The waiter came with coffee. Heather stubbed out her cigarette, and lit another. They sat silent while the black, strong coffee was poured into the little cups. When he had gone, out of earshot, Heather shook her head and said, ‘No. We only deal with Europe.’
‘I shouldn't have asked.’ Judith sighed. ‘Gus is out there, too. Gus Callender. He's with the Second Gordons.’
‘You've lost me.’
‘He was a friend of Edward's at Cambridge. He came to stay in Nancherrow. He and Loveday…how do you say? Hit it off.’
‘Loveday?’ Heather sounded incredulous. ‘Loveday fancied him? She never said anything to me.’
‘I don't suppose she would. It was extraordinary. She was only seventeen, and it just happened. An instant rapport. As though they'd known each other forever. As though they'd always been a couple.’
‘If he's a soldier, and in Singapore, he'll be in the thick of it. I wouldn't put my money on his chances.’
‘I know. I've been thinking that too.’
‘It's a bloody war, isn't it? Poor Loveday. And poor you. I suppose we just have to sit and wait. See what happens.’
‘Waiting's the worst. Waiting for news. Trying to pretend that the worst isn't going to happen. Mustn't happen. I want my parents and Jess to stay alive, and be safe, and one day come home and come to The Dower House. And I want Gus to stay alive for Loveday. After St Valéry, we thought he was dead, but he managed to escape and get home, and when she heard the news, Loveday was like a person transformed. I can't bear for her to have to go through all that agony for a second time.’
‘Judith, whatever happens to Loveday, she'll survive.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I know her. She's a tough little thing.’
‘But…’ Judith was all ready to spring to Loveday's defence, but Heather interrupted her.
‘Look, we could go on talking all afternoon, and the day will have gone, and we won't have done anything. In my wallet I've got two tickets for the Albert Hall. The man I work for gave them to me. A concert that's due to start in half an hour. Do you want to go to a concert, or do you want to go shopping?’
‘What are they playing?’
‘William Walton's Violin Concerto, and Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto.’
‘I don't want to go shopping.’
So they finished their coffee, and paid the bill (with hefty tips all round), collected their coats from the cloakroom (more tips) and plunged out into the bitter cold and Piccadilly. As they emerged, a taxi rolled up to the pavement's edge, from which stepped a naval captain and his homely wife. They waited until he had settled his fare, and then swiftly hopped in, before anyone else could bag the cab.
‘Where to, love?’
‘The Albert Hall, and we're in a terrific hurry.’
The concert was wonderful, everything that Judith had hoped for, and more. The Walton was new to her, but the Rachmaninoff dearly familiar, and she sat lost in the music, transported into a sort of timelessness, the affirmation of another, constant world, set apart from anxiety and death, and battles and bombs. The rest of the huge audience was equally intent, and when the performance was finished, and the last notes had died away, displayed their appreciation with applause for conductor and orchestra, applause that lasted for at least five minutes.
But finally it was all over, and time to leave. Judith felt a bit as though she had spent two hours floating effortlessly in the upper air, and was now having to come down to earth again. So absorbed had she been that her cold was forgotten, but now, as they edged their way up the crowded, carpeted aisle towards the foyer and the main doors, the headache and the sore throat returned with a vengeance, and she realised that she was beginning to feel distinctly unwell.
They had planned to walk back to the Mews, or catch a bus, but when they emerged, with streams of others, into the black, lightless evening, they discovered that it had started to rain, a thin raw sleet, and neither of them had an umbrella.
They stood, bumped and barged, on the wet pavement and discussed their chances of getting a taxi, which were so slim as to be impossible.
‘We can't walk, we'll get soaked. Why didn't I bring an umbrella?’ Heather, always so efficient, was furious with herself.
