The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  If that’s a smile, Hugh thought, I’m a crocodile.

  ‘There are also dates for repayment of earlier loans, only one of which has been honoured. So I am sure you will understand, gentlemen, that no further loan can be contemplated.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘And now, if you will forgive me, I have another appointment. Miss Chambers will see you out.’

  And that was that. They had both been staring at their untouched coffee, and now got up to follow Miss Chambers out of the boardroom and out of the bank.

  Edward was the first to speak. ‘I’m sorry, old boy, but I had to say what I think. Otherwise, in my view, we’re heading for a first-class disaster.’ He then suggested they go to a pub, and Hugh, who was clearly in a state of shock, agreed, providing it was a quiet one, out of the City where employees would shortly be flocking for their lunch break.

  Half an hour later they were ensconced in a dim cavern that contained only one other customer, immersed in his racing paper. After Edward had got their drinks, he said, ‘I do know how much you hate all this, but supposing we start by considering the pros and cons of getting rid of Southampton? Or, if you like, you state the cons and I’ll do likewise with the pros.’

  ‘I certainly want to say why I think we should hang onto it. First, our father bought the site at a very reasonable price. It must be worth far more now than he paid for it. Second, Cazalets’ has the largest collection of hardwoods in the business. Third, the hardwoods – most of them – are shipped to Southampton. If we didn’t have a sawmill there, we would have to go to all the trouble and expense of moving the logs to London. Fourth, that side of our business has been failing because we haven’t had the right manager. Teddy hasn’t enough experience. If we put Rupert in there—’

  But here Edward felt obliged to interrupt him: ‘My dear Hugh, you know as well as I do that Rupe would be hopeless as a manager – of anything. He has his talents – marvellous with people, the men love him and not a bad salesman – but actually running something? No. Simply being called Cazalet may once have been enough, but it isn’t any more. He’s far more use in London, and the only thing wrong with McIver, who has been with us for at least twenty-five years, is that he isn’t called Cazalet. Can I have my turn now?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Well, one of the reasons we’re doing so badly is that we’re crippled by the interest we’re paying on existing loans. Did you realise that when we default on our repayments the interest is immediately increased? No? Well, it is. My view is that we have to sell some of our assets in order to get rid of the interest burden. We should get rid of our very expensive London office and rent somewhere far cheaper – in fact, we should try to cut our overheads in every direction …’

  EDWARD AND DIANA

  ‘But I don’t think it made a blind bit of difference. Thanks, sweetie, I could certainly do with a stiff one.’

  ‘Poor old boy. What did he say about your idea of selling out – going public, isn’t it called?’

  ‘We didn’t even get that far. I was trying to get him to agree to selling off some of our property. He doesn’t even want to do that. Although, once I’ve really gone through the figures with him, I think he’ll have to agree to it.’

  Honey padded up to him, and laid an ice-cold nose in his hand. He stroked her absently until she made it clear that she intended jumping onto his lap. ‘No, Honey, no.’ She got down at once and gazed at him with loving, reproachful eyes.

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose you’ll just have to have another go at him. Dinner now.’ She had been going to tell him about an author friend of hers whose publishers had recently sold their firm to Americans, and after a luxurious breakfast at the Connaught Hotel, the two partners had left with six and a half million each, but this didn’t seem to be the right moment.

  JEMIMA AND HUGH

  ‘I think he thinks that I’m simply full of nostalgia and sentiment, and while some of that must come into it, it’s not all I’m fighting for.’

  ‘Take off your tie, darling. I’m going to massage your neck.’

  ‘I ought to ring Rachel – make sure she’s all right.’

  ‘Not now, Hugh darling. Just relax while I do your neck.’ Her strong little fingers kneaded and probed, and he could feel the muscles easing and the hammering in his head becoming quieter – more distant.

  ‘Bless you, Jem,’ he said, when she had finished.

  ‘The boys are at the cinema, and Laura has a friend staying the night, so we can have a nice quiet evening together.’

