But she interrupted: ‘Upset! It’s not your bloody carelessness – it’s what you’ve done. You’ve fallen in love with someone else and lied about it. Surely you can see what that means …’
‘But you can see from the letter that I’m giving her up! You don’t seem to have taken that in.’
There was a pause, and then, with some difficulty, she said, ‘Being responsible, duty and all that, doesn’t change your heart. You are in love with her “incomparable beauty – a face that would have delighted Holbein”. You do love her.’
‘And I love you, dearest girl.’
‘There you go again! You cannot have two dearests.’ She picked a cigarette out of the nearly empty packet and lit it with shaking fingers.
‘It’s something I’ve discovered,’ he said, speaking awkwardly – everything he said seemed to have a double edge to it. ‘Actually, you can love two people. I didn’t know that until now.’
She met his eye as she answered steadily, ‘I couldn’t. I could never love two people at once. I don’t believe that.’
No, she would not. He realised then that she would want to know something desperately important to her, something that she would be too proud to ask. ‘You might like to know that I have never slept with Melanie. Nothing like that.’
He saw the tension in her shoulders relax a little, as she replied, ‘There isn’t anything “like that”.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But I thought you might like to know.’ He wanted to take her in his arms, but she was not ready to be touched. Instead he said, ‘Shall we have a glass of wine?’
‘If you like.’
When he came back to the table with a bottle and glasses, she had packed the letter into its envelope. He poured the wine. ‘By the way, nobody knows anything at all about this.’
Much later, he said, ‘Why do we always sit at the kitchen table when we have a lovely studio looking onto our nice wild garden?’
‘It began when Bertie started walking. He was fascinated by your paints and pulled your palette down one day and did an extensive finger-painting all over our old sofa.’
‘You never told me that.’
(A faint smile.) ‘I didn’t dare.’
‘Bring your glass.’ He tucked the bottle under one arm and took her hand. ‘I’m leading you – I don’t want you to lose your way. You know what you’re like with maps in cars.’ He felt her hand trembling in his. He thought, I’m glad I love her so much.
They sat side by side but with a gap between them on the battered old red velvet chaise longue. The bottle and their glasses were perched upon his painting stool.
‘Well, at least we’ve got some daffodils in our garden.’
‘I don’t really like daffodils. They seem to me rather heartless flowers – except the very small timid ones.’
‘I’ll get you some of the cowardly little creatures to plant for next year.’
‘Next year. Oh.’ She glanced at him, then quickly looked away.’ Her poor face was ravaged by her prolonged weeping: unlike heroines in books, she had a sort of greyish white pallor, with a bright pink nose and her lovely eyes red-rimmed. Usually, he could have made her laugh about this, but not now. Now she wanted comfort, reassurance, and he was unsure how to give it. Time – she needed time.
‘What are we having for supper?’
There was a pause, and then she said, ‘I was trying to think. I’m afraid there isn’t anything. I was so busy packing the children off to Dad and Zoë – and I didn’t think … You might not have been coming back—’ Her eyes were filling with tears again, and again he realised, with fresh humility, how much she had been through, how much she did, in fact, love him.
Love, for Clary, had always been a wholehearted and serious matter. Losing her mother, then her father, Rupert, being missing all those war years, not just missing, presumed by the family to be dead: everyone had supposed that excepting her.
‘I could take you out to dinner,’ he said. ‘Would you like that?’ But she shook her head.
In the end, he went to the small Indian restaurant near Maida Vale tube station and got them chicken curry, dhal, rice, and some poppadoms that broke into pieces in their paper bag. During the walk, wait, and walk back, he decided a dozen times not to think about how Melanie was feeling, which made him – each time – think about her more.
She certainly knew that all was not well; she would be fearful, anxious and miserably imagining what the dreaded letter might contain.
He had addressed, sealed and stamped the letter – had had to ask Clary for a stamp, which she had produced without looking at him. (The letter was now safely posted.)
