Coming Home (81 page)

‘An evening swim will do you all the good in the world. Chase the miseries away; clear your head.’

And she thought how wonderful that would be, and if only it were possible. But whatever you did, the inside of your head went on churning away, and you couldn't get away from the treadmill of remembering things that you longed to forget.

They were back. Edward drew up outside the open front door, and they got out of the car and went into the house. There, on the table in the centre of the hall, stood the picnic basket, packed with tin boxes and Thermos flasks. But as well, neatly folded on the top of these, were two red-and-white-striped towels, Edward's trunks and Judith's bathing costume. Beside the basket, weighted down with the brass letter-tray, was a note from Athena.

Don't say we don't think of everything.

Bathers at the ready to save you time.

Come right away. No hanging about. X. Athena.

Edward read this aloud. Judith said, ‘You'd better go.’

But he clearly felt guilty about leaving her on her own. He put his hands on her shoulders and gazed down into her face. ‘Are you
sure
you'll be all right?’

‘Of course.’

‘Have you got an aspirin?’

‘I'll find one. Just go, Edward.’

But still he lingered. ‘Am I forgiven?’

He was like a small boy, resenting another person's displeasure, needing reassurance that all was right with his world.

‘Oh, Edward. It was just as much my fault as yours.’ Which was true, but so shame-making, it was unpleasant to think about.

It was, however, enough for Edward. ‘Good.’ He smiled. ‘I don't like you being angry with me. I couldn't bear the thought of us not being friends.’ He gave her a little hug, then let her go and turned to lift the heavy basket off the table and make for the door.

On the way out, he turned for the last time. ‘I shall be waiting for you,’ he told her.

Judith could feel the stupid tears again come swimming up into her eyes, and it was not possible to speak. So she nodded, willing him to go, and he walked away from her, through the open door, was silhouetted for an instant against the sunlight, and then gone. The sound of his footsteps on the gravel faded and died into the hot, slumberous Sunday afternoon.

She stood, and the house was empty and silent. No sound. Just the slow tick of the tall grandfather clock that stood at the foot of the stairs. She saw that it was a quarter past four. Everybody was gone, dispersed. Only she herself, and, upstairs, the invalid, probably asleep in her lavish bed, with Pekoe curled up beside her.

She went towards the staircase, intending to make her way upstairs, but for some reason she felt so exhausted that, instead, she sank down on the bottom stair and leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the banister. The tears now were flowing, and the next thing she knew was that she was weeping, sobbing like a child. It didn't matter, of course, because there was no person to hear, and it was something of a relief just to give way to her misery and let it all pour out. Her eyes streamed and her nose was running, and of course she had no handkerchief, so she tried wiping her eyes on the skirt of her dress, but she could scarcely blow her nose on it…

At that moment, she heard footsteps, briskly making their way along the upper landing. At the top of the staircase, they paused. ‘Judith?’

Mary Millyway. Judith froze, half-way through a deep, gulping sob.

‘What are you doing there?’

But Judith, frantically mopping at tears, was not capable of making any sort of a reply.

Mary was coming downstairs.

‘I thought you were both back ages ago, and gone to the cove hours before this. And then from the nursery window I saw Edward going down the garden on his own. Mrs Boscawen's all right, isn't she?’ Her voice became sharp with anxiety. ‘Nothing's wrong, is it?’

Reaching Judith's side, Mary laid a hand on her shoulder. Judith wiped her nose, like an urchin, on the back of her hand. She shook her head. ‘No. She's all right.’

‘You didn't stay with her too long? Tire her out?’

‘No, we didn't.’

‘Then what took you so
long?
’

‘We went to the Hut to clean out the cobwebs.’

‘So what are all the tears about?’ Mary sat on the stair beside Judith, and laid an arm around her shoulders. ‘Tell Mary. What is it? What's happened?’

‘Nothing. I've…I've just got a headache. I didn't want to go to the cove.’ Only then did she turn her face to Mary. She saw the familiar freckled face, the concerned and kindly expression in Mary's eyes. ‘You…you haven't got a handkerchief, have you, Mary?’

‘Of course.’ And one was produced from the pocket of Mary's striped overall, and handed over, and Judith, gratefully, blew her nose. Being able to stop snivelling made her feel, very slightly, better. She said, ‘I thought
you
were meant to be going to the cove too, with all the others.’

‘No, I didn't go. Didn't like to leave Mrs Carey-Lewis on her own in case she needed something. Now, what are we going to do about this headache? Sitting here like a load of old coal isn't going to get rid of it. How about coming up to the nursery with me, and I'll find something in my medicine cupboard. And then a nice quiet sit-down and a cup of tea. I was just thinking of putting a kettle on…’

The comfort of her presence, her aura of normality and good sense, were like a sort of balm. She stood, and helped Judith to her feet, and led her upstairs and into the nursery; settled her down in a corner of the saggy old sofa, and went to draw the curtain a little so that the sun would not shine into Judith's eyes. Then she disappeared into the adjoining bathroom and returned with a glass of water and a couple of tablets.

‘Take those now, and you'll be better in no time. Just sit quiet, and I'll get the tea made.’

Judith dutifully took the tablets and washed them down with the cold, clear water. She lay back and closed her eyes, and felt the breeze moving through the open window, and smelt the comforting nursery smell of newly ironed linen and sweet biscuits and the roses that Mary had picked and arranged in a blue-and-white jug in the middle of the table. Her hand was still clenched around Mary's handkerchief, and she clung to it, as though it were some sort of a talisman.

Presently Mary returned, bearing teapot and cups and saucers on a little tray. Judith stirred, but, ‘Don't you move now,’ Mary told her. ‘I'll put the tray down on this little stool.’ She pulled up her old nursing chair and settled herself comfortably with her back to the window. ‘There's nothing like a cup of tea when you're feeling a bit down in the mouth. Got your period, have you?’

