Coming Home (5 page)

T
he black morning was so cold that, slowly waking, Judith was aware of her nose as a separate entity, frozen to her face. Last night, going to bed, the room had felt too icy even to open the window, but she had drawn back the curtains a bit, and now, beyond the frost-starred glass of the window, gleamed yellow light from the lamp in the street below. There was no sound. Perhaps it was still the middle of the night. And then she heard the clop of horses' hooves, the milk-delivery cart, and knew that it was not the middle of the night at all, but morning.

It was now necessary to make a huge effort of physical courage. One, two, three. She pulled her hand out of the warm bedclothes and reached out to turn on the bedside light. Her new clock – from Uncle Bob, and one of her best presents – told her seven forty-five.

She put her hand quickly back under the blankets and warmed it between her knees. A new day. The last day. She felt a bit depressed. Their Christmas holiday was over, and they were going home.

The room in which she lay was in the attics of Aunt Biddy's house, and Aunt Biddy's second-best spare room. Mother and Jess had been given the best room, on the first floor, but Judith preferred this one, with its sloping ceilings and dormer window, and flowery cretonne curtains. The cold had been the worst thing about it, because the meagre heating of the rooms below her did not permeate up the last flight of stairs, but Aunt Biddy had let her have a small electric fire, and with the aid of this and a couple of hot-water bottles, she had managed to keep snug.

For, just before Christmas, the temperature had dropped alarmingly. A cold snap was on its way, warned the weatherman on the wireless, but he had prepared nobody for the Arctic conditions, which had prevailed ever since. As the Dunbars travelled up-country in the
Cornish Riviera,
Bodmin Moor had lain white with snow, and alighting at Plymouth had been a bit like arriving in Siberia, with bitter winds driving showers of sleet down the station platform.

Which was unfortunate, because Aunt Biddy and Uncle Bob lived in what had to be the coldest house in Christendom. This was not their fault, because it went with Uncle Bob's job, which was Captain (E) in charge of the Royal Naval Engineering College at Keyham. The house stood in a north-facing terrace, and was tall and thin and whistled with draughts. The warmest spot was the basement kitchen, but that was the territory of Mrs Cleese, the cook, and Hobbs, the retired Royal Marine bandsman who came in each day to black the boots and heave coals. Hobbs was something of a character, with white hair smarmed down over his bald patch, and an eye as bright and knowing as a blackbird's. He had tobacco-stained fingers, and a face seamed and battered and brown, like an old bit of luggage. If there was a party in the evening, he spruced himself up, put on a pair of white gloves and handed round the drinks.

There had been a lot of parties because, despite the freezing cold, this had been a truly magical Christmas, just the way Judith had always imagined Christmas ought to be, and had begun to think that she would never experience. But Biddy, who never did things by halves, had dressed the house overall — like a battleship, Uncle Bob remarked — and her Christmas tree, standing in the hall and filling the stairwell with lights and glitter and drifting tinsel and the smell of spruce, was the most magnificent that Judith had ever seen. Other rooms were just as festive, with hundreds of Christmas cards strung from scarlet ribbons, and swags of holly and ivy framing the fireplaces, and, in the dining-room and drawing-room, great coal-fires burned non-stop, like ship's boilers, stoked by Hobbs and banked up each night with slack, so that they never went out.

And there had been so much to do, so much going on, all the time. Luncheon parties and dinner parties, with, afterwards, dancing to the gramophone. Friends kept dropping in, for tea, or for drinks, and if a lull should occur or an empty afternoon, Aunt Biddy never succumbed to a spot of peace, but instantly suggested a visit to the cinema, or an expedition to the indoor skating rink.

Her mother, Judith knew, had become quite exhausted, and from time to time would creep upstairs for a rest on her bed, having delivered Jess into the care of Hobbs. Jess liked Hobbs and Mrs Cleese better than anybody, and spent most of her time in the basement kitchen, being fed unsuitable snacks. Which was something of a relief to Judith, who enjoyed herself a great deal more without her baby sister tagging along.

Every now and then, of course, Jess was included. Uncle Bob had bought tickets for the pantomime, and they had all gone, with another family, taking up a whole row of stalls, and Uncle Bob had bought programmes for everybody, and a vast box of chocolates. But then the Dame had appeared, in her red wig and her corsets and her great scarlet bloomers, and Jess had behaved most embarrassingly and burst into piercing howls of fear, and had had to be hurried out by Mummy and not returned again. Luckily that happened fairly near the beginning, so everybody else was able to settle down and enjoy the rest of the show.

Uncle Bob was the best. Being with him, getting to know him, was the undoubted high spot of the holiday. Judith had never known that fathers could be such good value, so patient, so interesting, so funny. Because it was a holiday, he didn't have to go to the College every day, and so had time to spare, and they had spent much of it in that holy-of-holies, his study, where he had shown her his photograph albums, let her play records on his wind-up gramophone, and taught her how to use his battered portable typewriter. And when they went skating, it was he who had helped her around the rink until she found what he called her sea-legs; and at parties he always made sure that she wasn't left out, but introduced her to his guests, just as though she were a grown-up.

