Casting Off: Cazalet Chronicles Book 4 (46 page)

Tomorrow they were going to explore outside. There was a lake, choked with water-lilies and weed, he said, and a rose garden, but the roses hadn’t been pruned for years and it was full of weeds, and there were four glasshouses, falling to bits, and a walled garden for vegetables (this had been when they had discussed the possibility of growing asparagus as a way of making money). There was a bluebell wood, and other woods, but most of the farmland had been sold off. His mother had been a determined seller of anything that would raise money. This had come out when Nan, chatty from her glass of champagne, had arrived with a small brown-paper package that she had dumped before Gerald.

‘Twasn’t my business,’ she said, ‘but there’s such a thing as right and wrong, and some of us knows it and some don’t. When her ladyship sent all the family jewels up to London to some sale, I couldn’t stand the idea that this should go. It was your grandmother’s and, as you know, I first went into service with her when I was thirteen. Your grandmother gave it to your father to give to your mother when they were engaged, but it was too small for her ladyship’s finger and she never cared for it. It walked – and nothing was said. If you hadn’t married, Mr Gerald dear, I’d have given it to your lordship just the same, though the dear knows what you would have done with it.’

Inside the brown paper was a dark blue leather box and inside that, wedged on its dirty white velvet, was a ring – an oval star sapphire surrounded by diamonds. She felt it with her fingers, remembering what he had said about her eyes after he had kissed her, and was beset by a surge of such pure happiness that she thought she loved not only Gerald, but everybody in the world.

THE WIVES

December 1946 – January 1947

‘How was your Christmas? Really?’

‘Oh, darling! I don’t know where to begin.’

Jessica had come to tea, which had been taken with Miss Milliment, and therefore Christmas had been discussed with the stock cheerfulness that said nothing about emotional undercurrents. Jessica had described Nora’s Christmas tree with a present for every inmate, and how Father Lancing had brought some of his choir to sing carols, and how she, Jessica, had made four dozen mince pies that had been consumed on this single occasion, and how the pipes had frozen just before the holiday began, and burst just in time for Christmas Eve. Villy had told Jessica about cooking her first Christmas dinner (Miss Milliment had said how good it had been), and how the children had played Racing Demon all over the drawing-room floor and Lydia had accused Bernadine of cheating and Teddy had got very angry. ‘And I made a Christmas cake that was like a bomb shelter,’ she had said.

Now, Miss Milliment had tactfully retired to her room, Lydia and Roland were out having a Christmas treat with Rachel, and she had Jessica to herself. The room was reasonably warm since, although there was practically no coal to be had, Cazalets’ sent a lorryload of off-cuts, and the sisters sat each side of the log fire, Jessica lying on the sofa with her elegant shoes off and she, Villy, in the only comfortable armchair.

Seeing Jessica lying there, looking so well groomed in her beige and green tweed suit with a jumper exactly matching the green, their mother’s pearls round her neck and her newly set hair, she felt a pang of resentment. How the tables had turned! Now it was she whose hands were rough with kitchen work, who never seemed to have time to get her hair done, whose clothes each day were chosen for their suitability for housework and keeping warm. It was she who had Miss Milliment to look after, had young children unused to London, who had to be fed and entertained and looked after, and worse, she was having to do this all on her own, whereas Jessica, with her neat little Chelsea house, had a daily maid and a husband.

‘I don’t think I can begin to convey to you how awful it was,’ she said, and instantly, as she had known that she would, Jessica started upon a flurry of flimsy silver linings. ‘It must be nice to have Teddy home,’ she said.

‘Of course I’m glad he’s back. But I’m worried about him. Edward’ (she pronounced his name with a new, bitter clarity) ‘doesn’t pay him enough. He has the most awful struggle to make ends meet. And Bernadine – I have them to supper once a week – told me that
that
woman has a housekeeper, a daily woman and someone to look after her child! Something of a contrast to here.’

‘Well, darling, you did choose this house—’

‘When I thought I was going to live in it with my husband!’ There was a short silence, and when she had lit a cigarette, she said, ‘And he’s bought her a new car!’

‘He did give you one, didn’t he? The Vauxhall?’

‘It’s hardly the same, is it? I need one. She has someone to chauffeur her around.’ She smiled then, to show that however awful everything was, she could take it.

