‘What's happened to Heather? I haven't heard from her in years. Is she still in that horrible spy place?’
‘No, she's gone to America, on some mission with her boss at the Foreign Office. Last we heard of her, she was in Washington.’
‘Heavens above. She might have let me know.’
Loveday was cutting the cake. ‘Who wants a bit of fruit-cake?’
Jess, having finished her sandwich, took an enormous slice. She said, ‘I don't know who Heather is.’
‘She was a friend of ours, in the old days,’ Loveday told her. ‘Judith and I used to go and stay with her and her family. The summer before the war, and the sun never stopped shining, and we spent all the time on the beach. Judith had just got her car, and we felt frightfully grown up.’
‘Was she at school with you?’ Jess asked.
‘No. She was at another school. We were at St Ursula's.’
Jess said, ‘Judith thinks I should go there.’
‘Another little novice for the nunnery.’
‘Oh, Loveday.’ Sitting at the end of the table, behind her huge teapot, Mary sounded quite cross. ‘You really vex me when you say silly things like that. And to Jess, too. St Ursula's is a lovely school. You were very happy there. Made enough fuss to be allowed to go there, you did.’
‘Oh, but Mary, the uniforms! And all those potty rules.’
Jess was beginning to look a bit worried. Observing this, the Colonel laid his hand upon her own. He said, ‘Don't take any notice of that silly daughter of mine. It's an excellent school, and Miss Catto is a splendid lady. She needed to be to cope with Loveday.’
‘Thanks you, Pops, very much.’
‘Anyway’ — Diana held out her cup for Mary to refill — ‘they don't wear uniforms any more. The war put an end to that. And there was another girls' school, from Kent, evacuated onto them, so the uniforms were different anyway. And they had to build Nissen huts all over the garden, because there weren't enough classrooms for all the girls.’
‘Don't they wear any sort of uniform now?’ Judith asked.
‘Just school-ties.’
‘What a relief. I shall never forget that endless clothes list poor Mummy had to go and shop with.’
‘In Medways, darling. That was the first time we ever saw you. All of us, buying horrible school uniforms. Doesn't that seem an age ago?’
‘It is an age ago,’ said Loveday abruptly. And then, ‘All right, Nat. All right. You can have your chocolate biscuit now.’
By the time tea was finished, the dank October afternoon had faded into darkness. It was overcast now, and the rain falling steadily, yet nobody stood to go and draw the heavy curtains.
‘Such bliss,’ said Diana. ‘No black-out. I still haven't got used to the freedom of it. Being able to sit indoors and watch the twilight, and not to have to shut it all away. It took us so long to make all the black-out curtains and hang them up, and it only took us about three days to tear them all down again. Mary, don't start clattering about with the teacups, we'll wash them up. Take Nat up to the nursery and give Loveday a few moments to herself.’ She turned to Jess. ‘Perhaps Jess would like to go too. Not because we want to get rid of you, darling, but because there are lots of goodies up there you might like to look at. Books and such, and jigsaw puzzles and rather precious doll's-house furniture. But don't let Nat get his hands on that.’ Jess hesitated. Diana smiled. ‘Only if you want,’ she finished.
‘Yes, I'd like to go.’
Mary wiped Nat's face with a napkin. ‘Nat doesn't like doll's-house furniture. He likes the bricks, and the little tractors, don't you, my duck?’
She got to her feet and heaved him up into her arms. ‘Come on, Jess, we'll see what we can find for you.’
When they had gone, it was all rather peaceful. Diana emptied the last trickle of the teapot into her cup, and then lit a cigarette. ‘What a sweet girl, Judith. You should be proud of her.’
‘I am.’
‘So confident.’
‘It's deceptive. She's still feeling her way.’
The Colonel had stood, to fetch from the sideboard an ashtray for his wife. He set it down on the table beside her, and she looked up at him and smiled her thanks. ‘No tears? No nightmares? No ill effects?’
‘I don't think so.’
