Coming Home (28 page)

Loveday's behaviour the following morning made it perfectly clear that Great-Aunt Lavinia was one of the few people — or perhaps the only person — capable of exerting any sort of influence on her wayward personality. To begin with, she got up early in order to wash her hair, and then dressed without the slightest objection in the clothes which Mary had set out for her the night before: a checked woollen dress with shining white collar and cuffs, white knee-socks, and black patent-leather shoes with straps and buttons.

Finding her in the nursery having her hair dried and brushed by Mary, Judith started to worry about her own appearance. Seeing Loveday looking so unusually pretty and smart made her feel really pathetic, like a penniless relation. The holly-red cashmere sweater was just as perfect as ever, but…

‘I can't go out for luncheon in
shorts,
can I?’ she appealed to Mary. ‘And the uniform's so ugly. I don't want to wear a uniform…’

‘Of course you don't.’ Mary was understanding and practical as always. ‘I'll look in Athena's wardrobe and find you a nice skirt. And you can borrow a pair of Loveday's white socks, just the same as the ones she's got on, and I'll polish up your shoes for you. Then you'll be smart and bright as a new penny…Now keep still, Loveday, for goodness' sake, otherwise we're never going to get this mop dry.’

The skirt, shamelessly purloined from Athena's cupboard, was a tartan kilt, with leather straps and buckles at the waist. ‘Kilts are lovely things,’ Mary pointed out, ‘because it doesn't matter how fat or thin you are, you can always make them fit.’

She knelt and wrapped it around Judith's waist, and fixed the straps.

Loveday, watching, giggled. ‘It's a bit like fixing Tinkerbell's girth.’

‘Nothing of the sort. You know how Tinkerbell blows himself out like a little balloon. There. Perfect. And it's the right length, too. Just to the middle of your knee. And there's a bit of red in the tartan that picks up the red of your jersey.’ She smiled and heaved herself to her feet. ‘Lovely, you look. As though you wouldn't call the King your cousin. Now take your shoes off and Mary will shine them up so you can see your own face.’

Breakfast at Nancherrow wasn't until nine o'clock on Sunday mornings, but even so, by the time the nursery party put in its appearance, the others were already there, tucking into hot porridge and grilled sausages. The big dining-room was full of early wintry sunshine, and there was the delicious smell of fresh coffee.

‘I'm sorry we're late…’ Mary apologised.

‘We wondered what you were all doing.’ Diana, at the far end of the table, wore a pale-grey flannel coat and skirt, so immaculately cut that it rendered her slender as a wand. A blue silk blouse turned her eyes to sapphires, and there were pearl-and-diamond studs in her ears, and a triple string of pearls gleamed at the base of her throat.

‘Getting ready took us a bit of time.’

‘No matter.’ She smiled at the girls. ‘Seeing such an elegant pair, I can perfectly understand. You've done brilliantly, Mary…’

Loveday went to kiss her father. He and Tommy Mortimer were equally formal, wearing suits with waistcoats, stiff-collared shirts, and silken ties. The Colonel laid down his fork, so that he had an arm free to hug his daughter. ‘I hardly recognise you,’ he told her. ‘A real little lady, wearing a dress. I was beginning to forget what your legs looked like…’

‘Oh, Pops, don't be silly.’ Looking as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, Loveday clearly had no intention of behaving that way. ‘And look, you greedy old thing, you've got
three
sausages. I hope you've left some for us…’

Later in the morning, they drove the short distance to Rose-mullion, all five of them disposed in great comfort in the Colonel's enormous Daimler. For church, Diana had put on a grey felt halo hat with a flirty little veil, and because the day, although bright and sunny, was chill, had wound a silver-fox fur around her shoulders.

The car was parked by the churchyard wall and they filed up the path with all the other village people, between the old gravestones and the ancient yews. The church was tiny and very, very old, even older, Judith guessed, than the one at Penmarron. It was so old that it seemed to have sunk into the very earth, so that from the outdoor sunlight one stepped down into a chill gloom, smelling of damp stone and woodworm and mouldy prayer-books. The pews were hard and hideously uncomfortable, and as they settled themselves in the front pew, a cracked-sounding bell began to toll from the tower high above them.

