Ponting’s had the bust bodices, but not the camisoles. As this meant that there were a few clothes coupons left in her mother’s book, and remembering the dank chill of Cotter’s End, she bought her mother a pale pink woollen spencer instead. It was half past twelve—time to return to Charing Cross, find something to eat for lunch, collect her luggage and make for Waterloo to catch the train to Southampton.
She had lunch in Fuller’s in the Strand: two grey sausages encased in what felt like mackintosh, a scoop of a paler grey mashed potato and carrots. Her glass of water tasted strongly of chlorine. For pudding there was steamed treacle roll or jelly. She was not used to lunching alone in public, and wished she had brought her book. But this isn’t meant to be a treat, she thought. It is me doing the least I can do for Mummy. For now as on other occasions, the thought struck her that another kind of daughter would have left her in-laws’ house, and made a wartime home for her mother. Even the faintest idea of this made her shrink with horror. Her mother’s passive, humble attitude to life, and particularly to Zoë, irritated her beyond bearing. Her expectations, both drab and genteel, were confined to things being marginally better than she had thought that they would be: the milk turning out not to be off for her early morning tea would be a fair example, or the girl in the local hairdresser having enough solution to perm her hair. When Zoë brought Jules with her, her mother ceaselessly exclaimed at her prettiness—in front of her—and kept telling Zoë how much she should brush the child’s hair or put Vaseline on her eyelashes at night: “You want to grow into a pretty lady, don’t you, Juliet?” But even without Jules, the situation was irritating enough, as Mummy and her friend Maud had settled together by evolving a mutual admiration society, bickering gently as each disclaimed the qualities attributed to her by the other, and each appealing to Zoë to uphold their views. Exasperation was succeeded by guilt, and after twenty-four hours in Cotter’s End, Zoë always found herself counting the hours until her release.
So it was this time. After the train, and then the ferry and then the little local train, she was met by Maud in her Baby Austin.
“Just wait until I’m in, my dear. The passenger door only opens from the inside.
“Your mother is so excited about you coming that I made her take a little rest after tea. Yes, she’s as well as can be expected, but of course one never knows because, as you know, she never complains. Only last week, she slipped getting out of the bath and bruised herself black and blue, but I would never have known if I hadn’t found her hunting for the Pommade Divine.”
She pressed the starter, and the Baby Austin gave a startled lurch before the engine died.
“Oh dear! I left her in gear. Silly me. I expect you’re exhausted after your long journey. I won’t ask you for all your news, because I know Cicely will be dying to hear it. Here we go.”
By the end of the journey, a mere mile and a half, she had been given all the local news. Commander Lawrence had broken his arm, his right arm, which had made his bridge-playing very difficult; there had been a severe shortage of potatoes—the shop had been rationing them; Lady Harkness had been so rude to the vicar’s wife that the vicar had felt unable to call at the Hall although subscriptions towards repairing the church hall were desperately needed and Lady Harkness had always been a very good source; Prim, the tabby cat that they had thought was a male and had called Patrick, had suddenly had four kittens, “so now it’s Primrose, Prim for short,” she had explained. “She had them on Cicely’s bed which was a terrible shock for her, but, of course, she was wonderful about it. I think that that is all our news,” she finished. “You know that the Italians have surrendered, of course.”
Zoë had seen it on a placard at Waterloo.
They arrived, eventually, at Cotter’s End; the car was manoeuvred into the incredibly small lean-to built onto the end of the cottage that served as its garage, after Zoë had got out and her luggage had been wrested from the back.
Her mother came out of the sitting room to greet them. She was wearing her woollen dress of a dusty pink, with her graduated cultured pearls. She was carefully made-up, with blue eye shadow and mascara, bright lipstick and a peachy powder that came off on Zoë when she kissed her. It was like kissing a moth.
“How nice that you have got here,” she said wanly, so that Zoë felt like a drab surprise.
She was expected to want to take her things upstairs, to unpack and “wash” before joining them in the sitting room, so this she did. “You are in your usual room,” Maud called up the stairs—as though there was a choice. But with three bedrooms, there couldn’t be, Zoë thought, as she lifted the stiff latch of the door that always stuck the first time you tried to open it and was assailed by a blast of cold damp salty air. The window was wide open: when she went downstairs they would tell her that they had been airing the room, and each would think that the other had closed the window. She would not mention it. The room was small and narrow with just room for the bed, a chest of drawers and a chair. It had dark blue curtains which she now drew, after shutting the window, and a further curtain arranged across a corner of the room behind which clothes could be precariously hung. There was a large coloured print of When Did You Last See Your Father? on the wall over the bed, and the same small pottery jar of crumbling everlasting flowers on the chest of drawers. She went to the lavatory, hung up her clothes, and with presents in hand went down to join them.
