By now she had dressed in the cream foulard with a navy spot: a cool little frock with a short jacket to match – the sort of frock that, Hermione had pointed out, one could have any sort of evening in – had added some powder and a touch of dry rouge and a discreet lipstick, had put on her wrist-watch, changed bags. She did not feel like tidying Edward’s clothes, and really longed for a second gin, but this was probably not wise. She filled her cigarette case and went downstairs. She would try Edward’s club once more, and if he wasn’t there, she would ring Hugh and see if he would take her out to dinner.
He wasn’t at his club. Hugh, however, was back from the office – just about to have a bath, he said. Nothing wrong in the country, was it? She explained that she was in London.
‘Edward seems to have disappeared,’ she said. ‘Miss Seafang said he left the office at lunch-time, and she had no idea where he went. He’s not at his club. You don’t happen to know, do you?’
There was a pause, and then Hugh said, ‘No idea. Look. Why don’t you have dinner with me? You will? Good. I’ll be round to fetch you in an hour.’
She was putting the receiver back on its hook when she heard the front door opening and Edward’s voice and then a woman laughing. Who on earth, she thought, as she went into the hall.
In the hall was Edward, and standing beside him was a tall, dark, rather glamorous-looking woman whom she had never seen in her life before. She was wearing a loose white coat slung over her shoulders, and as they saw her, they moved apart: Edward’s right arm, that had been concealed by the coat, came into view as he said: ‘Good Lord! Villy? I had no idea you were coming up!’ he came forward and kissed her.
‘I just came up for the day. Then I thought I might as well stay.’
‘Splendid! Oh, this is Diana Mackintosh, I don’t think you’ve met. Diana’s husband had that marvellous shoot in Norfolk I told you about. We were having lunch and he’s had to go off to Scotland, poor dear, so we saw him off and I brought Diana home for a drink.’
While he was saying this, a thought so horrible came into her mind that she was momentarily stunned, then instantly felt incredulous, ashamed that something so treacherous and unspeakable could ever even have occurred to her. As she led Mrs Mackintosh into the drawing room apologising for its state, pulling up the blinds, removing the dead carnations to a far corner, she tried resolutely to pretend to herself that she had never had such a thought. ‘I think our wretched housemaid must have disappeared,’ she finished.
‘Oh, aren’t they tiresome?’ She had a charming smile, and a small streak of white hair that was dressed in fashionable horn-like curls round her head. She was about thirty-eight, Villy thought.
‘Do you live in Norfolk, Mrs Mackintosh?’
‘Oh, please call me Diana. No, in London, actually. Angus manages the shoot there for his elder brother. He’s gone to Scotland to fetch the older children back for school.’
‘How many do you have?’ Information was soothing.
‘Three. Ian is ten, Fergus is eight, and then there’s Jamie, who is three months.’ An afterthought, thought Villy. I wonder if she wanted him.
Edward was back with a tray of drinks. Diana said, ‘I was telling your wife about Angus kindly fetching the children. They spent the summer with their grandmother in Easter Ross.’
‘Lucky little beggars,’ Edward said. ‘Cocktail in order for everyone?’
‘Just one. I mustn’t stay, have to get back to Jamie.’
A three-month-old baby. I hope I look as good as that three months afterwards. Edward, shaking the cocktails, said, ‘Yes, Angus gave me such a marvellous lunch, I felt the least I could do was take him to the station – Godawful places. Euston was like a Victorian beehive.’
‘King’s Cross,’ Diana said, quite sharply, then, with her appealing smile, said more gently, ‘It was King’s Cross. Didn’t you notice?’
‘Edward doesn’t know one railway station from another,’ said Villy. ‘He never goes on trains. Or buses,’ she added.
‘I drove one in the General Strike.’
‘That could hardly provide you with a general knowledge of public transport. No, thanks, I don’t smoke.’ Edward had lit his and Villy’s cigarettes, and noticing he hadn’t offered Diana one, Villy had proffered her case. There was a short silence while they sipped their drinks, and Villy wondered why she was feeling odd, as she put it, again. Aloud, she said, ‘Darling, has Edna abandoned you? The house is an awful mess.’
