Coming Home (153 page)

I have seen them all at Nancherrow. Loveday too. Her son Nat is large and lively, and she adores him. I managed to buy him a second-hand pedal-car, and he loves it so much that he wants to take it to bed with him.

I wonder what you are going to do for Christmas? I am sure you will have lots of good friends in Scotland who will be queuing for your company.

Please write and let me know what is happening and that you are all right.

With my love,

Judith

The Dower House,

Rosemullion.

5th December 1945.

Dear Gus,

Still no word from you. I wish you didn't live so far away, so I could come in search. Please send me something, if only a postcard of the municipal flower-beds of Aberdeen. You promised you would keep in touch and reassure me, and if you want to be left alone, and don't want any more letters, just say and I shall completely understand.

Here, we are a diminished household. Biddy Somerville has gone off to sell her house in Devon. She has bought another at a place called Portscatho, near St Mawes. Think she plans to move there about middle of January. She took her dog, Morag, with her. Jess loved the creature, so I think I shall give her a dog of her own to take the place of Morag when they leave us for good.

Here Judith paused, while she swithered about what to say next, and how to say it.
I don't want Gus to come here,
Loveday had insisted. But perhaps, for once in her life, Loveday should take second place in the priority stakes. Her problems, though dire, were not in the same league as Gus Callender's. Whatever happened to her, she was surrounded by loving and supportive family, while Gus seemed to have nobody close to see him through his rehabilitation after the horrors of the Burma railway. As well, obscurely, as the days went by with no letter or message from him, Judith's anxiety for Gus was growing. No news is good news was the old saw, but instincts told her, loud and clear, that all was not well with him.

She took a deep breath, made up her mind, picked up her pen once more.

Biddy will be back for Christmas. We are a houseful of five females, but if you would like, please come and spend Christmas with us. Perhaps you aren't on your own, but I don't know, because you've never written to me. If you do come, I shan't force you on Nancherrow, or Loveday, or anything. I promise. And you can spend your days exactly as you want.

If I am interfering, and being a nuisance to you, please say. I won't write again until I hear from you.

With my love,

Judith

As Christmas loomed, the weather deteriorated, and Cornwall showed its nastiest face: granite skies, rain, and a bitter east wind. The old ill-fitting windows of The Dower House did nothing to keep this out, bedrooms were icy, and because a fire was lighted in the drawing-room at nine o'clock every morning, the log pile diminished visibly, and an emergency telephone call had to be put through to the supplier, namely Nancherrow Estates. The Colonel did not let them down and delivered the new load himself, tractoring it up the hill with the laden bogie trundling along behind. Yesterday had been a Sunday, and Phyllis, Judith, and Anna had spent most of the day stacking the logs in a neat pile against the garage wall, where the overhang of the roof would keep them protected from the worst of the wet.

So now, Monday again and it was still raining. Phyllis, that staunch traditionalist, had done her washing, but there was no way that she was going to hang it out of doors, which meant that it had all been hoisted onto the kitchen pulley, where it steamed wetly over the warmth of the range.

Judith, battling with a recipe for a wartime Christmas pudding (grated carrots and a spoonful of marmalade) broke an egg into the mixture, and began to stir. From the hall, the telephone rang. She waited hopefully for Phyllis to take the call, but she was cleaning the attic bedrooms and clearly did not hear the ringing, so Judith found a paper bag, put her floury hand into it, like a glove, and went to take the call herself.

‘Dower House.’

‘Judith, it's Diana.’

‘Good morning. What a revolting day.’

‘Ghastly. But you got your logs.’

‘Yes. Your saintly husband delivered them, and we're all cosy again.’

‘Darling, I've got such exciting news. Jeremy Wells is home. On leave. And the best is, that it isn't just leave, it's demob leave. He's going to be demobbed and come home for good. Isn't it unbelievable? Apparently he put in for it, on account of having been in the RNVR for so long, and also because old Dr Wells is really too old and worn to struggle on on his own for much longer. And they're letting him go…Judith? Are you still there?’

‘Yes. Yes, I'm here.’

‘Not a comment, so I thought the line had gone dead.’

‘No. I'm listening.’

‘Isn't it exciting?’

‘Yes. It's wonderful. I'm really glad. When…when did you hear?’

‘He got home on Saturday. Rang me this morning. He's coming to Nancherrow on Wednesday, to spend a few days. So we thought we'd have a real coming-home party. Wednesday evening. Loveday and Walter and Jeremy and you. Please come. Edgar's going to open the last of the champagne. He's been keeping it all this time, and I simply pray it hasn't gone all
funny.
If it has, he'll just have to find something else. You will come, won't you?’

