Casting Off: Cazalet Chronicles Book 4 (56 page)

‘Why do they want to photograph us?’

‘Ah, well,’ he answered. He was tying his black tie. ‘It’s because we’re so awfully famous.’

‘
You
are. I’m not.’

‘You
are
– because you’re my wife.’ He caught her eye in the dressing-table mirror. ‘At least, I wish you were
more
my wife than you seem prepared to be. Have you made up your mind about that?’

‘About what?’ she said stupidly.

‘About going to bed with me, darling. It’s pretty rough, you know, living cheek by jowl, everybody saying how ravishing your wife is when she won’t play with you.’

‘I suppose it must be . . . I’m sorry.’ To have this sort of conversation at the same time as having to take off her clothes made her feel shaky and sullen. ‘I think I’ll have a bath.’

‘You won’t have time. We’ve got to be there in three-quarters of an hour and you know how long it takes to move all those turtles.’

So she didn’t. She changed into the dress he chose for her – he was good at picking the right outfit for these occasions, which always seemed to her very much like one another but were, he insisted, full of subtle distinctions.

It was a long evening and she ended it a little drunk. The prolonged drinking before the dinner party and her inability to think of fresh answers to the questions she had been asked for the last three weeks – ‘How do you like New York?’ ‘What is it like to be married to such a famous and charming husband?’ ‘How many children have you got?’ followed by ‘I expect you miss him terribly, don’t you?’ – made her drink too much before dinner, and not want to eat when the food arrived.

Michael drank a good deal as well. They did not get back to the hotel until after one, and while they were undressing, he said, ‘Don’t bother to put on your nightdress, I’m going to make love to you.’

I don’t mind! she thought, when it was over and he had turned away from her to sleep. I didn’t even feel anything about not liking it. I simply didn’t feel anything at all. This, surely, must be a step in the right direction. Just not to care a damn, one way or the other.

On the boat, going back to England, it happened several more times – with the same result.

At Southampton, Zee met them with Sebastian and Nannie. Zee and her chauffeur drove back to London with Michael, and Louise, Nannie and Sebastian went by train. ‘You don’t mind, darling, do you?’ Michael said. ‘Only Mummy hasn’t seen me for so long, she wants a little time with me to herself.’

She didn’t mind.

She returned to life at Edwardes Square. Stella was still away, Polly was going to be married, Mrs Alsop gave in her notice the morning after her return. ‘There are people in this house, madam, who seem to think they should be waited on hand, foot and finger,’ and as she had been alone in it with Nannie and Sebastian, her meaning was clear. After Mrs Alsop had left the bedroom – she was in the throes of unpacking – clearly disappointed that her bombshell had not had more impact, Louise spent the rest of the morning allocating the presents she had bought for everyone in New York. When Michael rang at lunchtime to say that he would be out in the evening, she decided to take Polly’s and Clary’s presents to Blandford Street.

Neville – surprisingly – opened the door to her. He was wearing a pyjama jacket and half of his face was covered with shaving soap. ‘Oh, hello, Louise. Polly’s on the telephone, as usual, so she asked me to answer the door. I stay here in the holidays,’ he continued as they went up the stairs. He towered above her now – must be over six feet – although, with his tufted hair and sticking-out ears, he looked otherwise the same. ‘Do talk to me while I finish my shave,’ he said, when they reached the open bathroom door. ‘You’ll have to sit on the stairs if you want to sit. Poll hates being interrupted when she’s talking to her lord.’

‘Why are you shaving at this time in the evening?’

‘I’m off to work in a minute. Anyway, it doesn’t matter when I do it. I can see it’s going to bore me most frightfully for the rest of my life. I was thinking of growing a beard, but they aren’t fancied at Stowe – except for the art master.’

Quite soon he cut himself. ‘When I have to do it every day, my face will be like a railway junction,’ he complained.

‘What’s your work?’

‘I wash up at the Savoy. It’s absolutely tedious, but I get a free meal and paid in cash. I’m saving up to go to Greece and Turkey and a few other places like that.’

‘Are you going on your own?’ It seemed wonderfully adventurous.

