The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  Clary has had an unhappy love affair with the literary agent but has always been drawn towards writing. Encouraged by Archie Lestrange, a long-standing friend of her father, she has completed her first novel. Throughout her girlhood, Archie had an avuncular relationship with Clary, but they have grown closer, so much so that they have fallen in love and it seems they will marry.

  Rachel lives for others, which her friend, now lover, Margot Sidney, known as Sid, a violin teacher, finds difficult. So difficult, in fact, that she had an affair with another woman. When Rachel discovered the truth, a period of estrangement followed but they are now happily reconciled.

  All Change begins nine years later, in 1956.

  PART ONE

  JUNE 1956

  RACHEL

  ‘Not long now.’

  ‘Duchy, darling!’

  ‘I feel quite peaceful.’ The Duchy shut her eyes for a moment: talking – as did everything else – tired her. She paused and then said, ‘After all, I have exceeded the time allotted to us by Mr Housman. By twenty years! “Loveliest of trees” – I could never agree with him about that.’ She looked up at her daughter’s anguished face – so pale with smudges of violet under her eyes from not sleeping, her mouth pinched with the effort of not weeping – and, with enormous difficulty, the Duchy lifted her hand from the sheet. ‘Now, Rachel, my dear, you must not be so distressed. It upsets me.’

  Rachel took the trembling, bony hand and cupped it in both of hers. No, she must not upset her: it would indeed be selfish to do that. Her mother’s hand, mottled with liver spots, was so wasted that the gold band of her wristwatch hung loosely, the dial out of sight; her wedding ring was tilted to halfway over her knuckle. ‘What tree would you choose?’

  ‘A good question. Let me see.’

  She watched her mother’s face, animated by the luxury of choice – a serious matter …

  ‘Mimosa,’ the Duchy said suddenly. ‘That heavenly scent! Never been able to grow it.’ She moved her hand and began fretfully fumbling with her bedclothes. ‘No one left now to call me Kitty. You cannot imagine—’ She seemed to choke suddenly, trying to cough.

  ‘I’ll get you some water, darling.’ But the carafe was empty. Rachel found a bottle of Malvern water in the bathroom, but when she returned with it, her mother was dead.

  The Duchy had not moved from her position, propped up by the square pillows she had always favoured; one hand lay on the sheet, the other clasping the plait of her hair that Rachel did for her every morning. Her eyes were open, but the direct, engaging sincerity that had always been there was gone. She stared, sightless, at nothing.

  Shocked, mindless, Rachel took the raised hand and placed it carefully beside the other. With one finger she gently closed her mother’s eyes, and bent down to kiss the cool white forehead, then stood transfixed as she was assailed by streams of unconnected thoughts – it was as though a trapdoor had suddenly opened. Childhood memories. ‘There is no such thing as a white lie, Rachel. A lie is a lie and you are never to tell them.’ When Edward had spat at her standing in his cot: ‘I don’t listen to people who tell tales.’ But her brother was reprimanded and never did it again. The serenity that rarely seemed disturbed – only once, after seeing Hugh and Edward off to France, aged eighteen and seventeen respectively, calm, smiling, while the train slowly left Victoria station. Then she had turned away, and had pulled out the tiny lace handkerchief that was always tucked into her wristwatch. ‘They are only boys!’ There was a small but distinct strawberry mark on the inside of that wrist, and Rachel remembered wondering if she kept the handkerchief there to conceal it, and how she could have had such a frivolous thought. But the Duchy did cry: she cried with laughter – at the antics of Rupert who, from his earliest years, had made everyone laugh; at Rupert’s children – notably Neville; at people she regarded as pompous; tears would stream down her face. Then, too, at ruthless Victorian rhymes: ‘Boy gun, joy fun, gun bust, boy dust’, and ‘Papa, Papa, what is that mess that looks like strawberry jam? Hush, hush, my dear, it is Mama, run over by a tram’. And music made her cry. She was a surprisingly good pianist, used to play duets with Myra Hess, and had loved Toscanini and his records of the Beethoven symphonies. Alongside her rule of plain living (you did not put butter and marmalade on breakfast toast; meals consisted of roast meat, eaten hot, then cold and finally minced with boiled vegetables, and poached fish once a week, followed by stewed fruit and blancmange, which the Duchy called ‘shape’, or rice pudding), she lived a private life that, apart from music, consisted of gardening, which she adored. She grew large, fragrant violets in a special frame, clove carnations, dark red roses, lavender, everything that smelt sweet, and then fruit of every description: yellow and red raspberries, and tomatoes, nectarines, peaches, grapes, melons, strawberries, huge red dessert gooseberries, currants for making jam, figs, greengages and other plums. The grandchildren loved coming to Home Place for the dishes piled with the Duchy’s fruit.

