The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  ‘Zoë chose it for me. But she made me wear the hat.’ She had gone faintly pink, and now he was near her, she didn’t look at him. Pride, he thought, she’s not going to admit that she’s missed me.

  ‘I missed you,’ she said in an off-hand voice. ‘But I must say it has been very good for work. You know – no distractions like cooking and all that.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ Neville was saying. ‘Honestly, we really ought to get there.’

  He took all four of them squashed in his car. Neville sat in front, because Louise said if he sat with them he would spoil their clothes.

  There will be plenty of time, he thought, as he drove to Claridges Hotel, for us to talk after the reception. And he began to imagine driving down to the cottage with her that evening. So he made no particular effort to talk to her while they were at the reception, and neither did she.

  After he had been received and met Gerald for the first time, he concentrated upon doing the rounds, or covering the ground or whatever they called it.

  Miss Milliment was arrayed in a jersey suit the colour of blackberry fool, which did not look its best backed by the salmon pink damask of the large chair she had been parked upon. ‘What a happy day!’ she said, when he greeted her. ‘It’s Archie, isn’t it? My eyes are not quite what they were.’ And later, ‘Oh Archie, I fear a little piece of bridge roll, or possibly just the filling of it has escaped my clutches and may perhaps be visible to you down the side of the chair? Thank you so much. I was pretty sure I was right.’

  Lydia – in a bridesmaid’s dress – and Villy.

  ‘Mummy, if it’s at all possible I want never to see Judy again in my life. Hello, Archie! Do you like my dress? I was just telling Mummy about my ghastliest cousin. She’s furious because she’s not a bridesmaid and if you ask me she’s most unlikely ever to be a bride because I can’t think of anyone stupid enough to marry her.’

  ‘That will do,’ Villy was saying. ‘Go and hand some things round to people.’

  ‘How are you, dear Villy?’

  ‘Better, I think. Busy, anyway. Zoë and I are trying to start a small dancing school, as we both have different skills in that field. I’m not sure of it, but it will be very good for Zoë to have something constructive to do.’

  Rachel and Sid.

  ‘The Duchy simply loved having you to herself,’ Rachel said. ‘We suggested going down, didn’t we, Sid, but she wouldn’t hear of it.’

  ‘No, she wanted you to herself. But we’re taking her down this evening and staying the weekend to soften the blow of your departure.’

  ‘Sid is teaching me to drive,’ Rachel said, ‘and I’m afraid it has emerged that I don’t know my right from my left.’

  ‘She’s pretty shaky,’ Sid said fondly, ‘and has about as much sense of direction as a gadfly.’

  ‘Oh, darling! I think that’s a little unkind!’

  But nothing between them was unkind, he thought.

  Zoë, looking exquisite in a very pale pink suit with a nipped-in waist and long skirt and a broad pink straw hat that lit her complexion to yet another delicious pink. ‘Archie!’ She kissed him. ‘Isn’t it a lovely party!’

  ‘I hear you and Villy are starting a dancing school.’

  ‘A small one. I don’t know if it will work, but the idea of it has cheered Villy, which is the main thing.’

  ‘Archie, let me introduce you to Jemima Leaf.’ It was Hugh with a very small, neat blonde lady.

  When he had asked was she a friend of the bridegroom, ‘She’s a friend of mine,’ Hugh said, before she could reply. He said it, he thought, as though it was extraordinary to have one. Hugh got called away and he stayed talking to her. She had two children, she said, and she was working for Cazalets’ – for Hugh, in fact. He wondered afterwards about that. But eventually Polly went away to change, and fewer people remained, to say what good speeches they had been and how well everything had gone. He had been seeing her out of the corner of his eye for some time: she had been talking to Christopher, wasn’t it, the cousin who’d had the breakdown and who owned a devoted dog? He went over.

  ‘It’s Christopher, isn’t it? It’s so long since I’ve seen you.’

  ‘It’s very long since anybody’s seen him,’ Clary said.

  ‘How’s your dog?’ he asked, after a pause when neither of them said anything and he began to wonder whether he had interrupted something.

