But it was still impossible to remember him dispassionately. The way he looked and the sound of his voice, and his laughter and the lock of his hair that fell across his forehead and had constantly to be pushed away. Everything about him that had filled her with delight.
Since coming to Devon, she had tried her hardest to resist the indulgence of day-dreams: that she would hear a car come up the hill and it would be Edward, come to find her, come because he could not live without her. Such fantasies were for children, fairy stories with happy endings, and now — in every sort of way — she was a child no longer. But she could not stop his invading her night-time dreams, and in those dreams there was a place that she came to, and was consumed by a blissful pleasure, because she knew that, somewhere, Edward was there too; was on his way, was coming. And she would awake filled with happiness, only to have that happiness drain away in the cold light of morning.
All over. But now, remembering him did not even make her want to cry any longer, so perhaps things were getting a little better. They could certainly be worse, because she had passed her matriculation, and for the time being such practical comforts were going to have to keep her going. Self-reliance is all, Miss Catto had preached, and when all was said and done, two distinctions would hardly fail to be something of a spirit-booster. She heard a door slam, and Biddy's voice. Biddy, home again, with her marcel wave. She pulled herself out of the sofa, and went to find her aunt to share the news.
It was nearly the end of September by the time the shorthand and typing lessons with Hester Lang got off the ground, as Hester had a certain amount of preparation to do. She owned an impressive typewriter — a real one, not a portable like Uncle Bob's — but this had to be cleaned in a shop in Exeter, fitted up with a new ribbon and a shield, so that Judith would be unable to take sly glances at the keyboard. She also purchased a couple of manuals, because it was some time since she had learned the theory of both accomplishments and she needed to do a bit of mugging up. Finally, she telephoned and said that she was ready to start.
The following day, Judith walked down the hill and presented herself at Hester's front door. With one thing and another, it felt a bit like going back to school for the Christmas term; autumn was in the air, and the leaves were turning gold. The days were shortening, and each evening the ritual of doing the black-out came a little earlier…soon they would be having tea, at half past four, with the curtains tightly drawn. Judith missed the long twilights, watched them indoors. It felt claustrophobic being shut in with electric light.
But now, at nine o'clock in the morning, the day was crisp and clear, and she smelt bonfire smoke from some gardener's pyre of burning rubbish. Over the weekend, she and Biddy had picked pounds of blackberries from the hedgerows around the local farmer's fields, and the same farmer had promised a load of logs, the gleanings of an old elm felled by last winter's gales. Bill Dagg would bring them to Upper Bickley with a tractor and a bogie, and they would be stacked, like peat, against the garage wall. Burning wood would help to conserve their stock of coal, because the way things were going, there could be no certainty of fresh supplies.
Hester's house was grey stone, double-storeyed and one of a small terrace, so that she had a neighbour on either side. Their houses looked a bit dim, with peeling black or brown front doors, and lace curtains framing aspidistras in pea-green pots. But Hester's front door was butter-yellow, and her shining windows were veiled in snow-white net. As well, alongside the old boot-scraper, she had planted a clematis, and this was already well on its way up the face of the house. All of this contrived to give the impression that the little terrace was on its way up in the world.
Judith pressed the bell, and Hester came to open the door, looking, as always, immaculate.
‘Here you are. I feel you should be lugging a school satchel. What a heavenly morning. I'm just making coffee.’
Judith could smell it, fresh and inviting. She said, ‘I've only just had breakfast.’
‘Then have another cup. Keep me company. We don't have to start work right away. Now you've never been in my house, have you? The sitting-room's through there; make yourself at home and I'll join you in a moment.’
