Coming Home
The right to be yourself, an entity, a person. That was Miss Catto, with her M.A. (Cantab) and her self-sufficiency and her fierce independence. Perhaps she would become like Miss Catto, do brilliantly at University, achieve a first or even an honours degree, and become a Headmistress. But she didn't really want to be a Headmistress. Any more than she wanted to be a wife.
If you marry, you need never be beholden to your husband. That was Mr Baines who, presumably, knew all about such matters. But marriage, with its complications, wasn't something that, at the moment, Judith felt like contemplating. She was pretty certain that it involved things that went on in a double bed, and the memory of Billy Fawcett's groping hands (although set into brisk perspective by Miss Catto herself) was still vivid enough to put her off the thought of any sort of physical contact with men. Of course, if you married, it would obviously be a very special man, but even so, none of it, veiled in her own total incomprehension, presented the smallest likelihood of pleasure.
Perhaps she would never get married, but that wasn't an immediate problem, and so not much point in bothering over it. For a bit it was simply going to have to be a case of taking one thing at a time. Easter holidays at Nancherrow, and then back to school. School for four years, and after that, with a bit of luck, a voyage to Singapore. The family once more, Mummy and Dad and Jess, and the lovely blazing sunshine of the East, and the smells of the streets and the scents of the night, and the dark velvet skies, like jewel boxes filled with diamond stars. After Singapore, perhaps England again. Oxford or Cambridge. A bicycle in The High, or punting on the Backs. Her imagination ran out of images. She found herself yawning.
She was weary. Tired of being a grown-up, with all a grown-up's decisions and dilemmas. She wanted Loveday. To giggle and whisper with, and to concoct plans for their time together at Nancherrow. As well, she was hungry, so that it was quite a relief to hear, from behind her, from the top of the town, the bank clock strike the hour of four. Time to start back if she was to get any tea. Bread and butter, jam if they were lucky, and heavy cake. Tea with Loveday suddenly seemed very appealing. She turned her back on the sea, crossed the road, and set out at a brisk trot on the long walk back to school.
Diana Carey-Lewis hated, above all things, writing letters. Even scribbling a postcard to thank for a dinner-party or a weekend was a task that she habitually put off for as long as possible, and almost all of her day-to-day business was conducted on that admirable invention, the telephone. But Edgar was insisting that she simply had to write to Judith's mother, Molly Dunbar.
‘Why do I have to write to her?’
‘Because you have to offer your condolences on the death of Mrs Forrester, and because it is only thoughtful and polite to reassure her that we shall take care of her daughter.’
‘I'm sure she needs no reassurance from me. Miss Catto will have made all the right noises, in her usual estimable fashion.’
‘That is not the point, Diana my darling. You must write yourself. I am sure Mrs Dunbar will be expecting some sort of contact, and it's up to you to start the ball rolling.’
‘Why can't I ring her up?’
‘In Singapore? Because you can't.’
‘I could send her a cable.’ She thought about this, and then began to giggle. ‘How about,
Faint not, nor fear;
Your child is here,
Being fed on sweets
and ginger beer…?’
But Edgar was not amused. ‘Don't be facetious, Diana.’
‘Why can't you write? You know I hate writing letters.’
‘Because you have to do it. Do it this morning, and get it over with and be sure to be tactful and gentle and sympathetic.’
And so here she was, martyred, sitting at her desk and summoning the energy to get on with the tedious task. Reluctantly she reached for a sheet of her thick, blue-embossed writing-paper, took up her wide-nibbed fountain pen, and started in. Once begun, and with a growing sensation of virtue, she proceeded to cover sheet after sheet of paper with her enormous and almost illegible scrawl. There was, after all, no point in doing things by halves.
Nancherrow,
Rosemullion,
Cornwall. Friday 10th April.
Dear Mrs Dunbar,
I was so dreadfully sorry to read in the paper about the death of your sister-in-law, Mrs Forrester. I did not know her personally, but can perfectly comprehend your shock and sadness when the news reached you. It is difficult for me to write of such matters when we have never been formally introduced, but please know that I and my husband both send you and Mr Dunbar our deepest sympathy in your tragic loss.
We have, however, met. Just the once, when we were buying school uniforms for our offspring in Medways in Penzance. I remember the occasion well, and hope that you do not feel that this letter comes from a total stranger.
I have invited Judith to come and spend the Easter holidays with us. We have already had her to stay for a weekend and she was a charming guest and a perfect companion for my own naughty Loveday. Our house is large, with many guest bedrooms, and Judith already has made herself at home in my pretty pink room, and this will now be hers, for as long as she wants. Edgar, my husband, is arranging for all her possessions to be conveyed from Windyridge to here. One of the men will go over in a farm lorry, and I am sure Mrs Forrester's maids, who are still living there, will help to pack up all Judith's clothes and other bits and pieces.
I promise you that she will be loved and cared for. But not possessed. I know she has relations in Plymouth and grandparents in Devon, whom she will probably wish to visit. As well, an old school friend in Porthkerris, and Miss Catto, I know, would be happy to take her home to Oxford at any time. But it is good for Judith to feel that she has some sort of security, and Edgar and I will do our best to see that she gets this.