‘Perhaps a tiny check-over by a doctor might be a good idea. Though I must say, she looks healthy enough to me. Talking of which, old Dr Wells popped in the other day to have a look at Nat who was coughing and snivelling, and Mary and Loveday were a bit worried about him. Nothing wrong, just a chesty cold. But he did say that Jeremy's hoping to get some leave soon, and come home for a bit. He hasn't had any leave for about two years. He's been stuck in the Med. all that time. Now, where…?’
‘Malta,’ said the Colonel.
‘I couldn't remember if it was Malta or Gibraltar. I knew it was somewhere.’
Judith said, ‘I should think he'd be demobbed pretty soon,’ and was delighted with the casualness of her voice. ‘Considering the fact that he was one of the very first to join up.’
Loveday absently helped herself to another slice of cake. ‘I can't see him settling down in Truro after all that jolly bobbing about on the high seas.’
‘I can,’ said Diana. ‘The perfect country GP with a dog in the back of his car. You never ran into him, Judith?’
‘No. I always thought he might come out East with the Fleet. Everybody one knew turned up in Trincomalee sooner or later. But he never did.’
‘I always thought he'd get married. Perhaps Malta doesn't have much local talent.’ She yawned, and sat back in her chair, and surveyed the crumby shambles of the tea-table. ‘I suppose we'd better get rid of this, and go and wash it up.’
‘Don't worry, Mummy,’ Loveday told her, through cake crumbs. ‘Judith and I will do it together. We'll be two little schoolfriends, earning Brownie points.’
‘What happened to Hetty?’ Judith asked.
‘Oh, she finally escaped Mrs Nettlebed's clutches and went off to do her war-work. Ward maid in a hospital in Plymouth. Poor Hetty. Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire. Will you really deal with all this, my pets? It's actually past six, and we always ring Athena on Sunday evenings…’
‘Send her my love.’
‘We'll do that.’
The kitchen, large and old-fashioned as ever, and a bit warmer than the rest of the house, felt strangely empty without the Nettlebeds, and Hetty clashing about in the scullery.
‘Who scours the saucepans now?’ Judith asked, tying an apron around her waist, and filling the old clay sink with scalding water from the brass tap.
‘Mrs Nettlebed, I suppose. Or Mary. Certainly not my mother.’
‘Does Nettlebed still grow the vegetables?’
‘He and Mr Mudge together. We all eat masses of vegetables, because there's not much else. And although the house is empty this weekend, there seem to be just as many guests as ever; Mummy adopted endless service people who happened to be stationed around and about, and they still trickle in and out. I'm afraid when they all shut up shop and leave, she's really going to miss all the buzz and company.’
‘How about Tommy Mortimer?’
‘Oh, he still pops down from London from time to time. With various other old chums. Keeps Mummy amused. When Athena and Clementina left, it was awful for her.’
Judith squirted some washing-up liquid into the water, and stirred it up into bubbles, and then put in the first pile of plates.
She said, ‘How's Walter?’
‘He's all right.’
‘How's the farm going?’
‘Fine.’
‘And Mr Mudge?’
‘He's still working, but he's getting a bit beyond it now.’
‘What happens when he retires?’
‘I dunno. I suppose Walter and I move into the farmhouse. We'll swap houses or something. I don't know.’
Her answers were all so laconic, so disinterested that Jud
ith's heart chilled. She said, ‘What do you do when he's not working? I mean, do you go to the cinema ever, or picnics, or down to the pub?’
‘I used to go to the pub sometimes, but I can't now I've got Nat. I can always leave him with Mrs Mudge but, to be truthful, I'm not all that keen on going to pubs. So Walter goes alone.’
‘Oh, Loveday.’
‘What's that gloomy voice for?’
‘It doesn't sound much fun.’
‘It's OK. Sometimes we have friends in for supper, or something. Except that I'm not much of a cook.’
‘What about the horses? Do you still ride together?’
‘Not much. I sold Fleet, and I never got around to getting another horse. And there isn't a Hunt now, because all the hounds were put down at the beginning of the war.’
‘Now it's over, perhaps they'll start it up again.’
‘Yes. Perhaps.’
