Coming Home (96 page)

So she told him the latest tidings from her mother, and then went on and explained about Hester Lang and the shorthand and typing lessons, that had helped, somehow, to fill the long, cold, bereaved winter at Upper Bickley. ‘I've got my speeds now, so I suppose I can leave Biddy and go and get a job or something, but I feel a bit reluctant just to walk out and leave her alone…’

‘There is a time for everything. Perhaps it will come sooner than you think. Whatever, you seem to be surviving. Now, there's something else I have to tell you. It's about Colonel Fawcett.’

Judith froze. What ghastly item of information was Mr Baines about to impart? The fact that it mightn't be ghastly never occurred to her because even now mention of Billy Fawcett's name was quite enough to chill her heart with apprehension.

‘What about him?’

‘Don't look so petrified. He's dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘It happened only last week. He was in the bank, in Porthkerris, I think cashing a cheque. And the bank manager emerged from his office and said, very politely, that he would like to have a word about Colonel Fawcett's overdraft, and would Colonel Fawcett like to step this way? Whereupon the old man flew into a fearful rage, all at once turned blue in the face, gave a small choking cry and fell flat on his back. Immovable. You can imagine the consternation. It turned out that he had suffered a massive stroke. An ambulance was called, and he was wheeled off to the Penzance General, but was found to be dead on arrival.’

Judith could think of nothing to say. As Mr Baines spoke, her initial shock and horror were gradually replaced by an hysterical desire to laugh, because she could picture the scene of Billy Fawcett's demise so clearly, and it all seemed ludicrous rather than tragic…not all that different from the evening when Edward Carey-Lewis had deposited him in the gutter outside the Sliding Tackle.

On the verge of nervous giggles, she put a hand over her mouth, but her eyes betrayed her laughter, and Mr Baines smiled in some sympathy and shook his head, as though at a loss for words.

‘I suppose we should put on solemn faces, but I had exactly the same reaction when I was told what had happened. Once he lost his menace, he was a ridiculous figure of a man.’

‘I know I shouldn't be laughing.’

‘What else can one do?’

‘So many people dying.’

‘I know. I'm sorry.’

‘Did he ever go to court?’

‘Of course. Up before the judge at the Michaelmas Quarterly Assizes. He pleaded guilty, and his lawyer came out with a lot of irrelevant, extenuating circumstances; old, loyal soldier of the King, traumatic experiences in Afghanistan, et cetera, et cetera. So he got let off with a heavy fine and a telling-off. He was lucky not to be sent to jail, but I think the rest of his life was pretty miserable. Nobody in Penmarron wanted to have much to do with him, and he was asked to resign from the golf club.’

‘So what did he do with himself?’

‘No idea. Boozed, I suppose. All we can be sure of is that he stopped visiting the cinema.’

‘What a miserable end to his life.’

‘I wouldn't be too sorry for him. Anyway, it's too late now for sorrow.’

‘I'm surprised Mr Warren, or Heather, didn't let me know about him dying.’

‘I told you, it's only just happened. There was a small item in the
Western Morning News
a couple of days ago. Billy Fawcett was a man neither well known nor particularly well loved.’

‘That ought to make it sad.’

‘Don't be sad. Just put the whole unhappy business out of your mind for good.’

All this time, Mr Baines had stayed as she found him, with his tall, angular frame propped against the edge of Colonel Carey-Lewis's desk. Now, however, he stood and went to retrieve his briefcase, which he had placed in the seat of a chair. He put the briefcase on the carpet and sat, crossing one long leg over the other. Judith, watching him, guessed that he was going to take off his spectacles and give them a polish with his silk handkerchief. Which he did, and she knew of old that he was neatly collecting his thoughts.

He said, ‘Now, down to the real business,’ and put his spectacles on again, disposed of the handkerchief and folded his arms. ‘It is perhaps a little precipitant, but I wanted to have a word before you departed once more for Devon. It's about Mrs Boscawen's house…’

‘The Dower House?’