They all had a glass of sherry in front of the very small unwilling fire and Zoë answered questions about the health of Juliet and the Cazalet family, and her mother told her about the cat having kittens on her bed. Eventually, Maud said she must just go and see to their dinner, and had a brief argument with Zoë’s mother about not needing any help. “You two enjoy each other’s company. I am perfectly happy in the kitchen.” She shut the door upon them and there was a silence while both thought furiously about how to break it.
“Maud is wonderful.” Her mother announced this before Zoë had thought of anything.
“She does seem kind.”
“She has always been kind. I don’t know what I should have done without her.” And then, as though she realized that this could be taken as some sort of reproof, she added: “Of course I would have managed.”
“I’m afraid it will be very quiet for you here,” she began again. “Commander Lawrence has broken his arm, so I’m afraid our bridge evening won’t be as lively as usual. He broke it trying to get into his loft.”
“You know, Mummy, I’m not very good at bridge.”
“But I thought with all that large family, you would have had a lot of practice by now.”
“They don’t play much.”
“Oh dear.” There was a pause: a piece of wood fell out of the fire basket and Zoë went to retrieve it.
“Zoë, dear, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but of course I’ve been very worried for you—”
“There is no news of Rupert,” she said quickly. “None at all.” Every time she came, her mother asked the same question, in exactly the same way, and it was one of the things that she could bear least. “I’d have told you if there was any news. I promised to ring you up if there ever was, don’t you remember?” In trying not to sound exasperated she sounded hysterical.
“Darling, don’t be angry. I didn’t meant to upset you. It’s only that—”
“I’m sorry, Mummy. I’d just rather not talk about it.”
“Of course. I quite understand.”
There was another silence, and then she said, “You remember Lady Harkness? She came once to sherry when you were here about a year ago, I think it was. A very tall woman with very good skin? Well—she has been rather outspoken with our vicar, I’m sorry to say; he hasn’t taken it quite the right way which has made things rather awkward. Socially, I mean.”
At this point, Maud put her weatherbeaten face round the door and said that supper was ready.
This took place in a tiny room next to the kitchen at a rocky little gate-legg
ed table and consisted of rissoles about the size of a trussed mouse—one each—with mashed potato and chopped cabbage. While they ate, Maud described in detail how the rissoles were made, using a mere four ounces of sausagemeat, breadcrumbs and herbs, and her mother said how clever Maud was with the rations. This was followed by stewed plums arranged in little glass dishes; there was nowhere to put the stones. Zoë had brought her ration book with her, having consulted with Mrs. Cripps about the appropriate contribution for three days. She thought gratefully of the packet of ginger biscuits in her room. The dining room had no fire and its whitewashed walls were blistered with damp. After dinner, there was a faint squabble about the washing up, which resulted in all three of them crowding into the small dark kitchen, bumping into one another as each carried supper things out, and breakfast things in—Maud said she liked to have everything on the table for the morning as it was so much easier. By the time they got back to the sitting room, the fire had gone out. Bed began to be discussed—the question of who would or might have a bath: the hot water would only run to one and both of her hosts seemed anxious to accord this to Zoë. There was also the question of whether anyone wanted a hot drink and, of course, there were the hot water bottles to be filled. The kettle was so old and full of scale that it took an age to boil and was not large enough to fill more than one bottle at a time. All in all, the preparations for bed took up the rest of the evening and it was well after ten before Zoë was able to shut herself into her room. And this was only Wednesday, she thought; there is the whole of Thursday and Friday and half of Saturday, and she counted the hours involved as she chewed biscuits with her hot water bottle clasped to her stomach.
The visit, like all of them, was only different because she didn’t have Jules with her; it was easier, but considerably more dull. They went for what her mother described as little strolls; they had Commander Lawrence and his wife and Labrador to tea. The Labrador stood politely if spoken to and wagged his weighty tail so that rock cakes were knocked off occasional tables and swallowed instantly by him as though they had never been. The Commander said he was a naughty boy who was not usually like that, but that there was nothing like the loyalty you got from a dog. His arm was in a sling, which made him feel, he said, after he had thoroughly described to Zoë the circumstances of it breaking, like Nelson.
Her mother was pleased with the bust bodices, but doubtful about the spencer. “I should really need two of them,” she said, “to get the benefit. Otherwise, I might catch cold while it was being washed.”
