Coming Home (130 page)

Visiting hours in the Wrens' Sick-Bay were something of a movable feast, commencing in the early afternoon, and frequently it was ten o'clock at night before the last of the visitors were chased away. Sister's relaxed approach to hospital rules and regulations was a deliberate policy on her part, because she knew the larger part of the girls who came under her care, were there because they were vulnerable, run-down, and overtired. And small wonder. All of them, in one way or another, were doing vital and demanding work, and labouring long hours under conditions of debilitating tropical heat. And because there were so few of them, and they were, socially, so in demand, their precious hours of leisure were anything but restful. No sooner had they returned to Quarters from work, they were off again, to play tennis or swim, or attend some party on board one of HM ships, or to dance the night away at the Officers' Club.

So, when a new patient was wheeled — for whatever reason — into the Sick-Bay, Sister's prescription for recovery included not simply medicines and pills, but sleep, an unstructured timetable, a few home comforts, and a bit of spoiling. In the old days, it would have been called a rest-cure. In Sister's robust opinion, this regime was plain common sense.

So, there was the minimum of regimentation. Friends dropped in on patients, on their way to or from work, bringing mail from home, clean laundry, a book, a bag of fresh fruit. Young men, off-duty from ships or establishments ashore, drifted in and out, bearing flowers, magazines, and American chocolate, and cluttering up the wards with their masculine presence. If a girl was pretty and attractive, she was quite likely to have three young men perched on her bed at the same time, and if the laughter and the din of voices reached an unacceptable level, Sister would appear, to chase the patient and her entourage out onto the terrace, where they disposed themselves in long chairs, watched the light fade from the evening sky, and indulged in lengthy and flirtatious conversation.

Because that Sunday was her first day in the Sick-Bay, and word had not yet got around that she was both incapacitated and incarcerated, Penny Wailes was Judith's only visitor, dropping in at five o'clock after a day spent sailing with her young Royal Marine. She appeared wearing a shirt and shorts over her bathing suit, and her hair was salty and tousled by the wind.

‘Oh, you poor thing, I am sorry. What horrible luck. Quarters Officer told me all about it. I've brought you a pineapple, we got it in the Fruit Market. Anything else you want? I can't stay, because there's a party tonight on board that new cruiser, and I have to go back and have a shower and tart myself up. I'll tell Captain Spiros tomorrow that we'll be short-handed in the office for a bit. How long do you think you'll be here? A good week, I should imagine. And don't worry about all that boring typing. Chiefey and I can manage between us, and if we can't, we'll leave it in a great pile for you to deal with when you come back…’

She stayed chattering on for about a quarter of an hour, and then caught sight of the time, sprang to her feet, promised to return, and went. Judith reckoned that that was her lot. No more visitors. But, just after sunset, with the sky dark and the lights switched on, she heard someone say her name, and looking- up, saw Mrs Todd-Harper striding down the length of the ward towards her.

A delightful surprise. ‘Sweetie!’ She was dressed in her habitual uniform of freshly pressed slacks and shirt, but was clearly headed for a festive evening out, with yellow head gleaming like brass, full make-up, a blast of perfume, and a great deal of heavy gold jewellery, chains and earrings and a couple of knuckle-dusting rings. Over one shoulder was slung a bulging basket, and her ringing voice and bizarre appearance created a certain stir, causing conversations to cease momentarily, and heads to turn her way.

Toddy either ignored this attention, or else was blissfully unaware of it. ‘There you are! Just had to come and make sure you were all right.’

Judith was most touched. ‘Toddy, you didn't come all this long way to see me, did you? And in the dark? And driving yourself?’ She thought Toddy was very brave. The first bit of the road from the hostel was quite lonely, and it was not difficult to imagine a gang of robbers or dacoits appearing from the undergrowth with intent to steal or even kill. But, of course, Toddy was experienced, an old hand, and frightened of nothing and nobody. Any dacoit foolish enough to force a confrontation would undoubtedly come off the worst, reeling from a tongue-lashing of invective, or a clout over the head from the heavy club which Toddy, when driving, always kept close to hand. ‘No problems.’ She pulled up a chair. ‘I had to come anyway, to pick up some stores from the NAAFI. I filtered off one or two goodies for you.’ She disgorged the contents of the basket, laying offerings on the bed. ‘Canned peaches. Wine gums. And a bottle of dubious bath-oil. God knows what it smells like. Probably
Mémoires de Dead Spaniels.
What's this great thing at the end of the bed?’

