The Cazalet Chronicles Collection

by Elizabeth Jane Howard

  Eliza and Jane both had their hair in pigtails and they were all snug in their sleeping-bags. The space they’d made for Laura was unoccupied, and they found out that she was sleeping with Georgie. This, they thought, was very unfair, and they all agreed that Laura was spoiled. ‘She’s too young for us, anyway,’ Eliza had said. ‘I mean, I often read in bed, and she can’t read without a grownup helping her. Andrew is awful, too. I think all very young children are pests. I shan’t have babies when I get married. I shall wait for them to be at least seven before I have them.’

  Harriet was aghast. ‘Eliza, you can’t just go about with a seven-year-old baby inside you. You’d explode – like a balloon.’ She could not suppress a slightly hysterical giggle at the thought.

  ‘Goodness, Harriet, of course I couldn’t. I’d have it at the normal time and then lend it to people until it was old enough.’

  There was a silence while Harriet digested the snub. ‘Are we staying awake for Father Christmas?’ she asked rather timidly.

  She saw the twins exchange a look. ‘I think it would be best if we all went to sleep,’ Jane said, adding kindly, ‘and please don’t worry about birth and all that. I can quite see that as you don’t live in the country you couldn’t know much about that sort of thing. Do you want to go on reading, Lizzie?’

  ‘Not specially.’ She shut her book with a snap; she’d only been pretending to read it. They were all tired – being sick on the journey had meant the twins had had a rather small supper, and Nan had made them have baths.

  The light was turned off by Eliza, who said, ‘I’m going to undo my plait: Nan made it far too tight.’

  ‘Me too. You’re lucky to have such lovely thick hair, Harriet – ours is far too mingy.’

  Harriet lay in the dark, savouring this compliment. Nobody had ever said anything like that to her before. She decided to remember it all her life.

  Roland, having successfully installed the Christmas lights, packed up his tool case and said he would go to bed. He found Teddy, Tom, Henry and Simon in the nursery trying to play records on a pretty ancient machine. One of them was also struggling with a wireless that emitted constant crackles and small bursts of jazz. ‘We’ve not to make too much noise,’ one of them was saying.

  ‘Roland will know what to do,’ Simon said. He was dealing with the gramophone.

  It was marvellous to feel so useful and informed, Roland thought.

  Louise and Juliet had soon got bored by all this, and had gone to bed, where they were exchanging important confidences – Louise about Joseph, and Juliet about the new love of her life. They were most honourable about dividing the time spent on discussing Joseph and Tarquin, while at the same time going through the elaborate process of cleaning and nourishing their skins for the rigours of the night. ‘Tarquin’s at a drama school, on a scholarship, so he must be frightfully good. My best friend at the school I used to be at took me to the end-of-term play they were doing, and he played a very old man in it, and I thought he must actually be very old, but when we met and he was taking off his make-up, he wasn’t – at all. He’s twenty – the perfect age for me. So we fell in love. He says I ought to be an actress, which I’d far rather do than go to France. He said that being a model was just mucking about. Oh! I’m sorry I said that because it’s what you do – I didn’t mean that you muck about because you’re at the top, aren’t you?’ She had dropped her drawl now they were alone, and her faint blush made her look even more beautiful.

  ‘Oh, no. I don’t mind you saying that in the least. I think I do muck about. Ought to find something more interesting to do.’

  In the drawing room, they had finished filling the golf stockings, and had laid all the other presents under the tree. Gerald had returned to say that Polly was putting Spencer back to bed, and that he had told her to go too. ‘But are we missing anyone?’ Rachel said.

  ‘We’re missing Lydia because she has to do panto with her rep company.’ This was Villy. ‘I rang her before leaving and she sent her love to everyone.’

  ‘Wills wanted to spend the time with his girlfriend’s family. Fair enough,’ Hugh said, but he looked sad.

  ‘Well,’ Rupert said. ‘I think I can beat you all with Neville’s excuse.’ He took a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and read out a message: ‘Sorry can’t be with you. Am working in Cuba where I shall probably get married.’

  ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘The “probably” is a typical Neville touch. I didn’t want to produce it at dinner, because I wasn’t sure how Juliet would react. She’s had a bit of a crush on him.’

