Confusion: Cazalet Chronicles Book 3 (23 page)

‘Well, I shan’t be able to do that this time, but next time I go to London, I’ll remember. I could post them to you.’

‘But you’ll be back soon, won’t you?’

‘Well . . . probably not until after Christmas. I do have my job at the nursing home, you see.’

‘Well, dear,
do
look after your hands. Nursing is not good for hands. And you used to have such pretty ones. Still have,’ she added hurriedly.

‘You are quite happy here, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, yes. Quite happy. Maud is kindness itself, as you know. And, of course, I contribute to the housekeeping. I don’t want to be a burden.’

‘Money is all right, isn’t it, Mummy?’ She knew that Rupert had arranged for the proceeds of the London flat to be safely invested, although that could not bring in much, but her mother also had her widow’s pension.

But her mother, who considered money to be a vulgar subject, said hurriedly, ‘There is nothing to worry about. We lead a quiet life and manage very well. But that reminds me, I must pay you for the underclothes.’

‘Don’t. They are a present.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ She was fumbling in her worn leather bag for her purse.

‘Please don’t, Mummy, really.’

‘I would much rather pay you. Can you remember how much it was?’

This unrewarding argument and
fuss
about the whole thing, Zoë thought as she became more and more helplessly irritated – her mother wanted to know exactly what the things had cost, and she couldn’t remember, and then her mother didn’t believe her when she made it up, and then she only had a five pound note – persisted until Maud’s return.
Maud
had change; her mother said that perhaps the bust bodices had a price ticket still on them if someone would just pop up to her room and look, and Maud, who knew where things were, offered to do this. By now her mother had become stubborn and Zoë felt sulky. The bust bodices turned out to be eight and sixpence each, so then her mother wanted a pencil and paper so that she could do the sum, ‘I’ve never been good at figures,’ and then there was the question of the spencer: ‘That is twenty-five and six and?’

‘Thirty shillings,’ Zoë said.

‘So that will be—’ She wrote and her lips moved as she counted and Zoë noticed the little lines of lipstick that ran upwards into her top lip, while Maud said in an operatic aside that they really ought to be off.

‘Two pounds fifteen and sixpence! Maud! Can you manage the change for that?’

‘Mummy, I’ll have to go. I really mustn’t miss the ferry.’

‘I’ll give it to her at the station, Cicely.’

‘But I’m coming with you. I’ll just change my shoes.’

‘We’ve got to
go,’ Zoë
cried. ‘There isn’t time to change your shoes.’

So in the end she stayed behind, and Zoë kissed the resigned powdery face.

‘I shall have, as they say at the cinema, to step on it,’ Maud remarked, as she manoeuvred the Austin out of the shed. ‘Perhaps you had better take the money out of my purse. Cicely will never forgive me if I don’t give it to you.’

‘I didn’t
want
it, you know.’

‘I don’t suppose you did, my dear. But we mustn’t upset her – her heart’s a bit dicky, you know.’

‘Why didn’t she
tell
us earlier that she wanted to come?’

‘I think it was just a sudden notion she had. She always hates it when you go, you know. She’ll be all right after I get back. We’ll have a nice cup of Horlick’s for a treat, and play Pegotty, and go over all the events of your visit, and then I’ll make her have a little rest – the last few days have been quite exciting for her. She’s so proud of you, you know.’

