Coming Home

  Biddy was quite down-to-earth about her one horticultural success. ‘It's heavy horse manure,’ she explained. ‘I have access to an unlimited supply.’

  ‘Would it be very rude if I went out and had a look? They are quite exceptional.’

  ‘Of course not. Judith will give you a guided tour…you don't mind, do you, darling?’

  ‘I don't mind a bit, except that I don't know all the names…’

  Miss Lang laughed. ‘That makes it sound rather as though I expect to be introduced…’

  She laid down her sherry glass, and Judith led her from the room, leaving Biddy and Emily Thornton happily digging up an even more salacious scrap of tennis-club gossip. They went through the glassed door that led out into the front garden, and the deck-chairs that they had sat in at lunch-time were still there, and a wagtail was hopping about on the grass.

  ‘What a perfectly lovely evening,’ Miss Lang remarked. ‘And what a view Mrs Somerville has. I had no idea of the extent of the view from here. My house is right on the main street, so I have no view, but when I retired I thought better to be close to neighbours and shops, so that when I'm really decrepit and can't drive any longer, I can continue to be independent.’ In leisurely fashion, they made their way across the grass. ‘Now, tell me about yourself. Are you the niece who's on her way to Singapore? Now, that rose is a darling, and I know her name. Ena Harkness. What a size!’ She stopped to smell the velvety bloom. ‘And a scent that is pure heaven. When do you sail?’

  ‘I'm meant to be going in October.’

  ‘How long is it since you've seen your parents?’

  ‘Four years.’

  ‘Too long. Too cruel, such separation. How old are you?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Left school, of course.’

  ‘Yes, this summer.’

  ‘Matric?’

  ‘I haven't got the results yet.’

  ‘Oh, the waiting! Terrible. I remember it. How long are you going to be in Singapore?’

  ‘About a year. If I've passed matriculation, I think I'll get a place at Oxford. I'll have to come back for that.’

  ‘But that is wonderful…I think some of my happiest years were those at University.’ She didn't just look like Miss Catto, but sounded like her as well. ‘And languages. You must try to achieve some languages. You have French, of course. How about German?’

  ‘I've never done German.’

  ‘Latin?’

  ‘Not much good at Latin.’

  ‘A pity. With Latin, you're half-way to Italian and Spanish. Now, here is a rose whose name I do not know.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘So, we must ask Mrs Somerville.’

  ‘I doubt if she'll know either…she's not much of a gardener.’

  ‘In that case, I shall have to look it up. These four years, while your parents have been abroad, what have you been doing with yourself? Who fielded you for holidays…?’

  And she was so interested, and yet so clearly un-curious that Judith found herself quite at ease, and able to speak about the Carey-Lewises and Nancherrow in an objective sort of way, impersonally, as though it were a period in her life which had slipped away and left no trace. Which was strange, because she couldn't talk about it to Biddy or Bob without the misery of Edward flooding back, and the dreaded lump swelling in her throat. She explained about Aunt Louise, and Loveday, and the consequent open-heartedness of Diana and Edgar Carey-Lewis.

  Miss Lang listened with the deepest attention. ‘How kind people are,’ she remarked. ‘We forget sometimes, the boundless kindness of people. I won't say you were lucky, because I hate that word. It sounds as though you'd won the jackpot in some no-skill-required sort of competition. But I am so pleased for you, because it must have rendered your life quite, quite different.’

  ‘Biddy was always there, of course. I always knew I could come to Biddy.’

  ‘But with your new friends you were clearly one of the family.’

  They had come to the end of the roses. Spek's Yellow was the last. Miss Lang, having admired this, paused, turning to face Judith.

  She said, ‘I have so enjoyed talking to you. I hope I shall see you again.’

  ‘I hope so too, Miss Lang.’

  Miss Lang hesitated. She said, ‘I haven't spoken to Mrs Somerville yet, but I wish you all would call me Hester. Which is my name. I'm living here now. This is my home. And I've been Miss Lang for far too long. I think it's time to change my image.’

