Coming Home (21 page)

As she stared about her, taking it all in, Diana paused at the table, to unknot her silk scarf and stuff it into the pocket of her coat. ‘Off you go then, Loveday, and take care of Judith. I think Mary's in the nursery. The boys are coming in for lunch at one, so don't be late. Be in the drawing-room by a quarter to.’ And with that, she picked up her letters and was on her way, walking away from them, down the long wide hallway furnished with lovingly polished pieces of antique furniture, mammoth porcelain vases, and ornate mirrors. Pekoe followed, close on her elegant, high-heeled heels. A languid wave of her hand was their dismissal. ‘Don't forget to wash your hands…’

They watched her going, as Judith had observed her leaving the shop, that day when she had first seen her, obscurely fascinated, rooted to the ground, somehow unwilling to turn away. They stayed until she reached the closed door at the far end of the passage, opened it to a blast of sunshine, and was gone.

Her exit, and its abruptness, presented an interesting insight into the Carey-Lewis mother-and-daughter relationship. Loveday was allowed close intimacy, and to speak to her mother as though she were a sister, but the privilege demanded its own price. If she was treated like a contemporary, then she was expected to behave like an adult, and take social responsibility for her own guest. This, it seemed, was the norm, and Loveday took it in her stride.

‘She's gone to read her letters,’ she explained unnecessarily. ‘Come on, let's find Mary.’

With that, she headed up the stairs, lugging their overnight bags. Judith followed at a slightly slower pace, burdened by the weight of the box, which was beginning to feel extremely heavy. At the top of the stairs was another long passage, replica of the one down which they had watched Diana make her airy exit. Loveday broke into a run, the bags thumping against her skinny legs. ‘Mary!’

‘Here I am, pet!’

Judith had little experience of either English nannies or English nurseries. Nannies she had seen on the beach at Porthkerris, stout fierce ladies in sturdy cotton dresses, hatted and stockinged in the hottest of weather, knitting, and constantly adjuring their charges either to go into the sea, come out of it, put on a sun-hat, eat a ginger biscuit, or to come away from that nasty child who might have something catching. But she had never, thankfully enough, had to have anything very much to do with any of them.

As for nurseries, the word conjured up nothing more exciting than Matron's sick-room at St Ursula's, with its brown linoleum floor, uncurtained windows, and a strange smell compounded of Germolene and cinnamon.

Consequently, she entered the Nancherrow nursery with a certain amount of trepidation, which was instantly dispelled as she realised that all her pre-conceived ideas had been totally off the mark. For this was not a nursery at all, but a large, sun-filled sitting-room, with a great bay window, and a window-seat which took up much of the southern wall and afforded a view out over the garden, and that distant, seductive vista of the sparkling horizon.

It had an open fireplace, and bookcases crammed with books, proper sofas and chairs with flowery slip-covers, a thick Turkey carpet, and a round table covered with a heavy blue cloth patterned with birds and leaves. Other delights stood all about. Cheerful pictures, a radio on the table by the fireside, a portable gramophone and a stack of records, a basket of knitting, and a pile of magazines. The only concessions to nursery life were the tall fire-guard with its polished brass rail, a battered rocking-horse without a tail, and an ironing board.

This was set up, and at it Mary Millyway had been hard at work. A wicker basket of washing stood on the floor, a pile of immaculately ironed linen was stacked on the table, and a blue shirt lay, half-done, upon the board. And there was that good, reassuring smell of fresh warm cotton, reminding Judith of the kitchen at Riverview House, and, so, of Phyllis. And she smiled, because it felt, a bit, like coming home.

‘Well, here you are…’ Mary had set down her iron, abandoned the shirt, and opened her arms to Loveday, who, dropping the bags onto the carpet, had flung herself into them for a huge hug. She was lifted from the floor as though she weighed no more than a feather, and swung to and fro, like the pendulum of a clock. ‘There's my wicked baby.’ A kiss was pressed onto the top of Loveday's curly dark head, and then she was set down with a thump, as Judith came through the door.

‘So this is your friend! Laden down like a donkey. What's this you've brought with you?’

‘It's my cedarwood box.’

