Coming Home (72 page)

Judith shook her head. ‘No. Nothing.’

They fell silent once more, because all at once there didn't seem to be much else to talk about. Everything was just too dreadful and depressing. In the end, it was Phyllis who broke the gloomy spell. She sat back in her chair and suddenly grinned. ‘I don't know what we're doing,’ she said, ‘sitting here like two old men at a funeral.’ And Judith remembered, with love and gratitude, that however dire a situation, Phyllis had always been able to find the funny side of it. ‘Long faces like we were both going out to be shot.’

‘What was it your mother used to say, Phyllis? Don't worry, it might never happen.’

‘And if it does, it'll all come out in the wash.’ Phyllis took the lid off the teapot and peered at its contents. ‘Looks stone-cold and black as ink to me. Why don't I put the kettle on again, and we'll have a fresh pot?’

It was late in the afternoon before Judith finally said her goodbyes and set off on the drive back to Porthkerris. The day had fallen apart. As she and Phyllis talked, clouds had gathered and thickened, rolling in from the sea, bringing with them a drenching mist that spread inland, like fog. Anna had had to be wakened from her sleep and brought indoors again, out of the rain, and Phyllis opened the door of the range, just for the cheer of seeing the flaming coals. Now, the windscreen wipers swung to and fro, and the surface of the twisting moorland road was lead-coloured and wet, a dark-grey satin ribbon winding up onto the soggy moor.

Depressing enough without the weight of concern for Phyllis which now occupied Judith's mind.
We've got a house,
Phyllis had written to tell her.
We're going to be married.
And then later,
I'm going to have a baby,
and it had all seemed so
right,
so exactly what Phyllis had always wanted and, more, deserved. But reality was a disillusionment, and it had been painful to tear herself away from Phyllis, and leave her, abandoned in that unlovely, primitive cottage, stuck in the middle of nowhere. After they had said goodbye, and she had turned the car in the road and set off on her homeward journey, Phyllis and the baby had stayed in the open doorway of the cottage, waving goodbye, and she had watched their reflections in the wing mirror, growing smaller and smaller as she drove away, and Phyllis was still waving, and then the road took a turn and they were lost from sight.

Unfair. It was all grossly unfair.

She thought of Phyllis in the old Riverview days. All of them had loved her, depended on her, and treated her as one of the family, which was of course the reason she had stayed with them, right to the end. Remembering, it was impossible to recall any occasion when she had been either grumpy or ill tempered, and her kitchen had always provided a warm haven of laughter and chat. She remembered walks with Phyllis, picking wild flowers and learning their names and then arranging them in a jam jar for the middle of the kitchen table; and the pleasing sight of Phyllis, crisp in her pink-and-white-striped cotton overall, chasing Jess up the stairs, or carrying picnic teas across the lawn to where they sat beneath the mulberry tree. Most poignant, she remembered the sweet talcumy smell of Phyllis after she'd had her bath, and how her hair fluffed out when she'd just shampooed it…

But getting sentimental was of no use. After all, Phyllis had chosen to marry Cyril, had indeed waited years to marry him. The life of a miner's wife was bound to be hard, and Phyllis, the daughter of a miner, knew this better than anyone. And the baby was sweet, and they presumably had enough to eat, but…the unfairness of it.

Why should Phyllis, of all people, have to live and bring up her child in such conditions, just because her husband was a miner? Why couldn't miners have nice houses like the Warrens? Why should being a grocer be so much more rewarding than being a miner? Surely people who did horrible underground work should get more money than people who had pleasant occupations. And why should some people, like the Carey-Lewises, be so rich, so privileged, so…and it had to be said…spoilt, when a really wonderful person like Phyllis had to boil water before she could wash her dishes, and make the journey across the yard, whatever the weather, when she wanted to go to the lavatory?

And if there was a war, then Cyril was going, leaving Phyllis and her baby behind. Not, it seemed, for any deeply patriotic reason, but simply because he had always longed to get away from Pendeen and the tin-mining, and go to sea. She wondered how many thousands of young men there were in the country who felt the same. Young men who had scarcely ever left their native villages, except perhaps for a church bus-trip to the nearest town, or a Darts Championship outing.

The bicycle, she knew, once invented, had revolutionised rural life in England, because for the first time a boy could travel five miles and court a girl in the next village, and this mobility had considerably minimised inbreeding and congenital deformities in isolated communities. If a simple bicycle could achieve so much, then surely a modern war would blow to pieces and scatter forever social conventions and traditions that had been respected since time immemorial. In her present mood, Judith decided that perhaps, at the end of the day, that wouldn't be a bad thing, but the immediate prospect of national mobilisation, bombs and gas attacks, was still pretty scary.

So what would happen to Phyllis and Anna?
They wouldn't allow me to stay here on my own. I'd go back to Mum's, I suppose.
Dispossessed. A married woman without the dignity of her own home, however humble.
Do you know what I want? Somewhere to live that's pretty, with flowers and a real bathroom.

If only there was something that could be done. If only there were some way of helping. But there wasn't. And even if there was, it would just be interfering. All Judith could do was keep in touch, return to Pendeen to visit as often as she could, and be around, if necessary, to pick up the pieces.

The church-tower clock was striking five as she drew in by the pavement outside Warren's Grocery. The shop was still open, and would stay so for another hour. Saturday evenings were often a busy time, as people popped in to buy last-minute provisions to see them through the empty Sabbath; a bit of extra bacon for breakfast, tinned peas and Birds Custard powder for the huge midday meal. This evening, however, as Judith went through the door, it seemed to be busier than usual, with half a dozen customers queuing to be served, and only Heather behind the counter, looking a bit flustered, but doing her best to hold the fort.

