Coming Home (113 page)

‘Do you want me to come with you? See you off?’

Abruptly, ‘No,’ said Heather. And then she added, ‘Not with that cold. You mustn't go out again tonight. You ought to be in bed.’ But Judith got the feeling that even if she'd been in the rudest of health, Heather wouldn't have wanted her to go to Euston, because she didn't want Judith to know even the direction in which she was going to travel. It was all so secret as to be quite alarming. Judith simply hoped that her friend was not training to be a spy, because she could not bear the thought of her being darkly dropped from an aeroplane into dangerous enemy territory.

There were still masses they hadn't talked about, but, too soon, it was time for Heather to leave.

‘So early?’

‘I daren't risk missing that train, because that's the only one that has a car to meet it.’ Judith imagined some remote country station, the official car patiently waiting, the subsequent drive through miles of winding lanes. And then, arrival. Locked and electrically operated gates, high barbed-wire fences, prowling guard-dogs. Beyond, long avenues leading to the looming bulk of some great country house or Victorian castle. She could almost hear owls hooting.

For some reason, the image made her shiver, a frisson of distaste, and she was grateful for her open, humdrum job, running messages for Lieutenant Commander Crombie, taking telephone calls and doing his typing. At least she wasn't locked up in secrecy. And at least she didn't have to work on Sundays.

Heather was getting ready to go. Zipping on her boots again (they'd dried, more or less, in front of the fire), buttoning herself into her lovely scarlet coat, and then tying a Jacqmar silk scarf over her raven-black hair.

She said, ‘It's been great. A wonderful day.’

‘Thank you for the concert. I adored every moment.’

‘We must try to meet again. Not wait for so long this time. Don't come down the stairs. I'll see myself out.’

‘I still feel I should come with you.’

‘Don't be silly. Have a hot bath. Get to bed.’ She kissed Judith. And then suddenly said, ‘I don't want to leave you. I don't like to leave you.’

‘I'm all right.’

‘Keep in touch. About your mum and dad and Jess, I mean. I'll be thinking of you. Let me know if you have news.’

‘I will. I promise.’

‘You've got my address? Box number and everything. It's a bit obscure but letters eventually reach me.’

‘I'll write. Let you know.’

‘Goodbye, love.’

‘Goodbye.’

A quick hug and a kiss, and she was gone. Down the stairs and out of the door. The door slammed shut. Her footsteps faded as she hurried away down the length of the Mews. She was gone.

Now, no sound but the dripping rain, and the distant hum of sparse traffic making its way down Sloane Street. Judith hoped that there would not be an air raid, but decided that there probably wouldn't, because the weather was so foul. Bombers liked a clear night and a moon. It seemed a bit flat without Heather's company, so she put some Elgar on the radiogram. The first deep chords of a cello concerto stole into the room, and warmed by this, she stopped feeling abandoned. Judith took the tea-tray, carried it downstairs, washed up the few bits of china, and set them to dry on the draining-board. Putting the kettle on to boil, she found a rubber hot-water bottle, filled it, went upstairs again, turned down the bed, and put the hot-water bottle between the sheets. Then she took another couple of aspirin (by now she was feeling really lousy), drew a deep scalding bath, and soaked in scented steam for nearly an hour. Dried, she put on her night-gown, and then the Shetland sweater. By now, the Elgar was finished, so she switched off the radiogram, but left the fire burning, and the bedroom door open, so that its warmth would permeate. Then she found an old back number of
Vogue
and climbed into bed. She lay back on the soft pillows, flipped through the glossy pages for a moment or two, and then succumbed to exhaustion and closed her eyes. Almost at once, or so it seemed, she opened them again.

A sound. Her heart thudded in alarm. Downstairs. The click of a latchkey. The front door opening, and softly, being closed.

An intruder. Some person had come into the house. Petrified with terror, for an instant she lay rigid, unable to move; and then flung herself out of the bed and ran through the open door, across the sitting-room to the head of the stairs, determined that if the newcomer was foe rather than friend, to bash him over the head as he mounted, with any heavy object that came to hand.