‘I couldn't bring one, because I'm not allowed to carry one in uniform…’
And then, as they hesitated, trying to decide how on earth they would get home, good fortune beamed upon them. A private car drew up, with a driver, to be claimed by an RAF Wing Commander and his female companion. Clearly, he had had the forethought to arrange his own transport. He opened the door, the woman bundled herself inside, getting into shelter as swiftly as she could, and the Wing Commander was just about to follow when he caught sight of the two girls, illuminated in the tiny light that beamed from the interior of the car, standing forlornly and getting wetter by the moment.
He said, ‘Which direction do you want to go?’
‘Sort of, Sloane Square,’ Judith told him.
‘We're going to Clapham. Why don't we give you a ride?’
It was almost too good to be true. Gratefully, they accepted, and Heather got into the back seat, while Judith sat by the driver. Doors were slammed shut, and the car moved forward into the dark, wet street, with windscreen wipers going full-tilt, and the driver feeling his way by the faint beam of the darkened and hooded headlights.
Behind her, Heather made lively conversation with their saviours. ‘It's really kind of you,’ she told them. ‘I don't know what we'd have done otherwise.’
‘It's always hell getting home after a theatre or a concert. Particularly on a filthy night like this…’
Judith stopped listening. She had stood in a puddle and her feet were wet, and she was beginning to feel a bit shivery. When they got back, she would light the gas-fire and work up a fug, but before that happened, there was the small problem of food, because she'd had no time to buy anything.
They were now proceeding down Sloane Street. In the back of the car, chat was still going non-stop. They had finished discussing the concert, and were on to the horror of the Queens Hall being destroyed in the bombings, and the lovely lunch-time recitals that Myra Hess was giving at the church of St Martin in the Fields.
‘They're always packed. People just pop in to listen for a bit, on their way to or from their offices…’
The Wing Commander leaned forward. ‘Exactly whereabouts do you want to go?’ he asked Judith. ‘We can take you to the door, if it's not too far out of our way.’
‘Cadogan Mews.’ She turned in her seat to speak to him. ‘But…’ She hesitated. ‘The only thing is, I have to go to a shop. There's no food in the house. I came up from Portsmouth this morning and there wasn't time…but if you could drop us at our local grocery…?’
He said, ‘Don't you worry,’ and because of his kindness, all went smoothly. Judith directed the driver to the ramshackle corner store, which had always been the nearest and the most convenient for the Mews. It sold groceries and newspapers and cigarettes, and while the others waited, she went inside, armed with her Emergency Ration Card, and bought bread and eggs, and tiny amounts of bacon and sugar and margarine and a pint of milk and a jar of dubious-looking raspberry jam. The old woman behind the counter dug out a crumpled paper carrier into which she packed all this, Judith paid the bill, and returned to the others.
‘Thank you so much. That's perfect. At least we've got something to eat for tea.’
‘We couldn't allow you to go hungry. Where to now?’
They were delivered, in style, to the door. In the Mews, in the dim beam of the blacked-out headlights, the cobbles glistened, and a wet cat streaked across, in search of shelter. Judith and Heather got out of the car, effusive with thanks, even offering to pay their share of the fare, but they were dismissed forthwith, told that it was the least any person could do, and get inside, pronto, before they got even wetter.
It sounded like an order, so they did as they were to
ld. As they closed the door behind them, the car was already turning, and on its way.
They stood, very close, in the inky darkness of the tiny hall. ‘Don't turn on any lights,’ Judith told Heather, ‘until I've done the black-out. Stay where you are, or you'll fall over the stairs.’
She felt her way into the kitchen and fixed the black-out, and dumped the paper carrier on the table. Then, still in darkness, she emerged once more, trod carefully up the staircase, and dealt with the black-out and the thick curtains of the sitting-room. Only then could she safely press the switch.
‘You can come up now,’ she told Heather, and together they went around all the rooms, even the ones that Judith had no intention of using, so that every gleam of light was sealed away. With this accomplished, Heather made herself at home, divesting herself of damp overcoat and boots, lighting the gas-fire, turning on a few lamps. Almost at once, everything looked quite different, snug and cosy.
Heather said, ‘I'd die for a cup of tea.’
‘Me too, but I must take some more aspirin first.’
