Coming Home (34 page)

A dream. Her heart thudded like a drum with the terror and reality of her own overwrought imagination. Gradually it stilled. Her mouth was dry. She drank from the glass of water by her bed. Lay back, trembling and exhausted, on the pillows.

She thought about facing Aunt Louise over bacon and eggs, and hoped that she was not still cross about yesterday evening and the disastrous visit to the cinema. Judith's frightening dream had faded, but the practical problem of Billy Fawcett was as real and immediate as ever; it lay on her heart like a weight, and she knew that no amount of chewing over the debacle of their night out was going to solve this problem, or, on consideration, do any good whatsoever.

‘Let's go the cinema.’
So kindly and well meaning. And all the time, he had been planning
that.
He had deceived them both, which rendered him cunning, and so an enemy to be reckoned with. His violation was incomprehensible. She only knew that, somehow, it was all mixed up with sex, and so, was horrible.

From the start Judith had not found him likeable…not like dear Mr Willis, or even Colonel Carey-Lewis, with whom she had formed an instant rapport…but simply something of a caricature — ridiculous. And now the awful thing was that she felt ridiculous too, because she had behaved like an idiot. As well, there was Aunt Louise to be considered. Billy Fawcett was an old acquaintance, a link with Jack Forrester and their halcyon days in India. To tell would be to destroy her faith and end their friendship. And Judith, distraught as she was, did not have it in her to be so cruel.

Because Aunt Louise had been very good about the disastrous visit to the cinema, saying no word until she and Judith were back at Windyridge and alone. After the film was finished, and the audience stood for the scratchy rendering of ‘God Save the King’, they had filed out, into the cold and blowy darkness, and piled into the Rover, and returned to Penmarron. Billy Fawcett had kept up perky conversation all the way, repeating and recalling amusing scraps of dialogue from the film, and whistling the tunes.

I'm putting on my top hat

Tying up my white tie…

Judith stared at the back of his head and wished him dead. As they approached the gates of Windyridge, he said, ‘Drop me here, Louise my dear, and I'll make my own way home. Splendid of you to drive us. Enjoyed myself.’

‘We enjoyed ourselves too, Billy. Didn't we, Judith?’ The car halted, and he opened the door and clambered out. ‘And thank you for our treat.’

‘A pleasure, my dear. 'Bye, Judith.’ And he had the effrontery to stick his head through the door and send her a wink. Then the door slammed shut and he was on his way. Aunt Louise turned in through the gate. They were home.

She had not been really angry, simply puzzled, and at a loss to know what on earth had got into Judith. ‘You behaved like a maniac. I thought you'd caught a flea or something, hopping about like a person with St Vitus's dance. Losing things, and dropping things, and then disturbing a whole row of innocent people who were only trying to enjoy themselves. And all that fuss about sitting in
my
seat. I've never seen such behaviour in my life.’

Which was all quite reasonable. Judith apologised, told her that the mythical hairslide had been a favourite, the visit to the lavatory highly essential, and that she had only asked Aunt Louise to shift seats because she thought it easier for Aunt Louise to move, rather than to endure Judith's clambering across her knees and possibly kicking her. She had, actually, only been thinking of Aunt Louise's well-being, when she made the suggestion.

‘My well-being! I like that, with the couple behind me calling me every sort of name and threatening to call the police…’

‘But they wouldn't have.’

‘That's not the point. It was very embarrassing.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘I was quite enjoying the film too. I didn't think I would, but it was amusing.’

‘I thought it was funny too,’ Judith fibbed, because, in fact, after the moment when the fumbling started, she couldn't remember anything about it at all. She added, hoping to put Aunt Louise off any possible scent, ‘It was kind of Colonel Fawcett to take us.’

‘Yes, it was. Poor old boy, he's pretty hard-up. Not much of a pension…’ The row, it seemed, was over. Aunt Louise, having divested herself of coat and hat, went to pour herself a sustaining whisky and soda, and carrying this, led the way into the dining-room, where Edna had left them cold mutton and sliced beetroot, her idea of a suitable post-cinema snack.

But Judith was not hungry. Simply dead-tired. She toyed with the mutton and drank some water.

‘You all right?’ Aunt Louise asked. ‘You look dreadfully pale. The excitement must have been too much for you. Why don't you pop off to bed?’

‘Would you mind?’

‘Not a scrap.’

‘I'm sorry about everything.’

‘We'll talk no more about it.’

Now, the morning after, Judith knew that she wouldn't. For this she was grateful, but still felt miserable. Not only miserable but grubby, and itchy and uncomfortable. Contaminated by the unspeakable Billy Fawcett, and as well physically unclean, as though her body had absorbed the frowstiness of the stuffy little cinema, and the fetid lavatory where she had fled for refuge from his prowling hand. And her hair smelt of cigarette smoke, which was disgusting. Last night she had been too tired to have a bath, so she would have one now. The decision made, she flung back the rumpled sheets and went across the landing to turn on the taps full-blast.

It was wonderful, scalding hot, and deep as she dared. She soaped every bit of herself, and washed her hair as well. Dried, and scented with talcum powder, and with her teeth scrubbed, she felt marginally better. Back in her room, she kicked all yesterday's clothes aside to be dealt with, at some point, by Hilda and found clean ones. Fresh underclothes and stockings and a crisply ironed shirt. A different skirt and a dusty-pink pullover. She rubbed her hair on her towel and then combed it back from her face, put on her shoes, tied the laces, and went downstairs.

Aunt Louise was already at breakfast, buttering toast and sipping coffee. She was dressed for golf, in tweeds and a cardigan, buttoned over a manly shirt. Her hair, confined in its net, was immaculate. As Judith came in, she looked up.

‘Thought you'd slept in.’

