The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  While she made the batter for the toad-in-the-hole they were to have for supper, Clary reflected that lives were not easy things to live.

  PART EIGHT

  JANUARY–FEBRUARY 1958

  BOMBSHELLS

  ‘Darling, of course I know you’re seventeen, but you are not twenty-five, and you sometimes behave like someone of twelve. You think you know everything, but you don’t. I will not have you careering round the West End on a Saturday night with another girl of your age. If you want to see Audrey, you can have her to supper here.’

  ‘Oh, thanks very much.’

  Zoë, who had been collecting various pieces of laundry from the floor of her daughter’s bedroom, replied sharply: ‘Juliet, I will not have you speaking to me like that. And I would ask you not to be so rude at meals in front of Georgie. It’s bad for him, and for you. You’re too old for such puerile behaviour.’

  ‘I see. I’m not old enough to do what I want, and only old enough to do what you want.’ Juliet had been collecting dirty mugs and cups and putting them on a tray that her mother had brought for the purpose, and now she collapsed so angrily onto a chair by her dressing table that the tray fell off it, and dribs of cold coffee spilled over the carpet.

  ‘Go and get a wet cloth from the bathroom.’

  With a face of thunder, she went.

  Was I like that at her age? Zoë wondered. Not as bad, surely. I’ll have to get Rupert to read the Riot Act. But poor Mummy didn’t have a Rupert: she had had to cope with me on her own. This made her feel that she should attempt to be more patient, try to find out whether Juliet was unhappy at school, whether she was upset about the possible move to Southampton, which she could see would be upsetting …

  Juliet was back with the cloth and, without looking at her mother, started scrubbing furiously at the carpet.

  ‘Darling, I feel that something’s worrying you, and I wish you’d tell me what it is.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I might be able to help.’

  Juliet stopped scrubbing and sat back on her heels. She looked at her mother with, Zoë thought, a rather pathetic defiance.

  ‘If I decide to tell you perhaps you’ll stop treating me as a child. You’ll take me seriously for a change.’

  ‘I promise to take you seriously.’

  ‘All right, then. If you must know, I’m in love.’

  She wanted to laugh with relief. Laurence Olivier or James Mason? she wondered, but she must be serious – mustn’t even smile. ‘Oh, darling, that must be rather exciting for you. I can remember when I first fell in love – with Ivor Novello. All of us girls were mad about him.’

  ‘It’s not a silly schoolgirl’s crush. I’m in love with a real person. And as soon as I’m old enough, we shall marry.’

  ‘I should love to meet him. Is he Audrey’s brother or one of your other school friends?’

  ‘No, you know him. It’s Neville. And he’s deeply in love with me, too. Since last Christmas – a whole year.’

  There was a silence, during which Zoë tried desperately to think how she should respond.

  ‘Darling, it’s a lovely idea, but you can’t possibly marry him. He’s your brother.’

  ‘Only my half-brother.’

  I’m afraid that doesn’t make any difference.’

  ‘Neville says it does. He says other people have married their sisters and it was quite all right. He says we shall go abroad to marry. It’s only this country that’s so stuffy. He didn’t want me to talk to you about it because he knew you’d be against us. I expect he’ll be cross with me for having told you, but I’m so sick of being treated like a child. I suppose you know that Romeo’s Juliet was fourteen when he married her. Fourteen! And I’m miles older than she was.’ There were tears in her eyes, and Zoë longed to take her in her arms, but she was afraid.

  ‘Poor Jules. It’s very rough being in love – especially the first time. I do sympathise.’

  ‘I’m not going to be in love any more times.’ She gave her mother a kindly, pitying glance. ‘I expect you’re a bit too old to really remember what being in love is like. In any case, my love is not like any other, and Neville agrees with me. I don’t think anyone has felt as we do. You will keep it a wonderful secret, won’t you? And I promise to tidy my room.’ And, glad of her congé, Zoë escaped before Juliet could ask her not to tell Rupert, which, of course, she must. Rather shakily she went downstairs, feeling very angry with Neville.

  VILLY AND MISS MILLIMENT

  ‘Why am I here?’

  It was a question – a cry – that poor Miss Milliment repeated every two minutes, as she thrashed about in the high bed that looked too small for her. It was not a question that she could answer honestly. She could not say, ‘I had to put you here because I could no longer look after you properly myself, because your dementia or senility or whatever it is goes on night and day and I can’t manage that alone any more.’ She was simply racked with guilt and pity every time the question was asked. It was a dreary place, this nursing home on Holland Park, converted out of one of the immense stucco mansions. The room had been sliced in two to accommodate more patients, which meant that the ceiling was far too high for the new dimensions. The large sash window had bars on the outside, and yellowing net curtains that gave the effect of fog. There was a commode, a small table on which Villy had put some books and Miss Milliment’s wireless, and a rickety chest of drawers. It was hardly a place to be if one had any choice, but after much searching it had been the best she could find and the best she could afford.

  She was crying now, small, mewling, heartbroken sounds.

  Villy leaned forward from her chair to take her hand.

  ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘You haven’t been very well lately, and we thought a little rest in a nursing home would be a good thing. When you’re better, you’ll be able to come home, darling.’

