Coming Home (14 page)

They got into the car and slammed the doors shut. Molly reached for the ignition key, but did not turn it. Judith waited, but her mother only repeated what she had already said, as though repetition could somehow make it happen: ‘I really
do
want you to be happy.’

‘Do you mean happy at school, or happy ever after?’

‘Both, I suppose.’

‘Happy ever after's a fairy-tale.’

‘I wish it wasn't.’ She sighed, and switched on the engine. ‘A silly thing to say.’

‘Not silly. Rather nice.’

They set off for home.

It had been a good day, Molly decided. A constructive day, which left her feeling marginally better about everything. Ever since that heated exchange with Biddy, she had suffered from a nagging guilt, not simply because she was returning to Ceylon and leaving Judith behind, but because of past misunderstandings and her own lack of perception. Guilt was bad enough, but the knowledge that she had so little time left to make things right between them caused her more distress than she would admit, even to herself.

But somehow, it had worked out. Not just because they had achieved so much, but because it had been done under such pleasant and companionable circumstances. Both of them, she realised, had tried their hardest, and this alone was enough to fill her heart with grateful appreciation. Without Jess tagging along, demanding attention, being with Judith had been like spending time with a girl-friend, a contemporary, and all the small treats and extravagances — lunching at The Mitre, and buying the extremely expensive attaché case which was the one that Judith really wanted — were a small price to pay for the knowledge that, somehow, she had crossed a difficult bridge in the relationship with her elder daughter. Perhaps she had left it rather late, but at least it was done.

She felt much calmed and strengthened. Take one thing at a time, Judith had told her, and, encouraged and heartened by this co-operation, Molly took her advice and refused to be overwhelmed by all that was still left to do. She made lists, giving each task a priority number, and ticking things off as they were dealt with.

And so, over the following days, in strict sequence, plans were laid and carried out for the closing of Riverview House and the dispersal of its occupants. Personal possessions which Molly had brought home from Colombo, or gathered around her during her tenure, were collected from various rooms and cupboards, listed, and packed away to be put into store. Judith's new, brass-bound school trunk, marked with her initials, stood open on the upstairs landing, and as various garments were name-taped and folded, they were neatly stacked into this capacious piece of luggage.

‘Judith, can you come and help?’

‘I am helping.’ Judith's voice from beyond her bedroom door.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Packing my books to take to Aunt Louise.’

‘All of them? All of your baby books?’

‘No, I'm putting them in another box. They can go into store with all your stuff.’

‘But you won't need your baby books again.’

‘Yes, I will. I want to keep them for my children.’

Molly, torn between laughter and tears, hadn't the heart to argue. And what difference would a few extra boxes make anyway? She said, ‘Oh, all right,’ and put a tick alongside ‘hockey boots’ on the endless clothes list.

‘I've found another position for Phyllis. At least I think I have. She's going for an interview the day after tomorrow.’

‘Where?’

‘In Porthkerris. Better, really. She'll be nearer home.’

‘Who with?’

‘Mrs Bessington.’

‘Who's Mrs Bessington?’

‘Oh, Judith, you know. We meet her sometimes shopping and she always chats. She carries a basket and has a white Highland terrier. She lives up at the top of the hill.’

‘She's old.’

‘Well…middle-aged. Perfectly lively. But the maid she's had for twenty years wants to retire because of her varicose veins. She's going to go and keep house for her brother. So I suggested Phyllis.’

‘Has Mrs Bessington got a cook?’

‘No. Phyllis will be cook-general.’

‘Well, that's something. She told me she'd rather be on her own. She didn't want to skivvy for some bad-tempered old bitch of a cook.’

‘Judith, you shouldn't use words like that.’

‘I'm simply telling you what Phyllis said to me.’

‘Well, she shouldn't.’

‘I think “bitch” is rather a good word. And it only means a lady dog. There's nothing rude about that.’

The last days slipped by with frightening speed. By now, rooms, stripped of photographs, pictures, and ornaments, became impersonal, as though already deserted. The sitting-room, empty of flowers and small personal touches, presented a bleak, cheerless face, and there seemed to be crates and packing-boxes everywhere. While Judith and Phyllis laboured valiantly, Molly spent much time on the telephone, speaking to the shipping company, the passport office, the storage firm, the railway station, the bank manager, the lawyer, Louise, her sister Biddy, and finally, her mother.

