Coming Home (46 page)

I
n Singapore, in the Orchard Road bungalow, Molly Dunbar, sleeping, awoke with a start, in a sweat of panic, consumed by some incomprehensible and nameless fear. Almost in tears,
What is wrong?
she asked herself,
what has happened?
Ridiculous, because it was not even dark, but mid-afternoon, and the huge contraption of the mosquito net hung overhead hoisted to the high ceiling. Siesta. No ghouls, snakes, or night-time intruders. Yet her teeth were clenched, her breathing shallow and uneven, and her heart thumping like a drum. For a moment or two, she simply lay rigid, waiting for the dreaded whatever-it-was to pounce. But nothing pounced. The panic slowly subsided. A nightmare, perhaps, but any dream, if it had existed, had flown from her mind. Deliberately, she paced her breathing, forced tense muscles to relax. After a little, the reasonless terror evaporated, and the void it left slowly filled with a sort of passive, exhausted relief.

So, nothing. Just her own imaginings flying in all directions, as usual, even as she rested, safe in her own bedroom, with her husband beside her. Her eyes moved over the familiar surroundings, searching for reassurance and some sort of comfort. White walls, marble floor; her dressing table, draped in frilled white muslin; the ornate teak wardrobe, marvellously scrolled and carved. Chairs of rattan, and a cedarwood chest. Alongside this, the door stood open into Bruce's dressing-room, and overhead, in the high ceiling, the paddles of the wooden fan revolved, churning leaden air into a semblance of cool. Two lizards crouched on the opposite wall, still and lifeless as bizarre brooches pinned to a lapel.

She looked at her watch. Three o'clock on an April afternoon, and the heat so humid, so intense, as to be almost unbearable. She lay naked beneath a thin lawn wrapper, and her cheeks, and neck, and hair and the small of her back all trickled with sweat. On the far side of the bed, Bruce slumbered, snoring lightly. She turned her head and watched him, and envied him for his ability to sleep away the overpowering heat of this tropical afternoon. And yet, she knew, at four o'clock, he would wake on the dot, to rise, shower, dress in fresh clothes and return to his office, there to work for another two or three hours.

She stirred, closed her eyes and almost immediately opened them again. It was impossible to lie, wakeful, for another second. Cautiously, so as not to wake her husband, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, drawing her thin wrapper about her, and pushing her feet into a pair of thong sandals. Treading softly, she crossed the room, and went through the slatted doors that led onto the veranda. This was wide and shady, enclosing the entire perimeter of the bungalow, and had a sloping roof which allowed no ray of sunlight to permeate the interior, and here too the ubiquitous fans revolved overhead. At the far end, by the opened doors of the drawing-room, chairs and tables were grouped. An outdoor sitting-room where Molly spent much of her time. Blue-and-white planters were filled with hibiscus and orange blossom, and beyond the veranda's shade, the garden simmered under a sky bleached with heat. No breeze stirred the palm tree nor the fragipani nor the flower of the forest, but as she stood there, a tree-rat scampered up the stem of the bougainvillaea, disturbing a shower of blossom. The petals floated down and settled on the veranda steps.

It was immensely quiet. Jess, servants, dogs still slept. Molly walked the length of the veranda, the leather soles of her slippers slapping on the wooden floor. There she sank into one of the long rattan chairs, her feet supported by the foot-rest. Alongside this particular chair was a cane table, where were collected all the small necessities of her leisurely, sedentary life: her book, her sewing-box, magazines, correspondence; her engagement diary (very important), and her embroidery. Today, as well, it bore a three-week-old copy of the London
Times,
which Bruce had arranged to be sent out from Home on a regular basis. He said that he liked to read what he called ‘the proper news’, although Molly suspected that all he ever studied in any depth were the Rugby results and the cricket scores.

Normally, Molly did not read
The Times.
But now, for want of anything better to do, she picked up the newspaper, unfolded and opened it. The date was March the fifteenth, and the headlines leaped at her like a spectre in the dark, for, on the twelfth of March, Nazi Germany had occupied Austria.

