Coming Home (10 page)

She had done it quite kindly, almost teasing, but her message was loud and clear.

‘Do take some notice of what I said. It's for your own good, and for Judith's as well. You can't leave her for four years, totally unprepared for what is always a fairly difficult time. I hated being fourteen — I always felt I was neither fish, fowl, nor good red herring.’

‘Biddy, she's not
totally
unprepared…’

Biddy lit one of her perpetual cigarettes. She blew smoke. She said, ‘Has she started the curse yet?’

Her bluntness was embarrassing, even from a sister, but Molly refused to be outfaced. ‘Yes, of course, six months ago.’

‘Well, that's a blessing anyway. And what about her clothes? She's going to need some attractive clothes, and I don't imagine Louise will be much use in that direction. Is she going to have a dress allowance…?’

‘Yes, I've made provision for that.’

‘That dress she wore the other evening. It was quite pretty, but a bit infantile. And then you told me that she wanted an Arthur Ransome book for Christmas, so I went and bought it.’

‘She loves Arthur Ransome…’

‘Yes, but she should be into adult novels by now…or at least starting to read them. That's why I shot out on Christmas Eve and bought
Jane Eyre.
Once she's into that she won't come out of it until she's turned the last page. She'll probably fall madly in love with Mr Rochester, just as every teenager does.’ Biddy's eyes teased, sparkling with amusement. ‘Or perhaps you didn't fall in love with him? Perhaps you were saving yourself for Bruce?’

Molly knew that she was being laughed at, but refused to be goaded. ‘That is my business.’

‘And then you saw him for the first time and your knees turned to water…’

She was sometimes quite outrageous, but funny too, and despite herself, Molly had to laugh. Even so, she had taken it all to heart, but what made it so upsetting was that Biddy's strictures, which Molly realised were perfectly justifiable, had come too late for Molly to do very much about improving the situation, because, as usual, she had left things to the very last moment, and, looming before her, there was so much to
do.

She yawned enormously. The clock on the mantelpiece struck six o'clock. Time for the evening ritual of going upstairs, bathing, changing for dinner. She changed for dinner every night, as she had done all her married life, even though, for the last four years, there had been no person but Judith to eat it with. It was one of the small conventions that had propped her lonely life, providing a sort of structure and order that she needed to give day-to-day existence, humdrum as it was, some sort of shape. This was something else that Biddy teased her about, because Biddy, left on her own, would, once she had bathed, fling on that housecoat, or even her ratty old dressing-gown, stuff her feet into a pair of slippers, and instruct Phyllis to serve the boiled fowl on a tray by the sitting-room fire.

She would also treat herself to a large whisky and soda. At Riverview House, Molly's evening tipple was a single glass of sherry, slowly savoured, but staying with Biddy had been a real eye-opener, and she had downed a whisky with the best of them, after a cold afternoon out of doors, or the distressingly unsuccessful visit to the pantomime. The very idea of whisky, now, when she felt so tired and washed out, was enormously tempting. She debated for a moment as to whether or not she
ought
to. And whether it was worth the effort needed to go through to the dining-room and assemble the whisky bottle, the soda siphon, and a tumbler. In the end, she decided that, for medicinal purposes, it was absolutely essential, so she stopped debating, pulled herself out of her chair, and went to pour the drink. She was only going to have one, so she made it fairly strong. Back by the fire and settled once more in her chair, she took a delicious, warming and comforting mouthful, then set down the heavy glass and reached for her husband's letter.

While Phyllis dealt with Jess, Judith took reoccupation of her own bedroom, unpacked her night-things and her sponge-bag, and then her Chinese wicker basket with all her Christmas loot. She laid everything out on the top of her desk, so that when Phyllis was finished with Jess she could show it all off, and explain to Phyllis who had given her what. Uncle Bob's ten-shilling note she stowed away in a private drawer that had a little key, and his clock she set on the table by her bed. When Phyllis put her head around the door, she was sitting at her desk, writing her name on the flyleaf of her new diary.

‘There's Jess,’ announced Phyllis. ‘Looking at her picture book. She'll be asleep again before she knows where she is.’

She came into the room and plumped herself down on Judith's bed, which she had already turned down for the night, as she had drawn the curtains.

‘Come and show me what you got.’

‘Yours was the best, Phyllis, it was kind of you.’

‘At least you won't have to come asking me for scissors all the time. You'll need to hide them from Jess. And I have to thank you for those bath salts. I like Evening in Paris better than California Poppy. Used one yesterday afternoon when I had my bath. Felt like a film star. Now let's have a look…’

It all took a bit of time because Phyllis, so generous of nature, had to inspect everything minutely, and marvel at its splendour. ‘Look at that book. It'll take you months to read. Some grown-up, that is. And feel that jumper. So soft! And that's your diary. It's got a leather jacket, you'll have secrets to put in that.’

‘Wasn't it kind of Aunt Louise, because she's already promised me a bicycle? I never expected two presents.’

‘And the little clock! No excuse for being late for breakfast now. What did you get from your dad?’

‘I asked for a cedarwood box, with a Chinese lock, but it hasn't arrived yet.’

‘Oh, well, it'll come.’ Phyllis settled herself more comfortably on the bed. ‘Now…’ She was agog with curiosity. ‘Tell me what you did.’

So Judith told her, all about Aunt Biddy's house (‘It was absolutely freezing cold, Phyllis, I've never been in such a cold house, but there were fires in the sitting-room, and somehow it didn't seem to matter because we were having such a good time’), and about the pantomime, and skating, and about Uncle Bob and his gramophone, typewriter, and interesting photographs, and about the parties and the Christmas tree, and the Christmas lunch table with a centre-piece of holly and Christmas roses, and red and gold crackers and little silver dishes of chocolates.

