‘Sorry you’ve got chicken pox.’
‘That’s OK.’ He looked at Christopher standing awkwardly in the doorway. Old feelings of allegiance and affection surged back: it was jolly decent of Christopher to come. ‘What’s happening with Teddy?’ he asked. ‘You can tell me – I hate him.’
‘He wants to turn the place into a fort. Dig a trench all round it. He wants to play at some kind of silly war.’
‘You won’t let him, though?’
‘I don’t want him to, but I don’t know how to stop him. He says it’s his territory, and I’m an invader. He wants to take all our stuff over – says a lot of it, like the tent, is his, anyway.’
‘You can’t play at war if you’re a conscience objector.’
‘Of course not! But it ruins all my plans. I seem to bring out the worst in him. After all, you can’t run away now you’re ill.’
‘I know. But why do you want to tell him?’
‘Well, he might shut up about it if I did. And he might see the point and join me instead of his stupid idea.’
‘Couldn’t you just wait a bit? He might get chicken pox. Or go to his beastly school.’ Simon felt very proud and helpful with Christopher saying ‘our stuff’ and asking whether he’d mind about telling Teddy, and somehow being in bed and not able to do anything made it easier to think of advice. ‘I didn’t sneak, you know,’ he added, wanting approval as well.
‘Of course not, silly. Why would I be asking you about telling him if you had already?’
‘Sorry. I didn’t think.’
‘That’s OK. I expect you’re feeling rotten.’ Simon looked as rotten as he could. Christopher wandered to the bedside and ate a grape off the plate. ‘He’s there all the time,’ he said miserably, ‘eating the food and messing things up. And he’s brought his gun as well.’
‘He’s not allowed his gun except with a grown-up. You could tell Uncle Edward.’
‘I’m not going to sneak—’ he stopped because Uncle Hugh came into the room. He had a little chess set with him.
‘Thought you might like a game before supper,’ he said. ‘Hallo, Christopher. Hope I’m not interrupting anything?’
‘Oh, no,’ they both said and then Christopher added that he was just off, anyway.
When the board was set out and Simon had picked the white pawn from his father’s proffered hand, he said, ‘Dad! If there is a war, will I have to go to school?’
‘I don’t know, old man. Are you worried about that?’
‘School?’
‘War.’
‘Oh, no,’ Simon said cheerfully. ‘I should think it would be rather exciting.’ On the whole he was quite glad that his father didn’t pursue the subject; he didn’t want to know that he would have to, really, and, anyway, it was weeks before they’d either let or make him go.
On Monday, Jessica left Mill Farm at nine o’clock to go to the funeral. Angela and Nora went with her; she had not been able to induce Christopher to join them, and Judy, she felt, was far too young. She wore Villy’s black and white outfit with a black straw hat and rather becoming veil, which sat on the back seat beside Angela who, though very pale and silent, seemed acquiescent to anything and made no objection when Nora said it was her turn to sit in front. Nora wore her navy blue jacket and skirt and had stitched a black band to her sleeve. Angela had allowed Villy to dress her in a black linen dress and a fairly white mackintosh. Various gloves and bags of the appropriate hue had been donated by the family for the occasion.
‘We’ll expect you back for dinner,’ Villy said, as she saw them off. ‘Or ring if you can’t,’ she added. In spite of the fact that Jessica had said that nothing would induce her to stay the night, Villy knew that Raymond might well change her mind. ‘Although we haven’t taken any overnight things,’ Jessica had said, ‘so even he could hardly expect us to stay,’ and she smiled her little secretive smile at her sister as much to say, ‘This is how I manage him: I always agree with him, but then I place a little obstacle in his way and he has to give in.’ ‘He’ll simply scold me for being impractical,’ she said serenely. ‘I’m terribly used to that.’
