Coming Home

  When the Colonel was done, there was a long silence, during which the only sounds to impinge were the heavy tick of the kitchen clock and the faint hum of the electric refrigerator. They were all behaving, thought Jeremy, like a lot of mustered ratings waiting for Captain's Orders. Only Diana opened her mouth as though to make some remark, caught her husband's uncharacteristically steely eye, and prudently closed it again.

  ‘So that's the situation. I've done my best to reassure the Mudges. They can be held responsible in no way for the behaviour of their son. I've also asked them, for the time being, to keep their mouths shut. Mudge will have no trouble in doing this, but Mrs Mudge is a naturally garrulous lady. However, they realise that no good can come from a lot of gossip, though I'm afraid that it won't take more than a day for the tidings to spread through the entire district of West Penwith. Discretion goes for all of us as well. For Loveday's sake. The first person to be enlightened and prepared must be our solicitor, Roger Baines.’ He reached into his breast pocket and took out his gold hunter watch. ‘Ten o'clock. He should be in his office by now.’ The Colonel rose to his feet. ‘I shall go and speak to him, on the telephone from my study.’ He looked about him, from one grave face to another. All nodded agreement to his proposals. And then his gaze alighted on the face of his wife, and his expression softened and he smiled. ‘I'm sorry, my darling Diana, you were about to say something.’

  ‘It's just that…I thought Loveday might have gone to Judith. Judith would be just the person she would turn to.’

  ‘Wouldn't Judith have telephoned us by now?’

  ‘Maybe not. Maybe they're still talking.’

  ‘It's an idea. Do you want to ring up The Dower House?’

  ‘No,’ said Diana. ‘I don't think we should telephone. Telephone calls can be rather remote and perhaps distressing. If Loveday isn't there, Judith might become very upset. I think somebody should go to The Dower House and explain the situation to Judith.’ She turned her head and, across the table, her lovely eyes met Jeremy's. She smiled persuasively. ‘Jeremy would go for us, I'm sure.’

  ‘Of course.’ He wondered if she knew what she was doing to him. Or, perhaps, for him.

  ‘And you can telephone us when you get there. Just to let us know, one way or the other.’

  Jeremy stood up. He said, ‘I'll go now.’

  Judith, for once, was on her own. It being Saturday, there was no school for Anna, and Phyllis had accepted the offer of a lift from Mr Jennings, whose wife ran the Rosemullion post office; and right after breakfast, at eight o'clock, Mr Jennings's old Austin had rolled up at the back door, and Phyllis and Anna had climbed into it and been conveyed away, in some style, to St Just and a day with Phyllis's mother.

  Now it was past ten o'clock in the morning, and the other occupant of The Dower House, Gus, had not yet appeared. The door of his bedroom remained firmly closed, and Judith was pleased, because that meant that he was sleeping in and having a really good rest. When he finally made an appearance, she would cook him a breakfast, but until he did, there were other ploys to occupy her mind.

  Because she had decided that this was a good opportunity to do what she had been meaning to for ages, namely, measure the drawing-room windows for new curtains, the old ones being by now so tattered that every time one drew them, another rip appeared. It would have been perfectly possible to do this with Phyllis around, but the thing was that Phyllis was so efficient and diligent that the moment one started to do a job, she was there edging one out of the way, giving the odd instruction or two, and ending up by doing the job herself. A small irritation, but viable.

  And so she had found the step-ladder, and the yardstick and tape-measure, and had set to work. Her clothing coupons had finally come, from some Ministry or other, and she'd worked out that there were enough for new curtain material, provided she used old curtains, or excess cotton sheets, as the linings. As soon as she had calculated the measurements, and decided how many yards would be needed, then a letter could be written to Liberty's of London, and patterns requested. She would cut a bit off the old curtains and send that as well, because the colours must be neither too gaudy nor too strong.

  Balanced on top of the step-ladder, and with her tongue, in concentration, clenched between her teeth, Judith measured the pelmet, and was just deciding that it might look better if it was two inches longer, when she heard the front door open and shut. A twinge of annoyance because, at the moment, she really didn't want to be disturbed. She stopped measuring and waited, hoping that the visitor, whoever it was, would hear nothing, think the house empty and go away again.

