Coming Home (116 page)

She said, ‘I've freed you.’

‘I am terrified to leave you in case you disappear.’

‘Don't be terrified.’

‘I shall be two minutes.’

‘Try to make it one.’

‘Judith.’

A voice from far off, from out of the darkness.

‘Judith.’

She stirred. Put out a hand to touch him, but the bed was empty. With an effort, she dragged open her eyes. Nothing had changed. The bedroom was lamp-lit, the curtains drawn, just as it had been as she sank into sleep. Jeremy was sitting beside her, on the edge of the bed. He was dressed, wearing uniform; had shaved. She could smell the clean smell of soap.

‘I've brought you a cup of tea.’

A cup of tea. ‘What time is it?’

‘Six o'clock in the morning. I'm just on my way.’

Six o'clock. She stretched and yawned, and pulled herself up into a sitting position, and he handed her the steaming cup of tea, almost too hot to drink.

She blinked the sleep out of her eyes, still scarcely awake.

‘What time did you get up?’

‘Half past five.’

‘I didn't hear you.’

‘I know.’

‘Have you had any breakfast?’

‘Yes. An egg, and one of the rashers of bacon.’

‘You must take all your goodies with you. No point in leaving them here.’

‘Don't worry. I'm all packed up. I just wanted to say goodbye. I wanted to say thank you.’

‘Oh, Jeremy, I'm the one who should be grateful.’

‘It was lovely. Perfect. A memory.’

For no reason, Judith felt a bit shy. She lowered her eyes, sipped her scalding tea.

‘How are you feeling this morning?’ he asked.

‘All right. A bit dopey.’

‘Sore throat?’

‘All gone.’

‘You'll take care, won't you?’

‘Of course.’

‘When do you have to get back to Portsmouth?’

‘This evening.’

‘You may find a letter waiting for you, from your family.’

‘Yes.’ She thought about this possibility and, suddenly, felt quite hopeful. ‘Yes. Maybe I will.’

‘Try not to worry too much. And take care of yourself. I only wish I could stay. Last night we talked, but there are still a thousand things we never got around to talking about. And now there isn't time.’

‘You mustn't miss your train.’

‘I'll write. As soon as I get a bit of time to myself. I'll write, and try to say all the things that I wish I'd said last night. On paper, I'll probably make a much better job of it.’

‘You didn't do too badly. But, some time, I'd love a letter.’

‘I must go. Goodbye, darling Judith.’

‘If you take this tea away from me, I'll say goodbye properly.’

And he laughed, and relieved her of the cup and saucer, and they embraced, and hugged, and kissed like the friends they had always been, but now, like lovers too.

‘Don't get blown up again, Jeremy.’

‘I'll do my best not to.’

‘And write. Like you promised.’

‘I will. Sooner or later.’

‘Before you go, will you do something for me?’

‘What's that?’

‘Draw back all the curtains, so that I can watch the dawn.’

‘It won't be light for hours.’

‘I'll wait.’

So he drew away from her and got to his feet. He stooped to switch off the lamp, and then went to the window and she heard him draw back the silken curtains, and deal with the black-out. Beyond the glass of the window-pane, the winter morning was lightless, but the rain had stopped and the wind dropped.

‘That's perfect.’

‘I must go.’

‘Goodbye, Jeremy.’

‘Goodbye.’

It was too dark to see, but she heard him move, open the door, and gently close it behind him. He was gone. She lay back on the pillows, and was almost instantly asleep.

It was ten o'clock before she woke again, so, after all, she never witnessed the dawn lighten the sky. Instead, the day was upon her; cloudy but with rags of pale-blue sky. She thought of Jeremy, in some train, thundering north, to Liverpool or Invergordon or Rosyth. She thought of last night, and lay smiling to herself, remembering his love-making, which had been both infinitely tender, and at the same time competent, so that her own pleasure had matched his ardour, and together they had mounted to a climax of physical passion. An interlude of magic unexpectedness, and even joy.

Jeremy Wells. Everything was changed now. Before, they had never corresponded. But he had promised that, sooner or later, he would write. Which meant something special to look forward to.

Meantime, she was alone again. Lying in bed, considering her state, she realised that she was recovered. The cold, 'flu, infection, whatever it had been, was gone, taking with it all symptoms of headache, lassitude, and depression. Though how much of this was due to Jeremy Wells, rather than his professional medications and a good night's sleep, it was impossible to say. Whatever, it made no difference. She was herself again, and filled with her usual energy.

