People were shaking hands with his brothers, then turning to him. He wondered whether he was the only person in the room who felt a certain relief that all this was coming to an end. Life would be tougher from now on, but exciting. Archie and Clary were putting their flat on the rental market immediately, and planning to move in before Christmas.
For Christmas they were all going down to Home Place – the last Christmas there. Poor Rach! But she did have Sid’s house in London. Unable to face a gloomy lunch with his brothers, he decided to give Archie a ring to see when he could meet him at the studio flat to make a list of what he and Clary needed to take to Mortlake.
‘If I’m doing the wharf today, I’ll just grab a sandwich.’ He looked at Hugh, who had been rubbing the side of his head with his good hand – a sure sign that it was aching badly. ‘Why don’t you pack it in for the day, old boy?’
‘Out of the question. I have a great many letters to write, and I’ll have to go down to Southampton tomorrow. I feel pretty bad about McIver and must see him.’
Alone, Hugh took a couple of painkillers, washed down with an old, rather dusty glass of water, and lay back in his chair to give them a chance to work. He still felt awful. As though he had been put in charge of a whole small world and let down every single person in it. Fragments of this anxiety kept coming to the fore, confronting him with his hopeless inadequacy. It was true that, unlike Edward, he had been careful with his finances, had taken out the right insurances and always saved. But Rachel! He did not have enough money to give her a steady allowance. For one wild moment he had thought of buying Home Place, his family living there with her. But even if he did that, there would not be enough money to keep it up. The new roof had taken every penny in the pot contributed to by himself, Rachel and Rupert. He was sixty-two and, apart from serving in the Army during the First World War, he only had experience in timber. It just might get him a job of a humbler sort in another timber firm, but at the moment he had neither the heart nor the will to continue speculating.
After a while, when his headache had temporarily subsided, he got out his cheque book and wrote a cheque to Rachel for fifty pounds towards Christmas at Home Place.
Then he put in a call to Polly, and told her the bad news. He asked – almost begged – her to join the family at Christmas. She said she would have to discuss it with Gerald, but she thought it would be all right. ‘And Simon, of course,’ he said.
‘Of course. One thing. I might have to bring Nan because she can’t stay here on her own. She’ll help with the children – she loves that. Poor Dad! What an awful time you must be having. I’m coming! Got to go, Dad. I’ll ring you this evening.’
Cheered by this, he rang for Miss Corley, who arrived with a plate of egg sandwiches and a pot of coffee. ‘I realised you didn’t go out to lunch. I cancelled your appointment with Colonel Marsh and made a list of the people you’re most likely to want to write to.’ Her pale grey watery eyes were rimmed with red, but she was all set to be businesslike now.
He thanked her for the sandwiches and began to eat them while he looked at the list. ‘We can send the same letter to a good many of these.’
‘Perhaps you’d rather have your luncheon in peace.’
‘No, thank you, Miss Corley. I’d rather get on with it.’
He realised, almost at once, that he felt better with something to do. He started by dictating the more general letter, and ticked the names that were to receive it. The more personal ones would be more difficult. The Timber Trades Journal rang to speak to Mr Cazalet, and the telephonist put them through. They had, of course, heard the sad news about Cazalets’ and wondered whether Mr Cazalet would like to make a statement.
Hugh, who hated this sort of thing, said that naturally everyone connected with the firm was most concerned, and that when the business was sold, he very much hoped that many of his excellent staff would be re-employed. He had no further comment.
He put back the receiver to realise that tears were coursing down Miss Corley’s peach-powdered cheeks.
‘Oh, Mr Hugh! So many years I’ve worked for you. I could never work for anyone else now! Never ever! I feel as though my life is coming to an end.’ Here she began sniffing and blowing her nose. ‘I’m ever so sorry – I had a good cry in the ladies’, but there was a queue so I couldn’t stay. I’m ever so sorry, please disregard me – I hope I’ve always given satisfaction?’
