Coming Home (55 page)

‘My dear child, such rubbish. Simply doing my job.’

‘No. More than that. And I always felt badly because I never took up your invitation to stay with your mother and father in Oxford. I would really have loved to go, and to meet them, but somehow…’

She hesitated. Miss Catto laughed. ‘You found a surrogate family of your own. An infinitely more suitable and satisfactory arrangement. After all, there is only so much a headmistress can provide in the way of direction. A feeling of home and belonging has to come from someone else. Looking at you now, I would say that Mrs Carey-Lewis has done an excellent job. But, too, I think it's time you went back to your own family. Now…’

But at this juncture their conversation was interrupted by a firm rap at the door, and the appearance of Mr Baines.

‘I'm not disturbing you…?’

‘Not at all,’ Miss Catto told him.

He gave Judith a pat on her shoulder. ‘Your chauffeur's reporting for duty. Not too early, I hope?’

Miss Catto smiled up at him from her chair. ‘We're having a restoring glass of sherry. Sit down and join us for a moment.’

Which Mr Baines did, making himself comfortable, accepting his drink, and lighting himself a cigarette which made him look uncharacteristically racy. They talked. He had already congratulated Judith, during the course of the Garden Party, on winning the Carnhayl Cup, and clearly saw no reason to mention it again, but he was warm with praise for Miss Catto, and the success and general smooth running of the day.

‘We were certainly blessed with the weather,’ she pointed out. ‘I just wish somebody would edit the Chairman's annual speech. Who wants to listen to a blow-by-blow account of the dry rot in the chapel rafters? Or the measles epidemic in the Easter term.’

Mr Baines laughed. ‘It's a sort of compulsion. When he stands up to speak at the County Council meetings, everybody settles down for a restoring doze…’

But finally it was time to end it all. The sherry glasses were emptied and Mr Baines looked at his watch.

‘Time, I think, to go.’

They stood.

‘I shan't come and see you off,’ Miss Catto told Judith. ‘I hate waving goodbye. But please keep in touch, and let me know what you are doing.’

‘I will.’

‘And have a splendid summer holiday.’

‘I'll do that too.’

‘Goodbye, my dear.’

‘Goodbye, Miss Catto.’

They shook hands. They did not kiss. They had never kissed. Judith turned and went from the room and Mr Baines, following, closed the door behind them. Miss Catto was left alone. She stood for a moment, thoughtful and still; then went to pick up the newspaper she had discarded when Judith appeared. The news was becoming graver as each day passed. Now, two thousand Nazi guards, believed armed, had already moved into Danzig. Sooner or later, Hitler was going to invade Poland, just as he had annexed Czechoslovakia and Austria. And that would mean another war, and a whole new generation, on the brink of rich and rewarding lives, were going to be sucked into and decimated by this appalling conflict.

She folded the paper neatly and laid it on her desk. It was necessary, she knew, to remain strong and resolute, but it was at moments like this, just as Judith left her for the last time, that the tragedy of such wastage made her heart feel as though it were being torn apart.

Her gown and her hood lay where she had placed them. Now, she gathered them up, bundled them and held them close, as though for comfort. Speech Day was a hurdle to be taken every year, and always left her exhausted, but still, no reason to feel so bereft, so anguished. Suddenly tears welled in her eyes, and as they streamed down her cheeks, she buried her face in the fusty black material, silently raging against this imminent war; mourning for youth, for Judith, and for opportunities that would be lost forever.

August now, and a wet Monday morning. Summer rain, soft and drenching, streamed down upon Nancherrow. Drifting in from the south-east, low grey clouds obscured the cliffs and the sea, and heavy-leaved trees drooped and dripped. Gutters ran and drain-pipes gurgled, and the weekly wash was postponed for a day. Nobody complained. After a long spell of hot, dry weather, the sweet coolth was welcome. The rain fell with relentless steadiness, and thirsty flowers and fruit and vegetables absorbed the moisture with gratitude, and the air was filled with the incomparable scent of newly damp earth.

