Coming Home (158 page)

It felt strange to be back in London without barrage balloons floating about overhead, and with street lamps shining. But evidence of bomb damage and the deprivations of war were still all about, and driving up Sloane Street, she saw that, although shop windows had been un-boarded and replaced with plate glass, the Christmas displays within the lovely stores bore no resemblance to the lavish luxury of prewar days.

At this hour, there were still a good many people about. Mothers hurrying children to school, office-workers being sucked in droves down the warrens of the Underground, or queuing patiently for buses. Everybody looked a bit worn and harassed, as did their clothes, and some of the women appeared shabby as peasants, bundled up as they were in overcoats, boots, and headscarves.

At the top of Sloane Street she turned left at the lights, went down the Brompton Road, and so into Fulham. Driving, she told herself,
one thing at a time
. She had been telling herself this ever since she left Rosemullion early yesterday morning.
Fill up the car tank and the spare petrol cans
. (Wayside garages might not be very accommodating about taking illegal petrol coupons.)
Get to London. Get to the Mews. Spend the night.
Now, it was
find Gus's flat. Ring the bell. Wait for him to come to the door.
If he didn't come, then what should she do? Break the door down? Ring for the police or the fire brigade? And if he did, then what was she going to say? She thought of Diana. Diana was never at a loss for words.
Darling Gus. Hello. It's me. Lovely morning!

She drove past the Brompton Hospital and, slowing, began to search for street numbers, over shop-fronts or doorways. Nearly there. Between two side streets, a line of little shops, their owners emerging to stack crates of Brussels sprouts on the pavement, or set up their newspaper stands. She saw the Eel-and-Pie Café, one of Rupert's landmarks, and drew in at the kerbside. Got out of the car, and locked it. The narrow door was wedged between the café and a small grocery. On the doorjamb were two bells, labelled with names written on scraps of card. One read
NOLAN,
the other
PELOVSKY.
Not much help. She swithered for a moment, and then pressed
PELOVSKY.
She waited.

Nothing happened, so she pressed it again. If nothing continued to happen, she would try Nolan. Her feet, in fur-lined boots, began to feel cold, the iciness of the pavement seeping up through rubber soles. Perhaps Gus was still in bed, asleep. Perhaps the bell didn't work. Perhaps she should seek sanctuary in the Eel-and-Pie Café and get a cup of tea…

Then, footsteps, some person approaching down a flight of stairs. She watched the door. A latch clicked and it swung inward and there, at last, unbelievably, was Gus.

For a moment, without words, they simply stared at each other, Judith momentarily silenced, simply because she was so relieved to have actually run him to earth, and Gus clearly totally bewildered at finding her on his doorstep.

She had to say
something
. ‘I didn't know you were called Pelovsky.’

‘I'm not. It's some other chap.’

He didn't look too bad. Not as awful as she had feared. Dreadfully thin and pale, of course, but shaved and dressed casually in a thick polo-necked sweater and corduroys.

‘You should change the card.’

‘Judith, what the
hell
are you doing here?’

‘Come to see you. And I'm frozen. Can I come in?’

‘Of course. Sorry…’ He stepped back, making way for her. ‘Come along…’

She went through the door and he closed it behind them. It was almost dark, and there was a stale, unpleasant smell hanging in the airless atmosphere.

‘Not much of an entrance,’ he apologised. ‘Come on up.’

He led the way, and she followed him up the gloomy stairs. Reaching the landing, she saw the door on the opposite wall standing ajar, and they went through into the room that lay beyond, with its eye-assaulting wallpaper and meagre curtains. In the hearth a small electric fire burnt resolutely, its two bars emanating a faint warmth, but the dirty windows were still frosted with rime, and it was dreadfully cold.

He said, ‘You'd better keep your coat on. Sorry it's all a bit sordid. I spent yesterday morning trying to clean it up a bit, but there's not much improvement.’

