Here Judith paused, while she swithered about what to say next, and how to say it. I don't want Gus to come here, Loveday had insisted. But perhaps, for once in her life, Loveday should take second place in the priority stakes. Her problems, though dire, were not in the same league as Gus Callender's. Whatever happened to her, she was surrounded by loving and supportive family, while Gus seemed to have nobody close to see him through his rehabilitation after the horrors of the Burma railway. As well, obscurely, as the days went by with no letter or message from him, Judith's anxiety for Gus was growing. No news is good news was the old saw, but instincts told her, loud and clear, that all was not well with him.
She took a deep breath, made up her mind, picked up her pen once more.
Biddy will be back for Christmas. We are a houseful of five females, but if you would like, please come and spend Christmas with us. Perhaps you aren't on your own, but I don't know, because you've never written to me. If you do come, I shan't force you on Nancherrow, or Loveday, or anything. I promise. And you can spend your days exactly as you want.
If I am interfering, and being a nuisance to you, please say. I won't write again until I hear from you.
With my love,
Judith
As Christmas loomed, the weather deteriorated, and Cornwall showed its nastiest face: granite skies, rain, and a bitter east wind. The old ill-fitting windows of The Dower House did nothing to keep this out, bedrooms were icy, and because a fire was lighted in the drawing-room at nine o'clock every morning, the log pile diminished visibly, and an emergency telephone call had to be put through to the supplier, namely Nancherrow Estates. The Colonel did not let them down and delivered the new load himself, tractoring it up the hill with the laden bogie trundling along behind. Yesterday had been a Sunday, and Phyllis, Judith, and Anna had spent most of the day stacking the logs in a neat pile against the garage wall, where the overhang of the roof would keep them protected from the worst of the wet.
So now, Monday again and it was still raining. Phyllis, that staunch traditionalist, had done her washing, but there was no way that she was going to hang it out of doors, which meant that it had all been hoisted onto the kitchen pulley, where it steamed wetly over the warmth of the range.
Judith, battling with a recipe for a wartime Christmas pudding (grated carrots and a spoonful of marmalade) broke an egg into the mixture, and began to stir. From the hall, the telephone rang. She waited hopefully for Phyllis to take the call, but she was cleaning the attic bedrooms and clearly did not hear the ringing, so Judith found a paper bag, put her floury hand into it, like a glove, and went to take the call herself.
‘Dower House.’
‘Judith, it's Diana.’
‘Good morning. What a revolting day.’
‘Ghastly. But you got your logs.’
‘Yes. Your saintly husband delivered them, and we're all cosy again.’
‘Darling, I've got such exciting news. Jeremy Wells is home. On leave. And the best is, that it isn't just leave, it's demob leave. He's going to be demobbed and come home for good. Isn't it unbelievable? Apparently he put in for it, on account of having been in the RNVR for so long, and also because old Dr Wells is really too old and worn to struggle on on his own for much longer. And they're letting him go…Judith? Are you still there?’
‘Yes. Yes, I'm here.’
‘Not a comment, so I thought the line had gone dead.’
‘No. I'm listening.’
‘Isn't it exciting?’
‘Yes. It's wonderful. I'm really glad. When…when did you hear?’
‘He got home on Saturday. Rang me this morning. He's coming to Nancherrow on Wednesday, to spend a few days. So we thought we'd have a real coming-home party. Wednesday evening. Loveday and Walter and Jeremy and you. Please come. Edgar's going to open the last of the champagne. He's been keeping it all this time, and I simply pray it hasn't gone all funny. If it has, he'll just have to find something else. You will come, won't you?’
‘Yes, of course. I'd love to.’
‘About a quarter to eight? Such heaven to have you all with me again. Good news of Jess?’
‘Yes, good news. She's a star at hockey, and she's got into the second eleven.’
‘Clever little thing. And Biddy?’
‘She phoned on Saturday. Sold the house, so now she can pay for the new one.’
‘Send her my love when she rings again.’
‘I will…’
‘See you Wednesday, darling.’
‘Lovely. I look forward to it.’
