Coming Home (88 page)

‘I just hope you won't regret the decision.’

‘I know I won't. I feel much better already. And if there is a ghastly fuss, you'll back me up, won't you?’

‘I shall be your alternative defence. Now, with that settled, what are you going to do with yourself? Have you thought that far forward?’

‘Yes. What I'd like to do is join one of the services, but there's not much point joining up unless I've got some sort of a qualification, otherwise I'll end up cleaning guns, or hanging on to the string of a barrage balloon, or cooking enormous institutional meals. Heather Warren, my friend in Porthkerris, she's going to learn shorthand and typing. I thought perhaps I could do it with her. Shorthand and typing isn't much, but at least it's some sort of a skill. And I thought I'd go back and live in Porthkerris, and perhaps ask Mrs Warren if she'd have me as a paying guest. I know she would, she's the most hospitable person. I've stayed there so many times, and if Joe joins up, then I could have his room.’

‘Porthkerris?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not Nancherrow?’

‘No. Not just because of Edward. But because I think I've lived with the Carey-Lewises for long enough. I've got to start standing on my own feet. And anyway, Nancherrow is miles from anywhere; if I was trying to learn something, it would be dreadfully inconvenient.’

‘Do you really
want
to return to Cornwall?’

‘Not really. In fact, I think I probably need a bit longer away from it all; I haven't exactly pulled myself together yet.’

‘Then why not stay here? With Biddy.’

‘I can't do that. Indefinitely.’

‘Not indefinitely. Just for the time being. I would like you to stay. I am asking you to stay.’

Judith looked at him in some puzzlement. She saw his solid, rugged profile, with its thick eyebrows, and his jutting pipe. And she saw, too, his greying hair, and the deep lines that ran from nose to chin, and all at once it wasn't difficult to imagine him as he would become when he was very old. She said gently, ‘Why do you want me to stay?’

‘I want you to keep Biddy company.’

‘But she has dozens of friends.’

‘She misses Ned, and God knows what's going to happen to me. She likes having you around. You'll be able to keep each other in order.’

‘But I must do
something.
I really want to learn how to do shorthand and type.’

‘You could do that from here. Go to either Exeter or Plymouth.’

‘But how would I get to and fro? You've said yourself that the first thing to be rationed is petrol. I wouldn't be able to use my car, and there's only one bus a day out of Bovey Tracey.’

Uncle Bob began to laugh. ‘What a girl you are for details. You'll make an excellent petty officer writer.’ He sat up and leaned forward to tap out his pipe on the heel of his shoe. ‘Why don't we take one thing at a time? I'll work something out, I promise. I won't abandon you at a loose end with nothing to do. Just be with Biddy for a bit.’

She was suddenly filled with love for him. She said, ‘All right,’ and leaned forward and kissed his weather-beaten cheek, and he gave her a hug. Morag, who had been lying in the bracken a little way off, stirred herself and came to find out what they were up to. Uncle Bob dealt her a soft slap on her thickly furred flank. ‘Come on, you lazy girl,’ he told her, ‘we're going home.’

It was nearly half past two before they returned, hungry, thirsty, and thoroughly exercised. It had been a splendid walk. They approached Upper Bickley by way of the moor, and reaching it, climbed the stone wall at the head of the paddock and made their way down the tufty grass towards the house. Morag, lively as ever, led the way, leaping the wall like a steeplechaser, and racing ahead to where her water bowl stood by the back door.

Judith and Uncle Bob took it more slowly. At the foot of the paddock, they paused to inspect Bill Dagg's projected potato patch. The area had been neatly squared off and marked with twine, and about a quarter was already dug, grass and weeds removed, and the resultant earth lay dark and loamy. Judith stooped and took a handful, and it smelt sweet and damp, and she let it slip away through her fingers. She said, ‘I bet that will grow the best potatoes in the world.’

‘Once dug. A labour that I wouldn't relish. Rather Bill Dagg than…’ Uncle Bob turned his head to listen. Judith heard it too. A car, slowing, turning to climb the hill. Bob frowned. ‘Now, who could that be, coming our way?’

They stood, side by side, waiting, their eyes turned towards the open gate. The sound of the engine drew closer and then the car appeared in the road, to turn in at the entrance of Upper Bickley. Tyres ground across the pebbles. A dark Royal Naval staff car, with an officer at the wheel.

Beneath his breath, Bob said, ‘Bloody hell.’

‘Who is it?’

‘My signal officer.’

The car drew to a halt, and out of it stepped a young man in lieutenant's uniform. Bob went to meet him, striding out ahead of Judith, and ducking his tall head beneath the washing-line. Judith hesitated, wiping the earthy palm of her hand on the seat of her trousers, and then, more slowly, followed him.

The lieutenant came forward and saluted. ‘Captain Somerville, sir.’

‘Whitaker. What are you doing here?’

‘A signal, sir. It came through about an hour ago. I came at once, sir. Thought it best to deliver it by hand.’

‘In a staff car?’

‘I have an idea you'll be needing transport, sir.’

