The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  She moved her foot, and was almost relieved by the sudden twinge of pain. Ankles could be agony, but that was all it was. Her mouth was dry, and she drank some tea. It was simply bad luck, when she’d planned to go for a little walk in the garden that she hadn’t seen properly this year. She imagined herself walking barefoot on the well-kept lawn, cool still from dew, and soft and springy: she really wanted to walk about now. The frustration made her feel irritably restless – what was Eileen doing hanging about—

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Hugh?’

  ‘Quite all right. I twisted my ankle, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, that’s what it is.’ Eileen seemed reassured. ‘Ever so painful, that can be.’ She picked up her tray. ‘You’ll ring if you want anything, won’t you, madam?’ She leant over the table and moved the little brass bell within Sybil’s reach. Then she went.

  Perhaps I ought to be in London, not to be so far away, thought Sybil. I could have gone back with Hugh – got a taxi from the office. She really couldn’t go on sitting like this, it was too uncomfortable. She would like to ring up Hugh and see what he thought, but it would only worry him so she wouldn’t do that. If she got up and got one of the walking sticks out of the Brig’s study – only across the passage – she could then go into the garden. It might be quite possible to walk if she had a stick. She turned and heaved her leg off the chair; her ankle responded with such a stab of agony that her eyes filled with tears. Perhaps she had better ring for Eileen to get it … but then she became aware of the hand on her spine again, not painful, but menacing, with the promise of pain. She remembered it now. It was the mere beginning – the grip would become a vice, and then a knife that would slowly surge downwards, cleaving her spine and stopping seconds after it became intolerable, then apparently vanish but, in reality, lie in wait for another, more murderous assault … She must get up – get to – Supporting herself by the table, she rose to her feet, then remembered the bell – now out of reach – and as she leant over the table to get it, felt the warm flood of her waters breaking. It’s gone all wrong! she thought, as tears began to stream down her face, but she reached the bell and rang it and rang it for ever for someone to come.

  Which they did, of course, much sooner than it felt to Sybil. They sat her back in the chair, and the Duchy sent Eileen for either Wren or McAlpine, whoever could be found first, while she telephoned Dr Carr. He was out on his rounds, but could be reached, they said, and would come at once. She did not tell her daughter-in-law that he was out, said calmly that he was on his way, and that Eileen and one of the men would carry her up to her room, and that she, the Duchy, would not leave her until the doctor came. ‘And everything will be all right,’ she said, with all the reassurance she could muster, but she was afraid, and wished that Rachel was there. Rachel was always wonderful when things were difficult. It was not good that the waters had broken so soon; she could see no sign of blood, and did not want to alarm Sybil by asking about it. If only Rachel was here, she thought almost angrily; she who is always here would be away at a time like this. Sybil was biting her lips trying neither to scream nor to cry. The Duchy took one of her hands in both of hers and held it hard; she remembered that it was good to be grasped so and she upheld the conspiracy of silence in childbirth that was naturally proper for women like themselves. Pain was to be endured and forgotten, but it was never really forgotten, and looking at Sybil’s mute distress she could remember it too well. ‘There, there, my duck,’ she said. ‘It’ll be a lovely baby – you’ll see.’

  Rachel would have liked more time to get ready to meet Sid. She would also have liked them to be able to have lunch at the White Hart alone together, but she would not have dreamed of going against the Duchy’s wishes in that matter, or, indeed, any other – a state of affairs that had applied all her life. There had, twenty years ago, been the excuse that she was too young – eighteen, in fact. The young man in question had urged her to greater freedom, but really, of course, she had not wanted to be in the least bit free with him. As she grew older, the reason for her obedience became her parents’ age rather than her own, and the notion that at thirty-eight she could still not order her own time to suit herself, or in this case, her and Sid, did not seriously impinge. It was a pity, but to dwell upon one’s own wishes would be morbid, a Cazalet term that implied the uttermost condemnation.

  So she sat in the back of the car and looked on the bright side. It was a beautiful hot, shimmering day, and she and Sid would have a perfectly lovely walk after luncheon together – might even take some Osborne biscuits and a Thermos with them and thus legitimately skip family tea.