She put down the telephone, but did not immediately return to the kitchen. Jeremy. Back. Demobbed. No longer safely far away in the Mediterranean, but home for good. She told herself that she was neither sorry nor glad. She only knew that before they could resume any sort of an easy relationship, all must be brought out into the open, and she must be prepared to face him with the hurt and disappointment and even resentment that he caused her. The fact that it had all happened three and a half years ago was neither here nor there. Jeremy had given a promise and broken it, and consequently made no attempt either to explain his perfidy nor excuse himself. So. A confrontation…
‘What are you doing, standing there by the telephone and staring into space?’
Phyllis, descending the stairs with her dustpan and dusters. Spying Judith, she had paused, half-way, in some puzzlement, a hand on her pinafored hip.
‘Sorry?’
‘Got a face on like a bulldog, you have. Wouldn't want to come up against you on a dark night.’ She came on down the staircase. ‘Was that someone on the telephone?’
‘Yes. Mrs Carey-Lewis.’
‘What's she said, then?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ To add a little weight to her words, Judith put on a cheerful smile. ‘Just asking me to dinner on Wednesday.’ Phyllis waited for further information. ‘Jeremy Wells is back.’
‘Jeremy.’ Phyllis's jaw dropped in clear delight. ‘Jeremy Wells? Well. That's lovely. On leave, is he?’
‘No. Yes. Demob leave. Back for good.’
‘I never! Think of that. Can't imagine a piece of news I'd rather hear. So what's the face for? I'd have thought you'd be over the moon.’
‘Oh, Phyllis.’
‘Well, why not? He's a lovely man. Been a good friend to you ever since that day you met him on the Plymouth train; and like a rock, he was, when Edward Carey-Lewis was killed.’
‘I know, Phyllis.’
‘He always fancied you, Jeremy did. Any fool could tell. And it's about time you had a man about the place. A bit of fun. Stuck here with a lot of women. That's not what's meant for you.’
Somehow this was the last straw. Judith lost her patience.
‘You don't know anything about it.’
‘What do you mean, I don't know anything about it?’
‘Just that. And I've got a Christmas pudding to make.’ On that telling exit line, she marched back, down the stone passage, to the kitchen. But Phyllis was not to be so easily put off and simply followed hard on her heels.
‘We're not leaving it there…’
‘Phyllis, it's really none of your business.’
‘It had better be. Who else is there now, but me? Someone's got to give you a slice of their mind, if you're going to start flouncing around at the very mention of Jeremy's name.’ She stowed her dustpan and duster away in the cupboard, and then returned to the attack. ‘Have you had a row with him or something?’
‘Everybody asks me that. No. No, we didn't have a row.’
‘Well then…?’
It was impossible to argue. ‘Non-communication. Misunderstanding. I don't know. I only know that I've neither seen nor heard from him for three and a half years.’
‘That was the war. War's over now.’ Judith said nothing. ‘Look, you're making a real dog's dinner of that pudding. Move over and let me have a go at it…’ Not unwillingly, Judith relinquished the wooden spoon. ‘Feels a bit dry, doesn't it? I'll maybe put ano
ther egg in.’ She stirred, in experimental fashion, and Judith sat on the edge of the table and watched her. ‘What are you going to wear?’
‘Hadn't even thought.’
‘Well, think now. Something glamorous. You're so lovely now, like a real film star when you've got all your make-up on. What you want to do is knock him off his feet.’
‘No, Phyllis. I don't think that is what I want.’
‘All right then. Be pig-headed if you want to. Keep it all to yourself. But I'll tell you one thing. Best to let bygones be bygones. No point in harbouring grudges.’ She broke the second egg into the bowl and began to beat the mixture as though the entire situation was its fault. ‘Shouldn't go cutting off your nose to spite your face.’
There didn't seem to be any comment to make to this observation. But Judith was left with the uncomfortable feeling that perhaps Phyllis was right.