Please don't imagine that her being here is going to cause extra trouble or work. We have plenty of staff and Mary Millyway, who was Loveday's nanny, is still with us. She keeps an eye on the girls, and sees to their well-being, and if I am in London, which I frequently am, then my darling Mary Millyway is a great deal more responsible than silly I could ever be.
If I am in London, which I frequently am… Diana's concentration wandered. She laid down her pen and leaned back in her chair, and gazed from the window at the misty April garden, the drifts of daffodils, the fresh young green of the trees, the hazy sea. Right now, with the Easter holidays almost upon her, was not the time to escape, but she had not been to London for too long, and all at once, like a drug, she craved simply to take off.
London was glamour, excitement, old friends, shops, theatres, galleries, music. Dining at the Berkeley and the Ritz, motoring down to Ascot for Gold Cup Day; lunching in clandestine fashion at The White Tower with some other woman's husband, or dancing the small hours away at the Mirabel, the Bagatelle, or the Four Hundred.
Cornwall was, of course, home; but Nancherrow belonged to Edgar. Cornwall was family, children, servants, guests; but London was her own, and hers alone. Diana had been an only child, with immensely wealthy, older parents. When her father died, his estate in Gloucestershire and the tall house in Berkeley Square were both inherited, along with his title, Lord Awliscombe, by a distant male cousin. But, on her marriage at seventeen to Edgar Carey-Lewis, part of Diana's considerable dowry had included the mews cottage off Cadogan Square. ‘You'll be living in Cornwall,’ her father had told her, ‘but bricks and mortar is always a good investment. And it sometimes makes sense to have a bolt-hole of your own.’ She did not question the reasoning behind this statement, but never ceased to be thankful for his foresight and perception. Without it, sometimes she wondered if she would have survived, because it was only there, within the miniature walls of her own little house, that she could truly feel that she belonged to herself.
A scrap of music slipped into her head. A wistful Noël Coward song, to which she and Tommy Mortimer had danced during their last evening together at Quaglino's.
r /> I believe
The more you love a man
The more you give your heart
The more you have to lose…
She sighed. When the Easter holidays are over, she promised herself, I shall go. I shall take Pekoe and my Bentley and I shall drive to London. Something to think about. Something to look forward to. Life was nothing without something to look forward to. Cheered by the prospect, she picked up her pen once more, and settled down to complete her letter to Molly Dunbar.
So please don't worry about a thing. Judith will be happy, I am sure. During the holidays, the house is always filled with friends and family, and if she falls ill or comes out in spots, I shall let you know instantly.
I hope you are enjoying Singapore and your new house. It must be lovely to be warm all the time.
With best wishes,
Yours,
Diana Carey-Lewis
Finished. She blotted her signature, and skimmed through the pages she had covered, then folded them into a thick wedge and jammed them into an envelope. She licked the flap and thumped it down with her fist, and then wrote the address, which Miss Catto had dictated to her over the telephone.
All done. Duty honoured. Edgar would be delighted with her. She got up from her desk, and Pekoe unwound himself from her feet, and together they went from the room, down the long passage to the hall. Here, on the round table in the centre of the floor, stood a silver salver, its purpose expressly for the collection of mail. She tossed the letter down upon it. Sooner or later, somebody, probably Nettlebed or Edgar, would find it, stamp it and post it.
I believe
The more you love a man
The more you give your heart
The more you have to lose.
All done. And in a month's time, she would be on her way to London. Suddenly light-hearted, she stopped and gathered Pekoe into her arms and kissed the top of his sweet, smooth head. ‘And you'll come with me,’ she promised him and together they went out through the front door and into the cool, damp freshness of the April morning.
St Ursula's,
Saturday, 11th April 1936.
Dear Mummy and Dad,
Thank you for sending the cable to Miss Catto and saying that I can spend Easter with the Carey-Lewises. Miss Catto was very kind as I told you and said I could stay with her parents in Oxford, but she has postponed the invitation, and says I can go another time, so is not offended. In fact, she made the decision for me.
This is the first day of the holidays and it's ten-thirty in the morning, but I am still here, and someone from Nancherrow is going to come and collect me at eleven. My luggage is all sitting outside the front door, but it's not raining, so that's all right. It is funny being in school with only a few members of staff, it feels quite different, and I am writing this in the Junior Common Room without another soul about. Being on one's own makes everybody much nicer, as though you were a proper person and not just a girl. The funny thing is that everything smells quite different too, not of other people and chalk dust, but of the odd-job-man's smelly pipe. He comes in to screw on door handles and fix windows and he smokes this noxious old pipe all the time.
