The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  ‘Yeah, we could. You wouldn’t be an angel and fetch us some?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ Juliet slipped on the very old peach-coloured kimono that had belonged to her mother and sped away.

  Alone, Louise decided to open the present Joseph had left for her. She had been saving it up for Christmas Day, but she wanted to open it when she was by herself. It was a small box wrapped in gold paper with a little label that said ‘L. from J.’ The tag had ‘Happy Christmas’ printed in red with a sprig of holly. He wouldn’t have wrapped it himself. Inside the paper there was a dark red leather box, and inside that, gracefully coiled on its velvet, lay an eighteenth-century paste necklace of a delicious watery green. Each piece of glass was backed with gold, and small golden links joined them together. It was extremely beautiful. She lifted it out of its box and put it round her neck. It was a necklace for wearing at parties, and she had to push away her longing for something she could always wear – like a ring. It wasn’t. But it was her first Christmas present from him. He must have touched it. She undid the clasp, and put some stones into her mouth. If he was with her they would kiss.

  Rachel got up in time to go to the eight o’clock service, and as she trudged down the lane towards the church, she saw Villy ahead of her. In church they knelt side by side and went up for Communion together. Afterwards, Rachel said that she had picked a few hellebores for Sid. They would not last, but that was all there was. At least the Duchy’s grave still had a vase of berries next to it. Rachel planted the flowers in the thick snow, and swept away the drifts that had stuck to Sid’s gravestone. She shut her eyes and said a prayer, but Villy could not hear it. As she got up – she had been kneeling – Rachel brushed the snow from her skirt and took Villy’s arm. It was very good to be with someone without having to speak. As they walked back up the lane together, the snow began again – large graceful flakes that quickly covered their previous tracks.

  ‘The children will love this,’ Rachel said.

  ‘It’s all very well on Christmas cards,’ Mrs Tonbridge grumbled. She was frying eight eggs in a huge shallow pan for the dining-room breakfast. The rest of them had had cornflakes or porridge and bread and butter and marmalade. ‘But to my mind it’s otherwise nothing but a nuisance.’

  ‘It’s ever so pretty,’ Eileen offered.

  ‘You get that warmed dish out of the oven, Eileen. The snow has nothing to do with you.’ She slid the eggs onto the proffered dish and set about separating them with her spatula. She could feel her feet ache already, but she would soon be able to take the weight off them with a nice strong cup of tea, as the turkeys, stuffed, were already in the slow oven. She wondered whether Edith would be wanting breakfast in the kitchen, but Eileen reported that she was presiding over the hall breakfast. Spencer was in his high chair having Farex spooned into him by Nan, an expert’s job, since he was fascinated by everyone else at the table. And when he didn’t feel up to a spoonful, he would turn his head away at the last moment, plunge his hands into the bowl and slap the tray with his palms, which sent the stuff everywhere. Another time, he would run his sticky, laden fingers through his hair. He was no longer hungry, he did not particularly like Farex and, in any case, if it was there, he wanted to feed himself, like all the others were doing. In the end, after some sharpish demands, Nan mopped him up and gave him a rusk.

  Roland got up at his usual time, but the others were all dead asleep. They had started a game of poker late at night and had asked him if he wanted to join in, but he had been tired and it wasn’t a card game that he knew. He was starting to enjoy the visit and wondered why Mum hadn’t brought him here before. The food was terrific, and all the older men had been very nice to him. The only slightly sad thing was that at home he would have had a stocking, but on the other hand it was good to be considered too old for that kind of thing. He dressed in his flannel trousers and the thick navy blue jersey that Mum had knitted for him, then slid down the banisters to the hall for breakfast.

  ‘Let’s have a spot of Christmas love,’ Archie said. So they did, and just managed to finish before Bertie rushed into the room, saying that Andrew had been beastly to him. ‘He wanted my torch for exploring, and when I said it was too important for him, he simply grabbed it. He really is horrible. I don’t like him.’

  ‘We’ll get it back. And you know you’ve done that sort of thing to Harriet, so now you know what it feels like.’ But as she said this, Clary had put her arms round him to give him a hug. ‘Happy Christmas, darling.’ And immediately he felt much better. Clary said she must go and see to Harriet, and he and Archie must get each other up.

