Free Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories by Rosamunde Pilcher Page A

“Cheers” when he took a drink, and she was enormously efficient and spent most of her time trying to dragoon the village ladies into attending unsuitable Arts Council lectures, or involving them in money-making events for charity. The village ladies were polite and charming, but despite Stella Fellows’s enthusiasm, the events were never very lucrative. She could never think why, and we were all far too kind to tell her.
    “What a surprise! I couldn’t believe it was you. What on earth are you doing here?”
    I told her, as I had told Mrs. McLaren.
    “But my dear, you must come and see us. Lionel would love to have a glimpse of you.” Tight Lines. “Anyway, he’s bored stiff today. He was meant to be fishing, but it was called off.”
    “It … it’s very kind of you, but actually I’m on my way to see Mrs. Farquhar.”
    “Mrs. Farquhar!” Her voice rose an octave. “But hasn’t anybody told you? She’s dying.”
    I could have hit her.
    “Had this appalling stroke a couple of months ago. My dear, nurses day and night. It’s no good going to see her, she just lies like a log. We do what we can, of course, but I’m afraid social visiting is just a waste of time. So sad, when you remember how wonderful she was, and how much she’s always done for the village. But of course, now that the house is no longer a free meal-ticket, none of her so-called friends come near her. And as for her family”—her mouth buttoned—“I could kill that Rory. There he is, sitting in New York, and he’s never been to see her. You’d think, when he’ll obviously inherit the place…”
    I couldn’t bear to listen to any person talking about Rory, and certainly not Stella Fellows.
    I said, “I am sorry. I really must be on my way. I haven’t much time before the last bus back to Relkirk.”
    “You’re going to the Big House, then?” She made it sound as though I was deliberately defying her.
    “Yes. I am.”
    “Oh, all right. But if you have a moment to spare before you do catch the bus, be sure to pop in…”
    “Of course.” I thought of their modern house, with the picture window framing the rain, and the switch-on logs in the grate. “So kind…”
    “Lionel will give you a snifter…”
    I backed away from her, and then turned and left her standing there, gazing after me as though I were mad. Which I probably was.
    I wouldn’t think about Rory, sitting in New York. If he hadn’t come home, if he hadn’t answered the minister’s letter, there was probably some very good reason. I walked, in long, warming strides, on up the hill; along the narrow lane that led to the gates of the Big House. I came to them, and they loomed before me, standing open, and I did not walk up the drive, but took the short cut through the wild garden, through the sodden drifts of daffodils. They were still in bud, closed against the rain, their trumpets unopened. I went beneath the trees and opened the tall gate in the deer fence. Beyond lay the rough grass, the azaleas and the hybrid rhododendrons, and then the lawn, sloping up to the gravel terrace in front of the house.
    Through the mist, the house took shape. The old, ugly red stone house with the conservatory tacked on to one side and the pepper-pot turret over the front door. The outer door stood open and I went up the slope of the grass, crossed the gravel, went into the porch and rang the bell. Then, with the jangling of the bell still sounding from the back regions, I opened the inner glass door and let myself in.
    It was very quiet. Very tidy. No flowers stood upon the table in the hall; no dogs barked; no children’s voices broke the quiet. There was the smell of pine and polish, and as well, a faint aura of disinfectant, nursing, hospitals, so familiar to me that I noticed it at once. I went into the centre of the hall and pulled off my hat. I looked up at the empty staircase. I said, not wanting to call too loudly, “Is anyone around?”
    Out of the silence came