Coming Home (92 page)

Upper Bickley,

October 25th, 1939.

Dear Colonel Carey-Lewis,

Thank you so much for your very kind letter about Ned. It has been the most shattering time, but Biddy is grateful for letters and reads them all. But really isn't able to answer them herself.

After the
Royal Oak
was sunk, Uncle Bob was not able to come at once to be with her, on account of being in Scapa Flow, and the crisis of the attack and its aftermath. But he got home last week for a couple of days; it was really terrible, because he was trying to comfort Biddy, and feeling all the time just as lost and bereft as she does. Now he's gone back to Scapa Flow, and we're on our own again.

I am staying here over the winter. When the spring comes, I'll think again, but I can't leave Biddy on her own until she has got over her grieving. She has a dog called Morag which Ned gave to her, but I am not sure whether she is a comfort to Biddy or a sad reminder. My own sadness is that none of you ever met Ned, nor got to know him. He was such a special person and so dear.

Please send my love to everybody, and thank you again for your letter.

Always,

Judith

Nancherrow,

1st November, 1939.

Darling Judith,

We were all so terribly sad about your Cousin Ned being killed. I thought of you for days and wished I could be with you. Mummy says that if you want to bring your Aunt Biddy down for a few days, just for a break, she would love to have you both to stay. But on the other hand, at the moment, she may just prefer to stay in her own house and her own surroundings.

Pops says that the German submarine getting into Scapa Flow was an epic piece of seamanship, but I can't think of one single nice thing to say about Germans and think he is being very magnanimous.

If I give you some news you mustn't think that I think what is happening here is more important than Ned being killed.

First is that Athena is home, and is going to have a baby. Rupert has gone overseas with his regiment and their horses, and the Caledonian Hotel, without him, lost its charms, so she came home. I think he has gone back to Palestine.

The baby comes in July.

Gus is in France with the Highland Division and the British Expeditionary Force. I write to him a lot and get a letter at least once a week. He sent me the photo of him in his kilt and he looks absolutely gorgeous.

I saw Heather Warren the other day in Penzance. She's doing shorthand and typing in Porthkerris and she's going to try to get into the Foreign Office or some sort of Civil Service job. She said to tell you she'd write to you when she had a moment, and to say that Charlie Lanyon is in the DCLI, and he's gone to France too. I don't know who Charlie Lanyon is, but she said that you would know. And Joe Warren's joined the DCLI as well, but Paddy is still fishing.

Edward doesn't write but he rings up every now and then, and we have to talk very quickly because he's only allowed three minutes and then the phone goes
ping
and it's all over. He seems to be enjoying himself, and he's got one of the new planes which are called Spitfires. It would be lovely if he got home for Christmas, but I don't suppose he will.

The hens have come and are all fenced in on the back lawn and creating havoc. They have little wooden houses with nesting boxes and doors that shut at night to keep naughty Mr Fox out. They haven't started laying yet, but once they do I expect we shall live on eggs.

It's getting dreadfully chilly. Pops is being strict about the central heating and the dust-sheets have all gone over the drawing-room furniture and the chandelier is all tied up in a bag to stop it getting dusty. It looks a bit bleak, but the small sitting-room is much cosier.

Mr Nettlebed has become an air raid warden. This means that if he forgets to do the black-out, or a chink of light shows, then he has to charge himself with negligence and take himself to court to be fined. Ha ha.

The other unexpected air raid warden is Tommy Mortimer, but of course he's in London. He couldn't join up because of his age and his flat feet (didn't know he had them), so he's gone into Civil Defence. He came down for a weekend and told us all about it. He says if there are bombing raids he has to stand on the roof of Mortimer's in Regent Street with a bucket of water and a stirrup-pump. If Mortimer's gets bombed, do you suppose there will be diamond rings all over the pavement?

Mummy's okay. Loves having Athena here. They giggle away over
Vogue,
just like they always did, and are trying to knit baby clothes.

Lots of love. Come and stay if you want. Kisses,

Loveday

Upper Bickley,

Saturday 30th December.

Dear Mummy and Dad,

It's nearly the end of the year, and I'm glad it's over. Thank you so much for my Christmas present, which came at the beginning of the month, but which I saved up till Christmas Day to open. It is the most lovely handbag, and just what I needed. I loved the length of silk as well, and shall have it made up into an evening skirt when I can find someone who can do it really professionally. It is the most gorgeous colour. And please thank Jess for her home-made calendar; tell her the monkeys and the elephants were really well drawn.

