Casting Off: Cazalet Chronicles Book 4 (29 page)

The cab arrived and the considerable luggage was stowed in it. There was a final horrid moment when she had to ask Thelma for her latchkey; she had nearly forgotten to do this, and saw from the expression on Thelma’s face as she fumbled in her bag for it that Thelma had been hoping she would forget. When Thelma – now tearless and white with anger – was finally ensconced in the cab and driven away, she almost tottered back to the house. To her dislike, she now admitted a certain fear; she had actually become afraid of this seemingly soft and clinging girl, feeling now, with more than a touch of hysteria, that had she retained the key, Thelma might easily have returned to burn the house down or effect some lesser destruction.

It had been early evening. She made herself a stiff drink. Part of her wished passionately that Rachel was in London, but another part felt so besmirched by what she had done that she felt unworthy. She decided to go out, to leave the house for the evening.

Two days later she received an eleven-page letter from Thelma, the ostensible reason for which was that she needed a reference. She supposed that Sid would not grudge her
that
, at least. It was not much to ask, considering the way in which her love and loyalty had been treated. The rest of the letter consisted of descriptions of this, together with her reactions to them. She had put up with being taken for granted, with being used when convenient with no thought for how
she
might feel. She had put up with slights, selfishness, a lack of consideration for any of her feelings, with being excluded from the rest of Sid’s social life – she had never, for instance, even laid eyes on any of that family Sid went off and stayed with in Sussex. She felt that a good deal of the time she had been treated like a
servant;
it had been humiliating, considering the rest of their relationship. On and on it went, lamenting the cessation of a relationship that Thelma seemed to feel had been intolerable. She seemed to regard her love flourishing in such a climate as a particular triumph and could not now imagine how she was to get through the rest of her life, except that she knew that she would be unable ever to trust anyone again.

She had read the letter twice. It seemed extraordinary to her – even after only two days – that she had persisted in putting up with such a dishonest situation for so long after she had recognised it. She had felt responsible, angry and ashamed. She had liked to think of herself as honourable and straightforward, and decisive, and this proved her to be nothing of the kind.

She wrote a carefully generous reference and posted it to the house in Kilburn where Thelma had a room. This sort of thing, she thought, must never happen again. She would never love anyone but Rachel, and therefore had no right to go to bed with anyone else.

‘And this is your room, Miss Milliment. I thought you would not mind being on the ground floor as there is a little cloakroom with a basin next door, and you will only have to brave the staircase when you want a bath.’

‘That is most thoughtful.’ She had found stairs increasingly difficult lately, largely because she could not see where they were.

‘Perhaps you’d like me to put your suitcases on your bed, then it will be easier for you to unpack them. Tea will be ready in about half an hour.’ Viola heaved the cases on to the bed and left her.

Miss Milliment had come up by train that afternoon. It had seemed very strange to be leaving Home Place: it had been such a delightful refuge for so long. Naturally, she was extremely grateful to dear Viola for giving her a home, and had she not sometimes hankered for London and its galleries during those years of war? ‘It is impossible to please you, Eleanor,’ she admonished herself.

The room was rather dark, so she trotted to the door to switch on the ceiling light. Apart from the bed, there was a nice solid wardrobe in one corner, a chest of drawers, a writing table, one easy and two upright chairs. The walls were pale blue. There was a gas fire with a rug in front of it and a bedside table with a lamp on it. There was also a small open bookcase – she had not seen it at first, because it was on the far side of the wardrobe. She would be able to unpack her books at last, which she had never had room to do at Home Place. They had lain at the back of the garage in the same boxes that had contained them since Papa’s death. She had so much to be thankful for! It was clear to her that the house was not very large, and that she had been given one of the greater rooms; a bed-sitting room was what it was meant to be, and she resolved to exercise the utmost tact about how often and how much she used the rest of the house. I must feel my way, she thought. I must never encroach upon dear Viola’s family life. By which she knew she meant her life with Edward; she knew that, where Roly was concerned, she could still be useful – she was preparing him for prep school, and there was talk of Zoë bringing Juliet over for lessons. Lydia was to have her heart’s desire and go to the boarding school where her cousin Judy was. And when the older Cazalets were settled in their flat – which, Viola said, was within walking distance – she would be able to continue to help the Brig with his book. She did not think he would ever finish the work since he so often changed his mind about the course it should take – they were now deeply involved in the historical geography of the forests, when originally the book had been meant as a survey of trees indigenous or imported into Great Britain. However, it gave him something to think and to talk about, and she found the subject, which was new to her, of great interest.

