Coming Home (35 page)

When they lived at Riverview House, the Dunbars had sometimes come to Veglos, in springtime, or September when the dark blackberries were ripe for picking. It was always a day's expedition, and because the hill was too distant for Jess's short legs to walk, their mother had plucked up her courage and driven them in the little Austin. Phyllis always came too, and everyone, even Jess, carried a bit of the picnic.

Judith remembered these occasions as particularly happy days.

But this was the first time she had come by bicycle, and it was a tiring ride, uphill most of the way. But finally she made it, and the hill lay just above her, beyond the drystone wall. Access to the path was by means of a stepped stile, which meant that the bike could go no further, so she abandoned it, half-hidden by gorse and brambles, settled her haversack, and started out on the long walk.

The day was cool but fair, with clouds sailing across the pale sky and a faint sea haze blurring the horizon. The turf felt springy and sweet beneath her feet, and as she climbed, she paused from time to time, to draw breath and see how the countryside had opened up, spread before her like a map. The sea was all-embracing; to the north, the blue bay curved to the distant lighthouse, and to the south, glimmering in the haze, lay Mount's Bay and the English Channel.

At last, she achieved the summit, and the cairn reared up above her. The final climb was a scramble up the face of this, finding toe-holds and finger-holds, scrabbling up the thorny gullies, and at last emerging at the top, in the teeth of the wind, and with all the world at her feet. It was now nearly one o'clock, and hunkering down for shelter in the lee of a yellow-lichened rock, she felt the sun warm on her cheeks.

It was all very peaceful and solitary, with only the sough of the wind and bird-song for company. She rested and gazed, filled with a good sense of achievement, and took her bearings. She saw the tidy patchwork of fields, small farms reduced by distance to toy-size; a man ploughing behind a horse, with a cloud of white gulls at his heels. The Lizard was drowned in the diffused light, but she could discern the pale outline of Penzance, the church tower and the dome of the bank. Beyond Penzance, the coast stretched out of sight. She thought of the road which led out along the cliffs to Rosemullion and Nancherrow. She thought of Loveday and wondered how she was spending this day. She thought of Diana.

She wished Diana were here, now. Just Diana. Sitting beside her, with nobody else to listen, so that Judith could confide, could tell her about Billy Fawcett, could ask her advice. She could ask Diana to tell her what on earth she was meant to do. Because even on the top of Veglos Hill, Billy Fawcett sat on her shoulder like a black dog. It seemed that you could cycle and walk until you were physically exhausted and ready to drop, but nothing would still the ever-present and restless anxieties which rat-raced around in the inside of her head.

The worst was having nobody to tell. All morning her subconscious mind had been milling over every possible confidante, and always she came up with a blank.

Mummy. Out of the question. A world away. And even if she were
here,
at Riverview, Judith knew that her mother was basically too innocent, too vulnerable to be landed with such a shocking dilemma. She would become flustered and get into one of her hysterical states, and more harm would be done than good.

Phyllis. Now working for Mrs Bessington in Porthkerris. But Judith did not know where Mrs Bessington lived, and could not see herself ringing the bell, facing up to the unknown Mrs Bessington, and demanding an interview with her cook-general.

Aunt Biddy then. Aunt Biddy would listen, and probably scream with laughter, and then become indignant, get in touch with Aunt Louise and precipitate a row. Relations between the two disparate aunts had never been close, and spilling the beans to Aunt Biddy would fairly put the cat among the pigeons. The resultant carnage and its consequences did not bear thinking about.

Heather. Or Loveday. But they were both younger than Judith, and just as naive. They would only gape or giggle or ask a lot of unanswerable questions, and a fat lot of good
that
would do.

Which brought all responsibility back to herself. By fair means or foul, she simply had to deal with Billy Fawcett on her own. And if her worst fears were realised and for some unimagined reason Aunt Louise lost her head, succumbed to his blandishments and agreed to marry him, then Judith was leaving Windyridge, packing her bags, and going to Plymouth to live with Aunt Biddy. Provided he stayed in his bungalow down the road, she reckoned she could deal with him. But at the first inkling that he was about to become Mr Louise Forrester and take possession of Windyridge, then Judith was off.

So a sort of decision had been achieved. With weary resolution, she tried to put it all out of her mind, and set about enjoying her solitary expedition. Exploring all the cairns took up a bit of time, and then she ate her picnic, and sat in the thin warmth until clouds covered the face of the sun and it grew chilly. She gathered up her haversack and made her way down the slope to where the turfy dells were filled with primroses. She began to pick, tying the bunches with strands of wool when they became too plump to hold. Crouching, she grew stiff. When the third bunch was complete she stood, painfully easing the cramps from her shoulders and her knees. She looked up and saw the black sky moving in from the west, and knew that, very soon, it was going to start to pour with rain, and that the time had come to head for home. She opened her haversack, hauled out her raincoat, and put it on. The primroses went in, on top of the remains of her picnic. She buckled the straps, slung it across her back, and ran all the way down the path to where she had hidden her bicycle.

She was only half-way back to the village when the sky turned the colour of granite and the rain fell. It came not gradually, but in a deluge, and in moments she was extremely wet. It didn't matter. In fact, it was rather enjoyable, pedalling along with the rain in her face, and her hair dripping drops down the back of her neck, and the bicycle gamely splashing its way through the puddles. Up the hill (too steep to pedal, so she had to push) and then through the village, and on by the main road. She was passed by cars and the local bus, trundling its wet way towards Porthkerris, the faces of passengers blurred beyond the foggy windows. It was cold, and with the rain a keen wind had risen, but she glowed with exertion and exercise, even if her hands were frozen.

