She had folded her arms across her bony chest and begun to laugh. Then she’d called, ‘George! You’ll never guess who’s here!’ The bedroom door opened again and out came one of the largest men he’d ever seen in his life. Well over six foot he was – he had to stoop coming out of the bedroom – with curly ginger hair and a moustache. He wore a sleeveless singlet and was buttoning his flies over a beer belly, but his arms were like two legs of mutton with tattoos all over them. ‘George is looking after me now,’ she said, ‘so you can vamoose.’
‘Spying on us, is ’e?’ George said. ‘A Peeping Tom, is ’e?’ He took a step forward, and the floorboards creaked.
‘I’m here to take her away from the bombs. And the kid,’ he said, but his voice came out weak.
‘The kid’s gone. I sent him off with his school.’
‘Where?’
‘Never you mind where. What’s it to do with you?’
He started to say something about it being his kid, but she laughed again. ‘Your kid? You must be joking! Why did you think I married you – a little runt like you?’
It was out. Something he’d always wondered about, and shied away from as a wicked notion he shouldn’t believe in.
‘I’ll just get my clothes, then,’ he said, and moved blindly up a stair but his legs were shaking and he had to get hold of the banisters.
‘Don’t you dare lay a finger on me!’ she cried, and George moved down to her and laid a hand like a bunch of pork sausages on her shoulder.
‘Get ’im his clothes, Ethyl,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have no use for them, would I? ‘E’ll go outside and wait for them as quiet as …’ he paused and his light blue eyes were full of considering contempt, ‘a mouse,’ he finished.
So that was it. He’d gone down the stairs and into the street, and she’d opened the upstairs window and just flung the stuff down at him – socks, shirts, two pairs of shoes and his winter uniform – all thrown onto the pavement and the street, in the gutter, and he’d gone about, picking them up and putting them into the back of the car while George stood massively in the doorway and watched him. He’d never felt so humiliated in his life; the whole street might be watching, so all he could do was collect everything as quickly as possible, get into the car and drive away. But as soon as he’d got to the end of the street and turned a corner, he had to stop, because he found he was sobbing, he couldn’t see a thing, and one thing he’d always been was careful with Mr Cazalet’s cars. He always says there’s no one to touch you for care of your vehicle. ‘I’d trust you with a brand new Rolls if I had one,’ that’s what he’d said and not so long ago. He remembered this twice. He’d been with Mr Cazalet for twenty-one years now, and few could say the same. It wasn’t only the driving, it was the upkeep, and he’d defy anyone – anyone at all – to find any dirt, anything wrong with the engine, any polishing neglected. He blew his nose, and felt with trembling fingers in his pockets for his packet of Weights and lit one. And with Mr Cazalet losing his sight, he depended on him more than ever. ‘I depend upon you, Frank,’ he’d said not so long ago – last summer it had been when it had first looked like war – ‘I know I can always rely on you,’ he said. A gentleman like Mr Cazalet wouldn’t say that for nothing. And even when he’d had that trouble with Mr Cazalet driving on the right-hand side of the road because that’s how he rode his horses, ‘I put my foot down,’ he said aloud. ‘Either you drive on the left, sir, or I’ll do the driving.’ Now he always drove him, and Madam, and Miss Rachel, who was a really nice lady, not to mention Mrs Hugh and Mrs Edward. ‘You’re part of the family,’ Miss Rachel had said when she visited him in hospital after that trouble with his ulcer. ‘I think you’re very brave,’ she had said. Very brave. Miss Rachel would never tell a lie. He’d glanced into the back of the car: he’d have to get a box or a case or something to put his stuff in – couldn’t turn up at Home Place with the car looking like that, he had his pride, after all.
