The Light Years (The Cazalet Chronicle) (60 page)

Then he had another trip to Battle, and he had to go onto the platform to find Miss Evie Sidney as Miss Rachel hadn’t come with him to fetch her. She had the heaviest luggage he had ever had to deal with, and she seemed very put out that they hadn’t come to meet her. He gave the message sent: that Miss Rachel had hurt her back moving furniture, and that Miss Sidney was moving her things over to the cottage where they were to sleep as the house was so full. But even after the message he sensed that she was put out. Oh, well. His orders were to show her in to the front door of the house, and to take her luggage over to the cottage. Then he could go and have his tea.

William had had a fruitful day. The pair of cottages that lay beside a cart track a hundred yards from the road between Mill Farm and his own house and had been empty for nearly a year now since the tenant, a Mrs Brown, had died, were for sale. It had taken some time to find their owner, who in the end had turned out to be York, the farmer, whose farm lay a quarter of a mile further down the track. Mr York never said anything at all unless urged, and had never mentioned his ownership, but William, who had first noticed the cottages on his morning rides, had discovered about it from his faithful builder, Sampson, who had agreed, with relish, that if the cottages remained empty much longer they wouldn’t be no good to anybody. So William had gone to see York, who proved to be doing something very slowly in his cowshed.

When he saw old Mr Cazalet, York propped his pitchfork against the cowshed door and stood waiting to see what was up. When old Mr Cazalet said he’d come about the cottages, he said, ‘Oh, yes?’ and then led the way silently to his house. They went in through the back – the front door was never used except for funerals or weddings, the last time had been when his mother had died. He had not married himself, it was said, because his fiancée had stepped in his pond in her rubber boots and got drowned. A lady called Miss Boot housekept for him, but her appearance was not one to excite improper thoughts, and indeed the uttermost propriety prevailed. They went through the pantry, where Miss Boot was making butter (she was tall and unsmiling with a slight beard) and through his kitchen, which smelled of dinner cooking and freshly ironed shirts, along the flagged passages to the little parlour, shrouded in blinds, reeking of furniture polish and Flit to kill the bluebottles that lay on the window-sills like huge overbaked currants from a cake. William was seated in the best chair, some blinds were drawn up revealing a small walnut upright piano with sheet music on its stand between the candlesticks, three other chairs, a fireplace with a small iron grate and a large print of ‘The Last of England’ framed above it.

The cottages. Ah! Well, he hadn’t rightly thought what he might do with them. They’d come to him through his mother, and Mrs Brown had been a friend of hers and, of course, she’d had her share of troubles, fourteen children she’d had, or fifteen, she’d never been sure. And when she’d passed on, the children were grown, or they’d gone to live with their auntie in Hastings. This burst of loquacity seemed to exhaust him, and he sat reiterating his agreement with himself about these facts.

At this point, Miss Boot appeared with a tray on which there were two cups of strong Indian tea rendered almost peach coloured by creamy milk and a plate of ginger biscuits which she placed with care upon a rather unreliable little table between them. Then, darting one withering look at York’s boots – not meant for the house, let alone the parlour – she went.

The cottages. Well, it depended what Mr Cazalet had in mind. William explained that he wanted to buy them and convert them into a house for some of his family. Ah. Mr York put four lumps of sugar into his tea. There was silence during which William became aware of the sibilant ticking of a small black clock on the mantelpiece. He waited until York had finished stirring his tea before he mentioned a price. There was another silence, while Mr York ruminated about five hundred pound – a sum larger than any he had ever had come to him. A new roof sprouted upon the cowshed, a piggery was built in the twinkling of an eye, a tarpaulin for his stack out the back, a new scythe, get a digger for his pond, his own bull to cover his cows and get the gates on the big field repaired so he could run to some sheep if he’d a mind to, build her out in the kitchen that little greenhouse she’d been nagging for . . .

‘I expect you’d like to think it over.’

‘I might. And I might not.’

‘There was one other thing . . .’

He might have known there’d be a fly in the ointment. ‘I know them roofs need a bit of seeing to.’

‘It wasn’t that. But I’d like a bit of land at the back. Beyond the garden hedge, that is.’

‘Ah!’ Buying property was one thing, he’d never been much of a one for property, but land was different. He didn’t care to sell his land.

‘I only want a small bit. An acre. Just to make a kitchen garden.’

‘Ah, well, that’s another matter. Land’s another matter.’ His mournful brown eyes regarded William ruminatively. ‘That’ good land up there.’

It wasn’t. Or not in its present state – full of thistles and rabbit holes and clumps of brambles. But William knew better than to argue. He simply offered another fifty pounds, and although it was agreed that Mr York should think it over, they both knew that he already had.

