Coming Home (165 page)

She said, ‘When are you coming home?’

‘Oh, this evening. We'll be back this evening. We haven't
eloped
or anything like that. We're just being together. Planning things. Planning our lives.’

‘What about Walter?’

‘Walter's gone. Pops told me. Arabella Lumb has won the day, and good luck to her.’

‘And Nat?’

‘Pops spoke to Mr Baines. They reckon I can keep Nat. We'll have to see. And Gus says he's always wanted a little boy, and he thinks it's quite a good idea to start married life with the bonus of a ready-made family.’ She fell silent for a moment, and then said, in an entirely different voice, ‘I always loved him, Judith. Even when I knew he was dead, but it was difficult for me to explain it to you all. Gus was the only man I ever truly loved. When you said he'd come back from Burma it was the worst and the best thing I'd ever been told. But it wasn't very easy to talk about it. I know I've been impossible…’

‘Oh, Loveday, if you weren't impossible, you wouldn't be you. That's why we all love you so much.’

‘Come tonight,’ said Loveday. ‘Come to Nancherrow this evening. Let's all be together. Just like it used to be. Only Edward gone. But I think he'll be there too, don't you? I think he'll be around somewhere, drinking our health…’

Judith said, through her tears, ‘He wouldn't miss it for all the world. Good luck, Loveday.’

‘Love you.’

She put down the receiver, and was in floods.

‘I'm not crying because I'm miserable, I'm crying because it's all so happy. Have you got a handkerchief?’

Of course Jeremy had got a handkerchief. He fished it, pristine-clean and neatly folded, from his pocket, and gave it to her, and she blew her nose and wiped away the foolish reasonless tears.

‘I gather,’ said Jeremy, ‘that all is well.’

‘Blissful. They're together. They're in love. They always have been. He's going to go for his painting, and live in a studio at Porthkerris. With a kitchenette.’

‘…and Loveday.’

‘Probably. I wouldn't know. She didn't say. It doesn't matter.’ Weeping was over. ‘I'll keep your handkerchief. I'll wash it for you.’

She tucked it up the cuff of her sweater and smiled at him, and all at once, there were just the two of them. No other diversions. No other people. Just themselves. And, for the first time, perhaps a little constraint, a certain shyness. Hedging, ‘Would you like a cup of coffee, or something?’ Judith asked.

‘No. No, I don't want coffee, or Gus or Loveday or anyone else. I want you and me. It's time to talk.’

Which, of course, it was. They went back into the drawing-room, and returned to the deep window-seat, and now the low sun was shining, every now and then, onto all the old-fashioned furniture, and the faded rugs, and sparkling rainbow lights from the drops of Lavinia Boscawen's crystal chandelier.

Judith said, ‘Where do we start? To talk?’

‘At the beginning. Why did you never answer my letter?’

She frowned. ‘But you never wrote.’

‘I did. From Long Island.’

‘I never got a letter.’

He frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I'm sure. I waited and waited. You said you were going to write, that morning in London. You promised you would write, and you never did. I never got a letter. And I decided you'd simply changed your mind, got cold feet; decided that, after all, you didn't want to keep in touch.’

‘Oh, Judith.’ He let out a sigh that sounded more like a groan than a sigh. ‘All these years.’ He reached out, and took her hand in his. ‘I did write. I was staying in a house in Long Island, and I just about tore myself to pieces dying to get the right words down. And then I took the letter back with me to New York, and sent it off by service mail, the post-box on board HMS
Sutherland.’

‘So what happened?’

‘I imagine a ship was sunk. The Battle of the Atlantic was at its peak. And the mail, and my letter, would all have ended up at the bottom of the ocean.’

She shook her head. ‘I never thought of that.’ And then, ‘What did the letter say?’

‘It said a lot of things. It said that I would never forget that night we spent together in London, when you were so unhappy, and I had to leave in the early morning in order to join my ship. And it told you how much I loved you. How much I'd always loved you, from the moment I first saw you sitting in the railway carriage at Plymouth, and looking out of the window to see the Fleet, as we rattled across the Saltash Bridge. And then it was all compounded by finding you again at Nancherrow, and hearing the sound of “Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring” come from your bedroom, and knowing that you were there, and how utterly important and essential you were in my life. And at the end of the letter, I asked you to marry me. Because I had got to the pitch where I couldn't imagine a future without you. And I asked you to write. To answer. To say yes, or no, and to set my mind at rest.’

‘But you got no answer.’

‘No.’

‘Didn't that strike you as rather odd?’

‘Not really. I never considered myself much of a catch. And I'm thirteen years older than you, and I've always been short on worldly goods. You had everything. Youth and beauty and your financial independence. The world was your oyster. And perhaps you deserved better than the life of the wife of a country GP. So, no. When I received no reply from you, I didn't think it was odd at all. Just the end of everything.’

Judith said, ‘
I
should have written to you, perhaps, but I wasn't that sure of myself. We'd slept together, and made love, I know. And it had all seemed so perfect. But Edward loved me because he was sorry for me. He wanted to give me the sort of joy he thought I was missing out on. And I was so afraid that your motives were the same. That I was having a bad time, and you provided the comfort.’

‘Never that, my darling.’

‘I see now. But I was younger then. Not all that sure of myself. Inexperienced.’ She looked at him. ‘There's something we haven't talked about. Jess. I have Jess now. She's part of me. We're family to each other. Whatever happens to me happens to Jess as well.’

‘Would she mind if I happened to you? Because I would like very much for all three of us to be together. I always remember her in the train, being terribly naughty and throwing her Golly at you. I can't wait to see her again.’

‘She's fourteen now, and very grown up. And poor Golly is no more. He died at sea.’

