Coming Home Read online

  Also by Rosamunde Pilcher

  Sleeping Tiger

  Another View

  The End of Summer

  The Empty House

  The Day of the Storm

  Wild Mountain Thyme

  The Shell Seekers

  September

  Winter Solstice

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  The Blue Bedroom

  Flowers in the Rain

  ROSAMUNDE PILCHER

  Coming Home

  www.hodder.co.uk

  COPYRIGHT

  Grateful acknowledgement is made for permission to reprint from the following copyrighted works:

  ‘Deep Purple’, lyric by Mitchell Parish © 1934, 1939 (Renewed 1962, 1967) EMI Robbins Catalog Inc. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc.

  ‘I Can't Give You Anything But Love’ by Dorothy Fields and Jimmy McHugh © 1928 EMI Mills Music Inc. (Worldwide Copyright Renewed). Rights for the Extended Renewal Term in the United States Controlled by Aldi Music Co. and Ireneadele Publishing Company. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc.

  ‘I Get a Kick Out of You’ by Cole Porter © 1934 Warner Bros. Inc (Renewed). All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc.

  ‘If Love Were All’ by Noel Coward. © 1929 Chappell & Co. Ltd. Copyright Renewed and Assigned to Warner Bros. Inc. for the United States and Canada. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc.

  ‘It's De-Lovely’ by Cole Porter © 1936 by Chappell & Co. Copyright Renewed and Assigned to Robert H. Montgomery, Jr., Trustee of the Cole Porter Musical & Literary Property Trusts. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc.

  ‘My Heart Stood Still’ by Lorenz Hart and Richard Rogers © 1927 Warner Bros. Inc. (Renewed). Rights for the Extended Renewal Term in the United States controlled by The Estate of Lorenz Hart (WB Music Corp., Administrator) and Williamson Music (ASCAP). All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc. & Williamson Music.

  Lyrics excerpts of ‘I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm’ by Irving Berlin. © Copyright 1936, 1937 by Irving Berlin. Copyright Renewed. International Copyright Secured. Used by Permission. All Rights Reserved. Lyric excerpts of ‘Puttin' on the Ritz’ by Irving Berlin © Copyright 1928, 1929 by Irving Berlin. Copyright Renewed. International Copyright Secured. Used by Permission. All Rights Reserved.

  ‘La Mer’. Written by Charles Trenet. Copyright © 1945 PolyGram International Publishing, Inc., and France Music Corp. Copyright Renewed. Used by Permission. All Rights Reserved.

  ‘All the Things You Are’ by Oscar Hammerstein and Jerome Kern. Copyright © 1939 by Oscar Hammerstein and Jerome Kern. PolyGram International Publishing Inc. Copyright Renewed. Used by Permission. All Rights Reserved.

  ‘The letter on page 526–27 is largely based on a real one in The Highland Division, by Eric Linklater (London. His Majesty's Stationery Office, 1942). My thanks to his sons, Andro and Magnus, for their kind permission to use it.’

  Copyright © 1995 Robin Pilcher, Fiona Pilcher, Mark Pilcher

  and the Trustees of Rosamunde Pilcher's 1988 trust

  First published in Great Britain in 1995 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette Livre UK company

  The right of Rosamunde Pilcher to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Epub ISBN 978-1-848-94117-5

  Book ISBN 978-0-340-75247-0

  Hodder and Stoughton Ltd

  An Hachette Livre UK company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  Contents

  Copyright

  PART ONE

  1935

  1936

  1938

  1939

  PART TWO

  1940

  1942

  1945

  This book is for my husband Graham, who served

  with the Highland Division.

  And for Gordon, and for Judith, and for all of us

  who were young together at the same time.

