Coming Home

  He spoke light-heartedly, knowing that it wasn't much of a joke. Not that it mattered, because Loveday was not listening. She had paused, turned away from him, as though reluctant to leave the cliffs and the gulls and the tempestuous sea, and return to reality. And in that moment, Gus saw, not Loveday, but the Laura Knight girl, the picture that he had stealthily removed, so long ago, from the pages of The Studio. Even her clothes, the worn tennis shoes, the striped cotton skirt, the aged cricket sweater (rather charmingly stained with raspberry juice) were the same. Only the hair was different. No russet plait lying like a heavy rope over one shoulder. Instead Loveday's chrysanthemum mop of dark, shining curls, ruffled by the wind.

  Slowly, they retraced their steps, following the path down which Gus had hurtled after her. Now, Loveday seemed in little hurry. They crossed the floor of the quarry, and scrambled up the steps that rose to the top of the shaly cliff. Then, up through the woods, pausing from time to time to pause for breath, to loiter on one of the small wooden bridges and watch the dark waters of the stream flow away beneath their feet. By the time they finally emerged from the trees, and the house had appeared, standing above them, Gus was warm with exertion. The sheltered gardens basked in the sun, streaming down across closely mown lawns, and he stopped for a moment to shed his sweater, stripping it off over his head and slinging it over his shoulder. While he did this, Loveday waited for him. He caught her eye, and she smiled. As they set off again, ‘It's so annoying,’ she told him, ‘because on a really hot day, by the time you've got this far, all you really want is another swim…’

  She stopped abruptly. A sound had caught her ear. Her smile died, and she stood very still, listening. From far off, Gus heard the engine of an approaching car. Looking, he saw it: a stately Daimler emerging from the trees at the head of the drive, crossing the gravel, and drawing to a halt by the side of the house.

  ‘They're back.’ Walking up from the cove, chattering inconsequently, Loveday had seemed quite cheerful, but now her voice was filled with apprehension. ‘Pops and Edward are back. Oh, I wonder what's happened…’ And, abandoning Gus, she ran ahead, racing across the grass and up the slopes of the terraces. He heard her calling to them. ‘Why have you all been so long? What's happening? Is everything all right…?’

  Gus, praying that it was, followed at a deliberately slow pace. All at once, his confidence ebbed away, and he found himself wishing that he were any place but here, that he had never come. Under the circumstances, Edward had every excuse to forget altogether about his Cambridge friend, so casually invited to stay; and on seeing him would feel compelled to feign pleasure and welcome. For a moment Gus wished heartily that he had followed his original instinct, which had been to put his suitcases back into his car and drive away. It was Loveday who had persuaded him to remain. Probably mistakenly. This, most certainly, was not the time to be an unknown guest.

  But it was too late now to rectify the situation. Slowly, he climbed the wide stone stairway which bisected the top terrace, and stepped forward onto level ground. The Daimler stood there, parked alongside his own car, the doors still open. Its occupants formed a little group, but Edward, seeing Gus, detached himself from this and came forward smiling and with his arms outstretched.

  ‘Gus! Great to see you.’

  So clearly delighted was he that all reservations melted. Gus was filled with gratitude. He said, ‘You too.’

  ‘Sorry about all this…’

  ‘I'm the one who should be sorry…’

  ‘What have you got to be sorry for?’

  ‘It's just that I have this gut feeling that I shouldn't be here.’

  ‘Oh, don't be a bloody idiot. I asked you…’

  ‘Your butler told me about your aunt being so ill. Are you sure it's all right if I stay?’

  ‘You being here isn't going to make any difference one way or another. Except you'll help to cheer us all up. And as for Aunt Lavinia, she seems to be holding her own. And she's such a tough old bird, I refuse to believe that she's going to do anything else. Now, did you have a good drive? How long did it take? I hope you got some sort of a welcome and that Loveday didn't abandon you to your own devices. I left her with strict instructions to take care of you.’

  ‘And so she did. We've been down to the cove.’

  ‘Wonders will never cease. She's not usually that social. Now, come and meet my father and Mary…’ Edward turned back to the others and stopped, frowning in some puzzlement. ‘Except that Mary seems to have disappeared.’ He shrugged. ‘Hopefully to alert Mrs Nettlebed and tell her to get the kettle on. But, at least, meet my father. Pops!’

