All Change: Cazalet Chronicles (25 page)

Archie, who had been fumbling in a kitchen drawer, said, ‘Where the devil has the corkscrew got to?’

‘It’ll be in the sink, concealed by suds. I was using it to try and open a bottle of hair stuff. Sorry.’

Neville became conscious of effort in the air, but other than not being there, he couldn’t think what he could do about it. ‘Are we going to have the wine now, or save it up for dinner?’

Clary, who had begun peeling potatoes, said irritably, ‘I don’t care. You do what you want.’

But that was his cue. ‘I meant to bring you some,’ he said. ‘Where’s the nearest off-licence? No, really, Archie, I want to.’

And Archie was persuaded.

During his walk, he reflected that he had not told Clary about the most important thing in his life, and then – a sudden and perhaps tardy notion – that she had not told him either. The play she had said she was writing, the momentous tear that had fallen onto his jacket, her saying not to mention it when they heard Archie . . . Something was going on. She had not made the slightest effort to tidy herself, to change from the fraying green shirt, to don an apron not so spattered with previous cooking, and she had been distinctly ungracious about whatever Archie had said to her. They must have had some married couple’s tiff. Well, he certainly wouldn’t ever have any of those with beautiful darling Jules. In the end, he bought two bottles of champagne and walked quite briskly back, through the dusk turning to dark, and returned to a far more cheerful scene.

Archie was laying the table, Clary was frying fishcakes; they had not drunk the wine – ‘Waiting for you’ – and the children were showing their father a drawing Harriet had made for the pear-seed house. His jacket hung from the plate rack. ‘The best I could do,’ Clary said, and Archie added, ‘She used her own toothbrush to stroke up the nap.’

The champagne was greeted with delight and even some awe.

‘I thought people only had it at weddings,’ Bertie said. ‘Can we have some?’

‘You can have a sip,’ Archie said.

‘A very small sip,’ Clary amended. She began dishing out the food for them.

‘I should like a very large gulp, several gulps, because it might take me time to see if I like it.’

‘You’ll have exactly the same.’

Neville uncorked a bottle that fizzed, pouring the champagne quickly into the glass that Archie held out for him.

‘Smoke comes out!’ Harriet shouted.

When they had had their sips, she said it was too prickly whereupon Bertie said he loved it.

‘Aren’t you having supper with us?’

‘We’re going to have a drink first. You don’t usually have supper as late as this. Eat it up or you won’t get Uncle Neville’s surprise.’

‘Carrots as well, Bertie,’ Clary said, some minutes later.

‘Mum, I really have told you and told you I don’t actually care for carrots. I can’t see the point of them.’

‘The point of them is that they’re orange,’ Harriet said complacently. She had cut hers up into small pieces and was mashing them up with her potatoes. The fishcakes had disappeared in a flash.

They were delighted with the gobstoppers. Harriet had never heard of them, but Bertie said a boy at school had had one, and let his best friends all have a go to change the colour. ‘But then a stupid boy swallowed it when it had gone green and he got turned upside-down and banged on the back until the gobstopper fell out.’

‘Well, you’re neither of you to share yours with anyone. You can keep them at home. In fact, one more colour each and it’s bedtime.’

‘She’s in one of her firm moods,’ Harriet said. ‘And, Mummy, I wouldn’t dream of sharing mine with anyone. I think it’s disgusting.’

‘Right.’ Archie got up. ‘Go now, and I’ll come to see if you’re in bed in five minutes, teeth cleaned and all. Say goodnight to everybody and be off.’

So they did as they were told, and went.

The peace in the kitchen was such that they could hear the cold tap dripping in the sink. Neville opened the second bottle while Clary dished out their dinner. During this, Archie went to her and gently untied her dirty apron, put his arms round her and kissed the back of her neck. She turned to him and smiled. ‘What are you buttering me up for now?’

‘To get the most fishcakes, of course.’

