Coming Home

  But by now she was crying too hard to be able to say anything. Judith kissed her. She smelt of whisky. She never drank whisky. She put out her arm, and gave Judith a clumsy hug. ‘I really need a clean handkerchief.’

  ‘I'll get one.’

  She left her mother and went out of the room, ran upstairs to her bedroom, and took one of her own large, sensible school handkerchiefs out of her top drawer. Slamming the drawer shut, glancing up, she faced her own reflection in the mirror, and saw that she looked almost as distraught and anxious as her weeping mother downstairs. Which wouldn't do at all. One of them had to be strong and sensible, otherwise everything was going to fall to pieces. She took a deep breath or two and composed herself. What was it Aunt Biddy had said? You must learn to precipitate situations, not let them simply happen to you. Well, this was a situation, if ever there was one. She straightened her shoulders and went back downstairs.

  She found Molly, as well, had made a similar effort, had gathered the letter up off the floor, and even managed a trembling smile as Judith came back into the room.

  ‘Oh, dear, thank you…’ She accepted the clean handkerchief gratefully and blew her nose. ‘I am sorry. I don't know what came over me. It's really been the most exhausting of days. I suppose I'm tired…’

  Judith sat down on the fireside stool. ‘May I read the letter?’

  ‘Of course.’ She handed it over.

  Dearest Molly,

  His writing was neat and even, and very black. He always used black ink.

  By the time you get this, Christmas will be over. I hope that you and the girls had an enjoyable time. I have fairly momentous news for you. The Chairman called me into his office yesterday morning, and told me that they want me to move to Singapore, as Company Manager for Wilson-McKinnon. It is a promotion, which means a better salary, and other bonuses like a larger house, a company car and a driver. I hope you will be as pleased and gratified as I am. The new job does not commence until the month after you and Jess arrive here, so you will be able to help pack up this house, and ready it for the man who is to be my replacement, and the three of us will sail to Singapore together. I know you will miss Colombo, as I shall, and all the beauty of this lovely island, but I find it exciting to think that we will travel together, and be together when we set up in our new home. The job will be a great deal more responsible and probably demanding, but I feel I can do it and am capable of making a success of it. I am very much looking forward to seeing you and meeting Jess. I hope she won't be too strange with me, and will get used to the idea that I am her father.

  Tell Judith that her Christmas present should be arriving any day now. I hope all the arrangements for St Ursula's are going according to plan, and that it isn't going to be too much of a wrench for you, saying goodbye.

  I saw Charlie Peyton the other day at the club. He tells me that Mary is expecting a new baby in April. They want us to go and dine with them…

  And so on. She did not need to read any more. She folded the pages and gave them back to her mother.

  She said, ‘It sounds quite good. Good for Dad. I don't think you should be too sad about it.’

  ‘I'm not sad. I'm just…defeated. I know it's selfish, but I don't feel that I want to go to Singapore. It's so hot there and so damp, and a new house, and new servants…making new friends…everything. It's too much…’

  ‘But you won't have to do it all yourself. Dad will be there…’

  ‘I know.…’

  ‘It'll be exciting.’

  ‘I don't want to be excited. I want everything to be calm, and still, and not to change. I want a home, not moving all the time, and being torn apart. And everybody demanding things of me, and telling me I do things all wrong when I do them, and knowing that I'm incompetent and incapable…’

  ‘But you're not!’

  ‘Biddy thinks I'm an idiot. So does Louise.’

  ‘Oh, don't take any notice of Biddy and Louise…’

  Molly blew her nose again, and took another mouthful out of her whisky tumbler.

  ‘I didn't know you drank whisky.’

  ‘I don't usually. I just needed one. That's probably why I cried. I'm probably drunk.’

  ‘I don't think you are.’

  Her mother smiled, a bit sheepishly, trying to laugh at herself. And then she said, ‘I'm sorry about this morning. That silly row we had, Biddy and I. I didn't know you were listening, but even so, we should never have behaved so childishly.’

  ‘I wasn't eavesdropping.’

