The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  ‘No, you can not. Anyway, he isn’t here. How many times have I told you to put the vegetable dishes to warm on this rack, Emmeline? Now you’ll have to pass them under the hot tap. Look at Flossy, miss. She wouldn’t have another cat in her kitchen. Be off with you, now, there’s a good girl.’

  Clary looked at Flossy who lay on the window-sill as round and voluptuous as a fur hat, and Flossy, who always seemed to know when people looked at her, lifted her head; Clary retreated from her steady, malevolent gaze.

  ‘Any luck?’ she called from the hall.

  ‘No.’ Polly’s white face appeared over the banisters. ‘Oh, who could have been so wicked as to leave the door open?’

  Most of the grown-ups were in the Brig’s study listening to the news, but she found her father and Zoë in the morning room. They were standing in front of the gate-legged table looking at some cloth that Zoë was unpacking and Dad had a drink in his hand.

  ‘Oh, Clary! Come and look!’ he said.

  ‘Dad, I can’t look at anything now. Some really awful, stupid person has left the door to our room open, and Oscar has escaped and we can’t find him.’

  And Zoë stopped pulling the paper off the cloth, looked at Dad, and said, ‘Oh, dear. I’m afraid that was me!’

  ‘You?’ Clary stared at her. All the feelings she had about Zoë that she never really said any more to anyone because they were so horrible suddenly came up like sick in her throat. ‘You! It would be you! You stupid idiot! You’ve gone and lost Polly’s cat! I hate you. You’re the stupidest person I’ve ever met in my life!’

  Before she could go on her father caught one of her arms and said, ‘How dare you speak to Zoë like that? Apologise at once!’

  ‘I will not!’ She glared at him. He had never spoken to her like that before, and she felt a prickle of terror.

  Zoë said, ‘I’m really terribly sorry,’ and Clary thought, No, you’re not! You’re just saying that to please Dad.

  ‘Why did you go into my room, anyway?’ she said.

  ‘She went to get one of your dresses because she’s bought some material to make you a new one,’ Dad said, and hearing the affection in his voice that was certainly not for her, she said, ‘Bet you were just doing that to please Dad. Weren’t you?’ and stared sullenly at her stepmother trying to keep angry at all costs.

  But Zoë looked up from the table, straight into her face and simply said, ‘Yes, you see I know how much he loves you, so – of course.’

  It felt like the first true thing she had ever said, and it was too much. She was used to her resentment and jealousy – congealed this last year into an armed truce, she could not shed it at a word, and unable to respond she put her face in her hands and wept and her plate, that had got comfortably loose at last, fell out onto the table. Dad put his arms round her, and Zoë picked it up and gave it back to her saying, ‘Won’t it be lovely when you don’t have to wear it?’ and nobody laughed, which was the best thing.

  Oscar was not found until nearly tea-time, although Polly went without lunch to search for him. When Clary joined her after lunch, she had searched the house, the stables – braving Mr Wren, who shouted but was too sleepy to stand upright. (‘He fell down again as soon as he got up to shout at me,’ Polly said), the cottage, all the squash court, all the outbuildings, including the horrible coke cellar by the greenhouse. She and Clary then tried the orchard, the wood behind the house and finally the drive.

  ‘My throat’s sore from calling,’ Polly said.

  ‘If he’s gone onto the road he may have got tired and gone to sleep somewhere,’ Clary replied. ‘I know we are going to find him,’ she said, really to cheer them both up but Polly believed her at once. At the end of the drive there was a large old oak, and as they approached it they heard his voice. He seemed to be quite a long way up the tree, as they could not see him at first, but each time they called, he answered.

  ‘He wants to come down,’ Polly said. Clary suggested getting some food for him because it was well known that cats could smell for miles. She went off to do this while Polly tried to climb the tree. But the lowest branch was too high. When Clary came back with a saucer of fish, she found her friend in tears.

  ‘I don’t think he can get down. He wants to, but he’s frightened,’ she said. They held up the fish and called. Oscar made slithery scratching noises as though he was trying to come down but there was no sign of him.

  ‘What’s up?’

