And after a bit, she sat up, pulled her shirt out of her trousers, and wiped her face and blew her nose on its hem. And then she got to her feet and went out of the room, calling for her mother, and calling again, and she fled up the stairs on feet that could have been winged, to be met by Mary, to fling herself into Mary's arms, and to share in hysterical joy the incredible news.
At The Dower House, Biddy, making full use of her newfound energy, had cleared the second attic of its rubbish. All that had been salvaged were the two cabin trunks, and space was found for these on the upstairs landing, their contents being too personal and precious for Judith to feel that she could take responsibility for their disposal.
One was filled with old letters, tied together in bundles with faded silk ribbons; dance programmes, dangling tiny pencils; sheets of music; photographs; albums; birthday books; and a battered leather Visitor's Book, dated 1898. The other held a selection of Victorian finery. Long white gloves with tiny pearl buttons, ostrich plumes, wilted bunches of artificial gardenias, beaded bags, and paste hair-ornaments. All too sentimental and too pretty to throw away. Sometime, Diana Carey-Lewis had promised, she would come to The Dower House and sift through all these old memories. Meantime, Judith had draped the cabin trunks with old curtains of William Morris damask, and thus disguised they would probably stay where they were, undisturbed, for years.
Everything else had been deemed either useless or broken (even the picture frames proved to be riddled with worm); and humped painstakingly downstairs, to be piled alongside the dustbins. The next time the dustbin lorry made its call, the driver was going to be given half a crown in the hopes that he would cart it all away.
And so the attic was now empty. And Judith and Phyllis stood side by side, surveying it and discussing how it should be used. They were on their own, because Anna was out in the garden digging holes in the border with an old tin spoon, and Morag was with her, doing her best to assist in this exercise. From time to time, Phyllis went to the window to glance down, and make certain that neither dog nor child were either tormenting each other, or doing untold harm. But all seemed to be peaceful.
Biddy was in the kitchen. The most unenthusiastic of cooks, she had found, in Isobel's battered and butter-smeared old cookery book, a recipe for making elderflower cordial. The elderflowers happened, at this moment to be out, the hedgerows were heavy with their subtly scented creamy blossom, and Biddy was fired with enthusiasm. She didn't count making elderberry cordial as cooking. Cooking was stews and roast mutton and jam tarts and mixing cakes, none of which she had any intention of attempting. But concocting lovely drinks was right up her street, specially if one could gather the ingredients for free, from roadside bushes.
‘I think we should turn it into another spare bedroom,’ Phyllis was saying. ‘Mrs Somerville's in the only one there is, and supposing someone else wants to come and stay?’
But Judith did not agree. ‘Another spare bedroom is just a waste of space. I think we should give it to Anna as a nursery. We can put a bed up for her to sleep in, and a few shelves for her books, and perhaps an old sofa. Sofas always look so cosy. And then she can use it as a playroom and have somewhere to make a mess if we have a wet day.’
‘Judith.’ It was turning into an argument. ‘We've already got that great bedroom. This is your house, not mine. You can't give us all this space…’
‘Well, what about when Cyril gets leave? He's going to want to be with you and Anna. So he'll come here too. Unless, of course, he'd rather go and be with his mum and dad.’
‘Oh, he won't want that.’
‘Well, you can't all sleep together. In the same room. It wouldn't be proper. Anna's not a tiny baby any longer.’
Phyllis looked a bit embarrassed. ‘We managed before.’
‘Well, I don't want you managing in my house. There's no need. So it's settled. This room's for Anna. It's time she learned to sleep on her own. And we'll get a proper-sized bed, so that if I do have another house guest, we can turn Anna out and the visitor can sleep in her bed. How's that for a compromise? And we'll get carpeting for the floor…’
‘Bit of lino would do.’