I’ve behaved like a shit to her, and I suppose that means in a way that I am one. Turning over a new leaf was so difficult because one never knew what would be on it. He thought again how glad he was that he loved Clary so much. At least he was sure of that. This made him think how completely awful it must be for husbands who fell in love with someone they weren’t married to and who didn’t love their wife in the first place. He couldn’t think long about that, but his incredible luck made him feel humble.
All very well, but supper wasn’t easy.
It began all right, because the children had rung up while he’d been out. They were fine, Clary said, except they were hell-bent on having a white rat – two white rats, like Rivers. ‘Georgie says it has changed his life having him. And we want our lives changed.’ They were seizing the telephone from each other in their eagerness to express the idea.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I’d think about it, and Bertie said, “That means you won’t do anything.” I remember how maddening I found that think-about-it stuff – it’s just a weak cop-out. The trouble is, Archie, that I don’t really like rats. In fact, I’m slightly afraid of them.’
She had said his name – a small step?
‘Why don’t we get them a kitten?’
‘Two kittens, they’ll want one each.’
‘Well – two. We could get them when we go to Home Place at Easter. Mr York, that nice farmer, is bound to have some.’
But after that, constraint set in. They were both trying to be normal, but the trouble with normal was that the moment you tried to be it, it wasn’t possible. In the end, bed had to be mentioned: they were both bone tired and longing for oblivion.
In bed, he told her he loved her, and she was still while he said it, but when he tried to kiss her face, she turned away and he only managed the side of her forehead.
He woke in the night because she was crying. He put an arm round her shoulders and soothed her awake. ‘Only a dream, my darling, just a sad dream.’ He felt her trembling – repeating the dream in her wakened mind as one does so often with nightmares. When she had finished, he pulled her close to him. ‘You are my dearest girl.’
And he knew she was better, because she murmured in a soft furry voice, ‘Buttering me up,’ and was instantly again asleep.
PART SIX
SUMMER–AUTUMN 1957
TEDDY
He had been very excited when Uncle Hugh had told him that he was to manage the Southampton wharf and mill. Excited and – although he did not admit it to anyone – very nervous. In London he had always had Dad to ask about things; now there would only be a man called Hector McIver, and although he had been working at the firm for what seemed for ever, he still felt a bit awkward asking an employee – not even on the board – for help.
Add to this the fast-discovered fact that poor-sighted McIver was also extremely deaf – you really had to face him and shout. He spoke so quietly and, with a Glaswegian accent, that Teddy had to repeat nearly everything he said. He was courteous, hard-working, and he worshipped Teddy’s father, which made a good start. He found Teddy lodgings in a house kept by a naval widow, who was prepared to make his breakfast and supper and see to his laundry, all for six pounds a week. This was a piece of luck for Teddy, because although his salary had been increased, he could no longer cou
nt on meals with the family, and also they had taken his car, which they’d said he would no longer need. He felt injured by that: it made a huge difference to finding a girl, and having any outdoor fun with her if he did. He determined to save up for one: you could get quite a decent car for five hundred quid. He could get to the wharf by bus or foot and he was expected to be in his office by nine when a Miss Sharpies would come in with his mail and, each week when it came out, the Timber Trades Journal. He was supposed to read this from cover to cover, and it proved to be diabolically dull. As a result, he did not learn very much from it. Outside, he was struggling to identify and remember the exotic names of the hardwoods that were imported largely to Southampton – pyinkado, Andaman padauk, the endless mass of boxwood, rosewood (nothing to do with roses), laurel, acacia, walnut, lime, cherry, elm, oak of varying kinds, chestnut, ash – not to mention softwoods that arrived in regular batches, and had to be unloaded, then floated in the river until space could be found for them in and around the sawmill. Miss Sharpies brought him mail that contained orders, often couched in – to him – unintelligible language. Then there were a rising number of complaints that orders had not arrived on time, or were not supplied in the quantity asked for, and in some cases simply the wrong timber, or no timber at all.
