The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  Louise said, ‘How much pocket money have you got?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Look.’

  Polly obediently unzipped her little leather wallet that she wore on a string round her neck. Several coins and some rather grey sugar lumps fell onto the grass.

  ‘You shouldn’t keep your horse sugar with your money.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Those lumps are probably poisonous by now.’ She sat up. ‘We could go to Church Street and I could come back and have tea with you.’

  ‘All right.’

  They both loved Church Street, particularly the top end, near Notting Hill Gate, for different reasons. Louise haunted the pet shop that had a never-ending supply of desirable creatures: grass snakes, newts, goldfish, tortoises, huge white rabbits, and then the things that she coveted but was not allowed – all kinds of birds, mice, guinea pigs, kittens and puppies. Polly was not always very good about waiting while Louise looked at everything and when she got too bored she went next door, which was a junk shop that sprawled onto the wide pavement and contained everything from second-hand books to pieces of china, soapstone, ivory, carved wood, beads and pieces of furniture, and sometimes objects whose use was utterly mysterious. The people in this shop were not forthcoming: two men – the father spent most of the time lying on a faded red velvet chaise-longue reading a paper and the son sat on a gilt chair with his feet up on a huge case of stuffed pike, eating coconut buns and drinking tea. ‘It’s for stretching gloves,’ the father would say if asked; the son never knew anything. Today, Polly found a pair of very tall blue and white candlesticks, rather cracked and with a bit missing from the top of one, but extremely beautiful, she thought. There was also a plate – pottery, with blue and yellow flowers on it, dark delphinium blue, sun yellow and a few green leaves – about the most beautiful plate she had ever seen. The candlesticks were sixpence and the plate was fourpence: too much.

  ‘There’s a bit missing on that one,’ she said, pointing to the plate.

  ‘That’s Delft, that is.’ He put down his paper. ‘How much have you got, then?’

  ‘Sevenpence halfpenny.’

  ‘You’ll have to choose. I can’t let them go for that.’

  ‘What would you let them go for?’

  ‘I can’t do you any better than ninepence. That plate’s Portuguese.’

  ‘I’ll ask my friend.’

  She rushed back to the pet shop where Louise was having an earnest conversation. ‘I’m buying a catfish,’ Louise announced. ‘I’ve always wanted one and the man says this is a good time of year.’

  ‘Can you lend me some money? Just till Saturday?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A penny halfpenny.’

  ‘OK. I won’t be able to have tea with you, though, because I want to get my catfish home.’ The catfish was in a jam jar and the man had made a handle of string. ‘Isn’t he lovely? Look at his lovely little whiskers.’

  ‘Lovely.’ Polly didn’t like them much, but knew that it took all sorts to make a world.

  She went back to her shop and gave the man ninepence and he wrapped up the plate and the candlesticks very badly in old limp newspapers. ‘Oh, Polly! You’re always buying china. What are you going to do with it all?’

  ‘For my house when I’m grown up. I haven’t got nearly enough. I can buy tons more. The candlesticks are Delft,’ she added.

  ‘Gosh! Do you mean like Van Meer? Let’s see. They’ll look better when they’re washed.’

  ‘I know.’ She could hardly wait to get home and wash them.

  They parted. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Hope your catfish is OK.’

  ‘And when are you off to Sussex?’

  Villy, who had told her mother at least three times, answered a little too patiently, ‘On Friday.’

  ‘But that is the day after tomorrow!’

  ‘Yes, Mummy, I did tell you.’

  Making no attempt to conceal her disbelief, Lady Rydal said, ‘I must have forgotten.’ She sighed, moved slightly in her craggy armchair and bit her lips from the pain. This was to show Villy that she was in pain, and to show that she suffered in silence, which was also, Villy felt, meant to open up vistas of what else she might be suffering in silence. She was a beautiful and rather dramatic old woman: due to a combination of arthritis and a kind of Victorian indolence (at the first twinge, she had taken to her chair, moving only up- and downstairs once a day, and to the dining room for luncheon and dinner accompanied by a stalwart, rubber-tipped stick), she had become not only shapeless, but chronically bored. Only her face retained its autocratic and arresting appearance: the noble brow, the huge eyes faded from their original forget-me-not, the little swags of porcelain complexion festooned and suspended by myriad tiny lines, the exquisitely chiselled Burne-Jones mouth, all proclaimed her to have once been a beauty. Her hair was now silver-white, and she always wore heavy drop earrings – pearls and sapphires – that dragged on the lobes of her ears. Day after day she sat, cast upon her huge chair like a beautiful shipwreck, scorning the frail and petty efforts at salvage that her children attempted with visits of the kind that Villy was now making. She could do nothing, but knew how everything was to be done; her taste in the management of her house, her food, her flowers was both original and good, but she considered that there were no occasions left worthy of her rising to them, and the extravagance and gaiety that Villy could remember was now stagnant, mildewed with self-pity. She considered her life to have been a tragedy; her alliance to a musician was marrying beneath her, but when it occurred her widowhood was not to be trifled with – black garments and blinds were still half drawn in the drawing room although he had been dead two years. She considered that neither of her daughters had married well, and she did not approve of her son’s wife. She was too awe-inspiring for friendship, and even her two loyal servants were called by their surnames. Villy thought that they stayed only out of respect and affection for their dead master, but inertia was contagious and the house was full of it: clocks ticked wearily; bluebottles at the sash windows buzzed and sank into stupor. If she didn’t say or do something, Villy felt that she would drop off.

