‘Of course.’
‘Have you got an aspirin?’
‘I'll find one. Just go, Edward.’
But still he lingered. ‘Am I forgiven?’
He was like a small boy, resenting another person's displeasure, needing reassurance that all was right with his world.
‘Oh, Edward. It was just as much my fault as yours.’ Which was true, but so shame-making, it was unpleasant to think about.
It was, however, enough for Edward. ‘Good.’ He smiled. ‘I don't like you being angry with me. I couldn't bear the thought of us not being friends.’ He gave her a little hug, then let her go and turned to lift the heavy basket off the table and make for the door.
On the way out, he turned for the last time. ‘I shall be waiting for you,’ he told her.
Judith could feel the stupid tears again come swimming up into her eyes, and it was not possible to speak. So she nodded, willing him to go, and he walked away from her, through the open door, was silhouetted for an instant against the sunlight, and then gone. The sound of his footsteps on the gravel faded and died into the hot, slumberous Sunday afternoon.
She stood, and the house was empty and silent. No sound. Just the slow tick of the tall grandfather clock that stood at the foot of the stairs. She saw that it was a quarter past four. Everybody was gone, dispersed. Only she herself, and, upstairs, the invalid, probably asleep in her lavish bed, with Pekoe curled up beside her.
She went towards the staircase, intending to make her way upstairs, but for some reason she felt so exhausted that, instead, she sank down on the bottom stair and leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the banister. The tears now were flowing, and the next thing she knew was that she was weeping, sobbing like a child. It didn't matter, of course, because there was no person to hear, and it was something of a relief just to give way to her misery and let it all pour out. Her eyes streamed and her nose was running, and of course she had no handkerchief, so she tried wiping her eyes on the skirt of her dress, but she could scarcely blow her nose on it…
At that moment, she heard footsteps, briskly making their way along the upper landing. At the top of the staircase, they paused. ‘Judith?’
Mary Millyway. Judith froze, half-way through a deep, gulping sob.
‘What are you doing there?’
But Judith, frantically mopping at tears, was not capable of making any sort of a reply.
Mary was coming downstairs.
‘I thought you were both back ages ago, and gone to the cove hours before this. And then from the nursery window I saw Edward going down the garden on his own. Mrs Boscawen's all right, isn't she?’ Her voice became sharp with anxiety. ‘Nothing's wrong, is it?’
Reaching Judith's side, Mary laid a hand on her shoulder. Judith wiped her nose, like an urchin, on the back of her hand. She shook her head. ‘No. She's all right.’
‘You didn't stay with her too long? Tire her out?’
‘No, we didn't.’
‘Then what took you so long?’
‘We went to the Hut to clean out the cobwebs.’
‘So what are all the tears about?’ Mary sat on the stair beside Judith, and laid an arm around her shoulders. ‘Tell Mary. What is it? What's happened?’
‘Nothing. I've…I've just got a headache. I didn't want to go to the cove.’ Only then did she turn her face to Mary. She saw the familiar freckled face, the concerned and kindly expression in Mary's eyes. ‘You…you haven't got a handkerchief, have you, Mary?’
‘Of course.’ And one was produced from the pocket of Mary's striped overall, and handed over, and Judith, gratefully, blew her nose. Being able to stop snivelling made her feel, very slightly, better. She said, ‘I thought you were meant to be going to the cove too, with all the others.’
‘No, I didn't go. Didn't like to leave Mrs Carey-Lewis on her own in case she needed something. Now, what are we going to do about this headache? Sitting here like a load of old coal isn't going to get rid of it. How about coming up to the nursery with me, and I'll find something in my medicine cupboard. And then a nice quiet sit-down and a cup of tea. I was just thinking of putting a kettle on…’
The comfort of her presence, her aura of normality and good sense, were like a sort of balm. She stood, and helped Judith to her feet, and led her upstairs and into the nursery; settled her down in a corner of the saggy old sofa, and went to draw the curtain a little so that the sun would not shine into Judith's eyes. Then she disappeared into the adjoining bathroom and returned with a glass of water and a couple of tablets.
‘Take those now, and you'll be better in no time. Just sit quiet, and I'll get the tea made.’
