All Change: Cazalet Chronicles (11 page)

‘Goodness! It sure is lovely to see you!’

Stella was wearing a black sleeveless shirt, a striped cotton skirt and, as always, her large horn-rimmed spectacles. She took a handkerchief out of her straw bag and wiped her face. Louise continued: ‘It’s jolly kind of you to come all this way. Really, Stella, you’re such a good friend.’

‘
De rien.
Honestly, it’s quite a relief to get away from the family for a bit. All those heavy meals with aunts and uncles. And answering the same questions from all of them. Have I got a boyfriend? When will I get married? You know.’

They were walking towards the bus stop.

‘We might have to wait a bit.’

‘Let’s get a cold drink. It was terribly hot on the train and I’m parched.’

‘I’m terribly sorry, but I haven’t got money for a drink. Only my bus fares.’ Louise did not add, ‘And not even yours,’ because she felt so ashamed.

Stella gave her a quick look and said, ‘It’s OK. I’ve got plenty of money.’

They had Campari sodas at the station and, eventually, the bus came.

It was uphill out of Ventimiglia and the bus stopped about a hundred yards short of the villa. They trudged up the hill.

By the time they arrived they found everyone seated round the large oval dining-room table. Dad got up to greet them while everyone else stared at them in what Louise thought was an uncouth silence. When he had spoken to Stella, thanked her for coming and introduced his wife, Diana said, ‘As you can see, there’s really no room round the table so I thought you girls should have a picnic in the garden. If you go to the kitchen, Louise, Marie will tell you what to take.’

Without a word, Louise hooked her arm round Stella’s and left the room. They went to the kitchen where Marie was dishing up a roast chicken.
‘Ici votre déjeuner.’

On a tray there was some cold ham, a baguette, a piece of Brie and some fruit. There was no wine, only a bottle of Pellegrino.

‘Bon appétit,’
Marie called, as Louise picked up the tray. They walked in the garden until they found some shade. Stella had been carrying the bottle to make the tray easier.

When they were settled Louise, humiliated and angry, managed to speak. ‘I’m so sorry. So awfully sorry, and ashamed.’ Tears came to her eyes. ‘There’s always been room for me round that bloody table, and they could easily have made room for one more.’

Stella handed her one of the paper napkins. ‘Perhaps she doesn’t like Jews.’ She said it lightly, but there seemed a desolate wealth of experience behind the remark that made Louise feel worse.

‘You’re my best friend, and my father knows that, and you’ve wasted a whole day of your holiday to help them. I feel so ashamed. Your family have always been so kind to me.’ There was a pause, and then, scarcely audibly, she said, ‘I hate feeling ashamed of my father. Him being so weak and giving in to her all the time. I hate it. And I hate her.’

‘Well, you can’t change either of them. All you can do is accept them as they are, and don’t let them hurt you.’

‘Easier said than done.’

‘Everything is like that.’

‘Tell you what, I’m going to get us a bottle of wine. Marie is sure to have some in the kitchen.’

‘Good thinking.’

How different families were, Stella thought, while Louise was away getting the wine. She frequently felt suffocated by her father’s curiosity about her work as a political journalist while spasmodically berating her for not having read medicine at university. And the aunts and her mother went on and on about boyfriends and marriage. But at least in their exasperating way they cared. Poor Louise had to put up with a weak father, an embittered mother, and that predatory, hostile stepmother.

‘There was a bottle of rosé in the fridge.’ Louise plonked herself down so that they were facing each other. ‘You should have started. I got two tomatoes as well.’

‘Actually,’ Stella said, as they began splitting the baguette, ‘it’s really nicer to have you to myself. This is a sight better than sitting in our baking little flat. London was a stew when I left.’

‘I know. It’s because all the windows face south, and there’s not a tree anywhere.’ She was chattering because she recognised Stella’s tact and was afraid it might start her crying again.

‘Have you heard from Joseph?’

‘He hardly ever writes letters. It’s funny to think he’s just a few miles away.’

‘Really? Where?’

‘A place called Cap Ferrat.’ A playground of the very rich, she thought. ‘Of course, I can’t write to him there – in London, I can write to his office. He spends six weeks there with his family and lots of friends, and then he comes back all brown and guilty, and I try to be horrible to him about it but I never pull it off.’