  ‘He died.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  But with a smile of singular sweetness, Christopher, answered, ‘He had a very good life and I’m sure he’s all right now.’

  ‘Christopher believes in a dog heaven,’ Clary said, ‘but I don’t think they would enjoy it much without their people.’

  ‘Perhaps one day I’ll have to join him, then. I must go,’ Christopher said a moment later, ‘got a train to catch.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, when they were alone. ‘Shall we have some supper before we drive down?’

  ‘We must see Poll off first,’ she said quickly, and began to go to the door of the large room. ‘We have to go outside,’ she called. He followed her.

  But when all that was over, when the small crowd of them were left waving and then turning to one another, she said, ‘Could we talk in the car?’

  ‘Why not?’

  He put her in the front seat and went round and got in beside her.

  ‘The thing is,’ she said, still not looking at him, ‘that I have very very nearly finished my book and I think I’d better be on my own until I have. If you don’t mind?’

  He was taken aback. ‘You haven’t stopped working because I’ve been around before. Why now?’

  ‘Oh, well … The end is quite difficult, and I think I would be better off really concentrating on it. It’ll only be about two weeks.’

  ‘All right. If that’s how you want it.’

  ‘It is. If that’s all right.’

  ‘Don’t keep saying if that’s all right if you know you’re going to do it anyway.’

  ‘All right. I won’t. What I would like,’ she went on, ‘would be if you could get me a taxi and I’ll be off. I wouldn’t have come at all, only I knew Poll would mind.’

  ‘I’ll drive you.’

  ‘I can easily get a cab.’

  ‘I daresay, but here I am. I’ll drive you.’

  The drive was curiously uncomfortable. At one point he said, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing’s up. I just want to get back to my work.’

  ‘Everything all right at the cottage?’

  ‘Everything’s the same, if that’s what you mean.’

  He was almost glad when they got to Paddington. She slipped out of the car, waved to him, said, ‘Thanks for the lift,’ and was turned to go when he called, ‘Clary! How will I know when you’ve finished?’

  ‘I’ll send you a postcard to the flat,’ she said, and was gone without a backward glance.

  So, during that fortnight, he thought almost bitterly, that if he’d wanted her to be independent, he’d certainly got his wish. She hadn’t even seemed especially pleased to see him. She’d always gone for extremes, he thought at intervals: she was an extreme person – nothing happened by halves. Anyway, if he faced up to it, he had to recognize that he would not be proposing to a sick or frightened little girl: she’d acquired poise in the last six weeks and a passion for her work which, though admirable, was slightly daunting.

  He thought everything about her during that time. He thought about her passionate nature, her determination, the way her hair sprang off centre from the widow’s peak, her endless curiosity that could apply itself to anything and hung on until she got some satisfaction, the glimpse he had had of her small found perfectly white breasts, her marvellous eyes, which when he looked into them were such a mirror to her self – only there had been no chance of that at the wedding, so really he did not know what she was feeling. It was as though he’d lost a part of her. The trust? Was that what had gone with her dependence? Or
had she changed in some other mysterious way? It even crossed his mind, during those days, that she had fallen in love. God forbid, and who with, after all? They knew nobody down there; there could have been a walker – people did walk along the towpath at weekends – but if she’d been working so hard, she would not have had time to meet anyone. Anyway, she would have told him. She did not tell lies, had never withheld anything that mattered to her from him. It was madness even to think of such a thing.

  By the time he got her postcard – a full fourteen days later on a Friday morning, the very day, as his morning paper informed him, that ‘The Sun sets on the British Raj’ – he felt that perhaps he was a little mad.

  Deliberately, for reasons not clear to himself, he did not arrive at the cottage until mid-afternoon. It was another hot, sunny day, and when he got out of the car, it was wonderful to smell the warm clean air – a hint of caramel from drying hay, and the peppery sweet smell of the phlox she had planted beside the mossy path to the kitchen door. He called her, once, but there was no answer. He unpacked the car, the food he had bought that morning and his painting gear, and carried it in several trips into the kitchen: the door was unlocked, so she must be somewhere.

