Free All Change: Cazalet Chronicles by Elizabeth Jane Howard Page A

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