To be going to the country! She did miss the country. They would be hay-making and, perhaps, in that part of the country, picking hops, and they were only nine miles from the sea! She had not seen the sea for years. However, she must not forget that she was going to work, to teach the girls; she had thought so much about them all the summer – so different, but each with qualities that she endeavoured to bring out, and little faults that she feared she was not strict enough to correct. Louise, for instance, her eldest pupil and now fifteen, needed to be made to work harder at the subjects she did not care for, but she was very clever at getting her own way, would prolong the discussions after their morning Shakespeare reading in order not to start upon her Latin or mathematics. In this last year, Miss Milliment had begun to feel that Louise was outgrowing the situation of being taught with Polly and Clary, neither of whom presented a challenge to her. Of course, they were two years younger which was a great deal at their age. Louise had become aloof and indolent, and Miss Milliment had noticed during her Friday luncheons that her relationship with her mother seemed a little strained. She was growing up, whereas Polly and Clary were still little girls. Polly caused her no anxiety. She seemed content to read Shakespeare without wishing in the least to become an actress, to listen to Clary’s compositions with wholehearted admiration and no desire to compete, to have no airs and graces about her appearance although she was a very attractive child with the promise of beauty. She was full of frankness and fervour; moral questions that Louise would evade neatly and with flashes of wit, and that would incense Clary to almost tearful diatribes, were chewed over by Polly with a kind of anxious honesty that Miss Milliment found most endearing.
But Clary – although she knew she should not feel this – was her favourite. Clary was not pretty like Polly, nor striking like Louise; Clary, with her sallow round face, her freckles, her fine straight mousy hair, her smile disfigured by the gap in her front teeth and the steel plate, with her bitten nails, her tendency to sulk, was in some ways a very ordinary, not very attractive little girl, but she noticed things, and it was the way in which she did this and how she wrote about them that Miss Milliment felt was not ordinary at all. Her composition, in the last year, had graduated from imitative accounts of the life of animals in anthropomorphic terms, to stories about people, which showed that she sensed, or perceived, or knew a remarkable amount about them for someone of thirteen. Miss Milliment encouraged her, always gave her homework where there was some scope for this gift, often made her read her pieces aloud, and was punctilious about the meaning of words when they were loosely or inaccurately employed. This had inspired Louise, who did not like to be outstripped, to write more herself, and she had written a three-act play – a domestic comedy that was both precocious and entertaining. Both those girls should go to university, Miss Milliment thought, but she thought it rather hopelessly, as the Cazalet family did not seem to take much interest in their daughters’ education.
And here she was, mooning about on the floor with her knees getting stiff in front of this awfully full case. She would finish her packing, walk to a telephone box and ring up the nearest cab rank. Better get to the station, buy her ticket and then see if there was time for a cup of tea and a sausage roll – or something dashing of the kind.
Much later, as she was being driven to the station – she really could not remember when she had last taken a cab and the extravagance in spite of its necessity was pricking her – she reflected with a sudden anxiety that since they would be keeping her she could not expect her full salary – they might, indeed, consider it fair to knock off as much as three pounds, but she would still have to pay the twenty-eight shillings rent for her room with Mrs Timpson, or she might find herself homeless. ‘Now, now, Eleanor, you must cross that bridge when you come to it,’ she admonished herself. ‘What is that small worry, compared to what poor Mr Chamberlain is having to face?’ She read The Times every day, and there was no getting away from it: this splendid, secure country seemed once again to be nearing the brink of bloodshed and disaster.
Edward was late getting to Mill Farm that evening. The traffic, he said, and he’d started too late. Actually, he was late because he’d collected Diana and Jamie and a good deal of luggage from her house in St John’s Wood and driven them down to Wadhurst where Angus, in a telephone call from Scotland, had decreed she was to stay with his sister until things blew over, as he put it. This was a frightful blow to Diana: it would put Edward quite out of reach for an unknown amount of time, added to which she found her sister-in-law rather a strain, as she put it to Edward. When he asked her why, she said that Isla was very religious and held rather liberal political views.
‘Good Lord! Does that mean I can’t even ring you up?’
