You'll gather from all this gabbling that I think we won't be able to have you for the Easter holidays, but by summer we should be more or less established, and please, please, come to us then. Miss Catto assures me that she'll see you are cared for, and she sounds so sensible that I shan't worry about you, but just look foward enormously to seeing you in the summer.
Dear pet, I am so sorry this has happened. Let me know when the funeral takes place, not that there is much likelihood that I shall be able to be present. My father is ill again, and my mother struggling to take care of him. Cries for help come all the time, so I must try to find some sort of a resident housekeeper to keep an eye on the old pair.
Uncle Bob joins me in sending our love. He says keep your chin up.
Always kisses,
Aunt Biddy
Sunday, 5th April.
Dear Mummy and Dad,
I know that you have got telegrams and that Miss Catto and Mr Baines are both writing to you. It was dreadfully sad about Aunt Louise and I shall miss her very much, because she was so kind to me. I was homesick for you all when I first went to Windyridge for the half-term, but I very soon stopped because Aunt Louise was very good about everything and didn't fuss at me. I know she was a terrible driver, but Miss Catto said that the accident wasn't her fault, because this truck had been abandoned just over the brow of the hill, and she hit it.
As for me, please don't worry. I could have gone to Aunt Biddy for the Easter holidays, but she is very occupied just now with a new house which she has bought, and Grandfather Evans being ill. But I am sure that I could stay with the Warrens in Porthkerris for a bit, and Miss Catto has even mentioned going to Oxford to stay in the big house where her parents live. I would quite like that, because Miss Catto thinks I might do well enough in exams to get a place at Oxford University, so it would be interesting to see the town. And then I can go to Aunt Biddy in the summer.
I am so sorry for Edna and Hilda, but perhaps they will find another job where they can be together. It was horrible being told about Aunt Louise because a car smash is such a violent thing, and she wasn't very old. Miss Catto says that death is part of life, but even so you don't want death to happen quite so quickly.
The funeral was last Thursday. Miss Catto said I didn't need to go if I didn't want to, but I thought I'd better. I wore uniform and Matron made me a black armband for mourning. Miss Catto said that she would take me, but Mr Baines came in his car and took both of us. He was very nice to us both and I sat in the front beside him. The service was in Penmarron Church and there were lots of people there, a lot of whom I didn't know. But we arrived just at the same time as the Warrens, and Mrs Warren gave me a huge hug and introduced herself to Miss Catto, and said that any time I wanted, I could go and spend holidays with them. Wasn't that really kind of her?
In church, we sang ‘The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, Is Ended’, and there were a great many flowers everywhere. The vicar said nice things about Aunt Louise. Hilda and Edna sat just behind us and cried, but their cousin was there with his motor car, and he took them away when the service was over. They were both in black and looked dreadfully miserable.
After the service, we all went out after the coffin. It was a very cold day, but a blue sky and a cold north wind blowing in from the sea. In the churchyard, all the grass on the top of the walls was blowing sideways and you could smell the sea and hear the rollers. I am glad it wasn't raining.
It was terrible seeing the coffin go down into the hole and knowing that Aunt Louise was in it. The vicar gave me some earth and I threw it in, and Miss Catto threw in a bunch of primroses and Mr Baines a rose, which I thought was nice of him. He must have known how much Aunt Louise liked roses. It wasn't until that moment that I realised that she was really dead for ever. Then we all said goodbye to everybody and came back to Penzance and Mr Baines took Miss Catto and me out to lunch at The Mitre, but I kept thinking of the day we had lunch there, Mummy, and missed you and wished you had been there.
Most of the village people were there, and I spoke to Mrs Berry and Mrs Southey. Mrs Southey gave me a rather whiskery kiss.
Here, Judith became a bit stuck. Memories of the funeral were blurry. Other faces had swum into her vision from time to time, but it was hard to put names to them. Billy Fawcett had been there, but she didn't even want to write his name. She had spied him, at the end of the service, as she stepped out into the aisle with Miss Catto behind her, and made her way out towards the main door. He was standing at the very back of the church. She saw him, and he was looking at her, and with a new courage, bolstered by the presence of her headmistress, she met his eye and stared him down. He turned away, but before he did this, she saw on his face an expression of pure hatred, directed at herself. The bolted doors of Windyridge were not forgotten, and his own humiliating defeat unforgiven. She did not care. In the churchyard, he was not amongst the mourners at the graveside. Offended and truculent, he had already taken himself off, and for this small mercy Judith felt grateful. But his was a recurring spectre, still haunting her dreams. Perhaps, with no Aunt Louise to keep an eye on him, keep him company, and pour free whisky down his thirsty throat, he would chuck his hand in, leave Cornwall, and go and find somewhere else to spend his twilight years. Scotland perhaps. There were lots of golf courses in Scotland. She wished he would go and live in Scotland, and then she would never, ever have to see him again. But then he probably didn't know anybody in Scotland; in truth, he was so horrible, she couldn't imagine him having a single friend anywhere. So, in all likelihood he would stay just where he was, dug in to his rented bungalow, haunting the club house in Penmarron like a lost dog, and from time to time driving himself to the shops of Porthkerris in order to stock up on the necessities of life. He would always be around, and she had the sense to realise that she would never be totally free of him until the day when he turned up his toes and died. Shivering in the graveyard wind, she found time to wish that it was he they were about to inter forever in his grave, and not Aunt Louise. It was all so dreadfully unfair. Why should Aunt Louise be snatched away to eternity while still in the prime of her useful and busy existence, while that gruesome old groper lived on, spared to go about his horrid business?
