Coming Home

  ‘I am. You have to understand, I've always dreamt of having a little house of my own, that belonged to nobody but myself. But that was just a dream. And if I can't live in it, then what is the point? If I bought The Dower House, then what would I do with it? It can't be left abandoned, standing empty.’

  ‘It needn't stand empty,’ Mr Baines pointed out in tones of great reasonableness. ‘Isobel will go, of course. She's already made plans to live with her brother and his wife, and before she died Mrs Boscawen arranged for an annuity for Isobel, so that she will be able to end her days with independence and necessary dignity. As for the house, it could be rented. Perhaps to some London family anxious to evacuate themselves to the country. There will be no shortage of takers, I am convinced. Or perhaps we could find a retired couple to caretake, or some person grateful for a roof over their head, and a small regular income…’ He talked on persuasively, but Judith had stopped listening.

  A person grateful for a roof over their head; a person who would care for the garden, and polish and clean the house as though it were her own. Who would think the old-fashioned kitchen the height of luxury and convenience, and would probably burst into tears of joy when she set eyes on the one small bathroom, with its white-painted tongue-and-groove walls, and the lavatory with the dangling chain and the handle with PULL written on it.

  ‘…the property, of course, is not in the best of order. I suspect a touch of dry rot in the kitchen floor, and there are a few damp patches in the attic ceilings, but…’

  Judith said, ‘Phyllis.’

  Halted mid-stream, Mr Baines frowned. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Phyllis. Phyllis could caretake.’ The idea expanded, flowered. Alight with excitement, she sat up, leaning forward, with her hands clasped on her knees. ‘Oh, you remember Phyllis. She used to work for us at Riverview. She's Phyllis Eddy now. She married Cyril, her young man, and she's got a baby. I went and saw her when I stayed at Porthkerris during the summer. I took my car. I hadn't seen her for four years…’

  ‘But if she's married…?’

  ‘Don't you see? Cyril was a miner, but he's joined the Navy. He's left her. He always wanted to go to sea. He never wanted to be a miner. She wrote to me and told me all this when Ned was killed. She wrote me such a sweet letter…’

  And she went on to explain to Mr Baines about Phyllis and her humble circumstances, living in that cheerless cottage miles from anywhere out beyond Pendeen. And because it had been a tied cottage, belonging to the mining company, she had had to leave and return to her mother. ‘…and there are already far too many people living in that house. All Phyllis has ever wanted is a place of her own, with a garden and an indoor lav. She could bring her baby, and she could look after the Dower House for us. Wouldn't that be the most perfect arrangement?’

  She waited expectantly for Mr Baines to tell her how clever she was being. But Mr Baines was too cautious for that.

  ‘Judith, you're not buying a home for Phyllis. You're making an investment for yourself.’

  ‘But it's you who wants me to buy it, and you suggested a caretaker. And I've come up with the perfect answer.’

  He accepted this. ‘Fair enough. But would Phyllis want to leave her mother and move to Rosemullion? Wouldn't she miss her family and the company?’

  ‘I don't think so. Pendeen was so bleak she couldn't even grow pansies in her garden. And she was always miles away from them there. Rosemullion's only a walk down the hill. When Anna's old enough, she can go to Rosemullion school. They'll make friends. Phyllis is so sweet, everybody will want to be her friend.’

  ‘You don't think she'll find it lonely?’

  ‘She's lonely anyway, with Cyril gone. She might as well be lonely somewhere nice.’

  Mr Baines, clearly overwhelmed by this volte-face, took off his spectacles, leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Then he put his spectacles on again. He said, ‘We seem to have gone from one extreme to the other. I think we must slow down a bit and try to steer a middle course. Plan sensibly and sort out priorities. This is a big step we're considering, and an expensive one. So you have to be really certain.’

  ‘How much will we have to pay?’

  ‘I would guess in the region of two thousand pounds. There will be bound to be necessary repairs and renovations, but the bulk of these will have to wait until the war is over. We'll get a surveyor in…’

  ‘Two thousand pounds. It seems a terrible lot of money.’

  Mr Baines allowed himself a small smile. ‘But a sum that the trust can easily afford.’

  It was incredible. ‘Is there really so much? In that case, let's go ahead. Oh, don't argue any more.’

