Coming Home (93 page)

B
y the end of March, after the coldest winter that most people could remember, the worst of the snow and the ice had finally disappeared, and on Dartmoor only random traces remained, caught in sunless ditches or piled against the more exposed of the drystone walls. As the days lengthened, the warm west wind brought a softness to the air, trees budded and birds returned to their summer habitats; wild primroses studded the high Devon hedges, and in the garden of Upper Bickley the first of the daffodils tossed their yellow heads in the breeze.

In Cornwall, at Nancherrow, the house filled up with sophisticated refugees from London, abandoning the city and arriving to stay for Easter. Tommy Mortimer stole a week's leave from his Civil Defence and stirrup-pump, and Jane Pearson brought her two children for the entire month. Jane's husband, the solid and well-meaning Alistair, was now in the Army and in France, and her nanny, younger than anybody had ever realised, had returned to nursing, gone to run a surgical ward in a military hospital in the south of Wales. Bereft of Nanny, Jane had pluckily undertaken the train journey to Penzance with only herself to amuse and discipline her offspring, and as soon as she arrived, had off-loaded them onto Mary Millyway, while she curled up on a sofa, sipped a gin and orange, chatted to Athena, and generally let her hair down. She was still living in her little house in Lincoln Street, and having such a good time that she made no plans to leave London. Never in her life had she had such fun, out on the town, and lunching at The Ritz or The Berkeley with dashing wing commanders or young Guards officers.

‘What about Roddy and Camilla?’ Athena asked, rather as though they were puppies, and half expecting to be told that Jane simply put them into kennels.

‘Oh, my daily lady stays with them,’ Jane replied airily, ‘or I leave them with my mother's maid.’ And then, ‘My dear, I must tell you. Too exciting…’ And she was off, regaling another blissful encounter.

All these casual guests brought with them their emergency ration cards, for buying butter, sugar, bacon, lard, and meat, but as well, Tommy provided a store of unlikely pre-war delicacies from Fortnum & Mason. Pheasant in aspic, chocolate-coated cashew nuts, scented tea, and tiny jars of Beluga caviar.

Mrs Nettlebed, eyeing these assorted gifts as they were placed upon her kitchen table, was heard to remark that it was a pity that Mr Mortimer couldn't lay his hands on a decent leg of pork.

The Nancherrow staff was by now much diminished. Both Nesta and Janet had departed, in some excitement, to put on uniform, make munitions, and do their bit for the war effort. Palmer and the under-gardener had both been called up, and the only replacement to be found was Matty Pomeroy, an old-age pensioner from Rosemullion, who came each morning on a creaking bicycle and worked at the pace of a snail.

Hetty, of course, being too young to be of much use to anybody, was still in the scullery, breaking dishes and driving Mrs Nettlebed demented, but now all the house guests had to buckle to, seeing to their own black-out curtains, making their own beds, and volunteering to wash dishes and hump logs. Meals were still served, in certain formality, in the dining-room, but the drawing-room was closed, swathed in dust-sheets, and the best of the silver had been cleaned, wrapped in chamois bags and stowed, for the duration of the war, carefully away. Nettlebed, relieved of the tedious chore of polishing silver, which in the old days had filled much of his day, drifted imperceptibly out of doors. This was a gradual progression, started by Nettlebed emerging from the kitchen to make sure that old Matty wasn't idling behind the potting-shed, sneaking ten minutes or so with his smelly pipe. Then he volunteered to dig up a shore or two or potatoes for Mrs Nettlebed, or to cut a cabbage. Before long, he had put himself in charge of the vegetable garden, planning crops and overseeing Matty Pomeroy, all with his customary thoroughness and competence. In Penzance, he bought himself a pair of rubber boots, and wearing these, dug a trench for runner beans. Gradually, his grave and pallid features became quite sunburnt, and his trousers started to look a bit loose. Athena swore that, at heart, Nettlebed was a son of the soil, and for the first time in his life had found his true vocation, and Diana, much amused, decided that it was rather chic to have a suntanned butler, provided he managed to scrub the earth out of his fingernails before serving the soup.

It was in the middle of these Easter holidays, on the night of the eighth of April, that Lavinia Boscawen died.

She died in her own bed, in her own bedroom at The Dower House. Aunt Lavinia had never fully recovered from the illness which had so frightened and disturbed the family, but had peacefully survived the winter, getting up each day, sitting by her fireside, busily knitting khaki socks. She had not been unwell, nor in any sort of pain. One night, she had simply gone to bed as usual, fallen asleep, and never woken.

It was Isobel who found her. Old Isobel, treading upstairs with Mrs Boscawen's early-morning tea tray (hot water and lemon), tapping at the door, and then going in to wake her mistress. She laid the little tray down on the bedside table and went to draw back the curtains and raise the black-out blind.

‘Lovely morning,’ she observed, but there was no response.

