I've missed a week again, because I was with Aunt Louise for half-term. Thank you for your letter. I am longing to hear about Singapore and your new house in Orchard Road. I am sure it will be lovely, and you'll soon get used to it being a bit hot and steamy. It will feel funny having yellow Chinese faces around you, instead of black Tamil faces. And at least Mummy won't have to drive a car, ever again.
The weather at the weekend wasn't very good. Aunt Louise bought me the bicycle. It is a green Raleigh. On Sunday she played golf with some friends, so I biked to Veglos Hill with a picnic. There were lots of primroses. I telephoned Heather but didn't see her because she was going to Bodmin to stay with her gran.
So much for the weekend. Nothing more that could be safely told. But the letter was not yet long enough, so she ploughed on.
It was quite fun coming back to school and seeing Loveday again. Her sister Athena has come back from Switzerland and was at Nancherrow for the weekend. She brought a boyfriend with her, hut Loveday said he was dreadfully dull and not nearly as nice as Jeremy Wells.
Sorry this is such a short letter but I have to go and swot for my History Test.
With love from
Judith
Louise Forrester's golfing friends, Polly and John Richards, were an ex-Naval couple, who, on retirement, turned their backs to Alverstoke and Newton Ferrars, and instead bought a solid stone house near Helston, with three acres of garden and commodious outbuildings. Polly Richards' father had been a successful brewer, and some of his wealth had obviously trickled down to her, for they enjoyed a far less penurious lifestyle than most of their pensioned contemporaries, and were able to employ a couple to care for them, a daily cleaner, and a full-time gardener. The couple were an ex-chief petty officer and his wife who rejoiced in the name of Makepeace, and the gardener was a silent, morose man who worked from dawn to dusk, when he put away his tools and sloped off to his badger's holt of a cottage tucked away beyond the glasshouses.
Untrammelled by domestic chores, the Richards were able to enjoy a packed, active social life. They kept a yacht at St Mawes, and the summer months were totally occupied in sailing this craft around the inland waters of southern Cornwall, and racing her in various regattas. All through the year they had a stream of visitors to stay, and when they were neither sailing nor entertaining, they headed for the fairways and the bridge tables of the Penmarron Golf Club. It was thus that they had met Louise, and it was over many friendly tussles on the links that they had all become well acquainted.
Polly telephoned Louise. After a few pleasantries, she got down to business.
‘Frightfully short notice, but you couldn't come and play bridge tomorrow evening, could you? That's right, Wednesday the twenty-second.’
Louise consulted her diary. Apart from a hair appointment, it was blank.
‘How very kind. I'd love to.’
‘You are a brick. We've got an old chum of John's staying, and he's longing for a game. Could you be here at six? It's a bit early, but then we can have a rubber before dinner, and you won't be too late getting home. It's a hell of a drive, I'm afraid.’ Polly's breezy language went with her sailing, and she was legendary for the oaths that were clearly audible as their craft headed for some marker buoy, scudding, close-hauled, across the choppy grey waters of the Falmouth Passage.
‘Don't worry your head about that. I shall look forward to it.’
‘See you tomorrow then.’
And without further ado, Polly rang off.
It was a long drive, but worth the effort, as Louise knew it would be. A splendid evening. John Richards' friend was a Royal Marine General, a handsome man with a wicked eye, and plenty to say for himself. The drinks were lavish. The dinner, and the wine, excellent. As well, Louise held good cards all evening, and played them impeccably. With the last rubber played, the score was settled and small amounts of money changed hands. Louise found her purse and stowed away her winnings. The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten o'clock, and she snapped shut the clasp of her handbag and announced that it was time for her to set off for home. They pleaded with her to stay, to play one more rubber, to have one for the road, but, though tempted, she stuck to her guns and refused their kindly offers.
In the hall, John helped her into her fur coat, and after goodbyes had been said, accompanied her out into the dark, wet night, and stowed her safely in behind the wheel of her car.