  The door to the sitting room that led on to the garden was also open, and he could see her now, lying on the lawn with one of the old sofa pillows under her head. When he got near he saw that she was asleep, but nearer, some sound he must have made wakened her, as she sat up with a start. She was wearing her old black cotton skirt and a sleeveless white camisole thing that he’d never seen before.

  ‘Here I am at last,’ he said, and got down on the grass to give her a greeting kiss. He did not get the customary hug in return, and felt vaguely alarmed.

  ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’

  ‘I am – in a way.’

  ‘I’m glad your book’s done.’

  ‘Yes. So am I. In a way.’

  ‘How not?’

  ‘Well, it’s a kind of farewell to the people in it. Saying goodbye to them. I’d got used to them. And I hate saying goodbye to people anyway.’ Her hands were locked round her knees, and he began to feel the tension.

  ‘There will be other people,’ he said.

  ‘That is what I knew you would say,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I have something to say to you that you won’t know—’ he began. He did not feel that the moment was right, but something drove him to say it.

  But before he could get any further, she said, ‘There is something I have to say to you.’

  He waited, but she was silent, and in the silence he began to feel his heart thudding.

  ‘I was going to ask you if you’d like a holiday in France,’ he said desperately: a cowardly half-measure, but he was frightened now.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t, I’m afraid.’

  She must have fallen in love, he thought as he scanned her hands (clean) nails (unbitten) hair (shining with care). God! She had all the appearance – glowing, charming – of a girl who has just found the right man …

  ‘Clary, you must tell me – however difficult, you’ve bloody well got to tell me—’

  ‘ALL RIGHT!’ she cried, so loudly that he could see it even shocked her. She had been staring at the ground, now she looked up and straight at him.

  ‘You remember what happened with Polly – ages ago?’

  He didn’t know what she meant.

  He saw her swallow and she began to be very pale.

  ‘I can’t go to France with you, and I can’t go on living like we have. It’s something I found out when you went away. I had no idea of it before, but now I know.’

  ‘Darling, do try to tell me what the hell you are talking about.’

  ‘If you laugh at me, I shall really want to kill you,’ she said, in much more the old Clary way. ‘I found out that I feel like Polly used to – about you. To begin with I didn’t believe myself, because I so much wanted it not to be true. But it is. It truthfully entirely is.’ She sniffed and one very large tear shot out of an eye. ‘I couldn’t manage weekends with you being a sort of uncle or schoolmaster or whatever. It’s—’ Her eyes were full of tears now. ‘It’s really most unfortunate. For me, anyway. When I saw you at the wedding I sort of got an electric shock. You see?’

  For a second he thought he was going to laugh – with an hysterical relief. Instead, he took her hands in his and when he could manage to speak said, ‘What an extraordinary coincidence. Because that is exactly what I was going to say to you.’

  He thought that would be the end of it, that they would fall into each other’s arms at last; he hadn’t reckoned with her disbelief, her uncertainty that anyone would love her, her suspicion that he was merely trying to be kind, ‘buttering me up’, as she put it. He got up and pulled her to her feet.

  ‘I love you so much,’ he said, ‘and I’ve loved you for so long.’

  Kissing her made him feel faint – light-headed: it was she who said, ‘Wouldn’t we be better lying down?’

  They walked slowly, stumbling a little because they had to look at each other, and stopping at the foot of the stairs, because they were too narrow. He took her hand to lead her, then kissed her again. ‘Do you remember the evening that Pipette brought that message from your father? And you said “the second piece of love sent”?’

  She nodded and he could see her eyes, clear now of distrust.

  ‘This is the third,’ he said, ‘the third piece of love.’

  ‘But as you are here,’ she said, ‘it will be given, not sent.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  I want to thank Jane Wood who has been my patient, kind, vigilant and most encouraging editor throughout three of these four volumes … Without her, I don’t think I would have managed to get this far.

