Read Online September (1990) by Rosamunde Pilcher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rosamunde Pilcher
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trouble."
"No, not at all. That's my job."
"Have we far to go to your home, Lady Balmerino?"
"About ten miles. And I wish you'd call me Isobel."
"Why, thank you, we will. And I am Susan and my husband is Arnold, and the Hardwickes are Joe and Myra."
"Ten miles," said one of the men. "That's quite a distance."
"Yes. Actually my husband usually comes with me on these trips. But he had to go to a meeting. He'll be home for tea, though, so you'll meet him then."
"Is Lord Balmerino in business?"
"No. No, it's not a business meeting. It's a church meeting. Our village church. We have to raise some money. It's rather a shoe-string affair. But my husband's grandfather built it, so he feels a sort of family responsibility."
It was raining again. The windscreen wipers swung to and fro. Perhaps conversation would divert their attention from the misery of it all.
"Is this your first visit to Scotland?"
The two ladies, chipping in on each other like a close-harmony duo, told her. The men had been there before, to play golf, but this was the first time their wives had' accompanied them. And they just loved every inch of the place, and had gone crazy in the shops in Edinburrow. It had rained, of course, but that hadn't bothered them. They had their new Burberries to wear, and both decided that the rain made Edinburrow look just so historic and romantic that they had been able to picture Mary and Bothwell riding together up the Royal Mile.
When they had finished, Isobel asked them what part of the States they came from.
"New York State. Rye."
"Are you by the sea there?"
"Oh, sure. Our kids sail every weekend."
Isobel could imagine it. Could imagine those kids, tanned and windblown, bursting with vitamins and fresh orange juice and health, scudding over starch - blue seas beneath the curving wing of a snow-white mainsail. And sunshine. Blue skies and sunshine. Day after day of it, so that you could plan tennis matches and picnics and evening barbecues and know that it wasn't going to rain.
That was how summers, in memory, used to be. The endless, aimless summers of childhood. What had happened to those long, light days, sweet with the scent of roses, when one had to come indoors only to eat, and sometimes not even then? Swimming in the river, lazing in the garden, playing tennis, having tea in the shade of some tree because it was too hot anywhere else. She remembered picnics on moors that simmered in the sunlight, the heather too dry to light a camp-fire, and the larks flying high. What had happened to her world? What cosmic disaster had transformed those bright days into week after week of dark and soggy gloom?
It wasn't just the weather, it was just that the weather made everything so much worse. Like Archie getting his leg shot off, and having to be nice to people you didn't know because they were paying you money to sleep in your spare bedrooms. Aiid being tired all the time, and never buying new clothes, and worrying about Hamish's school fees, and missing Lucilla.
She heard herself saying, with some force, "It's the one horrible thing about living in Scotland."
For a moment, perhaps surprised by her outburst, nobody commented on this announcement. Then one of the ladies spoke. "I beg your pardon?"
"I'm sorry. I meant the rain. We get so tired of the rain. I meant these horrible summers."
Chapter 2
The Presbyterian church in Strathcroy, the established Church of Scotland, stood, impressive, ancient, and venerable, on the south bank of the river Croy. It was reached from the main road that ran through the village by a curved stone bridge^ and its setting was pastoral. Glebe lands sloped to the water's edge, a grassy pasture where, each September, the Strathcroy Games were held. The churchyard, shaded by a mammoth beech, was filled with time-worn, leaning gravestones, and a grassy path led between these to the gates of the Manse. This as well was solid and imposing, built to contain the large families of bygone
"No, not at all. That's my job."
"Have we far to go to your home, Lady Balmerino?"
"About ten miles. And I wish you'd call me Isobel."
"Why, thank you, we will. And I am Susan and my husband is Arnold, and the Hardwickes are Joe and Myra."
"Ten miles," said one of the men. "That's quite a distance."
"Yes. Actually my husband usually comes with me on these trips. But he had to go to a meeting. He'll be home for tea, though, so you'll meet him then."
"Is Lord Balmerino in business?"
"No. No, it's not a business meeting. It's a church meeting. Our village church. We have to raise some money. It's rather a shoe-string affair. But my husband's grandfather built it, so he feels a sort of family responsibility."
It was raining again. The windscreen wipers swung to and fro. Perhaps conversation would divert their attention from the misery of it all.
"Is this your first visit to Scotland?"
The two ladies, chipping in on each other like a close-harmony duo, told her. The men had been there before, to play golf, but this was the first time their wives had' accompanied them. And they just loved every inch of the place, and had gone crazy in the shops in Edinburrow. It had rained, of course, but that hadn't bothered them. They had their new Burberries to wear, and both decided that the rain made Edinburrow look just so historic and romantic that they had been able to picture Mary and Bothwell riding together up the Royal Mile.
When they had finished, Isobel asked them what part of the States they came from.
"New York State. Rye."
"Are you by the sea there?"
"Oh, sure. Our kids sail every weekend."
Isobel could imagine it. Could imagine those kids, tanned and windblown, bursting with vitamins and fresh orange juice and health, scudding over starch - blue seas beneath the curving wing of a snow-white mainsail. And sunshine. Blue skies and sunshine. Day after day of it, so that you could plan tennis matches and picnics and evening barbecues and know that it wasn't going to rain.
That was how summers, in memory, used to be. The endless, aimless summers of childhood. What had happened to those long, light days, sweet with the scent of roses, when one had to come indoors only to eat, and sometimes not even then? Swimming in the river, lazing in the garden, playing tennis, having tea in the shade of some tree because it was too hot anywhere else. She remembered picnics on moors that simmered in the sunlight, the heather too dry to light a camp-fire, and the larks flying high. What had happened to her world? What cosmic disaster had transformed those bright days into week after week of dark and soggy gloom?
It wasn't just the weather, it was just that the weather made everything so much worse. Like Archie getting his leg shot off, and having to be nice to people you didn't know because they were paying you money to sleep in your spare bedrooms. Aiid being tired all the time, and never buying new clothes, and worrying about Hamish's school fees, and missing Lucilla.
She heard herself saying, with some force, "It's the one horrible thing about living in Scotland."
For a moment, perhaps surprised by her outburst, nobody commented on this announcement. Then one of the ladies spoke. "I beg your pardon?"
"I'm sorry. I meant the rain. We get so tired of the rain. I meant these horrible summers."
Chapter 2
The Presbyterian church in Strathcroy, the established Church of Scotland, stood, impressive, ancient, and venerable, on the south bank of the river Croy. It was reached from the main road that ran through the village by a curved stone bridge^ and its setting was pastoral. Glebe lands sloped to the water's edge, a grassy pasture where, each September, the Strathcroy Games were held. The churchyard, shaded by a mammoth beech, was filled with time-worn, leaning gravestones, and a grassy path led between these to the gates of the Manse. This as well was solid and imposing, built to contain the large families of bygone
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