Coming Home (44 page)

‘That's all right,’ said Palmer over his shoulder. ‘I know all about you. Coming to stay for a bit?’

‘Yes. Easter holidays.’

‘That'll be nice. Join the throng, that's what I always say.’

‘In another month,’ Edward explained, ‘I'd have been able to come and fetch you myself, because I'll be driving by then. I mean, officially. I drive around Nancherrow, but I'm not able to go out onto the main road until I'm seventeen. It's such a bloody bore, but there's nothing to be done about it, 'specially as I've got a law-abiding father who sits on the bench. So I had to haul Palmer out of his turnip patch and get him to do the necessary.’

‘I've never seen this shooting-brake before.’

‘No, I don't suppose you have. It only comes out on emergencies or special occasions. It's about thirty years old, but Pops won't get rid of it, because he says that it doubles conveniently as a lunch-hut on wet-day shooting parties. And it's good for meeting people at stations and hauling supplies when the house is full. Incidentally, do you mind if we don't go straight home? I've got to go to Medways to get measured for a new tweed, and it seemed a good idea to kill two birds with one stone. Do you mind hanging around for a bit?’

‘No.’ In fact, she felt quite pleased, because hanging around meant more time spent in the company of this engaging young man.

‘It won't take long. You can go and shop. And Pops gave me a fiver and said I could give you lunch. He said something about The Mitre, but it's such a stuffy old place, and I get a little bored with roast beef and gravy, so I thought we might find somewhere else.’ He leaned forward. ‘Palmer, what's that pub called, in Lower Lane?’

‘You can't take the young lady into a pub, Edward. She's under age.’

‘We can pretend she's older.’

‘Not in that school uniform you can't.’

Edward looked at Judith. She hoped that she wasn't about to blush. But he only said, ‘No, I suppose not,’ which was a bit depressing, as though she had been closely examined, and had not come up to scratch.

She said, ‘
You
can go into a pub if you like. I'll get a sandwich and eat it in the car.’

Which made him laugh. ‘What an accommodating girl you are, to be sure. Of course you won't sit in the car. We'll find somewhere splendid that isn't The Mitre.’

Judith said nothing to this. The Mitre had always been her idea of a really expensive and special place to be taken for lunch. But now, it seemed, it was not only dull, but stuffy, and Edward had other and, no doubt, more lively ideas. Wherever they went, she hoped she would be able to deal with it all, and order the right sort of drink, and not drop her napkin or have to go to the lavatory in the middle of the meal. Being given lunch by Edward Carey-Lewis would be quite different to being given lunch by Mr Baines, but despite all these private anxieties, it was impossible not to feel rather excited.

By now they were in the middle of the town, bowling along Alverton towards the Greenmarket.

‘If you drop us by the bank, Palmer, that'll do. And perhaps pick us up at the same spot in a couple of hours.’

‘That'll suit me. I've got a couple of errands to do for the Colonel.’

‘And you'll get yourself a bite to eat?’

Palmer was amused. ‘Don't worry about me.’

‘I won't. One thing for certain is that you're not too young for the pub.’

‘I never drink when I'm working.’

‘Well, I'll believe it, but thousands wouldn't. This is perfect, Palmer. Drop us here.’ He leaned across Judith and opened the door. For a moment she hesitated, debating as to whether or not to put her hat on again. Wearing a hat with school uniform was an unbreakable rule, and she would never have dared to go bare-headed in term time. But this was holidays now, and she felt irresponsible and daring. Besides, who would see her, and who, when it came down to brass tacks, could possibly care? So, the hateful hat was abandoned, and left where it lay, on the floor. She got out of the brake, followed by Edward, who slammed shut the door. The imposing vehicle moved away, down the street. They watched it go, and then turned and walked together down the sunny, crowded pavement in the direction of Medways.