  The Colonel was deep in conversation with his daughter, and clearly doing his best to comfort and reassure her. But, on hearing Edward call him, he stopped talking and looked up, saw Gus, and set Loveday gently aside. He came forward, his brogues crunching on the gravel, tall and tweedy and scarecrow-thin, and if he harboured any reservations about a stranger's turning up to stay beneath his roof at this particular and inopportune moment, he kept them to himself. Gus saw only the gentle expression in his pale eyes, and the shy smile of genuine pleasure.

  ‘Gus, this is my father, Edgar Carey-Lewis. And, Pops, this is Gus Callender.’

  ‘How do you do, sir.’

  The Colonel thrust out his hand, and Gus took it in his own. ‘Gus, my dear fellow,’ said Edward's father. ‘How good of you to come, and how splendid to see you.’

  The following morning, at ten o'clock, Edward Carey-Lewis rang Warren's Grocery in Porthkerris and asked to speak to Judith.

  ‘Who shall I say?’ inquired the unknown female and very Cornish voice.

  ‘Just Edward.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  He held on. Judith there? Tell her she's wanted. The female voice, presumably screeching up a flight of stairs, reached him distantly, over the receiver. He waited. She came.

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice was thin with anxiety. ‘Edward?’

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It's okay. Good news.’

  ‘Aunt Lavinia?’

  ‘She seems to have pulled through. We got word from The Dower House. Apparently she woke up this morning, asked the night nurse what on earth she was doing sitting by her bed, and demanded a cup of tea.’

  ‘I simply don't believe it.’

  ‘So Pops and Ma shot straight off to see the old girl and check on the general situation, and I thought I'd better ring you.’

  ‘Oh, you must all be so relieved. Darling old thing.’

  ‘Wicked old thing, more like, giving us all a scare. And everybody flying back from all points of the compass to be here. Ma arrived last night, looking pretty exhausted, and Athena and Rupert are already on their way from Scotland. Like Gus, we don't know where they are, so we can't ring them and tell them to turn round and go back to Auchnafechle or wherever it is they were staying. The whole thing has turned into a complete circus.’

  ‘That doesn't matter. All that matters is that she's going to get better.’

  ‘When are you coming back?’

  ‘Sunday.’

  ‘If she's fit for visitors, I'll take you to see her.’

  ‘Sunday morning. I'll be back on Sunday morning.’

  ‘It's a date, then. How are you?’

  ‘Beginning to wish I was with you all.’

  ‘Don't wish too hard. It's a bit like living in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. But I miss you. There's a hole in the house without you.’

  ‘Oh, Edward.’

  ‘See you Sunday morning.’

  ‘Goodbye. And thank you for ringing up.’

  Rupert Rycroft, on his first morning, slept in. When he did wake, opened his eyes and stared blearily at the opposite wall, he found himself disorientated. There had been so much travelling, so many strange beds, in such a short space of time, and now, seeing the end of a brass bed, striped wallpaper, and thickly flowered curtains, half-drawn, he couldn't work out where the hell he
was.

  But only for an instant. Recollection flooded back. Cornwall. Nancherrow. He had finally got Athena home, having flogged the length of the country, and Rupert had driven the entire way. From time to time, Athena, half-heartedly, had offered to take the wheel, but Rupert preferred to be in charge of a situation, and his car was too precious to him to be trusted to the hands of another. Even Athena.

  He fumbled a bare arm out from beneath the covers and reached for his watch. Ten o'clock. He lay back with a groan. Ten o'clock in the morning. Horrors. But the Colonel, seeing him to his room, had said, ‘Breakfast's at eight-thirty, but catch up on your sleep. We'll expect you when we see you,’ and some automatic trigger in Rupert's brain had done what it was told. Which was the same, in a converse sort of way, as knowing one had to be on parade at seven-thirty in the morning, however stunned with alcohol from the previous night's partying.

  They had arrived at half past midnight, and only Athena's parents were there to greet them, the remainder of the house party having already retired to bed. Athena, who for most of the way had been quite alert and chatty, fell silent for the last hour or so of their journey, and Rupert knew that she was both longing for, and dreading, arrival. Longing to be there, safe in the bosom of her family, and dreading the news that she feared they were going to impart. It was such a private anxiety that Rupert knew he could not intrude, and so he said nothing and left her in peace.

