‘No.’ Judith looked down, watched her own fingers pleating the edge of the sheet. She said painfully, ‘I did want you to kiss me. I wanted to dance with you, and then I wanted you to kiss me. And then I spoilt it all.’
‘But you don't hate me?’
She looked up into his eyes, his straight blue gaze. ‘No,’ she told him. ‘I'm much too fond of you to hate you.’
‘In that case, we can wipe the slate clean.’
‘Is that why you came and woke me up?’
‘Not entirely. I just wanted to be certain that we understood each other. Because there mustn't be any tension or disagreement between us. Not because of you and me, but because of everybody else in the house. We're all going to be together for a few days yet, and nothing would be more uncomfortable than any sort of an atmosphere, non-speaks, loaded remarks or gloomy faces. Do you understand what I'm saying?’
‘Yes, Edward.’
‘My mother is as sharp as a needle when it comes to other people's relationships. I don't want her sending you long quizzical looks or asking me loaded questions. So you won't droop around, will you, doing an imitation of the Lady of Shalott?’
‘No, Edward.’
‘Good girl.’
Judith did not reply to this, because she couldn't think of anything to say, simply sat there churning with mixed emotions.
Relief was uppermost. Relief that Edward wasn't going to ignore and despise her for the rest of her life; that he still wanted to talk to her, to remain friends. And that he didn't think of her as a two-faced little cock-teaser. (She had gleaned this sophisticated phrase from Heather Warren, who had learned it from her brother Paddy. Paddy had a girlfriend whom he much fancied, but with whom, despite her dyed hair, short skirts, and enticing ways, he had got nowhere. She's a bloody little cock-teaser, he had finally told his sister, and gone off in a filthy temper, and at the first possible opportunity, Heather had relayed this fascinating information to Judith, making it perfectly clear that such behaviour counted, with men, for less than nothing.)
So, relief. But, as well, Judith found herself touched by Edward's good sense; prompted mainly by concern for his mother and her Christmas house party, but surely, too, he had been thinking a little bit of her.
She said, ‘You're completely right, of course.’
‘So,’ he smiled. ‘Family loyalties?’
‘They're not my family.’
‘Close as…’
Which filled her with love for him. She put up her arms and pulled him close and kissed his smooth cheek. He smelt fresh and lemony. The nightmare of Billy Fawcett had flown again, chased off by Edward and the clear light of morning, and love was back where it belonged. She lay back on the pillows. ‘Have you had breakfast yet?’
‘Not yet. Sorting things out seemed more important.’
‘I'm starving,’ Judith told him, and found, somewhat to her surprise, that this was true.
‘You sound like Athena.’ He got off the bed. ‘I'll go down. How long will you be?’
‘Ten minutes.’
‘I shall wait for you.’
1939
Speech Day at St Ursula's took place, by tradition, during the last week of July, on the last day of the summer term, and at the end of the school year. It was an occasion of great ceremony, following a time-honoured pattern of procedure. Assembly of parents and girls in the Great Hall, a prayer, a speech or two, prize-giving, the School Hymn, a blessing from the Bishop, and then afternoon tea, served either in the dining-hall or the garden, according to the clemency of the weather. All over, everybody escaped, home for the summer holidays.
The wording of the invitation to this annual function was, as well, unchanging.
The Governors of St Ursula's School for Girls, and Miss Muriel Catto (M.A. Cantab)…Speech Day…The Great Hall at 2 P.M.…Please be in your places by 1:45 P.M.…RSVP to the Headmistress's Secretary…
A nice, thick, gold-edged card, and copperplate script. A bit, thought some parents, like a Royal Command.
But dutifully, they turned up, obediently on time. By ten to two the impressive oak-panelled hall was jam-packed with humanity, and, despite opened windows on all sides, extremely warm, for prayers had been answered and out of doors bloomed a perfect summer day, without a cloud in the sky. Normally the Great Hall was an austere place, draughty and chill as an unheated church, its only decoration a stained-glass window depicting the martyrdom of St Sebastian, some Rolls of Honour, and a shield or two. But today it fairly burgeoned with flowers and greenery, pot plants brought in from the greenhouses, and the scent of these, lying heavy on the warm air, was almost overpowering.
