This prospect pleased her; when he pushed her hair out of her eyes and kissed her, she did not resist.
‘I think your father quite likes me. I told him I wanted to marry you, and he said that as long as I was earning enough to keep you in the manner to which you’re accustomed, he might consider it. But,’ he added quickly, ‘it might take me some time to do that.’
‘Oh, you mustn’t bother about it. I can cook eggs, and we could go to very cheap restaurants and we could do without a car and just take taxis.’
He let her chatter herself into some optimism about the future while revealing her frighteningly shaky grasp of reality and any of the practices it required.
He decided to leave before breakfast. It would mean that he need not see either of the Frankensteins again and go through the farce of thanking them for a lovely weekend.
He was so anxious to escape undetected that he rose at six thirty. He left a note under Sabrina’s door and slipped out of the house. It was almost dark when he left and extremely cold – the massive trees that lined the drive, still darker than the sky, dripped rain portentously on the roof of his car and a few reckless rabbits ran wildly across his headlights.
He had to stop for petrol, and it was then that he wondered where he was going – where he ought to go. He had been going to spend the evening with Sabrina in the Frankensteins’ flat, but that was out of the question now. All the same, he couldn’t face returning to his dismal flat in Southampton; he decided instead to go to Louise and tell her his troubles. She might know more than he about what was happening to Cazalets’. Anyway, she would cheer him up.
She took a long time to answer the doorbell, and he was just about to give up when she opened the door. ‘Oh, Ted! How lovely! I hadn’t got up because I hate dreary Sundays on my own.’ She was wearing men’s pyjamas of grey silk, and her blonde hair was in a thick plait hanging down her back. They climbed the three flights of stairs to the top floor, which contained a kitchen and a violently painted dining room, walls of a deep Suffolk pink and scarlet woodwork. ‘Matthew Smith came to supper and loved it,’ she said, when he whistled.
‘Some décor!’
They settled at the small kitchen table and she made some very good coffee. ‘Joseph is taking me to Paris again next weekend, so I’m in a very good mood. How was your weekend with the Frankensteins?’
‘Very Frankensteinian. I came back this morning because I couldn’t stand it any longer.’
‘Oh, do tell. It sounded pretty grim when you first told me about them.’
So he described some of what it had been like. ‘She was not simply a snob, as Sabrina had warned me, she was a poisonous bitch.’
‘And what about Sabrina? You haven’t said anything about her.’ There was a pause while he thought what to say, but she interrupted, ‘Have you been to bed with her, Ted?’
He felt himself going red. ‘No. No, I haven’t. The bitch of a mother has put the fear of God into Sabrina about sex. She has to be a virgin until marriage. She’s a lapsed Catholic, but she’s kept the awful parts. You know, hellfire and all that. It’s awful, but I’ve learned that I can’t do anything about it.’
‘Do you love her?’
‘Of course I do!’
‘Because sometimes one thinks one loves somebody because one can’t have them.’
‘Is that how you are with Joseph?’
She looked away from him then. ‘That’s sharp of you. Yes, I expect it is. I didn’t think I wanted to marry anyone after making such a mess with Michael, but I seem to be changing about that. I can’t do anything about it. Joseph will never leave his wife. They both have affairs and keep up the happy family life – have it both ways, in fact. That’s why I asked you whether you loved Sabrina.’
‘I told her father that I wanted to marry her when she was old enough, and he didn’t seem entirely against that. Said his wife would be, of course. And said I would have to be earning enough to keep his daughter in the manner to which she’s accustomed. Which I’m certainly not doing now. He also said that there were rumours that Cazalets’ is in trouble. Do you know anything about that?’
‘Well, according to Joseph, it is. He tried to advise Dad and Uncle Hugh, but they wouldn’t listen, or Uncle Hugh wouldn’t. Now he says it’s too late. The firm will go bankrupt.’
‘Oh, Lord! I’ll be out of a job, then.’
‘It looks like it. I’m sorry, Teddy.’