‘Well, I don’t know about the guilty part, but you’ve certainly got the brown. You’ve gone a beautiful colour, my dear, but don’t overdo it. You’d be surprised at the number of old lizards there are on the beaches round here. Trembling old things with dark, wrinkly skin the colour of conkers.’

They both examined their bodies. Louise was wearing an extremely short pair of shorts of a brilliant blue and a bikini top: the clothes showed off her golden-tanned frame – bony shoulders, a flat, concave belly, long slender legs and toenails painted the palest pink. She was certainly beautiful, Stella thought, with a pang of envy. Her own body was none of those things. It was as though someone had made and then compressed her, so that her neck was too short, her waist too near her breasts, her thighs and calves making for legs that could only be described as stumpy. And lying in the sun gave her a rash.

But her face made up for much of this: her wonderful hair, which was black and curled all over her head, her high cheekbones above which her grey-green eyes sparkled with curiosity and intelligence, and the mole that was set so well below her small but expressive mouth. She wore spectacles much of the time – couldn’t read without them – but the moment she took them off she appeared much younger and more vulnerable. ‘I sweat so much,’ she said, as she became aware of Louise looking at her. ‘Especially on my scalp.’ She smiled apologetically.

The talk moved on to what they were reading. Louise told her about Caterina Sforza, and Stella told her about the Florentine lady who had gone to France to marry the king and brought her cooks with her. ‘It changed French cooking for ever.’

‘How? By poisoning people?’

‘No. Well, she may have poisoned the odd person, but what happened was she taught the French that sauces were meant to bring out the flavour of whatever they were eating, whereas before they’d simply used sauces to cover up the taste of rotting meat.’

‘Are you reading about that, then? What an amazing—’

But Stella interrupted her: ‘I read it somewhere ages ago. No, I’m on Bertrand Russell’s
History of Western Philosophy
. My father was so incensed I hadn’t read it that he sent a messenger to the flat with a copy. Louise, I think I’ll have to go now. I must catch the train back in time for dinner. I’d better see your father to give him the money.’

So they piled up the tray and went back to the house. It was breathlessly hot, and the house was quiet as most of its occupants were having a siesta. Her father was snoozing in a chair in the salon. ‘Sorry, darling. I must have dropped off.’

‘Stella has brought you the money.’ She stood unforgivingly before him – willing him to be Dad-without-Diana. He was.

‘It’s extremely kind of you to come all this way. I’m most awfully grateful to you. Do you know how much it is? So that I can write a cheque – if that’s all right with your family?’

‘It’s the equivalent of five hundred pounds. And a cheque should be made out to my father. He’s Dr Nathan Rose.’

‘Right.’ He picked up his cheque book, which he had put in readiness on the table in front of him. ‘Could I also have his address? I should like to write and thank him.’

‘I’ve got his address, Dad. Stella’s got to go now to catch her train back.’

‘Well, at least let me drive you to the station.’

It was all right. He was being her charming, attractive father.

He put Stella in the front of the car and during the drive talked to her constantly, asking her about her holiday, inviting them both to dinner at his club in the autumn. At the station he walked with them both to the platform where the little train was already waiting. He shook hands with Stella, then leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘You’ve saved my bacon. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am. Please tell your family, won’t you?’

‘I will.’

She and Louise hugged. ‘See you at Mon Débris.’

‘Is that what you call your flat?’ he asked, when they were back in the car.

‘Yes. It does suit it rather.’

‘Are you short of furniture and things like that?’

‘Well, not really. We’ve got the basic stuff. Stella’s father gave her things.’

‘What could I give you?’

‘Well . . .’ She told him about their gas cooker, purchased for two pounds ten, but it had a hole in the oven door, and brown paper pasted over it didn’t last. ‘So we need to get a new one, a new second-hand one, I mean.’

‘I’ll see to that, darling.’ He squeezed her hand.

Later, he said, ‘Sorry about lunch. The thing is that Diana isn’t herself. Change of life or something.’

‘Oh.’ Louise made a resolution that when she got it – which wouldn’t be for years and years – she would be especially nice to everyone; it wouldn’t be an excuse.

‘How’s your love life?’ he asked, as they reached the villa.

