All Change: Cazalet Chronicles (38 page)

Hugh rang her in the evening to say that he was going to stay two nights with Rachel to help her arrange the funeral, to provide general support, ‘And to try and persuade her to stay with us for a little while afterwards. She’s dead tired and in a state of shock. I don’t think she should be on her own here. She doesn’t want everybody to come to the funeral, just me and Rupert and Archie, the three of us whom Sid loved most.’

‘What about Edward?’

He snorted. ‘No. Ever since that disastrous evening, she hasn’t seen him at all. And in spite of living so near, it turns out he had no idea that Sid was so ill, and Rachel feels it would distress her if he came. She’s afraid that Diana might come with him, and she simply couldn’t cope with that. She wants the funeral to be very quiet, and she wants Sid to be buried next to the Duchy. She sends you her love, Jem, and to Zoë and Clary. Will you tell them that? I’ll ring you again tomorrow.’ And after some endearments, he rang off. She could tell that he was exhausted from his quiet, tired voice.

‘The funeral is next Wednesday,’ Archie said. ‘And Rupe is going to drive me down.’

‘Good,’ Clary said. It was the day that they were auditioning for the young girl’s part, and she desperately wanted to be there.

‘It’s all right about the children. I’ve fixed for them to go to Zoë.’

‘They’re meant to be at school.’

‘Well, they’ll just have to have a day off.’

‘Oh, all right.’

‘Sometimes, my darling, I wish you could be a bit more gracious when things are arranged for you.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like saying, “Thank you, kind Archie,” and “Whatever would I do without you?” that sort of thing.’

‘Would you do that, if it was the other way round?’

He thought for a moment. ‘Possibly not. But it’s not quite the same, is it?’

‘It ought to be. Supposing I wanted to go on the Aldermaston march, which would take ages longer than a funeral, would I have to butter you up to be allowed to go?’

‘I’d hate it. Days of awful food for me and the children.’

‘So you’d rather have a hydrogen bomb.’

‘Of course not. Oh, Clary, don’t let’s quarrel. I feel too depressed – haven’t the heart for it. Think how lucky we are to have each other to talk to, or quarrel with, or bicker. Poor Rachel has no one.’

She ran to him so suddenly that she nearly knocked his jar of turps out of his hand. ‘You’re absolutely right. And I don’t know what I’d do without you, and we are lucky.’

‘Darling, you’re not a painter so how come you’ve got paint in your hair?’

‘I may not be a painter,’ she said, running her rather sticky hands round his neck, ‘but I have a close relationship with one.’

‘It sounds thoroughly unhealthy to me.’ He prised her arms off his shoulders. ‘And it is advisable to dry your hands before you assault strange men.’

‘They’re perfectly clean – it’s only soap. If you ask me, you’re not very good at intimacy.’

‘It’s all my English blood. Anyway, you’ve cheered me up. I promised Harriet I’d take her to Bumpus to choose a book from the token Polly gave her.’

‘Do ask whether she’s written to thank her for it. I told them four letters each before any more treats.’

The visit to Polly had been a real break for her, but she realised that it had been nothing of the sort for Polly: more like unremitting hard work and responsibility. Gerald, for all his sweetness and warmth, had to be monitored: he clearly had no idea about money or how to manage it, and was constantly thinking up wild schemes to improve his monstrous house; he seemed quite unaware of the perils surrounding Nan’s approaching senility.

While she made the batter for the toad-in-the-hole they were to have for supper, Clary reflected that lives were not easy things to live.

PART EIGHT

JANUARY–FEBRUARY 1958

BOMBSHELLS

‘Darling, of course I know you’re seventeen, but you are
not
twenty-five, and you sometimes behave like someone of twelve. You think you know everything, but you don’t. I will not have you careering round the West End on a Saturday night with another girl of your age. If you want to see Audrey, you can have her to supper here.’

‘Oh, thanks very much.’

Zoë, who had been collecting various pieces of laundry from the floor of her daughter’s bedroom, replied sharply: ‘Juliet, I will not have you speaking to me like that. And I would ask you not to be so rude at meals in front of Georgie. It’s bad for him, and for you. You’re too old for such puerile behaviour.’

‘I see. I’m not old enough to do what I want, and only old enough to do what you want.’ Juliet had been collecting dirty mugs and cups and putting them on a tray that her mother had brought for the purpose, and now she collapsed so angrily onto a chair by her dressing table that the tray fell off it, and dribs of cold coffee spilled over the carpet.

‘Go and get a wet cloth from the bathroom.’

With a face of thunder, she went.

Was I like that at her age? Zoë wondered. Not as bad, surely. I’ll have to get Rupert to read the Riot Act. But poor Mummy didn’t have a Rupert: she had had to cope with me on her own. This made her feel that she should attempt to be more patient, try to find out whether Juliet was unhappy at school, whether she was upset about the possible move to Southampton, which she could see would be upsetting . . .

Juliet was back with the cloth and, without looking at her mother, started scrubbing furiously at the carpet.

‘Darling, I feel that something’s worrying you, and I wish you’d tell me what it is.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I might be able to help.’

Juliet stopped scrubbing and sat back on her heels. She looked at her mother with, Zoë thought, a rather pathetic defiance.

‘If I decide to tell you perhaps you’ll stop treating me as a child. You’ll take me seriously for a change.’

‘I promise to take you seriously.’

‘All right, then. If you must know, I’m in love.’