There was a silence while he absorbed the shock. ‘It makes me bloody angry,’ he said at last. ‘They haven’t told me anything – even when I tried to ask. The most Uncle Hugh said was that I might be moved to London. I’ve been expected to manage a wharf and sawmill, which I was afraid I wasn’t up to, but I have tried and I’ve got better at it. But they’ve never taken me into their confidence. It’s like flying a Spitfire and not being able to vote.’ A thought struck him then: ‘They’ll be out of a job! All those men – mostly with families to support. It’s a disaster!’
‘I’m going to make us some lunch. Scrambled eggs and smoked salmon do you?’
‘Lovely.’
While she cooked, she told him that of course he would get another job; that in all probability a rival firm would take over and would want him to continue.
‘But I couldn’t possibly do that! Dad and Uncle Hugh would regard that as treachery. They would insist on the family sticking together.’
‘Ted, what nonsense. The family will have nothing to stick to. And Dad and Uncle Hugh will be worse off than you. Who’s going to give them a decent job after this? How is Dad going to keep Diana in mink dressing gowns and feather-boa-encrusted tops?’ (They’d always joked about Diana’s requirements.)
‘Not to mention the little tiara she’d set her heart on for Christmas. And Rupe! What will he do? He’s got a mortgage and two children. It’s much worse than I thought.’
‘Eat your nice lunch. It’s not so awful being poor. I often am.’
‘I’m sure your Joseph would get you a nicer flat.’
‘He’s tried to, but I don’t want one. I may be a mistress, but I won’t be a tart. I get a certain number of free clothes, and if I don’t like them, I flog them and buy things I do like. Stella says I’m wicked, but with integrity.’
During lunch he asked if he could stay the night so that he could confront the bosses in the morning, and she replied that he could, but he’d have to stay on the top floor when Joseph arrived. ‘He comes straight up from the country after an early dinner and we go to bed for a bit and then he goes home.’
‘When do you have dinner? Couldn’t I take you out? If you’ll lend me the money.’
‘I don’t usually have dinner on Sundays. And, no, you can’t take me out because I never know when he’s coming.’
After lunch, she fetched a Li-lo, which he blew up while she got him blankets and a pillow. ‘Afraid there aren’t any sheets. Stella and I have only got two pairs each. I’ll leave a note for Stella to warn her you’re here. I could give you a key and you could go out to eat, or to the cinema in Baker Street. I’m going to have a long, hot bath now. Have you got any money?’
‘I’m always borrowing money off you,’ he said sheepishly, as he shook his head.
‘But you always pay me back, darling Ted. Will a fiver do?’
‘Marvellous. Oh! Have you by any chance got a novel by Jane Austen?’
‘I don’t know. All the books I have are on that shelf. Why do you want one?’
‘Sabrina likes them, and I thought it would be good if I had a go.’ A fiver wasn’t really enough for the cinema and supper, and he thought he could read while he ate. He found a battered paperback, Pride and Prejudice. ‘I’ll read it however boring it is,’ he said to himself.
As he left the flat, the smell of turkeys pervaded the bottom flight of stairs, and their singed feathers were everywhere.
I might easily end up living somewhere worse than this, he thought, and his respect for Louise increased. It was still early for
dinner, so he went to a pub in Marylebone High Street, got himself half a pint of beer and began to tackle the book. It turned out not to be boring at all.
RUPERT AND ARCHIE
‘It’s happened.’
‘You were afraid it might.’
‘I was sure it would. Just a question of when.’
They were in Archie’s studio, which was unusually warm because he had a sitter that afternoon who wanted to be painted in evening dress.
Rupert was unwrapping the two baguettes he had bought. He handed one to Archie.
‘God! You have to have a jaw like an alligator to bite through all this.’ Small ribbons of tired lettuce began escaping from his initial effort. ‘There’s some ham somewhere if you keep at it.’
‘Have you had any ideas about what you want to do?’ Archie asked this question carefully: he didn’t want to harass his old friend.
