Coming Home (12 page)

She turned from the window, sat at her dressing-table, and took from one of the drawers the bulky manila envelope which contained the St Ursula's clothes list, and a positive plethora of instructions for parents:

The Easter term commences on the fifteenth of January. Boarders are asked to arrive no later than 2:30
P.M
on the afternoon of that day. Please make certain that your daughter's Health Certificate has been signed. Miss Catto's secretary will meet you in the Front Hall, and show you and your daughter to her dormitory. If you wish, Miss Catto will be pleased to offer any parent tea in her study from 3:30
P.M.
onwards. Boarders are forbidden to bring any sweets or food into their dormitories. The ration of sweets is two pounds a term, and these should be handed over to Matron,
PLEASE
be certain that all boots and shoes are clearly marked with your daughter's name…[And so on and so on.]

The rules and regulations, it seemed, were as strict for parents as they were for the poor children. She picked up the clothes list and glanced through that. Three pages of it.
‘Items starred can be purchased at the authorised shop, Medways, Drapers and Outfitters, Penzance.’
Almost everything seemed to be starred. Regulation this, regulation that. Oh, well, if they could buy everything in one shop, then the whole performance wouldn't take so long. And it had to be done.

She put it all back into the envelope and went in search of Jess.

Over breakfast, she spooned boiled egg into Jess's mouth (one for Daddy, and one for Golly) and broke the news that she was to be abandoned for the day.

Jess said, ‘I don't want to.’

‘Of course you do; you'll have a lovely time with Phyllis.’

‘Don't want to…’ Her bottom lip stuck out like a shelf.

‘And you and Phyllis can take Golly for a walk, and buy fruit gums from Mrs Berry…’

‘You're bribing,’ Judith told her from the other side of the table.

‘Anything's better than a scene…’

‘Don't want to.’

‘It doesn't seem to be working.’

‘But, Jess, you love fruit gums…’

‘Don't
WANT
to…’ Tears poured down Jess's face, and her mouth went square. She howled. Judith said, ‘Oh, Lord, now she's off…’ But just then Phyllis came in with some hot toast in a rack, and when she had put it on the table, she simply said, ‘What's all this, then,’ and scooped the howling Jess up into her arms, bore her firmly out of the room, and closed the door behind her. By the time she reached the kitchen, the wails had already started to subside.

‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Judith. ‘Now we can finish our breakfast in peace. And you're not to go and say goodbye to her, Mummy, otherwise she'll start up all over again.’

Which, Molly had to admit to herself, was perfectly true. Drinking coffee, she looked at Judith, who, this morning, had come downstairs with her hair done in a new way, tied back from her face with a navy-blue ribbon. Molly was not sure if the style suited her. It made her look quite different, not a little girl any longer, and her ears, now revealed, had never been her most attractive feature. But she said nothing, and knew that Biddy would approve of her tactful silence.

Instead, she said, ‘I think we'd better start out as soon as we've finished breakfast. Otherwise we're going to run out of time. You should just see the length of the clothes list! And then it's all got to be marked with name-tapes. Just think of all that tedious stitching. Perhaps Phyllis will help me.’

‘Why don't we use the sewing machine?’

‘That's a brilliant idea. Much quicker and neater. I never thought of that.’

Half an hour later, they were ready to go. Molly armed herself with lists, instructions, handbag and cheque-book, and dressed prudently — because one never knew — for rain, in sensible shoes, and her Burberry and her dark-red Henry Heath hat. Judith wore her old navy-blue raincoat and a tartan scarf. The raincoat was too short and her long, thin legs seemed endless.

‘Now have you
got
everything?’ she asked.

‘I think so.’

They paused to listen, but from the kitchen came only contented sounds, Jess's piping voice in conversation with Phyllis, who was probably stirring a custard, or sweeping the floor. ‘We mustn't make a cheep, or she'll want to come with us.’ So they let themselves creepingly out of the front door and tiptoed over the gravel towards the wooden shed which was the garage. Judith opened the doors and Molly climbed gingerly in, behind the wheel of the little Austin Seven, and after one or two false starts managed to get the engine running, jam the gear-stick into reverse and back jerkily out. Judith got in beside her, and they set off. It took a moment or two for Molly to get her nerve up, and they had passed through the village and were well on their way before she finally achieved top gear and a speed of thirty miles an hour.

