Coming Home (161 page)

Waiting for the milk to boil, she felt the tears welling into her eyes, but whether they were for Loveday or for Gus, she didn't know.

From the bedroom, she heard Nat. Crying, calling for her. She set the milk aside and paused, in the faint hope that he might settle and go to sleep again, but of course he didn't, simply yowled louder, so she went through and picked him up out of his cot, bundled in a big blanket, and brought him back to the kitchen and settled him down on the sofa.

‘What are you crying about, then?’

‘I want Mummeeee.’

‘I'm here. Don't cry any more.’

He plugged his mouth with his thumb and lay watching her from beneath drooping lids. She found a mug and made the cocoa, then went back to him and talked for a bit, giving him sips of the warm, sweet drink which he loved. Presently, he went back to sleep again. When she had finished the cocoa, she put the mug on the draining-board, switched off the wireless, and lay down beside him, her arm beneath his sturdy, warm little body, his blanket tucked around the two of them. His hair was soft against her lips. He smelt sweet and soapy. After a bit, she closed her eyes. They slept.

She woke at seven. The electric light had burnt all night, and she could see the face of the clock and knew at once that Walter was not in the house, had never come back. Nat slumbered peacefully on. She eased her arm from beneath his weight, and, cautiously, sat up and slid off the sofa, replacing the folds of the blanket around his chubby body.

She stretched. Spending the night in such a cramped and awkward fashion had left her limbs aching and a crick in her neck. Outside, the wind had dropped a bit, but it was still fairly stormy, and up here on the face of the hill there was little shelter. She listened for the dogs, but there was no sound of their barking. She guessed that Walter, done with his night on the tiles, had returned to the farm for the morning milking, and had let them out of the kennels on his way down to the byre. She wondered, in a detached sort of way, if he was suffering from an appalling hangover, or even the prickings of a guilty conscience. Probably no on both counts. Whatever. It didn't matter. Once it would have mattered, but after last night her husband's welfare was no longer of any concern.

She went to the range and opened the bottom oven door and took out the solidified remains of the shepherd's pie and scraped them into the pig-bucket. Then she riddled out the ashes and made up the fire. The range, simmering gently, was set for another day. That was all she was going to do.

In the lobby, she took her thick raincoat down from its peg and pulled it on. Tied a woollen scarf around her head, and trod her socked feet into rubber boots. She went back into the kitchen and gathered Nat up into her arms, swaddling him like a baby into his thick blanket. He didn't wake. She turned off the light and walked out of the darkened kitchen, out of the door and into the cold black wind of the December morning. She needed no torch, knowing every step of the way, every stone and stile by heart. She went by the footpath that led by the fields, and, at the bottom of the hill, joined the lane that led to Nancherrow. Carrying Nat, Loveday set out on the long walk home.

At seven o'clock in the morning, Nettlebed was always the first down. In the old days, even at this early hour, it had been his practice to dress up to the formality and importance of his position. But the years of war, during which he had worn the hat of vegetable gardener as well as that of butler, had put an end to such grandeur and, instead, he had invented for himself a sort of compromise. Striped flannel shirt, detachable white collar, a black tie and a navy-blue V-necked pullover. Over these, if engaged in mucky work like cooking or plucking pheasants, or shining up the brass, he tied on a blue-and-white-striped butcher's apron, which Mrs Nettlebed had decided was acceptably practical and did not demean his standing in any sort of way.

Morning rounds followed a changeless routine. Unlocking and opening the outside front door. Drawing back curtains in dining- and sitting-rooms, opening windows a chink to let the fresh air in and the smell of cigar smoke out. Then, through to the kitchen. A kettle on the Aga for the Colonel's early-morning tea. Unlock the scullery door that led out onto the courtyard. After that, down the back passage to the gun-room, where Tiger still slept. (Over the years, Pekoe had insinuated himself into Mrs Carey-Lewis's bedroom, and slept there, with her. He had a token basket in the comer of the room, but everybody knew that he preferred the foot of her bed.)

Tiger was stiff in the mornings, and Nettlebed was sympathetic with the old dog, because he too suffered from rheumatics, being sixty-five now and on his feet most of the day. When the east wind blew, his swollen knees gave him gyp.

‘Come on then, boy,’ he coaxed, and Tiger heaved himself to his four feet and lumbered out through the door into the black dark, and the pesky wind. Nettlebed went with him, because if he didn't he couldn't be sure that Tiger had done his business.

This morning it took ages, and Nettlebed was chilled to the bone by the time they finally returned indoors. It was sad to see a good dog ageing. Nettlebed had never had that much time for dogs, not having been born and bred an outdoor gentleman, but he was fond of Tiger. Tiger had seen the Colonel through all the years of war and much sadness. A day did not pass when Nettlebed did not think of Edward.

With Tiger waddling and wheezing at his heels, he went back to the kitchen. There the old dog settled down on his blanket by the Aga. The kettle was boiling. Nettlebed warmed the small white teapot. The clock said half past seven. He reached up for the tea-caddy, and as he did this, heard the scullery back door fly open, letting in a gust of wind that swept across the flagged floor. Startled, ‘Who's that there?’ he called, and went to look.

‘Only me, Nettlebed.’ Loveday kicked the door shut behind her, because her arms were filled with a shapeless blanketed bundle that could only be young Nat. She looked, thought Nettlebed, like nothing on earth, muddy boots and all bundled up in scarves, for all the world like a refugee.