At a quarter past eleven, the service commenced. It all took rather a long time because the vicar, the verger, and the organ were all, just like the church, extremely ancient, and became, from time to time, rather muddled. The only person who seemed to know what he was doing was Colonel Carey-Lewis, who stepped smartly up to the lectern to read the lesson, read it, and then stepped smartly back into his pew again. A rambling sermon was duly delivered, the subject of which was unclear from start to finish; three hymns were sung; a collection taken (ten shillings from each grown-up and half a crown from Judith and Loveday), and finally the blessing and it was all over.

After the seeping cold of the church, emerging into the sunshine felt positively warm. There they stood about for a bit, while Diana and the Colonel exchanged a few words with the vicar, his sparse white hair blown on end by the breeze, and his surplice billowing and flapping like a sheet hung on the line. Other worshippers, on their way home, tipped their hats and spoke respectfully. ‘Morning, Colonel. Morning, Mrs Carey-Lewis…’

Loveday, becoming bored, began to hop on and off a lichened gravestone. ‘Oh, let's
go.
’ She tugged at her father's arm. ‘I'm hungry…’

‘Morning, Colonel. Lovely day…’

At last everybody drifted away, and it was time to move. But the Colonel now looked at his watch. ‘We have ten minutes in hand,’ he announced. ‘So we shall leave the car here and walk. A little exercise will do us no harm, and we shall all work up a good appetite for lunch. Come along, girls…’

So they set off, taking the narrow winding road which led up the hill from the village. Tall stone walls stood on either side, smothered in ivy, and bare elm trees soared up into the pristine sky, their highest branches filled with cawing rooks. The hill steepened and everybody became rather breathless.

Diana said, ‘If I'd known we were going to walk, I shouldn't have put on my highest-heeled shoes.’

Tommy put an arm around her waist. ‘Shall I sweep you into my arms and carry you?’

‘I hardly think that would be very seemly.’

‘Then I shall simply
urge
you forward. And just think how splendid it will be coming back again. We can run all the way. Or slide on our bottoms, like tobogganists.’

‘That would at least give everybody something to talk about.’

The Colonel, ignoring this banter, strode ahead, leading the way. The lane took yet another right-angled turn, but it seemed that here, on the steep corner, they had reached, at last, their destination. For, in the high wall on the right-hand side of the road, appeared an open gateway. Beyond this a narrow drive curved away between grass verges and neatly clipped hedges of escallonia. It was something of a relief to be on level ground, although the path was gravelled with sea-pebbles, which made noisy walking.

Tommy Mortimer trudged gamely. Physical exercise was not one of his passions unless he happened to be wielding a tennis racket or carrying a gun. ‘Do you think,’ he asked wistfully, ‘that I shall be offered a pink gin?’

‘You've been for lunch here before,’ Diana reminded him briskly. ‘You'll be given sherry, or perhaps Madeira. And you're not to ask for a pink gin.’

He sighed, resigned. ‘Dear girl. For you I would drink hemlock. But, admit, Madeira does have tones of Jane Austen.’

‘Neither Jane Austen nor Madeira will do you any harm.’

The little party rounded the curve of the escallonia hedge, and the Dower House stood before them. It was neither large nor imposing, but possessed a certain dignity of style that at once impressed. A square house, symmetrical and solid, harled and whitewashed, with Gothic windows, a grey slate roof, and a stone porch smothered in clematis. Sitting there, tucked into the shelter of the hill, it had the aspect of a place that had turned its back upon the world, slumbering secretly through the passing years, for a longer time than any person could remember.

There was no need to knock, nor ring a tinkling bell. As the Colonel approached, an inner door was opened, and an elderly woman emerged into the porch. She wore a parlourmaid's uniform, with muslin apron and a muslin cap set square on her grey head and trimmed with velvet ribbons.