The door was open. Beyond, Judith found herself in a long room that stretched from the front of the house to the back, because a dividing wall between the original two small rooms had been removed. This rendered everything spacious, and very light. As well, it was furnished and decorated in a style both simple and modern, and not at all what she had either imagined or expected. A bit, she decided, like a studio. The walls were white, the carpet beige, and the curtains coarse linen, the colour of string. The obligatory black-out blind was clearly evident, but furled away, and the bright morning light was diffused through the loosely woven material, almost as though the curtains had been made of lace. A Kelim rug lay over the back of the sofa, and there was a low table composed of a sheet of plate glass supported by two antique porcelain lions, which looked as though they might have come, a long time ago, from China. This table was piled with delectable books, and in the centre stood a piece of modern sculpture.
All very surprising. Looking further, Judith saw, over the fireplace, an abstract canvas, hung unframed; grainy and brilliant, the paint appeared to have been scraped on with a palette knife. On either side of the fireplace, alcoves were shelved in glass, bearing a collection of green and Bristol-blue goblets. And there were other shelves, packed with books; some leather-bound and others with deliciously new shiny jackets — novels and biographies that one longed to read. Beyond the window lay the garden, a long thin lawn, flanked by borders a-riot of Michaelmas daisies and dahlias in all the clashing hues of the Russian Ballet.
When Hester returned, Judith was standing by the window turning the pages of a book of colour plates of Van Gogh.
She looked up, then closed the book and laid it back on the table with its companions. She said, ‘I can never be sure if I appreciate Van Gogh or not.’
‘He's a bit of a puzzle, isn't he?’ Hester set the coffee tray down on a lacquer-red stool. ‘But I do love his thunderous skies and his yellow corn and his chalky blues.’
‘This is a lovely room. Not what I expected.’
Hester, settling herself in a wide-lapped chair, laughed. ‘What did you expect? Antimacassars and Prince Albert china?’
‘Not that exactly, but not this. Did you buy the house this way?’
‘No. It was just like all the others. I knocked the wall down. Put in a bathroom.’
‘You must have been terribly quick. You haven't been here long.’
‘But I've owned the property for five years. I used to pop down at weekends when I was still working in London. Then I didn't have time to meet people, because I was always occupied in chasing builders and painters and the like. It was only when I actually retired that I was able to settle here and make friends. Do you take milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk, thank you.’ She took the cup and saucer from Hester and went to sit on the edge of the sofa. ‘You've got such fascinating things. And books. Everything.’
‘I've always been a collector. The Chinese lions were left to me by an uncle; the painting I bought in Paris; the glass I collected over the years. And my sculpture is a Barbara Hepworth. Isn't it amazing? Just like some marvellous stringed instrument.’
‘And your books…’
‘So many books. Too many books. Please, anytime, if you want, borrow. Provided, of course, you bring it back.’
‘I might just do that. And I will bring it back.’
‘You're clearly an inveterate reader. A girl after my own heart. What else do you like besides painting and books?’
‘Music. Uncle Bob introduced me to music. After that I got a gramophone, and now I've got quite a big collection of records. I love it. You can choose your mood.’
‘Do you go to concerts?’
‘There aren't a lot of concerts in West Penwith, and I hardly ever go to London.’
‘Living
here, that's what I miss. And the theatre. But nothing else, really. I'm very content.’
‘It was so kind of you to say that I could come and learn shorthand and typing…’
‘Not kind at all. It will keep my brain working, and make a change from crosswords. I've got everything set up in the dining-room. For typing you must have a good, firm table. And I think three hours a day is enough, don't you? Say, nine to twelve? And we'll give weekends a miss.’
‘Whatever you say.’
Hester finished her coffee and laid down her cup. She got to her feet. ‘Come along then,’ she said. ‘Let's make a start.’
By the middle of October, six weeks into the war, nothing very much had happened; no sort of an invasion, nor bombing, nor battles in France. But the horrors of the destruction of Poland kept everybody glued to their wireless sets, or else following the terrible accounts that appeared in the newspapers, and alongside the appalling suffering and carnage that was taking place in eastern Europe, the small inconveniences and deprivations of everyday life were almost welcome, stiffening spines and giving a sense of purpose to the most trivial of sacrifices.
