Coming Home (73 page)

‘You'd better tell us.’

So she told them. The whole story, from the time she had been staying with Aunt Louise at Windyridge. The visit to the cinema, his attempt to break into the house when she was on her own, his malevolent appearance at Aunt Louise's funeral, and finally the debacle of her night out at the Sliding Tackle with Edward Carey-Lewis.

By now Ellie, diverted by the drama of the saga, had stopped crying. When Judith came to the bit where Edward emptied the whisky into the old man's face, she even began to smile.

But Mrs Warren saw nothing funny in the story. ‘Why didn't you
tell
us about all this?’ she kept demanding indignantly.

‘How could I tell you? What was the point? What could we do?’

‘Stop the old villain.’

‘Well, that's what we can do now. Because of what's happened to Ellie.’ She turned to Ellie, put an arm around her thin shoulders and gave her a little hug. ‘You did exactly and utterly the right thing, coming here and telling Mrs Warren about it all. If I'd had more sense, I'd have told Aunt Louise, but I wasn't as brave as you. And you're not to let it worry you, Ellie, you're not to let it spoil things for you. Most men are sweet and kind and fun, it's just some of them that make everything so ugly and frightening. Now, we must be sure that it never happens again. Tell the police, and make sure that Billy Fawcett comes up in front of some judge or magistrate or court and gets punished, so that he never, never does it again. I'll stand up as a witness for the prosecution if necessary, and if he gets sent to jail, I'll be delighted. I don't care. I only know that I want to be finished with him, for Ellie and for me, and for all the other young girls he's fumbled, for once and for all.’

After this long and fervent speech, she sat back in her chair to draw breath. Her audience, for the moment, seemed to be silenced. Then Mrs Warren spoke. ‘Well. I must say, Judith. I haven't ever heard you on about something like that before.’

Despite herself, Judith laughed. Suddenly, she felt wonderful. Strong, adult, filled with a relentless determination. ‘Perhaps that's just as well.’ She turned to Mr Warren. ‘What do you say?’

‘I say,
right.
’ And he rose to his feet. ‘Now. Right away. No point in wasting another moment. And you're coming with Judith and me, Ellie, whether you want to or not. You'll be all right. We'll be with you all the time, and back up every word you say. And afterwards, I'll take you home to your mum, and together, we'll explain to her. Just remember, no real harm's been done, and if a bit of good comes out of it, then you've done your bit.’ He patted Ellie's shoulder and stooped to plant a comforting kiss on the top of her tousled straw-coloured head. ‘Wasn't your fault, girl. None of it was your fault.’

And so it was done. It all took rather a long time. At the police station, the sergeant on duty had never had to deal with such a delicate case before, nicked bicycles and drunks-in-charge being his usual bill of fare and was obliged to feel his way through the necessary procedures, charge-sheets, and other essential forms. Then the information had to be spelt out and written down, with agonising slowness. Ellie's distress, rekindled by the bleak officiality of the police station, did nothing to help, and she had to be prompted at every turn. When finally, painfully the work was completed, Ellie then had to be delivered home, a visit which involved yet more explanations, reactions of shock and fury, and eventually innumerable cups of restoring tea. But at last everybody calmed down, and Mr Warren and Judith, both feeling wrung-out, were able to return home. They found the shop shuttered and closed, and upstairs in the kitchen, Heather, Mrs Warren, and Joe waited for them with the evening meal ready to be set on the table. But Mr Warren was not ready, instantly, to eat.

He said, ‘I'm going to have a drink.’ And went to the cupboard where, for times of crisis, he kept a bottle of Black and White whisky. ‘Who's going to join me? Joe?’ But Joe, amused by his father's uncharacteristic behaviour, shook his head. ‘You, Mother? Heather? Judith, then?’ But there were no takers, and so he poured himself a hefty tot and tipped it, neat, down the back of his throat. After which, he slapped down the empty tumbler and announced himself ready and able to carve the roast of pork.

Later, with the talk all over, the dishes done and the kitchen neat once more, Judith went downstairs to Mr Warren's office and telephoned Mr Baines. It was, necessarily, a fairly long call, and at first he was a bit put out that she had never before confided to him and told him of her unhappy girlhood experience with the dreaded Billy Fawcett. But his slight crossness did not last for long, and after that he was his usual calm, understanding, and helpful self. He said that Mr Warren and Judith had done exactly the right thing, and it was about time the old bounder had a halt called to his nefarious activities. As for having to go to court when the case came up at the Bodmin Assizes, Mr Baines promised to do his level best to make sure that Judith would not have to appear as a witness, but that he would be there in her stead, state her case, and handle everything.

Judith was deeply grateful, and told him so. He said, ‘Think nothing of it. That's what I'm here for,’ and then changed the subject and asked how she was enjoying herself at Porthkerris. They talked for a little while about nothing in particular, and finally said goodbye and rang off.

