Coming Home

  We're all well here. Biddy's been on duty with the WVS collecting pots and pans for fighters, and Phyllis has finished painting the attic for Anna, and tomorrow a man is going to come and lay the carpet for us. It is blue, with a bit of a pattern, and is going to befitted right to the walls. I think it will look pretty.

  Phyllis is so happy here, and Anna thriving. She's a dear little girl, sleeps a lot and is no trouble. Phyllis is loving, but quite strict with her. Cyril is in the Mediterranean, Malta, I think, but we're not allowed to say. He was sent on a course and is now a qualified ERA, which stands for Engine Room Artificer, whatever that means. I suppose, one up from a stoker. Anyway, he's been made a leading seaman and so has got his hook. He sent Phyllis a photograph of himself, in cotton flannel (hook much to the fore) and pipe-clayed cap. He looks very brown and well. The funny thing is that although I have known about Cyril forever, I've never actually met him. He's not very good-looking, but Phyllis is delighted with the photograph and says he's ‘improved awful.’

  I hope you are all well. I'm afraid this is a rather long letter, but this is such an extraordinary time to be living through, I find I want to write it all down.

  My love to you both and Jess,

  Judith

  The Dower House, like all self-respecting gentlemen's residences built in the nineteenth century, had, gathered about its back entrance, a number of outbuildings. An old coach-house, a tool-shed, and a potting-shed; a store for coal and wood, an outside lavatory (known as the Maid's Lav), and a washhouse. This contained the traditional boiler and a momentous mangle, and entailed much laborious carting of water and lighting of fires. The ironing was done on the kitchen table, padded up with blankets and old sheets, using flat-irons which had to be heated up on the top of the range.

  When the Boscawens took possession, however, Lavinia Boscawen, with Isobel's well-being in mind, made a number of daring modernisations. The coach-house became a garage. A new lavatory was constructed indoors, down a small passage that led from the scullery, and the Maid's Lav relegated to the gardener, should he be caught short whilst hoeing his turnips. The washhouse was converted into a shed for storing apples, potatoes, and buckets of preserved eggs, and the great scullery sink, the size of a horse-trough and set back-breakingly low, was removed and carted away. Its place was taken by two deep clay sinks with a wringer riveted in position between them. Finally, all the old flat-irons were flung onto the dump, and Isobel was presented with one of the new electric devices.

  She had thought she was in heaven.

  Phyllis Eddy, years later, thought much the same. After the dismal little house in Pendeen, and then her mother's overcrowded miner's cottage, the domestic arrangements of The Dower House seemed to Phyllis the very height of luxury. To watch boiling-hot water streaming from a tap into a sink or bath never failed to give her a thrill; and dealing with dirty dishes and clothes — something which she had come to think of as an endless drudge — turned into chores that were almost pleasurable, so swiftly and easily were they accomplished. As for the bathroom here, nearly as good as the one at Riverview it was, with the thick white towels on the hot rail, and the cheerful cotton curtains flying in the breeze, and the lovely, remembered smell of Yardley's Lavender soap.

  And as for dreaded Monday wash-day, now Phyllis almost looked forward to it. Anna's nappies she dealt with every day, and strung them out on the line like a bunting of white flags. Sheets and bath towels still went to the laundry, but there were four of them living in the house, and all the other bits of household linen, to say nothing of blouses, underwear, cotton dresses, overalls, skirts and slacks, stockings and socks, added up to two big basketfuls every Monday morning.

  Usually, Phyllis and Judith tackled this together, while Anna sat on the scullery floor and played with clothes-pegs. Phyllis had a scrubbing board for the whites, and a great bar of Sunlight soap, and when she reckoned some pillowcase or garment had been scrubbed enough, she wound it through the wringer into the other sink, where Judith did the rinsing in clean water. Working in tandem, they usually finished the whole lot and had it out on the line by the end of the hour. And if it was raining, all was draped over the slats of the kitchen pulley and hoisted up into the warm ceiling over the range.

  It wasn't raining today. The sky had hazed over and it was very warm, but it wasn't raining. A blustery west wind kept the clouds moving, and every now and then they drifted apart, and there was blue sky with blasts of hot sunshine.

