Coming Home (27 page)

‘I'm afraid so. On my way.’

‘It's been divine seeing you. My love to your parents…’

‘Well, thank you for the lunch and everything. I'll put my head around the door and say goodbye to the Colonel and Tommy.’

‘Do that. And come again soon.’

‘I don't know when that'll be, but I'd love to. Goodbye, girls. Goodbye, Judith. It was great meeting you again. Goodbye, Mary…’ He kissed her. ‘And Diana.’ He kissed her as well, went to the door, opened it, raised a hand, and was gone.

‘He never was one to waste time,’ said Diana with a smile. ‘Such a dear boy.’ And she came to settle herself in the corner of the nursery sofa, close to the fire. ‘Do you girls want to come down for dinner, or do you want to have nursery supper with Mary?’

‘Do we have to change if we come down for dinner?’ Loveday asked.

‘Oh, darling, what a silly question, of course you have to.’

‘In that case, I think we'll just stay up here and eat scrambled eggs or something.’

Diana raised her lovely eyebrows. ‘What about Judith?’

Judith said, ‘I love scrambled eggs, and I haven't got a dress to change into.’

‘Well, if that's what you both want, I'll tell Nettlebed. Kitty can carry up a tray for you.’ She reached into the pocket of her pale-grey cardigan and produced her cigarettes and her gold lighter. She lit one and reached for an ashtray. ‘Judith, what about that beautiful box you brought with you? You promised you'd show it to me after tea. Bring it over here and we'll look at it now.’

And so the next ten minutes or so were spent in displaying once more the charms of the cedarwood box and the intricacy of the little lock. Diana was gratifyingly enchanted, admired every aspect of Judith's treasure, opening and shutting the tiny drawers, promising her collection of cowrie shells to fill one of them.

‘You could use it as a jewel box. All your rings and treasures. They'd be safe as safe.’

‘I haven't got any rings. Or treasures.’

‘You'll acquire them.’ She lowered the lid for the last time, and fastened the latch. She smiled at Judith. ‘Where are you going to keep it?’

‘I suppose at Aunt Louise's…I'll take it at half-term.’

‘Yes,’ said Loveday, ‘beastly old Matron won't even spare a corner of her Red Cross cupboard.’

‘Why don't you leave it here?’ Diana asked.

‘Here?’

‘Yes. At Nancherrow. In your bedroom. Then, every time you come to stay, it will be waiting for you.’

‘But…’ (She was going to be asked again, was all she could think. This visit was not a one-off. She was going to be invited to return.) ‘But won't it be in your way?’

‘Not in the very least. And the next time you come, you must bring some clothes and leave them here as well, just as though this were your other home. And then you won't have to wander around in Athena's cast-offs.’

‘I've loved wearing them. I've never had a cashmere pullover.’

‘Then you shall keep it. We'll hang it in your cupboard. The beginning of your Nancherrow wardrobe.’

Lavinia Boscawen, who had long ago come to terms with the fact that the very old need little sleep, lay in her downy double bed, with her head turned towards the window, and watched the night sky lighten with the dawn. The curtains were parted, drawn back as far as they could go, because the darkness, the out of doors, with its starlight, and night scents and sounds, she had always believed too precious to be shut away.

The curtains were very old…not as old as Mrs Boscawen herself, but as old as the years she had lived in The Dower House, which was nearly fifty years. Sunshine and wear had faded and shredded them; the thick interlining, like the wool of an old sheep, protruded here and there, and the braid on pelmets and the elaborate tiebacks had unravelled and hung in little thready loops. No matter. Once they had been pretty and she had chosen and loved them. They would see her out.

This morning it was not raining. For that, she was grateful. Over the winter, there had been too much rain, and although at eighty-five she had stopped striding up and down to the village or going for long healthy hikes, it was still pleasant to be able to step out of doors and into the garden, and to spend an hour or two pottering about in the sweet fresh air, mulching the roses or making tidy plaits of daffodil leaves once the golden flower-heads had died back. For this latter task, she had a patent kneeler, which her nephew Edgar had designed and had made for her in the estate sawmill. It had a rubber pad to protect her old knees from the damp, and sturdy handles which were good for grasping when she wanted to haul herself to her feet again. Such a simple device, but so practical. Rather like Edgar himself, whom, because Lavinia had never been blessed with family of her own, she had always cherished as a son.

The sky paled. A fine, cold day. A Sunday. She remembered that Edgar and Diana were coming for luncheon, bringing with them Loveday, and Tommy Mortimer, and Loveday's schoolfriend. Tommy Mortimer was an old acquaintance, encountered on the many occasions when he abandoned London and escaped for a country weekend to Nancherrow. Because he was Diana's friend, attentive, affectionate, and the source of an endless supply of flowery compliments, Lavinia had initially been deeply suspicious of him, suspecting nefarious intent, and, on Edgar's behalf, resentful of his constant attendance on Edgar's wife. But, as the time passed, Lavinia had made up her own mind about Tommy Mortimer, realising that he offered no threat to any person's marriage, and so she was able to laugh at his extravagant ways and become quite fond of him. As for Loveday's schoolfriend, she was an unknown quantity. But it would be interesting to discover what sort of a girl that naughty, wayward child would choose to bring home for the weekend.

Altogether, quite an occasion. For luncheon there would be a pair of ducklings, fresh vegetables, a lemon soufflé and bottled nectarines. On the larder shelf was an excellent Stilton. Lavinia must remind Isobel to cool the hock.