‘I can't think why you're so frightened of driving. You do it very well.’

‘It's because I haven't had much practice. In Colombo we always had a driver.’

They trundled on, and then ran into a bit of mist, so it was necessary to turn on the windscreen wipers, but there were very few cars on the road (just as well, Judith told herself), and Molly began to relax a little. At one moment a horse pulling a cartful of turnips loomed out of the drizzle ahead of them, but she managed to deal with this emergency, tooting her horn, putting on a little speed, and overtaking the creaking vehicle.

‘Brilliant,’ said Judith.

Before long, the mist disappeared as swiftly as it had fallen, and the other sea came into view, a pearly blue in the thin morning sunshine, and they saw the great sweep of Mounts Bay, and St Michael's Mount like a fairy-tale castle on top of its rock. The tide was in, and so it was isolated by water. Then the road ran on between the railway line and the gentle slopes of farmland, small fields green with broccoli, and the town lay ahead, and the harbour busy with fishing boats. They passed by hotels closed for the winter, and the railway station, and then Market Jew Street sloped up ahead of them, to the statue of Humphrey Davy with his miner's safety lamp, and the tall dome of the Lloyds Bank Building.

They parked the car in the Greenmarket by the fruit-and-vegetable shop. Outside its door stood tin buckets crammed with the first fragile bunches of early daffodils, and from within wafted smells of earth and leeks and parsnips. The pavements were busy with shoppers, country women laden with heavy baskets, standing in little groups exchanging gossip.

‘Lovely now, isn't it?’

‘How's Stanley's leg?’

‘Blown up like a balloon.’

It would have been nice to linger, to listen in, but Molly was already on her way, not wanting to waste a moment, crossing the street and heading for Medways. Judith followed her, running to catch up.

It was an old-fashioned, sombre shop, with plate-glass windows displaying outdoor wear, tweeds, woollens, hats and raincoats for both ladies and gentlemen. Inside all was fitted in dark wood, and smelt of paraffin heaters, rubber waterproofs, and fusty assistants. One of these, who looked as though his head had been attached to his body by his high, throttling collar, came respectfully forward.

‘May I be of assistance, madam?’

‘Oh, thank you. We have to buy uniform, for St Ursula's.’

‘First floor, madam. If you'd like to take the stairs.’

‘Where does he want us to take the stairs
to?
’ Judith hissed as they ascended.

‘Be quiet, he'll hear you.’

The staircase was wide and stately and had a portentous banister with a polished mahogany rail that would be perfect, under different circumstances, for sliding down. The children's department took up the whole of the first floor and was spacious, with a long, polished counter on either side and tall windows facing out over the street. This time it was a lady assistant who approached them. She wore a sad black dress and was quite elderly, and she walked as though her feet hurt, which they probably did, after years of standing.

‘Good morning, madam. Want some help, do you?’

‘Yes, we do.’ Molly fished in her bag for the clothes list. ‘The St Ursula's uniform. For my daughter.’

‘That's lovely, isn't it? Going to St Ursula's are you? What are you needing?’

‘Everything.’

‘That'll take some time.’ So two bentwood chairs were produced and arranged in place, and Molly, drawing off her gloves, found her fountain pen and settled down to the enormous shop.

‘Where would you like to begin, madam?’

‘At the top of the list, I think. One green tweed overcoat.’

‘Lovely material, the overcoats are. And I'll bring the coat and skirt as well. For Sundays, they are. For going to church…’

Judith, sitting with her back to the counter, heard their voices, but had stopped listening, because her attention had been caught by something infinitely more fascinating. On the other side of the department, and at the other counter, a second mother and her daughter were also shopping together, not as though the undertaking were a serious business, but something of a joke, because a lot of chat and laughter seemed to be taking place. As well, their shop lady was young and quite jolly-looking, and the three of them all appeared to be having the time of their lives. Which was extraordinary, because they too were buying the St Ursula's uniform in its entirety. Or, more accurately, had bought it, and come to the end of their marathon, for the piles of pristine garments, most of them in that deadly bottle-green, were being packed, rustling with fresh white tissue paper, into large cardboard dress boxes, and firmly tied up with yards of stout white string.

