Coming Home

  It was Isobel who found her. Old Isobel, treading upstairs with Mrs Boscawen's early-morning tea tray (hot water and lemon), tapping at the door, and then going in to wake her mistress. She laid the little tray down on the bedside table and went to draw back the curtains and raise the black-out blind.

  ‘Lovely morning,’ she observed, but there was no response.

  She turned. ‘Lovely morning…’ she repeated, but knew, even as she said the words that there was never going to be any sort of reply. Lavinia Boscawen lay quietly, her head on the downy pillow, just as she had gone to sleep. Her eyes were closed and she looked years younger and very peaceful. Isobel, old, and versed in the ways of death, took a silver hand mirror from the dressing-table and held it to Mrs Boscawen's lips. There was no breath, no movement. Stillness. Isobel put down the mirror, and gently covered Mrs Boscawen's face with the embroidered linen sheet. Then she pulled down the blind and went downstairs. In the hall, with some reluctance, because she had always hated the horrid instrument, she picked up the telephone, put the receiver to her ear, and asked the girl on the switchboard to put her through to Nancherrow.

  Nettlebed, laying breakfast in the dining-room, heard the telephone ringing from the Colonel's study. He glanced at the clock, saw that it was twenty to eight, set a fork precisely in its place, and went to answer the call.

  ‘Nancherrow.’

  ‘Mr Nettlebed?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘It's Isobel. From The Dower House. Mr Nettlebed…Mrs Boscawen's dead. In her sleep. I found her this morning. Is the Colonel there?’

  ‘He's not down yet, Isobel.’ Nettlebed frowned. ‘You're quite certain?’

  ‘Oh, I'm certain all right. Not a breath from her lips. Peaceful as a child. The dear lady…’

  ‘Are you alone, Isobel?’

  ‘Of course I'm alone. Who else would be here?’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I have to talk to the Colonel.’

  ‘I'll fetch him.’

  ‘I'll wait.’

  ‘No. Don't wait. He'll ring you. Just stay near the phone, so that you hear it.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with my hearing.’

  ‘You're sure you're all right?’

  Isobel did not answer this. She said gruffly, ‘Just tell the Colonel to ring me dreckly,’ and rang off.

  Nettlebed replaced the receiver and stood looking at it for a moment or two. Mrs Boscawen dead. After a bit, he said aloud, ‘What a bugger,’ and then went out of the room and made his sedate way upstairs.

  He found the Colonel in his bathroom shaving. He wore a paisley dressing-gown over his striped pyjamas and leather slippers on his feet, and had slung a towel around his neck. He had shaved one side of his face, but the other was still white with scented foam, and he stood there, on the bath-mat, with his cut-throat razor in his hand and listened to the news relayed from his portable wireless, which he had placed on the mahogany lid of the lavatory. Nettlebed, approaching, heard the grave, measured tones of the BBC news reader, but when he discreetly cleared his throat and rapped on the panel of the open door, the Colonel, turning to see him, put up a hand for silence, and the two men listened together to the morning bulletin. Grave tidings. German troops had moved into Denmark and Norway in the early hours of the morning. Three troopships had sailed into Copenhagen Harbour, ports and islands had been occupied, and the vital sea passages of the Skagerrak and the Kattegat were now under enemy control. In Norway, the German Navy had landed troops in every Norwegian port as far north as Narvic. A British destroyer had been sunk…

  The Colonel stooped and switched off the wireless. Then straightened, turned to his mirror and continued shaving. Through the looking-glass, his eyes met Nettlebed's.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘this is the beginning.’

  ‘Yes, sir. It seems so.’

  ‘Always, the element of surprise. But why should we be surprised?’

  ‘I've no idea, sir.’ Nettlebed hesitated, reluctant at such a moment to speak. But it had to be done. ‘I'm sorry, sir, to disturb you, but I'm afraid I have to impart even more sad tidings.’ Scrape, went the cut-throat razor, leaving a swathe of clean skin down the soapy cheek. ‘Isobel has just telephoned, sir, from The Dower House. Mrs Boscawen has passed on. Last night, in her sleep. Isobel found her this morning and telephoned at once. I told her you would ring, sir, and she is waiting by the telephone.’