  Even with the back door propped open, the scullery was humid and steamy, smelling of soap and clean, wet linen. But at last the final garment, a little pinafore of Anna's, was rinsed, wrung, and tossed onto the heap of damp clothes in the wicker-basket.

  ‘That's it for another week,’ said Phyllis with some satisfaction, and she pulled out the plug to let the soapy water gurgle away, and, watching it go, put up a wrist to push her hair away from her damp forehead. ‘It's some warm, isn't it? I'm fair sweating.’

  ‘Me too. Come on, let's get out into the fresh air.’ Judith stooped and swung one of the heavy baskets up onto her hip. ‘You bring the pegs, Anna.’ And she went out through the door, and the west wind blew on her cheeks and through the thin cotton of her clammy skirt.

  The washing green took up the space between the garage and the back door. The grass was speckled with daisies, and a low escallonia hedge, heavy with sticky pink flowers, divided the green from the gravel approach which led to the house from the gate. Together, stooping and stretching, Judith Phyllis pegged out the lines of laundry. The wind blew cases into square balloons, and filled the sleeves of shirts.

  ‘There'll be nappies at Nancherrow now,’ Phyllis observed, pegging out a tea-towel. ‘Who'll be dealing with those, do you imagine?’

  ‘Mary Millyway, who else?’

  ‘I wouldn't want her job. Love children, but never wanted to be a nanny.’

  ‘Nor me. If I'd had to go into service, though, I'd have chosen to be a laundry maid.’

  ‘You need to have your head examined.’

  ‘Not at all. Hanging washing is much nicer than emptying some horrible old man's chamber-pot.’

  ‘Who's talking about chamber-pots?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘I'd be a lady's-maid. Dressing hair and hearing all the Upstairs scandal.’

  ‘And dealing with tantrums, and having to sit up until three in the morning? Waiting for Madam to come home from the ball? I think that's—’

  ‘There's a car coming up the hill.’

  Judith listened. There was. They paused, in mild interest, fully expecting the driver, whoever it was, to travel on up the hill. But the car slowed down, changed down, then appeared through the gates. Tyres crunched over gravel, and stopped at the front door. ‘Know something?’ said Phyllis unnecessarily. ‘You've got a visitor.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Judith.

  ‘Know who it is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’

  Judith dropped the clothes-pegs she had been holding into their basket and tossed Biddy's petticoat in the general direction of Phyllis. She could feel the stupid smile spread and stretch itself across her face. ‘It's Jeremy Wells.’

  And she went to meet him.

  Jeremy Wells. Over the washing-line, Phyllis watched, covertly, pegging the petticoat in haphazard fashion, and trying not to stare. But it was difficult, because she'd waited a long time to set eyes on Jeremy Wells. The young doctor Judith had met all those years ago on the train from Plymouth, and only fourteen she'd been then, but she'd fancied him. No doubt about that. And then, so strangely, she'd met him again, with the Carey-Lewises of Nancherrow, and Phyllis, on hearing of this extraordinary coincidence, decided, then and there, that it was all meant; written in the stars; one of those love affairs that was going to have a happy ending.

  Judith, of course, pretended that there was nothing in it. ‘Oh, don't be so silly,’ she would say to Phyllis, if Phyllis made coy references to the young doctor. But she'd been p
roud enough when he joined up with the Royal Navy, and distressed enough when she heard that he'd been blown up in his ship and bobbing about in the Atlantic for goodness knows how long. Phyllis could not decide which was the worse of the nightmares — a flaming ship with red-hot decks, or having to plunge into the dark, deep, cold, inhospitable sea. Neither Phyllis nor Cyril had ever learned to swim. But anyway, he'd been rescued, and now here he was, at last, and looking right as rain as far as Phyllis could see. Pity he wasn't wearing his uniform. She'd like to have seen him in his uniform. Just old grey flannels and a blue cotton shirt, but Judith didn't seem to think the worse of that, because she let him give her a great hug and a kiss on the cheek, and there they were, both talking away nineteen to the dozen, the pair of them grinning like Cheshire cats.

  She might have stood there, gawping, forever, but Judith suddenly remembered her and turned her smiling face towards Phyllis, and called her to come and be introduced. Phyllis suddenly felt very shy, but she obediently abandoned the washing, and stooped and lifted Anna in her arms, and went across the grass and through the gap in the escallonia hedge, and across the crunchy gravel, wishing that she looked a bit tidier, not all bundled up in a wet apron.

