There was no need to knock, nor ring a tinkling bell. As the Colonel approached, an inner door was opened, and an elderly woman emerged into the porch. She wore a parlourmaid's uniform, with muslin apron and a muslin cap set square on her grey head and trimmed with velvet ribbons.
‘I thought you'd be here directly. We're all ready for you.’
‘Good morning, Isobel.’
‘Morning, Mrs Carey-Lewis…lovely, isn't it, but chilly yet.’ Her voice was shrill and very Cornish.
‘You remember Mr Mortimer, Isobel?’
‘Yes, of course. Good morning, sir. Come along in, and we'll get the door closed. Take your coats, shall I? My life, Loveday, you're growing. And this is your friend? Judith? Let me have your furs, Mrs Carey-Lewis, and I'll put them safely…’
Judith, unbuttoning her school green overcoat, looked covertly about her. Other people's houses were always fascinating. As soon as you went through the door for the first time, you got the feel of the atmosphere, and so discovered something about the personalities of the people who lived there. Riverview, although transient and somewhat shabby, had been home simply because Mummy was always there: playing with Jess; or in the kitchen, writing out shopping lists for Phyllis; or ensconced in her chair by the fireside, with all her small and pretty possessions about her. Windyridge, on the other hand, had always felt a bit impersonal, rather like a golf club, and Nancherrow, under Diana's influence, became a luxurious London flat on an enormous country scale.
But the Dower House had an impact that Judith had never experienced before. It was truly like stepping back in time. So old — certainly pre-Victorian — so perfectly proportioned, so quiet that, over the murmur of voices, the slow tocking of the grandfather clock was clearly audible. The floor of the hallway was flagged in slate and laid with rugs, and an airy circular staircase rose from this, curving up beneath a Gothic window, curtained in wheaten linen. There was as well a fascinating smell compounded of age, antique furniture polish, and flowers, with a faint undertone of damp stone and cold cellars. No central heating here, just a bright fire burning in the grate, and a square of sunshine slanting across the floor from an opened door.
‘…Mrs Boscawen's in the drawing-room…’
‘Thank you, Isobel.’
Leaving Isobel to carry the coats upstairs, Diana led the way, towards and through this opened door. ‘Aunt Lavinia.’ Her voice was warm with genuine pleasure. ‘Here we all are exhausted after trudging up the hill. Edgar made us. You are a saint to tolerate such an invasion…’
‘But you've all been to church! How good you are. I didn't come, because I felt I couldn't bear, just yet, another of the vicar's sermons. Loveday, you monkey, come and give me a kiss…and dear Edgar. And Tommy. How splendid to see you again.’
Judith hung back, not so much because she was shy but because there was so much to look at. A pale room, flooded with golden sunshine which streamed through tall south-facing windows. Soft colours, pinks and creams and greens, faded now but never bright. A long bookcase crammed with leather-bound volumes; a glass-fronted walnut cabinet containing a set of Meissen fruit plates; an ornate Venetian mirror over the white-painted mantelpiece. In the grate a small coal-fire flickered and the sunshine diminished the brightness of the flames but sparked into rainbow brilliance the faceted drops of a crystal chandelier. And there were flowers, and more flowers. Lilies, with their drowning scent. Everything dazzled.
‘…Judith.’
She realised, with a start, that Diana had already said her name. How awful if Mrs Boscawen thought Judith ill mannered or offhand. ‘I'm sorry.’
Diana smiled. ‘You're looking mesmerised. Come and say how do you do.’ She flung out an arm, coaxing Judith to come forward to join them. She laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Aunt Lavinia, this is Loveday's friend, Judith Dunbar.’
Suddenly she did feel shy. Mrs Boscawen waited, sitting very upright in a low-lapped chair, half turned towards the light, with her blue woollen dress flowing to her ankles. She was old…well into or perhaps beyond her eighties. Her cheeks, beneath a surface dusting of powder, were netted with wrinkles and at her side, ready to hand, leaned a silver-handled ebony cane. Old. Wonderfully old. But her faded blue eyes sparked with interest, and it was not hard to see that once she had been very beautiful.
