Coming Home (108 page)

‘What did he say about Edward?’

‘Just how well he'd done, in France and then over Kent. And how he never lost his good spirits, nor his sense of humour, and how his ground-crew loved and respected him. He said at the end he was very tired, he'd had to fly so many sorties, but he never showed his weariness and he never lost his courage.’

‘The Colonel would have appreciated that.’

‘Yes. He keeps the letter in his wallet. I think it will stay there until the day he dies.’

‘How is he?’

‘Shattered, lost. But like all of us, trying not to show it too much. That's another strange thing. All of them, Athena and Edgar, and even little Loveday, seem to have found some great resource that the rest of us never even suspected. Athena has her baby, of course. Such a duck, and so good. And Loveday just goes off to work at Lidgey a bit earlier each day. For some funny reason, I think she finds Mrs Mudge a great solace. And I suppose being brave for other people helps you to be brave for yourself. I keep thinking of Biddy, when her Ned was killed. How perfectly terrible for her to have no other children to keep her going. How lonely she must have been. Even with
you
there.
You
must have saved her life.’

‘Biddy sent a message. When you want, she'll come and see you, but she doesn't want to intrude.’

‘Tell her, any day. I'd love to talk. Do you suppose Ned and Edward are somewhere frightfully jolly, making friends?’

‘I don't know, Diana.’

‘Such a silly thought. It just occurred to me.’ She turned her head and looked out once more at the rain. ‘When you came, I was trying to remember something that they always read on Armistice Day. But I'm useless at remembering poetry.’ She fell silent, and then turned back to smile at Judith. ‘Something about always staying young. Never growing old.’

Judith knew instantly what she was talking about, but the words, and their associations, were so emotive that she was not sure if she could say them aloud without breaking down altogether.

Stalling, ‘Binyon,’ she said. Diana frowned. ‘Laurence Binyon. He was Poet Laureate at the end of the Great War. He wrote it.’

‘What did he write?’

‘They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.’

She stopped, because there had swelled a great lump in her throat, and she knew that she was incapable of speaking the last two lines.

But if Diana noticed this, she gave no indication. ‘It says it all, doesn't it? How wonderfully brilliant of Mr Binyon, to pick out the one tiny grain of comfort from a mountain of despair, and then to write a poem about it.’ Across the space that lay between them, their eyes met. Diana said, quite gently. ‘You were in love with Edward weren't you? No, don't be upset that I know. I always knew, I watched it happen. The trouble was, that he was so young. Young in years and young in heart. Irresponsible. I was a little afraid for you, but there was nothing that I could do. You mustn't mourn him, Judith.’

‘You mean, I haven't the right?’

‘No, I don't mean that at all. I mean that you're only nineteen, and you mustn't waste your youth, weeping for the might-have-been. Heavens.’ Suddenly she was laughing. ‘I sound like Barrie, and that ghastly play,
Dear Brutus.
Tommy Mortimer took me to see it in London, and all the audience were snivelling, except Tommy and me, who were bored to bits.’

‘No,’ Judith was able to assure her. ‘I'm not going to waste my youth. I don't
think.
But I
am
going away. Leaving you all. I went up to Devonport on Tuesday, and signed on with the WRNS. Sooner or later, I'll get my orders and then I'll be off.’

‘Oh, darling.’

‘I knew I had to go sometime. I suppose I've just been putting it off. Right now seems as good a time as any. Besides, I've done everything I can. Biddy and Phyllis and Anna are settled at the Dower House, and there, imagine, they'll stay for the duration. Perhaps from time to time, you can keep an eye on them, make sure they're all right.’

‘Of course I will…Anyway, I'll go on seeing Biddy at the Red Cross. What are you going to do in the Wrens? Something frightfully glamorous, like Boat's Crew? I saw a photograph in the paper the other day. Pretty girls in bell-bottoms. They looked like something straight out of Cowes Week.’

‘No, not Boat's Crew.’

‘Too disappointing.’

‘Shorthand and typing, probably. In the Navy they call it being a Writer.’

‘It doesn't sound very exciting.’

‘It's a job.’

Diana thought about this for a bit, and then sighed deeply. ‘I can't bear the thought of you going away, but I suppose you must. I couldn't bear saying goodbye to Jeremy, either, when he had to leave us. I can't tell you what a rock he was, just being there with us all, even if it was only for two days. And then he had to go. Back to another ship, I suppose.’

‘He called in at The Dower House, on his way, to say goodbye. It was he who told me to come and see you.’