Loveday, with Tiger at her heels, emerged into the outdoors by way of the scullery, stepped out into the yard, and stopped for a moment to sniff the air and fill her lungs with this sweet invigorating freshness. She wore gumboots and an old raincoat, pulled over her shorts and a striped cotton sweater, but her head was bare, and as she set off in the direction of Lidgey Farm, the rain descended upon her hair, causing the dark locks to curl more tightly than ever.

She took the road that led towards the stables, but turned off before reaching them, following, instead, the rutted lane that led up onto the moors. Here the ancient, lichened stone walls were divided from the lane by a deep ditch, now running with water, and gorse grew in prickly thickets aflame with yellow flowers smelling of almonds. There were foxgloves too, in profusion, and pale-pink mallow, and tangles of wild honeysuckle, all the way up the lane, and the dark granite of rock wore velvety patches of saffron-coloured lichen. Beyond the wall were pasture fields, where Mr Mudge's Guernsey milk cows grazed, the grass a brilliant green between the random whale-shaped crests of hidden boulders, and overhead gulls, flying inland with the weather, wheeled and screamed.

Loveday enjoyed rain. She was used to it, and it exhilarated her. Tiger ran ahead, and she followed him, quickening her pace to keep up with his enthusiasm. After a bit, she became very warm and unbuttoned the raincoat, and let it flap around and behind her, like a useless pair of wings. She went on and the lane zigzagged, to and fro, up the hill. Lidgey lay just ahead, but she couldn't see it because of the misty cloud. Which didn't matter, because she knew it was there, just as she knew all of Nancherrow, the farms and estate, like the back of her hand. The acres of land which belonged to her father were her world, and blindfold, she knew that she could have found her way quite safely in any corner of it. Even down the gunnera tunnel, through the quarry, and so to the cliffs and the cove.

At last, the final bend in the lane, and the Lidgey farmhouse loomed out of the murk, above and ahead of her; solid and squat, with farm buildings and stables and piggeries all about it. Mrs Mudge's kitchen window shone out like a yellow candle, but that was not surprising considering the gloomy conditions, because Mrs Mudge's kitchen, even on the brightest of days, was inclined to be a lightless place.

She reached the gate which led into the farmyard and paused for a moment to get her breath. Tiger was already through and ahead of her, so she climbed the gate and crossed the mucky yard, rich with the reek of cattle manure. In the middle of the yard a stone midden was heaped with this, steaming gently, festering away until such time as it would be ripe for spreading on fields and ploughed in. Around the place, Mrs Mudge's brown hens squawked and pecked, foraging for goodies, and on the top of the midden wall, her handsome cock stood tiptoe and stretched his wings and crowed his heart out. Loveday picked her way across the slippery cobbles, and went through a second gate and into the farmhouse garden. A pebble path led to the front door, and here she toed off her rubber boots and, in socked feet, let herself indoors.

The ceiling was low, the little hall dim. A wooden staircase rose to the upper floor. She put her thumb on the iron latch of the kitchen door and pushed it open, to be assailed by the warm smell of Mrs Mudge's cooking. Vegetable broth and warm bread. ‘Mrs Mudge?’

Mrs Mudge was there, standing at her sink peeling potatoes, surrounded as always by a certain chaos. She had been rolling pastry at one end of her kitchen table, but because the kitchen was living room as well, the other end of the table was piled with newspapers, seed catalogues, ironmonger's brochures, and bills waiting to be paid. Uncleaned boots stood by the range, tea-towels hung over it, and washing aired on a rack, yanked by a pulley to the ceiling. Mr Mudge's long johns were much in evidence. There was, as well, a dresser, painted blue, its shelves crammed not only with mismatched items of china, but curling postcards, packets of worm-pills, old letters, dog leads, a syringe, an old-fashioned telephone, and a basket of mud-encrusted eggs waiting to be washed. Mrs Mudge's hens were careless where they laid, and a favourite place to search for eggs was at the back of the sheep-dog's kennel.