‘My dear.’ Her voice was clear and only a little tremulous. She took Judith's hand in her own, and held it. ‘How delightful that you were able to come with the others. Not very exciting, perhaps, but I do love meeting new friends.’
Loveday said bluntly, ‘The reason I asked Judith to come and stay is because her family are all in Colombo and she hasn't anywhere to go.’
Diana frowned. ‘Oh, Loveday, that sounds rather a chilly invitation. You know you asked Judith because you wanted her. You would give me no peace until I'd phoned Miss Catto.’
‘Well, anyway, it was one of the reasons.’
‘And a thoughtful one,’ Aunt Lavinia reassured her. She smiled at Judith. ‘But Colombo does seem a long way away.’
‘They're only there for a bit. Just long enough to pack up the house and then move on to Singapore. My father's got a new appointment there.’
‘Singapore! How romantic that sounds. I was never there, but I had a cousin who was on the Governor General's staff, and he said it was one of the jolliest spots. Parties all the time. Your mother will have the time of her life. Now…come and find somewhere for yourself to sit. Such a lovely day, I couldn't bear to huddle around the fire. Edgar, will you deal with the drinks? See that everybody has a sherry. We've ten minutes to spare before Isobel rings her gong. Diana, my dear, what news of Athena? Is she back from Switzerland?’
At the base of the window was a long cushion. With attention elsewhere, Judith went to kneel upon it, to look out over the deep, roofed veranda to the sloping garden which lay beyond. At the foot of the lawn stood a coppice of Monterey pines, and lying across the topmost branches of these was drawn the distant blue line of the horizon. The sight of this, the juxtaposition of dark conifer and a seemingly summer sea, induced the most extraordinary sensation of having come abroad; as though they had all been magically transported from Nancherrow to some Italian villa washed in the sunlight of a southern land, and standing high on a hill above the Mediterranean. The illusion filled her with a dizzying pleasure. ‘Do you like gardens?’ Once again, the old lady was addressing her.
‘I like this one especially,’ Judith told her.
‘You are a child after my own heart. After luncheon we shall put on coats and go out and look around.’
‘May we really?’
‘I'm not going to,’ Loveday interrupted. ‘It's far too cold and I've seen it a thousand times before.’
‘I don't suppose anyone else will want to,’ Aunt Lavinia observed gently. ‘Like you, Loveday, they know the garden well. But that won't stop Judith and me taking a little time for ourselves and enjoying a small walk and some fresh air. And we can have a chat, and get to know each other. Now, how are you getting on, Edgar? Ah, my sherry. Thank you.’ She raised her glass. ‘And thank you all, so much, for being here.’
‘Judith.’ Behind her, the Colonel said her name. She turned. He smiled. ‘Lemonade.’
‘Oh, thank you.’
She sat, where she had knelt, with her back to the window, and reached to take the tumbler from his hand. Opposite, Loveday, who had for some reason chosen to share a capacious armchair with Tommy Mortimer, and sat squashed close to his side, had also been given lemonade. Across the small space which divided them, she caught Judith's eyes, and her urchin face broke into a grin, and she looked, all at once, so wicked and so pretty, that Judith's heart, all at once, brimmed with affection for her. Affection, and gratitude too, because Loveday had already shared so much with her, and now, because of Loveday, she was here.
‘…now these are my first little bulbs to come up, aconites and early crocus and snowdrops. It's so sheltered here, you see, that on New Year's Day I always
make a practice of coming out into the garden and finding out how they're coming along. And I throw out all the horrid dusty holly, and find just the tiniest bunch of little blooms, just enough to fill an egg cup. And then I feel that the year has really started and the spring is on its way.’
‘I thought you were meant to wait until Twelfth Night. To throw the holly away, I mean. What's that pink flower…?’