The signal was handed over. Standing there, in his dusty shoes and his old tweed jacket, with his hair awry, Bob Somerville read the message. Judith anxiously watched his face, but his expression gave nothing away. After a bit, he looked up. ‘Yes,’ he said to Lieutenant Whitaker. ‘Best delivered by hand. Well done. Thank you.’ He looked at his watch.

‘I'll need fifteen minutes. I must have a word with my wife, eat a sandwich or something; pack.’

‘Right, sir.’

Bob turned to go into the house, but remembered, at the last moment, Judith, who stood there feeling a bit spare and at a loss. ‘Oh, Whitaker, this is my niece, Judith Dunbar. You'd better fill her in with the details. And if you're nice to her, she'll maybe make you a cup of tea.’

‘I think I'll be able to survive, thank you very much, sir.’

‘Fifteen minutes.’

‘I'll wait, sir.’

Uncle Bob went indoors. The front door closed, explicitly, behind him, and Judith knew that right at this moment he did not want anybody around; he just wanted to be alone with Biddy. She felt fearfully apprehensive, her imagination leaping ahead to imminent invasion, some disaster at sea, or dire news of Ned.

‘What
is
happening?’

‘It's a special appointment,’ Lieutenant Whitaker told her. ‘The Commander-in-Chief, Home Fleet, has requested Captain Somerville to join his staff.’ (A certain relief; none of the terrible things she had feared.) ‘Forthwith. With all convenient speed. That's why I brought a staff car.’

‘Where is the Home Fleet?’

‘Scapa Flow.’

‘You're not going to
drive
him to Scapa Flow?’

Lieutenant Whitaker laughed, and at once looked a lot more human. ‘No. I think Captain Somerville will probably get a ride with the Fleet Air Arm.’

‘Ned's based at Scapa Flow.’

‘I know.’

‘It's all so sudden.’ She met his eyes, and saw his sympathy, and tried to smile. ‘I suppose everything's going to start being like this…’

Whereupon Lieutenant Whitaker shed officialdom and became a perfectly pleasant and friendly young man. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘why don't we go and sit down somewhere, and have a cigarette.’

‘I don't smoke.’

‘Well, I could do with one.’

So they went and sat on the stone steps that led up to the drying green, and Morag came and joined them, and it was warm in the sunshine, and he smoked his cigarette and asked what Judith and Captain Somerville had been doing, and she told him about the walk to Haytor and the view from the top of the hill; and she told him that for the time being she was going to stay at Upper Bickley with Biddy, and even as she said this, she realised that now Uncle Bob was going to have neither time nor opportunity to lay plans for Judith's future. She was simply going to have to deal with those by herself.

Exactly fifteen minutes later Bob reappeared, with Biddy at his side. Lieutenant Whitaker, disposing of his cigarette, sprang smartly to his feet and went to shake Biddy by the hand. Biddy looked a bit bemused, but she had been married to the Royal Navy for a long time, and had learned to be both brave and philosophical about precipitous partings. As for Uncle Bob, he had become, once more, his other self. Back in uniform, back in charge, he looked both distinguished and sanguine, not unfamiliar but somehow distanced, as though he had already moved ahead of them to be absorbed into his real professional life.

Lieutenant Whitaker relieved him of his luggage and went to stow it in the back of the car. Uncle Bob turned to embrace his wife.

‘Goodbye, my darling.’

They kissed. ‘Try to see Ned. Send him my love.’

‘Of course.’

It was Judith's turn. ‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, Uncle Bob.’ They hugged. ‘Take care,’ he told her, and she smiled and said that she would.

Lieutenant Whitaker was waiting, holding the door open for Bob. He got into the passenger seat, and the door was slammed shut, and then Lieutenant Whitaker came around the front of the car and got in behind the driving-wheel.

‘Goodbye!’

The car went through the gate and was gone. Bob Somerville was gone. Biddy and Judith, waving, stopped waving. They listened until they could hear the car no longer, then turned to each other.

‘Are you all right?’ Judith asked.

‘No. Absolutely shattered.’ But Biddy managed a wry laugh. ‘Sometimes the Navy makes me want to spit. Poor man. In and out like a dose of salts, with nothing but a beef sandwich to sustain him. But the darling pet is thrilled to bits. Such an honour. Such a prestigious appointment. And I really am pleased for him. I just wish it hadn't happened so quickly, and that Scapa Flow wasn't right at the other end of the country. I asked about joining him, but he says it's out of the question. So I'll just have to roost here.’ She looked at Judith. ‘He told me that you're going to stay for a bit.’

‘Is that all right?’

‘I know I sound silly, but at the moment I simply couldn't bear to lose both of you. Heaven to think you'll be around to keep me company. Oh dear…’ She shook her head, refuting emotion, ‘…so idiotic, but suddenly I feel a bit weepy…’

‘Come on,’ said Judith and took her arm. ‘Let's go and put the kettle on and make a really strong cup of tea.’

Afterwards Judith was always to think of that August Sunday afternoon, and Uncle Bob's going, as the moment when the war really started. The events of the following week — the mobilisation of the Royal Navy, the call-up of reservists, the German invasion of Poland, and Mr Chamberlain's speech declaring war — became in retrospect simply the final formalities preceding the first bout of a mortal struggle that was to continue for nearly six years.