‘It's a cage, to keep the sheet off my foot.’

‘Is it dreadfully sore?’

‘A bit.’

From beyond the open door, from the darkness of the terrace, came a burst of masculine laughter. Toddy raised her pencilled eyebrows. ‘That sounds like a good party. I bet one of those boys has smuggled in a hip-flask of gin. I thought of sneaking in a toot for you, but I was afraid Sister would find out and we'd both be in trouble. Now tell me all about your poor footie. What did they do?’

‘Gave me a local anaesthetic and stitched it up.’

‘Ug.’ Toddy screwed up her face into the expression of a person who has just bitten into a lemon. ‘I hope you couldn't feel the needle going in and out. How long have you got to stay here?’

‘Maybe ten days.’

‘And your job?’

‘I think they can probably manage without me.’

‘And Toby Whitaker? Did he do his stuff? Has he been to see you?’

‘He's Duty Officer today.’

‘Quite a nice man, sweetie, but a bit stodgy. Not nearly as much fun as the other chaps you've brought to see me.’

‘He's married, Toddy.’

‘But that doesn't mean that he's got to be
stodgy.
I can't think why you went out with him.’

‘Old times' sake. Ages ago, he was Uncle Bob's signal officer.’

‘Uncle Bob,’ Toddy repeated thoughtfully. She knew about the Somervilles, of course, and about The Dower House, and Nancherrow and the Carey-Lewises, because over the months, from time to time, there had been opportunity to sit and talk, and Toddy was a woman always avidly interested in hearing the details of another person's life. But as well, she liked to get names straight, and people compartmented. ‘You mean, Rear Admiral Somerville. On the C in C's staff, Colombo?’

Judith found herself laughing. ‘Toddy, he's only been in Colombo for a
month.
Even I haven't seen him yet. You can't tell me you've already met him.’

‘No, but Johnny Harrington telephoned the other night, and said that they'd met at some dinner party. And do you remember the Finch-Paytons? They're older than God now, but they used to play bridge with your parents. Well, apparently poor old Mavis Finch-Payton got most dreadfully drunk. She never did know when to stop, of course, but now it's beginning to show.’

‘You know, I think you should run a gossip column in the
Fleet Newspaper.
,’

‘Don't even suggest it. I'd be sued off the face of the earth…Now what's the time?’ She looked at the massive watch strapped to her wrist. ‘Oh, it's all right, I don't have to go just yet.’

‘Where are you off to?’

‘Nothing much. Just having a drink at the club with the new group captain.’

‘New group captain. New to Trincomalee, or new to you?’

Toddy made a face. ‘Both, actually. Now, tell me what to bring you when I come again. Perhaps a spicy novel to help pass the time?’

‘That would be great. I don't feel much like reading right now, but I am sure that soon, I will.’

‘So what have you been doing today?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing? I don't approve.’

‘You said I would love doing nothing.’

‘I meant having a rest. Not lying here brooding.’

‘Who said I was brooding? In fact, I was being quite constructive, mentally redecorating my house in Cornwall.’

‘You promise me that's true?’

‘Why are you so concerned?’

‘Well…it's natural, isn't it…?’ For once Toddy seemed a bit lost for words. ‘You know, when the buzz of life slows down for a moment, everybody's inclined to get a bit broody…I know I did when my husband died. One of the reasons I'm doing this job.’ She floundered a bit. ‘Sweetie, you know what I mean…’

Judith did, but it was clearly going to be up to her to put it into words. ‘You think I might be lying here worrying myself sick about Mummy and Dad and Jess.’

‘It's just that horrible worries, that are always there, are apt to recur, to surface, when there comes time to think about them. Like a pause in the conversation.’