‘It’s the same,’ she said. ‘It’s fine.’ But as she said it, she knew somehow that these two things were incompatible. ‘He goes away for ages in summer, to the south of France, as a matter of fact, and he hardly ever writes letters. I feel a bit blue then.’

‘Good thing you’re with us,’ he answered heartily. He hardly noticed anything, Louise thought.

‘I’m afraid that being a mistress is much more difficult than having one,’ he said. So he must have noticed some things, she realised.

Ten days later she was taken to the airport at Nice to fly home. ‘Dumped’ was her word for it. Diana simply didn’t want a repeat of two nights in hotels with costly meals, and said there really wasn’t enough room in the back for Susan, all their luggage
and
Louise. Her father gave her some money to buy scent at the airport, and she found her favourite, Bellodgia by Caron, and that made up for quite a lot.

On the plane she made a number of negative resolutions: never to have another holiday with Diana, never to go to dinner at their house, only to see Dad without her. They all seemed quite sensible, but they made her feel sad.

RACHEL AND SID

‘Eileen wants to know if you would like lunch in the garden.’

‘Would you?’

‘If you would.’

‘All right, whatever you say.’

She had been writing letters all that morning, all the week since the funeral, writing and often crying. So many people had written, she said, either saying what a lovely funeral it had been, or how sorry they were that they had not been able to come. She felt she must answer them all, but it had taken its toll, Sid thought, almost angrily. Her face was still pale and ravaged by grief and lack of sleep. Fresh air would be good for her, and after lunch she might be persuaded to rest. After tea, they might go for a walk. Sid was still feeling pretty ropey herself, but she’d finished the marvellous pills and was sure she was getting better. She must get better, if only to stop Rachel looking after her and worrying.

It was another beautiful day, the air full of lavender and bees and roses. The butterflies had come for the buddleia, which was only just starting. It could all be so idyllic if only . . .

Lunch was cold chicken and salad and raspberries, and each coaxed the other to eat well – to little avail. But Sid did manage to get a glass of sherry down Rachel, which had some effect. She longed to discuss their future, but Rachel was distracted, considering the desires of her brothers about Home Place, and much of their conversation was about that. Hugh definitely wanted them to keep the house, and Rupert had finally decided that he did as well. Edward was clear that he didn’t, and there had been talk about his simply passing his share to the rest of them. Rachel had been left a little money by her mother that had come to her on her marriage and been safely and dully invested in Cazalets’ to provide an income of four hundred a year. Otherwise, she had been left a large number of shares in the firm, which also produced an income. The Brig had left furniture and effects to the Duchy for her lifetime, thereafter to be divided into four parts for each child. Rachel seemed to have no idea how much money she had, and clearly did not care. Sid, on the other hand, owned the lease on her little house in St John’s Wood, and had a small pension from the school where she had taught all her life.

There was no comparison. They had been through so much, and apart when they had wanted to be together, that it seemed only fair that now they should subside into tranquillity, a safe harbour of some kind where there need be no deceit, no charade about aching desire professing mere affection. Although, in their case, affection was the breath of love. It was affection that had enabled Sid to be patient, to be gentle, to treasure those first faltering assurances that Rachel had felt able to give: ‘I’d rather be with you than anyone in the world’, said in a tea shop in Hastings on one of the few occasions when she had lured Rachel from family duties. But that had been either before the war or when it had just begun, and there had been years after that of longing and frustration, during which she had been unfaithful with that needy girl Thelma. She and Rachel had been brought up so differently: Rachel to believe in her duties as a daughter, an unmarried aunt, to think nothing of herself, never for one moment to consider herself interesting, or attractive, her opinions – when she had any – meshing completely with what she felt was expected of her, on and on like that; it had been pathetic and sometimes irritating. Sid had been brought up virtually as head of her small family: a father dead when she was still a child, a mother wanting all the time to be told what to do, and a younger sister envious of her talent as a musician, and heartless with their mother. Money had always been short; she had always had to supplement her mother’s pension, to try to find her sister jobs, to live with her and deal with her day-to-day jealousies. It was because of all this that Sid had had to renounce playing in an orchestra for a regular job teaching in a girls’ school, supplemented by private lessons. All this had lent authority of a certain kind so she had taken to wearing mannish versions of women’s clothes: the tweed skirts, the thick woollen stockings, the shirt with a tie, hair cut as short as a man’s.