Coming Home (115 page)

Always, she had needed direction and support. In lieu of a husband to tell her what to do, and how she was to do it, she had turned to women stronger than herself. Aunt Louise, Biddy Somerville, and Phyllis. At Riverview, it had been Phyllis who had run the house, organised everything, dealt with tradesmen, whisked Jess out of earshot whenever the child indulged in one of her tantrums.

Her weakness and her gentle nature were not Molly's fault, simply the way she had been born. But that knowledge, now, made nothing better. In fact, worse. War, disaster, upheaval, discomfort, hunger, privation brought out the best in some women — steadfast courage, enterprise, and a sheer determination to survive. But Molly Dunbar was barren of such resources. She would be defeated. Go under. Destroyed.

‘No.’ Judith heard herself speak the word aloud, an anguished refutation of her own fears. As though it were possible to shut out images of despair, she turned and buried her face in the pillow, her body curled in the foetal position of an unborn child, still safe in its mother's womb. Presently, she heard Jeremy coming back from the kitchen, his footsteps on the narrow staircase, and then across the floor of the sitting-room.

His voice. ‘Did you call me?’

Still muffled in pillows, she shook her head.

‘I've brought you the magic pill. And a glass of water to chase it down.’

She did not move.

‘Judith.’ He sat on the edge of the bed beside her, and his weight pulled tight the blankets around her shoulders.

‘Judith.’

Furious with weeping, she flung herself onto her back and stared up at him with tear-sodden eyes. ‘I don't want pills,’ she told him. ‘I don't want anything. I just want to be with my mother.’

‘Oh, my darling.’

‘And you're just being a
doctor.
You're just being horribly professional.’

‘I don't mean to be.’

‘I hate myself for not being with her.’

‘You mustn't do that. Too many people love you. You'll be overwhelmed.’

And he was unfazed by her behaviour and so matter-of-fact, that her small spurt of anger died, and she was filled with contrition.

‘I'm sorry.’

‘Do you really feel rotten?’

‘I don't know how I feel.’

He said nothing to this. Just reached for the pill, which did indeed look like a very tiny bomb, and the tumbler of water. ‘Swallow this, and then we'll talk.’

She took it doubtfully. ‘Are you sure it won't knock me out?’

‘Quite sure. Just make you feel a great deal better and, later, sleep. It doesn't look very palatable, but if you wash it down in one enormous gulp, it shouldn't choke you. It takes a bit of time to start working, so get it down now.’

She sighed. ‘All right.’

‘Good girl.’

With an effort, Judith raised herself onto one elbow, put the pill in her mouth and chased it down with tinny-tasting London tap-water. Jeremy smiled approval. ‘Well done. You didn't even gag.’ He took the glass from her, and she sank gratefully back onto the pillows. ‘Did you want to try to go to sleep?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want to talk?’

‘It's so
stupid,
not to be able to stop
thinking.
I would like to be given a pill that would anaesthetise my brain.’

‘I'm sorry.’ And he really sounded sorry. ‘I haven't got one.’

‘So
stupid.
I'm twenty years old and I want my mother. I want to hold her and touch her and know she's safe.’

The tears, which, all evening, had never been far away, now filled her eyes again, and she felt too weak, and too lacking in any sort of pride, to try to control them. ‘I've been thinking about Riverview and living there with her and Jess…and how nothing much ever happened…but it was all so quiet and tranquil…and we were happy, I suppose. Undemanding. Nothing to make you feel you were being torn apart…The last time we were together…and already it's six years…a great chunk out of life…and now…I don't know…’ It was not possible to continue.

Jeremy said, sadly, ‘I know. Six years is far too long. I'm sorry.’

‘I don't know…I don't know anything. I just want a letter. Something. So that I know where they
are
…’

‘I understand.’

‘…so stupid…’

‘No. Not stupid. But you mustn't give up all hope. Sometimes no news is good news. Who knows, even now they may be away from Singapore…perhaps en route to India or someplace safer. Communications at a time like this are bound to fall apart. Try not to be too despondent.’

‘You're just saying that. Jollying me along…’

‘This is no time for jollying. Or cheering up. Just trying to be sensible. Keep a sense of proportion.’

‘Suppose it was
your
mother and father…’

‘I'd be distracted, at my wit's end with anxiety. But I think I'd do my best to try not to give up hope.’

Judith thought about this for a bit. Then she said, ‘Your mother isn't like my mother.’

‘Now, what do you mean by that?’

‘I mean, she's different.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I met her, at Aunt Lavinia's funeral. We talked for a bit, at the tea-party afterwards. And she's strong and sensible, and practical. I could just see her, calming frantic patients over the telephone, and never getting important messages wrong.’

‘You're very perceptive.’

‘My mother isn't like that. You only met her that once, in the train, and we didn't even know each other then. She isn't strong. She has no confidence, she's never been sure of herself. She's nervous of what others think, and useless at taking care of herself. Aunt Louise was forever telling her she was a fool, and she never stood up for herself, nor did anything to prove that she wasn't.’

‘What are you trying to tell me?’

‘That I fear for her.’

‘She's not alone. She has your father. She has Jess.’

‘Jess is only a little girl. She won't be able to make decisions for my mother.’

‘Jess is ten years old. Not a baby any longer. Some small girls often can be quite formidable characters. Full of ideas, and beadily determined to get their own way. Whatever happens, and wherever they end up, I am certain that Jess will prove a source of infallible support.’

‘How can we
know
…’ The tears returned, streaming down her cheeks, and Judith fumbled for the edge of the sheet and tried to wipe them away, in a manner so pathetically incompetent that Jeremy could scarcely bear it. He got up off the bed and went into the bathroom, and wrung out a face flannel in cold water, and found a towel and went back to her side.

