Not Thinking of Death Read online

  ‘Any chance we’d get petrol there?’

  ‘Doubt it. But you’ve got the two full cans, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Rather keep that for real emergencies, though. Not that it matters.’

  Chalk contributed – more as a gesture than help of any real significance – to his mother’s fees in a nursing home in Hampshire. The real financial burden fell on his sister Betty or rather on her husband, who luckily could well afford it. In fact Chalk suspected that there might not be all that much luck about it: that Richard Traill’s attractiveness to Betty might well have been enhanced by his ability and willingness to support her mother. He was a director of a well-known brewery, and had interests in restaurants and hotels. She wouldn’t have married him only for that; and the marriage seemed happier than most, despite his being twenty years her senior. It might be expected to become even happier now there was a child on the way.

  * * *

  Coming up to Glen Dochart, to the T-junction where you could turn right to Killin, or left – as they were doing – to Crianlarich and points west and north… At this point the glen’s bottom-land was a mile or so wide, with the river splitting it and the slopes on each side rising steeply to something like 3,000 feet. While northeastward, Ben Lawers on Loch Tay’s northern shore bulked a thousand feet higher – backed, Chalk noticed, by cloud that was breaking up, its remnants flying on the wind to leave widening areas of blue.

  ‘Weather’s doing what they said it would, for once. We may have a fine weekend.’

  Dymock glanced at him blankly. Still elsewhere, in his own thoughts. In the last quarter-hour neither of them had said a word.

  A shake of the head. ‘Sorry. What—’

  ‘I said we may have good weather coming.’

  ‘Ah.’ Leaning forward to look up at it. ‘Yes. Touch wood.’ He checked the time. ‘And we’re near enough on schedule. The little bus shifts a bit, eh?’

  Cattle grazed on the valley floor. Beyond them, over the river and on that side’s lower slopes, those barely-moving, from this distance maggot-like objects could only be sheep. Dymock asked him – the question perhaps arising from his recent preoccupation – ‘You haven’t met the Buchanans yet, have you?’

  ‘Buchanans.’ He shook his head. ‘Should I have?’

  ‘He’s financial director of Barlows’. And rolling in it. Great stone pile of a house up here – well, at Helensburgh – and one in London. In Belgravia, I might add.’

  ‘Come to think of it—’ Chalk remembered where he’d heard the name – ‘Sir Innes Cameron-Green mentioned him. When I said we were building at Barlows’. If it’s the same man, he’s been to Glendarragh to shoot.’

  Dymock nodded. ‘You don’t surprise me. I tell you, when he feels like taking a break he charters a damn great yacht on the Riviera. What do you say to that?’

  ‘Well – the obvious reflection is that Barlows’ must do pretty well out of us.’

  ‘But he has fingers in other pies as well. Goes to Johannesburg quite often, for instance. And New York. Queen Mary, the captain’s table, all that stuff. I’ve only met him twice, actually. Once in the Barlows’ directors’ dining room – I was there with Jacko – and more recently at their house.’

  Chalk said, remembering more, ‘Sir Innes doesn’t know him well. Someone else brought him along to a shooting party, he told me. It was only my having mentioned Barlows’ that made him think of it.’ He paused, watching the Dochart which was close on their right now, swirling and tumbling over rocks. He re-focused on Dymock. ‘What’s Buchanan’s background?’

  ‘Oh – clearly Scottish. But I think he was at Harrow. Yes, that’s it. He told me he’d had thoughts of a naval career but his eyes weren’t good enough, couldn’t tell red from green.’

  ‘Must be tricky recognizing tartans.’

  ‘I’ll ask him.’ Dymock chuckled as he edged over to pass a lorry. Then – still in its dust – ‘Tell you one thing, Rufus. Zoe Buchanan’s a stunner.’

  ‘His wife?’

  ‘But she’s not here much. Spends most of her time in London. Actually I suppose they both do, but he’s often up here on his own.’

  ‘What should I say – bad luck?’

  ‘For God’s sake—’ a glance sideways, frowning – ‘Don’t start that.’

