The Light Years (The Cazalet Chronicle) (47 page)

‘Well,’ he said some uncomfortable minutes later, ‘I cannot be
sure,
of course, but I think it’s very likely you’re right.’

Villy with a suddenness that confounded her, burst into tears. She had meant to be calm and rationally persuasive, now she found herself sobbing, ridiculously half-clothed with her bag and a handkerchief left on the chair by his desk. But he brought her the bag without being asked and told her to get dressed and they would have a chat. When she joined him, he had mysteriously produced cups of tea and gave her a cigarette.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘Let us suppose that you
are
pregnant. Is it your age that’s worrying you?’

‘Well – yes, that among other things.’

‘Because I’m not in the least worried about that. You’re a healthy woman and you’ve had three healthy children. It isn’t as though you’re starting at . . . forty, is it?’

‘Forty-two. But it isn’t just that, I
feel
too old to start all over again – besides it wouldn’t be much fun for it, it would be like an only child.’ She wanted to say, ‘I simply don’t want another baby at any price, but he was a man as well as her doctor and would be most unlikely to understand. ‘I’m sure Edward doesn’t want any more children,’ she added.

‘Oh, I can’t see Edward kicking up a fuss. He can afford it, which is the main thing. I take it you haven’t talked to him, but I’ll bet you he’ll be pleased as punch when you do.’ There was a short silence, while both of them separately wondered what on earth to say next.

‘I suppose I couldn’t be – starting on the change – could I?’

‘No hot flushes? Night sweats?’ She shook her head, blushing at the disgusting notions.

‘Not feeling depressed?’

‘Well, yes – I am about this, I really and truly don’t feel
up
to another baby.’

‘Well, we can’t always choose these things. And I’ve known many women who thought they didn’t want another and discovered how wrong they were when it arrived.’

‘So you don’t think that there is anything – at all – that I could do?’

‘I do not,’ he said sharply, ‘and I hope I’m not reading your mind, my dear, but just in case I am let me tell you two things. I would do a great deal for you, but I would never even contemplate helping you get rid of a baby. I’ve had women in this room who would have given everything they possess to be in your position. And I’m also telling you not to try and find some other means. I’ve also had women in here wrecked by backstreet abortions. I want you to promise me to do nothing at all, to come back here in six weeks when we shall be able to confirm your condition or not as the case may be.’ He leant over the desk and took one of her hands. ‘Villy. I’ll see you through this, I promise you. Now, will you promise me?’

So she had to, really.

Seeing her out and feeling the need to neutralise the slight feeling of tension, he asked her whether Edward was worried about the crisis and she told him that she didn’t think so, ‘Although I haven’t seen him because I’m in Sussex with the children, and he couldn’t come down last weekend.’

‘Is that so? Well, you keep the children there – far the best place for them. Mary has my two in Scotland, and it has crossed my mind to leave them there for a few weeks, till we know where we stand.’

‘Are you worried, then?’

‘No, no. I’m sure our unflappable Prime Minister will sort things out. I have to admire him taking his first flight at sixty-nine. And I don’t suppose he speaks a word of German. It’s quite impressive. Look after yourself, my dear. And mind what I’ve said.’

Outside, she stood irresolute: she had told Jessica and her mother that she would be catching the four-twenty back to Battle, but she was a short walk from Lansdowne Road, and she felt a sudden craving for her own house, blessedly empty of relations, with the prospect of tea and a rest, and then, a quiet evening with Edward, to whom, she felt, she might even be able to talk about the whole thing. So she walked through the large Ladbroke Square, empty now of its perambulators and nannies and children for the summer, to Ladbroke Grove, where she had seen straw laid across the wide road because an old gentleman had been dying at the large house on the corner. She walked past Hugh and Sybil’s house, shuttered and looking very closed up, although she knew Hugh used it in the week, and then turned right down Ladbroke Road. As the back of her home came into view, she experienced a surge of relief: the country was all very well, but really she adored London, and particularly this house. Edna would be there, if it was not her afternoon off, and she could have her tea and a bath. It had been an oppressive, sunless day, and she felt hot and sticky.

