Coming Home (122 page)

Two weeks later, to a day, Judith received the official invitation to Loveday's wedding. She discovered it on her return to Quarters from Whale Island, ostentatiously enormous, and squashed in with all the other mail in the appropriate pigeonhole. Diana, it appeared, had wasted no time. A heavy, tissue-lined envelope and a double sheet of the sort of luxurious, water-marked paper that Judith had forgotten even existed. She imagined Diana wheedling the stationer into unearthing some of his precious pre-war stock, and then persuading the printer to rush her urgent commission through. The result was a marvel of lavish embossed copperplate, almost royal in its splendour. Clearly, it stated, there was to be nothing hole-in-the-corner about
this
occasion.

Inside the invitation was tucked a lengthy missive from Loveday. Judith took the envelope up to her cabin, jammed the invitation into the frame of the mirror over the chest of drawers, and sat down on her bunk to read the letter.

May 14th. Nancherrow.

Darling Judith. It was so sweet of you to get to London, and to be so sweet, and we loved seeing you. Here's the invite. Isn't it smart? Mummy's such a love, she has to do everything the big way.

Here it's like a three-ring circus, because we have to cram everything into such a short time. I'm still working with Walter, because Mummy and Mary and Mrs Nettlebed are much more efficient than me, and apart from standing still while Mary pricks pins into me (the confirmation dress actually doesn't look too bad), there doesn't seem to be much I can do except get in the way. When we're not on the farm, Walter and I are trying to get the garden of the cottage cleaned up. He tractored away quantities of old bedsteads, defunct perambulators, buckets with no bottoms, and other undesirable objects, and then turned it all over with the plough, and planted a crop of potatoes. He calls it clearing the land. Hopefully, when the potatoes are lifted, he'll plant some grass or something, and then we shall have a
LAWN.
The builders are tearing the cottage to bits. (I think Pops has pulled a string with the County Council or something, so unlike him, but the building restrictions are very strict and if he didn't pull a string, we'd never have got anywhere.) Anyway, it's all been gutted and then put together again, and as well as the two rooms, there's a bathroom out at one side and a sort of muck-room at the back with a stone floor, where Walter can shed his boots and take off his overalls and hang them on a peg. A new range and new floors. I think it will be frightfully cosy.

Mummy and Pops spent agonised evenings trying to compose a guest list, as we are so limited with numbers. Pops is being frightfully fair, forty of our friends and forty of the Mudges'. Anyway, all the right people are being asked, including the Lord Lieutenant, and Biddy and Phyllis and dear Mr Baines and Dr and Mrs Wells, and various other close friends. On the Mudge side, it's a bit more tricky because they have so many relations, all, as far as I can see, having married each other's cousins, et cetera. But you'll be pleased to hear that the Warrens (distant relations by marriage) have been invited. I wrote to Heather and asked her too, but she says she can't get away; I'm so glad I don't work at her horrid Secret Department, she doesn't seem to have any sort of life at all.

You will also be glad to know that Mrs Mudge has bought herself a new set of teeth for the occasion. As well as a blue crêpe dress and a hat ‘to tone’. The hat and the dress tone with each other, not with the new teeth. And she's made an appointment to have a perm.

Mummy's totally optimistic about the weather and is planning her outdoor lunch in the courtyard. Pops isn't so optimistic, and keeps making what he calls ‘contingency plans’, which means moving everything into the dining-room should the heavens open. Mrs Nettlebed wanted to do it all but, with rationing, it just isn't on, so a caterer has been booked, from Truro. Mummy has told him he is not to produce those sort of trifles that have Bird's Custard and hundreds and thousands. And the Lord Lieutenant has promised a couple of salmon, so with a bit of luck, the lunch won't be too bad.

We're not having champagne, because we can't get any, and Pops says he's keeping his last case for when Rupert gets home and the war is over. But some sort of jolly sparkling wine (South Africa?) and a barrel of beer.

Mr Mudge confided to Pops that he'd got a cask of neat spirit buried in his garden, and offered it as another form of alcoholic refreshment. Apparently he heaved it up off the rocks after a shipwreck a couple of years ago, and hid it from the Customs and Excise men. Too exciting. Pure Daphne du Maurier. Who would have thought it of him? However, Pops thought it might be a bit dangerous to feed our guests on neat spirit and said to Mr Mudge that the cask had better stay where it was.

But
frightfully
generous.