At the north end of the hall stood an elevated stage, flanked by two flights of wooden steps leading up from the auditorium. This was where Miss Catto took Morning Prayers, standing behind her lectern, delivering daily instructions, admonitions, and generally keeping her school more or less on its toes. Today however, it was fronted by a positive flower-bed of potted pelargoniums, and set with a spaced row of throne-like chairs, all ready for the platform party. It was the arrival of this illustrious group — the Bishop, the Chairman of the Governing Board, the Lord Lieutenant of the County, Lady Beazeley (who had been dragooned into giving away the prizes), and Miss Catto — for which the assembled company now waited.
Two-thirds of this consisted of parents and families, all dressed to the nines. Mothers sported garden-party hats and white gloves, flowered silk frocks and high-heeled shoes. Fathers were mostly in dark suits, except that there here and there stood a man in service uniform. Smaller siblings wore smocks of Liberty lawn and hair ribbons, or were decked out in sailor suits, with white lanyards and pipe-clayed shoes. Their protestations could be clearly heard as they grizzled plaintively, complaining of heat and boredom.
Edgar and Diana Carey-Lewis were part of this throng, as were Mr Baines, the solicitor, and his wife. The smaller Baines children were not present. Prudently, they had been left at home with their nurserymaid.
The remainder of the auditorium, at the front of the Hall, was filled with girls; the smallest in the front on kindergarten benches, and the seniors at the back. All of them wore their regulation party frocks, long-sleeved cream tussore, and black silk stockings. Only the very little were permitted to be cool in white socks. At the end of each row of girls sat a member of staff, formally attired, and wearing her black gown. But even these archaic garments were rendered, today, quite glamorous, because every mistress had donned her academic hood, the carefully arranged folds revealing silken linings, of ruby red, emerald green, or sapphire blue.
Judith, sitting in the very back row of the school party, pushed back the cuff of her dress to look at her watch. Two minutes to two. In a moment they would come, the platform party, summoned from Miss Catto's study by the Head Girl, Freda Roberts. Judith was a prefect, but she had not been made head-girl. Remembering the dreaded Deirdre Ledingham, for this small mercy she was endlessly grateful.
Behind her, a little boy squirmed in discomfort. ‘I want somefin to drink,’ he whined, and was instantly shushed.
She was filled with sympathy for him. Speech Day was always an ordeal, and being eighteen and knowing that this was the very end of school, and the very last Speech Day ever, somehow didn't make it any more bearable. The tussore dresses were heavy and airless, and she could feel trickles of sweat starting under her arms and behind her knees. To divert her thoughts from her own discomfort, she began to make a mental list of positive and cheering events that had happened or were about to happen.
The most important was that she reckoned that, with a bit of luck, she would have passed her Matriculation. Results wouldn't be published until later on in the year, but Miss Catto was confident, and already had started to make arrangements for Judith to go to Oxford.
But even if it all worked out, that wouldn't be for another year, because in October a passage had already been booked on a P & O boat bound for Singapore, and she was going to spend ten months,
at least, reunited with her family. One thing at a time, she had told herself all those years ago, leaning over the rail of Penzance promenade and watching the grey sea splashing onto the pebbled beach. Finish school, pass exams, and then go back to the Far East and be with Mum and Dad and Jess. Jess was eight now. Judith could hardly wait to see them all.
More immediately, there were other good things. The end of school-days, freedom, and summer holidays. For these, plans had been laid: two weeks in August to be spent in Porthkerris with Heather Warren and her parents, and later on, perhaps, a visit to Aunt Biddy. The dates for this had not yet been fixed. ‘Just ring me and let me know when you want to come,’ Biddy had told her in a letter. ‘It's an open invitation, so I'll leave the timing to you.’
Otherwise, Nancherrow. Which meant Edward.