‘It looks as though it weighs a ton; put it on the table, for goodness' sake.’ Which Judith, gratefully, did. ‘Why did you bring that with you?’

Loveday explained. ‘We wanted to show it to Mummy. It's new. Judith got it for her Christmas. This is Judith, Mary.’

‘I guessed as much. Hello, Judith.’

‘Hello.’

Mary Millyway. Neither stout nor old nor fierce, but a tall and raw-boned Cornishwoman no more than thirty-five. She had coarse fair hair and a freckled face, and strong features that were pleasing, not because they were beautiful in any way, but because they all matched each other, and somehow looked exactly right. Nor was she wearing any sort of uniform, but a grey tweed skirt and a white cotton blouse with a brooch at the collar, and a smoky-blue Shetland cardigan.

They observed each other. Mary spoke.

‘You look older than I thought you'd be.’

‘I'm fourteen.’

‘She's in a form above me,’ Loveday explained, ‘but we're in the same dormitory. And Mary, you've got to help because she hasn't got any home clothes, and all mine are going to be too small for her. Is there something of Athena's she can borrow?’

‘You'll get into trouble, borrowing Athena's things.’

‘I don't mean Athena's proper clothes, something that she doesn't want any more. Oh, you know what I mean…’

‘I certainly do. Never known such a girl for wearing things once, and then throwing them away…’

‘Well, find something. Find something
now,
so that we can get out of our horrible uniforms.’

‘I'll tell you what’ — Mary calmly and firmly picked up her iron again — ‘you take Judith and show her where she's sleeping…’

‘Which room is that?’

‘The pink one at the end of the passage…’

‘Oh, goody, Judith, that's the prettiest…’

‘…and then when I've finished my ironing I'll have a look in my special drawer and see what I can find.’

‘Have you got heaps of ironing to do?’

‘Won't take me more than five minutes. Off you go, and by the time you come back I'll be ready.’

‘All right.’ Loveday grinned at Judith. ‘Come on.’

She was already off, out of the room and away, and Judith, pausing only to grab up her bag, had to run to keep up with her. Down the long passage, with doors closed on either side, but glass fanlights above them, so all was light and airy. At the far end the passage took a turn to the right, and another rambling wing was revealed, and for the first time Judith realised the extent of the house. Here, long windows allowed views of the lawns at the back, spreading to tall hedges of escallonia, and beyond these, the pasture fields of farmland, stone-walled, and grazed by herds of Guernsey cows.

‘Come on.’ Loveday had paused for an instant, waiting for her to catch up, so there was no time to stand and gaze and take it all in.

‘It's all so big,’ Judith said in wonder.

‘I know, it's huge, isn't it, but it has to be because there are so many of us, and there are always people coming to stay. This is the guest wing.’ Now, as she went ahead, Loveday opened and closed doors, allowing a sight of the rooms which lay beyond. ‘This is the yellow room. And a bathroom. And this is the blue room…Tommy Mortimer's usually in here. Yes, he is, I recognise his hairbrushes. And his smell.’

‘What does he smell of?’

‘Heavenly. The stuff he puts on his hair. And then this is the big double room. Don't you adore the four-poster bed? It's frightfully old. I expect Queen Elizabeth slept in it. And another bathroom. And then this is the dressing-room, and it's got a bed too, in case they've got a baby or something awful like that. Mary puts a cot up if it's a real baby. And another bathroom. And then it's you.’

They had reached the last door, and Loveday, with certain pride, led the way into it. Like every other room in this delectable house, it was panelled in wood, but it had two windows, and these were hung in a chintz of toile de Jouy. The carpet was pink as well, and the high brass-ended bed had a cover of white linen, crisp as new snow, hem-stitched and embroidered with daisies. A luggage rack stood at the end of the bed, and Judith set down her bag, and it sat there looking humble and small and somehow vulnerable.

‘Do you like it?’

