For they themselves had never enjoyed such a glamorous life-style, and did not even have friends with large houses, who took luxury and ease for granted. Living as they did in the Far East, and bound by the strict conventions of the British Raj, they had become ingrained by rigid lines of class distinction, social and racial strata, professional seniority, and the unspoken rule seemed to be that you knew your own place, high or low, and stayed in it.
So, if she extolled, at length, the beauty and charm of Diana Carey-Lewis, then Molly Dunbar, never the most confident of women, might suspect that comparisons were being made, and that Judith was inferring that her mother was both plain and dull.
And if she went into elaborate detail about the size and grandeur of Nancherrow, the gardens and the lands, the horses in the stables, the staff of servants, the shooting party, and the fact that Colonel Carey-Lewis was a magistrate and sat on the bench, then her father, in his rather humdrum way, would maybe feel a little hurt.
And if she enlarged on the socialising which had continued the entire weekend, the casual cocktails, the afternoon bridge, the formal mealtimes, perhaps it would seem as though Judith were bragging in some way, or even covertly criticising her mother and father for their own simple and unambitious way of life. And the last thing she wanted to do was to distress them in any way. One thing was for sure. She was not going to mention Tommy Mortimer, otherwise they would panic, decide that Nancherrow was a sink of iniquity, and write to Miss Catto forbidding Judith ever to return again. Which was unthinkable. What she needed was some point of reference, an event that she could share. Inspiration struck. Jeremy Wells, putting in such an unexpected appearance, and giving up his afternoon to take Judith under his wing and show her the cove. It was a bit like having him come to her rescue for a second time. With him to write about, the remainder of the letter would be easy. She drew the writing paper towards her and started off again, the words flying across the paper.
The house is called Nancherrow, and the most extraordinary thing happened. There was a young man there for the day, shooting pigeons with Colonel Carey-Lewis, and he was called Jeremy Wells, and he was the young doctor we met in the train from Plymouth to Truro after staying with the Somervilles. Wasn't that a coincidence? He is very nice, and his father is their family doctor. On Saturday afternoon, Loveday rode her pony Tinkerbell so he very kindly came on a walk with me, and we went along the coast. It is very rocky there, with tiny beaches. Not a bit like Penmarron.
On Sunday morning we all went to church at Rosemullion and afterwards went out to lunch with Mrs Boscawen, who is Colonel Carey-Lewis's aunt. She is very old, and it is a very old house that she lives in. It is called The Dower House. It is full of very old-fashioned things, and she has a maid called Isobel who has been with her for years. The house is on a hill, so that you can see the sea, and it has a sloping garden, all terraces and hedges. One of these is an orchard, and in it is a sweet little wooden house for children to play in. It is, actually, full-sized and properly furnished, but Jess would simply love it. Mrs Boscawen (I have to call her Aunt Lavinia) took me to look at it after lunch, and we had a talk and she was very friendly. I hope that, one day, I shall go again.
Mrs Carey-Lewis says I can go again to Nancherrow to stay, which is very kind of her. I have written my bread-and-butter letter. Next weekend is half-term, and I'm going to Windyridge. We have four days off, from Friday to Monday. I got a postcard from Aunt Louise and she is coming to fetch me in her car on Friday morning and we're going to Porthkerris to buy the bicycle.
I took my Chinese box to Nancherrow and have left it there for the time being, because there is nowhere at school to put it. Mrs Carey-Lewis gave me some cowrie shells for one of the little drawers.
Work is all right, and I got seven out of ten for the History Test. We're doing Horace Walpole and the Treaty of Utrecht. Longing to hear about the new house in Orchard Road, Singapore. You'll hate saying goodbye to Joseph and Amah.
Lots of love and love to Jess,
Judith
She was at Windyridge, standing at the window of her bedroom, staring out at the view of the golf course and the distant bay, but not able to see anything very clearly because everything was drowned in soft and relentless rain. As well, her eyes kept filling with childish and stupid tears, because she suffered, quite suddenly, from the most acute homesickness.