  Tonbridge drove at his usual twenty-eight miles an hour, and she longed to ask him to go faster, but he had never been known to be late for a train and asking him to hurry would look ridiculous.

  In fact, they were early as she had already known they would be. She would wait on the platform, she told Tonbridge, who then mentioned that he had something to collect from Till’s for McAlpine.

  ‘Do that now, and we’ll meet you outside Till’s,’ Rachel ordered, pleased to have recognised the opportunity in time.

  The station was very quiet. The one porter was watering the station flower beds: scarlet geraniums, dark blue lobelia and white alyssum, remnants of the decorative fervour inspired by the Coronation. There was one passenger with a child on the far side waiting to go to Hastings for a day at the sea, judging by the bucket and wooden spade and picnic bulging from a carrier bag. Rachel walked over the bridge to where they sat, then decided that she didn’t want to get involved with anyone – wanted to meet Sid in silence – but she was glad when the train puffed slowly towards them as she felt she was being unfriendly. Then it stopped and doors flapped open and there were people and then there was Sid walking towards her smiling, wearing her brown tussore suit with the belted jacket, bareheaded, cropped hair and a nut-brown face.

  ‘What ho!’ said Sid, and they embraced.

  ‘I’ll carry it.’

  ‘You will not.’ Sid picked up the businesslike little case which she had relinquished to greet Rachel, and tucked Rachel’s arm in her own.

  ‘I imagined you bicycling to meet me, but I suppose the bridge defeated you. You look tired, darling. Are you?’

  ‘No. And I didn’t bicycle. I’m afraid we’ve got Tonbridge and lunch at home.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘But a lovely walk afterwards, and I thought we’d take tea with us so we wouldn’t have to come back for it.’

  ‘That sounds a splendid idea.’ It was resolutely said, and Rachel glanced at her in search of irony, but there was none. Sid met her eye, winked and said, ‘Bless you, my angel, for always wanting everybody to be happy. I meant it. It is a splendid idea.’

  They walked out of the station in a silence that for Rachel was blissfully companionable, for Sid so full of wild happiness that she was unable to speak. But, eventually, as they passed the Abbey gates, she said, ‘If we take a picnic, won’t the children want to come too?’

  ‘They’re all at the beach. They won’t be back until tea-time.’

  ‘Ah! The plot thins, in the most admirable manner.’

  ‘And I thought you might stay the night. There’s a camp bed we could put in my room.’

  ‘Is there really, darling? I must wait for the Duchy to ask me, though.’

  ‘She will. She’s very fond of you. It’s a pity you haven’t brought your fiddle. But you could borrow Edward’s. You know she loves playing sonatas with you. How’s Evie?’

  ‘I can tell you about that in the car.’ Evie was Sid’s sister, renowned for minor and often wilful ill health. She did part-time secretarial work for a well-known musician and relied upon Sid, with whom she lived, to manage their slender resources and to look after her whenever she needed or felt like it.

  And so, in the car, with Sid holding her hand, Rachel asked about Evie, and was told about her hay fever, the possibility of an ulcer, although the doctor didn’t think it was that
, and her plan that Sid should take her away for a seaside holiday some time in August, and preserving the proprieties in the presence of Tonbridge had a certain charm, making them both want to laugh because in a way it was so silly – they didn’t really want to talk about Evie in the least. They looked at each other or, rather, Sid would glance at Rachel and be unable to look away, and Rachel would find herself transfixed by those small, brownish, eloquent, wide-apart eyes, and would feel herself beginning to blush when Sid would chuckle and produce some idiotic cliché such as ‘every silver lining has a cloud’, in the voice she would use for reading a motto from a cracker, adding ‘or so they say,’ which broke the tension until the next time. Tonbridge, driving slightly faster – he was looking forward to his dinner – couldn’t make head nor tail of what they were on about.

  They no sooner drew up beside the gate that led to the front door when Eileen, who had been watching for them, ran out and said that Madam said that Miss Rachel was to go up to Mrs Hugh’s room immediately as the baby had started and the doctor hadn’t yet arrived. Rachel sprang out of the car without a backward glance and ran into the house. Oh, Lord! thought Sid. Poor darling! She meant Rachel.

