‘What if it's a girl?’
‘I shall call her Clementina.’
‘That's an orange.’
‘Perhaps she'll be an orange baby. Whatever, she'll be divine. I'm rather into children now, with Roddy and Camilla about the place. I always thought they were a bit spoilt — remember the whining that Christmas — but Mary Millyway's licked them into shape in no time and they're really sweet. Come out with the most killing remarks.’
‘And Tommy Mortimer?’
‘He's arriving tomorrow. He wanted to bring his frock-coat, but Pops said that would be overdoing it a bit.’
‘Does it feel funny without Aunt Lavinia?’
‘Yes. Strange. Like knowing there's an empty room in the house, with no flowers and the window closed. It's so final, isn't it? Death, I mean.’
‘Yes. It's final all right.’
Afterwards, when it was all safely over, everybody decided that Lavinia Boscawen's funeral was so exactly right, that she might have arranged it herself. A sweet spring afternoon; Rosemullion Church filled with flowers, and Aunt Lavinia, peaceful in her coffin, waiting there to greet her closest friends for the last time. The narrow, uncomfortable pews were crammed with assorted individuals, none of whom, for all the world, would have missed out on the occasion. They came from all parts of the county and all walks of life, from the Lord Lieutenant downwards, and space was found for the most humble — the retired sailor from Penberth who had for years kept Mrs Boscawen supplied with fresh fish, and the gormless youth who stoked the school boiler and cleaned out the primitive lavatories.
Isobel was there, of course, and The Dower House gardener, wearing his best green tweed suit, with a Gloire de Dijon rose in his buttonhole. From Penzance came a threesome of professional men; Mr Baines, Mr Eustick (the bank manager), and the proprietor of the Mitre Hotel. From Truro, Dr and Mrs Wells. Dowager Lady Tregurra had taken a taxi all the way from Launceston, and looked none the worse for the experience, but other mourners were not so spry and needed some assistance to get themselves from the lych-gate to the church, stumping down the yew-shaded path with sticks and canes, and having difficulty, once settled, with tiresome hearing aids and ear-trumpets. One old gentleman arrived in his wheelchair, propelled by his slightly less elderly manservant, and all the while, as the church filled up, the organ wheezed away, the music scarcely recognisable as Elgar's Nimrod.
The Nancherrow party occupied the first two pews. Edgar Carey-Lewis and Diana, Athena, Loveday, and Mary Millyway sat in the front. Behind them were their guests, Judith, Tommy Mortimer, and Jane Pearson, with Mr and Mrs Nettlebed. Hetty had been left behind to take care of Camilla and Roddy Pearson. Both Mary and Mrs Nettlebed were a bit anxious about this arrangement, for Hetty was neither the brightest nor the most reliable of girls, but Mrs Nettlebed, on departing for the church, had put the fear of God into Hetty, and told her that if she got home and found those children with beads up their noses, then there was going to be trouble.
All of them, by means of lending and borrowing, had managed to deck themselves out in inky black. All except Athena, who wore a flowing maternity dress of cream crepe, and looked like a beautiful, quite serene, angel.
Finally, everybody was settled. The bell ceased its tolling and the organ wheezed, mid-passage, into silence. From the back of the church, through the door which had been left open, came the sound of birds tweeting.
The aged vicar heaved himself to his feet and at once decided that he needed to blow his nose. This took a moment or two, and everybody sat patiently and stared at him, while he fumbled for his handkerchief, shook it out of its folds, trumpeted into it, and stowed it away again. He then cleared his throat, and at last announced, in quavering tones, that Mrs Carey-Lewis had asked him to intimate that all would be welcome, after the service, at Nancherrow for refreshment. With this important bit of business dealt with, he opened his prayer book, those of the congregation who could, stood, and the service began.
