Coming Home

  She was weeping now, dabbing at her streaming cheeks with a useless scrap of lace-edged handkerchief.

  He said, ‘Haven't you anything a little more robust than that?’

  ‘Women's handkerchiefs are always so idiotic, aren't they?’

  ‘Here's mine. A bit bright but spit-clean.’

  ‘What a lovely colour. It matches your blue shirt.’ She blew her nose lustily. ‘I'm talking too much, aren't I?’

  ‘Not at all. It seems to me you need to talk, and I am here to listen.’

  ‘Oh, darling Jeremy, you are the dearest man. And actually, in a funny way I'm not nearly as stupid as I sound. I know there has to be a war. I know we can't go on letting dreadful things happen in Europe — people being suppressed, losing their freedom, being imprisoned and murdered just because they're Jewish.’ She wiped her eyes once more and pushed his handkerchief beneath her pillow. ‘Just before you appeared, I was reading this book. It's just a novel, nothing very deep…but it makes it all so dreadfully real…’

  ‘What is the book?’

  ‘It's called Escape, by some woman called Ethel Vance. And it's about Germany. A finishing school, very chic and cosmopolitan, run by an American-born countess, a widow. Young girls come to her to learn to ski and to study French and German, and music. It's all very charming and civilised. But close by, hidden in the forests beyond the ski slopes, is a concentration camp, and incarcerated there a Jewish actress under sentence of death.’

  ‘I hope it is she who is going to escape.’

  ‘I don't know. I haven't come to the end yet. But it's chilling. Because it is now. It's going on now, to people like us. It's not something out of history. It's now. And it's so vile that somebody has to stop it. So I suppose it has to be us.’ She smiled at him wryly, and it was like a watery beam of sunshine on a wet day. ‘So. Now I'm not going to moan any more. It's so lovely to see you. But I still can't think why you're here. I know it's the weekend, and you're all open-shirted and casually attired, but why aren't you mixing potions and taking surgery and telling people to say “Aah”? Or perhaps your father's given you the day off?’

  ‘No. As a matter of fact, my mother and father have gone off to the Scilly Islands for a few days' holiday. He said he was going to grab the chance while he could, because, at the rate things are going, only God knows when he'll get another.’

  ‘But the practice?’

  ‘We got a locum in.’

  ‘A locum? But you…’

  ‘I am no longer my father's partner.’

  ‘Has he given you the push?’

  Jeremy laughed. ‘Not exactly. But I've been selected by the local medical committee as expendable. For the time being, my father's going to carry on alone. I volunteered to join the RNVR, and I've been accepted by the Medical Director-General. Surgeon Lieutenant-Commander Jeremy Wells, RNVR. How does that sound to you?’

  ‘Oh, Jeremy. Terribly impressive, but frightfully frightening and brave. Do you really have to do this?’

  ‘I've done it. I even went to Gieves and bought my uniform. I look a bit like a cinema commissionaire, but I suppose we'll all get used to it.’

  ‘You'll look heavenly.’

  ‘I have to report to Devonport Barracks next Thursday.’

  ‘And until then?’

  ‘I wanted to see you all. Say goodbye.’

  ‘You'll stay, of course.’

  ‘If there's a bed.’

  ‘Oh, darling boy, there's always a bed for you. Even though we are a bit of a houseful. Did you bring a suitcase?’

  He had the grace to look a bit sheepish. ‘Yes. Packed. On the off chance you'd invite me.’

  ‘Did Mrs Nettlebed tell you about Gus Callender? Edward's chum from Cambridge.’

  ‘She said he was staying.’

  ‘He's rather interesting. A bit of a dark horse. Loveday, I fear, is besotted.’

  ‘Loveday?’

  ‘Isn't it astonishing? You know how dreadfully rude and offhand she's always been with Edward's friends. Giving them dreadful nicknames and mimicking their fruity voices? Well, this is quite a different cup of tea. One could almost say, she hangs on his every word. It's the first time I've ever seen her even vaguely interested in a personable young man.’

  Jeremy found himself much amused. ‘And how does he take her devotion?’

