Judith

‘Have fun,’ said Judith, and meant it, although how anyone could have fun with Ruth Giles, a spiteful cat of a girl if ever there was one, was beyond her.

She was given a month’s leave the next day. She telephoned her parents, threw a few clothes rather haphazardly into a case, took leave of her friends, got into her Fiat 600, a tight squeeze but all she could ever afford, and set off home through a June morning the brilliance of which made even the streets of London look lovely.

The country looked even lovelier. Judith was making for Lacock in Wiltshire, and once through London and its suburbs and safely on to the M4, she kept going briskly until she turned off at the Hungerford roundabout on to the Marlborough road; it wasn’t very far now and the road, although busy, ran through delightful country, and at Calne she turned into a small country lane and so to Lacock.

The village was old and picturesque, a jumble of brick cottages, half-timbered houses and jutting gables. Judith went down the High Street, turned into a narrow road and stopped in front of a row of grey stone houses, roomily built and in apple pie order. The door of the centre house was flung open as she got out of the car, and her father crossed the narrow pavement, followed by an elderly basset hound who pranced ponderously around them both and then led the way back into the house. The hall was long and narrow with a staircase at one side and several doors. Judith’s mother came out of the end one as they went in.

‘Darling, here you are at last! We’ve been quite worried about you, although that nice doctor who was looking after you said we had no need to be.’ She returned Judith’s kiss warmly, a woman as tall as her daughter and still good-looking. ‘You’re wearing dark glasses—are your eyes bad?’

‘They’re fine, love—I wear them during the day if the sun’s strong and it makes driving easier. It’s lovely to be home.’ Judith tucked a hand into each of her parents’ arms and went into the sitting room with them. ‘A whole month,’ she said blissfully. ‘It was worth having measles!’

After tea she unpacked in the room she had had all her life at the back of the house, overlooking the long walled garden which her father tended so lovingly and already filled with colour. Judith sighed deeply with content and went downstairs, looking in all the rooms as she went. The house was bigger than one would have supposed from the outside: too big just for her parents, she supposed, but they had bought it when they had married years ago and her father had been a partner in a firm of solicitors in Calne, and when he retired two years previously there had been no talk of moving to something smaller and more modern. Her mother had said that it would be nice to have enough room for Judith’s children when she married, and meanwhile the extra bedrooms could be kept closed; if she was disappointed that they were still closed, she never mentioned it.

The weather was fine and warm. Judith shopped with her mother, helped her father in the garden and renewed her acquaintance with the large number of friends her parents had. The gentle, undemanding life did her good. Her pallor took on a faint tan and the slight hollows in her cheeks began to fill out. Before the first week was up she assured her mother that she felt fit for work again and played several vigorous games of tennis to prove it.

‘You’re not bored?’ her mother asked anxiously. ‘There’s nothing to do except take Curtis for his walks and do the shopping and the garden, and you ought to be having fun at your age. We love having you, but what you need is a complete change of scene, darling.’

It was the next morning when the letter came from her father’s brother, Uncle Tom. He had known about Judith’s measles, naturally he had been told, since he was a doctor as well as her godfather. Now he wrote to ask if she could see her way to going to Hawkshead for a couple of weeks; his housekeeper had had to go home to look after her daughter’s children while she was in hospital and he needed someone—perhaps Judith would be glad of an easy little job? keeping her hand in, so to speak. Two weeks would be enough, went on the letter persuasively, she could have the last week at home. There was a girl from the village to do the housework; all he wanted was someone to run the house, answer the telephone and do the shopping. Besides, he would like to see her again.

They read it in turns, and Judith had just got to the end of it when the telephone rang and Uncle Tom added his voice to the written word. Judith found herself agreeing to drive up that very day and stay for two weeks. ‘Even if I leave in an hour,’ she warned him, ‘I shan’t be with you much before supper time— I’ve only got the Fiat 600, you know.’ She added: ‘It will be more than an hour—I’ve got to pack and fill up…’

Uncle Tom dismissed this easily enough. ‘Two hundred and fifty miles, more or less, even in that ridiculous little car of yours you should be here for high tea.’ He chuckled richly. ‘Do your best, girl, because I’m counting on you to get here.’ He hung up on her.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Golightly triumphantly, ‘isn’t that exactly what I said?—that you needed a complete change? We’re going to miss you, darling, but you’ll be back for your last week, won’t you? And Uncle Tom is such a good kind man, and a doctor too.’ She added delicately: ‘Is there anyone who might telephone or write to you? I mean, someone you’d want to know about?’

‘No, Mother. Well, you might send on the letters, but if anyone rings just say I’m on holiday, will you?’ She gave her parent a rather absentminded kiss and went upstairs to pack her bag.

Her father had fetched the Fiat from the garage tucked away behind the houses, her mother had cut sandwiches and filled a flask with coffee and they had both asked her if she had sufficient money. She hugged the pair of them; she would really much rather have stayed at home for the whole of the month, but perhaps she would enjoy the last week with them even more for having been away. She started off down the street as the church clock chimed eleven; Uncle Tom would have to wait for his high tea.