  He said he would just go up and say goodnight to Laura, and she grilled the bacon that they were going to have with their kidneys, a dish that he particularly liked; none of the children would eat kidneys so they had them seldom.

  ‘They’re playing hospitals,’ Hugh announced, when he joined her. ‘Poor Jennifer is bandaged from head to foot. I don’t think she’s liking it very much. Laura, of course, is the doctor.’

  Jemima said she would see to that.

  She sees to everything, Hugh thought gratefully. He yawned. Apart from being tired, he realised that he was extremely hungry. He had not been able to eat anything at the pub with Edward, and he had simply drunk one cup of coffee before setting off from Home Place. He would ring Rachel tomorrow morning. First thing, he added to himself, to make him feel less guilty.

  But when Jemima came down, she said, ‘I’ve just rung Rachel and said you were worried about her, and wanted to know whether she was managing alone. She said that Mrs Tonbridge and Eileen were angelic to her, and that Edward had rung and said he’d go and see her next weekend. I hope that’s all right, darling.’

  ‘It’s more than all right. You are even more angelic than Mrs Tonbridge and Eileen combined.’ He felt lightheaded with relief.

  CLARY AND HER PLAY

  The small theatre was icy cold and smelt faintly of gas. Auditions were being conducted in the circle bar (the only bar, actually). The couple had been cast; the wife, a reliable actress who had done her time in rep and had played a couple of small parts at Stratford. For the man’s part, the husband, Jake, the director, had eagerly courted Quentin Frome: ‘Marvellous actor, bit of a prima donna, but women adore him. He’ll fill the house for us, you’ll see.’ He had not yet put in an appearance. ‘But he’ll turn up today for the auditioning of Marigold. He can be quite difficult about the girls cast opposite him.’

  He sounded stuck-up and rather unpleasant, Clary thought, and wondered whether her opinion would be sought. They were drinking fairly horrible coffee from plastic cups.

  They waited an hour, then Jake said they’d better go ahead with the auditions. ‘Can’t keep those poor girls waiting all day.’

  The scene, Jake explained to Clary, was to be the one where Marigold declares her love for Conrad, and he, who has clearly been deeply attracted to her, reciprocates. The first actress had a heavy cold and, although she claimed to have learned the scene, forgot her lines and subsided into a misery of defeat. The second girl, who had such tumultuous hair that you could hardly see her face, was sporty about it all and struck quite the wrong note. Just as she was being dismissed, Quentin arrived. He came into the bar loud with apologies for being late, saw the girl about to leave and put his finger elaborately to his lips. Jake introduced him to Clary and he laid two fingers against her cheek before kissing her hand. ‘Our genius playwright! Madam, you have left me bereft of all words! Only my blood speaks to you in my veins!’ His melodious voice dropped an octave, as he continued, ‘Seriously, though, you’ve written a damn good part – right up my street.’

  Clary, concealing her distaste, muttered her thanks with a sinking heart. He was awful: swanky, pompous, a proper old ham to boot. While they were waiting for the third Marigold, she examined him closely. His hair, once red, had faded to an indecisive ginger grey. He had pale blue eyes, and a fleshy mouth. His nose was a beak – slightly too big for the rest of his face – and his complexion florid. His forehead could be described as noble if it didn�
��t occur to one that it was so large because of his receding hairline. She couldn’t remember feeling so catty about anyone in her life.

  The third Marigold appeared. Quentin took one look at her and said, ‘Sorry, dear. You’re too tall. She would tower above me.’ he explained to Jake, who nodded regretfully at the poor girl who stood trying to droop before them.

  ‘I’m so sorry – Miss Miller, isn’t it? Better luck next time.’

  ‘How many more?’

  ‘Just one, Quentin.’

  And, to her delighted amazement, the stage manager returned with Lydia Cazalet. Lydia! Whom she had not seen for years. She was wearing a duffel coat over her jeans, and her long golden hair was tied back in a ponytail. She winked at Clary, then concentrated on being introduced to Quentin, who livened up at the sight of her.

