Casting Off: Cazalet Chronicles Book 4 (49 page)

‘Wills is at school. You wouldn’t see him. And you haven’t got to talk to Gran. You’ll be asleep.’

‘I won’t! She might come into my room. She really
smells
so
awful
, Mummy.’

‘Jules, that’s nonsense – and rather unkind.’

‘It’s not unkind to say what people
are
. She smells . . .’ she wrinkled her nose as she thought ‘. . . she smells sort of like Irish stew with violets in it.’

‘Don’t you dare say that to her. It would hurt her feelings.’

‘I don’t want to say anything to her. She’s not good with children, my dear. That’s what.’

Rupert laughed when she retailed this exchange, but it worried Zoë. ‘Supposing she has a bad dream, or something?’

‘She won’t. She sleeps like a top, and your mother can always ring us at Hugh’s. After all, we’re only a few minutes away.’

Her mother was sitting in her armchair next to the gas fire. Zoë had undressed her earlier, and she was wearing her thick quilted dressing gown. ‘I can’t seem to get into this book,’ she said. ‘It’s all about a clergyman with a difficult wife – a depressing story.’

‘Well, perhaps you should give it up and listen to your wireless,’ she said, as she put the supper tray on the card table in front of her mother’s chair.

‘Oh, no, I don’t think I’d better. The batteries have run right down so that I can hardly hear it.’

‘You should have told me.’

‘I didn’t like to be a trouble.’

‘Here’s our telephone number at Hugh’s in case you need it. We’re just down the road, we can be back in a minute. Juliet is in bed. We’ll wait till she drops off.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m perfectly capable of looking after her. Mind you don’t catch cold in that dress, Zoë. It looks very skimpy to me.’

Rupert had said that he would tell Jules a story to settle her, and Zoë went upstairs to the sitting room to wait for him. Once, she thought, she would have wanted passionately to go to this party; she would have thought about it for weeks, would probably have made or bought a new dress to wear, and would have been utterly cast down if anything had happened to prevent her going. It seemed to her now to be a very long time since she had felt anything of the sort about anything at all. Ever since that evening before she had gone to the island to fetch her mother, her relationship with Rupert had been in limbo: had altered neither for better nor worse; they were courteous, kind to each other and he had been, she recognised, immensely generous about having her mother, in spite of the many disadvantages this entailed. It cut down the time they could have alone together, but she thought, sadly, that perhaps that was a relief to him as well as to her. Certainly he never protested about it, any more than he teased her as he used to do. They were most at ease with or about Jules, whom he adored; but the rest of the time she sensed – not so much any more that he was withdrawn as that he was resigned. Looking at herself in the mirror over the fireplace, she saw her image – the piled-up dark hair, the thin black shoulder straps emphasising the whiteness of her skin – and remembered looking at herself in Archie’s flat, when she had dressed there before she had gone to meet Jack, the stranger she had met on a train that morning. Then, she had worn her pearls twined in her hair as she had no other jewellery with her; now, she wore the paste earrings that Rupert had given her years ago the Christmas before they had gone skiing with Edward and Villy. She was looking at her reflection but she hardly saw it, because it came to her then that the feelings she sensed in Rupert were a reflection of her own for him. She was no longer withdrawn, but a kind of resignation had taken the place of withdrawal. She was becalmed, trapped by responsibility and goodwill – but without anything more heartfelt. The nearest she had come to natural, spontaneous feeling had been that evening before she had gone to her mother, when she had thought that Rupert did know – somehow – about Jack. She remembered her instant terror when she had asked him how did he know, and then the extraordinary tide of hysterical relief when she had realised that he was talking about her mother – he had known nothing about Jack. Now, she recognised that she also had been stabbed by a disappointment: it had been as though she had been dragged to the edge of a cliff and there had been nothing for it but to take the plunge, only to discover that it was not a cliff, merely a dreary slope. If she had been forced to tell him more about something he already knew, it would be over, one way or another – there would have been some movement, some release from careful immobility. But to do it in cold blood. I simply have not got the courage, she thought, and her image looked back at her with contempt.

‘She’s off. I say, that is a good dress!’ He picked up her overcoat and helped her into it.

‘Is there really going to be dinner for everyone?’