Neville, whose eye was sharp and practised when he wanted it to be, felt then that nothing escaped him. They had had a row of some sort, but it seemed to be cleared up. He was ravenous.

Archie duly went up to – as he put it – bottle the children. ‘Can we start?’

‘Of course. If we drink any more without eating we’ll all be tight.’

They ate in companionable silence.

Then Clary said, ‘Venice will be lovely, won’t it? Tourists mostly gone and still good weather.’

He shrugged. ‘The trouble is that when I’m working there’s no time. You start practically at dawn and you go on all day, going to different places, setting up shots that don’t work because they don’t show off the clothes enough, and you have to do it all over again, with a whole lot of wardrobe and make-up people fussing about idiotic detail, and then the girls get cold and cross and want hot coffee and a sit down.’

There was a pause, and then Clary said, ‘Well, I’d love to go to Venice any old way.’

Then Archie came back; he looked weary, the lines on each side of his nose more deeply indented.

‘Are they settled?’

‘Yep. I had to threaten them with Dr Crime. They want you to say goodnight to them, darling.’

‘Who is Dr Crime?’

‘He’s a nasty character who writes down all the bad things they do. They love him, really. He goes about at night doing wicked things.’

‘Well, Neville, what do you think of the state of the world?’ Archie asked, when Clary had gone upstairs.

Surprised, he answered, ‘I suppose I don’t think about it much. I can’t do anything about it, whatever I think. Things don’t change much, really – do they?’

‘Some things do, albeit slowly. Liberalising the laws about homosexuality, for instance. Are you in favour of that?’

‘God, yes! I’m all in favour of liberalising everything.’

‘Have you told your MP that?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea who he is. So no.’

‘It’s something you could do.’

‘Really, Archie, what difference would that make? One person. And don’t tell me that if everyone did as you say it would make a difference because they won’t.’ He felt irritated and got at. Luckily, just as Archie was agreeing with him, Clary came back, and he said he must be off. He put on his newly cleaned jacket and pushed his old one into the carrier bag.

Clary kissed him.

‘It was lovely you came,’ Archie said. ‘Sorry to rile you – marvellous champagne,’ and the evening ended peaceably.

When he had gone, Clary began clearing the table, but he stopped her. ‘I’ll do it in the morning. It’s my morning, remember, and your lie-in. Come with me now.’

On the stairs, she turned to look at him, a searching, anxious look.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. Only I’m afraid you’re so sad.’

When she said anything like that, the weight of his abstinence enveloped him. He still saw the girl sometimes at the school – always at a distance – and each time could tell himself that it was easier. What he could not bear were these allusions: however discreet, it was the only thing that made him feel angry – no, impatient – with her. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I love you, and I’m fine.’

POLLY, GERALD AND FAMILY

‘Basically, Lady Fakenham, basically, the idea of hosting wedding receptions in your beautiful mansion is a viable one. It’s simply that some adjustments need to be made before you get the clientele that you want. By that I mean people who are prepared to pay.’

Mrs Monkhurst, dressed impeccably in autumn tweeds, cashmere and pearls, re-crossed her navy nylon legs and hoisted herself more upright in her chair. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘perhaps we should start with what you think went wrong with your do last week.’

Polly, who felt rather slovenly beside her – she was wearing an old skirt that had been made of curtain material and a shirt that made it easy to feed Spencer – picked up the list she had made. It was she who had asked Mrs Monkhurst to come, as she ran some kind of agency for organising parties in large houses, but she was beginning to feel bossed and humiliated. ‘Well, to begin with, it rained, almost the whole time. So people couldn’t go into the garden. The marquee leaked, which wasn’t our fault, but it made a mess, and the guests were not warm enough. Then there were perpetual queues for the lavatory on the ground floor here.’

‘You only have one?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘But, Lady Fakenham, you cannot have expected over a hundred people to make do with one!’

‘It was all so expensive, you see.’

‘I hear that the music wasn’t quite up to the mark.’

