The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  Now Nanny, who had begun to dress Lydia, was forestalled by Edward, who said he would take her out on his shoulders as Rupert was going to do with Neville (neither liked the idea of their offspring being afraid of the water). ‘Tell the boys to come in when you do,’ Villy called; it would be a point of honour with them not to come in until they were made to. She looked across at Zoë, who had curled herself up against the breakwater on a car rug and was rubbing some cream on her legs – which was the only part of her in the sun – rather a common thing to do in public, Villy thought, then felt ashamed. Whatever the poor girl does, I’m horrid about it. Rupert had tried to make her bathe, but she wouldn’t, said she knew it would be too cold. She had never let any of the Cazalets know that she couldn’t swim.

  Villy watched as Edward and Rupert picked their way out into the sea with Lydia and Neville clinging to their backs like nervous little crabs. When they began to swim, Lydia screamed with excitement and Neville with fear, their screams mingling with the sea cries of other children, afraid of waves, not wanting to come in, shocked by the cold, afraid of being splashed by the swimmers. The fathers went on swimming until Rupert was in danger of being strangled by Neville and had to come in. Neville’s hat had blown off and Villy watched as Simon and Teddy raced to retrieve it, like little otters.

  The girls, clad now in their shorts and Aertex shirts, were starting to ask about lunch. Polly and Clary were collecting smooth, flat pebbles and putting them into Clary’s biscuit tin, and Louise lay flat on her stomach, apparently untroubled by the stony beach, reading and wiping her eyes with a bath towel.

  ‘How soon?’ one of them said.

  ‘As soon as the others come in and get changed.’ He waved to Edward who was carrying Lydia now and shouting to the boys.

  Lydia returned triumphant and very cold; Edward dumped her beside Villy, against whom she leant, pigtails dripping, teeth rattling.

  ‘I swam much further than you did,’ she called to Neville.

  ‘You’re freezing, darling.’ Villy wrapped her in a towel.

  ‘I’m not. I’m boiling really. I’m making my teeth chatter. This is how Nan dresses in the morning. Look!’ She held the towel around her, turned her back and made humping movements of someone wriggling into stays, a fine imitation of clumsy decorum. Edward caught Villy’s eye and they both managed not to laugh.

  Teddy and Simon came in quickly enough the moment that Edward shouted, ‘Lunch!’ They came rushing in from the sea, running easily over the pebbles, their hair plastered to their heads, the straps of their bathing dresses dropping over their shoulders. A super bathe, they said; they hadn’t wanted to come in; there was no point in changing as they were going back immediately after lunch. Oh, no, they weren’t, said Edward. They had to digest their lunch first. People got cramp and drowned if they bathed immediately after a meal.

  ‘Have you known anyone who actually drowned, Dad?’ Teddy asked.

  ‘Dozens. You get changed. Chop chop.’

  ‘What does chop mean?’ asked Lydia nervously.

  ‘It’s Chinese for quick,’ said Louise. ‘Mummy, can we start unpacking lunch? Just to see what there is?’

  Zoë helped unpack the picnic, and the nannies stopped combing hair and clucking over tar on Lydia’s bathing dress and spread a rug for the children to sit on. Zoë was pleased because Rupert had knelt beside her and ruffled her hair and asked how was his little bookworm, which made her feel interesting in a different way. The children ate ravenously, except Lydia refused her hard-boiled egg, which she described as dead. I never eat dead eggs,’ she said, so Teddy ate it for her. Neville spilled his orange squash on the car rug and Clary got stung by a bee and cried until Rupert sucked out the sting and explained how much worse it was for the bee who, he said, would be dead as a doornail by now. After lunch, Lydia and Neville were made to have rests in the shade of the breakwater by the nannies, the grown-ups smoked and the older children played a rather shaky game of Pelmanism on the pebbles with the cards they had brought. Clary was the best at that by far, never seeming to forget a card, although, as Simon pointed out, some of them got tilted by the pebbles and continued to be visible if you cheated, which he seemed to feel might be the case with Clary. Then the boys wanted to bathe again, claimed that they had been promised a second go. The tide was going out, and the others decided to paddle – not possible when they had arrived. Goodness! thought Zoë. It goes on and on. She had got to the bit in Gone With The Wind where Melanie was starting to have her baby and Scarlett couldn’t get the doctor to come, and decided she didn’t want to read that now. Rupert was walking with Clary along the beach hand in hand, Clary looking up at him and swinging his arm. Perhaps if I got better with his children, he wouldn’t want any more, she thought. This seemed a good, but difficult, idea. She imagined herself nursing Neville with pneumonia or something fatal of that kind; sitting up with him night after night, stroking his forehead and refusing to leave his side for an instant, until he was pronounced out of danger. ‘He owes his life to you, darling,’ Rupert would say, ‘and I owe you more than I can ever repay.’ She felt she was rather like Scarlett: beautiful, brave and quite straightforward about things. She would make Rupert read the book and he would see.

