All Change: Cazalet Chronicles (31 page)

Juliet lay on her bed. She had sobbed herself dry and now twisted herself round so that she was on her back, staring at the ceiling. It felt like the end of the world. She had not heard from Neville for four weeks, three days and fifty minutes. The last time had been when he had taken her to the theatre, where they had seen an awfully depressing play (but he’d said he liked it so she had agreed with him that it was frightfully good). Then they had gone to a Chinese restaurant where they had had lots of little dishes of delicious things, like fried dumplings and prawns wrapped in dark green leaves that you didn’t have to eat. He ate with chopsticks, but she had to give them up as she kept dropping bits of food from their slippery ends. She had worn her new navy blue dress, bought in a sale from Fenwick’s, and had spent ages doing her make-up – had to keep scrubbing it off and starting again. She ended up with green eye shadow and a pair of false eyelashes that felt so heavy she could hardly keep her eyes open, some pale foundation and finally a lipstick of pillar-box red with which she had enlarged her mouth. I certainly look different, she thought, with uncertain satisfaction.

But when Neville came to fetch her, he burst out laughing. ‘You look like a cross between a baby panda and a little green ghost. Why did you let her do all that?’ This was addressed to Zoë, who shrugged and said, ‘I don’t organise her appearance any more.’ In fact, she had protested and been snubbed.

Neville had seized her hand and dragged her upstairs. ‘I won’t have you spoiling your heavenly face with all that nonsense. Let me deal with it. I’m an old hand at make-up.’

Speechless with anger and shame at being made to look so foolish in front of her mother, Juliet collapsed in tears on the chair before her dressing table. Her room was strewn with discarded clothes, her bed was unmade; it was all exactly not what she had wanted anyone else to see – and especially not Neville.

‘Darling, if you go on crying, you’ll look more like a panda than ever.’ He wrapped her up in her pyjama jacket. ‘Must protect your pretty dress. Now. First I’ll get these things off. Best if I do it quickly.’ In fact, he was so gently deft that it didn’t hurt at all and the false eyelashes lay on his hand like some horrible ancient insects. He chucked them into the overflowing wastepaper basket.

For the next half hour he cleaned her face, telling her at intervals how much prettier she was becoming, and she stopped feeling awful and revelled in his touching her and telling her that she was far too beautiful to use any make-up. ‘And think how awful it would be if it was the other way round,’ he said, when he had finished. ‘Now, my darling Juliet, we must go or we’ll miss the beginning of the play.’

It had been a heavenly evening, and for a while she was happy simply going over it all, and boasting to her best friends at school about going out with someone so glamorous. She could write to him at his flat – he had recently moved to a nicer one – but he would not write back to her. It was too dangerous, he said. They must wait until she was older. She did once ring him at his flat – she often tried whenever she had the house to herself – but on one occasion he was there and answered the call. He did not seem very pleased that she had rung, and soon she found nothing to say. There were sounds of music and then a girl’s voice: ‘Nev? Nev!’

‘I’ve got to go, I’m working,’ he said, and before she could ask him anything, he had rung off.

Then, at lunch today, she had asked (very casually) whether there was any news of Neville, and her father had said that he had found a new model whom he was very taken with: a magazine had done a big piece on Christian Dior, who had died in the autumn, and Neville had done the pictures, six plates of Serena wearing Dior clothes, and Archie had said, yes, he’d seen them, they were stunning, ‘almost worth going to the dentist for’. Someone else had remarked that if Neville wanted to make a model as famous as Suzy Parker or Bronwen Pugh he would certainly do it. ‘Especially if he was in love with her.’

She had managed to sit through the interminable minutes while the subject got changed, and then, affecting a choke, she’d excused herself and fled upstairs. Weeks and minutes were nothing to this. The whole of the rest of her life had somehow to be spent in secret, unbearable agony. Nobody would ever understand what it was like to love someone as she did, and then to have them torn out of her heart. And he had not told her! Had she not asked that casual question at lunch she might never have known until an announcement of marriage appeared. But surely she would have sensed the change in him. He had sounded different on the telephone – and then the music and a girl’s voice, Serena’s, it must have been.