‘Lino's horrible and cold. It must be a carpet. Blue, I think.’ Imagining the blue carpet, she looked about her. The attic was spacious and airy, but there was only one small dormer window, and the combed ceilings made it a bit dark. ‘We'll paint the walls white, that'll lighten it up, and perhaps put a Peter Rabbit frieze round the walls. The only thing is, there's no fireplace. We'll have to think up some plan for heating it in the wintertime…’
‘Paraffin stove would do…’
‘I don't like paraffin stoves. I always think they're a bit dangerous…’
‘I love the smell of paraffin stoves…’
‘But Anna might knock it over, and then we'll all go up in smoke and cinders. Perhaps…’
But she got no further, because from downstairs came the sound of the front door slamming shut and a voice, high with excitement, calling her name. ‘Judith!’
Loveday. She and Phyllis went out onto the landing and hung over the banister, and were rewarded by the foreshortened view of Loveday pelting up the staircase.
On the first landing she paused. ‘Where are you?’
‘Up in the attics.’
She came on, up the attic stairs, her face red with exertion and warmth, her curls bouncing, her violet eyes wide with the ecstasy of delight. Half-way up, she was already telling them. ‘…you won't believe it. Gus has just phoned…’ She was gasping for breath, as though she had run the whole way from Nancherrow, not just simply up The Dower House stairs. ‘…he phoned about half an hour ago. From Southampton. Hospital. Wounded. He's on crutches. But he's all right…’
Carpets, lino, heaters were all forgotten. Judith let out a yell of triumph, and was waiting with her arms open. They hugged and kissed and danced about like children, and Loveday was still in her filthy old corduroys with her shirt-tails loose, and she still smelt of cows, and it didn't matter, nothing mattered except that Gus was safe.
Finally, they stopped dancing about, and Loveday collapsed onto the top stair. ‘I've got no breath left at all. I bicycled to Rosemullion, and left my bike by the church yard, and I promise you, ran all the way up the hill. I simply couldn't wait to tell you.’
‘You could have phoned.’
‘I wanted to be here. I wanted to see your faces.’
Phyllis's face, however, was concerned. ‘Wounded? Is it serious? How was he wounded?’
‘I don't know. Shot in the leg, I think. He's on crutches, but it didn't sound too dire. We didn't have time to talk. Just a moment or two and then we got cut off. But he's going home to Scotland tomorrow, and he's going to write…’
‘How on earth did he get out of France?’ Judith wanted to know. ‘How did he get away?’
‘I've just told you, I don't know anything. There wasn't time to tell. Just that he's safe and alive…’
‘It's like a miracle.’
‘That's what I thought. I went all weak at the knees. And Mummy says you've all got to come down to Nancherrow this evening, and Pops is going to open some champagne. All of you, Phyllis and Anna and Biddy, so that we can have a real party…’
Biddy. For an instant, reading thoughts, they all fell silent. Gus was safe, but Ned would never return. Even Loveday's joy was, for a moment, quenched.
She said, lowering her voice, ‘Where is Biddy?’
‘In the kitchen.’
‘Gosh, I hope she didn't hear me, bursting in and screaming out my tidings like that. I should have thought. But I just didn't think.’
‘Of course you didn't think. Why should you? We can't stop being happy. Even Ned being dead can't stop us being happy for you. I think we should all go down now and tell her. She's so generous, even if she does feel a bit miserable and bitter, she'll never show it. She's so much better now; even saying Ned's name in quite an ordinary sort of voice. And if she does start looking a bit
blue, we'll tell her about the champagne party and take enormous interest in her elderflower cordial.’
Ardvray House,
Bancharry,
Aberdeenshire.
Friday, 21st June.
My dear Loveday,
At last there is a moment in which to write. When I got back to Aberdeen, I was shoved into hospital again, but everything seems to be going well and I'm home, still on crutches but convalescing. My mother has got a nurse in to do dressings, et cetera…she's built like a wrestler and talks all the time, so I hope she doesn't have to be here for too long.
