Coming Home

  Facing her, Loveday curled up in one of the big armchairs. ‘I have to admit, even though I'm not mad on London, it is rather a dear little house.’

  ‘Where are we all going to sleep?’

  ‘You and I are sharing the double bed, and Mummy's going in with the ironing board.’

  ‘That's not very fair.’

  ‘She doesn't mind. She says she prefers privacy to luxury. Anyway, that bed's quite comfortable.’

  ‘When did you get here?’

  ‘Thursday. Came up on the train. It wasn't too bad. And at Paddington, Tommy met us with a car, which is always rather comforting.’ Loveday giggled. ‘Did you know, he got a medal for being frightfully brave in the blitz? Too modest, he's only just told us.’

  ‘A medal? What did he get a medal for?’

  ‘He rescued some old girl from her burning house. Plunged in through smoke and fire and hauled her out, by the legs, from under her dining-room table.’

  Judith gaped in admiration and astonishment. It was not easy to visualise the urbane Tommy Mortimer, silk-shirted and smoothly suited, indulging in such heroics. ‘Good for him! I hope she was grateful.’

  ‘Not a bit. She was livid because he hadn't rescued her canary as well. Ungrateful old bag.’

  She was laughing. She looked, thought Judith, prettier than ever, and charmingly sophisticated in a fine woollen dress of hyacinth blue, with short sleeves and a white piqué collar. Silk stockings on her slender legs, black patent high-heeled pumps, bright lipstick, dark lashes, her violet eyes sparkling. But something was different…

  ‘Loveday, you've had your hair cut.’

  ‘I know. Mummy said I looked like a gollywog. She wheeled me off to Antoine's yesterday. It took hours.’

  ‘I love it.’

  Loveday tossed her head. ‘It's a bit short, but it'll grow. I never have time to have it done at home. Incidentally, everybody sends their love. Pops and Athena and Mary and everybody. Including Nettlebeds. Clementina's a hoot. She's got a ghastly doll's pram and pushes it everywhere.’

  ‘What news of Rupert?’

  ‘Battling it out in the Western Desert. But he writes long letters to Athena and he seems to be quite cheerful.’ She stopped then, and fell silent. Across the room they faced each other, and some of the laughter died from Loveday's face. After a bit, ‘At least she hears from him. Gets letters.’ She sighed. ‘Nothing, I suppose, from your family?’

  Judith shook her head. ‘Not a word.’

  ‘I'm so sorry.’

  ‘It's like a shutter's come down. But the boat Mummy and Jess were on never got to Australia. That's all we know.’

  ‘If they were rescued, I suppose they'll have been taken prisoner.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And your father?’

  She shook her head again. ‘Nothing.’ And then, because it had to be said, ‘And Gus? I imagine, nothing from Gus, otherwise you'd have let me know.’

  For a moment, Loveday sat, eyes downcast, her fingers picking at the braid of the armchair. And then, abruptly, she sprang to her feet, and went to stand at the window, looking down into the Mews, her back to Judith, and the sunlight making an aureole of her curly dark hair. Judith waited. After a bit, she said, ‘Gus is dead.’

  Judith felt cold with shock, and for a moment unable to think of anything to say. ‘Then you have heard. You've had news.’

  ‘No. But I know.’

  ‘How can you know he's dead?’

  Watching, appalled, she saw Loveday shrug her bony shoulders. ‘I just know.’ And then she turned to face Judith, leaning her weight against the white-painted sill of the window. ‘I would know if he was alive. Like I did after St Valéry. Then, it was like a telephone message, but without any words. I told you about it, and I was right. He was safe then. But he's dead now. After Singapore fell, every day, I sat on the gate by the Lidgey farmyard, and shut my eyes and thought and thought about him, and tried to get a message to Gus, and to get him to send one back to me. But there's nothing there but darkness and silence. He's gone.’

  Judith was horrified. ‘But, Loveday, that's the same as killing him yourself. You mustn't give up hope. He needs you to keep hoping and thinking about him, all the time.’

  ‘Is that what you do?’

  ‘Don't speak in that horrible, condescending way. Of course it's what I do. I have to.’