‘You'll be all right, Louise?’
‘Right as rain.’
‘Drive carefully now.’
‘Thank you so much. A splendid evening.’
She drove, with her windscreen wipers pumping to and fro, and the road ahead shining wetly in the beam of the headlights, black as satin. She went by way of Marazion, towards Penzance, and as she approached the turning that led onto the main highway for Porthkerris, decided, impulsively, that the night was so unpleasant and the drive so long, that she would take the shorter route, the narrow lane that led up and over the moor. It was an awkward road, high-hedged and winding, with blind corners and summits, but she knew it well, there would be no traffic and it cut at least five miles off her journey.
The decision made, she turned left instead of right and, moments later, turned again, up the steep, wooded incline that led to the empty downs. The sky was black and there was not a star to be seen.
Four miles ahead of Louise, and travelling in the same direction, Jimmy Jelks, at the wheel of a ramshackle truck, was on his way back to Pendeen. His father, Dick Jelks, farmed a down-trodden smallholding in that neighbourhood, kept pigs and hens, grew potatoes and broccoli, and was renowned for having the muckiest farmyard in the district. Jimmy was twenty-one and lived at home, bullied by both his parents and the butt of every cruel joke, but as he lacked either the wit or the expertise to go courting, it seemed unlikely that he would ever escape.
He had driven to Penzance early that afternoon, with a load of broccoli to sell at the market. He was meant to return as soon as this was safely accomplished, but his father was in a dirty temper, and so, with cash in his pocket, Jimmy was tempted to put off time, drifting around the market, and having a crack with any person who could be bothered to talk to him. Eventually, craving company, he had yielded to the temptation of the open door of the Saracen's Head, and there stayed till closing time.
His progress, now, was not speedy. Beneath him the old truck rattled and shook. Dick Jelks had bought it, fourth-hand, from a coal merchant, and from the start it had suffered from every sort of mechanical complaint. Windows, once opened, refused to close; handles fell from doors; the mudguards had succumbed to rust, and the radiator grille was tied on with binder twine. Starting the engine was a recurring battle of wills, involving a cranking handle, enormous physical exertion, and often painful injuries, such as sprained thumbs or agonising clouts over the knee. Even when it finally shuddered into life, the truck stayed resolutely uncooperative, refusing to go into any forward gear higher than second, frequently boiling, blowing its ancient tyres, and backfiring with such explosive force that any person unfortunate enough to be standing nearby feared an instant heart attack.
Tonight, having stood in the rain all afternoon, it was behaving in a more pig-headed fashion than usual. The headlights, never very bright, seemed to be losing heart, achieving only a candle glow to show the way ahead. And from time to time the engine coughed, like a consumptive, and faltered, threatening to stop altogether. Painfully grinding up and down the undulating moorland was almost too much for it, and after hauling its way up a steepish hill and achieving the level ground which lay beyond it, it finally gave up the ghost. The lights died, the engine, coughed its last, and the wheels, exhausted, rolled to a sudden stop.
Jimmy pulled on the handbrake and cursed. Outside, all was blackness and rain. He heard the thin keening wind; saw the pinprick light of a distant farmhouse, and knew that it was too far away to be of any use to him. He turned up his coat collar and, reaching for the starting handle, clambered down onto the road and went around th
e front of the truck to do battle. It was only when he had been cranking for five minutes, injured his shin and bloodied his knuckles, that the truth dawned on his fuddled brain. The battery was flat and the bloody bitch of a truck was not going to move again. Almost in tears of rage and frustration, he flung the starting handle back into the cab, slammed the door shut, and with hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the rain, set off to walk the seven miles back to Pendeen.
Louise Forrester, headed for home, found herself in a good mood; pleased that she had chosen to come this way, enjoying the challenge of the journey, the solitary isolation of the unlit country road, the gratification of being the only person out and about so late and on such a filthy night. As well, she loved to drive, and was always stimulated by the sensation of being in charge, in control, behind the wheel of her powerful car.