It was funny coming back. The same gloomy interior, polished counters, high-collared assistants. But different. Because the last time she had come through the doors, she had been with her mother, and both of them were tentatively feeling their way into a new life of separation and St Ursula's. And on that day, she had seen Diana and Loveday Carey-Lewis for the first time, without even knowing what they were called, and had covertly watched them together, dazzled by their companionship and Diana's beauty and charm. And there had been no inkling, no possible idea, of how close she was to become to those two intriguing, butterfly characters.

But it had happened. And here she was, a few months later, strolling casually into the shop with Loveday's glorious elder brother, and already accepted as one of the Carey-Lewis clan. But the credit was not all Judith's, and she knew this. Circumstances, in an extraordinary way, had taken over her life. Such a short time ago, the future had promised nothing more than taking leave of her family, and settling down to the acceptance of four years of boarding-school and Aunt Louise. But Aunt Louise had died, and her going had opened the doors of Nancherrow to Judith, and allowed her vistas of opportunity and possibility that seemed to stretch forever.

‘Good morning, Edward.’

Her deep and rather disturbing reflections were interrupted, in timely fashion, by the appearance of the tailor, emerging from some dim back room. Alerted, he was ready to set to work, with his tape measure slung around his neck, and his bald head glistening as though polished.

‘Morning, Mr Tuckett.’ He and Edward shook hands. The occasion, it appeared, was one of traditional formality.

Mr Tuckett's eyes travelled to Judith. He frowned. ‘This isn't young Loveday, is it?’

‘Good God, no. This is her friend, Judith Dunbar. She's staying at Nancherrow.’

‘Well, that explains it. I thought it couldn't be Loveday. Now. The Colonel spoke to me on the telephone this morning, and said you'd be on your way. Tweeds for shooting, he said.’

‘That's right. I've grown out of everything.’

Mr Tuckett eyed Edward, and allowed himself the ghost of a grin. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. They must have been feeding you well at that place you're at. Now, do you want to choose the tweed first, or shall we get on with measuring you up?’

‘Let's do the measuring first. Get it over.’

‘Very well. If you'd like to come this way…’

‘You'll be okay, Judith?’

‘Yes. I'll wait.’

‘Find a chair.’

But when they disappeared into Mr Tuckett's holy of holies, discreet behind a black curtain, she went upstairs, to the school department, and bought herself three pairs of knee-socks so that she would never, unless directed, have to wear brown lisle stockings again. For some reason this small gesture of defiant independence made her feel much more confident, and she ran downstairs quite cheerfully, found a chair, and settled down to wait for Edward.

She had to wait for quite a long time. But eventually Edward and Mr Tuckett reappeared from beyond the curtain, Edward hauling his sweater back over his head.

‘Sorry about that,’ he apologised.

‘It's all right.’

Mr Tuckett explained. ‘A whole new set of measurements. A man's measurements now. This shooting suit should last Edward for some time to come.’

Next came the choice of tweed, which took almost longer. Edward, surprisingly enough, was very picky. Thick books of samples were produced, piled on the counter and mulled over. Much discussion took place concerning the relative advantages of Harris tweed and Yorkshire tweed. Was it to be dog-tooth, herring-bone, or plain lovat? The samples were turned, examined, and turned again. Finally Edward made his choice, a Scottish thornproof, in a sludgy green, with a faint-red-and-fawn overcheck. Considering it, Judith approved. ‘It's very non-committal,’ she told him. ‘You'll blend in, and you won't show in the undergrowth, and yet it's quite suitable for lunch parties, or even going to church.’

Mr Tuckett beamed. ‘Exactly, miss.’ He folded back the corner of the chosen tweed and fastened it with a pin. ‘I shall order it immediately, and start work as soon as it arrives. We should have your shooting suit ready for you before the end of the holidays. Now, there's nothing more you're needing? Shirts? Neckties? Socks?’ He lowered his voice discreetly. ‘Underwear?’

But Edward had had enough. It was time to be off. Mr Tuckett saw them to the door, with as much flourish and dignity as Nettlebed himself, and bade them good afternoon.

Safely on the pavement, Edward let out a sigh of relief. ‘Phew. That's over. Let's go and find a drink and something to eat.’