She was so occupied with these thoughts that she did not notice (until the drawer was so full that she was unable to shut it) that she had simply been putting everything from one case into one drawer. A pretty pickle! Now her stockings were all muddled up with her vests and drawers and even one jersey that needed washing. ‘Really, Eleanor! You are not to be trusted with the simplest task.’ But she decided to leave the drawer as it was for the moment and to unpack the second case. This seemed to contain a daunting miscellany. Summer clothes – her best yellow and brown outfit worn in the evenings, although she could not help noticing that the holes under the arms had, in spite of her cobbling them together,
enlarged
to a point where she doubted that much more could be done to repair them. Her cardigans – all three of them – were in need of attention; it scarcely seemed worth putting them away. The one with which she had had that unfortunate accident with the golden syrup seemed far stickier than the small mishap warranted and the nice heathery blue one that dear Polly had so kindly made for her, the sleeve of which had most tiresomely caught on some protuberance, had acquired a large rambling hole that she feared it would be impossible to mend. She sighed. Sometimes her uselessness appalled her. She could no longer see well enough to thread a needle, but honesty compelled her to admit that even when her eyes had been better, she was a poor sewer. And here was Viola proposing to do all the cooking for the household! Surely she must be able to help with that! She could peel potatoes, perhaps, she could surely learn to do that or – but here her imagination failed her. She really had little or no idea what one did with food. One presumably washed and chopped and mixed things and then boiled them or put them in the oven. The nearest she had ever come to preparing food was spreading the dripping on hot toast for her father, and, of course, making tea for him. After his death she had eaten in tea shops, or in lodgings until dear Viola had invited her to Home Place where, of course, there had always been delicious food prepared by Mrs Cripps. Viola was not used to cooking either: she had always had a cook and other servants. This move was going to be a very great change for her. Miss Milliment resolved to be as much help as possible and (although it seemed rather contrary) to keep out of the way as much as she could.

When Viola called her to tea, she left the room with some relief. It now seemed such a muddle that she was afraid she would never get it straight.

That evening, however, she was invited to dine with Viola and Edward. ‘Our first night here, you must join us, Miss Milliment,’ Viola had said. Roly and Lydia were absent, as Viola had wanted to get their rooms straight before they came, so it was just the three of them. Edward arrived rather late from the office – she heard Viola greeting him in the hall: ‘Darling! Of course, you haven’t even got a key to your own house yet! You
do
look fagged. Have you had an awful day?’

‘Pretty bloody.’

Her door had been ajar for the hearing of this exchange; she must remember to keep it shut but, even so, the walls must have been quite thin because, after shutting it, she could still hear them in the kitchen.

She was bidden to join them in the drawing room for a glass of champagne that Edward had brought.

‘Here’s to the new house!’ Viola had said, and they all drank.

It was a strange evening, however. Viola was the one who talked. In spite of her looking exhausted (she had not bothered to change, she said, as she was cooking), she hardly stopped talking throughout the meal. She had certainly worked very hard. A fire had been lit – which was comforting as it was one of those cold spring evenings – and before it she had laid a small round table with dinner. ‘We’ll probably eat in the kitchen on ordinary evenings,’ she said, ‘but I thought we ought to christen the drawing room tonight.’

Edward said, ‘Good idea!’

In spite of his hearty agreement with Viola about all her plans and arrangements, there was something subdued about him – about the whole evening, she thought afterwards. But, then, she had become so used to a large table and at least a dozen of the family round it – on the occasions when she had dined with them – with all the noise of several conversations going on at once, that naturally it felt strange to be in such attenuated, intimate surroundings. She resolved to suggest to dear Viola that she dine in her room in future, in order to allow them time to themselves.

After dinner, a most acceptable stew with rice and an apple pudding, Viola cleared the table and put everything on a trolley to wheel into the kitchen. Left alone with Edward, she felt that this was an appropriate moment to thank him for his great kindness in housing her.

‘Not at all, Miss Milliment. I know how fond Villy is of you, and you will be company for her.’ Then he asked her what she thought of the League of Nations being dissolved, adding that he personally had never thought them much good. When she was beginning to say that she thought that some sort of international organisation might be desirable, Viola put her head round the door to ask if they would like coffee.

This seemed to be her cue for retiring, and she did so.

Her room was such a muddle that it took her some time to find a nightdress and she felt too tired to tidy things. She had not lit the gas fire so the room was cold, and the bulb in her bedside lamp was broken. She lay awake for a long time in the dark without her usual hot-water bottle, wondering why, considering how grateful she felt – and ought to feel – she also felt a vague sense of unease.

She had stood by the gate onto the drive to see them all off. Frank had brought out the cases earlier, and they were now strapped on the back of the car. Then he had helped Mrs Cazalet Senior to get her sister into the back seat. Poor old Miss Barlow seemed rather confused: she kept stopping to talk, and then she wanted to pick the daffodils that grew under the monkey puzzle tree, but Mrs Senior was ever so patient with her, and in the end they somehow got her into the back of the car with Madam beside her and Frank was smoothing the old car rug over their knees.

‘Goodbye, Mrs Tonbridge,’ Mrs Cazalet said. ‘I know I can leave everything about shutting up the house quite safely to you.’ Which was no more than the truth. Then Frank went back to get Mr Cazalet and lead him to the front seat. Of course, he didn’t know she was there so she couldn’t expect
him
to say anything. When he was safely shut in, Frank gave her one of his little sideways nods and a wink. He was dressed in his best grey, with black gaiters and a cockade in his cap. He was to spend the night in London, and then come back for a week’s holiday when they could really get down to making the cottage over the garage into a home. The wind was quite sharp, and she was glad when they left. She stood and waved until the car was out of sight, and then she went back into the house, locking the front door behind her. She wouldn’t be using
that
again. Tomorrow Edie was coming up from the village to clear the beds, clean out the fireplaces and start the spring cleaning.