When she had let herself into the quiet house, she remembered that it was Wednesday and that therefore Edna would almost certainly be out. I’ll have to make my own tea, she thought, and wondered if she’d be able to find everything. There were two stacks of letters on the hall table, but they all seemed to be for Edward: it was naughty of him to let them pile up like that. She decided to ring him up at once to tell him she was here, in case, on his own, he decided to play billiards at his club or something of the sort. The study, where the telephone was, was looking rather dusty and by the telephone there was a large ashtray, full of Edward’s cigarette stubs, which looked as though it hadn’t been emptied for days. She hoped the rest of the house hadn’t become like that or she would have to sack Edna. When she got through to the office and asked for Edward there was a pause, and then Miss Seafang answered his telephone, and said that Mr Edward had left at lunch-time saying he would not be back. She was ever so sorry, but she did not know where he had gone. She would tell him in the morning that Mrs Edward had called and get him to call Mill Farm first thing. Then she rang off before Villy could tell her that she was in London. Not that it matters, she thought. I might as well be there as here. Baulked of the evening she had just started looking forward to, she felt thoroughly cross about everything. She wandered into the drawing room where the blinds were down. It was incredibly stuffy and smelled of smoke and some other stale scent that when she drew up a blind, and saw a vase of half-dead carnations, she assumed came from them. Really, Edna was
not
doing her job at all: she clearly needed Phyllis to keep her up to the mark. She decided against tea, and then thought she would have a rather large gin and tonic and drink it in the bath. Then she thought she would ring Edward’s club, in case he was there. He wasn’t. The nicest bath was in Edward’s dressing room, which was in an awful mess. It had dawned on her that Edna must have left – possibly only that morning – or surely Edward would have told her, for even she would not have left damp bath towels all over the floor, the dressing-room bed unmade, and discarded shirts and pants and socks of Edward’s everywhere. The whole thing was shocking. Poor Edward, coming home after a hard days work to this! She would have to sack Edna supposing she materialised to be sacked, and send Phyllis up tomorrow to look after him. She picked up the towels and hung them on the towel-horse, but decided to leave the bed, as Edward would be sleeping in their bedroom. It seemed odd of him not to be sleeping there, anyway. She would have her bath and change, and then clear up his clothes.

After a good soak, and her drink, she felt much better. Of course, gin and hot baths were supposed to be one of the good old-fashioned ways of bringing on a miscarriage, but she recognised that there was something half-hearted (or craven) about her attitude to that. Really, she simply wanted
not
to be pregnant: Dr Ballater had somehow made her feel uncomfortable about her wittingly achieving such a state. The thought of talking to Hermione about it now seemed insurmountably difficult. Hermione might easily recommend someone, but she would have no idea of how safe or discreet he might be. She wondered how many of the friends – well, people she and Edward dined, or went to the theatre or danced with – had ever been in this predicament? There must have been some, but the trouble was that it was a subject that absolutely none of them ever mentioned, let alone discussed. The assumption was that you had as many babies as you wanted and then used birth control and hoped for the best. She could think of several women who had had what were described as ‘afterthoughts’, and their friends always said how lovely, and how easy they would find it now they knew all the ropes.

