Coming Home (23 page)

‘My dear life. There's my baby! Come and give Mrs Nettlebed a nice kiss now…’ She held her hands wide, her sticky fingers spread like a starfish, and leaned forward, all ready for the kiss which Loveday pressed upon her cheek. ‘Look at the size of you! You've grown. Soon be bigger than me. This the friend you've brought…’

‘She's called Judith.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Judith.’

‘How do you do?’

‘Come for the weekend? That'll be some fun. Up to high jinks you'll be with this little tinker.’

‘What's for lunch, Mrs Nettlebed?’

‘Shooter's stew and mashed potato, and boiled cabbage.’

‘Is there nutmeg on the cabbage?’

‘I wouldn't serve cabbage without nutmeg.’

‘In that case I'll probably eat it. Are the men in yet?’

‘Just heard them in the yard, counting up the bag. Rabbit pie for lunch tomorrow. They'll be in the gunroom, I expect, cleaning guns. Shouldn't be more than ten minutes.’

‘Ten minutes.’ Loveday made a face. ‘I'm starving.’ She went to the dresser, opened a tin, and took out a couple of rich tea biscuits. She gave one to Judith and crammed the other into her mouth.

‘Now, Loveday…’

‘I know. I'll spoil my appetite and I won't eat any of your lovely lunch. Come on, Judith, let's go and find Mummy and see if she'll give us a drink.’

They found Diana in the drawing-room, peacefully curled up in the corner of a vast cream sofa, reading a novel. She was smoking, with a jade holder, a fragrant Turkish cigarette, and on the small table at her side stood her ashtray and a cocktail. As they burst in upon her, disturbing her quiet, she raised her head to smile a welcome.

‘Darlings, there you are. What fun. Have you been enjoying yourselves?’

‘Yes, we've been all over and seen every single room, and we've been to say hello to Mrs Nettlebed, and now can we have a drink?’

‘What do you want to drink?’

A mirrored table stood against one wall, neatly arranged with bottles and shining clean glasses. Loveday went to inspect its offerings. She said, ‘I really feel like Orange Corona, but there isn't any.’

‘That dreadful fizzy stuff that turns your mouth orange? Perhaps there's some in the larder. Ring for Nettlebed and find out if he has a bottle tucked away.’

The bell was in the wall above the table. Loveday pressed her thumb upon it. Diana smiled at Judith. ‘What do you think of my darling house?’

‘It's beautiful. But I'm not sure that this room isn't the nicest of all.’ It was too. Panelled and with a parquet floor scattered with rugs, it was filled with sunlight and flowers. No humble daffodils here, but more exotic hothouse blooms, all purple and white and fuchsia, and in one corner stood a blue-and-white china tub and a camellia tree, its dark glossy branches loaded with deep-pink flowers. The thick curtains and the covers were cream brocade, and all the sofas and chairs were filled with fat satin cushions, in the palest of greens and pinks and blues, looking just like so many delicious, enormous boiled sweets. Magazines were neatly aligned on a central table, the journals mandatory to any self-respecting country house.
The Tatler,
for social gossip;
The Sketch,
for theatre and ballet;
The Illustrated London News
for current events, and
The Sporting Dramatic
for racing. As well,
The Field, Horse & Hound,
the latest
Vogue
and
Woman's Journal,
and a stack of daily newspapers which did not look as though they had even been opened.

Judith longed to be alone, to stare forever, to take in every detail, so that if she never came again to this house, she would be able to keep a perfect picture of it in her mind. The tall mantelpiece was white-painted, and upon it stood a row of engaging porcelain figures, a Meissen monkey-band. Over the mantelpiece hung a portrait of Diana, her slender shoulders draped in smoke-blue chiffon, and a shaft of light turning her corn-coloured hair to gold. There was laughter in the painted blue eyes, and the ghost of a smile on her lips, as though she and the artist shared the most intimate and amusing of secrets.

Seeing her staring, ‘Do you like it?’ Diana asked.

‘It's
just
like you.’

Diana laughed. ‘Wonderfully flattering. But then de Laszlo was always a flatterer.’