Unseemly reflections for such a sad and overwhelming occasion. But then she spied Mr Willis, and was so grateful to see him there, that she put Billy Fawcett out of her mind. Mr Willis stood respectfully a little way off, shy of intruding into anybody's private sorrow. Shaved and scrubbed, he wore a shiny blue suit with straining buttons, and a collar that looked as though it were about to choke him. He carried his bowler hat, and Judith, who had remained dry-eyed all through the service, was touched to tears by the obvious trouble to which he had gone. Before going from the churchyard, she left Miss Catto and Mr Baines, who were having a few words with the vicar, and made her way across the tufty grass between the ancient headstones to greet her old friend.
‘Mr Willis.’
‘Oh, my dear.’ He put his bowler on, in order to get it out of the way, and took both her hands in his own. ‘Some awful thing to happen. You all right, are you?’
‘Yes, I'm all right. Thank you so much for being here.’
‘Awful shock when I heard the news. Went up to the pub Thursday evening, and Ted Barney told me then. Could hardly believe it…that soft-head, Jimmy Jelks…’
‘Mr Willis. I never came to see you at half-term. I felt so badly. I meant to come…but somehow…I never did. I hope you weren't hurt…’
‘No, I reckoned you'd have plenty to do without coming that long way down to the ferry.’
‘Next time I'm in Penmarron, I promise I'll come. I've got so much to tell you.’
‘How's your mother and Jess?’
‘All right, as far as I know.’
‘Who's going to take care of you now?’
‘Oh, Aunt Biddy in Plymouth, I expect. I'll be all right.’
‘Tragedy's bad enough, but this is cruel luck on you. Still, Great Reaper strike
s, and there's not much we can do, is there?’
‘No. No, there's not much. Mr Willis, I have to go. They're waiting. I'm so glad I saw you.’ They were still holding hands. She looked at Mr Willis and saw his eyes suddenly fill with tears. She leaned up and kissed his leathery cheek, which smelt of Lifebuoy soap and tobacco, all mixed up together.
‘Goodbye, Mr Willis.’
‘Goodbye, my handsome.’
Recalling all this was a bit sad, because perhaps she wouldn't go to Penmarron ever again, and perhaps their goodbye at the funeral was to be forever. And she remembered farther back, to many happy, stolen afternoons spent in his company. Fine days when he leaned against the rotted hulk of a rowboat, smoked his pipe and yarned companionably, while waiting for the tide to rise, and the coal-boats to move in over the sandbar. And wet, cold winter days, which were even better, because then they fugged up together in his little shack, and brewed tea on the old pot-bellied stove.
But no time for brooding, because she had to finish her letter.
For a moment or two, she debated as to whether she should mention Mr Willis's presence at the funeral. She had always kept him something of a secret from her mother, partly because she wanted no interference, and partly because of the doubtful status of the so-called Mrs Willis. And then thought, oh, bother it, because really in the present circumstances Mr Willis and his private life-style was no more important than a storm in a teacup. He was Judith's friend, and that was how it was going to stay. And if Mummy read between the lines and found some hidden and sinister inference, it would be six weeks before Judith got a letter in reply to this one, by which time the whole world might have changed.
Besides, she wanted to write about Mr Willis.
Mr Willis was there too. Do you remember him? He's the ferryman and works for the Harbour Authority. He looked very smart and he had a bowler hat and he asked after you and Jess. I thought it was good of him to be there, and shave and dress himself up and everything
Tomorrow afternoon Mr Baines is coming to school and I have to see him to talk about what he calls family affairs. I suppose to do with school and things, but have no idea what this means. I hope he doesn't use long words that I won't understand, and I just hope he is able to help Edna and Hilda get another position.
And I hope you are all well, and that Dad isn't too unhappy about Aunt Louise. Miss Catto says she died so quickly she never knew what happened, and that she loved driving, but this isn't much comfort when you are so far away, and were so fond of each other. Please don't worry about me. We break up on Friday, 10th April.
Lots of love,
Judith
‘Well, there you are, Judith…’
Mr Baines, presumably with Miss Catto's permission, had already established himself behind her desk, and littered it with his briefcase and a lot of documents. He was a very tall man, with brindled hair like a rough-coated terrier, and enormous horn-rimmed spectacles, and in his tweed suit and checked shirt looked the very epitome of a successful country solicitor. His firm, of which he was one of the senior partners, had been long established in Penzance, and occupied offices in an enviable Regency house in Alverton. Judith knew this because every Sunday the St Ursula's crocodile walked that way to church, and because she knew that the firm were the Dunbar family lawyers, had always taken time to admire the charming proportions of the little house, and to read the old names — Tregarthen, Opie & Baines — on the highly polished brass plate by the front door. She had, however, never met Mr Baines until the day of Aunt Louise's funeral, when he had been extremely considerate and kindly, driving them in his car, and standing them lunch at The Mitre, and generally making the dismal day as bearable as he possibly could. Because of this, she felt, now, as though the social ice had already been broken, which was a good thing. She had no idea what he wanted to say to her, but at least they didn't have to edge into acquaintanceship, and could dispense with the polite and time-consuming formalities which she imagined were the norm on such occasions. ‘How are you getting along?’
