‘Oh, darling Pops, haven't you had time for a drink?’
‘I've had one. A glass of sherry with your mother.’
‘How is she?’ Athena was getting to her feet, brushing bits of grass and daisy heads from her lap.
‘All right. Mary's just taken her a bowl of soup. She says she's not feeling up to roast beef. I think she's going to stay where she is for the rest of the day.’
Athena went to embrace her father. ‘Poor darlings,’ she said softly. ‘Never mind. Come along.’ And she tucked her arm into his, and they started back towards the house. The rest of them hung behind, collecting glasses and beer bottles and once more stacking the trays.
Without being prompted, Gus picked up one of them. ‘Where do I take it?’
‘If you'll follow me,’ Edward told him, ‘we'll head for Nettlebed's pantry…’
The small procession straggled indoors, Judith bringing up the rear and carrying an ashtray and a couple of glasses that had been forgotten. Behind her, the garden, deserted, simmered in the sunlight, and the shadow of the umbrella, with its jigging fringe, lay dark on the empty canvas chairs, the tartan rugs.
With luncheon over and the pudding plates cleared, coffee was served, at Athena's request, at the dining-room table. ‘If we all troop into the drawing-room,’ she pointed out quite rightly, ‘we shall collapse into armchairs, go to sleep or start reading the newspapers, and the afternoon will be over before it's even begun.’
Loveday was in total agreement. ‘I don't want any coffee. I'm going to go and start getting the picnic ready.’
‘Don't get under Mrs Nettlebed's feet,’ warned Mary.
‘I won't. Will you come with me, Mary, and help? If there are two of us it'll be much quicker. And we want you to come with us,’ she added, wheedling. ‘You haven't come to the cove for ages. And we're going to take the dogs.’
‘You won't take Pekoe. He's curled up on your mother's bed like a little prince. There'll be no budging him.’
‘Well, we'll take Tiger. Please come and help me, Mary.’
Mary sighed. It was clear to everybody that she would have quite liked to sit down for five minutes and digest her huge Sunday lunch, but Loveday, as always, got her own way.
‘I've never known such a child as you,’ Mary told her, but she rose to her feet, excused herself to the Colonel, and carrying her coffee cup and saucer, followed Loveday out of the room. ‘We'll butter splits,’ Judith heard Loveday telling Mary importantly, ‘and put the kettle on to make gallons of tea…’
Edward was equally impatient, but for another reason. ‘I think we should skip coffee,’ he said to Judith, ‘and go to The Dower House right away. Aunt Lavinia's usually quite perky after lunch, but she gets sleepy later on and dozes off. This is the best moment to catch her at her best.’
‘Don't stay too long,’ his father warned. ‘Half an hour is about as much as she can stand.’
‘Okay, Pops, I promise.’
‘When will you be back?’ Athena asked.
‘I suppose about half past three.’
‘And you'll join us at the cove?’
‘Of course. Expect us when you see us.’
‘We'll leave one of the tea-baskets on the hall table for you to carry down.’
‘You make it sound like a penance.’
‘No. Just a device to make sure you come. It's the perfect afternoon, just right for swimming off the rocks.’
‘We'll be there. Ready, Judith?’
She stood. The others stayed at the table, their faces turned towards her, smiling. The Colonel and Athena and Jeremy, and Rupert Rycroft and the enigmatic Gus. She said, ‘Goodbye.’
‘See you soon…’
‘Send our love to Aunt Lavinia…’
‘Send her my special love…’
‘Tell her I'll be up to see her this evening…’
They went. Outside the front door stood a selection of cars, including Edward's own, because he had driven Athena and Rupert to church in it. They got in, and because it had been sitting in the sun, it was boiling, the leather seats hot as griddles.
‘God, what a furnace.’ Edward rolled down windows, creating a small draught. For luncheon, in deference to his father, he had put on a tie again, but now he tore it off, and undid the top button of his blue shirt. ‘I should have parked in the shade. Never mind, it makes the prospect of leaping into the sea even more inviting. And when the moment comes, it will be extra splendid, knowing that you and I have done our duty.’