  ‘Five minutes ago, you were telling me that you didn't want it.’

  ‘Well, admit, it was a bit of a bombshell.’

  ‘I have always felt that it was a house filled with happiness.’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked away from him, and remembered once more the Hut, on that summer afternoon and the smell of creosote and the sound of the bumble-bee buzzing about in the roof. But those memories, however painful, could not be allowed to interfere, to stop her from taking this enormously exciting step forward. Phyllis, uppermost in her mind, was of more immediate importance even than Edward. ‘The Chinese sell happiness. They put good men into a house, to live in it, and fill it with a tranquil spirit.’ She turned to smile at Mr Baines. ‘Please get it for me.’

  ‘You're sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  So, for a little, they talked, discussing pros and cons, laying plans. In view of the fact that Bob Somerville was unavailable, miles away in Scapa Flow and fully occupied with fighting the war, a trustees' meeting would clearly not be possible. But Mr Baines would be in touch with him, and as well would contact a surveyor. Meantime, nothing must be said. Especially, Mr Baines warned with some severity, to Phyllis.

  ‘How about my parents?’

  ‘I think you should write to them, and let them know our intentions.’

  ‘They won't get the letter for three weeks, anyway.’

  ‘By which time we should have some idea of the way things are going to work out. When do you return to Devon?’

  ‘In a day or so.’

  ‘I have your telephone number. I'll call you there when I have any news.’

  ‘What will happen then?’

  ‘I think you should come back to Cornwall, and we'll finalise all the arrangements. And once everything is signed and sealed, then you can approach your friend Phyllis.’

  ‘I can't wait.’

  ‘Just be patient.’

  ‘You've been so kind.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘I have kept you far too long. By now the tea-party will be over.’

  ‘It's not a party. It's a wake.’

  ‘It sounded like a party.’

  ‘Is it wrong to feel so excited on Aunt Lavinia's funeral day?’

  ‘I think,’ said Mr Baines, ‘that the reason for your excitement would afford her nothing but pleasure.’

  But a month had passed at Upper Bickley before the telephone call came through from Mr Baines. A Thursday morning. Biddy had taken herself off to Hester's house and her Red Cross ladies, and Judith was in the front garden gathering the first of the lily of the valley to sweeten the sitting-room. The bunch of slender, wiry stems grew in her hands, and the scent of the tiny bell blossoms was delicious, set in their coronet of pointed leaves…

  She heard the telephone ring from the house. Paused, in case Mrs Dagg also heard it and answered the call; but it went on ringing, so she hurried up the lawn and through the garden door into the hall.

  ‘Upper Bickley.’

  ‘Judith. Roger Baines here.’

  ‘Mr Baines.’ She laid the bunch of lily of the valley carefully down on the hall table. ‘I've been waiting for you to ring up.’

  ‘I'm sorry. It's all taken longer than I anticipated. But I think we're home and dry now. The surveyor…’

  But Judith didn't want t
o know what the surveyor had had to say. ‘Are we going to be able to buy The Dower House?’

  ‘Yes. It's all been arranged. All we need now is your presence and a few signatures.’

  ‘Oh. The relief of it. I thought something awful had come up, some obstruction, or some unknown relation claiming possession.’

  ‘No. Nothing so disastrous. The only thing is, it's costing three thousand, and the surveyor's report is not that good…’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘But you should mind.’ She heard the amusement in his voice. ‘As a householder you should be aware of all the defects…no point in buying a pig in a poke.’

  ‘Someday, we'll mend the defects. The most important thing is that we've got it.’ She could tell Phyllis. That was going to be the best bit. Driving over to St Just and telling Phyllis. Thinking about it, she simply couldn't wait to see Phyllis's face. She said, ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Come back to Cornwall as soon as you can, and we'll get all the legalities signed and sealed.’

  ‘What day is it today?’

  ‘Thursday.’

  ‘I'll come on Monday. Is that soon enough? I need a bit of time to organise things here, meals and such for the weekend. But I'll come on Monday. Biddy and I have been frightfully sparing with our petrol coupons, so I'll drive in the car.’

  ‘Where will you stay?’

  ‘Nancherrow, I suppose.’

  ‘If you wanted you could stay with myself and my wife.’

