And it will always be like that, Sid now thought, and I could not even give her a child. And I love her and shall never want anyone more – or else. She wept before she slept.
On Monday, Clary was covered with spots and was pronounced by Dr Carr to have chicken pox. When Louise heard this, she called a meeting to be held at the fallen-down tree in the wood behind Home Place. She, Nora, Teddy, Polly, Simon and Christopher were asked to come, and Neville and Lydia and Judy got to hear of it and went.
‘We didn’t ask you or you or you to the meeting,’ Louise said, as these last three stood uncertainly on the outskirts.
‘You said children’s meeting, and we’re children,’ Lydia said.
‘Anyway, we’re here,’ Neville said, ‘so I would have thought that was that.’
‘Oh, let them stay,’ Nora said.
‘Promise never to tell the grown-ups anything that is said by this tree on this Monday, 20 September 1938?’
‘OK.’
‘Don’t say OK like that. Say, we solemnly promise.’
The girls repeated this, but Neville said, ‘I laughingly promise. It’s just the same,’ he said when Lydia looked shocked.
‘Right. Well, what we’re here for is Clary’s chicken pox. Hands up anybody who’s had chicken pox.’
Nobody put up their hand.
‘The thing is, if we organise it properly, we could all be in quarantine or having it for the rest of the term. Do you see?’
‘Gosh, I do!’ Teddy exclaimed. ‘We couldn’t go back to our schools.’
‘Exactly. We’d have to stay here until the Christmas holidays, and then there’d be them.’
‘How do we catch it?’ Polly asked. ‘I mean, how can we be sure?’
‘You’ve probably got it already, as you’re sharing a room with Clary. It’s quite infectious, it’s quite a long quarantine.’
‘We all go and hug her!’ Judy said. ‘Would that do it?’
‘No. We don’t all go. If we did, we might all get it at once and that would be hopeless. Two of us go. And one of them had better be you, Polly, as you’re the most likely next one.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Teddy said. ‘Perhaps we don’t want not to go back to school.’ Much as he enjoyed the holidays, he was quite looking forward to getting back into the squash team as he’d practised so much.
‘I don’t want chicken pox,’ Christopher said, ‘and nor do you, Simon, do you?’
Simon blushed, and squashed a fir cone with his sand-shoe. ‘It depends … no – no, not really,’ he added. He had decided, cravenly, he knew, to go and hug Clary on the quiet, every night, to be on the safe side.
‘Does it hurt?’ Lydia asked. ‘I mean, could people die from it? Can grown-ups get it?’
‘They can, but usually they’ve had it.’
‘Anyway, people don’t die of it, Lydia,’ Louise said kindly, remembering Lydia’s besetting anxiety.
The meeting ended with a list being arranged of the order in which they were to hang over Clary, and with instructions to do this as secretly as possible.
‘She’ll have to know, so it can’t be completely, absolutely secret,’ Neville pointed out.
‘Of course she’ll know. But she’ll be on our side.’
On Tuesday the Brig, having measured the squash court, went to London and bought twenty-four camp beds from the Army & Navy Stores, to be transported, immediately, in one of the firm’s lorries to Sussex. He did not mention this to anyone.
On Wednesday, Sybil and Villy woke up to the fact that Clary’s chicken pox meant that all the children, excepting Christopher, were in quarantine. They rang up Teddy’s and Simon’s school to inform them of this. Villy thought it might be worth writing to Miss Milliment, who was not on the telephone, to see whether she could come down to Sussex and give lessons. The Duchy approved of the idea, although she said that Miss Milliment would have to be put in the Tonbridges’ cottage. ‘Tonbridge can sleep in the boot room quite well,’ she added tranquilly. Rachel said how sweet the children all were to Clary, always going to see if she wanted anything – it really was rather touching. ‘More a case of being rather catching,’ Rupert said, coming in on the end of this. ‘The little blighters are quite cunning.’ Villy went back to Mill Farm and told Jessica about the Milliment plan. ‘And Nora and Judy could join in,’ she said.
‘Oh, darling, you don’t want us to stay, surely?’ Jessica had spent the morning wondering what on earth she had better do. Raymond was still stuck with Aunt Lena, who now looked as though she was dying – extremely slowly and painlessly, as she had always lived. Taking the children back to Hendon and then coping with chicken pox and Angela’s future seemed, after these halcyon weeks, a hideous prospect.
‘Of course you must stay. At least until things settle down.’
‘What about Mummy?’
‘I suppose we’d better ask her what she wants.’
Lady Rydal said that it didn’t matter in the least what she wanted and they must do with her as they would. Bryant, her cook, would have returned from her holiday, and Bluitt (her house-parlourmaid) would be back next week, so possibly it might be better if she stayed until they were both back as one on their own made heavy weather of looking after one poor old woman.
‘That’s it, then.’ Villy made a face when she was alone with Jessica. ‘Edward said he didn’t think he could wear another weekend with her, but he’ll just have to.’
‘After all, he missed one by having to work,’ Jessica pointed out.
‘Yes, he did, didn’t he? Any news of Raymond?’
‘I think I’d better ring him tonight. Just to see how Aunt Lena is doing.’
