Coming Home

He jumped behind the wheel and slammed shut his door. In the driving mirror he caught her eye and smiled.

  ‘You have had a good time?’

  ‘Yes, Azid. Thank you. I'm sorry I kept you waiting.’

  ‘It is not important.’

  Driving back to the Galle Road, with white-wrapped packages piled about her, the windows of the car open and the breeze cooling her sweaty face, Judith realised two things. One was that, for at least two hours, she had not thought about Mummy, nor Dad, nor Jess. The other was that, although hot and exhausted, she also felt both stimulated and…sleek. There was no other word. She mulled over this for a bit, and then came to the conclusion that for the first time in her life, she understood the compulsion that drove women to shop; to buy and spend money, and accumulate about them a plethora of material possessions, luxurious and even unnecessary.

  It seemed that shopping could provide consolation if one was unhappy; a buzz of excitement if one was bored; self-indulgence if one had been rejected. Extravagant and frivolous maybe, but better surely than self-pity, turning for comfort to casual lovers or taking to the bottle.

  She found herself smiling. The black dress was delicious. She must go shopping again.

  And then remembered all the money she had spent, and added a prudent rider. But not too often.

  Darkness had fallen. Beyond the open windows a palm tree was silhouetted against a blue velvet sky, pricked with the first stars. Judith sat at her dressing-table and fixed an earring. From the veranda, where Bob Somerville sat, with a whisky and soda and his pipe, came the sound of a piano, dimmed by distance and the closed door, the faint notes seeping through the house like drops of water. He had put a record on his gramophone, music still his constant pleasure and solace. She paused to listen. Rachmaninoff's Theme on Paganini. She reached for the other earring. With that secured, chose one of the new lipsticks, unscrewed the golden case, and concentrating, carefully painted her mouth. Her reflection, in the soft light, gazed back at her; pale-blue eyes fringed with darkened lashes, smudged shadows beneath her cheekbones, the curve of reddened lips. She had washed her hair, and it lay sleek and short on her head, bleached blonde by the sun.

  Perfume. The new bottle. L'Heure Bleu. She touched the stopper to the base of her neck, the inside of her wrists. The scent filled her nostrils and induced a sensation of almost sybaritic luxury, and all at once she thought of Diana Carey-Lewis, and how she would appreciate and approve of this new and sophisticated Judith.

  She stood, dropped her robe from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor, slid her feet into the high-heeled sling-backs, and then went to pick up the dress which she had laid out on her bed. She put it on, letting it slip over her head, settled the skirts which billowed filmy as black clouds, and then, in all innocence, reached for the zip.

  A real predicament. The zip ran all the way up the back of the bodice and proved impossible to negotiate by the person who happened to be wearing the dress. The salesgirl that morning had zipped her into it and out of it, and Judith had not foreseen a problem. But this was clearly a dress that required the assistance of another person. A lady's-maid, perhaps, or a husband, or even a resident lover. But Judith was the possessor of none of these useful appendages, so it would have to be Bob. She picked up the black evening bag and went out of the room and down the passage in search of him, her high heels tap-tapping on the marble floor, and the weightless dress slipping off her shoulders.

  He lay in a long chair, with a single lamp for illumination, his whisky to hand, his pipe for company, and Rachmaninoff. He looked so peaceful that it seemed a shame to disturb him.

  ‘Bob?’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘You have to do up my zip.’

  He laughed and pulled himself up into a sitting position, and she knelt with her back to him, and he zipped her up with all the expertise of an old married man. Then she stood, and turned to face him. She felt, suddenly, a bit self-conscious.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Sensational. Did you buy it this morning?’

  ‘Yes. It was frightfully expensive but I couldn't resist it. And new shoes too. And a new handbag.’

  ‘You look a million dollars. And you said you didn't know how to shop!’

  ‘It wasn't too difficult. I learned.’ She sat facing him, at the end of his long chair. ‘Heavenly Rachmaninoff. I wish you were coming too.’

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘Some ship. I think an Australian destroyer.’

  ‘Oh, that party. Between you, me, and the gatepost, I received an invitation, but declined. Said I'd got a previous engagement. So don't blow the gaff on me.’