She turned. ‘Lovely morning…’ she repeated, but knew, even as she said the words that there was never going to be any sort of reply. Lavinia Boscawen lay quietly, her head on the downy pillow, just as she had gone to sleep. Her eyes were closed and she looked years younger and very peaceful. Isobel, old, and versed in the ways of death, took a silver hand mirror from the dressing-table and held it to Mrs Boscawen's lips. There was no breath, no movement. Stillness. Isobel put down the mirror, and gently covered Mrs Boscawen's face with the embroidered linen sheet. Then she pulled down the blind and went downstairs. In the hall, with some reluctance, because she had always hated the horrid instrument, she picked up the telephone, put the receiver to her ear, and asked the girl on the switchboard to put her through to Nancherrow.

Nettlebed, laying breakfast in the dining-room, heard the telephone ringing from the Colonel's study. He glanced at the clock, saw that it was twenty to eight, set a fork precisely in its place, and went to answer the call.

‘Nancherrow.’

‘Mr Nettlebed?’

‘Speaking.’

‘It's Isobel. From The Dower House. Mr Nettlebed…Mrs Boscawen's dead. In her sleep. I found her this morning. Is the Colonel there?’

‘He's not down yet, Isobel.’ Nettlebed frowned. ‘You're quite certain?’

‘Oh, I'm certain all right. Not a breath from her lips. Peaceful as a child. The dear lady…’

‘Are you alone, Isobel?’

‘Of course I'm alone. Who else would be here?’

‘Are you all right?’

‘I have to talk to the Colonel.’

‘I'll fetch him.’

‘I'll wait.’

‘No. Don't wait. He'll ring you. Just stay near the phone, so that you hear it.’

‘Nothing wrong with my hearing.’

‘You're sure you're all right?’

Isobel did not answer this. She said gruffly, ‘Just tell the Colonel to ring me dreckly,’ and rang off.

Nettlebed replaced the receiver and stood looking at it for a moment or two. Mrs Boscawen dead. After a bit, he said aloud, ‘What a bugger,’ and then went out of the room and made his sedate way upstairs.

He found the Colonel in his bathroom shaving. He wore a paisley dressing-gown over his striped pyjamas and leather slippers on his feet, and had slung a towel around his neck. He had shaved one side of his face, but the other was still white with scented foam, and he stood there, on the bath-mat, with his cut-throat razor in his hand and listened to the news relayed from his portable wireless, which he had placed on the mahogany lid of the lavatory. Nettlebed, approaching, heard the grave, measured tones of the BBC news reader, but when he discreetly cleared his throat and rapped on the panel of the open door, the Colonel, turning to see him, put up a hand for silence, and the two men listened together to the morning bulletin. Grave tidings. German troops had moved into Denmark and Norway in the early hours of the morning. Three troopships had sailed into Copenhagen Harbour, ports and islands had been occupied, and the vital sea passages of the Skagerrak and the Kattegat were now under enemy control. In Norway, the German Navy had landed troops in every Norwegian port as far north as Narvic. A British destroyer had been sunk…

The Colonel stooped and switched off the wireless. Then straightened, turned to his mirror and continued shaving. Through the looking-glass, his eyes met Nettlebed's.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘this is the beginning.’

‘Yes, sir. It seems so.’

‘Always, the element of surprise. But why should we be surprised?’

‘I've no idea, sir.’ Nettlebed hesitated, reluctant at such a moment to speak. But it had to be done. ‘I'm sorry, sir, to disturb you, but I'm afraid I have to impart even more sad tidings.’
Scrape,
went the cut-throat razor, leaving a swathe of clean skin down the soapy cheek. ‘Isobel has just telephoned, sir, from The Dower House. Mrs Boscawen has passed on. Last night, in her sleep. Isobel found her this morning and telephoned at once. I told her you would ring, sir, and she is waiting by the telephone.’

He paused. After a bit, the Colonel turned, and there was on his face an expression of such anguish, sadness,
loss,
that Nettlebed was made to feel like a murderer. For a moment, a silence lay between them, and Nettlebed could think of no suitable words to fill it. Then the Colonel shook his head, ‘Oh God, so difficult to take in, Nettlebed.’

‘I am so very sorry, sir.’

‘When did Isobel ring?’

‘Twenty to eight, sir.’

‘I'll be down in five minutes.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘And, Nettlebed…look out a black tie for me, would you?’

At Upper Bickley, the telephone rang, and Judith went to answer it.

‘Hello.’

‘Judith, it's Athena.’

‘Goodness, what a surprise.’

‘Mummy wanted me to call you. I'm afraid it's very sad news, but really in a way, not all that sad. Just sad for all of us. Aunt Lavinia died.’

Judith, stunned, could think of nothing to say. She reached for an uncomfortable hall chair and crashed down.

‘When?’ she managed to say at last.

‘Monday night. She just went to sleep and didn't wake up. Not ill or anything. We're all trying our hardest to be grateful for her and not to be selfish, but it feels a bit like the end of an era.’