Old now, of course, because they had heard of the occupation on the wireless three weeks ago, almost as soon as the shocking event had taken place. But Bruce, though grim-faced, had not talked about it very much, and for this Molly had been grateful, because it meant that she could simply push it out of her mind. There was no good being pessimistic. Perhaps something would happen to make everything all right. And anyway, there was always so much else to occupy her thoughts, like seeing that Jess did her lessons, and arranging menus with Cookie, and keeping her social commitments up-to-date. The latter, in particular, she found very demanding.

But now…alone and unobserved, and with no person to remark on her reactions, she drew upon her courage, and resisted the temptation to toss the horrible news aside. There was a photograph. Hitler, driving in state through the streets of Vienna, his car flanked by German troops, and the pavements crammed with crowds. She studied the faces in these crowds and was filled with bewilderment, for, though some clearly mirrored the horror of what had finally happened, too many were jubilant, cheering the new leader and raising flags emblazoned with the black and broken cross of Nazism. It was incomprehensible. How could any patriot welcome such an invasion? Searching for some answer to this question, she began to read the account of how it had all taken place, and once started could not stop, for the sombre words, the measured prose caught her attention, drawing an extraordinarily vivid picture of outraged subjugation. Finished, if this, she asked herself, had been allowed to happen, then what on earth was going to happen next?

Nothing very good. In London, in Parliament, the mood was grave. In the House of Commons, Winston Churchill had stood to speak. For years he had been treated as a sort of Cassandra, preaching doom and destruction while others went hopefully about their business. But now it seemed that he had been right all along, and his warnings tolled like a death knell. ‘…Europe is confronted with a programme of aggression…only choice open…to submit or take effective measures…’

Enough. She folded the newspaper and dropped it to the floor by her side. Effective measures meant war. Even a fool like herself could understand the implication. The storm-clouds, which had appeared over the horizon of Molly's uncomplicated life even before she had left England to sail for Colombo, had neither dissipated nor disappeared, but grown and gathered and now threatened to blacken out the whole of Europe. And England? And Judith?

Judith. Molly knew that she should be ashamed. She should think of others, nations already violated and peoples suppressed, but uppermost in her mind was the safety of her child. If there was a war in Europe, if England was involved, then what would happen to Judith? Should they not, perhaps, send for her right away? Forget about school, jettison all the plans they had made for her, and bring her out to Singapore with all convenient speed? War would never touch them here. They would all be together again, and Judith would be safe.

But even as the idea occurred to her, she was fairly sure that Bruce would not agree to it. A strong supporter of the Government, a rabid Conservative and a staunch patriot, he could not imagine any situation where England could be in mortal danger, invaded or suppressed. Should Molly argue, she would be reminded by Bruce of the impregnability of the Maginot line, the overwhelming superiority of the British Navy, and the global power of the British Empire. Judith would be perfectly safe. Ridiculous to panic. Stop being so silly.

She knew all this, because she had heard it all before. When Louise Forrester had killed herself in that dreadful car smash, and the cable had come from Mr Baines, informing them of the tragic event, Molly's first instinct had been not grief for Louise, but concern for Judith, and she had been all for getting a passage on the first boat Home, and returning to England to be with her abandoned daughter. But Bruce, although clearly shattered by the news of his sister's death, had become intensely British, keeping his feelings to himself, with a stiff upper lip, and his feet on the ground. Worse, he had insisted to his distraught wife that there was no point in taking impulsive action. Judith was at boarding-school, Miss Catto was in command, and Biddy Somerville close to hand, if needed. The emotional return of her mother would make things no easier for Judith. Far better to leave her in peace, to get on with her studies, and let events naturally take their course.

‘But she has no
home.
She has nowhere to go!’ Molly had wept, but Bruce remained adamant.

‘What good would you do?’ he demanded, losing his patience.

‘I could be
with
her…’

‘By the time you reached her side, this crisis will be over, and you will be totally extraneous.’