It was wonderful to talk to you, and I'm sorry we were cut off so abruptly, but the hospital switchboards were pretty strict about rationing our calls. It took me a couple of days of trying before I could get through at all, because it wasn't a home-call. If it hadn't been for the fact that, at the moment, I'm not particularly fleet of foot, I'd have jumped the fence, caught a train and come to Cornwall to see you all. Cornwall is much nearer to Southampton than Scotland is, and the long train journey back to Aberdeen took forever.
I got away a day before the capitulation. Responding to the General's directive of sauve qui peut, a number of small groups made their way to the little port of Veulles-les-Roses, about four miles east of St Valéry. Amongst these groups were some French troops, and men from the Lothians and Border Horse. We went by night, and four miles has never seemed so long, nor so fraught with peril, but when dawn came, we could see the dim shapes of Royal Naval vessels lying offshore (the fog wasn't so bad at Veulles). The cliffs there are tremendously high, but gullies lead down to the beach, and we had to form a queue and wait our turn, because the Royal Navy were landing beach parties, despite the fact that they were already being shelled from St Valéry.
One or two chaps were too impatient to wait their turn and went over the cliffs with improvised ropes. By the time it was daylight, the Germans were shelling from both sides, machine guns and snipers as well
The beach was littered with dead men, and I got hit in the thigh before I'd gone more than a hundred yards. Two jocks in front of me saw what had happened and came back to help, and between them, I managed to lurch and hobble along the two miles of beach to the boats. Just as the three of us got into a boat, the bombers came and one boat was sunk with about thirty men in it. The ships put up a terrific barrage, and two of the bombers were shot down. Finally, soaked to the skin and covered in mud (me covered in blood as well), we were hauled aboard the destroyer, and no sooner did we think we were safe than the enemy started shelling from the cliff-tops. But we stayed until it was decided that no more men could possibly be on the beach or the cliffs, then pulled anchor and sailed. That was about ten o'clock in the morning of the twelfth of June.
We docked in Southampton, and I was wheeled ashore on a stretcher and taken to hospital where the bullet was removed from my leg, and all strapped up, et cetera. It didn't penetrate too deeply, and doesn't seem to have done any lasting damage. Now, it's just a question of it healing.
I don't know what will happen now. There is talk of the Highland Division reforming. If so, I should like to stay with them. But the powers-that-be may have other plans for me.
I send my love to you and all your family.
Gus
This was one letter. But there was another in the envelope, a single sheet, unheaded and undated.
Dearest Loveday,
I thought your father might like to read the enclosed account, but this little note is just for you. It was so wonderful to hear your voice answering the telephone. I thought about you all the time I was waiting to get on that hell-hole of a beach, determined that I was going to make it. It is such a beautiful day here, and the hills are all bloomy in the morning light, and the sunshine sparkling on the river. When I am able to walk a bit better, I shall go down to the bank and try to catch a fish. Write to me and tell me everything you are doing. With all my love, GUS.
The Dower House
Rosemullion.
24th July 1940.
Dear Mummy and Dad,
At two o'clock this morning, Athena had her baby. She had her at Nancherrow, in her own bedroom, with old Dr Wells and Lily Crouch, the Rosemullion district nurse, in attendance. Poor things, having to turn out at that hour, but old Dr Wells said he wouldn't have missed it for the world. It is now seven o'clock in the evening, and I have just come back from Nancherrow (on my bike both ways), and seeing the new arrival. She is enormous and looks a bit like a Red Indian papoose, with a very red face and lots of straight dark hair. She is called Clementina Lavinia Rycroft, and the Colonel sent a cable to Palestine letting Rupert know that she had come. Athena is simply delighted, cock-a-hoop, as though she had done it all by herself (which, in a way, I suppose she had), and sitting up in bed with the baby beside her in its frilly cot. And, of course, her bedroom is filled with flowers, and Athena drenched in perfume, and wearing the most divine white voile negligee, dripping in lace.
Loveday and I are both going to be godmothers, but Clementina is not going to be christened until her father gets some leave or something, and is able to be there. It really is exciting, having this little new life, I can't think why it should be so exciting, because we've all known for months that she was on the way.