  He paused. After a bit, the Colonel turned, and there was on his face an expression of such anguish, sadness, loss, that Nettlebed was made to feel like a murderer. For a moment, a silence lay between them, and Nettlebed could think of no suitable words to fill it. Then the Colonel shook his head, ‘Oh God, so difficult to take in, Nettlebed.’

  ‘I am so very sorry, sir.’

  ‘When did Isobel ring?’

  ‘Twenty to eight, sir.’

  ‘I'll be down in five minutes.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘And, Nettlebed…look out a black tie for me, would you?’

  At Upper Bickley, the telephone rang, and Judith went to answer it.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Judith, it's Athena.’

  ‘Goodness, what a surprise.’

  ‘Mummy wanted me to call you. I'm afraid it's very sad news, but really in a way, not all that sad. Just sad for all of us. Aunt Lavinia died.’

  Judith, stunned, could think of nothing to say. She reached for an uncomfortable hall chair and crashed down.

  ‘When?’ she managed to say at last.

  ‘Monday night. She just went to sleep and didn't wake up. Not ill or anything. We're all trying our hardest to be grateful for her and not to be selfish, but it feels a bit like the end of an era.’

  She sounded very cool and grown up and accepting. Judith was surprised. Before, when Aunt Lavinia had been so ill and given the whole family such a scare, Athena, she knew, had gone into hysterics of tears on being told, and had worked herself into such a state that Rupert had had to put her into his car and drive her all the way from the wilds of Scotland to the west of Cornwall. But now…Perhaps being married and pregnant had caused this metamorphosis, and enabled Athena to behave in such a rational and objective way. Whatever, Judith was grateful. It would have been unbearable to be given the news by a person in floods of weeping.

  She said, ‘I am so dreadfully sorry. She was such a special person, so much a part of all of you. You must all feel devastated.’

  ‘We do, yes, we do.’

  ‘Is your mother all right?’

  ‘Yes. And even Loveday. Pops gave us all a little talking to, and said that we must not think of ourselves but of Aunt Lavinia, all peaceful and quiet and not having to fret over this bloody war. Isn't everything too ghastly? At least she's being spared having to read the newspapers and look at all those horrible arrows and maps.’

  ‘It was sweet of you to tell me.’

  ‘Oh, darling Judith, of course we had to tell you. Aunt Lavinia always thought of you as one of the clan. And Mummy says would you come to the funeral? Not a frightfully jolly prospect, but it would mean a lot to us all if you did.’

  Judith hesitated. ‘When is it?’

  ‘Next Tuesday, the sixteenth.’

  ‘Will…will you all be there?’

  ‘Of course. The whole shooting-match. Not Edward, though, he's incarcerated on his airfield, I suppose waiting to shoot down German bombers. He tried to get compassionate leave, but things being the way they are, the answer was No. But all the rest of us will be, including Jane Pearson, who's here with her kiddie-winks, and I think Tommy Mortimer wants to come. Too silly, he was here for a few days and then went back to London, and now he's got to come all the way down again. And this, with all of us being asked, “Is your journey really necessary?” But he was terribly fond of Aunt Lavinia, even though he was always given sherry and never offered a pink gin. But do come. And stay. Everything's ready for you. We never allow anybody into your bedroom.’

  ‘I
'll…I'll have to have a word with Biddy.’

  ‘Surely, she'll be all right. Besides, it's about time we all saw you again. Come on Sunday. How will you get here? Will you drive?’

  ‘Perhaps I should save my petrol.’

  ‘Then jump on a train. I'll meet you at Penzance. Petrol's not too much of a problem, because Pops and Nettlebed both get a few more coupons on account of being Civil Defence. Catch the Riviera…’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Oh, please come. Say yes. We're all longing to see you and I want you to admire my bulge. And everybody sends love, and Loveday says she's got a favourite hen and she's called it after you. Must fly, darling. See you Sunday.’

  Judith sought out Biddy and explained the situation. ‘They want me to go to Nancherrow. To be there for the funeral.’

  ‘Then of course you must go. Poor old lady. What a sadness.’ Biddy eyed Judith, standing there chewing her lip. ‘You do want to go?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘You sound uncertain. Will Edward be there?’