‘Always, Miss Corley. I couldn’t have had a better secretary and helpmeet. I shall give you a reference that makes all that clear.’
She gave a great gasp, but managed not to succumb to a second outburst. Instead she blew her nose again and spoke far more quietly: ‘I don’t need one. I’ve got too old to cope with those young girls in the office. Always chattering about their love life, and most of them can’t spell for toffee. In my day, work was work, and play was play.’
She didn’t look as though she had had much of the latter, Hugh thought. He was feeling dreadfully sorry for her.
‘I suppose,’ she went on, tentative now, even shy, ‘that when you start your new occupation, you will need someone, and then perhaps you would bear me in mind?’
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I most certainly shall. And now I think the best thing would be for you to type all the formal letters while I make rough drafts of the others.’
When she had gone he reflected upon the ways in which she had irritated him for years: her exaggeratedly quiet speech and movements when he had one of his heads coming – this was entirely unreasonable of him, he knew; the way in which she always picked up his telephone and made it clear to the caller that it would be difficult to talk to Mr Cazalet as he was extremely busy, even when he wasn’t. And the maddening nursery voice she had put on to his children on the rare occasions that they had come to the office. But in so many ways she had been the perfect secretary: never forgot anything, was always tactful at reminding him when deadlines fell due; her impeccable letters, her punctuality, her general reliability. He could not recall her ever being off sick … She must have been on holiday when he had employed Jemima. That had been a piece of extraordinary luck. It made him smile to remember it now. A need to go home to her came over him; to have tea with her and pretend to help Laura with her homework … He had invented a cunning ploy to make her do her arithmetic by getting her to ask him a question: ‘What are three nines?’ And he would say, ‘Seventy-four.’ And then she would laugh at him and get the right answer. He longed now to be home for that. But it was only half past three, and he always worked until five … He pulled a piece of headed paper onto his blotter and began to write.
RACHEL AND EDWARD
‘Edward! How absolutely lovely! There’s a fire in the morning room, although it isn’t going very well. Would you like a drink?’ He kissed her, and her body underneath the thick cardigan and shawl felt like a bird’s.
‘I’d love some whisky, if you have it.’
‘Oh, yes! I’ve been getting in the drink for Christmas.’ She rang the bell, and Eileen, who had heard the car, arrived.
‘Hello, Eileen. How are you?’
‘Keeping nicely, Mr Edward.’
They all loved Edward, Rachel thought. She ordered the whisky and asked him to stoke the fire. A flurry of little frowns came and went on her face – ‘her monkey face’, her brothers had called it – when she had something difficult to say.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t talk more on the telephone, and you said you had something to tell me, so I thought I’d pop in this evening. So, fire away, darling.’
‘Well. As you know, this is going to be the last family Christmas here, and I wanted everyone to come. Villy has been most kind helping me with the sale of Sid’s house, and it occurred to me that she might like to come down to Home Place and bring Roland for Christmas. I haven’t asked her yet, because I wanted to know how you and Diana would feel about it. That’s what I wanted to ask you.’
Here, Eileen brought the drinks and Rachel asked him to
pour them. ‘A very small one for me.’
‘Will Mr Edward be staying for dinner?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘Say when.’
‘Oh, stop there. That’s the most enormous whisky.’ She offered him a Passing Cloud.
‘No, thanks. I’ll stick with my gaspers. We wouldn’t be able to stay with you,’ he began carefully. ‘Susan has a friend from school staying with us. Her parents are in India. Perhaps we might come to lunch or something. Anyway, if you’re having all the rest of the family, you really won’t have room, will you?’
‘Most of the children are bringing sleeping-bags but, yes, even then we shall be a tight fit. But what do you think of my asking Villy? With Miss Milliment gone – oh, yes, didn’t you know? – I think she will be rather on her own.’
‘I don’t know – Diana—’
But she interrupted him: ‘I don’t want to know about Diana. I want to know about you – how you would feel.’
