of their picnic spread about them.
The pasties were enormous, and Virginia had only eaten half of hers, and was defeated by the remainder, by the time that Eustace, propped on an elbow, had consumed the whole length of his.
She said. "I can't eat any more," and gave him the rest of hers, which he took and placidly demolished. He said, through a mouthful of pastry and potato: "If I weren't so hungry, I'd make you eat it, fatten you up a bit."
"I don't want to be fat."
"But you're much too thin. You were always small enough, but now you look as though a puff of wind would blow you away. And you've cut your hair. It used to be long, right down your back, flowing about in the wind." He put out a hand and circled her wrist with his thumb and forefinger. "There's nothing of you."
"Perhaps it was the 'flu."
"I thought you'd be enormous after all these years of eating porridge and herrings and haggis."
"You mean, that's what people eat in Scotland."
"It's what I've been told." He let go of her wrist and peacefully finished the pasty, and then began to collect the plates and the basket and carry everything indoors. Virginia made movements as though to help, but he told her to stay where she was, so she did this, lying back in the grass and staring at the straight grey roof on the barn, and the seagulls perched there, and the scudding shapes of small, white fine-weather clouds, blown from the sea across the incredibly blue sky.
Eustace returned, carrying cigarettes and green eating apples and a Thermos of tea. Virginia lay where she was, and he tossed her an apple and she caught it, and he sat beside her again, unscrewing the cap of the Thermos.
"Tell me about Scotland."
Virginia turned the apple, cool and smooth, in her hands.
"What shall I tell you?"
"What did your husband do?"
"How do you mean?"
"Didn't he have a job?"
"Not exactly. Not a nine-to-five job. But he'd been left this estate ..."
"Kirkton?"
". . . Yes, Kirkton . . . by an uncle. A great big house and about a thousand acres of land, and after we'd got the house in order, that seemed to take up most of his time. He grew trees, and farmed in a rather gentlemanly way ... I mean, he had a grieve—a bailiff you'd call him—who lived in the farmhouse. Mr. McGregor. It was he who really did most of the work, but Anthony was always occupied. I mean ..." she finished feebly . . . "he seemed to be able to fill in his days."
Shooting five days a week in the season, fishing and playing golf. Driving north for the stalking, taking off for St. Moritz for a couple of months every winter. It was no good trying to explain a man like Anthony Keile to a man like Eustace Philips. They belonged to different worlds.
"And what about Kirkton now?"
"I told you, the grieve looks after it."
"And the house?"
"It's empty. At least, the furniture's all there, but there's nobody living in it."
"Are you going back to this empty house?"
"I suppose so. Some time."
"What about the children?"
"They're in London, with Anthony's mother."
"Why aren't they with you?" asked Eustace, sounding not critical, merely curious, as though he simply wished to know.
"It just seemed a good idea, my coming away on my own. Alice Lingard wrote and asked me to come, and it seemed a good idea, that's all."
"Why didn't you bring the children too?"
"Oh, I don't know . . ."Even to herself her own voice sounded elaborately casual, unconvincing. "Alice doesn't have any children and her house isn't geared for them ... I mean, everything's rather special and rare and breakable. You know how it is."
"In fact, I don't, but go on."
"Anyway, Lady Keile likes having them with her ..."
"Lady Keile?"
"Anthony's mother. And Nanny likes going there because she used to work for Lady Keile. She was Anthony's own Nanny when he was a little boy."
"But I thought the children were quite big."
"Cara's eight and Nicholas is six."
"But why do they have to have a Nanny? Why can't you look after them?"
Over the
The pasties were enormous, and Virginia had only eaten half of hers, and was defeated by the remainder, by the time that Eustace, propped on an elbow, had consumed the whole length of his.
She said. "I can't eat any more," and gave him the rest of hers, which he took and placidly demolished. He said, through a mouthful of pastry and potato: "If I weren't so hungry, I'd make you eat it, fatten you up a bit."
"I don't want to be fat."
"But you're much too thin. You were always small enough, but now you look as though a puff of wind would blow you away. And you've cut your hair. It used to be long, right down your back, flowing about in the wind." He put out a hand and circled her wrist with his thumb and forefinger. "There's nothing of you."
"Perhaps it was the 'flu."
"I thought you'd be enormous after all these years of eating porridge and herrings and haggis."
"You mean, that's what people eat in Scotland."
"It's what I've been told." He let go of her wrist and peacefully finished the pasty, and then began to collect the plates and the basket and carry everything indoors. Virginia made movements as though to help, but he told her to stay where she was, so she did this, lying back in the grass and staring at the straight grey roof on the barn, and the seagulls perched there, and the scudding shapes of small, white fine-weather clouds, blown from the sea across the incredibly blue sky.
Eustace returned, carrying cigarettes and green eating apples and a Thermos of tea. Virginia lay where she was, and he tossed her an apple and she caught it, and he sat beside her again, unscrewing the cap of the Thermos.
"Tell me about Scotland."
Virginia turned the apple, cool and smooth, in her hands.
"What shall I tell you?"
"What did your husband do?"
"How do you mean?"
"Didn't he have a job?"
"Not exactly. Not a nine-to-five job. But he'd been left this estate ..."
"Kirkton?"
". . . Yes, Kirkton . . . by an uncle. A great big house and about a thousand acres of land, and after we'd got the house in order, that seemed to take up most of his time. He grew trees, and farmed in a rather gentlemanly way ... I mean, he had a grieve—a bailiff you'd call him—who lived in the farmhouse. Mr. McGregor. It was he who really did most of the work, but Anthony was always occupied. I mean ..." she finished feebly . . . "he seemed to be able to fill in his days."
Shooting five days a week in the season, fishing and playing golf. Driving north for the stalking, taking off for St. Moritz for a couple of months every winter. It was no good trying to explain a man like Anthony Keile to a man like Eustace Philips. They belonged to different worlds.
"And what about Kirkton now?"
"I told you, the grieve looks after it."
"And the house?"
"It's empty. At least, the furniture's all there, but there's nobody living in it."
"Are you going back to this empty house?"
"I suppose so. Some time."
"What about the children?"
"They're in London, with Anthony's mother."
"Why aren't they with you?" asked Eustace, sounding not critical, merely curious, as though he simply wished to know.
"It just seemed a good idea, my coming away on my own. Alice Lingard wrote and asked me to come, and it seemed a good idea, that's all."
"Why didn't you bring the children too?"
"Oh, I don't know . . ."Even to herself her own voice sounded elaborately casual, unconvincing. "Alice doesn't have any children and her house isn't geared for them ... I mean, everything's rather special and rare and breakable. You know how it is."
"In fact, I don't, but go on."
"Anyway, Lady Keile likes having them with her ..."
"Lady Keile?"
"Anthony's mother. And Nanny likes going there because she used to work for Lady Keile. She was Anthony's own Nanny when he was a little boy."
"But I thought the children were quite big."
"Cara's eight and Nicholas is six."
"But why do they have to have a Nanny? Why can't you look after them?"
Over the
Similar Books
