Coming Home
‘But it's not just a little drink,’ Judith almost shouted at her. ‘You don't understand…’
‘I do. And I've given my word. Now, ease down.’
It worked. The sudden spurt of annoyance was quenched. Judith bit her lip, said no more. ‘That's better,’ said Phyllis encouragingly. ‘Now, let's talk quietly. About you. I know you've been thinking for months about joining up. But why all at once? So sudden. Going off to Devonport tomorrow. When did you decide all this? What made up your mind?’
‘I don't know. It made itself up.’
‘Has something happened?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell Phyllis, then.’
And she sounded just the way she used to sound, in the old days at Riverview, when Judith hung about the kitchen, miserably worrying about exam results, or the fact that she hadn't been asked to some birthday party or other.
Tell Phyllis. She took a deep breath, and said it. ‘Edward Carey-Lewis has been killed. His fighter was shot down over Dover.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘Jeremy just told me. That's why we didn't swim. I came home. I just wanted to be home. I wanted you so badly.’ Suddenly, her face crumpled, like a child's, and Phyllis reached out and pulled her roughly into her arms, and kissed her head, and rocked her as though she had been a baby. ‘I don't think I can bear it, Phyllis. I don't want him to be dead. He was always somewhere, and I can't bear the thought of him not being somewhere. He's not anywhere now. He's just not anything…’
‘Shh…’
Still rocking Judith in her arms, all at once, Phyllis understood. It was all as clear as glass. Edward Carey-Lewis had been the one for Judith. Not Jeremy Wells. Phyllis, for all her certainty and high hopes, had been barking up the wrong tree. It was young Carey-Lewis to whom Judith had given her heart, and now he was dead.
‘Shh…there now…’
‘Oh, Phyllis…’
‘Just cry.’
Life was so cruel, thought Phyllis, and war was worse. But what was the point in being brave, and holding feelings tight close? Better to give way, to go with the tide; let nature take its healing course, sweeping all before it, in a dam-burst of weeping.
Three days had passed before Judith returned to Nancherrow. The first day of August, and it was raining; a soft, drenching Cornish rain that fell on grateful gardens and fields and refreshed the air. The swollen river gurgled under the bridge, drowning the kingcups which grew on its green banks; there were puddles in the roads, and great drops of water descended in showers from overhead branches.
In the rain, wearing a black oilskin, but with her head bare, Judith cycled. From the village, she pushed the bicycle up the hill, and then mounted it again at the Nancherrow gates, and went on, down the winding, aqueous tunnel of the drive. Everything glistened and dripped, and the heads of the hydrangeas hung, heavy with moisture.
Reaching the house, she propped the bicycle by the front door, and went in, through the door. And there stopped, diverted by the sight of the old Nancherrow perambulator, strap-slung and classic as a Rolls-Royce. It had been parked in the outer hall, until such time as the rain ceased and Clementina could be wheeled out into the garden for her necessary fresh air. Judith unbuttoned her oilskin and laid it over a carved wooden chair, where it dripped onto the flagstones. Then she went to peer into the pram, to feast her eyes on the lovely sight that was Clementina. Fast asleep, with fat peach-pink cheeks and her dark silky hair on the frilled lawn pillowcase. She had been bundled into a gossamer Shetland shawl, but somehow had fought one arm free, and her starfish hand, with its chubby, braceleted fist, lay, like an offering, upturned, on the little pink blanket. There was something timeless about her peaceful slumber, untouched by any terrible thing that had happened, or perhaps was about to happen. It occurred to Judith that this was what innocence was all about. She touched Clementina's hand, and saw the tiny, perfect fingernails, and smelt the sweet fragrance of the baby, compounded of cleanliness and wool and Johnson's talc. Just looking at her was the most comforting, reassuring thing she had done for days.