Wanting to give her something to smile at, Jessica said, ‘Judy says Lydia is tremendously popular at school. She said she was wonderful as Feste. Such a pretty voice. How pleased Daddy would have been.’

‘Yes, he would, wouldn’t he?’ For a moment they were amiably united by nostalgic affection. ‘But I expect Mummy would have been simply shocked at her playing a member of the opposite sex. Which would knock out Shakespeare completely for any girls’ school.’

‘Oh, it didn’t,’ Jessica said. ‘They simply cut out the rude bits and most of the men wear sort of robes anyway. I don’t think Shakespeare counted when it came to decorum – even with Mummy.’

‘How’s Judy?’

Jessica sighed. ‘Going through a difficult phase. She argues with Raymond, which he doesn’t like at all, and she somehow seems too big for the house. She’s always knocking things over and shouting when one can hear her perfectly well if she simply speaks. I think sixteen is almost the worst age.’

‘And Angela?’

‘Good news. She’s having a baby.’

‘Darling, how nice for you!’

‘If only she wasn’t thousands of miles away, it would be. I want to go over, of course, when it’s born, but Raymond won’t let me go by myself, and he hates the idea of the voyage. I must say I sometimes almost envy you being free to make your own decisions.’ Looking at her sister’s face, she retreated from this notion. ‘Of course I know it’s awful, darling, I really do. But Raymond doesn’t like to let me out of his sight, and honestly I do find it claustrophobic. He doesn’t like parties, or concerts, or any fun, really. All he wants to do is sit in that coach house he’s converting, grumbling about what Nora has done to his house, and bullying the builders.’

There was a silence during which Villy looked at Jessica and thought how astonishingly insensitive she really was. It was all part of what she now had to endure – passing sympathy of the kind one might proffer to someone who had mislaid something, and then reams of stuff about the petty inconveniences of
her
life.

‘How is Louise? Isn’t it about time—?’

‘She hardly comes near me. I think I told you that she was in cahoots with her father about the whole wretched business behind my back – he talked to her before me – and when I did see her she admitted that she’d met that woman, actually had dinner with them, so it’s quite clear to me which side she’s on.’

‘Have you seen him?’

She sensed sympathy. ‘Not since some time before Christmas. He asked me to lunch because he wanted me to divorce him.’

‘Are you going to?’

‘I don’t know. Why should I? I don’t want a divorce.’

When Jessica didn’t reply, she said, ‘You think I should?’

‘Well, it does sound as though you’re in rather a strong position. I mean, if he wants it and you don’t. You might get him to make rather more generous provision for you in return for agreeing.’

‘I’m not interested in money!’

‘Darling, if you don’t mind me saying so, that’s because you’ve always had enough of it. I haven’t, as you know, and it’s made me realise that being unhappy with not enough money is infinitely worse than being unhappy with more. That’s all I meant.’

She was trying to help. She was wrong, of course, but she meant well. ‘I’ll think about it,’ Villy said, to close the subject. ‘That’s a very pretty suit. Did you get it from Hermione?’

‘Yes. She’s got some very nice tweeds. And it’s bliss not to have to stick any more to the utility thing. I always loathed those frightfully short skirts. You should go and look.’

Villy offered a drink, and Jessica said one would be lovely, and then she must go. For the rest of her visit, they stuck to safe subjects . . . Christopher, who had spent Christmas with Nora to help, seemed to have become rather religious, and Father Lancing, who was very High Church, had taken rather a fancy to him, or he to Father Lancing – at any rate, Christopher was always doing things for the parish, running errands and so forth, ‘although I think that was partly to get away from Raymond,’ she finished. Roland was having lessons with Miss Milliment, but of course next autumn he would really have to go to school, Villy said, although she was not going to send him away. Miss Milliment, apart from being a little deaf, was much the same, although her sight did seem to be worse. Jessica divulged the fact that Raymond and Richard had got rather drunk together on New Year’s Eve and that Nora had been outraged. ‘But for once I think Raymond was right, and it was good for poor Richard to have a little fun.’ Then she had added that it was rather awful to think that getting drunk with Raymond constituted fun, and they had both laughed.

They had become friends again. She felt quite sorry when Jessica left.

Armed with her own clothes coupons and some that the Duchy had given her at Christmas, she did go and see Hermione. She decided to ring up first to be sure that Hermione would be there. She was, and immediately asked her to lunch. She left lunch for Miss Milliment and the children, and promised to be back in time for tea. Lydia had protested, ‘Honestly, Mummy, it’s terrifically boring having lunch with nobody of my age,’ but she was placated by being allowed to make a cake. ‘Only you’ll have to use dried eggs.’

