Coming Home (37 page)

Louise Forrester, headed for home, found herself in a good mood; pleased that she had chosen to come this way, enjoying the challenge of the journey, the solitary isolation of the unlit country road, the gratification of being the only person out and about so late and on such a filthy night. As well, she loved to drive, and was always stimulated by the sensation of being in charge, in control, behind the wheel of her powerful car.

Accelerating, she got a physical thrill from the response of the engine, and experienced a young man's excitement as she manoeuvred the Rover around narrow, tight corners without ever losing speed. All of it gave her a kick. She thought of the song, but could not remember the words, so made up some of her own

‘I get a kick out of you

Driving too fast with my life in the past…’

I am, she told herself, behaving as skittishly as that flighty creature, Biddy Somerville. But it had been a good evening. This exhilarating journey home, over the empty moors, was a fitting way to end the day. A flourish. She had never been a woman to do things by halves.

The road sank before her, winding down into a shallow valley. At the foot of this she crossed a small stone humpbacked bridge, and then began to climb again. She changed down to third and, its headlights pointing to the sky, the powerful car charged up the hill and was over the brow like a steeplechaser.

Her foot was still hard down on the accelerator. She saw the truck, unlit and abandoned, but only a split second before she hit it. The shattering crash, the noise of tearing metal and breaking glass, was horrendous, but Louise was not aware of anything. The impact caused her to be flung forwards, out of her seat, against and through the windscreen, and at the consequent post-mortem the police doctor gave it as his opinion that Mrs Forrester had died instantly.

But it was impossible to be certain. Because, for perhaps half a minute after the collision, nothing much happened. Only splinters of glass trickled to the roadside and a wheel, askew in the air, slowly ceased to rotate. In the dark and the rain and the solitude, there had been no witness to the disaster, and so nobody to send for, nor bring, help. The shambles of the wreckage, lightless and torn and twisted almost beyond recognition, was simply
there,
unsuspected; the two shattered vehicles locked together like a pair of copulating dogs.

And then, with startling suddenness and a thud that boomed through the black night like a clap of thunder, the Rover's petrol tank ignited and blew up, and the flames exploded, consuming, staining the dark heavens with scarlet. The conflagration, like a warning beacon, alighted the world, and a dark cloud of evil-smelling smoke was blown across the sky, contaminating the sweet damp air with the stench of burning rubber.

Deirdre Ledingham opened the library door. She said, ‘So
there
you are…’

Judith looked up. It was a Thursday afternoon, and she had a free period and had come to the library to do some reading for an English literature essay she had to write on Elizabeth Barrett Browning. But she had been diverted by the latest issue of
The Illustrated London News,
which Miss Catto considered educational, and had delivered to St Ursula's every week. Its pages were devoted to a variety of subjects as well as news; archaeology; and horticulture; and nature articles, covering the life-styles of strange, tree-creeping creatures, and birds with names like the lesser bar-tailed godwit. But Judith was not all that keen on zoology and had been deep in a disturbing account of the creation and development of the Hider Youth in Germany. This movement was not, it seemed, a bit like Boy Scouts, who never appeared to do anything more sinister than put up tents, light campfires, and sing ‘Underneath the Spreading Chestnut Tree’. Instead, the young lads seemed like soldiers, dressed in shorts and military caps and swastika armbands. Even their activities appeared arrogant and warlike, and there was one picture of a group of the handsome blond youngsters that filled Judith with a special foreboding. Because they should all have been playing cricket or football or climbing trees, but instead were marching at some civic ceremony, grimfaced and well drilled as a squad of professional soldiers. She tried to imagine how she should feel, should such a parade come goose-stepping down Market Jew Street, and found the prospect unimaginably awful. And yet, in the photographed faces of the crowds gathered to watch the boys strut by, was nothing but pleasure and pride. This, it seemed, in Germany, was what ordinary people
wanted
…

‘…I've been looking for you everywhere.’

Judith closed
The Illustrated London News.
‘Why?’ she asked. As the weeks of term had passed and the routine of school became as familiar as home, her confidence had grown and she had lost some of her awe of Deirdre Ledingham. Egged on by Loveday, who stood in awe of nobody, she had decided that Deirdre's bossy self-importance at times verged on the ridiculous. She was, as Loveday frequently pointed out, just another girl, for all her air of authority, her badges, and her thrusting bust. ‘What for?’

‘Miss Catto wants to see you in her study.’

‘What about?’

‘No idea. But you'd better not keep her waiting.’

After that first interview, Judith was no longer terrified of Miss Catto, but even so, she had enough respect for the headmistress to do as she was told. She stacked her books and screwed the top on her fountain pen, and then went to the cloakroom to wash her hands and tidy her hair. Neat, and only slightly apprehensive, she knocked at Miss Catto's study door.

‘Come in.’

She was there, behind her desk, just as before. Only today it was grey and cloudy and the sun did not shine, and the flowers on her desk were not primroses but anemones. Judith loved anemones, with their pinks and purples and sea-greens. All the rich cold colours of the spectrum.

