‘You, and that school, and lawyers and fees, and half-terms and telephone calls. And talking of telephone calls, your Aunt Biddy called this morning. Spoke to your mother ten minutes or more.’
Judith perked up. ‘Aunt Biddy?’ Aunt Biddy was Mummy's own sister, and a favourite of Judith's. ‘What did she want?’
‘I wasn't eavesdropping, was I? You'll have to ask your mum.’ She dumped down the iron and began to do up the buttons of Mummy's best blouse. ‘You'd better go through. I've laid a cup for you, and there's scones and lemon cake if you're hungry.’
‘Starving.’
‘As usual. Didn't they feed you at the party?’
‘Yes. Saffron buns. But I'm still hungry.’
‘Off you go then, or your mother will be wondering.’
‘Wondering what?’
But Phyllis only said, ‘Go and get your shoes changed, and wash your hands first.’
So she did this, washing her hands in the scullery, using Phyllis's California Poppy soap, and then, with some reluctance, left the snug companionship of the kitchen and crossed the hall. From beyond the sitting-room door came the low murmur of female voices. She opened the door, but silently, so that for a moment the two women remained unaware of her presence.
They sat, Molly Dunbar and her sister-in-law Louise Forrester, on either side of the hearth, with the folding tea-table set up between them. This had been laid with an embroidered linen cloth and the best china, as well as plates containing sandwiches, an iced lemon cake, hot scones spread with cream and strawberry jam, and two kinds of biscuit — shortbread and chocolate.
They had made themselves very comfortable, with velvet curtains closely drawn and the coal-fire flickering in the grate. The sitting-room was neither large nor grand, and, because Riverview House was a furnished let, nor was it specially well appointed. Faded chintz graced the armchairs, a Turkey rug covered the floor, and occasional tables and bookcases were functional rather than decorative. But nevertheless, in the gentle lamplight, it looked quite feminine and pretty, for Molly had brought with her from Ceylon a selection of her favourite bits and pieces, and these, set about the place, did much to alleviate the impersonality of the room. Ornaments in jade and ivory; a red lacquer cigarette box; a blue-and-white bowl planted with hyacinths, and family photographs in silver frames.
‘…you'll have such a lot to do,’ Aunt Louise was saying. ‘If I can help…’ She leaned forward to place her empty cup and saucer upon the table, and doing so, glanced up and saw Judith standing at the open door. ‘Well, look who's here…’
Molly turned. ‘Judith. I thought perhaps you'd missed the train.’
‘No. I've been talking to Phyllis.’ She closed the door and crossed the room. ‘Hello, Aunt Louise.’ She stooped to kiss Aunt Louise's proffered cheek. Aunt Louise accepted this but made no move to kiss Judith in return.
She was not one to show emotion. She sat there, a well-built woman in her early fifties, with legs of surprising thinness and elegance, and long narrow feet shod in brogues polished to a chestnut shine. She wore a tweed coat and skirt, and her short grey hair was marcel-waved and kept firmly in control with an invisible hairnet. Her voice was deep and husky from smoking, and even when she changed for the evening into more feminine attire, velvet dresses and embroidered bridge coats, there was something disconcertingly masculine about her, like a man who, for a joke or a fancy-dress party, puts on his wife's clothes and reduces the assembled company into shrieks of glee.
A handsome woman, but not beautiful. And, if old sepia photographs were to be believed, never beautiful, even in youth. Indeed, when she was twenty-three, still unengaged and unspoken for, her parents had been reduced to packing her off to India to stay with Army relations stationed in Delhi. When the hot weather came, the entire household decamped north to the cool hills and Poona, and it was here that Louise met Jack Forrester. Jack was a major in the Bengal Rifles and had just spent twelve months holed up in some remote mountain fort, skirmishing from time to time with warlike Afghans. He was in Poona on leave, desperate, after months of celibacy, for female companionship; and Louise — young, pink-cheeked, unattached and athletic — glimpsed bounding about on a tennis court, seemed to his hungry and bedazzled eyes a most desirable creature. With enormous determination but little finesse — there was no time for finesse — he pursued her, and before he knew what was happening discovered himself engaged to be married.