‘I'm filled with shame. I've never said a word to you about your parents, nor about Jess. Just talked about myself. But I was so terribly sad for you. And then so thankful when my father told me Jess had come back. She's gone to St Ursula's?’

‘Yes, and she's happy. But until she's grown up and able to stand on her own feet, she's my responsibility.’

‘Darling Judith, that's nothing new. You've been shouldering responsibilities since the day I first met you. Responsibility for yourself, and Biddy Somerville, and Phyllis, and a home of your own. And then the war, and being in the Wrens.’ Again, he sighed. ‘That's my only reservation.’

‘I don't understand.’

‘Perhaps, before you settle down to married life, you might want a bit of time just to enjoy yourself. Like Athena used to, before the war. You know, be frivolous, buy hats and go to night-clubs. Be taken, by dashing men, to lunch at the Ritz. Go cruising in private yachts, and sip martinis on sun-splashed terraces.’

Judith laughed. ‘What flights of imagination. You make it sound like a nightmare.’

‘But seriously?’

He was being very sweet. She thought about it, and then said, ‘Did you ever meet, in the Navy, a man called Hugo Halley?’

‘No, I don't think I did.’

‘He was really nice. I met him in Colombo when I was staying with Bob Somerville. And the war was over, so we didn't have to think about that any more. And we did all those sorts of things that you've just been talking about. And we weren't in love, and there were no strings attached, and it was just the most fun, glamorous time. So I know about it. And I've experienced it. Just for a little while. So when we get married, I promise you I won't spend the rest of my life feeling frustrated or cheated in the smallest way.’

‘Did you really say that?’

‘Say what?’

‘When we get married?’

‘I believe I did.’

‘I've got grey hairs now.’

‘I know. I've seen them, but I'm much too polite to remark.’

‘I'm thirty-seven. Dreadfully old. But I love you so much, I can only hope that being old isn't going to matter.’

He waited for her to say,
Of course, it doesn't,
but she didn't. Instead, she simply sat there, her face a study of intense concentration. ‘Why are you so deep in thought?’

‘I'm doing calculations. And I was never very quick at mental arithmetic.’

‘Calculations?’

‘Yes. Did you know that the exactly right age for people to get married is for the wife to be half the man's age plus seven?’

A conundrum. Nonplussed, Jeremy shook his head. ‘No.’

‘So you're thirty-seven. And half thirty-seven is eighteen and a half. And eighteen and a half plus seven is…?’

‘Twenty-five and a half.’

‘Well, I'm twenty-four and a half, so it's near enough. Spot on. If we hadn't waited three and a half years, we'd have been all wrong for each other. It might have been a disaster. As it is…’

Suddenly, she was laughing, and he kissed her open laughing mouth, and it all took quite a long time, and he felt the physical arousal of his body, and the thought flashed through his mind that it would be a brilliant idea to gather her up in his arms, head for the nearest suitable spot, and make long and passionate love to her. But common sense lurked at the edge of his mind, and told him that now was not the right moment. The dramas of Nancherrow were at the head of the agenda, and when he did make love to her again, he wanted it to be unhurried, timeless, and, if necessary, to last an entire night.

Gently, he let her go. Drawing apart, he put up a hand to smooth a lock of honey-coloured hair away from her face.

He said, ‘Who was it who made that statement about the hurly-burly of the chaise longue, and the deep deep peace of the double bed?’

‘Mrs Patrick Campbell.’

‘I knew you would know. Shall we, for the moment, pull ourselves together, and try to make some plan for our future?’

‘I'm not sure if, just now, I'm capable of making plans.’

‘Then I shall make them. Except that I haven't even decided anything for myself yet, let alone you and Jess.’

‘Are you going to go back to Truro and take over from your father?’

‘Is that what you would like?’

Judith was honest. She said, ‘No. I'm sorry, but the awful thing is I never want to leave this house. I know one shouldn't let bricks and mortar rule one's life, but this place is so special. Not just because of Aunt Lavinia, but because it's been a sort of haven for so many people. A home. Biddy came here when she was so broken up about Ned. And then Phyllis and Anna. And Jess, coming home to here, after all she'd been through. And even Gus, who fell to bits and thought he was never going to be happy again. Do you understand?’

‘Completely. So, cross Truro off the list.’

‘Won't your father be very upset?’

‘I don't think so.’

‘So what will you do?’

‘I have an old naval colleague. A good friend. A Surgeon-Commander RNVR called Bill Whatley. He put an idea to me, a couple of months ago, when we were both in Malta. Supposing the two of us started up a new practice, right here? In Penzance?’

Judith, scarcely daring to hope, stared at Jeremy. ‘Could you do that?’

‘Why not? The war is over. We can do anything. Bill's a Londoner, but he wants to settle his family in the country, preferably by the sea. He's a great sailing man. We talked it over at length, but I didn't want to commit myself until I knew how the land lay with you. I didn't want to come blundering back into your life if you didn't want me around. A bit embarrassing, having a lovesick old flame on your doorstep.’

‘Penzance is scarcely my doorstep. And if you're a GP in Penzance, it's too far away to live here. Night calls and things like that.’

‘There'll be two of us in the practice together. I can commute. We shall build a beautiful modern surgery, with desirable residence incorporated. A useful flat, for night shifts.’

‘With kitchenette?’

But Jeremy was laughing. ‘You know something, my darling? We are splitting hairs. Crossing bridges we haven't even come to. We must allow the future to take care of itself.’

‘Such clichés. You sound like a politician.’

‘Oh well. I suppose I could do worse.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Good God, it's a quarter to twelve. And I'm forgetting entirely the reason why I came here to see you in the first place. I suppose I ought to get back to Nancherrow, or Diana will think that I've joined the club, and eloped as well. Will you come with me, my darling Judith?’

‘If you want.’

‘I do.’

‘Shall we tell them all? About you and me?’