The Light Years (The Cazalet Chronicle) (65 page)

‘Villy! What is it? Has Edward—’ She stopped. She really could not make such an awful suggestion, must allow her sister to make her confidence herself.

But Villy, giving that small heroic smile that had always maddened her, simply said, ‘Oh, it was nothing. Just that I told him I was coming up to town tomorrow to collect some things from Lansdowne Road, and he said he had to be away in the evening, so there’s not much point in my staying up. I’m dead tired. And I’m sure you are, too. You must have driven well over a hundred miles. And I shall have to as well tomorrow.’

Jessica, as she let down her hair and plaited it for the night, reflected how Villy had always done that: had always seemed to ask for sympathy and then warded you off the moment you tried to give it. She thinks she is being brave, but really she diminishes one by making one feel unworthy to be told anything that matters. She has a lot of Mama in her, all that pride and sense of things being worse for her than anyone else.

But, in bed, she also thought that if Raymond had got someone else she would find it very difficult to admit this to Villy, and felt ashamed of her criticism. He never
would
, of course: he was impossibly devoted to her. She had made her bed and knew that she must lie in it but the thought occurred (and made her smile) as she began sinking into oblivion that now, at least, it would have linen sheets. Or silk, if I choose. And Angela could be presented as Raymond had always wanted. If there was a Season for her to be presented in. What
trivial
thoughts! The whisky, probably. But as she drifted off, Nora was getting a complete new wardrobe to go off to her finishing school, and Judy could have riding lessons and Christopher – what did he want? Christopher could have whatever he wanted . . .

Villy, who undressed very quickly feeling that all she wanted in the world was to be unconscious, out for the night, locked her door and then put her two sets of teeth into a tumbler with Steradent very close to her bed (sleeping without them was a luxury only possible when she was alone), turned out the light and was immediately, tensely, awake. Going over and over the telephone conversation and the way it had ended. ‘Must go, darling, someone wants me. For God’s sake, Villy, didn’t you hear what I said?’ Did he hear what
she
had said? Did anyone ever listen to her? Did anyone ever listen to anything? Or were they so wrapped up in themselves that they were only aware of what complimented themselves? That’s not true of me. I listened to Jessica tonight, and I’m glad for her. To have all her pinching, and scraping and making do over in one fell swoop! What was it she had said when I nearly told her? ‘Has Edward—’ been drinking, I bet she was going to say. A truly Victorian question; she is rather like Mama in some ways. But, of course, I’d never tell her that. Edward always drinks, and it doesn’t make the slightest difference to him: he can carry it, like his father. I must go to sleep, or I’ll be hopeless tomorrow. She began going through the lists of things she wanted to collect from home. All the school books for Miss Milliment. More linen, bath towels, etc. Some of the children’s winter clothes, any minute now it would start to get colder, and this was a cold house. The electric fire from the spare room and there were two paraffin stoves in the attic. She had considered a second visit to Bob Ballater, but disregarded the idea. There was no point: she was perfectly certain now and he had made it clear that he would not help her. Hermione . . . But if there
is
a war, it will all be so complicated, she thought. I may not be able to get to London, or have a good enough other reason for getting there. Trapped, that’s what I am. By the world situation, other people’s views and marriage. It wasn’t as though she was one of those people who wanted sex all the time. I could easily have been a nun or married to one of those poor wretches who lost their balls in the last war. I wouldn’t have minded at all. I could have adopted some of these pathetic babies that Rachel cares for, whose parents never wanted them. She put on the light, found the aspirin bottle and swallowed two without water. Her mouth suffused with a dry bitterness, but she knew they would get her to sleep.

‘I had to come now, because of lessons.’

‘Oh, well. Get on with it.’

Polly knelt on the bed, put her arms round her brother and planted several kisses on his spotty face. ‘You’d better breathe on me a bit.’

Simon opened his mouth and blew steadily at her. ‘It would probably be better if I licked your tongue.’

‘Don’t be utterly repellent.’

‘Anyway, if there’s going to be a war, we don’t need chicken pox. We’d stay here.’

She did not reply. He scratched absently for a bit and then said, ‘Teddy’s done something simply foul and I don’t like him any more.’

‘Simon! What?’

‘Oh. Gone and spoiled something Christopher and I were doing.’

‘What?’

For a moment, Simon simply scratched while he wrestled with the desire to tell her. It wasn’t sneaking, because she wasn’t a grown-up; he was bored of bed and wanted to impress her. ‘Promise not to tell – specially the grown-ups?’

‘Of course. I’ve wondered what you were doing. Clary and I often saw you going off – with things. We couldn’t imagine what you were playing.’

‘We weren’t
playing.
We’ve made a camp – in the woods. To run away.’

‘To run away? What on earth for?’

‘Christopher hates it at home. He’s a conscious objector. He doesn’t believe in war. But then Teddy found our camp and gashed our tent and Christopher and he had a fight, and now Teddy wants to be the leader, but he doesn’t know about the running away part.’

‘Simon, were you going to run away with him?’ As Simon hesitated, she added, ‘Because that would be wicked. I should think Mummy might easily die of grief.’

