The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  ‘Oh, I am! I’m sure he’s really a marvellous painter. But it takes years and years to be one, doesn’t it? So he mightn’t have—’

  ‘Well, perhaps he will want to do another one.’

  ‘Yes, I expect he will. Oh, Miss Milliment! Your shoelace is undone.’

  And my stockings are coming down already, she thought, looking down at the fat wrinkles round her ankle.

  ‘Would you like me to tie it for you?’

  ‘Thank you, my dear. That would be most kind.’

  Angela knelt and tied the lace, thinking, Poor old thing! I don’t see how she can bend down to do it for herself.

  And Miss Milliment, who every morning and evening had this struggle alone seated on the side of her bed with her foot on a chair, suddenly thought of something, ‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘if you could tell me? Dear Louise gave me a tin of something called talc powder for Christmas. I have brought it with me, as with the Situation one does not know when one will be returning home, but I am not very clear about its use?’ Angela, on her feet again, looked mystified.

  ‘I tried it on my face,’ Miss Milliment persisted, ‘but that did not seem to be quite right.’

  ‘Oh.’ She saw that Angela was amazed. ‘It’s not for the face at all, Miss Milliment, it’s for your body. You know, after your bath.’

  ‘For my body, after a bath,’ Miss Milliment repeated steadily with less idea than ever what it could possibly be for. ‘Thank you, Angela. Perhaps you would show me Clary’s room?’

  So Angela took her right to the door, and then wandered away – hoping she would find Rupert somewhere not with Zoë.

  Evie’s train was late, which was a good thing as Tonbridge was also late fetching her. He had had a tiring day, taking servants to get their gas masks. Mrs Cripps had enjoyed sitting in front with him, but had deeply resented the girls in the back and snubbed them whenever they opened their mouths, but the instant, uneasy silence that ensued each time left her irritably aware of their attention to whatever she might say to Mr Tonbridge, now called Frank by her whenever they were alone. So she confined herself to incontrovertible remarks about the weather with which Tonbridge instantly agreed: it was very close, they were likely to have another storm before the day was out; it wasn’t as though they needed rain although a good downpour might clear the air and send them hop-pickers back to London where they belonged.

  Then he had another trip to Battle, and he had to go onto the platform to find Miss Evie as Miss Rachel hadn’t come with him to fetch her. She had the heaviest luggage he had ever had to deal with, and she seemed very put out that they hadn’t come to meet her. He gave the message sent: that Miss Rachel had hurt her back moving furniture, and that Miss Sidney was moving her things over to the cottage where they were to sleep as the house was so full. But even after the message he sensed that she was put out. Oh, well. His orders were to show her in to the front door of the house, and to take her luggage over to the cottage. Then he could go and have his tea.

  William had had a fruitful day. The pair of cottages that lay beside a cart track a hundred yards from the road between Mill Farm and his own house and had been empty for nearly a year now since the tenant, a Mrs Brown, had died, were for sale. It had taken some time to find their owner, who in the end had turned out to be York, the farmer, whose farm lay a quarter of a mile further down the track. Mr York never said anything at all unless urged, and had never mentioned his ownership, but William, who had first noticed the cottages on his morning rides, had discovered about it from his faithful builder, Sampson, who had agreed, with relish, that if the cottages remained empty much longer they wouldn’t be no good to anybody. So William had gone to see York, who proved to be doing something very slowly in his cowshed.

  When he saw old Mr Cazalet, York propped his pitchfork against the cowshed door and stood waiting to see what was up. When old Mr Cazalet said he’d come about the cottages, he said, ‘Oh, yes?’ and then led the way silently to his house. They went in through the back – the front door was never used except for funerals or weddings; the last time had been when his mother had died. He had not married himself, it was said, because his fiancée had stepped in his pond in her rubber boots and got drowned. A lady called Miss Boot housekept for him, but her appearance was not one to excite improper thoughts, and indeed the uttermost propriety prevailed. They went through the pantry, where Miss Boot was making butter (she was tall and unsmiling with a slight beard) and through his kitchen, which smelled of dinner cooking and freshly ironed shirts, along the flagged passages to the little parlour, shrouded in blinds, reeking of furniture polish and Flit to kill the bluebottles that lay on the window-sills like huge overbaked currants from a cake. William was seated in the best chair, some blinds were drawn up revealing a small walnut upright piano with sheet music on its stand between the candlesticks, three other chairs, a fireplace with a small iron grate and a large print of The Last of England framed above it.

