The Light Years (The Cazalet Chronicle) (8 page)

‘Jessica! Hallo. Got your message. What’s up?’

‘I can’t tell you just now. But I wondered whether we could have lunch tomorrow?’

‘Darling, it’s Friday. Miss Milliment’s day for staying to lunch and it’s the last day of Louise’s term and Teddy comes back from school . . . Of course, you could come to lunch but—’

‘We wouldn’t be able to talk. I do see. But if I came a bit early – do you think—’

‘Yes. Do that. All is not well, I take it?’

‘Not exactly. Raymond has had a new idea.’

‘Oh, Lord!’

‘I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.’

Villy put the receiver back on its hook. Poor Jessica! The beauty in the family, a year younger, but married first at twenty-two, just before the battle of the Somme in which her husband had had one of his legs blown off and, worse, his nerves shattered. He came from an impoverished family; the Army was to have been his career. He had had – still had, in a way – enormous straightforward charm, everybody liked him. His blazing temper and his congenital inability to stick to anything did not emerge until you’d put your money into his chicken farm or, in Jessica’s case, married him. They had four children and were extremely hard up. Although she never complained, Jessica clearly thought that Villy’s life was carefree and perfect and the unspoken comparison frightened Villy. Because if it was true that she had everything, why wasn’t it enough? She went slowly upstairs trying not to pursue this thought.

When Polly had gone upstairs, clearly in a sulk, Sybil rang for Inge to take away the tea things. She felt exhausted. Having another baby after such a long gap did seem to upset everything horribly. The house was really not large enough for them, but Hugh was devoted to it. But when Simon was home – in the holidays, in fact, when Polly would be at home all day too – there was nowhere for them to
be
except in their bedrooms. Nanny Markby had made it clear that she did not expect the nursery to contain the older children. Of course, they would all be in Sussex this summer, but Christmas might be very difficult. She levered herself off the sofa and went to shut the piano. She did not remember her back being so bad with the other children.

Inge came in. She stood in the doorway waiting to be told what to do. An
English
maid would simply have done it, Sybil thought. ‘Would you clear the tea things, please, Inge.’

She watched while the girl stacked the plates and loaded the tray. She was unprepossessing: large-boned with a pasty skin, greasy tow-coloured hair and rather prominent pale blue eyes, whose expression was alternately bland and shifty. Sybil felt uncomfortable about her instinctive dislike. If they were not going away, she would have got rid of Inge, but she did not want Hugh to have to cope with a new girl in her absence. When the tray was stacked, Inge said, ‘Cook vill know what time dinner you haf.’

‘Probably not until about ten o’clock – after the concert. Tell her to lay it in the dining room and then she may go to bed. And Miss Polly will have hers on a tray in her room at seven.’

Inge did not reply and Sybil said, ‘Did you understand me, Inge?’

‘
Ja
.’ She said this with her eyes on Sybil’s stomach and without moving.

‘Thank you, Inge. That will be all.’

‘You are very big for just one baby to have.’

‘That will do, Inge.’

With a silence like the faintest shrug, she finally left with the tray.

She dislikes me too, Sybil thought. The way in which the maid had looked at her had been – she could not find the word – somehow horrible, cold and appraising. She climbed wearily up the stairs to her bedroom and wrenched off the green dress and put on her kimono. Then she ran a basinful of warm water and washed her face and hands. Thank goodness they had had a basin put in their room: the bathroom was on a landing half a flight up and she really found the stairs a trial. She took off her shoes and knee stockings. Her ankles were swollen. Her hair, that Hugh said was the colour of raw mahogany, was dressed in a small bun at the nape of her neck and cut short over her forehead – du Maurier hair, Hugh also said. She took out the pins and shook her hair loose; she really only felt better
déshabillée.
She took one look at their bed, and then found herself lying down on it. The baby was not kicking for once. It was wonderful to be lying down. She pulled a pillow out from under the counterpane, settled her head upon it and almost at once fell asleep.

Edward, conscious of being rather late, slipped into the house, put his Homburg on the hall table and bounded up the stairs, two at a time, and went straight into the bedroom. Here he found Louise, in some sort of fancy dress, and Villy seated at her mirror combing her hair.

‘Hallo, hallo,’ he said.

‘I’m Simpson,’ Louise said.

‘Hallo, darling,’ Villy said, and turned her face towards his for a kiss. A little pot of rouge lay open on the rather bare dressing-table.

Edward turned to give Louise a hug, but she stiffened and withdrew. ‘Daddy! I’m
Simpson
!’

Villy said, ‘And I really can’t have you kissing my lady’s maid.’

He met her eye in the dressing-table mirror and winked. ‘I’m most frightfully sorry,’ he said. ‘Can’t think what came over me. Have I time for a bath?’

‘Simpson, would you run Mr Cazalet’s bath for him? And then you may put out my garnets.’

‘Yes, madam.’ She started to walk, as Simpson, out of the room and then remembered. ‘Daddy! You haven’t noticed!’

‘Noticed what?’

Louise pointed to her mother, made a gesture clothing her own body and mouthed something that looked like ‘you’. Then she stamped her foot and said, ‘Daddy, you’re so
stupid
!’

