September (1990) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Rosamunde Pilcher
where magnolias opened and wistaria clung to the faces of expensive London houses. Coming out into the Brompton Road, he crossed over by the Michelin Building and turned down into Walton Street. Here his steps slowed as he paused to look in at the delectable shop windows, the interior decorators and the art gallery that sold sporting prints, hunting scenes, and oil paintings of faithful Labradors bounding through the snow with pheasants in their mouths. There was a Thorburn that he craved. He stood longer than he intended, simply looking at it. Perhaps tomorrow he would ring the gallery and discover its price. After a little, he walked on.
By the time he reached Ovington Street, it was twenty-five to eight. The pavements were lined with the cars of the residents, and some older children were riding their bicycles up and down the middle of the road. The Penningtons' house was half-way down the terrace. As he approached it, a girl came down the pavement towards him. She had with her, on a lead, a small white Highland terrier and was apparently on her way to the post-box, for she carried ^ letter in her hand. He looked at her. She wore jeans and a grey sweat-shirt and had hair the colour of the very best sort of marmalade, and she was neither tall nor particularly slender. In fact, not Noel's type at all. And yet, as she passed him, he gave her a second glance because there was something vaguely familiar about her, and it was difficult to think where they might once have met. Some party, perhaps. The hair was distinctive. . . .
The walk had tired him and he found himself sorely in need of a drink. With better things to think about, he put the girl out of his mind, went up the steps, and gave the bell a token push. He turned the handle to open th e d oor, with a greeting ready and waiting. Hi. Delia, it's me. I've arrived.
But nothing happened. The door remained firmly closed, which was odd and out of character. Knowing that he was on his way, Delia should surely have left it on the latch. He rang the bell again. And waited.
More silence. He told himself that they had to be there, but already knew with hideous certainty that nobody was going to answer the bell and the Penningtons, damn their bloody eyes, were not at home.
"Hello."
He turned from the inhospitable door. Below, on the pavement, stood the dumpy girl and her dog, back from posting the letter.
"Hi."
"Did you want the Penningtons?"
"They're meant to be giving me dinner."
"They've gone out. I saw them going off in their car."
Noel digested, in gloomy silence, this unwelcome confirmation of what he already knew. Disappointed and let down, he felt very much ill-disposed towards the girl, as one usually does when told something perfectly horrible by another person. It occurred to him that it couldn't have been much fun being a medieval messenger. There was every chance you'd end up without a head, or else employed as a human cannon-ball for some monstrous catapult.
He waited for her to go away. She didn't. He thought, shit. And then, resigned, put his hands in his pockets and descended the steps to join her.
She bit her lip. "What a shame. It's miserable when something like this happens."
"I can't think what's gone wrong."
"What's worse," she told him, in the tones of one determined to look on the bright side, "is when you arrive on the wrong night, and they're not expecting you. I did that once, and it was dreadfully embarrassing. I'd got the dates mixed up."
This did not help. "I suppose you think I've got the dates mixed up."
"It's easily done."
"Not this time. I only got the postcard this morning. The thirteenth."
She said, "But this is the twelfth."
"No, it isn't." He was quite firm. "It's the thirteenth."
"I'm terribly sorry, but it's the twelfth. Thursday, the twelfth of May." She sounded deeply apologetic, as though the mix-up were all her fault. "Tomorrow's the thirteenth."
Slowly, his punch-drunk brain worked this out. Tuesday, Wednesday . . .
By the time he reached Ovington Street, it was twenty-five to eight. The pavements were lined with the cars of the residents, and some older children were riding their bicycles up and down the middle of the road. The Penningtons' house was half-way down the terrace. As he approached it, a girl came down the pavement towards him. She had with her, on a lead, a small white Highland terrier and was apparently on her way to the post-box, for she carried ^ letter in her hand. He looked at her. She wore jeans and a grey sweat-shirt and had hair the colour of the very best sort of marmalade, and she was neither tall nor particularly slender. In fact, not Noel's type at all. And yet, as she passed him, he gave her a second glance because there was something vaguely familiar about her, and it was difficult to think where they might once have met. Some party, perhaps. The hair was distinctive. . . .
The walk had tired him and he found himself sorely in need of a drink. With better things to think about, he put the girl out of his mind, went up the steps, and gave the bell a token push. He turned the handle to open th e d oor, with a greeting ready and waiting. Hi. Delia, it's me. I've arrived.
But nothing happened. The door remained firmly closed, which was odd and out of character. Knowing that he was on his way, Delia should surely have left it on the latch. He rang the bell again. And waited.
More silence. He told himself that they had to be there, but already knew with hideous certainty that nobody was going to answer the bell and the Penningtons, damn their bloody eyes, were not at home.
"Hello."
He turned from the inhospitable door. Below, on the pavement, stood the dumpy girl and her dog, back from posting the letter.
"Hi."
"Did you want the Penningtons?"
"They're meant to be giving me dinner."
"They've gone out. I saw them going off in their car."
Noel digested, in gloomy silence, this unwelcome confirmation of what he already knew. Disappointed and let down, he felt very much ill-disposed towards the girl, as one usually does when told something perfectly horrible by another person. It occurred to him that it couldn't have been much fun being a medieval messenger. There was every chance you'd end up without a head, or else employed as a human cannon-ball for some monstrous catapult.
He waited for her to go away. She didn't. He thought, shit. And then, resigned, put his hands in his pockets and descended the steps to join her.
She bit her lip. "What a shame. It's miserable when something like this happens."
"I can't think what's gone wrong."
"What's worse," she told him, in the tones of one determined to look on the bright side, "is when you arrive on the wrong night, and they're not expecting you. I did that once, and it was dreadfully embarrassing. I'd got the dates mixed up."
This did not help. "I suppose you think I've got the dates mixed up."
"It's easily done."
"Not this time. I only got the postcard this morning. The thirteenth."
She said, "But this is the twelfth."
"No, it isn't." He was quite firm. "It's the thirteenth."
"I'm terribly sorry, but it's the twelfth. Thursday, the twelfth of May." She sounded deeply apologetic, as though the mix-up were all her fault. "Tomorrow's the thirteenth."
Slowly, his punch-drunk brain worked this out. Tuesday, Wednesday . . .
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