  By four o’clock everybody was ready to go home – although the children would not admit it. ‘Must we? We’ve hardly been here a minute.’ Banana skins, egg shells, the crusts of sandwiches, the Bakelite mugs were packed away, personal belongings lost and found and established with their owner, keys mislaid and discovered. They began the tramp back up the beach and along the dirt track to the cars that, parked in the sun, were now like furnaces. Villy and Rupert and Edward wound down the windows but the seats were burning and Neville said he could not sit on them and had to be placed on Ellen’s lap. Edward drove their Buick, and Villy the Brig’s old Vauxhall, which had a villainous gearbox having been driven by countless non-owners and, in any case, being pretty old. Rupert took Zoë and Ellen in his Ford with Neville and Lydia who clamoured to go with Neville as they had begun to play I Spy. Clary was glad to go with Villy and the girls; Nan went in Edward’s car in front, which she relished, and the boys at the back. They drove in tandem with Villy leading in case her car broke down. The girls quarrelled about who should sit in front, Louise saying she was the oldest and Clary saying she was sick in the back. Villy settled for Clary. She had a headache from the sun and began to look forward to a tepid bath and sitting on the lawn sewing with Sybil. ‘But it is good for them to get some bathing and sea air,’ she told herself.

  Rachel returned to the bedroom to find that Dr Carr had mysteriously converted it from a scene of amateur emergency into a place where something serious was happening with a predictable outcome. Sybil now lay on her side, with her knees drawn up, and he was putting a cold compress on her ankle.

  ‘Mrs Cazalet is doing very well indeed,’ he announced, ‘over half-way dilated, and the baby is the right way round. We’ll need some towels to put under her, and you might send for the kitchen scales, and then you can rub her back – here – low, down each side of the spine when the pains come and tell her to breathe. The more you have the pain, Mrs Cazalet, the deeper you breathe. Is there a wee table I can have for my paraphernalia, Miss Cazalet? Is there a bell in this room? Ah! Well, then, we can make our demands. Breathe, Mrs Cazalet, try to relax and breathe.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sybil said. She did not look nearly so frightened now, Rachel saw, kept her eyes on the doctor with a look of trustful obedience that amounted almost to adoration.

  The towels were spread, a table was covered with a clean cloth and forceps, scissors, and a bottle with gauze pads beside it were duly arranged. Peggy brought up the scales, announcing with awe that Mrs Cripps had cleaned them herself, and was told to change the pails of hot water every twenty minutes to ensure that they would be hot enough when required. All this induced a sense of order and purpose, but when everything was arranged there was order, but the purpose seemed to recede. Rac
hel, who knew she knew nothing, began to wonder how long it was to take. Surely, if one had had babies before, it was supposed to be quicker? But quicker than what? After an unknown but very long amount of time, Dr Carr examined Sybil again, ‘No need to leave the room, Miss Cazalet,’ and when he had finished, straightened up with a little grunt and said that it would be some time yet and that he needed to telephone his wife to tell her to tell his partner to be ready to take evening surgery. Rachel told him where the telephone was and then resumed her seat beside Sybil who lay still upon her back. Her eyes were closed, and this, with her hair – dark at the roots from sweat – scraped back from her forehead, gave her a graven appearance. She opened her eyes, smiled at Rachel and said, ‘Polly took ages, but Simon was quite quick. He won’t be long, will he?’

