‘I see.’ It all began to sound a bit overwhelming and something of a responsibility. Worrying, even.
‘Could you say it all again? About the worldly possessions, I mean.’
‘Of course. She has left you her house, and everything in it. But, most important, her capital investments.’
‘But what would I do with her house?’
‘I think it should be put on the market and the resultant sum of money invested.’ He laid down his pen and leaned forward, his arms crossed on the desk top.
‘I can see you're having a bit of difficulty taking this all in, and I don't blame you. What you have to understand is that your Aunt Louise was a very wealthy lady. And I mean very wealthy.’
‘Rich?’
‘Let's just use the word wealthy. “Substantial” is another good word. She has left you substantially provided for. You probably had no idea of what she was worth because, although she lived comfortably, it was with no sort of ostentation.’
‘But…’ It was puzzling. ‘The Dunbars were never rich. Mummy and Dad were forever talking about economising, and I know my school uniform was dreadfully expensive…’
‘Mrs Forrester's fortune was not Dunbar money. Jack Forrester was a soldier, but as well a man of considerable private means. He had no brothers or sisters, and so everything he had he left to his wife. Your aunt. She, in turn, hands it on to you.’
‘Do you think she knew he was rich when she married him?’
Mr Baines laughed. ‘Do you know, I don't imagine she had the faintest idea.’
‘It must have been a lovely surprise for her.’
‘Is it a lovely surprise for you?’
‘I don't know. It's hard to imagine, exactly, what it all means.’ She frowned. ‘Mr Baines, does Dad know about all this?’
‘Not yet. I wanted to tell you first. I shall, of course, let him know the situation as soon as I return to my office. I shall send him a cable. And as for what it means, I shall tell you.’ He spoke with some relish. ‘It means security and independence for the rest of your life. You can see yourself through University, and if you marry, you need never be beholden to your husband. The Married Woman's Property Act, one of the best bits of legislature ever seen through Parliament, ensures that you will always be in control of your own affairs, able to deal with them and handle them by yourself, just as you see fit. Does the prospect alarm you?’
‘A bit.’
‘Don't be alarmed. Money is only as good as the people who possess it. It can be squandered and wasted, or it can be used prudently, to enrich and enhance. However, for the time being, you don't have to worry about responsibility. Until you are twenty-one, the inheritance will be put in trust and administered by trustees. I shall be one of them, and I thought perhaps we should ask Captain Somerville to join the team.’
‘Uncle Bob?’
‘Does that sound a good idea?’
‘Yes.’ Mr Baines had obviously done his homework. ‘Of course.’
‘I'll get something drawn up. And meantime, I'll arrange for some sort of allowance for you. Now you're on your own, you'll need to buy clothes, books, birthday presents for friends…all the small expenditures that parents or guardians normally deal with. You're too young for a cheque-book, but in another year you should qualify for that. So, perhaps, a post-office savings account. I'll see to that.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘You'll be able to go shopping. All women want to go shopping. I'm sure there must be something that you've been yearning for.’
‘I wanted a bicycle for ages, but Aunt Louise bought me one.’
‘Is there nothing else?’
‘Well…I am saving up for a gramophone, but I haven't got very far.’
‘You can buy a gramophone,’ Mr Baines told her. ‘And a stack of records.’
She was charmed. ‘Could I really? Would I be allowed? Would you let me?’
‘Why not? It's a modest enough request. And perhaps there is something in Mrs Forrester's house that you would like to keep? You are far too young to be lumbered with bricks and mortar, or a collection of furniture, but maybe a little piece of china, or a pretty clock…?’
‘No.’ She had her desk, her books, her bicycle (at Windyridge). Her Chinese box (at Nancherrow). Extra possessions would only become a burden. She thought about the elephant's-foot umbrella stand, the tiger-skin rugs, the horns of the deer, Uncle Jack's golf trophies, and knew that she wanted none of them. Windyridge had been a house filled with another person's memories. Nothing in it meant anything to her. ‘No. There's nothing I want to keep.’
‘Right.’ He started to gather together his documents. ‘That's it then. No more questions?’
‘I don't think so.’