‘I’m going with two friends, Quentin and Alex. Quentin’s father was in some embassy in Athens so he’s got quite good at Greek. We’re buying an Oldsmobile from a man in Bletchley. It’s quite old, but the man says it’s the most remarkable car he has ever had pass through his garage. He only wants ninety-eight pounds for it. Hence the washing-up.’ He mopped his face and dried it with a tea-cloth. ‘What do you think of Polly marrying a lord?’ he said.

‘I haven’t met him. Do you like him?’

He shrugged. ‘He seems all right. Of course, Polly thinks he’s super-wonderful. People always think that before they marry people, don’t they? They don’t seem to notice that secretly they’re just like everyone else. I don’t think I shall marry. I would, if I were Polly, because I should be interested to go to a coronation. Although I expect she’ll be so old by the time there is one she won’t enjoy it. But there isn’t anyone I could marry that would give me the
entree.’

‘Why do you want to go to one?’

‘Partly the trumpets. They have marvellous trumpets at things like that, I’m told – the man who teaches me the trumpet told me that – and partly all the dressing up, fur, you know, and velvet and wearing a coronet. I suppose I have a thirst for experiences that are out of reach – the ones I
can
have are mostly too tedious for words.’

‘Do you know what you want to do?’

‘Do? I don’t want to do anything. Well, I want to get into university if I can because at least it will put off the ghastly National Service, and by the time I’ve finished at Cambridge, or wherever I get into, they might have stopped having it. Quentin thinks there’s a sporting chance. Simon is loathing it. He’s in the RAF and he says the officers
moult
in the bath.’

He took off his pyjama jacket – he had on a shirt underneath.

‘She’s off the telephone and I’m off to work. You couldn’t sock me sixpence for the bus, could you? I haven’t got any money.’

‘You don’t change,’ she said, as she gave him the sixpence. ‘About money, anyway.’

‘No, I don’t – haven’t found the need. And I’ve been short of cash all my life.’

‘Scrounging again.’ Polly had come noiselessly down the stairs and now stooped to give Louise a kiss. ‘If he’d had the slightest chance, he would have asked me for the bus fare as well and then he would have bought something to eat.’

‘Quite right. I’m well known.’ He smiled with sudden, dazzling charm, threw his pyjama jacket carelessly on to the floor of his room and went.

‘Come up. Sorry, I was on the telephone.’

She was looking particularly lovely, even in her oldest blue jersey with the elbows darned in a lighter blue and her coppery hair tied back with a crumpled piece of blue velvet ribbon. All the evening, she glowed: she shone as though she was full of sunlight. ‘I hadn’t the slightest idea that one could feel like this,’ she said, ‘as though the rest of my life is going to be a magic adventure. I feel so lucky to have met him – I very nearly didn’t.’

At one point she asked Polly if she was
sure
, absolutely sure, and she answered serenely, ‘Oh, yes. We both are. We both feel the same.’

She showed her clothes. ‘And the best thing is – but I haven’t got it yet – my New Look suit for going away. Someone in Paris started it. It’s the opposite of all the dreary utility clothes. A huge full skirt and tight waist and lovely rounded shoulders. I’m having it in a very fine broadcloth – peacock greeny blue with black braid on the jacket. You should get one made, Louise, it would suit you perfectly.’

Later, she said, ‘You know how you feel completely excited and completely at home with someone? That’s how I feel about Gerald.’ Then she added, almost shyly, ‘Is that how you feel? Felt when
you
were engaged?’

‘I can’t remember. I expect I did. I don’t know.’

‘Tell me about New York. Was it wonderful?’

She tried to remember what it had been like and failed. ‘It – of course, it was all completely different. All clean and gleaming, with masses of food and shops full of everything.’ As she spoke she discovered with the beginnings of panic that the whole time there had not really impinged upon her, seemed as dull and unreal as a distant dream where nothing is sharply remembered, events seemed to have no consecutive significance, and people were simply faceless crowds with the same voice. It had been nearly four weeks of her life, and not very long ago, and nothing of it remained with her.