‘We really don’t have the requisite number of lorries, Mr Teddy. That is our quandary. Perhaps you could have a word with your father about that.’ Costs were rising all the time, and orders were not keeping pace with them. Teddy found a great deal of it tedious. And when he thought about the lives that his father and uncles enjoyed, he felt that something was wrong somewhere. He had taken to skipping Mrs Malton’s suppers: they generally consisted of grey oily mince with a great deal of lumpy potato, followed by tinned fruit and custard. He tried several pubs and settled on one that was in walking distance of Commodore Villa – the House of Mince he had come to call it: his hostess minced as much as she made it.
The pub had been half-heartedly made to look old-fashioned, with horse brasses and a large stone fireplace piled with logs that were never lit and sconces that had small shades covered with sailing ships. However, just as he was going to give it up, it proved to have one great asset: a buxom young barmaid, who wore rather carelessly buttoned shirts under her apron, bewitching black stockings and pointed high-heeled shoes. She had red hair that was a riot of curls, a milk-and-roses complexion, and a soft Irish voice that enchanted him. They started to have conversations while she drew his beer, frequently stopping to serve other customers, he soon realised, to prolong them.
She had been in England only for a month, she said; came from Cork where her family had a small farm that her father managed with her uncle but they didn’t hit it off, and her mam was worn out with the children and the fights on Saturday nights. As soon as she could, she had got away to earn some money and see the world. She was eighteen, she said, but later confessed to being a year younger. A friend had told her that work was to be had in pubs and clubs, especially in ports, so she had come over with four pounds and a bed with her friend Louie.
‘Here I am, so.’
He asked her name. She was Ellen. He asked her if she would come out with him.
She only got a half-day a week, she said, ‘But I’d really like to come.’ She was blushing deeply. She was a most charming blend of seductiveness and innocence.
Her half-day proved to be Wednesday.
They arranged to meet where the ferry left for Ryde, on the Isle of Wight. He asked McIver if he could possibly borrow one of the firm’s cars for the day – he had a relative on the island who was ill and anxious to see him. McIver was easy to take in, and agreed ‘just this once’. He cashed fifty pounds and the following Wednesday watched her walking down the quay towards him with true excitement. It was a balmy day, and the ferry was not crowded at all.
‘You have a motor!’ she exclaimed, when she reached him. She wore a tight black skirt, her high heels and carried a mac over her arm. Her shirt was of grass-green satin, cut so low that the cleft between her milky breasts was immediately apparent. She looked at him with her cloudy grey-green eyes and started to blush. ‘I’ve never been out with a gentleman,’ she said.
She had not, he discovered later, really been out with anyone.
‘Where are we going?’
To the island, he said. He’d never been there and thought it would be fun.
They both enjoyed the ferry, had a soft drink at the bar, and then went on deck. The sea was behaving like it did in a watercolour hung in the drawing room at Home Place: gentle blue water, with little creamy waves, dotted with the sharp bright white triangles of the many sailing craft that scurried to and fro upon it. He put his arm round her. ‘Don’t want you falling in.’
‘Nor I. I can’t swim no more than a wheelbarrow.’
‘I would rescue you,’ he said. He felt full of tenderness towards her. She was the opposite of his ex-wife Bernadine and the most recent girlfriend he had left so easily in London. ‘I would protect you from anything,’ he said. He bent down to draw her towards him, lifted her chin to kiss her inviting mouth. She gave a little gasp, then pressed herself to him. When they drew apart, she said, ‘I feel kind of funny – must sit down.’
He led her to a bench and they sat in silence for a minute or two. Then she said, ‘I thought I was going to pass out. Sorry. Never felt like that before.’
‘Like what, darling?’
‘Kind of watery – weak.’ Then, almost inaudibly, she added, ‘Weak and eager.’ Then, she said, ‘What’s your name when you’re at home?’
