Coming Home (90 page)

Mr Nettlebed has just appeared to break the glad tidings that petrol's going to be rationed, and we're all on our honour not to fill cans and
hoard.
Goodness knows what we'll do about food, as it's far too far to bicycle to Penzance! Start slaughtering Walter's sheep, I suppose!

Longing to see you again. Come back as soon as you can. Mary says do you want her to send you some winter clothes?

Lots of love, love, love,

Loveday

PS
—
STOP PRESS! Too exciting. A moment ago, a telephone call from Edinburgh. Pops took it in his study. And Athena and Rupert are
married.
They got married in a register office there, and Rupert's soldier-servant and a taxi driver were the witnesses. Just exactly what Athena always wanted. Mummy and Pops are torn between delight and fury that they missed the ceremony. I think they really like him. I don't know when she'll come back to us. It can't be much fun being married and living all by yourself in the Caledonian Hotel.

Judith folded the letter and put it back in its envelope, and then put the matriculation results back as well. It was comfortable, curled up in the corner of the sofa, so she stayed there, and gazed from the window, and thought about Nancherrow. It almost felt like being back there again. And she thought about Athena and Rupert getting married in their register office, and Miss Penberthy stitching black-out curtains, and Gus in his kilt, and the Colonel and his buckets of water, and Loveday keeping hens. And Edward. Somewhere in England. Training. Training for what? He already had his pilot's licence. But a stupid question to ask oneself. Training for war, of course, to dive from the skies and fire guns and knock out enemy bombers.
He's having the time of his life, flying around and drinking beer.

Since that last Sunday at Nancherrow there had been no communication between them, so Loveday's was the first news that Judith had received of him. She had neither written to Edward, nor telephoned because she couldn't think of anything to say to him that hadn't already been said, and because she still cringed at the memory of her own naïvety, and the deadening shock of Edward's rejection. And Edward had not written to her, nor telephoned, but then she had hardly expected that he would. He had been constant and understanding for a long time, and no man's patience can last forever. Her final defection, driving away from Nancherrow without even waiting to say goodbye, had probably been the ultimate exasperation. And there was no reason, no need for Edward to pursue Judith. His charmed life would always be filled with lovely women, just waiting, queuing up, to drop into his lap.

But it was still impossible to remember him dispassionately. The way he looked and the sound of his voice, and his laughter and the lock of his hair that fell across his forehead and had constantly to be pushed away. Everything about him that had filled her with delight.

Since coming to Devon, she had tried her hardest to resist the indulgence of day-dreams: that she would hear a car come up the hill and it would be Edward, come to find her, come because he could not live without her. Such fantasies were for children, fairy stories with happy endings, and now — in every sort of way — she was a child no longer. But she could not stop his invading her night-time dreams, and in those dreams there was a place that she came to, and was consumed by a blissful pleasure, because she knew that, somewhere, Edward was there too; was on his way, was coming. And she would awake filled with happiness, only to have that happiness drain away in the cold light of morning.

All over. But now, remembering him did not even make her want to cry any longer, so perhaps things were getting a little better. They could certainly be worse, because she had passed her matriculation, and for the time being such practical comforts were going to have to keep her going.
Self-reliance is all,
Miss Catto had preached, and when all was said and done, two distinctions would hardly fail to be something of a spirit-booster. She heard a door slam, and Biddy's voice. Biddy, home again, with her marcel wave. She pulled herself out of the sofa, and went to find her aunt to share the news.

It was nearly the end of September by the time the shorthand and typing lessons with Hester Lang got off the ground, as Hester had a certain amount of preparation to do. She owned an impressive typewriter — a real one, not a portable like Uncle Bob's — but this had to be cleaned in a shop in Exeter, fitted up with a new ribbon and a shield, so that Judith would be unable to take sly glances at the keyboard. She also purchased a couple of manuals, because it was some time since she had learned the theory of both accomplishments and she needed to do a bit of mugging up. Finally, she telephoned and said that she was ready to start.

The following day, Judith walked down the hill and presented herself at Hester's front door. With one thing and another, it felt a bit like going back to school for the Christmas term; autumn was in the air, and the leaves were turning gold. The days were shortening, and each evening the ritual of doing the black-out came a little earlier…soon they would be having tea, at half past four, with the curtains tightly drawn. Judith missed the long twilights, watched them indoors. It felt claustrophobic being shut in with electric light.

But now, at nine o'clock in the morning, the day was crisp and clear, and she smelt bonfire smoke from some gardener's pyre of burning rubbish. Over the weekend, she and Biddy had picked pounds of blackberries from the hedgerows around the local farmer's fields, and the same farmer had promised a load of logs, the gleanings of an old elm felled by last winter's gales. Bill Dagg would bring them to Upper Bickley with a tractor and a bogie, and they would be stacked, like peat, against the garage wall. Burning wood would help to conserve their stock of coal, because the way things were going, there could be no certainty of fresh supplies.

