Casting Off: Cazalet Chronicles Book 4 (65 page)

And when he found that she hadn’t, that the flat was just as he had left it, he felt tremendous relief. Simon had stood them the lunch and the tea, so he said he would get fish and chips for supper, and Simon bought the beer.

‘Do you remember the camp that you and Christopher made without me, just before the war?’

‘And you had a fight with him? I do.’

‘I didn’t really want to fight him. I just hated the way he’d left me out.’

‘I didn’t really want to run away and live in the camp. It was just that he was so keen.’

‘What’s happened to him?’

‘Dad said he was living with his sister – you know, the one who married that poor bloke.’

‘It doesn’t sound like much of a life.’

‘I nearly forgot! There’s a bottle of whisky in the car. I brought it as a present for you. I’ll nip down and get it.’

They had had two large drinks each and everything felt very cosy.

‘What’s it like, working in the firm?’ Simon asked casually.

‘I think it’s
going
to be all right. When I stop being quite so
menial
. Why? Are you thinking of going in for it?’

Simon shook his head. ‘God, no! I don’t want to be a businessman.’

‘What do you want to do?’ he asked. He felt faintly nettled at Simon’s dismissal of
his
job.

‘Don’t know. Well, I do, in a way. I’d like to go into politics. I’d like to be a Member of Parliament. You know, change things.’

‘Get this government out? That kind of thing?’

‘Oh, no. I
approve
of this government. I’d be a Labour man.’

‘You mean, you’re in favour of all this nationalising of everything?’

‘I am. But it’s not just that. I’m dead against the Tories. Do you know that the BMA have set up a fund to help doctors who don’t want to co-operate with the National Health Service? They say they want to modify proposals in the Bill, but really they don’t want the Bill at all. They’re Tory to a man.’

‘BMA?’ he repeated. ‘Oh – British Medical something or other.’

‘Association. Tories just seem to me against any kind of progress. They don’t care about the workers at all.’

‘But, surely,
some
Tories are workers. Look at me.’

‘Yes, but you know you’ll end up in an office bossing the real workers about. There are thousands of people who will work all their lives without a chance of that.’

‘You have to have workers as well as bosses. They couldn’t all be bosses, whatever you did.’

‘No, but you could give them a better deal. A share of the profits. That’s the point of nationalisation. Everybody
owns
the railways. Everybody
owns
the coal mines.’

He went on in this vein for some time, and Teddy began by listening and then he didn’t listen, and occupied himself getting a jug of water from the kitchen tap to add to their whisky. He began to wish that he had been to a university. There wasn’t anything he could talk about for such a long time with such an air of authority as Simon had. Well, he knew quite a bit about Hurricane fighters, but that wasn’t turning out to be much use in a peacetime world. And one day he would know a lot about timber – be like Dad.

When Simon had stopped talking about politics and accused him, but in a rather bleary way, of not being interested, they both had one more drink and got back to – he thought – the far more interesting subject of their own lives.

It started with talking about their fathers. He told Simon how ill his father had been, and he added that it seemed that Hugh and Dad were not getting on and said that he thought it was a bit unfair on
his
dad on top of his operation and all that.

‘I didn’t know. Of course I haven’t been around much, but Dad seems much happier to me. I think he’s finally got over Mum. Or perhaps he’s just so pleased about Poll.’

‘Whatever it is, if you got the chance, you might just mention to him that my dad would like to see him – I mean, not in the office, but on their own somewhere.’

‘Right. You’d think they’d be old enough to sort things out for themselves, though, wouldn’t you?’

‘Perhaps you just get too old to be able to.’

‘That would be like life. You spend all your youth being made to do horrible things, and then I suppose you get a few years when you can
choose
what you do before you get too old and weak to enjoy anything.’

‘And when you
can
choose, you choose wrong,’ he said. He was beginning to feel awful about Bernie again, and wondering where she was, and whether he ought to try and find out and go after her. He said some of this to Simon, who advised against doing anything.

‘She’s the one who’s gone,’ he said. ‘She’s not likely to change
her
mind. And you don’t even know if you want her to. Of course, I may be wrong,’ he added, but in tones that sounded as though he thought it unlikely, ‘but
I
think you’d be better off without her. Would you like me to stay the night here? I don’t think I could drive home anyway – I’m too tight.’

He said he would. He staggered to his feet and found some clean sheets, and Simon offered to make the bed with him but they simply couldn’t do it. The sheets went all over the place with each one pulling in the wrong direction, and they collapsed laughing.

‘Do you remember when we had that ghastly drink in the wood? And we drank to Strangways Major?’

‘And Bobby Riggs? I do. And we smoked a bit of one of the Brig’s cigars.’

‘
You
did. I was sick. And you said it was the fish we’d had for supper.’

‘I knew it wasn’t really,’ he said, ‘but you looked so awfully rotten, I wanted to cheer you up.’

‘And
I
want to cheer you up,’ Simon said, so affectionately that Teddy felt tears coming to his eyes.

‘You’ve been wizard,’ he said, ‘absolutely
wizard
. I think men are much easier to get on with than women,’ he said, when they had settled, head to tail, on the bed.

‘Oh, they are, old boy. Absolutely. They don’t fuss about the wrong things.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘Oh, you know, weddings. And spiders. And what they look like all the time . . . How many women have you found who you could talk about nationalisation to? Because, speaking for myself, I haven’t found one. Not – a single one. I say, this bed’s very
rocky
, isn’t it?’

‘Bernie wasn’t interested in fighter planes. I tried to interest her but she never was. What’s wrong with the bed?’