‘You don't understand.’

‘No. I don't. So calm down. Go and write her a letter. And don't fuss. Children hate parents who fuss over them.’

And there was nothing she could do, because she had no money of her own, and if Bruce would not go to the shipping office, book her passage and pay for it, then Molly was helpless. She did her best to come to terms with the situation, but the next two or three weeks were like a period of grieving, longing for physical contact with Judith, to see her sweet face, embrace her, listen to her voice, comfort and counsel her.

But at the end of the day she realised Bruce had been maddeningly right. Had Molly sailed, it would have been five or six weeks by the time she reached Judith's side, and in that period, all the problems miraculously had sorted themselves out, and the void left by the death of Louise was filled by this benevolent, if unknown, family called Carey-Lewis.

Judith's virtual adoption was accomplished in an orderly and businesslike way. Miss Catto wrote, in essence giving Colonel and Mrs Carey-Lewis an excellent reference, and adding that, in her opinion, their proposed hospitality could be nothing but beneficial to Judith. She had made good friends with young Loveday Carey-Lewis, the family were old established and much respected in the county, and Mrs Carey-Lewis had expressed, with deep sincerity, her desire to take Judith into their home.

Then, hard on the heels of Miss Catto's letter, had come one from Mrs Carey-Lewis herself, written in huge, almost illegible handwriting, but on the most expensive, headed, thick, blue paper. Despite herself, Molly was both impressed and flattered, and, once she had deciphered the handwriting, found herself touched and disarmed. And Judith, clearly, had made an excellent impression. Molly allowed herself to feel quite proud. All she could do was simply hope that her daughter would not be overwhelmed by the grandeur of what was clearly an establishment of the landed gentry.

Nancherrow. She remembered that day in Medways when she had seen Diana Carey-Lewis for the first and only time. Their lives had touched only for a moment — ships passing in the night — but she still retained a vivid image of the beautiful youthful mother, the bright-faced ragamuffin child, and the peke with its scarlet lead. Asking, ‘That's Mrs Carey-Lewis,’ she had been told. ‘Mrs Carey-Lewis of Nancherrow.’

It would be all right. No point in hesitating, no reason for reservations. Molly wrote back, grateful and accepting, and did her best to push down the unworthy sensation that she was giving Judith away.

Bruce was smug. ‘I told you it would all work out.’

His attitude she found intensely irritating. ‘It's easy to say that now. What would we have done if the Carey-Lewises hadn't come up trumps?’

‘Why suppose? Everything's settled. I always said Judith could take care of herself.’

‘How do you know that? You haven't seen her for five years!’ Annoyed by him, she became perverse. ‘And I don't think she should spend all her time at Nancherrow. After all, Biddy's still around. She would love to have Judith, at any time.’

‘They must make their own arrangements.’

Molly sulked for a moment, unwilling to let him have the last word. ‘It's just that I can't help feeling that I've lost her to strangers.’

‘Oh, for God's sake, stop agonising. Just be grateful.’

And so she had suppressed her slight twinges of resentment and envy, and told herself firmly how lucky she was, and concentrated on being grateful and writing letters to her daughter. And now it was two years later — Judith would be seventeen in June — and in all that time scarcely a week had passed without the arrival, at Orchard Road, of a fat envelope addressed in Judith's handwriting. Long, loving, dear letters, with all the news that any mother would want to hear; each to be read and reread, savoured and finally filed away in a huge brown cardboard box in the bottom of Molly's wardrobe. Judith's life, no less, was contained in that box; a virtual record of everything that had happened to her since that unforgotten day when she and her mother had said their last goodbye.

The early letters were all of school, lessons, the new bicycle and life at Windyridge. And then the shock of Louise's death; her funeral, the first mention of Mr Baines, and the astonishing news of Judith's inheritance. (None of them had ever realised the extent of Louise's wealth. But so satisfactory to know that Judith would never have to ask a husband for money, one of the least agreeable aspects of married life.)