She began to imagine what the rest of this grief-stricken life would be. She had once read in an historical novel that the heroine, on being been torn from her lover, had become a nun, had remained shut up in a convent for the rest of her life, had worn a hair shirt, and prayed constantly for forgiveness for loving her married lover. If she did that, Juliet decided, she would become known for her saintly disposition, fasting in order to give her bread to the birds, nursing the sick, welcoming any humiliation that came her way. In spite of the fact that all the other nuns looked up to her as an example of piety, and the reverend mother always called her ‘my dear, dear child’, she remained humble, and when she died everybody in the convent wept for their ‘little saint’. But some fantasies go too far, and this one, like a half-cooked sickeningly sweet meringue, had passed the point of the slightest credibility. Now it induced a few hoots of hysterical laughter and relief. The future was not that bad. She did not live in an age when cruel parents shut their children up in convents if they failed to make the right marriage. Once she’d got through school, she could really start her life. Naturally it would be a sad one, but she felt it must deepen and mature her character. Almost at once she fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

RACHEL AND SID

It was a week before Christmas and they were in London. Sid had just finished her course of chemotherapy, and was coming out of the Marsden, the hospital where she had been sent by Rachel’s doctor. She had managed to keep the treatment a secret from Rachel, and this had entailed not telling her about the Marsden. She was so fierce with Rachel about wanting to go for her appointments by herself that Rachel had retreated, quite frightened by her severity. The last four weeks had been extremely hard for both of them. The chemotherapy made Sid nauseous and it was increasingly difficult to find anything she could bear to eat. Dry biscuits were the safest, but after one or two she had to give up, go to the lavatory and throw up. She hated being sick so much that she was usually sick a second time. The only thing she actually enjoyed was a cup of very weak China tea with a slice of lemon in it.

She had decided not to wait for a bus and to treat herself to a taxi. But she did not have to wait for anything because there was Rachel, sitting in a taxi and waving to her.

‘How did you know I was here?’

‘It’s where you came the first time. I realised you must be here.’

They were sitting side by side, and now Rachel took one of Sid’s hands in both of her own. ‘It’s all right, my darling. I know. You don’t have to pretend with me any more.’

Extraordinary relief. She couldn’t speak, and she did not want to cry.

‘You’ve been so brave, shielding me from this. But I’m glad to know. Now we can fight it together. It will be far better like that. I’ve been reading a lot about cancer, and the fact that you’ve felt so ill with the treatment doesn’t mean that it won’t have worked. So, my dearest one, no more hiding clumps of your hair in envelopes. I should love you if you became totally bald. Meanwhile, before you go for your next check-up, we’ve got to find things for you to eat. You’ll have to help me with that. There’s a pill you can take that will stop you feeling so sick. We’re going to Home Place this afternoon, and Mrs Tonbridge will cook for us. You know how she loves to feed people.’

‘What about the family, Christmas and all that?’ She had been dreading the influx and letting everyone down.

‘They aren’t coming. The roof is still being done. It will be just you and me – really cosy and nice.’

Rachel was so calm and smiling, so much in command as well as being so comforting that she actually felt better than she had for weeks. ‘Oh, darling! I do love you.’

And Rachel turned her head away to look out of the window. ‘Same here.’

ARCHIE AND CLARY

‘. . . and I wanted to talk to you.’

There was a pause, during which he felt his heart sinking.

‘. . . without the children interrupting us.’

They were sitting in the car outside their studio. The darkness was only broken by a weak yellow streetlamp, and she sat now twisting her hands nervously in her lap. Her hair was hanging round her face so he could not see it. Her mood was contagious – he was feeling pretty shaky himself – but his old habit of protecting her won out, and in a gentle but matter-of-fact manner, he said, ‘Come on, Clary. You’ll feel much better if you tell me what’s the matter.’

‘Yes. Well, all these weeks I haven’t been writing a novel, I’ve been writing a play.’ She gave him a quick look.

He was smiling. Such relief. ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me before?’ was something he managed not to say. For some reason she was in a state about it and, like animals and small children, she liked to be taken seriously.

‘And,’ she continued, ‘I sent it to the management at the Bush Theatre, and it looks like they might do it.’

‘I can see that this is a tragedy, or at least you sound as though it is. I think it’s marvellous.’ He pushed her hair out of the way and kissed her cheek. ‘Why are you being so gloomy about it?’

