The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  ‘If that’s what you think you are, how can you bear to be it?’ she had said at the end of the row/heated discussion.

  ‘I don’t have much choice. But at least it means that I know what I’ve got to work against. There I go again. I’m sure you know your faults, Louise, most people do, deep down. It’s the first step.’

  Still wanting to convince Nora of the worth of acting, Louise had tried her with the greats like Shakespeare, Chekhov and Bach. (Bach she’d added cunningly – he was known to have been religious.) ‘You surely don’t think you are going to be like any of them!’ And Louise was silenced. Because a small, secret bit of her was sure she was going to be one of them – or at least a Bernhardt or Garrick (for she had always hankered after the men’s parts). The argument, like any argument she had ever had with anyone, was quite unresolved, making her doggedly more sure of what she wanted, and Nora more determined that she shouldn’t want it.

  ‘You judge me all the time!’ she had cried.

  ‘So do you,’ Nora had retorted. ‘People do that with each other. Anyway, I’m not sure that it is judging exactly; it’s more comparing a person with standards. I do it to myself all the time,’ she had added.

  ‘And, of course, you always measure up.’

  ‘Of course not!’ The innocent glare of denial silenced Louise. But then, looking at her friend’s heavy beetling eyebrows, and the faint, but unmistakable, signs of a moustache on her upper lip, she had realised that she was glad that she didn’t look like Nora, and that that was a judgement of a kind. ‘I judge that you are a much better person than I,’ she had said, not adding that she would still rather be herself.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I could be a cook somewhere,’ she said, as they turned into the drive at Mill Farm where, until two days ago, they had been living. On Friday morning it had been decreed that all the inhabitants move to the Brig’s new cottages, now made into a quite large house and called Pear Tree Cottage because of one ancient tree in the garden. It had eight bedrooms, but by the time it had housed Villy and Sybil, with Edward and Hugh at weekends, Jessica Castle, paying her annual visit with Raymond (who had gone to London to fetch Miss Milliment and Lady Rydal), there was only room left for Lydia and Neville and the babies, Wills and Roland.

  The shift to Pear Tree Cottage had taken all day, with the older children being moved into Home Place, where Rupert and Zoë were also ensconced, together with the great-aunts and Rachel. On Saturday, the Babies’ Hotel had arrived: twenty-five babies, sixteen student nurses, with Matron and Sister Crouchback. They had arrived in two buses, one driven by Tonbridge and the other by Rachel’s friend Sid. The nurses were to sleep in the squash court, now equipped with three Elsans and an extremely reluctant shower. Matron and Sister occupied Mill Farm with the babies and a rota of student nurses to help out at night. On Saturday afternoon, Nora had suggested that she and Louise go and make supper for the nurses, an offer most gratefully received by Aunt Rachel who had been up since dawn and was utterly exhausted with efforts to make the squash court a place in which people could not only sleep, but keep their personal effects. The cooking had proved extremely difficult, as the kitchen utensils from Mill Farm had been moved to Pear Tree Cottage, and the Babies’ Hotel equipment – brought down in a Cazalet lorry – had lost its way and did not turn up until nine in the evening. They had to make the meal at Pear Tree Cottage and Villy took it down with them in a car. This meant cooking under the almost offensively patronising eye of Emily, whose view of ladies and their children was, of course, that they couldn’t boil an egg to save their lives; she was also unwilling to tell them where anything was on the twofold grounds that she didn’t know whether she was on her head or her heels with all the upset, and didn’t want them using her things anyway. Louise had to admit that Nora was wonderfully tactful and apparently insensitive to slights. They made two huge shepherd’s pies and Louise a batch of real Bath buns because she had just learned how to do them and was particularly good at it. The supper had been most gratefully received and Matron had called them two little bricks.