‘That will do, Louise.’

‘Mummy, I’m Simpson.’

‘Then run Mr Cazalet’s bath at once, or I shall get my own garnets.’

‘Oh, all
right
, madam.’

‘What was all that about?’

‘I have a new dress.’ She stood up to show him. ‘Do you like it?’

‘Lovely. Very nice indeed. Suits you.’ Actually, he thought it rather dull. ‘Hermione make it for you?’

‘Oh, no, darling. It was just in her sale. Actually, I bought three. I feel rather guilty.’

‘Nonsense.’ He suddenly felt light-hearted. ‘You know I like you to have nice clothes.’

When he had gone to his dressing room, Villy stood in front of her large looking-glass. He had not been very keen on the dress. But then men didn’t really know: it was a useful dress – perfect for going to the theatre – and fitted well, the bertha round the scooped neckline concealing her rather small and sagging breasts. That dreadful fashion for binding them in the twenties, when everyone was mad about having a boyish figure, seemed to have destroyed her muscles. Unknown to Edward, she did exercises every morning in an attempt to restore them, but they did not seem to improve. The rest of her was in good shape. She sat down again at her dressing-table and carefully applied two little dabs of rouge: Mummy had always told her that make-up was vulgar and Edward professed not to like it, but she noticed that the women he seemed to find most entertaining wore a good deal. Hermione, for instance. Scarlet lipstick, painted nails and midnight blue mascara . . . She got her lipstick out of the drawer and applied the merest touch. As the colour was a dark carmine, this looked rather odd, and she rubbed her lips together to spread it. A touch of Coty’s Ormande behind the ears and she was done.

Louise returned and the garnets were taken out of their flat and rather battered leather case; flat-cut eighteenth-century garnets, a necklace and drop earrings to match. She screwed on the earrings while Simpson struggled with the necklace clasp.

‘You may put out my stamped velvet and the brown bead purse while I go and say good night to Miss Lydia.’

‘All right, madam. Madam, Mummy, need I have supper with Nanny? Could I just have it in my room?’

‘Why ever do you want to do that?’

‘She’s terrifically boring at meals. Well, all the time, really, but you notice it more at meals.’

‘Don’t you think it might hurt her feelings rather?’

‘I could say I had a headache.’

‘All right, then. Just for tonight.’

Lydia was already in bed in the night nursery. Her hair was still in pigtails with little damp tendrils escaping round her ears. She was wearing a blue flannel nightie. Her riding jacket was draped over a chair by her bed. The curtains were drawn, but the summer evening light seeped through chinks between the curtain rings and the stripe where they did not quite meet in the middle. She sat up at once when Villy came into the room, and cried, ‘Oh, you elegant fowl!’

Villy was irresistibly touched. ‘But I can’t sing to you charmingly and sweetly like the Pussy-cat.’

‘You
are
charming and sweet. Louise said you were going to the theatre. When can I go to one?’

‘When you are older. At Christmas, perhaps.’

‘Louise said if there were fires in theatres, people couldn’t get out. You won’t have a fire in your theatre, will you?’

‘Of course not. And people can get out.’

‘You might have a car accident.’

‘Darling, I shan’t. Why are you worrying?’

‘I don’t want
anything
–
ever
– to happen to you.’

‘Darling, it won’t,’ and then she wondered why it made her sad to say that.

‘I love my riding jacket. Would you undo my pigtails, please? They are much too tight for night. Nan always makes things all right for tomorrow, she never thinks about now. They
strain
me! They make all my hair straining to be longer.’

Villy undid the elastic bands and unthreaded the tight plaits. Lydia shook her head. ‘Much better, Mummy. Do be careful to come back. You’re quite old, and old people do have to be careful. You don’t
look
old,’ she added loyally, ‘but I know you are. After all, I’ve known you all my life.’

Villy’s mouth twitched, but she said, ‘I do see. Now I must go, my duck.’ She bent down. When Lydia hugged her, she held her breath with the fierce effort, so the hugs couldn’t last very long. ‘Please tell Nan
you
undid my pigtails.’

‘Yes. Sleep tight. See you in the morning.’

By the time she had dealt with Nanny and come down from the top floor, Edward was emerging from his dressing room, smelling of lavender water and looking wonderfully handsome in his dinner jacket; Louise was kicking the skirting board by the open door to her bedroom.

‘Did you tell her?’ she immediately demanded.

‘Nan? Yes, yes, I did. Where’s my coat, Simpson?’

‘On your bed. And I’m not Simpson any more: I’ve taken off my apron. You haven’t seen my new catfish, Mummy,’ she added, following her into the bedroom.

‘I’ll have to see him tomorrow.’

‘Oh no, have a look at him now. He won’t be new tomorrow.’

‘Louise, we really have to go—’

Edward, who had gone down to the hall now called, ‘Villy! Chop chop! We’re going to be late.’

‘Oh, Mummy! It’s not fair! It wouldn’t take you a
second
!’

‘Don’t be tiresome, Louise.’ As she passed Louise’s room on her way downstairs, she added, ‘It looks a terrible mess in there. How many times have I told you that it’s not fair on the maids if you keep it like that?’