Coming Home Read online

  They set off for home.

  It had been a good day, Molly decided. A constructive day, which left her feeling marginally better about everything. Ever since that heated exchange with Biddy, she had suffered from a nagging guilt, not simply because she was returning to Ceylon and leaving Judith behind, but because of past misunderstandings and her own lack of perception. Guilt was bad enough, but the knowledge that she had so little time left to make things right between them caused her more distress than she would admit, even to herself.

  But somehow, it had worked out. Not just because they had achieved so much, but because it had been done under such pleasant and companionable circumstances. Both of them, she realised, had tried their hardest, and this alone was enough to fill her heart with grateful appreciation. Without Jess tagging along, demanding attention, being with Judith had been like spending time with a girl-friend, a contemporary, and all the small treats and extravagances — lunching at The Mitre, and buying the extremely expensive attaché case which was the one that Judith really wanted — were a small price to pay for the knowledge that, somehow, she had crossed a difficult bridge in the relationship with her elder daughter. Perhaps she had left it rather late, but at least it was done.

  She felt much calmed and strengthened. Take one thing at a time, Judith had told her, and, encouraged and heartened by this co-operation, Molly took her advice and refused to be overwhelmed by all that was still left to do. She made lists, giving each task a priority number, and ticking things off as they were dealt with.

  And so, over the following days, in strict sequence, plans were laid and carried out for the closing of Riverview House and the dispersal of its occupants. Personal possessions which Molly had brought home from Colombo, or gathered around her during her tenure, were collected from various rooms and cupboards, listed, and packed away to be put into store. Judith's new, brass-bound school trunk, marked with her initials, stood open on the upstairs landing, and as various garments were name-taped and folded, they were neatly stacked into this capacious piece of luggage.

  ‘Judith, can you come and help?’

  ‘I am helping.’ Judith's voice from beyond her bedroom door.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Packing my books to take to Aunt Louise.’

  ‘All of them? All of your baby books?’

  ‘No, I'm putting them in another box. They can go into store with all your stuff.’

  ‘But you won't need your baby books again.’

  ‘Yes, I will. I want to keep them for my children.’

  Molly, torn between laughter and tears, hadn't the heart to argue. And what difference would a few extra boxes make anyway? She said, ‘Oh, all right,’ and put a tick alongside ‘hockey boots’ on the endless clothes list.

  ‘I've found another position for Phyllis. At least I think I have. She's going for an interview the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Porthkerris. Better, really. She'll be nearer home.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Mrs Bessington.’

  ‘Who's Mrs Bessington?’

  ‘Oh, Judith, you know. We meet her sometimes shopping and she always chats. She carries a basket and has a white Highland terrier. She lives up at the top of the hill.’

  ‘She's old.’

  ‘Well…middle-aged. Perfectly lively. But the maid she's had for twenty years wants to retire because of her varicose veins. She's going to go and keep house for her brother. So I suggested Phyllis.’

  ‘Has Mrs Bessington got a cook?’

  ‘No. Phyllis will be cook-general.’

  ‘Well, that's something. She told me she'd rather be on her own. She didn't want to skivvy for some bad-tempered old bitch of a cook.’

  ‘Judith, you shouldn't use words like that.’

  ‘I'm simply telling you what Phyllis said to me.’

  ‘Well, she shouldn't.’

  ‘I think “bitch” is rather a good word. And it only means a lady dog. There's nothing rude about that.’

  The last days slipped by with frightening speed. By now, rooms, stripped of photographs, pictures, and ornaments, became impersonal, as though already deserted. The sitting-room, empty of flowers and small personal touches, presented a bleak, cheerless face, and there seemed to be crates and packing-boxes everywhere. While Judith and Phyllis laboured valiantly, Molly spent much time on the telephone, speaking to the shipping company, the passport office, the storage firm, the railway station, the bank manager, the lawyer, Louise, her sister Biddy, and finally, her mother.