  ‘This is Phyllis Eddy, Jeremy. She used to help Mummy at Riverview. She's living here with us now. Her husband's in the Navy too.’

  ‘Is he? What's his job?’

  ‘He's an ERA,’ Phyllis was able to tell him proudly. ‘Leading seaman. Got his hook.’

  ‘That's terrific. He must be doing well. Whereabouts is he?’

  ‘Mediterranean, someplace.’

  ‘Lucky chap. Lots of sun. Who's this little girl?’

  ‘This is my Anna. But she won't smile for you. She's too shy.’

  Judith said, ‘Jeremy's on his way to Nancherrow, Phyllis. He's going to stay with them for a couple of days…’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Phyllis. He wasn't actually good-looking, and he had spectacles, but he had the nicest smile of any man she'd ever seen, and handsome white teeth. And for someone who'd just been blown up, burnt and then nearly drowned, he looked amazingly fit.

  He said, ‘I'm not expected until lunchtime, and I couldn't drive through Rosemullion without coming to see you all, and see the old house, and what you've done to it.’

  Phyllis smiled to herself in some satisfaction. He had come calling. It was only half past ten. Two hours before he would have to be on his way. Time for a bit of privacy and a proper old chin-wag. She shifted Anna onto her other hip. ‘Why don't you take Dr Wells inside, Judith, or out onto the veranda? I'll get the last of the washing out on the line, and then bring you a cup of coffee.’

  And it felt good, saying that. Like the old days when she'd worked for Judith's mother, and Mrs Dunbar had had company. Jeremy Wells was company. Almost their first. A cup of coffee wasn't much, but Phyllis would have been prepared to go to any effort, if it would help smooth the path of true love.

  There was a great deal to talk about, news to catch up on, tidings of mutual friends to exchange. It was eleven months since they had been together; that hot August Sunday that had started, for Judith, so happily, and ended so disastrously, with her sudden and precipitous flight from Nancherrow. She remembered saying goodbye to them all, as they sat over the remains of Sunday lunch. ‘See you all later,’ she had promised, but she had never seen any of them again.

  Until now. Jeremy, she thought, covertly watching him, had changed. Ten months of war and life at sea had hardened and honed him down, and there were lines on his face that had never been there before, and his charming smile was not quite so ready, but she had never known him as anything but adult and responsible, and so could not mourn the passing of his youth.

  They talked about Athena and Rupert and the baby Clementina. ‘She was enormous,’ Judith told him, ‘nearly nine pounds, and she looks like a little Minnehaha.’

  ‘I can't wait to meet her.’

  ‘We all thought Athena would hand her straight over to Mary Millyway, but in fact she's frightfully maternal, and spends hours lying on the bed with Clementina and talking to her. Too sweet. A bit as though Clementina were a dear little puppy. And Loveday's become a total land-girl…she isn't officially one, of course, and she doesn't have to wear that horrid uniform…but she works like a beaver, and has all these dozens of hens. She keeps us supplied with eggs as well, because sometimes the post office runs out. And Mr Nettlebed, besides being an ARP warden, has put himself in charge of the Nancherrow vegetable garden, but he still assumes his old lofty act when he's serving dinner. You'll love it all. It's different, but in a funny way it's just the same.’

  Then Jeremy asked after the Warrens in Porthkerris and Judith's friend Heather, and she was much touched by his interest, because he only knew the family by hearsay.

  ‘They're all fine. Joe Warren got home from Dunkirk, thank heavens. He got some leave and then went off again, but I don't quite know where he is. Biddy and I went over to Porthkerris and had tea with them one day, and got all their news. Heather's doing frightfully well, she's working with the Foreign Office, somewhere terribly secret and we're not allowed to know exactly where. But, so far, nobody's heard anything about her boyfriend, Charlie Lanyon. He was at Dunkirk too, and the Warrens are all simply praying that he was taken prisoner.’ Which made her think of Gus. ‘And Gus Callender? Did you hear about him, escaping and getting away from St Valéry?’

  ‘My father told me that one. What a miracle.’