At Upper Bickley, one of these was that Mrs Lapford had departed, to labour in her factory canteen.
Biddy, in all her life, had never even boiled an egg. But Judith had spent a good deal of time in kitchens, watching Phyllis make semolina puddings and fairy cakes, mashing potatoes for Mrs Warren, and helping to dish up the enormous teas that were so much part of day-to-day life at Porthkerris. At Nancherrow, Mrs Nettlebed had always welcomed a bit of help with the jam and marmalade-making, and was grateful if one offered to stand and beat the sugar and eggs for an airy sponge cake until they were the colour of cream. But that was the limit of Judith's experience. However, needs must when the devil drives. She found an old Good Housekeeping recipe book, tied on an apron and took over the cooking. To begin with, there were a good many scorched chops and underdone chickens, but after a bit she began to get the hang of it, and even accomplished a cake, which tasted not bad, despite the fact that all the raisins and cherries had sunk, like lead, to the bottom.
Another inconvenience was that the Bovey Tracey tradesmen — the butcher, the grocer, the greengrocer, the fishmonger — all ceased to deliver. It was the petrol rationing, they explained, and everybody understood and bought enormous baskets and string bags and humped their shopping home. It wasn't too much trouble, but it all took an enormous amount of time, and the climb up the hill to Upper Bickley, laden like a pack-horse, was exhausting to say the least of it.
And it was beginning to get cold. Judith, having spent so much time at Nancherrow, where the central heating was never turned off until the warm spring was well on its way, had forgotten about being cold. Being cold out of doors was all right, but being cold indoors was misery. Upper Bickley had no central heating. Two years ago, when she had come for Christmas, there had been fires lighted in the bedrooms, and the boiler kept going, full-tilt, all twenty-four hours of the day. But now they needed to be parsimonious with fuel, and only the sitting-room fire was lighted, and then never until after lunch. Biddy did not seem to feel the cold. After all, she had happily survived Keyham Terrace, which Judith remembered as the coldest place in the world that she had ever been. Colder, perhaps, than the Arctic. As winter closed in, Upper Bickley would probably become just as icy. Standing on the hill, it faced the teeth of the east wind, and the old windows and doors were ill fitting and let in every sort of draught. Judith looked forward to the long, dark months without much enthusiasm, and was grateful that Mary had sent her, from Nancherrow, a huge dress box (labelled ‘Hartnell's’) filled with her warmest winter clothes.
Saturday, the fourteenth of October. Judith awoke and felt the frosty air on her face flowing in through the open window, and opening her eyes saw a sky that was grey, and that the topmost branches of the beech tree at the foot of the garden were already gilded with russet leaves. Soon they would start dropping. There would be much sweeping up and burning, and eventually the tree would stand bare.
She lay in bed and thought that if things had gone as they should, and there had been no war, and she had not had to make that enormous decision, then right now, at this moment, she would be in a P & O liner in the Bay of Biscay, being tossed from one side of her bunk to the other and probably experiencing the first nausea of seasickness. But still, en route to Singapore. For a moment or two, she allowed herself to feel dreadfully homesick for her own family. It seemed that she was fated always to live in other people's homes, however hospitable, and sometimes it was really lowering to brood over all that she was missing. She thought of steaming through the Straits of Gibraltar into the blue Mediterranean and a forgotten world of perpetual sunshine. Then the Suez Canal and the Indian Ocean, and each evening the Southern Cross rising a little higher in the jewel-blue sky. And she remembered how, when you approached Colombo, there came a smell in the air, long before the smudge that was Ceylon appeared on the horizon, and the smell was of spice and fruits, and cedarwood, blown seaward on the warm wind.
But it was unwise to imagine, unthinkable to regret. Her bedroom was cold. She got up and went to close the window on the dank morning, pausing for a moment to hope that it would not rain. Then dressed, and went downstairs.