This in itself was surprising. Heather, though perfectly competent, seldom worked in the shop, and was only called in to lend a hand at times of crisis.

‘Did you say half a pound of sugar?’

‘No, a pound. And I don't want granulated, I want caster…’

‘Sorry…’ Turning to get the other bag down from the shelf, Heather caught sight of Judith and threw her eyes heavenwards, but whether this was a plea for help or a silent scream of exasperation, it was impossible to tell. She was clearly near the end of her patience.

‘Perhaps I'd better have a pound and a half.’

‘Well, make up your mind, Betty, for goodness' sake.’

Judith said, ‘Where's your father, Heather, and Ellie?’

Heather, pouring sugar into the scales, jerked her head. ‘Upstairs.’

‘Upstairs?’

‘In the kitchen. You'd better go.’

So Judith left her to her confusion, and wondering what on earth was going on, went through the back shop and up the store steps to the kitchen. Its door, always open, was, this evening, firmly closed. Through it she heard the sound of noisy sobs. She opened it and went in, and found both Warrens and Ellie sitting around the kitchen table. It was Ellie who wept, and from the look of her she had been at it for some time, for her face was bloated and swollen with tears, her dry blonde hair all awry, and in her hand she clutched a uselessly sodden handkerchief. Mrs Warren sat close to her while her husband faced the pair of them across the table, his arms crossed over his chest and his usually cheerful face dauntingly stony. Judith was filled with apprehension. She closed the door behind her. ‘What's happened?’

‘Ellie's had a bad time,’ Mrs Warren told her. ‘She's been telling us. You don't mind Judith knowing, do you, Ellie?’

Ellie, incoherent with sobs, wailed once more, but shook her head.

‘Now, stop crying if you can. It's all over.’

Judith, bewildered, pulled out a chair and joined the little group. ‘Has she had an accident or something?’

‘No, nothing like that, though bad enough.’ Mrs Warren laid her hand over Ellie's and held it tight. Judith waited, and Mrs Warren told her the dreadful story. Ellie had been in the cinema, watching Deanna Durbin. She'd meant to go with her friend Iris, but Iris had dropped out at the last moment, and so Ellie had gone alone. And half-way through the film a man had come in and taken the seat next to Ellie, and presently he had laid his hand on her knee, and pushed it right up her leg, and then she had seen…

At this point Ellie's mouth opened like a baby's, and she started to howl once more, the tears spurting from her eyes like rain-water from a gutter.

‘What did she see?’

But what Ellie had seen was, so far as Mrs Warren was concerned, unspeakable. She went very pink, averted her eyes, pursed her lips. Mr Warren, however, did not suffer from such delicate scruples. He was, clearly, beside himself with anger. ‘His fly buttons were open, the dirty bugger, and his thing sticking out…’

‘Gave Ellie the fright of her life. There, Ellie, there. Don't cry no more.’

‘…so she did the sensible thing. Got out and came here to us. Said she was too upset to go home. Hadn't the nerve to tell her mum.’

But this had all happened before. Young girls, even streetwise kids like Ellie, did not tell their mothers, nor their aunts. They were too ashamed; they did not have the words to explain. They simply fled, to hide in the ladies' lavatory, or to bolt, hysterically weeping, out into the street, desperate for some sort of sanctuary.

She said, knowing what the answer would be, ‘Did you speak to the manager of the cinema?’

Ellie, mopping her eyes with the wad of handkerchief, managed a few words through her sobs. ‘…No…couldn't…and who'd believe me?…say it was just a story…as if I could make up something…’ The prospect was clearly so dreadful that tears flowed anew.

‘But did you see the man's face?’ Judith persisted.

‘I didn't want to look.’

‘Have you any idea what age he was? Was it a young boy? Or…older?’

‘He wasn't young.’ Pathetically, Ellie made a real effort to pull herself together. ‘His hand was all bony. Feeling me. Right up my leg, under my skirt. And he smelt. His breath. Like whisky…’

Mrs Warren said, ‘I'm going to make a nice cup of tea,’ and got to her feet, to fetch the kettle and fill it under the tap.

For a moment, Judith sat silent. She thought of Edward. What was it he had said?
I think you need a catalyst of some sort. Don't ask me what, but something will happen and it will all work out.
A catalyst. A reason to fight back, to finish Billy Fawcett for good and finally to heal the trauma he had inflicted upon her all those years ago. Sitting at the Warrens' kitchen table, she had no doubt at all of the identity of poor Ellie's groper, except that now he was worse than just a harmless old groper, because not only had he groped, but exposed himself. The very thought gave her the shudders. No wonder poor Ellie was in such a state. As for herself, she had stopped feeling the slightest pity for Billy Fawcett, and anger was a great deal more healthy than useless compassion. A catalyst. A reason to fight back. Or could it be termed revenge? Either way, she didn't care. Only knew what had to be done, and that she was going to take the greatest pleasure in doing it.

She took a deep breath and said firmly, ‘We must tell the manager of the cinema. And then we must all go to the police and press charges.’

‘We don't know who he is,’ Mr Warren pointed out.

‘
I
know.’

‘How do you know? You weren't there.’

‘I know because I know him. And because he did the same thing to me when I was fourteen.’

‘Judith!’
Mrs Warren's voice, her expression, mirrored her unbelief and her shock. ‘He
didn't?
’

‘Yes, he did. He didn't actually expose himself, but I'm pretty certain that, sooner or later, that was on his agenda. He's called Colonel Fawcett. Billy Fawcett. He lives in Penmarron. And he's the most horrible person I've ever known in all my life.’