‘Would you like one?’
‘I would. Post it to me.’ He slowed the car and turned to her – for a second felt her cold fingers touch his lips.
It was nearly dark, and large snowflakes had begun, with random indolence, to drop slowly out of the sky.
‘How old are you?’
‘Fifteen. Well, nearly sixteen, actually,’ Juliet answered, in her cold, grown-up voice: she hated to be asked about her age, because so often it led to a sickening patronage. ‘How old are you?’
‘I’m twenty-six. A rather young twenty-six.’ God, he thought. We shall have to wait years.
‘You’re ten years older than I am.’ She said it with a quiet satisfaction. ‘That’s quite old. But, actually, you don’t look especially old.’
She was beginning to enjoy his appearance, which, when looked at properly, was both dashing and romantic: his high forehead with the lock of dark hair that fell diagonally across it, his high cheekbones, his eyes that could change in an instant from a kind of teasing charm to something unknown to her. She loved the mystery of this.
The snow had speeded up, the flakes only becoming white as they reached the windscreen, but now they were lying where they fell; the verge, the hedges and the country beyond began to glisten. The windscreen wipers, from doing a casual, reluctant sweep, struggled with a protesting screech. The windscreen began to mist up on the inside from their breath, and they took turns to wipe it with their hands. By the time they were through Sedlescombe and had reached the turning to the left, which ended with the Battle road, a snowstorm had begun.
‘Are you all right, my darling? I’m sorry it’s not warmer.’
‘A bit cold, but fine otherwise.’ The whole thing was turning into an adventure. After a pause she asked, rather timidly – she didn’t want to sound unsophisticated – ‘Why do you keep calling me your darling?’
‘Because that’s what I’ve discovered you are.’ He waited a moment before taking the plunge. How to begin? ‘It started at lunch today, so it’s quite new. The fact is, seeing you across the table today, I suddenly – I didn’t expect it, of course – suddenly felt quite fond of you – well, enamoured. I loved you, actually – I fell in love. I see now why people call it “falling in love”.’
He stopped the car in order to see her properly – to see how she had taken this.
She had been hugging herself, and now she turned to him with sparkling eyes. ‘In love with me? Really and truly? Golly! Is that why you gave me the lovely green ring?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
‘A kind of engagement?’
He nodded. He was realising – not for the first time that afternoon – that she was much younger than she looked. ‘But I don’t think we should tell people,’ he said – and she broke in: ‘Oh, no! It’s much more exciting if it’s a secret. Mummy would be furious. She doesn’t think I’m old enough for anything grown-up or interesting.’
Can’t go any further, he thought. He held each side of her face between his hands, and gave her a chaste kiss on her soft red mouth.
‘There. That’s sealed the second pact between us. No laughing at banana-skin victims, and our secret from the family.’
She wiped the windscreen again and he drove them very slowly home.
On the way she said, ‘The real Juliet was only fifteen in the play.’
‘Well, things happened much earlier in those days. People died a lot younger.’
‘Anyway, they weren’t cousins,’ she said.
He nearly said no, and nor were they, but stopped in time. He hadn’t much of an idea what she felt about him, and it seemed dangerous to ask. But then, she said, ‘Of course! You’re my half-brother. You seem so much older. I hadn’t thought of you like that.’ There was a pause, and then, in a small, defeated voice, she added, ‘So it’s no use you being in love with me. Is it?’
‘It’s got nothing to do with that. Darling Jules, when you love someone, that sort of thing doesn’t come into it. All that stuff about incest is just social bosh. Don’t think about it for a moment. That’s just stuffy old convention. Don’t spoil our lovely secret. You can’t stop me loving you whatever you do.’
‘All right, I won’t.’ She didn’t at all want her friends to know. They would discount it, and jeer – a ghastly thought. ‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘I promise.’
When they got back, tea was nearly over, but everyone seemed relieved to see them. He was surprised at the composure with which she answered the various questions asked of the drive to Battle woods, Neville taking photographs of her, the snowstorm on the way back, which had made the journey so much longer; surprised, and a little sad.
