The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  ‘Don’t let’s go to bed yet,’ he said. ‘I’m for a whisky and soda. What about you, darling?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ She walked back to the sofa and sat down.

  ‘I think Teddy enjoyed himself.’

  ‘Yes. He told me he had a lovely time.’

  ‘Jessica still here?’

  ‘Yes. She went to the funeral yesterday. Raymond’s been left a lovely lot of money – and a house.’

  ‘That’s good news. As long as he doesn’t blow it all.’ There was a pause; then he said, ‘At lunch today – I thought you were angry with me. You were, weren’t you? What’s it all about?’ She could tell he was nervous, because he’d begun picking his fingers, scraping the side with his nail – they often looked quite painful. He was always terrified of scenes.

  ‘I was – a bit – because I tried to tell you something on the telephone the day before, and you practically rang off on me, and then I realised that you hadn’t heard what I said.’

  He’d become very quiet. ‘What was that?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I told you that I was practically certain I was having another baby.’

  He stared at her for a moment, astonishment and almost a kind of relief, she thought, in his face, which then lightened. He smiled, got up and gave her a hug. ‘Good Lord! You told me that and I didn’t hear it? There was a road drill in the street, and Miss Seafang was telling me I was wanted on the other line. I’m sorry, darling, you must have thought me the most awful brute!’

  ‘You’re pleased?’

  ‘Of course I’m pleased,’ he said heartily. ‘Bit surprised, though. I thought, you know, you were taking precautions.’

  ‘I was. This one slipped through the net.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ he said again, and drained his glass and stood up. ‘Better go up, hadn’t we? I mean, you must be dead beat.’ He held out his hand and pulled her to her feet.

  While they were undressing, she said, ‘I do feel a trifle old to start all this baby business again.’

  ‘Nonsense, darling. You’re not old at all!’ He kissed her fondly. ‘What you need is beauty sleep. I shall have to leave early. Don’t bother about me in the morning.’

  Now, walking up the hill to Home Place and remembering all this, she thought that it had not occurred to him to ask whether she wanted another child. He’d simply assumed that she would. ‘What’s done is done,’ she said to herself, ‘and if there’s a war, we may all be blown up, anyway.’

  It rained after lunch, which, Louise felt, would let them off their shift of digging. ‘Let’s wash our hair,’ she said. She had read that yolk of egg was supposed to be very good and was eager to try it. Nora, who did not care in the least about her hair, said that it was rather a waste of eggs, but Louise said they would make meringues of the whites, and then it wouldn’t be a waste at all. ‘Because if we were just going to make meringues, the yolk would be wasted,’ she said.

  So then Louise washed them both; Nora’s was very dirty and she used water that was too hot so the egg scrambled rather and in the end she had to use another shampoo as well. There was nowhere to dry it, as the drawing-room fire hadn’t been lit yet; they lay on their beds with their bath towels and jerseys on so that they wouldn’t catch cold.

  ‘About the service,’ Louise said. ‘You know when you suggested that everybody should give something up in return for peace? Well, why do you think everybody didn’t seem to want to do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Mummy said afterwards that it was each person’s own business, but I don’t see how one can tell whether they’re minding it. Anyway, she said it was bossy and interfering – two things which I often am.’

  Louise looked at her with awe. Bossy and interfering weren’t romantic faults, like having hot temper or being too frank (tactless), and she knew she wouldn’t dream of publicly admitting to them.

  ‘Your hair’s looking super now,’ she said, ‘all shining and nice.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I don’t really care about it much, because when I’m a nun, they’ll cut it all off. You could give up vanity,’ she added.

  ‘Am I vain? I don’t like my face much.’ She spent hours in front of the mirror, changing her hair, trying make-up, making different faces to see which one looked best. Nora pointed some of this out and said she was pretty sure that it constituted vanity. ‘But, of course,’ she added, ‘you don’t necessarily have to give something up, you could do something instead.’