Rupert Rycroft, ex-Major, the Royal Dragoon Guards, stepped, dot-and-carry, from the portals of Harrods, crossed to the edge of the pavement, and there paused, debating as to his next move. It was twelve-thirty, the lunch hour, and the December day was bitterly cold, with a sharp, raw wind, but mercifully it was not raining. His Westminster meeting had taken up most of the morning, and his foray into Harrods what remained of it. The rest of the day he could call his own. He thought about flagging down a taxi, driving to Paddington, and then returning by train to Cheltenham, where he had left his car in the station park. Or he could go to his Club for lunch, and then make his way to Paddington. Feeling peckish, he opted for the latter.
But although — or perhaps because — there seemed to be so many people out and about, office-workers and Christmas shoppers, and young men in uniform, and older men with brief-cases, all spilling up out of the Underground or hopping off loaded buses, there was a distinct dearth of taxis. If one hove into view it was invariably already occupied. Had he been spry and able, Rupert would have been happy to take a Number 22 bus to convey him down to Piccadilly. He had never been troubled by false illusions of his own grandeur. But his leg precluded the physical effort of getting himself onto a bus, and worse, getting himself off the bloody thing at the other end. So, a taxi it had to be.
He waited, a tall and personable figure, suitably outfitted in a heavy navy-blue overcoat, regimental tie, and bowler hat. He carried, not the mandatory furled umbrella, but a walking-stick which had become like a third leg to him, and without which he still had some difficulty in getting around. Stairs and steps were a particular problem. As well, in his other leather-gloved hand, was a dark-green Harrods carrier-bag. This contained a bottle of Harvey's Tio Pepe sherry, a box of cigars, and a Jacqmar silk scarf, a present for his wife. Shopping in Harrods did not, in Rupert's book, count as shopping. In other stores, he was inclined to feel a bit lost, demeaned or embarrassed, but buying things in Harrods was like spending money in a splendidly exclusive and reassuringly familiar gentleman's club, and so, enjoyable.
He was about to give up all hope when a taxi appeared at last, trundling down the other side of the street. Rupert hailed it, raising his carrier-bag like a flag, because if he raised his stick he would probably fall over. The driver spied him, did a neat U-turn, and drew alongside.
‘Where to, sir?’
‘Cavalry Club, please.’
‘Righty-ho.’
Rupert stooped to open the door. Doing so, he faced the stream of oncoming pedestrians, and in that instant he forgot about getting into the cab, because his eye, and his total attention, were caught by the sight of the young man who was walking towards him. Tall — almost as tall as Rupert himself — vaguely familiar, shabbily dressed, unshaven and gaunt. Painfully thin. A lot of black hair brushing the upturned collar of his battered leather jacket, old grey flannels, and scuffed and unpolished shoes. He carried a grocery box, from which protruded a head of celery and the neck of a bottle, and his dark, deep-set eyes glanced neither to left nor right, but stared ahead, as though all that was of consequence was the direction in which he was headed.
Five seconds, no more, and he was striding past Rupert and on his way. Others closed in behind him. Hesitate and he would be gone. Just before it was too late, Rupert raised his voice and shouted after him. ‘Gus!’
He stopped dead, frozen, like a man shot. Paused, and turned. He saw Rupert standing by the taxi, and their eyes met. For a long moment nothing much happened. And then, slowly, he retraced his steps.
‘Gus. Rupert Rycroft.’
‘I know. I remember.’ Close to, his appearance was even less encouraging, and the darkly stubbled jaw made him look like a down-and-out. All Rupert knew about Gus was that he had been a prisoner of war with the Japs. Believed killed, he had, instead, survived. But he knew nothing more. ‘Did you think I was dead?’
‘No, I knew you'd made it. I married Athena Carey-Lewis, so word got through to us from Nancherrow. It's splendid to see you again. What are you doing in London?’
‘Just down for a bit.’
At this moment, the taxi-driver, getting fed up with all the argy-bargy, chipped in. ‘Do you want to take this cab, sir, or don't you?’
‘Yes,’ Rupert told him coldly, ‘I do. Hang on a moment.’ He turned back to Gus. ‘Where are you going now?’
‘Fulham Road.’
‘Are you living there?’
‘For the moment. I've been lent a flat.’
‘How about lunch?’
‘With you?’
‘Who else?’