Judith dutifully took the tablets and washed them down with the cold, clear water. She lay back and closed her eyes, and felt the breeze moving through the open window, and smelt the comforting nursery smell of newly ironed linen and sweet biscuits and the roses that Mary had picked and arranged in a blue-and-white jug in the middle of the table. Her hand was still clenched around Mary's handkerchief, and she clung to it, as though it were some sort of a talisman.
Presently Mary returned, bearing teapot and cups and saucers on a little tray. Judith stirred, but, ‘Don't you move now,’ Mary told her. ‘I'll put the tray down on this little stool.’ She pulled up her old nursing chair and settled herself comfortably with her back to the window. ‘There's nothing like a cup of tea when you're feeling a bit down in the mouth. Got your period, have you?’
Judith could have lied and said yes, and it would have been a splendid excuse, but she had never lied to Mary, and even now could not bring herself to do so.
‘No. No, it's not that.’
‘When did it start?’
‘Sometime…this afternoon.’ She took the steaming teacup from Mary's hand, and her own hand shook a bit and the teacup rattled. ‘Thank you, Mary. You are a saint. I'm so glad you didn't go to the cove. I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't been here.’
‘I don't think,’ said Mary, ‘that I've ever seen you cry like that before.’
‘No, I don't suppose you have…’
She drank her tea. In sips; scalding hot and wonderfully refreshing.
‘Something happened, didn't it?’ Judith glanced up, but Mary was concentrating on pouring a cup of tea for herself.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because I'm not a fool. I know all you children like I know the back of my hand. Something's happened. You wouldn't be in tears for nothing, sobbing your heart out as though you'd lost the world.’
‘I…I don't know if I want to talk about it.’
‘If you talk about it to anybody, you can talk about it to me. I've got eyes, Judith, I've watched you growing up. I've always been a bit afraid that this might happen.’
‘What might happen?’
‘It's Edward, isn't it?’
Judith looked up and saw in Mary's face neither curiosity nor disapproval. She was simply stating a fact. She would neither judge nor blame. She had seen too much of life, and she knew the Carey-Lewis children, with all their charm and all their faults, better than anyone.
She said, ‘Yes. It's Edward.’ The relief of admitting it, saying it out aloud, was immense.
‘Fallen in love with him, have you?’
‘It was almost impossible not to.’
‘Had a row?’
‘No. Not a row. Just a sort of misunderstanding.’
‘Talked it through, have you?’
‘I suppose that's what we've been doing. But all we've discovered is that we don't feel the same way. You see, I thought it was all right to tell him how I felt. I thought we'd passed the stage of pretending. But I was completely wrong, and at the end of it all, I knew all I'd done was to make a complete fool of myself…’
‘Now don't start to cry again. You can tell me. I'll understand…’
With some effort Judith pulled herself together, dabbed at her face with the wadded handkerchief. She drank a bit more tea. She said
, ‘Of course he's not in love with me. He's fond of me, like Loveday, but he doesn't want me for always. The thing is, that it…happened once before. Last Christmas. But I was too young then to deal with it…I sort of panicked. And we had a row then, and it could all have been most dreadfully difficult and embarrassing for everybody. But it wasn't, because Edward was so sensible and ready to forget what had happened and start all over again. And it was all right. But this afternoon…’ But of course she couldn't tell Mary. It was too intimate. Private. Even shocking. She sat gazing down at her teacup, and she could feel the traitorous, rosy blush creep up into her cheeks.
Mary said, ‘Gone a bit too far this time, has it?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Well, it's happened before and it'll happen again. But I feel some vexed with Edward. He's a lovely man and he'd charm the birds out of the trees, but he's no thought for others, nor for the future. Skims over life like a dragonfly. Never knew such a boy, making friends and bringing them home, and then on to the next one, before you could say Jack Robinson.’
‘I know. I suppose I've always known.’
‘Like another cup of tea?’
‘In a moment.’
‘How's that headache?’
‘A bit better.’ Which it was. But its easement had left a void, as though the pain had drained her mind of all substance. ‘I told Edward I'd go down to the cove. Later on. When it's cooler.’