  But, at the end of the day, it turned out that everything was going to be all right: the old aunt who had been so ill was not, after all, going to expire. Rupert's gallant sacrifice of a week's grouse-shooting, and his marathon effort to get Athena back to her family, had been for nothing. Unnecessary. It took a bit of swallowing, but he kept his expression doggedly pleased.

  Athena, however, was, quite naturally, ecstatic. She stood with her mother in the high, lighted hallway of Nancherrow, and hugged enormously, and their endearments and unfinished sentences and rejoicings sounded like a positive collision of emotions.

  ‘I can't believe it…’

  ‘Such a long way to come…’

  ‘…I was so afraid she was going to be dead…’

  ‘Oh, my darling…’

  ‘…we've driven all day…’

  ‘So tired…’

  ‘…she's really going to get better…?’

  ‘…hope so. Such a long way. Perhaps we shouldn't have told you…’

  ‘…I had to be here…’

  ‘…spoilt your holiday…’

  ‘…it doesn't matter…nothing matters…’

  Rupert had already met Diana Carey-Lewis. She had been with Athena in the little town house in Cadogan Mews when Rupert arrived to bear Athena off to Scotland. He had thought then, and still thought, that they looked more like sisters than like mother and daughter. Tonight, at this late hour, Diana was, very sensibly, already wrapped in a floor-length dressing-gown of rose-pink wool, but the Colonel remained fully dressed. Over the heads of the two incoherently happy women, Rupert looked up to meet the eye of his host; saw the elderly velvet dinner-jacket and the silk bow-tie, and knew a comfortable familiarity. Like his own father, the Colonel clearly changed for dinner every evening. Now he came forward, with his hand outstretched.

  ‘Edgar Carey-Lewis. How enormously kind of you to bring Athena home to us. And now it must seem to you that all your efforts have been spent on an empty cause.’ And he was so apologetic and so sympathetic that Rupert put his own private chagrin behind him, and did his best to reassure the older man.

  ‘Don't think that, sir. It's a case of all's well that ends well.’

  ‘That's generous of you. Even so, something of a disappointment for you to lose out on your shooting.’ And then, disarmingly, and with perhaps an inappropriate spark of interest in his fading eyes, ‘Tell me, how were the grouse?’ he asked.

  ‘We had two great days.’

  ‘What sort of a bag?’

  ‘Over sixty brace. Some splendid coveys.’

  ‘Now, I suppose, you'll be keen to get back?’

  Rupert shook his head. ‘Not worth it, sir. I was only offered a week.’

  ‘I'm sorry. We've spoilt everything.’

  ‘Don't think that.’

  ‘Well, you're more than welcome here. Stay as long as you like.’ He eyed Rupert approvingly. ‘I must say, you're taking it all very well. If I were you, I'd be chewing the rugs. Now, why don't I pour you a nightcap?’

  Ten o'clock in the morning. Rupert climbed out of bed and went to draw back the curtains. He found himself looking down into a cobbled courtyard filled with the cooing of white fan-tailed doves; there were tubs of geraniums, and a line of starch-white washing blowing in the breeze. Beyond the courtyard were verges of grass, and in the middle distance a clump of trees, heavy with leaf. By leaning out of the window and craning his neck a bit, he was rewarded by the view of the blue horizon. All was washed in the clear sunshine of a perfect summer's morning, and he decided, philosophically, that if he could not be at Glenfreuchie slaying grouse, then this place was, quite certainly, the next-best thing. He withdrew from the window, yawned and stretched enormously. He was ravenously hungry. He headed for the bathroom and began to shave.

  Downstairs was a bit disconcerting because there didn't seem to be anybody about. But by means of a bit of reconnoitring, Rupert found the dining-room, occupied by a tall and stately gentleman who was clearly the butler. Nettlebed. Athena had talked of Nettlebed.

  He said, ‘Good morning.’

  The butler turned from the sideboard, where he had been rearranging dishes on the hotplate.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Captain Rycroft, is it?’