Mr Nettlebed is so funny. You'd have thought he would be really in his element with all these social arrangements being made, but in fact his greatest concern, from the moment we announced our engagement, was
what was Walter going to wear.
Could you believe it? Walter, actually, was just going to wear his one suit that he sometimes puts on for funerals, though I must say it does look a bit odd, because it belonged to an uncle who had longer legs than Walter, and Mrs Mudge has never got around to taking the trousers up. In the end, Nettlebed cornered Walter in the Rosemullion pub, stood a couple of beers and talked him into letting Nettlebed take over. And last Saturday, they went to Penzance and Nettlebed wheeled him into Medways and got him to choose a new grey flannel suit and got the tailor to fix it so that it looks really smart. And a new cream shirt and a silk tie. Walter had the coupons, but Nettlebed paid for all the new clothes, he said it was a wedding present. So kind. And with that all accomplished, Nettlebed is looking a great deal more light-hearted, and able to concentrate on counting out the spoons and forks and polishing up the wineglasses.

All this and I still haven't thanked you properly for the plates. We got them home safely, and I think Mrs Mudge is going to give us a dresser that belonged to her mother, so I can arrange them on that and they will look so handsome. It was really terribly kind of you, and Walter thinks they're lovely too. We've had some other wedding presents as well. A pair of sheets (still with the blue ribbon round them and so, unused, but dreadfully grubby from sitting in somebody's linen cupboard for years), a cushion covered with knitted squares, a boot-scraper, and a dear little Georgian silver teapot.

I do hope by now you have got leave like you said you would, because we really need you because we want you and Biddy to help to do the flowers in the church. They'll have to be done on the Friday evening because they're all wild flowers which fade so quickly. Biddy has said of course. When are you arriving?

Clementina is going to be a bridesmaid. She's far too little, but Athena insists. Really because she's found an old frock of mine, white muslin with pink smocking, and can't wait to deck her daughter out in it. I wish you were here now, to be a part of the fun.

Lots of love,

Loveday

PS We had a cable from Jeremy Wells, saying congratulations, but he can't make the wedding.

The next morning, after Lieutenant Commander Crombie had scanned the day's Signals, and signed a letter or two, Judith made her request.

‘Do you think it would be all right if I took some leave?’

He raised his head abruptly, his sharp eyes pale as sixpences. ‘Leave? You're actually asking for leave?’

She felt uncertain as to whether he was being sarcastic or affronted.

‘I want to go to a wedding. I
have
to go to a wedding,’ she amended bravely. ‘It's on May the thirtieth.’

He leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. Judith half expected him to put his gaitered boots on the desk, like a reporter in an American film.

‘Whose wedding?’

‘A friend. She's called Loveday Carey-Lewis.’ As though that would make any difference.

‘Cornwall?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long do you want?’

‘Two weeks?’

He grinned then, and stopped his dry teasing, and she was on firmer footing. ‘As far as I'm concerned, it's in order with me. You'll just have to clear things with First Officer Wrens.’

‘You're sure?’

‘Of course. One of the other girls can look after me. I'll miss your kindly ministrations but I shall survive. If you recall, I've been trying to persuade you to take some leave for months.’

‘There didn't seem much reason before.’

‘But this is important?’

‘Yes. It is.’

‘Off you go then and beard First Officer in her den. Tell her I've given my approval.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘That's really kind.’

First Officer, however, was not nearly so co-operative.

‘Wren Dunbar! You here again? It seems that you live in my office. What is it this time?’

Not an encouraging start. Judith, trying neither to stutter nor stumble, explained her request.

‘But you've only just had leave…went off to London.’

‘That was a short weekend, ma'm.’

‘And now you want two weeks?’

‘Yes, ma'm.’

She was made to feel that, unfairly, she was asking for the moon. After all, the First Officer pointed out in her best quarterdeck voice, as Dunbar knew very well, right now every single member of the ship's company of HMS
Excellent
was working flat out. Including the two other Wren Writers in the Training Development Office. One could scarcely expect them to take on an extra load of work, on top of the long hours they were already having to cope with. Was Dunbar certain that two weeks' leave, at this moment, was absolutely essential?

Judith, being made to feel like a traitor or a rat deserting a ship, murmured something about a wedding.

‘A
wedding?
Scarcely compassionate reasons.’

‘I'm not asking for compassionate leave’ — First Officer shot her a beady look — ‘Ma'm.’