Coming Home (75 page)

Jeremy left her to it, went out of the kitchen and up to Diana's bedroom by way of the back stairs. He knocked gently at her door, and her voice called to him to come in. He had half expected drawn curtains and an invalid's gloom, but the room was filled with sunshine. Diana, however, was still in bed, propped up on a pile of downy pillows and wearing a lace-trimmed voile bedjacket. Beside her, with a snow-white, lace-trimmed pillow all to himself, Pekoe lay in state, curled into a ball and fast asleep. Diana had been reading. The book lay open, face-down on the white satin quilt and her thin red-tipped hand lay upon it.

‘Jeremy!’

‘Hello.’

‘What are you doing here? Oh, Edgar didn't bother you with a summons, did he? I told him not to get in a fuss.’

‘No, he didn't call.’ He closed the door and came to sit, unprofessionally, on the edge of the bed. She looked not feverish but washed out, pale as paper, and as though her fine skin had been pulled taut over the classic bone structure of her face. Her usually immaculate hair was disarmingly tousled, and beneath her astonishing eyes were smudges of exhaustion.

He said, ‘You're looking worn out.’

‘I am. But Edgar's telling everybody it's a bilious attack.’

‘So what have you been up to, to get yourself in this state?’

‘You make it sound as though it's all been fun. But at the moment, nothing's fun. Lavinia's been so ill, and there's too much to do. And sometime, Mary and I have got to go and buy thousands of yards of horrible black cotton and somehow make curtains for every window in the house. The truth is, I'm tired and miserable and depressed and I've run out of the energy to go on pretending that I'm anything else. So I came to bed and told Edgar I was feeling ill. He'd much rather I felt ill than have me unhappy.’

‘Are you worrying about Mrs Boscawen?’

‘Yes, a bit, still. She's not out of the wood yet. She gave us all such a scare. And I was frazzled out anyway, after London and strings of late nights, and then I had to come bolting home. I'd never driven the Bentley so far and so fast before, not by myself. All along that dreadful A30, and the Exeter by-pass choked with traffic.’

‘But you made it.’

‘Yes, I made it, to a hysterical Isobel, and having to find nurses, and then everybody coming home, and bringing people to stay. And then to cap everything, Edgar told me last night that this young man of Athena's wants to
marry
her!’

‘Captain Rycroft?’

‘Who told you about him?’

‘Mrs Nettlebed.’

‘He's called Rupert. He's terribly sweet. Royal Dragoons. Rather conventional and totally unexpected. But we're none of us to say anything, because apparently he hasn't even
asked
her yet. People are funny, aren't they?’

‘I think that sounds rather cheering news.’

‘Well, it is, in a way, but if they do get engaged, then they're going to insist on a hole-in-the-corner wedding, all terribly quick. A Register Office, or something, and it all seems a bit joyless. But how can anything be joyful when the papers are full of such gloom and doom and everything gets worse every day and Edgar makes me listen to the nine-o'clock news every night with him, and sometimes I think I'm going to be sick with terror.’

Her voice shook, and for the first time Jeremy felt a real concern. In all the time he had known her, he had never seen Diana Carey-Lewis in anything even approaching a state. She had always seemed to him nerveless, insouciant, able to see the ridiculous and so, funny side of the most impossibly serious situations. But this Diana had lost her spirit and so her greatest strength.

He laid his hand over hers. ‘You mustn't be afraid, Diana. You're never afraid of anything.’

She disregarded this.

‘I've been like an ostrich all this year. Burying my head in the sand, and pretending that it's not going to happen, that some miracle will occur, that some black-hatted idiot will go and get another bit of paper signed, and we'll all be able to breathe again, and go on living. But it isn't any good any longer. Deceiving oneself, I mean. There isn't going to be a miracle. Just another terrible war.’ To his horror, Jeremy saw her eyes well with weak tears, and she made no effort to brush them away. ‘After the Armistice in 1918, we told ourselves that it would never happen again. A whole generation of young men wiped out in the trenches. All my friends. Gone. And do you know what I did? I stopped thinking about it. I stopped remembering. I simply put it all out of my mind, shut it away like a lot of old rubbish in a trunk. Fastened the locks, did up the straps, pushed the trunk to the very back of some dusty attic. But now, only twenty years later, it's all starting again and I can't help remembering. Dreadful things. Going to Victoria Station to say goodbye, and all the boys in khaki, and everything fogged in steam from the engines. And the trains rolling out, and everybody waving…and mothers and sisters and sweethearts left behind on the platform. And then the pages and pages of Casualty Lists, columns of tiny newsprint. Each name a young man, cut down by war before he'd even had time to live. And I remember going to a party and there was a girl, and she sat on a grand piano and swung her legs and sang “Let the Great Big World Keep Turning”, and everybody joined in, but I couldn't because I couldn't stop crying.’

She was weeping now, dabbing at her streaming cheeks with a useless scrap of lace-edged handkerchief.

He said, ‘Haven't you anything a little more robust than that?’

‘Women's handkerchiefs are always so idiotic, aren't they?’

‘Here's mine. A bit bright but spit-clean.’

‘What a lovely colour. It matches your blue shirt.’ She blew her nose lustily. ‘I'm talking too much, aren't I?’

‘Not at all. It seems to me you need to talk, and I am here to listen.’

‘Oh, darling Jeremy, you are the dearest man. And actually, in a funny way I'm not nearly as stupid as I sound. I know there has to be a war. I know we can't go on letting dreadful things happen in Europe — people being suppressed, losing their freedom, being imprisoned and murdered just because they're Jewish.’ She wiped her eyes once more and pushed his handkerchief beneath her pillow. ‘Just before you appeared, I was reading this book. It's just a novel, nothing very deep…but it makes it all so dreadfully real…’

‘What is the book?’