  ‘The baby?’

  ‘The doctor. Oh, here it comes.’ But it was not the baby, simply another pain. She heaved herself onto her side so that Rachel could rub her back.

  The Duchy had done everything that she could think of. She had rung Hugh as calmly as possible and suggested that he go home and collect the baby’s clothes to bring down with him. Yes, they had got a doctor. Dr Carr was well known for his delivery of babies. And Rachel was helping, everything was fine. She had visited the kitchen again to find that Mrs Cripps had put everybody to work. The maids were making sandwiches and laying a small tray of cold meat and salad for lunch; Dottie was staggering to and fro with large enamel jugs to fill the huge pan and kettle on the range and Mrs Cripps herself, her greenish face luminous with energy and sweat, was rubbing furiously at the weighing cradle of the kitchen scales, while Billy had been told to bring in fresh hods of coal with which to stoke the range. A state of grim excitement prevailed. Mrs Cripps had earlier announced that ladies were chancy in confinement and she shouldn’t be surprised whatever became of Mrs Hugh, whereupon Dottie burst into theatrical tears and had to be slapped by one of the maids to give her, as Mrs Cripps observed, something to cry for. When the Duchy came in, everybody stopped what they were doing and looked at her as the bearer of tidings of whatever sort.

  ‘Mrs Hugh is doing well, and the doctor is here. Mr Hugh will be coming down this evening. Miss Sidney and I will lunch in the morning room, but we shan’t want very much. I see you are all very busy so I won’t disturb you. I don’t think the beach party will be back much before four, Mrs Cripps, but we should have the hampers ready for them when they come.’

  ‘Yes, m’m. And would you like lunch served now, m’m?’

  The Duchy looked at her watch strapped to her wrist in which a thin lace handkerchief was tucked.

  ‘One thirty, thank you, Mrs Cripps.’

  Leaving the kitchen, she paused in the hall, wondering whether she should go and see whether Rachel was managing, whether she wanted anything. Then she remembered that Sid was stranded with nothing to entertain her, so she provided Sid with The Times and a glass of sherry, said that luncheon was on its way, and that she would be back in a tick. She had become desperately worried about what the poor baby was to wear when it was born. Hugh was very unlikely to arrive with its clothes in time, and meanwhile it needed warmth. In her bedroom, which was all white muslin and pale blue washed walls, she searched for and found the white cashmere shawl that Will had brought back for her from one of his trips to India. It had become cream-coloured with age and washing, but it was still as soft and light as feathers. It would do. She hung it on the banister rail outside Sybil’s room. Then she went downstairs for luncheon.

  In spite of being told several times by his mother that everything was fine, and that he was not to worry, Hugh was, of course, worried. It’s the possibility of twins, he thought as he drove back to Bedford Gardens. Twins might mean complications and he did not like to think of Sybil without her own doctor and midwife. If only it had happened yesterday, he thought, or, better still, in three weeks’ time when it was supposed to happen. Poor pet! She must have been overdoing it; we shouldn’t have gone to that concert, but she’d seemed so keen on it. When he’d gone into the Old Man’s room to tell him, his father had smiled and said, ‘Well, I’m damned!’ but he’d seemed quite cool about it, and when Hugh said that he was going down at once, after calling briefly at home, the Old Man grunted and said, ‘Women’s business. Much better keep out of the way till it’s over, my boy.’

  Then he shot a keen glance at his eldest son – unpredictably nervous now since that bloody war – and said that of course Hugh must go if he thought it right. He’d be down in the evening, he added, by his usual train.

  Bedford Gardens was delightfully quiet: most people were away with their children. He parked his car, walked up the path and let himself into the house. As he slammed the door, he heard a sound upstairs, of someone running across the room – their bedroom. He put his hat on the hall table and was about to go upstairs, when Inge appeared at the top of them. She was heavily made up and wearing what he recognised at once as the pink silk dress that Sybil had bought last year for a wedding. She stared at him as though he was an intruder until he was constrained to say, ‘It’s me, Inge.’