‘Her mother’s ill, so I let her go home to look after things. Forgot to tell you.’
‘Oh. When will she be back?’
‘Don’t know. Didn’t ask her, I’m afraid.’
There was another silence, then Edward, draining his glass, said, ‘I wonder how old Chamberlain is getting on. I must say things have come to a pretty pass when a British prime minister has to travel all that way to persuade a foreign feller to be reasonable.’
‘I quite agree,’ Diana said. ‘It really ought to be the other way round. Did you see that cartoon of a huge dove carrying an umbrella in its mouth? I mean, we shouldn’t be asking, we should be telling Mr Hitler where he gets off.’
‘That’s perfectly true. But I expect “ask” is Foreign Office for “tell”, don’t you, Edward?’
‘Well, it’s all rather beyond me, but I expect you’re right. But a very sensible bloke at the club said that the Czechs haven’t got any choice, really, so I don’t think we need worry unduly.’
The atmosphere had lightened. Diana now got to her feet, and said, ‘I really must go. Thanks awfully for the drink.’
Edward said, ‘Shall I run you home?’
‘I wouldn’t hear of it. I’ll pick up a cab.’
Villy said, ‘We could ring for one. The rank’s just up the road.’
‘No, truly, the walk would do me good.’
She had left her white coat in the hall. When Edward had put it over her shoulders – it was too hot to wear it, she said – she turned to Villy saying thank you so much it was lovely to meet you. She had a wonderful complexion and her fine eyes were the colour of dark lavender. A striking woman. ‘Turn left and the rank’s at the next crossroads,’ Villy said.
‘Thanks. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Edward and Villy almost in unison.
‘She seemed charming. What’s he like?’
‘Angus? Oh, he’s a good sort. Bit of an idler, though. Darling, what brought you up? You never told me.’
‘Oh, I wanted to do some shopping, and I popped in to see Bob Ballater.’
‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘Just a woman’s thing.’
‘Well, now you’re here where would you like to dine? The Hungaria?’ He knew she loved the place and the music.
‘That would be lovely. Oh! God, I nearly forgot! When I thought I’d lost you, I rang Hugh, and he said he’d take me out to dinner. He’ll be round any minute.’ Now she wouldn’t be able to tell him at dinner.
Edward frowned. He had emptied the cocktail shaker and subsequently his glass. ‘Damn! We can’t put the old boy off.’
‘Why would you want to?’
‘Well, he’s obsessed with what he persists in calling the crisis. Says we’re prostrating ourselves, or prostituting ourselves, I forget which – anyway, he won’t keep off the subject and you know how he can argue.’
‘Well, we could go to Bentley’s and then to a flick. He won’t be able to talk through that.’
‘Good idea! I’ll nip up and have a bath.’
‘Darling, I’ll send Phyllis up tomorrow to look after you. Your dressing room’s too ghastly for words.’
He made a face. ‘Is it? Well, as you know, I’m always a bit slack about my housework. Make us all another drink. Hugh’ll probably want whisky.’ And he bounded upstairs.
They went to Bentley’s, where Villy and Edward ate oysters and Hugh smoked salmon, and to Leicester Square to see The Thirty-Nine Steps with Robert Donat, which they all enjo
yed. The subject of the crisis was hardly touched upon; the Mackintoshes were mentioned, but Hugh did not know them. He was very sweet to Villy, she thought. He did not say very much to Edward. By the time they had dropped Hugh off and got home Edward pronounced that he was dog tired, asleep on his feet, and it was clearly too late to start up the pros and cons of adding to the family. So she did not tell him anything, but decided to wait until after her next visit to the doctor.
