Coming Home

  Then the taxi stopped, and Gus got out, stooping to retrieve his grocery box. Rupert followed. On the kerb, he began to reach into his trouser pocket for his loose change, but Gus was there before him.

  ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Gus. He crossed the pavement, with Rupert behind him. Between the café and a little grocery stood a narrow door, peeling dark-brown paint. Gus produced a latchkey and opened this, and led the way into a dank and airless hallway, with stairs rising up into the gloom. There was linoleum on the floor and the stairs, and a fusty smell compounded of stale cabbage, tom-cats, and uncleaned lavatories. When the door shut behind them, it was almost totally dark.

  ‘I told you it was crummy,’ Gus said, and started up the stairs. Rupert transferred his stick to his carrier-bag hand and gamely followed, hauling himself upwards by the banister rail.

  On the turn of the stairs, a door stood open, revealing a dank bathroom, curling linoleum, and the source of the lavatory smell. Up again to the first-floor landing. The stairs continued, rising into the half-lit gloom, but they were faced by another door and Gus opened this with his key and led the way into a large high-ceilinged front room with two long windows facing out over the street.

  The first thing that struck Rupert was the intense cold. There was a fireplace, but no fire, and the grate was a graveyard for dead matches and cigarette stubs. A small electric heater stood by the fender, but this was not switched on, and even if it were, it was hard to imagine that its two little bars could do much to alleviate the chill. The walls were covered with a hectically flowered wallpaper, the sort that Athena always referred to as a bee's nightmare, but this was now faded and dirty and beginning to peel at the corners. The curtains, narrow and far too short, had clearly been intended for some other room, and on the black marble mantelpiece stood a green vase filled with dusty pampas-grass. Looming sofas and chairs upholstered in worn brown moquette bore a few limp cushions, and a table, perhaps intended for dining, was piled with old newspapers, magazines, a dirty cup and saucer, and a worn attaché case, spilling what looked like old letters and bills.

  Not, Rupert decided, a cheerful spot.

  On the table, Gus set down his grocery box. Then he turned and faced Rupert. ‘Sorry. But I did warn you.’

  It was no good prevaricating. ‘I've never seen anything so depressing in all my life.’

  ‘You said it yourself. How the other half live. It's not even a flat. Just rooms. I use the bathroom on the stairs, and the kitchen and the bedroom are on the other side of the landing.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘I was lent it. I didn't want to go to an hotel. I wanted to be on my own. Some other person had been staying here, and left it filthy. I haven't got around to cleaning it up. Actually, I've had 'flu and been in bed for three days. That's why I haven't shaved. And I had to go out this morning, because I'd run out of food and stuff. Had to get something to eat. It's a bit tricky because I haven't got a ration card.’

  ‘If you don't mind my saying so, you could be better organised.’

  ‘It's possible. Do you want a drink? I've got a bottle of dubious whisky, but it'll have to be tap-water. Or you could have a cup of tea. Nothing much else, I'm afraid.’

  ‘No. Thank you. I don't want anything.’

  ‘Well, sit down and make yourself comfortable. I'll get changed. Give me five minutes. Here…’ He delved into his grocery box and produced a Daily Mail. ‘ You can read this while I'm gone.’

  Rupert took the newspaper, but did not read it. Once Gus had left him, he dropped it on the table, and then set down his Harrods bag alongside Gus's shopping. He crossed the room and stood at the window, looking down at the traffic of the Fulham Road through the fog of uncleaned glass.

  His mind was in something of a turmoil, and he found himself thinking back, and trying to sort out all the facts that he could remember about Gus Callender and that golden summer of 1939 when they had all been together at Nancherrow. He had arrived, out of the blue, driving a dashing Lagonda, come from Scotland, a Cambridge friend of Edward's. A reserved, self-contained young man, with dark good looks and an unmistakable aura of affluence. What had he told them about himself? That he had been at school at Rugby; that his father's home was on Deeside, a country known to be rich with the immense estates of landed gentry, old nobility, and even royalty. Somewhere, there had been a lot of money. So what had happened?