But how to spend it? She didn't have to report back to Quarters until evening, but the prospect of an empty, solitary day in London on a wartime Sunday, with neither church bells nor company to enliven her leisure, was not particularly enticing. As well, at the back of her mind, there lurked the possibility of a letter from Singapore. The more she thought about this, the more certain she became that one would be there, in the Regulating Office, in the mail box labelled with the letter ‘D’. In her mind's eye, she saw it waiting for her, and all at once it became important to return to Portsmouth without delay. She flung back the covers and sprang out of bed, then into the bathroom, to turn the taps full on, and drew another scalding bath.

Bathed, dressed, and packed, she accomplished a little instant housework. Stripped the bed, folded sheets, went downstairs, emptied the fridge and switched it off. Jeremy, seamanlike, had left the kitchen shining and shipshape. Judith scribbled a note for Mrs Hickson, weighted it down with a couple of half-crowns, picked up her bag and left, slamming the front door shut behind her. She took the tube to Waterloo, caught the first train to Portsmouth, and there picked up a taxi alongside the ruins of the bombed Guildhall. By two o'clock, she was back at the Wrens' Quarters. She paid off the taxi and went through the main door, and so into the Regulating Office, where the Leading Wren on duty, a sour-faced girl with a disastrous complexion, was sitting behind the desk chewing her nails with boredom.

She said, ‘You're a bit early, aren't you?’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Thought you had a short weekend.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Well, I don't know.’ The Leading Wren gave her a fishy stare, as though Judith was up to no good. ‘It's all right for some, I suppose.’

Which didn't seem to call for any sort of response, so Judith made none. Just signed herself in, and then went to the wooden grid of the mailboxes. Under ‘D’ there was a thin pile of letters. She took them out and leafed them through. Wren Durbridge. Petty Officer Joan Daly. Then, at the bottom, the thin blue airmail envelope and her mother's writing. The envelope was dog-eared and grubby, as though it had suffered untold vicissitudes and had already been around the world twice. Judith put the other letters back and stood and looked at it. Her instinct was to rip it open and read it there and then, but the unfriendly eye of the Regulating Wren was still upon her, and she didn't want any person watching, so she picked up her bag and went up the cement staircase to the top flat and the tiny, frigid cabin that she shared with Sue. Because it was Sunday, there was nobody around. Sue, probably, was on watch. She pulled off her hat and sat on the bottom bunk, still bundled in her greatcoat, and slit the envelope and took out the tissue sheets of airmail paper, folded into a wad and covered with her mother's handwriting. She unfolded them and began to read.

Orchard Road

Singapore

16th January.

Dearest Judith,

I haven't much time, so this will be rather short. Tomorrow Jess and I sail on
The Rajah of Sarawak
for Australia. Kuala Lumpur fell to the Japanese four days ago, and they are advancing like a tide towards Singapore Island. As long ago as New Year, word went around that the Governor was recommending the evacuation of all
bouches inutiles.
This means women and children, and I suppose saying it in French doesn't sound so insulting as ‘useless mouths’. But since Kuala Lumpur your father, along with just about everybody else, has spent most of his days at the shipping offices, trying to get a passage for Jess and myself. As well, all the refugees are pouring in, and everything is in turmoil. However, at this moment (11
A.M.
) he has appeared to say that he has got two berths for us (bribery?) and we sail tomorrow morning. We are only allowed one small suitcase each, as the boat is grossly overcrowded. No space for baggage. Dad has to stay here. He cannot come with us, as he is responsible for the Company office and the staff. I am terrified for his safety and dread the separation. If it wasn't for Jess, I would stay and take my chance, but as always, my loyalties are torn in two. Abandoning the servants and the house and garden is almost as bad, like being pulled up by the roots. What can I do?

Jess is very upset at the thought of leaving Orchard Road and Ah Lin and Amah and the gardener. All of them, her friends. But I have said we are going on a boat, and it will be an adventure, and she and Amah are packing her suitcase now. I am filled with apprehension, but keep telling myself that we are lucky to be going away. When we get to Australia, I shall send you a cable to let you know that we have arrived, and where we are so that you can write to me. Please tell Biddy, as I haven't time to write to her.

The letter had been started in Molly Dunbar's normal, neat, schoolgirlish script. But as the pages progressed, it had deteriorated, and by now was no more than a frantic, ink-blotted scribble.

It is very strange, but all my life, from time to time, I have found myself asking unanswerable questions. Who am I? And what am I doing here? And where am I going? Now, it all seems to be coming terribly true, and it feels a bit like a haunting dream that I have lived through many times before. I wish I could say goodbye to you properly, but just now a letter is the only way. If anything should happen to Dad and me, you will look after Jess, won't you? I love you so much. I think about you all the time. I will write to you from Australia.

Darling Judith.

Mummy