  ‘Tell me your news.’ This was one of Lady Rydal’s familiar gambits – difficult to answer since it carried with it studied broad-mindedness together with a complete lack of curiosity. Either Villy (or whoever was the target) would provide answers that palpably bored her mother, or they would come up with something that contained one of the formidable quantity of things of which Lady Rydal disapproved. She disapproved of any reference to religion made by anyone other than herself (levity); she considered politics an unsuitable subject for a lady (Margot Asquith and Lady Astor were not people she would invite to her house); any discussion of the Royal Family’s private life was vulgar (she was probably the only person in London who, from the outset of that affair, had ceased mentioning Edward VIII and who had never pronounced Mrs Simpson’s name); any reference to the body – its appearance, its requirements and, worst of all, its urges – was utterly taboo (even health was tricky since only certain ailments were permissible for women). Villy, as usual, fell back on telling her mother about the children while Bluitt, the parlourmaid, cleared away tea. This was a success; Lady Rydal wore her indulgent smile throughout Lydia’s antics in Daniel Neal, listened to Teddy’s latest letter from school and asked with affection after Louise, of whom she was particularly fond. ‘I must see her before she disappears into the country. Tell her to ring me up and we may arrange for her to pay me a visit.’

  In the taxi going home, Villy reflected that this would be difficult since there were only two full days left before Sussex.

  Edward – he had dismissed Bracken after being driven back to the office after lunch – collected the car keys from Miss Seafang, his secretary, refilled his silver cigarette case from the ebony box that she always kept full on his enormous desk, and looked at his watch. Just after four – plenty of time for tea, if he felt
inclined. The directors’ meeting had been cancelled as the Old Man had wanted to get off to Sussex and Hugh had one of his headaches. If the Old Man hadn’t wanted to get off, they would have had the meeting, and Hugh would have sat, screwing up his eyes, white and silent except when he hastily agreed to any proposition made. Hugh’s headaches could never be mentioned; he became irritable and then furious at any concern so nothing could be said, which made Edward, anyway, feel worse. He loved his brother and he felt rotten about having survived the war unscathed when his brother had such bloody awful health because of it.

  Miss Seafang put her neat head round the door. ‘Mr Walters would be grateful if you could spare a moment, Mr Edward.’

  Edward looked at his watch again, and registered anxiety and surprise. ‘Good Lord! Ask him to wait until Monday, would you? I’m late for an appointment as it is. Tell him I’ll see him first thing on Monday.’

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  ‘What would I do without you!’ He gave her a dazzling smile, picked up his hat and went.

  All the way home in the Underground and then on the bus, Miss Seafang repeated that remark, savoured and enhanced the smile until it achieved the bloom of (gentlemanly, of course) romance. He understood her, realised her true worth, something nobody else had ever done – had indeed, distorted it so much that she would not have cared to acknowledge the dreary titbits: reliability, a light hand with pastry and being good with her nephews and nieces.

  It was not so much a question of whether he wanted to have tea with Denise, Edward reflected as he drove west from the city, it was a question of being decent. He hadn’t told the poor little girl about his holiday because he knew it would upset her and he hated to see her upset. And next week, with Villy safely in Sussex when she would expect him to be freer, he wouldn’t be at all because on those occasions the family closed in, and, except for one evening at his club, dinner parties had been arranged for him. So really, he ought to go and see her. Small and equal surges of responsibility and excitement beset him: he was one of those fortunate people who actually enjoyed doing the right thing.

  Denise was lying on the sofa in her green drawing room wearing a black afternoon dress with a wide red sash. She sprang gracefully to her feet when her maid announced him.

  ‘Edward! How divine! You can’t begin to imagine how bored I was!’

  ‘You don’t look bored.’

  ‘Well – suddenly, I’m not.’ She touched his cheek with her fingers: her nails were painted the same colour as her sash; a little breeze of Cuir de Russie reached him. ‘Tea? Or whisky?’

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Darling, you must have something or Hildegarde will think it funny.’

  ‘Whisky, then. Extraordinary name for a maid.’

  ‘She’s German, so it isn’t. Say when.’

