Coming Home (89 page)

Upper Bickley

South Devon

September 13th, 1939.

Dear Diana,

I am so sorry I haven't written to you before, but there has been so much going on, and somehow there hasn't been time. It was horrid leaving you all at such short notice and not being able to say goodbye to anybody, but I know that you understood.

Here Judith crossed her fingers, and delivered the last of her continuing fib.

Aunt Biddy was really very unwell, and I was pleased that I had come. She is much better now, and quite over the bad attack of 'flu.

Uncross fingers again.

Apart from the fact that the war has finally started (in a way quite a relief after those last two dreadful weeks) I've got lots to tell you. The first is that I have decided not to go to Singapore. The reasons for this decision are too many and too complicated to explain, but what it really boils down to is that I felt I simply couldn't go swanning off to the Far East to enjoy myself while everybody at home was getting prepared to fight the war. My being in England isn't going to make a mite of difference, I know, but I would have felt too awful. The worst bit was telling my parents. I cancelled my passage first of all, and then sent them a cable. I got one back almost at once (how can they be so quick?), pages of pleading to change my mind, but I know Uncle Bob is backing me up and I've stood my ground. I wrote them a very long letter with all my reasons and I hope so much that they will realise how things are, and how people feel, in England. Like rolling up sleeves and preparing for the very worst. I hope you don't think that I have been dreadfully selfish. I think my mother does, but then disappointment is so lowering, and the worst is knowing how much she was looking forward to our reunion and how, now, I have shattered her hopes.

Anyway, here I stay.

The other bit of news is that Uncle Bob has gone to Scapa Flow to take up the post of Engineer Captain on the staff of the Commander-in-Chief, Home Fleet. He was specially picked and asked to go, so it was a tremendously exciting appointment, but that doesn't mean that we don't miss him dreadfully. And, of course, Biddy can't go and be with him, so she has to stay here. And, for the time being, I am staying with her.

I expect, before long, she will become involved in Red Cross work, or something, or join the Women's Voluntary Service, but at the moment there is enough to do, just keeping everything going here. Mrs Lapford, her daily cook, is leaving; she is going to go and cook in some factory canteen near Exeter, because she says she has to do her bit. Mrs Dagg, who cleans and dusts, is staying, so far. She is married to a farm worker, and has decided that her number-one-priority war work is to keep him well fed!

As for me, I decided, before Uncle Bob left us, that I must learn to do shorthand and typing. I couldn't think where I could find somewhere that would teach me (we're pretty remote here), but everything has worked out. Biddy has a friend called Hester Lang, a retired civil servant who has come to live in Bovey Tracey. She came for bridge the other afternoon, and after bridge, while she was having a drink, we got talking and I told her about the shorthand and typing and she said she would teach me. She's so clearly efficient, I am sure I shall learn in no time. Like having a one-to-one tutor. Once I've got that under my belt, and decent speeds, I think I might join the services. The Women's Royal Naval Service, probably. If for no other reason than the uniform is nice!

I do hope everybody is well I miss you all so much. I wonder if Mary made all the black-out curtains. I made Biddy's and they took me an entire week and the house is tiny compared with Nancherrow. I hated having to leave you so suddenly, but please give my love to Colonel Carey-Lewis and Mary and the Nettlebeds and Loveday and Aunt Lavinia and everybody.

Just one thing. My matric results were going to be sent to Nancherrow, or maybe Miss Catto might ring you up and tell you about them. Whatever, when you do get news, could you be a saint and either send them to me or perhaps Loveday could give me a telephone call. I long to know. Not that it makes much difference. Now, I don't suppose I shall ever go to University.

My love as always,

Judith

The reply to this missive did not arrive at Upper Bickley until two weeks later. It thumped through the letter box and onto the doormat along with the rest of the mail, a large, fat envelope, addressed in Loveday's childish scrawl, which, along with her hopeless spelling, had been for years the despair of Miss Catto. Judith was surprised, because she had never in her life received a letter from Loveday, let alone known her to write anything more than the most cursory of bread-and-butter notes. She carried the letter into the sitting-room, curled up in a corner of the sofa and slit the heavy envelope.

Inside were her matriculation results and sheets of expensive Nancherrow writing paper, folded into a satisfactory wodge. She looked at the matriculation results first, unfolding the official form with dread-filled caution, as though it might explode. To begin with, scarcely believing, and then flooded with relief and the excitement and satisfaction of a real accomplishment. If she had been with somebody of her own age, she would have leaped to her feet and danced with exultation, but it seemed pretty silly to put on such an exhibition just for herself, and Biddy had gone to Bovey Tracey to get her hair done, so she contented herself with reading the results just once again, then set them aside and started in on the screed from Loveday.

