‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Rupert.’
‘Good luck.’
‘My love to Athena.’
‘Of course.’
He got into the taxi, and Gus slammed the door shut behind him.
‘Where to, sir?’
‘Paddington Station, please.’
As they moved off, he turned in the seat to look back through the window. But Gus had already turned and was walking away from him, and a moment later was lost from view.
That evening, just before nine o'clock, having talked it all through with Athena, Rupert Rycroft put through a trunk-call to The Dower House. There, Judith and Phyllis were enjoying an undemanding evening together, by the fire, with their knitting, and listening to a light operetta, Vienna Blood, on the wireless. Now, this was over, and they waited for the news. Then, beyond the closed door, the telephone began to ring.
Judith said, ‘Damn.’ Not because she particularly wanted to listen to the news, but because the telephone still lived in the hall, and on this cold December night, it was chilly out there. She laid down her knitting, pulled a cardigan over her shoulders, and braved the icy draughts.
‘Dower House.’
‘Judith, it's Rupert. Rupert Rycroft. All the way from Gloucestershire.’
‘Goodness. How lovely to hear you.’ It was likely, she decided, to be a longish conversation, so she reached for a chair and sat down. ‘How are you all? How's Athena?’
‘We're all well. But that's not why I'm calling. Have you got a moment?’
‘Of course.’
‘Bit complicated, so don't interrupt…’
She didn't. He talked, and she listened. He had been in London for the day. Seen Gus Callender. Gus, living in some down-at-heel rooms in the Fulham Road. They had gone to a pub for lunch together, and there Gus had told Rupert all that had been happening to him since he got home. The death of his parents, the evaporation of his father's fortune, the long spell in the psychiatric hospital.
‘Hospital?’ It was alarming news. ‘Why didn't he let us know? He should have let us know. I wrote to him, but he never replied.’
‘He said. Three letters. But I don't think he was capable of writing back.’
‘Is he well now?’
‘I wouldn't know. He looked ghastly. Smoking like a chimney.’
‘But why is he in London?’
‘I think he just wanted to be somewhere totally on his own.’
‘Couldn't he afford to go to an hotel?’
‘I don't think it's quite as bad as that. But no, he didn't want to go to an hotel. Like I said, he wanted to be on his own. Come to terms. Prove to himself he could cope. Some friend lent him the key of this terrible place, but as soon as he got to London, he went down with 'flu. So perhaps that's why he was looking so ropy, and the flat was so filthy.’
‘Did he talk about Loveday?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
Rupert hesitated. ‘He didn't say much. But I think her defection had much to do with his breakdown.’
‘Oh, Rupert, I can't bear it for him. What can we do?’
‘That's why I'm calling. I asked him to come back to Gloucestershire with me. Stay here, with Athena and me for a bit. But he wouldn't come. He was perfectly charming about it all, but utterly adamant.’
‘So why are you ringing me?’
‘He's closer to you than he is to me. It was you who found him again, in Colombo. And you're not part of the family. Athena and I are a bit close to home. We thought perhaps you might help.’
‘How?’
‘Go to London, perhaps. I've got his address. Go and see him, try to get him away. I think he might come to Cornwall, if he came with you.’
‘Rupert, I asked him to come. In my letters. In the last letter I even invited him for Christmas. I don't think he wants me interfering…’
‘I think that's something you have to risk. Could you go?’
‘Yes. I could.’
Rupert hesitated. ‘The thing is, I don't want to push you, but I don't think we should put off any time.’
‘You're worried, aren't you?’
‘Yes, I really am.’
‘In that case, I can go right away. Tomorrow if you like. Biddy's not here, but Phyllis and Anna are. I can leave the house.’ She thought ahead, making swift plans. ‘I could even drive to London. It might be better than going in the train, because it would give me a bit more leverage, having a car there.’
‘What about petrol?’
‘Biddy left me a stack of illegal coupons. I'll get the local garage to swop them for me.’
‘It's a long drive at this time of the year.’
