The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  ‘I don’t want to be a bridesmaid!’ Clary said with vigour.

  ‘Well, I do.’

  ‘Oh, well, you’d look nice and everything. You know how silly I look in tidy clothes. After the war I shall go abroad because I’ve never been. Archie said I could stay with him.’ She fell silent suddenly, and Polly knew that she was thinking about her father.

  ‘I want to say something to you, Clary,’ she said. ‘I know you know that the family all think he’s dead. I’m afraid I think that as well. What I wanted to say was I do admire your faith about it. Whatever happens, I shall always admire it. It’s the most faithful thing I’ve ever known.’

  After a silence, Clary said, ‘How did you know I was thinking about him?’

  ‘I think I always know.’

  ‘I do – every day. And in the evenings as well. But I’ve stopped talking about it, because everybody else has run out of things to say. Even Archie.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good night, Poll. Thanks for what you said.’

  Much later, and long after they were asleep, Louise joined them.

  ‘I still do not understand why we are here.’

  ‘They asked us, darling.’

  ‘And who is they?’

  ‘Viola. Edward’s wife. They have asked us before, you remember.’

  ‘I remember with perfect clearness. I still do not know why.’

  There was a pause while she unclipped her painful earrings and began to unpin her hair. ‘Viola is that woman Jessica’s sister, is she not?’

  ‘Mercy darling, you know that. I thought you would like a little social life. It was an excellent dinner, didn’t you think?’

  ‘It was certainly good,’ she conceded. ‘And Mr – Edward – was a very nice man.’

  ‘Mercy!’ He ruffled her hair with an attempt at lightness. ‘I expect he was charmed by you. But I must warn you, he is in love with his wife.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It is so. As I am in love with mine.’ He put everything he could into that, and watched her dark eyes soften at the idea. ‘To bed! To bed!’ he cried, with all the fervour he could muster.

  ‘You know’, she began, ‘that I would not dream of looking at another man. I am not made in that way.’

  ‘Of course I know.’ He had heard it all before – a thousand times. The thing was to get her to bed before she started to compare her nature with his – to his serious disadvantage. ‘I do not wish to wait,’ he said.

  ‘You would not come here if you were serious about her?’

  ‘My darling, I haven’t the least idea who you mean, and I told you, her husband is in love with her. I am hardly the type to wish a duel.’

  ‘Oh ho! So it is both of them that is on your list? I am not to be deceived.’ She was away – and twenty minutes later, he was out of love with Jessica, with Villy, and more dangerously, with her. It took hours for her to vent her jealousy, forgive him, and then persuade him to make love to her. He liked the attention, so in the end he was able to do so.

  ‘He’s a bit too old for her, isn’t he?’

  ‘She’s too young for him. She’s too young for anybody.’

  ‘I expect you’re right.’ Edward undid his sock suspenders and put them on his bedside table. Villy was taking out her teeth and scrubbing them with that powder stuff she used. As they both had dentures, they had developed an unspoken ritual whereby whoever had their teeth out was not expected to do the talking. Now he said, ‘Nice bloke, though. Very keen on the Navy. I should think he’ll go a long way. He told me he was to take command of a new gun-boat building at Cowes. He seemed really excited by the prospect – wasn’t at all your usual arty type.’

  ‘In any case,’ she had put them back in now, ‘Louise should stop messing about trying to work in an overcrowded profession where everybody is more experienced than she is, and get down to some sensible war work. I wish you’d speak to her about it.’

  ‘She’s got plenty of time, surely? They’re not calling girls up until they’re twenty.’

  ‘They’re not calling them up, but it would be better if she volunteered, and anyway, if she did a shorthand-typing course, she’s far more likely to get a good job. At present she has absolutely no qualifications of any kind.’