  ‘Do you believe your mother and father and Jess are still alive?’

  ‘I said, I have to. For their sakes. Don't you see how important it is?’

  ‘It's not important if I already know Gus is dead.’

  ‘Stop saying it, over and over. You've no right to be so certain. Just because it happened once, that telepathy thing, it doesn't mean it's bound to happen again. That time, Gus was in France, quite close. This time he's on the other side of the world.’

  ‘Distance makes no difference.’ Loveday was immovable, stubborn as she had always been once she had set her mind on something, and was determined never to be side tracked. ‘Thought transference covers thousands of miles in a millionth of a second. I would know if he was alive. And I know that he's been killed.’

  ‘Oh, Loveday. Please don't be so final.’

  ‘I can't help it. I am.’

  There didn't seem to be anything else to say. Judith sighed. ‘Is this what you had to tell me?’ she asked at last. ‘Is this why you wanted me to come to London?’

  ‘That. And other things.’ Judith waited in some apprehension. Then Loveday dropped her bombshell. ‘I'm going to get married.’

  She said it casually, as though imparting some inconsequent piece of information, and for a moment Judith thought that she had totally misheard.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I'm going to get married.’

  ‘Married.’ Now, totally nonplussed. ‘Who?’

  ‘Walter.’

  ‘Walter. Walter Mudge?’

  ‘Do you know any other Walter?’

  The whole idea was so inconceivable that Judith felt quite winded, as though some person had delivered a blow in her solar plexus, and left her without breath to speak. Finally, ‘But…but what has got into you, that you want to marry Walter?’

  Loveday shrugged. ‘I like him. I always have.’

  ‘I like him too, but that's no reason to spend the rest of your life with him.’

  ‘Don't tell me that he's lower-class, or that it's not fitting, or I shall scream at you…’

  ‘I wouldn't dream of saying those sort of things and you know I never would…’

  ‘Anyway, I'm going to marry him. I want to.’

  Before she could stop herself, Judith said, ‘But you love Gus…’ and Loveday rounded on her.

  ‘Gus is dead,’ she shouted. ‘I've told you. So I'll never marry Gus. And don't tell me to wait for him, because what is the use of waiting for a man who's never coming back to me?’

  Judith, prudently, made no answer to this. She thought, I have to be very practical and very cool, otherwise we're going to have the most resounding row, and say terrible things that can never be unsaid, and that's not going to be any help at all.

  So she changed her tack. ‘Look. You're only nineteen. Even if you're right and Gus is dead, there are thousands of other men in the world, just right for you, just waiting to come into your life. I understand about you and Walter. You've always been friends. You work together, and you see him all the time. But that doesn't mean you have to marry him.’

  Loveday said, ‘I know I work with him. But I mightn't be able to go on doing that. They're calling up girls of my age, and I'm not an official land-girl or anything. I'm not in uniform, like you.’

  ‘But you're doing essential war-work…’

  ‘I don't want to risk being called up. Sent somewhere ghastly to make munitions. I'm never going to leave Nancherrow.’

  ‘You mean, you'll marry Walter because you're afraid of being called up?’ Judith could not keep the incredulity out of her voice.

 
‘I told you. You know how I am about being sent away. I get ill. I'd die. You, of all people, should understand.’

  It was like arguing with a brick wall.

  ‘But, Walter…Loveday, what have you got in common with Walter Mudge?’

  Loveday threw her violet eyes to heaven. ‘Oh, God, we're back on that again. You mightn't say it, but you think it. Lower-class, ill-educated, farm worker. Marrying beneath me. Lowering my standards…’

  ‘I don't think that…’

  ‘I've heard it all, particularly from Mary Millyway, who's scarcely talking to me. But I never felt any of those things about Walter, nor about his mother. Any more than you felt that way about Joe Warren or even Phyllis Eddy. Walter's my friend, Judith. I feel at ease with him, I like working with him, we both love the horses, we love to ride, and work in the fields. Don't you see, we're the same sort of people? Besides, he's good-looking. Masculine, and attractive. I always thought Edward's chinless well-bred friends were perfectly ghastly and not attractive in the very least. Why should I sit and wait for some public schoolboy without a brain in his head to come and sweep me off my feet?’

