Coming Home (155 page)

He remembered other aspects of Gus, less materialistic. The manner in which he had slipped into the life-style of a family whom he had never met before, and became, obscurely, one of them. His talent for drawing, painting, and portraiture. The sketch of Edward, which held pride of place on Edgar Carey-Lewis's desk, was the most telling and perceptive likeness that Rupert had ever seen. And then, little Loveday. She had only been seventeen, but her love for Gus, and his care for her, had touched all their hearts.

After Singapore fell, it was Loveday who was so certain, so convinced that Gus was dead that she had somehow persuaded her family that he was never going to return. At that time, Rupert was in North Africa with the Armoured Division, but letters came from Athena telling him every detail of all that had taken place, or was about to happen.

At the end of which, Loveday had married Walter Mudge.

He sighed deeply. He realised that he was growing cold, and that his stump had started to throb, sure sign that he had been on his feet for too long. He turned from the window, and as he did, Gus came back, looking slightly improved, having shaved, combed his long thick hair, and changed into a navy-blue polo-necked sweater and a venerable tweed jacket.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting. You should have sat down. Are you sure you don't want that drink?’

‘No.’ Rupert shook his head. He couldn't wait to get away out of this place. ‘Let's find a pub.’

‘There's one just down the road. Can you walk that far?’

‘Provided you don't expect me to sprint.’

‘We shall amble,’ said Gus.

The pub was one of those old ones which, somehow, had escaped the bombing, although buildings on either side had been blown to smithereens, leaving the Crown and Anchor isolated, sticking up out of the pavement like an old tooth. Inside it was dark and comforting, with a lot of mahogany and brass, and aspidistras in pots, and a fireplace where burnt a coke-fire, which made it all smell a bit like old railway-station waiting-rooms.

At the bar they ordered two beers, and the barmaid said she would make them sandwiches, but she could only manage Spam and pickles. So they settled for Spam and pickles, and carried their beers over to the fireside, where they found an empty table, and, once Rupert had shed his overcoat and his bowler, made themselves comfortable.

‘How long have you been in London, Gus?’

‘I've rather lost track of time.’ Gus was lighting another cigarette. ‘What day is it today?’

‘Tuesday.’

‘I arrived on Friday? Yes, that's right. And was immediately struck down with 'flu. At least, I think that's what it was. Didn't see a doctor or anything. Just stayed in bed and slept.’

‘You all right now?’

‘I feel a bit feeble. You know how it is.’

‘How long are you staying?’

Gus shrugged. ‘No plans.’

Rupert felt that he was getting nowhere, and it was about time he stopped tiptoeing around the point. He said, ‘Look, Gus, do you mind me asking questions? Because if you do, I'll shut up. But you must realise I'm naturally anxious to know how the hell you've got yourself into this situation.’

‘It's not as bad as it looks.’

‘That's not the point.’

‘Where do you want to start?’

‘Colombo, perhaps? That's where you met up with Judith?’

‘Yes, Judith. That was one of the best things, finding her again. She's such a sweet person, and so kind to me. We didn't have much time, just a couple of hours, and then I had to get back on board again. I had a bottle of whisky with me. Black and White. The old waiter at the Galle Face Hotel had kept it for Fergie Cameron to come back to, but Fergie had died, so he gave it to me.’

‘When did you get back to England?’

‘Oh, I don't know. About the middle of October, I suppose. London, and then we were all wheeled back to Aberdeen. Did you know that my parents died?’

‘No, I didn't know. I'm sorry.’

‘I was told they had died when I got to the hospital in Rangoon. They were quite an elderly pair. Already middle-aged when I was a small child. But I would have liked to have seen them again. I wrote to them from Singapore, from Changi, but they never got the letter. They thought I was dead, and my mother had a massive stroke; she lay in a private nursing home for three years, and then she died. During this time my father went on living at Ardvray, with housekeepers and servants to look after him. He wouldn't move back to Aberdeen. I suppose he thought he might lose face. He was a very stubborn old man, and very proud.’

Rupert frowned. ‘What do you mean? Move
back
to Aberdeen? I thought you'd always lived at Ardvray.’

‘Everybody always thought that. They assumed it; imagined vast estates, grouse moors, established landed gentry. And I never put them right, because it was easier for me to go along with the assumption. But the truth is that my family was neither landed nor gentry. My father was a humble Aberdonian, who made his own money, and pulled himself up by his bootstraps. When I was small, we lived in a house in Aberdeen, with the trams going by at the foot of the garden. But my father wanted better things for me. I was his only child. He wanted me to be a gentleman. So we moved away from Aberdeen, to Deeside and a hideous Victorian house where my mother was never happy. And I was sent to a private prep school, and so on to Rugby, and then to Cambridge. A gentleman, with background and breeding. For some reason, background and breeding were important in those days, before the war. I wasn't ashamed of my parents. In fact, I had a lot of time for both of them. I admired them. But at the same time, I knew that they were socially unacceptable. Even saying that screws me up.’

‘What happened to your father?’

‘He died — a heart attack — soon after my mother. When I got back to Aberdeen, I thought, at least, that I would be fairly well off, have enough money to start over again. But, it all came out. The cash had dribbled away. The bottom was falling out of the property market, costs of hospital fees for my mother, keeping Ardvray going for one old man, paying the servants, the cook, the gardeners. He never thought to lower his standards in any way. Then, his capital. Stocks and shares. I'd never realised he'd so much invested in Malaya, rubber and tin. And, of course, that was all gone.’