  ‘I should say quite coolly. But he's behaving very well.’

  ‘Why is he so interesting?’

  ‘I don't know. Just different from all Edward's other friends. And he's Scottish, but he's a bit clammish about his family. Reserved, I suppose. A bit humourless? And yet he's an artist. Painting is his hobby and he's amazingly good. He's already done some charming little sketches. You must get him to show you.’

  ‘Hidden depths.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so. And why not? We're all such extroverts, we expect everyone else to lay their lives on the line. Anyway, you'll meet him. And remember, we all seem to have entered a tacit agreement not to tease. Even Edward's being incredibly tactful. After all, we sometimes forget that our wicked baby is growing up. Perhaps it's time she started falling in love with something that doesn't have four legs and a tail. And I must say he's very sweet with her. It's all rather dear.’ Suddenly she yawned, and settled back on her pillows, slipping her hand from beneath his own. ‘I wish I didn't feel so tired. All I really want to do is sleep.’

  ‘Then sleep.’

  ‘It's made me feel so much better, just talking to you.’

  ‘That's what a professional consultation should be all about.’

  ‘You'll have to send me a socking bill.’

  ‘I will if you don't stay there. Have a really good rest. How do you feel about food? Do you want some lunch?’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Not really.’

  ‘A bit of soup? Consommé, or something. I'll have a word with Mrs Nettlebed.’

  ‘No. Tell Mary. She'll be around somewhere. And tell her you're staying. She'll find a room for you.’

  ‘Right.’ He stood. ‘I'll come and see you later on.’

  ‘It's so comforting,’ she told him, ‘knowing that you're here. Just like the old days.’ She smiled, a smile warm with grateful affection. ‘It makes everything so much better.’

  He left her and went out of the room, closing the door behind him. For a moment he hesitated, knowing that he should go and find Mary Millyway, but not certain where he should start looking for her. And then all thoughts of Mary Millyway were driven from his head by the sound of music. It came from the far end of the long passage that was the guest wing. Judith's room. She was here. She had returned from Porthkerris. Was probably unpacking. And while she did this had put a record on her gramophone, for companionship maybe. For solace.

  A piano. Bach. ‘Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring’.

  He stood there and listened, filled with a sweet and piercing nostalgia. Carried back in time, with startling vividness, to Evensong in his school chapel, he recalled the golden summer light streaming through stained-glass windows; the acute discomfort of fumed oak pews, and the pure voices of the young trebles singing the alternating phrases of the classic chorale. He could almost smell the fusty hymn-books.

  After a bit, he went down the passage, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Judith's door stood ajar. He pushed it gently open. She did not hear him. Suitcases and bags stood about the floor, but she had, apparently, abandoned them and decided instead to write a letter, for she sat at her desk, intent on her task, and her profile was framed by the open window. A lock of honey-coloured hair fell across one cheek, and she wore a cotton dress of azure blue, splashed with white flowers. Her concentration, her unawareness of his presence rendered her so vulnerable, and at the same time so lovely, that all at once Jeremy found himself wishing that time could be stopped. Like a film halted at a single frame, he wanted the moment to last forever.

  It occurred to him then that eighteen was an amazing age for a girl, suspended, as it were, between ga
wky youth and the full flower of womanhood. It was like watching the tight bud of a rose unfurl, day by day, and knowing that its full perfection was still to come. This magic metamorphosis did not happen to everyone, of course, and in his life he had come across plenty of overgrown schoolgirls, beefy in Aertex shirts strained over well-developed busts, and exuding about as much feminine allure as a Rugby coach on a wet day.

  But he had witnessed the miracle happen to Athena. One day a leggy, coltish blonde, and the next, the object of every man's desire. And now it was Judith's turn, and he remembered the little girl he had first talked to in the railway carriage four years ago. And it felt a bit sad. But there was reason as well to be grateful. His father, old Dr Wells, had served as a Front Line Medical Officer in the First World War, and had talked a bit, though not very much, about his mind-numbing experiences. And so Jeremy knew that the only certainty about the months and years that lay ahead of him, as a Naval surgeon on board one of His Majesty's ships, was that from time to time he was going to have to come to terms with loneliness, exhaustion, miserable discomfort, and sheer terror, and that memories of better days would probably be the guardians of his own sanity.