  ‘I don’t want any moves – just a read-through. Miss Cazalet, isn’t it? Are you related?’

  Clary said, ‘Yes, as a matter of fact we’re cousins, but I had no idea she was coming today.’ She passionately wanted Lydia to be good, to get the job, but she was afraid that Jake would consider it nepotism.

  ‘Well, I’m parking my bum on this bar stool, and I suggest, darling, that you sit in this chair beside and below me.’

  ‘Right.’ Lydia pulled out some pages from her jacket and composed herself. What followed confounded Clary.

  They played the scene as for real. She became at once younger, vulnerable, out of her depth and painfully in love, and he – she could hardly believe the transformation – he became tender, haunted and protective of her. His voice, which had been so smug and self-important, dropped down to a gentleness and charm of which she would not have believed him capable: he became irresistible, and she was quite unable to resist him. He even looked different, Clary thought, but she was so excited by the whole thing that she could not think much at all.

  She watched as they both sloughed off their characters: the change was instant – like turning off a pair of lights. Then Quentin said, ‘Right, darling, you’ll do. If His Majesty there agrees?’

  ‘He agrees.’ Jake said. He had been quite moved by the scene and was dabbing his eyes with a grey handkerchief.

  Clary saw Quentin say something inaudible to Lydia, who replied, in a cool voice, ‘Thanks, but I arranged to have lunch with my cousin.’ Clary could see that he didn’t like being turned down but then Lydia seized her arm and was saying goodbye to Jake, and in no time they were down the stairs to the foyer.

  ‘Wait a sec while I get my bag.’ But at that moment the stage manager appeared with it. On being asked, she said that there was quite a nice Italian place she could recommend for lunch round the corner.

  When they were out of sight of the theatre, Lydia stopped to change arms with the suitcase, which was bulging and held together by a piece of rope.

  ‘Let me carry it for a bit.’

  ‘I’d be jolly grateful. I feel quite dizzy having got the job.’ She seemed to sway a bit, and Clary put her arms round her.

  ‘Lydia, are you all right? You’re not all right.’

  ‘I’m OK. I think I need some food. I thought there would be something to eat on the train this morning, but there wasn’t.’

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘I had a cheese sandwich some time yesterday, I think. But things have been rather fraught. I told them I’d have to go, but Billy didn’t believe me, and we were rehearsing all day and then he came to my digs and made such a scene I couldn’t even pack, until he finally left, which was about one in the morning. And then I had to get up very early to catch the first train, and it was quite a trek to the station, and I kept thinking he’d follow me or be at the station, but luckily he wasn’t.’ By now she was out of breath and they had arrived at Marco’s restaurant, which was comfortingly warm. A waiter took their coats, settled them in a corner, and brought them a Tuscan bean soup and glasses of red wine. Lydia’s white face became less white. ‘You’ve written a bloody good play. Have you been writing plays for long?’

  ‘I haven’t. This is my first go. I feel incredibly lucky. You were so good in that scene. You really made it work just as I’d imagined. How did you know about it?’

  ‘Well, I got so cheesed off working in rep and being paid the Equity minimum. I’ve done it for nearly four years now, and my then agent hadn’t even come to see me in anything. So I got a new one, and he did come to see me in an Ibsen production. He sent me your play, but I didn’t want to tell you in case you thought I was wrong for the part.’ She took a large swig of wine. ‘What are we having next?’

  ‘Some pasta and then grilled sardines. This is my lunch.’

  ‘Thank you. Oh, Clary, it’s so lovely to see you again. I’ve been so out of touch. We hardly got any time off, and when I did, that fiend saw to it that I had no time to get away.’

  ‘I take it Billy’s the fiend.’

  ‘Yes. I contracted an unfortunate alliance with him and it’s taken me all this time to realise that I’d only be able to break with him by getting out. He’s mad, you see. But let’s forget him. Tell me about the family.’

  So for the rest of the meal Clary gave her all the news she could think of. At the end of lunch, when she had paid the bill, something occurred to her: ‘Where are you staying while you’re in London?’

