Coming Home (38 page)

‘I've never been to a funeral.’

Miss Catto fell silent. Then she rose to her feet and came out from behind her desk and crossed the room to the window, where she stood with her black gown bundled about her like a shawl, as though for comfort. For a little while she gazed through the window, at the damp and misty garden, the sight of which, Judith decided, offered no sort of solace.

Miss Catto, it appeared, was of like mind. ‘What a sad day,’ she remarked. She turned from the window and smiled. ‘Funerals are part of death, Judith, as death is part of life. That is a desolate thing for someone of your age to come to terms with, but it is something that everybody has to do. And you're not alone. Because I am here to help you through it. To accept it. Because death really is part of life, in fact the only thing in life of which we can all be totally certain. But such words of comfort sound very banal when tragedy strikes so close to home, and so suddenly. You are being very brave, and unselfish. Thinking of others. But don't feel constrained. Don't keep your grief to yourself. I know I'm your headmistress, but just now I'm your friend. You can say what you want, what you think. And don't be afraid to cry.’

But tears, with their easing, had never seemed farther away.

‘I'm all right.’

‘Good girl. Do you know what I think? I think it would be nice to have a cup of tea. Would you like that?’

Judith nodded. Miss Catto went to the side of the fireplace and pressed the bell. She said, ‘It's the classic remedy for everything, isn't it? A nice hot cup of tea. I can't think why I didn't think of it before.’ She did not return to her desk, but settled herself in the small armchair by the hearth. The fire was laid, but not lit, and without saying anything she reached for a box of matches and, leaning forward, struck a match, and kindled the scrumpled newspaper and the dry sticks. Sitting back, she watched the flames catch and flicker over the coals. She said, ‘I only met your aunt a couple of times, but I liked her so much. There was no nonsense about her. Concerned and capable. A real person. I felt quite at ease knowing you were in her charge.’

Which brought the conversation, quite naturally, to the vital question. Judith gazed out of the window, and tried to make her voice as casual as she could. ‘Where will I go now?’

‘We must talk about that.’

‘I have Aunt Biddy.’

‘Of course. Mrs Somerville, living in Plymouth. Your mother told me all about the Somervilles, and I have their address and their telephone number. You see, Judith, when parents are abroad, we have to be able to be in touch with all the close relations. Otherwise our responsibility would really be too great.’

‘Aunt Biddy always said I could go to her if I wanted. Does she know about Aunt Louise?’

‘Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first. But I will tell her.’

A knock sounded on the door. Miss Catto said, ‘Come in,’ and one of the housemaids put her head into the room. ‘Oh, Edith, how good of you. Could you bring us a tea-tray? Two cups, and perhaps some biscuits.’

The girl said that she wouldn't be more than half a tick, and withdrew. Miss Catto continued as though there had been no interruption.

‘Would you like to spend your holidays with your Aunt Biddy?’

‘Yes. I would. I love her and Uncle Bob. They're really nice and fun. But the thing is, they won't be in Plymouth forever. Sooner or later, they'll leave Keyham and Uncle Bob will probably go back to sea. Aunt Biddy talked about buying a little house. They've never owned a place of their own…’ Her voice trailed away.

‘Is there anyone else?’

‘There's Mrs Warren. Heather Warren was my great friend at Porthkerris School. Mr Warren's the grocer, and my mother liked them all very much. I'm sure, some time, I could go and be with them.’

‘Well, whatever,’ Miss Catto smiled. ‘We'll work something out. Just remember that you are surrounded by friends. Ah, here's our tea-tray. Thank you, Edith; just put it down on that table…Now, Judith, why don't you get off that uncomfortable chair and come and sit here, by the fire…’

So, Muriel Catto told herself, the worst is over, the sad news broken, and the child seemed to have accepted it, and kept her composure. Twice before in her career as a headmistress had she had to perform this unhappy task, telling one of her girls that either a mother or a father had died, and she was always left feeling like a murderer. Because the messenger becomes the murderer. Until the fatal words are spoken, the loved one concerned is still alive, waking, sleeping, going about his business, making telephone calls, writing letters, going for walks, breathing, seeing. It was the telling that killed.

From the start of her career, she had laid down rigid rules for herself; impartiality and not a hint of favouritism. But Judith, unconsciously, had somehow breached these defences, and strictly unmaternal as she was, Miss Catto found it troublingly hard to ignore this special interest and to turn her back to the child's appeal. She had settled well at St Ursula's, and seemed popular with her contemporaries, despite her very different upbringing and background. Her work was steady and satisfactory, and she did her best at games. The Carey-Lewis connection was a bonus, and even Matron had found no cause to complain of her behaviour.

And now this. A trauma that could well and truly rock the boat, cause deep withdrawal, and terrible inner disturbance. As she had sat at her desk, outwardly composed, but inwardly sick with apprehension, waiting for the child to knock at the door of the study, Muriel Catto had been mortified to find herself wishing that this shocking tragedy had happened to almost any other girl in her school.

It wasn't just that Judith was so isolated, with family abroad and no siblings for comfort or company. It was something to do with
her.
Her stoic acceptance of the long parting (not once had she indulged in tears or tantrums); a disarming directness, and a certain sweetness of disposition that had to be inbred, because Miss Catto knew that this was a quality which could not be taught.