Oddly enough, it was a sound marriage, although…or perhaps because…they were never blessed with children. Instead, they shared a love of the open-air life, and all the glorious opportunities for sport and game that India offered. There were hunting parties and expeditions up into the hills; horses for riding and playing polo, and every opportunity for tennis and the golf at which Louise excelled. When Jack was finally retired from the Army and they returned to England, they settled in Penmarron, simply because of the proximity of the golf course, and the club became their home away from home. In inclement weather they played bridge, but most fine days saw them out on the fairways. As well, a certain amount of time was spent at the bar, where Jack earned the doubtful reputation of being able to drink any man under the table. He boasted of having a stomach like a bucket and all his friends agreed, until one bright Saturday morning, when he dropped dead on the fourteenth green. After that they weren't so sure.
Molly was in Ceylon when this sad event occurred, and wrote a letter of the deepest sympathy, being unable to imagine how Louise would manage without Jack. Such friends they had been, such pals. But when finally they did meet up again, she could find no change in Louise at all. She looked the same, lived in the same house, enjoyed the same life-style. Every day saw her out on the golf course, and because she had an excellent handicap and could thwack the ball as hard as any man, was never short of male partners.
Now, she reached for her cigarette case, opened it, and fitted a Turkish cigarette into an ivory holder. She lit it with a gold lighter which had once belonged to her late husband.
‘How,’ she asked Judith through a cloud of smoke, ‘did the Christmas party go?’
‘It was all right. We did Sir Roger de Coverley. And there were saffron buns.’ Judith eyed the tea-table. ‘But I'm still hungry.’
‘Well, we've left plenty for you to finish up,’ said Molly. Judith pulled up a low stool and settled herself between the two women, her nose on a level with all Phyllis's goodies. ‘Do you want milk or tea?’
‘I'll have milk, thank you.’ She reached for a plate and a scone and began to eat, cautiously, because the thick cream and strawberry jam were spread so generously that they were liable to squidge out and drop all over the place.
‘Did you say goodbye to all your friends?’
‘Yes. And Mr Thomas and everybody. And we all got a bag of sweets, but I've given mine to Jess. And then I walked down the hill with Heather—’
‘Who is Heather?’ asked Aunt Louise.
‘Heather Warren. She's my special friend.’
‘You know,’ said Molly, ‘Mr Warren, the grocer in the Market Place.’
‘Oh!’ Aunt Louise raised her eyebrows and became arch. ‘The dashing Spaniard. Such a good-looking man. Even if he didn't sell my favourite Tiptrees marmalade, I think I should have to give him my custom.’
She was obviously in a good mood. Judith decided that this was the right moment to broach the subject of the bicycle. Strike while the iron's hot, as Mrs Warren liked to say. Take the bull by the horns.
‘Actually, Heather had the most frightfully good idea. That I ought to have a bicycle.’
‘A bicycle?’
‘Mummy, you sound as though I'm asking for a racing car, or a pony. And I think it's a really good idea. Windyridge isn't like this house, next door to the railway station, and it's miles to the bus stop. If I have a bicycle, then I can get myself about, and Aunt Louise won't have to drive me in her car. And,’ she added cunningly, ‘then she can get on with her golf.’
Aunt L
ouise gave a snort of laughter. ‘You've certainly thought of everything.’
‘You wouldn't mind, would you, Aunt Louise?’
‘Why should I mind? Glad to be rid of you,’ which was Aunt Louise's way of being funny.
Molly found her voice. ‘But, Judith…isn't a bicycle dreadfully expensive?’
‘Heather says about five pounds.’
‘I thought so. Dreadfully expensive. And we have so many other things to buy. We haven't even started on your uniform yet, and the clothes list for St Ursula's is yards long.’
‘I thought you could give it to me for Christmas.’
‘But I've already got your Christmas present. What you asked me to get for you—’
‘Well, a bicycle could be my birthday present. You won't be here for my birthday, you'll be in Colombo, so that will save you having to post me a parcel.’
‘But you'll have to go on the main roads. You might have an accident…’
Here Aunt Louise intervened. ‘Can you ride a bicycle?’
‘Yes, of course. But I've never asked for one before, because I haven't really needed it. But do admit, Aunt Louise, it would be terribly handy.’