‘Loveday! What are you doing here at this unholy hour?’

‘I just walked down from Lidgey.’

He was horrified. ‘Carrying Nat?’

‘Yes. All the way. I'm exhausted. I hadn't realised he weighed so much.’ She came through the scullery and into the kitchen, and laid Nat carefully down on the huge scrubbed table, making a pillow with a corner of the blanket and settling her son as comfortably as she could.

Nat never stirred. Loveday straightened cautiously, her hands pressed to the small of her back. ‘Ah.’ She let out a small sigh of sheer relief.

Nettlebed's astonishment turned to indignation.

‘You shouldn't be carrying Nat all that way. You'll do yourself an injury, and that's a fact.’

‘I'm all right. But it's cold out.’ She went over to the Aga and laid her hands on its warm surface for a moment, and then crouched to talk to Tiger.

‘Hello, my lovely.’

Tiger's tail went
thump-thump.
They had always adored each other.

Nettlebed, heavy-hearted, watched the little scene. He feared, and guessed, the very worst. He had known for some time that there was trouble afoot at Lidgey. It was Nettlebed's custom a couple of evenings a week — no more — to take himself down to the Rosemullion pub, there to have a crack with one or two old cronies, play a game of darts, enjoy a beer. He had noticed Walter with that woman, Arabella Lumb she was called, and Nettlebed recognised bad news when he saw it. He had seen them together more than once, tucked away together at a corner table, and it was obvious to any man with two eyes in his head that they had not met by chance.

Walter Mudge was playing fast and loose. Once, Nettlebed had quite liked young Walter, but that was in the days before he'd married Loveday, when he'd kept his place (the stables) and delivered milk and cream at the back door. When it was announced that he and Loveday were to be man and wife, Nettlebed and Mrs Nettlebed had strongly disapproved, but, respecting the wishes of their employers, kept their counsel. All that Nettlebed had been able to do was to get Walter into a decent suit for the wedding, so that he did not shame the family in front of the Lord Lieutenant and their smarter friends.

But just lately, he had begun to think that perhaps he would have done better to strangle Walter Mudge with a necktie, drop him in the sea, and take the consequences.

Tiger was dozing again. Loveday stood up, leaning her back against the Aga. ‘Where's Mrs Nettlebed?’

‘Up in the flat. She's taking the morning off. Her varicose veins are playing her up something awful. Crucified with them, she is.’

‘Oh, poor thing. Perhaps she should have an operation. I am sorry.’

‘I'm doing the breakfast this morning. Like a cup of tea, would you?’

‘Maybe. In a moment. Don't bother. I can make one myself.’ She unwound the woollen muffler from her head and stuffed it into the pocket of her coat. Nettlebed saw the dark bruises of tiredness beneath her eyes, and despite the long walk from Lidgey, there was no colour at all in her cheeks.

He said, ‘Everything all right, Loveday?’

‘No, Nettlebed. Not all right. All wrong.’

‘Is it Walter?’

‘He never came home last night.’ Biting her lip, she met his sad and concerned gaze. ‘You know about her, don't you? Arabella Lumb. I was pretty sure you did.’

‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘I guessed.’

‘I think it's all over. Me and Walter, I mean. I
know
it's over. Right from the beginning, I suppose, it was one huge, horrible mistake.’

‘Have you come home?’

‘Yes. And I'm not going back.’

‘What about young Nat? He's Walter's boy.’

‘I don't know about Nat. I don't really know about anything. I haven't had time to think it all through.’ She frowned. ‘I have to get it all clear in my head before I face them all. Pops and Mummy and Mary. I think what I would really like is to be on my own for a bit. Go for a walk. Clear my head.’

‘Haven't you walked far enough already?’

‘I won't take Nat.’ She looked at the comatose child, still sleeping soundly on his makeshift bed. ‘If they see Nat, they'll know I've come. I don't want them to know just yet…not until I've worked out all the answers to all the questions.’

Listening to her steady voice, watching her, it occurred to Nettlebed that this was a Loveday he had never known before. No tears, no tantrums, no histrionics. Simply a stoic acceptance of a miserable situation, and no word of resentment or blame. Perhaps, he told himself, she has finally grown up, and he was filled with a new respect and admiration for her.

He said, ‘I could take young Nat up to our flat. Mrs Nettlebed will keep an eye on him for the time being. Then nobody will know he's around until you want them to. Until you come back.’

‘But what about her varicose veins?’

‘She's only going to keep an eye on him. Not carry him around.’

‘Oh, Nettlebed, you are being kind. And you won't say anything, will you? I want to do all the talking myself.’

‘Breakfast's at half past eight. I'll keep mum till you're back.’

‘Thank you.’ She came over to him and put her arms around his waist and gave him a little hug, pressing her cheek against the wool of his pullover. He could not remember her ever having done such a thing before, and for a moment felt quite taken aback, and not quite sure what to do with his hands. But, before he could return her embrace, she had moved away from him, to stoop over the table and gather the slumbering Nat into her arms, and hand him over. The boy seemed to weigh a ton, and Nettlebed's rheumaticky knees sagged slightly beneath the load. But he carried the child across the kitchen and up the narrow back stairs that led to his private quarters over the garage. When he returned, having left Nat in the care of his astounded wife, Loveday had gone, and taken Tiger with her.