He was sniffing loudly now by the window. He flexed his biceps and looked at his arm to see if it made a difference, but it didn’t much. Scrawny, she’d called him. ‘You’re bow-legged,’ she’d said on another occasion. He had such narrow shoulders, Mr Cazalet had had his uniform made. We can’t all be the same, he thought miserably. He looked at the case with his stuff in it lying on the floor still not unpacked. He’d do that tomorrow. He wouldn’t think about any of that, except, now, he was glad he hadn’t told Mabel – as he privately called her. She respected him, looked up to him, as a woman should; it felt quite natural when he was with her. As he got into bed he realised that he hadn’t got a home any more – not with that man in it – and then he thought this was his home, where the family was, always had been. He thought he’d lie awake, with his insides churning, but the Bakewell tarts had settled his stomach, and he was asleep before he knew it. And that was the last day before the war.
When Mr Chamberlain had finished, and the children had been sent out of the room, the Brig suggested that he and his sons – and Raymond, of course – should repair to his study to discuss plans, but the Duchy said no, if plans were to be discussed she thought that everyone should be present to discuss them. She said it with such surprising asperity, that he gave way at once. Everybody settled down: Miss Milliment wondered quietly whether they would like her to leave, but nobody seemed to hear her, so she crossed her ankles and looked rather anxiously at her shoes, the laces of which had already come undone. The Brig, who had lit his pipe very slowly, now said that obviously everybody should stay put: the London houses could be closed, or possibly all but one … What about the children’s schools? Villy and Sybil said at once. Surely they would remain open – they were in the country, after all, and it would be a pity to interrupt their education. It was decided that Villy should ring Teddy’s and Simon’s school, and that Jessica would find out about Christopher’s school and whether the domestic-science establishment attended by Nora and Louise was to continue or not. There was then a pause, eventually broken by Villy, who said what about the Babies’ Hotel? She didn’t think the nurses could get through the winter in the squash court: the glass in the roof would make it perishing cold, apart from the fact that the poor things had no real facilities for washing or keeping their clothes, ‘Or even anywhere to be when they aren’t working,’ she added. The Brig said that he’d been considering modifications to the squash court that would deal with all that, but the Duchy said sharply that it was out of the question to modify a place that people were having to sleep in. There was a silence; everyone recognised that she was upset, but only Rachel knew why. Raymond then announced that kind though they all were, he and Jessica and their brood had a perfectly good house of their own at Frensham which they would repair to, as they had always been going to do, in a week’s time. Rupert said that he was going to have a crack at joining the Navy, and he knew that Edward had made his arrangements; Hugh would be in London, the older boys and girls at school, so why couldn’t they let the nurses have Pear Tree Cottage and all live here at Home Place? This idea, while it seemed to have no valid objection, met with covert resistance. Neither Sybil nor Villy relished the idea of having no household of their own; the Duchy had serious misgivings about whether Mrs Cripps would stand the numbers to cook for; Rachel felt anxiety about turning her sisters-in-law out of their house for her – Rachel’s – charity, and the Brig did not wish to be balked of his ingenious schemes about the squash court. Nobody voiced their reservations, and when the Duchy had said that they would cross that bridge when they came to it, some of them felt able to acknowledge the scheme as a good idea. Rachel then said that she and Sid must get back to Mill Farm where they had been in the midst of unpacking and settling in Matron and the babies. Then Edward said he thought they should all have a drink, and he and Rupert went off to arrange that.
‘You’ve been very quiet, darling,’ Rupert said to Zoë, as she followed them out of the room.
‘I couldn’t think of anything helpful to say,’ she replied, �
��but, Rupe, are you really going to join the Navy?’
‘If they’ll have me. I’d have to do something.’ He looked at her, and then added, ‘Of course, they may not have me.’
‘But what shall I do?’
‘Darling, we’ll talk about that. We’ve got a lot of plans to make.’
Edward handed him a tray of glasses at this point, and he repeated, ‘Don’t worry, we will talk about all of it – but later.’
Zoë, without replying, turned on her heel and ran down the hall and upstairs. Edward raised his eyebrows and said, ‘I expect all that talk about the Babies’ Hotel upset her, poor little sweet. Everyone’s feeling a bit jittery.’
Except you, Rupert thought with resentful admiration. He felt that Edward was capable of turning anything – even war – into an exciting personal adventure.
