Coming Home
The call continued. Between long silences, Hester spoke, and her voice was dropped to a low murmur. ‘Yes,’ Judith heard her say, ‘yes, of course.’ And then another silence. Standing, alone, in Hester's sitting-room, Judith waited.
Finally, when she was beginning to think that Hester would never return to her, the call was abruptly finished. She heard the single ring of the receiver being replaced, closed the book and looked towards the door. But Hester did not come at once, and when she did appear there was a stillness about her, a deliberate composure, as though she had paused to arrange herself in some way.
She didn't say anything. Across the long room, their eyes met. Judith laid down the book. She said, ‘Is something wrong?’
‘That was…’ Hester's voice shook. She pulled herself together and started again, this time in her usual quiet and level tones. ‘That was Captain Somerville on the telephone.’
Which was bewildering. ‘Uncle Bob? Why is he ringing you up? Can't he get through to Upper Bickley? The phone was working yesterday.’
‘It has nothing to do with the telephone. He wanted to speak to me.’ She closed the door behind her and came to sit on a small upright gilded chair. ‘Something perfectly terrible has happened…’
The room was warm, but Judith felt, at once, chilled. A sense of doom dropped, like a weight, into her stomach. ‘What has happened?’
‘Last night…a German submarine breached the defences of Scapa Flow. Most of the Home Fleet were at sea, but the Royal Oak was there, in the harbour, at anchor…She's been torpedoed, lost. Sank so quickly. Overturned…three torpedoes…impossible for anybody below decks to escape…’
Ned's ship. But not Ned. Ned was all right. Ned would have survived.
‘…about four hundred of the ship's company are believed to be safe…the news hasn't broken yet. Bob says I must tell Biddy before she hears it on the wireless. He wants me to go and tell her. He couldn't bear her to be told, by him, over the telephone. I have to go and tell her…’
For the second time, Hester's voice faltered. Her beautifully manicured hand came up to brush away tears that had not even fallen. ‘I am touched that he thought of me, but yet I would rather he had asked any other person in the world…’
She had not wept. She was not going to weep.
Judith swallowed, and made herself say it. ‘And Ned?’
Hester shook her head. ‘Oh, my dear child, I am so dreadfully sorry.’
And it was not until then that the truth — lying in wait, always there — finally pounced, and Judith knew that what Hester Lang was telling her was that Ned Somerville was dead.
Upper Bickley,
October 25th, 1939.
Dear Colonel Carey-Lewis,
Thank you so much for your very kind letter about Ned. It has been the most shattering time, but Biddy is grateful for letters and reads them all. But really isn't able to answer them herself.
After the Royal Oak was sunk, Uncle Bob was not able to come at once to be with her, on account of being in Scapa Flow, and the crisis of the attack and its aftermath. But he got home last week for a couple of days; it was really terrible, because he was trying to comfort Biddy, and feeling all the time just as lost and bereft as she does. Now he's gone back to Scapa Flow, and we're on our own again.
I am staying here over the winter. When the spring comes, I'll think again, but I can't leave Biddy on her own until she has got over her grieving. She has a dog called Morag which Ned gave to her, but I am not sure whether she is a comfort to Biddy or a sad reminder. My own sadness is that none of you ever met Ned, nor got to know him. He was such a special person and so dear.
Please send my love to everybody, and thank you again for your letter.
Always,
Judith
Nancherrow,
1st November, 1939.
Darling Judith,
We were all so terribly sad about your Cousin Ned being killed. I thought of you for days and wished I could be with you. Mummy says that if you want to bring your Aunt Biddy down for a few days, just for a break, she would love to have you both to stay. But on the other hand, at the moment, she may just prefer to stay in her own house and her own surroundings.
Pops says that the German submarine getting into Scapa Flow was an epic piece of seamanship, but I can't think of one single nice thing to say about Germans and think he is being very magnanimous.