  ‘She’s over it now,’ Zoë said quickly. ‘She’s found an actor to be in love with.’

  ‘Right.’ This was Archie. ‘Let’s do the stockings and call it a day.’

  So, some time later, they filed upstairs with the creaking stockings, which Gerald, Archie and Hugh deposited in each of the bedrooms.

  Clary could well remember pretending to be asleep, listening out all the while for the stocking to be laid carefully on her bed. Louise and Polly would be fast asleep, but she – especially in the war years when Dad was missing – always just opened her eyes a slit so that she could see who it was. The drawing room had been out of bounds then; this evening she had been examining it with a grown-up eye. The lovely curtains that Aunt Rachel had insisted on – dark green chintz with creamy white roses – were now in tatters; you had to draw them very carefully not to split them more. The sofas and upholstered chairs were also worn and shiny on the arms. The lampshades had darkened with time so that they were almost the colour of coffee, and the immense carpet that had covered the room was now full of dangerous if familiar rents.

  Her play was hopefully coming back to London some time in the New Year. She had not earned very much money from it so far, but an agent had written to her saying he would be happy to represent her. Archie had said that would be a good thing and meant she would not have to worry about money. So she was to see him in the New Year. What did worry her was the alarming fact that she did not have a notion of what to write next. She had started trying to compose a new play several times, but all the scraps that she had managed to put onto paper remained scraps – incoherent and pointless. She was looking forward to living with Rupert and Zoë and kept deciding that she would postpone trying to write again until they had settled in. Saying goodbye to Home Place was the immediate thing. She and Archie were the luckiest members of the family: Hugh and Edward and Rachel were the hardest hit, and Rachel faced the bleakest future. When she thought of Rachel, she began to imagine awful things. Supposing Archie died as Sid had, and she did not have Bertie and Harriet, and she had no qualifications for any decent kind of work, but had lost all her money and needed to make some …

  ‘What are you crying about?’

  She told him.

  ‘My darling, you must be deliriously happy if you have to invent things to cry about. I am extremely well, and so are the children. And you are now a playwright. I do agree that we have to worry about the others, but now, as Rachel said, we’re here to enjoy Christmas. I’m going to put my lovely healthy arms round you and you’re going to go to sleep at once.’

  Rivers, although he had been dozing round Georgie’s neck, was immediately awake when Hugh came in with the stockings. He had learned to lie low when people who weren’t Georgie turned up, and scurried under the blanket until they had gone. He had no intention of spending the night in his cold cage, and as Hugh did not put on a light, he would not know that he wasn’t in it now. Awake, he felt like a snack and luckily discovered half a digestive biscuit under the pillow near to Georgie’s hair. He nibbled this very quietly, so as not to wake his friend.

  Rachel undressed quickly. She was cold to the bone: her hands had gone that horrid mauve colour and her feet were blocks of ice. She had kept telling herself how well everything was going, how funny Laura could be, that adorable baby of Polly’s – she had always loved babies, each one seeming more charming than the last
– how wonderful Mrs Tonbridge had been with so many people to feed, how kind and supportive her brothers and darling Archie were being, how welcoming and nice they had been to Villy, how clever Roland had been with the lights for the tree, how thoughtful Zoë and Jemima, Clary and Polly were with their determination to help, how they all seemed to get on together … This made her think of Edward, from whom she had not heard, and she could not help praying that Diana would decide not to come to Boxing Day lunch with him. It would be so much easier for Villy.

  Now, she lay in the dark with two hot-water bottles – and tears were streaming down her face. She allowed herself a brief sob before telling herself to pull herself together. Tonight would be the anniversary of Sid’s death.

  ‘I don’t suppose he meant it, darling. You know Neville – he’s always enjoyed teasing people.’

  ‘It isn’t that I mind him getting married. I mind his not telling us properly. He really is a master of the flippant message. Still, it might have been difficult for Jules if he was here.’

  ‘Jules has fallen for someone else. She thinks I don’t know, and it’s best to keep it like that.’

  ‘Who has she fallen for?’

  ‘A student at an acting school. But you don’t know, either.’

