Coming Home

  She said, ‘You look wonderful.’

  ‘You, too.’

  His informal appearance reassured her. She had resisted the temptation to dress up, and after her bath pulled on a clean cotton dress, butcher-blue and striped in white. Her legs were bare and her feet cool in white sandals.

  ‘I'm jealous,’ he told her. ‘I think you've achieved a better tan than I have.’

  ‘We've had amazing weather.’

  He pushed himself away from the car and stood, with his hands in his trouser pockets, gazing up at the face of the tall, narrow stone house. ‘What a splendid place to be staying.’

  ‘It goes up in stages,’ Judith explained. ‘There are three storeys on this side, but only two at the back. I suppose because, like the rest of the town, it was built on a hill. The kitchen's on the first floor, with a door that goes out into a yard at the back. That's where Mrs Warren grows her pot plants and hangs her washing. She hasn't got a garden.’

  ‘Am I not to be invited in?’

  ‘Yes, of course, if you want. But there's nobody in except me. There's a summer fair up at the rugger field, and Heather and her parents have gone to ride on the roundabouts and shy coconuts and win prizes.’

  ‘Pink plush elephants?’

  She laughed. ‘Exactly so. And Joe — that's Heather's brother — has gone off with his mates for the evening.’

  ‘So where shall we go? Which is the fashionable night-spot this season?’

  ‘I don't know. I suppose we could try the Sliding Tackle.’

  ‘What a good idea. I haven't been there for years. Let's go and see what's happening. Do you want to drive or shall we walk?’

  ‘Let's walk. It's hardly worth taking the car.’

  ‘In that case, en avant.’

  They set off, strolling abreast down the narrow street that sloped to the Lifeboat House and the harbour. A thought occurred to Judith. ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘Why? Do I look particularly hungry?’

  ‘No. But I know as well as you do that dinner at Nancherrow is at eight, so I presume you've missed out.’

  ‘You're right. I haven't eaten and don't need to. I've decided that, at home, we all eat far too much. I suppose it's all to do with Mrs Nettlebed's cooking. I can't imagine why my parents aren't as fat as butterballs, but they munch away four times a day and never put on an ounce of weight.’

  ‘It's all to do with something called metabolism.’

  ‘Where did you learn that long word?’

  ‘Oh, we were well educated at St Ursula's.’

  ‘Were well educated,’ Edward repeated. ‘Isn't it marvellous to know it's all behind you? I couldn't believe it when I finally left Harrow. I used to have nightmares about going back, and wake up in the night in a sweat of apprehension.’

  ‘Oh come on, it can't have been as bad as all that. I bet you get a lump in your throat when you hear boyish voices singing old school songs.’

  ‘No, I don't. But I admit, I probably will when I'm fifty.’

  They turned the corner of the Lifeboat House and set out along the harbour road. It was such a fine and golden evening that the street was still crowded; all the summer visitors out and about, ambling along the edge of the quay, pausing to lean over the rail and stare down at the fishing boats; licking ice-creams or eating fish and chips out of cones of newspaper. You knew they were visitors because they wore such peculiar clothes, were lobster-red from the unaccustomed sun, and spoke in the accents of Manchester, Birmingham, and London. The tide was high and the sky filled with greedy gulls, and some of the old residents who still lived in harbour-side houses had carried kitchen chairs out of doors, there to sit, black-clad and vociferous, to enjoy the last of the day's warmth and watch the world go by. Outside the Sliding Tackle a group of young holiday-makers, sunburnt and noisy, sat at a wooden table and downed their beer.

  Edward made a face. ‘I hope it's not too dreadfully crowded. Last time I was here it was winter, and there was just one or two old boys inside, getting a bit of peace from their wives. Come on, though, we'll give it a try.’

  And he led the way inside, ducking his head beneath the crooked lintel of the doorway. Judith, at his heels, stepped into semi-darkness and was at once assailed by the reek of beer, spirits, and hot humanity, clouds of cigarette smoke, and the din of raised, convivial voices. She had not admitted so to Edward, but this was her first visit to the Sliding Tackle, because it was a pub that the Warren menfolk kept strictly to themselves. Now, she looked about her with some curiosity, trying to discover what was so special about the place.