‘Exactly so. I wonder what your response would be if I suggested that you should buy it. As I said, it is not the most seemly of moments to mention such a course of events, but I've thought things over, and under the circumstances, decided there was no point in losing time.’

He fell silent. Across the room, their eyes met. Judith stared at him, and wondered if he had suddenly taken leave of his senses. But he was clearly waiting for her reaction to this astonishing scheme. She said, ‘But I don't
want
a house. I'm eighteen. The last thing in the world that I need just now is a
house.
There's a war on, and I'll probably join the services and be away for years. What would I do with a
house
to worry about…?’

‘Let me explain…’

‘…besides, The Dower House, surely, can't be put on the market. Isn't it part of the Nancherrow estate?’

‘Once it was. No longer. As soon as he was able, Mrs Boscawen's husband bought the freehold.’

‘Won't Colonel Carey-Lewis want to buy it back?’

‘I have discussed it with him, and apparently not.’

‘You've already talked to the Colonel about this?’

‘Of course. I couldn't have approached you without having first heard his views on the subject. It's too important. I needed not simply his approval, but his opinion as well.’

‘Why is it so important? Why is buying The Dower House so important?’

‘Because, as one of your trustees, I consider that property is probably the best investment you can possibly make. Bricks and mortar never lose their value, and, properly maintained, can only appreciate. And this is a good time to buy because house prices have dropped, as they always do in wartime, to an all-time low. I know you are very young, and the future is filled with uncertainties, but still, we must look ahead. Whatever happens, you would have a base. Roots of your own. Another consideration is your family. You, thanks to Mrs Forrester, are the one with the money. Owning The Dower House would mean a home for your mother and father and Jess to return to when their time in Singapore is over. Or, at least, a base. Somewhere to stay until they are able to find a house for themselves.’

‘But that isn't going to happen for years.’

‘No. But it will happen.’

Judith fell silent. All at once, it seemed there was a great deal to think about. The Dower House. Belonging to her. Her own home. Roots. The one thing that she had never known and always longed for. Lying back in the capacious armchair, she gazed at the empty fireplace and let her imagination lead her through the old house, with its quiet, old-fashioned rooms, the ticking clock, and the creaking stairs. The drawing-room, sparkling with sunlight and firelight; faded carpets and curtains, and always the scent of flowers. She thought of the dank stone passage that led to the ancient kitchen quarters, and the time-stopped atmosphere that never failed to enchant. She saw the view from the windows, with the line of the horizon lying across the topmost branches of the Monterey pines; and then the garden, leading in terraces down to the orchard, where stood Athena and Edward's hut…Would it be possible to deal with so many diversified memories? At this moment there seemed no way of knowing.

She said, ‘I can't make up my mind so quickly.’

‘Think about it.’

‘I am. You have to understand, I've always dreamt of having a little house of my own, that belonged to nobody but myself. But that was just a dream. And if I can't live in it, then what is the point? If I bought The Dower House, then what would I do with it? It can't be left abandoned, standing empty.’

‘It needn't stand empty,’ Mr Baines pointed out in tones of great reasonableness. ‘Isobel will go, of course. She's already made plans to live with her brother and his wife, and before she died Mrs Boscawen arranged for an annuity for Isobel, so that she will be able to end her days with independence and necessary dignity. As for the house, it could be rented. Perhaps to some London family anxious to evacuate themselves to the country. There will be no shortage of takers, I am convinced. Or perhaps we could find a retired couple to caretake, or some person grateful for a roof over their head, and a small regular income…’ He talked on persuasively, but Judith had stopped listening.

A person grateful for a roof over their head; a person who would care for the garden, and polish and clean the house as though it were her own. Who would think the old-fashioned kitchen the height of luxury and convenience, and would probably burst into tears of joy when she set eyes on the one small bathroom, with its white-painted tongue-and-groove walls, and the lavatory with the dangling chain and the handle with
PULL
written on it.

‘…the property, of course, is not in the best of order. I suspect a touch of dry rot in the kitchen floor, and there are a few damp patches in the attic ceilings, but…’

Judith said, ‘Phyllis.’