If I give you some news you mustn't think that I think what is happening here is more important than Ned being killed.
First is that Athena is home, and is going to have a baby. Rupert has gone overseas with his regiment and their horses, and the Caledonian Hotel, without him, lost its charms, so she came home. I think he has gone back to Palestine.
The baby comes in July.
Gus is in France with the Highland Division and the British Expeditionary Force. I write to him a lot and get a letter at least once a week. He sent me the photo of him in his kilt and he looks absolutely gorgeous.
I saw Heather Warren the other day in Penzance. She's doing shorthand and typing in Porthkerris and she's going to try to get into the Foreign Office or some sort of Civil Service job. She said to tell you she'd write to you when she had a moment, and to say that Charlie Lanyon is in the DCLI, and he's gone to France too. I don't know who Charlie Lanyon is, but she said that you would know. And Joe Warren's joined the DCLI as well, but Paddy is still fishing.
Edward doesn't write but he rings up every now and then, and we have to talk very quickly because he's only allowed three minutes and then the phone goes ping and it's all over. He seems to be enjoying himself, and he's got one of the new planes which are called Spitfires. It would be lovely if he got home for Christmas, but I don't suppose he will.
The hens have come and are all fenced in on the back lawn and creating havoc. They have little wooden houses with nesting boxes and doors that shut at night to keep naughty Mr Fox out. They haven't started laying yet, but once they do I expect we shall live on eggs.
It's getting dreadfully chilly. Pops is being strict about the central heating and the dust-sheets have all gone over the drawing-room furniture and the chandelier is all tied up in a bag to stop it getting dusty. It looks a bit bleak, but the small sitting-room is much cosier.
Mr Nettlebed has become an air raid warden. This means that if he forgets to do the black-out, or a chink of light shows, then he has to charge himself with negligence and take himself to court to be fined. Ha ha.
The other unexpected air raid warden is Tommy Mortimer, but of course he's in London. He couldn't join up because of his age and his flat feet (didn't know he had them), so he's gone into Civil Defence. He came down for a weekend and told us all about it. He says if there are bombing raids he has to stand on the roof of Mortimer's in Regent Street with a bucket of water and a stirrup-pump. If Mortimer's gets bombed, do you suppose there will be diamond rings all over the pavement?
Mummy's okay. Loves having Athena here. They giggle away over Vogue, just like they always did, and are trying to knit baby clothes.
Lots of love. Come and stay if you want. Kisses,
Loveday
Upper Bickley,
Saturday 30th December.
Dear Mummy and Dad,
It's nearly the end of the year, and I'm glad it's over. Thank you so much for my Christmas present, which came at the beginning of the month, but which I saved up till Christmas Day to open. It is the most lovely handbag, and just what I needed. I loved the length of silk as well, and shall have it made up into an evening skirt when I can find someone who can do it really professionally. It is the most gorgeous colour. And please thank Jess for her home-made calendar; tell her the monkeys and the elephants were really well drawn.
It has suddenly got bitterly cold, and there is snow all over Dartmoor and down the road, and blue shadows everywhere, and the roofs of all the houses have got thick hats of snow and Bovey Tracey looks a bit like the pictures of The Tailor of Gloucester. Each mornin
g we give hay to the Dartmoor ponies that come down off the hill to shelter from the wind behind the wall, and taking Morag for a walk is a bit like trudging off to the South Pole. The house isn't much warmer — not quite as cold as Keyham but just about. I'm sitting in the kitchen writing this because it's the warmest place in the house. Wearing two jerseys.
Uncle Bob got home for four days over Christmas but has gone again now. I really dreaded Christmas without Ned, but Hester Lang came to our rescue and asked us out for lunch, and we didn't have a tree or tinsel or anything, tried to treat it just like an ordinary day. Hester had a nice couple staying from London, quite elderly but very cultured and interesting, and the talk over lunch was not about the war, but things like art galleries and travelling in the Middle East. I think he was an archaeologist.
