Coming Home (33 page)

‘How about tomorrow? Get hold of your chum?’

Judith looked out of the window and pretended not to hear him, so he repeated his question. ‘Managed to fix something up?’

‘Not really’ was all she could think of to say, praying that Aunt Louise would keep her mouth shut and the subject would be dropped. But Aunt Louise, unprimed and so unsuspecting, let spill the beans. ‘Unfortunately, Heather's away for the weekend. But no matter, they'll meet up in the holidays.’

Judith knew it wasn't her fault but still could have screamed at her.

‘So you'll have to fill in your own time, eh? Well, if you need a bit of company, I'm just down the road.’

He turned back to face ahead once more, and Judith, rude as Loveday, put out her tongue at the back of his head. He might have seen her in the driving mirror, but even if he did she didn't care.

This evening Porthkerris, as they came coasting down the hill into the town, presented a very different face to the dismal one it had shown yesterday morning. The sky had cleared and the last rays of the setting sun washed all the old grey stone houses with a golden-pink light, so that they took on a pale translucence of sea shells. The breeze had dropped and the sea was silvery and still, and on the great crescent of the beach, far below the road, a man and a woman walked together, stitching, behind them, a double line of footprints on the firm, smooth sand.

As the car descended into the maze of narrow streets, the Saturday-evening smell of freshly fried fish and chips drifted from an open door. Billy Fawcett raised his head and sniffed, flaring his nostrils, like a dog on a scent.

‘Fairly makes your juices run, eh? Fish and chips. Perhaps after the show, we should all have a fish supper?’

But Aunt Louise didn't think this a good idea. Perhaps because she did not want to deal with any wrangles of the bill and who should pay. ‘Not this evening, Billy, I think. Edna is expecting Judith and me at home, and she's going to give us a cold supper.’ Billy Fawcett was clearly not invited to share in this frugal feast. Judith had it in her heart to feel a bit sorry for him, but then Aunt Louise said, ‘Perhaps another time,’ which made things a bit less rude. She wondered what he would have for his supper. Probably a whisky and soda and a packet of potato crisps. Poor old thing. But still, she was glad that Aunt Louise was not asking him back to Windyridge. By the time the film was over, she guessed that she would have had enough of his company.

Aunt Louise parked the car near the bank, and they crossed the road to the cinema. There was no queue, but a lot of people seemed to be going in. Billy Fawcett strode ahead and lined up at the ticket office to pay for the seats. Aunt Louise and Judith gazed at the display of shiny black-and-white photographs which advertised the film. It was clearly going to be very romantic and funny and glamorous. A thrill of anticipation shivered down Judith's spine, but Aunt Louise only sniffed. ‘I do hope it's not going to be
silly.
’

‘I bet you love it, Aunt Louise.’

‘Oh, well. I'll enjoy the catchy tunes.’

They turned from the photographs, and Billy Fawcett had disappeared from view. ‘Where on earth has he gone
now?
’ Aunt Louise asked, rather as though he were a dog on a picnic, but he appeared almost right away, having been to the newsagent next door to buy a small box of Cadbury's Milk Tray chocolates. ‘Have to do the thing in style, eh? Sorry to keep you waiting. Now, in we go.’

The inside of the cinema — which had once been a fish market — was cramped and stuffy as ever, smelling strongly of the disinfectant which was regularly squirted around in case of possible fleas. A girl with a torch showed the way to their seats, but she didn't shine the torch, because the lights had not yet gone down. Judith was about to edge her way into the row, but Billy Fawcett intervened. ‘Ladies first, I think, Judith. Let's see your aunt comfortably settled.’ Which meant that Judith sat between them, with Aunt Louise on her left and Billy Fawcett on her right. Once they were settled, with coats disposed of, he opened the box of chocolates and handed them along. They only tasted a bit stale, but then they had probably been sitting on the newsagent's shelf for years.

The lights dimmed. They watched trailers for the next show… A thrilling western set, apparently, in South America.
The Stranger from Rio.
A blonde actress dressed in picturesque tatters, but with her maquillage intact, struggled, panting, through pampas-grass. The hero, in a tremendous sombrero, driving his white horse through a river, meanwhile whirling a lariat over his head. ‘Showing at This Theatre. Next Week. The Chance of a Lifetime. Not to Be Missed.’

‘I shall miss it,’ said Aunt Louise. ‘It looks rubbish.’

Then there was the News. Herr Hitler strutting around in his breeches, reviewing some parade. The King talking to shipbuilders after a launch in the north of England. Then some funny shots of puppies at a dog show. After the news there was a Silly Symphony about a chipmunk, and then, at last,
Top Hat.

‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Aunt Louise. ‘I thought it was never going to start.’

But Judith hardly heard her. Settled deep in her seat, her eyes glued to the screen, she was caught up in the old familiar magic, the total submergence in the sight and sound of the story that was being told. And before long, there was Fred Astaire on a stage, twirling and tapping his way through the ‘Top Hat’ number, walking, strolling, juggling his cane, but somehow always dancing. And then the plot thickened, and he met Ginger Rogers and pursued her, and they sang, ‘Isn't This a Lovely Day to Be Caught in the Rain?’ and danced again, only together this time. And then he and Edward Everett Horton somehow got mixed up, both dressed the same and swapping over a briefcase, and Ginger Rogers thought that Fred Astaire was Edward Everett Horton and became enraged, because Edward Everett Horton was married to Ginger's best friend Madge…

It was at this juncture that Judith became aware that something funny was going on. Billy Fawcett was restless, shifting around and generally distracting her attention. She changed her position slightly, in order to give his legs more space, and as she did so, felt something on her knee. And the something was Billy Fawcett's hand, which had alighted, as though by mistake, but stayed there, heavy and uncomfortably warm.