While I was at Nancherrow, old Dr Wells dropped in again. He said, to see how everybody was doing, and to check up on mother and child. The Colonel opened a bottle of champagne, and we wet the baby's head. (He is a great one for opening bottles of champagne. I am afraid, one day, he is going to run out because he can't get any more. I hope he keeps one case at least, for the day when we celebrate Victory.) Anyway, while we were all sipping away and getting jolly, old Dr Wells came out with the real reason for his second visit, which was to tell us that Jeremy is in a naval hospital somewhere near Liverpool. We were all appalled and shocked, because it was the first we had heard of this, but old Dr Wells said that he had not thought that two in the morning (and with Athena's accouchement in full swing), an appropriate moment for the breaking of such news. Wasn't it sweet? And he must have been bursting to tell everybody.
Back to the point. Jeremy. What happened was his destroyer was torpedoed and sunk by a U-boat in the Atlantic, and he and three other men were in the sea, covered in oil and hanging on to a Carley float for a day and a night before they were spotted and picked up by a merchantman. It doesn't bear thinking about, does it? Even in the summer, the Atlantic ocean must be icy cold. Anyway, he was suffering from exposure and exhaustion and burns on his arm from the explosion, so once the merchantman got to Liverpool, he was bustled off to this naval hospital and is still there. Mrs Wells has gone up to Liverpool by train to sit at his bedside. When he's discharged, he's going to be given sick leave, so hopefully we'll all see him before long. Isn't it wonderful — even miraculous — that he was spotted and rescued? I don't know how people survive under such circumstances, I suppose they do because the alternative is unthinkable.
Invasion fever has swept the country, and we're all donating our aluminium pots and pans to the Women's Voluntary Service, to be melted down and made into Spitfires and Hurricanes. I had to go to Penzance and buy a whole lot of horrible enamel ones which chip and burn, but it can't be helped. The Local Defence Volunteers are now called the Home Guard, which sounds much grander, and everybody is joining. Colonel Carey-Lewis is back in uniform, and because of his experience in the First World War has been made Commanding Officer of the Rosemullion Detachment. They have already been issued with uniforms and guns, and the Rosemullion Village Hall has been turned into the Home Guard HQ, and they've got a telephone, and notice-boards and everything, and learn drill.
As well, all the church bells were silenced, quite soon after Dunkirk, and must only ring out to tell us that the Germans have landed. One poor old chap, rector of a remote parish, never heard about this, or if he had, forgot, and the local bobby found him pulling the rope, the bell clanging away in the belfry, and promptly arrested him. Another man was fin
ed twenty-five pounds for spreading rumours. He was in his local pub telling everybody that twenty German parachutists, disguised as nuns, had landed on Bodmin Moor. The magistrate said that he was lucky not to be put in prison for defeatist talk.
Another thing is, that all the local signposts have been removed, so you come to a remote Cornish cross-road and you don't know which way to go. Biddy doesn't think this is much of an idea. She supposes the powers-that-be imagine that a squad of German Panzers, marching on Penzance, would turn right by mistake and end up at Lamorna Cove. Where, no doubt, someone would try to sell them cream teas.
But, despite our laughs, it is all terribly immediate and close. Falmouth was bombed a couple of weeks ago, and every evening we listen to accounts of the air battles over Kent and the Channel, and can scarcely believe that the fighter pilots are doing so brilliantly, knocking the German bombers out of the sky. Edward Carey-Lewis is one of them, and there are newspaper photographs of the young airmen sitting around in the sun, in deck-chairs and basket chairs; but all kitted up, and just waiting for the warning to Scramble, which means another formation of Stukas is on its way. It's a bit like David and Goliath. And of course, the Channel Islands have already been occupied, the Union Jack pulled down and the swastikas flying. At least, there wasn't a lot of fighting and people being killed. No shots were fired, it was quite orderly, and the only resistance was a drunk Irishman who punched a German soldier on the nose.