  ‘All right.’ He had got into bed. ‘Be quick, darling, it’s so cold.’ She always took ages. He had taken to reading to stop himself getting impatient, and he now dived into his paperback volume of Chekhov’s short stories.

  Jemima was undressed in a matter of seconds; Hugh always took longer. Tonight he seemed to be taking longer than usual: he had gone down the passage to the bathroom and, after nearly ten minutes, had not returned. She got out of bed and went to find him.

  He was sitting on the bathroom stool, and turned to her when she came in. He looked shaky. ‘Got a bit stuck,’ he said, in a slurred voice. ‘Dropped my toothbrush and when I bent down to pick it up, it was too far away. Felt dizzy – couldn’t reach … Not drunk,’ he said, looking at her with frightened eyes.

  She put her arms round him. ‘You’re just tired. Never mind about the toothbrush. Come with me.’ She spoke calmly, but she did not feel calm at all.

  Snow fell in the night, large flakes as big as feathers, and after a while it began to settle. The bare trees became heavy with it; it thickened on the ground so that it became like the icing on a cake, then a satisfactory three inches of dazzling crunch. Spiders’ webs sparkled with icicles; the sky was the colour of dirty pearls and the air smelt of snow.

  Simon, who had decided to clean out and lay the fires, had to brush the snow off the logs before he wheeled the barrow into the house. The only other person up was Eileen, who was amazed and grateful that he was doing this chore for her. She showed him where the newspapers and kindling were to be found, and offered him a cup of tea. It meant that she could also have one, which she badly needed – it was perishing. They drank their tea standing in the kitchen, then he raked out the kitchen stove and she counted the cutlery for laying the two tables in the dining room and hall.

  Simon loved doing fires. He had felt rather out of it last night, with Teddy constantly steering the conversation round to girlfriends and, in particular, his own. ‘Haven’t you got one?’ he had asked, and Simon had said, no, he hadn’t. He felt himself blushing then because he thought of the gardener’s boy who worked on a neighbouring estate and with whom he had quite unexpectedly but deeply fallen in love. He had met Roy at a nursery garden centre some months back, and to begin with they had talked about trees. Roy was collecting a lorry load of fruit trees while Simon was picking up stuff for the avenue. He came from Glasgow, but his father was Italian, had been a prisoner of war and had met Roy’s mother then. After the war, Roy’s father had not wanted to return to Italy, and the family of the farm he had worked on as a prisoner offered him a job. He found and wooed Maggie, their young cook, and Roy had been the result. He was wonderfully good-looking – with abundant curly black hair, melting brown eyes, and a smooth olive skin that never seemed to change. They had agreed to go to the cinema together on their day off. They sat side by side in the dark, and Simon kept looking at Roy and his lovely profile. And then, after about an hour of this, Roy had put out his hand and rested it upon Simon’s erection.

  He had given a little grunt of triumph and then he’d leaned over and kissed Simon’s mouth. Simon had been unable to contain himself and was flooded with shame. Roy had responded by taking his hand and leading him out of the cinema to his lorry. The back had a tarpaulin that covered it. Roy let down the tailboard and sprang into the lorry. He held out a hand to Simon and hefted him up. It was dark in the back, and for some reason this had made them whisper.

  ‘You not done this before?’

  No, he hadn’t.

  Roy undid one of the lashings of the tarp, which let in a little light. Simon could see that the lorry had been swept clean and that a sleeping-bag lay in one corner. For a second he wondered whether Roy had planned everything, but this only excited him more. Roy was speedily stripping himself bare, until he stood before Simon, naked. He was smiling – a teasing, inviting smile. Then, with a swift, elegant movement, he knelt, in front of him and began taking off his clothes. ‘Good,’ he said, when Simon was also naked. ‘You have a nice body.’

  ‘Nothing like yours.’

  ‘No, no. Mine is the best. But you have good cock. Let me …’

  There ensued the most amazing time of Simon’s life. After a furious, sometimes painful, sometimes ecstatic session Roy drew away from him. ‘I need a fag. Half-time,’ he added, as he found his packet and lit up. He offered one to Simon, who didn’t smoke, except now he felt he wanted to do everything that Roy did.

