There were the children, but his affection for them was beginning to be tainted by anxiety and feelings of inadequacy about them. Without Sybil, he felt that he was losing his nerve. For instance, with Polly – he was fairly sure that she had fallen in love, some time about last Christmas was when he had noticed this, but she hadn’t told him, had brushed off his (probably clumsy) attempts to give her openings for confidence. Nothing seemed to have come of it: for months she had been listless, polite, without her usual spirit. He worried about her, felt shut out, was afraid of boring her (this was the worst thing because if that was true, or became true, she would only spend time with him from pity). When he had discovered that Louise and Michael were giving up the house in St John’s Wood, he had thrown out a very casual suggestion that she and Clary would always be welcome to take up their old rooms at the top of the house, but Poll had only said, ‘That’s jolly kind of you, Dad,’ and changed the subject, so he was pretty sure that she wouldn’t. And that made staying on in this house absurd. He only used his bedroom, the kitchen and the small back drawing room; everything else was shut up and probably getting filthy dirty, as Mrs Downs could not possibly clear the whole place in the two mornings a week that she came. The place needed some staff, a family – above all, a mistress … The thought of moving appalled him: it was something he had only ever done with Sybil. With her it had been an exciting adventure each time. They had begun married life in a flat in Clanricarde Gardens – all they could afford. It wasn’t a nice place at all, being the ill-converted floor of a huge tall stucco house whose owner needed the income. It had enormously high ceilings with paint-encrusted friezes, huge draughty sash windows and a gas meter for the fires that swallowed shillings as voraciously as the wide cracks in the floorboards devoured Sybil’s hairpins or the buttons off his clothes. Poll had been born there, but soon after they had moved to the house in Bedford Gardens. That had been a wonderful move. Their own little house with its tiny front and back gardens and a wisteria that reached the iron balcony outside their bedroom. He remembered their first night there, eating their first Bellamy pork pie and drinking the bottle of champagne that Edward brought when he came to fetch Poll to stay until they had got her room decorated. Hugh had taken a week of his holiday, and he and Sybil had painted the house together, had picnic meals and slept on a mattress in the sitting room while he laid the hardwood floor in their new bedroom. It had been one of the happiest weeks of his life. Simon had been born in that house, and they had only moved where he was now when Sybil became pregnant for the third time.
By now he had changed his shoes, washed, made himself a whisky and soda and settled down to listen to the six o’clock news. It was even more depressing than he had expected. Churchill, who had not been opposed by either Labour or Liberal candidates, had lost over a quarter of the poll to an independent – a man he had never heard of. He leaned over and switched off the wireless. Silence invaded the room. He sat for some minutes, trying to think of something that he could do, could have, to distract himself. He could go to his club where he would probably find someone to dine with and perhaps have a game of billiards, but everyone would be full of election talk, and collective depression was not an inviting prospect. He could ring up Poll – he could, but he knew that he wouldn’t. He rationed himself to ringing her once a week, did not want her to feel that he was interfering with her life or being a burden. Simon was off somewhere with his friend Salter – a bicycling holiday in Cornwall. He realized now that Simon had worked so hard this last year at school in order to get into Oxford because that was where Salter was going. Well, why not? He knew that Sybil would have been keen on it, partly, of course, because it deferred his being called up, and now might even mean that when he was, he would not actually have to fight. And she would, anyway, have approved of Simon going to a university, attaching far more importance to education than the family did. The Brig thought it was a waste of time and Edward was pretty dismissive, but then he had hated his school life and had been delighted that their war had curtailed it. Whenever universities were mentioned, Edward would bring up the prewar debate in the Oxford Union where there had been some ghastly pacifist vote, which had showed, Edward had repeatedly said, how degenerate the young had become, the implication being that places like Oxford simply filled the young with decadent ideas. Of course, the war, when it came, had utterly disproved this, but it had not really allayed the male Cazalet view that education should stop as soon as possible in order that real life could begin. That Simon was to read medicine had made the whole project more respectable: the Duchy, Villy and Rachel were deeply in favour; it was really only the Brig and Edward who passively disapproved, and that, he knew, was because they thought that all male Cazalets should go into the family firm. Anyway, Simon was not available for company. Tomorrow he would be going down to Sussex, and he’d think of things to do with Wills who, he felt, suffered from too much female company. Tonight he could not be bothered to go out. He made himself another drink and descended to the basement, where, after some searching, he found a tin of Spam, the rather stale remains of a loaf from which he had been making his morning toast all week, and a couple of tomatoes brought up from Home Place last weekend. He put these things on a tray with the tin opener and went back to the drawing room. A quiet evening at home, he told himself, would do no harm.