  ‘I haven’t thought. I’ll have to find somewhere.’

  ‘I wish I could have you, but I can’t. The children are sharing our other bedroom.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to descend on you – honestly!’ There was a pause, and then she said, ‘I suppose I ought to stay with Mummy.’

  There was another short silence. Then Clary said, ‘Roland’s away, and I told you about poor Miss Milliment. So I should think your mother is pretty lonely. You could try it for a week and if it’s too depressing we’ll find you somewhere else.’ She looked questioningly at Lydia, while her case was brought to her. ‘Is that all your luggage?’

  ‘Yep. All my worldly goods. I had to leave a lot of books behind, and things I’d bought for my digs, but I don’t mind that at all. Of course I must go to Mummy’s. I’ve been awful about her. And I really would like to see Miss Milliment. I owe her a lot. She made me see the point of poetry.’

  Clary said she would go with her to Aunt Villy’s. They lugged the case to where they could catch a bus that would land them at the end of Villy’s road. Lydia insisted upon carrying her case the rest of the way, but as they trudged along, she said, ‘Oh, I do so hope she’ll let me sleep before she asks me questions. I just want to go to bed and sleep for England.’

  Clary said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell her. What did you think of Quentin?’

  I knew he was a very good actor. I expect he’ll be tricky, though. He’ll make a pass at me but I expect I’ll be able to deal with that.’

  Clary experienced a strange feeling – utterly foreign to her, but disturbing. All things being equal, which they hardly ever were, she might (laughingly, of course) have said that she actually had a pang of jealousy about Lydia’s assurance that this rather glamorous actor would ‘make a pass’. Theatre people were used to that kind of thing. But that kind of thing was not limited to actors: many people experienced it. It had just not happened to her. The only person who had really gone for her was Archie. And he had made a pass at someone else.

  ‘It’s my turn to have the case,’ she said. ‘I know you’re exhausted.’

  Villy, who had been mending a set of ivory spillikins, was delighted to see her daughter. The look on her face gave Clary a fleeting memory of what she’d been like before Edward had left her, and she went home thinking how marvellous it was to have children, how nothing could change one’s love for them, which was unconditional …

  It was some time before she recognised that she had been struck and that it had begun that day. By then, though, she was past anything but the submission to a positively tidal wave of desire – lust, she angrily called it – but that made no difference. She went to as m
any of the rehearsals as family duties allowed, each day watching (and imagining) that it was she whom he was making love to, she whom he was giving up, and she who was trying to understand his infidelity. When he kissed Lydia as Marigold, she felt faint with desire. But when they broke for coffee or lunch, she hardly spoke to him: she did not want him when he was being himself – in fact, she almost disliked him then. During those weeks of shame, and her repression of shame, she was acutely sensitive to him – knew when he made the expected pass at Lydia, knew he was rejected – knew when he turned to Betty Parker (that didn’t last long), and finally knew that he would turn to her. Of course it was out of the question: she was a happily married woman aged thirty-two with two lovely children …

  He asked her to have lunch with him. No harm in that, surely. Perhaps spending that much time with him being his obnoxious real self would cure her, would enable her to separate the actor from the man.

  It didn’t, of course. The moment they were seated in the small expensive restaurant, where clearly he was known, he became the actor, courting her, in his low, seductive voice, telling her that he had noticed her from the first day but had been so much in awe of her ‘amazing piece of work – for a first play something like genius,’ that he had almost felt he would have to love her from a distance … Now a waiter brought them oysters and another waiter poured him a little wine, which he sampled and indicated would do – but, he continued, during the last week, whenever their eyes had met, he had sensed a current. Of what? Electricity? Something magical that was drawing them together. ‘And sometimes, when you were watching me with such creative attention, I imagined that you felt the same.’ He had been gazing into her eyes, and she felt mesmerised, unable to look away.

  ‘You have the most beautiful speaking eyes that I have ever seen.’ He picked up her hand and kissed it. ‘Eat your oysters,’ he said. ‘Or we shall spoil our Dover sole.’