Which was strange, because this was half-term, and she hadn't experienced such depression since Mummy had said her last goodbyes and left Judith at St Ursula's. Somehow, at school, there wasn't time to be homesick, because there was always so much to do, so much to achieve, so much to learn, to think about, and remember; so many people scurrying around, so many bells clanging, all interspersed with copious bouts of enforced exercise, that by the time she climbed into bed, that classic hour for weeping privately, she was always too tired to do much more than read for a moment or two and then fall fast asleep.
And at Nancherrow, speaking of her parents and Jess in the course of conversation, politely answering polite questions, had aroused no pangs of yearning nor need. In truth, during that magic weekend, she had scarcely thought of Mummy and Dad, as though they were part of a disappeared world which had temporarily ceased to exist. Or perhaps because Judith, wearing Athena Carey-Lewis's clothes, had taken on some new identity which had nothing to do with family; a person absorbed only in the present, and the next exciting thing that was going to happen.
Now, she thought of Nancherrow in a wistful fashion, wishing that she were there with Loveday, in that place filled with sunshine and flowers and light, instead of Aunt Louise's soulless house stuck up on the hill, and with only three middle-aged women for company. But then common sense came to her rescue, for the whole of Cornwall was being drenched with rain, and Nancherrow would be suffering with the rest. There had been much gloom in the dormitory when they awoke to the dismal weather, and mackintoshes and rubber boots had been ordered as the rig of the day. At ten o'clock, the boarders streamed out of the front door and splashed through puddles to the various cars which waited to bear them away for the mid-term holiday. Aunt Louise, always punctual, was there in her old Rover, but no car had yet arrived for Loveday and she had complained bitterly because she was forced to wait, kicking her heels, until somebody turned up.
(In a way, that was a good thing because Judith did not particularly want to have to introduce Aunt Louise to Diana. The two ladies would have little in common, and Aunt Louise would doubtless make snide remarks about Mrs Carey-Lewis all the way home.)
Despite the weather, however, it had been quite a good morning. They had stopped in Penzance to do some shopping, and gone into the bank to get spending money for Judith for the weekend. (But not money for the bicycle, because Aunt Louise had promised to pay for that.) And they had gone into the bookshop and had a good browse, and Judith had bought a new fountain pen, because some girl had borrowed hers and ruined the nib. Then they had coffee in a tea-shop, and ate Kunzle cakes, and then come back here. The journey, through the rain, sitting beside Aunt Louise as she had clashed her gears and pressed her polished brogue hard down upon the accelerator, was hairy, to say the least of it, and Judith had closed her eyes and expected instant death as Aunt Louise overtook a lumbering bus on a bend, or sped over the narrow brow of a hill with no idea of what might be coming on the other side. But somehow they had reached Penmarron, and the longing for Riverview and Mummy and Jess started as they drove through the village, because it seemed all wrong to be staying on the main road and not taking the turning that led, by way of lanes, down to the estuary and the railway station. And when they got to Windyridge, that was all wrong as well, the house rearing up in front of them through the swirling mist, and the treeless, manicured garden offering no sort of welcome or comfort.
Hilda, the housemaid, had come to the door to help carry suitcases. ‘I'll take them upstairs now,’ she announced, and Judith followed her thick black cotton legs, and although she knew the house as well as s
he knew Riverview, this was the first time she had ever stayed here, and it was strange and alien and didn't smell right, and all at once she longed to be anywhere else in the world. Just not here.
And for no practical reason; simply a sort of emotional turmoil, a panic of misplacement. Because her room, Aunt Louise's erstwhile spare bedroom, was very nice, and her possessions, brought from Riverview, were neatly disposed or hidden away in cupboards and drawers. And her desk was there, and her books on a shelf. And flowers on the dressing-table. But nothing else. And yet, what else was there to want? What else was there to fill this terrible void that felt like a great hole in her heart?
Hilda had made a few banal observations about the dirty weather, the proximity of the bathroom, the fact that lunch was at one, and then departed. Judith, left alone, went to the window and succumbed to these ridiculous tears.