They were running late, Edward reflected, although he ought to have known they would be. Whenever he went to Southampton unexpected problems came up, and today had been no exception. He’d gone down to interview a couple of blokes to be assistant wharf manager, and he’d taken Rupert with him because Rupert hadn’t even seen the place and – as it was beginning to look as though he would be the only candidate for running it – it was high time that he was put in the picture. He’d meant just to interview the chaps and then they’d have a jolly good lunch and he would show Rupe round and generally enthuse him with the project. But it hadn’t turned out like that. The first bloke had been hopeless – far too full of himself and of pointless breezy little anecdotes that were meant to show him in a good light but actually put them off him – and pretty cagey about his previous experience. The second man was late, on the old side and very nervous, clearing his throat every time before he spoke and sweating, but his track record was good: he’d run a softwoods sawmill throughout the war and was only leaving because the firm were taking somebody back out of the Army who had had the job before. Edward had the impression that he was older than he said he was, but he didn’t push that one, and when the interview was over he asked Rupert what he thought.
‘He seemed all right, but I wouldn’t know whether he could do the job.’
‘Well, it’s all we’ve got to choose from.’
‘Now it is. But any moment there’ll be hundreds – or dozens, anyway – of then wanting a job.’
‘But we need someone now. Unless you think you could do it as a stop-gap.’
‘Good God! I couldn’t begin to! I don’t know the first thing about it’ He looked appalled. After a pause, he said, ‘And it would mean living here, wouldn’t it? Zoë has set her heart on London.’
This was not at all what he wanted to hear. He knew that Hugh would not consider running the place as he was dead against it – had been all along – and his own private life was far too complicated for him to conduct it so far from London. But there ought to be a Cazalet on the spot.
‘Oh, well,’ he said, ‘let’s sleep on it. I want to show you round, but let’s get some lunch first.’
Lunch – at the Polygon Hotel – had taken ages. The place was unusually full, and the bar, where they had a drink while they waited for a table, was full of then poring over the election results in the early edition of the local evening paper. The banner headlines could be read across the room. ‘Labour Sweeping to Victory!’ ‘Conservatives Routed!’
‘There’s not much to drink to,’ he said, when their pink gins arrived, but Rupert said that he thought it was probably a good thing. T
hey had a bit of an argument. Edward was shocked. ‘Get rid of Churchill?’ he said, more than once. ‘It seems to me sheer bloody-minded madness. After all, he got us through the war.’
‘But the war’s over. Or over here, anyway.’
‘The other lot are simply bent on running down the Empire, ruining the economy with their blasted Welfare State. It’s simply because people want something for nothing.’
‘Well, they’ve put up with nothing for something for quite a while.’
‘Really, old boy, you’re turning into some sort of Red!’
‘I’m not turning into anything. I’ve never been much of a Tory, but that doesn’t make me a Communist. I’d just like things to be a bit fairer.’
‘What do you mean by “fairer”?’
There was a short silence: his brother seemed intent upon twisting a bit of the foiled paper from his packet of Senior Service.
‘Bodies,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t mean dead ones. I noticed it when I was Number One on that destroyer. Then used to strip down, swabbing decks or in the engine room, or I just saw them when I was doing the rounds. I noticed that most of the Ordinary Seamen’s bodies were a different shape: narrower shoulders, barrel-chested, bandy legs, scrawny-looking, terrible teeth – you’d be surprised how many of them had false ones. They just looked as though they’d never had a chance to grow to what they were originally meant to be. Of course, there were exceptions – husky chaps who’d been stevedores or dockers or miners – but there were a hell of a lot who’d come from cities, from indoor jobs. I suppose it was mostly them I noticed. Anyway, compared to the officers they looked very different. It seemed to me then that except for our uniforms, we should have looked the same.’ He looked up at his brother with a small smile – like a silent and mirthless apology. ‘There were other things …’
Perhaps he’s going to tell me about France, Edward thought. He’s never talked about that – at all. ‘Things?’
‘Er – well, like if you haven’t got much to lose, it’s far worse when you lose it. One of our gunners lost his house in the bombing. If we lost a house, we’ve got another one, haven’t we? Or we could get one. He lost his house and his furniture, everything in it.’
‘That could happen to anyone – has happened—’
‘No doubt – but it’s what happens afterwards that’s different.’
He wasn’t going to talk about it – get whatever it was off his chest. Edward felt relieved when the waiter came to tell them that their table was ready.
But even when they got their table, the service was very slow and they didn’t get back to the wharf until after three. He’d decided to do a quick tour with Rupert and then get away as he’d promised Diana he’d be at her place in time for dinner and spend Friday night with her before going on to Home Place. But when they got back the man who was overseeing the building and repairs to the sawmill said that the borough surveyor wanted to see him with a list of changes to be made for fire precautions. This meant going over the list on site, and one way and another it took nearly three hours. Rupert left him after a bit, and said he’d have a prowl round on his own.
A good many of the modifications should have been done during the rebuilding of the sawmill: it was going to be far more expensive to do them now. He told Turner, the man in charge, to send him a copy of the list and said he would tackle their own surveyor about why he hadn’t called the borough surveyor earlier. Then he couldn’t find Rupert, and after he sent someone to go and look for him, he rang Diana to tell her that he wouldn’t be able to make it in time for dinner. ‘I’m still in Southampton. Got to get Rupert back to London before I come down to you – sorry, sweetie, but it can’t be helped.’