  COMING HOME

  PART ONE

  1935

  The Porthkerris Council School stood half-way up the steep hill which climbed from the heart of the little town to the empty moors which lay beyond. It was a solid Victorian edifice, built of granite blocks, and had three entrances, marked Boys, Girls and Infants, a legacy from the days when segregation of the sexes was mandatory. It was surrounded by a Tarmac playground and a tall wrought-iron fence, and presented a fairly forbidding face to the world. But on this late afternoon in December, it stood fairly ablaze with light, and from its open doors streamed a flood of excited children, laden with boot-bags, book-bags, balloons on strings, and small paper bags filled with sweets. They emerged in small groups, jostling and giggling and uttering shrieks of cheerful abuse at each other, before finally dispersing and setting off for home.

  The reason for the excitement was twofold. It was the end of the winter term, and there had been a school Christmas party. Singing games had been played, and relay races won, up and down the assembly hall, with bean bags to be snatched and delivered to the next person in the team. The children had danced Sir Roger de Coverley, to music thumped out on the tinny old school piano, and eaten a tea of splits and jam, saffron buns, and fizzy lemonade. Finally they had lined up and, one by one, had shaken Mr Thomas, the headmaster, by the hand, wished him a Merry Christmas, and been given a bag of sweets.

  It was a routine that was followed every year, but always happily anticipated and much enjoyed.

  Gradually the noisy outflux of children was reduced to a trickle, the late-leavers, those delayed by a search for missing gloves or an abandoned shoe. Last of all, as the school clock chimed a quarter to five, there came, through the open door, two girls, Judith Dunbar and Heather Warren, both fourteen years old, both dressed in navy-blue coats and rubber boots, and with woollen hats pulled down over their ears. But that was as far as the resemblance went, for Judith was fair, with two stubby pigtails, freckles, and pale-blue eyes; while Heather had inherited her colouring from her father, and through him, back over the generations of ancestors, from some Spanish sailor, washed ashore on the Cornish coast after the destruction of the Armada. And so her skin was olive, her hair raven-black, and her eyes dark and bright as a pair of juicy raisins.

  They were the last of the revellers to depart because Judith, who was leaving Porthkerris School forever, had had to say goodbye not only to Mr Thomas but all the other teachers as well, and to Mrs Trewartha, the school cook, and old Jimmy Richards, whose lowly tasks included stoking the school boiler and cleaning the outside lavatories.

  But finally, there was nobody else to say goodbye to, and they were on their way, across the playground and through the gates. The overcast day had slipped early into darkness and a thin drizzle fell, shimmering against glowing street lamps. The street sloped down the hill, black and wet, pooled with reflected light. They began to walk, descending into the town. For a bit neither of them spoke. The
n Judith sighed.

  ‘Well,’ she said in final tones, ‘that's it.’

  ‘Must feel a bit funny, knowing you're not coming back again.’

  ‘Yes, it does. But the funniest bit is feeling sad. I never thought I'd feel sad to leave any school, but I do now.’

  ‘It's not going to be the same without you.’

  ‘It's not going to be the same without you, either. But you're lucky, because at least you've still got Elaine and Christine for friends. I've got to start all over, brand new, trying to find someone I like at St Ursula's. And I have to wear that uniform.’

  Heather's silence was sympathetic. The uniform was almost the worst of all. At Porthkerris, everybody wore their own clothes, and very cheerful they looked too, in different-coloured sweaters, and the girls with bright ribbons in their hair. But St Ursula's was a private school and archaically old fashioned. The girls wore dark-green tweed overcoats and thick brown stockings, and dark-green hats that were guaranteed to make even the prettiest totally plain, so unbecoming were they. St Ursula's took day-girls as well as boarders, and these unfortunate creatures were much despised by Judith and Heather and their contemporaries at Porthkerris, and considered fair bait for teasing and torment should they be unlucky enough to travel on the same bus. It was depressing to contemplate Judith having to join the ranks of those wet, goody-goody creatures who thought themselves so grand.