  Hester. And Judith remembered that far-off day when Diana Carey-Lewis had said very much the same thing, and Judith and Loveday and Diana had bowled along in the open Bentley and all shouted ‘Diana’ to the wind. She said, ‘I'd really like to call you Hester.’

  ‘That's settled then. Now, the midges are starting to bite. I think it's time we returned to the others.’

  From Haytor, the view was immense; a sweep of Dartmoor, and villages, tiny as toys spread upon a carpet, valleys and rivers and fields, and in the distance, from Teignmouth to Start Point, the glimmering, silver sea. Judith and Bob Somerville, with Morag bounding at their heels, had climbed the five miles by way of a moorland track, and having finally reached their goal, paused to get their breath, sitting in a grassy hollow in the shelter of a handy boulder. Biddy had not come with them. Uncharacteristically, she had taken herself off to church. Lunch, she assured them, was a movable feast. There was no need to hurry back to Upper Bickley. They could take their time.

  They sat in a companionable silence. It was a still morning, and the quiet was filled with small country sounds. The lowing of sheep, a dog barking, a car starting up somewhere and climbing a hill. Walking, they had heard bells ringing from small, squat church towers, but the ringing had stopped now. A breeze moved, and stirred the bracken.

  Judith plucked a blade of grass and began to shred it with her thumb-nail. She said, ‘Uncle Bob. Do you think we could talk?’

  He had taken out his pipe and his pouch and was occupied in filling the bowl, tamping down the tobacco.

  ‘Of course. You can always talk to me.’

  ‘It's about something rather difficult.’

  ‘Could that be young Carey-Lewis?’

  She turned her head to look at him. He was lighting his pipe from a box of Swan Vestas. The flame died and the tobacco smelt sweet, and smoke rose in a fine grey plume. ‘Biddy told you.’

  ‘Of course she told me.’ He put the matches back into the pocket of his old tweed jacket, so worn that in places it looked a bit like loosely woven string. ‘She tells me everything. You knew she would. I'm sorry. Unrequited love is not a happy state.’

  ‘It's not Edward. It's about Singapore.’

  ‘What about Singapore?’

  ‘I don't think I can go. I've been thinking about it for ages, but I haven't talked about it to anybody. It's horrible, because I feel as though I'm being torn in two directions. In one direction, I want to go most dreadfully. I want to see Mummy and Dad again, and Jess, more than anything. I've waited four years, and looked forward to it every minute, every day. Counted the months and the days. And I know that Mummy's the same. In her letters she's been saying, just another year. And then, just another six months. And then, just another three months. And she's got my room ready for me, and planned all sorts of lovely treats, like having a big party to welcome me, and going down to Penang for a holiday. And I've got my passage booked and everything, and there's nothing to stop me sailing…’

  She stopped. Bob waited. ‘The war. Everybody's going to be in the thick of it. Everybody I really love. You and Ned, and all my friends. Jeremy Wells and Joe Warren, and probably Heather as well. And Athena Carey-Lewis and Rupert Rycroft…I think she's probably going to marry him, and he's in the Royal Dragoon Guards. And Edward's friend, Gus Callender. And Loveday. And Edward. I know if I go to Singapore, I'll feel like a rat deserting a sinking ship. I mean, I know we're not going to sink, but that doesn't stop me feeling that way. And last week Biddy and I got ga
s masks and stocked up with paraffin and candles, and made all the black-out curtains, and in Singapore all my mother does is to have masses of servants, and go to the club, and dress up and play tennis and go out to dinner parties. I'd have to do that too and it would be tremendously exciting and grown up, but I know I'd feel conscience-stricken every moment of the day. It's not as though there's the smallest likelihood that the war will affect them, in any sort of way, just like in the Great War. But to me it would feel like running away, hiding out, and letting everybody else do all the dirty work. Fight the war, I mean.’

  She fell silent, having more or less run out of words. Bob did not at once make any comment. And then he said, ‘I see your point, but I'm sorry for your parents, particularly your mother.’

  ‘That's the worst bit. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't even be thinking of going to Singapore.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Eighteen. I'll be nineteen next summer.’

  ‘You could go for a year, and then return.’