EDWARD AND HUGH
‘Well, if you insist on keeping Southampton, we ought to be seriously considering who is going to run it. It’s a shambles as it is.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’
Edward looked despairingly at his dear, bloody-minded, obstinate brother. He was finding it difficult to keep his temper.
They had been arguing for months about having too much capital invested in property, and each time Edward felt that he had got somewhere, but then, when the subject was raised again, he found that nothing he had said to Hugh about it seemed to have sunk in.
‘What about McIver?’ He was loyal, liked by the men under him and a native …
But while he was in the middle of pointing out these advantages, Hugh had interrupted, ‘Oh, I know all that, old boy, but he’s not a Cazalet. We must have a member of the family. We must have a Cazalet running the show.’
‘Why on earth—Why?’
‘Because we’re a small private family firm.’
They were lunching at Edward’s club, the Royal Thames in Knightsbridge, and he now suggested that they repair to the coffee room. Perhaps a spot of brandy might lower the tension. But when they were finally settled, coffee for both of them, brandy and a cigar for him, the club’s port and cigarettes for Hugh, his brother said, ‘Actually, I was rather hoping that you would take it on.’
A moment of sheer horror. God! ‘Out of the question, I’m afraid. You know I’ve finally bought the house in Hawkhurst. I couldn’t possibly commute from there, and Diana has set her heart on the place … How about Rupe?’
Their eyes met for the first time in indulgent conspiracy.
‘You know, Edward, he’s not the most decisive person in the world. I’m afraid it wouldn’t do.’
‘You’re absolutely right, of course.’ It was really good to have something they could agree on. They’d begun lunch with an argument about the Suez Canal: Hugh thinking that the British and French were right to try to hang on to it – ‘After all, we and the French paid for most of it. The Egyptians contributed a mere ten thousand pounds.’ But Edward had insisted that it was built on Egypt’s territory and no attempt had been made for friendly negotiation.
‘And they won’t maintain it properly. I’m told by a yachting friend that they’ve already left the shark nets unrepaired, which means the Aegean is starting to fill up with happy, hungry sharks. He’d actually seen one, a large black fin cruising along at sinister speed – like a submarine.
‘Well,’ Hugh said, after an uneasy pause, ‘perhaps this is the moment to promote young Teddy. He’s been doing very well with clients, and I’ve been sending him down to our wharves there every week or so. What do you think?’
‘He’s a bit young for it, isn’t he?’
‘Nonsense. He’s – nearly thirty-three? Just right, I’d say. And McIver will show him the ropes. You ought to be proud of him, Ed. I wish Simon was more like him, but there it is. God! Look at the time.’
Edward signalled a waiter for his bill to sign.
As they walked through a sudden, fitful shower to Edward’s car, Hugh said, ‘Come on, Ed. Surely you can agree with me about that.’
And Edward, relieved – he was indeed proud of Teddy – replied heartily, ‘I think it will be wonderful for him. A jolly good idea.’
PART FIVE
SPRING 1957
SIMON AND WILLS
They had agreed to meet at Lyons’ Corner House near Marble Arch. It had been Jemima’s suggestion; she had mentioned it first during the Christmas holidays. ‘Have you seen much of Wills lately?’ she had asked, and Simon had said no.
‘He keeps going off to stay with an old school friend, or else moons about at Home Place. I don’t have much time. Neville’s a slave driver.’ He felt defensive about Wills, suspecting that his younger brother felt much the same as he did: aimless, stuck, bored a good deal of the time probably. Somehow he didn’t want to be with people like that.
‘Well, you know he’s about to start national service.’
I’d forgotten that. He’ll hate it – like I did.’
‘I just thought that perhaps it might be helpful if you told him about it. Look, you’ve agreed to babysit for us when Dad and I go to the theatre. Dad says you’re to have a fiver for it. So you could afford to take him out to supper – give him a treat, like a good big brother.’
The idea of being able to take someone out, to give them something, appealed to him at once.