  ‘I won't. I promise.’

  ‘I'm getting a bit long in the tooth for all these late nights. Need an evening to myself every now and again. Early night.’

  ‘If you have an early night how shall I get out of my dress?’

  ‘You can ask Thomas to unzip you. He's sure to wait up until you come home.’

  ‘Won't he be embarrassed?’

  ‘Nothing embarrasses Thomas.’

  A doorbell pealed. They sat and waited. Heard Thomas padding across the hall to open the front door.

  ‘Good evening, sahib.’

  ‘Good evening, Thomas.’

  ‘The Admiral is on the veranda.’

  ‘Thank you. I'll find my way.’

  An instant later and he was there, stepping out into the dusk from the bright lights of indoors, wearing Number Tens and looking immensely distinguished. He carried his hat under his arm.

  Judith smiled up at him. ‘Hello, Hugo.’

  He was offered a drink, but politely declined. They were running a bit late anyway, and would be bombarded with cocktails once they got on board.

  ‘On your way then.’ Bob heaved himself to his feet. ‘I'll see you off.’ He clearly could not wait to be rid of the pair of them and be left in peace with his pipe and his gramophone. He walked them to the front door. Judith kissed him good night, and assured him that she would enjoy herself. Then got into Hugo's car, and they set off for their evening out. As they drove out through the gate, Bob closed the door behind them.

  There was a full moon that evening, round and silver as a plate, rising in the east over the roof-tops of the city, and they drove the length of the Galle Road, across the Fort to the harbour on the far side.

  An Australian destroyer was berthed at the dockside, her Quarterdeck sparkling with strings of lights, and the cocktail party already in full swing, so that Judith followed Hugo up a gangplank to the buzz of voices and the chink of glasses. It was much the same as the other party, the one that she had come to with Bob, and some of the same faces too, recognisable, but without remembered names to attach them to. Hugo, hand at her elbow, steered her in the direction of the Captain, and they introduced themselves and made the correct noises of appreciation. They were given drinks and offered canapés by attentive hovering stewards. After that, it was down to the old routine of social conversation, fairly meaningless but not unenjoyable.

  Presently, Judith, separated from Hugo but quite happily talking to two young Australian lieutenants, felt a hand like a vice close around her wrist, and turning found herself faced by a weather-beaten lady in a tight peacock-coloured dress. ‘My dear…we've met. Bob Somerville introduced us the other evening. Moira Burridge. And you're Judith Dunbar. Divine dress, I love it. Where is the heavenly man?’

  Her grip had loosened slightly, and Judith was able to slide her wrist free. One of the young Australian lieutenants, making polite excuses, moved away. The other stayed, stoic, at Judith's side, his smile fixed, as though pleased. ‘Must find him.’ Moira Burridge stood tiptoe (she was not tall) and peered around, over other people's heads. She had enormous eyes, pale as grapes, and her mascara was beginning to melt and smudge. ‘Can't see him anywhere, the brute.’

  ‘He…he didn't come. A previous engagement.’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell. Half the fun of these dos is having a cra
ck with Bob.’ Disappointed, she returned her attention to Judith. ‘Who brought you then?’

  ‘Hugo Halley.’

  ‘Hugo?’ She was the sort of person who, talking, pushed her face very close to one's own. Judith's instinct was to back away, as discreetly as she could, but Moira Burridge simply pressed nearer. ‘When did you meet Hugo? You've only been here for about two minutes. You're staying with Bob, aren't you? How long are you going to be in Colombo? You must come and see us. We'll have a party. Now, what day would suit, I wonder…?’

  Judith murmured something about not being quite sure what Bob was doing…

  ‘I'll give Bob a ring. We've got a flat in the Fort. Rodney's on the staff…’ A thought occurred to her. ‘You know Rodney, don't you?’ Judith felt a bit of Moira Burridge's spit land on her cheek, but was too well mannered to wipe it away. ‘You don't? I'll point him out to you…’

  A steward passed by with a tray of drinks, and as he did so, Moira Burridge, quick as a flash, set down her empty glass and helped herself to a full one.