‘I think it would be safer if I rang you – on Monday – at the office when she is out. She goes to meetings and things like that. We must be careful.’ Being confronted by Villy at Lansdowne Road ten days before had given them both a fright; Edward had soon started saying what an incredibly lucky escape they had had, but Diana had taken it more seriously. Supposing Villy had turned up when she had stayed most of the night there? When they had been upstairs, in Edward’s dressing room? She felt angry with him for exposing her to such a humiliating danger. Edward’s response – that Villy had never done anything like that in her life before – had made things a little better, but not much. And the worst of it was that now she felt she could never go there again. She had asked Edward if he thought that Villy suspected anything, and Edward had said, Good Lord, no, of course she hadn’t: she wasn’t that kind of person. I would be, Diana thought. If I was married to Edward I certainly would be. Although naturally she would not admit it to Edward, she had been fascinated to see Villy who had surprised her. She had expected a pretty, perhaps rather faded woman, and there was this small, neat, intellectually handsome creature; grey and white curly hair, striking dark, heavy eyebrows, aquiline nose and fastidious mouth – not at all an appearance that she had imagined. She seemed an odd person for Edward to have married: he was, after all, rather a catch. It must be wonderful for Villy never to have to worry about money; it seemed to Diana that her entire life was spent in keeping up a bewildering variety of appearances and, in between them, in making do. Angus, as a second son, was not due to inherit anything very much, although he had been left some money by a godfather which was probably the worst thing that could have happened to him since it enabled him to avoid any serious work. He had romantic (unrealistic) ideas about what was due to him. The honour of the family (his own comfort) ranked high, and often left Diana with humiliating economies. Another appearance that had to be kept up (to his parents) was the one that he worked extremely hard – and successfully – which entailed things like them meeting him from a first-class carriage at Inverness, his sending them unspeakably extravagant presents at Christmas, and – mercifully only once a year – giving them luncheon at the Ritz. Their friends were all richer than themselves, and for years now Diana had got her clothes second-hand from an advertisement in The Lady from someone whose chief virtues were that she was exactly the same size and lived chiefly abroad. She sighed, and Edward put his hand on her knee. ‘Cheer up, darling. It won’t be for ever.’
If there was war, it might last for a very long time, she thought. She knew that if Edward was parted from her for months at a time, he would find someone else; somehow or other, she had got to prevent that. They were climbing the hill to Wadhurst; in a few minutes he would have deposited her and gone speeding off to his family – and Villy. Perhaps he sensed something of this: he slowed down, and said, ‘What’s up, darling?’
‘Nothing. I just feel rather blue.’
‘How about we stop at a pub for a quick drink?’
‘It would be lovely, but there’s Jamie.’
‘I can bring it out to you.’
But as soon as they stopped, Jamie, who had been as good as gold in his basket in the back throughout the journey, woke and began to cry. She go
t him out of his basket and walked up and down with him. He was, she thought, exceptionally beautiful – unlike the other two, who had been fat and placid with reddish-blond hair, Jamie was dark and wiry with the most endearing beaky little nose that looked too grown up for the rest of his face. I’m sure he is Edward’s baby, she thought for the thousandth time. Sometimes when she looked at him she felt quite faint with love. He was wet – he never cried without good reason; she laid him on the back seat of the car and got some clean nappies out of his basket. As she unpinned him, he gave her a fleeting, conspiratorial smile so full of gaiety and trust that her eyes filled.
‘Here you are, darling.’
‘Hang on a sec.’ A tear splashed onto Jamie’s midriff and he blinked.
When she had finished changing him, and put him back into his basket, she turned to Edward to accept her glass, but he said, ‘Let’s get back into the car.’
When they were in, he put her drink in her hand and an arm round her. ‘Poor darling, you are feeling rotten. Cheer up. It’ll all be the same a hundred years hence.’
‘I don’t find that comforting at all. Who on earth ever thought of anything so silly?’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Well, one thing. I love you – for what it’s worth. I hate leaving you. Is that better?’
‘Much better.’ She took his proffered handkerchief and blew her nose.