He was half-way up already, muffled in a heavy overcoat, gold lace gleaming on epaulettes, his cap sprinkled with raindrops. He carried, in one hand, an overnight grip, and in the other a sturdy canvas sailing-bag with rope handles.

Jeremy. She saw him and felt her legs go weak with relief, and had to cling, for support, to the banisters. Not an intruder, breaking in, intent on theft, rape, or murder. Instead, the one person — had she been given the choice — she would have really wanted it to be.

‘Jeremy.’

He paused, and looked up, his face shadowed by the peak of his cap, and gaunt in the unflattering overhead light of the stairwell.

‘Good God, it's Judith.’

‘Who did you think it might be?’

‘No idea. But I knew the place was occupied as soon as I opened the door, because of the lights being on.’

‘I thought you were at sea. What are you doing here?’

‘I could ask the same question.’ He came up on the stair, dumped his luggage, removed his sodden cap, and stooped to kiss her cheek. ‘And why are you receiving gentlemen in your night-gown?’

‘I was in bed, of course.’

‘Alone, I trust.’

‘I've got a cold, if you must know. I'm feeling rotten.’

‘Then get back into bed, right away.’

‘No. I want to talk to you. Are you going to stay the night?’

‘I'd planned to.’

‘And now I've bagged the bedroom.’

‘No matter. I'll go in with the ironing board and Diana's clothes. I've slept there before.’

‘How long are you staying?’

‘Just till morning.’ He placed his cap on the top of the newel-post, and began to unbutton his greatcoat. ‘I've got to catch a train at seven
A.M.
’

‘So where have you
come
from? Right now, I mean.’

‘Truro.’ He shrugged himself out of the heavy greatcoat and draped it over the banister rail. ‘I had a couple of days' leave, and went to Cornwall to spend them with my parents.’

‘I haven't seen you for ages. Years.’ She could not remember how long.

But Jeremy did. ‘Since I came to say goodbye to you at The Dower House.’

‘It seems like another life.’ She suddenly thought of something really serious. ‘There's nothing to eat here. Just a loaf of bread and a rasher of bacon. Are you starving? The corner shop will be closed, but…’

He was laughing at her. ‘But what?’

‘You could always take yourself out for a meal. The Royal Court Hotel perhaps?’

‘That would be no fun at all.’

‘If I'd known you were coming…’

‘I know, you'd have baked a cake. Don't worry. I have used my foresight. My mother helped me pack a little nosebag.’ He gave the canvas sailing-bag a kick. ‘This is it.’

Judith peered down into it, and saw the gleam of a bottle. ‘At least you've got your priorities right.’

‘There was no need for me to lug it up the stairs. It weighs a ton. I'd have dumped it in the kitchen, only when I saw the lights, my first thought was to find out who was here.’

‘Who could it have been, but me? Or Athena. Or Loveday. Rupert's in the desert, and Gus is in the Far East.’

‘Ah, but there are others. Nancherrow's become a home-from-home, a sort of non-stop canteen for young service officers. They come from Culdrose and the Royal Marine Training Camp at Bran Tor. Anyone special, whom Diana takes a shine to, she presents them with a key.’

‘I never knew that.’

‘So the club is no longer so exclusive. Do you come here often?’

‘Not very. Weekends, sometimes.’

‘And this is one of them?’

‘Yes. But I have to get back to Portsmouth tomorrow.’

‘I wish I could stay. I could take you out for lunch.’

‘But you can't.’

‘No. I can't. Do you want a drink?’

‘There's nothing in the cupboard.’

‘But ample in my ditty-bag.’ He stooped and heaved it up, and it clanked a bit and looked enormously heavy. ‘Come on, and I'll show you.’