‘It's all right. I've done it before. And there's not much traffic on the roads. If I go tomorrow I can spend the night at the Mews, and then go to Fulham first thing the next morning.’
‘When you see him, you may think I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, but I don't think I am. I think, more than anything else, Gus needs old friends. Nancherrow is out of the question, and that only leaves you.’
‘You'd better give me his address.’ She found a pencil, and as he spoke, scribbled it down on the cover of the telephone book. ‘…it's about half-way down the Fulham Road, past the Brompton Hospital, on the right-hand side of the road.’
‘Don't worry. I'll find it.’
‘Judith, you're a saint. You've taken a load off my mind.’
‘I may not be able to do any good at all.’
‘But you can try.’
‘Yes. I'll try. And thank you for ringing. I've been so worried about him. I hated saying goodbye to him in Colombo — he seemed so vulnerable, and so terribly alone.’
‘I think that's just what he is. Let us know how you get on.’
‘Promise.’
They talked a little more, and then said goodbye, and Judith put down the receiver. She realised that she was shivering, chilled to the bone, not only by the temperature of the hall, but by the knowledge that all her fears for Gus had been confirmed. After a bit, she got up and went back to the drawing-room to put another log on the fire and crouch by its comforting blaze.
The news was just about over. Phyllis reached over and switched off the wireless.
‘That was a long call,’ she remarked.
‘Yes. It was Rupert Rycroft. About Gus Callender.’
Phyllis knew all about Gus, because over the course of the weeks that had gone by since she returned home, Judith had told her about their meeting in Colombo, and how she had had to be the one to tell him that Loveday had married Walter Mudge.
‘What about him?’ Phyllis asked.
Judith explained. Phyllis laid down her knitting and listened, and her expression became much distressed.
‘Oh, poor man. Hardly seems fair, does it? Could Rupert do nothing for him?’
‘He asked him back to Gloucestershire, but Gus wouldn't go.’
Phyllis looked a bit alarmed. ‘So what does he want you to do?’
‘Go to London, and try to persuade Gus to come here, I suppose.’
‘He's not violent, is he?’
‘Oh, Phyllis, poor man, of course he's not.’
‘You never know with these mental cases. Read awful things in the papers…’
‘It's not like that.’ She thought of Gus. ‘It would never be like that.’
‘So you're going?’
‘Yes, I think I must.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow. Waste no time. I'll drive. Come home on Thursday.’
There was a long pause. And then Phyllis said, ‘You can't go tomorrow. Tomorrow's Wednesday. The Nancherrow dinner party. Jeremy Wells. You can't miss that.’
‘I'd forgotten.’
‘Forgotten!’ Phyllis began to be indignant. ‘How could you forget? Why should you go rushing off to some other person's friend, when you've got your own life to think about? Your own future. Put it off for a day, going to London, I mean. Go on Thursday. It's
not going to kill anybody, you putting it off for a day.’
‘Phyllis, I can't.’
‘Well, I think that's very rude. What's Mrs Carey-Lewis going to think? What's Jeremy going to think, believing he's going to see you again after all these years, and finding you flying off to London to see some other man?’
‘Gus is not just some other man.’
‘Seems to me he is. Even if he was a friend of Edward's, that's no cause to mess everything up for yourself.’
‘Phyllis, if I didn't go, I wouldn't be able to look myself in the eye for the rest of my life. Don't you understand what he's been through? Three and a half years of sheer hell, building that railway through the steaming jungle; sick and ill, nearly dying of dysentery; beaten and brutalised by the cruellest and most sadistic of guards. Seeing his friends dying or being killed. Or worse. Can you wonder he's had a breakdown? How can I think of myself or Jeremy under these circumstances?’