A few days later they were sitting opposite each other at a very small table scrutinising menus and trying to look as though this was something they did every day. For twenty-five shillings a head they could get a two-course meal, plus one lager each and coffee.
‘What do you feel like, Wills?’
‘What about you?’
‘I feel like all of it. Neville doesn’t care about food, so we have awful grub or nothing. It’s all very well for him. He gets taken out to posh places by art editors and the like and I just have to make do with a sandwich somewhere. Shall we have our lagers now, while we’re choosing?’
‘Good idea.’
Simon waved at the nearest nippy, who immediately signalled to the one he belatedly recognised had brought the menus.
She pulled her pencil from where it rested behind her ear while collecting her writing pad that was fastened to her white lacy apron. ‘Now, gentlemen, what can I get you?’ Immediately, they felt that they must place their order quickly. Simon asked what the meat pie was like, and the nippy said it was beef, very nice. And the shepherd’s pie. That was very nice, too.
In the end they both hurriedly ordered the meat pie and two lagers.
‘You could have soup, if you wish, as a starter.’
Wills said, ‘I’d rather have pudding. An ice.’
Simon said, ‘As a matter of fact I agree with you. What ices have you?’
She reeled the varieties off, ending with a Knickerbocker Glory.
‘That’s for me,’ Simon said at once. So long as he didn’t have to say the silly name it seemed OK to have one. Wills agreed. He had been afraid that Simon would think it childish of him, but if he was having one it must be all right.
They were both so hungry that when the meat pies came there didn’t seem time for conversation. The portions were generous, accompanied by cabbage, mashed potato and carrots. By the time they got to the end of that, the lager was all finished as well.
Wills smiled. ‘Thanks. That was smashing.’
This was the moment. ‘I suppose you can’t make any plans about what you want to do till you’ve got through your stint in the services?’
His face clouded. ‘You bet I can’t. I suppose it’s more or less like school only worse. I can’t imagine how, but I somehow know it is. What was it like for you?’
Simon skipped his first awful week: sleeping in a stuffy dorm with fifty-something other men; eating porridge (which he loathed), with dark brown tea (comforting until someone told him it was laced with something to stop them feeling randy); going for endless runs when you started perishing cold and ended up gasping and streaming with sweat, and all the time being yelled at by some petty officer who clearly despised the lot of you. The hours of standing to attention to be inspected, the awful watery stews and thick, gluey pies filled with root vegetables and one or two pieces of meat that people said were whale, more brown tea, tinned fruit and custard, afternoons spent learning to service radio equipment in planes, ‘tea’ at six – dried scrambled egg or slippery ham, fruit cake with hardly any raisins in it, biscuits and brown tea again. ‘You get used to it,’ was all he said. ‘Which service are you going in for?’
‘I haven’t absolutely decided. I thought the Navy, but I remembered how awfully sick I felt in Uncle Edward’s boat. Then I thought the Air Force because they have a lot of good musicians, or they used to have. What would you do if you were me?’
Simon tried to think. ‘I’d do what I did. Though I warn you, the officers moult in the bath. You have to clean them,’ he explained. ‘The baths, I mean. The best thing about it is that it’s only for two years.’
‘But then what on earth shall I do?’
Goodness! Simon thought. He’s just like me. ‘I suppose you could go into the firm.’
Luckily, at this point their unmentionable dessert arrived, with wonderful long spoons that meant you could easily plumb the depths of the tall glasses. They demolished the ices with frank enjoyment, and when Wills started asking him about his life, Simon discovered that he really wanted to talk about it.
No, he didn’t want to be a photographer, no, he had never wanted to go into the firm, had done three months because their father wanted him to; he had half wanted to be a musician, but he knew that he wasn’t good enough; the girls he met were snooty, fussing about their appearances and their shape – on diets, most of them, which tended to make them short-tempered and tired.
But didn’t the girls being on diets make them quite cheap to take out?
‘Don’t you believe it. They just want a dozen oysters, truite au bleu, and then whatever fruit is absolutely out of season. I only did it once and it cost me a month’s salary. I’m more or less through with girls,’ he finished morosely.