As well, she found her appearance charming. All the natural disadvantages of the average teenager were there, the long gawky legs, the bony shoulders, the freckles and the over-large ears, but somehow, on Judith, they were not unattractive, simply engendered a certain coltish appeal. And there was more. Eyes that were truly beautiful. Grey-blue and very large, fringed with dark, bristly lashes, their pupils clear as crystal water. And, like a much younger child, every inner thought was mirrored on her expressive face, as though she had never learned the art of deviousness. Miss Catto prayed that she never would.

They drank the hot, comforting tea, and talked, not about Aunt Louise, but about Oxford, where Miss Catto had spent her childhood. ‘…such a wonderful place to be brought up. The city of dreaming spires and bells and bicycles and youth and infinite knowledge. We had an old house in the Banbury Road, so big and rambling, and it had a walled garden and a mulberry tree. My father was a Professor of Philosophy, and my mother was an academic as well, always writing, or working, or deep in research. In term time, the house was invaded by a constant stream of undergraduates, coming and going for tutorials, and I always remember the front door as being perpetually open, so that nobody ever had to ring the bell, and so consequently every room was swept by draughts.’ She smiled. ‘There's a smell, isn't there…an ambience, about the house in which one lives as a small child. And you smell it again, unawares — old books and polish and old furniture, and the damp mustiness of ancient stone; and suddenly you're back there, and about eight years old.’

Judith tried to imagine Miss Catto at eight years old, but failed. She said, ‘I know what you mean. In Colombo our house smelt of the sea, because we lived right on the ocean, and there was a temple-flower tree in the garden, and at night it smelt very sweet and strong. But there were other smells too. Disinfectant and drains, and the stuff amah used to squirt to kill the bugs.’

‘Bugs! Horrible. I hate insects. Were there lots of bugs?’

‘Yes. Mosquitoes and spiders and red ants. And sometimes snakes. Once we had a cobra in the garden and Dad shot it with his rifle. And tik polongas used to hide in the bathroom. They came up the drains. We had to be dreadfully careful because they're so poisonous.’

‘How frightening. I'm not very brave about snakes…’

‘There were snake charmers in the Pettah when we went to shop. They sat on the grass cross-legged and blew pipes, and the snakes used to come writhing up out of baskets. Mummy hated them, but I loved to watch.’ Judith took another biscuit and ate it thoughtfully. She said, ‘I've never been to Oxford.’

‘I think you should go. To University, I mean. It would mean staying on here, and taking matriculation, but knowing your scholastic abilities, I think you should have no difficulty in passing the examination and getting an entry into Oxford.’

‘How long would I have to stay there?’

‘Three years. But what an opportunity it would be for you. I can't think of anything more magical than being given three years just to immerse yourself in knowledge…and not algebra or zoology, neither of which I think you are particularly interested in…but maybe English literature and philosophy.’

‘Would it cost a lot of money?’

‘It isn't cheap. But none of the best things in life come cheaply.’

‘I don't like asking for something my parents maybe couldn't afford…’

Miss Catto smiled. She said, ‘It was just a suggestion, an idea. We have plenty of time to work out practicalities. Now, would you like another cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you. That was lovely.’

A silence fell. Not constrained. Now, much more relaxed. Tea had been a good idea. Judith's natural colour had returned; the worst of shock was over. Time, now, to speak. To bring the conversation gradually round to the question that Miss Catto knew she had to ask.

She said, ‘If you want to, you know, you can always use my telephone in here, and speak to any of your friends. You must give me time to ring up Mrs Somerville, and let her know the situation, but perhaps you might like to talk to Edna or Hilda, or any of your friends in Penmarron.’

Judith, with her face turned to the flames of the fire, hesitated for a moment, and then shook her head. ‘No. I don't think so. Not just yet. But it's very kind of you.’

‘I think probably Mr Baines will want to see and talk to you, but that won't happen for a day or so. And by then we should know any arrangements that have been made for the funeral.’

Judith took a deep breath, and then let it all out again. She said, doubtfully, ‘Yes.’

Miss Catto leaned back in her chair. She said, ‘I just have to ask you one more thing. Please don't think I'm intruding, and you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I have the feeling that when I began to tell you what had happened…you…you imagined it was going to be something quite different. I may of course be wrong.’ There was a long silence. Judith continued to stare into the fire. Then her hand went up, and she began to twist at a strand of hair that had escaped from its ribbon. ‘Was there something that was worrying you? What was it that caused you to look so frightened?’

Judith bit her lip, them mumbled something.

‘I'm sorry,’ said Miss Catto. ‘I didn't hear.’

‘I thought she was going to get married.’

Miss Catto, totally taken aback, could scarcely believe her ears. ‘
Married
? You thought Mrs Forrester was going to get
married
? Whom did you think she was going to marry?’

‘Colonel Fawcett.’

‘And who is Colonel Fawcett?’

‘He's her neighbour.’ Touchingly, Judith corrected herself. ‘He
was
her neighbour. An old friend from India.’

‘And you, perhaps, didn't want her to marry him.’

‘No.’

‘You didn't like him.’

‘I hated him.’ She turned her head from the fire, and looked straight into the headmistress's eyes. ‘He was horrible. If he married Aunt Louise he would have come to live in her house. I know. I didn't want him there.’

Miss Catto, instantly understanding the situation, stayed cool. This was no time for emotional sympathy.

‘Did he bother you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did he do?’

‘He took us to the cinema and he put his hand on my knee.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘He did it twice. Right the way up my leg.’