  But worst of all was the prospect of boarding. The Warrens were an intensely close family, and Heather could not imagine a worse fate than to be torn from her parents and her two older brothers, both handsome and raven-haired as their father. At Porthkerris School, they had been notorious for their devilment and wickedness, but since moving on to the County School in Penzance, had been somewhat tamed by a terrifying headmaster, and been forced to settle down to their books and mend their ways. But still, they were the best fun in the world, and it was they who had taught Heather to swim and ride a bicycle and trawl for mackerel from their stubby wooden boat. And what fun could you possibly have with nothing but girls? It didn't matter that St Ursula's was in Penzance and so only ten miles away. Ten miles was forever if you had to live away from Mum and Dad and Paddy and Joe.

  However, it seemed that poor Judith had no choice. Her father worked in Colombo, in Ceylon, and for four years Judith, her mother, and her little sister had lived apart from him. Now Mrs Dunbar and Jess were returning to Ceylon, and Judith was being left behind, with little idea of when she would see her mother again.

  But it was, as Mrs Warren was wont to remark, no good crying over spilt milk. Heather cast about for something cheerful to say.

  ‘There'll be holidays.’

  ‘With Aunt Louise.’

  ‘Oh, come on, don't be so down in the dumps. At least you'll still be here. Living in Penmarron. Just think, your aunt might live somewhere awful, up-country, or in some town. And you wouldn't know anybody. As it is, we can go on seeing each other. You can come over, and we'll go down the beach. Or go to the pictures.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Heather was perplexed. ‘Sure about what?’

  ‘Well, I mean…sure you're going to want to go on seeing me and being my friend. Going to St Ursula's and everything. You won't think I'm snobby and horrible?’

  ‘Oh, you.’ Heather gave her a loving thump over the bottom with her boot-bag. ‘What do you think I am?’

  ‘It would be a sort of escape.’

  ‘You make it sound like going to prison.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘What's your aunt's house like?’

  ‘It's quite big, and it's right up at the top of the golf course. And it's full of brass trays and tiger skins and elephants' feet.’

  ‘Elephants' feet? My dear life, what does she use them for?’

  ‘An umbrella stand.’

  ‘I wouldn't like that. But I suppose you won't have to look at it much. Got your own room, have you?’

  ‘Yes, I've got a room. It was her best spare room, and it's got its own wash-basin and there's room for my desk.’

  ‘Sounds all right to me. Don't know what you're making such a fuss about.’

  ‘I'm not making a fuss. It's just not home. And it's so cold up there, all bleak and windy. The house is called Windyridge, and no wonder. Even when it's dead calm everywhere else, there always seems to be a gale blowing at Aunt Louise's windows.’

  ‘Some spooky.’

  ‘And the other thing is, that it's so far from everywhere. I won't be able just to hop on the train any longer, and the nearest bus stop's two miles away. And Aunt Louise won't have time to drive me around, because she's always playing golf.’

  ‘Perhaps she'll teach you how.’

  ‘Oh, ha ha.’

  ‘Sounds to me as though what you need is a bike. Then you could go wherever you wanted, whenever. It's only three miles to Porthkerris over the top road.’

  ‘You are brilliant. I never thought of a bike.’

  ‘I don't know why you never had one before. My dad gave me mine when I was ten. Not that it's much good in this dratted place, with all the hills, but out where you are, it'd be just the thing.’

  ‘Are they very expensive?’

  ‘About five pounds for a new one. But you could maybe pick one up second-hand.’

  ‘My mother's not very good at that sort of thing.’

  ‘Don't suppose any mother is, really. But it's not very difficult to go to a bicycle shop. Get her to give it to you for Christmas.’

  ‘I've already asked for a jersey for Christmas. One with a polo-neck.’

  ‘Well, ask for a bike as well.’

  ‘I couldn't.’

  ‘Course you could. She can scarcely say no. Going away, and not knowing when she's going to see you again, she'll give you anything you want. You just strike while the iron's hot’ — another of Mrs Warren's favourite sayings.

