All Change: Cazalet Chronicles (10 page)

‘I’ve got to go. Sorry, darling, but they’ll have my guts for garters if I’m late.’

‘Oh, Teddy! You’re always saying that. I thought we had the whole afternoon. You said.’ She propped herself up on her elbow and made a provocative face. ‘You really are the limit!’

‘I didn’t say that. I said I’d got a long lunch and it’s nearly four o’clock. I’m late already.’ He sprang out of bed and began dressing.

She watched him. ‘Well, at least the weekend is coming up. You said you’d take me to that posh restaurant in Bray.’

‘I’m afraid we haven’t.’

‘Haven’t what?’

‘Got the weekend. I’ve got to go down to the country with my family.’ And before she could start to wail, he added, ‘My grandmother has died. It’s her funeral on Monday.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry. Couldn’t you at least come back on Monday evening?’

‘’Fraid not.’ He was knotting his tie now. ‘Get up, sweetie, I’ve got to lock up the flat.’ He looked at her, charmingly dishevelled, her blue-black hair falling over her amazingly white shoulders. She had wonderful skin, like silk. When he’d put on his jacket, he pulled the sheet off her. Her breasts were small but well rounded, her nipples a deep rosy colour; he had only to touch them to excite her. Bed was her element, but one couldn’t spend one’s life there. They’d had no lunch, and he realised he was desperately hungry. He’d only had coffee in his flat for breakfast – wasn’t much of a hand at cooking – and Annie seemed to have no interest in food, unless it was served up in a restaurant.

She got dressed in the end and he put her in a taxi. Miss Corley – the secretary he shared with Hugh – would probably get him a sandwich if he asked her nicely.

He did not know how he felt about the Duchy’s death, he reflected, as he drove through London. Death seemed to him so unreal, so mysterious and awful that it left him speechless. It was the going-on-ness of it that defeated him. Finality – that was the word. Even Dad leaving Mum, awful though it had been for Mum, and embarrassing for everybody, didn’t mean that they didn’t go on being there. And now he would never see the Duchy again. He realised that tears had come to his eyes because the traffic was blurred. He quickly rubbed his face. One shouldn’t blub. He hadn’t cried when Bernadine had left him; actually, it hadn’t made him sad but rather relieved in the end. Although, looking back on it, he had to admit that she’d taught him a thing or two about sex. When they had begun, sex had seemed not only the most marvellous thing in the world but something that would only be marvellous with her. And when she’d wanted to marry him, he had been thrilled, and had married her at once without telling the family. He had been so sure that he was in love that it had all seemed glorious – until she’d come to England.

She’d hated everything – mostly discovering that he was not in the least rich, as it became clear she’d imagined. Well, he’d been divorced for some years now, and there had been several girls since then, but he hadn’t wanted to marry any of them. He’d concentrated on work, playing squash, tennis in summer, and collecting records of jazz pianists. About once a month Dad and Diana invited him to dinner where he got a really square meal and an awful lot to drink, and also about once a month he spent a rather difficult evening with Mum. She was so bitter; she always asked after Dad, and he never knew what to say. She also asked about Diana, apparently innocuous questions, but uttered with a venom no less poisonous for being suppressed. The awful thing was that, though of course he loved and was sorry for her, he could not imagine anyone wanting to go to bed with her, whereas with Diana – whom he did not very much like – he could see she was just the ticket for Dad. He felt sorry for Roland too: he hardly ever saw their father. He was seventeen now, and just about to finish his public school. Boarding might, for him, have been better than living with Mum.

It was hot in the car, and as he wiped his face with his hand, he could smell Annie on his fingers.