He led the way downstairs again, and they went into the little kitchen, and he dumped the bag on the table and commenced to unload it. The brown linoleum felt chilly under bare feet, so Judith sat on the other end of the table, and it was a bit like watching somebody open a Christmas stocking. One had absolutely no idea what goody was coming out next. A bottle of Black and White whisky. A bottle of Gordon's gin. Two lemons. An orange. Three packets of potato crisps and a pound of farm butter. A slab of Terry's dark chocolate, and, last of all, a sinister blood-stained parcel, the outer wrapping of which was newspaper.

‘What's in there?’ Judith asked. ‘A severed head?’

‘Steaks.’ He spelled it out. ‘
S-T-E-A-K-S.’

‘Where did you get steaks from? And farm butter? Your mother isn't dabbling in the Black Market, is she?’

‘Grateful patients. Is the fridge on?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. Any ice?’

‘I expect so.’

He opened the fridge and laid the butter and the bloody parcel alongside the tiny meagre rations which Judith had already placed there, then removed a tray of ice-cubes. ‘What do you want to drink? A whisky would do that cold good. Whisky and soda?’

‘There's no soda.’

‘Want a bet?’

He found it, of course, a siphon stowed away in an obscure cupboard. From another cupboard, he took glasses, then manhandled ice-cubes out of their tray, poured the whisky, squirted in the soda. The drinks fizzed deliciously, and he handed Judith one of the tall tumblers.

‘I looks towards you.’

She smiled. ‘And I raises my glass.’

They drank. Visibly, Jeremy relaxed, letting out a satisfied sigh. ‘I needed that.’

‘It's good. I don't usually drink whisky.’

‘There's a time for everything. It's cold down here. Let's go upstairs.’

So they went, Judith leading the way, and made themselves comfortable by the fire, Jeremy settling himself in one of the armchairs and Judith curled up on the hearthrug, close to the warmth. She said, ‘Heather Warren was here today. We made toast for tea. That's why I came up from Portsmouth. To see her. We had lunch together and then went to a concert, but she had to catch a train and go back to her secret Department.’

‘Where was your concert?’

‘The Albert Hall. William Walton and Rachmaninoff. Heather was given the tickets. But, please, tell me about you. What's been happening?’

‘Routine stuff.’

‘You've had leave.’

‘No, not really. I had to come to London to see their Lordships at the Admiralty. I'm getting promotion. Surgeon-Commander.’

‘Oh, Jeremy…’ She was delighted and impressed. ‘Well done. You'll get your brass hat.’

‘It's not official yet, so don't go ringing people up and telling them.’

‘But you told your mother?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘What else?’

‘I'm joining a new ship. A cruiser, HMS
Sutherland?
’

‘Still in the Atlantic?’ He shrugged. He was being cagey. ‘Perhaps they'll send you to the Mediterranean. It's about time you got a bit of sun.’

He said, ‘Have you heard from your family?’

‘Not since the beginning of the month. I don't know why. Except that the news is so ghastly.’

‘Are they still in Singapore?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘A lot of women and children have left already.’

‘I haven't heard.’

He looked at his watch. ‘It's a quarter past eight. We'll listen to the “Nine O'Clock News”.’

‘I don't know if I want to.’

‘It's better to know the truth than to imagine the worst.’

‘At the moment, one seems as bad as the other. And it's all happened so quickly. Before, when things were really bad, like Dunkirk time, and in Portsmouth during the bombing, I used to comfort myself by knowing that at least
they
were safe. Mummy and Dad and Jess, I mean. And when we were all queuing for rations and eating horrible scrag ends of meat, that
they
were all right, with lovely food and being looked after by masses of servants, and meeting their friends at the club. And then the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, and all at once none of it's true any longer, and they are in much greater danger than I have ever been. I wish now that I'd gone to Singapore, when I was meant to. Then, at least, we'd all be together. But being so far away, and no news…’

To her horror, her voice had started to shake. No point in trying to say any more, perhaps breaking down in useless tears. She took another sip of her whisky, and stared into the hot bluish flames of the gas-fire.