  ‘I love you,’ he said, as they lay together on the sleeping-bag; the cigarette made him cough, and he gave it up. ‘I love you,’ he repeated, willing Roy to say it too. But he didn’t. He stubbed out his cigarette.

  ‘We have a good time together. We don’t need more. We have good sex – it’ll get even better for you. And now, as they say in pubs, one for the road.’

  There had been more times, and then Roy had said he was off to Scotland for Christmas and, more importantly, New Year. And here he was, in the house where he had been born, back to say goodbye to it. And more in love with Roy than ever. In his dreams he imagined Roy returning to tell him that he was in love, too. They would live together and perhaps run a nursery garden. A blissful dream, for Simon still found it impossible that such a degree of physical intimacy could exist without love.

  ‘I don’t think books should count as presents.’ Georgie and Laura had raced unwrapping their stockings and were eating their tangerines. ‘I think anything except them could be a present. Except sand or earth,’ she added, after thinking about it. She had privately loved her stocking. ‘You couldn’t have had a live animal in a stocking. It would have died in the night. And you’ve got things that are useful for your zoo. It’s a pity you didn’t get a book on how to look after your goldfish,’ she added pointedly. She felt that Georgie had not been quite grateful enough for her splendid present.

  ‘I know perfectly well how to do that. The bowls for the rabbits and mice are useful.’

  ‘And your penknife, and your torch. And that notebook that says “Reports on my Collection”. I think that’s a lovely present.’

  ‘Do be careful, Laura. You’re beginning to sound like a grown-up.’

  ‘Am I? I didn’t mean to. Honestly, Georgie, nothing was further from my mind.’ She was secretly delighted at the idea.

  Rivers, who did not care for tangerines, scampered inside his owner’s pyjama jacket to keep warm.

  Laura had got out of bed to see if there was snow and, passing Rivers’s unoccupied cage, suddenly saw something. ‘Oh, look! A lovely little stocking specially for Rivers!’

  ‘Give it to me.’ Georgie was clearly delighted.

  It was in fact one of Laura’s socks, and she sat on Georgie’s bed while he opened it. It contained a
little bag of Good Boy Choc Drops, a partially stripped drumstick, a really beautiful little brush and comb for his fur, a tiny tin that had mixed biscuits in it, and an envelope full of scraps of ham. ‘A very thoughtful stocking,’ Georgie said. He was almost laughing with pleasure. ‘Look, Rivers!’

  Rivers, who had smelt the ham and the chicken, emerged, his whiskers twitching.

  ‘I’m going to give him the chicken first, and it means we can eat our chocolate money. He loves chicken, and he’s never really cared for chocolate.’

  That was how the three of them were occupied when Zoë and Jemima came to get them up.

  ‘Now, this is what’s going to happen,’ Polly said. ‘You get dressed and have breakfast. Then Daddy is going to take you for a walk—’

  Andrew interrupted. ‘I don’t like to be taken. I like to do my walks by myself.’

  ‘Well, today, you’ll have Daddy. He’s never been here before, so you can show him round.’

  ‘He doesn’t know anywhere here,’ Eliza said.

  ‘Well, I can explore him round. Oh, I do hope I get a dog for Christmas. It will be my dog and nothing to do with you.’ He and Bertie had swapped a good many of their stocking presents, and resented the girls’ invasion of their room.

  Polly, who had arrived with an armful of clothes, was laying them out on Andrew’s bed. ‘And after your walk it will be presents in the drawing room. Then it will be lunch – Christmas lunch. And after lunch there will be a competition for the best snowman.’

  Clary arrived then, wearing Archie’s dressing gown as she had forgotten to pack her own. ‘You are to wear exactly what I have laid out for you,’ Polly warned Andrew, ‘or I shall send for Nan.’

  This threat proved most effective, and Andrew did as he was told.

  ‘I shall skip breakfast,’ Louise said, when they woke up.

  ‘Me too.’ Juliet was actually ravenous, but she knew this was childish, and she was no longer a child. After a moment, she said, ‘I suppose we could both have black coffee. People on diets are always drinking it.’