PART THREE

JULY–SEPTEMBER 1956

ARCHIE AND CLARY

They had had to postpone the holiday because of the funeral. They had lost the ticket money for the car ferry, but the French firm had been able to let them have a caravan for a week without forfeiting their deposit. But that seemed to be the end of their good luck. The crossing was very rough and both children were helplessly sick; Clary had had to sponge them down in the insalubrious cabin, which contained a basin and a lavatory, unpack to get them fresh clothes, and beg a bag from the steward in which to put the soiled ones. Nobody got any sleep, the cabin smelt of vomit, and both children were miserable. He had done everything he could to help Clary, fetching the suitcases from the car, going to the bar for drinks – lemon barley water for Harriet and Bertie, brandy and ginger ale for Clary: ‘Your emergency drink,’ he’d said, and been rewarded with a wan but grateful smile. They’d laid the children on their bunks and read to them for the rest of the night.

The morning was grey, with fitful glimpses of sun, and the long process began of unloading the cars from the boat. They had arrived in St Malo, and there to greet them was the welcome sight of a row of cafés. ‘We’ll all have a jolly good breakfast,’ Archie had said.

Breakfast had been a success. The children loved croissants and very milky coffee, but the highlight had been an old man who walked slowly up and down past them with a cheetah on a lead. This naturally thrilled them and, seeing their interest, he stopped at their table. The cheetah turned out to be called Sonia, and he encouraged both children to stroke its head. Archie realised just in time that the man expected a tip, and as he had no change, it was rather a large one. However, it was worth it: the children were completely entranced.

But the rest of the holiday had been patchy. It had rained a lot, and Archie’s bad leg had ached more than usual, and the caravan was not ideal as a place to be for hours on end. When the sun shone the children loved the beach with its rock pools and sand: they would each appropriate a pool, then spend happy hours catching shrimps.

He and Clary took turns on the beach, while the other tidied the caravan, tried to get their stock of towels dry enough for the children, shopped for food and made a picnic lunch. When Bertie once complained that his sandwich was scratchy, Harriet turned on him. ‘Of course it is. Why do you think it’s called “
sand
wich”?’

‘They’re not scratchy in England.’ But he looked near to tears.

Clary took his sand-encrusted paw and wiped it clean, then shook his sandy baguette.

‘There was a gigantic war in England, and Mrs Burrell at school said there were shortages of everything. So there would have been a shortage of sand, you silly ass.’

‘I’m not a silly ass. You’re horrible.’

‘I’m nothing like as horrible as you.’

They glared at each other.

Archie burst into loud mock sobs. ‘Why have I got two horrible children? It must be your fault.’ He glared at Clary, who took the hint.

‘It’s your fault. There’s nothing horrible about me, it’s you.’ She started to sob.

Harriet flung her arms round her father. ‘Oh, don’t, Dad. There’s nothing horrible about you – or Mummy.’ She extended the caress to her mother. ‘You love each other, really. You’re upsetting Bertie. If you quarrel it spoils everything.’

Archie held out his hand to Clary and kissed it. ‘I’m so awfully sorry, darling. I didn’t mean it.’

‘It’s quite all right. I’m sorry, too.’ And as the children watched this with relief and complacency, she added, ‘And, Harriet and Bertie, you love each other as well, don’t you?’

There was a pause, and then Harriet said, ‘Up to a point.’ She looked at Bertie’s anxious, red, tearful face and relented. ‘I do actually quite like you,’ she said. ‘Most of the time.’

Archie said, ‘Well, give him a hug, then.’

When she had done so, she said, ‘I did it, even though he smells horribly of sardines. Which you know I absolutely hate.’

Bertie, considerably cheered, said, ‘I want an egg, a hard-boiled egg, but not in a sandwich.’

There were several more scenes of this kind – mostly when it rained and the children got bored with jigsaws and books in the caravan.

The worst thing from Archie and Clary’s point of view was the evenings. Sometimes they went out to supper, but by about nine Harriet and Bertie, full of bathing and rockpool-owning and sun, became very ready for bed. That was fine, but then they had to be awfully quiet because there was no division between the bunks and the rest of the van. He had tried making love to her once, but they had both felt constrained by the presence of their sleeping children. In the end they took two of the camp stools outside and sat drinking
marc
, smoking and talking quietly. Bertie was prone to nightmares – about a giant jellyfish with a sting, and about the cheetah, Sonia, which, he said, had secretly wanted to eat him.

