The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  He watched her, hoping she would be shocked. He had grown so much in the last year that his shorts were inches above his bony knees, but his hair still stood up in tufts from his double crown and his chicken neck made him look in some way vulnerable. Nothing of him seemed of a piece: his second teeth looked too large for his mouth, his feet encased in dirty sandals seemed enormous, his ears stuck out, his thin, egg-brown torso with its tidemark of ribs looked fragile and went very ill with his huge leather belt and sheath knife attached to it. He was heavily marked by trivial wounds – scrapes, cuts, blisters, hangnails, even a burn on his right hand from an experiment with his magnifying glass. His habitual expression was both challenging and anxious. She suddenly wondered what it was like to be him, and knew immediately that she would never know.

  ‘I was thinking of bicycling to Bodiam,’ she said. ‘Like to come?’

  She could see that pretending to consider this gave him pleasure. Then in a voice that was a remarkable rendering of Colonel Chinstrap from ITMA, he said, ‘I don’t mind if I do.’

  The gesture turned out to be costly. She got her usual, first-day stomach cramps on the ride there and the rest of the time – their picnic, exploring the castle, stopping him having a swim in the moat, talking him down from the terrifying height he achieved in an oak tree – was discoloured by her terror of starting to bleed with nothing to staunch it, and frightening and revolting him therefore. She could hardly bear the ride back, said she was tired and would have to go slowly and he could go on if he liked, but he didn’t. He kept riding ahead, turning round and coming back to her. ‘It’s a good thing you didn’t try to go to Camber,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You would have had to stop and sleep the night in a field or a church or something.’

  Later, he said encouragingly, ‘It’s not your fault, though. You can’t help being a girl. They do tire easily – ‘I think it’s something to do with their hair.’

  When they got back, she asked him if he’d put her bicycle away for her and he said of course he would.

  She staggered upstairs, had a bath and lay on her bed. Her head ached, her stomach ached and she felt rotten: she did not even want to read. But he had enjoyed himself, it had been worth it. Thereafter she decided that she would do one thing every week for someone else and made a list of the people so that she could note the appropriate good deed against each name.

  Some, like the Brig (reading aloud to him from the Timber Trades Journal, crashingly dull) were easy; some, like her mother and Miss Milliment, were not. In the end, she decided to knit Miss Milliment a cardigan – a huge enterprise and it would take her months, but it could be a Christmas present on a scale that she would not ordinarily have given. Her mother was nice about that idea, and offered to find a pattern that would be likely to encompass Miss Milliment’s frame. ‘It will have to be a man’s one,’ she said, ‘which means that you will have to remember to make the buttonholes on the left side. Do you really think you’ll stick to it? Otherwise it’s a waste of an awful lot of wool.’

  She promised she would, and she and Clary went to the Watlington shop to choose the wool, but Mrs Cramp turned out only to have baby wools or khaki or navy blues. ‘There’s no call, these days, for much else,’ she said. In the end, Aunt Villy kindly got some in London after an anxious discussion about which colour would suit Miss Milliment best. The trouble was that every time a colour was suggested, it seemed to be the worst colour: wine wouldn’t go with her lemony skin, bottle green would make her hair look like seaweed, grey was too boring, red would make her look like a London bus and so on. A misty, heathery blue was the final choice. Well, that was Miss Milliment, and since it had to be knitted entirely when she was not present, it did not get on very fast. Her mother was a great problem. ‘The only thing she would really like would be for Dad to stop being in London, and I can’t do anything about that,’ Polly complained to Clary. Then one day, she went into her mother’s bedroom and found her unpinning her hair at her dressing table.

  ‘I really must wash my hair,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t possibly help me, could you? It’s so difficult to get all the soap out, and leaning over a basin for ages makes me feel rather queasy.’

  After that, she washed her mother’s hair once a week, on Fridays before Dad came home for the weekend, and she even devised a brilliant method whereby, on the right chair, her mother could sit with her back to the basin with her hair hanging over it, so she didn’t feel sick at all.