  ‘I’ve been here for weeks and she doesn’t come.’

  She was sobbing now, and suddenly clutched Villy’s arm. ‘Will you do one thing for me? Ask her what I’ve done to displease her. After all the years together, she has suddenly turned me out! I don’t know why she has done that! She doesn’t love me. I don’t think I shall be able to bear that. So will you at least tell her, ask her, beg her to come and rescue me? She is such a kind, good person, I’m sure she will listen to you. Oh, please do that!’

  When she left the home and walked to the street where she had parked her car, Villy got into it and cried. Nothing she said to poor Miss Milliment made the slightest difference. She had not once recognised her – indeed, seemed to be getting more and more demented by the day. Her arrival in the home had clearly been the most awful shock to her, as bad, she now thought as the bombshell Edward had delivered when he’d told her he was leaving her. But what could she have done? She had tried to explain things, but she couldn’t, of course, really be truthful. She could not say, ‘I can’t cope any more with you getting up in the night wanting breakfast or, worse, trying to cook in the kitchen, getting partly dressed and leaving the house.’ Even after she’d secured the front door Miss Milliment had found the key to the French window leading onto the garden. Then she’d knocked over her electric fire so that it had burned the carpet, and would have been more serious if Villy hadn’t woken in time. Villy had slept very lightly because of these anxieties, and often hardly at all.

  The doctor to whom she had gone for help had been amiably vague: there was not really much that could be done for such cases. He had prescribed something to be taken at night, but he had implied that it might not make much difference, and it hadn’t. The best thing would be for her to go into a home, he had said, and seemed to feel that this solved the matter.

  After finding two places that seemed good but proved to have long waiting lists, several that were too expensive, and many that had appalled her, she had settled on Holland Park, and went every day to visit, hoping that in time this regularity would register and that Miss Millimen
t would recognise her again. This did not happen, and in spite of the matron saying that her patient was settling in nicely, Villy saw no signs of it.

  And then there was Roland. She had been so grateful to Zoë and Rupert for inviting them all to lunch, had realised then that she was actually enjoying the large family gathering with its shared jokes and reminiscences, its traditional Christmas fare, and the general affection that everyone seemed to have for one another. She relished the almost mythical stories about long-dead ancestors, remembering the Duchy recalling that her mother gave her servants a bar of Wright’s Coal Tar Soap and a handkerchief embroidered with their initials in chain stitch for Christmas, the Brig taking a police horse to ride in London to wherever he wanted to go, and so forth. It had been a lovely day, and she had realised when she went to bed that she had not missed or even thought about Edward at all. But there had been repercussions.

  When she had asked Roland the next day whether he had enjoyed himself, expecting a simple, enthusiastic response, he had said, ‘Of course I did. It made a super change. It was good fun.’ Then he had added, ‘Mum! Why don’t we see more of the family? I hardly ever see my cousins, even if they don’t have anything much to do with Dad. Last Christmas they had it at Home Place and we didn’t go. We just had the usual boring time here.’

  The usual boring time! And she had tried so hard to make it festive for him. He could have no idea how hard she had tried …

  And suddenly she saw something different about her life with Roland. She realised that, yes, she did all she could on the domestic front, but the emotional deprivation, the lack of anything fun in the house, she had blamed on Edward’s absence. Everything about that was, quite simply, his fault and nothing to do with her. And Roland was paying for it. He was loyal, patient, tender about Miss Milliment, but he came home to a house with two unhappy old women. Edward seemed to take no interest in him, and that, too, was her fault. She had been so bitter about his leaving, so hostile to his new life, that she had made any advance on Roland’s side a treachery.

  She felt so ashamed, so paralysed, by these insights that she did not know where to begin, but before she could, with apologies, with promises of change, he interrupted her.

  ‘I was wondering, Mum, whether you would like me to do the visit to Miss Milliment today. I know it makes you awfully sad, and it isn’t your fault. You’ve been marvellous to her, and I could easily go. I haven’t got anything to do and you could have a nice rest.’

  She looked at him – he was cleaning his nails rather dangerously with a penknife – and knew that the change must start now.

  ‘Oh, darling, that would be angelic of you! I was wondering whether we might go out to dinner tonight and I thought perhaps that you should choose somewhere ritzy that you would like.’

  He looked embarrassed. ‘Well, as a matter of fact I had made a sort of plan to spend the early evening with Simpson.’

  ‘That’s fine by me. We could have our dinner afterwards. And I’m really grateful to you for going to see Miss Milliment. I do warn you, she may not know who the hell you are.’

  ‘That’s all right. Don’t look so worried, Mum. You’ll be all right this evening, then? You won’t mind being alone?’

  ‘Of course I shan’t.’

  ‘OK, then. I’ll be off.’

  He gave her a brief hug, and went. The house seemed very silent after the front door slammed. I’ve got to not mind being alone, she thought. Because that is what it is going to be like, with Roland at university and Miss M gone. So either I have got to learn to like it, or I must get a lodger. Or move somewhere smaller: this house will be too large once Roland is launched. She felt it right not to indulge in a wealth of apologies, since she could not be certain that they would not be laced with self-pity and the subterranean self-hatred that accompanied it.