Isobel. Lavinia had, in old age, few worries. In her middle years, she had come to the conclusion that it was useless to worry about matters over which she had no control. These included her own eventual death, the weather, and the unhappy way things seemed to be going in Germany. So, having dutifully read the newspapers, she would resolutely turn her mind to other things. A new rose to be ordered; the trimming of the buddleia; her library books and letters to and from old friends. Then there was the progress of her tapestry carpet, and the daily conference with Isobel concerning the general smooth running of the little household.

But Isobel
was
a bit of a worry. Only ten years younger than Lavinia, she was really getting beyond all the cooking and the caring, which had been her life for forty years. From time to time Lavinia gathered up her courage and brought the conversation around to the subject of Isobel's retirement, but Isobel always became immensely huffy and hurt, as though Lavinia were trying to get rid of her, and, inevitably, there would always be a day or two of sulky umbrage to be dealt with. However, compromises had been made, and now the postman's wife climbed the hill from the village each morning. Employed to do ‘the rough’, she had gradually infiltrated beyond the kitchen doors and taken over the rest of the housework — polishing floors, scrubbing the slates of the porch, and generally keeping everything shining, sweet-smelling, and trim. At first, Isobel had treated this good soul with cool disdain, and it said a lot for the postman's wife that she had stuck out a long period of non-co-operation, had finally broken through Isobel's hostility, and made friends.

But she did not come on Sundays, and the luncheon would mean a lot of work for Isobel. Lavinia wished she could help a bit, not that she could do much, being incapable of so much as boiling an egg. But Isobel's prickly pride was always at stake, and at the end of the day it was easier all round if nobody interfered.

Somewhere, out in the garden, a blackbird sang. Downstairs, a door opened and shut. She stirred on her piled linen pillows, and turned to reach out a hand for spectacles, which lay on the bedside table. It was quite a large bedside table, as big as a small desk, because of the number of small but important objects it was necessary to keep close to hand. Her spectacles, her glass of water, a tin of rich tea biscuits, a small pad of paper and a sharp pencil in case she got a brilliant idea in the middle of the night. A photograph of her late husband, Eustace Boscawen, staring sternly from its mount of blue velvet, her Bible, and her current book,
Barchester Towers.
For, perhaps, the sixth time, but Trollope was such a comforting man; reading him was like having someone take you by the hand and gently lead you back into an easier past. She struggled for her spectacles. One thing, she told herself, at least you haven't got a set of dentures grinning at you out of a tumbler. She was proud of her teeth. How many old women of eighty-five still had their own teeth? Or, at any rate, most of them. And the ones that had gone the way of all flesh had gone from the back and didn't show. She was still able to smile and laugh with no fear of embarrassing anybody with a gap-toothed grimace or a slipped plate.

She looked at the time. Seven-thirty. Isobel was on her way upstairs. She could hear the stairs creak, the old footsteps across the landing. A cursory knock, and the door opened, and she appeared bearing on a tray Lavinia's early-morning glass of hot water in which floated a slice of lemon. She shouldn't continue this old tradition; Lavinia could do perfectly well without it; but Isobel had been serving early-morning hot lemon for fifty years, and she had no intention of stopping now.

She said, ‘Morning. Some cold it is.’ She made space on the table, and set down the tray. Her hands were gnarled and reddened, the knuckles swollen with arthritis, and she wore her blue cotton, and a white apron with a bib. In the old days she had covered her head with a voluminous and unbecoming white cotton cap, but Lavinia had finally persuaded her to abandon this badge of servility, and she looked a great deal better without it, revealing frizzy grey hair scraped back into a little bun fastened with huge black hairpins.

‘Oh, thank you, Isobel.’

Isobel crossed the room to close the window, shutting out the blackbird's voice. Her stockings were black; she had swollen ankles over worn strapped shoes. She should be lying in bed herself, being brought warm comforting drinks. Lavinia wished she did not always feel so guilty.

She said, on impulse, ‘I do hope you're not going to have to do too much today. Perhaps we should stop having luncheon parties.’

‘Now, don't start that again.’ Isobel fussily settled the curtains, giving herself something more to see to. ‘You carry on as though I was just about dead and buried.’

‘I don't do anything of the sort. I just want to be sure you don't wear yourself to a frazzle.’

Isobel gave a snorting laugh. ‘Little chance of that. Anyway, it's all on the road. Table laid last night, when you were eating your supper off a tray, and all the vegetables done. Lovely Brussels sprouts, they are, just a touch of frost and they're some crisp. I'm going down now to make the soufflé. That Loveday wouldn't thank me if there wasn't a soufflé.’

‘You spoil her, Isobel, just as everybody does.’

Isobel sniffed. ‘All spoilt, those Carey-Lewis children, if you ask me, but doesn't seem to have done them any harm.’ She stooped and picked up Lavinia's fine wool dressing-gown, which had slipped from the chair onto the floor. ‘And I never approved of them sending Loveday off to that school…what's the point of having children, if you send them miles away?’

‘I suppose they thought it was all for the best. Anyway, that's all in the past now, and she seems to be settling down at St Ursula's.’

‘Good sign she's brought a friend home. If she's making friends, she can't be too put out.’

‘No. You're right. And we must remember that it's nothing to do with us.’

‘Maybe so, but we can have our opinions, can't we?’ Having made her point, Isobel went to the door. ‘Like a fried egg for your breakfast?’

‘Thank you, Isobel dear, that would be a treat.’

Isobel departed. Her footsteps faded, treading cautiously down the curved staircase. Lavinia imagined her taking the steps one at a time, a hand on the balustrade. The guilt would not go away, but what to do? Nothing to be done. She drank her hot lemon water, thought about the lunch party, and decided that she would wear her new blue dress.