  Chalk shrugged, wondering why else Dymock should have brought up the subject; but otherwise having only very limited interest in Buchanan or even in the ‘stunning’ qualities of his wife. He was more consciously noticing how the hills seemed to squeeze in on either side, a couple of miles ahead where the glen abruptly narrowed. He remembered that bottleneck, and how much more strongly the river ran there, the same amount of water pouring through but confined in a narrower, rocky channel. Equally familiar – now that he saw it again – was Ben More, up to the left beyond that point where the hills closed in, set back a few miles from the glen itself and towering black against the intermittent sun. He’d been up there, in his youth. Once you got to know this country, he thought, you carried it in your mind for ever.

  Crianlarich: and turning right, northward up Strath Fillan towards Tyndrum, bearing right there on to the road for Fort William. Dymock was beginning to mutter about petrol again, and sure enough the Riley’s engine spluttered out just as they were approaching the Bridge of Orchy; they had to put in enough from one of his precious tins to get them to a pump.

  Finally, Glendarragh: the house tall and grey, as angular and unsmiling as a maiden aunt. And the tree-covered rise over which the drive had climbed at the end of its mile-long, pot-holed track shut out the last potential warmth of the day, the rays of the lowering sun. Dymock muttered, having run his eye over the gaunt stone frontage, ‘Bit of a mausoleum, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well.’ Chalk was immediately defensive. ‘It’s certainly not – what d’you call it, Dolphin Square?’

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘You see too many Yank films, Toby.’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  Chalk glanced round. He’d been out of the car, stooped at the window for this exchange with Dymock, who was still behind the wheel as if having second thoughts about stopping here: he’d swung the car right around, pointing back the way they’d come, braking and stopping it parallel to the steps which led up to the front door.

  ‘This’ was Mackenzie, the general factotum, coming for their luggage. Chalk told Dymock, ‘Butler, sort of. Name’s MacKenzie.’ Then in a double-take: ‘And this is Suzie.’

  Running down the steps: in jodhpurs – her usual daytime rig, he recalled – and a patterned jersey. Dark hair flopping… Dymock, getting out on his own side of the car and watching a terrier – Tartar – peeing on his offside front wheel, probably hadn’t had much of a sight of Suzie yet.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got a new motor, Rufus!’

  ‘I won’t.’ He waved a hand. ‘It’s his.’ He nodded: ‘Evening, MacKenzie. Mr Dymock’ll show you—’

  ‘Grand to see ye again, sir.’

  ‘Suzie, you’re looking marvellous!’

  ‘Oh, I’m a marvel, all right. But listen, I heard from Guy, he’s—’

  ‘I know. Hoping to fly up with Diana.’ He saw her eyes move, heard Dymock’s tread on the gravel. ‘This is Toby Dymock. Suzie Cameron-Green.’

  He thought her eyes had widened – as in surprise. Then, that what he saw was a conscious return to the proprieties; as if some now departed Nanny had whispered in her ear ‘It’s rude to stare…’ She’d put her hand out, said in a tone of voice that precisely imitated her mother’s: ‘So glad you could come.’

  ‘Well, it’s very kind of you all, to invite a total stranger.’ He let go of her hand. ‘I say. Rufus did mention that you were frightfully pretty, but—’

  ‘Frightfully’s about right.’ She had to turn her back on him, in a move to take Chalk’s arm. Her initiative, not his… ‘Rufus, listen.’ Starting back towards the house. ‘I doubt if Guy told you this – but he’s decided not to go to Sp
ain. Isn’t that a huge relief?’

  ‘Certainly is. No, he didn’t tell me—’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to know he was thinking of it, were you. And the other good news is Alastair’s coming home tomorrow. Only for one night, but it’s a start, isn’t it? I mean, with you two here—’ she glanced round over her shoulder: ‘Alastair’s my brother. Did Rufus tell you we’re planning lots of lovely parties?’

  ‘He did mention something of that sort.’

  Eve Cameron-Green met them in the hall; Mackenzie bringing up the rear with their suitcases. Eve offered Dymock her hand: ‘You must be Lieutenant Dymock.’

  ‘Well – Toby Dymock, Lady Cameron-Green.’

  ‘How nice – and that you could come. I see my daughter’s already welcomed you. Rufus – how clever of you to arrive precisely at the time we expected you!’

  ‘Actually—’ Dymock put in, smiling – ‘I was driving.’

  ‘Awfully smart car.’ Suzie pointed through the front doors. ‘Look. That green – er – whatever it is.’

