All Change: Cazalet Chronicles (58 page)

Rachel undressed quickly. She was cold to the bone: her hands had gone that horrid mauve colour and her feet were blocks of ice. She had kept telling herself how well everything was going, how funny Laura could be, that adorable baby of Polly’s – she had always loved babies, each one seeming more charming than the last – how wonderful Mrs Tonbridge had been with so many people to feed, how kind and supportive her brothers and darling Archie were being, how welcoming and nice they had been to Villy, how clever Roland had been with the lights for the tree, how thoughtful Zoë and Jemima, Clary and Polly were with their determination to help, how they all seemed to get on together . . . This made her think of Edward, from whom she had not heard, and she could not help praying that Diana would decide not to come to Boxing Day lunch with him. It would be so much easier for Villy.

Now, she lay in the dark with two hot-water bottles -and tears were streaming down her face. She allowed herself a brief sob before telling herself to pull herself together. Tonight would be the anniversary of Sid’s death.

‘I don’t suppose he meant it, darling. You know Neville – he’s always enjoyed teasing people.’

‘It isn’t that I mind him getting married. I mind his not telling us properly. He really is a master of the flippant message. Still, it might have been difficult for Jules if he was here.’

‘Jules has fallen for someone else. She thinks I don’t know, and it’s best to keep it like that.’

‘Who has she fallen for?’

‘A student at an acting school. But you don’t know, either.’

‘All right.’ He had got into bed. ‘Be quick, darling, it’s so cold.’ She always took ages. He had taken to reading to stop himself getting impatient, and he now dived into his paperback volume of Chekhov’s short stories.

Jemima was undressed in a matter of seconds; Hugh always took longer. Tonight he seemed to be taking longer than usual: he had gone down the passage to the bathroom and, after nearly ten minutes, had not returned. She got out of bed and went to find him.

He was sitting on the bathroom stool, and turned to her when she came in. He looked shaky. ‘Got a bit stuck,’ he said, in a slurred voice. ‘Dropped my toothbrush and when I bent down to pick it up, it was too far away. Felt dizzy – couldn’t reach . . . Not drunk,’ he said, looking at her with frightened eyes.

She put her arms round him. ‘You’re just tired. Never mind about the toothbrush. Come with me.’ She spoke calmly, but she did not feel calm at all.

Snow fell in the night, large flakes as big as feathers, and after a while it began to settle. The bare trees became heavy with it; it thickened on the ground so that it became like the icing on a cake, then a satisfactory three inches of dazzling crunch. Spiders’ webs sparkled with icicles; the sky was the colour of dirty pearls and the air smelt of snow.

Simon, who had decided to clean out and lay the fires, had to brush the snow off the logs before he wheeled the barrow into the house. The only other person up was Eileen, who was amazed and grateful that he was doing this chore for her. She showed him where the newspapers and kindling were to be found, and offered him a cup of tea. It meant that she could also have one, which she badly needed – it was perishing. They drank their tea standing in the kitchen, then he raked out the kitchen stove and she counted the cutlery for laying the two tables in the dining room and hall.

Simon loved doing fires. He had felt rather out of it last night, with Teddy constantly steering the conversation round to girlfriends and, in particular, his own. ‘Haven’t you got one?’ he had asked, and Simon had said, no, he hadn’t. He felt himself blushing then because he thought of the gardener’s boy who worked on a neighbouring estate and with whom he had quite unexpectedly but deeply fallen in love. He had met Roy at a nursery garden centre some months back, and to begin with they had talked about trees. Roy was collecting a lorry load of fruit trees while Simon was picking up stuff for the avenue. He came from Glasgow, but his father was Italian, had been a prisoner of war and had met Roy’s mother then. After the war, Roy’s father had not wanted to return to Italy, and the family of the farm he had worked on as a prisoner offered him a job. He found and wooed Maggie, their young cook, and Roy had been the result. He was wonderfully good-looking – with abundant curly black hair, melting brown eyes, and a smooth olive skin that never seemed to change. They had agreed to go to the cinema together on their day off. They sat side by side in the dark, and Simon kept looking at Roy and his lovely profile. And then, after about an hour of this, Roy had put out his hand and rested it upon Simon’s erection.