‘I do believe he's one of the dearest men I've ever known. And that reminds me.’ She turned to her desk, opened tiny drawers, searched through their contents. ‘I've got a key here somewhere. If you're going to leave us all, you must have a key.’

‘A
key?
’

‘Yes. A key to my house in Cadogan Mews. When war broke out, I had half a dozen spares cut. Rupert's got one, and Athena, of course. And Gus. And Jeremy. And Edward. Edward had one…oh, here it is. You'll need to tie a label on it to stop it getting lost.’ She tossed it across and Judith caught it. A small brass latchkey. She held it in her palm.

‘But why are you giving me this?’

‘Oh, darling, you never know. In wartime, everybody goes to and fro through London, and hotels will be packed — anyway, they're hideously expensive — and it could just be a little bolt-hole for you, or a place to lay your head for a night. If it doesn't get bombed, or something disastrous. There's no reason, now, for me to go to London, and if I do, and one of you happens to be roosting there, well and good. There's enough space.’

‘I think that's a lovely idea. How sweet of you, and generous.’

‘I am neither of those things. And sharing my little house with you all is, perhaps, the least I can do. Are you going to stay for lunch? Do. It's rabbit pie, and there's masses.’

‘I'd love to, but I must get back.’

‘Loveday's at Lidgey, but Athena's around…’

‘No. I think another day. I only wanted to see you.’

Diana understood. ‘All right.’ She smiled. ‘I'll tell them. Another day.’

Each morning Edgar Carey-Lewis made it his business to collect the morning post from the hall table — placed there by the postman — take it into the privacy of his study and go through all the letters before handing any of them over to Diana. Ten days after Edward's death, and they were still coming in, from old and young and all walks of life, and he read each one with attention and care, filtering out well-meant, but possibly tactless and clumsy efforts which he feared might upset his wife. These, he answered himself, and then destroyed. The others, he placed upon her desk for her to peruse and deal with, in her own time.

This morning, there was the usual pile; as well, a large, stiffened buff envelope, addressed in black italic script. The pleasing writing caught his eye, and he peered more closely, and saw the Aberdeen postmark.

He carried the bundle of mail into his study, closed the door, sat at his desk, and slit the heavy envelope with his silver paper-knife. From it, he withdrew a letter, and a sheet of card folded in two, and secured with paper-clips. He opened the letter and looked at the signature, and saw that it was signed ‘Gus’, and felt much touched that yet another of Edward's Cambridge friends had taken the trouble to write.

Regimental Headquarters,

The Gordon Highlanders,

Aberdeen.

August 5th, 1940.

Dear Colonel Carey-Lewis,

I heard only yesterday about Edward, which is why I have not written before. Please forgive me and understand.

I spent ten years of my life at boarding-school, first in Scotland, and then at Rugby, and never in all that time did I make a close friend, a person with whom I felt entirely at ease, and whose company never failed to stimulate and entertain. By the time I reached Cambridge I had decided that there was something in my make-up — that dreaded Scottish reserve perhaps — that precluded such relationships. But then I met Edward, and all of life changed colour. His charm was deceptive…I have to admit that at first I was wary of it…but once I got to know him all reservations melted, for beneath that charm lay the strength of character of a man who knows exactly who he is, what he wants, and where he is going.

From those few months when we knew each other, I have a host of good memories. His companionship, kindliness, and boundless capacity for friendship; his laughter and good humour; and his generosity of spirit. The days I spent with you all at Nancherrow, just before the war broke out, and the kindness you showed a total stranger, are all part of those memories. Nothing can destroy such happy recollections, and I can only be grateful that I was fortunate enough to know Edward, and to be counted as one of his friends.

Looking through my Cambridge sketchbook I came upon this drawing I did of him. Summer, and a college cricket match, and he had been prevailed upon to make up numbers and play. Without, I may add, much enthusiasm! I drew him as he stood by the pavilion, padded up and waiting to go in. If you wish, I won't be in the least hurt if you toss it into the waste-basket, but I thought that you might like to have it.

The Highland Division is being re-formed, but I am being seconded to the Second Battalion, the Gordon Highlanders, who are already overseas. If I may, I would like to write to you and keep in touch.

With my best wishes to yourself and Mrs Carey-Lewis. And Athena and Loveday.

Yours sincerely,

Gus

Edgar read the letter through twice, and then laid it aside and took up the makeshift folder. With some difficulty (his fingers, for some reason, were a bit shaky) he prised the paper-clips loose and unfolded the card. Inside was a sheet of cartridge paper, the top edge rough where it had been torn from Gus's sketch-book.