Polly spoke stiffly. ‘We moved the piano into the marquee and my brother played, except when there were speeches on. He’s very good at it.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ Mrs Monkhurst replied, with tones of exaggerated conciliation and disbelief. ‘But they were expecting a three-piece band at the very least.’ She was riffling through the pad on her lap. ‘Is that all?’

‘I’m sure it isn’t, but I can’t think of anything else. Offhand,’ Polly added, to be on the safe side.

‘Ah! This is the feedback I have procured for you. Apart from what you’ve mentioned, there was some disappointment with the catering, I believe.’ She looked enquiringly at Polly.

‘I don’t understand that. They chose the menu themselves.’

‘Yes. But the salmon and chicken were overcooked, the mayonnaise was salad cream out of a bottle and the canapés tasted, I was told, as though they had been made days before. You know what the answer is, don’t you, Lady Fakenham?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘You chose the wrong help. Neither the marquee firm nor the caterers were what we should consider first class. I could put you on to people who would never make such mistakes. Of course, they cost a bit more but, believe me, they’re worth it.’

‘But we didn’t have any more money! As it is, we’ve made a small loss.’

Mrs Monkhurst regarded her with a short mournful silence. Then, she said, at last, ‘I’m afraid that means you’re a tiny bit under-invested. If you’re interested, I could do an estimate for you, which would include our costs for finding you clients.’

‘That was what she came for. When I asked her, I thought she was simply going to give us advice.’ Mrs Monkhurst had finally driven off in her Humber and Gerald had emerged to hear the news. ‘She was just after business.’

‘If she’s a businesswoman I suppose she would be.’ He was in one of his mild moods, which alternately maddened and alarmed Polly: in one of them he would agree to anything.

‘But, darling, she wants us to spend a whole lot of money that we haven’t got. And, if she finds us clients, she wants fifteen per cent of the profit. It’s hopeless!’

‘Not hopeless, darling. Let’s wait and see what she proposes. Here’s Spencer, wanting his lunch.’ Nan had come in carrying a cross red-faced baby. He was arching his back and his cries came in short staccato bursts, like gunfire. He was so beside himself that even after Polly had unbuttoned her shirt he banged blindly against her breast until she guided him to the right place, whereupon he latched onto her nipple, his slate-blue eyes regarding her with reproach.

‘He’s teething, bless him,’ Nan said.

Gerald watched him fade from scarlet to a comfortable rose colour. Content was in the air, he thought, and it was all due to Poll. ‘How I love to see you both,’ he said. ‘Now, you’re not to worry about a thing. If the worst comes to the worst, we can always sell another picture. I must go and help Simon.’

Polly knew that she was meant to be reassured by this, but was not. She sighed as she winded Spencer and changed sides. You should think of good things when you’re feeding babies, she thought. Dad is coming to stay, and nice Jemima and rather spoiled, sweet little Laura. And Simon is a great help. This afternoon I must make some food for them. She yawned; too many interrupted nights with Spencer. We simply have to earn some money somehow, she thought. Perhaps Dad will have a good idea, he is a businessman after all.

A few minutes later, she went in search of the pram, which was in the kitchen, where she found Nan making sandwiches. ‘Tea’s not quite ready, your ladyship, and I think those twins have eaten the cake.’

Oh dear! It had happened again. ‘Nan dear, we need to have a bit of lunch now. Teatime is later, when the children get back from school.’

Nan stared at her for a moment, then said, ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ But she did not look as though it was, at all.

‘Would you like to go and call the men?’ She knew that Nan loved telling people what to do and it would distract her. ‘Take the bell with you, Nan. I think they’re planting trees in the avenue.’

After she had laid the sleepy Spencer in his pram, and was stirring the soup, she wondered what on earth they would do if Nan’s memory got worse – or, rather, when. She would have to be looked after, and Polly would have to employ someone to help with the children and there would be more housework than the girl who came one morning a week could possibly manage.