Casting Off: Cazalet Chronicles Book 4 (37 page)

He saw her small frowns come and go on her forehead – something that always happened when she was thinking hard.

‘Everything he
is
,’ she said slowly, ‘is about
himself
. He only came here once – for tea. Clary awfully wanted me to meet him. But he didn’t want to come, and he sat sort of slightly sneering if we talked, and otherwise he talked to Clary, mostly about things he wanted her to do for him. He won’t go into shops, for instance, so everything has to be bought for him. He was telling her how to get to some ghastly place in the East End to get him some kind of special socks because his feet are so sensitive and he does so much walking. It was going to take her a whole afternoon. Not one when she was working for him – she was to do it on her free Saturday. Clary keeps on about his having had such a frightful childhood, but it seems to me that he’s never stopped having one. Only now, he’s a completely
spoilt
child, getting the grown-ups to make it up to him all the time. Fenella – that’s his wife – doesn’t eat meat at all now, because she thinks he needs her meat ration for his energy. His blasted energy! He wears poor Clary out. Apart from what he’s done to her now.’ She looked at him, wrinkling her nose in disgust. ‘The thought of poor Clary having a ghastly miniature Noël is more than I can bear. You must stop her, Archie. Somehow.’

This last thought, he realised, was one that he had been suppressing all the afternoon.

‘That must be her choice,’ he said. ‘Although, if you really feel it would be such a disaster, I suppose there would be no harm in your saying so.’

‘I hoped you would be the person to do that.’ Then she added, ‘You must be right. It must be wrong to try and influence her, or we wouldn’t each be trying to get the other one to do it.’

Poll was different, he thought. She looked, as usual, elegant, wearing a grass-green sleeveless dress and bright blue sandals, with her hair tied back by a ribbon of the same colour. It was not her appearance that had changed, but her manner: she seemed more poised, more assured, and he realised then that she had never treated him as an equal before. It was over two months since he had seen her. She seemed cooler, and at the same time more open. Just as he was beginning to wonder whether she no longer thought she was in love with him, she said, ‘Archie. I feel I ought to tell you. I’ve got over you at last. Oh dear, it sounds rather rude, doesn’t it? But I mean you needn’t worry any more. Naturally, I’m extremely
fond
of you. But I do realise that the difference in our ages made the whole thing silly.’ She smiled charmingly.

‘There now,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you told me. Did it happen suddenly?’

‘I think it happened extremely slowly, but I
noticed
it suddenly. But I’m sorry about it. One of the things I discovered is that it must have been pretty awful for you. I thought it was only awful for me.’

‘No, no,’ he said. ‘In a way it was a good thing you started with a nice safe old buffer like me instead of some frightful cad.’

‘You’re not an old buffer! You know, Archie, I honestly think you should get married to someone. It’s what I keep telling Dad. I mean, there must be thousands of middle-aged ladies whose husbands were killed in the war who’d love to marry either of you.’

‘Oh, Poll!’ A queue of middle-aged women in black cardigans, all looking as though marriage was the least he could do for them, shuffled through his mind. ‘You really mustn’t patronise me. It will probably surprise you to know that I, too, have been hopelessly in love so I do know what it feels like, and although I’m over that now, I still have romantic notions of being thoroughly in love before I would think of marrying anyone. And I’m about seven years
younger
than your father. Not,’ he added, feeling this last to be rather petulant, ‘that that actually makes much difference. I expect your father feels much as I do.’

She had been confounded, had gone a dark pink with tears of chagrin in her eyes, as she apologised again and again. ‘It’s so difficult to see people one has known when one was young as
people
,’ she had said. ‘Particularly with parents. But you aren’t a parent, Archie, you’ve always been our friend, so there’s no excuse with you. Well,’ she had finished bravely, ‘I hope you find someone who you become terrifically in love with – if that is what you want. And not if you don’t, of course.’