  All Change

  Elizabeth Jane Howard

  CONTENTS

  The Cazalet Family Tree

  All Change: Character List

  PART ONE June 1956

  PART TWO June–July 1956

  PART THREE July–September 1956

  PART FOUR December 1956–January 1957

  PART FIVE Spring 1957

  PART SIX Summer–Autumn 1957

  PART SEVEN November–December 1957

  PART EIGHT January–February 1958

  PART NINE Autumn 1958

  PART TEN November–December 1958

  THE CAZALET FAMILY TREE

  THE CAZALET CHRONICLES: ALL CHANGE

  Character List

  WILLIAM CAZALET, known as the Brig (now deceased)

  Kitty Barlow, known as the Duchy (his wife)

  HUGH CAZALET, eldest son

  Jemima Leaf (second wife)

  Laura

  Sybil Carter (first wife; died in 1942)

  Polly (married Gerald, Lord Fakenham;

  their children: Jane, Eliza, Andrew, Spencer)

  Simon

  William, known as Wills

  EDWARD CAZALET, second son

  Diana Mackintosh (second wife)

  Jamie

  Susan

  Viola Rydal, known as Villy (first wife)

  Louise (married Michael Hadleigh, now divorced;

  their son: Sebastian)

  Teddy (married Bernadine Heavens, now divorced)

  Lydia

  Roland, known as Roly

  RUPERT CAZALET, third son

  Zoë Headford (second wife)

  Juliet

  Georgie

  Isobel Rush (first wife; died having Neville)

  Clarissa, known as Clary, (married Archie

  Lestrange; their children: Harriet and Bertie)

  Neville

  RACHEL CAZALET, only daughter

  Margot Sidney, known as Sid (her partner)

  JESSICA CASTLE (Villy’s sister)

  Raymond (her husband)

  Angela

  Christopher

  Nora

  Judy

  Mrs Cripps (cook)

  Ellen (nurse)
r />   Eileen (maid)

  Tonbridge (chauffeur)

  McAlpine (gardener)

  Miss Milliment (Louise and Lydia’s old governess, now Villy’s companion)

  FOREWORD

  The following background is intended for those readers who are unfamiliar with the Cazalet Chronicles, a series of novels whose first four volumes are The Light Years, Marking Time, Confusion and Casting Off.

  Since the summer of 1945 William and Kitty Cazalet, known to their family as the Brig and the Duchy, have lived quietly in the family house, Home Place, in Sussex. The Brig died in 1946, of bronchial pneumonia, but the Duchy lives there still. She is not alone: she and her husband had four children – an unmarried daughter, Rachel, and three sons. Hugh is a widower, but is no longer mourning his first wife, Sybil, with whom he had three children, Polly, Simon and Wills; he has recently married Jemima Leaf, who had been working at Cazalets’, the family timber company. Edward has separated from Villy, his wife, and is contemplating marriage to his mistress, Diana, with whom he has two children. Rupert, missing in France during the Second World War, has returned to his wife, Zoë, Clary and Neville, the children of his first marriage, and Juliet, the daughter who was born to him and Zoë in 1940, after his disappearance. The couple have succeeded in rebuilding their marriage after a difficult start.

  Edward has bought a house for Villy. She lives there, unhappily, with Roland, her younger son. She has also taken in the old family governess, Miss Milliment. Villy’s sister, Jessica, and her husband have come into money, an inheritance from an aged aunt. Their son, Christopher, a pacifist and vegetarian, has become a monk.

  Edward’s daughter, Louise, hoped to become an actress, but married at nineteen. She has left her husband, the portrait painter Michael Hadleigh, abandoning also her small son, Sebastian. Her brother, Teddy, married an American woman while he was training with the RAF in Arizona. He brought Bernadine home to England, but she was unable to settle and left him to return to America.

  Polly and Clary have been living together in London. Polly has been working for an interior decorator and Clary for a literary agent. Through her work, Polly has met Gerald Lisle, Earl of Fakenham, and visited his ancestral home, which needs restoration. Shortage of money had prevented work starting, but Polly has recognised a large number of paintings in the house by J. M. W. Turner, some of which may fund it. She and Gerald are now married.