The reason I didn't go home yesterday, with Loveday, is because Mr Baines wanted to take me shopping in Truro to buy a gramophone. He says he has let you know that Aunt Louise very kindly left me a legacy in her Will. I can't believe it yet and it's going to take some getting used to. I feel a bit badly about Jess, but I suppose at the moment she is too little to feel cross about something like that. Anyway, Mr Baines came yesterday afternoon, and we drove to Truro. I'd never been there before, and it is beautiful and very old, with a cathedral and lots of little narrow streets, and the end of the river snaking up, with boats moored. Lots of trees going down to the water, and a Bishop's palace. When we'd done the shopping (gramophone and three records), we went to The Red Lion for tea, and he explained that I must have an allowance, and he's opened a post-office savings account, and is going to put five pounds every month into it.
It seems a dreadful lot, but I don't suppose I shall spend it but save it up and then I will get Interest. He explained it all to me. He is so nice and I don't feel a bit shy with him. Afterwards we came back to Penzance and he took me home and I met his family. A lot of small children making the most dreadful noise, and the baby kept spitting out its bread and butter and spilling its milk. Even worse than Jess at her naughtiest. He thinks that Windyridge should be sold. He's found another job for Hilda and Edna, and—
‘Judith!’ Matron, in her usual bossy fluster. ‘For heavens sake. I've been looking all over for you. What are you doing? The Nancherrow car is there, and they're waiting. Now hurry up.’
Judith, so rudely interrupted, sprang to her feet, trying to gather up the pages of her letter and screw the cap onto her fountain pen all at the same time. ‘Sorry, Matron. I was just writing to my mother…’
‘…never known such a girl. There's not time to finish, so put it away, and come now. Have you got your coat and hat? And all your bits and pieces…?’
Her impatience was catching. Judith bundled the unfinished letter into her attaché case, put away her pen, and dealt with the locks, and Matron scooped it up, almost before it was closed. By the time she had pulled on her coat and jammed on her hat, Matron was on her way, a bustle of starched apron, out of the door and down the long polished corridor. Judith had to sprint to keep up with her. Down the stairs, through the dining-room, the hall, out of the open front door.
A split second in which to recognise that it was a beautiful morning, with a starch-blue sky and sailing clouds and the sweet smell of the rain which had fallen during the night. Her luggage had already been disposed of and the car waited, in splendid isolation, in the centre of the gravel. Not the Daimler nor the Bentley, but an old shooting-brake of huge proportions, panelled in wood and built high off the ground, like a bus. Beside it, leaning against the bonnet and yarning companionably, stood two male figures. One was Palmer, one of the Nancherrow gardeners, wearing his old working clothes and, in deference to the occasion, a battered chauffeur's cap. The other was a stranger, young and blond, dressed in a white polo-necked pullover and a pair of shapeless corduroys. A stranger. But when he saw Judith and Matron emerge through the door, he pushed himself away from the shooting-brake and came across the gravel to meet them, and as he came, Judith realised that it wasn't a stranger at all, because she recognised him from the many photographs which stood about at Nancherrow. This was Edward. Loveday's brother. Edward Carey-Lewis.
He said, ‘Hello there.’ He held out his hand. ‘You're Judith. How do you do? I'm Edward.’
He had his mother's blue eyes, and strong, chunky features. Full-grown and broad-shouldered, he still wore the youthful face of a boy, for his skin was tanned and very smooth and fresh-complexioned, and his friendly grin was a spontaneous flash of even white teeth. Despite the informality of his clothes, and his scruffy old leather shoes, there was a lovely cleanness about him, like a shirt that has been bleached and hung in the sunshine to dry. His appearance was so unexpected and so glamorously adult that Judith wished that she had not had to jam her hideous hat on her head in such a hurry, and had taken time to comb her hair.
But, politely, she shook his hand. ‘Hello.’
‘We thought you'd forgotten to come. We're early, I know, but we've got some things to do in Penzance. Now, everything's in the car. Are you ready?’
‘Yes, of course. Goodbye, Matron.’
‘Goodbye, dear.’ Matron's eyes, behind their spectacles, gleamed with the vicarious thrill of a brush with upper-class life; the shooting-brake, the chauffeur, the handsome and confident young man. ‘Have a lovely holiday now.’
‘Yes, I will, and the same to you…’
‘Thank you for finding her, Matron…’ Edward, smoothly, took charge, relieving Matron of the attaché case, which she still held, and urging Judith forward with a touch of his hand on her back. ‘And,’ he added over his shoulder, ‘tel
l Miss Catto we'll take good care of her.’
But Matron did not go instantly indoors. She stood, her apron and her veil flapping in the breeze, and watched them clamber up into the shooting-brake, slam-shut the doors, and drive away. Looking back, as they rattled down the drive between the rhododendrons, Judith saw her still there, waiting until the bulky vehicle finally disappeared from her sight.
She settled herself in her seat, and pulled off her hat. ‘I've never known Matron so amiable.’
‘Poor old cow. Probably the most exciting thing that's going to happen to her all day.’ A lock of hair fell across his forehead and he put up his hand to push it back. ‘Sorry it's us come to fetch you, but Pops has got some meeting or other, and Ma's taken Loveday to a pony-club camp. We spent much time boxing that wretched pony, but Walter Mudge has gone with them, so Ma shouldn't have anything too arduous to do once they get there.’