  This last was the most exhausting call, because Mrs Evans was becoming deaf, and she distrusted the telephone, suspecting that the female on the switchboard listened in to private conversations, and then repeated them to Others. So it took some plain speaking and a good deal of frustration before the penny dropped and Mrs Evans was made to comprehend.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Judith asked, coming in on the tail end of the conversation.

  ‘Oh, she's impossible. But I think I've fixed it. After I've taken you to St Ursula's, then I'll close this house, and Jess and I will spend the last night with Louise. She's promised, very kindly, to drive us to the station in her car. And then we'll spend a week with your grandparents.’

  ‘Oh, Mummy, do you have to?’

  ‘I feel it's the least I can do. They're getting so old, and heaven only knows when I shall see them again.’

  ‘You mean, they might die?’

  ‘Well, not exactly.’ Molly thought this over. ‘Well, yes, they might,’ she admitted. ‘But I can't think about that.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. But I still think you're being very saintly. You haven't seen my rubber boots anywhere, have you…?’

  The station carrier arrived at the front door with his horse and his float, and onto this were loaded Judith's desk and other possessions that had to be transported to Aunt Louise's house. It took some time to rope it all securely, and Judith watched its departure, bumping up the road behind the ambling horse, to travel the three miles to Windyridge. Then the man who ran the village filling station appeared to make an offer for the Austin Seven. It was not much of an offer, but then it was not much of a car. The next day, he came to take delivery, handed over the puny cheque, and drove it away. Seeing it go for the last time felt a bit like watching an old dog being taken off by the vet to be put down.

  ‘If we haven't got a car, how are you going to take me to St Ursula's?’

  ‘We'll order a taxi. We'd never have got your trunk into the Austin, anyway. And then, once you're safely installed, it can bring Jess and me home again.’

  ‘I don't, actually, want Jess to come.’

  ‘Oh, Judith. Poor little Jess. Why ever not?’

  ‘She'll just be a nuisance. Cry or something. And if she cries, then you will, and me too.’

  ‘You never cry.’

  ‘No, but I might. I can say goodbye to her here, when I say goodbye to Phyllis.’

  ‘It seems a little unfair.’

  ‘I think it's kind. Anyway, I don't suppose she'll even notice.’

  But Jess did notice. She was not a stupid child, and she witnessed the dismemberment of her home with considerable alarm. Everything was changing. Familiar objects disappeared, packing-cases stood in hall and dining-room, and her mother was too busy to pay much attention to her. Her doll's house, her red-painted hobby-horse, and her push-along dog on wheels, there one day, were gone the next. Only Golly was left to her, and she carried him everywhere, dangling by one leg, and with her thumb plugged into her mouth.

  She had no idea what was happening to her small world, only knew that she liked none of it.

  On the last day, because the dining-room had been stripped of silver and cutlery, and they were down to the barest basics, they had lunch in the kitchen, the four of them sitting around Phyllis's scrubbed table, and eating stew and blackberry crumble off the chipped and mismatched plates which went with the furnished let. Clin
ging to Golly, Jess let her mother feed her with a spoon, because she wanted to be a baby again, and when she had eaten her pudding, she was given a tiny packet of fruit gums, all to herself. The disposal of this, the opening of the packet, and the choosing of the colours occupied her attention while Phyllis cleared the table, and she scarcely noticed that her mother and Judith had disappeared upstairs.

  And then the next upsetting thing occurred. Phyllis was in the scullery, rattling dishes and scouring saucepans, so it was Jess who, looking up, through the window saw the strange black car turn in at the gate, drive slowly across the gravel, and come to a halt outside the front door. With her cheeks bulging with sweets, she went to tell Phyllis.

  ‘It's a car.’

  Phyllis shook water from her reddened hands and reached for a tea-towel on which to dry them.

  ‘That'll be the taxi…’

  Jess went with her, out into the hall, and they let the man into the house. He wore a peaked cap like a postman.

