All Change: Cazalet Chronicles (30 page)

‘So you want him to feel OK. You’ll have to talk to him, darling. How you feel about Diana isn’t nearly as important as how you feel about him.’

‘I suppose it isn’t,’ he said slowly, discovering this.

Jemima gave him a flurry of light little kisses, then yawned.

‘Am I as boring as that?’ But he stroked her hair back from her face and gave her a long, affectionate kiss. ‘Poor little Jem. Nothing is as tiring as peacemaking. Sleep now.’

She was asleep in seconds, but Hugh lay awake, trying somehow to reconcile the deep rift between himself and his brother.

‘That wasn’t too bad, was it?’ Diana had taken his overcoat to spread over her knees; it was very cold and starting to rain.

‘It was fine, I thought. What about you?’

‘I thought it went well. I did my best, anyway.’

‘You were marvellous, darling. The heat will come on in a minute. Light me a fag, will you? They’re in that front pocket.’

‘Jemima made me feel rather overdressed,’ she said, when she had done so.

‘You looked lovely, sweetie. Jemima never dresses up. I thought she looked very pretty.’

‘I don’t think Hugh liked me.’

‘Oh, darling, of course he did. He always takes time to know people.’ He had now said three things that she wanted to hear but were not really true. ‘Why don’t you have a little sleep?’

‘I think I will. I feel quite woozy after all that wine.’

So Diana slept and he drove, wondering hopelessly how on earth he could break through his brother’s obstinacy, his refusal to see the rocks ahead . . . Perhaps he could persuade him to meet that banker chap Louise had produced.

Could he? Well, he supposed he could try . . .

ARCHIE AND CLARY

‘Why aren’t we going to Home Place for Christmas?’

‘I’ve told you, Bertie. The roof is in a bad state – rain coming in, builders, all that.’

‘I can’t see why that means we can’t go.’

‘We could take our tent,’ Harriet suggested.

‘Yes. We could take our tent. And you and Dad could sleep in one of the loose boxes.’

‘And we could tell all the others to bring their tents, and their mothers and fathers could sleep in the other two boxes. Easy-peasy.’

‘That’s all very well,’ Archie said. ‘But you’d need some food from time to time. We’re definitely not going. But we can have a very good Christmas at home.’

Harriet burst into tears. ‘I want a Christmas in the country with snow. I want it more than I can say.’

‘If there is snow there’ll probably be some in London, too.’

‘Snow is no good in London. It goes all grey and slushy in a minute.’

‘Besides, there may not be any,’ Clary said. ‘Harriet, if you’re going to go on crying, will you please stop eating. Your face is covered with porridge.’

‘It’s not covered,’ Bertie said. ‘Just a few drooly bits on your chin. You do exaggerate, Mum. It’s quite annoying. “You’re filthy dirty”, “You’re boiling hot”, when it’s only my knees or I’ve been running.’

‘Would you like some more coffee?’ Clary asked Archie, in a muffled voice – she was trying not to laugh and Archie noticed, rather sadly, that their relationship was much easier when the children were present.

The holidays had begun for both of the children and for him: three weeks of trying to make the holiday good. He was taking his lot to the zoo where they were to meet Rupert and Georgie. And then Rupert would drive them to pick up Clary and go on to lunch at his place: a nice day. He had tried to get Clary to go with them to the zoo, but she’d said she had things to do.

When they were safely gone, Clary took the letter that she had received the day before, lit a cigarette and sat down at the kitchen table to read it for the third time. It was from the management of something called the Bush Theatre Company, and said that her play
Three Is Not Company
had been read by several members, including their resident director, Matt Corsham, and while it was thought that parts of it needed a rewrite, they would be interested in discussing a possible performance. Perhaps she would call to make an appointment for them to meet.

It was true. She had done it! The first time she had read the letter, she hadn’t been able to believe it. The second time a wave of exhilaration and joy had possessed her. It was amazing, and true: she was a playwright. Fantasies unfurled of the first performance being such a resounding success that in no time West End managers were planning a production with Peggy Ashcroft, Dorothy Tutin and Laurence Olivier as the star cast . . .

But there was one very large and nerve-racking fly in this ointment. She had said nothing to Archie about it. He had assumed that she was writing another novel; she had said nothing about a play. To begin with, she had told herself that it wasn’t necessary as she might not be any good at playwriting. In which case she could burn it and nothing need ever be said. But it had turned out unexpectedly well: once she had got the structure in her head, she could concentrate upon her three characters, and the more she did that, the more she got caught up with their points of view. But now she would have to tell Archie, try to explain to him what had driven her to write this particular play.

At this moment, the telephone rang. Polly had heard that Christmas at Home Place was off, and wondered if she and the family would like to spend Christmas with them. ‘If you come dressed as Eskimos, you’ll be able to survive. Gerald and I would love it, and Simon will be here, and I haven’t seen you for so long, Clary, it would be a real treat.’

‘We’d love to come, Poll – if it isn’t too much for you.’

‘Of course not. Gerald is always complaining that there aren’t enough children, although if anyone’s been a fruitful vine it’s me, four grapes. Oh, Clary, it would be so good to see you – and darling Archie. Come the day before Christmas Eve – the traffic won’t be so bad. I’m longing to hear about your new novel. Dad said you were writing a lot.’

