All Change: Cazalet Chronicles (9 page)

Archie was the last to go upstairs. This was because, after that odd and difficult evening, he felt a great need to be alone. He slipped out of the front door and into the garden. The air was like warm velvet, the sky trembling with many stars. In beds at this side of the house there were white tobacco and night-scented stocks; a jasmine, whose delicate starry flowers were belied by its extravagant vigour, hung onto a climbing rose.

To the left of the lawn, in the corner, the monkey puzzle stood dark and stark against the softer sky. It was a kind of Victorian joke, but the Duchy was immune to the family’s teasing about it. ‘It was here when we came,’ was all she would say in its defence, but she had once confided in him that she loved it. ‘It reminds me of home at Stanmore,’ she’d said. ‘My father loved strange trees. We had a Ginkgo as well.’

He turned right to walk slowly round the house, past the sunken tennis court that lay on a lower piece of ground. Bats were flittering about in dizzy confusion, but inaudible to him. The path became cinder as it approached the greenhouses, and Archie could smell the ripening tomatoes. At the far end were the courtyard, the old stables and the garage. The Tonbridges had a cottage above the stable but their light was out. Turning right again, there was the drive and a steep bank leading to the wood.

An owl gave a fractious little yelp, and he remembered how this had upset Bertie the first time he had heard it. ‘It’s hurt, Daddy. It made a hurting sound. We should rescue it.’ Archie had had to impersonate a donkey, a cow and an elephant to show what different languages animals had. At the end Bertie had simply said, ‘Well, how do you know when any of them are hurt?’ Couldn’t answer that one, but there was nothing, he had discovered, that worried children so much as ignorance. ‘You do know, really – he does, doesn’t he, Mummy? He knows everything.’ And when Clary had asked who had told him, he had answered, ‘The Queen, of course, in telegrams.’

Right again, through the white-painted gate, and he was back to the tobacco and stocks.

He would be sad indeed if Home Place came to an end. Perhaps, he thought, I should have done what Rupert did, given up art and got some sort of regular job. But he was the only person who knew what it had cost Rupert to become a Sunday painter. ‘Which we both know, Archie, is as good as giving up.’ And when he had tried to be soothing about it – the main thing was to keep doing it anyhow – Rupert had retorted, ‘Pointless. If you want to be an artist of any kind, you bloody well have to practise it.’

If the family did give up the house, it would be the end of the wonderful holidays that the Duchy had given Clary and the children. An ignoble thought, perhaps, but inescapable.

He let himself in, walked softly across the hall and climbed the stairs. At the top, he stood for a moment because, at the end of the corridor on his right, he could hear what he knew to be the faint sound of Rachel weeping. It crossed his mind to go to her, but he dismissed the thought. Grief must sometimes (perhaps always) be allowed to be private.

Now he must go to rescue Clary, who, he bet, would be sleeping on her sopping pillow.

‘They’ll never do that!’

She had all her curlers in, which meant she didn’t want him to do you-know-what.

They were having a last cup of tea and, in his case, some strawberry tarts, and were sitting in the downstairs room of their cottage. She was still upset that they hadn’t eaten all the pudding, but they were In Mourning, after all, and the thought of Madam lying upstairs in the house had upset her greatly.

‘They took her away this afternoon. Eileen saw.’

‘Why didn’t you call me?’

‘I was fetching Miss Sidney from the station.’

‘I was only in the kitchen. She could’ve called me.’

‘I presume she didn’t think.’ He was glad it wasn’t his fault. ‘But mark me,’ he continued, ‘Madam passing away like that may well cast a different hue on the situation. It’s a big house for Miss Rachel all on her own. So I say they may give it up.’ He was sitting opposite her in his shirt and braces; he’d taken off his tie as soon as they’d got back to the cottage.

The practical implication of this struck them both at the same moment, but they stayed silent. He, because he just didn’t have the energy to discuss alternatives (the cottage would, of course, go with the house), and she because she felt it would show a lack of respect.

‘You’ve had a long day,’ he said at last. ‘Best go up now.’

She heaved herself out of her chair. She had got rid of her shoes before sitting and now wore slippers that were much the shape of very old broad beans. By the end of each day her terrible bunions came into their own, and she dreaded having to walk anywhere, least of all the steep, narrow little staircase that led to their bedroom.

But he went ahead, held out his hand to help her. ‘Whatever comes to pass, you’ve always got me,’ he said, looking down on her with his mournful bloodhound’s eyes.

A threat? A promise? As always, when he presented himself thus a wave of irritation followed by a protective feeling overcame her. He was the one who needed looking after, she knew that, but he meant well.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know I have.’

THE YOUNG MEN

‘I appreciate that it has become something of a cliché, but my grandmother has actually died and I do want to go to her funeral.’

His editor looked at him with some distrust.

‘Neville, I seem to remember that your grandmothers have died a number of times during the last year.’

‘I know, but this is for real.’ He smiled charmingly. He was wearing a black velvet jacket – much the worse for wear – a white shirt open at the neck, corduroy trousers that had once been black, and tennis shoes. ‘Every now and then, real life catches up with one. Or death, I suppose,’ he added. He looked at the floor when he said that, then raised his eyes to hers. He looked, she thought, exactly the way you would imagine a poet to look, if you’d never met one, but he was surprisingly practical, demanding and good at his job.