‘I'm sorry. I decided to have a bath.’

‘I had mine last night. Something about going to the cinema always leaves one feeling perfectly filthy.’ Judith's misdemeanours apparently were forgiven and forgotten. She was in cheerful mood, looking forward to her game. ‘How did you sleep? Did you dream of Fred Astaire?’

‘No. No, I didn't.’

‘My favourite was the actor who pretended to be a clergyman.’ Judith helped herself to bacon and eggs and took her seat. ‘Being
English
made him somehow so droll.’

‘What time are you playing golf?’

‘I said I'd meet them at ten. We'll probably tee off about half past, and then have a late lunch in the club. How about you?’ Aunt Louise glanced at the window. ‘It looks quite a promising day. Do you want to go off on your bicycle, or is there something else you'd like to do?’

‘No. I think I
will
go up Veglos, and look for primroses for you.’

‘I'll get Edna to make a sandwich, and pack it in a haversack. And maybe an apple and a bottle of ginger beer. She and Hilda are off at half past ten for Auntie's birthday. Some cousin is going to come and pick them up in his motor car. Funny. I never even knew they
had
a cousin who owned a motor car. And I'd like you to wait until they've set off, and then you can take the back-door key. I'll take the front-door key, and that way we're independent of each other. And I'll make sure all the windows are locked as well. You never know. Such funny people around. In the old days I never thought of locking doors, but then Mrs Battersby was burgled, and one can't be too sure. And you'd better take a raincoat, in case it rains. And be home before dark.’

‘I have to be. I haven't any lights.’

‘How silly. We should have thought of lights when we bought the bicycle.’ She poured her second cup of coffee. ‘Well, that's all settled.’ She stood and, carrying the coffee cup, went from the room, headed for the kitchen and Edna, and gave orders for Judith's picnic.

Later, brogued and wearing a beret, and with her clubs stowed on the back seat of the Rover, she departed for the golf club, locking the front door firmly behind her. Judith saw her off, and then went back indoors by way of the kitchen. Edna and Hilda were dressed in their finery for the momentous birthday party.

Hilda wore a beige coat buttoned low, and a halo hat, and Edna had put on her good coat and skirt and a purple tammy with a brooch pinned to it. Of the two sisters she was Judith's least favourite, endlessly complaining about her varicose veins and her sore feet, and displaying a remarkable ability always to look on the black side of any situation. Getting a laugh out of her was a bit like getting blood from a stone. However, she was good-hearted, and Judith's picnic had been hastily assembled and waited for her on the kitchen table, packed in a small haversack.

‘Thank you so much, Edna. I hope it wasn't too much trouble.’

‘Didn't take no time. Only meat paste. Madam says you're going to take the back-door key with you. And leave the door open for us coming back. About nine o'clock we'll be home.’

‘Goodness. What a long birthday party.’

‘There'll be all the clearing up to do.’

‘I'm sure it will be fun.’

‘Well, I hope so, I'm sure,’ said Edna gloomily.

‘Oh, come on, Edna,’ Hilda chipped in. ‘Everybody's going to be there. It'll be screeches of fun.’

But Edna only shook her head. ‘Eighty's too old, I always say. And Auntie Lily's stuck there in her chair and her ankles so swollen she can scarcely rise to her feet. And heavy! Takes two people to get her to the lavvy. I'd rather be down graveyard than in a state like that.’

‘It's not for us to choose,’ Hilda pointed out. ‘Anyway, she still likes a laugh. Split her sides she did, when her old goat ate all the washing off Mrs Daniel's clothes-line…’

The argument, which might have gone on forever, was brought to a close by the cousin in his car. Like a couple of flustered hens, the sisters were galvanised into action, gathering up their handbags and umbrellas, the tin containing the cake they had baked, and the bunch of daffodils wrapped in a bit of newspaper.

‘See you tomorrow.’

‘Have a good time.’

She watched them, shrill with excitement, climb into the ramshackle vehicle and be driven away. She stood waving and they waved back. The exhaust pipe exploded clouds of black smoke, and they were gone.

She was alone.

And Billy Fawcett knew she was alone. The spectre of his presence, lurking in his bungalow just down the road, meant that there was no time to hang about. She fetched her raincoat from its hook in the cloakroom, rolled it up, and stuffed it into the haversack, on top of the picnic. With this slung across her shoulder, she let herself out of the back door, and ceremoniously locked it. In the garage, she stowed the enormous key in with all the spanners of her tool-bag. Then she wheeled the bicycle out onto the gravel, took a quick look around to make sure that he was nowhere to be seen, mounted the bicycle, and sped away.

It was a bit like escaping. Furtive, swift and secret. But the awful thing was that, as long as Billy Fawcett was around, this was how it was always going to be.

Veglos Hill lay four miles from Penmarron, a distinctive landmark despite its modest elevation. Narrow lanes led up to and around it, and all about was moorland, small farms and copses of oak and hawthorn, stunted and deformed by the constant winds. On its flattened crest were cairns of rock, bun-shaped granite boulders, piled upon each other, and the way to the summit lay beyond an encircling drystone wall. The lower slopes of the hill were thick with brambles, bracken and gorse, and turfy paths wound their way up through the thickets. Wild flowers grew abundantly. Bell heather, and celandine and primroses, and in summer the ditches overflowed with the belled spires of foxgloves.

And yet it was an ancient place, and atmospheric. On the upper slopes of the hill, in the lee of the cairn, could be discerned the remnants of habitation, the hut circles of stone-age man. On a day of rain, with the mist swirling in from the ocean, and the Pendeen fog-horn moaning out through the murk, it was not hard to imagine that the ghosts of those small dark men were still in possession of Veglos; just out of sight but watching.