  Babies could be heard crying as they reached the house. Nora said that they must have had their morning sleeps interrupted by the air-raid warning and having to be carried into the air-raid shelter that the Brig had had built. ‘Although how the nurses are going to get there from the squash court in time if there are raids at night, I can’t imagine,’ she added. Louise thought of bombs dropping from nowhere in the dark, and shivered. Could the Germans do that? She thought probably not, but she didn’t say anything, not wanting really to know.

  Matron and Aunt Rach were in the kitchen. Aunt Rach was unpacking kitchen things from tea chests. Matron sat at the table making lists.

  A student was measuring out feeds from an enormous tin of Cow and Gate and another one was sterilising bottles in two saucepans on the cooker. An atmosphere of good humour in a crisis prevailed.

  ‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ Matron was saying. She had a face like a sort of outdoor Queen Victoria, Louise thought: the same rather protuberant pale blue eyes and little beaky nose, but her plump and pear-shaped cheeks were the colour of flowerpots crazed with little broken veins. Her shape, on the other hand, was pure Queen Mary – upholstered Edwardian. She wore a long-sleeved navy blue serge dress and a crackling white apron and cap with starched veil.

  ‘We’ve come to help with lunch,’ Nora said.

  ‘Bless you, darlings,’ Aunt Rachel said. ‘There is some food in the larder but I haven’t really sorted it out. A ham, I think, somewhere or other, and Billy brought down some lettuces.’

  ‘And there’s the prunes Sister put in to soak last night,’ said Matron. ‘I do like my girls to have their prunes – it saves such a fortune in Syrup of Figs.’

  ‘They’ll need stewing, though,’ Nora said. ‘I don’t know if they’ll get cool in time for lunch.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Matron said, clipping her fountain pen into the top of her apron and creaking to her feet.

  Louise said she would stew the prunes.

  ‘Don’t take those bottles off the heat yet. If they’ve had their twenty minutes, I’m a Dutchman. Where should we be, Miss Cazalet, without our little helpers? Oh, don’t do that, Miss Cazalet, you’ll get a hernia!’ Rachel stopped trying to move a tea chest out of the way, and let Nora help her. More babies could be heard crying.

  ‘We’ve had our routine upset by Mr Hitler. If he goes on like this I shall have to send him a p.c. The morning’s a ridiculous time to have an air raid. But there you are – men!’ she added. ‘I’ll just see if Sister has anything to add to this list – of course, it’s Sunday, isn’t it? No shops open. Oh, well, better late than never,’ and she glided out of the room, to be met in near collision at the door by a student carrying two pails of steaming nappies. ‘Look where you’re going, Susan. And take those outside when you soak them or nobody will be able to fancy their dinner.’

  ‘Yes, Matron.’ All the students wore short-sleeved mauve and white striped cotton dresses and black stockings.

  ‘See if you can find Sid, my pet, would you?’ said Aunt Rachel. ‘We must get as many tea chests out of the kitchen as we can before the nurses’ lunch. She’s upstairs, doing blackout.’

  The blacking out of all the windows of all three houses and the inhabited outbuildings – which included the roof of the squash court – had been occupying the Brig for some days now, with the result that Sid and Villy had been put to making wooden battens onto which blackout material could be nailed. Sybil, Jessica and the Duchy, who each possessed a sewing machine, were set to making curtains for those windows that precluded battens, and Sampson, the builder, had lent a long ladder from which the gardener’s boy was to paint the squash court roof, but he had quite soon fallen off and into a huge water tank which McAlpine had described as a slice of luck he wasn’t entitled to, dismissing Billy’s broken arm and loss of two front teeth as mere cheek. Sampson had been told to deal with the squash court roof
along with so much else that it had not made much progress by Saturday morning, the day that the Babies’ Hotel was due to arrive. Teddy, Christopher and Simon were all roped in to help one of Sampson’s men with the scaffolding and then to cover the sloping glass with dark green paint while inside the stuffy and darkening scene, Rachel and Sid erected camp beds with Lydia and Neville watching sulkily from the gallery (they were supposed to be messengers but Aunt Rachel was letting them down by not thinking of enough messages). Everybody worked hard on that Saturday, excepting Polly and Clary, who slipped off in the morning on the bus to Hastings …

  ‘Who did you ask?’

