All Change: Cazalet Chronicles (54 page)

‘My mother is the best,

She never gets a rest,

She says I am a pest,

But I know she loves me best.

‘There! That’s my poem for Mum for Christmas. It just came to me.’

Harriet, who was feeling anxious anyway, had been knitting a scarf for their mother for ages – mostly because she could only do it in secret, but also because she was a slow knitter. Now she was afraid that she’d forgotten how to cast off – and she felt decidedly jealous of Bertie writing a poem, which had only taken him a minute, and boasting about it. ‘It’s not a good poem,’ she said. ‘It’s not even true. Mum loves me just as much as she loves you. There’s no “best” about it.’

Bertie looked disconcerted. ‘I’ll copy it out in my most grown-up writing and she’ll love it – you’ll see.’

‘And what are you going to give the others?’ She knew he’d spent all his money on Dinky cars for himself. ‘Or are you going to write silly poems for everyone?’

‘Of course not. You can only write poems if they come to you. It’s more like laying an egg. I shall ask Mum to bring her Magic Hat.’

Clary, one wet weekend when they had both been bored after a freezing walk in Regent’s Park, had had a brainwave. She had a cloche hat that Rupert had said had belonged to her mother. She had never worn it as it was too old-fashioned – beige felt with a little emerald and diamond arrow placed at one side – not real jewels, but still extremely precious. For years she had kept it wrapped in tissue paper. That day, she had emptied all the packets of beads she had got for them to string, piled them in the hat, and then, in front of them, lifted it so all the beads fell out. Bertie and Harriet were deeply impressed. ‘We could make necklaces for everyone!’ they cried.

‘Although I should think that Archie would look pretty silly in a necklace,’ Bertie remarked, as they were each laying out beads on a tea tray. They always called him Archie after he had said he didn’t mind.

‘We can’t both give necklaces to the same person,’ Harriet said now. She loved the laying out of the beads, sorting them by putting good colours together, and they were friends again as Bertie had thrown his jacket over Harriet’s knitting, and she had stood sturdily in front of him when Clary came into the room while he hid his poem.

‘Shouldn’t we keep the hat, Mummy, in case we run out of beads?’

‘No. I’m afraid it will only produce one load a day, and it will only do it for me. It needs a nice rest now.’ She left them making a list of the lucky receivers of bead necklaces.

‘She still doesn’t know?’

‘She doesn’t. And it’s fun for her not knowing. Don’t you remember?’

‘Honestly, Mum, it was such ages ago I’ve forgotten.’

Henry and Tom had emerged from their bedroom at noon, hot, sleepy and famished. As Henry started cutting wedges of bread to make toast, Jemima said, rather hopelessly, ‘Boys! It’s only an hour till lunchtime. If you start making toast now you won’t want any lunch.’

‘Mum! Have you ever known us not want lunch? It’s just that if we don’t have a snack now, we might die of hunger before it.’

‘Well, you’ve cut that bread too thick for the toaster.’

‘We’ll have plain bread then. We’re not fussy.’

Jemima, realising that she’d rather lost the thread about Laura believing in Father Christmas and her warning the boys not to give the secret away, returned to it.

‘Of course we won’t breathe a word. But it does seem a bit childish to me.’

‘Well, you’re grown-up. But she is still a child. Hugh’s out with her now, doing her shopping for Christmas.’ She finished pinching the top and edge of her pie together and put it into the oven. ‘One of you could lay the table.’

‘We’ll both lay it,’ one of the twins said, as though this would be twice as kind. The bread had all but disappeared, except for crumbs on the floor.

RACHEL

‘I think the best plan would be for Tonbridge to pour the drinks because you know what everyone likes.’

Some of what I like, thought Mrs Tonbridge, but she thought it fondly: it was Christmas, after all.

‘And, Tonbridge, large drinks, please.’

They were in the drawing room where Rachel had lit the fire. Steam was rising from the two large sofas: Eileen had washed the covers but it was difficult to get heavy pieces of linen to dry in the current weather, and they had shrunk again, with the result that they could not be thoroughly zipped or hooked up. By the time the drinks had been poured, the room, which had also been steadily filling with smoke, became impossible: it was choking coughs all round.