She wanted Riverview, and Mummy and Jess and Phyllis. She wanted all the familiar sights and sounds and smells. The sloping garden and the view of the peaceful estuary, filling and flowing with the tides, and the day broken by the reassuring chunter of the little stream train. The shabby charm of the flower-filled sitting-room, and the sound of Phyllis clashing pots in the scullery as she prepared vegetables for lunch, to the perpetual accompaniment of Jess's piping voice. Smells were even more invidious and nostalgic. The clean mixture of Vim and Yardley's lavender soap which emanated from the bathroom; the sweet scent of privet from the hedge by the front door; and the gusty tang of seaweed at low tide. And cooking smells, mouth-watering when you came indoors hungry. A cake in the oven, or onions frying…
It was no good. It did no good. Riverview had gone, let to another family. Mummy and Dad and Jess were away across the oceans on the other side of the world. Crying like a baby would not bring them back. She found a handkerchief and blew her nose, and then unpacked, wandering around the room, opening drawers and doors, locating clothes and finding something to wear that wasn't uniform. No cashmere sweaters here. Just an old skirt, and a Shetland pullover that had been washed so often it was no longer scratchy. She brushed her hair, and was calmed by this, and tried to think of cheerful things. The new bicycle, to be bought in Porthkerris this afternoon. Four days of freedom from school. She would cycle to the beach and walk on the sand. Perhaps go and see Mr Willis. She would telephone Heather and make some plans with her. The prospect of seeing Heather again was enough to cheer anybody up. Gradually her misery dissipated; she tied her hair back in its ribbon bow and went downstairs in search of Aunt Louise.
Over lunch, which was chops and mint sauce and stewed apples, Aunt Louise showed some curious interest in the visit that Judith had paid to the Carey-Lewises. ‘I've never been there, but I hear the garden is fairly spectacular.’
‘Yes, it is, and full of lovely things. There are hydrangeas all the way up the drive. And camellias and things. And they've got their own little beach.’
‘What's the child like?’
‘Loveday? She's wicked, but nobody seems to mind much. She's got a terribly nice nanny called Mary who does all the ironing.’
‘You'll be getting ideas above your station.’
‘No, I won't. It was different, but it was nice.’
‘What did you think of Mrs Carey-Lewis? Is she really as flighty as her reputation?’
‘Has she got a reputation?’
‘Very much so. Always off to London, or little trips to the south of France. And rather raffish chums.’
Judith thought of Tommy Mortimer, and decided, once again, that it would be prudent not even to mention his name. She said instead, ‘There was a terribly nice man there called Jeremy Wells. He's a doctor, and Mummy and I met him on the train when we came back from Plymouth. We shared a compartment. He wasn't staying at Nancherrow. He was just there for the day.’
‘Jeremy Wells?’
‘Do you know him?’
‘No, but everybody knows about Jeremy because of his sporting prowess. He captains the Cornish Rugby team, and played for Cambridge. He scored three tries in his last Varsity match. I remember reading about it in the newspaper. The hero of the day.’
‘He plays cricket too. Colonel Carey-Lewis told me.’
‘Well, you have been hobnobbing with celebrities! I hope you won't find it too dull here.’
‘I'm really looking forward to buying the bicycle.’
‘We'll do that this afternoon. I've been told that Pitway's is the best shop in Porthkerris, so we'll go there. And Mr Pitway has a van, so we'll get him to deliver it here just as soon as he can. I don't think you should ride it home on the main road until you've got the hang of it. You can practise around the village, and learn to stick your hand out when you're turning a corner. I don't want to have to write to your mother and tell her that you've ended your days under the wheel of a lorry.’
She laughed as though this were a great joke, and Judith laughed too, although she didn't think it was particularly funny.
‘As for the rest of the weekend, let's hope it stops raining, so you can be out and about. On Sunday, I'm afraid I have to abandon you, as I'm playing golf all day. As well, Edna and Hilda are going home for some celebration, an old aunt's eightieth birthday, and they have to be there to help with the tea. So you'll be on your own, but I'm sure you'll be able to amuse yourself.’
The prospect of a day on her own was not unattractive, but it would be even more fun spending the empty Sunday with the Warren family. She said, ‘I thought I might telephone Heather, if you didn't mind. Perhaps I could go there on Sunday. Or Heather come to me.’