  He remembered other aspects of Gus, less materialistic. The manner in which he had slipped into the life-style of a family whom he had never met before, and became, obscurely, one of them. His talent for drawing, painting, and portraiture. The sketch of Edward, which held pride of place on Edgar Carey-Lewis's desk, was the most telling and perceptive likeness that Rupert had ever seen. And then, little Loveday. She had only been seventeen, but her love for Gus, and his care for her, had touched all their hearts.

  After Singapore fell, it was Loveday who was so certain, so convinced that Gus was dead that she had somehow persuaded her family that he was never going to return. At that time, Rupert was in North Africa with the Armoured Division, but letters came from Athena telling him every detail of all that had taken place, or was about to happen.

  At the end of which, Loveday had married Walter Mudge.

  He sighed deeply. He realised that he was growing cold, and that his stump had started to throb, sure sign that he had been on his feet for too long. He turned from the window, and as he did, Gus came back, looking slightly improved, having shaved, combed his long thick hair, and changed into a navy-blue polo-necked sweater and a venerable tweed jacket.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. You should have sat down. Are you sure you don't want that drink?’

  ‘No.’ Rupert shook his head. He couldn't wait to get away out of this place. ‘Let's find a pub.’

  ‘There's one just down the road. Can you walk that far?’

  ‘Provided you don't expect me to sprint.’

  ‘We shall amble,’ said Gus.

  The pub was one of those old ones which, somehow, had escaped the bombing, although buildings on either side had been blown to smithereens, leaving the Crown and Anchor isolated, sticking up out of the pavement like an old tooth. Inside it was dark and comforting, with a lot of mahogany and brass, and aspidistras in pots, and a fireplace where burnt a coke-fire, which made it all smell a bit like old railway-station waiting-rooms.

  At the bar they ordered two beers, and the barmaid said she would make them sandwiches, but she could only manage Spam and pickles. So they settled for Spam and pickles, and carried their beers over to the fireside, where they found an empty table, and, once Rupert had shed his overcoat and his bowler, made themselves comfortable.

  ‘How long have you been in London, Gus?’

  ‘I've rather lost track of time.’ Gus was lighting another cigarette. ‘What day is it today?’

  ‘Tuesday.’

  ‘I arrived on Friday? Yes, that's right. And was immediately struck down with 'flu. At least, I think that's what it was. Didn't see a doctor or anything. Just stayed in bed and slept.’

  ‘You all right now?’

  ‘I feel a bit feeble. You know how it is.’

  ‘How long are you staying?’

  Gus shrugged. ‘No plans.’

  Rupert felt that he was getting nowhere, and it was about time he stopped tiptoeing around the point. He said, ‘Look, Gus, do you mind me asking questions? Because if you do, I'll shut up. But you must realise I'm naturally anxious to know how the hell you've got yourself into this situation.’

  ‘It's not as bad as it looks.’

  ‘That's not the point.’

  ‘Where do you want to start?’

  ‘Colombo, perhaps? That's where you met up with Judith?’

  ‘Yes, Judith. That was one of the best things, finding her again. She's such a sweet person, and so kind to me. We didn't have much time, just a couple of ho
urs, and then I had to get back on board again. I had a bottle of whisky with me. Black and White. The old waiter at the Galle Face Hotel had kept it for Fergie Cameron to come back to, but Fergie had died, so he gave it to me.’

  ‘When did you get back to England?’

  ‘Oh, I don't know. About the middle of October, I suppose. London, and then we were all wheeled back to Aberdeen. Did you know that my parents died?’

  ‘No, I didn't know. I'm sorry.’

  ‘I was told they had died when I got to the hospital in Rangoon. They were quite an elderly pair. Already middle-aged when I was a small child. But I would have liked to have seen them again. I wrote to them from Singapore, from Changi, but they never got the letter. They thought I was dead, and my mother had a massive stroke; she lay in a private nursing home for three years, and then she died. During this time my father went on living at Ardvray, with housekeepers and servants to look after him. He wouldn't move back to Aberdeen. I suppose he thought he might lose face. He was a very stubborn old man, and very proud.’