The following weekend, secure in the knowledge that Waldo’s tour was cancelled and that Evie would therefore be occupied, Sid accepted the Duchy’s invitation to stay at Home Place. ‘You don’t mind sharing your room with her, darling, do you?’ the Duchy had said to her daughter. The house was full to the brim as two of her unmarried sisters, deemed to be unable to cope with the Situation, as it was now called in the family, had been collected from Stanmore by Tonbridge, who, to his enormous satisfaction, had succeeded in ridding himself of Mrs Tonbridge on the same journey. He had pointed out that if she was wanting to get home, it would be nicer to go in the car from door to door, than by train and Underground to Kentish Town. ‘And don’t ever ask me to put up with anything like that again,’ she had said when he deposited her. He wouldn’t, not on his life he wouldn’t. It was with a light heart that he collected the two old ladies from Cedar House, packed the boot with their buckram suitcases that had the battered initials of their father on them, and tucked them in. They wore jersey suits and carried holland bags filled with revolting embroidery and a Thermos leaking Bovril. They sat with the bear rug over their bony knees and he drove them sedately down to Sussex, with them making the quarter-hourly ritual remarks about how lovely the country was looking and asking after his wife and child to show that they were good with servants. He didn’t mind any of it: a life both soothing and exciting with Mrs Cripps seemed now to be on the cards.
Sybil and Villy had an earnest but indeterminate discussion about whether, if the Situation got worse, the boys should go back to school or not. Sybil thought that Hugh might agree that they shouldn’t; Villy knew that Edward would think that they should. They resolved to ring the school and see what the general form was.
Lady Rydal, who had now been ensconced for nearly a week at Mill Farm and sat sighing in the largest armchair all day doing nothing whatever, said that if there was another war, she felt that the best thing she could do was to put her head in a gas oven. ‘There isn’t any gas in this house, Grania,’ Nora had said. ‘But I suppose you could electrocute yourself, only I think that needs one to have more technical knowledge.’ This caused Jessica and Villy to have to leave the room, they were laughing so much. ‘Honestly,’ Jessica said, ‘if there was a war, Mummy would think it was entirely done to ruin her life. A sort of personal last straw.’
‘There won’t be, though, will there?’ Villy began, but at that moment, Nora joined them. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘you needn’t be cross. I told her it would be best to pray for peace. She had to agree with that. God comes in very handy with old people.’
On the Saturday evening, Clary, who had been flushed and grumpy all day, was pronounced Coming Down with Something by Ellen, who had a scene with her about answering back. Her temperature was taken: it was 101, so she was put to bed and Dr Carr called. Simon went to the squash court by himself where he prayed aloud that she had measles, which, he felt, might get him out of everything. As Zoë was still away Clary had Rupert and Aunt Rachel, who made her some lemonade. Dr Carr said that whatever it was would doubtless develop the next day and she must stay in bed. ‘Which I would be, anyway, as it’s night time,’ Clary said to Polly rather peevishly. ‘He surely can’t think I go to nightclubs.’ But Polly, who was being kind and understanding, said he was just being on the safe side, ‘which grown-ups usually are,’ she added. ‘I’ll read to you, if you like,’ she offered. It had crossed her mind that she might be a heavenly kind nurse when she grew up. But Clary said she would rather read to herself. When her father came to say goodnight to her, she told him that she thought he ought to stay being a painter and not go into the firm. Rupert, who had by now – apart from Angela – consulted Rachel, Sybil, Jessica and Villy (all for his going into the firm) and Louise and Nora (against), which had left him as ignorant of his own mind in the matter as he had been a week ago, said that her opinion was extremely helpful to him and he would think about it. ‘Oh, Dad! I do love it when you talk to me as though I was a person!’
‘Don’t I always?’
She shook her head. ‘Quite a lot of the time you treat me like a child. I do so loathe it. When I have children I shall treat them wonderfully – as though,’ she searched for the most adult profession she could imagine, ‘as though they were bank managers.’
‘Would you, indeed! Well, they don’t get treated so well. People either fawn on them saying things like, “Oh, Mr Pinstripe, could you let me have another three pounds?” Or they hate them and keep as far away as possible.’
‘Really! Is that what you do? Both those things?’
‘Both of them.’
‘Poor old Dad. It must be awful getting old and not having enough money. If I were you, I’d look for a nice second-hand bath chair while you’ve got the time.’