‘A buffet. His secretary has done all the arrangements. She’s pretty efficient so I expect it will be all right.’

Hugh’s house seemed transformed. The large L-shaped drawing room had a fire burning logs that had a wonderful fragrance, and the room was full of blue and white hyacinths. Hugh stood by the fireplace with Polly. She was wearing a pearl-grey satin damask dress with a tight bodice and a long full skirt below her tiny waist.

‘This is Gerald,’ she said, after she had kissed them, and a young man with rather bulging eyes blushed.

‘I say, Poll! You do elevate prettiness to an operatic level!’

‘It’s my dress, Uncle Rupe. Dad gave it to me.’

Zoë saw Hugh smiling with pride, and thought how much younger he looked when he smiled. When she said how lovely the room was, he smiled again and said that Mrs Leaf had done it all. ‘She’s here, as a matter of fact,’ he added. ‘I couldn’t let her arrange everything and then not come to the party.’

Simon, very tall and elegant in his dinner jacket, appeared with a tray of champagne; more people were arriving, and the party began.

Throughout it, the drinks, the greetings, the buffet – everyone went down to the dining room to collect a plate and a glass of wine – she was conscious of, fascinated by Polly and Gerald. Even when she could not see them, the power of their happiness radiated the room: their love, which seemed bewitchingly mutual, engendered love from everyone else. She remembered her first dinner at Chester Terrace, to meet Rupert’s parents and brothers. How much she had been in love with Rupert then! And Rupert?
Then
she had been sure that he adored her, but now her sense of what that meant had changed; now she could see that she had been in love with a man far older than herself who had a dead wife and two of her children. She had been clear that he wanted her, and she had equated that with love; her mother had brought her up to believe that appearance won everything that could be desired. When she had married Rupert, she had been in love with his desire for her; now, she was no longer sure what else she had felt. It had taken Philip and his sexual revenge upon her vanity, and then Jack (for a moment, she could not bear to think what Jack had felt about her) to teach her anything about love. Jack . . .
had
he loved her? Not enough to stay with her, at any rate. But perhaps that was not fair; perhaps he had loved her and she had been part of the life that he gave up. I did love him, she thought, for the first time without anguish. I wasn’t enough for him, but I loved him. It was some comfort.

In the car going home, Rupert was very quiet. When she asked him what he was thinking, he said, ‘I was just hoping that Clary would find someone she could love like that. But I’m afraid she’s not like Polly.’

‘She will get over it.’ She knew that Clary had fallen in love with a married man and that he had called an end to the affair.

‘Yes. But getting over something doesn’t mean that you’re the same person that you were before. Clary loves people very seriously.’

They got home to find that Juliet was up, barefooted in her nightdress. The back door to the kitchen that led on to the garden was open and she was chopping up a loaf of bread. ‘I’m feeding the poor birds,’ she said; her teeth were chattering. ‘I took them out one bowl, but it didn’t look enough, so I’m doing some more.’

While Zoë shut the door, boiled a kettle for a hot-water bottle and wrapped her in a blanket, she said that she had woken up because she had dreamed about a horrible seagull who stole all the food ‘and bit the other poor birds with his horrible beak, so I had to make some breakfast for them, Mummy’.

‘Why didn’t you go into Gran’s room?’

‘I did. She was asleep, all muddled in her chair with the lights on. She doesn’t like birds.’

‘Let’s put her in a hot bath,’ Rupert said. ‘The fastest way to warm her up. I’ll do it, you go and see to your mother.’

She found her mother as Jules had described, but with the added horror that her library book had fallen from her lap and been partially charred by the gas fire.

‘Oh dear! I must have dropped off.’

‘And you nearly set fire to the house, Mummy – look at your book!’

‘Oh dear!’

‘And Juliet woke up and you didn’t hear her – she came into your room and you were fast asleep, and now she’s probably caught her death of cold going into the garden.’

‘That’s very naughty of her. She shouldn’t have done that. I was here all the time. She had only to wake me.’

‘Oh, Mummy! You were meant to be looking after her! We go out for one evening and she might have died!’

‘Don’t shout at me, Zoë, I couldn’t help dropping off. How was I to know that she’d wake? You said she never did!’