  ‘Got luggage, have you?’

  ‘Yes. All this.’

  It was piled at the foot of the stairs. The brass-bound trunk, suitcases and bags, the hockey stick, and Judith's new attaché case. He went to and fro, manhandling everything out to his taxi, stacking it onto the opened boot, roping it all securely, so that it would not fall off.

  Where was he taking it? Jess stood and stared. As he went in and out, the taxi-man smiled at her, and asked her what her name was, but she didn't smile back, and she wasn't going to tell him.

  And then Mummy and Judith came downstairs, and that was the worst of all, because Mummy had her coat and hat on, and Judith was wearing a green suit that Jess had never seen before, and a collar and tie, like a man, and brown lace-up shoes, and it all looked so stiff and uncomfortable, and too big, and her appearance was so frighteningly strange, that all at once Jess was filled with terror, she could contain herself no longer, and burst into hysterical weeping.

  They were both going to go away, and leave her forever. This was what she had obscurely suspected, and was now about to happen. She screamed for her mother to pick her up, and take her too, clinging to her coat, trying to climb up into her arms as though she were about to climb a tree.

  But it was Judith who stepped forward and picked her up, and hugged her very tight, and Jess, with the desperation of the drowning man and his straw, put her arms around Judith's neck, pressed her teary cheeks into Judith's face, and sobbed bitterly.

  ‘Where you going?’

  Judith had never imagined anything so dreadful would happen, and realised that she had underestimated Jess. They had behaved towards her as though she were a baby, imagined that a few fruit gums would get them over any possible crisis. They had all been wrong, and this painful scene was the result of their mistake.

  She held Jess close and rocked her to and fro.

  ‘Oh, Jess, don't cry. It'll be all right. Phyllis is here, and Mummy will be back very quickly.’

  ‘I want to come.’

  Her weight was sweet, the fat little arms and legs unbearably soft and dear. She smelt of Pears soap, and her hair felt silky as floss. It was no use recalling all the times that Judith had been impatient and cross with her little sister, those times were already over, and all that was important now was that they were saying goodbye, and that Judith really loved her. She pressed kisses onto Jess's cheeks.

  ‘You mustn't cry,’ she implored. ‘I'll write you letters, and you must send me lovely drawings and pictures. And just think when I see you again, you'll be eight years old, and nearly as tall as I am.’ The sobs abated slightly. Judith kissed her again, and then moved to hand her to Phyllis, untangling Jess's arms from around her neck. Jess sobbed on, but her screams had abated, and her thumb was back in her mouth.

  ‘You take care of Golly now. Don't let him fall overboard. Goodbye, Phyllis darling.’

  They embraced, but Phyllis couldn't give Judith much of a cuddle because of having her arms full of Jess. And she didn't seem to be able to say anything much either, except ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Good luck too. I'll write.’

  ‘Mind you do.’

  They all trooped out of the house, to where the taxi waited. Her mother dropped a kiss on Jess's damp cheek. ‘I'll be back,’ she promised, ‘in a little while. You be a good girl to Phyllis.’

  ‘Don't come rushing back, madam. You take your time. You don't want to hurry nothing.’

  Then they were getting into the taxi, and the man slammed the doors shut behind them and climbed in behind the driving-wheel. The engine started. The exhaust pipe belched a cloud of smelly smoke.

  ‘Wave goodbye, Jess,’ Phyllis told her. ‘Wave goodbye like a brave girl.’ So Jess flapped Golly, as though she were waving a flag, and the taxi went crunching away over the gravel, and they saw Judith's face pressed against the back window, and Judith was waving too, and she went on waving until the taxi turned the corner and trundled away up the lane, out of sight and sound.

  Windyridge,

  Saturday, 18th January 1936.