‘It's not really a duty,’ Judith pointed out, even though she did not want to disagree with him, and entirely saw his point.
‘No.’ Edward started up the engine and they moved away, across the blistering gravel into the cool tunnel of the avenue. ‘But you mustn't expect her to be the same jolly, active Aunt Lavinia we've all known and loved. She's had a hell of a battering, and it shows.’
‘But she isn't dead. That's all that really matters. And she'll get strong again.’ She thought about this. Aunt Lavinia was, after all, very old. ‘Or, anyway, stronger.’ Another thought occurred to her. ‘Oh dear, I haven't got anything to take her. I should have bought flowers or something. Chocolates perhaps.’
‘She's overloaded with both. And grapes, and Eau de Cologne, and boxes of Chanel soap. It's not just the family who care about her. She has friends all over the county, who've come trundling along to pay their respects and celebrate the fact that she didn't actually kick the bucket.’
‘It must be lovely to be really old and still have lots of friends. It would be awful to be old and lonely.’
‘Or old and lonely and poverty-stricken. That's even worse.’
It was such an un-Edward-like remark that Judith frowned. ‘How do you know?’
‘Old people on the estate…Pops used to take me to visit them. Not in a patronising sort of way, just to have a crack and make sure they were all right. Usually they weren't.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Couldn't do much. Usually they refused to be budged. Wouldn't go and live with a son or a daughter; were terrified of the stigma of any sort of social assistance. Just wanted to die in their own beds.’
‘It's understandable.’
‘Yes, but not very easy to deal with. Particularly when the cottage they inhabit is needed to house a new young ploughman or forester.’
‘But you couldn't possibly turn them out?’
‘You sound like a Victorian novel. No, of course we didn't turn them out. We cherished them and looked after them until they finally passed on.’
‘And where did the young ploughman live?’
Edward shrugged. ‘With his own parents, or in lodgings, or something. It was just a matter of making allowances for everybody.’
Judith thought of Phyllis, and told Edward about her unhappy circumstances. ‘…it was lovely seeing her, but it was horrid too, because she has to live in such a gloomy place and in such a bleak little house. And if Cyril joins up and goes to sea, then she's got to get out of it because it belongs to the mining company.’
‘The tied-cottage syndrome.’
‘It's just so dreadfully unfair.’
‘But if you want a man to work for you, then you have to give him a house.’
‘Shouldn't everyone have a house of their own?’
‘That's talking about Utopia, which doesn't exist.’
Judith fell silent. They were out onto the main road now, running down the hill into Rosemullion. Trees threw dark, speckly shadows onto the Tarmac, and the village drowsed in the heat, set about the small clear river, its banks yellow with kingcups. And Judith thought about Phyllis and then thought that this was a pretty funny conversation to be having with Edward, whom she loved more than anyone she had ever known, and whom she had not seen since the evening of Billy Fawcett's humiliation in the Porthkerris gutter. But it was rather nice too, because it meant they didn't just have love to talk about, but other, deeper topics. And it was easy and natural to talk to
him about such things, because she had known him for so long, and he had been part of her life long before he became the whole of it.
Going back to Phyllis. ‘Do you think it ever will? Utopia, I mean. Do you think things ever will be right for everybody?’
‘No.’
‘And equality?’
‘There's no such thing as equality. And why are we onto such serious topics? Let's talk about something tremendously cheerful, and then we will arrive at the Dower House with beaming smiles on our faces, and everybody, including Isobel and Nurse, will be delighted to see us.’
Which, of course, they were. Isobel opened the door to them just as Nurse came down the stairs, bearing Aunt Lavinia's luncheon tray. Despite the warmth of the day, Nurse was in full fig; starched apron, white veil, and thick black stockings. She was a formidable figure, and Judith felt quite relieved that she wasn't the one upstairs in bed, being cared for by such a paragon — the very idea was too intimidating, but then, Aunt Lavinia had never been one to be intimidated by any person, not even this battleaxe.