  ‘I know that. I do hope you don't think I'm being mean and selfish to you. I mean, about Biddy asking you to stay, and me being so uncooperative. It's just that Louise, well, it's true she doesn't approve of Biddy, and it just seemed another complication that I had to deal with…perhaps I didn't handle it very well.’

  Judith said truthfully, ‘I don't mind about any of that.’ And then she added, because it seemed as good a time as any to say it, ‘I don't mind about not going to Aunt Biddy, or staying with Aunt Louise, or any of it. What I do mind is that you never talk to me about what's going to happen. You never bother to ask me what I want.’

  ‘That's what Biddy said. Just before lunch, she started in again. And I feel so guilty, because perhaps I have left you on your own too much, and made plans for you without discussing them. School and everything, and Aunt Louise. And now I feel I've left it all too late.’

  ‘Aunt Biddy should never have scolded you. And it's not too late…’

  ‘But there's so much to do.’ She was off again. ‘I've left everything to the last moment, I haven't even bought your uniform, and there's Phyllis, and packing up, and everything…’

  She was so fraught, so hopeless, that Judith felt, all at once, enormously protective, organised and strong. She said, ‘We'll help. I'll help. We'll all do it together. As for that awful school uniform, why don't we go and get it tomorrow? Where do we have to go?’

  ‘Medways, in Penzance.’

  ‘All right, then, we'll go to Medways, and we'll get everything in one fell swoop.’

  ‘But we have to buy hockey sticks, and Bibles, and attaché cases…’

  ‘Well, we'll get them too. We won't come back here until we've got every single thing. We'll take the car. You'll have to be very brave and drive us, we couldn't possibly bring it all home in the train.’

  Molly looked, instantly, a little less woebegone. It seemed that just making one decision for her rendered her more cheerful. She said, ‘All right.’ She thought about it. ‘We'll leave Jess with Phyllis, she'd never last the day. And have a bit of an outing, just the two of us. And we'll have lunch at The Mitre, for a treat. We'll deserve it by then.’

  ‘And as well,’ said Judith, with much firmness, ‘we'll drive to St Ursula's, and I can have a look at the place. I can't go to a school I've never even seen…’

  ‘But it's holiday time. There won't be anybody there.’

  ‘All the better. We'll prowl and peer through windows. Now, that's all fixed, so cheer up. Are you feeling better now? Do you want a bath? Do you want to go to bed, and have Phyllis bring your supper up on a tray?’

  But Molly shook her head. ‘No. No, none of those lovely things. I'm all right now. I'll have my bath later.’

  ‘In that case, I'll go and tell Phyllis that we'll eat her boiled fowl when she's ready for us.’

  ‘In a moment. Give me another moment or two. I don't want Phyllis to know I've been crying. Do I look as though I have been?’

  ‘No. Just a bit red in the face from the fire.’

  Her mother leaned forward and kissed her. ‘Thank you. You've made me feel quite different. So sweet of you.’

  ‘That's all right.’ She tried to think of something reassuring to say. ‘You were just in a state.’

  Molly opened her eyes and faced the new day. It was scarcely light, and not yet time to rise, so she lay warm, and lapped in linen sheets, and was filled with gratitude because she had slept, without dreams, all through th
e night, sleeping as soon as her head touched the pillow, without interruption, and undisturbed by Jess. This in itself was a small miracle, for Jess was a demanding child. If she did not wake during the small hours and scream for her mother, then she was on the go hideously early, and clambering into Molly's bed.

  But she, it seemed, had been as tired as her mother, and at half past seven, there was neither sight nor sound of her. Perhaps, thought Molly, it was the whisky. Perhaps I should drink whisky every night, and then I should always sleep. Or perhaps it was the fact that the overwhelming anxieties and apprehensions of the previous evening had been sublimated by her own physical exhaustion. Whatever. It had worked. She had slept. She felt refreshed, renewed, ready for whatever the day had to bring.

