Coming Home (43 page)

London was glamour, excitement, old friends, shops, theatres, galleries, music. Dining at the Berkeley and the Ritz, motoring down to Ascot for Gold Cup Day; lunching in clandestine fashion at The White Tower with some other woman's husband, or dancing the small hours away at the Mirabel, the Bagatelle, or the Four Hundred.

Cornwall was, of course, home; but Nancherrow belonged to Edgar. Cornwall was family, children, servants, guests; but London was her own, and hers alone. Diana had been an only child, with immensely wealthy, older parents. When her father died, his estate in Gloucestershire and the tall house in Berkeley Square were both inherited, along with his title, Lord Awliscombe, by a distant male cousin. But, on her marriage at seventeen to Edgar Carey-Lewis, part of Diana's considerable dowry had included the mews cottage off Cadogan Square. ‘You'll be living in Cornwall,’ her father had told her, ‘but bricks and mortar is always a good investment. And it sometimes makes sense to have a bolt-hole of your own.’ She did not question the reasoning behind this statement, but never ceased to be thankful for his foresight and perception. Without it, sometimes she wondered if she would have survived, because it was only there, within the miniature walls of her own little house, that she could truly feel that she belonged to herself.

A scrap of music slipped into her head. A wistful Noël Coward song, to which she and Tommy Mortimer had danced during their last evening together at Quaglino's.

I believe

The more you love a man

The more you give your heart

The more you have to lose…

She sighed. When the Easter holidays are over, she promised herself, I shall go. I shall take Pekoe and my Bentley and I shall drive to London. Something to think about. Something to look forward to. Life was nothing without something to look forward to. Cheered by the prospect, she picked up her pen once more, and settled down to complete her letter to Molly Dunbar.

So please don't worry about a thing. Judith will be happy, I am sure. During the holidays, the house is always filled with friends and family, and if she falls ill or comes out in spots, I shall let you know instantly.

I hope you are enjoying Singapore and your new house. It must be lovely to be warm all the time.

With best wishes,

Yours,

Diana Carey-Lewis

Finished. She blotted her signature, and skimmed through the pages she had covered, then folded them into a thick wedge and jammed them into an envelope. She licked the flap and thumped it down with her fist, and then wrote the address, which Miss Catto had dictated to her over the telephone.

All done. Duty honoured. Edgar would be delighted with her. She got up from her desk, and Pekoe unwound himself from her feet, and together they went from the room, down the long passage to the hall. Here, on the round table in the centre of the floor, stood a silver salver, its purpose expressly for the collection of mail. She tossed the letter down upon it. Sooner or later, somebody, probably Nettlebed or Edgar, would find it, stamp it and post it.

I believe

The more you love a man

The more you give your heart

The more you have to lose.

All done. And in a month's time, she would be on her way to London. Suddenly light-hearted, she stopped and gathered Pekoe into her arms and kissed the top of his sweet, smooth head. ‘And you'll come with me,’ she promised him and together they went out through the front door and into the cool, damp freshness of the April morning.

St Ursula's,

Saturday, 11th April 1936.

Dear Mummy and Dad,

Thank you for sending the cable to Miss Catto and saying that I can spend Easter with the Carey-Lewises. Miss Catto was very kind as I told you and said I could stay with her parents in Oxford, but she has postponed the invitation, and says I can go another time, so is not offended. In fact, she made the decision for me.

This is the first day of the holidays and it's ten-thirty in the morning, but I am still here, and someone from Nancherrow is going to come and collect me at eleven. My luggage is all sitting outside the front door, but it's not raining, so that's all right. It is funny being in school with only a few members of staff, it feels quite different, and I am writing this in the Junior Common Room without another soul about. Being on one's own makes everybody much nicer, as though you were a proper person and not just a girl. The funny thing is that everything smells quite different too, not of other people and chalk dust, but of the odd-job-man's smelly pipe. He comes in to screw on door handles and fix windows and he smokes this noxious old pipe all the time.

The reason I didn't go home yesterday, with Loveday, is because Mr Baines wanted to take me shopping in Truro to buy a gramophone. He says he has let you know that Aunt Louise very kindly left me a legacy in her Will. I can't believe it yet and it's going to take some getting used to. I feel a bit badly about Jess, but I suppose at the moment she is too little to feel cross about something like that. Anyway, Mr Baines came yesterday afternoon, and we drove to Truro. I'd never been there before, and it is beautiful and very old, with a cathedral and lots of little narrow streets, and the end of the river snaking up, with boats moored. Lots of trees going down to the water, and a Bishop's palace. When we'd done the shopping (gramophone and three records), we went to The Red Lion for tea, and he explained that I must have an allowance, and he's opened a post-office savings account, and is going to put
five pounds
every month into it.