In bed that night, in the quiet darkness, Judith lay and stared at the ceiling, and decided that, in a strange way, today had been the end of a beginning. Not simply the last day of her holiday with the Warrens, nor the fact that she had managed finally to get to see Phyllis, but the knowledge that, at last, the saga of Billy Fawcett was over.
I would like to murder Billy Fawcett,
she had told Edward,
or squash him like a beetle.
But, at the end of the day, she had done better than that. With the help of Mr Warren, the weeping Ellie, and the lugubrious police sergeant, she had set the wheels of the law in motion; thus putting paid to Billy Fawcett's horrid activities, and laying her own personal ghost forever. So the score was settled and she knew that never again would he haunt her nightmares, scrambling up his ladder to get at her through an open bedroom window. Never again would she awake petrified and silently screaming. And never again would he come between her and that which she desired most. It felt marvellous. Like being relieved of an aching load, a spectral shadow that had been hanging around at the edge of her mind for four years, and had very nearly destroyed her relationship with Edward.

Which led her reflections, quite naturally, back to him. She was returning to Nancherrow tomorrow morning, and she would see Edward again. If Aunt Lavinia was well enough, then he and Judith would go to The Dower House together, to visit her. A chance, perhaps, to be alone with him, away from all the others; to have opportunity and time to talk. To tell him that he had been right about the catalyst. To explain what had taken place. And generously to give him the chance of saying ‘I Told You So.’

It would be like a new beginning, because now she was another person. Now, there was no need for rejection and childish terrors, because there was nothing left to be frightened about. To test herself, she imagined being kissed by Edward, just as he had kissed her last Christmas, as they stood, hidden, behind the billiard-room curtains of Nancherrow. She remembered his arms about her, his hand fondling her breast, the pressure of his mouth on her mouth, and then his tongue, forcing her lips open…

She was suddenly consumed by the pressure of desire, a pain, deep in her abdomen, a flush of breathless warmth. She closed her eyes and turned, abruptly, onto her side, curled up like a baby, her arms wrapped tight around her knees. Alone and in the darkness, she smiled, because it felt like coming to terms with some wonderful truth.

At Nancherrow, Rupert Rycroft, alone in his bedroom, changed for dinner. He had already bathed and shaved for the second time that day, and now pulled on pants and socks, buttoned himself into a clean white shirt, and tied his bow-tie. This involved standing in front of the mirror, and he had to sag at the knees a bit, on account of he was taller than most men. When he had dealt with the tie, he paused for a moment, inspecting his own reflection, the ordinary, undistinguished face which had been staring back at him from mirrors for the whole of his life. Ears a bit too big, sleepy eyes that drooped at the corners, and a chin that was inclined to run into his collar. On the bonus side, however, a trim military moustache helped to tie all these unco-ordinated features into some sort of order, and the cruel suns of Palestine and Egypt had tanned his skin to leather, and etched a network of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, imparting an impression of maturity, a man older and more experienced than his years.

He hoped.

His dun-coloured hair was thick and soft, and after his bath, quite uncontrollable. But Mr Trumpers Royal Yacht lotion and a good deal of tamping down with a pair of ivory-backed hair brushes brought it back into line again, rigidly disciplined to the short-back-and-sides of a regular soldier.

He turned from the mirror, pulled on his trousers and then tried buffing up his shoes a bit with his dirty handkerchief. They didn't look much better, and he thought wistfully of Private Stubbs, his soldier-servant, who, with spit, a bone, and a fair ration of elbow grease could produce a gleaming shine, even on a pair of square-bashing boots.

But no Stubbs. The shoes would have to do. He pulled on the silk-faced dinner jacket, gathered up small belongings and stowed them in pockets, then turned off the lights, went out of the room and made his way downstairs.

It was seven o'clock, and dinner not until eight. But, in the drawing-room, Rupert found Colonel Carey-Lewis, on his own, already changed, sitting in an armchair, reading his newspaper and enjoying a restoring whisky and soda before the hordes of the houseparty descended to shatter his peace. Rupert had hoped for exactly this. It was just what his own father did when Taddington bulged with guests.

Disturbed, the Colonel lowered his paper and managed not to look too put out. He was an immensely courteous man.

‘Rupert.’

‘Please don't get up, sir. I'm sorry. I'm a bit early…’

‘Not at all. Not at all.’ The newspaper was folded and set aside. ‘Pour yourself a drink. Come and sit down.’ Rupert, grateful at the prospect of a bit of Dutch courage, went to do as he was bidden. ‘Hope you're comfortable. Enough hot water? Good bath?’

‘Splendid, thank you, sir.’ Carrying his drink, he went to sit by the Colonel's side, perched on the fireside stool, with long legs folded like jack-knives. ‘I was feeling a bit hot and sweaty. Athena made me play tennis…’

Despite the fact that Rupert had planned this interlude alone with his host, he had, at the same time, slightly dreaded it, because, for all his charm, it was patently clear that inconsequential chat was not Colonel Carey-Lewis's forte and that, basically, he was a shy man. But fears proved groundless. They slipped easily into conversation, and their common interests gave them plenty to discuss, and shooting, horses, and the Regular Army, quite painlessly, broke the ice. Then the Colonel asked about himself, and Rupert told him about Taddington, and his parents, and his career. Eton, Sandhurst, the Royal Dragoon Guards. Postings to Egypt and Palestine and now the Equitation Centre in Northamptonshire.

‘The trouble is, Long Weedon is too close to London. The temptation is to buzz up to town at every opportunity, and then of course one has to buzz back, usually in the early hours of the morning with a crashing hangover, and somehow be on parade on time.’

The Colonel smiled. ‘That is simply one of the problems and disadvantages of youth. Any word of the Royals being mechanised?’