Hester's house was grey stone, double-storeyed and one of a small terrace, so that she had a neighbour on either side. Their houses looked a bit dim, with peeling black or brown front doors, and lace curtains framing aspidistras in pea-green pots. But Hester's front door was butter-yellow, and her shining windows were veiled in snow-white net. As well, alongside the old boot-scraper, she had planted a clematis, and this was already well on its way up the face of the house. All of this contrived to give the impression that the little terrace was on its way up in the world.

Judith pressed the bell, and Hester came to open the door, looking, as always, immaculate.

‘Here you are. I feel you should be lugging a school satchel. What a heavenly morning. I'm just making coffee.’

Judith could smell it, fresh and inviting. She said, ‘I've only just had breakfast.’

‘Then have another cup. Keep me company. We don't have to start work right away. Now you've never been in my house, have you? The sitting-room's through there; make yourself at home and I'll join you in a moment.’

The door was open. Beyond, Judith found herself in a long room that stretched from the front of the house to the back, because a dividing wall between the original two small rooms had been removed. This rendered everything spacious, and very light. As well, it was furnished and decorated in a style both simple and modern, and not at all what she had either imagined or expected. A bit, she decided, like a studio. The walls were white, the carpet beige, and the curtains coarse linen, the colour of string. The obligatory black-out blind was clearly evident, but furled away, and the bright morning light was diffused through the loosely woven material, almost as though the curtains had been made of lace. A Kelim rug lay over the back of the sofa, and there was a low table composed of a sheet of plate glass supported by two antique porcelain lions, which looked as though they might have come, a long time ago, from China. This table was piled with delectable books, and in the centre stood a piece of modern sculpture.

All very surprising. Looking further, Judith saw, over the fireplace, an abstract canvas, hung unframed; grainy and brilliant, the paint appeared to have been scraped on with a palette knife. On either side of the fireplace, alcoves were shelved in glass, bearing a collection of green and Bristol-blue goblets. And there were other shelves, packed with books; some leather-bound and others with deliciously new shiny jackets — novels and biographies that one longed to read. Beyond the window lay the garden, a long thin lawn, flanked by borders a-riot of Michaelmas daisies and dahlias in all the clashing hues of the Russian Ballet.

When Hester returned, Judith was standing by the window turning the pages of a book of colour plates of Van Gogh.

She looked up, then closed the book and laid it back on the table with its companions. She said, ‘I can never be sure if I appreciate Van Gogh or not.’

‘He's a bit of a puzzle, isn't he?’ Hester set the coffee tray down on a lacquer-red stool. ‘But I do love his thunderous skies and his yellow corn and his chalky blues.’

‘This is a lovely room. Not what I expected.’

Hester, settling herself in a wide-lapped chair, laughed. ‘What did you expect? Antimacassars and Prince Albert china?’

‘Not that exactly, but not this. Did you buy the house this way?’

‘No. It was just like all the others. I knocked the wall down. Put in a bathroom.’

‘You must have been terribly quick. You haven't been here long.’

‘But I've
owned
the property for five years. I used to pop down at weekends when I was still working in London. Then I didn't have time to meet people, because I was always occupied in chasing builders and painters and the like. It was only when I actually retired that I was able to settle here and make friends. Do you take milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk, thank you.’ She took the cup and saucer from Hester and went to sit on the edge of the sofa. ‘You've got such fascinating things. And books. Everything.’

‘I've always been a collector. The Chinese lions were left to me by an uncle; the painting I bought in Paris; the glass I collected over the years. And my sculpture is a Barbara Hepworth. Isn't it amazing? Just like some marvellous stringed instrument.’

‘And your books…’

‘So many books. Too many books. Please, anytime, if you want, borrow. Provided, of course, you bring it back.’

‘I might just do that. And I will bring it back.’

‘You're clearly an inveterate reader. A girl after my own heart. What else do you like besides painting and books?’

‘Music. Uncle Bob introduced me to music. After that I got a gramophone, and now I've got quite a big collection of records. I love it. You can choose your mood.’

‘Do you go to concerts?’

‘There aren't a lot of concerts in West Penwith, and I hardly ever go to London.’

‘Living here, that's what I miss. And the theatre. But nothing else, really. I'm very content.’

‘It was so kind of you to say that I could come and learn shorthand and typing…’

‘Not kind at all. It will keep my brain working, and make a change from crosswords. I've got everything set up in the dining-room. For typing you must have a good, firm table. And I think three hours a day is enough, don't you? Say, nine to twelve? And we'll give weekends a miss.’

‘Whatever you say.’

Hester finished her coffee and laid down her cup. She got to her feet. ‘Come along then,’ she said. ‘Let's make a start.’