‘But, Judith…’
‘Oh, Molly, don't be such a fuss-pot. What harm can the child come to? And if she drives herself under a bus, then it's her own fault. I'll stand you a bicycle, Judith, but because it's so expensive, it'll have to do for your birthday as well. Which will save me having to post you a parcel.’
‘Really?’ Judith could scarcely believe that her argument had worked, that she had gone on pressing her point, and actually got her own way. ‘Aunt Louise, you are a brick.’
‘Anything to get you out from under my feet.’
‘When can we buy it?’
‘What about Christmas Eve?’
Molly said faintly, ‘Oh, no.’ She sounded flustered, and Louise frowned. ‘What's the matter now?’ she demanded. Judith thought there was no reason to speak so unkindly, but then Aunt Louise was often impatient with Molly, treating her more like an idiot girl than a sister-in-law. ‘Thought of more objections?’
‘No…it's not that.’ A faint blush turned Molly's cheeks pink. ‘It's just that we won't be here. I haven't told you yet, Louise, but I wanted to tell Judith first.’ She turned to Judith. ‘Aunt Biddy rang.’
‘I know. Phyllis told me.’
‘She's asked us to go and spend Christmas and New Year with them in Plymouth. You and me and Jess.’
Judith's mouth was full of scone. For a moment she thought she was going to choke, but managed to swallow it down before anything so awful should happen.
Christmas with Aunt Biddy.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said we would.’
Which was so unbelievably exciting that all other thoughts, even the new bicycle, fled from Judith's head.
‘When are we going?’
‘I thought the day before Christmas Eve. The trains won't be so crowded then. Biddy would meet us at Plymouth. She said she was sorry that she'd left it so late, the invitation, I mean, but it was just an impetuous idea. And she thought that, as it will be our last Christmas for a bit, it would be a good idea to spend it all together.’
If Aunt Louise hadn't been there, Judith would have jumped up and down and waved her arms and danced around the room. But it seemed a bit rude to be so elated when Aunt Louise hadn't been asked as well. Containing her excitement, she turned to her aunt.
‘In that case, Aunt Louise, perhaps we could buy the bicycle after Christmas?’
‘Looks as though we're going to have to, doesn't it? As a matter of fact, I was going to ask you all to spend Christmas with me, but now it looks as though Biddy's saved me the trouble.’
‘Oh, Louise, I'm sorry. Now I feel I've let you down.’
‘Rubbish. Better for us all to have a bit of a change. Will Biddy's boy be there?’
‘Ned? Unfortunately, no. He's going to Zermatt to ski, with some of his term at Dartmouth.’
Aunt Louise raised her eyebrows, not approving of expensive and extravagant gallivanting. But then, Biddy had always spoiled her only child quite appallingly, and could deny him no pleasure.
‘Pity,’ was all she said. ‘He would have been a companion for Judith.’
‘Aunt Louise, Ned's sixteen! He wouldn't take any notice of me at all. I expect I shall enjoy myself much more without him there…’
‘You're probably right. And knowing Biddy, you'll have a high old time. Haven't seen her for ages. When was she last here, Molly, staying with you?’
‘At the beginning of last summer. You remember. We had that lovely heat wave…’
‘Was that when she came to dinner with me in those extraordinary beach pyjamas?’
‘Yes, that's right.’
‘And I found her in your garden sunbathing in a two-piece bathing suit. Flesh-pink. She might just as well have been naked.’
‘She's always very up-to-date.’ Molly felt moved to stand up for her flighty sister, however feebly. ‘I suppose before very long we'll all be wearing beach pyjamas.’
‘Heaven forbid.’
‘What will you do for Christmas, Louise? I do hope you won't feel abandoned.’
‘Heavens, no. I shall rather enjoy being on my own. I'll maybe ask Billy Fawcett over for a drink, and then we'll go down to the club for lunch. They usually put on quite a good do.’ Judith had a mental picture of all the golfers, in their knickerbockers and stout shoes, pulling crackers and donning paper hats. ‘And then, perhaps, have a rubber or two of bridge.’
Molly frowned. ‘Billy Fawcett? I don't think I know him.’
‘No. You wouldn't. Old friend from the Quetta days. Retired now, and thought he'd give Cornwall a try. So he's rented one of those new bungalows they've built down my road. I'm going to introduce him around. You must meet him before you go. Keen golfer as well, so I've put him up for the club.’