She sat in the stuffy school hall, and was suffused with blissful anticipation. The events of Christmas, his abortive advances behind the drawn curtains of the billiard-room, her childish rejection of these, and his subsequent handling of the unhappy situation had finally tipped the scales of Judith's relationship with Edward, and she had secretly opened her heart to him, and fallen, totally, in love. She could not imagine how any man, so attractive and desirable, could be, as well, so understanding and patient. Because of him, the harmless incident, which could have precipitated a most destructive embarrassment, slipped away unnoticed, like water streaming beneath a bridge. Gratitude and admiration were both part of loving. Propinquity…(she had looked the word up in the dictionary. ‘Nearness in place’, it told her. ‘Close kinship’)…was even stronger.
Separation, as well, played its part. Separation, like the wind, blowing out a small candle, but causing a strong flame to burn even brighter. Judith had not seen Edward since January. He had spent his Easter vacation on a ranch in Colorado, invited by a fellow undergraduate, a bright young American student who had won a scholarship to Cambridge. The two young men had sailed in the Queen Mary from Southampton to New York, and then travelled by train to Denver. It all sounded enormously adventurous, and although Edward was not much of a correspondent, he had sent Judith a couple of postcards, with highly coloured pictures of the Rocky Mountains, and Red Indians selling baskets. These treasured mementoes she kept within the leaves of her diary, along with a snap that she had stolen from Loveday's photograph album. If Loveday had noticed its disappearance, she had said nothing. As for right now, this very moment, he was in the south of France, having gone straight there from Cambridge, with a party of young friends, to stay in somebody's aunt's villa.
When Diana told the girls of this latest ploy, she was consumed by rueful laughter, shaking her head in wonder, while clearly delighted by evidence of her precious son's popularity. ‘It's so extraordinary, the way he always falls on his feet! Not only does he make rich friends, but they all seem to have houses in the most exotic spots. And, what is more, ask him to stay. Which is nice for Edward, but a bit sad for the rest of us. Never mind. Hopefully, for a bit of the summer, he'll come home.’
Judith didn't mind. Anticipation was looking forward to seeing Edward again, was all part of the joy.
The other tremendously exciting thing that had happened was that Mr Baines had said that Judith could buy a little car of her own. She had spent the Edward-less Easter holidays learning how to drive, and had, unbelievably, passed her test first go. But it was a bit difficult, at Nancherrow, to find something to drive. Diana's Bentley and the Colonel's Daimler were out of the question, because both were so grand, and she was terrified of so much as denting a bumper. And their family runabout was the old-fashioned shooting-brake, so enormous it was a bit like driving a bus.
She had explained her predicament to Mr Baines. ‘…it's just that if I want to go and buy something in Penzance, I have to wait until somebody else is going in a car, and then get a lift, and it's not always convenient for anybody.’
He had been most understanding. ‘Yes, I see,’ he had said, and fallen silent, considering the problem, then made up his mind. ‘You know, Judith, I think you should have a car of your own. You're eighteen and perfectly responsible. And of course you should be able to come and go just as you wish, without being a burden on the Carey-Lewises.’
‘Really?’ She could scarcely believe her ears. ‘A car of my own?’
‘You'd like that, wouldn't you?’
‘Oh, more than anything, but I never imagined you'd suggest such a thing. And if I did get one, I'd really look after it and wash it and put petrol in and everything. And I'd use it. It used to make me so frustrated when Mummy wouldn't drive the Austin because she was frightened. There were so many lovely places we could have gone, and so many lovely things to see, like gardens and secret beaches. But we never did.’
‘Will you do those things?’
‘Not necessarily. But so wonderful to know I can if I want to. And there's something else I could do that's been bothering me for ages. It's Phyllis, who used to work for us at Riverview. She got another job in Porthkerris, but then she married her young man and went to live at Pendeen with him. He's a miner, and the mine company gave them a little house to live in, and now she's had a baby, and I'd really like to go and see her. If I had a car I could do that.’