  Judith shook her head. ‘How any girl could have accumulated so many hare-brained prejudices in such a short time is beyond me.’

  ‘I thought you'd understand. Sympathise. Back me up.’

  ‘You know I'd back you up to the ends of the earth. It's just that I'm not able to sit back and watch you making such a mess of your life. After all, you don't have to marry him.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I'm going to have a baby,’ Loveday yelled, as though Judith had, all at once, become stone-deaf, and after that, of course, there could be no doubt.

  ‘Oh, Loveday.’

  ‘Don't sound so dismal. It happens every day. People get pregnant. Have babies. It's no big deal.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘November.’

  ‘It's Walter's?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But…but…when…I mean…’

  ‘Don't try to put it delicately. If you're asking when was the baby conceived, I'm happy to tell you. At the end of February, and in the hayloft over the stables. It's a bit banal, I know. Lady Chatterley or Mary Webb, or even Cold Comfort Farm. Something nasty in the wood-shed. But that's how it happened, and I'm not in the least ashamed.’

  ‘You thought Gus was dead?’

  ‘I knew he was. I was so lonely, and so unhappy, and nobody could do anything to help me. And Walter and I were seeing to the horses, and suddenly I started to cry, and I told him about Gus, and he took me in his arms and kissed away my tears, and I never knew him to be so gentle and so strong and sweet…and the hayloft smelt all grassy and fresh, and the horses were below and I could hear them moving about, and it was the most comforting thing that had ever happened to me. It didn't seem wrong at all.’ She was silent for a little, and then said, ‘It still doesn't. And I'm not going to be made to feel guilty.’

  ‘Does your mother know?’

  ‘Of course. I told her as soon as I was sure. And Pops too.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘A bit astonished, but sweet. Said I didn't have to marry him if I didn't want to. Another little baby in the Nancherrow nursery wouldn't make any difference one way or another, and lovely company for Clementina. And then when I said I did want to marry Walter, and not just because of the baby, they bucked slightly, but said that it was my decision, and my life. Besides, they've always had a lot of time for the Mudge family, and with Edward gone, at least they know I won't be leaving them, but I'll always be around. I think that matters to them more than silly things like Walter's background and breeding.’

  All of which, knowing the Carey-Lewises, was perfectly understandable. In their charmed, upper-class fashion, they had always been a law unto themselves. Their children's happiness came before everything else, and their loyalty to those children would always be of paramount importance, overriding social mores, or the problems of what people would say. Diana and the Colonel, shoulder to shoulder, were clearly making the best of the situation: they would carry on exactly as before, and in the fullness of time, become besotted by their new grandchild. And Judith knew that in the face of such solidarity, the opinions and attitudes of the rest of the world — including herself — simply did not matter.

  Which meant that there was no point in any more argument. Diana and the Colonel had already given their blessing, and the most sensible thing that Judith could do was join their ranks and gracefully accept the inevitable, whatever the consequences. This, at the end of the day, was an enormous relief, because now she could stop being indignant and cross, and start being pleased and excited instead.

  She said, ‘They have to be the best. Parents, I mean. I always knew they were.’ Suddenly she was smiling, despite the prick of ridiculous tears behind her eyes. She pulled herself off the sofa. ‘Oh, Loveday, I'm sorry, I had no right to be so difficult.’ And Loveday came to her and they met in the middle of the room, and they were both laughing, and exchanging kisses. ‘I was just a bit taken aback. Surprised. Forget everything I said. You and Walter will be fine.’

  ‘I wanted to tell you myself. To explain. I didn't want you to hear from anybody else.’

  ‘When's the wedding?’

  ‘Next month. Sometime.’

  ‘Rosemullion?’

  ‘Of course. And a lunch party after at Nancherrow.’

  ‘What are you going to wear? White satin flounces and inherited lace?’

  ‘Heaven forbid. Probably Athena's confirmation dress, or something. I shouldn't really get married in virginal white, but we have to keep up appearances.’

  ‘How about a reception?’ All at once, it began to be rather exciting.

  ‘We thought a morning ceremony and then lunch after…I hate afternoon weddings. Real day-breakers. You'll come, won't you?’