‘But you don't want to go?’
‘No. But it's nothing to do with the way I feel. It's because I don't want to see them all…Loveday and Athena and the others. I don't want them looking at me, and asking questions, and wondering what's been happening. I don't want to face anybody. I wish I could just disappear.’
She waited for Mary to say, ‘Don't be so silly; no point in running away; nobody disappears; you can't just disappear.’ But Mary didn't make any of these damping observations. Instead, ‘I don't think that's such a bad idea,’ she said.
Judith looked at her in amazement, but Mary's face was quite calm.
‘What do you mean, Mary?’
‘Where's Mrs Somerville now? Your Aunt Biddy?’
‘Aunt Biddy?’
‘That's right. Where's she living?’
‘In Devon. Bovey Tracey. In her house there.’
‘You're going to stay with her?’
‘Yes. Sometime.’
‘I'm interfering, I know. But I think you should go now.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes. Now. This very afternoon.’
‘But I couldn't just go…’
‘Now listen, my dear. Just bear with me. Someone has to say this, and there's nobody but me to do it. Your own mother is on the other side of the world, and Mrs Carey-Lewis, for all her kindness, has never been much use at this sort of thing. I said before, I've watched you growing up, known you since the day Loveday brought you here from school. I've seen you being absorbed by this family, and become part of them, and a wonderful thing it's been. But it's dangerous too. Because they're not your family and if you're not very careful, you're in danger of losing your own identity. You're eighteen now. I think it's time to break loose and go your own way. Now, don't for an instant think that I want to be rid of you. I shall miss you very, very much, and I don't want to lose you. It's just that you're a person in your own right, and I'm afraid that if you live here, at Nancherrow, much longer, you're going to lose sight of that.’
‘How long have you thought this, Mary?’
‘Since last Christmas. I guessed then that you were getting involved with Edward. I prayed you wouldn't, because I knew how it would end.’
‘And, of course, you were right.’
‘I don't like being right. I only know that they're a lot of strong characters, these Carey-Lewises. A family of born leaders, you might say. You've landed yourself in a bit of an emotional mess, but the best thing to do at such times is to grasp the nettle. Take the initiative. If for no other reason, it helps to shore up your own dignity.’
And Judith knew that she was right. Because much the same thing had happened the evening Billy Fawcett gave such a fright to poor Ellie in the cinema, and Judith had taken control and swept everybody off to the police station to lodge complaints. And afterwards, she had never felt so strong or so positive, and Billy Fawcett had been exorcised for ever.
Aunt Biddy. The very idea of getting away from Edward, and Nancherrow and all of them, just for a little while, was enormously tempting. Just for long enough to get everything in proportion, to deal with heartbreak, and get her life back on the rails again. Aunt Biddy did not know Edward. Aunt Biddy would ask no questions, simply be delighted to have a bit of company, and the excuse for a cocktail party or two.
But the complications of departure were too numerous to be dealt with. ‘How can I just go? How can I leave? Without any sort of excuse? It would be too ill mannered.’
‘Well, the first thing to do is to go downstairs to the Colonel's study, and telephone Mrs Somerville. Have you got her number? Good. So you ring her up and ask her if she'd mind if you turned up this evening. You can make some excuse or other if she asks to know why. You can drive in your little car. It shouldn't take you more than four hours, and with a bit of luck there won't be too much traffic.’
‘Supposing she isn't there? Or she doesn't want me?’
‘She'll want you. You were going to visit her anyway, it's just a question of arriving a bit early. And then we'll make her the reason for your going. We'll tell a lie. Say she's unwell, all alone, got 'flu, needs nursing, broken her leg. We'll say she rang you; a call for help, and it sounded so urgent you just got straight into your car, and went.’
‘I'm useless at telling lies. Everybody will know I'm telling a lie.’
‘You don't need to tell the lie. I will. The Colonel won't be back until dinner time this evening. He and Mr Mudge have gone to see some cattle out St Just way. And Edward and Athena and Loveday and the others won't come up from the cliffs for another hour or so yet.’
‘So, you mean…I won't have to say goodbye…’
‘You don't need to see any of them again, not until you're strong enough, and ready.’