‘The little Warren girl? What a good idea. I'll leave it to you. It's good to keep up with old friends. Now, have some more apple? No? Well then, ring for Hilda to come and clear the table and then I'll have my cup of coffee and we'll leave for Porthkerris about two-thirty. You'll be ready?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She could hardly wait.
The rain, relentless, continued. Through it, they drove to Porthkerris, which looked its most gloomy, with gutters running with water, and the harbour filled with sullen grey sea. Pitway's Bicycle Shop stood at the bottom of the hill, and Aunt Louise parked the Rover up a neighbouring alley, and they went inside. The shop smelt of rubber and oil and new leather, and there were bicycles everywhere, ranging from toddlers' trundle toys to racing bikes with dashing drop handlebars, which Judith considered a bit of a swizz, because pedalling along with your head between your knees and with nothing to look at but the road surely destroyed the whole object of the exercise.
Mr Pitway appeared, in his khaki overall, and the great decision commenced. In the end, they all agreed on a Raleigh, dark green and with a black saddle. It had a chain-guard, and three speeds, and good fat rubber handgrips, and its own pump for blowing up the tyres, and a little bag at the back of the saddle with tools and a small can of oil. It cost exactly five pounds, and Aunt Louise gallantly took out her wallet and peeled out the notes.
‘Now, Mr Pitway, I want this delivered as soon as possible. How about this afternoon?’
‘Well, I'm alone in the shop just now…’
‘Rubbish. You can get your wife to hold the fort for half an hour. Just pop it in your van and bring it over. Windyridge, Penmarron.’
‘Yes, I know where you are, but—’
‘Splendid. That's all fixed. See you about four o'clock. We'll be looking out for you.’ She was already half-way out of the door. ‘And thank you for your help.’
‘Thank you,’ said the hapless Mr Pitway, ‘for your custom.’
He kept his word, clearly intimidated by Aunt Louise. The afternoon had improved slightly, and although the skies were still grey, and the world sodden and dripping, the rain, obligingly, had stopped, and when, at five to four, the blue van turned in at the gates of Windyridge, Judith, who had been watching for its arrival, was able to rush out and help Mr Pitway unload the precious cargo. Aunt Louise, who had also heard the car, followed hard on her heels, just to make sure that all was in order and the bicy
cle had not been marked or damaged in any way during its short journey. For once she could find no fault. She thanked Mr Pitway and gave him half a crown for his trouble and to pay for the petrol. He received his pourboire in an embarrassed but grateful fashion, waited until Judith had mounted the bike and done a couple of turns around the path which circled the lawn, and then touched his cap, got into his van and drove away.
‘Well,’ said Aunt Louise. ‘And how's that?’
‘It's absolutely perfect. Oh, thank you, Aunt Louise.’ Hanging onto the handlebars, she planted a kiss on Aunt Louise's unreceptive cheek. ‘It's the most lovely bike and the most lovely present. I'll really look after it, and it's the best thing I've ever had.’
‘Always remember to put it in the garage, and never leave it out in the rain.’
‘Oh, I won't. I never will. I'm going for a ride now. Round the village.’
‘You know how the brakes work?’
‘I know how everything works.’
‘Off you go then. Enjoy yourself.’
And with that, she went indoors to her knitting, her afternoon tea, her novel.
It was heaven, like flying. Spinning down the hill, and cycling through the village, seeing again all the small remembered shops and the familiar cottages of the main street. She sailed past the post office and the pub, passed the turning which led to the Vicarage, and then free-wheeled, at tremendous speed, down the wooded hill which led to the far boundaries of the estuary, where the causeway curved to the far side of the water. She took the lane that circled the violet farm and cycled on, splashing through puddles, along the bumpy track that ran parallel to the little railway line. It was always sheltered here, and the south-facing banks were starred with wild primroses. It didn't matter about the dismal grey skies. The air was sweet and smelt of damp earth, and the fat tyres of the bicycle skimmed over the bumps and puddles, and she was on her own and totally free, and filled with endless energy, as though, if asked, she could have travelled to the ends of the earth. She felt like singing, and there was nobody about to hear, so she sang.