Read Online Coming Home by Rosamunde Pilcher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rosamunde Pilcher
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horrid going without saying goodbye to him. It was her own fault, for being so late coming down to breakfast, but it would have been nice if he could have waited, just five minutes, and said goodbye properly. And she wanted to thank him for so much, and thanks were never the same written in a letter.
The best had been his gramophone. Despite her mother's girlhood yearnings to go on the stage and become a ballerina, neither she nor Dad were musically inclined, but those afternoons spent with Uncle Bob in his study had awakened an awareness, an appreciation the existence of which Judith had never even suspected. He owned a huge variety of records, and although she had much enjoyed the Gilbert and Sullivan songs with their witty lyrics and catchy tunes, there were others which had lifted her heart, or made her feel so poignantly sad that she could scarcely keep the tears from brimming into her eyes. Puccini arias from
La Bohème,
the Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto, Tchaikovsky's
Romeo and Juliet
music. And, sheerest magic, Rimsky-Korsakov's
Scheherazade,
the solo violin sending shivers down the spine. There was another record, by the same composer, which Uncle Bob referred to as the ‘Bum of the Flightle Bee, by Rip His Corsetsoff’, a joke which reduced Judith to paroxysms of giggles. She had no idea that a grown-up could be so funny. But one thing was certain, which was that she simply had to have a gramophone of her own, and then she could collect records, just the way Uncle Bob had, and whenever she wanted, play them and be transported, as though led by the hand, into that other and previously unimagined land. She would start saving up right away.
Her feet were frozen. She tried to stamp some life into them, marking time on the greasy platform. Aunt Biddy and Mother were chatting inconsequently, as people do, while waiting for a train. They seemed to have run out of important things to say. Jess sat on the edge of a trolley and swung her white-gaitered fat legs. She hugged her golliwog, that revolting toy she took to bed every night. Judith was sure it must be filthy, but because it had a black face it didn't show the dirt. Not only filthy, but full of germs.
And then something really good happened. Aunt Biddy stopped chattering, looked up over Mother's head, and said, in quite a different voice, ‘Oh, look. There's Bob.’
Judith's heart lifted. She swung around. Frozen feet were forgotten. And there he was, a huge unmistakable figure in his British warm, coming down the platform towards them, with his brass hat cocked, Beatty fashion, over one bristling eyebrow, and a great grin on his craggy features. Judith's feet stopped feeling cold, and she had to stand very still to keep herself from running to meet him.
‘Bob! What are you doing here?’
‘Had a moment or two to spare, decided to come and see our little party on board.’ He looked down at Judith. ‘I couldn't let you go without saying goodbye properly.’
She beamed up at him. She said, ‘I'm glad you came. I wanted to say thank you for everything. Especially for the clock.’
‘You'll have to remember to wind it.’
‘Oh, I will…’ She couldn't stop smiling.
Uncle Bob cocked his head, listening. ‘I think that's the train now.’
And indeed there was a sound — the railway lines were humming, and Judith looked and saw, around the distant curve beyond the end of the platform, the huge green-and-black steam engine surge into view, with its polished brass fixtures, its billowing plume of black smoke. Its approach was majestic and awe-inspiring as it crept alongside the platform. The engine driver, sooty-faced, leaned down from the footplate and Judith had a glimpse of the flickering flames of the boiler furnace. The massive pistons, like a giant's arms, revolved more and more slowly, until finally, with a hiss of steam, the monster stopped. It was, as always, dead on time.
A small pandemonium broke out. Doors were flung open, passengers
The best had been his gramophone. Despite her mother's girlhood yearnings to go on the stage and become a ballerina, neither she nor Dad were musically inclined, but those afternoons spent with Uncle Bob in his study had awakened an awareness, an appreciation the existence of which Judith had never even suspected. He owned a huge variety of records, and although she had much enjoyed the Gilbert and Sullivan songs with their witty lyrics and catchy tunes, there were others which had lifted her heart, or made her feel so poignantly sad that she could scarcely keep the tears from brimming into her eyes. Puccini arias from
La Bohème,
the Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto, Tchaikovsky's
Romeo and Juliet
music. And, sheerest magic, Rimsky-Korsakov's
Scheherazade,
the solo violin sending shivers down the spine. There was another record, by the same composer, which Uncle Bob referred to as the ‘Bum of the Flightle Bee, by Rip His Corsetsoff’, a joke which reduced Judith to paroxysms of giggles. She had no idea that a grown-up could be so funny. But one thing was certain, which was that she simply had to have a gramophone of her own, and then she could collect records, just the way Uncle Bob had, and whenever she wanted, play them and be transported, as though led by the hand, into that other and previously unimagined land. She would start saving up right away.
Her feet were frozen. She tried to stamp some life into them, marking time on the greasy platform. Aunt Biddy and Mother were chatting inconsequently, as people do, while waiting for a train. They seemed to have run out of important things to say. Jess sat on the edge of a trolley and swung her white-gaitered fat legs. She hugged her golliwog, that revolting toy she took to bed every night. Judith was sure it must be filthy, but because it had a black face it didn't show the dirt. Not only filthy, but full of germs.
And then something really good happened. Aunt Biddy stopped chattering, looked up over Mother's head, and said, in quite a different voice, ‘Oh, look. There's Bob.’
Judith's heart lifted. She swung around. Frozen feet were forgotten. And there he was, a huge unmistakable figure in his British warm, coming down the platform towards them, with his brass hat cocked, Beatty fashion, over one bristling eyebrow, and a great grin on his craggy features. Judith's feet stopped feeling cold, and she had to stand very still to keep herself from running to meet him.
‘Bob! What are you doing here?’
‘Had a moment or two to spare, decided to come and see our little party on board.’ He looked down at Judith. ‘I couldn't let you go without saying goodbye properly.’
She beamed up at him. She said, ‘I'm glad you came. I wanted to say thank you for everything. Especially for the clock.’
‘You'll have to remember to wind it.’
‘Oh, I will…’ She couldn't stop smiling.
Uncle Bob cocked his head, listening. ‘I think that's the train now.’
And indeed there was a sound — the railway lines were humming, and Judith looked and saw, around the distant curve beyond the end of the platform, the huge green-and-black steam engine surge into view, with its polished brass fixtures, its billowing plume of black smoke. Its approach was majestic and awe-inspiring as it crept alongside the platform. The engine driver, sooty-faced, leaned down from the footplate and Judith had a glimpse of the flickering flames of the boiler furnace. The massive pistons, like a giant's arms, revolved more and more slowly, until finally, with a hiss of steam, the monster stopped. It was, as always, dead on time.
A small pandemonium broke out. Doors were flung open, passengers
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