  ‘Oh, Biddy…’

  ‘Well, will he?’

  Judith shook her head. ‘No. He can't get leave.’

  ‘If he was going to be there, would you want to go?’

  ‘I don't know. I'd probably make some excuse.’

  ‘Darling, all that happened half a year ago, and since then you've been living with me like a saintly little nun. You can't languish over Edward Carey-Lewis for the rest of your life. Anyway, all this is hypothetical, because you say he won't be there. So off you go. See all your young friends again.’

  ‘I just feel badly leaving you on your own. What about cooking meals? You mustn't stop eating.’

  ‘I shan't. I shall buy tiddy-oggies from the baker and eat lots of fruit. And now that you've shown me how, I can boil an egg. And Mrs Dagg will make me soup, and I simply adore bread and marge.’

  But Judith remained doubtful. To all outward appearances, Biddy was recovered. Prompted by Hester, she had joined the Red Cross and went to Hester's house two mornings a week, to pack comforts for the troops in France. As well, she had started playing bridge again, and seeing old friends. But Judith, living with her day in and day out, knew that with Ned's death something of Biddy had died as well, so that she could never truly come to terms with the terrible loss of her only child. Some days, when the sun shone and there was a sparkle in the air, a flicker of her old liveliness returned, and she would come out with one of her marvellously funny, off-the-cuff observations and they would both start laughing, and for a moment it would be as though nothing had ever happened. But other days, a depression fell upon her, and she lay in bed and refused to get up, and smoked too many cigarettes, and kept glancing at the clock to see if it was time for her first drink of the evening. Often, Judith knew, she could not resist the temptation to jump the gun, and she would come in from a walk to find Biddy in her armchair cradling the precious glass in both hands, as though her very life depended on it.

  She said, ‘I just don't like to leave you alone.’

  ‘I shall have Mrs Dagg. I told you. And Hester down the road, and all my nice Red Cross ladies. And Morag for company. I'll be all right. Besides, you can't moulder here forever. Now that you and Hester have finished with the shorthand and typing, there's really no reason for you to stay. I don't want you to go, of course, but you must never not go just because of me. Let's face it, I must be independent. A few days without you will give me good practice.’

  So Judith was persuaded. She said, ‘All right,’ and smiled, because indecision was over and, with Biddy's encouragement, she had made up her see-saw of a mind. All at once she felt quite excited, as though she were planning a holiday, which, of course, she wasn't, and although she looked forward enormously to returning to Nancherrow, the fact remained that the two most special people were not going to be there. Aunt Lavinia because she had died, and Edward because of the exigencies of war. No. Wrong. Not the exigencies of war. Edward was lost to her forever because of Judith's own naïvety and inexperience. He had gone from her life and she had only herself to blame.

  But. And it was a big but. Nancherrow was constant, and she was going back, to that place of comfort and warmth and luxury, where responsibilities could be dumped overboard and one could revel in the sensation of being a child again. Just for a few days. It was probably all going to be dreadfully sad, but she would be there, returned to her own pink bedroom, her loved possessions, her desk and her gramophone and her Chinese box. She thought of throwing open the windows and leaning out, to the view of the courtyard and the glimpse of the sea and the sound of the white fantails cooing around the dovecote. And giggling with Loveday, and just being with Athena and Mary Millyway and Diana and the Colonel. Her heart filled with gratitude, and she knew that it was going to be the next best thing to coming home, and wondered if Aunt Lavinia, wherever she was, realised the wealth of her legacy.

  The journey to Cornwall was steeped in nostalgia and memories. Plymouth Station, by now quite familiar, was choked with young sailors and kitbags, a raw draft, headed up-country. They assembled on the opposite platform, being bullied into some sort of line by an exasperated chief petty officer. When the Cornish Riviera drew in, they momentarily disappeared from view behind the huge, pulsing steam engine, but were still there as the train moved out of the station, and Judith's last sight of them was a blur of new, stiff navy-blue uniforms and youthful, pink-cheeked faces.