‘If you do think of anything, you can telephone me. But we'll certainly have another meeting, and I'll be able then to fill you in with details…’
At this moment the door of the study opened, and they were joined by Miss Catto, her black gown flying, and the usual bundle of exercise books tucked under her arm. Judith, instinctively, sprang to her feet. Miss Catto looked from her to Mr Baines. ‘Not interrupting, am I? Given you enough time?’
Mr Baines, too, stood, towering over the pair of them. ‘Plenty of time. All has been explained, if not discussed. You may once more take possession of your study. And thank you for letting us have the use of it.’
‘What about a cup of tea?’
‘Thank you, but I must get back to my office.’
‘Very well. Judith, don't go just yet. I want a word with you.’
Mr Baines had packed his briefcase, and now buckled the strap. He came around from behind the desk.
‘Goodbye then, Judith.’ He beamed benevolently down on her. ‘For the time being.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Baines.’
‘And thank you again, Miss Catto.’
Judith went to open the door for him, and he loped from the room. She closed the door behind him, and turned to face her headmistress. There was a moment's pause, and then Miss Catto said, ‘Well?’
‘Well what, Miss Catto?’
‘How does it feel to know that University is no longer a financial problem, because security so simplifies life?’
‘I never knew Aunt Louise was wealthy.’
‘It was one of her greatest assets. A total lack of pretension.’ Miss Catto dumped the exercise books onto her desk, then turned to lean against it, so that her eyes were on a level with Judith's. ‘I think your aunt has paid you a great compliment. She knew that you are not, and will never be, a fool.’
‘Mr Baines says I can buy a gramophone.’
‘Is that what you want?’
‘I'm saving up for one. And a collection of records like Uncle Bob's.’
‘You are right. Listening to music comes second only to reading.’ She smiled. ‘I have more news for you. I think tonight in your diary you are going to write, “This Is My Lucky Day”. I spoke to my mother on the telephone and she was charmed at the thought of your coming to spend part of the Easter holidays, or even all of them, at our house in Oxford. But you've had another invitation, and you must feel perfectly free to accept this if you want. I have had a long chat, again on the telephone, with Mrs Carey-Lewis. She was deeply distressed to hear about Mrs Forrester's death…she read the news and the account of the funeral in The Cornish Guardian, and rang me right away. And she says that of course you must go to Nancherrow for the whole of the Easter holidays. She has space and more to spare, she is very fond of you, and they would consider it a great honour if you would accept their invitation.’ She paused, and then smiled. ‘You look so astonished? Are you pleased, as well?’
‘Yes. Yes. But, your mother…’
‘Oh, my dear, you would be so welcome in Oxford. At any time. But I think Nancherrow would probably be much more fun. I know what pleasure you and Loveday find in each other's company. So, for once, don't think about anybody but yourself. You must do what you want to do. Really.
’
Nancherrow. A month at Nancherrow with the Carey-Lewises. It was like being offered a holiday in Paradise, unthought of and unimagined, but at the same time Judith found herself terrified of behaving in an ungrateful or churlish manner. ‘I…I don't know what to say…’
Miss Catto, recognising an agonising dilemma, took matters into her own capable hands. Laughing, she said, ‘What a decision to have to take! So why don't I take it for you? Go to Nancherrow for Easter, and later on, perhaps, you can come and spend a few days with us all in Oxford. There. A compromise. Life is made up of compromises. And I don't blame you a bit for wanting so much to go to Nancherrow. It's a dream of a place, and Colonel and Mrs Carey-Lewis I am sure are the most kind and generous of hosts.’
‘Yes.’ It was said. ‘Yes, I would like to go.’
‘Then you shall. I'll speak to Mrs Carey-Lewis and accept, conditionally, on your behalf.’
Judith frowned. ‘Conditionally?’
‘I must square things off with your mother. Get her permission. But I can send a cable and we should have her reply in a day or so.’
‘I'm sure she'll say yes.’
‘I'm sure she will.’ But Judith was frowning. ‘Is something else worrying you?’
‘No, it's just that…all my things. Everything I have is at Aunt Louise's house.’