‘I will come back, though. I'll come back before I go to Singapore. I'll have to say goodbye to the Colonel and Diana.’
‘Of course. And that'll be something for us all to look forward to. But right now, it's expecting too much of you, just to carry on after what's happened. And, as well, I think it's asking too much of Edward.’
‘It's a sort of catalyst, isn't it?’
‘I've no idea what a catalyst is. I only know you can't be anybody but yourself. At the end of the day, you're stuck with that.’
‘You sound like Miss Catto.’
‘I could do worse.’
Judith smiled. She said, ‘And what about you, Mary? You're part of the family too, but I don't think of you as being absorbed by them, or ever losing your own identity.’
‘I'm different. I work for them. This is my job.’
‘But you could never leave them.’
Mary laughed. ‘Is that what you think? You think I'm going to stay forever, growing older and less useful. Doing a bit of ironing, waiting for Athena to start a string of babies, dealing with another generation of sleepless nights, and strings of nappies, and potty-training? And then having a stroke or something, becoming senile. A burden. Having to be cared for. Is that how you see my future?’
Judith felt a bit embarrassed because, in a shameful way, it was. The devoted servant, the old retainer, sitting shawled in a chair, knitting garments that nobody would ever want to wear, being brought cups of tea, and privately moaned about because she was such a nuisance. She said, ‘I just can't imagine you being anywhere else except Nancherrow.’
‘Well, you're wrong. When I'm sixty, I shall retire and go and live in a cottage on my brother's farm up Falmouth way. It belongs to me. I saved up my money, and I bought it from him, for two hundred and fifty pounds.
So I shall be independent. And that's how I shall end my days.’
‘Oh, Mary, good for you. But what they'll all do without you I can't imagine.’
‘They'll manage. Nobody's indispensable.’
‘Do they know about your plans?’
‘The Colonel does. When I bought the cottage, I told him then. Took him into my confidence. He came and looked at the cottage, and paid for me to have a survey done.’
‘And Mrs Carey-Lewis?’
Mary laughed and shook her head. ‘I don't suppose, for a single moment, that the Colonel has told her. He protects her, you see. From everything. Like a child. Now…’ Once more Mary became practical. ‘We're wasting time. Sitting here gabbing isn't going to get the baby bathed. If you're going to go, then we must get moving…’
‘Will you help me pack?’
‘Ring your auntie first,’ said Mary. ‘No point in putting the cart before the horse.’
Diana awoke. She had slept the afternoon away. She knew this, even as she opened her eyes, because the sun had dropped in the sky, and its beams now slanted down through her western window. Beside her, Pekoe still slumbered. She yawned and stretched, and settled back again on her pillows and thought how perfect it would be if sleep could not only restore one but iron out all anxieties in the same process, so that one could wake with a totally clear and untroubled mind, as smooth and empty as a beach, washed and ironed by the outgoing tide.
But that was not to be. She awoke, and all her pressing anxieties at once crowded about her and raised their heads again. They had simply been waiting for her. Aunt Lavinia, recovered but still so frail. And a war waiting to pounce. When, nobody knew. Two weeks' time, perhaps. A week. Even days. The endless wireless bulletins, and the newspapers, and the headlines that grew graver by the hour. Edgar's expression of anguish tore at her heart. He tried to hide it from her, but did not always succeed.
And the young ones. Jeremy, her stalwart, the strong pillar of so many years. But now on embarkation leave, committed to the Royal Navy, already on his way. He was the first to go, but as soon as war was declared, all the others would be in the front line of the call-up. Her precious Edward to fly those dreadfully dangerous aeroplanes — quite dangerous enough without having some German firing bullets at you at the same time. And his friend Gus, who was already an officer in the Gordon Highlanders. They would never return to the dreaming spires of that lovely city, with nothing to do but absorb knowledge and enjoy themselves. As for Rupert, he of course was a regular soldier, but the added complication there was that he and Athena wanted to get married, and he would be sent off to some inhospitable desert with his horse, and get shot at, and Athena would be left on her own for years and years, wasting her youth. All of them, the jeunesse d'or, wasting the precious years that would never come again.