‘Judith.’

‘Deirdre said you wanted to see me, Miss Catto.’

‘Yes, my dear, I do. Come and sit down.’

A chair awaited her. She sat facing Miss Catto. This time there was to be no small talk. Miss Catto came straight to the point.

‘The reason I sent for you has nothing to do with school, nor your work. It is about something quite different. But I am afraid it is going to come as something of a shock, so I want you to prepare yourself…You see…it's your Aunt Louise…’

Judith stopped listening. She knew instantly what Miss Catto was about to tell her. Aunt Louise was going to marry Billy Fawcett. The palms of her hands went clammy, and she could almost feel the blood drain from her cheeks. The nightmare was going to come true. The thing that she prayed would never happen, was happening…

Miss Catto's voice continued. Inattention was a cardinal sin. Judith pulled herself together and tried to concentrate on what her headmistress was saying. Something about last night. ‘…driving home, at about eleven o'clock…she was alone…nobody about…’

The truth dawned. She was talking about Aunt Louise and her car. Nothing to do with Billy Fawcett. Judith felt her lips part in a sigh of relief, and knew that the colour was coming back into her face in an almost shameful blush.

‘…an accident. A really terrible collision.’ Miss Catto paused, and Judith looked at her and caught on Miss Catto's calm features an expression of puzzlement and concern. ‘Are you all right, Judith?’

She nodded.

‘You understand what I'm trying to tell you?’

She nodded again. Aunt Louise had had a car smash. That was what it was all about. Aunt Louise, driving, as always far too fast, overtaking on bends, scattering sheep or hens with a blast of her horn. But now, it seemed, her luck had run out. ‘She's all right, though, isn't she, Miss Catto?’ Aunt Louise in the local hospital, with a bandage on her head, and her arm in a sling. That was all. Just wounded. ‘She is all right?’

‘Oh, Judith, no. I'm afraid she's not. It was a fatal accident. She was killed instantly.’

Judith stared at Miss Catto, her face filled with defiant disbelief, because she knew that something so violent and final simply couldn't be true. And then saw the pain and compassion in Miss Catto's eyes, and knew that it was. ‘That is what I have to tell you, my dear. Your Aunt Louise is dead.’

Dead. Finished. Forever. Dead was a terrible word. Like the last tick of a clock, or the snip of a pair of scissors, severing a thread.

Aunt Louise.

She heard herself take a deep breath that sounded like a shudder. She said, very calmly, wanting to know, ‘How did it happen?’

‘I told you. A collision.’

‘Where?’

‘Up on the old road, the road that goes over the moor. A truck had broken down, been abandoned. No light. She drove into the back of it.’

‘Was she going very fast?’

‘I don't know.’

‘She was always a terrible driver. She went terribly fast. She overtook things.’

‘I think, probably, that this accident was not her fault.’

‘Who found her?’

‘There was a fire. It was seen, and the police were alerted.’

‘Was anyone else killed?’

‘No. Your aunt was alone.’

‘Where had she been?’

‘I think out to dinner with friends. Near Helston.’

‘Commander and Mrs Richards. She used to play golf with them.’ She thought of Aunt Louise driving home through the darkness as she had driven herself countless times before. She looked at Miss Catto. ‘Who told you?’

‘Mr Baines.’

Judith's mind was a blank. ‘Who's Mr Baines?’

‘He's your aunt's solicitor in Penzance. I believe he takes care of your mother's affairs as well.’

She remembered Mr Baines. ‘Does Mummy know that Aunt Louise has been killed?’

‘Mr Baines has sent your father a telegram. He will, naturally, follow this up with a letter. And I, of course, will write to your mother.’

‘But what about Edna and Hilda?’ For the first time, real distress sounded in Judith's voice.

‘Who are they?’

‘Aunt Louise's cook and her housemaid. They're sisters. They've been with her for years…they'll be terribly upset.’

‘Yes, I'm afraid they are. They didn't realise that your aunt had not returned home. The first suspicion they had was when one of them took up her early-morning tea-tray, and found the bed unslept in.’

‘What did they do?’

‘Very sensibly, they telephoned the vicar. And then the local constable went to call on them, and break the sad news. They were naturally very distressed, but have decided to stay together, in your aunt's house, for the time being.’

The thought of Hilda and Edna, alone and bereaved in the empty house, comforting each other and drinking cups of tea, was somehow sadder than anything else. Without Aunt Louise their lives would have no direction, no purpose. And it was all very well thinking they'll get other jobs, because they were not young and resilient like Phyllis, but middle-aged and unmarried, and hopeless on their own. And if they didn't get other jobs, where would they live? What would they do? They were inseparable. They could never be parted.

She said, ‘Will there be a funeral?’

‘In due time, yes of course.’

‘Will I have to go?’

‘Only if you want to. But I think you should. And I shall of course come with you, and stand by you all the time.’