All the same, it was a very long drive – to Frensham and back in one day – especially in their old Vauxhall (she had refused to borrow Villy’s car). Villy gave a final wave and went back to the house to start the ‘nice quiet day’ that Jessica had earlier envied her. The dining room was to be used for lessons and therefore breakfast must be cleared away as soon as possible, followed by the interminable task of getting her mother up and dressed, which involved a bath, which in turn meant clearing the passages of children, and maids, since Lady Rydal refused to be seen either going to or coming from either a bathroom or lavatory. The children had no school books, she realised, and added them to the list of things she intended fetching from Lansdowne Road the next day. She got Louise, who was sulking because she had wanted to go to the funeral. ‘I’ve never been to one, it’s terribly unfair. I’ve never been a bridesmaid, I’ve never been abroad, and I’ve never been to a funeral. Honestly, you don’t let me have any experience of life at all.’
‘I’ve told you a hundred times, you cannot go to the funeral of someone you’ve never met.’
‘It’s not my fault I never met her.’
‘Go up to Home Place and ask the Duchy if you may have some blotting paper and a bottle of ink. And if she has any pads of paper or exercise books—’
‘We won’t need them – Clary always has dozens.’
‘Well, ask her to bring them.’ There was a muffled cry from above.
‘I must go up. Chop chop, Louise,’ and she hurried upstairs.
‘Strewth! Why can’t she use the telephone? Go here – do that – she thinks I’m some kind of slave. A slave child.’
All the way up the hill she was a slave girl: meek, beautiful, with a heavy anklet round her right leg that they used to chain her up at night. Her long black hair hung nearly to her waist; people were ravaged by her beauty, but her cruel master and mistress treated her worse than their pet elephant. By the time she found the Duchy she was so filled with pity for her meekness and beauty that she couldn’t remember what she had come for. The Duchy was unable to find the Brig and ask him to ask Sampson to send someone to the house to get Dottie’s window open.
‘Where is he?’
The Duchy looked up from the immense pile of linen sheets that she was sorting- for her sisters to mend. ‘He’s out, darling, or I’d find him myself. Probably at the back of the squash court. Or else at those cottages on the way to York’s farm. Do hurry. Dottie has chicken pox and it is most unhealthy for her to be without fresh air.’
Louise tried the squash court first, and there he was with Christopher. They each held the ends of forked sticks and were walking slowly about over the patch of rough grass. As Louise drew near, Christopher gave a shout. ‘Hey! Look! Watch!’ He stepped back a pace, and then forward, and the stick seemed to try to escape from his hands.
Louise thought he might be pretending, but the Brig came over and said, ‘Do it again, Christopher,’ and he did, and this time she distinctly saw the stick kind of writhe by itself. ‘Well. I’m damned!’ said the Brig. He tried the same place himself, but nothing much seemed to happen. He took off his hat – a large grey trilby – and put it on Christopher’s head. It was too big for him and came down over his eyes. The Brig turned him round, then gave him a little push, and said, ‘Try again.’ And Christopher, after a few wandering blind steps, found the same place, and this time the stick nearly leapt out of his hands. The Brig took off his hat, and clapped it on the back of his own head. He was smiling. ‘Good boy,’ he said, ‘you’ve got the gift. We’ll call the well after you.’ And Christopher went bright red.
‘Can I try?’
The Brig gave her his stick. ‘You may. No. Hold the stick so. With your thumbs towards the centre.’
Louise tried, but nothing happened. So she gave her message, whereupon the Brig sent her off to the stables
to tell Wren to ride down to Sampson’s place to send someone up to the house. ‘See if you can find any course of the water now,’ he said to Christopher. ‘Run along, there’s a good girl.’
A good girl! She was knee-deep in errands now, and she was far too old for this kind of thing. She went as slowly as possible to the stables to find Wren sharpening the points on his pitch fork with a large old file. It made a horrible noise that set her teeth on edge. She gave the message, but he simply went on filing. ‘Did you hear, Mr Wren?’
He stopped filing. ‘I heard.’
‘Why are you doing that? You don’t need extra sharp points for pitching the hay, do you?’
He shot her a look in which ferocity and cunning were horribly combined. ‘That would be telling, miss, that would.’