  ‘Oh, you are kind. Thank you. But I'm sure it'll be all right at Nancherrow. Anyway, I'll ring you up when I know when I'm arriving. Probably lunch-time on Monday.’

  ‘Come straight to my office.’

  ‘I'll do that.’

  ‘Goodbye, Judith.’

  ‘Goodbye. And thank you.’

  She put the receiver back on the hook and stood there, smiling in an idiotic fashion for a moment or two. And then gathered up the bunch of lilies of the valley and went down the hall and into the kitchen.

  There she found Mrs Dagg, sitting at the table and having her mid-morning break. This entailed making a cup of strong tea and eating any small scrap of food that she found, set aside, on the slate shelf of the larder. Sometimes it was a mouthful or two of cauliflower cheese, sometimes a cold lamb sandwich. Today her snack was half a tinned peach, left over from last night's pudding, enlivened by a blob of Bird's Custard. While she enjoyed this small repast, Mrs Dagg usually read the juicy bits out of the morning's paper, but this morning she had forgotten about the juicy bits and was onto more serious stuff.

  She looked up as Judith came through the door. She was a wiry lady, with tightly permed grey hair, and wore a wraparound overall hectically patterned with peonies. It had been made by one of the Women's Institute ladies out of a length of cretonne left over from somebody's curtains, and the bright colours had caught Mrs Dagg's eye at the Church Sale last Christmas. The bright colours had been catching Judith and Biddy's eyes ever since.

  Usually a cheerful lady, she looked, at the moment, distinctly down-in-the-mouth. She said, ‘I don't know, I'm sure…’

  ‘What don't you know, Mrs Dagg?’

  ‘These Germans. Look at this picture of what they've done to Rotterdam. Blown it to bits. And now the Dutch Army's surrendering, and they're getting forward into France. I thought they weren't going to get through the Maginot Line. That's what everybody said. Hope it isn't going to be like the last time. Trenches and everything. Dagg was in the trenches, and said he'd never seen such mud.’

  Judith pulled out a chair and sat opposite Mrs Dagg, and Mrs Dagg pushed the paper across and continued, without much joy, to consume her tinned peach.

  Judith glanced at the black-head-lined page, and saw what Mrs Dagg meant. The maps, with their thrusting black arrows. The Germans had crossed the Meuse. And where were the British Expeditionary Force? She thought of them all out there; Gus and Charlie Lanyon, and Alistair Pearson and Joe Warren and the thousands of other young British soldiers.

  She said, ‘They can't possibly overrun France!’ The photograph of shattered Rotterdam scarcely bore looking at. ‘It's just an initial attack. I'm sure, in no time, all the arrows will be pointing in the other direction.’

  ‘Well, I don't know, I think you're being a bit hopeful, if you ask me. Mr Churchill says it's going to be blood, sweat, toil and tears. Mind you, he's quite right, giving it to us straight. No point in thinking it's going to be a doddle, this war. And they wouldn't be starting that there Local Defence Volunteers if they didn't think the Germans were going to come. Dagg's going to join. Says we're better to be safe than sorry. But what good he's going to be I can't imagine. He's got no eye for a gun. Can scarcely pot a rabbit, let alone a German.’

  As Mrs Dagg was refusing to be optimistic, Judith folded the paper and set it aside. She said, ‘Mrs Dagg, I want to talk to you about something. I have to see my solicitor. Would you be able to keep an eye on Mrs Somerville for me? Like you did before?’

  She had expected instant agreement, reassurance that they had managed splendidly before, and would do so again. But Mrs Dagg's reaction to her innocent proposal was quite startlingly unenthusiastic. To begin with, she didn't say anything. Just sat, with lowered eyes, and fiddled about with the remains of the peach. Watching her, Judith saw a red mottling stain Mrs Dagg's neck and cheeks, and her mouth worked as she bit her lips.

  ‘Mrs Dagg?’

  Mrs Dagg laid down her spoon.

  ‘Mrs Dagg, what's wrong?’

  After a bit, Mrs Dagg looked up, and across the table their eyes met.

  ‘I don't think,’ said Mrs Dagg, ‘that that's a very good idea.’

