Coming Home (104 page)

The Dower House

Rosemullion.

24th July 1940.

Dear Mummy and Dad,

At two o'clock this morning, Athena had her baby. She had her at Nancherrow, in her own bedroom, with old Dr Wells and Lily Crouch, the Rosemullion district nurse, in attendance. Poor things, having to turn out at that hour, but old Dr Wells said he wouldn't have missed it for the world. It is now seven o'clock in the evening, and I have just come back from Nancherrow (on my bike both ways), and seeing the new arrival. She is enormous and looks a bit like a Red Indian papoose, with a very red face and lots of straight dark hair. She is called Clementina Lavinia Rycroft, and the Colonel sent a cable to Palestine letting Rupert know that she had come. Athena is simply delighted, cock-a-hoop, as though she had done it
all
by herself (which, in a way, I suppose she had), and sitting up in bed with the baby beside her in its frilly cot. And, of course, her bedroom is filled with flowers, and Athena drenched in perfume, and wearing the most divine white voile negligee, dripping in lace.

Loveday and I are both going to be godmothers, but Clementina is not going to be christened until her father gets some leave or something, and is able to be there. It really is exciting, having this little new life, I can't think why it should be so exciting, because we've all known for months that she was on the way.

While I was at Nancherrow, old Dr Wells dropped in again. He said, to see how everybody was doing, and to check up on mother and child. The Colonel opened a bottle of champagne, and we wet the baby's head. (He is a great one for opening bottles of champagne. I am afraid, one day, he is going to run out because he can't get any more. I hope he keeps one case at least, for the day when we celebrate Victory.) Anyway, while we were all sipping away and getting jolly, old Dr Wells came out with the real reason for his second visit, which was to tell us that Jeremy is in a naval hospital somewhere near Liverpool. We were all appalled and shocked, because it was the first we had heard of this, but old Dr Wells said that he had not thought that two in the morning (and with Athena's
accouchement
in full swing), an appropriate moment for the breaking of such news. Wasn't it sweet? And he must have been bursting to tell everybody.

Back to the point. Jeremy. What happened was his destroyer was torpedoed and sunk by a U-boat in the Atlantic, and he and three other men were in the sea, covered in oil and hanging on to a Carley float for a day and a night before they were spotted and picked up by a merchantman. It doesn't bear thinking about, does it? Even in the summer, the Atlantic ocean must be icy cold. Anyway, he was suffering from exposure and exhaustion and burns on his arm from the explosion, so once the merchantman got to Liverpool, he was bustled off to this naval hospital and is still there. Mrs Wells has gone up to Liverpool by train to sit at his bedside. When he's discharged, he's going to be given sick leave, so hopefully we'll all see him before long. Isn't it wonderful — even miraculous — that he was spotted and rescued? I don't know how people survive under such circumstances, I suppose they do because the alternative is unthinkable.

Invasion fever has swept the country, and we're all donating our aluminium pots and pans to the Women's Voluntary Service, to be melted down and made into Spitfires and Hurricanes. I had to go to Penzance and buy a whole lot of horrible enamel ones which chip and burn, but it can't be helped. The Local Defence Volunteers are now called the Home Guard, which sounds much grander, and everybody is joining. Colonel Carey-Lewis is back in uniform, and because of his experience in the First World War has been made Commanding Officer of the Rosemullion Detachment. They have already been issued with uniforms and guns, and the Rosemullion Village Hall has been turned into the Home Guard HQ, and they've got a telephone, and notice-boards and everything, and learn drill.

As well, all the church bells were silenced, quite soon after Dunkirk, and must only ring out to tell us that the Germans have landed. One poor old chap, rector of a remote parish, never heard about this, or if he had, forgot, and the local bobby found him pulling the rope, the bell clanging away in the belfry, and promptly arrested him. Another man was fined twenty-five pounds for spreading rumours. He was in his local pub telling everybody that twenty German parachutists, disguised as nuns, had landed on Bodmin Moor. The magistrate said that he was lucky not to be put in prison for defeatist talk.

Another thing is, that all the local signposts have been removed, so you come to a remote Cornish cross-road and you don't know which way to go. Biddy doesn't think this is much of an idea. She supposes the powers-that-be imagine that a squad of German Panzers, marching on Penzance, would turn right by mistake and end up at Lamorna Cove. Where, no doubt, someone would try to sell them cream teas.

But, despite our laughs, it is all terribly immediate and close. Falmouth was bombed a couple of weeks ago, and every evening we listen to accounts of the air battles over Kent and the Channel, and can scarcely believe that the fighter pilots are doing so brilliantly, knocking the German bombers out of the sky. Edward Carey-Lewis is one of them, and there are newspaper photographs of the young airmen sitting around in the sun, in deck-chairs and basket chairs; but all kitted up, and just waiting for the warning to
Scramble,
which means another formation of Stukas is on its way. It's a bit like David and Goliath. And of course, the Channel Islands have already been occupied, the Union Jack pulled down and the swastikas flying. At least, there wasn't a lot of fighting and people being killed. No shots were fired, it was quite orderly, and the only resistance was a drunk Irishman who punched a German soldier on the nose.

We're all well here. Biddy's been on duty with the WVS collecting pots and pans for fighters, and Phyllis has finished painting the attic for Anna, and tomorrow a man is going to come and lay the carpet for us. It is blue, with a bit of a pattern, and is going to befitted right to the walls. I think it will look pretty.