On Thursday, in London, Hugh was waiting for Edward who was late for lunch. As it was Edward’s club, he had to wait for a drink, and wandered to the large round table that was strewn with newspapers and magazines. The Daily Express lay with headlines blaring: WILL CZECHS ACCEPT HITLER’S ULTIMATUM? WHAT HE ASKS: EVACUATION OF SUDETENLAND BY 1ST OCTOBER. He was bending over it to read more when Edward put a hand on his shoulder and said: ‘Don’t worry, old boy. It’s all up to the Czechs now, isn’t it? And they’ll have to give way. They’ve got no choice. Two large pink gins, please, George. I’m going to give you a very good lunch.’
But at lunch they met somebody who knew somebody who had met Colonel Lindbergh at a party and he had told them a good deal of interesting and alarming stuff about the German Air Force, which was larger and better equipped than was commonly supposed. He also informed them that trenches were being dug in the parks, a fact that seemed to unnerve Edward far more than news about the Air Force. ‘Perhaps in the end we shall have to take the buggers seriously,’ he said. ‘My God, this time I shall join the Navy.’
‘The Navy can’t do much against bombers,’ Hugh said. ‘We’re wide open to a massive air attack. It won’t be like the last war. They won’t stop at bombing civilians.’
‘Well, we’ll keep our civilians in the country,’ Edward said with the levity that Hugh recognised Edward employed when he was uneasy. For the rest of lunch, they talked about work and Rupert’s indecision.
‘I mean, if he does join us, he’s going to have to make up his mind about things all the time, and his track record for that isn’t extremely dynamic.’
Hugh said, ‘Well, he’ll have us to break him in.’
‘I don’t know whether he will.’
There was a brief silence while they both recognised that they were back on the brink. Then Hugh said, ‘I think it would be sensible if we had a contingency plan.’
‘About Rupe?’
‘About everything.’
Edward looked at his brother, at his anxious, honest eyes, at the nervous tic starting now beneath his right cheekbone, at the black silk stump resting on the corner of the table and then back to his eyes again. Hugh’s expression had not changed. He said, ‘You think I’m a windy obstinate old bugger, but you know I’m right.’
Zoë had got herself into a rat
her sticky position. The solution was perfectly simple and perfectly dull, and she regarded it as a last resort. Her mother’s condition had improved enough for her to get up for part of the day, which meant that Zoë had to spend hours more time with her than she had had to do when Mrs Headford had been confined to her bed. It also meant that Dr Sherlock had far less reason for his visits, although he still made them. The first three days, when Mummy had really been quite ill, Zoë had made her lightly boiled eggs and frightfully thin bread and butter – even managed to stew some prunes – made her bed each day, and cleaned the bath – horrible old jobs that it made her tired even to contemplate each morning as she lay on the uncomfortable sofa in the sitting room. She only got out to change their library books; Ruby M. Ayres for her mother, who required something light, and whatever she could find for herself—Somerset Maugham and Margaret Irwin chiefly. She had been deeply bored, and the only highlights of the day had been Rupert’s telephone call in the evening, a strict three minutes because the Duchy regarded the telephone, especially toll calls, as an indulgence, and the visit from Dr Sherlock. Dr Sherlock was a man of about forty, she thought, as his hair, which was thick and wavy, was brindled with grey. He was unusually tall with brown eyes and a soothing voice, and Zoë noticed that her mother made great efforts to be what she called tidy for his calls. The first time he had called, she had shown him into her mother’s bedroom where she lay propped up in bed in her peach-coloured bedjacket edged with white swansdown, shut the door on them and quietly gone back to the crowded little sitting room to tidy it up. Her mother had moved to a smaller, cheaper flat after Zoë had married and as she had not brought herself to part with anything very much, the place was overflowing. There was nowhere for Zoë to put her clothes, or even the bedclothes she used for the sofa at night: she had to keep her make-up in the tiny little dark bathroom. Every flat surface was filled with photographs – mainly of Zoë at every stage of childhood and up to the present day. The walls, that were mostly a peachy pink – the colour her mother had learned from Miss Arden was the most becoming for women – were now discreetly dirty and toned in with the soupy net curtains that covered every window, subduing and suppressing all daylight. It was a fourth-floor flat in a mansion block; to go out you had to use an incredibly slow cage-like lift that was frequently stuck on another floor because the tenants had failed to close the stiff and ponderous gates. It was like a prison, Zoë thought, and just as she thought it, Dr Sherlock came into the room.
‘Well, Mrs …’
‘Cazalet.’
‘Mrs Cazalet, your mother’s making a good recovery. I’ve told her she must stay put for a few more days, at least. She should have light diet – chicken, fish that sort of thing …’
‘I’m not much of a cook – you don’t think she should be in hospital?’
‘No, no. I’m sure she’d far rather be looked after by you. You can stay a few days, can’t you? She seemed rather anxious about that.’
‘A few days. My husband’s in the country – with the children.’
‘Ah, I see. And you don’t want to leave them for too long.’
‘Well, it’s my husband, really. He doesn’t like to be left for too long.’