She went away quickly. She didn’t much like Wren. Since she had outgrown the pony, he had taken her out on the old grey which she could not control since his mouth was like iron – the Brig had ridden him for years in a double bridle with a heavy hand – but it had been clear that Wren did not think much of her horsemanship so the rides had been frightening and dull and she had soon given them up. In the drive, she saw Miss Milliment with Clary and Polly setting off for Mill Farm. She remembered that she hadn’t actually asked the Duchy for paper, etc., and decided that she would now, and that would make her late. What she was really minding was that Nora wasn’t going to be there. Lessons with Nora had seemed quite inviting, and now, because of the funeral, she would be the odd one out yet again. She walked very slowly indeed round the house by the tennis court to look for the Duchy.
It was grey and hot again. Mrs Cripps scalded the milk to stop it turning, but the butter became oil if it was out of the larder for two minutes. Edie, from Mill Farm, had sent her younger (much younger) sister up to Home Place to help out, but Mrs Cripps did not know her well enough to bully her, and the kitchen, hot from the range, was airless since no refreshing breeze came through the small open casement windows; the atmosphere, generally, was thick. Emmeline scraped seven pounds of new potatoes, washed up breakfast, scrubbed the larder floor, made up the range, strung and sliced four pounds of runner beans, washed up middle mornings, greased two cake tins, peeled, cored and sliced three pounds of Bramleys for the dining-room pies, laid the servants’ lunch, washed it up, and then washed all the cooking utensils used for the dining-room lunch, answered only when spoken to, and then inaudibly – which, Phyllis thought, showed a proper respect, but she, Phyllis, could sense that the strain of not being herself was telling on Mrs Cripps, who was conducting everything with an air of artificial patience and good humour that was unlikely to last. She would much rather have been a short-handed martyr, bullying one of the housemaids, but there it was. Her bark, however, was far worse than her bite, at least where Dottie was concerned, as a stream of tempting little snacks was slapped onto a round, painted tray with two parrots on it, and lugged upstairs by one of the maids to her sick room. A custard tartlet, some toast and dripping, the junket set the previous night, a coddled egg and the end piece of a baked sultana roll each accompanied by a cup of deeply sugared tea found their way there at frequent intervals where they silted up, since poor Dottie felt too ill to fancy very much. Bertha, sent to tidy the room for the doctor’s visit, offered to dispose of the food – there was nothing she liked more than eating and reading True Romances in bed. She also lent Dottie a nightgown as Dottie only possessed one and Bertha felt that the doctor should not see her in it as it was too small for her, altogether not quite nice. Dottie, who had never been visited by a doctor in her life, felt very important and rather scared. ‘What will he do?’ she asked, and Bertha, who had no experience of this kind, said only what he had to and she would be outside the door.
One of Mr Sampson’s men arrived and opened the window, but the room, being next to the roof, remained bakingly hot. ‘Try not to perspire till after the doctor,’ Bertha advised, but it was no good, she couldn’t help it, and her eyes hurt when she moved them, and it seemed a pity, what with all this nice food she couldn’t fancy, and staying in bed and not having to do anything, that she couldn’t enjoy it more. But Bertha said if wishes were horses beggars would ride, and Dottie, who could not think what that meant, said she supposed so.
Zoë spent the morning darning sheets with the great-aunts.
‘It is quite like the war already,’ Flo placidly remarked, as she fitted a section of sheet over her toadstool.
‘I don’t remember us mending sheets in the last war,’ Dolly said.
‘That’s because you haven’t got a very good memory,’ Flo returned. ‘I distinctly remember that we were always mending sheets. Mending something, anyway.’
‘Something!’ Dolly sniffed.