  ‘That's right. And you're Nettlebed.’

  ‘I am, sir.’ Rupert advanced and they shook hands.

  ‘I'm desperately late.’

  ‘The Colonel said that he'd told you to sleep in, sir. But I'm sure you'd like something to eat…There's bacon and sausages here, and if you'd like a fried tomato, Mrs Nettlebed will be happy to oblige. And coffee. But if you'd prefer tea…?’

  ‘No, coffee's fine.’ Rupert looked at the table, the great long mahogany length of it with only a single place laid at one side. ‘I seem to be the last.’

  ‘There's only Athena to come, sir. And Mrs Carey-Lewis said not to expect her until luncheon.’

  ‘No. She'll need her sleep.’ He helped himself to the bacon and sausages, and Nettlebed poured his coffee.

  ‘You had a long journey, sir?’

  ‘Just about the length of the country. Tell me, where is everybody else?’

  Nettlebed told him. ‘The Colonel and Mrs Carey-Lewis are up at The Dower House…they go every morning, to visit Mrs Boscawen and be certain that the nurse has everything under control. And Edward has driven Mary Millyway into Penzance to do some household shopping and pick up supplies for Mrs Nettlebed. And Loveday has taken Mr Callender off in search of some picturesque spot where he can do some sketching.’

  ‘Who's Mr Callender?’

  ‘Mr Gus Callender, sir. Edward's friend from Cambridge. Apparently, he is something of an amateur artist.’

  ‘And he's staying too? What a houseful you have to deal with. No wonder Edward has gone off in search of rations.’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary, sir,’ Nettlebed assured him modestly. ‘We're used to a full house, Mrs Nettlebed and I.’

  ‘So, when I have finished my breakfast, and until Athena puts in an appearance, what do you suggest I do with myself?’

  Nettlebed allowed himself a smile, appreciating the young gentleman's assurance. ‘The morning papers are in the drawing-room, sir. Or, as it's such a pleasant morning, perhaps you would like to read them out of doors, in the sunshine. You'll find garden chairs outside the French windows. Or you may prefer to take a little exercise? A walk, perhaps…?’

  ‘No. I think the exercise can wait. I shall lie in the sun and scan the news.’

  ‘An excellent idea, sir.’

  He took Th
e Times from the drawing-room, carried it out of doors, but in the end did not read it. Instead, he settled himself in a long cane chair and gazed through narrowed eyes at the pleasing prospect of the garden. The sun was warm, and a bird was singing somewhere, and below him a gardener was mowing the tennis-court, drawing swaths of green behind him, ruler-straight. He wondered if, later on, he would be expected to play. And then stopped thinking about tennis, and instead, brooded over the question of Athena.

  Thinking back, it was hard to work out just how he had landed himself in this dilemma, which had metamorphosed as he was least expecting it, and at a most inconvenient time. He was twenty-seven, a cavalry officer, a captain in the Royal Dragoon Guards, and a man who had always treasured and guarded his fairly wild bachelor existence. A new war was imminent and he would be in the thick of it, posted off to some God-forsaken spot, to be shelled, shot at, wounded, or possibly killed. Right now the last thing he needed was to get married.

  Athena Carey-Lewis. He and a couple of his Regimental cronies had driven from Long Weedon to London for a party. A cold winter evening, a warmly lit first-floor drawing-room in Belgravia. And almost immediately, he had spied her across the room, and thought her sensationally beautiful. She was, of course, deep in conversation with an overweight and vacuous-looking man, and when he made some footling joke she laughed, smiling up into his eyes. And her smile was enchantment, and her nose just the wrong shape, and her eyes blue as very dark hyacinths. Rupert could scarcely wait to get his hands on her. Later, and not before time, their hostess introduced them. ‘Athena Carey-Lewis, darling. Surely you must have met before? No? Athena, Rupert Rycroft. Isn't he heaven? All leathery and sunburnt. And his glass is empty! Give it to me, and I'll get you a refill…’

  After the party he dumped his cronies, and got her into his car, and they went to The Mirabelle and then The Bagatelle, and it was only because he had to be back in Northamptonshire and be on parade at seven-thirty in the morning that he finally took her home, dropping her at the door of a little house in Cadogan Mews.