He felt cornered. He was cornered. He knew he would feel guilty seeing Villy again after such a long time. He would feel guilty about Roland, whom he hardly ever saw since she had done her level best to make it awkward for him to spend much time with him; those dutiful lunches during school terms – the same questions asked, the same replies given – smoked salmon being the highlight for Roland, his formal gratitude for a ten-shilling note being the – rather dimmer – highlight for him.
‘We couldn’t stay anyway,’ he repeated. ‘Diana – well, she’s naturally upset about the firm going bust, and we may have to sell our house if I don’t land another job pretty fast. It’s frankly not the best time for her to have to face Villy. And, of course, we don’t know how Villy will react.’
‘I think I’ll ask her. And of course I’ll let you know.’ She could sense that he wanted to go. Poor Ed. He had never liked facing up to difficult situations, and now he seemed to have to cope with so many at once.
They both stood up, and he put his arms round her to give her a hug, and kissed her cold face. ‘Thank you for the drink, darling. I’ll let you know about my end.’
‘It’s been lovely to see you.’ She could not bring herself to send love to Diana, simply could not like her after her behaviour towards Sid.
She saw him out into the freezing cold, waited to hear his car start, then went back to the shabby little morning room. These days she always felt stabbed by loneliness when people left.
THE CHILDREN
Georgie: ‘I could easily take practically all my zoo to Home Place. Laura will help me. We could go by train with crates. Except for Rivers, of course. He travels with me. You know, Mum, I can’t help thinking that it would be better if Laura’s family came to live with us. Harriet claims not to like pythons. Claims!’ he repeated, with scorn at such an unlikely dislike.
Eliza: ‘The main reason why we don’t like staying with people is the milk.’
Jane: ‘It always tastes different from our milk. It’s nasty. So, if we have to go, could we ask for orange squash?’
Andrew: ‘Well, I want to go. I love exploring new places and it’ll be good practice as I’m going to be an explorer when I grow up. I shall discover the East Pole and be extremely famous. Milk is just girly-whirly stuff.’
‘Mum, he’s so stupid! How can you bear him?’
Harriet: ‘Mum! How will he know we’ve changed our address?’
‘Father Christmas always knows that sort of thing.’
‘OK, but how?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, we tell him. And don’t ask me how or the magic might not work.’
Clary had spent the whole afternoon making a Christmas cake. She now took it out of the oven for the fourth time and plunged a skewer into it. At last, it came out clean. She tipped the cake out of its tin and put it on a rack to cool. Thank goodness she wouldn’t have to make more Christmas stuff: Zoë and Jemima were contributing too.
She had already made the marzipan, about which her household was divided. Archie loved it, but Bertie said even the word made him feel sick. Harriet, her fears about Father Christmas allayed, took the lofty attitude, saying that Bertie was simply too young to understand about marzipan. Both children were excited: about Christmas at Home Place, about going to live with Georgie, and having their own bedrooms for the first time in their lives, and about the thrilling uncertainty of what they would get in the way of presents, and the prospect of there being about eleven other children for the holiday.
Laura was in the same state, but she was also agitated about the presents she would be giving. She had embroidered a white handkerchief with a rather crooked J for her mother, but the linen had become grey and blood-spotted from her exertions, and she decided that Hugh must stand guard at the bathroom door while she washed it. She had saved up all her pocket money to buy presents, seven and sixpence, and she had made a list of the recipients. Against her parents on the list she had simply written ‘Ha Ha!’ ‘It means that you and Mummy simply can’t find out about your presents.’ Against Georgie she had written ‘rabbit, parrot, Komodo Dragon (if small enough), tortoise, two goldfish, and small snake’. Due to her large handwriting, this had left almost no room for possibilities for anyone else on the list. Hugh suggested that she give Georgie just one of the things she’d written down – but there was a very good pet shop in Camden Town, she’d retorted. ‘I want to give him everything that’s on the list. I love him, you see.’