I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord,
he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet
shall he live…
They sang a hymn or two, and Colonel Carey-Lewis read a suitable passage from the Bible, and then there was a prayer, and it was all over. Six men moved forward to hoist Aunt Lavinia's coffin shoulder-high; the undertaker and his burly assistant, the Colonel, Tommy Mortimer, the verger, and the green-suited gardener, looking, as Athena remarked afterwards, a bit like a dear little gnome who had found himself at the wrong party. The coffin (strangely small) was borne away, out into the sunlit graveyard, and the congregation, at varying speeds, followed behind.
Judith, tactfully distanced from the family, watched the ritual of burial, and listened to the words. Dust to Dust and Ashes to Ashes, but it was hard to realise that anything so final had much to do with Aunt Lavinia. She looked about her and saw, standing a little way off, the tall figure of Mr Baines, and she remembered Aunt Louise's funeral, in the bitter wind of the Penmarron churchyard, and how kind Mr Baines had been to her that awful day. And then she found herself thinking about Edward, and wishing, for his sake, that he could have been here, so that he might have helped to carry Aunt Lavinia to her last resting place; to send her on her way.
Because the Nancherrow drawing-room was out of use, Aunt Lavinia's wake took place in the dining-room. All had been previously prepared and made festive. In the middle of the mantelpiece stood a huge arrangement of young beech leaves and pheasant's-eye lilies, which Diana had spent much of the morning contriving. In the fireplace, logs flamed cheerfully, although the April afternoon stayed so warm that it was possible to leave open the windows and let the cool, salty air into the house.
The great table, extended to its full length, had been laid with a white cloth and Mrs Nettlebed's baking (two solid days of it), set out for all to admire and then consume. Sponge cakes, lemon-curd tarts, gingerbread, scones; tiny sandwiches of cucumber and gentleman's relish, iced fairy cakes and shortbread biscuits.
On the sideboard (Nettlebed's responsibility) were the two silver teapots, one with Indian tea, the other with China, the silver water jug, milk jug, and sugar bowl; and all the best eggshell cups and saucers. As well (discreetly placed), the whisky decanter, the soda siphon, and a number of cut-glass tumblers. The dining-room chairs had been ranged around the edge of the room. Gradually, these were occupied by the most infirm and tottery, while others stood, or moved about, exchanging small talk. Conversation rose and voices buzzed, and before long it all began to sound a bit like the best sort of cocktail party.
Judith, primed by Diana, helped carry trays and hand around the various goodies, pausing now and then to chat, or take an empty teacup to be refilled. So occupied was she that a little time had passed before there was an opportunity to have a word with Mr Baines. She was headed for the sideboard, with a cup and saucer in each hand, and found herself, mid-passage, face-to-face with him.
‘Judith.’
‘Mr Baines. How lovely to see you, and how good of you to come…’
‘Of course I came. You appear to be very busy.’
‘They all want more tea. I don't think anybody's used to such tiny cups.’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘That sounds dreadfully serious.’
‘Be reassured. Not serious. Do you think we could remove ourselves for five minutes or so? There seem to be a number of waitresses, and I am sure you could be spared.’
‘Well…all right. But first I have to deal with these two, because the dear souls are waiting and parched.’
‘I had a quick word with Colonel Carey-Lewis. He says we may use his study.’
‘In that case, I'll be with you in a moment.’
‘Splendid. It should take no more than ten minutes.’ Loveday passed, with a plateful of scones, and he neatly removed one as she went by. ‘This will sustain me until you come.’
At the sideboard, Judith refilled the cups and carried them back to Mrs Jennings, who
ran the Rosemullion Post Office, and her friend Mrs Carter, who cleaned the brasses in the church.
‘You're some lovely girl,’ she was told. ‘We're that dry after all the singing. Any more of that gingerbread, is there? Knew we'd get a handsome tea if Mrs Nettlebed had anything to do with it.’
‘…how she manages with this rationing, I don't know…’
‘…she'll have had some put by, you can depend on that…’
Judith supplied the gingerbread and left them, munching genteelly and brushing stray crumbs from their lips with dainty little fingers. Then, casually, she eased her way from the room. It was something of a relief to get away from all the high-pitched chatter, and she went down the passage and through the open door of the Colonel's study. Mr Baines was waiting, leaning against the heavy desk, and peacefully consuming the last of his stolen scone. He took out his silk handkerchief and wiped the crumbs from his fingers. He said, ‘What a spread.’