The paid the usual visit to Miss Fenwick and her mother, who Maud repeatedly said was marvellous for her age. She was ninety-two. It took Miss Fenwick the best part of the morning to wash and dress her and cram her into an enormous armchair which she filled like a vast sandbag. She was practically bald and always wore a red hat with a diamante arrow stuck through one side of it. Below her ample jersey skirt her feet rested on a stool, encased in bedroom slippers, which were, as the family at home would say, the shape of old broad beans. Conversation with her was difficult, as she was stone deaf and did not remember who anyone was, although occasionally she would interrupt other people with a rather peevish enquiry about the next meal. “Mother does enjoy her food,” Miss Fenwick always said on those occasions.
Conversation, on this occasion, when it was not concentrated on the marvel of Mrs. Fenwick’s antiquity, was about what they most missed from peacetime, which mostly turned out to be food. Fresh cream, Maud declared, she did so love fresh cream cakes—not to mention strawberries and cream. Lemons, Zoë suggested, but nobody took much notice of her. Speaking of cream cakes, her mother said, she really missed a Fuller’s walnut cake, and Mother, Miss Fenwick informed them, really did miss her bananas.
Eventually, this visit came to an end because Miss Fenwick said that Mother didn’t like to be late with lunch. Goodness, Zoë thought, how awful it is to be old. I’d rather be dead than like Mrs. Fenwick, but she did not voice this view.
The sherry party was held, to which the Lawrences came, and the vicar, with his niece. Zoë’s bottle of sherry was opened, and Maud made little pieces of toast with chicken and ham paste on them. They went shopping with Zoë’s ration book and a tin of Spam was bought “as a standby” and Mrs. Cripps had also sanctioned the use of her cheese ration, and three ounces of cheese, Maud said, was a godsend and would make three meals if stretched. This occupied Thursday and Friday. Tomorrow I shall go home, she thought, and have the lunch with Archie on the way. She had said that she could not stay longer because of Juliet, who, they said, she must bring next time. The last evening, tiny pieces of cod in a sauce made with Carnation milk and mashed swede, they kept saying how sad it was that she had to go; Maud, in particular, kept saying how much her mother loved her visits, although Zoë could see no sign of it as they seemed to have nothing to say to one another. “I’ll leave you two together while I just pop into the village for some bread,” Maud said, after the early breakfast.
“She is so thoughtful,” her mother said as they both heard the front door shut. Maud’s kindness had become a kind of conversational walking frame.
“Is there anything you want me to do for you in London, Mummy?” she said desperately.
“Oh, I don’t think so, dear. Unless you were to get me another spencer. Oh—and I did forget before, but I should be very grateful for another hairnet. For night, you know. Lady Jayne is the make I prefer. I’m sure Ponting’s or Gaylor and Pope would have one. But only if you are going that way. I know how busy you are.”
“Well, I shan’t be able to do that this time, but next time I go to London, I’ll remember. I could post them to you.”
“But you’ll be back soon, won’t you?”
“Well … probably not until after Christmas. I do have my job at the nursing home, you see.”
“Well, dear, do look after your hands. Nursing is not good for hands. And you used to have such pretty ones. Still have,” she added hurriedly.
“You are quite happy here, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Quite happy. Maud is kindness itself, as you know. And, of course, I contribute to the housekeeping. I don’t want to be a burden.”
“Money is all right, isn’t it, Mummy?” She knew that Rupert had arranged for the proceeds of the London flat to be safely invested, although that could not bring in much, but her mother also had her widow’s pension.
But her mother, who considered money to be a vulgar subject, said hurriedly, “There is nothing to worry about. We lead a quiet life and manage very well. But that reminds me, I must pay you for the underclothes.”
“Don’t. They are a present.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She was fumbling in her worn leather bag for her purse.
“Please don’t, Mummy, really.”
“I would much rather pay you. Can you remember how much it was?”
This unrewarding argument and fuss about the whole thing, Zoë thought as she became more and more helplessly irritated—her mother wanted to know exactly what the things had cost, and she couldn’t remember, and then her mother didn’t believe her when she made it up, and then she only had a five pound note—persisted until Maud’s return. Maud had change: her mother said that perhaps the bust bodices had a price ticket still on them if someone would just pop up to her room and look, and Maud, who knew where things were, offered to do this. By now her mother had become stubborn and Zoë felt sulky. The bust bodices turned out to be eight and sixpence each, so then her mother wanted a pencil and paper so that she could do the sum—“I’ve never been good at figures”—and then there was the question of the spencer. “That is twenty-five and six and?”
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 122