‘I think you’ll find there is a marked shortage of dragons,’ Jemima said comfortingly, as she saw them off.
It was a difficult morning. Laura felt so rich, that she could not understand why she could not buy everything she wanted. She wanted to give Henry and Tom penknives and was aghast to discover that this would use up five shillings of her bounty. ‘That only leaves half a crown for Georgie!’
‘Never mind. The penknives are a brilliant idea. If the worst comes to the worst, I can help you with Georgie.’ He was touched by her unbridled generosity. It reminded him of Polly buying a little writing desk for Clary.
‘I’m afraid we’re clean out of dragons,’ the man serving in the pet shop said to Laura. He winked at Hugh, and she noticed.
‘Rather a rude man,’ she remarked – intentionally audible – to her father.
‘I’m sure he didn’t mean to be.’
‘That’s what I don’t like. People being what they don’t mean to be. They should be what they are.’
She was getting tired, Hugh knew. All the buses they had taken, the searching they had done in Selfridges, and now having to scale down her plans for Georgie. ‘He hasn’t got a single goldfish,’ he prompted.
Laura thought this was a good idea. She chose two. ‘One would be cruel. He’d die of boredom. And I want a proper tank for them – not a silly bowl. A tank with sand at the bottom, and green weed growing out of it.’ She chose the fish after agonising uncertainty: one nearly all black and a gold one with black marks on it.
‘They look more rare than the plain golds, don’t you think?’
Eventually, with fish caught and ensconced in a polythene bag in the tank, and smaller bags with sand and the weed, and a very small bag for food, they had finished. Laura had used up all her money, and Hugh had helped with the equipment. ‘Dad, you’re so kind. You try to be secret about it, but it shows.’ She pulled his good arm so that he bent down for her to kiss him, and they went in search of a taxi.
‘My mother is the best,
She never gets a rest,
She says I am a pest,
But I know she loves me best.
‘There! That’s my poem for Mum for Christmas. It just came to me.’
Harriet, who was feeling anxious anyway, had been knitting a scarf for their mother for ages – mostly because she could only do it in secret, but also because she was a slow knitter. Now she was afraid that she’d forgotten how to cast off – and she felt decidedly jealous of Bertie writing a poem, which had only taken him a minute, and boasting about it. ‘It’s not a good p
oem,’ she said. ‘It’s not even true. Mum loves me just as much as she loves you. There’s no “best” about it.’
Bertie looked disconcerted. ‘I’ll copy it out in my most grown-up writing and she’ll love it – you’ll see.’
‘And what are you going to give the others?’ She knew he’d spent all his money on Dinky cars for himself. ‘Or are you going to write silly poems for everyone?’
‘Of course not. You can only write poems if they come to you. It’s more like laying an egg. I shall ask Mum to bring her Magic Hat.’
Clary, one wet weekend when they had both been bored after a freezing walk in Regent’s Park, had had a brainwave. She had a cloche hat that Rupert had said had belonged to her mother. She had never worn it as it was too old-fashioned – beige felt with a little emerald and diamond arrow placed at one side – not real jewels, but still extremely precious. For years she had kept it wrapped in tissue paper. That day, she had emptied all the packets of beads she had got for them to string, piled them in the hat, and then, in front of them, lifted it so all the beads fell out. Bertie and Harriet were deeply impressed. ‘We could make necklaces for everyone!’ they cried.
‘Although I should think that Archie would look pretty silly in a necklace,’ Bertie remarked, as they were each laying out beads on a tea tray. They always called him Archie after he had said he didn’t mind.
‘We can’t both give necklaces to the same person,’ Harriet said now. She loved the laying out of the beads, sorting them by putting good colours together, and they were friends again as Bertie had thrown his jacket over Harriet’s knitting, and she had stood sturdily in front of him when Clary came into the room while he hid his poem.
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 237