  ‘Whatever it is, she says.’ Dymock informed her, ‘That, let me tell you, is an example of one of the finest marques on the road today. Excluding Rolls-Royce and Bentley – and I suppose perhaps Alvis, at a pinch—’

  ‘And Austin, Morris, Hillman, Ford—’

  ‘Oh, really—’

  Suzie’s mother wasn’t certain whether or not this was a serious disagreement. She cut in, ‘Isn’t it astonishing, how many different kinds there are!’ She was at the door of her husband’s study, rapping on it before she pushed it open a few inches… ‘Innes, our guests have arrived.’

  ‘Well, tell them the whisky’s in here!’

  Chalk laughed. ‘I think we heard that. With your permission—’

  ‘Go on in. Suzie and I’ll see you later. MacKenzie’ll unpack for you meanwhile, and I expect Innes will show you where your rooms are. Don’t let him keep you too long.’

  Chalk, who’d been closest to it, was already in the doorway. ‘Evening, sir.’

  ‘Come on in, Chalk!’

  ‘Yes.’ Holding the door and looking back into the stone-flagged hall, he was surprised to see Suzie gazing at Dymock in a way that suggested there was some important exchange in progress between them. At the same time he had a sight of her mother’s back as she retreated, and as she went out of sight he heard Dymock murmur to Suzie, ‘Nothing on earth would keep me very long.’

  * * *

  He thought, while half listening to Sir Innes’ account of the past week’s fishing, that for Dymock that kind of thing was probably only a matter of habit. Or good manners: as if it might have been rude not to compliment a girl by showing personal interest in her.

  He’d better be warned off, anyway. Suzie was no Mrs – what was that name – Buchanan? Suzie would think he meant it. Being young and impressionable – she could have had no experience of men like Dymock.

  Possibly, he admitted to himself, he was making an unwarranted assumption and doing Mrs Buchanan an injustice. But the tone of voice in which Dymock had described her – unless one only imagined that, Dymock being the man he was… At this moment, watching Sir Innes, seemingly listening attentively to a story about catching thirty fair-sized mountain trout in less than two hours. That was the subject-matter at this moment, but it tended to jump, one such reminiscence giving rise to another and the stories spanning about a quarter of a century. For anyone who let his thoughts wander at all, it was a minefield: which Chalk was risking, remembering Dymock in the car this afternoon, that frown and his weary, mildly irritated ‘Don’t start that…’

  ‘What about it, Chalk? Take a picnic lunch, shall we, make a day of it?’

  ‘Marvellous idea, sir!’

  ‘Capital! Looking at Dymock: ‘The three of us, eh?’

  ‘Well.’ Dymock had reservations, evidently: Chalk saw them coming. ‘Only thing is, I have a sort of compulsion about using my own gear. Can’t explain it in any way that makes sense, but it could date from an occasion when I broke my father’s favourite rod.’

  ‘You won’t be getting your hands on my favourite rod, I promise you!’

  ‘No, sir.’ He joined in the amusement. ‘But I really do prefer to fish with my own stuff. Next time – I very much hope there may be a next time – I’ll bring it. If I’m invited again.’

  ‘Just as you please, of course.’ Sir Innes, looking puzzled, turned in his chair to face Chalk. ‘Just you and I, then. I’d wait for Alastair, but we’d lose half the day. And we’ll show ’em, we’ll catch enough fish for three – eh?’

  ‘Well, let’s hope…’

  ‘They’re like the Loch Leven trout, these little mountain fellows. Not necessarily all that little, either. But they have the orange spots in their marking that’s typical of Loch Leven fish – if you’ve ever fished there?’

  He hadn’t.

  ‘Never mind. Of course, this weather’s too bright by half. But you never know up here, it can change suddenly, we may get a decent spell of cloud…’ He asked Dymock, ‘Won’t mind if we leave you to your own devices, eh?’

  ‘Not at all, sir. It’s my fault, entirely. Stupid of me – I should have thought, and put a rod in.’

  ‘You can always change your mind. Hope you will. I’ve plenty of tackle here. Perhaps you’ll persuade him, Chalk?’

  ‘I’ll—’ he nodded, looking at Dymock and thinking I damn well will – ‘I’ll try to, sir.’

