Getting It Right (47 page)

‘But, you want to go, don’t you?’

She said: ‘I never thought I’d want anything as much again.’ She took off her glasses and fumbled for a handkerchief.

‘She’s had such a hard time! We shouldn’t ever have let her go off on that holiday so young! But I thought it was a kind of school thing. Of course it wasn’t. And then
she got knocked up in one go! She only went with him the once. “You don’t want to have it,” I said, “not at your age,” but she wouldn’t budge. I thought
she’d get him adopted, but not she! And of course, once he was there, we wouldn’t either of us have parted with him . . . She’s had no youth, really. When we moved to London, it
meant she lost all her friends, and anyway she’s never had the time for herself; it’s been nothing but work and looking after the boy . . .’ She blew her nose furiously several
times and groped for her cigarettes.

When he had lit one for her, he said: ‘Is that why you offered me the rooms? So that there would be someone around?’

‘Well, it did seem an idea. But it’s upset her; I don’t know why. That’s why she’s gone out actually; we nearly had a row about it.’

‘Because she doesn’t want me to have them.’

‘I can’t make her out. She thinks the world of you. I don’t know what’s got into her. Of course, she’s very nervous about men. I expect you knew that.’

He thought about that; yes, he did know, but he didn’t say anything.

‘Well, I can’t take the rooms if she doesn’t want me to, can I?’

She looked at him and then, with a mixture of defeat and exasperation in her voice, said: ‘I really don’t know.’

She got up then, and started slicing bread and opening a tin of beans which she put into a saucepan.

He sat and watched her. He had the sense that events, other people, life generally were all combining to corral him into a decision, that, whatever else it might turn out to be, should surely
initially be a matter of private free will . . .

‘Jenny would have the house,’ she was now saying, ‘and there’s a little money that her father left me. I could let her have that; or at least the income from it till
Andrew’s older. With the rooms let, she should just about manage.’

‘You’ve made up your mind to go, haven’t you really? You really know you’re going to go.’

‘I know I want to. I’ll have to talk to Jenny about it.’

‘She knows. She told me about it several days ago, when your chap was staying here. But then she thought you didn’t mean it, because you didn’t say anything after he
left.’

She put his plate of baked beans in front of him and sat down with hers. ‘Why didn’t
she
say something?’

‘I expect she was waiting for you. When you mentioned the rooms at lunch, she guessed you were thinking of going after all.’

‘Oh dear.’ But she went on eyeing him; as though she was willing him to find a solution.

He didn’t want to eat: he’d come to see Jenny; now he wasn’t sure that he could face her – not tonight, anyway, he decided; he felt confused, obstinate, and out of sorts;
he was sorry for Jenny’s mother and he wanted to blame her for everything going wrong . . . He said that he thought he’d go, and added that he would ring Jenny in the morning.
‘Sorry about the baked beans,’ he said, ‘but I’m not hungry.’

She came to the door with him, apologizing in a general sort of way, and, now he was leaving her, he felt able to be more generous.

‘It’s not
your
fault,’ he said, ‘I see you have a difficult decision to make . . . Don’t worry: something will work out.’

He drove a little way down the street towards the main road, and then stopped. He couldn’t leave things like this. He stopped the car and waited for Jenny to return.

He had nearly fallen asleep, and had just got out a cigar to keep him awake when he saw her, walking quickly on the opposite side of the road towards him. He honked the horn, once, gently; saw
her look towards him, square her shoulders and walk faster. He wound down his window and called her.

‘Goodness! I didn’t think it was you.’

‘Get in for a moment, will you, Jenny? There’s something I want to say to you.’

He opened the door for her and she slipped into the front seat beside him. She was wearing a heavy knitted jacket over her dress, and her hands were plunged in its pockets.

‘I know why you were upset today. You thought your mother had decided to go, and was trying to get me to rent the rooms so that she would feel all right about going. Right?’

‘Right.’

‘Well, now – listen. What I’m going to say is a bit difficult, but I want to tell you exactly what I mean, and I really want you to hear what I say.
Exactly
what I
say,’ he repeated. She looked at him then, her eyes solemn and attentive.

‘All right. I hope I can,’ she said, ‘understand you, I mean.’

‘And you won’t interrupt me.’

‘I won’t.’

‘I care about you very much, I think I’ve fallen in love with you. But I wanted more time to be sure. I feel we’re sort of being pushed into things, and that makes me unsure
about whether I’ll ever be able to find out. Also, I’ve no idea how
you
feel about me. I know you like me and we get on well when I’m showing you things – and
working together, but I don’t mean just that. What I feel is – if we sort of knew how each other felt, we could sort out the rest; or even if we knew how each other didn’t
feel,’ he added, and then he couldn’t think of any more to say. There was a silence.

Jenny said: ‘You finished?’

‘For the moment, yes.’

Then she said: ‘I feel a bit like you. Well, really, quite like. And I thought that about Mum and the rooms. I felt she was pushing us and it made me feel so angry – and sad. I mean,
how can we know?’

‘We haven’t known each other for very long.’

‘Three years,’ she reminded him, ‘but I suppose you can’t really count most of that.’

‘No. I didn’t meet you properly until that day when you were talking to the ducks.’

‘And you were wearing your olive green sweater.’

‘Was I? You were in your white mac: I remember that. In some ways we’ve only known each other about a week.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘I mean – deciding who you’re going to spend your life with is a terrible decision.’

‘You never said anything about
that
!’ she said.