  ‘You should have seen Loveday's face when she came to tell us. She'd been really miserable, worrying about him, and then she suddenly had a sort of second-sight conviction that he was alive — she told me about it — almost as though she could hear his voice speaking to her. She was on her way back from Lidgey, and she bolted all the way home to Nancherrow, and about five minutes after she got into the house, the telephone rang and it was him. From hospital in Southampton. So perhaps it really was “telepathy”.’

  ‘If people are that fond of each other, I believe that telepathy is perfectly possible…besides, Loveday's Cornish born and bred, a real little Celt. If anyone was blessed with second sight, it should be Loveday.’

  And then they stopped talking about the Carey-Lewises, for, after all, Jeremy was going to be with them in an hour or so. Instead, Judith told him the tragic details of Ned Somerville's death, and about Bob Somerville and Biddy.

  ‘She's left Devon and come to live here, with us. Did you know that?’

  ‘Yes, I did. I hoped I'd be able to meet her.’

  ‘She got a lift into Penzance this morning. She wanted to get her hair done. I don't know when she'll be back. But everything has worked out so well. I said to Mr Baines, it was as though it had been meant.’

  ‘And Phyllis too?’

  ‘That's the best. She's a darling. And she simply loves it here, she's blossomed like a flower. And we've made a room for Anna, so that when Cyril — that's Phyllis's husband — comes on leave, he can come here and be with Phyllis. I'll show you all over before you go. I still can't believe it's my own house. I used to have fantasies about having a place of my own, very humble fantasies, of course, nothing more than a granite cottage and a palm tree. Just somewhere that belonged to me and where I could put down roots and come back to. And now, this is mine. All mine. I wake in the night sometimes and wonder if it's really true.’

  ‘Are you going to stay here?’

  ‘Always. But, immediately, probably not. I shall have to go and do my bit. Join the Wrens or something.’

  Jeremy smiled, but did not pursue the subject. Instead, he asked about her family in Singapore, and she was telling him their latest news when Phyllis appeared with a tray, and coffee. She stooped to set it down on the stool between them, and Judith saw that she had laid the tray with Aunt Lavinia's best china, and the coffee smelt fragrant and freshly ground, and there was a plate of shortbread biscuits.

  Shades of Riverview.

  ‘You've only put two cups, Phyllis. Aren't yo
u going to come and join us?’

  ‘No, I'm busy in the kitchen and you've got plenty to say to each other. I put sugar, Dr Wells; I don't know if you take it.’

  ‘Yes, I do. How kind. Thank you very much.’

  Phyllis, with a knowing and faintly coy smile upon her face, went on her way. Judith, hoping that Jeremy had not noticed this, poured coffee and handed him a cup. She said, ‘We've talked about everybody but you. Your ship being torpedoed and everything.’ She saw the expression on his face, and added quickly, ‘But perhaps you don't want to talk about it.’

  ‘I don't particularly.’

  ‘I don't want to hear if you don't want to tell me.’

  ‘It doesn't matter.’

  ‘Did your ship go down?’

  ‘Yes. Quite slowly. I clung to that bloody Carley float and watched her go. Stern first and bows last. Then a huge, sucking wave. And then nothing but sea and oil and debris.’

  ‘Were many of the ship's company lost?’

  ‘About half. The gunnery officer and the first lieutenant were both killed. My captain was picked up, he's still in hospital.’

  ‘Your father said you had burns.’

  ‘Yes. My shoulder and back and the top of my left arm. Not too gruesome. No skin grafts. Recovering.’

  ‘What happens next?’

  ‘That's for their Lordships to decide.’

  ‘Another ship?’

  ‘I devoutly hope so.’

  ‘The Atlantic again?’

  ‘More than likely. Convoys. An ongoing battle.’

  ‘Are we winning it?’

  ‘We have to. In order to keep the trade routes to America open, and keep the country supplied with food and arms. The U-boats are everywhere, like hunting wolves; but the speed of the convoy is the speed of the slowest ship, and we're still losing far too many merchantmen.’

  ‘But aren't you frightened, Jeremy? At the thought of going back?’

  ‘Of course. But you learn to pretend you're not afraid. Everybody's the same. Routine and discipline do much to concentrate the mind. And at least, next time, I'll know what to expect.’