‘It's called
Escape,
by some woman called Ethel Vance. And it's about Germany. A finishing school, very chic and cosmopolitan, run by an American-born countess, a widow. Young girls come to her to learn to ski and to study French and German, and music. It's all very charming and civilised. But close by, hidden in the forests beyond the ski slopes, is a concentration camp, and incarcerated there a Jewish actress under sentence of death.’

‘I hope it is she who is going to escape.’

‘I don't know. I haven't come to the end yet. But it's chilling. Because it is now. It's going on
now,
to people like us. It's not something out of history. It's now. And it's so vile that somebody has to stop it. So I suppose it has to be us.’ She smiled at him wryly, and it was like a watery beam of sunshine on a wet day. ‘So. Now I'm not going to moan any more. It's so lovely to see you. But I still can't think why you're here. I know it's the weekend, and you're all open-shirted and casually attired, but why aren't you mixing potions and taking surgery and telling people to say “Aah”? Or perhaps your father's given you the day off?’

‘No. As a matter of fact, my mother and father have gone off to the Scilly Islands for a few days' holiday. He said he was going to grab the chance while he could, because, at the rate things are going, only God knows when he'll get another.’

‘But the practice?’

‘We got a locum in.’

‘A locum? But you…’

‘I am no longer my father's partner.’

‘Has he given you the push?’

Jeremy laughed. ‘Not exactly. But I've been selected by the local medical committee as expendable. For the time being, my father's going to carry on alone. I volunteered to join the RNVR, and I've been accepted by the Medical Director-General. Surgeon Lieutenant-Commander Jeremy Wells, RNVR. How does that sound to you?’

‘Oh, Jeremy. Terribly impressive, but frightfully frightening and brave. Do you really have to do this?’

‘I've done it. I even went to Gieves and bought my uniform. I look a bit like a cinema commissionaire, but I suppose we'll all get used to it.’

‘You'll look heavenly.’

‘I have to report to Devonport Barracks next Thursday.’

‘And until then?’

‘I wanted to see you all. Say goodbye.’

‘You'll stay, of course.’

‘If there's a bed.’

‘Oh, darling boy, there's always a bed for you. Even though we are a bit of a houseful. Did you bring a suitcase?’

He had the grace to look a bit sheepish. ‘Yes. Packed. On the off chance you'd invite me.’

‘Did Mrs Nettlebed tell you about Gus Callender? Edward's chum from Cambridge.’

‘She said he was staying.’

‘He's rather interesting. A bit of a dark horse. Loveday, I fear, is besotted.’

‘Loveday?’

‘Isn't it astonishing? You know how dreadfully rude and offhand she's always been with Edward's friends. Giving them dreadful nicknames and mimicking their fruity voices? Well, this is quite a different cup of tea. One could almost say, she hangs on his every word. It's the first time I've ever seen her even vaguely interested in a personable young man.’

Jeremy found himself much amused. ‘And how does he take her devotion?’

‘I should say quite coolly. But he's behaving very well.’

‘Why is he so interesting?’

‘I don't know. Just different from all Edward's other friends. And he's Scottish, but he's a bit clammish about his family. Reserved, I suppose. A bit humourless? And yet he's an artist. Painting is his hobby and he's amazingly good. He's already done some charming little sketches. You must get him to show you.’

‘Hidden depths.’

‘Yes. I suppose so. And why not? We're all such extroverts, we expect everyone else to lay their lives on the line. Anyway, you'll meet him. And remember, we all seem to have entered a tacit agreement not to tease. Even Edward's being incredibly tactful. After all, we sometimes forget that our wicked baby is growing up. Perhaps it's time she started falling in love with something that doesn't have four legs and a tail. And I must say he's very sweet with her. It's all rather dear.’ Suddenly she yawned, and settled back on her pillows, slipping her hand from beneath his own. ‘I wish I didn't feel so tired. All I really want to do is sleep.’

‘Then sleep.’

‘It's made me feel so much better, just talking to you.’

‘That's what a professional consultation should be all about.’

‘You'll have to send me a socking bill.’

‘I will if you don't stay there. Have a really good rest. How do you feel about food? Do you want some lunch?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Not really.’

‘A bit of soup? Consommé, or something. I'll have a word with Mrs Nettlebed.’

‘No. Tell Mary. She'll be around somewhere. And tell her you're staying. She'll find a room for you.’

‘Right.’ He stood. ‘I'll come and see you later on.’

‘It's so comforting,’ she told him, ‘knowing that you're here. Just like the old days.’ She smiled, a smile warm with grateful affection. ‘It makes everything so much better.’

He left her and went out of the room, closing the door behind him. For a moment he hesitated, knowing that he should go and find Mary Millyway, but not certain where he should start looking for her. And then all thoughts of Mary Millyway were driven from his head by the sound of music. It came from the far end of the long passage that was the guest wing. Judith's room. She was here. She had returned from Porthkerris. Was probably unpacking. And while she did this had put a record on her gramophone, for companionship maybe. For solace.

A piano. Bach. ‘Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring’.

He stood there and listened, filled with a sweet and piercing nostalgia. Carried back in time, with startling vividness, to Evensong in his school chapel, he recalled the golden summer light streaming through stained-glass windows; the acute discomfort of fumed oak pews, and the pure voices of the young trebles singing the alternating phrases of the classic chorale. He could almost smell the fusty hymn-books.