He gave her a small smile. ‘I can imagine he wouldn’t. Well, perhaps you could move your mother to the country in a few days.’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t! We’re staying with his parents, you see. The house is simply full of people.’
He had been writing something on his prescription pad, and now looked up at her. This time his admiration was unmistakable. He tore off the prescription and handed it to her.
‘Well, whatever plans you make, don’t let your mother be in doubt about them. The most important thing for her is that she should be free of anxiety. I’m prescribing a mild sedative that should help with that and also ensure that she gets a good night’s sleep.’
‘Will you be coming tomorrow?’
‘Yes. By the way, do you have a bedpan?’
‘I … I don’t think so.’ She had never seen one in her life.
‘Well, get one from the chemist. I’d like your mother to be absolutely still for a day or two. Don’t want her traipsing back and forth to the lavatory.’ He was putting the pad of paper back into his bag and preparing to go. ‘See you tomorrow, Mrs Cazalet. I’ll let myself out.’
She heard him open the front door, close it, and then there was silence. She spent a ghastly day, buying food and getting the prescription and the bedpan, and then persuading her mother to use it, and then having to empty it, and clean it out and put it back in the peachy bedroom with a peachy towel covering it. A nice woman at the fishmonger in Earl’s Court Road – she had to walk miles to find a fish shop – told her how to cook the fillets of plaice she bought. ‘For an invalid, is it? Just put it between two plates, dear, over a saucepan of hot water.’ That was fine, but she hadn’t asked how long for and she burned her fingers on the top plate trying to see whether it was cooked or not. Quite soon the whole flat smelled of fish, and then her mother didn’t seem to want it in the least. ‘I thought you knew me and fish, Zoë,’ she said. ‘Never mind, I can make do with some bread and milk. And some grapes,’ she called, after Zoë had gone out of the room with the tray. ‘Did you get the grapes?’
‘You didn’t say you wanted any. I asked you if there was anything you wanted and you said nothing. I’ll go this afternoon.’
‘I don’t want to be a trouble.’
But you are, she thought, scraping the fish off the plate and putting it into the rubbish bin. The bedpan business had made her feel totally unhungry. She went out again and bought grapes and a tin of turtle soup for her mother’s supper. In the evening she had a good moan to Rupert about how awful everything was and how much she missed him. He was sweet about it all, said that he was sure she was being a wonderful nurse, and it couldn’t be helped and he’d ring tomorrow.
After that, things changed rapidly. Dr Sherlock came in the morning and she’d made some coffee – about the only thing she was good at making – and offered him some after his visit to her mother. He agreed to a quick cup. Her mother was making excellent progress, he said, should be up for an hour or two quite soon, but he had told her to have an afternoon rest and to settle down early for the night. ‘And what do you do with yourself once your mother is settled?’
Zoë shrugged. ‘Nothing. My friends all seem to be away, and I don’t care to go to a cinema by myself.’ She had tried one or two old schoolfriends, but got no results. She looked down at the cup on her lap and then back at him with a small, appealing smile. ‘Still, I really shouldn’t complain.’
‘That rarely prevents one from doing so, I find. Well, I can complain as well. My wife took the children to Hunstanton for what was supposed to be a fortnight, and now it’s three weeks and no sign of them returning.’
‘Poor you!’ She proffered the coffee pot.
‘Thanks, it was delicious but I’ve got some more calls before lunch.’ He got to his feet. He really was amazingly tall. That afternoon, she went back to her own house and collected some more clothes.
By the end of the week, her mother was getting up for a part of each day, was able to bathe and use the lavatory. On Friday, he asked her if she would care to dine with him. ‘If you have nothing better to do.’ She had nothing better to do.
By tacit agreement, her mother was not actually informed of this arrangement. She told her mother that she was going to the cinema, and he said nothing. He took her to Prunier’s, and, over their Pâté Traktir and Chablis, exchanged those elliptical, fascinating and often misleading pieces of information about themselves that pave the path to physical attraction. How long had she been married? Nearly four years. She must have been very, very young, then. Nineteen. A child. And the children? She was afraid she had none. Her husband had been married before; the children she had mentioned were by his former wife. She was very young to take on step-children. Yes, it was sometimes difficult. She was wearing
a halter-necked dress that made her minute shrugs of semi-denial – about extreme youth, or the consequent difficulties – particularly attractive. She had wanted to go on the stage, she volunteered, but marriage had put an end to all that. He could quite see why she had wanted to go on the stage. They had reached the Sole Véronique by now and she asked him about himself. Nothing to tell: he was a GP with a fairly large practice, a house in Redcliffe Square, had been married for twelve years and had two children. His wife disliked London and with some money inherited from her father had bought a cottage in Norfolk from which she found it difficult to tear herself away. He was not too keen on the country himself – much preferred town. Oh, yes, so did she! This agreement, as they drank to it and looked at each other escalated to a delightful significance. ‘How extraordinary,’ he said with simulated lightness, ‘that we should be so alike!’ They had reached the coffee stage before a waiter came to say that there was a call for him. When he returned, he was awfully sorry, but they would have to go – he had a visit to make. No, no, finish your coffee. He called for the bill.
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 33
