Coming Home (61 page)

‘No, not really. Just kind-hearted. And she and her husband had known him in the old days when they were all in India. I suppose she felt sort of responsible for him. They played golf. He lives in a horrible little bungalow in Penmarron. Oh, Edward, how's he going to get himself home?’

‘I left him surrounded by gawping voyeurs. I expect one of them will be sufficiently misguided to take pity on him.’

‘But shouldn't we
do
something?’

‘No.’

She said, ‘I always thought he wanted to marry Aunt Louise. He was after her comfortable house, of course, and her money and her whisky.’

‘Sounds as though he was always a bit of an old soak.’

‘I hated him.’

‘Poor Judith. How horrible.’

‘And he…’ She thought about Billy Fawcett's hand creeping up her leg, and wondered how on earth she could possibly explain to Edward and make him understand. But at that moment Joe returned to them, and the opportunity slipped away. He held out the tiny glass of brandy. ‘Get this down you and you'll feel better.’

‘Joe, you are kind. And you won't say anything, will you, to your parents? It's over now. I don't want anybody to know.’

‘I didn't see anything to talk about. An old drunk in a gutter. Nothing to do with you. Perhaps I'll just go and have a look and see what's happening.’ Which he did, returning in a moment with the news that some charitable passer-by had taken pity and telephoned for a taxi; Billy Fawcett had been bundled into this and was already on his way. Having delivered his message, Joe announced that he was going home.

‘Can't I buy you a drink?’ Edward asked.

‘No, I'm tanked up already. Need my bed and my beauty sleep. 'Night, Judith.’

‘Good night, Joe. And thanks again.’

‘You get that brandy down you, my love…’ And he was gone.

For a bit nothing was said. Judith sipped her brandy, and it burnt like fire in her throat, but slipped comfortably into her stomach and helped to still the panic of her heart.

Beside her, Edward lit another cigarette, and reached out to draw the ashtray towards him. ‘I think you need to talk, don't you?’ he said at last. ‘Because if you do, I'm perfectly prepared to listen.’ She didn't say anything, simply sat staring at her hands. ‘You hated him. Surely not just because he was a bit of a boozer.’

‘No. It wasn't that.’

‘So what was it?’

She began to tell him, and once she had started it wasn't as difficult as she thought it was going to be. She told him about the departure of Molly and Jess, the closing of Riverview, and herself left in the care of Louise Forrester. Then the appearance of Billy Fawcett on the scene, and his apparently close friendship with Louise.

‘I never liked him from the moment I first saw him. There was something so’ — she wrinkled her nose — ‘sleazy about him. And he was always so jolly and twinkling and…untrustworthy, somehow.’

‘Did your aunt not see that in him?’

‘I don't know.
Then,
I was terrified that she'd marry him, but now, with hindsight, I'm pretty certain she'd never have taken such a stupid step.’

‘So what happened?’

‘He took us to the cinema. It was
Top Hat.
And I had to sit next to him, and he started groping and squeezing my leg.’ She looked at Edward. ‘I was fourteen, Edward, I hadn't got the faintest idea what he was up to. I panicked and fled from the cinema, and got a terrible row from Aunt Louise afterwards.’ She frowned. ‘You're not trying not to laugh, are you?’

‘No. I promise. Did you tell Aunt Louise?’

‘I simply couldn't. I don't know why. I just
couldn't.
’

‘Is that all?’

‘No.’

‘Tell me the rest then.’

So she told him about the wet Sunday when she had been left on her own, and had gone to Veglos on her bicycle in order to get away from Billy Fawcett. ‘He used to watch us from his bungalow. I'm sure he had field-glasses. And he knew I was on my own that day because Aunt Louise, in her innocence, spilt the beans. Anyway, when I got home…’

‘Don't tell me he was waiting for you?’

‘…I was scarcely indoors when he telephoned and said he was coming over. And I locked all the doors and windows and bolted upstairs and hid under Aunt Louise's bed. And for about ten minutes he shouted and swore and banged on doors and rang bells and tried to get at me, and I just lay under the bed in total terror, and I'd never been so frightened and I never have been since. I had nightmares about him. I still have sometimes. The same nightmare, that he's coming into my bedroom. I know it's childish, but when I saw him this evening, I was simply petrified with terror…’

‘Am I the first person you've ever told about all this?’

‘No. After Aunt Louise was killed, I told Miss Catto.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Oh, she was sweet, but very matter-of-fact. Just said that he was simply an old groper and I wasn't to think about it any more. But you can't help what goes on inside your head, can you? If I could do something physical, like murder Billy Fawcett, or squash him like a beetle, perhaps it would be easier. But I can't help it if my psyche jumps up and down like a screaming idiot every time his name comes up or I'm reminded of him.’

‘Is that what happened at Christmas when I kissed you behind the billiard-room curtains?’

She was so embarrassed by the memory, by Edward even mentioning the incident, that she could feel the blush, like fire, creeping up into her cheeks. ‘It wasn't a
bit
like Billy Fawcett, Edward. You mustn't think that. It was just that, when you…touched me…it all went wrong.’

‘I think you have a trauma.’

She turned to him, almost in tears of despair. ‘But why can't I be shed of it? I don't want to live with it for the rest of my life. And I'm still frightened of him, because he hates me so much…’

‘Why does he hate you so much?’

‘Because I wouldn't let him near me. And because when she died, Aunt Louise left me all her money.’

‘I see. I never knew that.’

‘I was told never to tell anybody. Not because it's a secret but because Miss Catto said it was vulgar to talk about money. Your mother knows, of course, and your father. But that's all.’