  ‘I suppose I meant – extraordinary to have a German maid.’

  ‘Oh – the agency was full of them. They don’t cost any more and they work far harder. Lots of people are taking to them.’

  There was a pause; Edward sipped his drink, and then, not because he wanted to know, but because he always found this part of things a bit tricky, he said, ‘What were you reading?’

  ‘The new Angela Thirkell. Quite amusing, but I bet you don’t read novels, do you, darling?’

  ‘I must honestly confess that I don’t.’ He didn’t read at all, as a matter of fact, but luckily she didn’t ask him, and so it became one more little grain in the molehill of her ignorance about him. The longer they knew each other, the more things there were like that.

  She had arranged herself on the sofa again. From where he stood he could look down on the pretty nape of her neck accentuated by her bushy bobbed hair …

  ‘Could we possibly go upstairs, do you think?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  She was marvellous to make love to – seemingly passive but quite keen underneath. She had an unexpectedly voluptuous body; dressed, she gave an impression of girlishness, but naked she was quite another matter. He told her she looked her best without any clothes, but that didn’t go down at all well. ‘You make me sound like a tart!’ and her large, pale grey eyes started to brim. But it might not have been what he said after all, because the next thing she said was, ‘I gather you’re going to Cornwall for your holiday.’ Yes, he said, who told her? ‘I ran into Villy at the hairdresser’s. That was over a week ago, and you still haven’t told me!’ He explained how much he hated to upset her. ‘Do you mean you would just have gone away and not told me?’ and then she really started crying. He took her in his arms and rocked her and said of course not, did she really think he would do a rotten thing like that? Of course he wouldn’t and it was only for a fortnight. ‘I love you so dreadfully.’ He knew she did. He made love to her again and it seemed to cheer her up. ‘It’s rather a Thing, isn’t it?’ she said, and having more or less agreed that it was, he reminded her that he wouldn’t do anything to hurt Villy, whom he also loved. ‘And she is your wife.’ And after all, there was Nigel, a splendid chap really absolutely devoted to her as everybody knew, and he looked at his watch to make it easier to say that he had to go – good God, look at the time, he really must go. And he did, promising to be in touch next week, but it was a hell of a week – he’d do his best.

  Polly walked slowly home down Church Street with the limp newspaper flapping round her candlesticks. It was a lovely sunny evening; the sky was blue – a kind of gentle blue – and people looked summery. The chandeliers in Mrs Crick’s shop were gleaming magically with extraordinary unearthly blues and greens. Polly wondered who bought them: she never saw anyone leaving the shop carrying a chandelier and she thought that probably footmen came very early in the morning to get them for palaces. Huge milk churns were standing outside the dairy which was covered inside with beautiful green- and white- and cream-coloured tiles. Polly had decided to have a room in her house just like the dairy – not for being a dairy, but a little room to sit and paint in. Louise had said why not keep toads in it as it would be so nice and cool for them, but Polly was only going to have cats in her house – a white one and a black and white magician cat with very long whiskers. Because, by then, Pompey would be dead: he was already old – at least eight, the vet said – and he had been hit by cars, if not actually run over, four times; his tail was broken at the end and hung in a twisted way and he moved stiffly for a cat. She kept planning not to think of him dying, but other thoughts led to it, and she could feel her throat getting lumpy and hot. He could live for another eight years, but she would not have her house by then. She had saved twenty-three pounds fourteen shillings and sixpence towards buying it, but they cost hundreds and she was going to have to save someone’s life or paint the most amazing picture or dig up buried treasure in the summer to have enough money. Or build it. In the garden would be Pompey’s grave. She had turned into Bedford Gardens now and was nearly home. She wiped her eyes on a bit of the newspaper: it smelled of fish and chips and she wished that she hadn’t.

  She had to put the candlesticks and the plate down to let herself in. The front door opened straight into the long drawing room. Mummy was playing Rachmaninov – a prelude – very loudly and fast so Polly sat quietly until she had finished. The piece was familiar because Mummy practised and practised it. There was a tray of tea things by the sofa, but they had not been touched: Gentleman’s Relish sandwiches and a coffee cake, but Polly knew that eating them would constitute being unmusical, something that her mother simply would not allow Polly to be, so she waited. When it was over, she said, ‘Oh, Mummy, you are getting on!’

  ‘Do you really think so? It is a little better, isn’t it?’

  Her mother got up from the piano and lumbered slowly across the room to Polly and the tea. She was frighteningly fat – not all of her, but her tummy – Polly was to have a brother or sister in a few weeks.

  ‘Shall I pour the tea for you?’

  ‘Do, darling.’ She cast herself u
pon the sofa. She wore a linen dress – sage green – that made no concession to pregnancy.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘I’m a little tired, but yes, darling, of course I’m all right. Did you break up today?’