‘I thought you were enjoying yourself.’

‘Up to a point. But it all takes time.’

‘I love the tweed.’

‘Better than dog-tooth anyway. At least I shan't look like a second-rate bookie. Now, come on…’ And he put a hand beneath her elbow and steered her across the road, narrowly missing two cars and bicycle.

‘Where are we going?’ Judith asked, skipping along to keep up with Edward as he strode down the pavement.

‘I don't know. We'll find somewhere.’

What he found was a pub, but it had a garden so Judith didn't need to go into the bar. The garden was very small, with a low stone wall, and over this was a good view of the harbour and the sea beyond. There were some tables and chairs dotted about, and it was fairly sheltered from the breeze and so not too cold. He established her at one of these tables, and asked what she wanted to drink. Judith said she would have Orange Corona which was still her favourite, and he laughed and went indoors, ducking his head under the low doorway, and presently came out again, with her orange and tankard of beer for himself and a luncheon menu, handwritten on a dog-eared card.

‘I'm afraid it's not quite as up-market as The Mitre, but at least we're spared that deathly hush, broken only by the sounds of belches, or worse, and the mouse-like scrape of cutlery on china.’ He frowned at the bill of fare and turned down the corners of his mouth in an exaggerated grimace. ‘Toad in the Hole. Sausage and Mash. Home-made Cornish Pasties. Let's go for the pasties.’

‘All right.’

‘Do you like pasties?’

‘Love them.’

‘And for afters you can have trifle, jelly, or an ice-cream. Also home-made.’

‘I mightn't have any room when I've finished the pasty.’

‘Probably not.’ He looked up as a woman in a pinafore came out of the pub to take their order. Edward gave it, in a lordly manner belying his sixteen years. He was really, Judith marvelled, extraordinarily sophisticated.

‘We're going to have the pasties.’

‘Righty-ho.’ He grinned up at her, and she added, ‘My love.’

It was a good place to be. He was right. Much better than The Mitre. Not cold, because she had a coat on, and fun to sit in the open air, with the high sky and the blowing clouds and the wheeling, gliding gulls making their endless racket around the masts and decks of the fishing boats. The tide was in, and on the far side of the bay, St Michael's Mount appeared to be floating on the blue sea, the crenellations of the castle sharp as a cut-out in the clear air.

She leaned back in her chair and sipped her drink. She said, ‘When did you break up?’

‘Two or three days ago. Athena's back in Switzerland. God knows if or when she's coming home.’

‘I didn't realise that you were back already.’

‘Why should you?’

‘I thought Loveday might have told me.’

‘Some hope. She thinks of nothing but that wretched Tinkerbell.’ Across the wooden table, he suddenly smiled. ‘Do you relish the prospect of coming to Nancherrow for a whole
month,
or does it leave you with a sinking heart?’

She had the wit to realise that she was being teased.

‘No. No sinking heart.’

His smile faded. Suddenly serious, he said, ‘Ma told me about your aunt being killed like that. Ghastly. I'm sorry. It must have been the hell of a shock.’

‘Yes, it was. But I'm afraid she never drove very carefully.’

He said, ‘I went to her house.’

‘You
did
?’

‘Yes. Palmer and I were detailed to take the farm truck over and bring back all your stuff. My first day of freedom and I was working like a dog.’

‘That was kind of you.’

‘I didn't have much option.’

‘How…how did Windyridge look?’

‘A bit bleak.’

‘Were Edna and Hilda there?’

‘The two old maids. Yes, they're still in situ, and helped us sort out all your stuff. Everything ready and packed up. Very neat.’

‘It was always rather a bleak house…’ She wondered if he had spied Billy Fawcett prowling about, watching all that was going on, but decided not to ask any questions. She screwed up her nose. ‘…and full of extraordinary relics of Aunt Louise's life in India. Skins and elephant's feet and brass drums.’

‘I didn't really go into that bit of the house, so I can't remark on her taste.’