‘Your hankies smell so nice!’
‘Lebanon cedar,’ he said. ‘Drink up, my sweetie, we ought to get going.’
When they had finished their drinks, he kissed her, and then took the glasses back into the pub.
‘You must admit, Jamie’s been angelic,’ she said as they drove through the village.
‘He’s a splendid little bloke,’ he answered absently. He often wondered whether it was his, but felt that to say so might be venturing onto dangerous ground. ‘Now you’ll have to direct me.’
So, by the time he’d dropped her, got all her stuff out of the car, exchanged a few breezy words with the sister-in-law (who thought him absolutely charming) and driven the further ten miles or so, it was after seven, but Villy seemed neither cross nor curious: she was far too concerned with how he would take the news that not only was Lady Rydal still there, but that Miss Milliment had joined them.
When Christopher and Simon made their early visit to their camp they got a terrible shock. The front flaps of their tent were open. Simon was about to exclaim about this, but Christopher held up his hand and put a finger over his mouth. Together they crept silently nearer. One side of the tent was bulging and moved slightly. Someone was actually in there. Christopher dropped the stores he was carrying, and picked up a stick; it wasn’t much good, but better than nothing. Simon copied him. Then Christopher called, ‘Come out of there, whoever you are!’
There was a pause, and then Teddy crawled out of the tent. He was eating a packet of biscuits, but Simon could tell he looked dangerous.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I must say you’re a secretive pair. How long has this been going on?’ and Simon realised that he was very angry.
‘Not long,’ he said.
‘You know I like camping. Why didn’t you let me in on it? What’s so special about it, anyway?’
‘It was Christopher’s idea,’ Simon mumbled.
‘Oh, was it? Well, a good many of your things are here as well. What’s up?’
‘It’s a secret,’ Christopher said. ‘I didn’t want anyone to know.’
‘And I’m anyone, am I? You’re just a guest,’ he pointed out to Christopher. ‘I should have thought you’d have the common politeness to let other chaps in on your game. And as for you,’ he turned to Simon, ‘no wonder you’ve never had time to play squash, or help me practise my tennis or even go for a decent bicycle ride. You’re just a traitor.’
‘I’m not a traitor!’
‘That’s what traitors always say. You’ve got enough food here to feed a cricket team. What’s it all in aid of?’
‘We were going to—’ Simon began, but Christopher said, ‘Shut up!’
There was a fiery silence. Then Teddy stood up and said, ‘Are you going to tell me?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I simply don’t want to. That’s why.’
They stood glaring at each other. Then Teddy said, ‘I see. You want war.’
Simon said, ‘Christopher’s a conscience objector. So he can’t want war.’
‘Shut up, Simon.’ They were both against him now, Simon thought.
Christopher said, ‘I don’t want war. What is it you want?’
Teddy seemed slightly taken aback. ‘A good deal. A lot. I’d have to think. Your biscuits have gone all soft, by the way. You should have put them in a tin.’
‘We know, but we ran out of tins.’
‘Simon, you take the things we’ve brought and stow them away in the tent. Teddy and I have got to talk.’
You could talk just as well if I was out of the tent, Simon thought. He was angry at being treated in such a junior way – told to shut up by both of them and ordered about by Christopher in front of Teddy. I’m nearly crying out of rage, he told himself. He certainly was nearly crying. ‘I can hear everything you say in here, anyhow,’ he called, but they did not reply.
What it amounted to was that Teddy realised full well that they’d been so secretive because they didn’t want the grown-ups to know about the camp, and if he, Teddy, didn’t get what he wanted, he would jolly well tell them. Christopher said that was dastardly, and Teddy said that Christopher had been dastardly to him and he was simply being dastardly back. He still hadn’t said what he wanted. Well, he wanted to he the leader of whatever it was. Christopher could be his main general, and Simon could be his infantry; this was in return for not letting him in on it in the first place, and what he most wanted was to know what they planned to do? Christopher immediately said, nothing.
‘It can’t be nothing. You wouldn’t have lugged all this stuff here for nothing. And, anyway, if you want to know, that tent is really mine.’
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 36