  ‘I wouldn't miss it for anything. I'll fix a week's leave right away. Do you want me to be a bridesmaid?’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘Apricot taffeta with net underskirt?’

  ‘Pleated peplum and a Juliet cap?’

  ‘Bouquet of carnations and maidenhair fern?’

  It was all right. They were together again. They hadn't lost each other.

  ‘And huge apricot satin court shoes with heels like lavatories.’

  ‘I don't want to be a bridesmaid.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I might outshine the bride.’

  ‘Oh, ha-bloody-ha.’

  ‘Where are you going to live, you and Walter?’

  ‘There's an old cottage in Lidgey, a bit broken down, but Pops is going to do it up for us, add on a proper bathroom. It's only two rooms, but it'll do for now, and Walter's going to clear all the nettles and old bedsteads out of the garden.’

  ‘A real little love-nest. What about a honeymoon?’

  ‘Haven't really thought about it.’

  ‘You must have a honeymoon.’

  ‘Athena didn't.’

  ‘How about a long weekend at Gwithian Road?’

  ‘Or a couple of nights in Camborne? That'd be jolly. Look…’ Loveday peered at her watch. ‘It's midday. We'll have to set off for the Ritz in a moment. Let's have a drink. We brought some gin and a bottle of orange squash up from Nancherrow. They're in the fridge.’

  ‘Do you think we should? Knowing Tommy Mortimer, it's bound to be a fairly boozy lunch.’

  ‘This is just you and me. Anyway, I need one. I've been dreading telling you about it all in case you put on a face like a hen's bottom and told me you'd never speak to me again.’

  ‘Is that how Mary Millyway is?’

  ‘Oh.’ Loveday dismissed Mary. ‘She'll come round. She's got to. She's the only one who can make Athena's confirmation dress look remotely bridal. Now, you go and tart yourself up for the Ritz, and I'll fix our cocktails.’ She headed for the stairs, and then, at the top, paused and turned, grinning like the wicked little girl Judith remembered from school-
days.

  She said, ‘What price, St Ursula's now?’

  ‘Deirdre Ledingham would be shocked silly. Probably give us both an order mark.’

  ‘Thank God we're grown up. I never thought it would be much fun, but it is fun, isn't it?’

  Fun. Loveday's high spirits were infectious and Judith felt the sudden lift of her own heart. The dark tides of war, with all its anxieties and anguish, receded, and all at once she was filled with the reasonless happiness of childhood, something she had not experienced for a long time. After all, they were both young and pretty, the sun was shining and the air filled with the scent of spring flowers. Loveday was going to be married and Tommy Mortimer was standing them a slap-up luncheon at the Ritz. Most important of all, they were still friends.

  She smiled. She said, ‘Yes. Yes, it's fun.’

  Tommy Mortimer's treat was all that anyone could have hoped for. A table in the window of the beautiful restaurant, looking out over the park, and their host at his most charming. He and Diana had already arrived, seated in the foyer, and waiting until the two girls should be catapulted into the magnificent hotel through its revolving door. There followed a good deal of noisy greeting, everybody extremely pleased to see everybody else. Tommy Mortimer, for all his fame and gallantry, looked much as he had, and Diana dressed for London was a sight for sore eyes in a slick little black suit, and with a mad, flirtatious black hat perched over one eye. They did not pause for an aperitif, but went straight into the restaurant, where a bottle of champagne stood chilling in a silver bucket of ice in the centre of their prestigious table.

  It was a splendid meal. The sun poured in, the food was delicious, and the wine flowed. Diana was in sparkling form. This was her first visit to London since the start of the war, and yet she might never have been away. Other diners, old friends not seen for years, spied her, and paused to chat on the way to their tables. Others, again, catching sight of her across the room, waved and blew kisses from where they sat.

  And she talked excitedly about Loveday's forthcoming wedding as though it were the most wonderful thing that had ever happened, and exactly what she would have planned for her younger daughter.

  ‘That's why we came up to town, of course, to order invitations, and try to buy some sort of a trousseau. We spent all of yesterday scouring the shops, looking for goodies, didn't we, precious?’