  ‘I don't want to risk it. Anything could happen. There mightn't be a boat. I mightn't get back again. I might be stuck out there for years.’

  ‘What about University? Oxford. I thought that was the next step.’

  ‘Not for a year. And I haven't had my matric results yet. But I feel that Oxford can wait. It's not so imperative as actually staying in England. Maybe I will be able to go to University, but what is really important, right now, is that I really don't want to run away. Escape. Not be here to do something useful, and be able to share the horrible things that are bound to happen.’

  Uncle Bob, with his pipe going well, leaned back, settling his tweedy shoulders against the lichened granite. ‘So, what do you want me to tell you?’

  ‘I hoped you'd help me make up my mind.’

  ‘I can't do that. You have to make the decision for yourself.’

  ‘It's so difficult.’

  ‘I'll just say two things. If you join your parents I am convinced that nobody would think the worse of you, or point the finger of shame. You've all been apart for too long, and after all these years on your own, I think you deserve a little fun. And if you don't go…you must realise that it's going to be rough. However, it's your life. You have responsibility only for yourself.’

  ‘If I stay in England, will you feel I'm being cruel and selfish?’

  ‘No. I shall feel you are displaying boundless patriotism and selflessness. And I shall also be very proud of you.’

  Patriotism. It was a funny word, not often spoken aloud, encompassing an emotion even deeper than loyalty to, and affection for, friends. She thought of the song, belted out by the girls of St Ursula's on Empire Day or the King's birthday or other appropriate occasions. The words, a paraphrase of Shakespeare:

  This royal throne of kings, this sceptr'd island

  This earth of Majesty, this seat of Mars

  This fortress, built by nature for her purpose

  Against infection and the hand of wars.

  I shall feel very proud of you. Perhaps that was all she needed. She said, ‘I think I'll stay. I'll ring up the shipping company and cancel my passage, and then write to Mummy. She'll be devastated, I know, but she'll just have to understand.’

  ‘I think better to send her a cable first. With LETTER FOLLOWING at the end. And once you've done that, and burnt your boats, you can compose a really good letter, and tell her everything you've just told me. In the Royal Navy we call it “giving the reasons in writing”.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you're quite right. That's what I'll do. Right away. As soon as we get back. Oh, the relief of not having to agonise over it any longer. You are a saint, Uncle Bob.’

  ‘I just hope you won't regret the decision.’

  ‘I know I won't. I feel much better already. And if there is a ghastly fuss, you'll back me up, won't you?’

  ‘I shall be your alternative defence. Now, with that settled, what are you going to do with yourself? Have you thought that far forward?’

  ‘Yes. What I'd like to do is join one of the services, but there's not much point joining up unless I've got some sort of a qualification, otherwise I'll end up cleaning guns, or hanging on to the string of a barrage balloon, or cooking enormous institutional meals. Heather Warren, my friend in Porthkerris, she's going to learn shorthand and typing. I thought perhaps I could do it with her. Shorthand and typing isn't much, but at least it's some sort of a skill. And I thought I'd go back and live in Porthkerris, and perhaps ask Mrs Warren if she'd have me as a paying guest. I know she would, she's the most hospitable person. I've stayed there so many times, and if Joe joins up, then I could have his room.’

  ‘Porthkerris?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not Nancherrow?’

  ‘No. Not just because of Edward. But because I think I've lived with the Carey-Lewises for long enough. I've got to start standing on my own feet. And anyway, Nancherrow is miles from anywhere; if I was trying to learn something, it would be dreadfully inconvenient.’

  ‘Do you really want to return to Cornwall?’

  ‘Not really. In fact, I think I probably need a bit longer away from it all; I haven't exactly pulled myself together yet.’

  ‘Then why not stay here? With Biddy.’

  ‘I can't do that. Indefinitely.’

  ‘Not indefinitely. Just for the time being. I would like you to stay. I am asking you to stay.’

  Judith looked at him in some puzzlement. She saw his solid, rugged profile, with its thick eyebrows, and his jutting pipe. And she saw, too, his greying hair, and the deep lines that ran from nose to chin, and all at once it wasn't difficult to imagine him as he would become when he was very old. She said gently, ‘Why do you want me to stay?’

