The Light Years (The Cazalet Chronicle) (11 page)

Mr Snodgrass had been, he said, deeply disappointed that the sale had realised so little. However, by the time he and other kind advisors had been paid, the remaining capital was invested to bring her in an income of nearly sixty pounds a year which old Brigadier Harcourt-Skeynes had pointed out – unanswerably – was far better than a smack in the eye with a wet fish. So many things, she had thought, would be better than that, that it was hard to see it as a helpful remark, but the Brigadier was famous for his sense of humour. ‘And you, Eleanor, are famous for rambling and going to bed too late,’ she said aloud. She knew nobody now left who used her Christian name and so she used it whenever she needed admonishing. She must pay a visit along the passage, say her prayers and then it would be lights out.

Sybil and Hugh sat in their candlelit dining room eating cold supper (slices of pork pie obtained from Bellamy’s in the Earl’s Court Road and a salad of lettuce, tomato and beetroot, with a bottle of hock – Sybil preferred white wine). The room, in the basement, was dark, and rather hot due to the kitchen range next door; it was also rather small for the quantity of furniture it contained – a two-pedestal oval table, eight Hepplewhite chairs and a long, narrow, serpentine sideboard. In spite of the french windows left ajar for air, the candle flames were motionless.

‘Well, if he’s right, I suppose we will have to.’

‘He couldn’t actually
hear
a second heart.’

‘But we have to consider the possibility. The likelihood,’ he corrected himself.

‘Darling, you know I don’t
want
to move – terrible upheaval – anyway, you know I love this house.’ Now that he seemed to be accepting the idea of a move at last she was anxious that he should think she wanted it as little as he.

‘I think it will be rather exciting.’

This duel of consideration for one another that they had conducted for the last sixteen years involved shifting the truth about between them or withholding it altogether and was called good manners or affection, supposed to smooth the humdrum or prickly path of everyday married life. Its tyranny was apparent to neither. Hugh pushed his plate away: he longed to smoke.

‘Do smoke, darling.’

‘Sure you don’t mind?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ll have some gooseberries, though.’

When he had fetched them for her and lit his Gold Flake, she said, ‘Of course, one solution would be to send Polly to boarding school.’

He turned sharply to look at her, and his head stabbed. ‘No – I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ he said at last, with exaggerated mildness and as though he had given a trivial point his courteous consideration. To forestall any argument he added, ‘I’ve wanted a study for years. It will give me something interesting to do with my summer evenings while you’re in the country.’

‘I want to choose with you!’

‘Of course, I’ll only sound out the ground. Are we going to have coffee?’

‘If you would like some?’

‘Only if you would . . .’

In the end they decided against coffee in favour of bed. While Hugh locked the doors Sybil lumbered up the stairs carrying her shoes in one hand. Her feet had swollen so much that she was constantly taking off shoes and then being unable to put them on again.

‘Will you have a look at Polly, darling? I really can’t face more stairs.’

Polly lay on her side facing the door, which was ajar. Her bedside table had been moved so that without turning she would be able to see the tall candlesticks and pottery plate that was propped on it against her bedside lamp. There was a little smear of toothpaste at the side of her mouth. Pompey lay in the crook of her drawn-up knees. He heard Hugh (or noticed the extra light from the opened door), opened his eyes and then shut them at once, as though he’d never seen anyone so boring before in his life.

Phyllis dreamed: she dreamed that she was standing, wearing ever such a lovely velvet gown and a ruby necklace, but she knew she wasn’t going to the ball or anything because they were going to cut off her head, which wasn’t fair, really, because all she’d done was say how nice he looked in his pyjamas, but His Majesty said it was adult something and she must die. She had never really liked Charles Laughton, he was nothing like such a gentleman as the Duke of Windsor and just because she was wearing Merle Oberon’s clothes didn’t mean she was her. It was all a terrible mistake, but when she tried to tell them, she found she couldn’t speak at all – she was screaming inside and no words came out and someone was pushing her and if she didn’t manage to scream they would do it and someone was pushing her on . . .

‘Phyl! Wake
up
!’

‘Oh! Oh, I
haven’t half
had a nightmare!’

But Edna didn’t want to hear about it. ‘You woke me up. You always do that when you have cheese last thing,’ and she got back into her bed and pulled the bedclothes over her.