Accelerating, she got a physical thrill from the response of the engine, and experienced a young man's excitement as she manoeuvred the Rover around narrow, tight corners without ever losing speed. All of it gave her a kick. She thought of the song, but could not remember the words, so made up some of her own
‘I get a kick out of you
Driving too fast with my life in the past…’
I am, she told herself, behaving as skittishly as that flighty creature, Biddy Somerville. But it had been a good evening. This exhilarating journey home, over the empty moors, was a fitting way to end the day. A flourish. She had never been a woman to do things by halves.
The road sank before her, winding down into a shallow valley. At the foot of this she crossed a small stone humpbacked bridge, and then began to climb again. She changed down to third and, its headlights pointing to the sky, the powerful car charged up the hill and was over the brow like a steeplechaser.
Her foot was still hard down on the accelerator. She saw the truck, unlit and abandoned, but only a split second before she hit it. The shattering crash, the noise of tearing metal and breaking glass, was horrendous, but Louise was not aware of anything. The impact caused her to be flung forwards, out of her seat, against and through the windscreen, and at the consequent post-mortem the police doctor gave it as his opinion that Mrs Forrester had died instantly.
But it was impossible to be certain. Because, for perhaps half a minute after the collision, nothing much happened. Only splinters of glass trickled to the roadside and a wheel, askew in the air, slowly ceased to rotate. In the dark and the rain and the solitude, there had been no witness to the disaster, and so nobody to send for, nor bring, help. The shambles of the wreckage, lightless and torn and twisted almost beyond recognition, was simply there, unsuspected; the two shattered vehicles locked together like a pair of copulating dogs.
And then, with startling suddenness and a thud that boomed through the black night like a clap of thunder, the Rover's petrol tank ignited and blew up, and the flames exploded, consuming, staining the dark heavens with scarlet. The conflagration, like a warning beacon, alighted the world, and a dark cloud of evil-smelling smoke was blown across the sky, contaminating the sweet damp air with the stench of burning rubber.
Deirdre Ledingham opened the library door. She said, ‘So there you are…’
Judith looked up. It was a Thursday afternoon, and she had a free period and had come to the library to do some reading for an English literature essay she had to write on Elizabeth Barrett Browning. But she had been diverted by the latest issue of The Illustrated London News, which Miss Catto considered educational, and had delivered to St Ursula's every week. Its pages were devoted to a variety of subjects as well as news; archaeology; and horticulture; and nature articles, covering the life-styles of strange, tree-creeping creatures, and birds with names like the lesser bar-tailed godwit. But Judith was not all that keen on zoology and had been deep in a disturbing account of the creation and development of the Hider Youth in Germany. This movement was not, it seemed, a bit like Boy Scouts, who never appeared to do anything more sinister than put up tents, light campfires, and sing ‘Underneath the Spreading Chestnut Tree’. Instead, the young lads seemed like soldiers, dressed in shorts and military caps and swastika armbands. Even their activities appeared arrogant and warlike, and there was one picture of a group of the handsome blond youngsters that filled Judith with a special foreboding. Because they should all have been playing cricket or football or climbing trees, but instead were marching at some civic ceremony, grimfaced and well drilled as a squad of professional soldiers. She tried to imagine how she should feel, should such a parade come goose-stepping down Market Jew Street, and found the prospect unimaginably awful. And yet, in the photographed faces of the crowds gathered to watch the boys strut by, was nothing but pleasure and pride. This, it seemed, in Germany, was what ordinary people wanted…
‘…I've been looking for you everywhere.’
Judith closed The Illustrated London News. ‘Why?’ she asked. As the weeks of term had passed and the routine of school became as familiar as home, her confidence had grown and she had lost some of her awe of Deirdre Ledingham. Egged on by Loveday, who stood in awe of nobody, she had decided that Deirdre's bossy self-importance at times verged on the ridiculous. She was, as Loveday frequently pointed out, just another girl, for all her air of authority, her badges, and her thrusting bust. ‘What for?’