  Her relationship with her husband, the Brig, had always been shrouded in Victorian mystery. When Rachel was a child, she had seen her parents simply in relation to herself – her mother, her father. But living at home with them all of her life, and while continuing to love them unconditionally, she had nevertheless grown to perceive them as two very different people. Indeed, they were utterly unalike. The Brig was gregarious to the point of eccentricity – he would bring anyone he met in his club or on the train back to either of his houses for dinner and sometimes the weekend, without the slightest warning, presenting them rather as a fisherman or hunter might display the most recent salmon or stag or wild goose. Whereupon – with only the mildest rebuke – the Duchy would tranquilly serve them with boiled mutton and blancmange.

  She was not reclusive, but was perfectly content with her growing family, her children and grandchildren, accepting her three daughters-in-law graciously. But her own world she kept very private: the japes of her youth (of an apple-pie-bed nature) or Sardines, played daringly in some remote Scottish castle, surfaced only fleetingly when she told stories to some grandchild who had fallen out of a tree or been thrown by the pony. Her father, Grandpapa Barlow, had been a distinguished scientist, a member of the Royal Society. One of four sisters, she was the beauty (although she had always seemed unaware of that). A looking glass, she had taught Rachel, was for making sure that one’s hair was neat and one’s brooch pinned straight.

  In her old age, when gardening became difficult, she had taken to regular cinema outings, largely to see Gregory Peck, with whom she had quite fallen in love …

  I didn’t ask her enough. I knew hardly anything about her. This, considering fifty-six years of intimacy, seemed dreadful to Rachel now. All those mornings of making toast, while the Duchy boiled water on the spirit lamp to make tea, all those afternoons out of doors in summer, cosy in the breakfast room when it was too cold to be out, in the holidays with grandchildren, who had to eat one plain piece of bread and butter before they were allowed either jam or cake, but most of the time alone together: the Duchy machining curtains for Home Place; making Rachel beautiful frocks, tussore silk smocked in blue or cherry red, and then for the grandchildren – for Louise and Polly, Clary and Juliet; even for the boys, Teddy and Neville, Wills and Roland, until they were three or four and objected to wearing girls’ clothes, while Rachel struggled with beginners’ knitting, mufflers and mittens. These had been made during the interminable years of war – the awful months and months when letters were longed for and telegrams so dreaded …

  She had grown up, the daughter of the house, and, except for enduring three dreadful homesick years at a boarding school, she had never left home. She had begged every holiday to be allowed to remain at home – ‘If they see a single hair in my hairbrush they give me an order mark’ she remembered sobbing, and the Duchy saying, ‘Then do not leave a single hair, my duck.’

  Her role in life was to look after other people, never to consider her appearance, to understand that men were m
ore important than women, to attend to her parents, to organise meals and deal with the servants who, to a man or woman, loved Rachel for her care and interest in their lives.

  But now, with both parents gone, it seemed as though her life’s work had finished. She could be with Sid as much as either of them pleased; an alarming freedom had come upon her; something heard in one of the free-thinking schools, a young pupil saying, ‘Must we do what we like all the time?’ now applied to her.