  Sybil sat in bed, propped up by pillows; she refused to lie properly, which the Duchy felt was wrong but she was far too anxious and alarmed to try to insist. Rachel would do it, and here at last was Rachel. ‘The doctor is coming,’ said the Duchy quickly and gave Rachel a little frown meaning don’t ask when. ‘If you will stay with her, I’ll see to towels. The maids are boiling water,’ and she went, glad to do something she could accomplish. She had been beginning to find Sybil’s pains more than she could bear. Rachel drew up a chair and sat beside Sybil.

  ‘Darling. What can I do to help?’ Sybil gasped and threw herself forward with clenched hands, pressing on the bed each side of her thighs. ‘Nothing. I don’t know.’ A bit later, she said, ‘Help me – undress. Quick – before the next one.’ So in between the pains Rachel helped her out of her smock, her slip and her knickers, and finally into a nightdress. This took a long time as with each pain they had to stop, and Sybil gripped Rachel’s hand until she thought her bones would break.

  ‘Supposing it’s born before he comes?’ Sybil said, and Rachel knew that she was terrified by the thought.

  ‘We’ll manage. It’s going to be all right,’ she soothed, but she hadn’t the faintest idea what to do. ‘You mustn’t worry,’ she said, stroking Sybil’s hair back from her forehead. ‘I used to be a VAD. Remember?’

  And Sybil seemed comforted by that, gave Rachel a small trusting smile and said, ‘I’d forgotten. Of course you were.’ She lay back for a moment and shut her eyes. ‘Could you tie my hair back? Out of the way?’ But by the time Rachel had found the strip of chiffon indicated upon the dressing table Sybil was again racked, her hand searching blindly for Rachel’s hand.

  ‘Oh, God – let the doctor come,’ Rachel prayed as Sybil uttered a moan.

  ‘Sorry about that. It’s all a bit Mary Webbish, isn’t it? Straining at bedposts and all that?’ And as Rachel smiled at the gallant small joke, she added, ‘It does hurt rather.’

  ‘I know it does, darling. You’re tremendously brave.’

  Then they both heard a car, which surely must be the doctor, and Rachel went to the window. ‘He’s come!’ she said. ‘Isn’t that good?’ But Sybil had crammed her fist into her mouth and was biting her knuckles not to scream and seemed not to hear her.

  He was an old man, an elderly Scot with gingery brindled hair and moustache. He came into the room taking off his jacket and putting down his case and was rolling up his shirt-sleeves as he talked.

  ‘Well, well, Mrs Cazalet, so I hear you had a wee fall in the bath this morning and your baby’s decided to make its way out.’ He looked around the room, saw the jug and basin and proceeded to wash his hands. ‘No, I can manage quite well with cold, but we’ll be needing some hot water. Perhaps you would arrange that, Miss Cazalet, while I examine the patient?’

  ‘But I’ll need you back in five minutes,’ he called, as Rachel left the room.

  On the landing, she found the housemaids with covered pails of hot water, and a pile of towels laid on the linen chest. Downstairs she found the Duchy with Sid. Her mother was deeply agitated. ‘Rachel! I feel I must ring Hugh.’

  ‘Of course you must.’

  ‘But Sybil begged me not to. She doesn’t want him worried. It seems wrong to do exactly what she doesn’t want.’

  Rachel looked at Sid, who was looking at the Duchy with a kind of protective kindness that made Rachel love her. Now, Sid said, ‘I don’t think that’s the point. I think Hugh would mind very much if he hadn’t been told what was going on.’

  The Duchy said gratefully, ‘Of course you are right. Sensible Sid! I’m so glad you are here. I’ll do it at once.’

  When she had gone, Sid held out her battered silver case and said, ‘Have a gasper. You look as though you need one.’

  And Rachel, who usually smoked Egyptian cigarettes, finding Gold Flake too strong, took one, and found her hand was shaking as Sid lit it for her. ‘It is ghastly,’ she said. ‘The most ghastly pain. I didn’t realise. Has the doctor got a nurse coming?’

  ‘Apparently not at once, anyway. He tried his usual midwife and she was out on a case, and the district nurse said she couldn’t come until some time in the afternoon. He’s told me what to do. I’m sorry about our day.’

  ‘It can’t be helped.’