She told him that she was getting along very well, and he came out from behind the desk and brought forward a chair for her to sit on. Then he returned to Miss Catto's throne and settled himself once more at his papers.
‘First of all, before anything else, I want to set your mind at rest about Edna and Hilda. I think I have found a position for them with an old client of mine who lives up near Truro. I'll arrange for the sisters to go for an interview, but if they take the job, I think they'll be very happy and comfortable. A single lady, about the same age as Mrs Forrester, and pleasant working conditions.’ He smiled. When he smiled he looked much younger, and even quite attractive. ‘So you don't have to worry about them any more.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Judith felt most grateful. ‘You are clever. It sounds absolutely right for them. And I know they would want to stay together.’
‘So that's one thing out of the way. The next is that you know I cabled your father to let him know about Mrs Forrester? Well, I had a cable back a couple of days ago, and he sends you his love. He says he'll be writing to you. Have you written to your parents?’
‘Yes, and I told them all about the funeral.’
‘Well done. A sad letter to have to compose.’ He moved a paper or two, getting things into order. For a moment it seemed as if he didn't quite know how to start. ‘Now. Just remind me. How old are you? Fourteen? Fifteen?’
Which seemed a funny thing to say. ‘I'll be fifteen in June.’
‘Ah, yes. My eldest girl is just eight. She's starting at St Ursula's next year. It is fortunate that you are already established here. You'll get an excellent education. Miss Catto and I were talking, and it is her opinion that you are University material.’ He smiled. ‘Would you like to go on to University?’
‘I haven't really thought about it. I'm just afraid that it would be dreadfully expensive.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Baines. ‘I see.’ A silence fell, but before it could become uncomfortable, he pulled himself together, drew a folder towards him, picked up his fountain pen and said, ‘Well. Down to business.’
Judith waited politely.
‘Before she died, your aunt drew up a comprehensive will. Generous annuities have been arranged for Hilda and Edna. Everything else, her entire estate, she has left to you.’
Judith continued to wait.
Mr Baines took off his spectacles. His eyes, without them, wrinkled up in a peering fashion. Across the desk, she met his gaze. ‘All her worldly possessions.’
Judith found her voice. ‘It sounds an awful lot.’
‘It is a lot,’ said Mr Baines gently.
‘All for me?’
‘All for you.’
‘But…’ She knew that she was behaving stupidly, yet Mr Baines was being very patient. He waited, watching her. ‘But why me? Why not Dad? He's her brother.’
‘Your father has a sound job, a career, with a regular salary, recent promotion, and future security.’
‘But, I…well, I thought people like Aunt Louise, ladies on their own, left their money to charity, or cats' homes. Or the golf club. The golf club was always having whist drives or bridge afternoons to pay for new central heating, or cloakrooms or something.’
Mr Baines allowed himself to smile. ‘Perhaps your Aunt Louise had decided for herself that the cloakrooms were entirely adequate.’
It was almost as though he didn't understand. ‘But why me…?’
‘She had no issue of her own, Judith. No children. No dependants. No family. Over the years, she told me a lot about herself. In her day, when she was a young woman, girls didn't have jobs or careers, and few were encouraged to go to University. If you were beautiful and wealthy, it didn't really matter, but for the ordinary, middle-class daughter, the only prospect of any sort of a life was marriage. Your aunt was neither wealthy nor beautiful. She told me this herself. In England, she had little success with young men, and so eventually her parents shipped her out to India to fi
nd a husband for herself. She remembered this without rancour, and yet as a sort of humiliation. She was only one of many…unattached, quite pretty girls, all sailing across the world with one thought in mind.’
‘You mean, getting married?’
‘The worst was that they were known, collectively, as The Fishing Fleet, because they were on their way to fish for husbands.’
‘Aunt Louise would have hated that.’
‘In her case, the story had a happy ending, because she married Jack Forrester and shared many good years with him. She was lucky. But knew others who had not fared so well.’
‘Do you think that she minded about not having children?’
‘No, I don't think so.’
‘Then what are you trying to tell me?’
‘Oh dear, I'm not doing this very well, am I? What I am trying to tell you is that your Aunt Louise was very fond of you. She saw, I think, a great potential. She did not want you to go through what she had to go through. She wanted you to have what she never had. The independence to be her own person, to make her own choices, and to do those things when she was young, with all her life before her.’
‘But she did. She married Jack Forrester and she had a lovely time in India.’
‘Yes. For her it worked. But she didn't want you, ever, to have to take that risk.’