Before she could stop herself, she completely lost her temper. ‘And
you
said you were perfectly capable of looking after her! And apart from possibly being burned to death, she’s probably caught pneumonia! After all these months, this is the first time I’ve ever asked you to do anything for me, and look what happens! Well, I’ll never ask you to do anything again, you can be sure of that!’

Her mother’s face, her trembling mouth and frightened eyes, stopped her. She was standing, ineffectively tugging at the zip on her dressing gown.

‘I’m sorry. I’ll do that for you.’

‘I think I’d better pay a visit to the bathroom first. You needn’t wait for me. I can put myself to bed.’

Zoë picked up the supper tray and took it out to the kitchen. Then she went back to her mother’s room, turned out the gas fire, and took the counterpane off the bed. Then she waited; she felt shaky and sour, but she couldn’t leave things like this, she wanted to apologise and get the hell out.

Her mother was a long time in the bathroom, and when she returned, Zoë saw that she had been crying.

‘I’m sorry, Mummy. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that.’

Her mother let herself be helped into bed without saying anything. ‘Shall I take your sling off? You don’t need to wear it in bed.’

She unpinned the silk scarf. As her mother lay down, she said, ‘I did my best for you. You may not have thought it much, but it was the best I could do. In the circumstances.’

‘I know you did. I didn’t mean to make you cry.’

‘I was missing Maud,’ she answered with shaky dignity. ‘It’s hard losing your only friend when you’re my age.’

‘I know – I do realise that. We’ll talk in the morning.’ She kissed the soft pouchy cheek, an empty gesture that would only have been significant if it had been absent. ‘Shall I turn off your light?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

When she and Rupert had settled Juliet, he took her arm on the stairs up to their bedroom.

‘Darling! You’re shaking! I’m sure she’ll be all right.’

‘I lost my temper with Mummy. It’s my fault – she’s not capable of anything after all these years of being looked after by her friend. Maud did everything for her – encouraged her to think of herself as an invalid. And now that’s just what she is.’

‘Ellen will be back soon,’ he said.

‘It will be easier when Mummy’s arm is out of plaster,’ she said.

‘Jules is a tough little egg. And, after all, the back garden is only about the temperature of the bathroom at Home Place. She’s used to being cold,’ he said, trying to coax a smile out of her and failing.

‘Let’s get to bed. It’s after one, and you’re dead beat.’

She thought she wouldn’t sleep, but she did – at once – and woke in the morning because Rupert had brought her a cup of tea. It was Saturday so he didn’t have to go to work. Jules was fine, he said; he was giving her breakfast. But there was still her mother’s tray to do. She drank the tea, put on her dressing gown and went down to the kitchen, where Rupert and Jules were sitting at the table.

‘We’re having kippers,’ Jules said.

‘Kippers?’ They couldn’t be.

‘Madam ordered kippers,’ Rupert said.

‘And this is a hotel splongdeed where you can get everything, Mummy.’

She held out a piece of toast spread with anchovy paste from her plate. Rupert had cut the toast into a fish shape.

‘Guests don’t usually eat meals with the waiter,’ she said.

‘I’m the manager,’ Rupert answered, ‘and this is a very special guest.’

She made her mother’s breakfast tray, and with a rather shaky determination to be bright and kind, went into Mrs Headford’s bedroom.

She was up – and partially dressed. That is to say, she was still wearing her bedjacket, but she had managed to get into her roll-on suspender belt and her knickers, and was struggling to fasten her stockings. She had lit her gas fire and drawn the curtains, whose window looked on to the back garden.

‘Oh, Mummy! You should have waited for me.’

‘You know I don’t like to be a burden.’ There was resentment in the familiar phrase.

‘You’re not, honestly. You can’t help your arm. Anyway, it will soon be better.’ She had put the tray down and knelt to do the suspenders.

‘The doctor said next week. So it won’t be long.’

‘No. That’ll be nice, won’t it? You’ll be able to finish your jumper.’

She hooked her mother into the bust bodice that halfheartedly encased the drooping white breasts, slipped the camisole over her head and eased the Viyella shirt-sleeve on to the plastered arm. While she was buttoning up the front, her mother said: ‘I’ve been thinking, Zoë. I think I’d rather go home – to the cottage – when my arm is out of plaster. I can perfectly well manage for myself and Maud left me the cottage, after all. I don’t like to think of it empty.’