After a bit, she left the baby sleeping and went on, into the inner hall. The house was quiet, but there were flowers on the round table which stood at the foot of the staircase, and the usual pile of stamped letters, waiting for some person to post them. She paused for a moment, and then, when nobody appeared, started down the passage to the door of the small sitting-room. This stood open, and across the room, in the bay window, she saw Diana, sitting at her desk. The desk that used to live in the drawing-room, but had been moved in here when the drawing-room was closed up for the war.
The desk was littered with all the usual accoutrements for correspondence, but Diana had dropped her pen and was simply doing nothing, but gaze out of the window at the dripping rain.
Judith said her name. Diana turned, and for an instant her lovely eyes stayed blank and unfocused; then cleared in recognition.
‘Judith.’ She held out an arm. ‘Darling. You've come.’
Judith went through the door and closed it behind her, and swiftly crossed the room, and stooped to embrace Diana and to kiss her.
‘So lovely to see you.’ She looked thin and pale and unbearably worn, but was elegant and beautifully turned out as ever, wearing a pleated linen skirt and a sky-blue silk shirt with a matching cashmere cardigan slung across her shoulders. As well, her pearls, her earrings, lipstick, eye-shadow, scent. And Judith was filled with enormous admiration, and gratitude too, because to have found Diana dishevelled, untidy, ill dressed would have made everything seem frightening and hopeless as the end of the world. But she understood, too, that the way Diana looked was her own personal armour, and that the time and the trouble that she had clearly spent upon herself was her own private contribution of courage. She had always been a joy to behold. For her family's sake; for the Nettlebeds and Mary, she was staying that way. Maintaining standards. Keeping up appearances.
‘…I thought you were never coming.’
‘Oh, Diana. I'm so sorry.’
‘Darling, you mustn't say things like that, otherwise I go to pieces. You've just got to talk ordinarily to me. What a ghastly day. Did you bike over? You must have got drenched. Sit down for a moment and chat.’
‘I'm not disturbing you?’
‘Yes, you are, but I want to be disturbed. Writing letters was never my strong point, and so many people have written and I simply have to try to answer them. It's so funny, I've always written letters to people, when people die, because it's what was done. Good manners. I never realised how much they meant. I read them over and over, even the most banal of condolences, and they fill me with pride and comfort. And you know, the extraordinary thing is that all of them say something different about Edward, as though dozens of people were writing about dozens of different Edwards. Some say how kind he was, or remember a certain amusing incident, or a time when he was particularly thoughtful, or funny, or just devastatingly attractive. And Edgar received the most touching letter from his commanding officer. Poor man, imagine having to write to all those bereaved parents, trying to think of something to say.’
‘What did he say about Edward?’
‘Just how well he'd done, in France and then over Kent. And how he never lost his good spirits, nor his sense of humour, and how his ground-crew loved and respected him. He said at the end he was very tired, he'd had to fly so many sorties, but he never showed his weariness and he never lost his courage.’
‘The Colonel would have appreciated that.’
‘Yes. He keeps the letter in his wallet. I think it will stay there until the day he dies.’
‘How is he?’
‘Shattered, lost. But like all of us, trying not to show it too much. That's another strange thing. All of them, Athena and Edgar, and even little Loveday, seem to have found some great resource that the rest of us never even suspected. Athena has her baby, of course. Such a duck, and so good.
And Loveday just goes off to work at Lidgey a bit earlier each day. For some funny reason, I think she finds Mrs Mudge a great solace. And I suppose being brave for other people helps you to be brave for yourself. I keep thinking of Biddy, when her Ned was killed. How perfectly terrible for her to have no other children to keep her going. How lonely she must have been. Even with you there. You must have saved her life.’
‘Biddy sent a message. When you want, she'll come and see you, but she doesn't want to intrude.’
‘Tell her, any day. I'd love to talk. Do you suppose Ned and Edward are somewhere frightfully jolly, making friends?’
‘I don't know, Diana.’
‘Such a silly thought. It just occurred to me.’ She turned her head and looked out once more at the rain. ‘When you came, I was trying to remember something that they always read on Armistice Day. But I'm useless at remembering poetry.’ She fell silent, and then turned back to smile at Judith. ‘Something about always staying young. Never growing old.’