‘I brought you some things,’ she said, or thought she said, as the terrifying idea that perhaps, sometimes, she simply did not exist occurred to her. Then she remembered the turtles, grotesque in their dreadful green and yellow paint, how their tiny antique heads set with a pair of eyes like minute black beads retracted with fear when picked up, but would slowly emerge if she scratched the undershell gently, while the front rounded flippers and smaller back legs would make little scooping underwater movements, and how beautiful their shells were when the paint was removed, and she was able to tell Polly about them. ‘They only cost five cents,’ she said, ‘two for a dime, so I bought a lot of them.’

‘What have you done with them?’

‘I took them to the London Zoo, except for four that I’ve kept for Sebastian. But he doesn’t seem to care for them much.’

Polly said that Gerald had a lake; it was very weedy and generally in a mess, but if the turtles came from North America they would probably be all right in a Norfolk lake. So if Louise got tired of them, at any time, she would look after them.

Polly had been pleased with her presents. They had talked a bit about Clary, who, Polly said, was living like a hermit in a cottage that Archie had found for her. ‘She doesn’t like being here any more,’ Polly said. ‘It reminds her of all the wrong things.’

‘Is she still very unhappy about the man she was working for?’

‘I don’t know. But you know how whole-hearted Clary is. When she loves someone, she really
loves
them.’

Unlike me, Louise thought.

Just before she left, she said, ‘Do you have to pay all the rent while Clary isn’t here?’

‘No. Uncle Rupe kindly said he’d pay Clary’s share because Neville comes here quite a lot.’

‘So what do
you
have to pay?’

‘Half. Seventy-five pounds a year. It’s quite cheap, really, because of all the poultering that goes on in the basement. It smells, rather, sometimes.’

Going home in a cab she realised that she had not the slightest idea whether seventy-five pounds (a hundred and fifty, if you counted the whole flat) was cheap or not. I would have to earn money, in any case, she thought, regularly, not just the odd broadcast, because that wouldn’t even pay any rent – let alone all the other things! That night, she tried to make a list of what the other things might be. Gas, electricity, a telephone (although she supposed that she could do without one), bus fares, having sheets and things washed by a laundry. She had enough clothes to last for ages, but there were still things like having shoes mended (she was rather proud of thinking of that), and then there were things like electric lightbulbs, lavatory paper, Lux to wash her clothes, and toothpaste and Tampax and make-up . . . She began to wish she had asked Polly what she earned; then she remembered that Uncle Hugh gave her an allowance, anyway, of a hundred a year, so whatever Polly earned
she
’d need to earn a hundred more . . .

She couldn’t go home because she no longer had one. She knew that even if her mother stopped being so angry with her for knowing about her father leaving, she would not be able to bear living in that dark, unhappy little house. But now that her father was settled with Diana, who had seemed disposed to be friendly, she might go and see them and find out what they thought she could do. He might pay for me to do a typing course, she thought. If I did that, I would be able to get some sort of work.

She rang her father at home and got Diana. ‘I’m afraid you can’t,’ she said. ‘He’s gone to bed early. He hasn’t been very well.’

‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘He had a rather bad appendix operation. He only got back from the nursing home yesterday.’

‘Poor Dad! Could I come and see him?’

‘I should leave it for a bit. He’s feeling pretty awful, and I’m not letting him have visitors.’

She said she would ring the next day, which she did. Diana still put her off. After two more days of this, she rang her uncle Rupert at the office.

‘He’s been awfully ill – he damn nearly died. A burst appendix – horrible thing – poor old boy. It happened while you were away or I suppose Diana would have told you.’

‘She doesn’t seem to want me to go to see him.’

‘Well, I suppose she’s been very worried about his getting too tired.’ Then he said, ‘I should just go, if I were you. The nurse told me he’d been asking for you. Kept saying, “Is my daughter in the house?” and the nurse didn’t even know that he had a daughter till the housekeeper told him. So perhaps you should just go.’

She went in the afternoon, late enough for him to have had a rest, and took him a bunch of white lilac and yellow irises. She felt, when she was getting it, that it might well be the last bunch of flowers that she would buy for a very long time so it might as well be an expensive one.

The housekeeper said that Mr Cazalet was resting and Madam was out.

‘I’ve come to see my father.’

‘Oh! That will be nice for him!’

He was lying in a large bed propped up by pillows and awake. A book lay open on the bed, but he was not reading it. He seemed very pleased to see her.