O Caledonia

Janet felt sick and treacherous. She decided that she must apologise to Lila. As she went down the dark stone corridor she heard the door from the boiler room creak open. Someone was moving stealthily along the unlit passage towards her. “Lila?” she called; there was no answer. “Francis?” No answer. Then she heard the footsteps retreat softly, the boiler room door swing to, silence. She panted into Lila’s room. “There was someone out there, they wouldn’t answer, and now they’ve gone! It was horrible. Do you think we should get the policeman?” Lila was standing at the window, clasping Mouflon. She turned and stared at Janet; her eyes were black and opaque. “I’ve told you before; it’s only the wind. I expect the outside door wasn’t shut properly. Do please stop fussing. I have things to do now, and it’s time you were in bed. You’ve made enough trouble today. Goodnight.” Janet withdrew. She was shocked; Lila had never before spoken to her like that. It was clear that there was as little point in trying to help people as there was in telling them the truth. You would be misunderstood or disbelieved and it would all be worse than ever.

One icy January afternoon, under a baleful sky, Lila left Auchnasaugh. All morning, unwilling kitchen staff had been trudging in and out bearing sagging cardboard boxes of books, mildewed hat boxes, brass-bound trunks, the leather frayed and peeling off in strips which flapped in the wind. Then came Mouflon’s great pile of fur coats; only Jim could be persuaded to carry these out; he laid them on the back seat of the car, creating an instant and intolerable miasma, whose separate elements could not be defined, but which breathed unspeakable corruption and the mortification of feline skin and bone. Vera, briskly supervisory, shook a whole tin of Elizabeth Arden Apple Blossom talcum powder over them. Francis said that he now knew the perfume of post-lapsarian paradise. “Oh, do be quiet, Francis. And stop being so affected. Go and see if Lila’s ready; your father will be impatient.”

Vera had arranged a kind of job for Lila. She was to go to Vera’s unmarried aunt Maisie as a lady companion and occasional cook; for this she would receive a handsome salary; Maisie’s family had had enough of her and wished to lead lives of their own. “So really we’re killing two birds with one stone,” Vera announced in chilling triumph. Maisie lived in a small modern house on the outskirts of Edinburgh. “So convenient and cosy, which frankly is a consideration, Lila, when you’re not quite so young as you were. And you can always go and look at things

in the Botanical Gardens. And there’s the theatre, and the Festival! Really, I quite envy you.” Lila had shown no feeling of any kind, had barely spoken; passively she had stowed away her possessions. Now she emerged, tenderly cradling her cat, who was swaddled in more furs. She had made herself look startlingly different for her new role. Instead of her habitual trailing, flapping garments, black for most of the year, white for summer sunshine, she was attired in twinset, pearls, and a lovat-green Hebe Sports suit; its box-pleated skirt swung crisply over her tattered black stockings and stained velvet slippers. She had forgotten to provide for her lower extremities. Her ragged dark locks were confined by a Jacqmar silk headscarf, firmly knotted under the chin. Peering myopically in the mirror, in the dimness of her room, with shaking hand she had applied liberal quantities of mascara, rouge, powder, and lipstick, for a healthy competent glow. Her cheeks flamed as though she had just been slapped. Then she had sneezed, so that the mascara made streaks all around her eyes like clown make-up. She looked like a murderous parody of a lady companion.

Vera’s cheek hovered a glacial fraction off Lila’s. “You must come back, of course, whenever you want to, though I’m sure you’ll be far too comfortable there to stir! Your rooms will always be here for you.” The car moved off, the children waved; Lila ignored them, staring bleakly ahead. Janet went to look at the strange, denuded mushroom chamber, now flooded with harsh winter light. The men were dragging out crates of empty bottles and Vera was telling them that the curtains and carpets were to be put straight on the bonfire. “Everything out. And then we’ll have it painted; a pretty shell pink, would you say, Janet?” Janet had nothing to say, nothing at all. And indeed she could not speak.