  Rupert frowned. ‘What do you mean? Move back to Aberdeen? I thought you'd always lived at Ardvray.’

  ‘Everybody always thought that. They assumed it; imagined vast estates, grouse moors, established landed gentry. And I never put them right, because it was easier for me to go along with the assumption. But the truth is that my family was neither landed nor gentry. My father was a humble Aberdonian, who made his own money, and pulled himself up by his bootstraps. When I was small, we lived in a house in Aberdeen, with the trams going by at the foot of the garden. But my father wanted better things for me. I was his only child. He wanted me to be a gentleman. So we moved away from Aberdeen, to Deeside and a hideous Victorian house where my mother was never happy. And I was sent to a private prep school, and so on to Rugby, and then to Cambridge. A gentleman, with background and breeding. For some reason, background and breeding were important in those days, before the war. I wasn't ashamed of my parents. In fact, I had a lot of time for both of them. I admired them. But at the same time, I knew that they were socially unacceptable. Even saying that screws me up.’

  ‘What happened to your father?’

  ‘He died — a heart attack — soon after my mother. When I got back to Aberdeen, I thought, at least, that I would be fairly well off, have enough money to start over again. But, it all came out. The cash had dribbled away. The bottom was falling out of the property market, costs of hospital fees for my mother, keeping Ardvray going for one old man, paying the servants, the cook, the gardeners. He never thought to lower his standards in any way. Then, his capital. Stocks and shares. I'd never realised he'd so much invested in Malaya, rubber and tin. And, of course, that was all gone.’

  Rupert decided that this was no time to mince words. ‘Are you broke?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘No. No, I'm not broke. But I'm going to have to get a job of some sort. I've put Ardvray on the market…’

  ‘How about your car? The enviable Lagonda?’

  ‘Fancy you remembering that! It's in a garage in Aberdeen somewhere. I haven't got around to reclaiming it yet.’

  ‘I'm sorry, Gus. It doesn't sound much of a home-coming.’

  ‘I never thought it would be.’ Then, quietly, ‘But at least I'm home.’

  They were interrupted here by the barmaid bringing their sandwiches.

  ‘'Fraid they're not up to much, but it's all I can manage. Put a bit of mustard inside, I did, then you can pretend they're ham.’

  They thanked her, and Rupert ordered another couple of beers, and she took away the empty glasses. Gus lit another cigarette. Rupert said, ‘How about Cambridge?’

  ‘What about Cambridge?’

  ‘I can't remember what you were reading…’

  ‘Engineering.’

  ‘Could you go back to University, and finish your course?’

  ‘No. I couldn't do that. I couldn't go back.’

  ‘How about your painting?’

  ‘I haven't done anything since we were liberated by the Army and taken to the hospital in Rangoon. The desire to draw seems to have left me.’

  ‘You're so bloody good, I'm sure you could make a living that way.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That sketch you did of Edward. Brilliant.’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘A talent like yours doesn't die.’

  ‘I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything. In hospital, they kept urging me to start drawing again. They brought me papers, pencils, paints…’

  ‘You mean in the hospital in Rangoon?’

  ‘No, not in Rangoon. I've been in another hospital for the last seven weeks. A psychiatric hospital in Dumfries. The doctors put me there because I fell to bits. I couldn't sleep. Nightmares. The shakes. Floods of tears. A sort of breakdown, I suppose…’

  Rupert was appalled. ‘My dear man, why didn't you tell me before?’

  ‘So boring. Shameful. Not very proud…’

  ‘Did they help you?’

  ‘Yes. They were amazing. Wise and patient. But they kept trying to make me go back to my drawing and I had a total mental block about it. So I refused, and they gave me a basket to make instead. There were lovely grounds, and a nice little VAD used to take me for walks. And there was sky and woods and grass, but it never seemed real. It was like looking at somebody else's world through a thick pane of glass, and at the same time knowing that none of it had anything to do with me.’

  ‘Do you still feel that way?’

  ‘Yes. That's why I came to London. I thought that if I came to the most anonymous, crowded, stressful place I could think of, and survive it, then I could go back to Scotland and start again. One of the chaps who was in the hospital with me said I could use his flat. It seemed a good idea at the time. But then I got here, and I got 'flu, and it stopped being such a good idea.’ He added hastily, ‘But I'm OK now.’