Dad, although dear, and missed, had never been such fun. Admitting this to herself, Judith had felt a bit guilty, because, over the last couple of weeks, she had been having such a good time that she had scarcely thought of him. To make up for this, she thought of him now, very hard, but she had to think about Colombo first, because that was where he was, and that was the only place where she could bring his image to life. But it was difficult. Colombo had been a long time ago. You thought you could remember every detail, but time had blurred the sharpness of recall, just as light fades old photographs. She searched for some occasion on which she could latch her memory.

Christmas. Obvious. Christmas in Colombo was unforgettable, if only because it was so incongruous, with the brilliant tropic skies, the nailing heat, shifting waters of the Indian Ocean, and the breeze stirring the palm trees. In the house on the Galle Road, at Christmas, she had opened her presents on the airy veranda, within sound of the breaking waves, and Christmas dinner had not been turkey but a traditional curry lunch at the Galle Face Hotel. A lot of other people celebrated this way as well, so it was a bit like a huge children's party, with everybody wearing paper hats and blowing tooters. She thought of the dining-room filled with families, all eating and drinking far too much, and the cool sea breeze blowing in from the ocean, and the ceiling fans slowly turning.

It worked. Now she had a clear picture of him. Dad, sitting at the head of the table in a blue paper crown starred with gold. She wondered how he had spent this solitary Christmas. When they had left him, four years ago, a bachelor friend had moved in to keep him company. But somehow it was impossible to imagine the two of them indulging in seasonal cheer. They had probably ended up at the club, with all the other bachelors and grass-widowers. She sighed. She supposed she missed him, but it was not easy to go on missing a person when life had been lived without him for so long, with the only contact his monthly letters, which were three weeks old when they arrived, and not very inspiring even then.

The new clock now pointed to eight o'clock. Time to get up. Now. One, two, three. She flung back the covers, hopped out of bed, and fled to turn on the electric fire. And then, very quickly, bundled herself into her Jaeger dressing-gown and pushed her bare feet into sheepskin slippers.

Her Christmas presents were neatly lined up on the floor. She fetched her small suitcase, a Chinese one made of wicker, with a handle and little toggles to keep the lid shut, and set it down, all ready to contain her loot. She put the clock into it, and the two books which Aunt Biddy had given her. The new Arthur Ransome, called
Winter Holiday,
and, as well, a beautiful leather-bound copy of
Jane Eyre.
It seemed a very long book, with close print, but there were a number of illustrations, colour-plates protected by leaves of tissue paper, and so beguiling were they that Judith could scarcely bear to wait to start reading. Then the woollen gloves from her grandparents, and the glass bubble which, if you shook it, erupted into a snowstorm. That was from Jess. Mummy had given her a pullover, but this was a bit of a disappointment, because it had a round neck and she had wanted a polo. However, Aunt Louise had come up trumps, and despite the promised bicycle, there had been a holly-wrapped parcel under the tree for Judith, and inside a five-year diary, fat and leathery as a Bible. Her present from Dad had not come yet. He wasn't always very good about getting things on time, and posts took ages. Still, that was something to look forward to. Almost the best present was from Phyllis, and was exactly what Judith needed — a pot of sticky paste with its own little brush and a pair of scissors. She would keep them in the locked drawer of her desk, away from Jess's fiddling fingers, and then, whenever she felt creative and wanted to make something, or cut something out, or stick a postcard into her private scrapbook, she wouldn't have to go and ask her mother for scissors (which could never be located) or be reduced to making glue out of flour and water. It never worked properly and smelt disgusting. Owning for herself these two humble objects gave Judith a good feeling of self-sufficiency.

She placed everything neatly into the basket, and there was just room for it all, without the lid refusing to close. She fastened the little toggles and put the basket on her bed, and then, as swiftly as she could, got dressed. Breakfast would be waiting and she was hungry. She hoped it would be sausages and not poached eggs.

Biddy Somerville sat at the end of her dining-room table, drank black coffee, and tried to ignore the fact that she had a slight hangover. Yesterday evening, after dinner, two young engineer-lieutenants had dropped in to pay their respects, and Bob had produced a bottle of brandy, and in the consequent celebration Biddy had tossed back a snifter too many. Now, a faint throb in her temple reminded her that she should have stopped at two. She had not mentioned to Bob that she felt a little queasy, otherwise he would briskly tell her the same thing. He bracketed hangovers with sunburn: a punishable offence.

Which was all very well for him, because he had never suffered from a hangover in his life. He sat now at the other end of the table, hidden from her by the opened pages of
The Times.
He was fully dressed, in uniform, because his seasonal leave was over, and today he returned to work. In a moment, he would close the paper, fold it, lay it on the table, and announce that it was time he was off. The rest of their little house party had not yet appeared, and for this Biddy was grateful, because by the time they appeared, she would, with luck, have had her second cup of coffee and be feeling stronger.

They were leaving today, and Biddy found herself feeling quite sorry that the time had come to say goodbye. She had invited them to stay for a number of reasons. It was Molly's last Christmas before returning to the Far East, and she was Biddy's only sister. There was no knowing, the world being in the state that it was, when they would see each other again. As well Biddy was a bit guilty, because she felt that she hadn't done enough for the Dunbars during the last four years; hadn't seen enough of them; hadn't made as much effort as she might. Finally, she had asked them because Ned was away skiing, and the thought of Christmas without youngsters around was a bleak one, and not to be countenanced.