  ‘Otherwise, Dymock, Suzie’d no doubt show you round the place. And Alastair’ll be turning up at some stage, of course. In time for luncheon, I imagine. Never misses a square meal if he can help it. But Suzie’ll look after you.’

  When he’d changed for dinner, Chalk went along to Dymock’s room. Dymock, who hadn’t finished dressing, was surprised to see him.

  ‘Rufus… To what do I owe this honour?’

  ‘Coming straight to the point, I think it’d be a good idea if you joined us tomorrow on this fishing expedition.’

  ‘But I explained—’

  ‘Codswallop. You don’t give a damn whose rod you use.’

  ‘My dear fellow – why d’you say that?’

  ‘Because nobody’s so damn precious they wouldn’t fish with a borrowed rod. As Sir Innes is obviously thinking too, only he’s being polite to his guest. Who’s here, incidentally, at my behest.’

  ‘What exactly are you saying?’

  ‘That I think it’d be better if you came with us. Even if – in view of your alleged aversion to using borrowed tackle you don’t fish.’

  ‘I’m not quite on the wavelength, Rufus. Your words are comprehensible, but what’s behind them—’

  He nodded. ‘All right. It would be better that you did not hang around Suzie.’

  ‘Oh…’

  ‘Well?’

  A smile: a small shake of the dark head. ‘Rufus – my dear old chap – I’m not going to take this seriously – since that might well involve punching you on the nose—’

  ‘I heard you promising not to deprive her of your company for too long. That was within five minutes of first setting eyes on her. She’s very young, perhaps gullible – vulnerable might be the word – I’m extremely fond of her and even more so, Toby, of my brother Guy.’

  ‘So on the strength of my having made a flattering remark – no, two flattering remarks, I’d already told her she was pretty, hadn’t I – and that was within five seconds of meeting her—’

  ‘It was, indeed.’

  ‘Well, Rufus, I can’t say I’ve ever noticed how you talk to girls—’

  ‘Just normally. Without seeking to impress, or captivate. But the last straw, the reason I’m here now, is that damn-fool lie about not caring to fish with borrowed tackle. It’s transparent, Toby—’

  Someone had tapped on the door. Then a call: ‘Rufus?’

  Suzie… He went to the door and opened it. She was dressed for dinner, in a narrow, turquoise dress, a double rope of pearls and the bracelet which he rememb
ered she’d worn on the previous weekend. The dark hair pinned up… Her glance went past him to Dymock, who was standing now, with no socks on and the ends of his tie dangling on a starched shirt-front.

  ‘I knocked on your door, Rufus, got no answer, guessed you might be jawing in here, and then heard your voice. Hello, Toby. I only wanted to warn you both that dinner’s to be sharp at eight – cook gets in a tizzie otherwise – and the parents are already down, so—’

  ‘I’ll be down in ten seconds flat. Thanks for the warning.’ He told Dymock, ‘Better get a wriggle on, Toby.’ In the passage with Suzie, he pulled the door shut behind him. ‘Is my tie all right?’

  ‘Come to the light, I’ll see.’

  She straightened it for him. ‘That’ll do.’

  ‘Thanks… You’re looking exquisite, Suzie!’

  ‘Oh my God, you naval people…’

  ‘Doesn’t Guy—’ following her towards the gallery at the head of the stairs – ‘doesn’t my little brother pass any comment when you’re looking especially stunning?’

  Dymock’s word – as used to describe Mrs Whatsit. He’d recognized it, too late, just as it slipped out. But – Dymock’s manner, too? Looking back down the corridor he was relieved to see he hadn’t left his room yet. Imagining the sardonic grin… Suzie was telling him, ‘Guy does rather lay it on, at times. Runs in the family, I dare say.’ She laughed, glancing back at him – at the head of the curve of stairs, looking he thought less pretty than actually beautiful; her hands flew up to cover her ears just as MacKenzie struck the dinner gong.

  But there you are, he told himself, when they were sitting down to dinner – one does pay compliments to girls. Even though in this instance he’d been (a) telling her nothing but the truth, and (b) in intention, as it were, only keeping Guy’s end up for him. Despite which he rather wished now that he hadn’t said as much as he had to Dymock. Although the exchange in the hall had been rather too intense, he thought, to be passed off as just another social interchange. And on top of that, of course, the idiotic lie about not wanting to fish with any rod but his own – so blatant a move to get Suzie to himself tomorrow.