  That was when Louise decided that an earlier decision, to get out of going to the finishing school with Nora because of the agony of homesickness that she knew would ensue, should be changed. If there was peace, she would go, if there was war she needn’t. She told Nora that she had decided on something, but didn’t want to say what it was.

  ‘You needn’t tell me,’ Nora replied. ‘Simply write it down on a piece of paper and put it in my pencil box. I’ve cleared it out for the purpose.’

  ‘Have you done it, then?’

  ‘Of course. And I’ve asked Polly and Clary. And Christopher, and even Angela. Not Teddy, though: he doesn’t seem to mind if there is a war or not.’

  ‘Simon?’

  ‘Forgot him. Now, you do yours. Oh, I asked Miss Milliment. I really like her, and she said of course she would – no stupid grown-up shilly shallying seeing-both-sides-of-the-question stuff for her.’

  ‘What about the children?’

  ‘Haven’t had a chance to ask them yet. We will after tea.’

  Neville and Lydia and Judy, all secretly impressed to be called to a meeting even if it turned out to contain only Nora and Louise, stood in a row before Nora who was seated at the dining-room table, pencil box at the ready, paper and pencils to hand.

  ‘I haven’t got anything to give up,’ Neville said at once.

  ‘Your train set,’ Lydia said.

  ‘I need that! You can’t give up the things you need.’

  ‘You don’t need it,’ Judy said. ‘I don’t have a train set and I get along perfectly well.’

  Neville turned on her. ‘You’re only a girl,’ he said witheringly. They were all silenced for a moment. Then Nora said, ‘All right. If you don’t want to give something up, you could do something instead. Some job – some work thing.’

  ‘Help Tonbridge clean the cars,’ Neville said. ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘You’re always asking him if you can do that,’ Lydia said reproachfully, ‘and you know he doesn’t want you. I’m afraid he hasn’t got the point at all,’ she said to the others.

  ‘Never mind about Neville. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I shall …’ she shut her eyes tightly and rocked back and forth on her feet. ‘I shall … save up all my pocket money and give it to poor people. There!’ She opened her eyes and looked round to gauge the effect. ‘That’s a good give-up, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very good,’ Nora said. ‘Here’s your piece of paper. Only you must put how many weeks’ pocket money on it that you’re going to give up.’

  ‘Oh, a year, at least,’ said Lydia grandly. She was slightly drunk with her generosity. ‘I think a year,’ she said.

  ‘How will you know a poor person to give it to?’ Neville asked sulkily.

  ‘Easy. I shall just go up to people and ask them if they’re poor, and if they say yes, I shall give it to them.’

  In the end, it was suggested to her that she could give it to the poor babies in Aunt Rach’s home.

  Judy, who was a bit of a copycat, Lydia thought, said she would do the same. They were sat down at the table to write, and Nora turned her attention to Neville.

  ‘What I’ll do,’ he said at last, ‘is I’ll go up to the great-aunts and I’ll kiss them twice a day – once on each cheek twice. For all the time they stay here.’

  It wasn’t entirely satisfactory, but the older girls decided it was probably the best he could do.

  ‘A change is as good as a rest,’ Miss Milliment reminded herself as she struggled to find her mac that hun
g with a great many others on pegs in the hall at Mill Farm. Dinner was over and it was her plan to slip quietly away, trot up the hill and have an early bed, because to tell the truth she was a little fagged, as her brother Jack used to say. But very lucky and grateful. Everything was different here, so naturally there were little problems, but none that time and practice could not erase. One of the worst was that she seemed always to have damp feet, which was entirely her own fault, not having bothered to get her shoes mended. I am as bad as Rosamond in The Purple Jar, she thought, although, in her case, it was not because she had spent the money on that eccentric luxury, it was simply that not one but both pairs of shoes were in a poor state. Perhaps, tomorrow, she might ask dear Viola if she could go into Battle where doubtless a pair of galoshes could be purchased.