This last was the most exhausting call, because Mrs Evans was becoming deaf, and she distrusted the telephone, suspecting that the female on the switchboard listened in to private conversations, and then repeated them to Others. So it took some plain speaking and a good deal of frustration before the penny dropped and Mrs Evans was made to comprehend.

‘What was all that about?’ Judith asked, coming in on the tail end of the conversation.

‘Oh, she's impossible. But I think I've fixed it. After I've taken you to St Ursula's, then I'll close this house, and Jess and I will spend the last night with Louise. She's promised, very kindly, to drive us to the station in her car. And then we'll spend a week with your grandparents.’

‘Oh, Mummy, do you
have
to?’

‘I feel it's the least I can do. They're getting so old, and heaven only knows when I shall see them again.’

‘You mean, they might die?’

‘Well, not exactly.’ Molly thought this over. ‘Well, yes, they might,’ she admitted. ‘But I can't think about that.’

‘No, I suppose not. But I still think you're being very saintly. You haven't seen my rubber boots anywhere, have you…?’

The station carrier arrived at the front door with his horse and his float, and onto this were loaded Judith's desk and other possessions that had to be transported to Aunt Louise's house. It took some time to rope it all securely, and Judith watched its departure, bumping up the road behind the ambling horse, to travel the three miles to Windyridge. Then the man who ran the village filling station appeared to make an offer for the Austin Seven. It was not much of an offer, but then it was not much of a car. The next day, he came to take delivery, handed over the puny cheque, and drove it away. Seeing it go for the last time felt a bit like watching an old dog being taken off by the vet to be put down.

‘If we haven't got a car, how are you going to take me to St Ursula's?’

‘We'll order a taxi. We'd never have got your trunk into the Austin, anyway. And then, once you're safely installed, it can bring Jess and me home again.’

‘I don't, actually, want Jess to come.’

‘Oh, Judith. Poor little Jess. Why ever not?’

‘She'll just be a nuisance. Cry or something. And if she cries, then you will, and me too.’

‘You never cry.’

‘No, but I might. I can say goodbye to her here, when I say goodbye to Phyllis.’

‘It seems a little unfair.’

‘I think it's kind. Anyway, I don't suppose she'll even notice.’

But Jess did notice. She was not a stupid child, and she witnessed the dismemberment of her home with considerable alarm. Everything was changing. Familiar objects disappeared, packing-cases stood in hall and dining-room, and her mother was too busy to pay much attention to her. Her doll's house, her red-painted hobby-horse, and her push-along dog on wheels, there one day, were gone the next. Only Golly was left to her, and she carried him everywhere, dangling by one leg, and with her thumb plugged into her mouth.

She had no idea what was happening to her small world, only knew that she liked none of it.

On the last day, because the dining-room had been stripped of silver and cutlery, and they were down to the barest basics, they had lunch in the kitchen, the four of them sitting around Phyllis's scrubbed table, and eating stew and blackberry crumble off the chipped and mismatched plates which went with the furnished let. Clinging to Golly, Jess let her mother feed her with a spoon, because she wanted to be a baby again, and when she had eaten her pudding, she was given a tiny packet of fruit gums, all to herself. The disposal of this, the opening of the packet, and the choosing of the colours occupied her attention while Phyllis cleared the table, and she scarcely noticed that her mother and Judith had disappeared upstairs.

And then the next upsetting thing occurred. Phyllis was in the scullery, rattling dishes and scouring saucepans, so it was Jess who, looking up, through the window saw the strange black car turn in at the gate, drive slowly across the gravel, and come to a halt outside the front door. With her cheeks bulging with sweets, she went to tell Phyllis.

‘It's a
car
.’

Phyllis shook water from her reddened hands and reached for a tea-towel on which to dry them.

‘That'll be the taxi…’

Jess went with her, out into the hall, and they let the man into the house. He wore a peaked cap like a postman.