Coming Home (110 page)

The train was blissfully fuggy and overheated. She took off her coat and hat and flung them, with her bag, into the luggage rack, then settled into a corner by the grimy window. Her only other companion was a Commander, RNVR, already deep in his newspaper and clearly disinclined to chat. Judith, too, had bought a newspaper, a
Daily Telegraph,
but she let it lie on her lap and gazed through the dirty glass at the station, scarcely registering the damage or bomb-blast, because it had all become so familiar; a part of life. In her head, she made plans. Get to Waterloo. Get the tube to Sloane Square. Walk to Cadogan Mews. Unpack, and if there was time, change out of uniform and into plain clothes. Then, another tube to Piccadilly Circus…

It was then she became aware of an uncomfortable, dry tickle at the back of her throat, which was always the classic start to one of her miserable colds. As a child, she had not suffered from colds, but since joining the Wrens and living in such close proximity with so many other people, she had endured at least three, one of which had turned into influenza, necessitating a five-day sojourn in the Sick-Bay.

I shall ignore you,
she told the tickle, pushing out of her mind the memory of Sue Ford, coming off watch last night with a snivelling nose.
I shall take no notice of you, and you will go away. I've got two days' leave, and you're not going to ruin it for me.
She had aspirins in her wash-bag. She would dose herself with aspirin when she got to Cadogan Mews. That should see her through today, and tomorrow could look after itself.

She heard the guard coming down the platform, slamming shut the heavy doors, which meant that hopefully, soon, they would be on their way. And at that moment, she and the Commander RNVR were joined by a third person, a Royal Marine lieutenant in the full fig of his best uniform, and a long, very dashing, khaki greatcoat. He entered from the corridor.

‘Sorry. Is that seat taken?’

Which it clearly wasn't. The Commander RNVR scarcely acknowledged his presence, so Judith said, ‘No.’

‘Good show.’ He slid the door shut behind him, divested himself of cap and greatcoat, stowed them overhead, sagged at the knees in order to check on his appearance in the mirror, smoothed his hair with his hand, and finally dumped himself down opposite Judith.

‘Phew! Just made it.’

Her heart sank. She knew him. She didn't want to know him, but she knew him. Anthony Borden-Smythe. She had met him at the Junior Officers' Club in Southsea, where she had gone with Sue Ford and a couple of young sub-lieutenants. Anthony Borden-Smythe, on his own, had done his best to join their party, hanging about on the edge of the group in a most tiresome fashion, muscling in on conversation, and standing rounds of drinks with embarrassing generosity. But he had proved thick-skinned as a rhinoceros, survived badinage and even insult, and in the end Judith and Sue and their escorts were forced to call it a day and move on to The Silver Prawn.

Anthony Borden-Smythe. Sue called him Anthony Boring-Smith, and said he stemmed from the illustrious Boring family, and that his father had bored for England, and his grandfather had been the famous Olympic borer.

Unfortunately, he instantly recognised her.

‘Hello there! Gosh, what a stroke of luck.’

‘Hello.’

‘Judith Dunbar, isn't it? Thought so. Remember, we met at the JOC. Terrific party. Shame you had to leave.’

‘Yes.’

The train, at last, had started. But that made everything worse, because now she was trapped.

‘Going to town?’

‘To London, yes.’

‘Good show. Me too. Going to meet my mater for lunch. She's up from our place in the country for a few days.’ Judith looked at him with loathing, and tried to imagine his mater, and decided that she probably resembled a horse. Anthony looked a bit like a horse. A terribly thin horse, with enormous ears and a lot of teeth, and long, long, spindly legs. A small moustache bristled on his upper lip. The only attractive thing about him was his beautiful uniform.

‘Where are you stationed?’

She said, ‘HMS
Excellent.
’

‘Oh. Whaley. How do you get on with all those gaitered gunnery officers? Not many laughs there, I'll bet.’

Judith thought with love and loyalty of the taciturn Lieutenant-Commander Crombie. ‘Very well, thank you.’

‘Did my gunnery course there, of course. Never run so far in all my life. Where are you staying in London?’

Judith lied. ‘I have a house.’

His eyebrows raised. ‘Do you, by Jove?’ She did not elaborate on this, letting him imagine six storeys in Eaton Square. ‘I usually go to my club, but as my mater's in town, I'll probably shack up with her. Pembroke Gardens.’

‘How nice.’

‘You fixed for tonight? You wouldn't like to come to Quags with me? I'll give you a spot of dinner. We could dance. Go on to the Coconut Grove. They know me there. I can always get a table.’

She thought, I have never known, never met, any man as insufferable as you.

‘I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't.’

‘Previous engagement, eh?’

‘I'm meeting a friend.’

He smiled suggestively. ‘M or F?’

‘I'm sorry?’

‘Male or Female?’

‘A girl-friend.’

‘Terrific. I'll haul in another chap. Make it a foursome. Is she as pretty as you?’

Judith hesitated, trying to make up her mind how she should answer this. Various alternatives sprang to mind.

She's simply hideous.

She's perfectly beautiful, but unfortunately she's got a wooden leg.

She's a physical-training instructor, and she's married to a boxer.

But the truth was best. ‘She's a very highly powered and influential civil servant.’