‘Here.’ He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face and wiped it gently clean, and then gave her the towel, into which she lustily blew her nose.

‘I don't usually cry like this,’ she told him. ‘The last time I cried was when Edward was killed, but that was different. That was the end of something. Definite, and horribly finished. I feel this time as though it's all the beginning of something infinitely worse.’ She took a long sobbing breath. ‘I wasn't frightened then.’

And she sounded so despairing that Jeremy did what he had been longing to do all evening. He lay beside her, took her into his arms, drew her near to him, enfolding her in the comfort of closeness. She lay passive, grateful, but one hand came up to touch the thick wool of his sweater, and her fingers closed upon it and held it tight, and he was reminded of a nursing baby clinging to its mother's shawl.

He said, ‘You know, when I was a small boy and despairing about something or other, my mother used to comfort me by saying “This will pass. One day you will look back and it will all be over.”’

‘Did that make things any better?’

‘Not much. But it helped.’

‘I can't imagine you as a small boy. I've only known you grown up. How old are you, Jeremy?’

‘Thirty-four.’

‘If it wasn't for the war, I suppose you'd be married and have a family…that's funny to think about, isn't it?’

‘Hysterical. But I think not very likely.’

‘Why not?’

‘Too occupied with medicine. Too busy to go chasing girls. Usually chronically short of cash.’

‘You should specialise. Become a surgeon, a gynaecologist or something. Harley Street, and a brass plate on the door. Mr Jeremy Wells, FRCS. And there would be a queue, all down the street, of rich and pregnant ladies mad for your attentions.’

‘What a pretty thought.’

‘Doesn't it appeal to you?’

‘Not really my style.’

‘What is your style?’

‘My father's, I think. A country GP with a dog in the car.’

‘Really reassuring.’

She was beginning to sound more herself again, but her fingers, white-knuckled, were still fastened to the wool of his sweater.

‘Jeremy.’

‘What is it?’

‘When you were clinging to that Carley float in the middle of the Atlantic, what did you think about?’

‘Staying afloat. Staying alive.’

‘Didn't you remember things? Lovely things? Lovely places? Good times?’

‘I tried to.’

‘What in particular?’

‘I don't know.’

‘You
must
know.’

It was clearly important to her, and so, Jeremy, endeavouring to ignore the physical arousal of his own body, engendered by her closeness and her clear need of him, made an enormous effort of will, and dredged out of his subconscious the first ill-assorted recollections that came to mind.

‘Autumn Sundays in Truro, and the bells of the cathedral ringing out for Evensong. And walking on the cliffs of the Nare, with the sea blue as glass, and all the wild flowers filling the ditches.’ And now there were others, memories crowding in, images and sounds that still, in retrospect, had the power to fill him with delight. ‘Being at Nancherrow, I suppose. Early-morning swims with Edward, and walking back up the garden knowing that we were going to eat the most tremendous breakfast. Playing fly-half for Cornwall for the first time, at Twickenham, and scoring two tries. Shooting pheasants in the Roseland thickets on frosty December mornings, waiting for the birds, and the dogs wheeking, and the bare trees like lace against a very pale winter sky. Music. “Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring”, and knowing that you had come back to Nancherrow.’

‘Music's good, isn't it? Constant. It lifts you up into the air. Away from the world.’

‘That's me. It's your turn now.’

‘I can't think. I'm too tired.’

‘Just one,’ he coaxed.

She sighed. ‘All right. My house. My own house. My home. It's still Aunt Lavinia's, because she's left so much of herself behind, but it's mine now. And the way it feels, and the clock ticking in the hall, and the view of the sea, and the pines. And knowing that Phyllis is there. And that I can go back whenever I want. Go home. And one day never leave it again.’

He smiled. ‘You hang on to that,’ he told her. She closed her eyes. He looked down at her face and saw the long lashes, dark against the pale cheeks; the shape of her mouth, the pure curve of jaw-bone and chin. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. ‘You're tired, and I've got an early start. I think we should call it a day.’ At once, her eyes flew open in alarm, and her grip on his sweater tightened. Jeremy, telling himself to be resolute, began to ease away. ‘I'll leave you to sleep.’

But she became instantly agitated. ‘You mustn't go. Please. Don't leave me. I want you to be with me.’

‘Judith…’

‘No, don't go…’ And she added, as though he needed any encouragement, ‘It's a double bed. There's masses of space. I'll be all right if you stay. Please.’

Torn between desire and his own inbred good sense, Jeremy hesitated. Eventually, ‘Is that a good idea?’ he asked her.

‘Why shouldn't it be?’

‘Because if I spend the night with you, I shall, in all probability, make love to you.’

She was neither shocked, nor seemed particularly surprised. ‘That doesn't matter.’

‘What do you mean, it doesn't
matter?
’

‘I mean, if you want to, I would like you to make love to me.’

‘Do you know what you're saying?’

‘I think I would like it very much.’ Suddenly she smiled. He had scarcely seen her smile all evening, and he felt his heart turn over and, at the same time, his inbred good sense drain away, like bath-water down a plug-hole. ‘It's all right, Jeremy. It won't be the first time.’

He said, ‘Edward.’

‘Of course Edward.’

‘If I make love to you, will you think of Edward?’

‘No.’ Her voice was very firm. ‘No. I won't think of Edward. I will think of you. Here. In London. Here, when I really needed you. I still need you. I don't want you to leave me. I want you to hold me, and make me feel safe.’

‘I can't make love to you with all my clothes on.’

‘Then go and take them off.’

‘I can't. You've got hold of my sweater.’

She smiled again. Her hold on him loosened, but still he did not move.