  Which was shopping for the school uniform. She got out of bed and pulled on her dressing-gown and went to close the window, and draw back the curtains. She saw a pale and misty morning, not yet fully light, and very still. Below her window the sloping terraced garden lay quiet and damp, and from the shore beyond the railway line the curlews called. But the sky was clear, and it occurred to Molly that perhaps the morning would turn into one of those days that spring steals from a Cornish winter, so that all is imbued with the sense of things growing, pushing up through the soft dark earth; buds beginning to swell, and returning birds to sing. She would keep it whole, separate, an entity on its own, a single day spent with her elder daughter, set aside. Remembered, it would be sharp-edged and vivid, like a photograph neatly framed, with no intrusion to blur the image.

  She turned from the window, sat at her dressing-table, and took from one of the drawers the bulky manila envelope which contained the St Ursula's clothes list, and a positive plethora of instructions for parents:

  The Easter term commences on the fifteenth of January. Boarders are asked to arrive no later than 2:30 P.M on the afternoon of that day. Please make certain that your daughter's Health Certificate has been signed. Miss Catto's secretary will meet you in the Front Hall, and show you and your daughter to her dormitory. If you wish, Miss Catto will be pleased to offer any parent tea in her study from 3:30 P.M. onwards. Boarders are forbidden to bring any sweets or food into their dormitories. The ration of sweets is two pounds a term, and these should be handed over to Matron, PLEASE be certain that all boots and shoes are clearly marked with your daughter's name…[And so on and so on.]

  The rules and regulations, it seemed, were as strict for parents as they were for the poor children. She picked up the clothes list and glanced through that. Three pages of it. ‘Items starred can be purchased at the authorised shop, Medways, Drapers and Outfitters, Penzance.’ Almost everything seemed to be starred. Regulation this, regulation that. Oh, well, if they could buy everything in one shop, then the whole performance wouldn't take so long. And it had to be done.

  She put it all back into the envelope and went in search of Jess.

  Over breakfast, she spooned boiled egg into Jess's mouth (one for Daddy, and one for Golly) and broke the news that she was to be abandoned for the day.

  Jess said, ‘I don't want to.’

  ‘Of course you do; you'll have a lovely time with Phyllis.’

  ‘Don't want to…’ Her bottom lip stuck out like a shelf.

  ‘And you and Phyllis can take Golly for a walk, and buy fruit gums from Mrs Berry…’

  ‘You're bribing,’ Judith told her from the other side of the table.

  ‘Anything's better than a scene…’

  ‘Don't want to.’

  ‘It doesn't seem to be working.’

  ‘But, Jess, you love fruit gums…’

  ‘Don't WANT to…’ Tears poured down Jess's face, and her mouth went square. She howled. Judith said, ‘Oh, Lord, now she's off…’ But just then Phyllis came in with some hot toast in a rack, and when she had put it on the table, she simply said, ‘What's all this, then,’ and scooped the howling Jess up into her arms, bore her firmly out of the room, and closed the door behind her. By the time she reached the kitchen, the wails had already started to subside.

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Judith. ‘Now we can finish our breakfast in peace. And you're not to go and say goodbye to her, Mummy, otherwise she'll start up all over again.’

  Which, Molly had to admit to herself, was perfectly true. Drinking coffee, she looked at Judith, who, this morning, had come downstairs with her hair done in a new way, tied back from her face with a navy-blue ribbon. Molly was not sure if the style suited her. It made her look quite different, not a little girl any longer, and her ears, now revealed, had never been her most attractive feature. But she said nothing, and knew that Biddy would approve of her tactful silence.

  Instead, she said, ‘I think we'd better start out as soon as we've finished breakfast. Otherwise we're going to run out of time. You should just see the length of the clothes list! And then it's all got to be marked with name-tapes. Just think of all that tedious stitching. Perhaps Phyllis will help me.’

  ‘Why don't we use the sewing machine?’

  ‘That's a brilliant idea. Much quicker and neater. I never thought of that.’

  Half an hour later, they were ready to go. Molly armed herself with lists, instructions, handbag and cheque-book, and dressed prudently — because one never knew — for rain, in sensible shoes, and her Burberry and her dark-red Henry Heath hat. Judith wore her old navy-blue raincoat and a tartan scarf. The raincoat was too short and her long, thin legs seemed endless.