She was obviously very upset, and by the time he’d finished talking to her, and swivelled round in his chair to put out his cigarette, Rupert was standing in the open doorway to the office.
‘Look here, I’d no idea I was putting you out. I can easily get back on a train.’
‘It’s all right, old boy.’ He felt intensely irritated: Rupert must have heard every word he’d been saying – probably given the whole show away …
‘I didn’t realize that you were going on somewhere – much better if you put me on a train.’
If he drove straight from the station to Diana’s he could get there in an hour and a half …
‘Well, if it’s all the same to you … Let’s have a quick one first. There’s quite a nice little pub up the road.’
While they were having the drink he told Rupert about Diana, about how long the affair had been going on, about how he really didn’t feel ‘that way’ about Villy any more, about Diana’s husband having died leaving her with practically not a bean and four children. ‘It’s a hell of a mess,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what to do.’ It was an enormous relief, he discovered, to have someone to talk to about it.
‘Do you want to marry her?’
‘Well, that’s the problem, you see.’ As he said this, he realized that he did want to very much indeed. ‘You know, if you’ve had somebody’s child—’
‘You didn’t say that—’
‘Didn’t I? As a matter of fact, she’s almost certainly had two of mine. You can see how it is – it makes you feel responsible – difficult just to walk out – leave her and all that.’
Rupert was silent. Edward began to be afraid that he was going to start disapproving of him – like Hugh. He couldn’t bear the idea of that: he desperately wanted someone on his side. ‘I really do love her,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t have gone on so long if I didn’t love her more than anyone I’ve ever met. And, anyway, how do you think she’d feel if I simply walked out on her?’
‘I don’t suppose Villy would feel too good if you left her. Does she know about it?’
‘Good God, no! Not a thing.’
As Rupert remained silent, he said, ‘What do you think I should do?’
‘I suppose you feel that whichever you did would be wrong.’
That’s it! That’s it exactly.’
‘And I suppose that she – Diana – wants to marry you?’
‘Well – we haven’t actually talked about it, but I’m pretty sure that she does.’ He gave a small, embarrassed laugh. ‘She keeps saying she adores me – that kind of thing. Do you want another?’ He’d noticed that Rupert had been staring into the bottom of his glass for some minutes now, but he shook his head.
‘I suppose you’ll just have to decide one way or the other.’
‘It’s a hell of a decision to make, though, isn’t it?’ It was all very well for Rupert to say that – he was not exactly known in the family as a decision-maker. ‘I thought,’ he said, ‘that perhaps I ought to wait until Villy’s found a house that she likes – get her installed in it, you know – before I – do anything. We ought to be off. I’ll just give her – Diana, I mean – a ring to tell her I will be back for dinner.’
On the way to the station he said, ‘I would love you to meet her.’
‘All right.’
‘You will? Hugh has absolutely refused to.’
‘Hugh knows about her, then?’
‘He sort of knows, but he refuses to understand the situation, simply buries his head in the sand, whereas Diana and I have agreed it’s much better to talk about things quite openly and frankly.’
‘Except to Villy?’
‘That’s different, old boy, you must see that. I can’t exactly discuss it with her until I’ve made up my mind to take the plunge.’
As he let Rupert out of the car he said, ‘Nobody else knows about this, by the way.’
Rupert said all right.
‘I’m really grateful to you letting me go off like this.’
‘I’m not letting—’
‘I mean, taking the train so that I don’t have to let Diana down.’
‘Oh, that! That’s OK by me – I’ve got all the time in the world.’
It was a clear, sunny evening and Edward drove east with the
sun behind him, on his way to have dinner and stay the night with his mistress. The prospect, which usually made him feel excited and carefree – as he always felt on the nights before his holiday – seemed now to have other dimensions: the watertight compartments in which he had kept his two lives throughout the war were no longer sound; guilt was leaking steadily from one to the other. He supposed that talking to Rupert had somehow made everything seem more urgent. When he had said that Diana and he had not actually talked about marriage, he had rather simplified the point. Although she never said the word, she managed to bring all kinds of conversation to the outskirts of marriage. She couldn’t go on in the cottage, for instance. Well, that was fair enough: it was cut off and a mean little place where she was hopelessly isolated. But what should she do? she had asked – more than once – her lovely eyes fixed on his face. She also asked many small, trapping questions about whether Villy was to continue in the country or go back to London. He hadn’t told her about selling Lansdowne Road as he’d been afraid she would jump to conclusions. It was dreadfully hard on her, poor darling, having all this uncertainty. But, after all, he had it too. There was nothing he would like better than to have settled Villy comfortably, so that he needn’t worry about her, and then be free to start a wonderful new life with Diana. Perhaps, he thought, reaching for his snuff box (marvellous stuff if you got sleepy driving), perhaps I should tell her this, and resolved that he would.
So, after dinner when they were drinking brandy, he did tell her, and she was overcome, said, ‘Oh, darling, how wonderful!’ and was awfully understanding about the terribly difficult problem of Villy. ‘Of course I understand! Of course you must think of her first. We must both put her first, darling.’
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 148