‘Miss Catto wants to see you in her study.’
‘What about?’
‘No idea. But you'd better not keep her waiting.’
After that first interview, Judith was no longer terrified of Miss Catto, but even so, she had enough respect for the headmistress to do as she was told. She stacked her books and screwed the top on her fountain pen, and then went to the cloakroom to wash her hands and tidy her hair. Neat, and only slightly apprehensive, she knocked at Miss Catto's study door.
‘Come in.’
She was there, behind her desk, just as before. Only today it was grey and cloudy and the sun did not shine, and the flowers on her desk were not primroses but anemones. Judith loved anemones, with their pinks and purples and sea-greens. All the rich cold colours of the spectrum.
‘Judith.’
‘Deirdre said you wanted to see me, Miss Catto.’
‘Yes, my dear, I do. Come and sit down.’
A chair awaited her. She sat facing Miss Catto. This time there was to be no small talk. Miss Catto came straight to the point.
‘The reason I sent for you has nothing to do with school, nor your work. It is about something quite different. But I am afraid it is going to come as something of a shock, so I want you to prepare yourself…You see…it's your Aunt Louise…’
Judith stopped listening. She knew instantly what Miss Catto was about to tell her. Aunt Louise was going to marry Billy Fawcett. The palms of her hands went clammy, and she could almost feel the blood drain from her cheeks. The nightmare was going to come true. The thing that she prayed would never happen, was happening…
Miss Catto's voice continued. Inattention was a cardinal sin. Judith pulled herself together and tried to concentrate on what her headmistress was saying. Something about last night. ‘…driving home, at about eleven o'clock…she was alone…nobody about…’
The truth dawned. She was talking about Aunt Louise and her car. Nothing to do with Billy Fawcett. Judith felt her lips part in a sigh of relief, and knew that the colour was coming back into her face in an almost shameful blush.
‘…an accident. A really terrible collision.’ Miss Catto paused, and Judith looked at her and caught on Miss Catto's calm features an expression of puzzlement and concern. ‘Are you all right, Judith?’
She nodded.
‘You understand what I'm trying to tell you?’
She nodded again. Aunt Louise had had a car smash. That was what it was all about. Aunt Louise, driving, as always far too fast, overtaking on bends, scattering sheep or hens with a blast of her horn. But now, it seemed, her luck had run out. ‘She's all right, though, isn't she, Miss Catto?’ Aunt Louise in the local hospital,
with a bandage on her head, and her arm in a sling. That was all. Just wounded. ‘She is all right?’
‘Oh, Judith, no. I'm afraid she's not. It was a fatal accident. She was killed instantly.’
Judith stared at Miss Catto, her face filled with defiant disbelief, because she knew that something so violent and final simply couldn't be true. And then saw the pain and compassion in Miss Catto's eyes, and knew that it was. ‘That is what I have to tell you, my dear. Your Aunt Louise is dead.’
Dead. Finished. Forever. Dead was a terrible word. Like the last tick of a clock, or the snip of a pair of scissors, severing a thread.
Aunt Louise.
She heard herself take a deep breath that sounded like a shudder. She said, very calmly, wanting to know, ‘How did it happen?’
‘I told you. A collision.’
‘Where?’
‘Up on the old road, the road that goes over the moor. A truck had broken down, been abandoned. No light. She drove into the back of it.’
‘Was she going very fast?’
‘I don't know.’
‘She was always a terrible driver. She went terribly fast. She overtook things.’
‘I think, probably, that this accident was not her fault.’
‘Who found her?’
‘There was a fire. It was seen, and the police were alerted.’
‘Was anyone else killed?’
‘No. Your aunt was alone.’
‘Where had she been?’
‘I think out to dinner with friends. Near Helston.’
‘Commander and Mrs Richards. She used to play golf with them.’ She thought of Aunt Louise driving home through the darkness as she had driven herself countless times before. She looked at Miss Catto. ‘Who told you?’