Free The Light Years (The Cazalet Chronicle) by Elizabeth Jane Howard

knew how much store she set by concerts. He’d take some more dope; it usually got him through. ‘Where’s Polly?’
    ‘Upstairs sulking, I’m afraid. I had to tell her about her move. She’s making a fuss about it.’
    ‘I’ll pop up and say good night to her.’
    Polly lay on her stomach on the floor, tracing what looked like a map. Her straight silky hair – more golden and less red than her mother’s – hung down each side of the black velvet snood hiding her face.
     
    ‘It’s me.’
    ‘I know. I know your voice.’
    ‘What’s up, Poll?’
    There was a pause, and then Polly said distantly, ‘You shouldn’t say “me”, you should say “I”. I should have thought you’d know.’
    ‘It is I.’
    ‘I know. I know your voice.’
    ‘What’s up, Poll?’
    ‘Nothing. I hate geography homework.’ She jabbed her pencil hard through the paper and made a hole. ‘Now you’ve made me spoil my map!’ She gave him an agonised frown and two tears shot out of her eyes.
    He sat down on the floor and put his good arm round her.
    ‘Nothing’s fair! Simon has the best room! He gets a treat every time he comes back from school and I don’t! He gets a treat the night before his term starts and I don’t! You can’t move cats about, they just go back to the old room and I hate that new nanny that’s coming – she smells of peardrops and she doesn’t like girls, she kept talking about my little brother. How does she know? If you aren’t any of you careful I’ll go and live with Louise only I don’t think Pompey would go in a wheelbarrow otherwise I would have gone!’ She took a gasping breath, but he could see that she felt better because she was watching for him to be shocked.
    ‘I couldn’t bear you to leave me and go and live with Louise,’ he said.
    ‘Would it really and truly horrify you?’
    ‘It certainly would.’
    ‘That’s something.’ She was trying to sound grudging, but he could see she was pleased.
    He got to his feet. ‘Let’s go and look at your new room and see what we could do about it.’
    ‘All right, Dad.’ She felt for his hand, but it was the wrong arm; she gave the black silk sock that encased his stump a quick little stroke, then she said, ‘It’s nothing like as bad as a trench in the war: I expect I’ll get quite fond of it in the end.’
    Her face was stern with the effort of concealing her concern for him.

     
    The moment that her parents had gone, Polly rushed to the telephone which was in the back bit of the drawing room near the piano. She lifted the receiver and held it to her ear. In a moment the operator was saying, ‘Number, please.’
    ‘Park one seven eight nine.’ There was a click and then she heard the bell ringing and she started praying it wouldn’t be Aunt Villy the other end.
    ‘Hallo!’
    ‘Hallo! Lou! It’s me – Polly. Are you on your own?’
    ‘Yes. They’ve gone to the theatre. What about yours?’
    ‘A concert. What I’m ringing about is I’m having a new room. My father says I can have it painted whatever colour I like. What do you think about black? And he’s going to have shelves put all round the walls for my things – all round and all over so there will be room for everything! Black would be good for china, wouldn’t it?’
    There was a silence the other end. Then Louise said, ‘People don’t have black walls, Polly, I should have thought you’d have known that.’
    ‘Why don’t they? People wear black clothes and there are black tulips.’
    ‘La Tulipe noir was actually very dark red. I know – I’ve read the book. It’s by a man called Dumas. It’s actually a French book.’
    ‘You can’t read French.’
    ‘It’s so famous you can get it in English. I can read French,’ she added, but not so that I can understand it properly. Of course I can read it.’
    Louise seemed to be in a bate. So Polly asked about the catfish.
    ‘He’s all right, but he doesn’t seem to like the other fish much.’ Then