‘Oh. Sorry, I thought I’d told you. Teddy. My name is Teddy – short for Edward, after my father.’
‘Mr Ted. Or Mr Edward, I suppose.’
‘That’s my first name. I’m Teddy Cazalet.’
After a moment she said: ‘And I’m Ellen. Ellen McGuire.’
They were approaching land; the port seemed jammed with traffic and people, the sun winking on the windows of houses and cars. It was midday, and Teddy felt hungry.
‘Where are we going here?’
‘We’re going to find some lunch, and then we’ll go exploring. Would you like that?’
‘Oh, yes! I’d like anything we do really, Mr Ted.’
‘I’m not Mr, darling, just Ted or Teddy.’
They found a quiet pub outside the town where a few people were eating in the garden. ‘Do you like lobster?’
‘I’ve never had it. When they caught any, the fishermen sold it to Dublin for tourists.’
‘Well, today we’re tourists. We’re on holiday. If you find you don’t like lobster, you can have something else.’
But she did like it, and once he’d shown her how to crack the claws and pick out the meat she was better at it than he. ‘It’s the best food I’ve had in me life.’
He leaned across their table to wipe her face with his paper napkin, and she kept trustfully still while he did so. They drank bottled beer with the fish – ‘You can’t trust the draught if you don’t know the pub,’ she said, and he didn’t feel up to choosing wine. He offered her an ice for afters, but she said she couldn’t fancy another thing.
She announced – in a stage whisper that caught the attention of a couple sitting near them – that she was going to find a toilet, and he called the waitress for the bill, which was surprisingly reasonable.
They drove inland to pretty and sparsely populated countryside. They both felt sleepy after the meal, and he said he was going to find somewhere they could have a nice snooze.
In due course he found the perfect place: an opening with a gate into a small field. On the far side of the hedge was a delightfully dry ditch. There was an old tartan car rug on the back seat, and he took that with him and laid it in the ditch. She had kicked off her uncomfortable shoes and joined him in their makeshift bed without a qualm. Soon they were lying side by side, out of the breeze with the sun on their faces. He had taken off his jacket and made a pillow for her head.
‘Comfy?’
She nodded, and gave a pretty yawn, which showed her small white teeth.
But as soon as they were set for the sleep, the desire for it vanished. Instead he was undoing her blouse, exposing a tantalisingly inadequate brassière that hardly restricted her firm white breasts and rosy nipples. The moment he took one in his mouth she moaned, and the nipple hardened. He took his hand away to tear at the zip of his trousers, but she did it for him. ‘Oh, Ted. Oh, Ted!’
For a moment it occurred to him that she had done all this before, and a mixture of disappointment and relief overcame him. ‘So you want me, darling?’
‘Oh, I do, Ted, I’m yelling for you, whatever it is. Wait just one moment.’
She pulled down her skirt and then the white pants until her whole body was to be seen. Her nipples were like the furled centre of a dark pink rose.
For an unknown amount of time he had her, as many times as he could get a fresh erection.
She had not done it before – she cried out the first time – but her arms tightened round him, and when he asked her if she was all right, she kissed him with surprising strength. In between these bouts of passion, he stroked her hair, murmured to her, kissed her throat and told her how lovely she was. ‘I love you,’ she said.
When eventually he parted from her he realised that she was bleeding heavily; the rug was soaked under her legs, which had more blood running down them.
‘I must have hurt you – I didn’t mean to.’
‘No hurt,’ she said. ‘Only a smidgen. Nothing to fret about.’
But there was. There was nothing to clean her up with, so he got up and looked wildly round for water – a stream or a pond – but there was nothing in sight. He knew from his map that even if they managed to reach the sea it lay at the bottom of steep cliffs. They had to get back from the island somehow, but for a few panic-stricken moments, he could not imagine how this was to be accomplished.
‘I think it’s stopped,’ she said. ‘Give me my stockings.’
The Cazalet Chronicles Collection Page 215