Coming Home (15 page)

‘Got luggage, have you?’

‘Yes. All this.’

It was piled at the foot of the stairs. The brass-bound trunk, suitcases and bags, the hockey stick, and Judith's new attaché case. He went to and fro, manhandling everything out to his taxi, stacking it onto the opened boot, roping it all securely, so that it would not fall off.

Where was he taking it? Jess stood and stared. As he went in and out, the taxi-man smiled at her, and asked her what her name was, but she didn't smile back, and she wasn't going to tell him.

And then Mummy and Judith came downstairs, and that was the worst of all, because Mummy had her coat and hat on, and Judith was wearing a green suit that Jess had never seen before, and a collar and tie, like a man, and brown lace-up shoes, and it all looked so stiff and uncomfortable, and too big, and her appearance was so frighteningly strange, that all at once Jess was filled with terror, she could contain herself no longer, and burst into hysterical weeping.

They were both going to go away, and leave her forever. This was what she had obscurely suspected, and was now about to happen. She screamed for her mother to pick her up, and take her too, clinging to her coat, trying to climb up into her arms as though she were about to climb a tree.

But it was Judith who stepped forward and picked her up, and hugged her very tight, and Jess, with the desperation of the drowning man and his straw, put her arms around Judith's neck, pressed her teary cheeks into Judith's face, and sobbed bitterly.

‘Where you
going
?’

Judith had never imagined anything so dreadful would happen, and realised that she had underestimated Jess. They had behaved towards her as though she were a baby, imagined that a few fruit gums would get them over any possible crisis. They had all been wrong, and this painful scene was the result of their mistake.

She held Jess close and rocked her to and fro.

‘Oh, Jess, don't cry. It'll be all right. Phyllis is here, and Mummy will be back very quickly.’

‘I want to
come.
’

Her weight was sweet, the fat little arms and legs unbearably soft and dear. She smelt of Pears soap, and her hair felt silky as floss. It was no use recalling all the times that Judith had been impatient and cross with her little sister, those times were already over, and all that was important now was that they were saying goodbye, and that Judith really loved her. She pressed kisses onto Jess's cheeks.

‘You mustn't cry,’ she implored. ‘I'll write you letters, and you must send me lovely drawings and pictures. And just think when I see you again, you'll be eight years old, and nearly as tall as I am.’ The sobs abated slightly. Judith kissed her again, and then moved to hand her to Phyllis, untangling Jess's arms from around her neck. Jess sobbed on, but her screams had abated, and her thumb was back in her mouth.

‘You take care of Golly now. Don't let him fall overboard. Goodbye, Phyllis darling.’

They embraced, but Phyllis couldn't give Judith much of a cuddle because of having her arms full of Jess. And she didn't seem to be able to say anything much either, except ‘Good luck.’

‘Good luck too. I'll write.’

‘Mind you do.’

They all trooped out of the house, to where the taxi waited. Her mother dropped a kiss on Jess's damp cheek. ‘I'll be back,’ she promised, ‘in a little while. You be a good girl to Phyllis.’

‘Don't come rushing back, madam. You take your time. You don't want to hurry nothing.’

Then they were getting into the taxi, and the man slammed the doors shut behind them and climbed in behind the driving-wheel. The engine started. The exhaust pipe belched a cloud of smelly smoke.

‘Wave goodbye, Jess,’ Phyllis told her. ‘Wave goodbye like a brave girl.’ So Jess flapped Golly, as though she were waving a flag, and the taxi went crunching away over the gravel, and they saw Judith's face pressed against the back window, and Judith was waving too, and she went on waving until the taxi turned the corner and trundled away up the lane, out of sight and sound.

Windyridge,

Saturday, 18th January 1936.

Dearest Bruce,

I am writing this in my bedroom at Louise's. Jess is asleep, and in a moment I shall go downstairs and join Louise for a drink before supper. Riverview House is now behind us, closed and empty. Dear Phyllis has left us, to go home for a few days, and then start her new job in Porthkerris. On Monday morning Louise will drive Jess and me to the station and we'll spend a few days with my parents before heading for London and catching the boat. We sail on the thirty-first. On Wednesday I took Judith to St Ursula's and left her there. We did not take Jess with us, and there was a terrible scene at Riverview House before we got into the taxi. I had not expected such distress, and did not realise how much Jess was taking in about leaving. It was very upsetting, but Judith particularly did not want her coming to the school with us, and of course she was right. Better that it all happened in the privacy of our own home.