There she found Biddy already in the kitchen, which was unusual because normally Judith was always down first. Biddy was bundled in her dressing-gown, and boiling a kettle for coffee.
‘What are you doing up so bright and early?’
‘Morag woke me, whining and wheeking. I'm surprised you didn't hear her. I came down to let her out, but she just did her wees and then came straight in again.’ Judith looked at Morag, slumped in her basket with a soulful expression in her mismatched eyes. ‘You don't think she's ill, do you?’
‘She certainly doesn't look her usual cheerful self. Perhaps she's got worms.’
‘Don't even suggest it.’
‘We might have to take her to the vet. What do you want for breakfast?’
‘There doesn't seem to be any bacon.’
‘In that case, boiled eggs.’
Over breakfast they discussed, in a desultory fashion, how they were going to spend their Saturday. Judith said that she had to go down to Bovey Tracey to return a book borrowed from Hester Lang, and that she would do the shopping. Biddy said good, because she intended to write letters, and she lit a cigarette and reached for her pad and pencil and began to compose the inevitable shopping list. Bacon, and dog meal for Morag, and a roast of lamb for Sunday lunch, and lavatory paper, and Lux…
‘…and would you be a dear and go to the wool-shop and buy me a pound of oiled wool?’
Judith was astonished.
‘What do you want a pound of oiled wool for?’
‘I'm sick of my silly tapestry. I said I was going to start knitting again. I shall make seaboot stockings for Ned.’
‘I didn't know you could knit stockings.’
‘I can't, but I found a wonderful pattern in the newspaper. They're called spiral stockings and you go round and round and you never have to turn a heel. And then when Ned wears a great hole in them, he just has to twist them round and the hole ends up on the top of his foot.’
‘I'm sure he'll love that.’
‘There's another pattern for a Balaclava helmet. Perhaps you could make him a Balaclava helmet. Keep his ears warm.’
‘Thanks, but at the moment I've enough to do practising pot-hooks. Write “wool” down on the list and I'll see if I can get some. And you'd better have a set of needles as well…’
Saturday morning in Bovey Tracey was a bit like Market Day in Penzance: filled with country people from all around, come in from remote villages and moorland farms to collect the week's supplies. They crowded the narrow pavements with baskets and push-chairs, stood chatting at street corners, took their turn in butcher's and grocer's to be served, the while exchanging gobbets of gossip and family news, and only lowering their voices to speak of illness
or the possible demise of somebody's Auntie Gert.
Which meant everything took a great deal longer than it normally did, and it was eleven o'clock before Judith, burdened with bulging basket and string bag, made her way to Hester Lang's house and rang the front-door bell.
‘Judith!’
‘I know, it's Saturday, and I'm not here to do shorthand. I just came to return the book you lent me. I finished it last night.’
‘Lovely to see you. Come in and have a cup of coffee.’
Hester's coffee was always particularly delicious. Judith, smelling its fragrance, fresh and wheaten, drifting from the kitchen, needed little persuasion. In the narrow hallway, she dumped her baskets and took the book from the capacious pocket of her jacket. ‘I wanted to bring it back right away, in case it got dirty, or Morag chewed it.’
‘Poor dog, I'm sure she'd never do anything so wicked. Go and put it back in its place, and choose another, if you want. I'll be in with the coffee in a moment…’
The book she had borrowed was Great Expectations, one of a complete set of leather-bound volumes of Charles Dickens. She went into the sitting-room (even on a grey morning it felt light and cheerful), and slipped it back into its place, and was contentedly reading titles and trying to decide what she should tackle next when, from the hall, she heard the telephone begin to ring. Then, Hester's footsteps as she went to answer it. From beyond the door, which stood ajar, Judith heard her voice. ‘Eight-two-six. Hester Lang speaking.’
Perhaps not Dickens this time. Something contemporary. She took out The Mortal Storm, by Phyllis Bottome, and began to read the blurb on the inside of the book-jacket, and then to browse, haphazardly, through the pages.