The Light Years (The Cazalet Chronicle) (14 page)

‘Working very hard, I see, Billy.’

‘Yes, m’m.’ He sucked his blister and at once she saw it.

‘That looks horrid. Come and see me when you’ve had your dinner, and I’ll put a plaster on it.’ Then, seeing that he looked anxious as well as embarrassed, she added, ‘Eileen will tell you where to find me,’ and walked on.
She
was all right, although she did have very thin, knobbly legs, but then she was as old as Mum, a nice class of lady.

William Cazalet spent his morning in the ways that he most enjoyed. He sat with the newspaper in his study, which was dark and crammed with heavy furniture (he made no concession to it having been the second parlour of the old cottage) worrying pleasurably about the country going to the dogs: that feller Chamberlain didn’t seem to him to be much better than the other feller Baldwin; the Germans seemed to be the only people who knew how to organise things; it was a pity that George VI didn’t have a son, and it looked as though he’d left it a bit late now; if they
did
have a state in Palestine he doubted whether enough Jews would go there to make a difference to the business – Jews were his chief competitors in the timber trade, and damnably good at it, but none had the hardwood stock that Cazalet’s carried – neither the quality nor the variety. His huge desk was covered with veneer samples; with koko, Andeman padouk, pyinkado, ebony, walnut, maple, laurel and rosewood samples; these were not used for selling, he just liked to have them about. Often he had boxes made from the first cuttings of veneer from some particularly favoured log that had been maturing for years. The study contained a dozen or so, and there were more in London. The room was otherwise furnished with a brilliant red and blue Turkey rug, a glass-fronted bookcase that scraped the low ceiling, several glass cases with huge stuffed fish in them – he enormously enjoyed telling the stories about how he had caught them and regularly imported new guests for the purpose – and, increasing the gloom, large pots of scarlet geraniums on the window-sill in full unwinking flower. The walls were hung three deep with prints: hunting prints, prints of India, and prints of battles – all smoke and scarlet jackets and the whites of rearing horses’ eyes. Newspapers that he had read were stacked upon chairs. Heavy decanters half full of whisky and port stood on an inlaid table with the appropriate glasses. A sandalwood statue of a Hindu god – a present from a rajah when he was in India, stood on top of a cabinet full of shallow drawers in which he kept his collection of beetles. His desk was chiefly covered with the plans for his new conversion of part of the stables: there were to be two garages below, and quarters for Tonbridge and his family – wife and small boy – above. Building was well under way, but he kept thinking of improvements and to that end had sent for the builder, Sampson, to meet him at the site. One of the four clocks struck the half hour. He got to his feet, collected his tweed cap from a hook on the back of the door, and walked slowly down to the stables. As he walked, he reflected that that nice feller he’d met in the train . . . what was his name? Began with a C, he thought – anyway he’d find out when they came to dinner; naturally he’d asked Mrs Whatshername as well. The only thing was he couldn’t remember whether he had told Kitty they were coming; in fact, if he couldn’t remember, it probably meant that he hadn’t. He must get up some port; the Taylor ’23 would be just the ticket.

The stables were built on two sides at right angles. To the left were the stalls where he kept his horses, to the right were the old loose boxes that were half converted. Wren was grooming his chestnut mare, Marigold; he could hear the steady soothing hiss before he got to the door. There was no sign of Sampson. The other horses shifted in their straw at his approach. William loved his horses, riding every morning of his life, and keeping one, a large grey of sixteen hands called Whistler, at livery in London. Whistler was in a stall now, and William frowned.

‘Wren! I told you to turn him out. It’s his holiday.’

‘I’ve to catch that pony first. Never catch ’im once I’ve let t’other out.’

Fred Wren was a small man, wiry and hard. He looked as though all of him had been compressed; he’d been a stable lad turned jockey, but a bad fall had left him lame. He’d been with William for nearly twenty years. Once a week he got drunk so it was a mystery how he hauled himself up the ladder into the hayloft where he slept. This behaviour was known but tolerated because in every other way he was an excellent groom.

‘Mrs Edward coming down, is she?’

‘Today. They’re all coming.’

‘So I heard. Mrs Edward’ll go nicely on the liver chestnut. Lovely seat on a horse, she has. You don’t see many like ’
er
.’

‘Quite right, Wren.’ He gave Marigold a pat, and turned to go.

‘One thing, sir. Could you tell those workmen to wash away their cement? They’re blocking my drains.’

‘I’ll tell them.’

And you tell them to take their ladders down of an evening, and not leave my yard looking like a pigsty. Wood shavings, buckets and making free with my water – I’ve had enough of them and no mistake, the cheeky monkeys. Wren stood looking at the back of his employer as he thought this. But there was no stopping that old man: he’d have the stables down next, he shouldn’t wonder. But the mere thought of that made him feel queer. When he’d first come to this place there had been no talk of motor cars and such. Now there were two of them, nasty smelly things. If Mr Cazalet took it into his head to collect any more of them, where would he put the contraptions? Not in my stables, he thought rather shakily. He was much older than he thought anybody knew and he didn’t like modern times.