  ‘Do you want to go back to Scotland?’

  ‘I haven't decided.’

  ‘You could go to Cornwall.’

  ‘No, I couldn't.’

  ‘Because of Loveday?’

  Gus did not reply. The barmaid came back with their drinks, and Rupert paid her for them, and left a hefty tip on her tray.

  ‘Oh, thanks, sir. You haven't eaten your sandwiches yet. They'll get all dry.’

  ‘We'll eat them in a moment. Thank you so much.’

  The fire was dying. She noticed this, and paused to shovel another load of coke onto the embers. For a moment all was smoky and black, and then the flames started to flicker once more.

  Gus said, ‘Loveday was the worst.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Being told by Judith that Loveday was married. It was the thought of Loveday and Nancherrow that kept me alive on that fucking railway. Once I had dysentery so badly that I was just about dead, and it would have been the easiest thing in the world, just to slip away, but I didn't. Somehow I clung on. I wouldn't allow myself to die, because I knew I had to get back to her, because she would be waiting. I thought she would wait. But she thought I was dead, and she didn't wait.’

  ‘I know. I'm sorry.’

  ‘I kept her image, like a private photograph. Water was the other thing. Thinking about water. Peat-brown Scottish burns, tumbling like beer over boulders. Water to watch, flowing by, or rolling in on some empty beach. Water to listen to, drink, swim in. Cold running water. Cleansing, healing, purifying. The cove at Nancherrow, and the sea at high tide, deep and clear and blue as Bristol glass. The cove; and Nancherrow. And Loveday.’

  After a bit, Rupert said, ‘I think you should go back to Cornwall.’

  ‘Judith has asked me. She has written to me. Three letters. And I've never answered any of them. I tried once or twice, but it wasn't any good. I couldn't think of anything to say. But I feel bad. I promised I'd keep in touch, and I haven't. By now, she's probably abandoned all thought of me.’ A ghost of a smile crossed his sombre features. ‘Tossed me aside like a worn glo
ve of a sucked orange. And I don't blame her.’

  ‘I don't think you should stay here, in London, Gus.’

  Gus picked up his sandwich and took an experimental bite out of it. ‘It's not bad, actually.’ But Rupert didn't know if he was talking about the sandwich or London.

  ‘Look’ — he leaned forward — ‘if you don't want to go to Cornwall, and I totally understand your feelings, then come to Gloucestershire with me. Now. Today. We'll get a cab to Paddington, and a train to Cheltenham. My car's there. We'll drive home. You can stay with us. Not Cornwall, but lovely country. Athena will welcome you with open arms, I know. You can stay as long as you want. Just, please, for my sake, don't go back to that ghastly flat.’

  Gus said, ‘This is meant to be the end of the line. I can't go on running away.’

  ‘Please come.’

  ‘You're really kind. But I can't. Try to understand. It's myself I have to come to terms with. Once I've done that I can start edging out again.’

  ‘I can't leave you.’

  ‘You can. I'm fine. I'm over the worst.’

  ‘You won't do anything stupid?’

  ‘Like topping myself? No. I won't do that. But don't think I'm not grateful.’ Rupert reached into his breast pocket and took out his wallet. For an instant, Gus looked mildly amused. ‘And I'm all right for cash. I don't need a hand-out.’

  ‘You insult me. I'm giving you my card. Address and telephone number.’ He handed it over, and Gus took it. ‘Promise you'll give me a ring if things get rough, or you need anything.’

  ‘That's very kind.’

  ‘And the invitation to stay still stands.’

  ‘I'm all right, Rupert.’

  After that, there didn't seem to be much else to say. They finished their sandwiches and the beer, and Rupert retrieved his overcoat and his bowler. He gathered up his stick and his Harrods bag. They left the pub, and went out into the bitter, grey afternoon, and walked for a bit until a taxi came trundling down the road. Gus hailed it, and as it drew into the pavement's edge, they turned to each other.