  But he, or she, didn't. Footsteps across the hall, and then the drawing-room door opened and Jeremy walked into the room.

  He was wearing a thick, tweedy sweater, and had knotted a scarlet muffler around his neck, and her first thought was that he looked so exactly the same, so unchanged, that the years that had flown by since their last encounter might never have happened. And the second thought was identical to her reaction that night in London, when she had felt so ill and so unhappy, and he had turned up at the Mews, unexpected and unannounced, and she had watched him climb the stairs and known that, had she been given the choice, he was the only person she would have really wanted to see.

  Which was unexpected and rather annoying, because it left her defenceless, and she had intended being quite firm and cool with him.

  He said, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Measuring the window.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I'm going to have new curtains.’

  And then he smiled. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, Jeremy.’

  ‘Can you come down? I want to talk to you, and if you stay up there, I'll get a crick in my neck.’

  So, cautiously, she descended, and he came to give her a hand down the last wobbly steps. When she reached the floor, he went on holding her hand, and then he gave her a kiss on the cheek, and said, ‘It's been so long. Wonderful to see you again. Are you on your own?’

  ‘Phyllis and Anna have gone to St Just…’

  ‘I've just driven up from Nancherrow…’

  ‘They've gone to see Phyllis's mother.’

  ‘Loveday's not here?’

  ‘Loveday?’ Judith looked into his face, and realised then that he had not come to The Dower House simply to see her. Something was amiss. ‘Why should Loveday be here?’

  ‘She's disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’

  ‘She's left Walter. Or rather, Walter's walked out on her. Look, it's rather complicated. Why don't we sit down and I'll explain.’

  She hadn't lit the fire, and the room was cold, but they sat on the wide window-seat, a spot not exactly warm but at least touched by the early sun. And quite simply, but lucidly, Jeremy told her all that had been happening at Nancherrow during the course of the morning, starting with Loveday's and Nat's arrival from Lidgey, and ending with the Colonel's findings and conclusive pronouncement.

  ‘…so it's all over. The marriage seems to have fallen to bits. And we don't know where to look for Loveday.’

  In growing dismay, Judith had listened to the sorry tale. Now, she couldn't think of anything to say, because it was all even more awful than she could ever have imagined.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Which was fairly inadequate, given the circumstances. ‘I can't bear it for her. Poor little Loveday. I know she's been having a miserable time. Walter being so unkind. I knew about Arabella Lumb too, but I couldn't say anything because Loveday particularly asked me not to.’

  ‘So she didn't come to you?’

  Judith shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Is Gus about?’

  ‘Yes, of course he is. He's staying with me.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Upstairs. He hasn't woken yet. He's still asleep.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Judith frowned. Jeremy sounded suspicious, as though she were telling terrible fibs. ‘Of course I'm sure. Why shouldn't I be
sure?’

  ‘Just a thought. Perhaps you'd better go and look. Or I will, if you'd rather.’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was cool. ‘I'll go. I don't mind.’

  She was still holding the tape-measure. Now, she neatly wound it over her hand and laid it down on the cushion of the window-seat, and then she got up and went out of the room, and up the staircase.

  ‘Gus?’

  No response.

  She opened the door of Biddy's bedroom, to be met with the sight of the empty bed, the sheets thrown back, the indentation on the pillow where his head had lain. The window was closed. On the dressing-table stood his few possessions: wooden-backed hairbrushes, a bottle of pills, and the sketchbook and paint-box that she had given him. His blue pyjamas had been flung across a chair, but his clothes were gone, his shoes, his leather jacket. And Gus was gone too.

  Bewildered, she closed the door and went downstairs again. ‘You're right,’ she told Jeremy. ‘He's not there. He must have got up early, before any of us were awake. I never heard anything. I thought he was just sleeping.’

  Jeremy said, ‘I have a feeling he's with Loveday.’

  ‘Loveday and Gus?’

  ‘We must call Nancherrow…’

  But, as he said this, the telephone started to ring. Judith said, ‘Perhaps that's Diana now…’ and she went out into the hall to answer it, and Jeremy followed, so that he was with her when she picked up the receiver; by her side.