‘You feeling awful?’
‘Yes, fairly.’
‘Poor thing. You do look a bit poorly. Do you think you've got 'flu?’
‘Don't even suggest it.’
‘Well, you go and dose yourself, and I'll make the tea.’ Already she was on her way downstairs again. ‘Don't worry. I'll find my way around.’
‘There's some bread. We can make toast by the gas-fire.’
‘Lovely.’
Judith took off her coat and laid it on the bed, and then removed her shoes and damp stockings and put on a pair of fleecy slippers. She took off her jacket as well, and instead pulled on a Shetland sweater that she'd brought up from Portsmouth. Then she took more aspirin and gargled again. Her reflection in the mirror did nothing to cheer. Her face looked peaky and pinched, and there were dark rings, like bruises, under her eyes. If Biddy were here, she would prescribe a hot toddy, but as Judith had neither whisky nor honey nor lemon, the knowledge didn't do her much good.
By the time she went back to the sitting-room, Heather had made the tea and carried the tray up the stairs. They sat by the gas-fire, and made toast on a long fork, and then meagrely scraped it with margarine and spread on the raspberry jam.
‘Tastes of picnics,’ Heather decided with satisfaction. She licked her sticky fingers. ‘Mum always used to put raspberry jam on splits.’ She looked about her. ‘I like this house. Like the way it's all been done. With the pale curtains and everything. Do you come here a lot?’
‘Always when I come to London.’
‘Better than a Wrens' hostel, anyway.’
‘I wish you could stay.’
‘I can't.’
‘Couldn't you ring somebody and say you've got a little headache?’
‘No. I must be on duty tomorrow.’
‘When's your train?’
‘Seven thirty.’
‘Where do you go from?’
‘Euston.’
‘How will you get there?’
‘I'll get a tube from Sloane Square.’
‘Do you want me to come with you? See you off?’
Abruptly, ‘No,’ said Heather. And then she added, ‘Not with that cold. You mustn't go out again tonight. You ought to be in bed.’ But Judith got the feeling that even if she'd been in the rudest of health, Heather wouldn't have wanted her to go to Euston, because she didn't want Judith to know even the direction in which she was going to travel. It was all so secret as to be quite alarming. Judith simply hoped that her friend was not training to be a spy, because she could not bear the thought of her being darkly dropped from an aeroplane into dangerous enemy territory.
There were still masses they hadn't talked about, but, too soon, it was time for Heather to leave.
‘So early?’
‘I daren't risk missing that train, because that's the only one that has a car to meet it.’ Judith imagined some remote country station, the official car patiently waiting, the subsequent drive through miles of winding lanes. And then, arrival. Locked and electrically operated gates, high barbed-wire fences, prowling guard-dogs. Beyond, long avenues leading to the looming bulk of some great country house or Victorian castle. She could almost hear owls hooting.
For some reason, the image made her shiver, a frisson of distaste, and she was grateful for her open, humdrum job, running messages for Lieutenant Commander Crombie, taking telephone calls and doing his typing. At least she wasn't locked up in secrecy. And at least she didn't have to work on Sundays.
Heather was getting ready to go. Zipping on her boots again (they'd dried, more or less, in front of the fire), buttoning herself into her lovely scarlet coat, and then tying a Jacqmar silk scarf over her raven-black hair.
She said, ‘It's been great. A wonderful day.’
‘Thank you for the concert. I adored every moment.’
‘We must try to meet again. Not wait for so long this time. Don't come down the stairs. I'll see myself out.’
‘I still feel I should come with you.’
‘Don't be silly. Have a hot bath. Get to bed.’ She kissed Judith. And then suddenly said, ‘I don't want to leave you. I don't like to leave you.’
‘I'm all right.’
‘Keep in touch. About your mum and dad and Jess, I mean. I'll be thinking of you. Let me know if you have news.’
‘I will. I promise.’
‘You've got my address? Box number and everything. It's a bit obscure but letters eventually reach me.’
‘I'll write. Let you know.’