‘I thought you'd be here directly. We're all ready for you.’

‘Good morning, Isobel.’

‘Morning, Mrs Carey-Lewis…lovely, isn't it, but chilly yet.’ Her voice was shrill and very Cornish.

‘You remember Mr Mortimer, Isobel?’

‘Yes, of course. Good morning, sir. Come along in, and we'll get the door closed. Take your coats, shall I? My life, Loveday, you're growing. And this is your friend? Judith? Let me have your furs, Mrs Carey-Lewis, and I'll put them safely…’

Judith, unbuttoning her school green overcoat, looked covertly about her. Other people's houses were always fascinating. As soon as you went through the door for the first time, you got the feel of the atmosphere, and so discovered something about the personalities of the people who lived there. Riverview, although transient and somewhat shabby, had been home simply because Mummy was always there: playing with Jess; or in the kitchen, writing out shopping lists for Phyllis; or ensconced in her chair by the fireside, with all her small and pretty possessions about her. Windyridge, on the other hand, had always felt a bit impersonal, rather like a golf club, and Nancherrow, under Diana's influence, became a luxurious London flat on an enormous country scale.

But the Dower House had an impact that Judith had never experienced before. It was truly like stepping back in time. So old — certainly pre-Victorian — so perfectly proportioned, so quiet that, over the murmur of voices, the slow tocking of the grandfather clock was clearly audible. The floor of the hallway was flagged in slate and laid with rugs, and an airy circular staircase rose from this, curving up beneath a Gothic window, curtained in wheaten linen. There was as well a fascinating smell compounded of age, antique furniture polish, and flowers, with a faint undertone of damp stone and cold cellars. No central heating here, just a bright fire burning in the grate, and a square of sunshine slanting across the floor from an opened door.

‘…Mrs Boscawen's in the drawing-room…’

‘Thank you, Isobel.’

Leaving Isobel to carry the coats upstairs, Diana led the way, towards and through this opened door. ‘Aunt Lavinia.’ Her voice was warm with genuine pleasure. ‘Here we all are exhausted after trudging up the hill. Edgar made us. You are a saint to tolerate such an invasion…’

‘But you've all been to church! How good you are. I didn't come, because I felt I couldn't bear, just yet, another of the vicar's sermons. Loveday, you monkey, come and give me a kiss…and dear Edgar. And Tommy. How splendid to see you again.’

Judith hung back, not so much because she was shy but because there was so much to look at. A pale room, flooded with golden sunshine which streamed through tall south-facing windows. Soft colours, pinks and creams and greens, faded now but never bright. A long bookcase crammed with leather-bound volumes; a glass-fronted walnut cabinet containing a set of Meissen fruit plates; an ornate Venetian mirror over the white-painted mantelpiece. In the grate a small coal-fire flickered and the sunshine diminished the brightness of the flames but sparked into rainbow brilliance the faceted drops of a crystal chandelier. And there were flowers, and more flowers. Lilies, with their drowning scent. Everything dazzled.

‘…Judith.’

She realised, with a start, that Diana had already said her name. How awful if Mrs Boscawen thought Judith ill mannered or offhand. ‘I'm sorry.’

Diana smiled. ‘You're looking mesmerised. Come and say how do you do.’ She flung out an arm, coaxing Judith to come forward to join them. She laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Aunt Lavinia, this is Loveday's friend, Judith Dunbar.’

Suddenly she did feel shy. Mrs Boscawen waited, sitting very upright in a low-lapped chair, half turned towards the light, with her blue woollen dress flowing to her ankles. She was old…well into or perhaps beyond her eighties. Her cheeks, beneath a surface dusting of powder, were netted with wrinkles and at her side, ready to hand, leaned a silver-handled ebony cane. Old. Wonderfully old. But her faded blue eyes sparked with interest, and it was not hard to see that once she had been very beautiful.