  The cottages. Ah! Well, he hadn’t rightly thought what he might do with them. They’d come to him through his mother, and Mrs Brown had been a friend of hers and, of course, she’d had her share of troubles; fourteen children she’d had, or fifteen, she’d never been sure. And when she’d passed on, the children were grown, or they’d gone to live with their auntie in Hastings. This burst of loquacity seemed to exhaust him, and he sat reiterating his agreement with himself about these facts.

  At this point, Miss Boot appeared with a tray on which there were two cups of strong Indian tea rendered almost peach coloured by creamy milk and a plate of ginger biscuits which she placed with care upon a rather unreliable little table between them. Then, darting one withering look at York’s boots – not meant for the house, let alone the parlour – she went.

  The cottages. Well, it depended what Mr Cazalet had in mind. William explained that he wanted to buy them and convert them into a house for some of his family. Ah. Mr York put four lumps of sugar into his tea. There was silence during which William became aware of the sibilant ticking of a small black clock on the mantelpiece. He waited until York had finished stirring his tea before he mentioned a price. There was another silence, while Mr York ruminated about five hundred pound – a sum larger than any he had ever had come to him. A new roof sprouted upon the cowshed, a piggery was built in the twinkling of an eye, a tarpaulin for his stack out the back, a new scythe; he could get a digger for his pond, his own bull to cover his cows and get the gates on the big field repaired so he could run to some sheep if he’d a mind to, build her out in the kitchen that little greenhouse she’d been nagging for …

  ‘I expect you’d like to think it over.’

  ‘I might. And I might not.’

  ‘There was one other thing …’

  He might have known there’d be a fly in the ointment. ‘I know them roofs need a bit of seeing to.’

  ‘It wasn’t that. But I’d like a bit of land at the back. Beyond the garden hedge, that is.’

  ‘Ah!’ Buying property was one thing, he’d never been much of a one for property, but land was different. He didn’t care to sell his land.

  ‘I only want a small bit. An acre. Just to make a kitchen garden.’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s another matter. Land’s another matter.’ His mournful brown eyes regarded William ruminatively. ‘That’s good land up there.’

  It wasn’t. Or not in its present state – full of thistles and rabbit holes and clumps of brambles. But William knew better than to argue. He simply offered another fifty pounds, and although it was agreed that Mr York should think it over, they both knew that he already had.

  ‘Right. Well, York – an answer tomorrow morning? I want to get on with it, you see. We may have another war on our hands.’ York was irresistibly reminded of the nightmare years when, starting at eighteen, he’d spent four years in France when in his memory he had always been wet and nearly always been frightened, when he had seen things done to men that he wouldn’t stand to see done to an animal
, when the land had been nothing but rats and lice and mud and blood and all because of those German Huns. He said, ‘You wouldn’t catch me going out there again, not for all the tea in China.’

  William got to his feet. ‘This time they may come to us,’ he said.

  York darted a look at him to see if the old man was having him on, but he wasn’t.

  ‘If they come on my land, they’ll get what for,’ he said quietly. William looked at him, surprised: he meant it.

  ‘What we’ve got to do is pray,’ Nora said, so vehemently that Louise was startled.

  They were lying on their beds after supper; the curtains were open so that they could watch the hectic, streaky lightning and then count until the faint rumble of thunder could be heard.

  ‘Do you honestly think it would do any good?’

  ‘Of course, it always does. It doesn’t always get you exactly what you are praying for, but it always does good.’

  ‘Surely not wanting a war is a good thing to want? So, if prayers work, God ought to let there not be a war.’

  Nora, to whom something of the kind had already uncomfortably occurred, said, ‘Oh, well, there are degrees. We might get a less awful war by praying. Anyhow, I’m going to church tomorrow, and I really beg you to come, too.’

  ‘OK. We are rather an ungodly family. Church only at Christmas and for christenings and so on.’