  And much later, in the night, when all kinds of random and undesirable thoughts occurred, it suddenly struck her that she must have had something to do with why Edward had left her.

  HUGH, RACHEL AND THE BANK

  He had done all he could to comfort her, and she had been most touchingly grateful. For the first two nights she had talked about Sid, about the awful weeks before she had died. She had wept steadily, but at least she had someone to listen, to help her unburden some of her anguish. ‘I know that you have been through all this with darling Sybil. You know how terrible it is to watch someone you love so much suffer so much, to recognise that the only way out for them is their death. I would so gladly have died for her.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s harder being the one who is left.’ As he said this he realised that it had not been true for him, he had had the children to care for, but she, Rachel, had nothing. He took her hand. ‘It will not always be as painful as now. Of course you will always love her and miss her, but it will get easier to bear with time. You have to trust me about that. We all love you, you know.’

  Later, when they were about to go to bed, she said, ‘I suppose I shall have to leave this house. It costs too much for me to be knocking about alone in it.’

  No, no, NO! Hugh assured her. This was her home: she would never have to leave it unless she wanted to. He and Rupert would pay their share, and the families would all come down in the holidays – just like the old times. He noticed a little glimmer cross her face – not actually a smile but some relief.

  The following week there had been the funeral, with Rupert and Archie, and they had brought an enormous wreath made entirely of snowdrops, and Rachel had been pleased about that. He had announced that he would be staying the night, as he knew how bleak the house would be for her if they all left after the wake.

  That evening, over the excellent fish pie that Mrs Tonbridge had made, he suggested, very gently, that perhaps Rachel might like to stay with them in London. ‘Jemima asked me to ask you, because she would love to have you for a bit of a rest.’ It was no-go. It was awfully kind of them to ask her, but she thought she would rather stay put. Too soon to ask, he thought. Aloud, he said, just let him know if she suddenly felt she needed a change.

  He had to leave early the next morning because he had a meeting with the bank. He had been dreading this for some time now, and he felt particularly cross with Edward, who did not want to be there. He hadn’t come to the funeral either, which Hugh felt was most unreasonable of him. Selfish and weak. He knew that Diana had been rude to Sid, but nobody had expected her to come. Edward could have cared enough to have made a discreet appearance

  To his immense surprise, however, Edward did turn up at the bank. ‘Thought I’d better see what’s going on,’ he said.

  It turned out that he knew more about that than Hugh. The bank had asked to see last year’s accounts, and Edward had had them sent over.

  The meeting was at eleven. In the old days, their father would have been invited to lunch in the heavily panelled boardroom, with some other favoured customer. Light City gossip and excellent port, he remembered, when his father had taken him to be introduced to Brian Anderson, the old manager. Now, since the small private bank had been taken over by a much larger one, there was a new manager whom he had met only once, and who had seemed indifferent to the long connection the Cazalet family had previously enjoyed with it. He met them in the boardroom.

  ‘Ian Mallinson,’ he said, as he entered the room. He had a long, cadaverous face, and when he shook hands with them, his bony fingers were cold. He was accompanied by a secretary and a second man, both of whom were carrying sheaves of papers. He glanced at his watch as he sat down. ‘I think we should start with what you have come to see us about,’ he said.

  Hugh glanced at Edward, who intimated that he should begin.

  Hugh explained that although their London wharves were doing quite well, yielding a reasonable profit, they were still struggling with Southampton, where they were not able to buy as much hardwood as they would like, with the consequence that the sawmills were left without enough material to cut. The site, with its mills, had been bought at
a very good price by his father, but they had not yet been able to operate at full capacity, and therefore were not yielding the profit expected. In short they were in debt and needed a further loan to get on their feet. For one year only.

  ‘And how much money are you asking for?’

  Hugh named the sum; his mouth was dry. Spoken baldly, it seemed enormous.

  ‘And your collateral?’

  ‘As I’m sure you know, the firm owns a very great deal of valuable property, both here in London and in Southampton.’

  Mallinson told his secretary that he required one of her pieces of paper, which he perused in silence. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Cazalet, it would seem that you have no free collateral left. It has already been pledged to earlier loans that have not yet been paid off. You are therefore not in a position to offer us any security at all for the money you now want. Coffee, please, Miss Chambers.’

  While this was being arranged, he turned to Edward. ‘Mr Edward Cazalet, isn’t it? I should be interested to hear your views on the subject.’

  ‘My view is, and has been for some time, that we should sell off some of the property – probably Southampton – pay off the loans and run a smaller company in London.’ He did not look at Hugh as he said this, which, in any case, was only half of the truth: he was dead set on the firm going public, but it did not seem sensible to say that now.

  Mallinson eyed him with some approval. ‘That may certainly become a solution.’

  The coffee arrived and was served by Miss Chambers. Mallinson indicated that he wanted a document from the other attendant, and smiled. ‘Our accountants have been analysing your firm’s tax papers, and although the London side of your business has not made any losses, for some time the profits have been less each year. Not a very good outlook.’