  They had not heard the bicycle. Teddy had decided to go for a ride by himself. When they told him, he said, ‘I’ll get him down for you.’

  ‘Oh, Teddy, can you? Could you really?’

  But even he could not reach the lowest branch. ‘Tell you what, you hold my bicycle steady, ’cos if I stand on the bar I could reach the branch.’ This worked. ‘He’s not very far up. I can see him,’ Teddy said. ‘The thing is, I can’t climb down with him in my arms. Ouch!’ he added. Then he said, ‘One of you get a carrier bag or a basket or something with a long piece of rope.’

  So off they went to get that, which took some time. The carrier bag was easy but the rope wasn’t. In the end they found some in the potting shed. Polly went back to Teddy to explain why it was taking so long. Teddy was very nice about it and said he had a bar of motoring chocolate, and just as Polly was remembering that she hadn’t had lunch he kindly dropped two squares down to her.

  They tied one end of the rope to the handles of the carrier bag. Then Teddy had to come down to the lowest branch to get it. ‘Put the rest of the rope inside the bag,’ he said. ‘No, don’t. Try and throw the end of the rope up to me.’ They tried and tried, and just as his patience was wearing thin by girls being so rotten at throwing things, Clary did a really good throw and he caught it. The rest would be easy, he thought. He tied the other end of the rope to a branch and then climbed up to Oscar’s level, but he had reckoned without getting Oscar into the bag. Oscar yowled, and scratched him badly, but he managed to cram him in and started lowering the rope. And that was it.

  ‘Oh, Teddy, you were marvellous!’ Polly hugged him. ‘We could never have got him without you.’ Clary agreed. She was clutching the bag handles closely together, but even so Oscar managed to get his outraged head out.

  ‘Shall I carry him back for you?’ Teddy offered. He was glowing with being so useful and admired.

  Clary was about to say he needn’t and they would, but Polly said, ‘Please do. I feel quite tired and he might escape again.’

  Clary wheeled Teddy’s bike and they all went back to the house and burst into the drawing room where nearly everybody seemed to be and Clary cried, ‘We’ve found him! And Teddy was—’ and broke off because everybody seemed to be different, all smiling and Christmassy and the Duchy said, ‘Mr Chamberlain has come back, children,’ and seeing Polly’s face she added, ‘Your father rang from London, Polly. He especially wanted you to know. It is going to be peace with honour.’ And Clary saw Polly’s face go china-white and her eyes look blind before she fainted.

  ‘What did I tell you, Mrs Cripps? There’s many a slip between cup and lip.’

  ‘It just shows you never can tell,’ she agreed. She was rolling thin strips of bacon round blanched prunes for the angels on horseback after the pheasant. ‘Would you fancy another drop scone, Mr Tonbridge?’

  ‘It wouldn’t say no. No – as I was saying, it’s an ill wind … Well, at least now we can all get back to normal.’ Mrs Cripps, who had never departed from it, agreed. For him it meant getting those dratted Primuses out of his garage; for her, getting Dottie back downstairs when she had stopped scratching herself silly. That night was the first time he took her to the pub, which wasn’t at all normal, and she had a very nice time.

  ‘“We regard the agreement signed last night, and the Anglo-German Naval Agreement, as symbolic of the desire of our two peoples never to go to war with one another again.”’ Hugh, sitting beside Edward in the car, was reading from the evening paper they had bought on their way to S
ussex.

  ‘Any more?’

  ‘One more bit. “We are resolved that the method of consultation shall be the method adopted to deal with any other questions that may concern our two countries and we are determined to continue our efforts to remove possible sources of difference and thus to contribute to assure the peace of Europe.”’

  Edward grunted. Then he said, ‘Marvellous old man, Chamberlain. I must say, I didn’t really think he’d pull it off.’

  ‘Still, it was appeasement, wasn’t it? I don’t quite see where the honour comes in – nor can the Czechs, I imagine.’

  ‘Come on! You were the one who was so keen on there not being a war. There’s no pleasing you, old boy. Light me a gasper, would you?’

  Hugh lit the cigarette. When Edward took it he said, ‘Well, at least it gives us time to rearm. Even with the most pessimistic view, you have to agree that.’