  ‘This is worse than I'd imagined,’ Edward observed. ‘Shall we make a run for it or stay?’

  ‘Let's stay.’

  ‘Right. You stand here and grab a table if one comes free. I'll get the drinks. What do you want?’

  ‘A shandy. Or a cider. It doesn't matter.’

  ‘I'll get you a shandy.’ He left her, expertly shouldering his way towards the bar, and she watched his progress, relentlessly shoving a path for himself, but at the same time being enormously polite. ‘So sorry…Excuse me…Do you mind…?’

  He was within shouting distance of the distracted barman when, with startling luck, the party who had been sitting at a table under the tiny peep-hole of a window began to gather themselves together and make as if to depart. Judith, with a swiftness that surprised even herself, was onto them in an instant.

  ‘I'm so sorry, but are you leaving?’

  ‘That's right. We've got to get back up the hill to our boarding-house. Want the table, do you?’

  ‘It'd be nice to sit down.’

  ‘I know. Like the Black Hole of Calcutta in here.’

  There were four of them and they took a bit of time, but Judith stood very close, guarding against intruders, and as soon as they were out of the way, eased herself onto the narrow wooden bench and put her handbag down beside her, laying claim to a space for Edward.

  When he returned to her, carrying his tankard and her glass, he was gratifyingly delighted by her cleverness. ‘What a brilliant girl you are.’ He carefully set down their drinks and then slid onto the bench beside her. ‘How did you accomplish that? Make mad faces and frighten them off?’

  ‘No. They were going anyway. Back to their boarding-house.’

  ‘What a bit of luck. Murder having to stand all evening.’

  ‘I never realised the Sliding Tackle was so small.’

  ‘Tiny.’ Edward reached for a cigarette and lit it. ‘But everybody wants to come here. There are plenty of other pubs in the town, but I suppose the visitors all think this place is picturesque. Which of course it is. But, God, it's crowded. There's not even space for a humble game of darts. You'd probably spear someone's eye out. Anyway’ — he raised his glass — ‘cheers. It's so good to see you again. It's been so long.’

  ‘Since Christmas.’

  ‘As long as that?’

  ‘Well, you were in America all over Easter.’

  ‘So I was.’

  ‘Tell me about France.’

  ‘It was splendid.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘To a villa up in the hills behind Cannes. Near a village called Sillence. Very rural. Surrounded by vineyards and olive groves. And the villa had a terrace wreathed in vines, where we had all our meals, and in the garden was an icy little swimming-pool, contrived by damming the stream which ran down from the mountain-top. And there were cicadas, and pink geraniums, and indoors it smelt of garlic and sun-oil and Gauloise cigarettes. Heaven.’

  ‘Who did the villa belong to?’

  ‘A rather nice older couple called Beath. I think he was something to do with the Foreign Office.’

  ‘So you didn't know them?’

  ‘Never met them before in my life.’

  ‘Then, how…’

  Edward sighed and, painfully, explained. ‘I went to London to go to some party with Athena. And there I met this jolly girl, and over the course of dinne
r, she told me her aunt and uncle had this villa in the south of France, and she had been invited out to stay, and the invitation included a chum or two.’

  ‘Edward, you are the…’

  ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘Because only you could go to a party in London and end up spending two weeks in the south of France.’

  ‘I thought it was rather clever of me.’

  ‘She must have been frightfully pretty.’

  ‘Villas in the south of France tend to make girls pretty. Just the way that a socking bank balance renders the most hideous of women sexually attractive. To a certain type of man.’