  Dad was another problem. She saw so much less of him these days and when she did she could see how awfully tired he was. The tic at the side of his forehead was almost always throbbing when he arrived at Home Place on Friday evenings looking grey with fatigue. Also, she hardly ever saw him alone: there were so many people in the house, and as she now had dinner with the grown-ups, he did not come up to say good night to her. At dinner there was usually a lot of war talk: Hitler had invaded Russia so now Russia was on their side which she thought simply meant that it would go on for longer.

  Then, one Saturday, he asked her to come to Hastings with him: ‘Just you, Poll, because I don’t see enough of you.’

  They went in his car because he said he got an extra allowance for business, and it was quite a relief to be off, because so many other people had wanted to come too. ‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’ she had said anxiously to Clary.

  ‘Course I don’t!’

  But she knew this wasn’t true, and said, ‘I so want to have Dad to myself for a bit.’

  And Clary had given her that unexpected lovely smile and said, ‘Of course you do. I perfectly understand that.’

  Teddy and Simon had clamoured to be included, but Dad had dealt with them. ‘This is for Polly and me,’ he said. ‘Be off with you!’ as they tugged the door handles. Polly had put on her pink dress and whited her tennis shoes, but they were still damp and got whiter as they dried on the way to Hastings.

  ‘Have you got any special plans?’ she asked, as the shouts of ‘Unfair!’ faded.

  ‘We’re going to try and find a present for Mummy. Who knows? We might find other things. I might see something suitable as a post-birthday present for you.’

  ‘You gave me my lovely watch.’ It was a bit sloppy on her wrist, and she moved it.

  ‘We chose that together in Edinburgh at the end of our last holiday, I mean the holiday we last had.’

  She glanced at him, wondering why he was being so pedantic.

  ‘What?’ He’d caught her glance.

  ‘I was wondering why you were being so pedantic.’

  ‘Can’t think. What do you think of the Russians joining up with us? Better than having them against us, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘It just seems to make the whole thing more universal to me,’ she said. ‘If only it was America on our side.’

  ‘They’re not exactly against us. Mr Roosevelt’s doing his best for us. In fact we’d have been up a gum tree without him.’

  ‘But it’s not the same as them actually joining up with us and helping to fight the Germans. After all, they did come in last time.’

  ‘They may yet. But think, darling Poll, how much you are against war, and then imagine being an American. How would you like it if they were having a war and we all had to leave this country and go thousands of miles to fight for them? All the men, that is,’ he added; he did not approve of women going into the services. ‘You might very well feel that it’s their war, and they should get on with it.’

  ‘Dad, do you know, I’ve never met an American?’

  ‘That’s a bit what I mean.’

  ‘On the other hand, if Hitler wins over here, he will probably set about other bits of the world which might be them and then they would be sorry.’

  ‘I think he may have bitten off rather more than he can chew with Russia. Hitler’s not going to win,’ he added.

  ‘How long will it all be, then?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea. Not for a while yet. But things are better than they were
last year.’

  ‘What do you mean? All the frightful air raids, and rationing and the Fall of France and all those other countries. It seems to me much worse.’

  ‘This time last year we were damn nearly invaded. That would have been worse. And we only just won the battle of Britain. I can tell you now, Poll, that I used to have nightmares about that happening, and me being stuck in London and unable to get to you all.’

  ‘Oh, Dad! Poor you! I see what you mean about it being better.’ She felt very pleased that he was telling her important things like his nightmares. I didn’t know grown-ups had them,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, darling! All kinds of things are much the same when you are grown-up. On a lighter note, I think we’ll visit Mr Cracknell first. And there is quite a good jewellery shop we can try thereabouts too.’

  When they were nearly in Hastings he asked, ‘How are they all at home, then?’

  ‘All right, I suppose. Who especially?’

  Well – your aunts – and your mother for a start.’

  ‘Aunt Rach has an awful back.’

  ‘I know,’ he said quickly. ‘She says a lot of the time she is like an old deckchair that has got stuck. I make her go to that very good man in London, though. And I think she likes working in the office.’