Wren fussing about the drains made William think. The new premises would need their own water. Perhaps he’d better sink another well. Then the garden and stables could share their water supply – instead of the garden using water from the house – and – yes! He’d do a spot of divining after lunch. He’d speak to Sampson about it, but Sampson didn’t really know the first thing about wells –
he
couldn’t find water to save his life. Cheered by the thought of yet another enterprise, he stumped over to the garages.

Tonbridge held the car door open for Madam, and the Duchy climbed gratefully into the back of the old Daimler. It was cool after the heat of the high street and smelled faintly of prayer books. The boot was full of the large grocery order; her new trug and secateurs from Till’s lay on the seat beside her, a case of Malvern water on the seat in front.

‘We just have to collect my order from the butcher’s, Tonbridge.’

‘Very good, m’m.’

She eased a hat pin that seemed to be working its way through her hat into her head. It would be too hot now to pick the roses; she would have to wait until evening. She would have a short rest after luncheon, and then go out into the garden. In weather like this she begrudged every minute she could not spend there.

The butcher came out with her lamb in a parcel. He had been most apologetic about the last order having been unsatisfactory. He raised his boater to her as the car moved on.

Tonbridge got the sweets wrong. ‘I want
mixed
fruits – not just gooseberries. I’m afraid you must take them back.’

Tonbridge went slowly back into the shop. He didn’t like having to buy sweets, and he hated taking them back because the woman who kept the shop was sharp with him and reminded him of Ethyl. But he did it, of course. It was all part of the job.

He drove the Duchy home at a lugubrious twenty miles an hour – the pace he usually reserved for Mrs Edward or Mrs Hugh when they were pregnant. The Duchy did not notice this; driving was for men, and they might go at what pace they pleased. The only driving she had ever done was in a pony cart when she was a great deal younger. But she sensed that the sweet business had upset him, so when they got home and he was helping her out of the car, she said, ‘I expect you will be
most
relieved when the garages are finished, and you have a nice flat for your family.’

He looked at her, his mournful brown eyes with the bloodshot lower lids did not change and said, ‘Yes, m’m. I expect I shall be,’ and shut the car door after her. As he drove the car round to the back door to unload it, he reflected gloomily that his only chance of getting away from Ethyl was shortly to be lost. She’d be down here, nagging him, complaining about how quiet it was, with that kid of hers whining all the time and his life would be just as bad as it was when the family were in town. There must be a way out of it somehow, but he couldn’t see what it was.

Eileen had been behind herself all morning. It had started all right: she’d got her housework – the reception rooms – done before breakfast. But when she was washing the breakfast things, she discovered that all the china for the nursery meals hadn’t been touched since Christmas: the whole lot needed washing, and of course Mrs Cripps hadn’t been able to spare Dottie, and Peggy and Bertha had all the rooms upstairs to get ready. Eileen didn’t like to say anything, but she did think that Mrs Cripps might have spoken to the girls about it and got it done earlier. It wasn’t all done now, but there was an early dining room lunch, which meant that the kitchen wouldn’t get theirs until nearly two. She was in the pantry, rolling water-beaded butter balls and setting them in glass dishes for lunch and dinner that evening.

The door was open and she could hear Mrs Cripps shouting at Dottie, who scuttled back and forth down the passage with the kitchen washing-up. Smells of new cake and flapjacks wafted from the kitchen, reminding her that she was
starving
, she never could fancy much breakfast and there’d only been a rock cake with middle mornings. In London, Mrs Norfolk provided a real sit-down meal for elevenses – tinned salmon or a nice piece of Cheddar – but, then, she wasn’t having to cook for the numbers expected of Mrs Cripps. Eileen always came to the country with the family for Christmas and the summer holidays. At Easter she had her fortnight’s holiday and Lillian, the housemaid at Chester Terrace, came down instead of her. Eileen had been with the family seven years; she was fond of them, but she adored Miss Rachel – one of the sweetest ladies she’d ever met. She couldn’t think why Miss Rachel had never got married, but supposed she’d had a Disappointment in the war, like so many. But the summer was going to be hard work all the way, and that was a fact. Still, she liked to see the children enjoying themselves and Mrs Hugh would soon be having another and there’d be a baby again at Christmas. That was the butter done. She took the small tray of dishes to put in the larder and nearly ran into Dottie – that girl never looked where she was going. Poor girl, she had a summer cold and a very nasty cold sore on her lip in spite of all the vanishing cream that Eileen had kindly lent her. She was carrying a huge great tray piled with the kitchen china for laying up in the hall.