  Jemima had slept badly; she had got Hugh back to bed where he almost immediately fell asleep, but she’d lain in the dark worrying about him. Had he had a stroke? If so, it must have been very minor, but he might have another – more serious – one. Should she get a doctor? Could one get a doctor on Christmas Day? And Hugh would be furious with her if she did. This fear prevailed: he would be angry because everyone would know, and he loathed being what he called mollycoddled. It would effectively spoil not only his Christmas, but the whole family’s too.

  So she was immensely relieved when he woke up, rolled over to kiss her, and was his gentle smiling self, asking how the Monster was doing.

  ‘She hasn’t turned up yet. I think you have rather a rival in Georgie.’

  ‘Well, I’m not prepared to consort with a white rat to get her affection.’

  At this moment, the door burst open and Laura took a flying leap onto the bed, landing on his chest.

  ‘Oh, Dad! Happy Christmas! I’ve brought your presents for you both so you can open them now.’

  ‘How was your stocking?’ Hugh asked, while she struggled to get the presents out of her dressing-gown pockets.

  ‘I got a book, but otherwise it was lovely. And Rivers got a stocking all to himself so Georgie was pleased.’

  ‘What was your book?’ Jemima asked. She wanted to know whether Laura had even looked at it.

  ‘It was called The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Honestly, Mummy, what on earth good is that for me? I don’t even want to be one.’

  ‘It might come in handy if you wanted to fly on a broomstick.’

  Laura rolled her eyes. ‘Now, Dad, sit up and have your present.’ She moved and sat cross-legged on the far end of the bed, to watch how pleased he would be.

  It was a tiny diary of pink leather. ‘It’s for you to write all your business things in. It will fit in your pocket and it even has a pencil here for writing things down. The pencil will often need sharpening, but I can lend you my sharpener whenever you want. You do like it, don’t you, Dad?’ She was beaming with anxious generosity.

  ‘It’s just what I wanted. Couldn’t be better.’ He gave her a hug, but she wriggled away from him to present Jemima with her limp little package. The handkerchief, washed and ironed.

  ‘I’m afraid there is a bit of blood left on it, as I pricked myself, and it wouldn’t all come out when I washed it.’

  ‘Darling, you did all the embroidering by yourself? It’s really beautiful.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? I put a J on it, so you’ll know it doesn’t belong to Dad or Tom or Henry.’

  Jemima smoothed the crumpled lace edging with her fingers. ‘Oh, no! I shall never do that. Thank you, darling, for such a thoughtful present.’

  After a pause, Laura said, ‘And what about me?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve got to wait until the present opening before lunch.’

  ‘Oh, Mummy! It’s so many hours away! Couldn’t you give me just a little clue of what it is?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hugh, promptly. ‘It’s long and thin and very good for riding on to go out and do wicked things.’

  ‘A broomstick? Oh, no, Dad, it can’t be that. I don’t want to go out and do wicked things!’

  ‘Of course you don’t. Dad’s teasing you. Now, let’s get dressed, sweetheart, and start the day.’

  The day – that day �
� proceeded much as Polly had told her children it would. For the lunch, a sofa table was placed at one end of the dining room for the children and Nan, who kept wishing people many happy returns of the day. The glamour, the excitement, the secret disappointments about unsuccessful presents would follow tradition. Simon had offered to take the children for the walk: he wanted to go back to the wood with its stream and the place where he and Christopher had made their secret camp. Only the few burned bricks remained, and he thought of Christopher in his monastery, wondered what sort of Christmas he was having.

  Harriet found a small clump of snowdrops in the wood; there was less snow among the trees. The return to the house was delayed by a snowball fight. Georgie found a dead robin on the way home, which distressed him, and he decided to make a huge Christmas lunch for the birds.

  ‘It’s not important,’ Andrew said. ‘On grown-up expeditions whole people get frozen to death.’ Nothing he said was very popular.

  ‘What will you give them for lunch?’ Laura enquired.