They were seated at the gate-legged table in the breakfast room. Zoë had joined them because everybody else she had asked for something to do had looked vague and been unable to think of anything. The Duchy, however, had firmly set her to work. ‘That would be most helpful of you, Zoë dear,’ she had added, and Zoë had glowed, had even managed to ask the aunts to show her how to do it. They had not agreed about the method, of course: Aunt Dolly favoured patches, cut from hopelessly worn pillow-cases; Flo insisted upon exquisitely fine darning over and round the tear. Zoë did whichever they told her and found that she was quite good at it. She had always liked fine sewing, which her mother had taught her. The aunts quarrelled gently all the morning, but Zoë did not listen much: she had new guilt to contend with, and felt so miserable that she was utterly enclosed with her circular and irresolute thoughts. She had used no birth control with Philip – had had no chance to – and the thought that he might have made her pregnant now haunted her. This was made worse by feeling that the only way she could make it up to Rupert would be to have the child she knew he had always wanted. The whole dilemma had broken upon her the first night that she had come home when she would ordinarily have taken her usual precautions. But as she reached for the little box that contained her cap, the previous night and the fact that she used nothing struck her. She was paralysed by fear and guilt: the thought of Philip’s child revolted her, but on the other hand, if she was already pregnant, Rupert must think it his. So she had used nothing that night either. And now, she reflected drearily, having hedged her bets, as it were, she would never know, if she got pregnant, whose child it was until it was born – and possibly not then. ‘Oh, why did I do it?’ she kept reiterating. ‘Why didn’t I just wait until after my next period, and then have Rupert’s baby?’ Because she had been terribly afraid that she was pregnant already was the answer. But if she had been, she could perhaps have got rid of it, and then everything would be all right. But how? The thought of asking Sybil or Villy (which, she felt, must entail telling them what had happened) was simply terrifying. They had never liked her much; they would think she was beyond the pale if they knew about Philip. I could say to them – or one of them – that he did rape me, she thought. The worst of it was that every time she sought some way out it involved more lying.
‘Of course, you would be too young, Zoë, to remember the zeppelins.’
‘No, she wouldn’t.’
‘Flo, she must have been a child!’
‘Children have very good memories. Far better than yours. When were you born, dear?’
‘Nineteen fifteen.’
‘There – you see?’
‘In a minute you will be saying that it is as plain as the nose on your face, which, Father used to say, you remember, was very plain indeed.’
Aunt Dolly’s naturally mauve complexion deepened to dusky lavender and she clicked her teeth. Aunt Flo caught Zoë’s eye and actually winked; this and the red bandeau that was somewhat askew round her hair made her look like some old pirate, Zoë thought, relieved at being able to think something else for a change. But the morning seemed interminable. At one point it occurred to her that Philip was somebody who could actually do something if she turned out to be pregnant, but even as the picture of his
knowing, sardonic gaze filled her mind’s eye so a small, warm anemone started to open inside her … She could never see him again in her life …
‘… very hot, dear. Would you like another window open? Dolly can always put another rug over her knees. She’s always cold, no circulation at all. And very naughty about leaving her combinations off at parties.’
Zoë, who knew nothing about combinations, smiled as she was expected to, but Aunt Dolly got really angry, levered herself to her feet, stalked stiffly to the window and flung it open. ‘I sometimes wish,’ she said, her tone implying that it was not much use her doing so, ‘that you would refrain from discussing my underclothes in public. Occasionally.’
‘I’m fully prepared to discuss anyone’s underclothes – when the subject comes up. Combinations are a fact of life. Why pretend they don’t exist? Dolly has a lot of what I can only call Victorian hypocrisy – whereas Kitty and I have always been free of it …’
Zoë, although she did not want any, was quite glad when it was lunch-time.
Rupert spent most of the day taking Rachel to Tunbridge Wells, where Dr Carr had recommended what he described as a rather shady little man who was very good with backs. He went there himself, he added. Rachel was in such pain that for once she agreed to being such a trouble. Sid had been going to go with them, but Evie, who had decided that the best way of protesting about being put in the cottage was to be a nuisance in it, said she had a side headache, and couldn’t possibly expect the servants to carry her meals all that way. ‘So, of course,’ Sid said, trying to be cheery about it and failing, ‘I’ll have to stay, darling – much as I should love to come with you.’
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 42