‘Aw.’ Phyllis let out a sigh of envy. ‘It sounds
lovely.
’

Which made Judith feel a bit guilty, because she was pretty sure that Phyllis's Christmas had been a fairly thin one. Phyllis's father was a tin miner out St Just way, and her mother a large-busted, large-hearted, pinafored woman, usually with a child tucked up onto her hip. Phyllis was the eldest of five children, and how they all squeezed into that tiny stone-built terrace house was something of a conundrum. Once Judith had accompanied Phyllis to St Just Feast, to watch the Hunt ride out for the first meet of the season, and afterwards they had gone for tea in her house. They had eaten saffron buns and drunk strong tea, seven of them all crammed around the kitchen table, while Phyllis's father sat in his chair by the range, drank his tea out of a pudding bowl, and rested his boots on the polished brass fender.

‘What did
you
do, Phyllis?’

‘Not much, really. My mum was poorly, she had 'flu, I think, so I had to do most of the work.’

‘Oh, I am sorry. Is she better?’

‘Up and about but, aw, she's got a teasy cough.’

‘Did you get a Christmas present?’

‘Yes, I got a blouse from my mum, and a box of hankies from Cyril.’

Cyril Eddy was Phyllis's young man, another tin miner. She had known him since they went to school together, and they had been walking out ever since. They weren't exactly engaged, but Phyllis was busy crocheting a set of doilies for her bottom drawer. She and Cyril didn't see much of each other, because St Just was so far away, and he worked shifts, but when they did manage to get together, they went on bicycle rides, or sat, locked in each other's arms, in the back row of the Porthkerris cinema. Phyllis had a photograph of Cyril on the chest of drawers in her bedroom. He wasn't very good-looking, but Phyllis assured Judith that he had lovely eyebrows.

‘What did you give him?’

‘A collar for his whippet. He was some pleased.’ A coy expression came into her face. ‘You meet any nice young men, did you?’

‘Oh, Phyllis, of course not.’

‘No need to talk in that tone. Nothing unnatural.’

‘Most of Aunt Biddy's friends are grown up. Except on the last night, two young lieutenants came in after dinner for a drink. But it was so late that I went to bed pretty soon, so I didn't talk to them much. Anyway,’ she added, determined to be truthful, ‘they were far too busy being amused by Aunt Biddy to look at me…’

‘That's just your age. Not one thing nor another. Couple of years, you'll be grown up, have the boys round you like flies round a honey-pot. You'll catch their eye.’ Phyllis smiled. ‘You never fancy a boy?’

‘I said I don't know any. Except…’ She hesitated.

‘Go on. Tell Phyllis.’

‘There was this man in our compartment coming down from Plymouth. He was a doctor but he looked terribly young. Mummy talked to him, and then he told me that the Saltash Bridge was built by somebody called Brunel. He was really nice. I wouldn't mind meeting somebody like that.’

‘Perhaps you will.’

‘Not at St Ursula's.’

‘You don't go to a place like that to meet boys, you go to get educated. And don't turn up your nose at that. I had to leave school when I was younger than you, go into service, and I can't do much more than read and write and add up a sum. By the time you're done, you'll be passing exams and winning prizes. Only prize I ever won was for growing cress on a damp flannel.’

‘I suppose with your mother being ill and everything, you didn't have time to look for another job?’

‘Didn't have the heart, somehow. I suppose, the truth is, I don't really want to leave you all. Never mind, Madam said she'd help, give me a good reference. Thing is, I don't want to be any further away from home. As it is, takes most of my day off just to bike back to St Just. I couldn't manage more.’

‘Perhaps someone in Porthkerris needs a maid.’

‘That'd be better.’

‘You might get a much nicer job. With other people in the kitchen to chat to, and not nearly so much to do.’

‘I dunno. I don't want to end up skivvying for some bad-tempered old bitch of a cook. Rather do it all myself, even if I've a heavy hand with the pastry, and never could get the hang of that old egg-whisk. Madam always said…’ She stopped short.

Judith waited. ‘What's wrong?’

‘That's funny. She hasn't come up for her bath. Look, it's twenty past six. I hadn't realised I'd been sitting here for so long. Do you suppose she thinks I'm not done with Jess yet?’

‘I don't know.’

‘Well, go down like a good girl, and tell her the bathroom's empty. Doesn't matter about the fowl, I can hold that back till she's ready to eat. Poor soul, she's probably catching her breath after that train journey, but it's not like her to miss her bath…’ She pulled herself to her feet. ‘I'd better get down and see to those potatoes.’

But when she was gone, Judith lingered for a little, putting everything away, straightening the crumpled eiderdown, laying the new diary in the middle of her desk. Since the first of January, she had written in it every day, in her neatest handwriting. Now, she stared at the flyleaf. Judith Dunbar. She thought about putting her address, and then decided against it, because very soon she wouldn't have a proper address. She worked out that when she finished writing the diary, it would be December 1940. And she would be nineteen. Which was, somehow, rather frightening, so she put the diary away in a drawer, combed her hair, and ran downstairs to tell her mother that if she hurried, she would have time for a bath.

She burst into the sitting-room.

‘Mummy, Phyllis says that if you want to—’

She got no further. Because something, obviously, was terribly wrong. Her mother sat there, in her armchair by the fire, but the face she turned to Judith was stricken with despair and made swollen and ugly by weeping. A half-emptied tumbler stood on the table by her side, and on the floor at her feet were shed, like leaves, the scattered flimsy pages of a close-written letter.