‘We’ll have to move to the morning room.’

Rachel led the way, followed by Eileen, who had kindly helped Mrs Tonbridge off the sofa, and Tonbridge brought up the rear with the tray of drinks.

‘We haven’t lit that fire all autumn, Miss Rachel, and they usually smoke a bit at first.’

‘It’s that new sweep. He was in and out of here like a dose of salts and eating my rock cakes in the kitchen.’

Eileen tittered, but Mrs Tonbridge quelled her with one of her Looks. Rachel asked Tonbridge to fill everyone’s glass, which he did. Port and lemon for the wife, gin and lime for Eileen, and a whisky and ginger ale for himself. Miss Rachel had refused – still nursed a nearly full glass of sherry.

She offered cigarettes, and everyone accepted. But only Tonbridge smoked his.

It could be put off no longer. Rachel told them about the collapse of the firm, about the house belonging to it, about the fact that they would all have to get out – in about three weeks’ time. ‘Don’t worry too much about the time to get out being so short. I’m renting a cottage in Battle where you may all stay until you have decided what you want to do next. You may want to retire, or you may want to go on working. Whoever buys this house will possibly want you to work for them.’

There was a very long silence.

Tonbridge cleared his throat. ‘If it isn’t out of place, madam, may I ask where you are intending to reside?’

‘I don’t know, Tonbridge. I know that I shall have very little money. London, possibly. I’m selling Miss Sidney’s house there, which will bring me some capital, but I’ve no idea how much. I shall have to get some kind of job.’

This seemed to shock them more than anything else she had said.

‘You’ll need a driver.’

‘Tonbridge, I doubt if I shall be able to afford a car.’

‘Well, you can’t cook your own food. Starve to death you would, Miss Rachel, left to yourself. I can’t see you making beds with your back and all, madam,’ Mrs Tonbridge added, in case Rachel thought she was being cheeky. They all looked at her quite crossly, and she suddenly wanted to cry.

‘Of course we can talk about this again – as much as you want. But meanwhile I do want to say that I would like this Christmas to be the best the family have ever had. And I know I can count on you to help me.’

The room became brimful of reliability.

‘Do you have the numbers, madam?’

‘Roughly speaking I think we may be eleven children and eight or nine grown-ups. The children will bring sleeping-bags, and the Fakenhams will also be bringing their nanny as she’s too old to be left alone. I thought that perhaps you and I should do some housekeeping to make lists of what will be needed.’

‘Yes, m’m. I’ll just fetch my book.’

Eileen went with her. ‘It’s lovely that Lady Polly is coming with her family. We’ve had sirs before but never a lord.’

As he got to his feet, Tonbridge unexpectedly remarked that it was a long lane that had no turning. Recognising that this was meant to make her feel better, Rachel thanked him and asked him to remove the drinks tray. Well, at least I’ve told them – not very well, I’m afraid – but it’s done. Although it wasn’t good news, which it could have been if she knew how much money Sid’s house might fetch.

Although it was the expensive time, she rang Villy.

‘We’ve spruced the house up a lot and I got the agent round to see it. He thinks that it might sell at about eight thousand. He says it needs a lot doing to it, but that St John’s Wood is going up in the world and that he would put it on the market for eight thousand nine hundred and fifty. I had to sign a form on your behalf to get things going, and you’ll get a copy in the post, which you must sign and send back to him.’

Rachel said she must pay for the cost of the sprucing. ‘But thank you so much for all the trouble. Oh! Villy! I’ve been wondering whether you and Roly would like to join us for Christmas. It’s the last family one here and I – we – should so much like you to be there for it.’

There was a short silence before Villy said, ‘Will Edward be there? And his wife?’

‘He won’t be staying here, but he might come over for a meal.’

‘With her?’

‘He said he’d let me know, but I somehow think not. It would be nice for Roly, don’t you think?’