Phyllis is so happy here, and Anna thriving. She's a dear little girl, sleeps a lot and is no trouble. Phyllis is loving, but quite strict with her. Cyril is in the Mediterranean, Malta, I think, but we're not allowed to say. He was sent on a course and is now a qualified ERA, which stands for Engine Room Artificer, whatever that means. I suppose, one up from a stoker. Anyway, he's been made a leading seaman and so has got his hook. He sent Phyllis a photograph of himself, in cotton flannel (hook much to the fore) and pipe-clayed cap. He looks very brown and well. The funny thing is that although I have known about Cyril forever, I've never actually met him. He's not very good-looking, but Phyllis is delighted with the photograph and says he's ‘improved awful.’

I hope you are all well. I'm afraid this is a rather long letter, but this is such an extraordinary time to be living through, I find I want to write it all down.

My love to you both and Jess,

Judith

The Dower House, like all self-respecting gentlemen's residences built in the nineteenth century, had, gathered about its back entrance, a number of outbuildings. An old coach-house, a tool-shed, and a potting-shed; a store for coal and wood, an outside lavatory (known as the Maid's Lav), and a washhouse. This contained the traditional boiler and a momentous mangle, and entailed much laborious carting of water and lighting of fires. The ironing was done on the kitchen table, padded up with blankets and old sheets, using flat-irons which had to be heated up on the top of the range.

When the Boscawens took possession, however, Lavinia Boscawen, with Isobel's well-being in mind, made a number of daring modernisations. The coach-house became a garage. A new lavatory was constructed indoors, down a small passage that led from the scullery, and the Maid's Lav relegated to the gardener, should he be caught short whilst hoeing his turnips. The washhouse was converted into a shed for storing apples, potatoes, and buckets of preserved eggs, and the great scullery sink, the size of a horse-trough and set back-breakingly low, was removed and carted away. Its place was taken by two deep clay sinks with a wringer riveted in position between them. Finally, all the old flat-irons were flung onto the dump, and Isobel was presented with one of the new electric devices.

She had thought she was in heaven.

Phyllis Eddy, years later, thought much the same. After the dismal little house in Pendeen, and then her mother's overcrowded miner's cottage, the domestic arrangements of The Dower House seemed to Phyllis the very height of luxury. To watch boiling-hot water streaming from a tap into a sink or bath never failed to give her a thrill; and dealing with dirty dishes and clothes — something which she had come to think of as an endless drudge — turned into chores that were almost pleasurable, so swiftly and easily were they accomplished. As for the bathroom here, nearly as good as the one at Riverview it was, with the thick white towels on the hot rail, and the cheerful cotton curtains flying in the breeze, and the lovely, remembered smell of Yardley's Lavender soap.

And as for dreaded Monday wash-day, now Phyllis almost looked forward to it. Anna's nappies she dealt with every day, and strung them out on the line like a bunting of white flags. Sheets and bath towels still went to the laundry, but there were four of them living in the house, and all the other bits of household linen, to say nothing of blouses, underwear, cotton dresses, overalls, skirts and slacks, stockings and socks, added up to two big basketfuls every Monday morning.

Usually, Phyllis and Judith tackled this together, while Anna sat on the scullery floor and played with clothes-pegs. Phyllis had a scrubbing board for the whites, and a great bar of Sunlight soap, and when she reckoned some pillowcase or garment had been scrubbed enough, she wound it through the wringer into the other sink, where Judith did the rinsing in clean water. Working in tandem, they usually finished the whole lot and had it out on the line by the end of the hour. And if it was raining, all was draped over the slats of the kitchen pulley and hoisted up into the warm ceiling over the range.

It wasn't raining today. The sky had hazed over and it was very warm, but it wasn't raining. A blustery west wind kept the clouds moving, and every now and then they drifted apart, and there was blue sky with blasts of hot sunshine.

Even with the back door propped open, the scullery was humid and steamy, smelling of soap and clean, wet linen. But at last the final garment, a little pinafore of Anna's, was rinsed, wrung, and tossed onto the heap of damp clothes in the wicker-basket.

‘That's it for another week,’ said Phyllis with some satisfaction, and she pulled out the plug to let the soapy water gurgle away, and, watching it go, put up a wrist to push her hair away from her damp forehead. ‘It's some warm, isn't it? I'm fair sweating.’

‘Me too. Come on, let's get out into the fresh air.’ Judith stooped and swung one of the heavy baskets up onto her hip. ‘You bring the pegs, Anna.’ And she went out through the door, and the west wind blew on her cheeks and through the thin cotton of her clammy skirt.

The washing green took up the space between the garage and the back door. The grass was speckled with daisies, and a low escallonia hedge, heavy with sticky pink flowers, divided the green from the gravel approach which led to the house from the gate. Together, stooping and stretching, Judith Phyllis pegged out the lines of laundry. The wind blew cases into square balloons, and filled the sleeves of shirts.

‘There'll be nappies at Nancherrow now,’ Phyllis observed, pegging out a tea-towel. ‘Who'll be dealing with those, do you imagine?’

‘Mary Millyway, who else?’

‘I wouldn't want her job. Love children, but never wanted to be a nanny.’

‘Nor me. If I'd had to go into service, though, I'd have
chosen
to be a laundry maid.’

‘You need to have your head examined.’

‘Not at all. Hanging washing is much nicer than emptying some horrible old man's chamber-pot.’

‘Who's talking about chamber-pots?’

‘Me.’