Coming Home (86 page)

By the time Bob Somerville returned to Upper Bickley on the following Saturday morning, a number of disparate events — some quite alarming — had taken place.

Morag had disappeared, to hunt on the moor, and returned with fourteen ticks embedded in her thick coat, all of which had to be painstakingly removed. It was a disgusting task which Judith undertook, because Biddy was too squeamish and Judith had once watched Colonel Carey-Lewis perform the horrid operation on Tiger. De-ticked, Morag then had to be given an antiseptic bath, which she hated so much that, by the end, not only was the dog sodden, but Biddy and Judith as well.

In Austria, at Obersalzberg, Herr Hitler, orating at his generals, announced that the destruction of Poland would commence within days.

Biddy, committed to an afternoon's bridge, took herself off to one of her rather grander friends, and returned for supper in cheerful form, having had good cards and won five and sixpence.

The sinister news broke upon the world that the Nazis and the Russians had signed a non-aggression pact. It seemed that nothing, now, could avert war.

Biddy and Judith, along with the Daggs and the Lapfords, and a large number of local people, presented themselves at the School Hall, and were duly issued with gas masks. They carried them home, carefully and distastefully, as though they were ticking bombs, stowed them under the hall table, and devoutly prayed that they would never have cause to wear them.

Bill Dagg, turning up one warm, humid evening to do a couple of hours' work in the garden, cornered Biddy in the vegetable patch, pulling a couple of lettuces for supper. Leaning on his spade, he engaged her in conversation, and at last came round to his point, which was that the lower quarter of the paddock should be dug, manured, and planted with potatoes. Biddy told him it would take days to dig, she wasn't all that fond of potatoes, and thought that she preferred the green grass of the paddock, but Bill was dogged and determined to get his own way. After all, he pointed out, taking off his cap to scratch his bald head, if that there 'Itler got 'is way, then everyone in England was going to starve. No point good land lying fallow if you could grow something. And if you 'ad potatoes you weren't never going to go 'ungry. Whereupon Biddy, being bitten to death by midges, allowed herself to be persuaded, and Bill, triumphant, went to find a ball of twine with which to mark out the boundaries of his new potato patch.

Finally, Judith completed the mammoth task of stitching the curtains. The last pair were for Ned's room, and she made her way there in order to hang them up. Ned's was the smallest room in the house, and he slept in a bunk, built over a mahogany set of drawers. The linen curtains were navy-blue, and the walls white, hung with group photographs from his preparatory school, through to his years at Dartmouth Naval College. As well, there was a large coloured poster of a nubile and half-naked girl. He had a desk, with a lamp on it, and a chair, and that was all, because there wasn't space for more furniture. To fix the hooks on the window frame, Judith had to pull the chair over and stand on it, and when the black curtains were hung and she turned to clamber down, she suddenly caught sight of Ned's moth-eaten old teddy bear, one-eyed and mostly hairless, sitting on the pillow of the bunk. And the significance of Ted, in juxtaposition to the breasty blonde, was somehow terribly touching. She stood there leaning against the bottom of the bunk, and thought of Ned Somerville, and it made a change from not thinking of Edward Carey-Lewis. And she remembered the good times they had had together, and hoped it would not be too long before she saw him again, because he was the nearest thing she had ever had to a real brother.

From downstairs, Biddy called, ‘Judith.’

‘I'm here.’

‘Have you seen my secateurs?’

‘No, but I'll come and find them.’

She got down off the chair, replaced it by the desk, and went out of Ned's room, closing the door behind her.

Now, Saturday, the twenty-sixth of August. Bob Somerville drove from Devonport to Upper Bickley, arriving just before midday. Biddy, hearing the sound of his car roar up the hill, dropped what she was doing (cleaning a cauliflower, because Mrs Lapford didn't come at weekends) and went out through the front door and into the sunshine to meet him just as he emerged from his car, looking both tired and dishevelled. He was in uniform. His cap, with its golden oak leaves, was jammed down over his brow, and his jacket was an old one, so that it sagged a bit around his bulky frame, and the four stripes of gold braid, set with the purple of an engineer officer, had become worn and tarnished. He lugged, from the passenger seat, his battered leather grip and his briefcase, and thus laden, came to kiss his wife.

‘I feared you mightn't make it,’ she told him.

‘I'm here.’

‘Everything's so awful. I thought there might be some panic on.’

‘There is. It's non-stop. But I wanted to see you both.’

She tucked her arm into his, and together they went indoors. At the foot of the stairs, ‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked him.

He shook his head. ‘Later, Biddy. I'll go up and get out of this filthy gear and into dog-robbers. That should help make me feel myself again. Good smells. What's for lunch?’

‘Irish stew.’

‘Delicious.’

Because the black-out curtains were finished with, and the sewing machine stowed away, they were back in the dining-room again, after a week of eating in the kitchen. Judith had laid the table, and when Bob came downstairs, in old corduroys and a comfortably clean and faded shirt, she went to greet him and be given a crushing and loving hug. Biddy whipped off her cooking apron, and they all went out into the front garden, sat out in the sun and had drinks. Bob had a beer, Judith a cider, and Biddy her usual gin and tonic. He asked what had been going on, and they told him about Bill Dagg's potatoes and Morag's ticks. (They did not mention gas masks or the Russian-German Treaty.) And Bob drew the dog to his side and fondled her head and told her she was a stupid, dirty bitch, and she sat very close to him and smiled.