And Villy, after a pause, said, yes, it would. ‘You are an absolute angel,’ she added.

Then Mrs Tonbridge came back with her book. ‘It’ll mean two turkeys, m’m,’ she said. ‘And we usually get them from York’s farm. I’ll have a word with him when he brings the milk tomorrow.’

‘Do sit down, Mrs Tonbridge.’

She lowered herself heavily into a chair with obvious relief. ‘I’ve postponed my operation until after the New Year,’ she said. ‘I’ve been making enquiries, and you can’t work for a week after it.’

‘That is most helpful of you. I don’t know what we would do without you.’

‘You’d have a funny old Christmas without me. I’d have to laugh.’ She liked to think that ladies were no good at most things – barring arranging flowers and ordering meals. ‘We’ll need three pounds of sausage-meat, two pounds of chestnuts, and I’ll order two extra loaves for stale bread. I’ve made four puddings and six dozen mince pies. I’ll need brandy for the butter, and we shall need twelve packets for everyday use. Potatoes and sprouts we have in the garden. And onions, but not much else. Six dozen eggs and four pints of cream. And what other meals had you in mind, Miss Rachel? We can get two meals at least off the turkeys,’ she added encouragingly.

‘Fish, do you think? And toad-in-the-hole. The children love sausages. Irish stew, then, and the toad. And perhaps you could do a nice macaroni cheese for a lunch.’

She was still on wartime food, Mrs Tonbridge thought.

‘I was thinking, madam, that perhaps we should have some game for Christmas Eve. I could get three brace of pheasant and stew them with apple and cream.’

‘Won’t that be a bit rich for the children?’

‘I wasn’t thinking of the children for that, m’m. I was thinking I could do stuffed pancakes for them. They’ll have it earlier in the hall. You won’t want yours till near nine, by the time the children are settled in bed. And I thought my trifle after the pheasant. I’ll need to order two more pints of cream for that. And Mrs Senior always liked the sponge cakes to be soaked in Grand Marny as well as the sherry.’

Rachel, remembering her battles with this fiendishly rich and alcoholic pudding, said, ‘Oh, Mrs Tonbridge, I was thinking of your delicious port wine jellies with macaroons after the game. Perhaps you could do the trifle for Boxing Day.’

‘I could, m’m, as you wish. There’s not much body to jelly. It’s what I call light.’

‘Yes, but I think everybody will be very tired after all the packing up and travelling so the jelly would be just right.’

‘Very good, Miss Rachel. The cake has only to be iced. I’ll order the fish by the telephone so that I can be sure of what I want. I’ll send the menus in to you when I’ve made them up. Will that be all?’

It was.

‘I’ll send Eileen to see to that fire for you now. And Tonbridge will do the drawing-room fire. If it goes on smoking, I’ll give Ted Lockhart a piece of my mind.’

Alone again, Rachel decided to wrap her presents. The way in which the servants had all seemed to throw themselves into the immediate present touched her. It was probably the only way to live, she thought, since looking ahead seemed only to paralyse her. She would get Tonbridge to drive her into Battle and visit a house agent about a cottage for all four of them.

JOSEPH AND STELLA

‘Louise is out, is she?’

‘That’s why I answered the door.’

‘Sorry to interrupt you, only I’m quite glad to see you.’

‘If you want to talk to me you’ll have to come up. I’m in the middle of cooking.’ She wore an apron, and her face was red behind her round, heavy spectacles.

He followed her up to the top floor where dozens of chocolate truffles lay on a tray on the kitchen table waiting to be rolled in cocoa powder. She took a tray out of the oven that contained large brown sizzling splodges on it. ‘Let me just do this batch and then I’ll pay attention to you.’

He watched while she carefully loosened a splodge from the tray, then wound it round the stem of a wooden spoon.

‘A brandy snap,’ he said, with some respect.

‘I make brandy snaps for my pa and chocolate truffles for my ma and aunt.’ She wound five more snaps, then poured more mixture onto the tray and put it back in the oven.

‘I’m most impressed,’ he said.

‘I suppose you want to talk about Louise.’