Much later, long after he had got home from the evening with Clary, which, although it had had its ups and downs, he felt on balance had been a good thing, and when he had read his letters, unpacked and had a bath, he wondered briefly whether he ever
would
find anyone, or whether, in spite of what he had said to Polly, there was a kind of watershed that he had reached after which everything that he had taken for granted that he believed in and wanted was no longer possible. Lying in the dark he was able to acknowledge that he did not want to be alone for the rest of his life and wondered uneasily whether that might in the end make him settle – as he imagined poor Hugh might – for someone who would at least reliably be
there
.

PART THREE

EDWARD

1946

He sat in what he still thought of as the Brig’s office. He had not changed it at all: it still contained the vast desk, the laurelwood drinks cabinet stocked with beautiful decanters and cut-glass tumblers, the rows of yellowing framed photographs – various members of the firm standing beside vast logs, the earliest lorries, even one of a horse-drawn wagon that had carried timber, of various giant aged trees that had taken the Brig’s fancy at Kew or on some estate or arboretum, or himself mounted upon a variety of horses, and then the ones of the family, particularly two that Edward kept looking at of himself and Hugh in uniform taken just before they had gone to France in 1914. One of the many awful things about that war had been worrying whether Hugh was all right. He remembered that extraordinary meeting, after they had both been in France for months without being in touch at all, when their horses had neighed in recognition as they rode towards one another on that road into Amiens. And then, when he had heard that Hugh had copped it, was in hospital, he’d managed somehow to wangle the time to get there and see the poor old boy. He’d been so shocked at the sight of him – his head and arm bandaged, his face drawn and white, and how even when he smiled the haunted expression in his eyes did not change. He’d felt such a surge of love for him that when he knew he had to go and, after all, might not see him again, he’d kissed the old boy. They’d neither of them mentioned then, or ever afterwards, what hell it was out there, but the knowledge that they both knew had been yet another private bond between them.

And now there was this awful rift. Hugh’s disapproval of his leaving Villy and going off with Diana made him angry; there seemed nothing he, Edward, could do about it. He wasn’t just angry, he was deeply hurt. He and Hugh had always stuck together; they had argued sometimes – Hugh was an obstinate old devil – but they had always come to some agreement. They had worked together, had holidays together, spent much time together playing chess and golf and squash. Hugh was, he now thought, probably the person he’d been closest to in his life.

He’d rung him a few minutes ago on the intercom, but they said he’d left, and Edward remembered that there was a party for Miss Pearson. He decided not to go to it. He won’t want me there, he thought miserably. Just as he got up from his desk there was a knock on the door and Teddy appeared. He was so pleased to see him that he suggested a drink. ‘Just a quick one, and then I must be on my way.’

Teddy said that would be fine.

While he was getting the whisky out he thought how extraordinarily like himself as a young man Teddy had become: the same crinkly, curly hair, the same blue eyes, even the same moustache. The boy looked tired, though, but he supposed that the combination of a long hard day’s work (he had told Hartley to put Teddy through it – not only not to spare him, but to work him harder than employees not called Cazalet) plus a wife whom he suspected of being pretty insatiable in bed was fairly taxing. He’d taken them both out to dinner with Diana the previous week: they’d gone dancing, and it had been clear to him, dancing with Bernadine, that she was fairly keen on men.

‘All well at home?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘And work? Getting on all right with the new boss?’ Hartley had left for Southampton that week.

‘I think so. But that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘Oh. Yes?’ He felt instantly wary.

‘The thing is – I was wondering when I was going to be paid a bit more . . .’ There was a short silence, during which Teddy met his eye, and then looked away.

‘My dear boy, you’ve only been working for us for – what is it – three months!’

‘I know. That’s just it. The electricity and gas bills have just come in and I simply can’t pay them.’

‘You realise you’re being paid far more than most people who are starting in a new job about which they know nothing. Far more than many people get paid in their entire working life.’

‘I know, Dad. At least, I sort of know.’

‘You’re getting more than those footballers were threatening to strike for. They wanted seven pounds a week, didn’t they? Well, if I remember rightly, you’re getting nine. You really ought to be able to manage on that, Teddy, old chap.’