Windyridge at last. Down the lane and in through the gate, and up the garden path. In the garage, she parked the dripping bicycle, took the back-door key from the tool-bag and scurried for the house. She would have a hot bath, hoist her wet clothes on the kitchen pulley to dry, make herself a cup of tea.

It was good to be indoors. The kitchen was warm and, without Edna and Hilda, seemed very quiet. Only the old clock ticked from the wall, and the hot coals of the range hummed in the draught. She took off her sodden raincoat and dropped it on a chair. She found empty jam jars and filled them with water, and set the primroses into them so that they could have a drink and recover from their journey. She left the jam jars and the haversack on the kitchen table and went out of the kitchen and across the hall, and started upstairs.

As she did so, the telephone standing on the hall chest rang. She turned back and went to answer it, but before she could say anything, it spoke to her.

‘Judith.’

She froze.

‘You there, Judith? Billy Fawcett here. Looking out for you, saw you come home. Bit worried about you in this monsoon. Thought I'd check.’ His voice sounded a bit woozy. Perhaps, already, he had been at his whisky bottle. ‘Come around and have a cup of tea with you.’ She scarcely breathed. ‘Judith? Judith, are you there…?’

Gently, Judith replaced the receiver on its hook. The line went dead. She stood motionless with the calm of desperation, and her mind crystal-clear. Billy Fawcett, on the prowl. But she was all right. Thanks to darling, darling Aunt Louise, the front door and all the downstairs windows were locked. Only the back door had she left open…

She sped back the way she had come, through the kitchen and the scullery; retrieved the key, slammed the door shut, and locked it from the inside. The old-fashioned mechanism, well oiled, slid into place. Downstairs, now, all was safe. But the upper floor…? She raced back into the hall and up the stairs, taking the treads two at a time, because there was not a second to waste. Last night, in her dream, he had armed himself with a ladder and come that way, finding her open window and setting the ladder against its sill. The dream flooded back in all its horror. His head and shoulders appearing, silhouetted against the night, and his yellow-toothed smile, and his knowing eyes…

In the bedrooms, on the landing, windows stood open. She raced from room to room, closing and snibbing every one. Aunt Louise's bedroom was the last, and as she scrabbled with the latch, she saw, through the curtain of rain, Billy Fawcett, mackintoshed and dripping, come through the garden gate and set off at a brisk clip up the gravelled path. Before he could catch sight of her, Judith flung herself onto the carpet, and rolled, like a log, into the cramped and stuffy gloom beneath Aunt Louise's enormous mahogany double bed.

Her heart raced, and it was hard to breathe.

Looking out for you. Saw you come home.
She imagined him at his window, armed with his tumbler of whisky and possibly a pair of binoculars, as though ensconced in his frontier fort, and watching for Afghans to kill. Spying, he had waited. Waiting, he had been rewarded for his patience. And he knew that she was totally alone.

Through the drip of the rain, she heard his feet on the gravel. The thump of his fist on the front door. The pealing of the bell from the kitchen. It shrilled through the empty house. She lay motionless.

‘Judith. I know you're there.’

She stuffed her fist into her mouth. She remembered the little larder window, always open, and was momentarily terrified. But common sense came to her rescue, because only the tiniest baby could squeeze through that window, and anyway it was screened with a fine wire mesh to keep out the wasps and the bluebottles.

His footsteps moved away, tramping off around the side of the house, out of hearing. He was going to try the back door. She remembered its dungeon lock and took courage.

She lay silent, listening, ears as sensitive as those of a suspicious dog. Only the drum of the rain, the whispering tick of Aunt Louise's little bedside clock. Tick-tick-tick, it went, very quickly. She waited. After what seemed like eternity, he returned to the front door, his footsteps crunching back into earshot.

‘Judith!’ A bellow from beneath the window, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Soaked and frustrated, he was clearly losing control of his temper, and was giving up any attempt to be either ingratiating or friendly. ‘What do you think you're playing at? Bloody rude. Come down and let me in…’

She did not move.

‘Judith!’
Now he renewed his onslaught on the front door, hammering at the solid wood with the fury of a man demented. Once again, from the kitchen, came the furious jangling of the bell.

Its clangour finally ceased. A long silence. The wind whined, nudging at the windows, rattling their frames. And she was grateful for the wind, and the relentless rain, because surely he couldn't stand there forever, getting nowhere, getting drenched. Soon, surely, he would chuck in the sponge, admit defeat, and go.

‘Judith!’ But now it was a wail. A last, sad, token appeal. He was losing hope. She did not respond. And then she heard him say, quite loudly, for a man who had only himself to talk to, ‘Oh, bloody fucking hell.’ And he shuffled about a bit on the gravel, and then began to walk away down the path to the gate.

He was going at last. Leaving her alone.

She waited until the footsteps were almost inaudible, then rolled out from under the bed, crawled to the window, and under cover of Aunt Louise's curtains, took the most wary and cautious of peeps. He was already through the gate, and over the top of the escallonia hedge she could see the top of his head as he thumped disconsolately back to his bungalow.

He was gone. Relief rendered her weak as a kitten; she felt like a balloon with all the air let out, a wrinkled, wobbly scrap of coloured rubber. Her knees crumpled and she sank down onto the floor and, for a bit, she simply stayed there. She had won that skirmish, but it had been a bitter victory and she felt too drained, and had been too frightened, for any sort of triumph. And she was cold. Judith was still soaked from her bicycle ride, and shivering, but lacking the strength in her limbs to get to her feet, get to the bathroom, put in the plug and turn on the hot tap.

He was gone. Suddenly, it was all too much. Like a baby's, she felt her face crumpling. She leaned her head against the hard, polished side of Aunt Louise's dressing-table and let the tears, silently, stream down her cheeks.