  ‘…he's over there.’ She hadn't even paused to draw breath. ‘Talking to that two-and-a-half-striper in the Indian Navy.’ Judith, with some difficulty, located Captain Burridge. He was an enormously tall man with a bald head and a face the shape of a pear, but before she could come up with any suitable comment, Moira Burridge was off again.

  ‘Now, tell me. I haven't got you worked out yet. Some sort of relation, I know. Out from England, or have I got totally the wrong end of the stick?’

  Judith said something about Trincomalee.

  ‘Oh, don't say you're stationed there. Poor wretch. Ghastly spot. Mosquitoes. Can't imagine why I thought you'd come out from Home. We've got sprogs at home, both at boarding-school. Spend hols with my mother. Haven't seen the poor little brutes for two years…’

  The only good thing about talking to Moira Burridge was that one was clearly not expected to make any sort of response. From time to time Judith nodded, or shook her head, or smiled faintly, but otherwise Mrs Burridge, well oiled by alcohol, simply rattled ceaselessly, pointlessly on. It felt a bit like being run over by a train. Judith, trapped, began to be desperate.

  Hugo, where are you? Come quickly and rescue me.

  ‘…but to be honest, I'm not actually looking forward all that much to getting back to England. We've got a house in Petersfield, but it'll be rations and no petrol and rain. Worst of all, no servants. We're all so bloody spoilt out here. Where are you dining after this do? Why don't we all join up and have a bite at the Grand Oriental…?’

  Horrors.

  ‘Judith.’ He had come, and not before time. She felt faint with relief. His charming smile was beamed upon Moira Burridge.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Burridge, and how are you? Just been having a word with your husband…’

  ‘Hugo, you devil. Trust you to be squiring the prettiest girl on board. Just suggesting, how about joining up for dinner? We're going to the GOH…’

  ‘How terribly kind.’ Hugo's expression became one of deep regret. ‘But I'm afraid we can't. We've been asked out for dinner, and we're late already. I think, Judith, perhaps we should take our leave…’

  ‘Oh, what a bloody shame. Have you really got to go? We were having such a good time, weren't we, dear? A real old gas and still masses to talk about.’ By now she was teetering slightly on her wobbly high heels. ‘Never mind, there'll be another time. We'll get together then…’

  Finally, Judith and Hugo managed to ease away. At the head of the gangplank, Judith glanced back and saw that Mrs Burridge had once more replenished her glass, cornered yet another reluctant guest, and was off again, in full flow.

  Safe on the dockside and out of earshot of the Officer of the Watch, ‘I've never in all my life met such a dreadful woman,’ she told Hugo.

  ‘I'm sorry. I should have looked after you better.’ He took her arm and they began to pick their way across the dock, stepping around cranes and crates, and over mammoth cables and chains. ‘She's a famous menace. I'd be sorry for poor Rodney, except that he's such a boring old fart that he deserves her.’

  ‘I thought I was going to have to spend the rest of the evening with her.’

  ‘I wouldn't have allowed you to do that.’

  ‘I was planning a really bad headache. A migraine. Hugo, I didn't know that we'd been asked out for dinner.’

  ‘We haven't. But I've booked a table at the Salamander, and I didn't want Moira Burridge to know, because otherwise she'd have tried to come too.’

  ‘I've never heard of the Salamander.’

  ‘It's a private club. I'm a member. We can have dinner and dance. Unless, of course, you'd prefer the GOH with the Burridges? I can always nip back and tell them we've changed our minds.’

  ‘You do that and I'll shoot you.’

  ‘In that case, the Salamander it is.’

  They had left his car by the dockyard gates. They got back into it, and set off, leaving the Fort and driving south into a district of wide streets and old Dutch houses, that was unfamiliar to Judith. Ten minutes, and they had arrived. An impressive gabled building, set back off the street, with a high gate and a circular driveway leading to the main door. Very discreet; no signs, no flashing lights. There was a doorman, in a green uniform and a magnificent turban and another minion to park the car. They went up the wide stairway, and through the carved doorway into a marble foyer with pillars and a wonderfully ornate ceiling. Then through another pair of doors, and so to a large enclosed courtyard, open to the sky and surrounded by wide terraces, for dining. In the centre was the dance floor. Most of the tables were already occupied, each lit by a red-shaded lamp, but the dance floor's only illumination was the huge rising moon. A band was playing. South American music. A samba, or a rumba or something. A number of couples circled the floor, some expert, others less so but doing their best to keep time and beat with the insidious rhythm.