‘It's simply
lovely.
’

She saw the kidney-shaped dressing-table, skirted in the same toile as the curtains, and on this stood a triple mirror, and a china tray patterned in roses, and a little porcelain mug filled with velvety polyanthus. There were a huge Victorian wardrobe and a proper armchair with pink cushions, and beside the bed a little table with a lamp and a carafe of water with a tumbler fitted over its neck, and a cretonne-covered tin, which Judith knew would be filled with rich tea biscuits. Just in case she might be hungry in the middle of the night.

‘And this is your bathroom.’

Quite overwhelming. She went to inspect it and saw the black-and-white-chequered floor, the huge bath, the wide-mouthed gold taps, immense white towels, bottles of bath-oil and glass bowls of scented talcum powder.

‘My
own
bathroom?’

‘Well, you share it with the room on the other side, but there's nobody staying, so you've got it all to yourself.’ Loveday returned to the bedroom, to fling wide the window and hang out of it. ‘And this is your view, but you have to peer a bit to see the sea.’

Judith joined her, and they stood side by side, leaning their arms on the stone sill and feeling the chill, sea-scented wind on their faces.

Craning her neck, she dutifully admired the view of the sea, but what was a great deal more interesting was the immediate vista below them. A large cobbled yard boxed in on three sides by single-storey buildings roofed in slate. In the middle of this yard stood a dovecote, and white pigeons flew all about, to settle, to preen themselves, to fill the air with their satisfied cooing. Around the sides of the courtyard were wooden tubs planted with wallflowers, and as well as other, more mundane, evidences of domestic activity: a game larder, large as a wardrobe; some dustbins; a washing line strung with snowy tea-towels. Beyond the courtyard could be seen a gravelled road, and then mown grass, rolling away to a line of trees. These, not yet in leaf, leaned from the sea-wind, and tossed their branches in the fresh breeze.

There did not seem to be anybody about, but as they watched a door opened, and a girl in a mauve cotton overall emerged. They stared down at the top of her head. She carried a tin bowl of vegetable peelings, which she tipped into one of the rubbish bins.

‘That's for Mrs Mudge's pigs,’ Loveday whispered importantly, as though they were spies and must not be observed. The girl in the overall did not look up. She clanged the lid down upon the bin, paused to feel the tea-towels, checking for dryness, and then disappeared indoors again.

‘Who's that?’

‘That's Hetty, the new kitchen maid. She helps Mrs Nettlebed. Mrs Nettlebed's our cook; and she's married to Mr Nettlebed, and he's our butler. She's sweet, but he can be terribly bad-tempered. Mummy says it's his stomach. He's got an ulcer.’

A butler. It was all becoming grander and grander. Judith leaned out a little farther and peered below her.

‘Is that the stable where you keep your pony?’

‘No, that's the boiler-house and the woodshed and the coal-house and things like that. And the gardeners' lav. The stables are a bit away, so you can't see them from here. I'll take you after lunch to meet Tinkerbell. You can ride her if you like.’

‘I've never ridden a horse,’ Judith admitted, not admitting at the same time that she was frightened of them.

‘Tinkerbell's not a horse, she's a pony. She's adorable and she never bites or bucks.’ Loveday thought for a moment. ‘It's Saturday, so maybe Walter will be there.’

‘Who's Walter?’

‘Walter Mudge. His father farms Lidgey…that's the Home Farm, and he helps Pops run the estate. Walter's really nice. He's sixteen. He sometimes comes at weekends to muck out the horses and help the gardener. He's saving up for a motor bicycle.’

‘Does he ride as well?’

‘He exercises Pops' hunter when Pops hasn't the time. If he has to sit on the bench, or go to some meeting or other.’ Abruptly, Loveday withdrew her head. ‘I'm getting cold. Come on, let's do your unpacking.’

They did it together. There wasn't very much to unpack, but everything had to be put in its right, important place. Judith's hat and coat were hung in the wardrobe, the coat on a fat pink velvet hanger. The inside of the wardrobe smelt of lavender. Then her night-dress was laid on the pillow, her dressing-gown hung on the back of the door, her brush and comb arranged on the dressing-table, clean underclothes laid in a drawer, toothbrush and face-flannel placed in appropriate places in the enormous bathroom. Her diary and her fountain pen she put on the bedside table, along with her clock and her new Arthur Ransome book.