Coming Home by Rosamunde Pilcher Read Free Book Online Page B

girl. A lifetime of spinsterhood, probably, helping Mother with the church flowers.
    Biddy was different. She always knew what she wanted, and went out and got it. From an early age Biddy saw clearly that if she was going to have any sort of life, she was going to have to take care of herself. With this resolved, she became astute, and made friends only with the girls at school who she reckoned would, in the fullness of time, help her to achieve her ambitions. The friend who became her
best
friend was the daughter of a Naval Commander, living in a large house near Dartmouth. As well, she had brothers. Biddy decided that this was fertile ground, and after a few casual hints, managed to wangle an invitation to stay for the weekend. She was, as she had every intention of being, a social success. She was attractive, with long legs and bright, dark eyes, and a mop of curly brown hair, and young enough for it not to matter that she didn't have many of the right sort of clothes. As well, she had a sure instinct as to what was expected of her; when to be polite, and when to be charming, and how to flirt with the older men, who thought her a baggage and slapped her bottom. But the brothers were the best; the brothers had friends and these friends had friends. Biddy's circle of acquaintances expanded with marvellous ease, and before long she had become an accepted member of this surrogate family, spending more time with them than she did at home, and taking less and less notice of her anxious parents' admonitions and dire warnings.
    Her careless life-style earned her something of a reputation, but she did not care. At nineteen she enjoyed the dubious fame of being engaged to two young sub-lieutenants at the same time, swapping their rings over as their different ships came into port, but at the end of the day, when she was twenty-one, she had married serious Bob Somerville, and had never lived to regret the decision. For Bob was not only her husband, the father of Ned, but her friend, turning a blind eye to a string of flighty associates, but always on hand when she needed him beside her.
    They had had good times, for she loved to travel, and she was never unwilling to up sticks and pack and join Bob wherever he was sent. Two years in Malta had been the best, but none of it had been bad. No, there was no doubt. She had been very fortunate.
    The clock on the dining-room mantelpiece struck the half hour. Half past eight, and still Molly had not appeared. Biddy by now was feeling slightly less hung over and decided that she was ready for her first cigarette. She went to get one from the silver box on the sideboard, and on her way back to the table scooped up Bob's newspaper to open it and scan the headlines. It did not make cheerful reading, and she understood why Bob had appeared so uncharacteristically blue. Spain seemed headed for a blood-stained civil war, Herr Hitler was making noisy speeches about the remilitarisation of the Rhineland, and in Italy Mussolini boasted of his growing naval strength in the Mediterranean. No wonder Bob was grinding his teeth. He could not stand Mussolini, whom he referred to as the Fat Fascist, and had no doubt that all that was needed to silence his bombast was a couple of salvoes from the foredeck of some British battleship.
    It was all a bit frightening. She dropped the newspaper onto the floor and tried not to think about Ned, sixteen years old, committed to the Royal Navy, and ripe as a sweet fruit for combat. The door opened and Molly came into the dining-room.
    Biddy did not dress for breakfast. She had a useful garment called a housecoat which, every morning, she pulled on over her night-gown. And so Molly's appearance, neatly turned out and shod, and with her hair carefully fluffed out, and a little discreet make-up on her face, engendered a sisterly dart of irritation.
    ‘I'm sorry I'm late.’
    ‘Not late at all. No matter, anyway. Did you sleep in?’
    ‘Not really. But I was up and down