Judith knew instantly what she was talking about, but the words, and their associations, were so emotive that she was not sure if she could say them aloud without breaking down altogether.
Stalling, ‘Binyon,’ she said. Diana frowned. ‘Laurence Binyon. He was Poet Laureate at the end of the Great War. He wrote it.’
‘What did he write?’
‘They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.’
She stopped, because there had swelled a great lump in her throat, and she knew that she was incapable of speaking the last two lines.
But if Diana noticed this, she gave no indication. ‘It says it all, doesn't it? How wonderfully brilliant of Mr Binyon, to pick out the one tiny grain of comfort from a mountain of despair, and then to write a poem about it.’ Across the space that lay between them, their eyes met. Diana said, quite gently. ‘You were in love with Edward weren't you? No, don't be upset that I know. I always knew, I watched it happen. The trouble was, that he was so young. Young in years and young in heart. Irresponsible. I was a little afraid for you, but there was nothing that I could do. You mustn't mourn him, Judith.’
‘You mean, I haven't the right?’
‘No, I don't mean that at all. I mean that you're only nineteen, and you mustn't waste your youth, weeping for the might-have-been. Heavens.’ Suddenly she was laughing. ‘I sound like Barrie, and that ghastly play, Dear Brutus. Tommy Mortimer took me to see it in London, and all the audience were snivelling, except Tommy and me, who were bored to bits.’
‘No,’ Judith was able to assure her. ‘I'm not going to waste my youth. I don't think. But I am going away. Leaving you all. I went up to Devonport on Tuesday, and signed on with the WRNS. Sooner or later, I'll get my orders and then I'll be off.’
‘Oh, darling.’
‘I knew I had to go sometime. I suppose I've just been putting it off. Right now seems as good a time as any. Besides, I've done everything I can. Biddy and Phyllis and Anna are settled at the Dower House, and there, imagine, they'll stay for the duration. Perhaps from time to time, you can keep an eye on them, make sure they're all right.’
‘Of course I will…Anyway, I'll go on seeing Biddy at the Red Cross. What are you going to do in the Wrens? Something frightfully glamorous, like Boat's Crew? I saw a photograph in the paper the other day. Pretty girls in bell-bottoms. They looked like something straight out of Cowes Week.’
‘No, not Boat's Crew.’
‘Too disappointing.’
‘Shorthand and typing, probably. In the Navy they call it being a Writer.’
‘It doesn't sound very exciting.’
‘It's a job.’
Diana thought about this for a bit, and then sighed deeply. ‘I can't bear the thought of you going away, but I suppose you must. I couldn't bear saying goodbye to Jeremy, either, when he had to leave us. I can't tell you what a rock he was, just being there with us all, even if it was only for two days. And then he had to go. Back to another ship, I suppose.’
‘He called in at The Dower House, on his way, to say goodbye. It was he who told me to come and see you.’
‘I do believe he's one of the dearest men I've ever known. And that reminds me.’ She turned to her desk, opened tiny drawers, searched through their contents. ‘I've got a key here somewhere. If you're going to leave us all, you must have a key.’
‘A key?’
‘Yes. A key to my house in Cadogan Mews. When war broke out, I had half a dozen spares cut. Rupert's got one, and Athena, of course. And Gus. And Jeremy. And Edward. Edward had one…oh, here it is. You'll need to tie a label on it to stop it getting lost.’ She tossed it across and Judith caught it. A small brass latchkey. She held it in her palm.
‘But why are you giving me this?’
‘Oh, darling, you never know. In wartime, everybody goes to and fro through London, and hotels will be packed — anyway, they're hideously expensive — and it could just be a little bolt-hole for you, or a place to lay your head for a night. If it doesn't get bombed, or something disastrous. There's no reason, now, for me to go to London, and if I do, and one of you happens to be roosting there, well and good. There's enough space.’
‘I think that's a lovely idea. How sweet of you, and generous.’