It was a raw, cold January day; there had been a heavy frost and the sky was dense with what looked like snow; there was ice on the lake in Regent’s Park and the grass was white with rime. People waiting for buses in Baker Street looked pinched with cold; it was even cold in the car, and Villy was glad when she reached the cosy shop in Curzon Street. Hermione, as usual, made her feel both distinguished and welcome. ‘How too, too lovely that you were able to come! And it’s so lucky because my divine chestnut has gone lame so no hunting this week. Miss MacDonald! Look who’s here!’ and Miss MacDonald, wearing the jacket that matched her pinstriped flannel skirt, appeared from the depth of the shop, and smiled and said how nice it was to see her.

‘I’m sure Miss MacDonald could rustle up a cup of coffee – in fact, we’d both like some, if you’d be an angel.’ Miss MacDonald smiled again and disappeared.

‘What’s happened to your neck?’

‘I broke it last week. Rory and I rather misjudged the most enormous hedge that turned out to have a horrid ditch on the other side of it. We both came down, but our respective vets have said the damage is superficial. Rory has to rest and I have to wear this horrid collar. Sit down, darling, and let’s consider what you would like to see.’

Villy sat on the fat little sofa, newly upholstered in grey damask, while Hermione lowered herself stiffly on to a chair. ‘I don’t need party clothes. There aren’t any parties these days.’ She looked up from getting a cigarette out of her bag and met Hermione’s shrewd, cool gaze. ‘I’m not being sorry for myself,’ she said. ‘It’s simply a matter of fact.’

‘I always think the English concept of best clothes that are hardly ever worn is one of the chief reasons why they look so dowdy. One should wear one’s best clothes all the time. I think what you need is a really ravishing tweed suit, and perhaps a cosy woollen dress that will lend itself to some of your beautiful jewellery. But we’ll see.’ They saw for about two hours, at the end of which she had acquired a suit of charcoal and cream tweed with charcoal velvet trimming, a dress in fine facecloth the colour of blackcurrants with long sleeves and a high neck, and a short coat in black doeskin lined with artificial fur. Of course, she had looked at, and tried on, many other things – including, at Hermione’s insistence, a long straight evening skirt of black crêpe with a multi-coloured figured-velvet jacket. ‘It is lovely, but I’d never wear it,’ she said, and realised that for the past two hours she had not, until now, remembered her altered state.

Hermione took her to the Berkeley, where they had a secluded corner table with the head waiter behaving as though Hermione lunching there had filled his cup. When they had settled for hot consommé and a casserole of grouse, Hermione said, ‘Now we’re out of Miss MacDonald’s earshot, I really want to know how you are and what is going on. Are you knee-deep in lawyers?’

‘No. Edward’s lawyer wrote to me once about money, but that’s all. Why?’

‘Divorces usually have lawyers attached to them. I imagined you were divorcing him.’

‘I don’t know. He wants me to.’

‘That’s not a good reason. I think it should be entirely for your sake.’

‘Why?’

‘Darling, he has behaved abominably. Unless, of course, he has recognised this and wants to change his mind . . .’

‘Oh, no. He’s set up with her now. They have a household.’ She heard, and disliked, the bitterness in her own voice. ‘Oh, Hermione, I find it so hideous! I can’t stop thinking about it. To know that he’s in London, a few miles away, getting up and making plans with her at breakfast – he must drive almost past the end of my road going back to her in the evenings, and his taking her out, going to his club with her so that all the members can see her – they’ve even been to dinner with people who used to be our friends – and then going back to their house and their bedroom—’ She could not go on; her imagination by no means stopped there, but she was ashamed of the disgusting thoughts that so easily took possession of her, night after night, and so frequently rendered her sleepless until they had run their revolting course. Not here! Not in this restaurant, in broad daylight, with Hermione opposite her. She picked up her glass of water and sipped it while she tried to think of something pretty and harmless. ‘It’s all been such a shock,’ she finished lamely, because she had said this so many times before. ‘Daffodils’, she thought, that cliché-ridden poem of Wordsworth’s that Daddy used to love so much. But it was too late. Looking at Hermione’s attentive, carefully expressionless face, she felt exposed.