The shock of this destroyed all concentration and pleasure.
Top Hat,
with its glitter and charm, simply ceased to exist. The dialogue, the jokes, the laughter were unheard. She continued to stare at the screen, but saw nothing, and all thought of following the plot flew from her mind, as she grappled with an alarming and totally unexpected crisis. What was she meant to do? Did he know that his hand was on her knee? Did he perhaps think it rested on the narrow arm which divided the cramped velvet seats? Should she tell him? And if she did, would he take his hand away?

But then his fingers tightened and gripped and began to knead, and she knew that his intrusion was no accident, but planned. Fondling, his hand moved higher, under her skirt, up her thigh. In a moment he would reach her knickers. In the darkness, in the warmth, she sat in terrified horror, wondering where he would stop, and what was she to do, and why was he doing it, and how could she possibly alert Aunt Louise…

Up on the screen, something amusing had taken place. The audience, Aunt Louise included, burst into peals of laughter. Under cover of this sound, Judith pretended she had dropped something, slid out of her seat, and landed on her knees, jammed in the fusty darkness between the two rows of seats.

‘What on earth,’ Aunt Louise demanded, ‘are you doing?’

‘I've lost my hairslide.’

‘I didn't think you were wearing one.’

‘Well, I was, and I've lost it.’

‘Leave it then, and we'll find it at the end of the film.’

‘Shh!’ came a furious whisper from the row behind. ‘
Stay quiet, can't you?
’

‘Sorry.’ With some difficulty, she wriggled back into her seat again, this time squeezed so close to Aunt Louise that the arm-rest dug into her rib-cage. Surely now he would take the hint and leave her alone.

But no. Another five minutes, and the hand was there again, like a creepy crawly creature that no amount of bashing with a rolled-up newspaper would kill. Fondling, moving, creeping upward…

She sprang to her feet.

Aunt Louise, not unnaturally, became exasperated. ‘Judith, for heaven's
sake.
’

‘I have to go to the lavatory,’ Judith hissed.

‘I told you to go before we left home.’

‘Shsh! Other people are watching, do you mind being quiet?’

‘Sorry. Aunt Louise, let me by.’

‘Go the other way. It's much quicker.’

‘I want to go
this
way.’

‘Well, go or sit down; you're spoiling everyone's pleasure.’

‘Sorry.’

She went, clambering over Aunt Louise's knees, and the knees of all the other irritated and inconvenienced members of the audience who happened to be sitting in their row. She sped up the dark aisle and through the curtain at the back and found the dirty little ladies' cloakroom, and went in and locked the door, and sat in the smelly place and nearly cried with disgust and despair. What did he want, the horrible man? Why did he have to touch her? Why couldn't he leave her alone? She didn't mind about missing the picture. The very idea of going back into the cinema gave her the shivers. She just wanted to get out into the fresh air and go home, and never ever have to see him or speak to him again.

‘Let's go to the cinema,’ he had suggested, without blinking an eye, letting Aunt Louise believe that he was offering the treat out of the goodness of his heart. He had fooled Aunt Louise, which alone rendered him both astute and dangerous. Why he had fondled her knee, and slid his hateful fingers right up her thigh, was incomprehensible, but that alone made her feel desecrated, because it was horrible. From the start, she had not much liked Billy Fawcett, but simply thought him rather pathetic and ridiculous. Now she felt ridiculous too, and demeaned as well. So demeaned that she knew she could never bring herself to tell Aunt Louise what had happened. The mere idea of looking her in the eye and saying
Billy Fawcett tried to put his hand up my knickers
was enough to make her burn with shame.

One thing was for sure. She would go back into the cinema, the way she had come, and would not budge until Aunt Louise stood up, took Judith's seat beside Billy Fawcett and let Judith take her own place. This could be achieved by standing and arguing, and with the help of the infuriated couple who sat behind them. Thus Aunt Louise would be forced, out of sheer embarrassment, to do as Judith insisted, and if she was angry afterwards and demanded to know what on earth Judith had been thinking about, what a way to behave, et cetera, et cetera, then Judith would take no notice of her because, indirectly, the whole situation was Aunt Louise's own fault. Billy Fawcett was
her
friend, and she could jolly well sit next to him, and Judith was pretty sure that, come hell or high water, he wouldn't dare to put his hand up Aunt Louise's knickers.

The sky, which had been clear with a brilliant full moon, suddenly darkened, and a wind sprang up from nowhere, pouncing on and howling about the house on the hill with the voice of lost ghosts. She lay in bed and was terrified, and stared at the square space of the window, waiting for what was inevitably going to happen, and not knowing what it was. She knew that if she got out of bed and fled to the door, with escape her only hope, then she would find the door locked. Over the sound of the wind, she heard footsteps on the gravel, and then a thump, as the top of a wooden ladder was set against the windowsill. It was coming. He was coming, climbing silently as a cat. She stared and her heart thudded, and she lay still because there was nothing else to do. He was coming, with his evil intentions, and his manically twinkling eyes, and his hot and fumbling fingers, and she was lost because even if she screamed she knew that no sound would come out of her mouth, and nobody would hear. Nobody would come. And then as, petrified, she watched, his head came over the edge of the windowsill, and although it was dark, she could see every feature on his face, and he was smiling…

Billy Fawcett.

She sat up in bed and screamed, and screamed again, and he was still there, but it was daylight now, it was morning and she was awake, and the terrible image stayed only for a second, and then mercifully faded, and there was no ladder, only her own open window and the morning light beyond.