  ‘Didn’t ask anyone. I told Ellen.’

  ‘Did you say I was going too?’

  ‘Yeah. I said, “Polly wants to go to Hastings, so I’m going with her.”’

  ‘You wanted to go too.’

  ‘Of course I did, or I wouldn’t be here, would I?’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say we wanted to go?’

  ‘Didn’t think of it.’

  This was Clary being slippery, which Polly didn’t like, but experience had taught her that saying so only made a row, and if this was going to be the last day of peace she didn’t want to have a row or anything to spoil it.

  But somehow, it wasn’t a good day. Polly wanted to get so fascinated by what they were actually going to do that she wouldn’t have the chance to think of what might be going to happen. They went to Jepson’s, ordinarily a shop that she loved, but when she found Clary was taking ages over choosing which fountain pen she was going to buy (part of the outing was to spend Clary’s birthday money) she felt impatient and cross because Clary could take something so trivial so seriously. ‘They’re always squeaky and hard at first,’ she said. ‘You know you have to use the nib to get it good.’

  ‘I know that. But if I get a wide nib now, it will probably get too wide, but the medium one doesn’t feel as though it will ever get right.’

  Polly looked at the assistant – a young man in a shiny worn suit – who was watching Clary while she licked each nib before she dipped the pen in a bottle of ink and scribbled her name on small pieces of paper on the counter. He did not seem impatient, only bored. He also looked as though this was his most usual expression.

  They were in the stationery department of the book shop – rather a backwater since it only sold writing paper, and printed things like addresses on the paper, At Home cards and wedding invitations, and sold fountain pens and pencils. ‘It’s very important to lick new nibs before you use them,’ Clary was saying, ‘but I expect you tell people that. Could I try that Waterman – the maroon one – just to see?’ It cost twelve and six and Polly knew she would not buy it. She watched the man while Clary tried pen after pen, and he ended up just looking into the distance. He was probably worrying about whether there would be a war.

  ‘What do you see,’ Polly asked him, ‘in your mind’s eye, I mean?’

  ‘I haven’t got a mind’s eye when I’m trying pens,’ Clary said quite crossly.

  ‘I didn’t mean you.’

  They both looked at the assistant, who cleared his throat, passed his hand over his heavily Brylcreemed hair and said he didn’t know what she meant.

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ Clary said. ‘I’ll have the Medium Relief—’

  ‘That’ll be seven and six,’ he said, and Polly could see he was looking forward to being shot of them.

  Outside they quarrelled mildly about what Clary described as Polly’s idiotic remark. ‘At the best, he thought you were patronising him,’ she said.

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘He thought you were.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  Clary looked at her friend – well, more of a cousin, really; she wasn’t feeling like a friend …

  ‘Sorry. I know you’re feeling het up. Look here, Poll. It could still be all right. Think of last year.’

  Polly shook her head. She was frowning; she looked suddenly like Aunt Rach when she was trying not to cry over Brahms.

  ‘I know what,’ Clary said gently, ‘it isn’t just that you want me to understand you, you just want me to feel the same. Isn’t it?’

  ‘I want someone to!’

  ‘I think both of our fathers do.’

  ‘Yes, but the trouble with them is that they only count our feelings up to a point.’

  ‘I know what you mean. It’s as though our feelings were simply the size of our bodies – smaller. It is idiotic of them. I suppose they can’t remember being children.’

  ‘Not at their age! I shouldn’t think they can remember more than about five years back.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to make a point of remembering. Of course, they cash in by saying that they’re responsible for us.’

  ‘Responsible! When they can’t even stop a ghastly war that might kill us all! That seems to me to be about as irresponsible as people can get!’

  ‘You’re getting het up again,’ Clary said. ‘What shall we do now?’