  ‘Stuff off people’s plates and I shall ask Mrs Tonbridge for things. You can help me if you like.’

  And Laura, who had just finished crying because a snowball had hit her in the face, cheered up like anything.

  Eventually, when the drawing room had become a sea of paper almost obliterating the careful clumps of people’s booty, the children were sent off to wash their hands before lunch; a really stupid rule, someone said, and most of them agreed.

  Jemima asked Villy whether she would carve the turkeys; she was famous for her carving. ‘Won’t Hugh want to do it?’

  ‘He’ll want to, but he’s so tired that I’d rather he didn’t.’ Villy gave her a quick look and said that of course she would.

  Harriet gave Rachel the bunch of wilting snowdrops she’d picked in the woods (she had hidden them next to her chest when they were snowballing). ‘I thought you might like them for your dead person,’ she said, and Rachel, deeply touched, said that she would.

  ‘She always used to carve for Christmas,’ Jemima said to Hugh, ‘so wouldn’t it be nice for her to be asked to do it today?’ And Hugh said she was a kind, thoughtful creature and of course.

  Rupert and Archie fetched the turkeys – they were too much for Eileen, who followed with dishes of vegetables. Zoë and Jemima dished out Brussels sprouts, mashed potato and gravy onto each plate of turkey and stuffing, and Clary took them to the children’s table, where Spencer, who had illicitly consumed more tissue paper than was good for him and been colourfully sick, now sat depressed, but lordly, watching Nan mix an egg into mashed potato for his lunch.

  Everyone had dressed up, many of them sporting presents that they had been given, but Louise and Juliet outdid them all: Louise in a low-cut dress of olive-green velvet with her paste necklace, her hair piled up at the back of her head; Juliet in a pale yellow satin frock that she had persuaded Zoë to buy her for Christmas, with strings of faux pearls wound four times round her neck.

  They were really in evening dress, but had assumed that since lunch was the main celebration, this was the time to dress up. Villy had put on the dress that Louise had helped her find for the occasion: a black velvet affair with a long skirt and a black sequined bolero. She had not had anything new for years, and found it really exciting. With it she wore the garnet necklace that Edward had given her when she had had Roly. After all, Edward – if he came – would be here tomorrow, with or without Diana. This did not cause her the resentment and misery she had once felt: she told herself that she was merely curious to see the woman who had succeeded in marrying Edward, and made a martyr out of her. But, of course, she had made her own martyrdom … She remembered now Miss Milliment saying that martyrs did not make very good company and found herself blushing. She must have been intolerable. Responses, Miss Milliment had suggested, were the thing. It was possible to have power over them, and she realised she was beginning to find that out.

  Hugh had given Jemima a canary-coloured twin set, a collar of pearls and a fur hat. ‘There,’ he had said. ‘If you don’t like them you will have to sing that A. P. Herbert song, “Take back your mink, take back your pearls, What made you think that I was one of those girls?”’

  And Jemima, delighted that he seemed so much better, retorted, ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I am one of those girls.’ And wore everything at lunch.

  All Rachel’s presents had been designed to keep her warm. A splendid cardigan, two scarves, a sheepskin hat and slippers, mittens and a quilted bed-jacket (far too grand for her, she thought). She wore the cardigan over her best blue woollen dress for lunch and was far too hot in no time.

  When everyone was full of Christmas pudding the children were raring to start on the snowmen. Teddy and Simon were leaders of the two teams, and took turns to pick their henchmen. Both pairs of twins were split up, and the last person to be chosen was Andrew. ‘I was thinking of not playing,’ he said, but nobody took any notice.

  The point was, the captains said, they could not just be any old snowmen, they had to be special, have a profession, that sort of thing. People were full of suggestions. A burglar, a pirate, a wicked sultan, a clown, an explorer. ‘Who’s going to judge us?’ Henry asked. It was to be Rupert, Archie and Gerald. ‘Nobody from my family!’ Laura wailed. ‘It isn’t strickerly fair!’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Simon said firmly. ‘Now, each snowman can have up to three props but no more.’

  ‘Better hurry up, teams. It’ll be dark by half past four.’