‘Right. Well, York – an answer tomorrow morning? I want to get on with it, you see. We may have another war on our hands.’ York was irresistibly reminded of the nightmare years when, starting at eighteen, he’d spent four years in France when in his memory he had always been wet and nearly always been frightened, when he had seen things done to men that he wouldn’t stand to see done to an animal, when the land had been nothing but rats and lice and mud and blood and all because of those German Huns. He said, ‘You wouldn’t catch me going out there again, not for all the tea in China.’

William got to his feet. ‘This time they may come to us,’ he said.

York darted a look at him to see if the old man was having him on, but he wasn’t.

‘If they come on my land, they’ll get what for,’ he said quietly. William looked at him, surprised: he meant it.

‘What we’ve got to do is
pray
,’ Nora said, so vehemently that Louise was startled.

They were lying on their beds after supper; the curtains were open so that they could watch the hectic, streaky lightning and then count until the faint rumble of thunder could be heard.

‘Do you honestly think it would do any good?’

‘Of course, it always does. It doesn’t always get you exactly what you are praying for, but it always does
good
.’

‘Surely not wanting a war is a good thing to want? So, if prayers work, God ought to let there not be a war.’

Nora, to whom something of the kind had already uncomfortably occurred, said, ‘Oh, well, there are degrees. We might get a less awful war by praying. Anyhow, I’m going to church tomorrow, and I really beg you to come, too.’

‘OK. We are rather an ungodly family. Church only at Christmas and for christenings and so on.’

‘Doesn’t even the Duchy go?’

Louise shook her head. ‘Only at Christmas. Her father was a scientist, you see. They don’t believe in faith. We’ll have to walk, no one will take us.’

‘We could bike.’

‘Yes. I warn you, if I do go to church before breakfast I tend to faint. Unless I eat something first.’

‘You can’t possibly do that. You can’t take Communion if you do that. You have been confirmed, haven’t you?’

‘Of course. The Bishop of London – years ago. In the church here you get squares of bread, not wafers like in London.’

‘I think that’s better, it’s supposed to be bread. How’s your pain?’

‘Better. Less like a flat iron trying to drop through my stomach, anyway. Will you still go to that cooking school if there’s a war?’

‘I haven’t the faintest. I should think it would be rather a trivial pursuit if there was.’

‘Not as bad as acting,’ Louise said sadly. She could see her career going up in smoke. In which case, did she need to get over being homesick? Yes, because she needed to get away for other reasons as well. She couldn’t tell Nora about them. Nora set her alarm clock for half past six. The thunder had got very much nearer and kept them awake but they had agreed to like thunderstorms bo they kept the curtains open.

Simon had had an awful day. After Teddy refusing to speak to him he had looked for Christopher, but he didn’t find him until nearly lunch-time, and then he was in a bad mood. He said that Teddy was worse about everything, but that he was trying to make things all right and where on earth had Simon
been
all morning? Actually, Simon had gone and lain in the hammock because he had a headache and he had gone to sleep, but when he woke up he felt awful. After lunch Christopher took him off to the dog kennels and told him the new terms. They seemed simply to leave him out of everything, Simon thought, to treat him as though he wasn’t of any importance at all, after all the fetching and carrying and getting things he had done. He was being turned into a kind of feudal slave and Christopher didn’t seem particularly grateful that he hadn’t sneaked to Teddy at all. He ended up by having a quarrel with Christopher, who said he couldn’t back out of it now, he would have to stay in and do as he was told. He hated both of them, and in the end he shouted his worst words at Christopher and then ran away and hid. This was easy because he knew good places far better than Christopher, who soon stopped looking for him. When he saw Christopher disappear towards the drive, he came out of the runner beans and there was Mr McAlpine in a furious temper all because he’d trampled on something or other getting hidden. He ran away from Mr McAlpine into the house, straight up the stairs meaning to go to his room. Then he thought it might have Teddy in it. So he went to his mother’s bedroom, usually empty in the afternoon, but she was there, lying on her bed and reading.

‘Simon! You must knock when you go into people’s rooms.’

‘I forgot. Anyway, I didn’t think you’d be here.’

‘Why did you come in, then?’

‘I just wanted—’

‘Well, shut the door, darling.’

He shut it rather loudly by mistake. She sat up. ‘Don’t slam doors. You’ll wake Wills.’

‘Wills,’ he muttered. He kicked the chair leg. She thought of nothing but Wills. From morning till night.

‘Simon, what is it? What
is
it?’ She swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘Come here. You look very hot.’ She put her hand on his forehead and tears spurted out of his eyes. She put her arms round him and he snuggled up against her, feeling worse and better at the same time.