine.”

“Draw the curtains and let me look at it.”

He did this with difficulty, first trying to pull the curtains manually, as he did at home, and then realizing there was a gadget involved, a string with a handle that was meant to be employed. Roger was not good with gadgets. He tugged at it and was finally successful.

The sky beyond the glass was a pale, clear blue, swept with long, thin fine-weather clouds, and when Laura sat up she could see the sea; dark blue and flecked with white horses.

She said, “I hope Virginia’s veil doesn’t blow off.”

“Even if it does, she’s not your daughter, so you don’t need to feel any responsibility.”

Laura leaned back on her pillow, took off her spectacles and smiled at him gratefully. He had always been a comfortably practical man, and this morning was obviously treating the day as though it were a perfectly ordinary one, getting up, shaving, going down to eat his breakfast.

He disappeared back into the bathroom and, through the open door, they continued their conversation.

“What are you going to do this morning?” she asked.

“Play golf,” said Roger.

She should have known. The hotel had a fine links on its doorstep.

“You won’t be late?”

“Am I likely to be?”

“And leave plenty of time to change. It will take such ages to get you into your morning suit.” She might have added. “Specially since you’ve put on weight,” but she didn’t, because Roger was sensitive about his mildly expanding waistline, and had decided to ignore the small insert which the tailor had been forced to let into the back of his trousers.

“Stop worrying about details,” said Roger. He appeared once more in the doorway, smelling of after-shave. “Stop worrying about anything. You’re a guest at this wedding. You’ve got nothing to plan, nothing to agonize over, nothing to do. Enjoy it.”

“Yes. You’re quite right. I will.”

She got up, pulled on her dressing-gown and went to the window. She opened it and leaned out. The air was icy and smelt of salt and seaweed. Already there was a single golfer, in a red sweater, out on the fairway. Below her, in the hotel grounds, lay the little pitch-and-putt course, and she remembered, long ago, bringing the children to this very hotel for a summer holiday. Tom had been six, Rose three, and Becky a fat baby in a pram, and the weather had been terrible, nothing but rain and wind. They had passed the time playing card games in the leaden sun porch, and every time the rain stopped had dashed across the links to the beach, where the children had crouched, sweatered and chapped of cheek, and built sand castles of dark, sodden sand.

But some time during that holiday Tom had been introduced to the pitch-and-putt course and the fascinating frustrations of golf, and after that he was out by himself in all weathers, his small form bent against the wind, and golf-balls and divots of turf flying in all directions.

Remembering the small boy he had been, she felt sad, thinking, Where have all the years gone? and immediately was annoyed with herself for being a typical, doting, cliché-ridden mother.

*   *   *

She shut the window when Roger came back into the room. She said, “I thought Tom would have liked a game this morning. Keep his mind off this afternoon.”

“I thought of that, too, and I asked him, but he said he had other things to do.”

“You mean like recovering from last night’s party?”

Roger grinned. “Maybe.”

Tom had gone out on a traditional bachelor’s spree with one or two of his friends who’d come up for the wedding. Laura hoped, for Virginia’s sake, that the party had not been too rowdy. Nothing in this world could be more unattractive than a sheepish and hung-over bridegroom.