‘As a matter of fact, I’ve had an enormous idea, but I’m not sure what you will think about it.’ He put his baguette down on the nearest surface – a table covered with dried paint. ‘Will you just hear me out before you say anything?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘I had a long talk with Zoë last night, and she’s all for it. Of course I don’t know how Clary will feel about it.’
‘It?’
‘You said you wouldn’t interrupt.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You see, I don’t want to hurt your feelings – but we have a house that is far too big for us and we shan’t be able to afford it. And I imagine it’s getting to be a pretty tight squeeze for you in your flat. So, we thought, how would it be if you moved in with us and you and I ran painting courses? You could have the whole top floor to yourselves and we’ll share the rest of the house with you. The children can go to Georgie’s school, and the girls can sort out the domestic arrangements. You could either sell your flat or, better still, rent it, so if things didn’t work out you wouldn’t have burned your bridges. That’s what I – we – thought. So will you at least think about it?’
He was already thinking about it. It was true that his flat was too small; the children had to share a bedroom and that was making friction. They couldn’t afford to move somewhere larger: although Clary’s play was getting a tour of the provinces, a return to London was far from certain, and therefore it was not yet producing a serious income. The children adored Georgie and his zoo, and Clary and Zoë were undoubtedly fond of each other. It would be wonderful to have a students’ class with Rupe; they had always enjoyed painting together, talking about it and having the occasional argument. On the other hand, sharing a house was known to be tricky – particularly for the women. He found himself hoping that Clary would think it a good idea. He said as much to Rupert, who looked relieved that his scheme had passed the first post. ‘We could use the enormous drawing room on the first floor as a teaching studio.’
Then Archie’s sitter arrived, and Rupert had to go.
When Archie got home, Clary was washing up last night’s supper and the morning’s breakfast. Strands of her hair had escaped the elastic band that was supposed to hold it back. Sounds of Elvis Presley streamed down from above. ‘It’s one thing they agree about,’ Clary said. ‘I’m afraid I’m a bit behind.’ She nearly always said that because she nearly always was. ‘And all they want for Christmas is a dog and a cat. That would be all we need. Oh, Archie! I haven’t got them to bed, and I haven’t done the potatoes or the cabbage, and we’ve run out of eggs because I forgot. Sorry I’m such a rotten wife.’
‘I’ve brought a bottle of wine,’ he said, as he stooped to kiss her hot face. ‘I’ll settle the horrors, and then we’ll have a lovely drink. I’ve got some interesting news for you.’
‘Oh, do tell!’
‘No. Not till we have some peace and quiet.’
‘Gosh!’ she said when he did tell her. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, of course, that I must consult you.’
‘And here you are consulting me.’ This clearly pleased her. ‘They’ve got a washing-machine,’ she said. ‘Would we have any private time?’
‘Of course we would. Rupe said we could have the whole of the top floor to ourselves.’ He told her about the idea of him and Rupert running student courses. ‘And we could let the flat so if it didn’t work we could always come back.’
‘We’d have to pay them rent,’ she said.
‘Of course. But we’d have the rent money plus what I earn.’
‘What we both earn.’
‘What we both earn, darling.’
She held out her glass for more wine. ‘You won’t fall in love with Zoë, will you?’
‘As long as you promise me not to fall in love with your dad.’
She blushed. In spite of how good he had been about the ‘affair’ with Quentin, she still felt ashamed. She looked at him now across the table; he could see her eyes filling with tears. ‘I’ll never fall in love with anyone excepting you.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it. Do you want to sleep on this idea, and tell me in the morning what you think?’
‘I want to sleep,’ she said.
When they were up from the table, he untied her very dirty apron.
‘It’s funny,’ she said, ‘how this apron always seems to have tomato sauce on it – even when I’m not using it. It’s like toast crumbs in bed when you’re ill and only having soup.’
So they went up, and he said, ‘Well, I could in truth say, “Here is Mrs Lestrange. She looks much better without any clothes.”’