  He was teasing. She smiled. At Christmas, when Edward had told her about his Swiss holiday, she had been unable to suppress a pang of jealousy of the unknown girls who had skied with him, and with whom he had danced the nights away to the tunes of Richard Tauber. Girls were made to love and kiss. Now, however, perhaps because she was that much older and that much more sure of herself, she didn't feel jealous at all. After all, Edward, returning to Nancherrow and finding no Judith, had lost no time in getting in touch, and coming to find her. Which seemed to indicate that she was a bit important to him, and that he hadn't lost his heart to another, nor left it in the south of France.

  ‘So what happened next, Edward?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You said the invitation included a chum or two.’

  ‘Yes, it did. And she'd fixed things up with a girl-friend, but all the chaps they fancied were already committed to other arrangements. So…’ He shrugged. ‘She asked me. And being one who never says no to a good offer, I instantly accepted before she had time to change her mind. And then she said, “Bring a friend,” and off the top of my head I suggested this chap called Gus Callender.’

  It was the first time Judith had heard the name. ‘Who's he?’

  ‘A dark, dour Scot from the wild Highlands. He's at Pembroke with me, doing Engineering, but I didn't really get to know him until this summer, when we both had rooms on the same stair. He's quite a shy, reserved sort of fellow, but terribly nice, and he immediately sprang to mind because I was pretty certain that he wouldn't have any plans made for the vacation. At least, none that couldn't be changed.’

  ‘And did he fit in with the rest of the house party?’

  ‘Of course.’ Edward sounded surprised that Judith should for a moment question his impeccable social judgement. ‘I knew he would. One of the girls fell wildly in love with his brooding, Heathcliff looks, and Mrs Beath kept telling me that she thought he was a pet. As well, he's something of an artist, which added an extra dimension. He did an oil painting of the villa, and had it framed and left it with the Beaths as a thank-you present. They were more than delighted.’

  He sounded, Judith decided, an interesting character.

  ‘An engineer and an artist. Funny mixture.’

  ‘Not really. Think of all those technical drawings. Geometry at its most complicated. And, as it happens, there's every chance you'll meet him. After we'd driven home, and finally arrived in Dover, I suggested he came back to Nancherrow with me, but he had to return to darkest Scotland and spend a bit of time with his old mum and dad. He doesn't talk about his family much, but I get the impression that they're not the most exciting parents in the world.’

  ‘So why is there every chance I'll meet him?’

  ‘He'll maybe come later on. He seemed quite tempted by the idea. Didn't exactly jump at it but then he never, obviously, jumps at anything.’ Edward looked at Judith, and found her laughing. He frowned. ‘What's so funny?’

  ‘I hope he's not chinless and boring, otherwise Loveday will crucify him.’

  ‘Loveday's a pain in the arse. And of course Gus isn't chinless. All Scotsmen have chins.’

  ‘Has he ever been to Cornwall?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If he's a painter then he'll become bewitched, as all painters do, and never want to leave.’

  ‘Knowing Gus, I think his career is safe. He's far too conscientious for diversions. Traditionally the Scots have a tremendous respect for education. That's why they're so clever and invent things like mackintoshes and inflatable tyres and tar-macadamed roads.’

  But Judith had talked enough about Gus Callender. ‘Tell me more about France. Tell me about the drive. Was it beautiful?’

  ‘It was great going south, but it wasn't so much fun coming back. After Paris, the roads to Calais became choked with traffic and we had to wait half a day before we got a berth on the ferry.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Panic. War nerves. All the little British families holidaying in Brittany and Belgium suddenly deciding to cut short their stay and scuttle for home.’

  ‘What did they think was going to happen?’

  ‘I don't know. I suppose the German Army suddenly bursting through the Maginot Line and invading France. Or something. Bad luck on the hoteliers. You could imagine the long faces of Monsieur and Madame de Pont of the Hôtel du Plage, watching their bread and butter drive away down the road and back to England.’

  ‘Are things really as bad as that, Edward?’

  ‘Pretty bad, I reckon. Poor old Pops is racked with apprehension.’

  ‘I know. I think that's why your mother ran away to London.’