  ‘Aunt Rach loves to be needed,’ she said. ‘More than most people.’

  ‘Quite right, she does. And?’

  ‘And what? Oh – the others. Well, I think Aunt Villy is bored. I think she’d really like to be doing some terrific war job. Doing Red Cross work and teaching people first aid and working in the nursing home at Mill Farm isn’t enough for her.’

  ‘My word, Polly, you are perspicacious.’

  ‘But Aunt Zoë, on the other hand, is actually quite happy. She looks after two people now in the nursing home – reading to them, and writing letters for them – things like that – and, of course, she absolutely adores Juliet.’

  Hugh smiled, his tender, approving smile that was largely reserved for babies. ‘Of course she does.’

  ‘What about Mummy?’ he said after a silence. ‘How is she, do you think?’

  Polly thought. ‘I don’t know. The trouble is, I don’t think she feels very well a good deal of the time. She loved her holiday with you, but it seemed to make her even tireder. She went to bed for two whole days when she got back.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Don’t tell her I told you that. I shouldn’t have. She didn’t want you to know.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘I got awfully worried when she had to have an operation. But it all turned out OK, didn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said heartily. ‘Very OK. But people sometimes take a long time really to get over that kind of thing, you know. Here we are! Hastings, here we come!’

  Mr Cracknell’s shop was rather dark, and everything in it seemed dusty, but it contained some fascinating things. Furniture, of course: Dad bought two chairs that had ears of wheat carved up their backs. ‘I can’t resist them,’ he said. But there were also a number of wooden boxes, some inlaid with mother-of-pearl, some with brass. Inside they had ruched satin or velvet in crimson or dark bright blue: some had little cut-glass bottles and pots with silver lids. Some were sewing boxes, with tiny little spools – again made of mother-of-pearl, round which strands of rich and faded silk were wound. Pairs of steel scissors and books of steel needles, and a sharp pointed tool for making holes in things were arranged on the top layer inside, and some of the boxes had a secret drawer at the bottom that sprang open when you pressed a button. She was entranced by them, and explored each one carefully, imagining which she would like most. Then she found a plain rosewood box that, open, proved to be a little writing desk: ‘It was for travelling,’ her father said. ‘Ladies took them on visits.’

  When open the box made a gentle slope that was covered with thin dark green leather. Underneath the slope there was a place to keep papers. ‘Clary would love this,’ she said. ‘Dad, do you think it might be not more than twenty-five shillings? Because that’s all I’ve got.’ It seemed a lot to her, but she knew that things that were in shilling amounts weren’t a lot to him.

  ‘I’ll find out. Come and look at this.’ It was a small octagonal table with an elegant pedestal. The table top was very pretty, with the wood laid in sharp triangles, so that the grain looked like a flower. Her father pressed something and the table lid opened to reveal a conical interior lined with paper that had minute bunches of roses on it – like wallpaper for a doll’s house, she thought. Mr Cracknell emerged from the back of his shop holding a shallow octagonal tray papered in the same way, but made with numerous compartments. ‘I’ve been repairing the tray,’ he said and fitted it carefully into the top of the cone.

  ‘It’s a sewing table, early nineteenth century, not very old,’ he said.

  ‘Now, Polly, what wood is it made of? Let’s see how much you know.’

  Polly said she thought it was walnut.

  ‘That’s right!’ Mr Cracknell exclaimed. He was old, with steel-rimmed spectacles and greeny-white hair, and he stooped. He passed a splayed thumb over the wood: ‘A lovely piece of veneer, that is. Laid as tight as a nut.’

  ‘Do you think Mummy would like it?’

  It would only be good for small pieces of sewing: there wasn’t enough room in the bottom for things like the winter dressing gown she was making for Wills.

  ‘I should think she might,’ she said, and saw her father’s expression fade a little.

  ‘Well, we’d better go on looking,’ he said.

  Mr Cracknell, who knew the Cazalet brothers from their many visits, said he had a rather nice chest on chest that he thought they might like to look at. ‘Seeing as you like walnut,’ he said. ‘Got its original handles too, it has.’ The place was so full of things, and so dark that he got a torch to shine on the piece.

