Coming Home (99 page)

She had been apprehensive that she would feel like an intruder. That Aunt Lavinia's presence would still haunt The Dower House, rendering Judith reluctant to enter, to open doors without knocking, and make her way through rooms that were the private domain of another person. But, thankfully, it did not feel like that at all, perhaps because it was all so neat, and scoured and clean, as though every vestige of its past owner had been scrubbed, by Isobel, away. There were no flowers; cushions sat fat, uncreased by an occupant. Books and magazines had been tidied away, and no work-bags or spectacles or half-finished tapestries lay on the table beside Aunt Lavinia's chair. As well, certain items were gone, rightly claimed by the Carey-Lewises, but leaving empty gaps, instantly obvious as missing teeth. A corner cupboard filled with Rockingham china, the Venetian mirror over the drawing-room fireplace. The Chinese porcelain bowl, always brimming with pot-pourri, the portrait of Aunt Lavinia as a child that had hung on the landing wall outside her bedroom. In her bedroom, the Queen Anne work-table that served as a bedside table, repository for pills and prayer book, had also gone, and many of her photographs, sepia-brown and framed in silver. Where these had stood, or hung, all that remained were bare table-tops and dark patches of unfaded wallpaper.

None of this mattered. None of it made any difference. The house was no longer Aunt Lavinia's but her own.

After a cheerful and sociable luncheon at the Mitre (roast mutton and caper sauce, and Biddy clearly enjoying the company of a new and solicitous male presence), they had all got into Mr Baines' car and set off for Rosemullion. Morag, because there was no person with whom to leave her, came too. Biddy sat in the front with Mr Baines and Judith and Morag sat in the back, and Judith opened the window so that Morag could stick out her piebald face and let the wind blow flat her ears.

‘What shall we do with her when we get to The Dower House?’ Judith asked. ‘Isobel won't want her making paw-marks all over the polish, or shedding hairs.’

‘We'll leave her in the car. Park it in the shade and leave the windows open. Once Isobel's departed, we can turn her loose.’

Isobel was waiting for them when they arrived, dressed in her best black coat and skirt, and wearing a straw-hat decorated with cherries, that had seen the light of countless summer Sundays. Her two small suitcases stood at the bottom of the staircase, with her large, capable handbag alongside. She was all ready for departure, but there was plenty of time for her to take them around, from kitchen to attics, and to bask modestly in their loud admiration for the amount of hard labour she had put in, washing curtains, polishing floors, starching bedcovers, shining brass, cleaning windows.

As they processed, she dropped instructions like favours.
The keys are all on these hooks, at the side of the dresser. Front door, back door, garage, tool-shed, garden door, the Hut. The range has to be riddled, night and morning. Best silver's gone back to Nancherrow, but I set out the second best in these drawers. Linen cupboard here, and the laundry van comes on Tuesday. Mind the hot-water tap, because it rushes out, scalding.

Room by room, they passed through the house, from kitchens to dining-room and drawing-room. Upstairs they were shown the little bathroom, Aunt Lavinia's bedroom, the spare room. Up again to the attics; the bedroom where Isobel had slept, in a white iron bedstead, and opposite this, the other loft where still were stacked the old boxes and cabin trunks, dressmakers' dummies, bundles of magazines tied with string, defunct sewing machines, rolled scraps of carpet and linoleum, and four empty picture frames.

Isobel said, ‘I'd have cleared this out but I didn't know what to do with all the rubbish, it not being mine. And Mrs Carey-Lewis said to leave it. The cabin trunk's full of old letters and photographs…’

‘Don't worry,’ Judith told her. ‘You've done so much, and this can all be gone through and tidied up at any time…’

‘I gave the floor a sweep, and got rid of a few cobwebs. It's a nice room, with a window and everything. I always thought it would make a lovely bedroom, but then where would we have put all this…?’

Biddy, all this time, hadn't spoken much. But now she crossed the floor and stood under the pitched roof of the dormer window, and gazed out at the view. She said, ‘You're right, Isobel. It would make a perfect bedroom. You can see the sea. And today, it's so blue.’ She turned back to smile at Isobel. ‘Won't you miss the view?’

Isobel tossed her head, and the cherries on her hat rattled against each other. ‘There's a time for everything, Mrs Somerville. For me, it's not the same without Mrs Boscawen. And my brother's house has got a lovely view. Not the same as this, mind, but lovely. Right across the fields to the cream factory.’

She had, clearly, got over her grieving, perhaps worked it out of her system in that orgy of spring-cleaning. Now, she was ready, in every sense of the word, to leave. They went out of the attic and downstairs again, and as Isobel descended into the hall, they heard the sound of a car's engine, and in a moment a Baby Austin rattled up the gravel and drew to a halt beyond the open front door. Isobel's brother, come to bear her away.

It all took a bit of time. Isobel all at once became a bit flustered, remembering things she had forgotten to tell. And what had she done with her insurance book? It was found in her handbag. And there were six clean dusters out on the washing-line that had to be brought in. And if they wanted a cup of tea, there was tea in the caddy and a jug of milk on the slab in the larder…

But finally Mr Baines calmed her down, assured her that everything was in apple-pie order and perhaps she shouldn't keep her brother waiting? The little car was loaded, Isobel shook hands with all three of them, was inserted into the passenger seat, and finally driven away without, as Mr Baines observed, so much as a backward glance.