  ‘If we do.’

  ‘Oh, Lord, Hugh! Cheer up. Think of the merry old time we shall have getting those logs out of the river.’

  ‘And smoothing down the PLA.’ Hugh smiled. ‘Very jolly.’

  ‘Do you think’, Louise asked, as she and Nora shared a bath that evening, ‘that everybody who put their promise in the box will stick to them?’

  ‘Don’t suppose we’ll ever know.’ Nora was absently rubbing her flannel up and down the same bit of arm. ‘We could ask them, which might make them feel they had to, but we’ll never know. It’s a matter for each person’s conscience. I shall do mine.’

  ‘Shall we tell each other?’ Louise was dying to know what Nora would do. What could be worse than planning to be a nun?

  ‘OK. You go first.’

  ‘No – you.’

  ‘I promised that if there wasn’t a war, I would be a nurse instead of being a nun.’ She looked expectantly at Louise. ‘You see, I don’t want to be a nurse and I do frightfully want to be a nun.’

  ‘I see.’ She didn’t really – they both seemed ghastly professions to her, but there you were.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I,’ she said, trying to sound modest. ‘I swore that, if there wasn’t a war, I’d come to the boarding school with you.’

  Nora snorted. ‘I thought you were going to do that, anyway.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I get awfully homesick even if I stay a night away. So it may sound nothing to you but it’s jolly serious for me.’

  ‘I believe you.’ Nora looked at her kindly. ‘But you’ll soon get over it.’ A horrible grown-up remark which was most unlike her, Louise thought.

  Angela waited by the gate at the bottom of the drive to Mill Farm to catch Christopher alone. She had returned to the house soon after Edward had rung Villy with the news about which she felt nothing beyond a second’s wan thankfulness that now he would not have to go and fight. She had gone up to her room and locked the door. But then she remembered Christopher, and had gone out again and waited. She saw him come running down the hill; when he reached her, he stopped and said, ‘Hallo,’ and was about to go again, but she said, ‘Don’t go. I’ve got something to say to you.’ And she began, but before she had finished the bit about not being able to say how she knew, he interrupted her.

  ‘Has there been any news about the war?’

  ‘Oh, yes. There isn’t going to be one.’

  ‘Phew!’ When he had let out the breath he said, ‘You needn’t go on. If there isn’t a war, I can’t run away. That was my promise. You know – for Nora’s box.’

  ‘Your promise?’

  ‘Of course. It was my promise,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you make one? I say, what’s the matter? Ange!’ For the tears that she thought had all been shed for a lifetime had begun again. He put his arm round her giving her little shakes that were supposed to be comforting.

  ‘Ange! You poor old thing! Ange!’ he kept saying.

  ‘Oh, Chris. I’m so unhappy, you can’t imagine! I can’t tell you. I just am!’ and she clung to him.

  I’ve never seen you like this,’ he said, ‘but it must be pretty terrible. Bad luck.’ Visions of going back to the day school and Dad being sarcastic and having rows with Mum about him drearily ranged before him. ‘At least there isn’t a war. That would be the worst thing,’ he said, as his new little camp by the pond receded to a mere holiday ploy. A thought occurred to him. ‘Was your promise a hard one when it comes to the point?’

  ‘Mine has come to nothing. There is no point,’ she answered, and the weary pain in her voice went to his heart. He took her hand.

  ‘We’ll just have to be kind to each other,’ he said and looking up at him, for he was taller than she, she saw tears in his eyes. It was the first, small comfort.

  ‘So now it’s back to the basic decision,’ Rupert said, as he and Zoë changed for dinner.

  ‘Is that what’s been on your mind? All day?’

  ‘Well, not all.’ He thought, as he had done frequently since the morning, of the difficult, embarrassing, worrying scene with that poor girl – feeling he hadn’t handled it right, somehow, but quite unable to see what would have been right. But he didn’t want to tell Zoë about that: it felt a kind of disloyalty to the poor girl – and, anyway, he was far from sure how Zoë would take it … Well, no need to go into that …

  ‘I’d do what you want.’ She was kneeling in front of the wardrobe searching for a pair of shoes. She had said this before, but it sounded different now – as she had with Clary this morning. She was becoming someone to be reckoned with just as, in a way, he had stopped expecting or wanting to reckon with her.