She went north from Lacock through Chippenham and then on to the M4 until it reached the M5, when she took the latter to begin the long drive to the Lakes. The motorway was monotonous; if she hadn’t been anxious to reach Hawkshead by early evening, she might have chosen a different, more interesting route. At the Birmingham roundabout she switched to the M6 and presently pulled in for petrol and sat in the car, eating her sandwiches and drinking the coffee, glad of a respite, watching with envy the powerful cars tearing along the fast lane. Once more on her way, pushing the little car to its utmost, she thanked her stars that she liked driving even at the sedate pace that was the Fiat’s best, otherwise the journey would be an endless one. All the same she heaved a sigh of relief as she left Preston behind her and knew that her long day was almost over. Once past Lancaster and Carnford and she could look forward to turning off the motorway at last.

The turn came finally and at the sight of a small hotel standing by the quiet road, she stopped the car and had tea, a delicious tea with scones and sandwiches and little cakes, all extra good after her long drive. She was reluctant to leave, but the afternoon was almost over and she still had something under an hour’s driving to do. But now the country was wide, almost empty of traffic, the mountains ahead looming over the fields and copses, golden in the sunshine. Judith went slowly through Kendal and out on to the Ambleside road. There was a ferry at Bowness, crossing Lake Windermere and shortening the road to Hawkshead, but she wasn’t sure when it ran, so it was safer, if longer, to go round the head of the lake and take the road to Hawkshead. The village lay between Windermere and Coniston Water and had at its southernmost tip yet another lake, but a very small one, Esthwaite Water, and Judith slowed the car, for the country here was beautiful. Grizedale Forest lay ahead, beyond the village, and on either side of the green wooded valley were the mountains. The village lay snugly, a delightful maze of narrow streets and stone cottages. She remembered it with pleasure as she turned into one of its small squares and stopped before a house, larger than its neighbours with a flight of outdoor steps and small latticed windows. As she got out of the car one of these windows was flung open and her uncle’s cheerful voice bade her go inside at once.

She had been before, of course; his voice came from the surgery, which meant that he would be unable to welcome her. She went through the half open door and along the stone-flagged passage to the door at the end and opened it. The kitchen, a good-sized low-ceilinged room, was not modern by glossy magazine standards, but fitted with an old-fashioned dresser, a well scrubbed table and Windsor chairs on either side of the Aga. Judith dumped her case on the floor, opened up the stove and put the already singing kettle to boil, for she wanted a cup of tea above everything else, and then went back down the passage and into the sitting room. Large, untidy and comfortable—no colour scheme, just a collection of easy chairs, tables, a fine old cupboard against one wall and rows of books filling the shelves against another wall. Judith opened the cupboard doors, collected china and a teapot, found a tray and took the lot back to the kitchen. She had her head in the pantry looking for something to eat when her uncle joined her.

He greeted her heartily and then studied her at leisure. ‘Too thin,’ he observed at length, ‘too pale, too hollow-cheeked. A couple of weeks of good Cumbrian air and plenty of wholesome food will make all the difference.’

‘That reminds me—I’ve put the kettle on. Have you had tea, Uncle Tom?’

‘I was waiting for you, my dear.’ His voice was guileless, his nice elderly craggy face beamed at her. ‘And a nice meal after surgery, perhaps?’

‘Seven o’clock do?’ asked Judith, buttering bread, spreading jam and piling sandwiches on a plate. ‘High tea, I suppose?’

Her uncle rubbed his hands together. ‘Boiled eggs, and there’s a nice ham Mrs Lockyer left in the larder…’ He took the tea she offered him and began on the sandwiches.

‘Did you have any lunch?’ asked Judith.

‘Coffee—or was it tea?—at the Gossards’ farm—the old man has got a septic finger.’

Judith glanced at the clock. ‘Surgery in ten minutes. Have another cup of tea while I change—the same room, is it? Then I’ll give you a hand if you need one.’

She went upstairs to the room over the surgery, low-ceilinged and very clean with its old-fashioned brass bedstead, solid chest of drawers and dressing table. She opened the window wide and breathed the cool air with delight before opening her case and getting out a denim skirt and a cotton tee-shirt. She had travelled up in a linen suit and silk blouse, both of them quite unsuitable for the life she would be leading for the next week or two, and tied back her long hair with the first bit of ribbon which came to hand. She discarded her expensive high-heeled sandals too and scampered downstairs in a sensible flat-heeled pair which had seen better days.

It was a good thing she wasn’t tired now, for what with answering the telephone, laying the table in the rather dark dining room behind the surgery and going to the door a dozen times, she was kept busy until the last patient had gone, but once they had had their meal and she had cleared away and laid the table for breakfast she was more than ready for bed. All the same, she stayed up another half hour talking to her uncle and before long found herself telling him about Nigel. ‘He’s very persistent,’ she finished. ‘I sometimes wonder if I should marry him—I’m twenty-seven, you know, Uncle Tom.’