  Now. This moment, caught in time like a fly in amber, was a memory.

  He had stood there long enough. He was about to speak but the music of Bach, at that moment, came to its stately conclusion. The silence which followed the final chords lay empty, to be filled by the voices of the doves in the courtyard below the window.

  ‘Judith.’ She looked up and saw him, and for a moment said nothing, while he watched her face pale with apprehension. Then she said, ‘Diana's ill,’ and it was not a question, but a statement.

  So much for being a doctor. ‘Not a bit,’ he told her instantly. ‘Just tired out.’

  ‘Oh.’ She dropped her pen and leaned back in her chair. ‘What a relief. Mary said she was in her bed, but she didn't tell me you'd been sent for.’

  ‘Mary didn't know. I haven't seen Mary yet. I haven't seen anyone except Mrs Nettlebed. Apparently they've all gone to church. And I wasn't sent for, I just came. And Diana really is all right, so don't worry.’

  ‘Perhaps I should go and see her for a moment.’

  ‘Leave her. I think she's going to sleep. You can go and visit later on.’ He hesitated. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘Of course not. I was just trying to write to my mother, but I'm not making much of a job of it. Come in. Come and sit down. I haven't seen you for months.’

  So he stepped into the room, over the unopened suitcases, and lowered himself into a ridiculous little armchair which was far too narrow for his masculine backside. ‘When did you get back?’ he asked.

  ‘About half an hour ago. I meant to unpack, but then I decided to write to my parents. I haven't written for so long. There's been so much going on.’

  ‘Did you have a good time in Porthkerris?’

  ‘Yes. It's always fun there. A bit like a three-ring circus. Have you got the day off or something?’

  ‘No. Not exactly.’

  She waited for him to enlarge on this. When he did not, she suddenly smiled. ‘You know, Jeremy, you are extraordinary. You never change. You look just the same as you did when I first saw you, in the train coming down from Plymouth.’

  ‘I don't know quite how to take that. I always thought there was room for improvement.’

  She laughed. ‘It was meant as a compliment.’

  He said, ‘I'm on leave.’

  ‘I'm sure you deserve it.’

  ‘Embarkation leave, I suppose you might call it. I've joined the RNVR. I report to Devonport next Thursday, and Diana has asked me to stay here until I have to go.’

  ‘Oh, Jeremy.’

  ‘It's a bit of a thought, isn't it? But I've been chewing it over all summer, and now it seems to me that the sooner the balloon goes up, the sooner we'll get it all over and done with. And I might as well be in at the start of things.’

  ‘What does your father say?’

  ‘I talked it all over with him, and he, fortunately, is of like mind. Which is good of him, because he's going to be the one to carry the burden of a considerable practice, single-handed.’

  ‘Will you go to sea?’

  ‘With a bit of luck.’

  ‘We'll miss you.’

  ‘You can write me letters. You can be my pen-pal.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘It's a deal. Now’ — he heaved himself with some difficulty out of the little chair — ‘I must go and find Mary and be given a billet. The others should be back from church at any moment, and I wouldn't mind cleaning myself up a bit before lunch.’

  But Judith had news of her own to impart. ‘Did you know I've got a car now?’

  ‘A car?’ He was much impressed. ‘Of your own?’

  ‘Yes.’ She beamed, gratified by his reaction. ‘Brand-new. A dear little Morris. I'll have to show it to you.’

  ‘You can take me for a spin. What a spoilt girl you are. I didn't get a car until I was twenty-one, and then it cost five pounds and looked like a very old sewing machine on wheels.’

  ‘Did it go?’