Here Judith paused and laid down her pen and blew on her cramped and chilled fingers, and wondered if she could be bothered to make a pot of tea. It was nearly four o'clock, and Biddy and Morag were not yet home from their walk. Beyond the kitchen window, the darkening garden sloped up onto the moor, and all was frozen and white with snow. The only green to be seen were the dark branches of the pines, restless in the east wind, blowing up from the sea. The single sign of life was a robin, pecking nuts from the bag which Judith had hung from the bird table.
She looked at the robin and thought about this sad, grey Christmas, which, somehow or other, and with Hester's help, they had managed to survive. And then, allowing herself the luxury of a wallow in nostalgia, remembered last Christmas, and Nancherrow, with all the lovely house filled with guests, and light and laughter everywhere. Sparkling decorations, and the sprucey smell of the Christmas tree, with presents piled beneath its spreading branches.
And sounds. Christmas carols sung at morning service in Rosemullion Church; pots clattering from Mrs Nettlebed's kitchen as she prepared enormous quantities of delicious food; Strauss waltzes.
She remembered dressing for dinner, in her own pretty pink bedroom, dizzy with excitement; the scent of make-up and the silken sensation of her first delectable grown-up evening dress slipping over her head. And then, going through the open drawing-room door, and Edward coming to take her hand, to tell her, ‘We're drinking champagne.’
A year ago, only a year. But, already another time, another world. She sighed and reached for her pen, and went on with her letter.
Biddy is all right, but still not able to cope with anything very much. It is really difficult because I am still spending the mornings with Hester Lang, doing shorthand and typing, but often Biddy isn't out of bed by the time I've left the house. Mrs Dagg comes, of course, so she isn't alone, but it's a bit as though Biddy has lost all interest in everything. She doesn't want to do anything, or see anybody. Friends ring her up, but she won't even go and play bridge, and she doesn't really like it if kindly friends drop in.
The only person who refuses to be put off is Hester Lang, and I think she will be the one to ease Biddy back into her circle of friends — I don't know how we would have managed without her. She is so wise and kind. She comes up to Upper Bickley most days, on some excuse or other, and I think next week is planning a bridge party, and insisting that Biddy goes. It really is time she began to see people again. At the moment she's out with Morag, and when she comes back I shall make a cup of tea.
She doesn't talk about Ned, and I don't either because I don't think she is able to yet. It will be better when she gets interested in Red Cross work or something. She is too energetic a person to be doing nothing for the war effort.
I hope all this doesn't depress you, it's no good telling you that Biddy is fine, because she isn't. But I am sure very soon she will be better. Whatever, I am staying with her for the time being, and we get on terribly well, so you mustn't be worried about either of us.
The day after tomorrow, it will be New Year's Day, 1940. I miss you all dreadfully, and sometimes wish I were with you all, but with all that has happened, I know I made the right decision. How worried we would all have been to think of Biddy on her own.
Must stop, because I'm frozen. I shall go and hurl logs on the sitting-room fire and draw the black-out and work up a fug. Biddy and Morag are back, I can see them coming up the path from the gate. We had to dig snow away and cover the path with cinders from the boiler, so that the poor postman (who walks everywhere) could deliver the letters without breaking his leg.
Lots of love to you all. I'll write NEXT YEAR.
Judith
1940
By the end of March, after the coldest winter that most people could remember, the worst of the snow and the ice had finally disappeared, and on Dartmoor only random traces remained, caught in sunless ditches or piled against the more exposed of the drystone walls. As the days lengthened, the warm west wind brought a softness to the air, trees budded and birds returned to their summer habitats; wild primroses studded the high Devon hedges, and in the garden of Upper Bickley the first of the daffodils tossed their yellow heads in the breeze.