‘I haven't eaten anything. I've been too busy feeding others.’ She sank into a sagging leather armchair, and it was good to get the weight off her feet and to toe off her uncomfortable, high-heeled, black patent leather pumps. She looked at him, and frowned. He had said that it was nothing serious, but his expression wasn't particularly cheerful. She hoped that he had been telling the truth. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’
‘A number of things. Most important, yourself. How are you?’
She shrugged. ‘All right.’
‘Colonel Carey-Lewis told me the sad news of your cousin's death. That was tragic.’
‘Yes. Yes, it was. He was only twenty. It's terribly young to die, isn't it? And it happened so soon into the war…almost before we'd got used to the idea that we actually were at war. It just came out of the blue.’
‘He told me, too, that you'd decided not to join your family, but to stay in this country.’
Judith smiled wryly. ‘You seem to have caught up on everything that's happened.’
‘I see the Colonel from time to time in the Penzance Club. I like to keep tabs on my clients. I hope you have good news from Singapore…’
So she told him the latest tidings from her mother, and then went on and explained about Hester Lang and the shorthand and typing lessons, that had helped, somehow, to fill the long, cold, bereaved winter at Upper Bickley. ‘I've got my speeds now, so I suppose I can leave Biddy and go and get a job or something, but I feel a bit reluctant just to walk out and leave her alone…’
‘There is a time for everything. Perhaps it will come sooner than you think. Whatever, you seem to be surviving. Now, there's something else I have to tell you. It's about Colonel Fawcett.’
Judith froze. What ghastly item of information was Mr Baines about to impart? The fact that it mightn't be ghastly never occurred to her because even now mention of Billy Fawcett's name was quite enough to chill her heart with apprehension.
‘What about him?’
‘Don't look so petrified. He's dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘It happened only last week. He was in the bank, in Porthkerris, I think cashing a cheque. And the bank manager emerged from his office and said, very politely, that he would like to have a word about Colonel Fawcett's overdraft, and would Colonel Fawcett like to step this way? Whereupon the old man flew into a fearful rage, all at once turned blue in the face, gave a small choking cry and fell flat on his back. Immovable. You can imagine the consternation. It turned out that he had suffered a massive stroke. An ambulance was called, and he was wheeled off to the Penzance General, but was found to be dead on arrival.’
Judith could think of nothing to say. As Mr Baines spoke, her initial shock and horror were gradually replaced by an hysterical desire to laugh, because she could picture the scene of Billy Fawcett's demise so clearly, and it all seemed ludicrous rather than tragic…not all that different from the evening when Edward Carey-Lewis had deposited him in the gutter outside the Sliding Tackle.
On the verge of nervous giggles, she put a hand over her mouth, but her eyes betrayed her laughter, and Mr Baines smiled in some sympathy and shook his head, as though at a loss for words.
‘I suppose we should put on solemn faces, but I had exactly the same reaction when I was told what had happened. Once he lost his menace, he was a ridiculous figure of a man.’
‘I know I shouldn't be laughing.’
‘What else can one do?’
‘So many people dying.’
‘I know. I'm sorry.’
‘Did he ever go to court?’
‘Of course. Up before the judge at the Michaelmas Quarterly Assizes. He pleaded guilty, and his lawyer came out with a lot of irrelevant, extenuating circumstances; old, loyal soldier of the King, traumatic experiences in Afghanistan, et cetera, et cetera. So he got let off with a heavy fine and a telling-off. He was lucky not to be sent to jail, but I think the rest of his life was pretty miserable. Nobody in Penmarron wanted to have much to do with him, and he was asked to resign from the golf club.’
‘So what did he do with himself?’
‘No idea. Boozed, I suppose. All we can be sure of is that he stopped visiting the cinema.’