  ‘Like a breeze. At least thirty miles an hour with all the doors open and a stern wind.’ Standing in the open doorway, he paused, listening. From downstairs could be clearly heard the sound of voices, footsteps, slamming doors, and Tiger's joyous barking. ‘The church party would appear to have returned. I must go. See you later…’

  Home from church. They had all come back, flooding into the house; the family, and the two strangers whom Judith had yet to meet. And Edward was there, with the rest of them. Downstairs. Her heart began to beat with a scarcely suppressed excitement, and she knew that the letter to Singapore would have to wait. She pushed the pages aside, and swiftly did a bit of cursory unpacking. Changed her shoes and washed her hands, and put on some lipstick, and then, after a quick consideration, a splash of scent. That was all. This was no time to start overdoing things. She was at her mirror, brushing her hair, when she heard Loveday's voice calling.

  ‘Judith!’

  ‘I'm here.’

  ‘What are you doing? We're all home. You've got to come down and see everybody…gosh, you're looking super. How was it all? Did you go on having fun? When did you get home? Have you seen Mummy? Poor thing, she's not very well…’

  ‘No, I haven't seen her, I think she's sleeping. Jeremy says she's just a bit exhausted.’

  ‘Jeremy? Is he here?’

  ‘He turned up just before I got home. He's staying for a few days. I think he and Mary are trying to find somewhere for him to sleep. And talk about looking super, just look at you! Where did you get that heavenly jacket?’

  ‘It's Athena's. She lent it to me. It's Schiaparelli. Isn't it divine? Oh, Judith, I have to quickly tell you about Gus before you meet him. He's simply the most wonderful person I've ever met in my life, and we've done lots and lots together, and he never seems to be in the least bit bored with me or anything like that.’

  Her face, as she imparted this riveting information, opening up her heart and, making no effort to conceal her obvious infatuation, shone with a sort of inner happiness that Judith had never seen before. She had always been pretty, but right now, she looked sensational. It was as though, at last, she had abandoned the deliberately cultivated loucheness of adolescence, and had decided, almost overnight, to grow up. As well, there was a sort of brilliance about her, an inner glow that had nothing to do with artifice. Falling in love, Judith decided, suited Loveday almost as well as the little scarlet linen jacket she had borrowed from Athena.

  ‘Oh, Loveday, why should he be bored with you? Nobody's ever been bored with you in all your life.’

  ‘No, but you know what I mean,’

  ‘Yes, I do, and it's lovely for you.’ Judith went back to brushing her hair. ‘What sort of things have you been doing together?’

  ‘Oh, everything. Swimming, and showing him the farm, and taking care of the horses, and taki
ng him lovely places so that he can do his painting. He's a frightfully clever artist, I'm quite sure he could make a tremendous success of it; only, of course, he's going to be an engineer. Or a soldier.’

  ‘A soldier?’

  ‘A Gordon Highlander. If there's a war.’ But even this prospect cast no shadow on Loveday's radiant bloom.

  Judith said, ‘Jeremy's joined the Navy.’

  ‘Already? Has he?’

  ‘That's why he's here. Sort of embarkation leave.’

  ‘Goodness!’ But with the self-absorption of any young lover, Loveday was uninterested in any person but herself and the object of her desire. ‘I simply can't wait for you to meet Gus. But you're not to be too nice to him, otherwise he might like you better than he likes me. Isn't life absolutely extraordinary? I thought he was going to be like all those other drones Edward's brought home, but he's not a bit.’

  ‘Lucky for him he's not, otherwise you'd have given him a really bad time.’

  Loveday giggled. ‘Do you remember Niggle, and how he nearly fainted away when Edward brought home a dead rabbit he'd shot?’

  ‘Oh, Loveday, poor man, you were gruesome to him. And he wasn't called Niggle, he was called Nigel.’

  ‘I know, but admit, Niggle suited him much better. Niggle-Niggle. Oh, do hurry and come down, everybody's there and waiting, and we're having drinks in the garden. And we're going down to the cove this afternoon; it's high tide and we're going to swim…’

  ‘I might be going to see Aunt Lavinia.’

  ‘Isn't it utterly wonderful that she didn't die? I couldn't have borne it. Now, come on. I can't wait any longer. Stop prinking. You look terrific…’