‘A
lot
of money?’ Ruefully, Judith nodded. ‘But how perfectly marvellous.’

‘Yes, it is, rather. It means I can buy people presents, and now I've got my own little car.’

‘And for this, Billy Fawcett will never forgive you?’

‘He was at Aunt Louise's funeral. That day he looked as though he would like to kill me.’

Now, Edward did smile. ‘If looks could kill, we'd all be dead long ago.’ He stubbed out his cigarette, and put his arms around her, and bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Darling Judith. What a very unpleasant storm in a very small teacup. Do you know what I think? I think you need a catalyst of some sort. Don't ask me what, but suddenly something will happen, it will all work out and you will be shed of all your hang-ups. You mustn't let one unhappy memory come between you and love. You are far too sweet for that. And not every man will be as constant and patient as I am.’

‘Oh, Edward, I'm so sorry.’

‘There's nothing to be sorry about. Just be sure to let me know when it's all behind you. And now, I really think I should take you home. It's been something of an evening.’

‘The best bit was just having
you
here.’

‘When are you coming back to us at Nancherrow?’

‘Sunday, next week.’

‘We'll be waiting for you.’ He got to his feet and stood until she had extricated herself from the narrow bench. Outside, the dusky evening bloomed. The sun had gone, slipped behind the sea, and the sky deepened to sapphire-blue. Small waves lapped at the quay and the harbour was ringed with the riding lights of fishing boats. There were still a few people around, relishing the twilit warmth, and reluctant to call it a day and go indoors; but Billy Fawcett had gone.

Edward took her arm and together they walked slowly back to where he had left his car.

He telephoned the next morning. Judith was in the kitchen helping Mrs Warren to deal with the breakfast dishes when Ellie came galloping up the stair from the shop.

‘Judith, that's a phone call for you. Says it's Edward.’

‘Edward!’ Mrs Warren made a coy face. ‘He's not losing any time.’

Judith pretended not to hear. Still tied up in a blue-and-white striped apron, she went downstairs and into Mr Warren's office. ‘Edward?’

‘Good morning.’

‘It's only nine o'clock. What are you ringing up about?’

‘I wanted to ask if you'd slept well.’

‘Oh, silly thing. Of course I did. I'm sorry about what happened last night, but there wasn't an awful lot I could do to stop it. Did you get back safely? Stupid question, of course you did.’

‘Yes, I got back. But…’ he hesitated. ‘This is the other reason I phoned. The thing is, there's a slight panic on here.’

Judith's heart sank. ‘Something wrong?’

‘No, not really. Well, yes, then. Aunt Lavinia took ill last night. Apparently, the day before, she'd been out gardening, and stayed too long, and caught a bit of a chill. She went to bed but her condition deteriorated, and now she's got pneumonia. Poor Isobel rang Mary Millyway, and the doctor's been coming and going, and there's a full-time nurse taking care of the old girl, but everybody's a bit worried. It all happened so quickly.’

‘Oh, Edward, I can't bear it.’ Aunt Lavinia, so seemingly indestructible. ‘She's not going to die, is she?’

‘Well, she's pretty old. We all have to die sometime, I suppose, but none of us wants her to die just yet.’

‘Is your mother home?’

‘Pops phoned her late last night. She's driving back today.’

‘What about Athena? Athena so
loves
Aunt Lavinia.’

‘Athena took off for Scotland with Rupert Rycroft…I think they went at the beginning of the week. We dithered a bit as to whether we should let her know or not, and then Pops decided that if the worst happened and Athena didn't even know Lavinia was ill, then she'd never forgive him. So he got the number from Ma, and put a trunk-call through to some remote glen or other, but Athena had already left for the hills and so all he could do was leave a message.’

‘Poor Athena. Do you suppose she'll come home?’

‘I don't know. It's a hell of a long way. We'll have to see.’

‘And Loveday? Is she all right?’

‘Yes, she's all right. A bit tearful, but Mary Millyway's a motherly comfort, and Loveday'll be fine once Ma's home again.’

‘Are you able to go and see Aunt Lavinia?’

‘Pops has been. She knew him, but she's clearly very ill. If I get the go-ahead, I'll maybe go up to The Dower House with him this afternoon.’

‘It doesn't sound very hopeful, does it?’

‘Don't be despondent. She's a tough old bird. At the end of the day, she'll probably outlive us all.’

‘I'll come back to Nancherrow today if it would help.’

‘That's what you mustn't do. I only told you because I thought you'd be upset if you weren't told. I know that you feel about Aunt Lavinia very much the way that the rest of us do. But don't cut short your holiday. We'll see you next Sunday, or whenever. And, incidentally, Gus'll be here as well. There was a message for me when I got back last night. He's driving down from Scotland, on his way already.’

‘Oh,
Edward.
What an inopportune time for more visitors. Can't you put him off?’

‘No. I don't know where he is. Probably Birmingham, or somewhere gruesome. Can't get hold of him.’

‘Poor man. He's going to arrive to a sort of pandemonium.’

‘Oh, it'll be all right. He's a very easy guest. He'll understand.’

Judith decided that men — even Edward — could be at times extremely thick. He had spent his life inviting friends back to Nancherrow, and took entirely for granted the domestic upheaval and organisation that these prolonged visits involved. Now, she had a mental picture of poor Mary Millyway, with a family crisis on her hands, and enough to see to at the best of times, having to deal with this extra chore: alerting Mrs Nettlebed to the fact that there would be an extra mouth to feed; taking clean sheets from the linen cupboard; organising Janet to get ready one of the spare rooms; seeing to towels and fresh soap; checking on coat-hangers in the wardrobe and rich tea biscuits in the tin by the bed.