  She was conscious that she had been standing beside her mother’s deathbed as all these disjointed thoughts overwhelmed her – realised that she had been crying, that her back ached intolerably, that there were many, many things to be done: ring the doctor, contact Hugh – he would surely ring the others for her, Edward, Rupert and Villy – and, of course, Sid. She would have to tell the servants – here she was brought up short: since the war the servants had consisted of Mr and Mrs Tonbridge, the ancient gardener who was now too arthritic to do much more than mow the lawns, a girl who came three mornings a week to do the cleaning, and Eileen, now returned after her mother’s illness. Rachel turned again to her dear mother. She looked peaceful, and strikingly young. She picked a white rose out of the little jug and put it between her hands. The small strawberry mark on her wrist stood out more clearly; the watch had slipped down to her palm. She took it off and laid it beside the bed.

  When she opened the large sash window, the warm air scented with the roses growing beneath came softly into the room, wafted by little zephyr breezes that fanned the muslin curtains.

  She mopped her face, blew her nose and (in order that she would be able to speak without crying) said aloud, ‘Goodbye, my darling.’

  Then she left the room and set about the day.

  THE FAMILY

  ‘Well, one of us should go. We can’t leave poor Rachel to cope on her own.’

  ‘Of course we can’t.’

  Edward, who had been about to explain that he couldn’t easily cancel his lunch with the blokes who were in charge of the nationalised railways, noticed that Hugh had begun to rub his forehead in a way that announced one of his fiendish headaches and decided that he should be spared the initial painful rites. ‘What about Rupe?’ he said.

  Rupert, the youngest brother and technically a director of the firm, charmed everyone; he was the obvious candidate but his inability to make up his mind and his intense sympathy for the point of view of anyone he met, client or staff, made him of questionable use. Edward said he would talk to him at once. ‘He needs to be told anyway. Don’t you worry, old boy. We can all go down at the weekend.’

  ‘Rachel said it was completely peaceful.’ He had said this before, but the repetition clearly comforted him. ‘Rather the end of an era. Puts us in the front line, doesn’t it?’

  This both made of them think of the Great War, but neither of them said so.

  When Edward had gone, Hugh reached for his pills and sent Miss Corley out for a sandwich for his lunch. He probably wouldn’t eat more than a bite, but it would stop her fussing about him.

  Lying on the leather sofa in his dark glasses he wept. The Duchy’s tranquillity, her frankness, the way in which she had welcomed Jemima and her two boys … Jemima. If he was now in the front line, he had Jemima beside him – a stroke of unbelievable luck, an everyday joy. After Sybil’s death he had thought his affections would ever after be directed only to Polly, who would naturally marry, as she had, have her own children, which she most certainly had done, and that for the rest of his life he would be first for nobody. How lucky I have been, he thought, as he took off his glasses to wipe them dry.

  ‘Darling, of course I’m coming. If I’m quick, I can catch the four twenty – could Tonbridge meet me, do you think? Rachel, just don’t fuss about me. I’m perfectly all right – it was just a touch of bronchitis, and I got up yesterday. Is there anything I can bring you? Right. See you soon after six. ‘Bye, dearest.’

  And she rang off before Rachel could try any more to dissuade her.

  As she walked shakily upstairs, the enormity of the changes that now lay ahead struck her. She was still weak, although the marvellous penicillin had more or less knocked the bug on the head. She decided to skip lunch and pack a few things in a bag that would not be too heavy to carry. Rachel would be anguished by her mother’s death, but now she – Sid – would be able to look after her. They would really be able to live together at last.

  She had loved and admired the Duchy, but for so long and so often her times with Rachel had had to be cut short because Rachel had felt that her mother needed her. And it had got worse after the Brig had died, in spite of the affectionate attentions of the three sons and their wives. This last illness had been an enormous strain upon Rachel, who had not left her mother’s side since Easter. Well, it was over, and now at the age of fifty-six, Rachel would at last be able to call her life her own, but Sid also realised that this would be – initially, at least – alarming for her, rather like letting a bird out of its familiar cage into vast open country. She would need both encouragement and protection.