She looked through her diary. ‘You have a big shoot coming up next week.’

‘I know. On Friday. Outside the Albert Hall.’

‘Friday and Saturday.’

‘Sue, I really don’t need two days for that. If you agree, I can get Simon to ring all the clothes places and the agency for the models. I’ve said which ones I want. It’s all organised – honestly.’

‘OK. You win. But don’t you dare let me down. ‘

‘Rest assured, my darling.’ And he looked at her with bland blue eyes in a manner she had learned to distrust, but also found hard to resist. He was, after all, only twenty-five, and she had discovered him, and as he was not yet well enough known to go freelance, she wanted to keep him. He had worked as an assistant to both Norman Parkinson and Clifford Coffin – a good grounding – and only a few months ago, when they were not available, he had come to her and suggested that he stand in. He had done a surprisingly professional job, was brilliant at using a model’s best points and concealing any bad ones.

‘Off you go, then,’ she said dismissively. She was his boss, after all.

Back at the ranch, as he sometimes called the grotty little basement flat in Camden Town that he shared with Simon, whom he found washing up coffee cups, he said, ‘All clear. Get me a cup of coffee, then ring Pansy and tell her to arrange all the clothes for Friday.’

Simon wiped his hands on a dripping teacloth and looked about for the kettle. ‘She won’t be pleased at that. She likes to be consulted, not told.’

‘Tell her it’s our grandmother’s funeral. That usually shuts people up. And, Simon, do stop behaving as though you’re under water. You’re my assistant. That means you have to work twice as hard as I do.’

Yes, and for a measly three pounds a week, Simon thought, as he filled the kettle and set it on its wheezing way. He was four years older than his cousin, and look at the situation!

A lock of his blond hair fell over his high forehead as he bent over the tin of Nescafé to scrape out its remains. This was proving to be yet another job that was not for him, and goodness knows there’d been a good many of them in the last six years. University had been fine, national service had been awful – he’d never wanted to be an officer – and he had then learned half-heartedly to be an electrician. His father had wanted him to go into the firm, but he didn’t want that either. So he had drifted from one pointless job to another, while Teddy, roughly the same age as him, now had a salary, a flat of his own and a car (admittedly given him by the firm but, still, his to drive). And Neville was so sure of himself. When he’d persuaded Simon to work for him – ‘Three pounds a week and rent free’ – it had seemed an exciting opportunity. But all the job consisted of was lugging heavy and fragile pieces of equipment in and out of Neville’s beaten-up MG, and doing all the housework in the flat where he had only a cupboard under the stairs to sleep in. Neville had the only room and that had to be used for everything else – parties, desk work, eating, the lot. There was another cupboard that had been converted into a kitchenette, and a very small bathroom that smelt of mushrooms and made you feel almost dirtier after you’d had a bath in it. In spite of all this, Neville contrived a kind of battered glamour, while Simon looked, well, like somebody who was very nearly down and out. He seemed to be the only person he knew who hadn’t the slightest idea of what he should do – or, indeed, what he was for.

He reviewed the older cousins. Christopher was a monk, and he must have wanted to be one pretty badly to go for it. Teddy, well, Teddy was fast becoming like Dad and the uncles – a businessman. Simon had never wanted to be one of them, a fact confirmed by the awful three months he’d worked there. The girls were all right: they got married, like Polly and Clary, or had a vocation, like Lydia. The younger ones didn’t count: they just had daft notions of being engine drivers, or spacemen, or, in the case of Juliet, a film star. He didn’t even have a girlfriend. He’d had one for a short time, but she had wanted to go dancing practically every evening he saw her; he was rotten at dancing and in any case couldn’t afford the whole business of supper, paying to get into the dance hall and drinks while they were there, plus Peggy had wanted him to see her home in a taxi and had clearly expected him to kiss her in it. Her hot face with runny make-up had put him off, and trying to divert her from any clinch had made him stammer. Not a success. ‘I don’t want to go out with you again,’ she had said. ‘You’re mean and you can’t dance.’ If she had loved him, she would never have said that. But, then, he hadn’t loved her, there hadn’t been a crumb of romance – except he’d liked her hair. After that, any girls he encountered had always been when he was in a humiliating situation: clearing things up, making tea or coffee for people, being shouted at and told to get a move on, do things faster. He slept a lot – found it increasingly difficult to get up in the mornings. In a funny way, he was quite looking forward to the funeral because Polly would almost certainly be there. And he loved Polly – more than anyone.

Nothing had been the same since Mum died. He had been at school when it happened, and he felt he would never stop being angry about that. He had tried to have a row with Polly about it, but her extreme anguish had stopped him. He blamed Dad. ‘How would you like to be called in by the head, ordered to sit down and then told that your mother had died?’ He had never actually said that because he could see that his father was also very, very sad. Sybil, she had been called. It seemed funny to him that he could love someone so much and had never called her by her name. When he talked to her now – which he did sometimes – he called her Sybil, her grown-up name. He could talk to Polly about her, but not to his father, and Wills, who was soon to start national service, in spite of looking everywhere for her when he was a baby, did not remember her at all.