She took it from him. In her apron and bulky sweat-shirt, and with her cheeks glowing from the heat of the grill, she said, "Here's to Saddlebags."
He found himself, for some reason, much touched. "And here's to you, Alexa. And thank you."
It was a simple but splendid meal, living up to all Noel's greedy expectations. The chops were tender, the salad crisp; warm bread to mop up juices and dressings, and all washed down by fine wine. After a bit, his stomach stopped groaning, and he felt infinitely better.
"I can't remember food ever tasting so good."
"It's not anything very special."
"But perfect." He took more salad. "Any time you need a recommendation, let me know."
"Don't you ever cook for yourself?"
"No. I can fry bacon and eggs, but if pushed I buy gourmet dishes from Marks and Spencer and heat them up. Every now and then, if I'm desperate, I go and spend an evening with Olivia, my London sister, but she's as useless in the kitchen as I am, and we usually finish up eating something exotic, like quails' eggs or caviar. A treat, but not very filling."
"Is she married?"
"No. She's a career lady."
"What does she do?"
"She's Editor-in-Chief of Venus."
"Goodness." She smiled. "What illustrious relations we both seem to have."
Having devoured everything on the table, Noel found himself still peckish, and so Alexa produced cheese and a bunch of pale-green seedless grapes. With these, they finished the last of the wine. Alexa suggested coffee.
By now it was growing dark. Outside, in the dusky blue street, the lights had come on. Their glow penetrated the basement kitchen, but mostly all was shadowy. Noel was, all at once, overcome by a mammoth yawn. When he had dealt with this, he apologized. "I'm sorry. I really must get home."
"Have some coffee first. It'll keep you awake until you reach your bed. I tell you what-why don't you go upstairs and relax, and I'll bring your coffee up to you. And then I'll phone for a taxi."
Which sounded an eminently sensible idea. "Right."
But even saying the word took much conscious effort. He was aware of arranging his tongue and his lips in the correct position to make the appropriate sound, and knew that he was either drunk or on the point of flaking out from lack of sleep. Coffee was an excellent idea. He put his hands on the table and levered himself to his feet. Going up the basement stairs, headed for the drawing-room, was even more of a trial. Half-way up he stumbled but somehow managed to keep his balance and not to fall flat on his face.
Upstairs, the empty room waited, quiet in the bloomy twilight. The only illumination came from the street lights, and these were reflected from the brass fender and the facets of the crystal chandelier that hung from the middle of the ceiling. It seemed a pity to dispel the peaceful dusk by turning on switches, so he didn't. The dog was asleep on the chair that Noel had previously occupied, so he sank down in a corner of the sofa. The dog, disturbed, awoke and raised his head, and stared at Noel. Noel stared back. The dog turned into two dogs. He was drunk. He had not slept for ever. He would not sleep now. He was not sleeping.
He was dozing. Sleeping and waking at the same time. He was in the 747, droning back over the Atlantic, with his fat neighbour snoring alongside. His chairman was telling him to go to Edinburgh, to sell Saddlebags to a man called Edmund Aird. There were voices, calling and shouting; the children playing in the street on their bicycles. No, they were not in the street, they were outside, in some garden. He was in a cramped and steeply ceilinged room, peering from the peep-hole qf a window. Honeysuckle fronds tapped on the glass. His old room, in his mother's house in Gloucestershire. Outside on the lawn, a game was in progress. Children and adults played cricket. Or was it rounders? Or baseball? They looked up and saw his face through the glass. "Come down," they told him. "Come down and play." He was pleased that they wanted him. It was good to be home. He went out of the room and downstairs; stepped out into the garden, but the cricket game was over, and they had all disappeared. He did not mind. He lay on the grass and stared at the bright sky, and everything was all right. None of the bad things had happened after all, and nothing had changed. He was alone, but soon somebody would come. He could wait.
Another sound. A clock ticking. He opened his eyes. The street lamps no longer shone, and the darkness had gone. It was not his mother's garden, not his mother's house, but some strange room. He had no idea where he was. He lay flat on his back on a sofa, with a rug over him. The fringe of the rug tickled his chin, and he pushed it away. Staring upwards, he saw the glittering droplets of the chandelier, and then remembered. Moving his head, he saw the armchair, with its back to the window; a girl sat there, her bright hair an aureole against the morning light beyond the uncurtained window. He stirred. She stayed silent. He said her name. "Alexa?"
"Yes." She was awake.
"What time is it?"
"Just after seven."
"Seven in the morning?"
"Yes."
"I've been here all night." He stretched, easing his long legs. "I fell asleep."
"You were asleep by the time I came up with the coffee. I thought about waking you, but then I decided against it."
He blinked, clearing the sleep from his eyes. He saw that she was no longer wearing her jeans and sweat-shirt, but a white towelling robe, wrapped closely about her. She had bundled herself up in a blanket, but her legs and feet, protruding, were bare.
"Have you been there all night?"
"Yes."
"You should have gone to bed."
"I didn't like to leave you. I didn't want you to wake up and feel you had to go, and not be able to find a taxi in the middle of the night. I made up my spare bed, but then I thought, what's the point? So I just left you to sleep."
He caught the tail end of his dream before it faded into oblivion. He had lain in his mother's garden in Gloucestershire, and known that someone was coming. Not his mother. Penelope was dead. Somebody else. Then the dream was gone for good, leaving him with Alexa.
He felt, surprisingly, enormously well, energetic and refreshed. Decisive. "I must go home."
"Shall I call you a taxi?"
"No. I'll walk. It'll do me good."
"It's a lovely morning. Do you want something to eat before you go?"
"No, I'm fine." He pushed aside the rug and sat up, smoothing back his hair and running his hand over his stubbly chin. "I must go." He got to his feet.
Alexa made no effort to persuade him to stay, but simply came with him into the hall, opened her front door onto a pearly, pristine May morning. The distant rumble of traffic was already audible, though a bird was singing from some tree, and the air was fresh. He imagined that he could smell lilac.
"Goodbye, Noel."
He turned to her. "I'll ring you."
"You don't need to."
"Don't I?"
"You don't owe me anything."
"You're very sweet." He stooped and kissed her peachy cheek. "Thank you."
"I've liked it."
He left her. Went down the steps and set off, at a brisk clip, down the pavement. At the end of the street he turned and looked back. She was gone, and the blue front door stood closed. But it seemed to Noel that the house with the bay tree had a special look about it.
He smiled to hiniself and went on his way.
JUNE
1
Tuesday the Seventh
Isobel balmerino, at the wheel of her minibus, drove the ten miles to Corriehill. It was nearly four o'clock in the afternoon and the beginning of June, but although the trees were heavy with leaf and the fields green with growing crops, there had, so far, been no summer at all. It was not exactly cold, but it was dank and drizzling, and all the way from Croy her windscreen wipers had been working. Clouds hung low over the hills and all was drowned in greyness. She felt sorry for the foreign visitors, come so far to see the glories of Scotland, qnly to find them shrouded in murk and almost invisible.