‘It seems to be waving about rather.’

‘It’s not me. You’re drunk – that’s what it is. I am, too,’ he added.

‘We’re both drunk. We drank the whole bottle, you know. Not counting the beer we drank while we were getting the beer for supper. We’d better get some sleep.’

‘It seems worse if I close my eyes.’

But Simon fell asleep very soon after that, because he didn’t notice the next thing that he, Teddy, said to him, and after thinking that perhaps he was going to lie there all night worrying about Bernie, his marriage being over and being on his own again, he didn’t remember any more either.

Jemima knew that it was because she felt – apart from very much else – a little bit
tired,
but somehow, for the last week or so, her life had seemed to be composed of stopping things, finishing them, casting them off, closing things down, shutting things up, in fact, making all the preparations for something completely different that had not yet begun. Yesterday she had cleared up the office. It was the kind of odd, old-fashioned room that did not respond to being cleared up. It simply looked emptier but resolutely the same, with its dark, panelled walls that were hung with dozens of faded photographs in narrow black frames, its vast mahogany partner’s desk, its long black chesterfield that was prickly with errant horsehair, and the enormous dining-room chairs (with arms – she supposed they were carvers), and its window that never seemed to be clear of London grime with a dark green blind that was always sticking half-way, and its once brilliant but now worn Turkish rug on the polished floor – it all seemed designed for a gloomy giant. She felt tiny in it – well, she was small, but she felt ridiculous. And even the things on the desk were dwarfed: the blotter, the silver-framed calendar that she had just set to Friday, 18 July, and his family photographs. There was one of each of his children when quite young: Simon, in shorts with a toy yacht on his knees, and Polly, who had got married last week, as a serious little girl in a sleeveless summer frock, and William, a toddler in a white linen hat, held by his mother on a lawn. She was wearing a rather shapeless flowered summer dress, and there must have been a breeze, because tendrils of hair were escaping from the bun at the back of her neck. William looked as though he was trying to get away, and she was gazing at him with a kind of resigned affection. The larger one of her by herself was no longer there, she noticed.

There were also inkstands, wood samples, and trays for papers in various stages of completion. She had put all of these things straight, even symmetrically upon the desk, had answered the morning post when she could, clipped the letters for him to see and placed them in the middle of the blotter. She had felt strange doing these things because it was for the last time, and because nobody else in the office knew that this was so.

Then she had covered her typewriter in the small black office that was behind this room, collected her hat and her bag and slipped out. ‘Going early, are you?’ the office boy had said.

‘Yes. Mr Hugh’s not in today,’ she had replied. But why had she even bothered to say that? It wasn’t Alfie’s business.

She went home to pack up for the boys. Home was – had been for nearly seven years now – the bottom half of a house in Blomfield Road by the Regent’s Canal. She had chosen it because the rent was cheap, and because there was a large back garden for the boys. It had two bedrooms and a sitting room on the ground floor, and a dining room and a tiny kitchenette in the basement. It was damp, and difficult to keep warm, and some very strange people lived in the flat above, of whom she was slightly afraid, but it had been their home since soon after Ken had been killed.

She got home well before the boys were back from school, which was good because she could get their packing done far more peacefully without them. They were excited at the prospect of going away to camp for two weeks; the only thing that was worrying them was whether there would be an adequate supply of poplar leaves for their elephant hawk-moth caterpillars. She got out the battered old leather case that had belonged to Ken. It no longer shut properly and had to have a leather strap round it. She’d done all their washing last weekend, so it was simply a matter of counting out enough of everything. Two vests each, two pairs of shorts, four shirts each and a pullover. They could travel in their sand shoes and just take sandals. Perhaps one pair of socks each? But she knew they wouldn’t wear them. They could travel in their macs – only they wouldn’t wear
them
either, and she’d have to beg them not to leave them behind in the train. Ration books would be required, and into them she pinned an address and telephone number in case she was needed. She finished the packing with their hats, bathing suits and a towel each. They could have the little case for their books, pen-knives, and any other clobber. Tom had a magnifying glass, with which he was mad keen to start a fire, and Henry would want to take his Box Brownie camera. Then, of course, they would take Hoighty the grey monkey (Tom’s) and Sparker (Henry’s teddy). How the caterpillars were to travel, she didn’t know. What seemed so odd, she thought, was that they were not just going away from here for two weeks; they weren’t coming back here. They knew this and seemed simply excited by the prospect, but looking round their overfilled, untidy room that was so crowded by their possessions and interests, she felt a pang. It was the end of an era.

They were back. The boys’ room looked on to the street, and she saw Elspeth, the girl she paid to take and fetch them to and from school, at the garden gate. She opened it and they surged through like a high tide. Elspeth waved and turned to walk back to the main road. A good thing she’d paid her and explained that she’d get in touch in the autumn, she thought, as she sped down to let them in.

‘We’ve got to pack!’ they shouted. ‘We’ve got to collect everything to pack!’

‘Not everything. Just enough for your fortnight in camp. You won’t need everything for that.’

They looked at each other. ‘Yes, we will.’

‘We will because we don’t know what we
will
want.’

‘You’ve got one small case. You can fill that, and that will be it. I’ve packed your clothes.’

‘We’ll hardly need any. Mr Partington says there’s a huge lake and we shall go on it most of the time.’

‘And in it,’ Henry added.

‘You go up and wash for tea.’

‘What’s for tea?’

‘Baked beans on toast.’

‘Oh,
Mum
!
Again?!
’

‘You love baked beans.’

‘We
like
them,’ Tom conceded. ‘But we have them so often we’ve stopped loving them.’