The view from the tall windows was by now familiar. The formal terraced gardens sloped down to meld with shrubs and rough-grassed meadows bright with daffodils. To one side stood a French window, which gave out onto a small enclosed terrace, private as a little room within the garden. This was backed by a conservatory, and through the glass could be seen a climbing jasmine, a burgeoning vine, and a lot of enviable, old-fashioned wicker furniture. All conjured up thoughts of summer, baking sunshine, lazy afternoons, and long cool drinks. Or perhaps China tea in very thin cups, and cucumber sandwiches.

Lost in charming imaginings, she was joined by Loveday.

‘That's Mummy's special spot. Isn't it, Mummy? She lies here and sunbathes without any clothes on.’

‘Only if there's nobody about.’

‘Well, I've seen you doing it.’

‘You don't count.’

At this juncture the door behind them quietly opened and a deep voice was heard. ‘You rang, madam?’

Mr Nettlebed. Loveday had already told her that he had stomach ulcers and so an unpredictable disposition, but this had not prepared Judith for his distinguished and awesome appearance. He was a tall man, white-haired and quite handsome in a gloomy way. A bit like a reliable undertaker. His clothes confirmed this impression, for he wore a black jacket and a black tie and sponge-bag trousers. His face was pale and lined, his eyes hooded, and so impressive did he look that Judith wondered how anybody plucked up the nerve to ask him to do anything, let alone give him any sort of an order.

‘Oh, Nettlebed, thank you,’ said Diana. ‘Loveday wants some drink or other…’

‘I want Orange Corona, Mr Nettlebed, and it's not on the table.’

This demand was followed by a long and pregnant silence. Nettlebed did not move, merely fixed Loveday with his cold gaze, as though he was piercing a dead butterfly with a long steel pin. Nor did Diana speak. The silence continued. Became uncomfortable. Diana turned her head and looked at Loveday.

Loveday, with a resigned expression on her face, started all over again.

‘Please, Mr Nettlebed, would you be very kind and see if there is some Orange Corona in the pantry?’

The small tension was immediately dispelled. ‘Certainly,’ said Nettlebed. ‘I think there's a crate on the larder shelf. I shall go and ascertain.’

He began to withdraw, but Diana spoke. ‘Are the men back yet, Nettlebed?’

‘Yes, madam. They're cleaning up in the gunroom.’

‘Have they had a good morning?’

‘A number of rabbits and pigeons, madam. And two hares.’

‘Heavens. Poor Mrs Nettlebed. What a lot of gutting and cleaning.’

‘I will probably assist her, madam.’

He went, closing the door behind him. Loveday grimaced. ‘I will probably assist her, madam,’ she mimicked. ‘Pompous old ass.’

‘Loveday.’ Diana's voice had turned icy.

‘Well, that's what Edward calls him.’

‘Edward should know better. And you know perfectly well that you never ask Nettlebed, or anybody, to do anything for you without saying please, and then thank you when they've done it.’

‘I just forgot.’

‘Well, don't forget.’

She turned back to her book. Judith felt awkward, diminished and gawky, as though the reprimand had been for herself, but Loveday was undismayed. She went to lean, in wheedling fashion, over the back of the sofa so that her curly dark head almost touched her mother's sleek golden one.

‘What are you reading?’

‘A novel.’

‘What's it called?’

‘The Weather in the Streets.’

‘What's it about?’

‘Love. Unhappy love.’

‘I thought all love was happy.’

‘Oh, darling. Not always. Not every woman is lucky.’ She reached for her drink, the little triangular cocktail glass filled with golden liquid. At the bottom of the glass, like a rare pebble, or some strange sea-creature, lurked an olive. She took a sip and then laid the glass down, and as she did so, the door of the drawing-room opened once more, but it was not Mr Nettlebed, returned, who stood there. ‘Pops!’ Loveday left her mother's side and fled into his outstretched arms.

‘Hello, my baby.’ They hugged and kissed, he stooping his height to hers. ‘We've missed you. And here you are, back again…’ He ruffled her hair, smiling down at his youngest child as though she were the most precious creature on earth.

(So loved was Loveday. By everybody. Feeling a bit out of it, observing the sort of demonstrative behaviour that she herself had never experienced, Judith found it hard not to feel a small pang of envy.)

‘Diana.’ With Loveday hanging on to his sleeve like a puppy, he crossed over to where his wife sat, and bent to kiss her. ‘I'm sorry, my darling, are we late?’