  ‘Doesn’t even the Duchy go?’

  Louise shook her head. ‘Only at Christmas. Her father was a scientist, you see. They don’t believe in faith. We’ll have to walk, no one will take us.’

  ‘We could bike.’

  ‘Yes. I warn you, if I do go to church before breakfast I tend to faint. Unless I eat something first.’

  ‘You can’t possibly do that. You can’t take Communion if you do that. You have been confirmed, haven’t you?’

  ‘Of course. The Bishop of London – years ago. In the church here you get squares of bread, not wafers like in London.’

  ‘I think that’s better, it’s supposed to be bread. How’s your pain?’

  ‘Better. Less like a flat iron trying to drop through my stomach, anyway. Will you still go to that cooking school if there’s a war?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest. I should think it would be rather a trivial pursuit if there was.’

  ‘Not as bad as acting,’ Louise said sadly. She could see her career going up in smoke. In which case, did she need to get over being homesick? Yes, because she needed to get away for other reasons as well. She couldn’t tell Nora about them. Nora set her alarm clock for half past six. The thunder had got very much nearer and kept them awake but they had agreed to like thunderstorms so they kept the curtains open.

  Simon had had an awful day. After Teddy refusing to speak to him he had looked for Christopher, but he didn’t find him until nearly lunch-time, and then he was in a bad mood. He said that Teddy was worse about everything, but that he was trying to make things all right and where on earth had Simon been all morning? Actually, Simon had gone and lain in the hammock because he had a headache and he had gone to sleep, but when he woke up he felt awful. After lunch Christopher took him off to the dog kennels and told him the new terms. They seemed simply to leave him out of everything, Simon thought, to treat him as though he wasn’t of any importance at all, after all the fetching and carrying and getting things he had done. He was being turned into a kind of feudal slave and Christopher didn’t seem particularly grateful that he hadn’t sneaked to Teddy at all. He ended up by having a quarrel with Christopher, who said he couldn’t back out of it now, he would have to stay in and do as he was told. He hated both of them, and in the end he shouted his worst words at Christopher and then ran away and hid. This was easy because he knew good places far better than Christopher, who soon stopped looking for him. When he saw Christopher disappear towards the drive, he came out of the runner beans and there was Mr McAlpine in a furious temper all because he’d trampled on something or other getting hidden. He ran away from Mr McAlpine into the house, straight up the stairs meaning to go to his room. Then he thought it might have Teddy in it. So he went to his mother’s bedroom, usually empty in the afternoon, but she was there, lying on her bed and reading.

  ‘Simon! You must knock when you go into people’s rooms.’

  ‘I forgot. Anyway, I didn’t think you’d be here.’

  ‘Why did you come in, then?’

  ‘I just wanted—’

  ‘Well, shut the door, darling.’

  He shut it rather loudly by mistake. She sat up. ‘Don’t slam doors. You’ll wake Wills.’

  ‘Wills,’ he muttered. He kicked the chair leg. She thought of nothing but Wills. From morning till night.

  ‘Simon, what is it? What is it?’ She swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘Come here. You look very hot.’ She put her hand on his forehead and tears spurted out of his eyes. She put her arms round him and he snuggled up against her, feeling worse and better at the same time.

  ‘I think you’ve got a temperature, my darling.’ She kissed him and he clung to her like a little crab. ‘There. I expect you’re rather dreading your new school. That’s what it is, isn’t it? I know it’s rather a frightening prospect. But you’ll have Teddy there, you know. You won’t be alone.’

  ‘I will! Teddy has become my enemy! It will be worse with him!’ He was sobbing now. ‘Honestly – I’ve thought about it, and I really don’t think I can stand it! I don’t want to be away by myself. Couldn’t I just go to day school like Christopher? I’d do anything you like if I don’t have to go!’

  ‘Oh, darling! I don’t want you to go. I miss you all the time. Listen, my pet. I want you to lie on my bed while I take your temp. Then we’ll talk more.’

  But they didn’t much because his temperature was 101 and when he said he couldn’t sleep in the room with Teddy she put him to bed in their dressing room, and brought him a mug of hot milky tea and an aspirin, and went to ring up Dr Carr. When she came back, he was feverish and sleepy. ‘Bet you won’t send Wills to a boarding school,’ he muttered. ‘Anyway, I didn’t sneak. He’s got to admit I didn’t,’ and he drifted off.