In Cornwall, at Nancherrow, the house filled up with sophisticated refugees from London, abandoning the city and arriving to stay for Easter. Tommy Mortimer stole a week's leave from his Civil Defence and stirrup-pump, and Jane Pearson brought her two children for the entire month. Jane's husband, the solid and well-meaning Alistair, was now in the Army and in France, and her nanny, younger than anybody had ever realised, had returned to nursing, gone to run a surgical ward in a military hospital in the south of Wales. Bereft of Nanny, Jane had pluckily undertaken the train journey to Penzance with only herself to amuse and discipline her offspring, and as soon as she arrived, had off-loaded them onto Mary Millyway, while she curled up on a sofa, sipped a gin and orange, chatted to Athena, and generally let her hair down. She was still living in her little house in Lincoln Street, and having such a good time that she made no plans to leave London. Never in her life had she had such fun, out on the town, and lunching at The Ritz or The Berkeley with dashing wing commanders or young Guards officers.
‘What about Roddy and Camilla?’ Athena asked, rather as though they were puppies, and half expecting to be told that Jane simply put them into kennels.
‘Oh, my daily lady stays with them,’ Jane replied airily, ‘or I leave them with my mother's maid.’ And then, ‘My dear, I must tell you. Too exciting…’ And she was off, regaling another blissful encounter.
All these casual guests brought with them their emergency ration cards, for buying butter, sugar, bacon, lard, and meat, but as well, Tommy provided a store of unlikely pre-war delicacies from Fortnum & Mason. Pheasant in aspic, chocolate-coated cashew nuts, scented tea, and tiny jars of Beluga caviar.
Mrs Nettlebed, eyeing these assorted gifts as they were placed upon her kitchen table, was heard to remark that it was a pity that Mr Mortimer couldn't lay his hands on a decent leg of pork.
The Nancherrow staff was by now much diminished. Both Nesta and Janet had departed, in some excitement, to put on uniform, make munitions, and do their bit for the war effort. Palmer and the under-gardener had both been called up, and the only replacement to be found was Matty Pomeroy, an old-age pensioner from Rosemullion, who came each morning on a creaking bicycle and worked at the pace of a snail.
Hetty, of course, being too young to be of much use to anybody, was still in the scullery, breaking dishes and driving Mrs Nettlebed demented, but now all the house guests had to buckle to, seeing to their own black-out curtains, making their own beds, and volunteering to wash dishes and hump logs. Meals were still served, in certain formality, in the dining-room, but the drawing-room was closed, swathed in dust-sheets, and the best of the silver had been cleaned, wrapped in chamois bags and stowed, for the duration of the war, carefully away. Nettlebed, relieved of the tedious chore of polishing silver, which in the old days had filled much of his day, drifted imperceptibly out of doors. This was a gradual progression, started by Nettlebed emerging from the kitchen to make sure that old Matty wasn't idling behind the potting-shed, sneaki
ng ten minutes or so with his smelly pipe. Then he volunteered to dig up a shore or two or potatoes for Mrs Nettlebed, or to cut a cabbage. Before long, he had put himself in charge of the vegetable garden, planning crops and overseeing Matty Pomeroy, all with his customary thoroughness and competence. In Penzance, he bought himself a pair of rubber boots, and wearing these, dug a trench for runner beans. Gradually, his grave and pallid features became quite sunburnt, and his trousers started to look a bit loose. Athena swore that, at heart, Nettlebed was a son of the soil, and for the first time in his life had found his true vocation, and Diana, much amused, decided that it was rather chic to have a suntanned butler, provided he managed to scrub the earth out of his fingernails before serving the soup.
It was in the middle of these Easter holidays, on the night of the eighth of April, that Lavinia Boscawen died.
She died in her own bed, in her own bedroom at The Dower House. Aunt Lavinia had never fully recovered from the illness which had so frightened and disturbed the family, but had peacefully survived the winter, getting up each day, sitting by her fireside, busily knitting khaki socks. She had not been unwell, nor in any sort of pain. One night, she had simply gone to bed as usual, fallen asleep, and never woken.