They chatted a bit more, and then Polly said, ‘By the way, Nan has got a bit dotty, but not where the children are concerned. Thought I’d better warn you.’

After Polly’s call Clary plucked up enough courage to ring Matt Corsham – whose signature could have been anything from a child trying out a pen to a road sign – but whose name was mercifully printed on the paper. She explained that she would be unable to meet him before New Year, but that any date after that would do.

A date was agreed, for Friday, 3 January. ‘If there’s any hitch our end, I’ll be in touch,’ he said, before he rang off. He hadn’t noticed that there was no telephone number on her letter, thank goodness, but then she realised that she would have had to tell Archie about it well before then.

‘Honestly, Clary, I don’t know what to do. We spent a weekend down there looking for a decent house to rent, but we don’t even agree about that. Your father wants a romantic Georgian manor house in some distant village where schools for the children will be miles from anywhere, and I’ll be stuck being a chauffeur all day. If we have to go, I’d far rather be in Southampton where at least there’s some transport, and things going on.’

Lunch was over and Archie and Rupert had taken the children to Richmond Park, ‘to work off some of their fiendish energy,’ Archie had said. Juliet had refused to go with them; when pressed by her father, she had burst into tears and protested that at her age she should decide how she would spend the afternoon. ‘Anyway, I loathe fresh air,’ she’d said, fled upstairs and banged the door of her bedroom.

‘Well, we don’t need her. She’s not interested in us,’ Harriet had said, but without any conviction.

‘And the worst of it is that poor Rupe doesn’t want to go – not at all. He says he’s always hated being in charge of anything, and he loves this house and refuses to sell -says we’ll have to let it, but the thought of clearing it up enough to have tenants makes me want to faint and scream.’

‘I’ll help you,’ Clary said. She was rinsing plates and Zoë was drying them.

‘And, of course, you know about Home Place. The children are terribly disappointed about that – especially Juliet, funnily enough. Thank you for saying you’d help, though. I was wondering whether you’d like to have Christmas with us here.’

‘Oh, darling, that would have been wonderful, but Polly rang this morning and asked us and I said yes. My lot were so disappointed about not going to Home Place because they love being in the country, and going to Poll will mean that they can be. And Archie and I need a rest, or at least a change.’

‘I should have asked you yesterday. Oh, Clary! Why don’t you wear gloves?’

Clary had been pushing her hair back from her face with a soapy hand. ‘Can’t be bothered. I know my hands are awful,’ she added, ‘all puffy and wrinkled and red, and I’ve only nearly stopped biting my nails, and if I put stockings on, my skin is so rough that I ladder them immediately. Archie doesn’t like them at all.’ Her eyes filled suddenly and she turned to Zoë. ‘Do you sometimes feel that marriage is a profession? Where you don’t get time off and whatever awful things happen you just have to bear them?’

Zoë pulled a chair out from the table, made Clary sit down, and pushed a packet of Gauloises and matches to her before answering. ‘I think in the early days I felt rather as though I’d joined the wrong club. I adored Rupert but I couldn’t understand why he was so keen on painting when he could have a much better job in the firm. I felt inferior to Villy and Sybil, and that made me aggressive and demanding with Rupe. So I think I know what you mean. Oh, Clary, are you having a bad patch?’

‘It’s all my fault.’ She lit her cigarette and inhaled gratefully. ‘Absolutely mine.’

‘It’s never one person’s fault,’ Zoë said quietly. ‘I learned that at the end of the war. We both fell in love with another person, you see. We both had a hand in it.’

‘What happened?’

‘My love died. And Rupe left his girl – woman – in France. In a way I think it was harder for him. But you have to talk about things, Clary, to get it right.’

‘I know. But I dread it so much and I don’t know how to start.’

‘Have you fallen in love with someone else?’

‘Oh, no. I could never do that. I love Archie.’

And then she told Zoë all about it, about his giving the girl up, and clearly suffering for it. She told her about the play, too, what it was about, and what was happening to it.

‘And he doesn’t know anything. He thinks I’ve been writing another novel, but the idea of making a play out of our particular triangle fell into my mind and I felt compelled to write about it. And, surprisingly, it’s made me so much more understanding of what it’s been like for the three of us.’

‘You’ll have to tell him. Give him the play to read. This evening, Clary. I’ll have the children for the night so you have some time and peace to do it. Now I must go and give Rivers his carrot or Georgie will never forgive me.’

Clary began to thank her.

‘Don’t thank me – Georgie will be delighted and Rupe will bring them back in the morning.’

And she sped away, wanting to give Clary some time to recover. Her confidences had raked up the feelings that she had never quite lost for Jack Greenfeldt. Over the years they had diminished, become not only more distant but familiar and therefore less shocking. Speaking of him – usually to herself, but now to Clary – the same pictures reeled across her mind: the last time she’d seen him, when he’d turned up at Home Place; clearing out the studio that had been their secret place; the anguish he must have endured at the death camps that had led to his suicide – an act that she could now perceive to have been one of courage and love. These images recurred and still had the power to pierce her heart with their original pain . . . It was she, Zoë realised, who still needed time to recover, as much as Clary.

Rivers did not seem at all interested in the carrot, acted put out that she had simply interrupted the rest he so badly needed. At least, Zoë thought, as she mopped her face, Juliet will never have a war to contend with, will never have to endure what I went through.