Loveday scarcely noticed the clutter. The Lidgey kitchen always looked this way, and she liked it. It was somehow very cosy. And Mrs Mudge was comfortably grubby as well, standing there flanked by blackened saucepans, dishes of hen-food, and all the unwashed crocks and bowls of her morning's labour. She wore a wraparound pinafore and her rubber boots. She wore these boots all the time, because she was constantly in and out of the house, flinging crusts to the hens, or fetching kindling, or heaving baskets of dirty clothes out of the washhouse, and it was scarcely worthwhile taking the boots off. The flagged floor and the worn rugs were distinctly dirty, but the dirt didn't show too much, and Mr Mudge and Walter saw nothing to complain about, so well fed were they, so cared for, and so unbothered about such trivial matters. (And yet, Loveday knew, the dairy, for which Mrs Mudge was solely responsible, was hygienically spotless, scrubbed and disinfected. Which, considering the number of people who drank her milk and ate her butter and cream, was perhaps just as well.)

Mrs Mudge turned from her sink, with a potato in one hand and her lethal knife, a much-honed old carver, in the other. ‘Loveday!’ As always, she looked delighted. There was nothing she enjoyed so much as an unexpected interruption. A good excuse to put the kettle on, make a pot of tea, and gossip. ‘Well, this is some nice surprise.’

She was toothless. She had false teeth but only wore them for company or occasions like the Church Feast, when she had dreadful trouble with macaroon crumbs. Being toothless made her look quite old, but she was in fact quite young, in her early forties. Her hair was straight and lank, and on her head was a brown beret which she wore as constantly as her rubber boots and for the same reason. ‘Walked up, did you, in this dirty weather?’

‘I've got Tiger. Do you mind if he comes in?’ Which was a pretty silly question because Tiger was already in, soaking wet and sniffing at Mrs Mudge's pig bucket. She swore cheerfully at him, and aimed a kick, so he retreated to the rag-rug by the range and settled down to clean himself up, with sloppy, slow licks.

Loveday pulled off her raincoat and draped it over a chair, then reached out and took a bit of raw pastry and ate it. Mrs Mudge cackled with laughter. ‘Never known such a maid for raw pastry.’

‘It's delicious.’

‘Want a cup of tea, do you?’

Loveday said yes, not because she particularly wanted one, but drinking tea with Mrs Mudge was part of tradition. ‘Where's Walter?’

‘Up the top field with his father.’ Mrs Mudge abandoned her potatoes and filled her kettle and put it on to boil. ‘Want to see him, did you?’

‘Well, he wasn't at the stables this morning, and by the time I'd got there he'd turned the horses out.’

‘Went down to the stables early, he did, because his dad wanted him to help stank up one of the walls. Two cows got out onto the road last night, pesky brutes. What did you want Walter for?’

‘Just to tell him something. But you can give him the message. It's just that I'm going away tomorrow, to Porthkerris, for a week, so he'll have to see to everything for the horses. But there's plenty of hay, and I cleaned all the tack last night.’

‘I'll tell him. Chase him off and make sure he don't forget.’ Reaching up, Mrs Mudge took her tea-caddy, decorated with portraits of Royalty, from the mantelshelf, and then her brown teapot from the side of the range. ‘Why are you off to Porthkerris?’

‘I'm going to stay with the Warrens, with Judith. They've asked me to go too. Judith's going for two weeks, and I very nearly said no, but then I thought it might be rather fun. But I feel a bit badly about leaving the new pony, but Pops said he thought I
should
go. Besides, and you'll never believe this, Mrs Mudge, Judith and I are going to drive ourselves! Judith's gone off today with Mr Baines, the solicitor, and he's going to help her buy a car for herself. And she's only eighteen. Don't you think she's a lucky mucker? It's going to be new, too. Not second-hand.’