  Attired now for the journey, she lifted the large iron latch of the front door, but the rain seemed to have stopped, although it was still very wet underfoot. Carrying her umbrella, and the copy of The Times with which Lady Rydal had finished, she started to trot waveringly down the drive. It was a dark, still, starless night; every now and then a tree above her shivered and a shower of heavy raindrops descended. There were puddles as well, which, of course, she could not see. Dear Viola had offered to drive her home, but she had felt that this was an unnecessary imposition; she would soon have to get used to the way, which was not far. The little talk, accompanied by a delicious glass of sherry, that she had had with Viola about her salary was over. She had been so utterly generous: had absolutely refused to let her pay anything at all for her keep, had realised that she already had one rent to pay, had also insisted that the charge of two pounds ten shillings per child per week should remain the same for the three younger children, who she knew were every bit as much trouble (perfectly true, but Miss Milliment had known many employers who would have refused to recognise this), and had also said that her travelling expenses would be included in the first month’s cheque. So she would now be earning seventeen pounds ten a week, ‘And therefore no excuse, Eleanor, for you not buying a new pair of shoes as well as galoshes.’

  And, then, to be in the country again! She sniffed the delicious air that smelled of damp leaves: it did so remind her of home, of walking back in the dusk after she had decorated the church for special occasions like Harvest Festival – back to toast and dripping and reading to Papa, who liked his study to be rather dim because of his eyes, which always made reading to him a little difficult. Carlyle’s French Revolution had been one of his favourites; it had been an old edition that she had picked up at the church sale, but the print had been shockingly small, and Papa had always said that young people did not require spectacles, which, in her case, had not turned out to be true. One of the first things she had done after he died was to have her eyes tested, and the spectacles had made an amazing – she felt miraculous – difference: she could see all kinds of things that she had not noticed before. That was when she had started to look at pictures, because she could see them. How wonderful that had been! And how fortunate she was now! She loved teaching, was fond of her three girls, and was delighted to include dear Jessica’s Nora as, clearly, Louise was very taken with her. And the three young ones: Neville constantly amused her, but naturally, he would be treated the same as the two girls – she would make no distinctions. It was pleasant to look forward to getting to her little bedroom in the cottage. The Brontës would be quite shocked at how much I am enjoying myself, she thought as she turned into the drive of Home Place. The Brontës came to mind because she had given Villette as one of their holiday tasks. Louise had already read it but Miss Milliment simply told her to read it again and also The Professor in order that she might compare the two. Polly did not read so much or so easily, but she had a good eye, and Clary – Clary was, she knew, the one. The stories that she had been given when she had visited Clary at the end of her chicken pox had really startled her. They had a dash, a drive, a precocity that was well beyond the usual twelve-year-old. Some of her subject-matter was undoubtedly beyond her, but Miss Milliment had been careful not to criticise that, had confined her remarks to grammar, punctuation and spelling, having first said how very much she enjoyed the stories. ‘One must not interfere,’ she told herself, having no intention of doing anything of the kind. The creative process, beyond her in all respects, was, none the less, something to reverence: many people had been spoiled by too much of the wrong kind of attention. It was a natural process for Clary, and natural it should remain. The lack of interest that the family displayed was probably a good thing.

  The house now loomed before her, golden light in the square windows, distant sounds of the servants washing up as she passed the kitchen quarters. By the time she reached the cottage and was clambering up the steep stairs, the glass of sherry she had been given before dinner was starting to wear off, and as she thought of doing the crossword in bed – a real luxury – she realised that the paper would be full of the Situation, the real, terrible state of Europe that she had been frivolously ignoring all the way home. She had been so wrapped in the silver lining that she had forgotten the cloud. If there was a war … but there would be a war – if not now then sooner or later. She thought of the lovely Renoirs at the Rosenberg and Helft gallery that she had haunted all summer, and sent up a prayer that they would be moved in time.