  ‘I not thought you back till night-time.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Cazalet’s started the baby, and I’ve come back for its clothes.’

  ‘They are in nursery,’ she said, and vanished up the stairs. When he reached the bedroom floor the door was shut, and he guessed she was in their room feverishly tidying up. He had immediately decided to pretend he didn’t recognise the dress: he couldn’t sack her now or he’d have to stay until she left, and that would hold him up. He went on up to the nursery, seething in rage, saw the clothes all laid in a basket; he found a suitcase and tipped them in and shut the case again. The bedroom door was still closed. He went on down to the drawing room and remembered that he wanted his camera to take pictures of Sybil and the child. His desk, at one end of the room, was in total disarray as though it had been plundered: drawer open, paper all over the place. What the hell! He’d have to sack her.

  It was bad enough that she should dress up in Sybil’s clothes and use her make-up, although he didn’t think Sybil had that much make-up, but rifling his desk – was she after money or something? She was behaving like a common thief or burglar, or, the thought struck him unpleasantly, a spy of some sort, although God knew there was nothing worth spying on. This was ridiculous. No, it wasn’t entirely – she was German, wasn’t she? He’d never liked her and couldn’t leave her alone in the house now; she might do something like decamp with everything of value she could carry, set fire to the place, anything. He put the camera beside the suitcase, and went back upstairs.

  It took him precisely an hour. She had all Sybil’s clothes strewn about the room, her shoes, her jewellery – everything. He told her to get dressed in her own things, pack and leave. She must be out of the house in half an hour and, first of all, she was to give him the keys. She stuck out her bottom lip and swore under her breath in German, but she didn’t argue. He waited outside the room until she had changed into her own cotton frock and then waited in the bedroom while she was upstairs packing. It reeked of Sybil’s scent, Tweed, that he always gave her on her birthday. He attempted to tidy the room, hang a few things back in the wardrobe, but it was all such a mess he despaired. His heart was pounding with anger, and a headache was starting – all he needed for the long drive. ‘Hurry up!’ he shouted up the stairs. She seemed to be a long time, but eventually appeared carrying two obviously immensely heavy cases. ‘The keys,’ he said. She looked at him with pure hatred and thrust them painfully into his hand.

  Then quite slowly, and with horrible accuracy, she spat on him. ‘Schweinhund!’ she said.

  He stared back at her pale protracted eyes that were full of cold malice. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. The hatred he felt for her frightened him. ‘Get out,’ he said. ‘Get out before I call the police.’ He followed her down, watched her open the door and slam it with ferocity behind her.

  He went into the bathroom and
washed his face and hand, laving them again and again in cold water. Then he took a couple of his pills, and then he thought he’d better be sure that the house was properly locked up. It wasn’t. The back door from the kitchen was ajar. After that he went round the basement and ground floor making sure that every window was secure. Then he remembered Pompey, but when he eventually found the poor cat he was on Polly’s bed and he was dead – strangled with Polly’s winter dressing-gown cord. Polly’s beloved cat, the creature she loved most in the world. It was too much. He sat on his daughter’s bed and put his face in his hands. For a few seconds he sobbed until some early upbringing message told him that this would not do, so he stopped and blew his nose. He looked at Pompey, who lay rigidly stretched out, the cord still strained round his neck. His half-open eyes were still bright; his fur was warm. When he undid the cord, he saw that it had been expertly knotted. It struck him then that strangling a cat without a sound was not an easy thing to do, unless you had practice – the thought caused a shiver of revulsion. But he had to get on. He wrapped Pompey in a bath towel and carried him downstairs, with the notion that he would bury him in the back garden, but one look at the baking soil covered with iris roots changed his mind. He would take Pompey to Sussex, find the right time to tell Polly and help her to bury him – the Duchy would provide a good spot for a grave. He must, in any case, tell Polly that Pompey had died, but not how. She must never know how cruelly malevolent people could be – let her have the pure grief. I’ll get her another cat, he thought, as he packed the car, putting Pompey in the back of the boot. I’ll get her twenty cats – any cat she wants in the world.