Halted mid-stream, Mr Baines frowned. ‘Sorry?’

‘Phyllis. Phyllis could caretake.’ The idea expanded, flowered. Alight with excitement, she sat up, leaning forward, with her hands clasped on her knees. ‘Oh,
you
remember Phyllis. She used to work for us at Riverview. She's Phyllis Eddy now. She married Cyril, her young man, and she's got a baby. I went and saw her when I stayed at Porthkerris during the summer. I took my car. I hadn't seen her for four years…’

‘But if she's married…?’

‘Don't you see? Cyril was a miner, but he's joined the Navy. He's left her. He always wanted to go to sea. He never wanted to be a miner. She wrote to me and told me all this when Ned was killed. She wrote me such a sweet letter…’

And she went on to explain to Mr Baines about Phyllis and her humble circumstances, living in that cheerless cottage miles from anywhere out beyond Pendeen. And because it had been a tied cottage, belonging to the mining company, she had had to leave and return to her mother. ‘…and there are already far too many people living in that house. All Phyllis has ever wanted is a place of her own, with a garden and an indoor lav. She could bring her baby, and
she
could look after the Dower House for us. Wouldn't that be the most perfect arrangement?’

She waited expectantly for Mr Baines to tell her how clever she was being. But Mr Baines was too cautious for that.

‘Judith, you're not buying a home for Phyllis. You're making an investment for yourself.’

‘But it's
you
who wants me to buy it, and
you
suggested a caretaker. And I've come up with the perfect answer.’

He accepted this. ‘Fair enough. But would Phyllis want to leave her mother and move to Rosemullion? Wouldn't she miss her family and the company?’

‘I don't think so. Pendeen was so bleak she couldn't even grow pansies in her garden. And she was always miles away from them there. Rosemullion's only a walk down the hill. When Anna's old enough, she can go to Rosemullion school. They'll make friends. Phyllis is so sweet, everybody will want to be her friend.’

‘You don't think she'll find it lonely?’

‘She's lonely anyway, with Cyril gone. She might as well be lonely somewhere nice.’

Mr Baines, clearly overwhelmed by this volte-face, took off his spectacles, leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Then he put his spectacles on again. He said, ‘We seem to have gone from one extreme to the other. I think we must slow down a bit and try to steer a middle course. Plan sensibly and sort out priorities. This is a big step we're considering, and an expensive one. So you have to be really certain.’

‘How much will we have to pay?’

‘I would guess in the region of two thousand pounds. There will be bound to be necessary repairs and renovations, but the bulk of these will have to wait until the war is over. We'll get a surveyor in…’

‘Two thousand pounds. It seems a terrible lot of money.’

Mr Baines allowed himself a small smile. ‘But a sum that the trust can easily afford.’

It was incredible. ‘Is there really so much? In that case, let's go ahead. Oh, don't argue any more.’

‘Five minutes ago, you were telling me that you didn't want it.’

‘Well, admit, it was a bit of a bombshell.’

‘I have always felt that it was a house filled with happiness.’

‘Yes.’ She looked away from him, and remembered once more the Hut, on that summer afternoon and the smell of creosote and the sound of the bumble-bee buzzing about in the roof. But those memories, however painful, could not be allowed to interfere, to stop her from taking this enormously exciting step forward. Phyllis, uppermost in her mind, was of more immediate importance even than Edward. ‘The Chinese sell happiness. They put good men into a house, to live in it, and fill it with a tranquil spirit.’ She turned to smile at Mr Baines. ‘Please get it for me.’

‘You're sure?’

‘Quite sure.’

So, for a little, they talked, discussing pros and cons, laying plans. In view of the fact that Bob Somerville was unavailable, miles away in Scapa Flow and fully occupied with fighting the war, a trustees' meeting would clearly not be possible. But Mr Baines would be in touch with him, and as well would contact a surveyor. Meantime, nothing must be said. Especially, Mr Baines warned with some severity, to Phyllis.