She was called Sister Vellanowath. Edward, coming out with this mouthful, introduced Judith, and Judith, shaking hands, had to suppress shameful laughter. Going upstairs, out of earshot, she thumped his arm with her fist. ‘Why didn't you tell me she was called that?’ she whispered furiously.
‘I wanted to give you a lovely surprise.’
‘She can't be called Vellanowath.’
‘Yes, she can. She is.’ But he was laughing too.
Aunt Lavinia's bedroom was filled with sunshine, flowers, twinkling silver and crystal, photographs, books. She lay in bed, propped up by a pile of lace-frilled, snowy pillows, and with her shoulders wrapped in a Shetland shawl of the very finest wool. Her white hair was neatly dressed, and as they appeared through the open door, she took off her spectacles and held wide her arms in welcome.
‘Oh, my darlings, I've been so looking forward to this. So excited, I could hardly eat my lunch…steamed fish and an egg custard, and I long for lamb. Come and give me a kiss. Dear Judith, I haven't seen you for far too long…’
She was thinner. Much thinner. She had lost a lot of weight, so that her face had fallen in on its bones, and her eyes become sunken. But those eyes were as bright as ever, and her cheeks bunched up as though she didn't know how to stop smiling.
Judith stooped to kiss her. She said, ‘I feel guilty, because I haven't brought you a present.’
‘I don't want presents, I just want you. And Edward. Dear boy, how perfectly sweet of you to come. I know perfectly well that on a day like this, you're just dying to go down to the cove and jump into the sea.’
Edward laughed. ‘You've got second sight, Aunt Lavinia, you always did have. But don't worry, that can wait. The others are all heading off as soon as Loveday and Mary Millyway have got the picnic ready, and later on Judith and I will join them.’
‘In that case, I shan't feel selfish. Come and sit down — there's a comfy chair — and tell me everything you've been doing. You know, I always thought being ill would be so boring, but it's not a bit, I've seen more people and old friends lately than I have in years. Some rather gloomy, I must admit, whispering as though I were about to pass on, but most of them just as sociable as ever. I'd forgotten I had so many friends. Now…’ Judith had drawn a chair up to the bedside, and Aunt Lavinia reached out for her hand and held it tight. It was an old lady's hand, all bones and knuckles and rings. It felt very precious. ‘How was your holiday in Porthkerris? And who have you got staying at Nancherrow? And tell me all about Athena's young man…’
They stayed for half an hour, the length of time they had been allotted, and for all of it they talked and laughed, and brought Aunt Lavinia up-to-date on every single thing that had happened and was about to happen. They told her about Rupert and about Jeremy and about Gus…
‘Gus. That's your friend, Edward? Your father told me that Loveday has at last got stars in her eyes. Isn't life amazing, the way little girls suddenly grow up? I hope she doesn't get bruised. And Diana. My darling Diana. How is she holding up?’
So they told her about Diana, and Aunt Lavinia was much distressed, and had to be reassured. ‘Just tired. She's had so much to do.’
‘It's all my fault. Giving everybody such a fright. She's been a saint, the dear creature, up here every day, making sure everything is running on oiled wheels. Which, of course, it is. And if Jeremy's at Nancherrow, then he'll keep an eye on her.’ She did not ask why Jeremy was at Nancherrow, and, as if by tacit agreement, neither Edward nor Judith told her that he was on embarkation leave. She would only worry about him, start to fret about the sad state of the world. Right now, she could, at least, be spared that.
‘And are you here for the summer?’ she asked Judith.
‘Well, for the time being. Later I'm going to go to Aunt Biddy in Devon. We're going to go to London for a few days to buy me some clothes for Singapore.’
‘Singapore! I'd forgotten you'll be leaving us. When do you sail?’
‘In October.’
‘How long will you stay?’
‘About a year, maybe.’
‘Oh, your mother will be ecstatic! What a reunion you will all have. I am so happy for you, my darling…’
But finally, time was up. Discreetly, Edward glanced at his watch. ‘I think perhaps we should be on our way, Aunt Lavinia…we don't want to tire you out.’
‘You haven't tired me out one little bit. Just made me feel so happy.’
‘Is there anything you want? Is there anything you need fetched, or anything you need done?’