‘Archie, I haven’t told you what it’s about yet.’

This was the crunch, he supposed. ‘Tell me,’ he said quietly. ‘I expect it’s about a man marrying a girl far younger than he, having children and not enough money to give her a good life.’

‘Oh, no! It isn’t like that at all. It’s about a married couple, but he falls in love with another girl, and it’s what happens to – to everybody after that. Nothing is the same, you see – after that. For any of them.’

‘But he gives her up, doesn’t he?’ God! He hadn’t gone through all that for nothing, had he?

‘Yes, he does. But I’ve found that even if you do what you think is right, it doesn’t change your feelings about it. In fact, it seems to make things worse. The damage is somehow done. I had to write about it. I had to try to imagine what it’s like to love two people. I had to imagine what it’s like to be the poor girl – suddenly cast out by the first person she falls in love with. And, of course, I had to find out what it means to be someone like me. But I became more and more afraid that you’d hate me for doing it.’ Then, so quietly that he could scarcely hear her, she said, ‘I have tried to be fair.’

‘Clary, you know I would never try to stop you writing anything. Remember our cottage by the canal?’ He had taken her hands and now he gave them a little shake. She nodded, and a tear fell onto his finger. ‘I love you. I shall never stop loving you and that – other thing – it needs time, you know. It is passing, but damage always needs time. For all of us. It will slip into being a small incident in our lives, you’ll see.’

Later, when they were in bed, he said, ‘I should very much like to read your play.’

‘But not tonight?’

‘Certainly not tonight.’ He was exhausted – lightheaded with relief. Time to wind down. He settled her against him. ‘I expect that, in the near future, you’ll become famous, and I shall accompany you to first nights, red carpets and champagne, both of us dressed to the nines . . .’

‘I don’t think I’ll ever be those things, famous and
soignée
and all that.’

‘No, sweetheart, I’ve never thought of you as
soignée. . .’

‘I forgot to tell you. Polly’s invited us all for Christmas.’

‘Oh, good. Harriet and Bertie will be so pleased. How nice of Poll. . .’ But he realised that she had already dozed off. He shifted his arm carefully from under her shoulder in case it went to sleep before the rest of him did.

VILLY AND MISS MILLIMENT

Villy had always dreaded Christmas, except during those halcyon years when the brothers had taken it in turn to look after the children while some of the family went skiing. That had come to an end, of course, with the war. But the war years at Home Place hadn’t been so bad either when she looked back at them. Compared to now, they seemed much better than she had thought at the time. After the frightful blow of Edward leaving her, everything had fallen to pieces: she remembered telling Miss Milliment that she would gladly have put her head in a gas oven if it weren’t for Roland. That had been the time when she had taken a bit too much gin, a habit she dropped as soon as she realised she had acquired it.

For years now she had been trying to make Christmas merry for Roland. He was now eighteen, and she had just learned from Zoë that no one was going to Home Place because of repairs, and when, unable to stop herself, she had retorted that it didn’t make any difference to her, Zoë had asked if she would like to come to Christmas lunch. ‘With Miss Milliment, of course, and Roland – we haven’t seen him for ages.’

Villy had accepted, very gratefully: it would be one nice holiday event for Roland, and, if she was having a good day, for Miss Milliment, too.

Miss Milliment. She was becoming a real anxiety. It was easy when she was in her right mind – a trifle forgetful sometimes, but that was natural at her age. She had a whole series of other minds, though, the consequences of which were wholly unpredictable. They nearly always involved action of some kind – getting up at three in the morning and trying to make her own breakfast, boiling milk all over the stove and the saucepan burned. ‘Oh, Viola, I wanted you to have a good lie-in this weekend.’ This had happened in varying forms more than once. Another time, when she seemed to have disappeared, Villy found her in Abbey Road, in pouring rain and in her nightgown. ‘Oh, Viola, I simply have to get somewhere but, do you know, I’m not quite sure where it is. I’m so afraid I’ll be late.’ And she had clung to Villy, her sparse grey plait streaming from the rain, her spectacles awry and her heavy flannel nightgown already dripping small rivulets at her feet. It had been early evening, and the road was empty except for a few people hurrying home to get out of the rain.