I was afraid that this scene would prove too much for Judith, but she handled it in a most adult way and was very loving and sweet to little Jess. In the taxi we talked of practicalities, because somehow I couldn't bring myself to talk of anything else. She looked quite smart in her new uniform, but so different that I felt in a strange way that I was taking some other person's daughter to school and not my own. Over the last few weeks she has suddenly grown up, and she has been the greatest help with all the packing and the arrangements that have had to be made. It is ironic that one spends so many years bringing up a child and then, just when she begins to be a friend and an equal, she has to be abandoned and life continued without her. Four years, at this moment, seem endless. They stretch before me like eternity. Once I am on the boat and on my way to Colombo, I think I shall feel less depressed about it all; just now is not a good time.

At St Ursula's, I was meant to go into the school with her, settle her into her dormitory, and then have a cup of tea with Miss Catto. But in the taxi, already half-way to Penzance, Judith suddenly announced that she did not want me to do any of these things. She wanted our goodbyes to be quick and abrupt, and over as soon as possible. She could manage, she assured me. She did not want me to go into the school with her, because she said if I did, I would be part of the school, and she didn't want that. She didn't want her two worlds to touch, to impinge on each other in any way. It was a little embarrassing, because I felt I was
expected
to present myself and show some sort of interest, but I gave in because I thought that that was the least I could do.

And so it only took moments. We unloaded her luggage and a porter came with a trolley and dealt with her trunk and her suitcase. There were some other cars there, other parents and other children, all starting the new term. The girls all look alike in their green uniforms, and all at once Judith was one of them, as though she had lost all individuality and become homogenized, like milk. I don't know whether this made it easier or more difficult to say goodbye. I looked into her sweet face, and saw there the promise of a beauty which will be evident when I finally see her again. Her eyes had no tears in them. We kissed and hugged, promised to write, kissed again, and then she was gone, turning from me, walking away, up the steps and through the open door. She never looked back. She was carrying her book-bag and her hockey stick, and the little attaché case I bought her to keep her writing-paper in and her diary and her stamps.

I know you will think it silly of me, but I cried all the way home in the taxi, and didn't stop until Phyllis had given me a hot cup of tea. Then I rang Miss Catto to apologise for my rudeness. She said she understood and would keep us in touch as to Judith's well-being and progress. But we shall be so far away! And the mail-boats take so long.

Now she paused, to lay down her pen and read over what she had already written. It seemed, she decided, dreadfully emotional. She and Bruce had never found it easy to open their hearts to each other, nor to speak of intimacies, or shared secrets. She wondered if he would be upset by her clear distress, and debated as to whether she should tear up the pages and start all over again. But the writing of them had eased her, and she had neither the heart nor the energy to pretend coldly that all was well.

She picked up her pen and continued.

So it is all over, and I am putting on a cheerful face, for Jess's sake and for Louise. But I feel as though I were grieving for a child lost. For opportunities missed, and for the coming years which we are not going to be able to share. I know that I am going through what thousands of other women, like myself, have to endure, but for some reason or other, that doesn't make it any better.

Within a month, Jess and I will be with you. I await further news of our passage on to Singapore. You have done well, and I am delighted for you.

With my love,

Molly.

PS Judith's Christmas present from you has still not arrived. I have instructed Mrs Southey at the Penmarron Post Office to forward it to St Ursula's when it does finally turn up.

Once more she read the letter through, then folded it, put it in an envelope, sealed and addressed it. It was done. She sat and listened to the rising wind outside, which thumped and whined at the window beyond the drawn curtain. It sounded as though a storm was blowing up. The small desk lay in a pool of light from the lamp which stood upon it, but behind her the bedroom was dim and quiet. In one of the twin beds Jess slept, Golly pressed to her cheek. Molly stood up and went to kiss her, and adjust the covers. Then she moved to the mirror over the dressing-table to touch her hair, and alter a little the drape of the silk scarf which she had knotted around her shoulders. Her pale reflection floated, like a wraith, in the dark glass. She went from the room, closing the door gently behind her. She crossed the landing, started down the stairs.

Windyridge, she had long decided, was a house which fell uncomfortably between two stools. Built just after the First World War, it was neither modern enough for convenience, nor old enough for charm, and its position, on the top of the hill above the golf course, ensured that it stood in the path of every wind that blew. But its most unhappy feature was the sitting-room, which the architect, suffering, Molly could only imagine, from an unfortunate rush of blood to the head, had designed as a lounge/hall, so that the staircase descended, and the front door opened, into it. This arrangement ensured both howling draughts and a sensation of impermanence, rather like sitting in a railway waiting-room.

However, Louise was there, ensconced in her easy chair by a roaring coal-fire, with her cigarettes and her whisky and soda conveniently to hand, and her knitting on the go. She was making shooting stockings. She was always making shooting stockings. When a pair was finished, she laid it in a drawer, ready for the next Church Sale, or Bring and Buy, and started again, casting on the next pair. She called it organised fidgeting, and clocked up her industry to Good Works.

Hearing Molly's step on the stair, she glanced up.

‘Ah, there you are! Thought you'd lost yourself.’