She wanted to laugh with relief. Laurence Olivier or James Mason? she wondered, but she must be serious – mustn’t even smile. ‘Oh, darling, that must be rather exciting for you. I can remember when I first fell in love – with Ivor Novello. All of us girls were mad about him.’

‘It’s not a silly schoolgirl’s crush. I’m in love with a real person. And as soon as I’m old enough, we shall marry.’

‘I should love to meet him. Is he Audrey’s brother or one of your other school friends?’

‘No, you know him. It’s Neville. And he’s deeply in love with me, too. Since last Christmas – a whole year.’

There was a silence, during which Zoë tried desperately to think how she should respond.

‘Darling, it’s a lovely idea, but you can’t possibly marry him. He’s your brother.’

‘Only my half-brother.’

I’m afraid that doesn’t make any difference.’

‘Neville says it does. He says other people have married their sisters and it was quite all right. He says we shall go abroad to marry. It’s only this country that’s so stuffy. He didn’t want me to talk to you about it because he knew you’d be against us. I expect he’ll be cross with me for having told you, but I’m so sick of being treated like a child. I suppose you know that Romeo’s Juliet was fourteen when he married her. Fourteen! And I’m miles older than she was.’ There were tears in her eyes, and Zoë longed to take her in her arms, but she was afraid.

‘Poor Jules. It’s very rough being in love – especially the first time. I do sympathise.’

‘I’m not going to be in love any more times.’ She gave her mother a kindly, pitying glance. ‘I expect you’re a bit too old to really remember what being in love is like. In any case, my love is not like any other, and Neville agrees with me. I don’t think anyone has felt as we do. You will keep it a wonderful secret, won’t you? And I promise to tidy my room.’ And, glad of her
conge,
Zoë escaped before Juliet could ask her not to tell Rupert, which, of course, she must. Rather shakily she went downstairs, feeling very angry with Neville.

VILLY AND MISS MILLIMENT

‘
Why
am I here?’

It was a question – a cry – that poor Miss Milliment repeated every two minutes, as she thrashed about in the high bed that looked too small for her. It was not a question that she could answer honestly. She could not say, ‘I had to put you here because I could no longer look after you properly myself, because your dementia or senility or whatever it is goes on night and day and I can’t manage that alone any more.’ She was simply racked with guilt and pity every time the question was asked. It was a dreary place, this nursing home on Holland Park, converted out of one of the immense stucco mansions. The room had been sliced in two to accommodate more patients, which meant that the ceiling was far too high for the new dimensions. The large sash window had bars on the outside, and yellowing net curtains that gave the effect of fog. There was a commode, a small table on which Villy had put some books and Miss Milliment’s wireless, and a rickety chest of drawers. It was hardly a place to be if one had any choice, but after much searching it had been the best she could find and the best she could afford.

She was crying now, small, mewling, heartbroken sounds.

Villy leaned forward from her chair to take her hand.

‘
Why
am I here?’

‘You haven’t been very well lately, and we thought a little rest in a nursing home would be a good thing. When you’re better, you’ll be able to come home, darling.’

‘I’ve been here for weeks and she doesn’t come.’

She was sobbing now, and suddenly clutched Villy’s arm. ‘Will you do one thing for me? Ask her what I’ve done to displease her. After all the years together, she has suddenly turned me out! I don’t know why she has done that! She doesn’t love me. I don’t think I shall be able to bear that. So will you at least tell her, ask her, beg her to come and rescue me? She is such a kind, good person, I’m sure she will listen to you. Oh, please do that!’

When she left the home and walked to the street where she had parked her car, Villy got into it and cried. Nothing she said to poor Miss Milliment made the slightest difference. She had not once recognised her – indeed, seemed to be getting more and more demented by the day. Her arrival in the home had clearly been the most awful shock to her, as bad, she now thought as the bombshell Edward had delivered when he’d told her he was leaving her. But what could she have done? She had tried to explain things, but she couldn’t, of course, really be truthful. She could not say, ‘I can’t cope any more with you getting up in the night wanting breakfast or, worse, trying to cook in the kitchen, getting partly dressed and leaving the house.’ Even after she’d secured the front door Miss Milliment had found the key to the French window leading onto the garden. Then she’d knocked over her electric fire so that it had burned the carpet, and would have been more serious if Villy hadn’t woken in time. Villy had slept very lightly because of these anxieties, and often hardly at all.

The doctor to whom she had gone for help had been amiably vague: there was not really much that could be done for such cases. He had prescribed something to be taken at night, but he had implied that it might not make much difference, and it hadn’t. The best thing would be for her to go into a home, he had said, and seemed to feel that this solved the matter.

After finding two places that seemed good but proved to have long waiting lists, several that were too expensive, and many that had appalled her, she had settled on Holland Park, and went every day to visit, hoping that in time this regularity would register and that Miss Milliment would recognise her again. This did not happen, and in spite of the matron saying that her patient was settling in nicely, Villy saw no signs of it.

And then there was Roland. She had been so grateful to Zoë and Rupert for inviting them all to lunch, had realised then that she was actually enjoying the large family gathering with its shared jokes and reminiscences, its traditional Christmas fare, and the general affection that everyone seemed to have for one another. She relished the almost mythical stories about long-dead ancestors, remembering the Duchy recalling that her mother gave her servants a bar of Wright’s Coal Tar Soap and a handkerchief embroidered with their initials in chain stitch for Christmas, the Brig taking a police horse to ride in London to wherever he wanted to go, and so forth. It had been a lovely day, and she had realised when she went to bed that she had not missed or even thought about Edward at all. But there had been repercussions.