‘Oh – well, I sort of took that for granted.
If
we found we liked each other – got on generally – it might lead to that. It might. Probably take a long time
though,’ he added: he wished she’d say something
positive
.

‘I suppose so.’ She didn’t sound very enthusiastic – rather forlorn.

‘You see – it’s not just a question of liking – it’s far more than that in the long run.’

‘What more is it?’

‘It’s a question of love,’ he said cautiously, ‘total commitment – of one kind or another.’

She said, ‘I don’t believe in people being unfaithful to each other. If that’s what you mean,’ and started blushing. ‘I don’t believe in that, either. But
ideally, of course, one shouldn’t even
want
to look at anyone else. And people seem to find that quite difficult. The other thing, of course, is that the love should be mutual
– ’

‘Why do you keep saying “of course”? Is it because you think I won’t agree with you, or aren’t you sure whether you mean whatever you’re saying?’

‘It’s because I want us both to agree with me,’ he said, and suddenly felt – a fraction more – light-hearted.

That didn’t last. She turned to him, and laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘Listen, Gavin. I’m not at all sure that I’m up to it: your idea of love, I mean. After all
you’ve been saying, I still don’t know how you feel about
me
– so I sort of feel I don’t know where I am. It all sounds a bit calculating to me.’

‘Yes, but what I’m doing is trying to cut down on the risk.’

‘That’s it,’ she said. She spoke slowly, as though she was trying herself to find out what she meant. ‘But I don’t think loving somebody works like that. I only
know about Andrew. But I couldn’t plan how marvellous he was going to be before I had him. I just had to take the risk. And that really meant loving him whatever he was.’

As always, when she spoke of Andrew, her maturity struck him, in this case to silence. She knew far more about love than he did. Perhaps she loved Andrew so much that she didn’t need
anybody else.

‘What do you think we ought to do?’ he asked.

‘It sounds as though we shouldn’t do anything. Until you’ve made up your mind.’

‘Till
I’ve
made up my mind – what about you?’

She said: ‘Do you know what you sound like? You sound like Peter – with Hazel. A Five-Year Plan for everything.

Plan, plan, plan and never leave anything to chance. They made us both laugh – do you remember? If we never take a chance, we’ll never know, will we?’

‘I only asked you how you felt. Jenny,
do
help me: I really want to know.’

She turned deliberately to face him, took off her glasses and rolled her eyes, shrugging with the mock-comic gesture he knew so well. Then she put her thin arms round his neck and gave him two
kisses – a short firm one, and a much longer one. She drew a little away; her eyes, luminous and warm, looking into his, and the rest of her trembling. ‘How did you like that,
then?’ she said.

It was no dream.

‘She is one of those novelists who shows, through her work, what the novel is for . . . She helps us to do the necessary thing – open our eyes and our
hearts’

Hilary Mantel

‘Magnificent, addictive . . . deeply enjoyable, beautifully written’

The Times

‘Elegantly constructed and intelligently and wittily written . . . remarkable’

Daily Telegraph

‘A compelling storyteller, shrewd and accurate in human observation, with a fine ear for dialogue and an evident pleasure in the English language and landscape’

Guardian

‘Howard is such an astute observer of human behaviour. She conveys volumes with tiny, brilliant touches . . . This is Howard’s true magic: her humanity transcends
the individual’

Sunday Times

‘Love and relationships are the abiding themes of Howard’s novels . . . [this is] a novel about constants – loyalty, kindness, compassion – and like the
best of its characters, never less than heart-warming and wise’

Observer

‘A dazzling historical reconstruction’ Penelope Fitzgerald

‘A lyrical read full of period detail pricked with the sharp emotional intelligence for which Howard is rightly feted’

Literary Review

‘Howard has lost none of her creative imagination, none of her insight, none of her comedy and none of that rare and miraculous ability to magic us into a room with the
characters’

Spectator

‘Beautifully written and utterly engrossing’

Woman and Home

‘Howard’s brilliance lies in her forensic depiction of sexual and emotional loneliness’

Times Literary Supplement

‘A compelling insight into love, relationships and a fascinating time. It is a real treat’

Sunday Express

‘The Cazalets have earned an honoured place among the great saga families . . . rendered thrillingly three-dimensional by a master craftsman’

Sunday Telegraph

‘Charming, poignant and quite irresistible . . . to be cherished and shared’

The Times

‘Superb . . . hypnotic . . . very funny’

Spectator

‘A family saga of the best kind . . . a must’

Tatler

‘As polished, stylish and civilized as her many devotees would expect’

Julian Barnes

‘An intelligent and perceptive writer’

Peter Ackroyd

‘She writes brilliantly and her characters are always totally believable. She makes you laugh, she sometimes shocks, and often makes you cry’

Rosamunde Pilcher

GETTING IT RIGHT

Elizabeth Jane Howard was the author of fifteen highly acclaimed novels. The Cazalet Chronicles –
The Light Years
,
Marking Time
,
Confusion
and
Casting Off
– have become established as modern classics and have been adapted for a major BBC television series and most recently for BBC Radio 4. In 2002 Macmillan published
Elizabeth Jane Howard’s autobiography,
Slipstream
. In that same year she was awarded a CBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours List. She died in January 2014, following the
publication of the fifth Cazalet novel,
All Change
.

Love All

The Beautiful Visit

The Long View

The Sea Change

After Julius

Odd Girl Out

Something in Disguise

Mr Wrong

Falling

The Cazalet Chronicles

The Light Years

Marking Time

Confusion

Casting Off

All Change

Non-Fiction

The Lover’s Companion

Green Shades

Slipstream