  She sounded so acid, that he looked across the room at her image in the mirror: her camisole lying over the flat but, even so, sagging breasts. From that distance with her short cropped hair, her heavy eyebrows and face devoid of make-up, she looked like a sour little boy. The uneasy thought occurred to him that she actually didn’t like Louise, but he dismissed it as nonsense. She was just tired: everybody was tired these days – there was too much work and anxiety and not enough fun. He wondered whether she would notice and mind if he didn’t make love to her – he certainly didn’t feel like it.

  ‘I’m really fagged,’ he said, ‘let’s talk about it tomorrow.’

  She was already putting on her pyjama jacket, had taken to sleeping in them in preference to nightgowns because of the cold, and now he got up and walked over to the basin so that he wouldn’t see her without her camisole.

  ‘The Clutterworths are heavy going, aren’t they?’ he said wanting to get onto a neutral subject.

  There was a slight pause, and then she said, ‘You were awfully good with her at dinner.’

  He had taken out his teeth now, and didn’t reply. Villy went on, ‘She’s not at all easy, I know.’

  When he had cleaned his teeth and put them back, he said, ‘Oh, she wasn’t too bad – rather dull, but perfectly amiable. It was him I couldn’t stand. Oily little feller – looks like the Mad Hatter – he kept saying how wonderful everything was, whether it was or not.’

  Villy was in bed now, had turned onto the side that would be away from him. ‘He’s a very good musician,’ she said, ‘and the Duchy has been longing to have him to stay.’

  ‘Bless her heart. I’d put up with anyone for her.’

  He opened a window, then got into bed and switched off the light.

  ‘Night, darling. Sleep well.’

  ‘And you.’

  But in fact sleep eluded each of them for some time: she, because she found it impossible to conjure Lorenzo when he was sleeping a few yards away from her with another woman, and he because, not given to either thought or anxiety once he was in bed, with or without a woman, found himself worrying about Louise, who still treated him to small glassy smiles and avoided being touched by him, about Diana, now husbandless and pregnant, and finally about poor old Hugh, who he loved as deeply as he loved anyone and for whom, now, he felt he could do nothing.

  Louise had let herself out of the front door without making a sound. It was a quarter past one in the morning. All the evening they had been surrounded by the family, and although she had initially been pleased and elated to see how well he got on with them, she longed to be alone with him. Eventually, after they had listened to Mr Clutterworth and the Duchy play Bach on two pianos, she had suggested to Michael that they play a game of billiards.

  ‘I don’t really play,’ she said when they were safely in the large rather dark room.

  ‘I did wonder,’ he said. ‘I don’t either, as a matter of fact.’

  She looked round the room; the only place to sit was a rather hard bench. ‘I’m afraid it’s pretty cold in here.’

  He took off his uniform jacket and draped it round her shoulders.

  ‘Won’t you be cold?’

  ‘Not after the North Atlantic. Anyway, I have my love … I have you, haven’t I?’

  They sat on the bench, and he kissed her quite a lot and she liked it, and in between they talked. He hadn’t told his mother he had this leave, he said. It was so short that it would have meant not seeing Louise if he had gone home. ‘So don’t, for heaven’s sake, ever tell her,’ he said, half laughing, but she felt he was serious. They heard people going to bed, and he said, ‘I feel awful about your giving up your room for me. Won’t the squash court be frigh
tfully cold?’

  ‘I don’t mind. Some of this house is probably quite like the North Atlantic.’

  ‘Couldn’t you come up to my/your room for a bit?’

  ‘We’d have to wait until everybody has really gone to bed.’

  ‘Let’s wait, then.’

  ‘I’m making up to you,’ he said during this time. ‘You know that, don’t you? You’re such a darling, amazing girl. I’m afraid I’m falling in love with you.’ And he kissed her a great deal more.

  It was half past eleven by the time the house was quiet and they crept up the dark stairs, she holding his hand, and along the gallery passage to her room.

  They lay on the narrow little bed and he undid her blouse.

  ‘There’s a perfectly delightful bra,’ he said moments later, ‘that undoes in the front.’