He had given a little grunt of triumph and then he’d leaned over and kissed Simon’s mouth. Simon had been unable to contain himself and was flooded with shame. Roy had responded by taking his hand and leading him out of the cinema to his lorry. The back had a tarpaulin that covered it. Roy let down the tailboard and sprang into the lorry. He held out a hand to Simon and hefted him up. It was dark in the back, and for some reason this had made them whisper.

‘You not done this before?’

No, he hadn’t.

Roy undid one of the lashings of the tarp, which let in a little light. Simon could see that the lorry had been swept clean and that a sleeping-bag lay in one corner. For a second he wondered whether Roy had planned everything, but this only excited him more. Roy was speedily stripping himself bare, until he stood before Simon, naked. He was smiling – a teasing, inviting smile. Then, with a swift, elegant movement, he knelt in front of him and began taking off his clothes. ‘Good,’ he said, when Simon was also naked. ‘You have a nice body.’

‘Nothing like yours.’

‘No, no. Mine is the best. But you have good cock. Let me . . .’

There ensued the most amazing time of Simon’s life. After a furious, sometimes painful, sometimes ecstatic session Roy drew away from him. ‘I need a fag. Half-time,’ he added, as he found his packet and lit up. He offered one to Simon, who didn’t smoke, except now he felt he wanted to do everything that Roy did.

‘I love you,’ he said, as they lay together on the sleeping-bag; the cigarette made him cough, and he gave it up. ‘I love you,’ he repeated, willing Roy to say it too. But he didn’t. He stubbed out his cigarette.

‘We have a good time together. We don’t need more. We have good sex – it’ll get even better for you. And now, as they say in pubs, one for the road.’

There had been more times, and then Roy had said he was off to Scotland for Christmas and, more importantly, New Year. And here he was, in the house where he had been born, back to say goodbye to it. And more in love with Roy than ever. In his dreams he imagined Roy returning to tell him that he was in love, too. They would live together and perhaps run a nursery garden. A blissful dream, for Simon still found it impossible that such a degree of physical intimacy could exist without love.

‘I don’t think books should count as presents.’ Georgie and Laura had raced unwrapping their stockings and were eating their tangerines. ‘I think anything except them could be a present. Except sand or earth,’ she added, after thinking about it. She had privately loved her stocking. ‘You couldn’t have had a live animal in a stocking. It would have died in the night. And you’ve got things that are useful for your zoo. It’s a pity you didn’t get a book on how to look after your goldfish,’ she added pointedly. She felt that Georgie had not been quite grateful enough for her splendid present.

‘I know perfectly well how to do that. The bowls for the rabbits and mice are useful.’

‘And your penknife, and your torch. And that notebook that says “Reports on my Collection”. I think that’s a lovely present.’

‘Do be careful, Laura. You’re beginning to sound like a grown-up.’

‘Am I? I didn’t mean to. Honestly, Georgie, nothing was further from my mind.’ She was secretly delighted at the idea.

Rivers, who did not care for tangerines, scampered inside his owner’s pyjama jacket to keep warm.

Laura had got out of bed to see if there was snow and, passing Rivers’s unoccupied cage, suddenly saw something. ‘Oh, look! A lovely little stocking specially for Rivers!’

‘Give it to me.’ Georgie was clearly delighted.

It was in fact one of Laura’s socks, and she sat on Georgie’s bed while he opened it. It contained a little bag of Good Boy Choc Drops, a partially stripped drumstick, a really beautiful little brush and comb for his fur, a tiny tin that had mixed biscuits in it, and an envelope full of scraps of ham. ‘A very thoughtful stocking,’ Georgie said. He was almost laughing with pleasure. ‘Look, Rivers!’

Rivers, who had smelt the ham and the chicken, emerged, his whiskers twitching.

‘I’m going to give him the chicken first, and it means we can eat our chocolate money. He loves chicken, and he’s never really cared for chocolate.’

That was how the three of them were occupied when Zoë and Jemima came to get them up.

‘Now, this is what’s going to happen,’ Polly said. ‘You get dressed and have breakfast. Then Daddy is going to take you for a walk—’

Andrew interrupted. ‘I don’t like to be taken. I like to do my walks by myself.’

‘Well, today, you’ll have Daddy. He’s never been here before, so you can show him round.’