There was a table. She saw that he had pushed papers and files and the remains of yesterday's newspaper to one end, and at the other was evidence of breakfast, a teacup and a crust of toast on a plate.

She said, ‘I've disturbed you.’

‘Not a bit. I'm finished. Make yourself comfortable…’

He went over to the fireplace and took a cigarette packet and a lighter from the mantelpiece. When he had lit the cigarette, he turned and leaned his shoulders against the mantelpiece, and across the worn hearthrug they faced each other. Judith sat on the arm of one of the bulky sofas, but Gus stayed where he was, on his feet.

There was no point in beating about the bush. She said, ‘Rupert phoned me.’

‘Ah.’ As though all were immediately clear. ‘I see. I thought it must be something like that.’

‘You mustn't be cross with him. He was really concerned.’

‘He's such a nice chap. But I'm afraid he caught me on a bad day. ‘Flu and such. I'm better now.’

‘He told me you'd been ill. Been in hospital.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you get my letters?’ Gus nodded. ‘Why didn't you reply to any of them?’

He shook his head. ‘I wasn't in much of a state to communicate with anybody, let alone getting words down on paper. I'm sorry. Ungrateful. And you were so kind.’

‘When I didn't hear, I got really worried.’

‘You mustn't worry. You have enough problems of your own. How's Jess?’

‘She's fine. Settled in at school.’

‘What a miracle for you, finding her again.’

‘Yes. But, Gus, I've not come here to talk about Jess…’

‘When did you come to London?’

‘Yesterday. I drove up. I've got the car outside, parked in the street. I spent the night at Diana's house. And then I came here. Rupert had given me your address. It wasn't too difficult to find.’

‘Are you Christmas shopping?’

‘No, I haven't come to shop. I came to find you. No other reason.’

‘How gratifying. That was very good of you.’

‘I want you to come back to Cornwall with me.’

He said instantly, and without any hesitation, ‘I can't. Thank you, but no.’

‘Why do you have to be in London?’

‘It's as good a place as any.’

‘For what?’

‘To be on my own. Get myself sorted out. Get used to living on my own, standing on my own feet. A psychiatric hospital is an emasculating experience. And sometime I've got to start looking for a job. I have contacts here. Old school-friends, chaps who were in the Army. A sort of network.’

‘Have you seen any of them yet?’

‘Not yet…’

She did not completely believe all this talk, but guessed that he was trying to reassure her, and so get her off his back.

‘Is it so important? To have a job?’

‘Yes. Not pressing, but necessary. Rupert probably filled you in with the details of my father's demise. By the time he died, his capital, one way or another, had melted away to a mere trickle. I can no longer enjoy the life of a gentleman of leisure.’

‘Knowing you, I wouldn't imagine that would be a problem.’

‘No. But it does raise a certain need for positive action.’

‘But not
immediately
. You must give yourself a chance. You've been ill. You've had a rotten time. It's mid-winter and it's cheerless, and Christmas is only just around the corner. You can't be alone at Christmas. Come back with me. Now.’ She heard herself pleading. ‘Pack a bag and lock the door and we'll go home together.’

‘Sorry. Really sorry. I can't do that.’

‘Is it Loveday?’ she asked, scarcely daring to ask.

She thought he would deny it, but he didn't. He nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘You wouldn't
have
to see Loveday…’

‘Oh, come on, Judith, don't be too stupid. How could we not? It's unreal to imagine that we wouldn't have to meet.’

‘We wouldn't have to
say
anything…tell anybody…’

‘And what would you expect me to do? Go around in a false beard and a pair of dark glasses, speaking in the guttural tones of a displaced Mittel-European?’

‘We could call you Mr Pelovsky.’

It wasn't much of a joke, and he didn't find it funny. ‘I don't want to bugger everything up for her.’

You don't need to. Walter Mudge and Arabella Lumb are already, very competently, seeing to that.
She bit the words back, even as they sat on the tip of her tongue, which was a good thing. Said, they could never be unsaid.