  Dearest Bruce,

  I am writing this in my bedroom at Louise's. Jess is asleep, and in a moment I shall go downstairs and join Louise for a drink before supper. Riverview House is now behind us, closed and empty. Dear Phyllis has left us, to go home for a few days, and then start her new job in Porthkerris. On Monday morning Louise will drive Jess and me to the station and we'll spend a few days with my parents before heading for London and catching the boat. We sail on the thirty-first. On Wednesday I took Judith to St Ursula's and left her there. We did not take Jess with us, and there was a terrible scene at Riverview House before we got into the taxi. I had not expected such distress, and did not realise how much Jess was taking in about leaving. It was very upsetting, but Judith particularly did not want her coming to the school with us, and of course she was right. Better that it all happened in the privacy of our own home.

  I was afraid that this scene would prove too much for Judith, but she handled it in a most adult way and was very loving and sweet to little Jess. In the taxi we talked of practicalities, because somehow I couldn't bring myself to talk of anything else. She looked quite smart in her new uniform, but so different that I felt in a strange way that I was taking some other person's daughter to school and not my own. Over the last few weeks she has suddenly grown up, and she has been the greatest help with all the packing and the arrangements that have had to be made. It is ironic that one spends so many years bringing up a child and then, just when she begins to be a friend and an equal, she has to be abandoned and life continued without her. Four years, at this moment, seem endless. They stretch before me like eternity. Once I am on the boat and on my way to Colombo, I think I shall feel less depressed about it all; just now is not a good time.

  At St Ursula's, I was meant to go into the school with her, settle her into her dormitory, and then have a cup of tea with Miss Catto. But in the taxi, already half-way to Penzance, Judith suddenly announced that she did not want me to do any of these things. She wanted our goodbyes to be quick and abrupt, and over as soon as possible. She could manage, she assured me. She did not want me to go into the school with her, because she said if I did, I would be part of the school, and she didn't want that. She didn't want her two worlds to touch, to impinge on each other in any way. It was a little embarrassing, because I felt I was expected to present myself and show some sort of interest, but I gave in because I thought that that was the least I could do.

  And so it only took moments. We unloaded her luggage and a porter came with a trolley and dealt with her trunk and her suitcase. There were some other cars there, other parents and other children, all starting the new term. The girls all look alike in their green uniforms, and all at once Judith was one of them, as though she had lost all individuality and become homogenized, like milk. I don't know whether this made it easier or more difficult to say goodbye. I looked into her sweet face, and saw there the promise of a beauty which will be evident when I fi
nally see her again. Her eyes had no tears in them. We kissed and hugged, promised to write, kissed again, and then she was gone, turning from me, walking away, up the steps and through the open door. She never looked back. She was carrying her book-bag and her hockey stick, and the little attaché case I bought her to keep her writing-paper in and her diary and her stamps.

  I know you will think it silly of me, but I cried all the way home in the taxi, and didn't stop until Phyllis had given me a hot cup of tea. Then I rang Miss Catto to apologise for my rudeness. She said she understood and would keep us in touch as to Judith's well-being and progress. But we shall be so far away! And the mail-boats take so long.

  Now she paused, to lay down her pen and read over what she had already written. It seemed, she decided, dreadfully emotional. She and Bruce had never found it easy to open their hearts to each other, nor to speak of intimacies, or shared secrets. She wondered if he would be upset by her clear distress, and debated as to whether she should tear up the pages and start all over again. But the writing of them had eased her, and she had neither the heart nor the energy to pretend coldly that all was well.

  She picked up her pen and continued.

  So it is all over, and I am putting on a cheerful face, for Jess's sake and for Louise. But I feel as though I were grieving for a child lost. For opportunities missed, and for the coming years which we are not going to be able to share. I know that I am going through what thousands of other women, like myself, have to endure, but for some reason or other, that doesn't make it any better.

  Within a month, Jess and I will be with you. I await further news of our passage on to Singapore. You have done well, and I am delighted for you.

  With my love,

  Molly.