It seems a dreadful lot, but I don't suppose I shall spend it but save it up and then I will get Interest. He explained it all to me. He is so nice and I don't feel a bit shy with him. Afterwards we came back to Penzance and he took me home and I met his family. A lot of small children making the most dreadful noise, and the baby kept spitting out its bread and butter and spilling its milk. Even worse than Jess at her naughtiest. He thinks that Windyridge should be sold. He's found another job for Hilda and Edna, and—

‘Judith!’ Matron, in her usual bossy fluster. ‘For heavens sake. I've been looking all over for you. What are you doing? The Nancherrow car is there, and they're waiting. Now hurry up.’

Judith, so rudely interrupted, sprang to her feet, trying to gather up the pages of her letter and screw the cap onto her fountain pen all at the same time. ‘Sorry, Matron. I was just writing to my mother…’

‘…never known such a girl. There's not time to finish, so put it away, and come now. Have you got your coat and hat? And all your bits and pieces…?’

Her impatience was catching. Judith bundled the unfinished letter into her attaché case, put away her pen, and dealt with the locks, and Matron scooped it up, almost before it was closed. By the time she had pulled on her coat and jammed on her hat, Matron was on her way, a bustle of starched apron, out of the door and down the long polished corridor. Judith had to sprint to keep up with her. Down the stairs, through the dining-room, the hall, out of the open front door.

A split second in which to recognise that it was a beautiful morning, with a starch-blue sky and sailing clouds and the sweet smell of the rain which had fallen during the night. Her luggage had already been disposed of and the car waited, in splendid isolation, in the centre of the gravel. Not the Daimler nor the Bentley, but an old shooting-brake of huge proportions, panelled in wood and built high off the ground, like a bus. Beside it, leaning against the bonnet and yarning companionably, stood two male figures. One was Palmer, one of the Nancherrow gardeners, wearing his old working clothes and, in deference to the occasion, a battered chauffeur's cap. The other was a stranger, young and blond, dressed in a white polo-necked pullover and a pair of shapeless corduroys. A stranger. But when he saw Judith and Matron emerge through the door, he pushed himself away from the shooting-brake and came across the gravel to meet them, and as he came, Judith realised that it wasn't a stranger at all, because she recognised him from the many photographs which stood about at Nancherrow. This was Edward. Loveday's brother. Edward Carey-Lewis.

He said, ‘Hello there.’ He held out his hand. ‘You're Judith. How do you do? I'm Edward.’

He had his mother's blue eyes, and strong, chunky features. Full-grown and broad-shouldered, he still wore the youthful face of a boy, for his skin was tanned and very smooth and fresh-complexioned, and his friendly grin was a spontaneous flash of even white teeth. Despite the informality of his clothes, and his scruffy old leather shoes, there was a lovely cleanness about him, like a shirt that has been bleached and hung in the sunshine to dry. His appearance was so unexpected and so glamorously adult that Judith wished that she had not had to jam her hideous hat on her head in such a hurry, and had taken time to comb her hair.

But, politely, she shook his hand. ‘Hello.’

‘We thought you'd forgotten to come. We're early, I know, but we've got some things to do in Penzance. Now, everything's in the car. Are you ready?’

‘Yes, of course. Goodbye, Matron.’

‘Goodbye, dear.’ Matron's eyes, behind their spectacles, gleamed with the vicarious thrill of a brush with upper-class life; the shooting-brake, the chauffeur, the handsome and confident young man. ‘Have a lovely holiday now.’

‘Yes, I will, and the same to you…’

‘Thank you for finding her, Matron…’ Edward, smoothly, took charge, relieving Matron of the attaché case, which she still held, and urging Judith forward with a touch of his hand on her back. ‘And,’ he added over his shoulder, ‘tell Miss Catto we'll take good care of her.’

But Matron did not go instantly indoors. She stood, her apron and her veil flapping in the breeze, and watched them clamber up into the shooting-brake, slam-shut the doors, and drive away. Looking back, as they rattled down the drive between the rhododendrons, Judith saw her still there, waiting until the bulky vehicle finally disappeared from her sight.

She settled herself in her seat, and pulled off her hat. ‘I've never known Matron so amiable.’

‘Poor old cow. Probably the most exciting thing that's going to happen to her all day.’ A lock of hair fell across his forehead and he put up his hand to push it back. ‘Sorry it's us come to fetch you, but Pops has got some meeting or other, and Ma's taken Loveday to a pony-club camp. We spent much time boxing that wretched pony, but Walter Mudge has gone with them, so Ma shouldn't have anything too arduous to do once they get there.’

‘Where have they gone?’

‘Oh, I don't know. Some great place over the other side of Falmouth. Do you like horses?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Thank God for that. One in the family's quite enough. I personally could never be doing with them. One end bites, the other end kicks, and they're bloody uncomfortable in the middle. Anyway, that's why Palmer and I are here. You know Palmer, don't you?’

Judith looked at the back of Palmer's red neck. ‘I've seen him at Nancherrow, but I don't think we've ever been introduced.’