“Her seems well enough,” the old man replied. “Don’t alter much.”
“Nor do you, Dixon,” Mona said, but he shook his head.
“I be getting on,” he replied, “but I mustn’t grumble. I ain’t fared too badly this winter, one way and another, and there’s been a lot to do. I be the only man left at the Priory nowadays.”
“Your son’s gone then?” Mona asked, remembering vaguely, although she could not recall his name, a middle-aged man who used to work in the garden.
“Yes, Jack be in the Pioneers,” Dixon said. “He were in Crete but he got away and the last the wife heard from him he were somewhere in Egypt.”
“Somewhere in Egypt!” That brought back memories. Memories of palm trees and sand, of moving slowly up the Nile, of Luxor, of a moon shining on the enigmatic mystery of the Sphinx, of driving out into the vast waste of empty desert, and of the hot, weary nights when she had lain in loneliness longing for Lionel…
No use thinking of that now. She gave herself a little shake. She must keep her mind on the present.
They had reached the bottom of the hill and the pony began to climb slowly up it. She could see the squat tower of the church, the thatched cottages and the ugly red brick of the school.
“The village hasn’t changed much,” she remarked.
“No, things don’t alter in Little Cobble,” Dixon answered.
“Is everyone the same? Are the Gunthers still at the Vicarage?”
“Yes, they be here right enough.”
“And Doctor Howlett and his wife?”
“Yes, the doctor be here, too.”
They reached the top of the hill. Mona looked back. That was the view which always meant home and England to her – the valley, green and flat, stretching away into a blue distance, broken only by the winding of the river and a line of poplars pointing like startled fingers towards the sky.
Now they were driving past the church with a few very white gravestones. And here were the gates, the gates of the Priory, just as they always had been, dilapidated and still in need of a coat of paint – but what did that matter when they always stood open invitingly?
The overgrown drive, the rhododendron bushes interspersed among the green and red holly, the oak trees, which had once formed an avenue but which were now irregular and ragged, their orderliness destroyed by age, by tempest and by lightning. And there was the house, the clinging ivy green against the weathered beauty of Elizabethan brick, the delicate tracery of stone-mullioned windows, and the nail-studded oak door under its pointed arch.
‘Home!’ Mona thought, and saw her mother standing in the doorway, a smile of eager welcome on her face.
Upstairs, Mona drew her hat slowly from her head. Her room seemed very small and yet she was ridiculously glad to be in it again. She had been half-afraid that her mother would insist on her sleeping in the spare room. But it had been stupid of her to think for one moment that such an idea would occur to her mother. Custom and tradition were the ruling factors at the Priory and, even though she had been away for years, nothing had changed, everything was just the same. Even the ornaments were in their accustomed places.
She looked round her bedroom. Yes, it was identically as she had left it, even to the pig with Brighton’s coat-of-arms across its back standing on the mantlepiece! The chintz four-poster, the blue casement curtains – a little more faded perhaps – the dressing table with its flounced petticoats to match, and the silver candlesticks by the bed – nothing was forgotten, nothing was changed.
‘I’ve come home,’ Mona thought, ‘and now that first moment of arrival is over, I’m glad.’
It was a relief to be able to relax, to know that she need not be amusing or clever, to know there were no cold, calculating eyes waiting to criticise, no bitter, spiteful tongues moving relentlessly.
Suddenly she wanted to identify herself with the house, to be part of its quiet, cosy shabbiness, to shut away in a cupboard with her mink that other smart, sophisticated self she hated – and regretted.
‘I must find something suitable to wear,’ she reflected, visualising those piles of chiffons and satins, ermine-trimmed velvets, brocades and lamés, all waiting at the station for the privilege of coming up in the coal cart. How utterly incongruous they would be here. No, need even to unpack them, she would never need them. All she would want would be an old tweed skirt, a jumper or two, and a pair of thick shoes.
“I don’t believe I possess such a thing,” Mona said out loud.
“Possess what, dearie?” a voice asked from the doorway, and she saw that Nanny had come in.
“The right clothes.”
“Haven’t you brought any with you?” Nanny inquired. “Because if you haven’t, I’ve got some of your old things put away in the wardrobe.”
“What things?”
“The tweeds you had before you married and that tea-gown of yours that you used to be so fond of – the black velvet with the little lace collar.”
“Oh, Nanny, you haven’t really kept them?”
“Indeed I have, and perhaps you will be glad of them now. What with coupons and high prices there’s nothing that doesn’t come in useful.”
“I shall be thrilled to see them again – they’re exactly what I want.”
“They’ll have to be taken in then,” Nanny said reproachfully. “You’ve got so thin there’s nothing of you. What have you been doing with yourself, child, all these years? Burning the candle at both ends, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“That’s exactly what I have been doing,” Mona replied, half-seriously, “but, oh Nanny – it gave a lovely light!”
Nanny sniffed.
“You always were one for doing too much. Restless, tearing about, wearing yourself out. But now we’ve got you home again we’ll soon fatten you up, though goodness knows what with! So little butter and so little sugar. As I said to your mother, it’s a puzzle nowadays to know what you can eat, and no mistake.”
Mona suddenly put out her arms and giving the old women a hug, she kissed her wrinkled cheek.
“I am glad to be home, Nanny, really glad.”
“And so I should hope. It’s about time you did come home – five years next April it will be since we last saw you.”