‘I mentioned that to Mrs Carey-Lewis, and she says that they will take care of all of that. The Colonel will send one of his farm lorries over to Mrs Forrester's, and take it all back to Nancherrow. Mrs Carey-Lewis told me that you already have your own bedroom there, and even one or two of your possessions, and swears that there is plenty of room for everything else.’
‘Even my desk and my bicycle?’
‘Even your desk and your bicycle.’
‘It's as though I'm going to live with them.’
‘Wherever you go, Judith, you must have a base. That doesn't mean that you aren't free to accept other invitations. It just means that, while you're growing up, you'll always have a home to go back to.’
‘I don't know how anybody can be so kind.’
‘People are kind.’
‘I really want to come to Oxford. One day.’
‘And so you shall. There's just one more thing. Because of your aunt's generosity, and because one day you will be a woman of some substance, you need never feel that because you are accepting generosity and hospitality, you are at the same time accepting charity. You are totally independent. Being financially secure is truly a life-enhancer; it sweetly oils the wheels of life. But remember: to talk of money, the excess of it or the lack of it, is vulgar to the extreme. One either boasts or whines, and neither makes for good conversation. Do you understand what I am trying to say?’
‘Yes, Miss Catto.’
‘Good girl. The most important thing to remember, to be grateful for, is that your aunt has bequeathed to you not just her worldly goods, but a privilege that comes to few. And that is the right to be yourself. An entity. A person. Living life on your own terms with no other person to answer to. You probably won't appreciate this until you are older, but I promise you that one day you will realise the importance of what I am telling you. Now, I've got history essays to correct, and you must be on your way.’ She looked at her wristwatch. ‘A quarter past three. You've missed your last form period, but it isn't time yet for games, so you've a little time in hand. You can go up to the library and do some reading…’
The very idea of going to the library was claustrophobic; the stuffy, dusty room, the light filtering down from the closed windows, the smell of old books, the heavy silence. (Talking was forbidden.) If she had to go and sit in the library, she would suffocate. With the courage of desperation, she said, ‘Miss Catto.’
‘What is it?’
‘Instead of going to the library…what I would really like, more than anything, is to go somewhere and just be by myself. I mean really be myself. I would like to go and look at the sea and think and get used to everything that's happened. Just for an hour, until tea-time. If I could go down to the sea…?’
Miss Catto, for all her composure, bucked visibly at this outrageous and unheard-of request.
‘Go to the sea? By yourself? But that means walking through the town.’
‘I know we're not allowed to, but couldn't I, just this once? Please. I won't talk to anybody or eat sweets or anything. I just want to have a bit of…’ She had been going to say peace, but this seemed a bit rude, so she substituted, ‘time to myself’, instead. ‘Please,’ she said again, and Miss Catto, against all instinct, recognised a cry from the heart.
But still she hesitated. It meant breaking one of her strictest school rules. The child would be seen, people would talk…
‘Please.’
Miss Catto, with much reluctance, gave in. ‘Very well. But only once and never again. And only because you've plenty to think about, and I appreciate that you need the time to sort it all out. But don't tell anybody, not even Loveday Carey-Lewis, that I allowed you. And you must be back in good time for tea. And no sneaking into cafés for ice-creams.’
‘I promise.’
Miss Catto sighed deeply. ‘Off you go then, but I think I must be mad.’
‘No,’ Judith told her, ‘not mad.’ And escaped before the Headmistress could change her mind.
She walked out of the school gates into the pale, still afternoon, not bright, but with the clouds somehow lit up by the hidden sun. There was no wind, but from the south there moved a milky air that was not strong enough even to stir the branches of trees. Most trees were budding, but some were still bare, and it was so quiet that a dog barking or a car starting split the hush like an echo. She walked and the little town was deserted. Later, when the schools emptied, it would be loud with the sparrow-chatter of homebound children, larking on the pavements, and kicking stones into the gutters, but at this hour only a few tardy shoppers stood about, waiting for buses, or staring at the window of the pork-butchers, trying to decide what to buy for the evening meal. On the stone seat outside the bank, a couple of old men sat in wordless communion, leaning on their sticks, and when the bank clock struck the half hour, a gathering of pigeons rose and fluttered about for a bit in an agitated sort of way before settling once more, to strut and preen.