‘Thanks, but no. I'd disgrace you. Haven't even shaved…’
A refusal, but Rupert quite suddenly knew that if he let Gus out of his sight, he would never find him again. So he persisted. ‘I've all day. No appointments. Why don't we go back to your place, and you can clean up and then we'll go to a pub, or something. We can talk. Catch up on things. It's been a long time.’
But Gus still hesitated. ‘It's a pretty crummy place…’
‘No matter. No excuse.’ The time had come for action. Rupert opened the taxi door, and stood aside. ‘Come on, old boy, get in.’
So Gus did, sliding across to the far side of the seat, and setting his grocery box on the floor between his feet. Rupert followed at his slightly less agile pace, easing his leg into position, and then slamming the door shut.
‘Still the Cavalry Club, sir?’
‘No.’ He turned to Gus. ‘You'd better tell him.’
Gus gave the man his Fulham address, and the cab moved out into the thin stream of traffic. Then he said, ‘You got shot up.’
It was not a question. ‘Yes. In Germany, just months from the end of hostilities. Lost my leg. How did you know?’
‘Judith told me. In Colombo. On my way home.’
‘Judith. Of course.’
‘You're out of the Army?’
‘Yes. We're living in Gloucestershire, in a house on my father's estate.’
‘How is Athena?’
‘Same as ever.’
‘Still ravishingly beautiful?’
‘I think so.’
‘And you have a little girl, I believe?’
‘Clementina. She's five now. Athena's having another baby in the spring.’
‘Loveday used to write to me, and give me all the family news. That's how I knew. What do you do in Gloucestershire?’
‘Mug up all the things I should have known years ago…about running the estate and the farms and the forestry and the shooting. The Army, I have decided, doesn't really prepare a man for civilian life. For a little, I mulled over the idea of going to the Agricultural College in Cirencester, but I think perhaps, instead, I shall stream my meagre talents in another direction.’
‘What's that?’
‘Politics.’
‘Good God, what a thought.’ Gus was feeling in the pocket of his jacket, to produce a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit a cigarette, and Rupert saw the unsteady tremor of his hand, and the long, spatulate fingers stained brown with nicotine. ‘What put that into your head?’
&n
bsp; ‘I don't know. Yes, I do know. After I got out of hospital, I went off to see the families of some of the men in the regiment who'd been killed when I was wounded. Tank crews and such. Men I'd fought with all the way through the Western Desert and Sicily. Decent men. And their families lived in such mean and squalid surroundings. Industrial cities, back-to-back housing, smoking chimneys, everything filthy and ugly. It was the first time in my life I'd ever seen for myself how the other half live. Frankly, I found it sickening. And I wanted to do something to make it better. To make this a country that people could live in with pride. It sounds a bit naïve and idealistic, but I feel strongly it's what I should be about.’
‘Good for you. If you think it will make any difference.’
‘I had a meeting this morning at the House of Commons, with the Chairman of the Conservative Party. I'd have to be accepted as the prospective candidate for some constituency or other…probably a Labour stronghold that one could never win in a million years, but all good experience. And then, in the fullness of time, and with a bit of luck, a Member of Parliament at Westminster.’
‘What does Athena think of the idea?’
‘She's behind me.’
‘I can see her, sitting on a Conservative platform and wearing a flowery hat.’
‘That won't happen for a long time yet…’
Gus stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward to speak to the driver…‘It's on the right-hand side of the road, just beyond the hospital…’
‘OK, sir.’
They had, it seemed, just about arrived. Rupert looked from the window of the cab with some interest, being unfamiliar with this part of London. His own stamping ground, which included the Ritz, the Berkeley, his club, and the large town establishments of his mother's friends, was enclosed by clearly laid-down borders on the four points of the compass: the river, Shaftesbury Avenue, Regents Park, and Harrods. Beyond was unknown country. Now, he saw evidence of much bomb damage, craters temporarily enclosed by hoardings, and empty walls where once had stood a small terrace house. Everything looked a bit ramshackle and down-at-heel. Small shops spilt their wares out onto the pavements; a greengrocery, a newsagent, a second-hand furniture store, and the eel-and-pie café, its windows damp with steam.