Wills was deeply impressed. At school some boys had talked endlessly about girls; he was intelligent enough to recognise that a lot of the boasting was made up, but there was also a good deal of nervous speculation about what actually having a girlfriend would be like. One (foreign) boy, whose parents seemed madly rich, said he had gone to a brothel in London with an older brother, and had two girls on the same evening, plus two bottles of shockingly bad champagne, but his brother had paid for everything. Sex was much better if you paid for it. After all, if you married (which, of course, you had to do in the end in order to have sons), it was a meal ticket for your wife for life: you had to go on paying for her however boring you found her.
This sort of talk appalled Simon. It felt all wrong, somehow. He thought of his father when Sybil died: there had been no doubt that he had loved her to the end, and grieved for ages until he’d found Jemima, and it was clear that he loved her as well. Perhaps, he thought, it was a question of what country you belonged to, because he simply couldn’t imagine any of his family believing that sort of rot.
To change the subject, Wills said, ‘Oh, well, I should think anything I do when I come out will seem good after that.’ He looked hopefully at Simon when he said this, and Simon hadn’t the heart to warn him that it might not.
Instead they talked about their much-loved sister, Polly. ‘How’s Lady Fake?’
‘Haven’t seen her since before Christmas. She was fine then, except awfully fat. Of course you know she’s having yet another baby.’
‘Of course I do. It must be due any day now.’
‘She’s supposed to be having it some time this month. It takes a hell of a long time, doesn’t it? Well, at least there’d be plenty of room for it in that house.’
At which point their nippy arrived to clear the table and present them with the bill.
‘Thanks awfully for the meal. It was wizard.’
Simon nodded abstractedly. He was trying to work out the tip. In the end, he put down five shillings, and she thanked him. He hoped she was pleased, but he couldn’t tell. He left Will
s waiting for a bus. ‘Let me know when you’re off,’ he said, and Wills said he would.
Simon crossed the road to reach his own bus stop, then changed his mind, deciding to walk to Maida Vale. He was not looking forward to Neville’s depressing flat, which would either be full of dirty cups and glasses he was expected to wash up, or full of people he did not know. They would be whooping it up with records of the latest rock-and-roll bands played on Neville’s awful gramophone so loudly that he wouldn’t be able to sleep. It would probably be full of both, he thought. His talk with Wills had been disturbing. What the hell was he doing with his own life? This made him realise – with some discomfort – that he always thought about the things he didn’t like without any consideration of alternatives. What did he really want? The answer came with the smooth ease of a ticket from a slot machine. He wanted to live with Polly, be her gardener – or learn to be – and, meanwhile, help with her plans for weddings at the house. He remembered that he had wanted that when he’d been staying with them but done nothing about it. He would write to Polly, to ask if he could stay for a weekend, and talk to them then. And he was amazed at how cheerful this made him feel.
RACHEL AND SID
It was their first proper row, and she felt really awful. True, they had had little spats, but nothing like this. All the way back from Hawkhurst to Home Place, Rachel had refused to speak – had retired into some icy calm of what felt like total indifference, a couldn’t-care-less attitude – which had never happened between them before.
It had all started with Edward and Diana asking them to dinner. She, Sid, had not at all wanted to go: this was partly because she was afraid of Diana, but quite as much because she really did not feel at all well. For months now she had been having what she called tummy troubles, which meant her digestion was tricky, and she always felt rotten if she ate anything rich. And she guessed (rightly) that the dinner would be just that. But Rachel was hell-bent on trying to reconcile her brothers, and was convinced that meeting Diana was the first step. She had insisted, had even offered angrily to take a taxi if Sid didn’t want to do the driving, but of course she couldn’t accept that. ‘A ruinous expense,’ she had declared, and she wouldn’t hear of it. So they had gone, Rachel armed with a bunch of violets from the Duchy’s garden. They had both taken trouble with their clothes, Rachel wearing her best blue linen suit, and Sid in the trouser suit with a silk shirt Rachel had given her for her last birthday.
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 212