‘Yes, of course. I'd love to.’

‘About a quarter to eight? Such heaven to have you all with me again. Good news of Jess?’

‘Yes, good news. She's a star at hockey, and she's got into the second eleven.’

‘Clever little thing. And Biddy?’

‘She phoned on Saturday. Sold the house, so now she can pay for the new one.’

‘Send her my love when she rings again.’

‘I will…’

‘See you Wednesday, darling.’

‘Lovely. I look forward to it.’

She put down the telephone, but did not immediately return to the kitchen. Jeremy. Back. Demobbed. No longer safely far away in the Mediterranean, but home for good. She told herself that she was neither sorry nor glad. She only knew that before they could resume any sort of an easy relationship, all must be brought out into the open, and she must be prepared to face him with the hurt and disappointment and even resentment that he caused her. The fact that it had all happened three and a half years ago was neither here nor there. Jeremy had given a promise and broken it, and consequently made no attempt either to explain his perfidy nor excuse himself. So. A confrontation…

‘What are you doing, standing there by the telephone and staring into space?’

Phyllis, descending the stairs with her dustpan and dusters. Spying Judith, she had paused, half-way, in some puzzlement, a hand on her pinafored hip.

‘Sorry?’

‘Got a face on like a bulldog, you have. Wouldn't want to come up against you on a dark night.’ She came on down the staircase. ‘Was that someone on the telephone?’

‘Yes. Mrs Carey-Lewis.’

‘What's she said, then?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ To add a little weight to her words, Judith put on a cheerful smile. ‘Just asking me to dinner on Wednesday.’ Phyllis waited for further information. ‘Jeremy Wells is back.’

‘Jeremy.’ Phyllis's jaw dropped in clear delight. ‘Jeremy Wells? Well. That's lovely. On leave, is he?’

‘No. Yes. Demob leave. Back for good.’

‘I never! Think of that. Can't imagine a piece of news I'd rather hear. So what's the face for? I'd have thought you'd be over the moon.’

‘Oh,
Phyllis.
’

‘Well, why not? He's a lovely man. Been a good friend to you ever since that day you met him on the Plymouth train; and like a rock, he was, when Edward Carey-Lewis was killed.’

‘I
know,
Phyllis.’

‘He always fancied you, Jeremy did. Any fool could tell. And it's about time you had a man about the place. A bit of fun. Stuck here with a lot of women. That's not what's meant for you.’

Somehow this was the last straw. Judith lost her patience.

‘You don't know anything about it.’

‘What do you mean, I don't know anything about it?’

‘Just that. And I've got a Christmas pudding to make.’ On that telling exit line, she marched back, down the stone passage, to the kitchen. But Phyllis was not to be so easily put off and simply followed hard on her heels.

‘We're not leaving it there…’

‘Phyllis, it's really none of your business.’

‘It had better be. Who else is there now, but me? Someone's got to give you a slice of their mind, if you're going to start flouncing around at the very mention of Jeremy's name.’ She stowed her dustpan and duster away in the cupboard, and then returned to the attack. ‘Have you had a row with him or something?’

‘Everybody asks me that. No. No, we didn't have a row.’

‘Well then…?’

It was impossible to argue. ‘Non-communication. Misunderstanding. I don't know. I only know that I've neither seen nor heard from him for three and a half years.’

‘That was the war. War's over now.’ Judith said nothing. ‘Look, you're making a real dog's dinner of that pudding. Move over and let me have a go at it…’ Not unwillingly, Judith relinquished the wooden spoon. ‘Feels a bit dry, doesn't it? I'll maybe put another egg in.’ She stirred, in experimental fashion, and Judith sat on the edge of the table and watched her. ‘What are you going to wear?’

‘Hadn't even thought.’

‘Well, think now. Something glamorous. You're so lovely now, like a real film star when you've got all your make-up on. What you want to do is knock him off his feet.’

‘No, Phyllis. I don't think that is what I want.’

‘All right then. Be pig-headed if you want to. Keep it all to yourself. But I'll tell you one thing. Best to let bygones be bygones. No point in harbouring grudges.’ She broke the second egg into the bowl and began to beat the mixture as though the entire situation was its fault. ‘Shouldn't go cutting off your nose to spite your face.’

There didn't seem to be any comment to make to this observation. But Judith was left with the uncomfortable feeling that perhaps Phyllis was right.