Nancherrow

September 22nd.

Darling Judith,

We loved getting your letter and it's been sitting in Mummy's desk, but you know how awful she is about writing letters, so anyway, she's asked me to write. A labour of love I can tell you, but it's pouring with rain outside so there's nothing much else I can do.

Before I say another thing, here are your matric results. The envelope came and I simply had to open it, even though it was addressed to you and I read it aloud at breakfast and Mummy and Pops and Mary all cheered. You are brilliant. All those credits and two
distinctions.
Miss Catto will be dancing a fandango. Even if you don't go to University, it doesn't matter, because you'll be able to frame your certificate when it comes, and hang it in the lavatory or somewhere suitable.

You are good not going to Singapore. I'm not sure if I could have been so strong-minded, missing out on all the fun. I hope your mother has forgiven you, it's so hateful being in the doghouse. And tremendous news about your uncle. He must be frightfully efficient and clever to do such a job. I had to look Scapa Flow up in the Atlas. It's practically in the Arctic Circle. I hope he took lots of woolly underfugs.

Here, things are happening. Palmer has left us, gone off to join up with the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry. Janet and Nesta are trying to make up their minds what they are going to do, although they haven't been called up or anything. Janet thought she might be a nurse, but Nesta says she's going somewhere to make munitions, she says she's never fancied bedpans. Anyway, I suppose before long they'll both be on their way. The Nettlebeds remain a permanent fixture, thank goodness, they're too old to go and fight, and Hetty's still here too. She's longing to go into the army to be an AT and march around in khaki uniform, but she's only seventeen (too young), and Mrs Nettlebed keeps telling her that she's too gormless to be let loose on a lot of randy soldiery. I think Mrs Nettlebed is being unkind; she just doesn't want to have to scrub her own saucepans.

Mary's been making black-out curtains. She sewed and sewed, and to help her Mummy got someone called Miss Penberthy to come. She lives in St Buryan and she bicycles here every day and sews and she's got the most frightful BO and we have to have all the windows open. As well, there are some rooms still without black-outs, so after dark we can't even open the door. I hope Miss Penberthy finishes the lot soon, and goes away.

Mummy had a Red Cross meeting in the drawing-room, and Pops is putting buckets of water everywhere in case we catch fire. Haven't quite worked this one out yet, but I'm sure there's an answer somewhere. It's getting colder. When winter comes we are going to dust-sheet the drawing-room and live in the little sitting-room. Pops says we must conserve fuel and grow lots of vegetables.

Now, news of Others. Left this to the end because I don't want to leave anybody out.

Aunt Lavinia is all right, she is getting up now for a bit and sitting by the fire. It's horrid for her having yet another war. She's had the Boer War, and the Great War, and now this. Too much in one lifetime.

After you went we all missed you dreadfully, but the others followed pretty sharpish. Jeremy was the first to go, and then Rupert, who shot off to Edinburgh of all places, somewhere called Redford Barracks. The cavalry horses were all moved there from Northampton, I suppose put on trains because it would be far too far for the poor darlings to walk. More about Rupert later.

Then Edward and Gus went. Edward is at some training base, but we don't know where because his address is Somewhere in England. Mummy's got a sort of poste restante number for him, and she hates not knowing exactly where he is. I expect he's having the time of his life, flying around and drinking beer in the mess.

And Gus went to Aberdeen, because that is the HQ of the Gordon Highlanders. It was simply ghastly saying goodbye to him. I didn't cry for any of the others, but I did cry for him. It's so mean, meeting the only man one could ever possibly fall in love with, and then having him whisked away by beastly old Hitler. I cried buckets in bed, but I've stopped crying now, because I've had a letter from him, and written one back. And I've got a photograph of him that I took with my camera, and I've had it enlarged (looks a bit furry, but okay) and framed and it's sitting by my bed, and I say good night to it every night, and good morning in the morning. I bet he looks heavenly in his kilt. I'll try to persuade him to send me a picture of him wearing it.

Now, continuation of Rupert story.

Three days after he left, Athena suddenly announced that she was going to Edinburgh too, and she got into a train and went. Isn't she the
end?
She's living in the Caledonian Hotel. She says it's enormous and frightfully Victorian and that Edinburgh is bitterly cold, but it doesn't seem to matter because every now and then she can see Rupert. If she doesn't mind being cold, then she must be in love with him.

As for me, I am staying put, right here. Mummy is going to get masses of hens and they will be my war-work, and Walter Mudge says he'll teach me how to drive a tractor, and then I can help on the farm. I don't really care what I do, stoking a boiler or cleaning the lavatories, provided nobody says I've got to register or be called up or something gruesome.