After lunch, it was decreed that the children were to go blackberrying, as the Duchy said that as much jelly as possible should be made while there was still sugar. ‘Much better to give them something sensible to do,’ she said, and the aunts and mothers agreed. Louise and Nora were put in charge, and told Neville and Lydia to wear their wellingtons which made them cross.
‘You aren’t wearing yours,’ Lydia said to her sister, ‘so why should we?’
‘Because you’re much smaller, and your legs will get scratched.’
‘They’ll get scratched above our wellingtons just as much.’
‘Yes,’ Neville said, ‘and the blood will run down into our boots and mingle with our sore heels.’
‘I think everyone should wear them, or no one,’ Clary said. It was rather sickening, she remarked to Polly, how those two pretended to be grown up when they weren’t.
‘And why aren’t Teddy and Christopher being made to do it?’ Clary demanded, as they waited in the scullery while Eileen provided them with receptacles.
‘Because the Brig wants them to do things to the squash court,’ Louise said.
‘And it’s none of your business, anyway,’ Nora said. Neville put out his tongue, but Nora saw him. ‘That’s extremely rude, Neville, you should apologise at once.’
‘It just happened to come out,’ he said, retreating from her. ‘I don’t think I need to apologise for something which simply happened.’
‘Yes, you do. Apologise.’
He thought for a moment. He had put the large colander that Eileen had given him on his head so that it was not possible to see his expression.
‘I’m so frightfully sorry that I can’t come,’ he said at last. ‘That’s what people say when they don’t want to do something,’ he added.
Clary saw his eyes gleaming through the holes in the colander. ‘It’s no good,’ she said to Louise. ‘Much better to pretend he never said it.’
Louise entirely agreed. She felt Nora often got far too bossy, but she was also obstinate and would never give way in front of the other children. ‘Look, Neville, just say you’re sorry. Quietly.’
He looked at her; she was much nicer than Nora. She saw his lips move.
‘I said it,’ he said. ‘So quietly that I should think I was the only person who could hear.’
‘Well, that’s that,’ Nora said, slinging her basket over her shoulder. ‘A lot of fuss about nothing.’
‘Mincemeat out of a molehill,’ Neville agreed. He had taken off his colander, and his face was bland.
‘Oh, come on!’ Clary cried. It was awful how long people took to get started on anything.
The best blackberry place was at the far end of the large meadow beyond the small wood at the back of the house. The grass was high and bleached, as it had not been cut for hay; the few large trees were turning, the Spanish chestnuts laden with their yellowing spiky balls. This year, Polly thought, they would really be able to roast chestnuts; last year they had thought they would, but in the end they had all gone back to London the same as usual. ‘What’s going to happen to us, do you think?’ she asked Clary.
‘I should think we’ll stay here and have lessons with Miss M. They wouldn’t have got her down here if we weren’t. But the boys will go to school, I should think – after all, their school is in the country, and I suppose they will go to their domestic-science place. Neville ought to go to a boys’ school as well,’ she added. ‘He’s getting awfully spoilt.’
‘But – if we’re here, and our fathers are in London or somewhere else, what happens when we’re invaded?’
‘Oh, Poll! Our fathers will be in London. They’ll come down for weekends. And we won’t be invaded. We have a navy. They’ll stop all that sort of thing.’
Polly was silent, not from conviction, but from the hopeless sense that the more people tried to be reassuring, the less you could trust their views. They had reached the wide sloping bank that inclined towards the next wood – the one where she had imagined the tank blasting through towards her and Dad last year. The brambles festooned the clumps of hawthorn that were scattered on this piece of land, which also contained many rabbit holes, molehills and in one place the end of a dewpond, now simply a dampish declivity surrounded by a few disconsolate rushes. In the Easter holidays it was a good place for primroses which clustered round the clumps, and in the early summer they had found little purple orchids. Now the large trees in the wood were burnished in the golden, windless light, and the clumps glistened with bramble, briony and hawthorn berries, and there were swags of old man’s beard.