RACHEL
Ever since they had come for the weekend to tell her, she had existed in a kind of frozen panic. She had never imagined that Home Place would be wrested from her. Her father had bought it in 1928 because the Duchy had so much hated London. That had been in the days when she had run the Babies’ Hotel, when she had travelled by train three days a week with him to work and back on the four thirty to Battle.
That had been when she’d met Sid, through Myra Hess, as Sid’s sister had been her secretary, and brought her down for a weekend when Myra and the Duchy had played duets. It had been the beginning of her and Sid falling in love, although at the time she had not known that. Then there had been the war, and the Babies’ Hotel was evacuated well before the Blitz had razed the original establishment in the East End to the ground. It had been a time when more and more of the family had moved into the house, when Sybil had had one twin and lost the other. A time when Sid had declared her love and she had thought she reciprocated … How little she had known then about love!
In spite of the war it had been a happy time; she loved her brothers and their wives, and adored the children, and the house had welcomed them all. It had been easier then, because only one brother, Rupert, had been the right age for combat. There had not been the constant agony that they had endured about Hugh and Edward although there were losses enough: Sybil dying, Hugh’s anguish, the destruction of the London sawmill and wharf, her growing fears for Sid who had driven an ambulance all over London, it seemed, but certainly where the Blitz was worst. The Duchy’s three heroes – Toscanini, Mr Churchill and Gregory Peck – had sustained her serenity and teasing her about them was a merciful way of lightening the atmosphere. The Brig had given her the latest gramophone, the one with the enormous horn and wooden needles that could be reused if you pared them with a knife. The Duchy had immediately asked the young Jewish girls, training to be nurses, whom Myra had somehow got out of Germany to come for evenings of Toscanini, Beethoven symphonies and piano concerti. They would have tea and Marie biscuits for refreshment. They made good nurses, Matron had said, but the Duchy felt that they must be homesick. Rachel had tried asking one girl – Helga – if she missed her home and how she had got here. ‘A man came one morning very early to our apartment and spoke to my mother when I was in bed. She came and made me put on two sets of clothes, vests, shirts, sweaters and my winter coat. Then she put her arms round me and said it wasn’t safe for me there any more, and t
hat a kind friend was going to put me on a train, that I was to say nothing and do everything he told me. I am lucky to be here,’ she’d finished, as her tears fell. Rachel had hugged her and tried to find comforting things to say, but she could not think of any. There had been rumours of terrible and widespread ill-treatment of Jews but, to her, being torn from your family and not knowing when you might see them again was horrible enough. The remembrance of that time pricked her already painful conscience. What she had to bear now was nothing to what those poor girls and, no doubt, countless others had gone through.
For the first few days Rachel had been so stunned at the thought of abandoning the house where she had lived for so long, where her mother and then her dearest Sid had died, that she had not begun to consider what was to become of her. She was naturally frugal, for years had spent her money on other people, and she had never given money a thought. But now she might have to. She had no idea what Sid’s house (if she sold it) would bring her. She had no idea what was in her bank account. She had not even a very clear idea of what it cost to run Home Place, since Hugh paid all the expenses from the fund provided in equal shares by him, Rupert and herself. Now she might have to take paid work. When Sid had told her to find some work to fill her life, she had naturally thought of a charity she could support. But what could she do that anyone would pay her for? She could type with one finger – nobody would be interested in that. She could not cook, she could not drive; she had absolutely no qualifications, and this made her feel really frightened …
Just then, Hugh rang from London, which was a welcome relief. But her relief didn’t last long. He had rung to say that the receivers had given them a month to get out of Home Place. He hated saying it, but she had to know. In fact, he’d managed to get them to agree to the 2nd of January, because he’d thought it would be good if they could have one last family Christmas there, but he wanted to know whether that was something she would like, or whether she felt it would be too much for her. If they came for about a week, it would enable him to discuss her future, which he particularly didn’t want her to worry about. She did not hesitate. Of course she would love them to come for Christmas – all of them.
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 235