‘No, I have everything.’ And then she remembered, ‘Yes. There is something you can do for me.’
‘What's that?’
Aunt Lavinia let go of Judith's hand (she had been holding it all through their conversation), and turned in her bed to reach for the drawer of her bedside table. The drawer open, she groped inside and withdrew, attached to a crumpled label, a key. She said, ‘The Hut,’ and held it out to Edward. He took it.
‘What about the Hut?’
‘I am the one who takes care of it. I open it regularly and get rid of the cobwebs and the spiders and make sure it is warm and dry. It has been sadly neglected ever since I fell ill. Before you go back to Nancherrow, will you and Judith go and check and be certain that everything is all right? I am so afraid that some of the older boys in the village might come nosing around or do some sort of damage. Not maliciously, of course, just high spirits. Such a weight off my mind if you'd make certain that all is well. It's such a precious place, I would hate to lie here and think of it being unloved.’
Edward, standing, laughed. ‘Aunt Lavinia, you're a constant surprise to me. The last thing you need to worry about is the Hut.’
‘But I do. It's important to me.’
‘In that case, I promise Judith and I will go and open all the doors and windows and if there is so much as a mouse or a beetle, we will send it on its way.’
‘I knew,’ said Aunt Lavinia, ‘that you of all people would understand.’
Outside, the old-fashioned garden slumbered, scented, in the warm Sunday afternoon. Edward led the way along the path, through the rose garden, and down the flight of stone steps that led into the orchard. Here the grass had been scythed and raked into little haystacks, and on the trees the fruit had formed, and was beginning to drop, to lie, rotting and juicy, circled by wasps. The air smelt faintly of cider.
‘Does the fruit get picked?’ Judith asked.
‘Yes. But the trouble is, the gardener's getting a bit beyond it…growing old, along with Aunt Lavinia and Isobel. He'll need someone to give him a hand if the apples are to be picked and stored for the winter. I'll have a word with Pops. Maybe Walter Mudge or one of the younger boys could come up one day and do the ladder-climbing.’
He went ahead of her, ducking beneath the trailing branches that drooped, heavy with russet fruit. Overhead, in some tree, the blackbird was singing. The Hut, tucked into its
sheltered, bosky corner, basked in sunshine. Edward went up the steps, fitted the key in the lock, and opened the door. He stepped inside. Judith followed him.
They stood, very close, in the small space between the two bunks. It still smelt pleasantly of creosote, but was hot and airless, musty with imprisoned heat. A huge bluebottle buzzed around the hurricane lamp that hung from the centre beam, and in a corner was draped an enormous cobweb studded with dead flies.
Edward said, ‘Yuk,’ and went to open the windows, all of which had warped a bit, and needed some muscular persuasion. The bluebottle buzzed away into the open air.
Judith said, ‘What do we do about the cobweb?’
‘Remove it.’
‘What with?’
He delved into the bottom of the orange-box cupboard and came up with a small brush and a battered old dustpan. ‘Every now and again,’ he told her, ‘we had to sweep the floor.’ And she watched, her nose wrinkled in disgust, while he neatly dealt with the cobweb and its gruesome victims, disposed of all in the dustpan, and then went out of the door and shook the contents out onto the grass. Returning, ‘What else?’ he asked her.
‘I think that's all. No sign of mice. No bird's nests. No holes in the blankets. Perhaps the windows need cleaning.’
‘That'll be a nice job for you, one day when you've nothing better to do.’ He stowed the dustpan and brush back in their makeshift cupboard and then settled himself on the edge of one of the bunks. ‘You can play houses.’
‘Is that what you used to do?’ She sat too, on the other bunk facing him across the narrow space. It was a bit like having a conversation in the cabin of a boat, or a third-class railway compartment. ‘Here, I mean.’
‘Nothing so feeble. It was the real stuff, camp-fires and all. Peeling potatoes and cooking the most disgusting meals which, for some reason, always tasted sublime. Sausages and lamb chops and fresh mackerel if we'd been fishing. But we were useless cooks. We never got it right, everything was always either raw or burnt black.’
‘What else did you do?’