‘I thought I was. I’d forgotten about those bills. The trouble is, you see, that Bernie doesn’t understand about money much. And she’s used to a warm climate so she keeps the fire on all the time – even in August, she did. And she always leaves all the lights on because she says the flat is so dark.’

‘It sounds as though you’re going to have to talk to her about that sort of thing . . .’

‘I have tried. But I don’t like to go on about it; it’s not much fun for her with me out all day. She’s pretty bored, actually.’

Oh, Lord! he thought. He has got himself into a mess. Aloud, he said, ‘How much are these bills?’

Teddy felt in his jacket pockets and brought out a small sheaf held together by a paper clip. ‘They’re all red notices,’ he said, ‘threatening to cut us off if we don’t pay. That’s the trouble.’

‘Let’s have a look at them.’

The gas bill was twenty-eight pounds – a staggering amount for three months in a small flat. The electricity was twelve, and the telephone, which hadn’t been mentioned, was thirty. ‘She was calling the States. I have explained to her that we can’t afford to do that.’

‘This comes to seventy pounds.’

‘I know. I know it does.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Well, there’s going to be the next month’s rent any minute. That’s six pounds.’

‘Teddy, you must put money by for these things. Every week.’

‘If I do that how on earth am I to pay for everything else?’

‘You mean food?’

‘I mean food, and my fares to work, and you know, things that Bernie needs. Not to mention going out once a week, which doesn’t seem much, and cigarettes and the odd meal in our local restaurant. Bernie hasn’t done much cooking in her life, and she finds the rations impossible. They just don’t last. So we have to go out sometimes.’

In the end Edward said he would pay off these bills, but that Teddy would have to make a proper budget and live within his income. ‘I can’t possibly pay you more now,’ he said. ‘It would be favouritism. Other people working for us don’t have fathers to bail them out. You chose to get married. This is something you should have thought about. You’re going to have to cut down your expenses.’ He looked across the desk at Teddy, twisting the empty whisky tumbler in his hands; his expression, which had been grateful, was becoming sulky.

‘I’ll try,’ he said, ‘but it’s not as easy as you think.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’d better be going back.’

‘Hang on a minute. I’ll give you a cheque. But mind you use it to pay the bills.’

‘Thanks for bailing me out,’ he said, when he was given the cheque. ‘Of course I’ll pay the bills with it.’

‘Why don’t you suggest to Bernie that she gets some help about housekeeping from your mother?’

‘I might.’ He sounded as though this was a hopeless idea.

He gave Teddy a lift to Tufnell Park, which made him late for Diana.

After he had dropped Teddy, he remembered that Bernadine had apparently had two children by her first marriage, whom she seemed to have abandoned. Nothing had ever been said about them. Perhaps that meant she didn’t like children or want any more. Which would be a good thing, he thought rather grimly.

It wasn’t a good evening to be late, because he wasn’t taking home the news that he knew Diana wanted to hear. He’d thought that leaving Villy and setting up with Diana would make one of them happy at last, but it hadn’t, or at least hadn’t anything like as much as he’d expected. Of course, she’d been thrilled when he told her and had moved into the house that she’d found for them some months back. It was a large, rather modern house, built in the thirties – not his kind of house really, but she loved it because she said it would be so easy to keep. It had three floors – the top, she said, would be perfect for a housekeeper’s flat, and she had at once engaged a Mrs Greenacre, a widow, who did the shopping and cooking. She had also found a daily for the housework. Jamie had been sent to a prep school, so there was only Susan, but Diana had also engaged a daily girl to look after her every day from nine until four. Quite a household, he thought, and then there was Villy to pay for. He had started using some of his capital. But once in the house, Diana had begun worrying about when he was going to be divorced. To begin with she had assumed that this had been agreed upon, and he hadn’t the heart to tell her that, actually, it hadn’t. He’d sort of supposed that Villy would want to divorce him, but in various oblique ways during the last months it had become clear to him that she wouldn’t – or, at any rate, wasn’t going to initiate it. And last week Diana had confronted him about it. They had been undressing after a dinner party – friends of hers – and he had noticed that she was rather silent.