All Change: Cazalet Chronicles (46 page)

Rupert left Hugh’s office to settle some dispute down at the wharf: the drivers were acting up again. They had been grumbling ever since last Christmas when four of the lorries had simultaneously broken down. They had a point, he knew, because nearly the whole fleet was long past decent service. Most of them had gone through the war, been patched up, had new or reconditioned engines fitted, but apart from the expense of maintenance, there was all the nuisance involved with them so frequently being late with deliveries, or failing to deliver at all. Edward had persuaded Hugh to agree to buy four new lorries so they now had, Rupert hoped, four satisfied drivers although, these days, that would not prevent them striking to back up the others.

At least he didn’t look like having to move to Southampton, and Zoë would be pleased about that. But looming on his horizon, hardly acknowledged by his brothers, was the likelihood of his being without a job, of them all not only ceasing to be employers, but unemployed.

This set up a conflict. On the one hand it let him off doing something he had never really wanted to do. He wasn’t, never would be, a businessman. He had been persuaded, notably by Hugh, that it was what he ought to do, had seen the argument that theirs was a family business, and with a wife and two children to look after, it had become the soft option. But he had never stopped minding that he had given up even trying to be a painter, feeling that thereby he had betrayed himself. After all, Archie had continued to paint, and was beginning to make a bit of a name for himself as a portraitist. And he had a wife and two children to care for, too. It could be done: he simply had not had the courage to do it before. The thought excited him now – it would give him freedom; it was the road less travelled. He and Archie might band together to teach, take some cheap place in Italy or France where their families could enjoy a holiday while they worked. He longed to skip the problems of the wharf and go and find Archie to talk to him about all this. On the other hand, he would be plunging Zoë into poverty; they might not be able to afford the house, and then there were school fees, Georgie’s zoo, and Juliet going through a most difficult stage – Zoë had been talking about sending her abroad to learn cooking and French to get her over Neville. They wouldn’t be able to afford that now anyway.

Then he thought of all the men who would have to be laid off, and his heart sank. ‘I must be sympathetic but firm,’ he told himself, as he drove to East London. But somehow these two pieces of advice didn’t seem to go together very well at all.

Hugh, left to himself in his office with a raging headache, resisted the desire to go home. He rang his secretary, told her he was going to lie down for a bit, and, no, he didn’t want any lunch. He arranged himself on the stiff little horsehair day-bed he had always kept for this purpose and tried to sleep but his anxiety about Rachel kept him awake. If he mortgaged his house, would that provide enough money to invest for an income? He simply didn’t know. If all three of them took out mortgages, surely that would be enough. If Rachel kept the little house in Abbey Road, and perhaps took in a lodger, that would help, too. But he knew that Edward would not agree to a mortgage, and he didn’t like the idea of persuading Rupert to do that either.

The whole mess was his fault, he thought miserably. If he’d listened to Edward and the advice given them by that banker chap of Louise’s they would not be in this pickle. If they’d gone public they would have walked away with millions. And then, when the same chap had offered to sound out the most successful of their rivals, he had refused to consider it. He’d been, in fact, a bloody fool. And as a result, he and Edward – both now in their sixties – would have to look for jobs. So would Rupert, of course, but he was so used to thinking of him as his little brother that he forgot he was fifty-five. None of their ages augured well for new starts. And, worst of all, there was Rachel. She had no income at all, and it was all his fault.

RACHEL

It had taken her months to brave Sid’s house, shut up now for nearly a year – since last November, to be precise. She had asked Villy, who lived nearby, whether, if sent the keys, she would go and see that it was all right. Villy had reported back: nobody had broken in, but she had closed the shutters on the ground-floor windows, made sure that the water was turned off, but left the telephone, electricity and gas for Rachel to decide about when she came. She returned the keys and said that if she wanted any help she would be glad to supply it and, in any case, Rachel was always welcome for lunch or supper.

When she finally opened the front door and stood in the tiny hall, the dank stillness enveloped her. It was dark in the house and she hastened to open the shutters. The sitting room was covered with dust and the rug sent up little eddies of it wherever she trod. She could have written her name on the top of the Erard upright, and the sheet music that lay beside it was not only grey with dust but also limp with damp. She went to the far end of the room, where French windows opened onto the steps down to the garden, which was now a yellowing jungle, thick with fallen leaves that almost obscured the few emaciated Michaelmas daisies that had survived. She steeled herself to go upstairs – she knew that this would be the worst – and went first to Sid’s bedroom, which she had shared with her. The wardrobe had Sid’s clothes hanging there still: her winter coat, her Aran jersey, a tweed skirt and her best dress – a silk crêpe affair that she hated and never wore.