  ‘Have you been asked to stay?’

  ‘I have. The plan is that Mrs Cripps should make a picnic tea and I should deflect the beach party – keep the children out of the way until it’s over. It’s curious, isn’t it?’ She added after a pause, ‘How for the most important events in people’s lives everybody has to keep out of the way, know nothing about it.’

  ‘Oh, but, they might hear her. Not that Sybil would make a sound if she could possibly help it.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Sensing Sid’s faintly ironical expression, Rachel was conscious of the fleeting but familiar sensation of Sid’s foreignness – at least, that was how she put it to herself. Sid’s mother had been a Portuguese Jewess whom her father had met on tour with the orchestra in which he played. He had married and fathered two daughters, Margot and Evie, and then abandoned them, gone to Australia; he was always referred to – rather bitterly – as Mr Sidney of that ilk. They had had a hard, impoverished life, their mother eventually dying of TB and homesickness (her family cut her off at her marriage). It was difficult, Sid said, to know which had been worse. But all this, and the fact of her coming from a family of musicians, made her seem foreign and this in turn seemed to make her keener on confronting things than Rachel’s family had ever been. ‘I’ve seen nothing but spades since I was a baby,’ Sid once said. ‘How am I call them anything else?’ As soon as her mother was dead, Margot had abandoned the name she had always loathed and called herself Sid. Like many couples whose cultural backgrounds are very different, they both had ambivalent attitudes in their behaviour to one another: Sid, who recognised that Rachel had all her life been overprotected from either financial or emotional reality, wished to be the person who protected her most, and at the same time could not resist the occasional dig at the middle-class Englishness of it all; Rachel, who knew Sid had not only had to fend for herself, but really for her mother and sister as well, respected her independence and authority but wanted Sid to understand that the understatements, discretion, and withholding were an integral part of the Cazalet family life, existing only to uphold affection and good manners. ‘I can understand,’ Sid had once said during an early confrontation, ‘but I can do that perfectly well without agreeing. Don’t you see?’ But Rachel did not see at all; for her, understanding meant tacit agreement.

  To each of them some of these thoughts had recurred, but there was no time for any of that now. Rachel stubbed out her cigarette and said, ‘I must go back. Would you ask the Duchy to get one of the maids to br
ing me an apron?’

  ‘Of course I will. God bless. Tell me if there’s anything I can do.’

  ‘I will.’

  I have only to do exactly what he tells me, she thought, as she went upstairs, and it’s utterly ridiculous to mind about blood so much. I must simply think of something else.

  Cooden really wasn’t the best beach for the children, Villy thought, as she shifted her bottom on the boulderish pebbles and tried to find a more comfortable bit of break-water for her back. Even on such a calm and blazing day, the sea was surprisingly cold – a steely blue far out, but near them an aquamarine swell that heaved endlessly in and broke upon the steeply shelving shore in a creamy fringe that swooned and melted to green again and was sucked out beneath the next wave. The boys were all right, they were good at swimming from school, but the girls were afraid of going out of their depth, hobbled over the pebbles, waded a few steps, swam two or three strokes again and again, until she made them come in, teeth chattering, cold and slippery as fishes, to have their backs rubbed, to be given pieces of Terry’s bitter chocolate or hot Bovril. There were no rock pools for Lydia and Neville, and almost no sand; Lydia got swept off her feet by the undertow and wept bitterly for ages in spite of Villy’s soothing. Neville, who had watched it all with horror, announced that he was not going to use the sea today at all, ‘Except for water for my bucket.’ ‘Then you won’t get any chocolate,’ Clary had said and was at once told to mind her own business by Ellen, who was pinning a handkerchief with safety pins to Neville’s Panama hat so that a square of white covered his already pink bony shoulders. Ellen and Nanny sat in their hats, grey cardigans and sensible belted cotton dresses, their legs stretched out in front of them in thick pale cotton stockings with black double-strap shoes, their knitting on their laps. A day at the beach must be purgatory for them, Villy thought. Neither would have dreamed of bathing: their authority with the children was shaky, undermined by the presence of parents, but at the same time they were responsible – for Lydia and Neville not catching cold or getting a touch of the sun, or going off with strange children from whom they might catch something.