‘Viburnum fragrans. It smells like summer, slap-bang in the middle of winter. And this is my buddleia, but it looks a little sad just now, in summertime it's a riot of butterflies. It's quite big, isn't it, and I only planted it two or three years ago…’
They stepped out, side by side, down the sloping gravel path. Aunt Lavinia, true to her word, had not forgotten her promise, and when lunch was over, had sent the others back into the drawing-room to entertain themselves as best they might, and brought Judith out of doors for a little tour. For this expedition, she had put on a pair of stout gardening boots and an immense tweed cape, and tied a scarf over her head. Her cane kept her steady, and was useful for pointing.
‘As you can see, my land slopes all the way down the hill. At the very bottom is the vegetable garden, and the Scots pines are my southern boundary. It was all terraced when we came here, but I wanted a garden in compartments, like outdoor rooms, each with its own character, rather unexpected and secret. So we planted escallonia and privet hedges and trained the gateways into arches. The path draws the eye, don't you think? Makes one long to explore and find out what lies beyond. Come. I shall show you. You see?’ They passed beneath the first archway. ‘My rose garden. All old-fashioned roses. This is Rosamunde, the oldest rose of all. It looks a little droopy now, but when it flowers, the petals are striped in pink and white. Like little girls in party dresses.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
Once more, Aunt Lavinia paused, and Judith decided that it was particularly pleasant to be in the company of a grown-up who seemed to be in no hurry whatsoever, and happy to chat as though she had all the time in the world. ‘Nearly fifty years now. But, you see, my home, when I was a child, was Nancherrow. Not Diana's house, but the old house, the one that burnt down. My brother was Edgar's father.’
‘So you've always lived in Cornwall?’
‘Not always. My husband was a King's Counsel and then a Circuit Judge. We lived first in London, and then in Exeter, but always returned to Nancherrow for our holidays.’
‘Did you bring your children, too?’
‘My dear, I never had children. Edgar and Diana are my children, and their children like grandchildren to me.’
‘Oh, dear, what a shame.’
‘What? That I never had children? Well, you know, every sadness brings its own recompense. And perhaps I should have been a hopeless mother. Anyway, let's not dwell on past history. What were we talking about?’
‘Your garden. And your house.’
‘Oh, yes. The house. (This is the most beautiful pink lilac. I try not to let it grow too tall and leggy.) The house. It was The Dower House for Nancherrow, you see. My grandmother lived here when she was just as old as I am. And when my husband retired from being a Circuit Judge, we rented it off the estate, and later on we were able to buy it. We were very happy here. My husband died here, lying peacefully in a long chair on the lawn outside the house. It was summer, you see, and quite warm. Now. Next, we come to the children's garden. I think you'll like this the best of all. Has Loveday told you about the Hut?’
Judith, bewildered, shook her head. ‘No.’
‘No, I don't suppose she would. She never played here very much. The Hut was never hers the way it was Athena's and Edward's. I suppose because she was so much younger than they, and didn't have a sibling to share it with.’
‘Is it a Wendy house?’
‘Wait and see. My husband had it built because Athena and Edward used to spend so much time with us. They spent whole days down here, and when they were older, were allowed to sleep out, so exciting and so much more fun than a tent, don't you think. And then, in the morning, they cooked their own breakfast…’
‘Has the Hut got a stove?’
‘No, because we were dreadfully afraid of fire and the children being burnt to a frizzle. But there's a brick fireplace a safe way off, and Athena and Edward used to fry bacon and boil up their billycans. Come along, let's go and look at it. I popped the key into my pocket, just in case you wanted to see inside…’
She led the way, and Judith, filled with eager anticipation, followed; through the gate in the privet hedge, and then down a flight of stone steps into a little orchard of apple and pear trees. Here the grass was rough and long, but drifts of snowdrops and blue scillas lay in swathes around the gnarled trunks of the fruit trees, and the first shoots of daffodils and lilies pushed their way, like green swords, through the rich earth. Clearly, before too long, all would become a springtime riot of yellow and white. Above, on a bare branch, a blackbird perched, singing his heart out, and across the orchard, tucked into a sheltered corner, stood the Hut. It was constructed like a log cabin, with a pitched shingle roof, and two windows on either side of a blue-painted door. At the front was a deep porch, with wooden steps, and a fret-worked rail, and it wasn't a child-size house, but a proper place, where grown-up people could come and go without ducking their heads, nor crouching on baby chairs.