‘I could have them delivered, if you want, Mrs Carey-Lewis. The van goes out your way next Tuesday.’

‘No, we'll take them. Mary wants to sew on the name-tapes. And I've got the car. I'll just need some kindly body to help me down the street and load the boot.’

‘I'll fetch young Will from the stock-room. He'll give you a hand.’

They sat with their backs to Judith, but this didn't matter too much because there was a large mirror on the far wall and, in a way, gazing at reflected faces was better because, with a bit of luck, she could stare without being observed.

St Ursula's. The girl was going to St Ursula's. Which raised possibilities and rendered Judith's scrutiny sharper and far more personal. Reckoning, she decided that she was probably about twelve, or perhaps thirteen; very thin, and long-legged and flat-chested as a boy. She wore scuffed Clarks Sandals and knee-stockings, a pleated tartan skirt, and a very old navy-blue sweater that looked as though it had once belonged to some male, and much larger, relation. A dreadfully shabby garment, with a ravelled hem and darned elbows. But it didn't matter, because she was so sensationally pretty and attractive, with a long and slender neck and curly dark hair cut quite short, that Judith was reminded of a flower-head on a stem, a shaggy chrysanthemum perhaps. Her eyes, beneath strong dark brows, were violet-blue, her skin the colour of honey (or perhaps just exactly the shade and texture of a perfect brown
egg
), and when she smiled, it was a wicked urchin's grin.

She sat leaning her elbows on the counter, with her bony shoulders hunched, and her spindly legs wound around the legs of the chair. Ungraceful, and yet not graceless, because there was such a lack of unselfconsciousness about her, such overweening confidence, that one knew instinctively that nobody, in all her life, had ever told her that she was clumsy, or stupid, or dull.

The last knot was tied, the string cut with a pair of huge scissors.

‘How will you be paying this morning, Mrs Carey-Lewis?’

‘Oh, put it on my account, that's the simplest.’

‘
Mummy.
You know Pops said you had to pay for everything right away, because you always throw bills into the waste-paper basket.’

Much laughter all round. ‘Darling, you mustn't give my secrets away.’

Mrs Carey-Lewis's voice was deep and ripe with amusement, and it was difficult to come to terms with the fact that she was anybody's mother. She looked like an actress, or a film star, or a glamorous older sister, even a dashing aunt. Anything but a mother. Fine-boned and very slender, her face was made up to porcelain paleness, with fine, arched eyebrows and a scarlet mouth. Her hair was corn-gold and silky straight, cut in a simple bob that had nothing to do with fashion, and everything to do with style. She wore…and this was particularly
outré
…trousers. Slacks, they were called. Grey flannel, snug around her narrow hips and then flaring to fullness at the ankle, like an undergraduate's Oxford bags. Over her shoulders was tossed a short fur jacket, dark brown and the softest and supplest of garments that could possibly be imagined. A red-tipped hand dangled by her side, loosely holding the loop of a scarlet leather leash, the other end of which was attachéd to a motionless, furry, cream-coloured cushion.

‘Well, that's it, I suppose.’ She slid her arms into the sleeves of her fur jacket, and doing so, dropped the leash. ‘Come along, darling, we must be off. It hasn't taken nearly so long as I'd feared. We'll go and have coffee, and I'll buy you an ice-cream, or a Kunzle Cake, or something equally disgusting.’

The furry cushion on the floor, no longer tethered, decided to come to life, pulled itself onto four velvety feet, yawned enormously, and turned towards Judith a pair of dark, bulbous eyes, embedded like jewels in a flattened face. A plumy tail curled over its back. Having yawned, it shook itself, snuffled a bit, chumping on its little underhung jaw, and then, to Judith's delight, proceeded with much dignity across the carpet towards her, trailing the red leash like a royal train.