In the train, practically empty, and the ferry, which was only half full, these words came back to her, replayed themselves over and over in her mind. She had thought that a weight would be lifted once she had got into the train with the visit behind her, but the pall of boredom and irritation was quenched now only by guilt, as she thought of all the ways in which she might have given her mother more pleasure, been kinder, nicer, more patient. Why was it that, in spite of all these years during which she felt that she had grown from being a spoiled and selfish girl into a thoroughly grown-up wife and mother and responsible member of a large family, she had only to be with her mother for a few
minutes
to revert to her earlier, disagreeable self? It was her behaviour, after all, that made her mother so timid and conciliatory, made her, in fact, everything, that she, Zoë, found most exasperating. Waiting in her empty carriage for the train to start for London she suddenly thought, Supposing Jules when she is grown up feels like that about
me
? The idea brought tears to her eyes. She opened
Anna Karenina
, but she had reached the scene where Anna sees her son after he has stolen a peach and decides to take him away with her to Moscow. She knew that Anna was not going to be allowed to have Vronsky
and
her son, and the mere thought of such a choice filled her eyes again and one splashed onto her book. She searched for and found a handkerchief in her bag. The train began to move, and as it did so, the carriage door was wrenched open and an army officer got in. He seated himself diagonally opposite to her, having put one small, very smart bag with his cap on the rack. Now she wouldn’t even be able to finish her cry in peace, she thought. A second later, he had taken out a packet of cigarettes and was offering one to her.

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Do you mind if I do?’

She shook her head. ‘Not at all.’

‘You sound as though you have a cold coming,’ he said with a kind of sympathetic familiarity that confounded her. But he was American, she knew that – not only from his voice but from his uniform which was a much prettier, palish green version of English khaki.

‘I haven’t. I just read a rather sad bit in my book, that’s all.’ This excuse, which she had thought would sound lofty, sounded nothing of the kind when she said it.

‘Is that so?’

‘Not really.’

‘Perhaps you read a bit that reminded you of something in your own life and that’s what did it.’

She looked up from her handkerchief to find him regarding her. He had very dark, almost black eyes. He lit his cigarette with a large, rather battered metal lighter. Then he said: ‘Do you see yourself as a Russian heroine? As Anna?’

‘How did you know—’

‘I’m so well educated, I can read upside down.’

She was not sure whether he was laughing at her, and said quickly, ‘Have you read it?’

‘A long time ago. When I was at college. I remember enough to warn you that Anna comes to a sad end.’

‘I know that. I’ve read it before.’

‘Is that so? What is it like to read a novel when you know what is going to happen?’

‘Once you know the story, you can notice other things.’

A short silence. Then he said, ‘My name’s Jack, Jack Greenfeldt. I was wondering whether you would have lunch with me when we get to London?’

‘I’m afraid I’m already lunching with someone.’

‘Your husband?’

‘Oh, no. A friend.’ She looked at her wedding ring. He asks a lot of questions, she thought, but that was probably because he was American – she had never met one before. If he does, I can.

‘Are you married?’

‘I have been . . . I’m divorced. How many children do you have?’

‘How do you know I have any?’

‘Well, if you’ll pardon me, I can see that you are over eighteen and you’re not wearing uniform: the chances are that you have children. Of course, you might also be some very senior or rare kind of civil servant as you call them here, but somehow you don’t look the type to me.’

‘I have one child, a daughter.’

‘Show me a picture of her.’

It seemed odd to her that he wanted to see a picture of the child of a total stranger, but why not? She took the leather folder out of her bag that contained her two favourite pictures: Juliet standing on the mounting block in the courtyard wearing one of the Duchy’s garden hats (she adored hats) and Juliet sitting in the long grass beside the tennis court in her best white muslin summer frock. In the first picture she was laughing, in the second she looked very serious.

He looked at them intently for quite a long time. Then, shutting the folder and handing it back, he said, ‘She’s very like you. I appreciate you showing me. Where is she?’

‘In the country.’

‘So you don’t live in London?’ His disappointment was transparent. It made her feel kindly and old.

‘No. Do you mind if
I
ask
you
something?’

‘I don’t think I’m in a position to mind. What do you want to know?’

‘Well, is it because you are American that you ask so many questions of a total stranger?’

He thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve always been inquisitive – more curious, about people, anyway. As you can see, I have the kind of nose that fits very easily into other people’s business.’ This made her glance at his face. He smiled; his teeth looked very white against his sallow complexion. ‘I was hoping that you’d ask something more personal,’ he said.