  ‘Dower House.’

  ‘Judith.’

  It wasn't Diana. It was Gus.

  ‘Gus. Where are you? What are you doing?’

  ‘I'm in Porthkerris. Telephoning from your friends, the Warrens.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘Loveday wants to explain. She wants to talk to you.’

  ‘She's with you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Has she spoken to her mother and father?’

  ‘Yes. Just this moment. They were first, you're second. Look, before I put her on, there are three things I have to say to you. One is that I'm very sorry, but I stole your bicycle and it's still at Nancherrow, where I parked it, sitting by the front door. The second thing is that I'm taking your advice, and I'm going to be a painter. Or try to be. We'll see how it goes.’

  It was almost too much to take in, or even to begin to understand.

  ‘But when did you…?’

  ‘There's a last thing I have to say. I've said it once, but I have to say it again.’

  ‘What's that?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, Gus.’

  ‘Here's Loveday…’

  ‘But…Gus…’

  But he was gone and, instead, Loveday on the line. Loveday's voice, high with excitement, gabbling away as she used to, when they were both children, young and irresponsible, and without a care in the world.

  ‘Judith. It's me.’

  And Judith was so grateful, so relieved to be speaking to her, that she forgot all about being anxious, or even a bit cross.

  ‘Loveday, you are the end. What have you been up to?’

  ‘Oh, Judith, don't fuss. First, I've spoken to Mummy and Pops, so you don't need to worry about them any more. And I'm with Gus. I went down to the cliffs, all on my own, just to try to work out what I was going to say to everybody, and I took darling Tiger with me, and we were sitting brooding in the dark and watching the sun come up, and the next thing I knew Tiger was going woof-woof, and I looked round, and there was Gus. He didn't know I was going to be there. He just came, because he wanted to be back on the cliffs too. And by then I'd decided that I was never going to go back to Walter, so it was all specially wonderful, magical, and we were together again. And I didn't even know he'd come back to Cornwall. I didn't even know he was with you. And suddenly he was just there, exactly at the moment when I was wanting him most.’

  ‘Oh, Loveday, I'm so happy for you.’

  ‘Not one scrap, not one fraction, of how happy I am for myself.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘We talked and talked. And then I thought I couldn't bear to stop talking, and we must go on having a bit more time together. So we went back to the house, and tiptoe, tiptoe, I put Tiger back into the gun-room, and Gus started up the fishmonger's van, and we drove over the moor to Porthkerris.’

  ‘Why Porthkerris?’

  ‘About as far as we could get without running out of petrol. No, not that silly reason. We chose Porthkerris because we knew, here, we could find a studio for darling Gus. To work in and hopefully to live in, and never go back to horrid Scotland. He's always wanted to paint. Always and always. But of course we didn't know how to begin to look for a studio. And then I thought of the Warrens, and I knew that if anybody knew Porthkerris, it would be Mr Warren, and he would be able to tell us who to go and see, and maybe know of some studio that would be for rent or to buy. And we couldn't go anywhere else because neither of us had any money or cheque-books or anything. Darling Gus counted the change in his trouser pocket and it added up to fifteen and fourpence halfpenny. Too stupid and no use to either of us. So we came here. And they were utterly adorable, as always, and Mrs Warren cooked us the biggest breakfast you've ever seen, and Mr Warren's been blasting away on the telephone, and just as soon as I've rung off, we're all going to look at a flat on the North Beach. Just a studio, but it's got a sort of bathroom and what's known as a kitchenette. I don't even know what a kitchenette is, but I'm sure it will be perfectly adequate…’

  She might have wittered on forever, but Judith decided that the time had come to interrupt.

  She said, ‘When are you coming home?’

  ‘Oh, this evening. We'll be back this evening. We haven't eloped or anything like that. We're just being together. Planning things. Planning our lives.’

  ‘What about Walter?’

  ‘Walter's gone. Pops told me. Arabella Lumb has won the day, and good luck to her.’

  ‘And Nat?’