‘Everybody spread out and start picking!’ Nora called. She made it sound like a school outing, Louise thought, as she noticed the others moving quickly as far from Nora as possible, which left her, Louise, feeling that she’d have to stay with her cousin or it would look rude. They put up a cock pheasant between them, but before it flew, it ran, with its drunken, stilted gait, a few yards away; then, when Lydia ran after it, it rose in the air and whirred away.
Neville soon got tired of picking and upset his colander, which discouraged him even more. He went exploring the rabbit holes: he had a secret desire to see the inside of a warren, and thought that if only he could widen the entrance, he’d be able to slip in. He did not even want to tell Lydia this plan; it would be far more fun to mention it casually when they were having their baths. ‘I went into a warren today,’ he would say. ‘It was just like Beatrix Potter – little frying pans hung up on sticky-out roots from the walls, and the floor all smooth and sandy. The rabbits loved me coming to see them.’ He imagined them hopping onto his knees, all soft and furry with their lovely ears lying down on their backs and their bulging eyes looking up at him in a trusting way. But he couldn’t make any headway with the digging at all. He tried with the colander, but it simply wouldn’t dig, and then he tried scooping earth up with one of his wellingtons, but it was too floppy. And then when he put the Wellington on again, it seemed to be full of little sharp sandy pebbles, so he took it off again. He’d have to pinch a trowel out of McAlpine’s shed, he thought, as he limped towards the others thinking of what he would say about not having any blackberries, and then, of course, he trod on a bramble and thorns went into his foot, and when he tried to go on walking it really hurt.
This made everyone not notice about his not having any blackberries and Nora was really nice to him. She made him sit down and took his foot and found where the thorns were, and squeezed and squeezed and got two of them out, but the last one was too deep. ‘It could be sucked out,’ she said, and everyone who was standing round looked doubtfully at his grimy foot. ‘He’s your brother,’ Nora said to Clary who did not seem very keen.
‘Although if he’d been bitten by an adder and would die if I didn’t, of course I would,’ she said, ‘but just a thorn …’
‘It’s only a bramble,’ Louise said.
‘No, it’s a rose thorn and quite a big one. It’s broken off. If he walks on it, it’ll simply go in deeper and deeper.’
‘Then it might come out the other side,’ Lydia said, ‘come sprouting out of the top of his foot.’ They were full of unhelpful suggestions.
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‘All right,’ Nora said. ‘Give me your foot again.’ She sat down opposite Neville and took his foot in her hands. Then she spat on it and rubbed it with her dress, which wouldn’t show, Louise thought, because it was a rather nasty mixture of orange and black in sort of stripes and blobs – a cross between a zebra and a giraffe. Then she sucked for a bit, and then squeezed, and finally the thorn, black and quite large, came out.
‘You should have worn socks inside your wellingtons,’ she said mildly. ‘There you are. Has anybody a sock to lend him?’
Lydia obliged. ‘Although if there’d been an air raid, I bet you could have run,’ she said.
‘Let’s go home,’ Polly said at once, and Clary could see that this idea hadn’t occurred to her, but that now that it had she was definitely nervous.
‘Thank Nora,’ Clary said.
‘I was just going to,’ Neville said sulkily. ‘And now you’ve spoiled my thanks. I’ll thank you on the way home,’ he said to Nora, ‘when I start to feel like it again.’
An ordinary afternoon, Polly thought, as they made their way back. How many more of them would there be? She looked at Clary trudging beside her. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I was trying to describe that pheasant. You know – exactly how it looked – you know – like a bird in fancy dress – a bit military, and the way it ran – a sort of swaggery stagger …’
‘Why? I didn’t think you were interested in birds.’
‘I’m not, particularly. But I might want to put one in a book, and I have to keep remembering things for that.’
‘Oh.’
Aunt Rach weighed the blackberries and altogether they came to eleven pounds three ounces, and the Duchy gave them each a Meltis Fruit after tea, and Dottie cried because Mrs Cripps said she hadn’t cleaned the preserving pan properly, and that now it might catch. In the early evening, the nutty fragrance of the hot seething blackberries seeped into the large hall and could even be detected on the top landing by Great-Aunt Dolly as she went to the bathroom to put water in her tooth glass for soaking her senna pods.
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 59