There was a nervous silence. Once, she would have thought that he was flirting with her, and she would have known exactly what to do, or not do, could have chosen the next move. Now she felt utterly unsure – she had no idea what game it was, she had only the uneasy feeling that he knew more than she about whatever it might be.

‘It is very difficult to be happy in a war.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because I sense that you are guilty about not being happy. Why on earth should you be? With people being killed all the time, slaughtered, murdered and sometimes tortured first, and then families being broken up, everybody without their partner, shortages of everything that makes life easier, a monotonous routine and a general absence of anything resembling a good time, why should you – or anyone else in this island – be
happy
? You may endure – the British seem to me to have gotten very good at that – but why should you
enjoy
it? I know the stiff upper lip is deeply embedded in the British creed, but you try and
smile
with one!’

He was generalizing; she felt safer.

‘We’ve trained our lips,’ she said. ‘We’re used to it now.’

‘I’ve found that it is very dangerous to get used to things.’

‘Anything?’

‘Yes – anything. You cease to notice whatever it is, and, worse, you get the illusion that you’ve arrived somewhere.’

‘I don’t feel that at
all
,’ she said, discovering this.

‘Don’t you?’

‘Well, I suppose it depends what you mean by not noticing things or getting used to them—’

‘Nothing about your life depends upon what I mean,’ he said, but it was not a harsh interruption.

‘I think one can get used to something and still notice it,’ she said. She was thinking of Rupert.

‘That would make it a very serious thing.’

‘Yes. It would. It does.’ She was immediately afraid that he would ask her
what
would – would press her past that involuntary confidence, but he didn’t. He got up and moved to sit in the seat immediately opposite her.

‘I still don’t know your name.’

She told him.

‘Zoë Cazalet. Would you have dinner with me tonight? I can see you’re about to turn me down. Don’t. This is a very serious invitation.’

Reasons why she shouldn’t do this crowded in. What should she tell the family? ‘I am having dinner with an American I met on the train’? Where should she stay in London, since she would be unlikely to get a train late enough afterwards? Where could she go between lunch and dinner? Why on earth was she even considering it?

‘I’ve nothing to wear,’ she said.

LOUISE

October 1943

‘Hasn’t he finished yet?’

‘He keeps falling asleep.’

Mary, the new, very young, highly trained nanny looked disapproving. ‘Pinch his cheeks,’ she said.

Louise gave a gentle tweak. The baby squirmed, pushed his head against her breast and found her nipple once more, but after sucking once or twice, he gave up.

‘I don’t think I’ve got any milk left on that side.’

‘Oh, well. Have you winded him?’

‘I tried, but nothing much happened, I’m afraid.’

Mary leaned down, and took the baby from her. ‘Come to Mary, then,’ she said in a different, far kinder voice. She put the baby over her shoulder and patted the small of his back. He belched several times.

‘That’s a good boy. Your cup of tea’s on the side there.’

‘Thank you, Mary.’

‘Say goodbye to Mummy, then.’ She levered the baby down so that Louise could kiss his face. He was pale, excepting for two blotches of bright pink on his cheeks; his mouth was pink and damp and pouting with a bead of milk on the protuberant lower lip. He smelled of milk and his eyes were shut. When they had gone, Louise buttoned up her nursing bra, putting fresh pads over her nipples. They were sore, but nothing like as bad as they had been. She reached for the cup of tea and drank it gratefully. The early morning feed was the worst. She was wakened from deep sleep by Mary, sometimes not until six o’clock, but sometimes even earlier, and the feed which, if only the baby would drink properly, need not take more than half an hour, always took twice as long. By the end of it she felt tired, but horribly awake. It took her ages to get to sleep again, and by the time she did, she had to get up for breakfast. At home, she would have stayed in bed, but at Hatton, where she now was, this was out of the question. She would have to get up,ve to