Judith could have lied and said yes, and it would have been a splendid excuse, but she had never lied to Mary, and even now could not bring herself to do so.

‘No. No, it's not that.’

‘When did it start?’

‘Sometime…this afternoon.’ She took the steaming teacup from Mary's hand, and her own hand shook a bit and the teacup rattled. ‘Thank you, Mary. You are a saint. I'm so glad you didn't go to the cove. I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't been here.’

‘I don't think,’ said Mary, ‘that I've ever seen you cry like that before.’

‘No, I don't suppose you have…’

She drank her tea. In sips; scalding hot and wonderfully refreshing.

‘Something happened, didn't it?’ Judith glanced up, but Mary was concentrating on pouring a cup of tea for herself.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because I'm not a fool. I know all you children like I know the back of my hand. Something's happened. You wouldn't be in tears for nothing, sobbing your heart out as though you'd lost the world.’

‘I…I don't know if I want to talk about it.’

‘If you talk about it to anybody, you can talk about it to me. I've got eyes, Judith, I've watched you growing up. I've always been a bit afraid that this might happen.’

‘What might happen?’

‘It's Edward, isn't it?’

Judith looked up and saw in Mary's face neither curiosity nor disapproval. She was simply stating a fact. She would neither judge nor blame. She had seen too much of life, and she knew the Carey-Lewis children, with all their charm and all their faults, better than anyone.

She said, ‘Yes. It's Edward.’ The relief of admitting it, saying it out aloud, was immense.

‘Fallen in love with him, have you?’

‘It was almost impossible not to.’

‘Had a row?’

‘No. Not a row. Just a sort of misunderstanding.’

‘Talked it through, have you?’

‘I suppose that's what we've been doing. But all we've discovered is that we don't feel the same way. You see, I thought it was all right to tell him how I felt. I thought we'd passed the stage of pretending. But I was completely wrong, and at the end of it all, I knew all I'd done was to make a complete fool of myself…’

‘Now don't start to cry again. You can tell me. I'll understand…’

With some effort Judith pulled herself together, dabbed at her face with the wadded handkerchief. She drank a bit more tea. She said, ‘Of course he's not in love with me. He's fond of me, like Loveday, but he doesn't want me for always. The thing is, that it…happened once before. Last Christmas. But I was too young then to deal with it…I sort of panicked. And we had a row then, and it could all have been most dreadfully difficult and embarrassing for everybody. But it wasn't, because Edward was so sensible and ready to forget what had happened and start all over again. And it was all right. But this afternoon…’ But of course she couldn't tell Mary. It was too intimate. Private. Even shocking. She sat gazing down at her teacup, and she could feel the traitorous, rosy blush creep up into her cheeks.

Mary said, ‘Gone a bit too far this time, has it?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Well, it's happened before and it'll happen again. But I feel some vexed with Edward. He's a lovely man and he'd charm the birds out of the trees, but he's no thought for others, nor for the future. Skims over life like a dragonfly. Never knew such a boy, making friends and bringing them home, and then on to the next one, before you could say Jack Robinson.’

‘I know. I suppose I've always known.’

‘Like another cup of tea?’

‘In a moment.’

‘How's that headache?’

‘A bit better.’ Which it was. But its easement had left a void, as though the pain had drained her mind of all substance. ‘I told Edward I'd go down to the cove. Later on. When it's cooler.’

‘But you don't want to go?’

‘No. But it's nothing to do with the way I feel. It's because I don't want to see them all…Loveday and Athena and the others. I don't want them looking at me, and asking questions, and wondering what's been happening. I don't want to face anybody. I wish I could just disappear.’

She waited for Mary to say, ‘Don't be so silly; no point in running away; nobody disappears; you can't just disappear.’ But Mary didn't make any of these damping observations. Instead, ‘I don't think that's such a bad idea,’ she said.

Judith looked at her in amazement, but Mary's face was quite calm.

‘What
do
you mean, Mary?’

‘Where's Mrs Somerville now? Your Aunt Biddy?’

‘Aunt
Biddy?
’

‘That's right. Where's she living?’

‘In Devon. Bovey Tracey. In her house there.’

‘You're going to stay with her?’

‘Yes. Sometime.’

‘I'm interfering, I know. But I think you should go now.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes. Now. This very afternoon.’

‘But I couldn't just
go
…’

‘Now listen, my dear. Just bear with me. Someone has to say this, and there's nobody but me to do it. Your own mother is on the other side of the world, and Mrs Carey-Lewis, for all her kindness, has never been much use at this sort of thing. I said before, I've watched you growing up, known you since the day Loveday brought you here from school. I've seen you being absorbed by this family, and become part of them, and a wonderful thing it's been. But it's dangerous too. Because they're
not
your family and if you're not very careful, you're in danger of losing your own identity. You're eighteen now. I think it's time to break loose and go your own way. Now, don't for an instant think that I want to be rid of you. I shall miss you very, very much, and I don't want to lose you. It's just that you're a person in your own right, and I'm afraid that if you live here, at Nancherrow, much longer, you're going to lose sight of that.’

‘How long have you thought this, Mary?’

‘Since last Christmas. I guessed then that you were getting involved with Edward. I prayed you wouldn't, because I knew how it would end.’

‘And, of course, you were right.’

‘I don't like being right. I only know that they're a lot of strong characters, these Carey-Lewises. A family of born leaders, you might say. You've landed yourself in a bit of an emotional mess, but the best thing to do at such times is to grasp the nettle. Take the initiative. If for no other reason, it helps to shore up your own dignity.’