This outburst silenced Phyllis. She sat gazing into the fire, still looking mulish but at least not arguing any longer. And then she said, ‘It's like the Germans and the Jews. I don't know how human beings can be so inhuman to each other. Jess said things to me. She told me things. Sometimes, when we were alone together, doing a bit of cooking, or when I said good night to her after she'd gone to bed. Perhaps it wasn't so bad for her and that Australian girl. At least they weren't having to build railways. In that last camp they were in, Asulu, the conditions were so bad, and so little food, that ten of the women, led by the doctor, had gone to the commandant to complain. And he had them all beaten, and their heads shaved, and locked them in a bamboo cage for five days. It haunted me, that, Judith. If they could do that to women and children…’
Judith said, ‘I know.’ Jess had never told her, but she had spoken to Phyllis, and for this Judith was grateful, because it meant that all the horrors were not being bottled up. She said again, ‘I know.’
Phyllis sighed. ‘Well, that's it then. When are you off?’
‘First thing tomorrow morning. I'll take Mrs Somerville's car.’
‘Do you think he'll come back with you?’
‘I don't know.’
‘If he does, where's he going to sleep?’
‘He'll have to have Mrs Somerville's room.’
‘I'll clean it up. Change the sheets. You'd better ring Mrs Carey-Lewis.’
‘I will. In a moment.’
‘You're looking washed out, with all this. Like a nice hot cup of cocoa, would you?’
‘Adore one.’
‘I'll go and make it, then.’ Phyllis rolled up her knitting and stuck the needles through the ball of wool. ‘It'll cheer us up a bit before we go to bed.’
Back in the hall again, Judith dialled Nancherrow.
‘Hello.’
‘Diana, it's Judith.’
‘Darling!’
‘Sorry to ring so late.’
‘What's it about?’
Once more, explanations. From time to time, Diana made little painful cries of horror, but apart from that, she was very good and neither asked questions nor interrupted.
‘…so I'm going to London tomorrow. If it's all right with you, I'll stay at the Mews, and hopefully bring Gus back with me on Thursday.’
‘My dinner party! My coming-home party!’
‘I know. I'm sorry. I can't make it.’
‘Darling, I can't bear it! We're planning such a festive meal.’
‘I'm really sorry.’
‘Oh, bother. Why do these things always happen at the wrong time?’
This was unanswerable, so Judith said, ‘What about Loveday?’
A long silence, and then Diana sighed audibly. ‘Yes. I see.’
‘Loveday doesn't want Gus to come to Cornwall. She doesn't want to see him. She told me so.’
‘Oh dear, it's all so difficult.’
‘I don't think you should tell her about Gus. If he comes to The Dower House, I don't think she should know. There's no reason for her to be told.’
‘But she's bound to find out sooner or later.’
‘Yes, but not immediately. From what Rupert said, it doesn't sound as though Gus is in any state to cope with emotional confrontations.’
‘I hate secrets.’
‘I do too. But just for a day or two, until we see how things work out. You go ahead with your dinner party, and tell Loveday that I've had to go away. And tell the Colonel and Jeremy Wells not to say anything either. If Gus comes back with me, and stays here for a bit, of course Loveday will have to know. But, immediately, I think we should all keep our mouths shut.’
For a long moment, Diana was silent. Judith held her breath. But when Diana spoke again, all she said was, ‘Yes. Of course. You're right, of course.’
‘I'm sorry about spoiling your party.’
‘I think darling Jeremy will be sorry too.’
He had been given his old, familiar bedroom, and found his own way upstairs, lugging the battered green naval-issue suitcase. It was so long since he had been at Nancherrow that he didn't immediately unpack, but dumped the suitcase on the luggage rack at the foot of the bed and went to open the window and gazed out, with some satisfaction, at the long-remembered prospect. It was nearly midday. From time to time the fitful sun gleamed out from behind the clouds. There was a string of washing waving on the line, and the doves strutted on the cobbles or clustered on the platform of their dovecote, cooing away to themselves, and presumably complaining about the cold. It was a moment to be relished. From time to time, he had to remind himself that the war was over, and he was really back in Cornwall for good. This was one of them; and he knew that, with a bit of luck, he was never again going to be long separated from this magical place that always felt like his second home. And he felt enormously grateful that he had been allowed to live, had not been killed, and so was able to return.