She said, ‘But who comes here now?’
Aunt Lavinia laughed. ‘You sound desolate.’
‘It's just so sweet, and secret. It ought to be played in all the time, and cared for…’
‘…but it is cared for. I care for it. I keep it aired and fresh, and each year it gets a good coat of creosote. It's well built, and consequently, quite dry.’
‘I can't think why Loveday never told me anything about it.’
‘Keeping house has never appealed to her. She prefers to muck out stables and be with her pony, and is none the worse for that. And, from time to time, there are children. The Rosemullion Sunday school always hold their annual picnic in this orchard, and then the Hut comes into its own again, but there are quite often the most terrible fights, because the boys want it to be a Red Indian fortress, and the girls like playing mummies and daddies. Look, here's the key. Go and open the door for me, and I'll show you the inside.’
Judith took the key and went ahead, ducking beneath the trailing branches of the apple trees, and so up the two steps to the porch. The key fitted smoothly and turned sweetly. She turned the handle and the door swung inwards. There was the good smell of creosote, and she stepped inside. It wasn't dark at all, because there was a third window on the back wall. She saw the two bunks, built on either side, beneath the slope of the roof; the wooden table and the two chairs; the bookshelves, the mirror, the framed picture of a bluebell wood, the rag rug upon the floor. An upturned orange crate did duty as a kitchen cupboard, stacked with odds and ends of china, a sooty kettle and a blackened frying pan. The windows were hung with blue-checked curtains, and there were blue blankets and cushions on the bunks. Above her head, a paraffin lamp hung from a hook on the main beam. And she imagined the Hut in darkness, with the lamp lit and the curtains drawn, and the thought occurred to her, rather sadly, that perhaps at fourteen she should be too old for such innocent joys.
‘So what do you think of it?’
Judith turned and Aunt Lavinia stood in the open doorway.
‘Perfect.’
‘I thought you would be charmed.’ The old lady sniffed the air. ‘Not damp. Just a bit cold. Poor little house. It needs company. We need babies, don't we? A new generation.’ She peered about her. ‘Any signs of mice? Naughty field-mice get in sometimes and eat holes in the blankets and build nests for themselves.’
‘When I was little — about ten — I think I'd have sold my soul for a playhouse like this.’
‘A nest of your own? Another little field-mouse.’
‘I suppose so. Sleeping out on a summer night. Smelling damp grass. Looking at the stars.??
?
‘Loveday would never dream of sleeping here alone. She said there were funny noises and spooks.’
‘I'm not usually afraid out of doors. But dark houses, sometimes, can be quite scary.’
‘And lonely, too. Perhaps that's why I spend so much time in my garden. Now…’ Aunt Lavinia adjusted her headscarf and drew the folds of her tweed cape about her. ‘I think it's getting rather chilly. Perhaps it's time to return to the others. They'll be wondering what has happened to us…’ She smiled. ‘Can you guess what Loveday will be doing while she waits for us? She will be playing spillikins with Mr Mortimer.’
‘Spillikins? How do you know?’
‘Because that is what she always does when she comes to visit me. And despite her waywardness, Loveday is a slave to tradition. I am glad you are her friend. I think you are a good influence.’
‘I can't stop her being naughty at school. She's always getting order marks.’
‘She is very naughty. But charming. Her charm, I fear, will be her downfall. Now, lock the door, and let us be off.’
St Ursula's
Sunday, 23rd February
Dear Mummy and Dad,
I am sorry I didn't write a letter last Sunday, but I was away for the weekend and I didn't have time. Miss Catto was very kind and allowed me to go to the Carey-Lewises with Loveday.
Here, Judith paused, chewed her pen, and grappled with a dilemma. She loved her parents, but knew them well, and was wise to their harmless shortcomings. Which made it difficult to tell them about Nancherrow, simply because it had all been so unbelievably wonderful, and because she was afraid that they wouldn't understand.