‘I am neither of those things. And sharing my little house with you all is, perhaps, the least I can do. Are you going to stay for lunch? Do. It's rabbit pie, and there's masses.’
‘I'd love to, but I must get back.’
‘Loveday's at Lidgey, but Athena's around…’
‘No. I think another day. I only wanted to see you.’
Diana understood. ‘All right.’ She smiled. ‘I'll tell them. Another day.’
Each morning Edgar Carey-Lewis made it his business to collect the morning post from the hall table — placed there by the postman — take it into the privacy of his study and go through all the letters before handing any of them over to Diana. Ten days after Edward's death, and they were still coming in, from old and young and all walks of life, and he read each one with attention and care, filtering out well-meant, but possibly tactless and clumsy efforts which he feared might upset his wife. These, he answered himself, and then destroyed. The others, he placed upon her desk for her to peruse and deal with, in her own time.
This morning, there was the usual pile; as well, a large, stiffened buff envelope, addressed in black italic script. The pleasing writing caught his eye, and he peered more closely, and saw the Aberdeen postmark.
He carried the bundle of mail into his study, closed the door, sat at his desk, and slit the heavy envelope with his silver paper-knife. From it, he withdrew a letter, and a sheet of card folded in two, and secured with paper-clips. He opened the letter and looked at the signature, and saw that it was signed ‘Gus’, and felt much touched that yet another of Edward's Cambridge friends had taken the trouble to write.
Regimental Headquarters,
The Gordon Highlanders,
Aberdeen.
August 5th, 1940.
Dear Colonel Carey-Lewis,
I heard only yesterday about Edward, which is why I have not written before. Please forgive me and understand.
I spent ten years of my life at boarding-school, first in Scotland, and then at Rugby, and never in all that time did I make a close friend, a person with whom I felt entirely at ease, and whose company never failed to stimulate and entertain. By the time I reached Cambridge I had decided that there was something in my make-up — that dreaded Scottish reserve perhaps — that precluded such relationships. But then I met Edward, and all of life changed colour. His charm was deceptive…I have to admit that at first I was wary of it…but once I got to know him all reservations melted, for beneath that charm lay the strength of character of a man who knows exactly who he is, what he wants, and where he is going.
From those few months when we knew each other, I have a host of good memories. His companionship, kind
liness, and boundless capacity for friendship; his laughter and good humour; and his generosity of spirit. The days I spent with you all at Nancherrow, just before the war broke out, and the kindness you showed a total stranger, are all part of those memories. Nothing can destroy such happy recollections, and I can only be grateful that I was fortunate enough to know Edward, and to be counted as one of his friends.
Looking through my Cambridge sketchbook I came upon this drawing I did of him. Summer, and a college cricket match, and he had been prevailed upon to make up numbers and play. Without, I may add, much enthusiasm! I drew him as he stood by the pavilion, padded up and waiting to go in. If you wish, I won't be in the least hurt if you toss it into the waste-basket, but I thought that you might like to have it.
The Highland Division is being re-formed, but I am being seconded to the Second Battalion, the Gordon Highlanders, who are already overseas. If I may, I would like to write to you and keep in touch.
With my best wishes to yourself and Mrs Carey-Lewis. And Athena and Loveday.
Yours sincerely,
Gus
Edgar read the letter through twice, and then laid it aside and took up the makeshift folder. With some difficulty (his fingers, for some reason, were a bit shaky) he prised the paper-clips loose and unfolded the card. Inside was a sheet of cartridge paper, the top edge rough where it had been torn from Gus's sketch-book.
His son. Swiftly sketched in pencil, later washed in colour (Gus's artistic trade mark). Caught in an instant, caught forever. Edward, dressed for cricket, in white shirt and flannels, and with a brilliantly striped silk knotted at his waist. Shirtsleeves rolled up, muscled forearms, a leather cricket ball cradled in his hand. Face half-turned, suntanned and smiling, and with that stubborn lock of corn-coloured hair falling across his forehead. In a moment, he was going to put up a hand and push it aside.