Instead, ‘Loveday's not as important as you, Gus. The person we must think about is you.’ He did not answer this. ‘Look, if you don't want to come to Rosemullion, then let me take you to Gloucestershire, and I'll leave you there with Rupert and Athena. They'd love to have you, I know.’

His face expressionless, his dark eyes sunken and sombre. She was getting nothing out of him at all, and having hung on to her patience all this time, Judith began to be angry. There is nothing in this world more infuriating than a stubborn, immovable man.

‘Oh, Gus, why do you have to be so shuttered and pigheaded? Why won't you let any of us help?’

‘I don't need help.’

‘That's ridiculous! Selfish and horrible. You're considering nobody but yourself. How do you imagine
we
all feel, with you being on your own, and no family, and no home and…nothing. We can't do anything for you if you won't help yourself. I know you've been through hell, and I know you've been ill, but you've got to give yourself a chance. Not sit in this horrible flat, brooding over your woes, brooding over Loveday…’

‘Oh, shut
up
.’

For a terrible moment, Judith thought she was going to burst into tears. She got up from the sofa and went over to the window and stared down at the traffic in the street, until the hot pricking behind her eyes had subsided and she knew she wasn't going to cry after all.

Behind her, he said, ‘I'm sorry.’

She didn't reply.

‘I'd love to come with you. Part of me yearns to come with you. But I'm scared of myself. Of what might happen. Of falling to bits again.’

‘Nothing could be worse than this place,’ she muttered.

‘Sorry?’

‘I said, nothing could be worse than this.’

A silence fell. After a bit, she heard him say, ‘Look, I've run out of cigarettes. I'll just go down and get some from the newsagent. Stay here. Don't go. I'll be a moment. Then I'll make you a cup of tea or something.’

Judith did not move. She heard him leave the room, his footsteps running down the dark stairway. The street door opened and slammed shut.

Cold, tired, and disheartened, she let out a long, tremulous sigh. What to do next? What to say? She turned and looked about her at the depressing room. Wandered over to the table and picked up the day-old newspaper, which seemed to present the only diversion. Its ill-folded pages had concealed other possessions now revealed: a worn attaché case, lying open, piled with old papers and letters and bills, a cardboard folder; a scratch-pad and a canvas-bound book, or album, secured with a thick rubber band. Intrigued, she dropped the newspaper and drew it towards her. Saw the filthy cover, stained and greasy, and the dog-eared corners. She remembered Gus's voice, as they had sat together on the terrace of the Galle Face Hotel, and he told her about the last days of Singapore. How he had sold his watch for Singapore dollars, and bribed a prison guard to bring him paper and pencils and a drawing-block.

His sketch-book.
A sort of record. But not for human consumption.

She knew she shouldn't pry, and didn't want to. But her hands seemed to possess some independent compulsion of their own. She eased off the rubber band and opened, at random, the sketch-book. Pencil drawings. Very detailed. Page after page. A long line of emaciated men, half-naked, backs weighed down with the burden of wooden railway sleepers, making their way in single file through the jungle. A drooping figure, lashed to a stake, left to dehydrate and die in the pitiless sun. A Japanese guard, rifle butt raised over a skeletal prisoner lying prone in the mud. Then, another page. An execution, blood spurting like two red sticks from a severed neck…

A rising nausea tasted sour in her mouth.

She heard the street door slam shut, and Gus's footsteps on the stair. She slammed the sketch-book shut, and stood pressing the covers down with the palms of her hands, as though shutting the lid on a box of living, lethal, squirming horrors.

Enough. She said it aloud. ‘This is
enough
.’

He was at the door. ‘Did you say something?’

Judith turned on him. ‘Yes, I did. And I'm not leaving you here, Gus. I'm not asking you to come away with me, I'm
telling
you. And if you don't come, then I shall stay here and nag at you until you do.’