He leaned back in his chair and turned his face to the sun. An aeroplane, making a noise like a bee, slowly crossed the sky. He watched it go, a silvery toy suspended in time and space. He said, ‘I hope we're not entertaining, or being entertained, this weekend.’

‘A drink party this evening,’ Biddy told him. ‘Here. That's all. Just old friends.’

‘Who?’

‘The Barkings and the Thorntons. No need to make a huge social effort.’ She hesitated. ‘But if you want, I'll put them off. They'll understand. I just thought perhaps we all needed a bit of cheering up.’

‘No. Don't put them off. I'd like to see them.’ The plane was disappearing, drifting into the far distance behind a vaporous cloud. He said, ‘Is that all?’

‘That's all.’

‘When are they coming?’

‘Half past six.’

He thought about this for a bit, and then said, ‘Why don't we ask Miss Lang?’

Judith frowned. She knew, from previous visits, both the Barkings and the Thorntons. The Barkings were a retired naval couple who had settled in Newton Ferrars, and there bought themselves a small house, with access to the water, and a slipway for their sailing boat. Once hostilities commenced, James Barking would be recalled to active service. Biddy knew this, which was one of the reasons she had invited them. The Thorntons, Robert and Emily, lived in Exeter. He was a solicitor, and as well a captain in the TA battalion of the Devonshire Regiment. Emily Thornton was one of Biddy's bridge and tennis friends.

But Miss Lang…

She said, ‘Who is Miss Lang?’

Biddy told her. ‘She's an elderly spinster, a retired civil servant, who's coming to live here. She has a little stone house at the end of the town, with a yellow front door flush on the pavement and a delectable garden at the back. Bob's in love with her.’

‘I am not in love with her,’ Bob protested, quite peaceably. ‘I just find her enormously intelligent and interesting.’

‘How old is she?’ Judith asked.

Biddy shrugged. ‘Oh, I suppose about sixty-five. Very trim and slim and alert. We met her at a lunch party at the Morrisons' about three months ago.’ She paused for a moment, thinking about Miss Lang. And then said, ‘You're quite right, Bob, I should ask her. I will. You don't think it's rude…such short notice?’

‘I don't imagine she is a lady who easily takes offence.’

‘And she won't feel a bit shy or
de trop,
with us all being such old friends?’

‘Darling Biddy, you are far too good a hostess to let such a thing happen. Besides, I can't imagine Miss Lang ever being in the least out of her depth. She seems to have spent her life organising international conferences, attending the League of Nations, and working in embassies in Paris and Washington. I don't see her becoming tongue-tied on account of a few bucolic Devonians.’

‘I saw her the other day, and I should have asked her then. But it was in the School Hall when we were all getting our gas masks, and she was in a different queue, and anyway, it hardly was the appropriate time for making social arrangements.’

‘Go and ring her now.’

So Biddy went indoors and made the telephone call, and returned with the information that Miss Lang had been delighted with the invitation, did not mind at all about the short notice, and would present herself at Upper Bickley at half past six.

Bob reached for Biddy's hand, and pressed a kiss upon it. ‘Well done.’ And then he said he was feeling peckish, so Biddy went back to the kitchen to put on her apron and dish up the Irish stew.

Miss Lang was a little late. The Thorntons and the Barkings had already arrived, been given their drinks, lit their cigarettes, and settled down to the easy conversation of close friends who had all known each other for a long time. After a bit, Judith was able to sneak away to the kitchen, where a tray of chicken vol-au-vents were warming in the oven, and about which Biddy had clearly forgotten. They were only very slightly over-brown. She was standing at the table arranging them on a blue-and-white plate, when she saw, through the kitchen window, the small green car come through the gate and park itself at the front door.

She abandoned the vol-au-vents, and went to greet the last guest. On the doorstep she found a slender lady, white-haired, neatly dressed in a grey flannel skirt and a claret-coloured cashmere cardigan. Low-key, but very elegant.

‘Miss Lang.’

‘I'm late.’

‘It doesn't matter a bit.’

‘Somebody telephoned just as I was leaving. Doesn't that always happen?’ She had clear grey eyes, alert and intelligent, and looked, thought Judith, a bit like Miss Catto would look in twenty years' time. ‘Now, who are you?’

‘I'm Judith Dunbar, Biddy's niece.’

‘Of course, she's told me about you. What a pleasure to meet you. You're staying?’

‘Yes, for a bit. Please come in.’ In the hall, she paused. The party, going full-tilt, was clearly audible through the open sitting-room door. ‘I'm actually, at the moment, dealing with some slightly overcooked vol-au-vents…’

Miss Lang smiled understandingly. ‘Don't say another word. I'm sure they will be delicious. And I can take care of myself.’ And with that, she crossed the hallway and made her way through the open door. Judith heard Biddy. ‘And here's Miss Lang, how lovely to see you…’

She returned to the kitchen, was relieved to find the vol-au-vents intact because there was every possibility that Morag had smelt them, come to investigate and devoured the lot. She disposed them in decorative fashion on the plate, and then carried this back into the sitting-room.