  ‘Pops spoke to Mr Baines. They reckon I can keep Nat. We'll have to see. And Gus says he's always wanted a little boy, and he thinks it's quite a good idea to start married life with the bonus of a ready-made family.’ She fell silent for a moment, and then said, in an entirely different voice, ‘I always loved him, Judith. Even when I knew he was dead, but it was difficult for me to explain it to you all. Gus was the only man I ever truly loved. When you said he'd come back from Burma it was the worst and the best thing I'd ever been told. But it wasn't very easy to talk about it. I know I've been impossible…’

  ‘Oh, Loveday, if you weren't impossible, you wouldn't be you. That's why we all love you so much.’

  ‘Come tonight,’ said Loveday. ‘Come to Nancherrow this evening. Let's all be together. Just like it used to be. Only Edward gone. But I think he'll be there too, don't you? I think he'll be around somewhere, drinking our health…’

  Judith said, through her tears, ‘He wouldn't miss it for all the world. Good luck, Loveday.’

  ‘Love you.’

  She put down the receiver, and was in floods.

  ‘I'm not crying because I'm miserable, I'm crying because it's all so happy. Have you got a handkerchief?’

  Of course Jeremy had got a handkerchief. He fished it, pristine-clean and neatly folded, from his pocket, and gave it to her, and she blew her nose and wiped away the foolish reasonless tears.

  ‘I gather,’ said Jeremy, ‘that all is well.’

  ‘Blissful. They're together. They're in love. They always have been. He's going to go for his painting, and live in a studio at Porthkerris. With a kitchenette.’

  ‘…and Loveday.’

  ‘Probably. I wouldn't know. She didn't say. It doesn't matter.’ Weeping was over. ‘I'll keep your handkerchief. I'll wash it for you.’

  She tucked it up the cuff of her sweater and smiled at him, and all at once, there were just the two of them. No other diversions. No other people. Just themselves. And, for the first time, perhaps a little constrai
nt, a certain shyness. Hedging, ‘Would you like a cup of coffee, or something?’ Judith asked.

  ‘No. No, I don't want coffee, or Gus or Loveday or anyone else. I want you and me. It's time to talk.’

  Which, of course, it was. They went back into the drawing-room, and returned to the deep window-seat, and now the low sun was shining, every now and then, onto all the old-fashioned furniture, and the faded rugs, and sparkling rainbow lights from the drops of Lavinia Boscawen's crystal chandelier.

  Judith said, ‘Where do we start? To talk?’

  ‘At the beginning. Why did you never answer my letter?’

  She frowned. ‘But you never wrote.’

  ‘I did. From Long Island.’

  ‘I never got a letter.’

  He frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I'm sure. I waited and waited. You said you were going to write, that morning in London. You promised you would write, and you never did. I never got a letter. And I decided you'd simply changed your mind, got cold feet; decided that, after all, you didn't want to keep in touch.’

  ‘Oh, Judith.’ He let out a sigh that sounded more like a groan than a sigh. ‘All these years.’ He reached out, and took her hand in his. ‘I did write. I was staying in a house in Long Island, and I just about tore myself to pieces dying to get the right words down. And then I took the letter back with me to New York, and sent it off by service mail, the post-box on board HMS Sutherland.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I imagine a ship was sunk. The Battle of the Atlantic was at its peak. And the mail, and my letter, would all have ended up at the bottom of the ocean.’

  She shook her head. ‘I never thought of that.’ And then, ‘What did the letter say?’

  ‘It said a lot of things. It said that I would never forget that night we spent together in London, when you were so unhappy, and I had to leave in the early morning in order to join my ship. And it told you how much I loved you. How much I'd always loved you, from the moment I first saw you sitting in the railway carriage at Plymouth, and looking out of the window to see the Fleet, as we rattled across the Saltash Bridge. And then it was all compounded by finding you again at Nancherrow, and hearing the sound of “Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring” come from your bedroom, and knowing that you were there, and how utterly important and essential you were in my life. And at the end of the letter, I asked you to marry me. Because I had got to the pitch where I couldn't imagine a future without you. And I asked you to write. To answer. To say yes, or no, and to set my mind at rest.’