  ‘You said that,’ he answered irritably and without thinking. But when she got up, he saw that she looked not sulky at the reproof, but stricken, and felt ashamed.

  ‘Sorry, darling.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ She went to the dressing table and started to comb her hair.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, feeling his way, ‘something did happen today that upset me. No, not Clary. Something else. But I don’t really want to tell you about it. Is that OK?’

  She looked at him in the mirror without saying a word.

  ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘sometimes, even in a marriage, there can be things – quite harmless – to the marriage, I mean – that all the same don’t need to be talked about. Do you agree?’

  ‘You mean, that there can be secrets, but it’s all right to have them?’

  ‘Something of the sort.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ she said. ‘I’m so glad you think that. I’m sure you’re right.’ She got to her feet and, picking up the pink woollen dress off the back of the chair, slipped it over her head, and turned for him to do it up. ‘The point isn’t other people,’ she said, ‘it’s us.’ When he turned round for a kiss, she gave him one, very nicely, but there was nothing either sexual or childish about it, and he thought fleetingly that he used to be sick of the wanton child that once she had seemed composed of and now, perversely, he missed it.

  ‘I want you to be all things to one man,’ he said suddenly. Once she would have looked at him from below her lashes and said, ‘Who?’ and he would have said, ‘Me,’ and swept her off to bed.

  Now, looking sincerely concerned, she said, ‘But, Rupert, I’m not sure that I know how!’

  ‘Never mind. I’ve just decided to be a businessman.’

  And she answered almost primly, ‘Your father will be very pleased.’ She gave him a little push. ‘Go and tell him!’

  William sat in his study with his evening whisky to hand. He was by himself, and for once quite glad of it. His door, as always, was open and he could hear the comforting sounds of the household going on: baths being run, doors slammed, children’s voices, the chink of cutlery being carried on a tray to the dining room, the sound of violin and piano – Sid and Kitty, no doubt. He had listened to the six o’clock news with Rachel and Sid, then sent them away. He was very tired. The immense sense of relief that he had felt when Hugh had rung from London had been succeeded by doubts of a kind he did not want to communi
cate to the family. There was something about the whole business – one could almost call it a transaction – that he distrusted, although he couldn’t say why. The Prime Minister’s motives were impeccable, he was a sincere and decent man. But that in itself was no bloody good unless he was dealing with another sincere and decent man. At the worst some time had been bought. Softwoods would be needed on an unprecedented scale and hardwoods as well, if they started building ships, as they should. He’d turn Sampson off the shelter and sanitary arrangements and get him on to those cottages. York’s letter had amused him. The old boy thought he’d fooled him into paying too much – that was why he’d had the cheek to ask him for another tenner for the land: he hadn’t realised what they were worth to him, William, who would have paid another £250 for them if asked. Well, they were both satisfied. He knew he’d upset Kitty with his plans for the evacuees – not necessary now – but he’d make it up to her. He’d buy her a new gramophone, one of those damn great machines with a horn for playing records and all the Beethoven Symphonies done by Toscanini – that would please her. And Rupert had popped in and said that he would join the firm. So why didn’t he feel jollier? ‘I don’t like my sight failing,’ he said to himself, reaching for the decanter and pouring more whisky. He’d got up some decent port this evening – Taylor ’21. He hadn’t got much of that left. Everything came to an end. Have to stop riding if his eyes got worse. He’d get used to it. He remembered the last time he’d spent a couple of hours with – what was her name – Millicent Greenway – no, Greencroft, that was it, in her flat in Maida Vale. She had been a thoroughly good sort. ‘Never mind,’ she’d said that last time, ‘it’s just not one of your days.’ He’d sent her a case of champagne as well as the usual twenty-five quid. He’d got used to there being no more of that. Kitty had never liked it, which was natural for a decently brought-up gal. He could go on going to the office, even if they did stay in the country and get rid of Chester Terrace. He needn’t give up work yet. And there wasn’t going to be a war.

  ‘When my father comes to see me, would you mind if I see him alone?’