  ‘Do you want me to take mine off?’

  ‘Well, it would be rather nice.’

  They were speaking almost in whispers. Louise suggested turning off the light, but he said that he couldn’t bear not to see her. It was exciting to be loved and wanted, and very soon when he asked her if she loved him – just a little – she said of course she did, she really loved him, ‘enormously,’ she said, and saying it made it seem real – and true. It was lovely to be with someone who admired and approved of her so much, and although she didn’t feel that she felt exactly the same about him as he seemed to do about her, she imagined that this was yet another of the mysterious differences that one did not discover until they happened. Men weren’t supposed to be beautiful – rugged, handsome, manly, all that sort of thing, but not possessing faces that encouraged the sort of adjectives he used about hers. Eventually, he groaned, and said that she must go, he could not trust himself, she said, ‘Need you?’

  She was lying on her back, naked to the waist, and he had sat up. He looked at her, then he picked up her blouse, and said gently, ‘Put it on, there’s a good girl.’

  She sat up then, and put it on. She didn’t bother with her bra.

  ‘I’ll see you to your squash court,’ he said.

  ‘No, don’t. You see, I know the way, and you might get lost coming back. I’m all right, honestly. I’ve got a torch … You’re not cross with me, are you?’

  ‘I’m certainly not cross with you. I’m just trying to be responsible, which is not something I’m particularly good at in this context. Have you got a coat?’

  ‘I’ll get a jersey out of the cupboard.’ When she had put it on, she said, ‘Michael! If you wanted to – to sleep with me, I wouldn’t mind. That’s what I meant just now. I can’t say I’d love it, because I don’t know what it’s like, but I might. Anyway,’ she felt a bit shy now, ‘I’d rather try it with you than anyone else I know.’

  ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. ‘You’d realty better go.’

  So here she was, in the utter darkness, walking very carefully, round the house, past the tennis court, through the little gate in the middle of the yew hedge into the kitchen garden. It was very cold and there was a delicious misty stillness that went well with having an adventure. He had a wonderful voice, she thought, even when he was almost whispering, it charmed her. It was amazing to have somebody of one’s own caring so much. She was beginning, she felt, to see the point of love.

  ‘Seventeen days to Christmas!’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong. What’s the date, Ellen?

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Ask Archie.’

  They pounded upstairs.

  ‘Seventh,’ he said. ‘What difference does it make to you, anyway?’

  ‘Longer to wait,’ Lydia said.

  ‘Shorter for people to get presents,’ Neville said. He was quite worried about this. With Dad gone, and Zoë away, and the aunts hardly ever going to Hastings, he couldn’t see how any decent presents would materialise. There probably wasn’t a single thing he would want to be got in Battle. He felt the outlook was grim.

  They spent the morning collecting holly to make Christmas things for their shop. ‘But it doesn’t really want to be made into anything!’ Lydia said, as she licked the blood off her pricked fingers.

  Music went on the whole of Sunday morning, with Sybil and Hugh and Villy listening. Mrs Clutterworth sat crocheting a lace collar and keeping an eye on her husband. Edward took Michael rough shooting, so Louise, rather reluctantly, went too. ‘Supposed only to shoot vermin on a Sunday, but luckily rabbits count as that and if you happen to encounter the odd pheasant or partridge, they’re always useful for the pot,’ Edward said. He was duly impressed when Michael shot four rabbits, a brace of pheasants and the only partridge that rose from the stubble of one of York’s fields.

  ‘Although what I am supposed to do with one partridge, I do not know,’ Mrs Cripps said when she received the morning’s bag. Miss Milliment read the paper to the Brig, interrupted by the hourly news bulletins on the wireless to which he had become addicted. Rachel spent a patient two hours with Dolly, and then rang Sid, who didn’t answer, and she remembered that Sid did Sunday duty at her ambulance station and felt sad. But she’ll come at Christmas, she thought. She, too, was counting the days.