  She sat and watched him, full of sad, helpless thoughts. Why should he be sent away for so many years from his father and brother and sister and, above all, from her? Why had boys always been sent away? He had been at boarding school since he was nine, and he was only twelve now. Even the little medieval pages had been sent to another house with the lady of it to care for them. It wasn’t as though Hugh had been happy at school – he had loathed every minute of it, he said – but he still had the apparently immutable view that his son must go through the same mill. That remark he had made about Wills struck at her heart. It was true that she had been indulging herself with this last baby, paying far more attention to him than she had ever done with the other two. True, also, that since Simon had gone to his prep school she had braced herself for the loss by trying to be calm and worldly about it, although the very first time when she had seen him off from Waterloo she had wept bitterly all the way home in the taxi. In some way she had known then that it was the very beginning of saying goodbye to him. Even her letters to him at school had been cool and cheery, and she had found them harder and harder to write – harder to know what he would want to hear and, because none of them ever really could say how much she missed him, putting in nothing that really mattered. His letters – the homesickness was palpable early on: ‘Darling Mum, please take me home, I am board, board, board. There is nothing whatever to do here’ – had contracted to demands for various things, chiefly food: ‘Please send me six more tubes of toothpaste. I had to eat mine!’ Mysterious descriptions of masters: ‘When Mr Attenborough eats toast and marmalade at breakfast, his head steams. We did not have Latin prep today because Mr Coleridge has gone off his head again he rode his bicycle into the swimming-pool: he was smoking and reading and got stung by a wasp but nobody believed him.’ She had read the letters to Hugh, who had laughed –
and said he seemed to be settling down. Well, in a way, he had. But prep schools were not at all the same as public school, and now he had six years of that lying ahead. Poor lamb. At least he’s too young for war, she thought for the hundredth time, and Polly is a girl, and Wills is a baby and Hugh can’t really be in it. She put a glass of water by Simon’s bed; then she bent and kissed him with almost guilty tenderness. He was asleep, and there was no one else to see.

  That night, which was very hot and still, the thunder rumbled intermittently until dawn when there was a heavy and refreshing shower of rain. Evie, in the cottage, dropped off at last, and Sid, whom she had kept awake with her fears, was able to creep back to the other little room, get into bed and at least have her thoughts to herself. There had been a muddle about moving Miss Milliment to the cottage, which it had been decreed she was to share with Evie, and Evie had refused to sleep there alone. She had been maddening about it, and Sid had decided that she would move heaven and earth – and Miss Milliment – the next day. Evie considered that it was a minor insult to have to sleep there. She was not in the least grateful for the hospitality afforded her, and she had brought with her all the most useless, heavy, and hideous pieces of silver that had belonged to her mother, as well as pretty nearly all the clothes she possessed. ‘After all, we may be here for years,’ she said. ‘It’s all very well for you, you don’t mind wearing the same things day after day, but you know how I feel about looking nice.’

  Sid had hated leaving Rachel, whose back was clearly very bad. When it had transpired that William had decided that if the worst came to the worst the Babies’ Hotel must be evacuated and that the beds were for the nurses to occupy in the squash court, Rachel had insisted on helping cart them over there. The Duchy had mildly enquired where the babies were to sleep, and he had simply said that they were small and could be fitted in somewhere. The billiard table could be moved from the billiard room, he had added vaguely. Anyway, the camp beds had done for Rachel’s back, and Sid hated to leave her alone. Well, hated not sharing a room with her. In the daytime, she realised despairingly, Evie would never leave them alone together if she could help it. How quickly one got used to things! A week ago, she would have been utterly overwhelmed at the prospect of spending one day and a night with Rachel; now she was grousing because she couldn’t spend all the time with her. ‘Be grateful for what you have,’ she told herself, but, then, one of the things she had was Evie, whose presence had never promoted gratitude in anybody. ‘Swings and roundabouts,’ she told herself bracingly; she was never sure which was supposed to be which, but there were usually more of one than the other.