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘Well. To tell you the truth, Judith, I don't think I can be responsible. For Mrs Somerville, I mean. Not on my own. Not with you away.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘When you're not here…’ Mrs Dagg's eyes were agonised. ‘When you're not here, she drinks.’

  ‘But…’ Suddenly, Judith's heart was filled with fear, all elation extinguished. ‘But, Mrs Dagg, she's always enjoyed a drink. A gin at lunch-time and a couple of whiskies in the evening. Everybody knows that. Uncle Bob knows that.’

  ‘It's not that sort of drinking, Judith. It's heavy stuff. Too much. Dangerous.’

  And she spoke so quietly and definitely that Judith knew that Mrs Dagg was neither exaggerating nor lying. She said, ‘How do you know? How can you be sure?’

  ‘By the empty bottles. You know where the empties go, in that crate out in the garage. And then it's set out for the dustbin man each week. When you were away, I came in one morning and Mrs Somerville wasn't even up, and I went up to see that she was all right, and her bedroom reeked of spirits and she was dead asleep. I've seen drunks sleep like that, but no one else. I couldn't understand it. The empties crate wasn't overflowing, nor nothing like that, so I had a look in the dustbin, and under all the old papers and tins I found two empty whisky bottles and an empty gin bottle. She'd hidden them from me. That's how drunks carry on. Hide the evidence. I had an uncle, couldn't stop drinking, and there were empty bottles all over the house, in his sock drawer and down the back of the lav.’

  She paused, seeing the growing horror on Judith's lace. She said, ‘I'm sorry, Judith. Really. I didn't want to tell you, but I must. I think it's just when she's lonely. She's all right with you around, but I'm only here in the mornings, and with just the dog to talk to I suppose she just couldn't stand the loneliness, and the Captain so far away, and Ned dead.’ Suddenly, Mrs Dagg began to cry, and Judith couldn't bear it. She leaned forward and laid her hand over Mrs Dagg's work-worn one.

  ‘Please, Mrs Dagg, don't be upset. You were quite right to tell me. And of course I won't leave her. I won't leave her with you.’

  ‘But…’ Mrs Dagg found a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. Her mottled complexion was beginning to fade. Clearly having spilled the beans and shed responsibility for the awful
truth, she was about to feel better. ‘But you said. You said you had to go and see your solicitor. That's important. You can't put it off.’

  ‘I won't.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Mrs Dagg suggested timidly, ‘Miss Lang would have her to stay. That's all Mrs Somerville needs. Just a bit of company.’

  ‘No, I can't ask Hester Lang. It's too much to ask, and besides, Biddy would just become suspicious.’ She thought hard. ‘I…I'll take her with me. Pretend it's a little holiday. The weather's getting nicer and Cornwall will be lovely. We'll drive down together.’

  ‘Where are you going to stay?’

  ‘I…I was going to Nancherrow. To my friends.’ She could still go, and take Biddy with her, certain of Diana Carey-Lewis's boundless hospitality. Oh darling, of course you must bring her, Diana would say. I've never met her and I've always longed to. What fun. When will you arrive?

  But in Biddy's uncertain state, perhaps Nancherrow was not such a good idea after all. Visions of Biddy becoming tipsy at dinner, under the frosty gaze of Nettlebed, did not bear imagining. ‘But I won't go there. We'll go to an hotel. The Mitre in Penzance. I'll ring up and book rooms. And I'll be with her all the time, and I can drive her round and take her to where we used to live. It'll do her good. She's been here, with her sadness, all winter. It's time she had a change.’

  ‘What about the dog?’ Mrs Dagg asked. ‘You can't take a dog to a hotel.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She might do her business on the carpet.’

  ‘I'm sure she won't…’

  ‘You could leave her with me, I suppose,’ Mrs Dagg suggested, but without much enthusiasm.

  ‘You're very kind, but I'm sure we will manage splendidly. And we can take Morag for walks on the beach.’

  ‘Just as well, really. Dagg's not all that fond of dogs. Thinks they should live out of doors, not in the sitting-room.’

  A thought occurred to Judith. ‘Mrs Dagg, have you told your husband…about Mrs Somerville and the empty bottles?’

  ‘Haven't said a word to anyone. Only you. Dagg likes his beer, but he can't stand a drunk. I didn't want him telling me I had to stop working for Mrs Somerville. You know how some men can be.’