She had found a tea-towel and was drying the plates and cups, very slowly, one at a time, and then setting them down in piles on the scullery table.
‘Are you happy, Loveday?’
Loveday took another plate out of the rack. ‘Who was it who said that marriage was a summer birdcage, set out in a garden? And all the birds of the air wanted to get in, and all the caged birds wanted to get out?’
‘I don't know.’
‘You're a bird of the air. Free. You can fly anywhere.’
‘I can't. I've got Jess.’
‘Not wanting to get into the summer birdcage?’
‘No.’
‘No lovelorn sailor? I can't believe it. Don't tell me you're still in love with Edward?’
‘Edward's been dead for years.’
‘I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.’
‘I don't mind you saying it. He was your brother.’
Loveday wiped another couple of plates. ‘I always thought that Jeremy was in love with you.’
Judith scraped at a stubborn crumb of sticky fruit-cake. ‘I think you were probably wrong.’
‘Did you keep in touch? Did you write letters to each other?’
‘No. The last time I saw him was in London at the beginning of 1942. Just before Singapore. I haven't seen him, nor heard from him since.’
‘Did you have a row?’
‘No. We didn't have a row. I suppose we just tacitly decided to go our separate ways.’
‘I wonder why he never got married. He's frightfully old now. He must be thirty-seven. I suppose when he gets back, his father will retire, and then Jeremy will be responsible for all the neighbourhood boils and bunions.’
‘That's what he always wanted.’
The last plate, and then the teapot. Judith pulled out the plug and watched the suds seep away.
‘That's the lot.’ She unknotted the ties of the apron and hung it back on its hook, and then turned, and stood leaning against the edge of the sink.
‘I'm sorry.’ Loveday took the plate from the rack and dried it.
Judith frowned. ‘What about?’
‘Saying that about Edward. I say such horrid things to people these days, and I don't mean to.’ She put the plate on the top of the stack. ‘You will come and see me, won't you? At Lidgey. You never saw my funny little house when it was finished. And I love the farm and the animals. And I love Nat too, even though he's such a holy terror.’ She pushed back the ragged cuff of her sweater and looked at her watch. ‘God Almighty, I must go. My kitchen's a mess, and I've got to get Walter's tea, and get Nat to bed…’
Judith said, ‘Don't go.’
Loveday looked a bit taken aback. ‘I have to.’
‘Five minutes. I have something to tell you.’
‘What?’
‘You promise you'll listen, and not interrupt, and hear me out?’
‘All right.’ Loveday hitched herself up onto the table, and sat there, shoulders hunched and trousered legs dangling. ‘Fire away.’
‘It's about Gus.’
Loveday froze. In the draughty, slate-floored scullery, the only sound was the humming of the refrigerator and the slow dripping of one of the brass taps. Drip. Drip. The beads of water fell into the clay sink.
‘What about Gus?’
Judith told her.
‘…so then he said it was time he went back to the hospital ship, and we got a taxi for him and said goodbye. And he went. End of story.’
Loveday had kept her word. Had made no comment and asked no questions. She simply sat there, motionless as a statue, and listened. Now, she still said nothing.
‘I…I wrote to him on the troop-ship and posted it in Gib. But he's not replied.’
Loveday said, ‘Is he all right?’
‘I don't know. He looked amazing, considering all he'd gone through. Thin, but then he was never very fat. And a bit worn.’
‘Why didn't he let us know…?’
‘I've explained. He couldn't. There was only one letter and that was to his parents. They knew nothing about you, and Diana, and the Colonel. Even if they'd got the letter, they wouldn't have known to pass on the news.’
‘I was so certain he was dead.’
‘I know, Loveday.’
‘It was like being certain with every bone of my body. A sort of emptiness. A void.’
‘You mustn't blame yourself.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘He'll be all right. Scottish regiments are notoriously clanny. Like family. All his friends will rally around.’
Loveday said, ‘I don't want him to come here.’
‘I can understand that. To be truthful, I don't think Gus would be very keen on the idea either.’
‘Did he believe that I would wait for him?’
‘Yes.’ There wasn't any other answer.