‘Goodbye, love.’
‘Goodbye.’
A quick hug and a kiss, and she was gone. Down the stairs and out of the door. The door slammed shut. Her footsteps faded as she hurried away down the length of the Mews. She was gone.
Now, no sound but the dripping rain, and the distant hum of sparse traffic making its way down Sloane Street. Judith hoped that there would not be an air raid, but decided that there probably wouldn't, because the weather was so foul. Bombers liked a clear night and a moon. It seemed a bit flat without Heather's company, so she put some Elgar on the radiogram. The first deep chords of a cello concerto stole into the room, and warmed by this, she stopped feeling abandoned. Judith took the tea-tray, carried it downstairs, washed up the few bits of china, and set them to dry on the draining-board. Putting the kettle on to boil, she found a rubber hot-water bottle, filled it, went upstairs again, turned down the bed, and put the hot-water bottle between the sheets. Then she took another couple of aspirin (by now she was feeling really lousy), drew a deep scalding bath, and soaked in scented steam for nearly an hour. Dried, she put on her night-gown, and then the Shetland sweater. By now, the Elgar was finished, so she switched off the radiogram, but left the fire burning, and the bedroom door open, so that its warmth would permeate. Then she found an old back number of Vogue and climbed into bed. She lay back on the soft pillows, flipped through the glossy pages for a moment or two, and then succumbed to exhaustion and closed her eyes. Almost at once, or so it seemed, she opened them again.
A sound. Her heart thudded in alarm. Downstairs. The click of a latchkey. The front door opening, and softly, being closed.
An intruder. Some person had come into the house. Petrified with terror, for an instant she lay rigid, unable to move; and then flung herself out of the bed and ran through the open door, across the sitting-room to the head of the stairs, determined that if the newcomer was foe rather than friend, to bash him over the head as he mounted, with any heavy object that came to hand.
He was half-way up already, muffled in a heavy overcoat, gold lace gleaming on epaulettes, his cap sprinkled with raindrops. He carried, in one hand, an overnight grip, and in the other a sturdy canvas sailing-bag with rope handles.
Jeremy. She saw him and felt her legs go weak with relief, and had to cling, for support, to the banisters. Not an intruder, breaking in, intent on theft, rape, or murder. Instead, the one person — had she
been given the choice — she would have really wanted it to be.
‘Jeremy.’
He paused, and looked up, his face shadowed by the peak of his cap, and gaunt in the unflattering overhead light of the stairwell.
‘Good God, it's Judith.’
‘Who did you think it might be?’
‘No idea. But I knew the place was occupied as soon as I opened the door, because of the lights being on.’
‘I thought you were at sea. What are you doing here?’
‘I could ask the same question.’ He came up on the stair, dumped his luggage, removed his sodden cap, and stooped to kiss her cheek. ‘And why are you receiving gentlemen in your night-gown?’
‘I was in bed, of course.’
‘Alone, I trust.’
‘I've got a cold, if you must know. I'm feeling rotten.’
‘Then get back into bed, right away.’
‘No. I want to talk to you. Are you going to stay the night?’
‘I'd planned to.’
‘And now I've bagged the bedroom.’
‘No matter. I'll go in with the ironing board and Diana's clothes. I've slept there before.’
‘How long are you staying?’
‘Just till morning.’ He placed his cap on the top of the newel-post, and began to unbutton his greatcoat. ‘I've got to catch a train at seven A.M.’
‘So where have you come from? Right now, I mean.’
‘Truro.’ He shrugged himself out of the heavy greatcoat and draped it over the banister rail. ‘I had a couple of days' leave, and went to Cornwall to spend them with my parents.’
‘I haven't seen you for ages. Years.’ She could not remember how long.
But Jeremy did. ‘Since I came to say goodbye to you at The Dower House.’
‘It seems like another life.’ She suddenly thought of something really serious. ‘There's nothing to eat here. Just a loaf of bread and a rasher of bacon. Are you starving? The corner shop will be closed, but…’