  Sunday lunch: the rabbit pies, followed by tarts made with bottled plums were consumed, after which Villy organised an expedition to Bodiam Castle for the benefit of the Clutterworths. The younger children clamoured to go too and the expedition ended up, as they so often do, not being at all like their perpetrator had envisaged. Everybody else dispersed to read, to rest, to write letters.

  Clary and Polly had a row.

  ‘If I’d known you were going for a walk with Christopher, I’d have gone to Bodiam,’ Clary stormed.

  ‘You never said you wanted to go.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were going for a walk.’

  ‘You could come too.’

  ‘I loathe walks, you know I do. I wanted us to do our presents.’

  ‘We’ll do them after tea.’

  ‘Oh, Polly! You are maddening sometimes! I’ve got something else I want to do after tea.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shut up. This is a typical boring weekend. I’m going to wash my hair. That shows you how bored I am.’

  By the time she got out of the house Polly saw Christopher disappearing down the drive with Oliver. For a moment she felt cross with him; then she thought that was silly, she could easily catch up. It was a beautiful winter afternoon, with silvery sunlight and silent birds rustling through the piles of fallen oak leaves at the sides of the drive.

  A taxi suddenly appeared round the bend, and she waited, because this was extremely unusual and interesting. It stopped at the house, and one of the smallest men she’d ever seen in her life got out of it: He was wearing a naval cap and greatcoat that reached almost to his ankles. I suppose he’s a friend of Michael’s, oh dear, she thought: she knew Michael had gone off somewhere with Louise. The small man paid the driver with some notes, and then turned to stare at the house. The driver was trying to give him some change, but he seemed not to notice.

  Polly advanced. ‘He’s got some change for you,’ she said.

  The man spun round on his heels, acknowledged her, and took the change from the driver.

  ‘I’m Polly Cazalet,’ Polly said.

  ‘Cazalet,’ he repeated, with evident pleasure. He had sparkling black eyes, a charming smile and surprisingly, a heavy French accent.

  ‘I come,’ he said, ‘for Madame Cazalet.’

  ‘Which one?’

  He looked confused and said, ‘My English is not good. Do you speak French?’

  ‘Not much, I’m afraid.’ She remembered Archie. ‘Come with me. I’ll find you someone to talk to.’

  She took him up to Archie’s room.

  ‘Archie. A French person wants a Madam Cazalet. Could you find out what exactly he wants?’ As she said this, she suddenly thought of Uncle Rupert, and her heart
dropped like a stone.

  The small man broke into torrents of French, and Archie interrupted him to ask questions, which he answered. Then he drew from his pocket two very small, thin pieces of paper and handed them to Archie who read them, and then said, ‘Fetch Clary, Poll – now.’

  ‘I can’t come – my hair’s dripping wet!’

  ‘Clary, you must. Never mind your hair. Archie wants you.’

  ‘Oh! All right.’ She lifted her dripping head out of the basin, smoothed some of the water out with her fingers and together they ran to Archie’s room. ‘He’s all right, isn’t he?’ Clary asked. ‘I mean, nothing awful?’

  But not feeling at all sure of this, Polly did not answer. The small man had taken off his greatcoat and was sitting in the visitor’s chair, but he sprang to his feet when they entered the room.

  Archie said. ‘This is Rupert’s daughter. This is Sub-Lieutenant—’

  ‘O’Neil. Pipette O’Neil. Not real name, you understand – from telephone book I take.’ He smiled at Clary, kissed her hand and said, ‘Mademoiselle Clarissa. Enchanté de vous voir.’

  Clary stood, stock still, staring at him, her eyes, in a face gone very white, had an expression that nobody in the room could bear.

  ‘I was friend of your father,’ he said.

  ‘Sit down,’ Archie said gently, patting the bed. ‘It’s a long story,’ and pushing her sleeked-back hair from her face, she did as she was told.