Presently he closed the window and turned to deal with his suitcase, but as he did so, heard swift footsteps in the passage outside, and the voice of his hostess.
‘Jeremy!’ She flung open the door and was there, wearing sensible grey flannel trousers and a huge pale-blue mohair sweater, yet still managing to look fragile and intensely feminine. ‘Darling! Sorry I wasn't there to greet you; on the telephone as usual. How are you?’ She kissed him lovingly, and then settled herself on his bed, clearly having long chats in mind. ‘Did you have a good drive?’ as though he had come for a hundred miles instead of just from Truro. ‘Goodness, how lovely to see you again. And you look wonderful. Mediterranean tan. Darling, do I spy a grey hair at your temple?’
A bit embarrassed, Jeremy put up a hand to touch this lowering evidence of advancing age. ‘Yes, I think you do.’
‘Don't worry. I think it's rather distinguished. And look at me. Silver as a sixpence. Now, listen, I've got so much to tell you I don't know where to start. Most important, you know Judith's home?’
‘Yes, I know. My father told me. And he told me about her parents dying, and Jess coming back.’
‘Poor little thing, she's had such a ghastly time, but really so brave. I hate to call her sensible, because it's such a deadening word, but I never knew anybody with so much good sense. Besides being so frightfully pretty. And the most heavenly figure. But Judith isn't the absolutely vital thing I have to talk about…Jeremy, you remember Gus Callender? He stayed here, that last summer.’
‘But of course. Loveday's love. The guy who was killed in Singapore.’
‘Darling, he wasn't killed. He survived. Prisoner of war. Burma Railways. Too horrific. Judith met him in Colombo on his way home. She told him that Loveday was married, and of course he was dreadfully upset. And then, as soon as she got back here, she told Loveday about Gus being alive, and Loveday told Edgar and me.’
All that Jeremy could think of to say was, ‘Good heavens.’
‘I know. It's all a bit tricky, isn't it? Anyway, he went back to Scotland, and sort of disappeared. Judith wrote to him — I think she was a bit worr
ied about him and felt responsible — but he never replied. And then, yesterday, Athena's Rupert was in London, and he found Gus there. Mouldering around the streets and looking like a down-and-out. Too depressing. But he persuaded Gus to come out to lunch with him, and Gus told him that he'd had a perfectly horrid nervous breakdown and had been in a sort of loony-bin, and his old mum and dad had died while he was in prison, and all the family wealth had disappeared…a total tale of woe. Rupert was dreadfully upset. He tried to get Gus to go home to Gloucestershire with him, but Gus wouldn't budge.’
‘Where's he living?’
‘Some sordid flat, in a horrid bit that nobody ever goes to.’
‘So what's happened?’
‘Oh dear, this is taking such a long time, isn't it, but it is rather important. What's happened is that Judith has gone to London today to see if she can do anything to help. Maybe bring him back to The Dower House.’
‘What about Loveday?’
‘Loveday has told us all that she doesn't want to see Gus. I think she feels a bit ashamed. Not that she has a thing to be ashamed about. But one does see…’ Her voice trailed away. She looked hopefully at Jeremy. ‘You see, don't you, Jeremy darling?’
He sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’
‘It's all a bit depressing, because this evening I'd planned a lovely coming-home party for you, and Nettlebed had plucked pheasants, and Mrs Nettlebed was going to make a plum fool, and Edgar was blissful, down in the cellar choosing a wine. But then Judith rang last night to tell me she was off to London, and Loveday phoned to say that Walter couldn't make it either, so we've decided to forget about it for the time being. It's too disappointing.’
‘Don't worry,’ Jeremy assured her bravely. ‘It was sweet of you even to think of it.’
‘Well. I suppose. Another time.’ She was silent for a moment, and then looked at her tiny gold watch. ‘I must go. I promised Edgar I'd telephone the grain merchant about the hen food. It hasn't come, and the poor loves are starving.’ She got to her feet. ‘Lunch at one all right?’