The Light Years (The Cazalet Chronicle) (6 page)

In the taxi going home, Villy reflected that this would be difficult since there were only two full days left before Sussex.

Edward – he had dismissed Bracken after being driven back to the office after lunch – collected the car keys from Miss Seafang, his secretary, refilled his silver cigarette case from the ebony box that she always kept full on his enormous desk, and looked at his watch. Just after four – plenty of time for tea, if he felt inclined. The directors’ meeting had been cancelled as the Old Man had wanted to get off to Sussex and Hugh had one of his headaches. If the Old Man hadn’t wanted to get off, they would have had the meeting, and Hugh would have sat, screwing up his eyes, white and silent except when he hastily agreed to any proposition made. Hugh’s headaches could never be mentioned; he became irritable and then furious at any concern so nothing could be said, which made Edward, anyway, feel worse. He loved his brother and he felt rotten about having survived the war unscathed when his brother had such bloody awful health because of it.

Miss Seafang put her neat head round the door. ‘Mr Walters would be grateful if you could spare a moment, Mr Edward.’

Edward looked at his watch again, and registered anxiety and surprise. ‘Good Lord! Ask him to wait until Monday, would you? I’m late for an appointment as it is. Tell him I’ll see him first thing on Monday.’

‘I’ll tell him.’

‘What would I do without you!’ He gave her a dazzling smile, picked up his hat and went.

All the way home in the Underground and then on the bus, Miss Seafang repeated that remark, savoured and enhanced the smile until it achieved the bloom of (gentlemanly, of course) romance. He understood her, realised her true worth, something nobody else had ever done – had indeed, distorted it so much that she would not have cared to acknowledge the dreary titbits: reliability, a light hand witih pastry and being good with her nephews and nieces.

It was not so much a question of whether he
wanted
to have tea with Denise, Edward reflected as he drove west from the city, it was a question of being decent. He hadn’t told the poor little girl about his holiday because he knew it would upset her and he hated to see her upset. And next week, with Villy safely in Sussex when she would expect him to be freer, he wouldn’t be at all because on those occasions the family closed in, and, except for one evening at his club, dinner parties had been arranged for him. So really, he
ought
to go and see her. Small and equal surges of responsibility and excitement beset him: he was one of those fortunate people who actually
enjoyed
doing the right thing.

Denise was lying on the sofa in her green drawing room wearing a black afternoon dress with a wide red sash. She sprang gracefully to her feet when her maid announced him.

‘Edward! How divine! You can’t begin to imagine how bored I was!’

‘You don’t look bored.’

‘Well – suddenly, I’m not.’ She touched his cheek with her fingers: her nails were painted the same colour as her sash; a little breeze of Cuir de Russie reached him. ‘Tea? Or whisky?’

‘I don’t think—’

‘Darling, you must have something or Hildegarde will think it funny.’

‘Whisky, then. Extraordinary name for a maid.’

‘She’s German, so it isn’t. Say when.’

‘I suppose I meant – extraordinary to have a German maid.’

‘Oh – the agency was full of them. They don’t cost any more and they work far harder. Lots of people are taking to them.’

There was a pause; Edward sipped his drink, and then, not because he wanted to know, but because he always found this part of things a bit tricky, he said, ‘What were you reading?’

‘The new Angela Thirkell. Quite amusing, but I bet you don’t read novels, do you, darling?’

‘I must honestly confess that I don’t.’ He didn’t read at all, as a matter of fact, but luckily she didn’t ask him, and so it became one more little grain in the molehill of her ignorance about him. The longer they knew each other, the more things there were like that.

She had arranged herself on the sofa again. From where he stood he could look down on the pretty nape of her neck accentuated by her bushy bobbed hair . . .

‘Could we possibly go upstairs, do you think?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

She was marvellous to make love to – seemingly passive but quite keen underneath. She had an unexpectedly voluptuous body; dressed, she gave an impression of girlishness, but naked she was quite another matter. He told her she looked her best without any clothes, but that didn’t go down at all well. ‘You make me sound like a tart!’ and her large, pale grey eyes started to brim. But it might not have been what he said after all, because the next thing she said was, ‘I gather you’re going to Cornwall for your holiday.’ Yes, he said, who told her? ‘I ran into Villy at the hairdresser’s. That was over a week ago, and you
still
haven’t told me!’ He explained how much he hated to upset her. ‘Do you mean you would just have gone away and
not
told me?’ and then she really started crying. He took her in his arms and rocked her and said of course of course not, did she really think he would do a rotten thing like that? Of
course
he wouldn’t and it was only for a fortnight. ‘I love you so dreadfully.’ He knew she did. He made love to her again and it seemed to cheer her up. ‘It’s rather a Thing, isn’t it?’ she said, and having more or less agreed that it was, he reminded her that he wouldn’t do anything to hurt Villy, whom he also loved. ‘And she is your wife.’ And after all, there was Nigel, a splendid chap really absolutely devoted to her as everybody knew, and he looked at his watch to make it easier to say that he had to go – good God, look at the time, he really
must
go. And he did, promising to be in touch next week, but it was a hell of a week – he’d do his best.

Polly walked slowly home down Church Street with the limp newspaper flapping round her candlesticks. It was a lovely sunny evening; the sky was blue – a kind of
gentle
blue and people looked summery. The chandeliers in Mrs Crick’s shop were gleaming magically with extraordinary unearthly blues and greens. Polly wondered who bought them: she never saw anyone leaving the shop carrying a chandelier and she thought that probably footmen came very early in the morning to get them for palaces. Huge milk churns were standing outside the dairy which was covered inside with beautiful green- and white- and cream-coloured tiles. Polly had decided to have a room in her house just like the dairy – not for being a dairy, but a little room to sit and paint in. Louise had said why not keep toads in it as it would be so nice and cool for them, but Polly was only going to have cats in her house – a white one and a black and white magician cat with very long whiskers. Because, by then, Pompey would be dead: he was already old – at least eight, the vet said – and he had been hit by cars, if not actually run over, four times; his tail was broken at the end and hung in a twisted way and he moved stiffly for a cat. She kept planning not to think of him dying, but other thoughts led to it, and she could feel her throat getting lumpy and hot. He could live for another eight years, but she would not have her house by then. She had saved twenty-three pounds fourteen shillings and sixpence towards buying it, but they cost hundreds and she was going to have to save someone’s life or paint the most amazing picture or dig up buried treasure in the summer to have enough money. Or build it. In the garden would be Pompey’s grave. She had turned into Bedford Gardens now and was nearly home. She wiped her eyes on a bit of the newspaper: it smelled of fish and chips and she wished that she hadn’t.

She had to put the candlesticks and the plate down to let herself in. The front door opened straight into the long drawing room. Mummy was playing Rachmaninov – a prelude – very loudly and fast so Polly sat quietly until she had finished. The piece was familiar because Mummy practised and practised it. There was a tray of tea things by the sofa, but they had not been touched: Gentleman’s Relish sandwiches and a coffee cake, but Polly knew that eating them would constitute being unmusical, something that her mother simply would not allow Polly to be, so she waited. When it was over, she said, ‘Oh, Mummy, you
are
getting on!’

‘Do you really think so? It is a little better, isn’t it?’

Her mother got up from the piano and lumbered slowly across the room to Polly and the tea. She was frighteningly fat – not all of her, but her tummy – Polly was to have a brother or sister in a few weeks.

‘Shall I pour the tea for you?’

‘Do, darling.’ She cast herself upon the sofa. She wore a linen dress – sage green – that made no concession to pregnancy.