If she had stuck to her career, things would have been different. She knew, when she had been in the company, that girls had become pregnant, but such was the spirit of dedication – she remembered bleeding feet, the performances when you danced in agonising pain from torn muscles, the lying on your bed between rehearsals because Diaghilev hadn’t paid the company for the third week running and you were living on a pint of milk and two rolls a day – that a backstreet abortion would have been regarded as simply another hazard of the life. But when she married, she had left that society for one where women seemed not to be dedicated to anything but having children and dealing with the servants. Life was one great man trap, she thought, and sex, which obviously had to be pretty trapping for women to contemplate it at all considering what it actually came down to – hours and hours over the years of painful, unpleasant, and ultimately dull intimacies of an inexplicably unsatisfactory nature – was simply something that one exchanged for the comfort and security of being a couple and having in other ways a pleasant time . . . after all, look at the unmarried women she knew! She surely wouldn’t want to join that patronised, commiserated-over band! Even if she had continued with her dancing she would be past it now, or past her best at any rate. She thought of Miss Milliment. No one could ever have wanted to marry Miss Milliment, who had lived out her life, ugly, alone, and extremely poor, and when the children stopped having lessons with her she would be even poorer. She must do something about Miss Milliment. She could have her stay in Sussex in the holidays, which might be difficult as Edward was not keen on her and she would have to dine with them, but really she deserved a holiday without any expense. She would talk to Sybil and see whether she would help. The last time she had talked to Edward he had pointed out that Miss Milliment was earning seven pounds ten a week, three times the amount of a bus conductor who probably had a family to keep. ‘And she’s a woman,’ he had added, as though this made her a less expensive receptacle for shelter, food or clothing. ‘I’ll definitely do something,’ she told herself; she felt fortunate, guilty and a little frightened, as excursions beyond her own discontent so often made her.

By now she had dressed in the cream foulard with a navy spot: a cool little frock with a short jacket to match – the sort of frock that, Hermione had pointed out, one could have any sort of evening in, had added some powder and a touch of dry rouge and a discreet lipstick, had put on her wrist-watch, changed bags. She did not feel like tidying Edward’s clothes, and really longed for a second gin, but this was probably not wise. She filled her cigarette case and went downstairs. She would try Edward’s club once more, and if he wasn’t there, she would ring Hugh and see if he would take her out to dinner.

He wasn’t at his club. Hugh, however, was back from the office – just about to have a bath, he said. Nothing wrong in the country, was it? She explained that she was in London.

‘Edward seems to have disappeared,’ she said. ‘Miss Seafang said he left the office at lunch-time, and she had no idea where he went. He’s not at his club. You don’t happen to know, do you?’

There was a pause, and then Hugh said, ‘No idea. Look. Why don’t you have dinner with me? You will? Good. I’ll be round to fetch you in an hour.’

She was putting the receiver back on its hook when she heard the front door opening and Edward’s voice and then a woman laughing. Who on earth, she thought, as she went into the hall.

In the hall was Edward, and standing beside him was a tall, dark, rather glamorous-looking woman whom she had never seen in her life before. She was wearing a loose white coat slung over her shoulders, and as they saw her, they moved apart: Edward’s right arm, that had been concealed by the coat, came into view as he said: ‘Good Lord! Villy? I had no idea you were coming up!’ he came forward and kissed her.

‘I just came up for the day. Then I thought I might as well stay.’

‘Splendid! Oh, this is Diana Mackintosh, I don’t think you’ve met. Diana’s husband had that marvellous shoot in Norfolk I told you about. We were having lunch and he’s had to go off to Scotland, poor dear, so we saw him off and I brought Diana home for a drink.’

While he was saying this, a thought so horrible came into her mind that she was momentarily stunned, then instantly felt incredulous, ashamed that something so treacherous and unspeakable could ever even have occurred to her. As she led Mrs Mackintosh into the drawing room apologising for its state, pulling up the blinds, removing the dead carnations to a far corner, she tried resolutely to pretend to herself that she had never had such a thought. ‘I think our wretched housemaid must have disappeared,’ she finished.

‘Oh, aren’t they tiresome?’ She had a charming smile, and a small streak of white hair that was dressed in fashionable horn-like curls round her head. She was about thirty-eight, Villy thought.

‘Do you live in Norfolk, Mrs Mackintosh?’

‘Oh, please call me Diana. No, in London, actually. Angus manages the shoot there for his elder brother. He’s gone to Scotland to fetch the older children back for school.’

‘How many do you have?’ Information was soothing.

‘Three. Ian is ten, Fergus is eight, and then there’s Jamie, who is three months.’ An afterthought, thought Villy. I wonder if she wanted him.