‘Right, I’ll do that. Now I’m going to tuck you up.’
‘Don’t! I’m absolutely boiling. Dad! Tell Ellen I’m sorry. And could I have a drink of water? And could you ask Polly to come up? And, Dad, will you come and see me after you’ve had your dinner? To see if I’m all right because I might not be?’
‘Yes,’ he said, and went.
That night Sid sat on the side of Rachel’s bed and held her in her arms. They had talked all day whenever they were alone: on the way back from the station, after luncheon, when they had gone for a long walk and found a rickety tent in the woods by a stream, which they did not explore as Rachel said it had an air of secrecy about it, that it should be left to itself. ‘I expect it belongs to Teddy,’ she said, ‘he’s a very camping sort of boy.’ And then, after tea, they slipped away again, and sat in the field beyond the wood by the house. It was an overcast evening, and autumn was in the air. They talked about going to the Lake District together – at Easter, perhaps – and whether Sid would get a better-paid job if she taught part time at two schools instead of one, and whether she should try and buy a little second-hand car. Rachel longed to give her this, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I should just have done it, Rachel thought. And they talked about Mr Chamberlain’s impending second visit – to Germany, this time – and whether appeasement was the best policy. Rachel thought that it must be, but Sid was concerned for the Czechs whom she thought were in line for a rotten deal. ‘After all,’ Rachel argued, ‘there wouldn’t be such a place if it hadn’t been for the treaty of Versailles.’
But Sid had retorted: ‘Exactly. Therefore, we are responsible for their sovereignty. Treaties can start wars just as easily as they stop them.’ Then she smiled and said, ‘I know you think it’s my left-wing politics that is making me argue with you, but it isn’t. A lot of people on your side think the same.’
‘The awful thing is that whatever we think won’t make the slightest difference. I find that very frightening.’
‘If there was a war, you wouldn’t stay in London, would you?’
‘I expect so. There’s Evie. What else could I do?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. But I do know that I couldn’t bear you to be there and me stuck down here.’
‘Which you would be?’
‘I imagine so. Perhaps you and Evie could have the Tonbridges’ cottage. That would be an answer.’
‘Evie would be impossible.’ They were on to Evie again, and after the conversation had completed a circle they gave it up and strolled back to the house.
Dinner, and Sid had played bridge with Hugh and Sybil and Rupert while Rachel sewed and watched them. She loved to see Sid getting on with her family and every now and then their eyes met fleetingly, and both were nourished by the contact.
Now they were alone for the night, and there was a faint tension in the room. Rachel had wanted Sid to have her bed while she slept on the narrow little child’s bed that had been set the other side of the room, but Sid would not let her. What Sid wanted, and in the end obtained, was several hours of lying beside her love, pretending that this was all she wanted, a torturing pleasure that she would not have missed for worlds, but the secret vistas that it opened up remained secret, and in the early hours of the morning, when Rachel was contentedly asleep, she crept to the narrow little bed and took imaginary recompense. Afterwards, when she had wanted to sleep, to sink into oblivion and wake to a new day, she could not. She lay thinking about Rachel, who had given her so much but could not give her everything; whose gentle, affectionate nature was enclosed by an impenetrable wall of innocence. She had once told Sid that she knew that she would never have children, since she could not endure what would have to happen first. ‘The idea of it revolts me,’ she had said beginning a painful blush. ‘I suppose some women manage to shut it out – when it happens, you know – but I know that I couldn’t. And the idea that – the man – actually likes it, simply makes me feel worse about them.’ Somebody, whom she had thought she was fond of, had once kissed her. ‘But it wasn’t an ordinary kiss – it was disgusting.’ She had tried to laugh then, and said, ‘I’m just no good at bodies. I think my own is bad enough, and I don’t want anything to do with other people’s.’ Sid had remained silent: the revelation then had been new to her, and Rachel had slipped her arm into Sid’s – they were walking in Regent’s Park – and said, ‘That’s why I so love being with you, Sid darling. We can be together and none of that ever comes into it.’
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 32