  But Judith only said, ‘I'll see.’

  They walked on in silence for a bit, their footsteps ringing on the damp pavement. They passed the fish-and-chips shop, bright with cheerful light, and the warm smell of hot fat and vinegar which emanated from the open door was mouthwatering.

  ‘This aunt of yours, Mrs Forrester. Your mother's sister, is she?’

  ‘No, my father's. She's much older. About fifty. She lived in India. That's where she got the elephant's foot.’

  ‘What about your uncle?’

  ‘He's dead. She's a widow.’

  ‘Got any children?’

  ‘No. I don't think they ever had children.’

  ‘Funny that, isn't it? Do you suppose it's because they don't want them, or because…something…doesn't happen? My Auntie May, she's got no children, and I heard Dad say it was because Uncle Fred hadn't got it in him. What do you suppose he meant by that?’

  ‘I don't know.’

  ‘Think it's got something to do with what Norah Elliot told us? You know, that day behind the bicycle shed.’

  ‘She's just making it all up.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because it was too disgusting to be true. Only Norah Elliot could have thought up something so disgusting.’

  ‘Suppose so…’

  It was a fascinating topic, around which the two girls had skirted from time to time without ever coming to any useful conclusion, except the fact that Norah Elliot smelt and her school blouses were always dirty. This was not, however, the time to unravel the conundrum, because their conversation had brought them down the hill, to the centre of the town, the public library and the parting of their ways. Heather would carry on in the direction of the harbour, down narrowing streets and baffling cobbled lanes, to the square granite house where the Warren family lived over Mr Warren's grocery shop, and Judith would climb yet another hill, and head for the railway station.

  They stood in the soaking drizzle beneath the street lamp and faced each other.

  ‘I suppose it's goodbye, then,’ said Heather.

  ‘Yes
. I suppose so.’

  ‘You can write to me. You've got my address. And ring the shop if you want to leave a message. I mean…like coming over when it's holidays.’

  ‘I'll do that.’

  ‘I don't suppose that school'll be too bad.’

  ‘No. I don't suppose so.’

  ‘'Bye then.’

  ‘'Bye.’

  But neither moved, nor turned away. They had been friends for four years. It was a poignant moment.

  Heather said, ‘Have a good Christmas.’

  Another pause. Abruptly, Heather leaned forward and planted a kiss on Judith's rain-damp cheek. Then, without saying anything more, she turned and went running away down the street, and the sound of her footsteps became fainter and fainter, until Judith could hear them no longer. Only then, feeling a bit bereft, did she continue on her solitary way, climbing the narrow pavement between small shops brightly illuminated, their windows decorated for Christmas with tinsel wound around boxes of tangerines and jars of bath salts tied with scarlet ribbons. Even the ironmonger had done his bit. USEFUL AND ACCEPTABLE GIFT said a handwritten card leaning against a ferocious claw-hammer which sported a sprig of artificial holly. She passed the last shop, at the very top of the hill, which was the local branch of W. H. Smith, where Judith's mother bought her monthly Vogue and came each Saturday to change her library book. After that the road levelled off and the houses fell away, and without their shelter the wind asserted itself. It came in soft gusts, laden with moisture, blowing the drenching mist into her face. In the darkness this wind had a special feel to it and brought with it the sound of breakers booming up on the beach far below.

  After a bit, she paused to lean her elbows on a low granite wall; to rest after the stiff climb and get her breath. She saw the blurred jumble of houses slipping away down to the dark goblet of the harbour, and the harbour road outlined by a curved necklace of street lamps. The red and green riding lights of fishing boats dipped in the swell and sent shimmering reflections down into the inky water. The far horizon was lost in the darkness, but the heaving, restless ocean went on forever. Far out, the lighthouse flashed its warning. A short beam, and then two long beams. Judith imagined the eternal breakers pouring in over the cruel rocks at its base.