‘Oh, God.’ Sitting under the cold overhead light of the scullery, Loveday's face was shadowed and pinched, her violet eyes empty of expression.
‘I'm sorry, Loveday.’
‘Not your fault. All my fault. Everything.’
‘I hated telling you.’
‘He's alive. I should be rejoicing. Not sitting here looking like a wet weekend.’
‘I didn't much like telling Gus, either. That you were married.’
‘That's different. That was the end of something. For Gus it's the beginning of the rest of his life. At least he's not broke, and possessionless. There's something for him to go back to.’
‘And you?’
‘Oh, I've got it all. Husband, son, the farm. Nancherrow. Mummy and Pops. Mary. Everything unchanged. Everything I always wanted.’ She fell silent for a moment, and then said, ‘Do Mummy and Pops know about Gus?’
‘No. I wanted to tell you first. If you like, I'll go and tell them now.’
‘No. I will. When you and Jess have gone. Before I go back to Lidgey. It's better that way.’ Once more she looked at her watch. ‘And then I simply must go home.’ She slipped off the table. ‘Walter will be champing for his tea.’
‘You're all right?’
‘Yes.’ Loveday thought about this, and then grinned, and the wicked, fearless, stubborn little girl she had once been was suddenly there again. ‘Yes. I'm fine.’
The next morning, Diana came to The Dower House.
A Monday. After breakfast, the little household had dispersed. Anna first, trudging down the hill to the Rosemullion Primary School, her satchel on her back, and a biscuit, for elevenses, in her pocket. Then Biddy had departed, because it was her day in Penzance, for the Red Cross. Jess, who had discovered the Hut in the course of some private explorations and fallen in love with its charm, its privacy and its smallness, had been supplied with brooms and dusters, and, in high excitement, had gone running down the garden to do a bit of cleaning.
Now, eleven o'clock and she still had not returned. Phyllis was pegging out the weekly lines of washing, and Judith, in the kitchen, made soup. The carcass of yesterday's chicken had been boiled up for stock, and she was at the sink engaged in scraping vegetables, and peeling leeks and o
nions; she had always found making soup immensely therapeutic (a bit like building a compost heap), and the fragrance, as it cooked, spiced with herbs from the garden, was as comforting as the smell of newly baked bread, or the hot scent of warm gingerbread.
Chopping carrots, she heard the car come up the hill, through the open gate, and draw up outside the front of the house. Expecting nobody in particular, she looked out of the window and saw Diana getting out of the battered little fishmonger's van, which had been bought, to conserve petrol, at the beginning of the war, and done yeoman service ever since.
Judith went through the scullery and out of the open back door. Diana was talking to Phyllis over the escallonia hedge that bordered the washing-green. She wore a narrow tweed skirt and a loose jacket, and carried a large, old-fashioned marketing basket on her arm.
‘Diana.’
Diana turned. ‘Oh, darling, not interrupting, am I? I've brought you some Nancherrow vegetables and fresh eggs.’ She came, in her elegant, polished shoes, across the gravel. ‘Thought you could use them, and I wanted to have a word.’
‘I'm in the kitchen. Come on in, and I'll make you a cup of coffee.’
She led the way through the back door. In the kitchen, Diana put the basket on the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. Judith took the kettle and went to fill it, and then set it down on the range.
‘Heavenly smell, darling.’
‘Soup. Do you mind if I go on chopping?’
‘Not a bit.’ She put up her hands to loosen the knot of the silk scarf, draped, so elegantly, about her slender throat. She said, ‘Loveday told us about Gus.’
‘Yes. She said she was going to.’
‘Was she upset when you told her?’
‘I think she was fairly shattered. But no tears.’
‘Darling, tears are for the dead, not the living.’
‘She said as much herself.’
‘It's a bit of a mess, isn't it?’
‘No. I don't think it's a mess. It's sad that she was so adamant that Gus had died, and it's sad that she didn't have the faith to wait for him to come home. But it's not a mess. It's just that they're not together. They can never be together. Loveday's made her life, and Gus will have to make a life of his own.’