‘God bless my soul, are you really? You wear very well, my dear. You’re a very pretty girl, you know.’

She went to bed soon afterwards, yawning her head off but looking forward to her visit. Her mother had been right, she had needed a change; her mother had reiterated her opinion when she had telephoned home that evening, sounding triumphant. ‘And perhaps you’ll meet some interesting people,’ she had ended hopefully, meaning of course a young man ready and willing to fall in love with Judith and marry her.

Breakfast over the next morning and her uncle in his surgery, Judith left the girl who came daily to Hoover and polish and went along to the shops. She crossed Red Lion Square, passed the church and turned into one of the narrow streets, making for the butcher’s. She didn’t hurry, it was a glorious morning and the little cobbled squares glimpsed through low archways looked enchanting; she had forgotten just how lovely they were.

They all knew about her in the shop, of course. Uncle Tom or his housekeeper would have told them and news spread fast in such a small place. Shopping was a leisurely affair carried out in a friendly atmosphere and a good deal of curiosity. It was, the butcher pointed out, a good many years since Judith had been to visit her uncle, but no doubt she was a busy young lady and very successful by all accounts, although London didn’t seem to be an ideal place in which to live. Several ladies in the shop added their very decided opinions to this, although two of them at least had never been farther from home than Carlisle. Judith went on her way presently, back in time to make coffee for her uncle before he started on his rounds and to help with the rest of the housework before starting on their midday dinner.

She pottered in the garden during the afternoon and gave a hand with the evening surgery before getting their meal. A busy day, she reflected as she made a salad, but yet there had been time to do everything without hurry, stop and talk, sit in the sun and do nothing…hospital seemed very far away; another world, in fact.

It was on the third morning that Uncle Tom asked her to take some medicine and pills to one of the houses on the edge of the village. ‘They’re for Mrs Turner,’ he told her. ‘I could drop them off myself, but I’m not going to that end of the village this morning and she really ought to have them.’ And as Judith took off her apron: ‘Don’t hurry back, my dear, it’s a charming walk and such a lovely morning.’

The house stood well back from the lane, a few minutes’ walk from the village’s heart; grey stone and roomy under a tiled roof covered with moss. Uncle Tom had told her to go in by the back door and she walked round the side of the house, admiring the beautifully kept garden—Mrs Turner must be a splendid gardener—until she came to the kitchen door, a stout one standing a little open. No one answered her knock, so she went in and stood a minute wondering what to do. The kitchen was the best of both worlds: flagstone floor, a beamed ceiling, lattice windows and geraniums on the sills, and cunningly disguised behind solid oak doors and cupboards were all the modern equipages that any woman could want. Judith took an appreciative glance around her. ‘Mrs Turner?’ She called softly, and then a good deal louder: ‘Mrs Turner?’ And when no one answered said louder still: ‘I’ve brought your medicine.’

The silence was profound, so she tried again. ‘Mrs Turner, are you home?’

A door at the back of the kitchen was flung open with such violence that she jumped visibly, and a furious face, crowned by iron-grey hair, cropped short, appeared round its edge.

The voice belonging to the face was just as furious. ‘Young woman, why are you here, disturbing the peace and quiet? Squawking like a hen?’

Judith gave him an icy stare. ‘I am not squawking,’ she pointed out coldly, ‘and even if I were, it’s entirely your own fault for not answering me when I first called.’

‘It’s not my business to answer doors.’

She studied the face—the rest of him was still behind the door. It had heavy-lidded eyes, an arrogant, high-bridged nose and a mouth set like a rat trap. She said coolly, ‘I don’t know what your business is, Mr Turner, but be good enough to give your wife these medicines when she returns. The instructions are on the labels.’ She walked to the door. ‘You’re a very ill-mannered man, Mr Turner. Good day to you!’

CHAPTER TWO

UNCLE TOM was in the surgery, sitting at his desk, searching for some paper or other and making the chaos there even more chaotic. Judith put down her basket and leaned comfortably over the back of a chair.

‘I delivered Mrs Turner’s bits and pieces,’ she said. ‘She wasn’t home, so I gave them to her husband.’

Her uncle glanced up briefly. ‘She’s not married, my dear.’

‘Then who’s the ill-mannered monster who roared at me? He needs a lesson in manners!’

Uncle Tom paused in his quest for whatever it was he wanted. ‘Charles Cresswell—an eminent historian, highly esteemed by his colleagues, with a first-class brain—at present writing a book on twelfth century England with special reference to this area. I daresay you disturbed him…’

Judith snorted. ‘He was insufferable! He ought to mind his manners!’

Her uncle peered at her over his spectacles. ‘These scholarly men, my dear, should be allowed a certain amount of licence.’

‘Why?’ snapped Judith.