Having said she was ever so sorry (even the sound of her own voice was reassuring), Phyllis lay with her eyes open, just glad to be her and not wanting to go to sleep in case she changed again into someone else. She knew she should have had the ham and tongue paste on her bread instead of the cheese. She thought about the green cotton with roses on it; it would be nice with a white piqué and white gloves to match; she turned over on her side and in no time she was lying back on one of those basket chairs they had for the garden, and Mr Cazalet was bending over her with a cocktail and saying, ‘You look so pretty, Phyllis, in green. Has anyone ever told you that?’ But they never had, because Ted never said anything like that . . . Mr Cazalet had a moustache exactly like Melvyn Douglas, which must feel funny when he kissed people but it was the kind of thing one could get used to – give her half a chance, and she
would
. . . get used . . .

Zoë Cazalet adored the Gargoyle Club –
adored
it. She made Rupert take her on her birthday, at the end of every term, if Rupert sold a picture, on their wedding anniversary, and
always
before she was going to be stuck in the country for weeks with the children like now. She loved dressing up, she had two Gargoyle dresses, both backless, one black and one white, and with either she wore her bright green dancing shoes and long dangling white paste earrings that anyone might think were diamonds. She loved going to Soho at night, looking at all the tarts eyeing Rupert and the restaurants lit up with taxis arriving all the time, and then diving down the narrow side road off Dean Street and going up in the stern little lift and hearing the band the moment the doors opened – straight into the bar, with the Matisse drawings; she didn’t think they were frightfully
good
, though, which shocked Rupert, who said they were. They would have a drink at the bar, Gin and It. There would always be one or two handsome, clever-looking men drinking alone and she enjoyed the experienced way in which they looked at her; they knew at a glance she was worth something. Then a waiter would tell them their table was ready, and they’d take a second drink with them into the large room whose walls were lined with little panes of mirror glass. The leader of the band always smiled at her and greeted her as though they went every night, which, of course, they didn’t – couldn’t – by a long chalk. They always chose their dinner and danced until the first course was served and the band played ‘The Lady is a Tramp’ because they knew she loved it. When she’d married him, Rupert hadn’t been much of a dancer, but he’d got good enough – at a quickstep, anyway – for it to be fun.

Now the evening was nearly over; they were sitting with cups of black coffee and Rupert was asking her if she’d like some brandy. She shook her head. ‘Two brandies.’ He caught her eye. ‘You’ll change your mind.’

‘How do you know?’

‘You always do.’

There was a pause; then she said distantly, ‘I don’t like being known for always doing things.’

Damn! he thought. She was set to sulk: only two moves away from flying off the handle.

‘Sweetie! You are full of surprises, but after three years, you must expect me to know some things about you. Zoë!’ He took her hand: it lay passively in his. After a moment, he picked it up and kissed it. She pretended to ignore this, but he knew it pleased her.

‘I tell you what it
is
,’ she said, as though they were ending a long discussion on the subject. ‘If you know everything about me, you won’t love me any more.’

‘What on earth makes you think that?’

‘That’s how men are.’ She put her elbow on the table, propping her chin up with her hands, and gazed mournfully at him. ‘I mean, one day I’ll be old and fat and my hair will be grey and I’ll have nothing new to say to you and you’ll be completely bored.’

‘Zoë – really—’

‘Double chins, I’ll probably have two or three of those.’

The waiter brought their brandies. Rupert picked his up and cupped it in his hands, swirling it gently so that the fumes reached him.

‘I don’t just love you for your appearance,’ he said.

‘Don’t you?’

‘Of course not.’ He saw tears in her amazing eyes and his heart lurched. ‘Darling girl, of course not.’ Saying it again, he believed it. ‘Let’s dance.’

Driving home – all the way to Brook Green – he saw that she had fallen asleep, and drove carefully, not to wake her. ‘I’ll carry her up to bed,’ he thought, and then I’ll be able to have a quick look at the children and she won’t know.’

He left her in the car while he went to open the front door, could see lights on in the night nursery as he walked up the garden path and his heart sank. When he went back to the car to fetch her, she had woken.

‘Help me, Rupert, I feel quite woozy.’

‘I’ve got you.’ He picked her up and carried her – into the house, and up the stairs to the first floor and their bedroom. As he tried to lay her on their bed, her arms tightened round his neck. ‘I love you terribly.’

‘I love you.’ He disengaged her arms and stood up. ‘See how fast you can get into bed. I’ll be back in a minute.’ And he escaped, shutting the door before she could reply.

He ran up the stairs, two at a time, and Ellen met him on the landing.

‘What is it, Ellen? Is it Nev?’

‘It didn’t start with him. Clary had a bad dream and came in to me and that woke him and then he had one of his turns.’

He followed her into the room in which she slept with Neville. He was sitting bolt upright with his pyjama jacket unbuttoned trying to breathe and succeeding painfully each time at what seemed like the last possible moment. The room reeked of Friar’s Balsam and menthol.