‘That's nice for you, Louise.’
‘What's nice?’
‘Well…having an old friend come to live nearby. And a golfer too. Not that you're ever short of a partner.’
But Louise was not about to commit herself. She only played golf with the very best. ‘It depends,’ she said, forcefully stubbing out her cigarette, ‘on what sort of handicap he gets.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Heavens, is that the time? I must be on my way.’ She gathered up her handbag and pulled herself out of her chair, and Molly and Judith, as well, rose to their feet. ‘Tell Phyllis, a delicious tea. You'll miss that girl. Has she found another position yet?’
‘I don't think she's tried very hard.’
‘A treasure for some lucky person. No, don't ring for her. Judith can see me out. And if I don't see you before Christmas, Molly, have a ripping time. Give me a tinkle when you get back. Let me know when you want to move Judith's belongings up to Windyridge. And, Judith, we'll buy the bicycle at the beginning of the Easter holidays. You won't need it before then, anyway…’
1936
The black morning was so cold that, slowly waking, Judith was aware of her nose as a separate entity, frozen to her face. Last night, going to bed, the room had felt too icy even to open the window, but she had drawn back the curtains a bit, and now, beyond the frost-starred glass of the window, gleamed yellow light from the lamp in the street below. There was no sound. Perhaps it was still the middle of the night. And then she heard the clop of horses' hooves, the milk-delivery cart, and knew that it was not the middle of the night at all, but morning.
It was now necessary to make a huge effort of physical courage. One, two, three. She pulled her hand out of the warm bedclothes and reached out to turn on the bedside light. Her new clock – from Uncle Bob, and one of her best presents – told her seven forty-five.
She put her hand quickly back under the blankets and warmed it between her knees. A new day. The last day. She felt a bit depressed. Their Christmas holiday was over, and they were going home.
The room in which sh
e lay was in the attics of Aunt Biddy's house, and Aunt Biddy's second-best spare room. Mother and Jess had been given the best room, on the first floor, but Judith preferred this one, with its sloping ceilings and dormer window, and flowery cretonne curtains. The cold had been the worst thing about it, because the meagre heating of the rooms below her did not permeate up the last flight of stairs, but Aunt Biddy had let her have a small electric fire, and with the aid of this and a couple of hot-water bottles, she had managed to keep snug.
For, just before Christmas, the temperature had dropped alarmingly. A cold snap was on its way, warned the weatherman on the wireless, but he had prepared nobody for the Arctic conditions, which had prevailed ever since. As the Dunbars travelled up-country in the Cornish Riviera, Bodmin Moor had lain white with snow, and alighting at Plymouth had been a bit like arriving in Siberia, with bitter winds driving showers of sleet down the station platform.
Which was unfortunate, because Aunt Biddy and Uncle Bob lived in what had to be the coldest house in Christendom. This was not their fault, because it went with Uncle Bob's job, which was Captain (E) in charge of the Royal Naval Engineering College at Keyham. The house stood in a north-facing terrace, and was tall and thin and whistled with draughts. The warmest spot was the basement kitchen, but that was the territory of Mrs Cleese, the cook, and Hobbs, the retired Royal Marine bandsman who came in each day to black the boots and heave coals. Hobbs was something of a character, with white hair smarmed down over his bald patch, and an eye as bright and knowing as a blackbird's. He had tobacco-stained fingers, and a face seamed and battered and brown, like an old bit of luggage. If there was a party in the evening, he spruced himself up, put on a pair of white gloves and handed round the drinks.
There had been a lot of parties because, despite the freezing cold, this had been a truly magical Christmas, just the way Judith had always imagined Christmas ought to be, and had begun to think that she would never experience. But Biddy, who never did things by halves, had dressed the house overall — like a battleship, Uncle Bob remarked — and her Christmas tree, standing in the hall and filling the stairwell with lights and glitter and drifting tinsel and the smell of spruce, was the most magnificent that Judith had ever seen. Other rooms were just as festive, with hundreds of Christmas cards strung from scarlet ribbons, and swags of holly and ivy framing the fireplaces, and, in the dining-room and drawing-room, great coal-fires burned non-stop, like ship's boilers, stoked by Hobbs and banked up each night with slack, so that they never went out.