All in all, they were both relieved at the end of the week. It had not been a real holiday for Clary, and he had done no painting at all.

LOUISE

Louise lay on her stomach in the garden of the villa her father had rented a few miles west of Ventimiglia. She had pulled down the straps of her bikini in order to have an even tan on her golden-brown back. The villa, when they eventually reached it, was large and full of faded velvet-upholstered furniture. Its drawbacks – not mentioned by the agents – included only one bathroom for the seven bedrooms and two lavatories that flushed reluctantly and sometimes not at all. The mosquito nets over the beds were full of holes, well known and found by the mosquitoes. The house, described as having a garden bordering the beach, was in fact cut off from the sea by a railway line that had to be crossed with care since a small train puffed along it, back and forth, at irregular intervals. The party consisted of Dad, Diana, their youngest child Susan, Diana’s brother and his new wife, and Dad was paying for all of it. There was a cook and a gardener, so all Diana had to do was order the meals. In spite of that, there was a feeling of dissatisfaction in the air. Louise noticed that Diana seemed only to speak to her father to tell him to do something – ‘The least you could do’ was how she often put it. She also blamed him for the railway line, and the beach, which had practically no sand. However, Louise also noticed that in front of the brother and his wife, Marge, she presented a devoted front. With herself, Diana was icily polite and Louise felt unwanted.

She had recourse to the dusty leather-bound volumes that lived in a glass-fronted bookcase in the salon. At the moment she was reading a biography of Caterina Sforza, which contained a fascinating chapter on the poisons that Caterina recommended, each recommendation depending upon whether she wanted her victims to die at once or some time after they had left her palace.

‘I hoped I’d find you. Don’t overdo it, darling – you look rather red.’ Edward picked up the bottle of tanning oil beside her. ‘Like me to do your back?’

She sat up. It was lovely to see him without anyone else. ‘I’d love you to.’

She watched him pouring the oil into his hands for a moment. He did not look happy, she thought. Was Diana being horrible to him, and might he want to confide in her?

‘Where are the others?’

‘They’ve all gone to swim.’

‘But not you?’

‘I didn’t feel like it.’

‘Something’s worrying you.’

‘Well – yes, it is rather.’

‘Oh, Dad! You can confide in me. You know I won’t tell anyone.’

‘Darling! I don’t mind telling you, but there’s nothing you can do, I’m afraid. It’s money. I’m running out of it. I’d no idea how expensive food and everything would be. I don’t have to pay the servants, but I shall have to tip them, and then there’s all the expense of driving back. I wasn’t allowed to bring any more cash out than I have. So, yes, I am worried. I haven’t told anyone else, even Diana, because she’ll think it’s all my fault – which, of course, it is.’ He put the bottle of sun oil down and wiped his hand on the grass.

Louise, who had been thinking furiously, had suddenly an idea for him. ‘Dad! I think I know what we could do. My friend Stella is having her holiday with an uncle and aunt who live in Nice. She gave me her telephone number in case we went there. If I rang her, I bet she could get you money. Tell me how much you need, and I’ll ring her.’

‘Could you, darling? That would be marvellous.’

She got to her feet. ‘Let’s do it now.’

It all worked out wonderfully. Yes, Stella could get the money by the following day, and, yes, she would bring it herself – take the train from Nice to Ventimiglia, and could Louise meet her at the station?

Diana’s voice from the bathroom: ‘There’s a bus to Ventimiglia that goes every hour Antonio says. She can take that.’

‘I think I ought to drive Louise in this heat.’

‘Oh, darling! I promised the others you’d join them at the beach. You didn’t yesterday.’

There was a silence after that, and Louise, who had overheard them when she was leaving the bathroom, imagined him shrugging – and giving in. She hated the way her father seemed always to give in – hated it – but she was so excited at the prospect of seeing Stella that she decided not to think about it, and duly caught an early bus to be certain she was at the station by eleven.