  ‘Commander Halley.’ The head-waiter, in starched jacket and white sarong, come to greet them. They were led to their table, settled in chairs and huge napkins were unfolded and laid on their laps. The menus were produced. The head-waiter, soft-footed, moved away.

  Across the table, their eyes met.

  ‘Is this all right for you?’ he asked.

  ‘Amazing. I'd no idea such a place existed.’

  ‘It's only been going six months. With a very limited membership. I was lucky enough to get in on the ground floor. Now there's a waiting list.’

  ‘Who runs it?’

  ‘Oh, some guy. Half-Portuguese, I think.’

  ‘It's a bit like something out of an enormously romantic film.’

  He laughed. ‘This isn't why I brought you.’

  ‘Why did you bring me?’

  ‘For the food, you ninny.’

  Presently the head-waiter returned with the wine-waiter in tow, bearing a silver ice bucket containing a large frosted green bottle.

  Judith was amazed. ‘When did you order that?’

  ‘When I reserved the table.’

  ‘It's not champagne, is it? It couldn't be champagne?’

  ‘No, but it's the best I could do. Sahtheffrican.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘South African. From the Cape. A humble little sparkling white wine with no background and no pretensions. A true wine buff would sneer. But I think it's delicious.’

  The cork was drawn, the wine poured, the bucket left by their table. Judith lifted her long-stemmed glass. ‘Your health,’ said Hugo, and she took a single mouthful, and if it wasn't champagne, then it was just about the next best thing. Chilled, sparkling with bubbles, deliciously fresh.

  He set down his glass and said, ‘Now. I have two things to say to you before another moment passes.’

  ‘What have you got to say?’

  ‘First…is something I should perhaps have said before. It's just that you really are incredibly lovely.’

  She was much touched by this. As well, a bit embarrassed and confu
sed. ‘Oh, Hugo.’

  ‘Now, don't get all flustered. English women are notoriously bad at dealing with compliments. American women, on the other hand, are particularly good at it. They accept kind words and appreciation as no more than their due.’

  ‘Well, that's very kind of you. The dress is new.’

  ‘It's enchanting.’

  ‘What's the second thing? You said you had two things to say.’

  ‘That's a bit different.’

  ‘So?’

  He set down his glass and leaned forward across the table. He said, ‘I know about your family. I know that you have just been told that none of them survived…after Singapore. I know that you have been waiting for three and a half years for news; only to be told that there is no longer any hope. I am so very sorry. And if you want, we won't talk about it again. But I didn't want to start the evening without you knowing that I know. I didn't want words, unsaid, to lie between us, like something we would have to circle…a sort of forbidden area.’

  After a bit, Judith said, ‘No. No, you're quite right. Perhaps I should have been the first to say something. It's just that I don't find it very easy…’

  He waited, and then, when she didn't finish, said, ‘I don't mind you talking about it, if you want to.’

  ‘I don't, particularly.’

  ‘Right.’

  A thought occurred to her. ‘Who told you?’ she asked.

  ‘Admiral Somerville.’

  ‘Did he tell you before we met? I mean, did you always know?’

  ‘No, not until last Sunday, when I took you back to the Galle Road after we'd been swimming. You disappeared for ten minutes or so to get changed, and he and I had a bit of time together on our own. He told me then.’

  ‘You didn't say anything to me.’

  ‘Not an appropriate moment.’

  ‘I'm glad you didn't know before. Otherwise I would suspect that you were just being kind.’

  ‘I don't understand.’

  ‘Oh, you know. I'm bringing my rather sad niece to a party. I want you to look after her.’

  Hugo laughed. ‘I promise you. I'm not much use with sad nieces. Run a mile if I see one.’