‘Phyllis. Yes, I remember Phyllis, answering the door when I came to see your mother. She was always smiling.’
‘She's a darling. One of my best friends. We've kept in touch, and written postcards and letters, but I haven't seen her since I said goodbye four years ago. Even when I was staying in Porthkerris it wasn't possible, because there was only one bus a week, and it was far too far to bike.’
‘It's ridiculous, isn't it?’ said Mr Baines with some sympathy. ‘We live in this small country and yet are remote from each other as creatures in the moon.’ He smiled. ‘A car of your own, and independence, seems to me a necessity and not a luxury. But don't count on it. Finish school, and pass your Matriculation and we'll consider the matter. I'll have a word with Captain Somerville.’
And there the matter had rested. But Judith was full of hope because, at the end of the day, she couldn't imagine Uncle Bob saying No.
It occurred to Judith that perhaps, with luck, she would get the car before she went to stay with the Warrens, and would be able to drive herself to Porthkerris. Loveday had been invited as well, to join the cheerful household over the grocer's shop, but had not yet committed herself, because she had a new pony to school, and various gymkhanas and events which she planned to enter, and hopefully win. If, however, she was presented with the added lure of a car of their own in which to travel, there was every possibility that she would make up her mind and come, if only for a few days. The thought of herself and Loveday bowling across the county in a little sports two-seater, with their suitcases piled on the back seat, was so dizzying that she would have liked, then and there, to share it with Loveday, but Loveday was sitting two rows ahead, and so it would have to wait.
Loveday, at seventeen, was also leaving St Ursula's forever. She had never been made a prefect, and academically had got no farther than sitting her School Certificate examination, but had made it perfectly clear to her long-suffering parents that, without Judith, St Ursula's would be unbearable.
‘But, darling, what are we going to do with you?’ Diana asked in some perplexity.
‘I'll stay at home.’
‘You can't simply moulder here. You'll turn into a cabbage.’
‘I could go to Switzerland, like Athena.’
‘But you always said we were never to send you away again.’
‘Switzerland's different.’
‘I suppose you could go. Not that it did Athena much good. All she learned to do was ski, and fall in love with her instructor.’
‘That's why I want to go.’
And Diana had dissolved into laughter and hugged her youngest child, and said that she would see.
Two o'clock. A small disturbance at the back of the hall, and the entire company rose, thankfully, to its feet
. At last the occasion was under way. It was a bit, thought Judith, like a wedding, with all the flowers, and everybody in their best, mothers fanning themselves with hymn sheets, and the bride about to swan into view on the arm of her father. So strong was this illusion that, as the Bishop led the small procession down the aisle, she half expected an organ to start belting out some toccata or other.
But there was, of course, no bride. Instead, the platform party took their places on the stage. The Bishop stepped forward and delivered his short prayer. Everybody sat. The ceremony proceeded.
Speeches. (The Chairman of the Governors droned on forever, but Miss Catto was brisk, brief, and even quite funny, raising a welcome and spontaneous laugh or two.)
Prize-giving. Judith thought she might get the Senior English Prize, which she did, and then went up again for the Senior History Prize; a bonus, because that had not been remotely expected. Finally, the last prize of all. The coveted Carnhayl Cup.
Judith by now was stifling a yawn. She knew perfectly well who was going to get the Carnhayl Cup. Freda Roberts, who spent her days running around being obsequious, and sucking up to all the mistresses.
The Carnhayl Cup, Miss Catto was explaining in her clear voice, was presented annually to the girl who, by the popular vote of her entire staff of teachers, had contributed most to the school. Not simply academic work, but those three essential Cs: Capability, Character, and Charm. And the winner this year was…Judith Dunbar.
She felt her mouth drop open in an unbelieving and unbecoming gape. Somebody gave her a dig in the ribs and said, ‘Go on, you idiot,’ and she scrambled to her feet for the third time and went, feeling quite weak at the knees, to collect her prestigious trophy. So wobbly were her legs that she tripped going up the steps, and just about fell flat on her face.