  Polly could see that Dad really loved it: stroking the wood, gently pulling out a drawer and admiring the craftsmanship. ‘See, Poll?’ he said. ‘They used wooden pegs and dovetailing to make the drawers in those days.’ There was a spattering of tiny little round holes in one drawer.

  ‘Worm’s dead,’ Mr Cracknell remarked: he tapped the drawer smartly, and Hugh nodded.

  ‘If the worm was active, there’d be stuff like sawdust coming out,’ he said to Polly. ‘And what do you want for that, Mr Cracknell?’

  ‘Well, I could let it go at three hundred.’

  Hugh whistled. ‘A bit out of my league, I’m afraid.’

  In the end he bought the sewing table, and while Mr Cracknell was carrying it out to the car, Polly asked if he would ask how much the writing box was.

  ‘Do you want it, Poll? Would you use it?’

  ‘I want it to give to Clary.’

  ‘Of course. You said. I’ll find out.’

  He’s rather forgetful, she thought: he never used to be like that.

  He came back and said, how lucky – it was only twenty-five shillings.

  ‘An expensive present for you, though, darling,’ he said.

  ‘I know, but I want to give it to her.’

  When they had finished putting everything into the car, she said, ‘Why are you smiling, Dad?’

  ‘I was thinking what a very nice daughter I’ve got.’

  When he wasn’t smiling, she realised, he actually looked sad.

  He said that they would look at the other shops as they were there. It was the old part of the town with narrow streets and seagulls and little whiffs of tar and fish and the sea. In the jeweller’s shop, which was tiny and crammed with antique jewellery, he picked out a pair of garnet earrings – long drops.

  ‘Do you think Mummy would like these?’ he asked. ‘It would go with that necklace I bought her years ago.’

  Polly knew that her mother did not like garnets as they did not go with the colour of her hair, and only wore the necklace occasionally, to please Dad.

  ‘You bought her some earrings in Edinburgh: sh
e showed me,’ she said. ‘I should think she’d rather have something else.’ He seemed always to be buying her presents, even though she’d had her birthday ages ago. ‘Also, she wouldn’t wear them much while there’s a war.’

  ‘Practical Poll.’ He began looking carefully through a tray of rings. Just as she was going to say that Mummy didn’t wear rings much either these days, he picked out a small ring that had a flat green stone set in gold. The back was like a shell, the band was plain. ‘Pop it on,’ he said. It fitted her second finger exactly.

  ‘What do you think of that?’ he said.

  ‘I should think she would love it. I should think anyone would love it.’

  ‘Right. I’m going to give it to anyone, then. Take it off.’

  ‘How do you mean “anyone”?’ she asked, handing it to him. It sounded bonkers.

  ‘The first person I meet after I’ve bought it.’ He went to the back of the shop and she saw that he was writing a cheque. Supposing, she thought wildly, he met a postman outside the shop? Of course, the postman might have a wife, but then again, he might not.

  When he came back, he said, ‘Hallo, Poll, fancy meeting you here,’ and gave her a little box. Inside, perched upon worn white satin, was the ring. ‘I knew you’d be the first person I’d meet,’ he said.

  She was overwhelmed. A ring! And it was so beautiful!

  ‘Oh, Dad! It’s my first ring.’

  ‘I wanted to be the first person to give you one.’

  ‘It’s completely perfect! Can I wear it now?’

  ‘I should be deeply hurt if you didn’t. Emeralds suit you, Poll,’ he observed when the ring was on and she turned her hand for him to see. ‘You have pretty hands – like your mother.’

  ‘Is it really and truly an emerald?’

  ‘It is. It’s late sixteenth century – a bit early for paste I think. Looks like an emerald to me, and the man in the shop said it was.’

  ‘Goodness!’

  ‘You have grown up,’ he said. ‘I can remember a time when you would much rather have had a cat than a ring.’

  ‘The back of it’s so beautiful,’ she said when they had got back into the car.