She tilted her head to smile up into his face. ‘Not at all. It's only a quarter to one. Did you all have a good morning?’

‘Splendid.’

‘Where are Tommy and Jeremy?’

‘Tommy's on his way. Jeremy's cleaning my gun for me…’

‘The kind boy.’

Standing on the sidelines, listening to this exchange, Judith deliberately assumed a bland and smiling expression, hiding her shock at his appearance. For Colonel Carey-Lewis was a complete surprise, being so old, and privately she decided that he looked more like Diana's father than her husband and could easily be Loveday's grandparent. True, he held himself with the upright stance of a soldier and moved with the easy, long-legged lope of a perpetually active man, but his hair, what there was of it, was white, and his eyes, set deep in his lined face, were the faded blue of some ancient countryman. His wind-burned cheeks were cadaverous, and his nose long and beaky over a trim military moustache. He was tall and very sparsely built, dressed in venerable tweeds and moleskin knickerbockers, and his stork-like stockinged shins ended in brogues polished to a chestnut shine.

‘He said it was the least he could do.’

With this, he straightened up, loosed himself from Loveday's clutch, smoothed his hair with his hands, and turned to Judith.

‘And you must be Loveday's friend?’

She looked up into his eyes, and saw them both watchful and kindly, but, for some reason, dreadfully sad. Which was strange again, because his reunion with wife and daughter had clearly given all of them so much delight. But then he smiled, and some of the sadness was erased. He moved towards her, hand outstretched.

‘How very pleasant that you could come and stay.’

‘Her name's Judith,’ Loveday told him.

Judith said, ‘How do you do,’ and they shook hands formally. His fingers, enclosing hers, felt dry and rough. She smelt the sweet reek of his Harris tweed jacket, and realised instinctively that he was just as shy as she felt. This made her like him very much, and long to be able to put him at his ease.

‘Has Loveday been taking care of you?’

‘Yes. We've been all over the house.’

‘Good. Now you know your way around.’ He hesitated. He was not good at small talk and so it was fortunate that at this moment they were interrupted by the appearance of a second gentleman, with, hard on his heels, Nettlebed, who bore before him, like a votive offering, a bottle of Orange Corona on a silver salver.

‘Diana. Are we all in disgrace for taking so long?’

‘Oh, darling Tommy, don't be so silly. Good morning?’

‘Great fun.’ Tommy Mortimer stood for an instant rubbing his hands together, as though grateful to be indoors and out of the cold, and looking forward to a comforting drink. He too was dressed for shooting, in elegant tweeds and a canary-coloured waistcoat. His face was boyish, good-humoured and smiling; his skin smooth and tanned and immaculately barbered. However, it was difficult to guess how old he was, because his thick hair was nearly white. But somehow this only served to accentuate the springy youthfulness of his step and the whole rather theatrical manner of his arrival.
Here I am,
it seemed to say.
Now we can all start having a wonderful time.

He crossed the room to drop a kiss on Diana's cheek, and then turned his attentions to Loveday.

‘Hello there, wicked one! Got a kiss for your honorary uncle? How's school? Have they turned you into a little lady yet?’

‘Oh, Tommy, don't ask such stupid questions.’

‘You could at least,’ said her mother, ‘introduce Tommy to your friend.’

‘Oh, I
am
sorry.’ Loveday, palpably showing off a bit, proceeded to make a great production of this. ‘This is Judith Dunbar who's at school with me, and this, ta-ra, ta-ra, is Tommy Mortimer.’

Tommy laughed, amused by her impudence. ‘Hello, Judith.’

‘How do you do.’

The Colonel, however, had had enough of trivial formalities. It was time for a drink. Nettlebed, at the table, poured these. Dry martini for Mr Mortimer, beer for the Colonel, Orange Corona for the girls. Diana, lazily sipping her own martini, refused a refill. Tommy, holding his glass, came to settle himself on the sofa beside her, half-turned to face her, with an arm gracefully disposed along the back of the cushions. Judith wondered if he was an actor. She had little experience of the live theatre, but had been to enough films, squashed into the Porthkerris cinema with Heather beside her, to recognise the contrived arrangement of limbs, the outstretched arm, the gracefully crossed legs. Perhaps Tommy Mortimer was a famous matinee idol, and she was just too stupid and inexperienced to know about him. But if he was, then surely Loveday would have told her.