The chest of drawers was full of her underwear and night clothes – and when she opened the top drawer, Sid’s aroma rose to meet her: the dear familiar scent of China tea and pepper was overwhelming. For minutes she stood inhaling the precious essence, then saw an opened box nestled among the garments. It was half full of painkillers, much stronger ones than she had seen Sid take. All part of her trying not to worry me. Rachel looked wildly round the room to stop herself crying. On the table by the window stood a small vase of dead chrysanthemums, with the silver-backed brush and comb that had belonged to Sid’s mother. She had cleaned them regularly, although she never used them; the silver was tarnished now.

She went down to the basement, with its dark kitchen and bars on the windows, and there were the dishes from their last breakfast, washed up and lying on the draining board. Everything in the kitchen was dirty, covered with a thick layer of dust, and smelt overwhelmingly of damp.

Rachel realised that she was extremely cold – unable not only to do anything but even to think of what she should do. Make some coffee or tea. She remembered that the water was turned off, but there might be some left in the electric kettle. She shook it, and there was. Coffee would be best since there was no milk. The kettle took a long time to boil, since it badly needed descaling.

She wiped a mug with a drying-up cloth, and also wiped the seat of a kitchen chair. Every now and then a bus rumbled down the road outside, but otherwise there was an oppressive silence.

She sat at the table with her hands clasped round the mug. ‘I can’t live here,’ she said aloud. ‘I can’t.’

WARNING THE FAMILY

‘Well, at least it means we shan’t have to move.’ She was undressing, getting ready for bed, which she always did extremely slowly; she seemed impervious to the cold, and wandered round the room in her petticoat. Rupert lay in bed, watching her.

‘We’ll be pretty hard up. We might not even be able to keep this house.’

‘Oh, Rupe! We will! I can easily do without a cleaner.’ She picked up her hairbrush and sat on the bed beside him to have her hair brushed.

‘I just feel I ought to warn you. I’ll need to get some sort of teaching. But even so—’

‘Archie manages it. The point is, my darling, that you will be able to paint at last, which is what you’ve always wanted. And when you’ve got enough pictures painted perhaps you and Archie could have a show together.’

‘Perhaps we could.’ And, more likely, perhaps we couldn’t, he thought. She was so pretty, and she still had her rather imperious optimism.

‘Well, I think it’s exciting.’ She took the brush from him and began peeling off her pale green petticoat. Most of her underclothes were green as she had decided years ago that they not only matched her eyes but set off her charmingly white skin. She did not have the same vanity now but some of the earlier rules had stuck. ‘A painter’s wife,’ she finished, stepping out of her knickers.

‘Come here, I’ll do your bra.’ He unhooked it and cupped her breasts in his hands. ‘You’re not to start dressing again. Join me just as you are.’

Edward went to sleep on the drive home: the shock of the morning meeting was still with him. He was sixty-one and, in a matter of months, he would be out of a job. He had no other source of income, he was in debt to his bank and he hadn’t the faintest idea what he could do to earn his living (and Diana’s). All the painful retrenchments he had discussed with her might have worked if money was coming in, but it wasn’t; you can’t cut down if you’ve nothing to cut down from. Susan would have to leave her expensive school; he would have to stop Jamie’s allowance and the boy would have to start earning his living. He could resign from both his clubs, and there were a few things he could sell – his Purdey guns, for instance: a very fine pair inherited from his father; they would be worth a bob or two. At this point he began to feel sick: everything seemed so black, just a long tunnel with no light at the end of it. When the same hopeless horror came back to him in the car, he had taken the only way out – sleep. I’m not even afraid of tackling Diana about it all any more – she’ll simply have to lump it, he thought, as he drifted off.

‘Darling, do stop blaming yourself. If you tell me once more that everything is your fault I shall scream. You’re much too keen on blame. It never does anyone the slightest good.’ She was glad to see that this shocked him.

‘But it is. It is my fault for being so pig-headed and not listening to anyone – especially Edward.’

‘All right. Supposing it is. The question is, what are we going to do now? I think it’s rather exciting. I know quite a lot about not having much money. We’ll manage.’ She stretched out her hand to his good one and shook it firmly. She was wearing her round horn-rimmed glasses, and looked, he thought, like an angry little owl. It made him smile.