‘I know. That’s why I didn’t want to, really. Anyway, I can’t now. But it’s different for Christopher. His father is awful to him, and I think his mother is a weak character because she can’t stop the rows that go on. So Christopher thought it would be better if he went. It started as a sort of game, but then it got serious – the running away, I mean. I didn’t tell Teddy although he threatened me with torture. See?’

‘He’d get found though, wouldn’t he? He’d need things like Elastoplast and toothpaste – and people would notice him getting them.’

‘We’d collected all that sort of thing. It was a proper camp, with stores and everything. And it’s no good Christopher running away there now, because Teddy could find him.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Polly, relieved, ‘then he’ll have to give it up.’

‘I wouldn’t count on that. It’ll probably mean he’ll run away further, and then people really won’t find him.’

‘Oh.’ She went quiet soon after that, telling him not to scratch.

‘Mum! What shall I wear? Do open the door, Mum.’

Villy came to with a start. She reached for her teeth. Usually she would have rinsed them under the tap – she loathed the taste of Steradent.

‘What is it?’

‘What shall I wear for London? For my treat?’ he said patiently.

She had clean forgotten. It had been arranged weeks ago that he should go up for the day, have lunch with Edward at his club and go to a film in the afternoon. He was to have gone by train, but now, of course, she would take him with her in the car. Why hadn’t Edward mentioned it on the telephone yesterday?

‘Let’s go and see what you’ve got,’ she said.

His room seemed to be a shambles while at the same time having hardly anything in it. This was partly because the curtain rail had become detached at one side and lay askew across the window with the curtains in a heap on the floor.

‘I pulled it just a bit and it just fell down,’ he said when he saw her seeing this.

‘You’d better wear your Sunday suit.’

‘Oh, no, Mum – anything but that. I feel such a nit in it.’

‘Well, what would you suggest?’

What he would have liked were some Harris tweed plus fours – like the ones Dad played golf in – and a canary yellow waistcoat like the Brig wore for riding and a grey top hat like Dad had for weddings. And lovely thick stockings and shoes the colour of toffee. Useless saying any of that to her. She was rotten with clothes. In the end, they settled to their mutual dissatisfaction upon his long grey trousers and a blazer with his Sunday suit shirt and a foulard tie that Aunt Zoë had given him for Christmas, the only thing he liked and that his mother thought was far too old for him.

‘Where on earth are all your socks?’

‘I’ve been using them for an experiment,’ he said sulkily. He really didn’t want to go into all that.

‘Are you taking me to the station?’ he asked when she had fetched a pair of Dad’s socks.

‘I’m taking you in the car. I’m going up to collect some things from the house.’

‘Oh, good! Then you can have lunch, too, and go to the film.’ His obvious pleasure at including her touched her. She wanted to hug him.

‘I don’t know that I’ll have time for all that. We’ll see.’

Christopher was running with his sandshoes loosely tied together by the laces slung around his neck. He preferred to run barefoot – in fact, he considered shoes to be only emergency apparel, to be used if the ground was actually dangerous, with things like glass or nails. The odd thistle or stone made no impression on his horny feet, and the feel of the damp grass was so refreshing that he felt he could run for ever. But he was doing his usual trek to the wood, only this time with the wonderful knowledge that Teddy would not be there, would not suddenly appear and interrupt him, was safely out of the way for the whole day. He had decided to use this time to move; he could not go far, and it would be useless to take the tent, because he did not want Teddy to realise that he had moved so he would take only the barest necessities, leaving some of everything behind. Even so, there was a lot to shift, and he had to make a final decision about the new site. The obvious place was the other end of the wood, by the pond, until he had time to find a further place with water. The fact that he could find water with a hazel branch meant, of course, that he had a far greater choice, but on the other hand, finding water was one thing, digging for it another. But his water-divining powers both astounded and enchanted him: he had never even seen it being done, and all these years the gift had lain within him, untouched and unknown. What else might he be able to do? He wondered whether there was a book that listed magic powers so that he could test himself, but he hadn’t time for that sort of thing now. The most difficult thing to move without Teddy noticing was going to be the groundsheet, but if he couldn’t take the tent, he was really going to need it. He’d have to sleep wrapped up in it if it rained, which it kept looking as though it was going to do. Now it was grey and very still, with a whitish mist; the trees were going gold and yellow and caramel-coloured, the bryony berries were ripening from green to red, the rose-hips and hawthorns were already ripe, the sloes were black beneath their lavender bloom. It was a pity they were no good to eat, any of them, but there were still blackberries, and the Spanish chestnuts were thick with fruits whose rind was like small green hedgehogs – the nut was lovely to roast. As he approached the wood, he saw a heron coasting low over the marshy bank that ran along one side of it – frog hunting. If people had to spend all of every day getting enough food to eat like animals, they wouldn’t have time to make aeroplanes or bombs. The simplicity and truth of this notion struck him so forcibly that he felt he ought to do something about it – like write a letter to
The Times
or the Prime Minister, who seemed rather a good egg and not at all keen on war. He had reached his camp now – the stream, the little island, the mossy bank looking quite like home – only it wasn’t going to be, after all. He undid the flaps, crawled in, found a rather silent biscuit and his exercise book, and started making his essential list.