The pigeons made her think of Nancherrow, and the best was knowing that she was going back, to stay for the whole of the Easter holidays; and she was going not because Loveday had pleaded with her parents, but because Diana and Colonel Carey-Lewis had asked her, had liked her, had wanted her to return. She would go back to the pink bedroom that Diana had promised would always be hers, where the window looked down onto the courtyard and the doves, and where her Chinese box awaited her. And she would wear Athena's clothes and become, once more, that other person.
But the strange thing was that she felt like that other person even now, because everything, already, was different. In the stilled streets, with not another child to be seen, her solitude changed the look and the feel of everything. Familiar buildings presented themselves in an entirely new light, as though she had never been in the town before, exploring some foreign city for the first time. It was like having a third eye, for perceiving light and shade and stone and shape; an unexpected alley, the stealth of a darting black cat. In shop windows, she saw herself trudging by, dressed in the bottle-green tweed coat and horrible hat that proclaimed her as a St Ursula's child. But within, she was that real person, that sleek and adult being who wore cashmere jerseys and would one day emerge, like a butterfly escaping its chrysalis.
She turned down Chapel Street, by the antique shops and The Mitre Hotel, and the carpet shop. Outside this stood rolls of Axminster and patterned linoleum, and the man who sold second-hand junk was sitting in an armchair by his doorway smoking a pipe and waiting for custom which, today, was clearly not going to arrive. As Judith went by, he took his pipe out of his mouth, gave her a crack of his head and said ‘Hullo’, and she would have stopped to talk had
she not given her promise to Miss Catto.
At the end of Chapel Street a cobbled ramp led down to the harbour. The oily tide was in, and the fishing boats moved gently, as though breathing, their masts on a level with the road. There was a strong smell of fish and salt and sea-wrack, and on the docks men were working, baiting lines for the night's catch.
For a bit she watched them. She thought about Aunt Louise, and tried to feel genuinely grateful, though sad, but was incapable of feeling anything very much. She thought about being rich. No, not rich. Mr Baines had eschewed that vulgar word. Very wealthy, he had said. I am very wealthy. If I wanted I could probably buy…that fishing boat. But she didn't want a boat any more than she wanted a horse. So, what did she want, above all else? Roots, perhaps. A home and a family and a place to go to that was forever. Belonging. Not just staying with the Carey-Lewises, or Aunt Biddy, or Miss Catto, or even the cheerful Warren family. But all the money in the world couldn't buy roots, and she knew that if she knew nothing else, so she cast about for other mad extravagances. A car. When she was old enough, she could buy a car. Or a house. A house was a new and beguiling fantasy. Not Windyridge, which she had never much liked anyway, but a granite barn, or a stone cottage with a palm tree in the garden. It would face the sea and have an outside staircase, and there would be geraniums all the way up the steps. Geraniums in earthenware pots. And cats. And a dog or two. And inside there would be a stove like Mr Willis's, and she would cook things.
But that was in the future. What for now? She was going to be able to buy a gramophone, but surely there were other heart's desires to be fulfilled. In the end, she decided that perhaps she would have her hair cut, in a page-boy bob like Ginger Rogers's. And buy green knee-socks to wear at school instead of stuffy brown lisle stockings. Some time, she would go to Medways and buy the socks for herself. With her own money.
She left the harbour and the boats and walked on, along the edge of the sea, past the outdoor swimming pool, and onto the Promenade. Here were shelters where people could sit out of the wind and feed crusts to the ravenous gulls, and on the far side of the road, hotels, white as wedding cakes, stared, with blank windows, out to sea. She leaned on the ornate iron railings and gazed down at the stony beach and the silvery mill-pond ocean. Tiny waves ran up onto the shingle, and broke, and were sucked away again, dragging a rattle of pebbles behind them. It was rather a dull beach, not nearly as spectacular as Penmarron, nor as beautiful as the cove at Nancherrow, but the sea was constant and changeless, like the very best, most reliable, sort of friend. It made her feel strong enough to try to sort out some of the momentous confusion of the day.