  She was so early for her train that there was time (and need) to eat a sandwich and sit down. After some patient queuing, Sid procured two slices of grey spongy bread, scraped with bright yellow margarine and encasing an extremely thin slice of soapy Cheddar. There were very few places to sit, and she tried perching on her suitcase, which showed signs of collapsing. After a few moments a very old man got up from a crowded bench leaving a copy of the Evening Standard – ‘Burgess and Maclean Taking Long Holiday Abroad’ was the headline. They sounded like a couple of biscuit manufacturers, Sid thought.

  It was a great relief to get onto the train, after she had struggled against the tide of people who got off it. The carriage was dirty, the upholstery of the seats threadbare and dusty, the floor spattered with extinguished cigarette ends. The windows were so smoke-ridden that she could hardly see out of them. But when the guard blew his whistle and with a lurch the train began to puff its way across the bridge, Sid began to feel less tired. How many times had she made this journey to be with Rachel? All those weekends when to go for a walk together had been the height of bliss; when discretion and secrecy had governed everything they did. Even when Rachel met the train, Tonbridge had been driving; he could hear every word they said. In those days simply to be with her was so wonderful that for a long time she had needed nothing more. And then she did want more – wanted Rachel in bed with her – and a new kind of secrecy had begun. Lust, or anything approaching it, had had to be concealed – not only from everyone else but from Rachel herself for whom it was terrifying and incomprehensible. Then she had been ill, and Rachel had come immediately to nurse her. And then … Remembering Rachel offering herself still brought tears to her eyes. Perhaps, she thought now, her greatest achievement had been getting Rachel to enjoy physical love. And even then, she thought, with wry amusement, they had had to battle through Rachel’s guilt, her sense that she did not deserve so much pleasure, that she must never allow it to come before her duty.

  Sid spent the rest of the journey making wildly delightful plans for the future.

  ‘Oh, Rupe, I’m sorry. I could join you tomorrow because the children won’t be at school. But you’d better ring and see if that is what Rachel would like. Would you like me to tell Villy?… OK. See you tomorrow, darling – I hope.’

  Since Rupert had joined the firm they were much better off – had been able to buy a rather dilapidated house in Mortlake, on the river. It had not cost too much – six thousand pounds – but it was in a poor state, and when the river was high, the ground floor was often flooded in spite of the wall in the front garden and the mounting block where a gate had once stood. But Rupert didn’t mind any of that: he was in love with the beautiful sash windows, the splendid doors, and the amazing room on the first floor that ran the whole width of the house, with a pretty fireplace at each end; the egg-and-dart ceiling friezes; the bedrooms that rambled on the top floor, all leading into
each other, culminating in one very small bathroom and lavatory that had been modernised in the forties with a salmon-coloured bath and shiny black tiles.

  ‘I love it,’ Rupert had said. ‘It’s the house for us, darling. Of course we’ll have to do a certain amount to it. They said the boiler wasn’t working. But that’s just a detail. You do like it, don’t you?’

  And, of course, she’d said yes.

  Rupert and Zoë had moved in in 1953, the year of the Coronation, and some of the ‘details’ had been dealt with: the kitchen had been extended by adding the scullery to it, with a new boiler, new cooker and sink. But they could not afford central heating, so the house was always cold. In winter it was freezing. Rupert pointed out to the children that they would be able to see the Boat Race, but Juliet had been unmoved by the prospect: ‘One of them’s got to win, haven’t they? It’s a foregone conclusion.’ And Georgie had simply remarked that it would only be interesting if they fell in. Georgie was now seven, and since the age of three had been obsessed with animals. He had what he described as a zoo, comprising a white rat called Rivers, two tortoises that constantly got lost in the back garden, silk worms, when the season allowed, a garter snake that was also a virtuoso at escaping, a pair of guinea pigs and a budgerigar. He longed for a dog, a rabbit and a parrot, but so far his pocket money had not run to the expense. He was writing a book about his zoo, and had got into serious trouble for taking Rivers to school concealed in his satchel. Although Rivers was now confined to his cage during school hours, Zoë knew that he would be accompanying them to Home Place but, as Rupert pointed out, he was a very tactful rat and people often didn’t know he was there.