‘I'm glad,’ said Judith, as they stood dutifully waving until the Baby Austin was out of sight. ‘Wouldn't it have been awful if she'd got all emotional? I'd have felt as though I was throwing her out.’

‘And she's going to have a lovely view of the cream factory. What do you want to do now?’

‘Have you got to get back to the office?’

‘No. My whole day is yours.’

‘Oh, good. Let's stay for a bit. I'll free Morag and give her some water, and then I'll put the kettle on and we can all have a cup of tea.’

Mr Baines smiled. ‘You sound like my daughter, playing houses.’

‘Only, this is for real.’

Because it was such a warm afternoon, the tea-party took place on the sheltered veranda, and Mr Baines dragged forward various items of aged rattan furniture in which they disposed themselves. A few high, vaporous clouds had appeared in the sky, gathering and then disappearing like blown smoke. A breeze rustled the branches of a deep-pink prunus, and petals fell softly as pink snow to form a carpet on the green lawn. Somewhere a thrush sang. While they drank tea out of Aunt Lavinia's rose-entwined bone-china cups, Morag disappeared on a tour of exploration, quartering this new territory and making herself familiar with every interesting smell.

Biddy became a little anxious. ‘She won't get lost, will she?’

‘No.’

‘How far does the garden go?’

‘To the foot of the hill. In terraces. There's an orchard at the bottom. Later, I'll show you.’ The thrush was singing again. Biddy put aside her cup and saucer, lay back in her chair and closed her eyes.

Presently, Mr Baines and Judith left her and did another tour of the house, this time with a beady eye for defects that needed instant attention. The damp patch in Isobel's attic; another in the bathroom. A dripping kitchen tap, the suspicion of dry rot in the scullery. ‘I'll need to get hold of a plumber,’ said Mr Baines, and then took himself out of doors to eye guttering and down-pipes, and note missing slates or rusted hinges. Judith, assured that her presence was not necessary, returned to Biddy. On her way through the kitchen, she took, from its hook, the key of the Hut. Because there was no time like the present. The only unhappy ghost of The Dower House had to be laid as soon as possible, so that there should be not one corner of her new domain unswept and scoured of memories.

Biddy had stayed as they left her, but Morag had returned and was resting by her side. It was a long time since Judith had seen Biddy do nothing so peacefully. It seemed a shame to disturb her, but she was not asleep. Judith pulled up a wickerwork stool and sat facing her.

‘Do you want to see the garden?’

Biddy turned her head. ‘What have you done with your friendly solicitor?’

‘He's inspecting the guttering.’

‘What a sweet man he is.’

‘Yes. Special.’

‘Mrs Boscawen must have been a very tranquil lady.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because I don't remember ever having been in such a tranquil place. Not a sound. Just birds and gulls and a sunlit garden. And that little sight of the sea.’

‘When I first came here years ago, I thought it felt like being abroad. The Mediterranean, somewhere. Italy, perhaps.’

‘Exactly. Pure E. M. Forster. I'd forgotten about Cornwall. I haven't been for so long…that last summer at Riverview. It's like the past. Another country. Already Devon seems so far away.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘Yes. It's a good thing. Healing. Being somewhere…a house like this…that has no memories of Ned.’

It was the first time, since Ned's death, that Judith had actually heard Biddy say his name. ‘Is that good too?’ she asked.

‘Yes. It shouldn't be. I should savour memories, but Upper Bickley is too full of them. I wake in the night and think I hear his voice. I go into his bedroom and bury my face in his blanket, and weep with desolation. It's been such a terrible winter. Without you, I think I wouldn't have endured it.’

Judith said, ‘It's over now.’

‘I still have to go back. Deal with my weaknesses, face up to reality. I know that.’

‘You don't have to go back. We can stay here. It's my house. We can move in tomorrow, if you want. You can stay for days, or weeks, or months. The whole summer. Why not?’

‘Oh, Judith! What a scheme. When did you think this up?’

‘Just now. While you were talking. There's nothing to stop us.’

‘But my poor little house in Devon! I can't just
abandon
it.’

‘You can let it, furnished, for the summer. Some naval family, stationed at Devonport, would
jump
at it, so handy and so close to Plymouth. Surely you can send the buzz round the dockyard; you'd let it in no time.’

‘But the Daggs…’

‘If you let to nice people, the Daggs will happily go on working there, keep an eye on the house and the garden for you. Staying here will be like a lovely holiday for you, and you can help me clear out all those boxes in the attic.’

Suddenly Biddy laughed. ‘That won't be much of a holiday.’ But Judith could see the growing excitement in her expression.

‘There's nothing to stop us. Don't you see? There's nothing to stop you just staying here. Come on, Biddy, say yes. Give yourself a chance. You deserve it.’

‘But you…we've agreed that you can't stay with me for always, and I'm so useless on my own…’

‘I've
told
you. I'm going to ask Phyllis and her baby to come and live here, so you won't be alone. You always loved Phyllis, and Anna's sweet, and even if I do go off to be a Wren or something, the three of us can be here together. Company for each other. And I'll take you to Nancherrow, and once you've met Diana and all of them you won't feel a bit lonely. And you can go and be a Red Cross lady with her instead of with Hester Lang. Don't you see? It all works out so perfectly, it might have been
meant.
’