  ‘I want you to keep Biddy company.’

  ‘But she has dozens of friends.’

  ‘She misses Ned, and God knows what's going to happen to me. She likes having you around. You'll be able to keep each other in order.’

  ‘But I must do something. I really want to learn how to do shorthand and type.’

  ‘You could do that from here. Go to either Exeter or Plymouth.’

  ‘But how would I get to and fro? You've said yourself that the first thing to be rationed is petrol. I wouldn't be able to use my car, and there's only one bus a day out of Bovey Tracey.’

  Uncle Bob began to laugh. ‘What a girl you are for details. You'll make an excellent petty officer writer.’ He sat up and leaned forward to tap out his pipe on the heel of his shoe. ‘Why don't we take one thing at a time? I'll work something out, I promise. I won't abandon you at a loose end with nothing to do. Just be with Biddy for a bit.’

  She was suddenly filled with love for him. She said, ‘All right,’ and leaned forward and kissed his weather-beaten cheek, and he gave her a hug. Morag, who had been lying in the bracken a little way off, stirred herself and came to find out what they were up to. Uncle Bob dealt her a soft slap on her thickly furred flank. ‘Come on, you lazy girl,’ he told her, ‘we're going home.’

  It was nearly half past two before they returned, hungry, thirsty, and thoroughly exercised. It had been a splendid walk. They approached Upper Bickley by way of the moor, and reaching it, climbed the stone wall at the head of the paddock and made their way down the tufty grass towards the house. Morag, lively as ever, led the way, leaping the wall like a steeplechaser, and racing ahead to where her water bowl stood by the back door.

  Judith and Uncle Bob took it more slowly. At the foot of the paddock, they paused to inspect Bill Dagg's projected potato patch. The area had been neatly squared off and marked with twine, and about a quarter was already dug, grass and weeds removed, and the resultant earth lay dark and loamy. Judith stooped and took a handful, and it smelt sweet and damp, and she let it slip away through her fingers. She said, ‘I bet that will grow the best potatoes in the world.’

  ‘Once dug. A labour that I wouldn't relish. Rather Bill Dagg than…’ Uncle Bob turned his head to
listen. Judith heard it too. A car, slowing, turning to climb the hill. Bob frowned. ‘Now, who could that be, coming our way?’

  They stood, side by side, waiting, their eyes turned towards the open gate. The sound of the engine drew closer and then the car appeared in the road, to turn in at the entrance of Upper Bickley. Tyres ground across the pebbles. A dark Royal Naval staff car, with an officer at the wheel.

  Beneath his breath, Bob said, ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘My signal officer.’

  The car drew to a halt, and out of it stepped a young man in lieutenant's uniform. Bob went to meet him, striding out ahead of Judith, and ducking his tall head beneath the washing-line. Judith hesitated, wiping the earthy palm of her hand on the seat of her trousers, and then, more slowly, followed him.

  The lieutenant came forward and saluted. ‘Captain Somerville, sir.’

  ‘Whitaker. What are you doing here?’

  ‘A signal, sir. It came through about an hour ago. I came at once, sir. Thought it best to deliver it by hand.’

  ‘In a staff car?’

  ‘I have an idea you'll be needing transport, sir.’

  The signal was handed over. Standing there, in his dusty shoes and his old tweed jacket, with his hair awry, Bob Somerville read the message. Judith anxiously watched his face, but his expression gave nothing away. After a bit, he looked up. ‘Yes,’ he said to Lieutenant Whitaker. ‘Best delivered by hand. Well done. Thank you.’ He looked at his watch.

  ‘I'll need fifteen minutes. I must have a word with my wife, eat a sandwich or something; pack.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Bob turned to go into the house, but remembered, at the last moment, Judith, who stood there feeling a bit spare and at a loss. ‘Oh, Whitaker, this is my niece, Judith Dunbar. You'd better fill her in with the details. And if you're nice to her, she'll maybe make you a cup of tea.’

  ‘I think I'll be able to survive, thank you very much, sir.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes.’