‘I don't let them surface. It's the only way I can deal with them.’

Toddy leaned forward and took Judith's hand in her own large brown, red-nailed one. She said, ‘I'd be a dangerous gossip-columnist but a splendid Agony Aunt. It's not always a good idea to keep things bottled up. I never talk about your family to you, because I don't want to intrude. But you must know that you could always talk to me.’

‘What's the point in talking? What good is it going to do
them
? Besides, I've got out of the way of talking. The only person I could ever talk to was Biddy, because she knew them all. Apart from Aunt Louise, there was never anybody else, and she was killed in that horrible accident when I was fourteen. Even the Carey-Lewises never knew Mummy and Jess, because it wasn't until after they'd sailed for Colombo, and Aunt Louise died, that I started spending holidays with them at Nancherrow. I told you all about that, didn't I? I told you about the Carey-Lewises? They're blissful and endlessly kind, and the nearest thing to a family of my own, but they never knew Mummy and Jess.’

‘You don't have to
know
a person before you can be sympathetic.’

‘Yes. But not knowing means that you can't remember properly. You can't remember
together.
You can't say, “That was the day when we went on that picnic and it poured with rain, and then the car had a puncture.” Or “That was the day when we went to Plymouth in the train, and it was so cold that Bodmin Moor was white with snow.” And there's another thing. It's like if you're ill or bereaved or dreadfully unhappy. Friends are wonderful and sympathetic, but they can only be wonderful for just so long. After that, if you go on complaining and moaning and being sorry for yourself, they get bored and stop coming to see you. You have to come to some sort of deal with yourself. A compromise. If you can't say anything cheerful, then don't say anything at all. Anyway, I've learned to live with it now. The uncertainty, I mean. The not-knowing. It's a bit like the war, and none of us knowing when it's going to end. Only we're all in
that
boat together. The worst is birthdays and Christmas. Not writing cards to them all and choosing presents and tying them up and posting them. And thinking about them all day long, and wondering what they're doing.’

Toddy said, rather feebly, ‘Oh, dear.’

‘There's another reason I sometimes really long for Biddy. People keep memories alive, of grandparents and old aunts, long after they die, just by talking about them. The opposite is just as true. If you don't keep remembering living people, they're just as likely to fade off into obscurity, become shadows. Stop existing. At times, it's difficult to remember how Mummy and Dad and Jess even
look!
Jess is fourteen now. I don't suppose I'd even recognise her. And it's fourteen years since I saw my father, and ten years since Mummy left me at boarding-school and said goodbye. However hard you try, it's a bit like those old sepia photographs you find in other people's albums.
Who is that?
you ask, and then, perhaps you laugh.
Is that really Molly Dunbar.
…?
It can't be
…?’

Toddy was silent. Judith looked at her, and saw the sadness in her rough and leathered face, and the shine of unshed tears in her eyes. She felt, at once, remorseful.

‘What a long and garbled speech. I'm sorry. I didn't intend to say all that…’ She tried to think of something more cheerful to say. ‘At least, whatever happens, I'm not going to be left destitute, because when my Aunt Louise died she left me everything in her will.’ Which, once said, didn't sound cheerful in the very least, but rather materialistic and greedy. ‘Not perhaps the right moment to start talking about such things.’

Toddy vehemently disagreed. ‘Not at all. One must be practical. Money, we all know, doesn't buy happiness, but at least one can be miserable in comfort.’

‘An independence of spirit. That's what my old headmistress used to drum into us. But ordinary, day-to-day independence is terribly important as well. I found that out for myself. And I was able to buy The Dower House, so I've got a home. I don't have to go and live with anybody else. Roots of my own. Even when I was very small, I always thought that had to be the most important thing in the world.’

‘And so it is.’

‘Right now, it feels a bit like marking time. Because it's not possible to move forward and make plans until I know for sure what's become of Mummy and Dad and Jess. The only thing that's certain is that someday, somebody is going to tell me. If it's the worst, and they don't any of them come back, at least I've put in ten years of learning to live without them. But that's selfish too, because it doesn't make it any better for them.’