  Almost at once the Riviera clattered over Saltash Bridge, and the harbour was filled with HM ships, grey no longer but painted all over with camouflage. Then, Cornwall; pink-washed houses, deep valleys, and viaducts. The train stopped at Par. ‘Par. Par. Par, change for Newquay,’ the station master intoned as he had always done. Truro. Judith saw the little city clustered around the tall tower of the cathedral, and remembered coming to buy her gramophone with Mr Baines, and being given lunch at The Red Lion. And she thought of Jeremy, as she had first seen him, and how he had gathered up his belongings and said goodbye, and left the train at Truro, and she had thought then that she would never see him again, and would certainly never get to know his name.

  And at last, Hayle and the estuary, blue in a flood-tide, and on the far side, Penmarron, the gables of Riverview clearly visible through the young green of the April trees.

  At the junction, she got her suitcase off the rack and stood in the corridor, not wishing to miss the first sighting of Mount's Bay and the sea. The beaches, as the train clattered along the edge of the coast, were tangled in barbed-wire defences, and there were concrete pillboxes, manned by soldiers, and tank-traps, prepared for an invasion by sea. And yet the bay sparkled in sunshine, just the way it had always done, and the air was filled with the scream of gulls and the strong tang of sea-wrack.

  Athena was there, waiting for her. Standing on the platform, and instantly visible with her blonde hair blowing in the breeze. Her pregnancy was patently obvious, for she had made no prissy effort to conceal her shape, and wore baggy corduroy trousers and a man's shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the tails flying loose.

  ‘Judith.’

  They met half-way down the platform, and Judith put down her case and they hugged. Despite her uncharacteristic ragamuffin appearance, Athena was scented, as always, by some deliciously expensive fragrance. ‘Goodness, heaven to see you. You've lost weight. I've gained it.’ She patted her stomach. ‘Isn't it exciting? It gets bigger every day.’

  ‘When does it arrive?’

  ‘July. I can't wait. Is this all your luggage?’

  ‘What did you expect, cabin trunks and hat boxes?’

  ‘The car's outside. Come on, let's get home.’

  The car was a bit of a surprise. Not one of the large, dignified vehicles that were so much part of Nancherrow, but a small van in shabby condition, with H. WILLIAMS, FISHMONGER, written in capitals on the side.

  ‘Who's gone into the fish trade?’ Judith asked in some amusement.

  ‘Isn't it
a scream? Pops bought it second-hand to save petrol. You've no idea how many people you can squash into the back. We only got it a week ago. We haven't had time to paint the name out yet. I don't think we should. I think it's frightfully chic. So does Mummy.’

  Judith loaded the case into the fishy-smelling interior and they set off. The van backfired a couple of times, and then leaped forward, narrowly missing the edge of the harbour wall.

  ‘So sweet of you to come. We were all terrified you'd back out at the last moment. How's your aunt? Is she holding up? Poor Ned. Such a terrifically ghastly thing to happen. We were all so dreadfully sorry.’

  ‘She's all right. Recovering, I think. But it's been a long winter.’

  ‘I'll bet. What have you been doing?’

  ‘Learning to do shorthand and type. I've got my speeds and everything now, so there's nothing to stop me joining up or getting some sort of job.’

  ‘When are you going to do that?’

  ‘I don't know. Someday.’ She changed the subject. ‘Have you heard anything from Jeremy Wells?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was thinking about him in the train. When we got to Truro.’

  ‘His father called the other day because Camilla Pearson fell off the swing and cut her head open and Mary thought she might need a stitch but she didn't. He said Jeremy's bucketing to and fro across the Atlantic in a destroyer. Merchant-ship convoys. He didn't enlarge, but it all sounds pretty rough. And Gus is in France with The Highland Division, but nothing much seems to be happening there.’

  ‘And Rupert?’ Judith asked, before Athena should start talking about Edward.

  ‘Oh, he's fine. Writes lots of funny letters.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Palestine. A place called Gedera. Only I'm not meant to tell anybody in case a spy is listening. And they're still a cavalry regiment, because they haven't been mechanised yet. I should have thought, after what happened to the Polish cavalry, they'd have turned to tanks pretty sharpish, wouldn't you? But I suppose the War Office knows what it's doing. He writes lots. He's thrilled about the baby. Keeps suggesting terrible names like Cecil and Ernest and Herbert. Rycroft family names. Too awful.’