  He told her that Lieutenant O’Neil had met her father hiding in an orchard, that a family had kept them for nearly three months in different outbuildings on their farm. O’Neil had been on leave from the French navy when the Fall of France overtook him, and had been determined not to stay in France but to get to England and to join de Gaulle. But it was too soon for there to be any established network for escape: he and Rupert had to rely on their own wits, invention and luck. Their plan was to get to the coast, and there try to steal or bribe some fishing boat to take them across the Channel. The first farmer passed them onto a friend, a man who made cider, but there they got stuck: the cider manufacturer seemed unable or unwilling to find a reliable contact for them further west. They took turns in the daytime to pick apples for him while the other kept watch for Germans. Pipette tried to persuade the cider maker’s daughter to get them some papers, but although she agreed to try she was so obviously terrified that they decided it would be foolish to persist. In the end they got her to get prints of snapshots they took of each other, alongside a lot of other pictures, and she bicycled to the nearest town to get them developed. They borrowed an identity card belonging to the farmer, and Rupert copied the layout and forged papers for them both that they hoped would pass if they got asked for them. Then he said they hadn’t agreed about the next step. He was in favour of acquiring a couple of bicycles, but Rupert thought they would be better off on foot which meant that they could abandon the road more easily. They needed a map. Pipette had some money; Rupert had none, and he had given his watch in exchange for civilian clothes to the first farmer. But now it was winter, not the best time of the year for sleeping rough, but they knew they had already outstayed their welcome at the cider farm. So one morning, armed with bread, cheese, meat and a bottle of Calvados they set out. Their plan was to use only small roads or lanes, to walk during the early hours of the morning when it was still dark, to lie up in the day, and to walk again after four o’clock. And thus they proceeded. There were many, many stories about this time, Archie said. They reached La Fôret – a small place south of Quimper last April. Here, he said, they had another argument. Pipette was for them trying to find a boat together; Rupert said they should part and try their luck separately. But he, Pipette, had been adamant that they should at least try first to see if they could go together. By now their money had long run out and they were reduced to stealing, food, and sometimes things they could swap for food. They slept in a barn outside La Fôret where a woman found them one morning when she was going to feed the chickens. She was intelligent and quickly understood they were on the run and she offered to help them. Her fiancé had been shot by Germans when he had tried to stop them taking chickens from their farm and she seemed anxious for any kind of revenge. They would have to go to Concarneau for any chance of a boat, she said. There were a few fishing boats there but occasionally other boats would put into that port for a day or two and then leave. She had no idea where they went. She offered to go to Concarneau for them to see what she could find out. After she had gone, they got very anxious, and left the barn in case of betrayal, but kept it in sight and sure enough, she came back alone that evening. There was a boat that had arrived that morning – what incredible luck! – and she thought it would be easy to slip aboard. When they asked her why she thought this, she answered that she herself had done so, had peered down a hatch into the forecastle where two men were snoring, and had then walked along the deck to the galley where she had taken a knife – and she showed it. It seemed too good to be true, but it was true. Their ill luck came from another direction. Their long walk had made their shoes unwearable. Pipette had come by some boy’s boots that were not too bad, but Michèle had got some shoes for Rupert that proved so large that he could hardly keep them on his feet. They had to set out for Concarneau in the early afternoon, because Michèle did not know the precise hour that the boat would sail, and they had not gone far before they heard a lorry approaching which was all too likely to be Germans. To get off the road they had to jump a ditch and then climb a bank to the field. They ran, but when Rupert jumped he landed badly. The others were ahead and did not realise this until the lorry had almost reached the bit of road they had left. They listened, but it did not stop, and when they emerged, they found Rupert lying face downwards in the ditch. He had rolled there as the safest cover, as he said he couldn’t walk. Michèle bound up his ankle in one of her stockings soaked in ditch water but although he could hobble painfully, he could not make any distance.