Rupert decided that this was no time to mince words. ‘Are you broke?’ he asked bluntly.

‘No. No, I'm not broke. But I'm going to have to get a job of some sort. I've put Ardvray on the market…’

‘How about your car? The enviable Lagonda?’

‘Fancy you remembering that! It's in a garage in Aberdeen somewhere. I haven't got around to reclaiming it yet.’

‘I'm sorry, Gus. It doesn't sound much of a home-coming.’

‘I never thought it would be.’ Then, quietly, ‘But at least I'm home.’

They were interrupted here by the barmaid bringing their sandwiches.

‘'Fraid they're not up to much, but it's all I can manage. Put a bit of mustard inside, I did, then you can pretend they're ham.’

They thanked her, and Rupert ordered another couple of beers, and she took away the empty glasses. Gus lit another cigarette. Rupert said, ‘How about Cambridge?’

‘What about Cambridge?’

‘I can't remember what you were reading…’

‘Engineering.’

‘Could you go back to University, and finish your course?’

‘No. I couldn't do that. I couldn't go back.’

‘How about your painting?’

‘I haven't done anything since we were liberated by the Army and taken to the hospital in Rangoon. The desire to draw seems to have left me.’

‘You're so bloody good, I'm sure you could make a living that way.’

‘Thank you.’

‘That sketch you did of Edward. Brilliant.’

‘That was a long time ago.’

‘A talent like yours doesn't die.’

‘I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything. In hospital, they kept urging me to start drawing again. They brought me papers, pencils, paints…’

‘You mean in the hospital in Rangoon?’

‘No, not in Rangoon. I've been in another hospital for the last seven weeks. A psychiatric hospital in Dumfries. The doctors put me there because I fell to bits. I couldn't sleep. Nightmares. The shakes. Floods of tears. A sort of breakdown, I suppose…’

Rupert was appalled. ‘My dear man, why didn't you tell me before?’

‘So boring. Shameful. Not very proud…’

‘Did they help you?’

‘Yes. They were amazing. Wise and patient. But they kept trying to make me go back to my drawing and I had a total mental block about it. So I refused, and they gave me a basket to make instead. There were lovely grounds, and a nice little VAD used to take me for walks. And there was sky and woods and grass, but it never seemed real. It was like looking at somebody else's world through a thick pane of glass, and at the same time knowing that none of it had anything to do with me.’

‘Do you still feel that way?’

‘Yes. That's why I came to London. I thought that if I came to the most anonymous, crowded, stressful place I could think of, and survive it, then I could go back to Scotland and start again. One of the chaps who was in the hospital with me said I could use his flat. It seemed a good idea at the time. But then I got here, and I got 'flu, and it stopped being such a good idea.’ He added hastily, ‘But I'm OK now.’

‘Do you want to go back to Scotland?’

‘I haven't decided.’

‘You could go to Cornwall.’

‘No, I couldn't.’

‘Because of Loveday?’

Gus did not reply. The barmaid came back with their drinks, and Rupert paid her for them, and left a hefty tip on her tray.

‘Oh, thanks, sir. You haven't eaten your sandwiches yet. They'll get all dry.’

‘We'll eat them in a moment. Thank you so much.’

The fire was dying. She noticed this, and paused to shovel another load of coke onto the embers. For a moment all was smoky and black, and then the flames started to flicker once more.

Gus said, ‘Loveday was the worst.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Being told by Judith that Loveday was married. It was the thought of Loveday and Nancherrow that kept me alive on that fucking railway. Once I had dysentery so badly that I was just about dead, and it would have been the easiest thing in the world, just to slip away, but I didn't. Somehow I clung on. I wouldn't allow myself to die, because I knew I had to get back to her, because she would be waiting. I thought she would wait. But she thought I was dead, and she didn't wait.’

‘I know. I'm sorry.’

‘I kept her image, like a private photograph. Water was the other thing. Thinking about water. Peat-brown Scottish burns, tumbling like beer over boulders. Water to watch, flowing by, or rolling in on some empty beach. Water to listen to, drink, swim in. Cold running water. Cleansing, healing, purifying. The cove at Nancherrow, and the sea at high tide, deep and clear and blue as Bristol glass. The cove; and Nancherrow. And Loveday.’

After a bit, Rupert said, ‘I think you should go back to Cornwall.’

‘Judith has asked me. She has written to me. Three letters. And I've never answered any of them. I tried once or twice, but it wasn't any good. I couldn't think of anything to say. But I feel bad. I promised I'd keep in touch, and I haven't. By now, she's probably abandoned all thought of me.’ A ghost of a smile crossed his sombre features. ‘Tossed me aside like a worn glove of a sucked orange. And I don't blame her.’

‘I don't think you should stay here, in London, Gus.’

Gus picked up his sandwich and took an experimental bite out of it. ‘It's not bad, actually.’ But Rupert didn't know if he was talking about the sandwich or London.

‘Look’ — he leaned forward — ‘if you don't want to go to Cornwall, and I totally understand your feelings, then come to Gloucestershire with me. Now. Today. We'll get a cab to Paddington, and a train to Cheltenham. My car's there. We'll drive home. You can stay with us. Not Cornwall, but lovely country. Athena will welcome you with open arms, I know. You can stay as long as you want. Just, please, for my sake, don't go back to that ghastly flat.’

Gus said, ‘This is meant to be the end of the line. I can't go on running away.’