It worked. Anthony Borden-Smythe actually looked slightly dashed. ‘God,’ he said. ‘Brains. Bit out of my league, I'm afraid.’

Having finally punctured his ego, Judith moved in for the kill. ‘Anyway, we couldn't have come to Quaglino's this evening. We're going to a lecture at the British Museum. Artifacts from the Ming Dynasty of China. Fascinating.’

From the other corner, from behind his newspaper, the Commander RNVR made a small snorting sound, which could have signified disapproval, or possibly amusement.

‘Gosh. Oh, well. Another time.’

But she had had enough. She unfolded her
Daily Telegraph,
and took refuge behind its pages. At once, her small moment of triumph at having finally silenced Boring-Smith was doused by the latest frightening developments in the Far East.

JAPANESE ADVANCE THREATENS SINGAPORE
was the headline, and it took certain courage to look at the sketch-maps and to read on.

Time is running out for the hard-pressed defenders of Malaya. With Kuala Lumpur in Japanese hands and its inhabitants in flight, the Japanese Fifth and Guards Divisions are pressing southwards to Jahore State, where the coming battle will decide the fate of Singapore…Indian Brigade defeated on the Muar River…Lieutenant General Percival's army forced to retreat towards Singapore.…

She was filled with apprehension. She thought of her parents and Jess, and prayed that by now they were somewhere else, had abandoned the lovely house in Orchard Road and gone. Left Singapore. Gone to Sumatra or Java. Anywhere. Somewhere safe. Jess was ten now, but Judith still thought of her as she had been when they said goodbye: four years old, and weeping and clinging to Golly. Oh God, she prayed, don't let anything happen to them. They are my family, they are mine, and they are so precious. Keep them safe. Let them be safe.

The train stopped at Petersfield. The Commander RNVR alighted, and was met on the platform by his wife. Nobody else got into the compartment. Anthony Borden-Smythe, snoring gently, had fallen asleep. Judith's throat was beginning to feel dreadfully sore. She folded the newspaper and laid it aside and sat looking out at the grey mid-winter day and the frozen fields of Hampshire, and hated the war for spoiling everything.

Diana's property in London, to which she always referred to as her little house, had been converted, just before the First World War, from two coachman's dwellings with stabling for horses beneath. The front door stood in the middle, with garage on one side, and kitchen on the other. A narrow steep staircase led straight to the upper floor, which was unexpectedly spacious. A long sitting-room (the venue for many memorable pre-war parties), a large bedroom, a bathroom, another lavatory, and a small bedroom, mostly used as a repository for suitcases, ironing board, and the few clothes that Diana had never bothered to move to Cornwall. It still, however, boasted a bed, and was useful for overflows.

There was no dining-room. This had bothered Diana not a jot, because when she was in London she dined out most of the time, except for rare evenings of solitude which she shared with Tommy Mortimer, eating supper off a tray and listening to beautiful music played on the radiogram.

Mrs Hickson, who in the old days had worked for Diana, housekeeping when she was in residence, and keeping an eye on the place when she wasn't, was now engaged in full-time war-work, as a tea-lady in the Forces Canteen at Paddington Station. But she lived in a block of council flats nearby, and two or three evenings a week popped in to the Mews to do a quick check-up. Mrs Carey-Lewis did not come to London now, and Mrs Hickson missed her company most dreadfully. But she had given keys of the Mews to a number of young service people outwith her own family, and Mrs Hickson could never be sure if she'd find Athena in residence, or some unknown young flying officer. Sometimes the only evidence of occupation was a few scraps of food in the fridge, or a bundle of sheets on the bathroom floor. In which case, she would tidy up, and remake the beds with clean linen, and take the used sheets home in a paper carrier-bag, to launder herself. She rather enjoyed these brief encounters, and there was nearly always five bob on the dressing-table, to be scooped into her pinafore pocket.

During the early months of 1940, when it had still been a phoney war, Edward Carey-Lewis was the most frequent visitor, usually bringing a friend with him, and using the Mews to entertain a number of dizzyingly pretty girls. Mrs Carey-Lewis had written herself to Mrs Hickson to tell her that Edward had been killed, and Mrs Hickson hadn't been able to stop crying for a whole day. In the end, her superviser at the Forces Canteen, rightly deciding that Mrs Hickson's tears were doing nothing for the fighting man's morale, had sent her home.

Miraculously, the little house had survived the blitz. At the height of the raids, a great bomb had dropped nearby, and Mrs Hickson had been filled with fear. But the only damage done had been a few cracks in the walls, and all the windows blasted in. Broken glass all over the floor and everything — furniture, china, glass, pictures, carpets and rugs — shrouded in a thick layer of brownish, grimy dust. It had taken her a week of evenings to get it cleaned up.

Judith took out her key, turned the latch and went inside, closing the front door behind her. On her right was the kitchen, and she glanced in, saw the fridge, empty and open, so went to close its door and turn on the switch. The fridge started to hum. Sometime, before the little corner shop closed, she would buy some rations to put in the fridge. But, for the moment, shopping would have to wait.

Humping her grip, she went up the steep stairs, which led directly into the sitting-room. There was no central heating and it felt a bit cold, but later, when she came back again, she would light the gas-fire and it would all warm up in moments. Beyond the sitting-room were the bedroom and the bathroom. The second bedroom and the lavatory were over the kitchen.