‘What a miserable end to his life.’
‘I wouldn't be too sorry for him. Anyway, it's too late now for sorrow.’
‘I'm surprised Mr Warren, or Heather, didn't let me know about him dying.’
‘I told you, it's only just happened. There was a small item in the Western Morning News a couple of days ago. Billy Fawcett was a man neither well known nor particularly well loved.’
‘That ought to make it sad.’
‘Don't be sad. Just put the whole unhappy business out of your mind for good.’
All this time, Mr Baines had stayed as she found him, with his tall, angular frame propped against the edge of Colonel Carey-Lewis's desk. Now, however, he stood and went to retrieve his briefcase, which he had placed in the seat of a chair. He put the briefcase on the carpet and sat, crossing one long leg over the other. Judith, watching him, guessed that he was going to take off his spectacles and give them a polish with his silk handkerchief. Which he did, and she knew of old that he was neatly collecting his thoughts.
He said, ‘Now, down to the real business,’ and put his spectacles on again, disposed of the handkerchief and folded his arms. ‘It is perhaps a little precipitant, but I wanted to have a word before you departed once more for Devon. It's about Mrs Boscawen's house…’
‘The Dower House?’
‘Exactly so. I wonder what your response would be if I suggested that you should buy it. As I said, it is not the most seemly of moments to mention such a course of events, but I've thought things over, and under the circumstances, decided there was no point in losing time.’
He fell silent. Across the room, their eyes met. Judith stared at him, and wondered if he had suddenly taken leave of his senses. But he was clearly waiting for her reaction to this astonishing scheme. She said, ‘But I don't want a house. I'm eighteen. The last thing in the world that I need just now is a house. There's a war on, and I'll probably join the services and be away for years. What would I do with a house to worry about…?’
‘Let me explain…’
‘…besides, The Dower House, surely, can't be put on the market. Isn't it part of the Nancherrow estate?’
‘Once it was. No longer. As soon as he was able, Mrs Boscawen's husband bought the freehold.’
‘Won't Colonel Carey-Lewis want to buy it back?’
‘I have discussed it with him, and apparently not.’
‘You've already talked to the Colonel about this?’
‘Of course. I couldn't have approached you without having first heard his views on the subject. It's too important. I needed not simply his approval, but his opinion as well.’
‘Why is it so important? Why is buying The Dower House so important?’
‘Because, as one of your trustees, I consider that property is probably the best investment you can possib
ly make. Bricks and mortar never lose their value, and, properly maintained, can only appreciate. And this is a good time to buy because house prices have dropped, as they always do in wartime, to an all-time low. I know you are very young, and the future is filled with uncertainties, but still, we must look ahead. Whatever happens, you would have a base. Roots of your own. Another consideration is your family. You, thanks to Mrs Forrester, are the one with the money. Owning The Dower House would mean a home for your mother and father and Jess to return to when their time in Singapore is over. Or, at least, a base. Somewhere to stay until they are able to find a house for themselves.’
‘But that isn't going to happen for years.’
‘No. But it will happen.’
Judith fell silent. All at once, it seemed there was a great deal to think about. The Dower House. Belonging to her. Her own home. Roots. The one thing that she had never known and always longed for. Lying back in the capacious armchair, she gazed at the empty fireplace and let her imagination lead her through the old house, with its quiet, old-fashioned rooms, the ticking clock, and the creaking stairs. The drawing-room, sparkling with sunlight and firelight; faded carpets and curtains, and always the scent of flowers. She thought of the dank stone passage that led to the ancient kitchen quarters, and the time-stopped atmosphere that never failed to enchant. She saw the view from the windows, with the line of the horizon lying across the topmost branches of the Monterey pines; and then the garden, leading in terraces down to the orchard, where stood Athena and Edward's hut…Would it be possible to deal with so many diversified memories? At this moment there seemed no way of knowing.
She said, ‘I can't make up my mind so quickly.’
‘Think about it.’