It has suddenly got bitterly cold, and there is snow all over Dartmoor and down the road, and blue shadows everywhere, and the roofs of all the houses have got thick hats of snow and Bovey Tracey looks a bit like the pictures of
The Tailor of Gloucester.
Each morning we give hay to the Dartmoor ponies that come down off the hill to shelter from the wind behind the wall, and taking Morag for a walk is a bit like trudging off to the South Pole. The house isn't much warmer
—
not quite as cold as Keyham but just about. I'm sitting in the kitchen writing this because it's the warmest place in the house. Wearing two jerseys.

Uncle Bob got home for four days over Christmas but has gone again now. I really dreaded Christmas without Ned, but Hester Lang came to our rescue and asked us out for lunch, and we didn't have a tree or tinsel or anything, tried to treat it just like an ordinary day. Hester had a nice couple staying from London, quite elderly but very cultured and interesting, and the talk over lunch was not about the war, but things like art galleries and travelling in the Middle East. I think he was an archaeologist.

Here Judith paused and laid down her pen and blew on her cramped and chilled fingers, and wondered if she could be bothered to make a pot of tea. It was nearly four o'clock, and Biddy and Morag were not yet home from their walk. Beyond the kitchen window, the darkening garden sloped up onto the moor, and all was frozen and white with snow. The only green to be seen were the dark branches of the pines, restless in the east wind, blowing up from the sea. The single sign of life was a robin, pecking nuts from the bag which Judith had hung from the bird table.

She looked at the robin and thought about this sad, grey Christmas, which, somehow or other, and with Hester's help, they had managed to survive. And then, allowing herself the luxury of a wallow in nostalgia, remembered last Christmas, and Nancherrow, with all the lovely house filled with guests, and light and laughter everywhere. Sparkling decorations, and the sprucey smell of the Christmas tree, with presents piled beneath its spreading branches.

And sounds. Christmas carols sung at morning service in Rosemullion Church; pots clattering from Mrs Nettlebed's kitchen as she prepared enormous quantities of delicious food; Strauss waltzes.

She remembered dressing for dinner, in her own pretty pink bedroom, dizzy with excitement; the scent of make-up and the silken sensation of her first delectable grown-up evening dress slipping over her head. And then, going through the open drawing-room door, and Edward coming to take her hand, to tell her, ‘We're drinking champagne.’

A year ago, only a year. But, already another time, another world. She sighed and reached for her pen, and went on with her letter.

Biddy is all right, but still not able to cope with anything very much. It is really difficult because I am still spending the mornings with Hester Lang, doing shorthand and typing, but often Biddy isn't out of bed by the time I've left the house. Mrs Dagg comes, of course, so she isn't alone, but it's a bit as though Biddy has lost all interest in everything. She doesn't want to do anything, or see anybody. Friends ring her up, but she won't even go and play bridge, and she doesn't really like it if kindly friends drop in.

The only person who refuses to be put off is Hester Lang, and I think she will be the one to ease Biddy back into her circle of friends
—
I don't know how we would have managed without her. She is so wise and kind. She comes up to Upper Bickley most days, on some excuse or other, and I think next week is planning a bridge party, and insisting that Biddy goes. It really is time she began to see people again. At the moment she's out with Morag, and when she comes back I shall make a cup of tea.

She doesn't talk about Ned, and I don't either because I don't think she is able to yet. It will be better when she gets interested in Red Cross work or something. She is too energetic a person to be doing nothing for the war effort.

I hope all this doesn't depress you, it's no good telling you that Biddy is fine, because she isn't. But I am sure very soon she will be better. Whatever, I am staying with her for the time being, and we get on terribly well, so you mustn't be worried about either of us.

The day after tomorrow, it will be New Year's Day, 1940. I miss you all dreadfully, and sometimes wish I were with you all, but with all that has happened, I know I made the right decision. How worried we would all have been to think of Biddy on her own.

Must stop, because I'm frozen. I shall go and hurl logs on the sitting-room fire and draw the black-out and work up a fug. Biddy and Morag are back, I can see them coming up the path from the gate. We had to dig snow away and cover the path with cinders from the boiler, so that the poor postman (who walks everywhere) could deliver the letters without breaking his leg.

Lots of love to you all. I'll write NEXT YEAR.

Judith