  ‘Now have you got everything?’ she asked.

  ‘I think so.’

  They paused to listen, but from the kitchen came only contented sounds, Jess's piping voice in conversation with Phyllis, who was probably stirring a custard, or sweeping the floor. ‘We mustn't make a cheep, or she'll want to come with us.’ So they let themselves creepingly out of the front door and tiptoed over the gravel towards the wooden shed which was the garage. Judith opened the doors and Molly climbed gingerly in, behind the wheel of the little Austin Seven, and after one or two false starts managed to get the engine running, jam the gear-stick into reverse and back jerkily out. Judith got in beside her, and they set off. It took a moment or two for Molly to get her nerve up, and they had passed through the village and were well on their way before she finally achieved top gear and a speed of thirty miles an hour.

  ‘I can't think why you're so frightened of driving. You do it very well.’

  ‘It's because I haven't had much practice. In Colombo we always had a driver.’

  They trundled on, and then ran into a bit of mist, so it was necessary to turn on the windscreen wipers, but there were very few cars on the road (just as well, Judith told herself), and Molly began to relax a little. At one moment a horse pulling a cartful of turnips loomed out of the drizzle ahead of them, but she managed to deal with this emergency, tooting her horn, putting on a little speed, and overtaking the creaking vehicle.

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Judith.

  Before long, the mist disappeared as swiftly as it had fallen, and the other sea came into view, a pearly blue in the thin morning sunshine, and they saw the great sweep of Mounts Bay, and St Michael's Mount like a fairy-tale castle on top of its rock. The tide was in, and so it was isolated by water. Then the road ran on between the railway line and the gentle slopes of farmland, small fields green with broccoli, and the town lay ahead, and the harbour busy with fishing boats. They passed by hotels closed for the winter, and the railway station, and then Market Jew Street sloped up ahead of them, to the statue of Humphrey Davy with his miner's safety lamp, and the tall dome of the Lloyds Bank Building.

  They parked the car in the Greenmarket by the fruit-and-vegetable shop. Outside its door stood tin buckets crammed with the first fragile bunches of early daffodils, and from within wafted smells of earth and leeks and parsnips. The pavements were busy with shoppers, country women laden with heavy baskets, standing in little groups exchanging gossip.

  ‘Lovely now, isn't it?’

  ‘How's Stanley's leg?
’

  ‘Blown up like a balloon.’

  It would have been nice to linger, to listen in, but Molly was already on her way, not wanting to waste a moment, crossing the street and heading for Medways. Judith followed her, running to catch up.

  It was an old-fashioned, sombre shop, with plate-glass windows displaying outdoor wear, tweeds, woollens, hats and raincoats for both ladies and gentlemen. Inside all was fitted in dark wood, and smelt of paraffin heaters, rubber waterproofs, and fusty assistants. One of these, who looked as though his head had been attached to his body by his high, throttling collar, came respectfully forward.

  ‘May I be of assistance, madam?’

  ‘Oh, thank you. We have to buy uniform, for St Ursula's.’

  ‘First floor, madam. If you'd like to take the stairs.’

  ‘Where does he want us to take the stairs to?’ Judith hissed as they ascended.

  ‘Be quiet, he'll hear you.’

  The staircase was wide and stately and had a portentous banister with a polished mahogany rail that would be perfect, under different circumstances, for sliding down. The children's department took up the whole of the first floor and was spacious, with a long, polished counter on either side and tall windows facing out over the street. This time it was a lady assistant who approached them. She wore a sad black dress and was quite elderly, and she walked as though her feet hurt, which they probably did, after years of standing.

  ‘Good morning, madam. Want some help, do you?’

  ‘Yes, we do.’ Molly fished in her bag for the clothes list. ‘The St Ursula's uniform. For my daughter.’

  ‘That's lovely, isn't it? Going to St Ursula's are you? What are you needing?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘That'll take some time.’ So two bentwood chairs were produced and arranged in place, and Molly, drawing off her gloves, found her fountain pen and settled down to the enormous shop.