All Change: Cazalet Chronicles (59 page)

‘He doesn’t know anywhere here,’ Eliza said.

‘Well, I can explore him round. Oh, I do hope I get a dog for Christmas. It will be my dog and nothing to do with you.’ He and Bertie had swapped a good many of their stocking presents, and resented the girls’ invasion of their room.

Polly, who had arrived with an armful of clothes, was laying them out on Andrew’s bed. ‘And after your walk it will be presents in the drawing room. Then it will be lunch – Christmas lunch. And after lunch there will be a competition for the best snowman.’

Clary arrived then, wearing Archie’s dressing gown as she had forgotten to pack her own. ‘You are to wear exactly what I have laid out for you,’ Polly warned Andrew, ‘or I shall send for Nan.’

This threat proved most effective, and Andrew did as he was told.

‘I shall skip breakfast,’ Louise said, when they woke up.

‘Me too.’ Juliet was actually ravenous, but she knew this was childish, and she was no longer a child. After a moment, she said, ‘I suppose we could both have black coffee. People on diets are always drinking it.’

‘Yeah, we could. You wouldn’t be an angel and fetch us some?’

‘Of course I will.’ Juliet slipped on the very old peach-coloured kimono that had belonged to her mother and sped away.

Alone, Louise decided to open the present Joseph had left for her. She had been saving it up for Christmas Day, but she wanted to open it when she was by herself. It was a small box wrapped in gold paper with a little label that said ‘L. from J.’ The tag had ‘Happy Christmas’ printed in red with a sprig of holly. He wouldn’t have wrapped it himself. Inside the paper there was a dark red leather box, and inside that, gracefully coiled on its velvet, lay an eighteenth-century paste necklace of a delicious watery green. Each piece of glass was backed with gold, and small golden links joined them together. It was extremely beautiful. She lifted it out of its box and put it round her neck. It was a necklace for wearing at parties, and she had to push away her longing for something she could always wear – like a ring. It wasn’t. But it was her first Christmas present from him. He must have touched it. She undid the clasp, and put some stones into her mouth. If he was with her they would kiss.

Rachel got up in time to go to the eight o’clock service, and as she trudged down the lane towards the church, she saw Villy ahead of her. In church they knelt side by side and went up for Communion together. Afterwards, Rachel said that she had picked a few hellebores for Sid. They would not last, but that was all there was. At least the Duchy’s grave still had a vase of berries next to it. Rachel planted the flowers in the thick snow, and swept away the drifts that had stuck to Sid’s gravestone. She shut her eyes and said a prayer, but Villy could not hear it. As she got up - she had been kneeling – Rachel brushed the snow from her skirt and took Villy’s arm. It was very good to be with someone without having to speak. As they walked back up the lane together, the snow began again – large graceful flakes that quickly covered their previous tracks.

‘The children will love this,’ Rachel said.

‘It’s all very well on Christmas cards,’ Mrs Tonbridge grumbled. She was frying eight eggs in a huge shallow pan for the dining-room breakfast. The rest of them had had cornflakes or porridge and bread and butter and marmalade. ‘But to my mind it’s otherwise nothing but a nuisance.’

‘It’s ever so pretty,’ Eileen offered.

‘You get that warmed dish out of the oven, Eileen. The snow has nothing to do with you.’ She slid the eggs onto the proffered dish and set about separating them with her spatula. She could feel her feet ache already, but she would soon be able to take the weight off them with a nice strong cup of tea, as the turkeys, stuffed, were already in the slow oven. She wondered whether Edith would be wanting breakfast in the kitchen, but Eileen reported that she was presiding over the hall breakfast. Spencer was in his high chair having Farex spooned into him by Nan, an expert’s job, since he was fascinated by everyone else at the table. And when he didn’t feel up to a spoonful, he would turn his head away at the last moment, plunge his hands into the bowl and slap the tray with his palms, which sent the stuff everywhere. Another time, he would run his sticky, laden fingers through his hair. He was no longer hungry, he did not particularly like Farex and, in any case, if it was there, he wanted to feed himself, like all the others were doing. In the end, after some sharpish demands, Nan mopped him up and gave him a rusk.

Roland got up at his usual time, but the others were all dead asleep. They had started a game of poker late at night and had asked him if he wanted to join in, but he had been tired and it wasn’t a card game that he knew. He was starting to enjoy the visit and wondered why Mum hadn’t brought him here before. The food was terrific, and all the older men had been very nice to him. The only slightly sad thing was that at home he would have had a stocking, but on the other hand it was good to be considered too old for that kind of thing. He dressed in his flannel trousers and the thick navy blue jersey that Mum had knitted for him, then slid down the banisters to the hall for breakfast.

‘Let’s have a spot of Christmas love,’ Archie said. So they did, and just managed to finish before Bertie rushed into the room, saying that Andrew had been beastly to him. ‘He wanted my torch for exploring, and when I said it was too important for him, he simply grabbed it. He really is horrible. I don’t like him.’

‘We’ll get it back. And you know you’ve done that sort of thing to Harriet, so now you know what it feels like.’ But as she said this, Clary had put her arms round him to give him a hug. ‘Happy Christmas, darling.’ And immediately he felt much better. Clary said she must go and see to Harriet, and he and Archie must get each other up.

Jemima had slept badly; she had got Hugh back to bed where he almost immediately fell asleep, but she’d lain in the dark worrying about him. Had he had a stroke? If so, it must have been very minor, but he might have another – more serious – one. Should she get a doctor? Could one get a doctor on Christmas Day? And Hugh would be furious with her if she did. This fear prevailed: he would be angry because everyone would know, and he loathed being what he called mollycoddled. It would effectively spoil not only his Christmas, but the whole family’s too. So she was immensely relieved when he woke up, rolled over to kiss her, and was his gentle smiling self, asking how the Monster was doing.

‘She hasn’t turned up yet. I think you have rather a rival in Georgie.’

‘Well, I’m not prepared to consort with a white rat to get her affection.’

At this moment, the door burst open and Laura took a flying leap onto the bed, landing on his chest.

‘Oh, Dad! Happy Christmas! I’ve brought your presents for you both so you can open them now.’

‘How was your stocking?’ Hugh asked, while she struggled to get the presents out of her dressing-gown pockets.

‘I got a book, but otherwise it was lovely. And Rivers got a stocking all to himself so Georgie was pleased.’

‘What was your book?’ Jemima asked. She wanted to know whether Laura had even looked at it.

‘It was called
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
. Honestly, Mummy, what on earth good is that for me? I don’t even want to be one.’

‘It might come in handy if you wanted to fly on a broomstick.’

Laura rolled her eyes. ‘Now, Dad, sit up and have your present.’ She moved and sat cross-legged on the far end of the bed, to watch how pleased he would be.

It was a tiny diary of pink leather. ‘It’s for you to write all your business things in. It will fit in your pocket and it even has a pencil here for writing things down. The pencil will often need sharpening, but I can lend you my sharpener whenever you want. You do like it, don’t you, Dad?’ She was beaming with anxious generosity.

‘It’s just what I wanted. Couldn’t be better.’ He gave her a hug, but she wriggled away from him to present Jemima with her limp little package. The handkerchief, washed and ironed.

‘I’m afraid there is a bit of blood left on it, as I pricked myself, and it wouldn’t all come out when I washed it.’

‘Darling, you did all the embroidering by yourself? It’s really beautiful.’

‘It is, isn’t it? I put a J on it, so you’ll know it doesn’t belong to Dad or Tom or Henry.’