And then the other good things which they had shared together. Kiri te Kanawa at Covent Garden, the Tate Gallery on a Sunday morning. Lunching at San Lorenzo. Making love. He thought of the peaceful feeling of walking home in the evenings, back from the office, turning into Ovington Street and knowing that she was there, waiting for him.
That was what he'd got. Alexa. There. Waiting for him. That was all he wanted. That was all that mattered. So what the hell was he dithering about? What the hell was he looking for? All at once the questions were of so little importance that he didn't even bother to attempt to think up the answers.
Because the prospect of a future without her was unimaginable.
He knew then that he was over the watershed and on the path to commitment. For better, for worse. Till death us do part. But the daunting words no longer rendered him shit-scared. Instead, he found himself filled with an unaccustomed and unexpected sense of purpose and elation.
And urgency. No more reason to linger. Instead, a new impatience. He had wasted enough time. He took a deep breath, accelerated. The engine responded and the car sped up the hill. Along the road that led to Corriehill.
His mother was still around somewhere. "All right," he said, "I heard you. You've made your point. I'm on my way." And he said the words aloud, and the wind snatched the words from his mouth and tossed them away behind him. He shouted, "I'm coming!" And the reassurance was for the two of them, his dead mother and his living love.
The first of the guests were on their way home from the dance. The headlights of their cars could be seen from far off, moving away from Corriehill, down between the trees and out of the imposing gates. Driving up the hill towards the house, Noel passed a couple of these cars, but there was plenty of space on the wide driveway and time, as well, for a certain amount of badinage; derisive remarks about Noel's apparently tardy arrival at the party, and assurances that it was better to be late than never.
The home-goers had clearly been enjoying themselves.
As the exodus had already begun, Noel did not bother to park the car in the field, but instead took it to the side of the gravel sweep at the front door. As he went up the.steps, an old couple emerged, and he stood aside, to hold the door open for them and let them by. The husband thanked him courteously, and bade him good night, and then tucked his arm solicitously into his wife's, and helped her on her way. He watched them go, stepping cautiously, and deep in conversation. He heard their laughter. Elderly, perhaps, but they too had enjoyed themselves, had a fine time, and now together were going home. He thought again, till death us do part. But death, after all, was simply a part of life, and it was the living bit that was important.
He went through the doors and in search of Alexa. She was not in the disco, nor the drawing-room. Emerging from the drawing-room, he heard his name being spoken.
"Noel."
He stopped and turned, and saw a girl to whom he had not been formally introduced, but whom he knew to be Katy Steynton, because Alexa had pointed her out to him. She was blonde and very slender, with features the quintessence of Englishness; a beautiful complexion, a long face, pale blue eyes, and a tiny mouth. She wore a dress of slipper satin in exactly the same shade as her eyes, and held the hand of a man who was obviously impatient to get her into the throbbing, strobe-lit den of the disco.
"Hello, there."
"You are Noel Keeling, aren't you? Alexa's friend?"
For some reason, Noel felt faintly foolish. "That's right."
"She's in the marquee. I'm Katy Steynton."
"Yes, I know."
"She's dancing with Torquil Hamilton-Scott."
"Oh, thanks." Which sounded a bit abrupt, so Noel added tactfully, "Wonderful party. You must be thrilled. So kind of you to ask me."
"Not a bit. It was super…" She was already being towed away from him. "… that you could come."
A waiter bustled by with a trayful of brimming champagne glasses. As he passed, Noel adroitly lifted one off the tray, and then made his way through the library towards the marquee. The beat of the music there had reached a crescendo, for the band was on its second run through the dance, and the pace seemed to quicken with every moment that passed. At the top of the steps, he paused, to search for Alexa, but then, despite his anxiety to find her, and his impatience, found himself diverted, captivated by the sight before him. He had no great love of dancing, let alone Scottish country dancing, but the atmosphere had become electric, with a charge that could not be ignored. As well, his professional, creative instincts automatically responded to this visual assault on his senses, the whirling circles of colour and movement, and he wished, more than anything, that he were able to capture it on camera. For this dancing had about it an aggressive symmetry that reminded him of the precision of some oft-rehearsed military tattoo. The false floor of the marquee audibly groaned as one hundred pairs of feet banged down on it in perfect rhythm, and the centre of each ring was a vortex, sucking a dancer from the side of the set, and then throwing him out a second later with the full impact of centrifugal force. Bare-armed girls wryly displayed bruises inflicted by the silver cuff-buttons of a partner's kilt-jacket, but to all intents and purposes, they were mesmerized by the intricacies of the Reel, concentrating and waiting for their next turn to be pulled into the spinning inferno.
He saw Alexa at last, in her flower-splashed dress, with her cheeks rosy and her hair flying. She was unaware of his presence, and dancing with one of the young soldiers, a handsome figure with his raven black hair and his scarlet mess-jacket. Noel saw her engrossed, excited, blissfully happy, her face tilted up to her partner's, and filled with laughter.
Alexa.
"It's a hell of a dance, isn't it?"
Startled, Noel looked around and saw the man who stood beside him, come, presumably, to enjoy the spectacle, as he was.
He said, "It certainly is. What is it they're doing?"
"The Reel of the Fifty-first Highland Division."
"Never heard of it.",
"It was devised in a German prison camp during the war."
"It looks extremely complicated."
"Well, why not? They had five and a half years to make the bloody thing up."
Noel smiled politely, and went back to watching Alexa. But now his patience was wearing thin, and he longed for it all to be over. Which, in a moment or two, it was. A rousing last few bars, and then a final, shattering roll of drums. Applause, clapping, and cheers took the place of the music, but Noel wasted not a moment. He laid down his glass in a handy plant pot, and shouldered his way across the crowded floor to her side, where he found her being gratefully and robustly embraced by her over-heated partner.
"Alexa."
She looked and saw him, and her flushed face lighted up, and she disentangled herself, reaching out her hand to him.
"Noel. Where have you been?"
"I'll explain. Come and have a drink…'' And he took her hand, and pulled her firmly off the dance floor, Alexa meanwhile calling her thanks to the young soldier over her shoulder, but doing nothing to resist Noel's masterful progress. He led her out of the tent, through the library; he searched for a peaceful spot, and decided that half-way up the staircase was as good a place as any.