  ‘I don’t mind. What do you want to do?’

  ‘Get some exercise books and a present for Zoë’s birthday. And you said you wanted to buy some wool. We could have doughnuts for lunch. Or baked beans?’ They both loved baked beans because Simon and Teddy had them quite a lot at school, but they never got them at home, as they were regarded as rather common food.

  They had been walking towards the front. There were not many holidaymakers about although there were some on one bit of beach, sitting uncomfortably on the pebbles with their backs to silvery wood breakwaters, eating sandwiches and ice creams and staring out at the grey-green sea that heaved back and forth in an aimless, surreptitious manner.

  ‘Do you want to bathe?’

  But Polly simply shrugged. ‘We didn’t bring our things, anyway,’ she said, although Clary knew that that wouldn’t have stopped her if she’d wanted to. Further along – past that bit of beach – some soldiers were hauling huge rolls of barbed wire out of a lorry, and positioning them at regular intervals along the shore where they could see that what looked like concrete posts were sunk in a line at intervals half-way up the beach.

  ‘Let’s go and have lunch,’ Clary said quickly.

  They had baked beans and toast and lovely strong Indian tea (they didn’t get that at home either) and a jam doughnut and a cream horn each. This seemed to cheer Polly up, and they talked about quite ordinary things like the sort of person they would marry: Polly thought an explorer would be nice if he would explore hot parts of the earth as she loathed snow and ice and would naturally accompany him, and Clary said a painter because that would fit with writing books and she knew about painters because of her dad. ‘Also, painters don’t seem to mind so much what people look like; I mean, they like people’s faces for quite different reasons, so he wouldn’t mind mine too much.’

  ‘You’re fine,’ Polly said. ‘You have beautiful eyes, and they are the most important feature.’

  ‘So have you.’

  ‘Oh, mine are far too small. Awful really. Little dark blue boot buttons.’

  ‘But you have a marvellous complexion – frightfully white and then pale pink, like a heroine in novels. Have you noticed,’ she continued dreamily as she licked the last remnants of cream off her fingers, ‘how novelists go on and on about how their heroines look? It must be frightful for Miss Milliment when she reads them, knowing she could never have been one.’

  ‘They aren’t all beautiful as the day,’ Polly pointed out. ‘Think of Jane Eyre.’

  ‘And you’re tremendously lucky with your hair. Although coppery hair does seem to fade with age,’ she added, thinking of Polly’s mother. ‘It gets more like weakish marmalade. Oh, Jane Eyre! Mr Rochester goes on like anything about her being so fairylike and small. That’s an ingenious way of saying that she looked charming.’

  ‘People want to know that kind of thing. I do hope you aren’t going to get too modern in your writing, Clary. So that nobody knows what is going on.’ Polly had pinched U
lysses from her mother’s books and found it very hard going.

  ‘I shall write like me,’ said Clary. ‘It’s no good telling me what to write like.’

  ‘OK. Let’s get the rest of our things.’

  Lunch cost four and sixpence, which was more than they had bargained for, and Clary handsomely paid it all. ‘You can pay me back when it’s your birthday,’ she said.

  ‘I think Miss Milliment must be used to all that by now. Wanting to marry people wears off quite young, I think.’

  ‘Gosh! Does it? Well, I don’t suppose I shall marry, then. I don’t feel at all strongly about it now, and women over twenty age very rapidly. Look at Zoë.’

  ‘Grief ages people.’

  ‘Everything ages people. Do you know what that drawly lady, Lady Knebworth, Aunt Villy’s friend, said to Louise?’ When Polly was silent, she added, ‘She told her never to raise her eyebrows ’cos it would put lines on her forehead. Quite a good thing for you to know, Polly: you’re always frowning when you try to think.’

  They were outside the tea shop by now, and Clary said, ‘What shall I get her for her birthday?’

  ‘Aunt Zoë? I don’t know. Soap, I should think, or bath salts, Or a hat,’ she added.