  Hugh came into Edward’s office just before lunch, which they were going to have together. Miss Seafang, who stood by the desk to receive back letters she had handed Edward to sign, smiled a discreet welcome.

  ‘Won’t be a minute, old boy. Have a seat.’

  But Hugh, who had been sitting all the morning, continued to wander about the large room, panelled in koko wood, apparently studying the dull pictures. Miss Seafang watched him with solicitude. He looked dreadfully tired – more, even, than usual: he was what her mother called a natural worrier, and that took its toll. He brought out the maternal in her, quite unlike Mr Edward, who brought out something quite else. Her gaze returned to her boss. Today, he was dressed in a pinstripe suit of the palest grey with a white shirt that had the tiniest grey stripe in it, and a lemon corded-silk tie. In his jacket pocket there was a corner of foulard silk handkerchief of a lemon and grey and dark green design. His slightly curly hair was glistened with brilliantine, and a faint, definitely exciting scent of cigars and lavender water seemed to emanate from his slightest movement. His left hand lay on the desk, displaying his gold signet ring with the family crest upon it – rather worn, but definitely a rearing lion – and the gold links gleamed on the immaculate cuffs from which his hairy wrists emerged, the left banded by a suitably glamorous and masculine watch. With his right hand, he was signing the letters in his bold, rather careless manner with his fountain pen. It seemed to be failing; he shook it twice, and then turned to her. ‘Oh, Miss Seafang, it’s done the dirty on me again!’ Smiling slightly, she produced another pen from her cardigan pocket. Where would he be without her?

  ‘If anyone calls, Mr Edward, what time shall I say you’ll be back?’

  ‘He won’t be,’ Hugh said. ‘I’m taking him to the wharf.’

  Edward looked at his brother and raised his eyebrows; Hugh gave him the obstinate, but at the same time sweet-tempered glare that was one of his most habitual expressions.

  ‘High-handed old bastard,’ he said. ‘The wharf it is, Miss Seafang.’

  Bracken drove them to Hugh’s club, which was not so far from the river as Edward’s. They stopped on the way to buy an Evening Standard whose banner headlines were about the Prime Minister’s journey that morning.

  ‘“Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety …”,’ Edward read aloud. ‘That sort of remark’s more up your street than mine. What does the feller mean?’

  Hugh shrugged. ‘That he hasn’t much hope, but he’s going to try, I should think,’ he said. ‘This time Daladier and Mussolini are going to be there, so it sounds like we’re approaching the crunch.’

  ‘What’s the point in having th
em there? If Hitler doesn’t take any notice of our Prime Minister, why should he take any notice of them?’

  ‘Well, I suppose neither of them wants a war – three against one, that sort of thing?’

  Edward didn’t reply. He was wondering why Hugh wanted them to go to the wharf, but business of this kind was not discussed in front of servants.

  When they were seated in the cavernous dining room that dwarfed its occupants by its immense marble pillars and distantly lofty ceiling eating Dover sole with a glass of hock, and Hugh still hadn’t mentioned the wharf, Edward said, ‘Come on, old boy. Out with it. It’s obviously something you think I shan’t agree to.’

  ‘Well, there are two things. Let’s take the logs first.’ And he launched into his scheme to get all of their most valuable logs into the river Lee to save them in case of air attack. ‘If we leave them where they are, and most of them are lying hard against the saw mill, and we get incendiaries, the whole thing will go up. We may lose the mill anyway, but we can replace that. A lot of these logs can’t be replaced.’

  ‘But apart from being tidal the river’s very narrow, and I can’t see the powers that be allowing us to block it up.’

  ‘We can apply for barges from the PLA in which to lodge the logs, but you know them, by the time we get them the whole thing may have happened. If we simply drop them in the river they’ll be far keener on letting us have the barges to clear the blockage.’

  ‘What about a crane? We’ll certainly need that.’

  ‘I’ve got one. Ordered it yesterday. It should be there this afternoon.’