  So everybody worked hard, and the result was one pirate snowman with a black patch over one eye and a red cotton bandana on his head, and an explorer wearing goggles and smoking a pipe. After the judges’ deliberation (they all said it was a really difficult decision), the pirate won, rather controversially.

  Hugh and Rivers spent a peaceful afternoon in their beds.

  After tea everyone played with their presents. Archie and Clary had given Harriet a large jigsaw puzzle of the picture When Did You Last See Your Father? She loved jigsaws and this was not only huge, the pieces were made of proper wood.

  Roland made a wireless for Tom and Henry, who were deeply impressed.

  Louise and Juliet spent the afternoon watching Mrs Tonbridge’s television: after lunch, she had gone back to her cottage where she could soak her feet in hot water.

  Poker was resumed from the previous night and raged until supper.

  The grown-ups collapsed with books they had been given, and also listened to the record that Roland had bought his mother: Horowitz playing Rachmaninoff’s third piano concerto. ‘Marvellous tune, that opening,’ Rupert said. ‘Nearly as long as the Schubert posthumous sonata.’

  The four wives cleared up the drawing room, and Simon brought in more logs before joining the poker gang; Laura and Georgie went to their bedroom to feed Rivers, who was crossly glad to see them. ‘You wouldn’t have liked it, making snowmen,’ Georgie said, and Rivers, after nibbling his ear rather sharply, settled for a game in which he rushed round the room and Georgie was supposed to try and catch him – a game Rivers invariably won and that restored his good temper. Laura looked on, but she was so thrilled by the grown-up watch her parents had given her that she couldn’t stop looking at it. ‘Ask me what’s the time,’ she kept saying to Georgie, until he was sick of it and escaped with Rivers.

  Word had got about that Uncle Rupert could be very funny. ‘We’ll make him be it,’ Harriet had said.

  ‘What sort of funny?’ Eliza and Jane asked.

  ‘Oh, dogs being sick, sea lions being fed – we throw him old socks – and pigeons landing on a branch that isn’t strong enough for them, various things like that.’

  ‘Let’s make him be it, then.’ And they marched to the drawing room.

  At first he said it was out of the question, but they were good at pestering and wore him down. He said he would do only two things, and they settled for the dog being sick and the sea lions. Clary and Polly exchanged glances: they had pestered him in their d
ay and still enjoyed the acts.

  After that, the mothers decreed bed. ‘There’s not a lot of hot water, so you’ll have to share baths. Youngest first.’ The children all stood, looking mutinous, and as tall as possible.

  ‘Laura, Georgie, Harriet, Bertie and Andrew first.’ Zoë and Jemima were dealing with them.

  ‘What about supper?’ Andrew asked, when he had run out of other objections.

  ‘You can each have an apple in bed. You’ve had quite enough to eat today.’

  Eventually all the younger set were bathed, had been read a story by their fathers, and the grown-ups could collapse in the drawing room. Edward rang to say that he couldn’t manage lunch tomorrow but would love to come for a drink at noon. Rachel, who took the call, looked anxiously at Villy when she returned with this news, but Villy smiled at her calmly. ‘Is Diana coming?’ she asked, but Rachel said he hadn’t told her.

  ‘He seemed in a hurry,’ she added.

  The rest of the evening passed peacefully. Gerald said he had brought some champagne, which he had thoughtfully buried in the snow, and wouldn’t this be a good time to have it? It would. Supper, Rachel said, was going to be bits and pieces, as she felt that Mrs Tonbridge had done enough for one day.

  Clary offered to go and help with it and found Mrs T, as she called her, sitting in her housekeeper’s room with her feet up, watching television and eating Black Magic chocolates. So when Clary said that they would just have sandwiches in the drawing room and that she didn’t have to do any more, she realised how tired she was, and when Miss Clary carried the trays for her, she made herself a turkey sandwich, boiled water for her hotty, put all her presents into a basket then walked over to the cottage and plodded upstairs to the attic. She was going to eat her sandwich in bed and start one of the Barbara Cartlands that Miss Rachel had given her for Christmas. What could be more luxurious than that?