  ‘She's never been much use at facing up to cruel facts. Brilliant at keeping them at bay but not much use at facing up to them. She telephoned last night, just to make sure we were all surviving without her, and to give us the London news. Athena's got a new boyfriend. He's called Rupert Rycroft and he's in the Royal Dragoon Guards.’

  ‘Goodness, how smart.’

  ‘Pops and I have got bets on how long it will last. A fiver each way. I'm going to get another beer. How about you?’

  ‘I'm all right. I've not finished this yet.’

  ‘Don't let anyone sneak my seat.’

  ‘I won't.’

  He left her to fight his way once more back to the bar, and Judith was alone. Which didn't matter because there was so much, and so many people, to look at. A mixed bunch, she decided. Two or three old men, clearly locals, sat, firmly established, on the wooden benches which flanked the fireplace. They nursed tankards in work-worn hands, and talked amongst themselves with smouldering cigarette stubs glued to their lower lips. They looked, she decided, as though they had been sitting there since opening time, which they probably had.

  And then there was a rather grand group of people, probably staying at one of the big hotels up on the hill, but making this foray Downalong, to visit the Sliding Tackle, and see how the natives lived. They had upper-class, hooting voices, and looked thoroughly out of place, but even as she observed them, appeared to decide that they had had enough, for they were finishing their drinks, laying down the empty glasses and preparing to depart.

  Their going created a gap, not instantly filled, and Judith was left with a clear view across the room to the bench which stood at the far end. A man sat there alone, a half-filled tumbler on the table before him. He was watching her. Staring. She saw the unblinking eyes, the drooping, nicotine-stained moustache, the tweed cap pulled low on his brow. Beneath bristling brows his pale gaze was unblinking. She reached for her shandy and took a mouthful, and then quickly laid the glass down again because her hand had started to shake. She could feel her heart pumping in her breast, and the blood drain, like water through a sieve, from her cheeks.

  Billy Fawcett.

  She had neither seen him nor heard of him since the day of Aunt Louise's funeral. As the years had passed — and now being fourteen seemed a lifetime away — the trauma of her girlhood had gradually faded. But never totally disappeared. Lately, older and better informed, she had even tried to find some sympathy for his pathetic sexual aberrations, but it was almost impossible and helped not at all. On the contrary, the memory of him had almost destroyed her relationship with Edward, and he, of course, was the reason that she had never wanted to return to Penmarron.

  During
her first few visits to the Warrens, while still a schoolgirl, she had lived in terror of meeting Billy Fawcett by chance; in the street perhaps, or walking out of the bank or the barber's shop. But the dreaded scenario never took place and gradually, as the years went by, her fears abated and she took heart. Perhaps he had moved from Penmarron, left his bungalow and the golf club, and gone to live up-country. Perhaps, happy thought, he was dead.

  But he wasn't dead. He was here. In the Sliding Tackle. Sitting at the other end of the room and staring at her, his eyes burning like two bright pebbles in his florid face. She looked for Edward, but Edward was jammed in at the bar, buying his beer, and she could scarcely scream for help. Oh, Edward, come back, she begged silently. Come back quickly.

  But Edward loitered, exchanging a few friendly remarks with the man who stood next to him. And now Billy Fawcett was pulling himself to his feet, picking up his tumbler and making his way across the flagged floor to where Judith sat petrified, mesmerised as a rabbit by a snake. She watched him come, and he looked the same, but a bit more decrepit, down-at-heel, and shabby. His cheeks were flushed and netted with purple veins.

  ‘Judith.’ He was there, steadying himself with his knotted old hand on the back of a chair.

  She said nothing.

  ‘Mind if I join you? Take a seat?’ He pulled the chair from the table and cautiously lowered his bottom onto the seat. ‘Saw you,’ he told her. ‘Recognised you the moment you came through the door.’ His breath stank of old tobacco and whisky. ‘You've grown up.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Edward was on his way. She looked up, her eyes a mute appeal for help, and Edward, in some confusion, visibly bucked at finding the broken-down old stranger sitting at their table. He said politely, ‘Hello there,’ but there was not much friendliness in his voice and his expression was wary.