The Light Years (The Cazalet Chronicle) (40 page)

When he woke, the sun had gone and the birds were making evening noises. He put on his shirt, and started home. The first field was full of rabbits; the older ones feeding, the young ones playing. He would have liked to watch them for a bit, but he could come back early in the morning and do that. He was hungry again. He could tell by the state of the sun that he would have missed tea, but there might be something he could coax out of the maids to last him until suppertime. He broke into a steady trot. Three mallard were flying from the small river that bounded the field towards his wood: going to his pond, he expected, they might be the same three he had seen there last year. Why can’t I live here? he thought. Never go back to London again in my life, be a farmer or do people’s gardens or something. Or look after animals, or someone’s estate. He had been looking down, because of rabbit holes, but the sound of a single shot made him look up and he stopped. Rabbits were running towards him, away from the gate into the horse field. There was a second shot, and a rabbit keeled over a few yards away, tried to get up, made an awful soft screaming sound and fell back again, twitching. He ran up to it and touched its fur: it was warm – and dead.

‘We didn’t see you – had no idea you were there.’ It was Uncle Edward with Teddy, who emerged from the shadows of a large tree.

‘I got him!’ Teddy was exultant. He picked up the rabbit by its hind legs: there was scarlet blood on its white stomach. He swung it round in the air. ‘My first this hols!’

Christopher looked from father to son. Uncle Edward was smiling indulgently, Teddy was beaming. Neither of them thought it in the least horrible, which he knew it was.

‘A good clean shot,’ Uncle Edward was saying.

‘He screamed,’ Christopher blurted, and felt tears scorching his eyes. ‘It can’t have been
that
clean.’

‘He won’t have felt anything, old boy. It was too sudden.’

‘Oh, well, he’s dead now, isn’t he?’ his voice sounded artificial, even to him. ‘Got to go,’ he muttered turning away just as the tears spurted out of his eyes, and broke into a run. He scrambled over the gate and momentarily looked back. They were walking away from him, towards the bank by his wood: they were going to try and kill more. A fox might have got it, but it would have needed it. They were doing it for some damn stupid idea of fun; the rabbit meant nothing to them. If he was living in his wood, he would have bows and arrows and he would kill rabbits from time to time, but it would be for food, like the fox. Not that that made it any better for the rabbit. He was walking now that he’d got well away from them in the smaller field where there was not a rabbit to be seen. No wonder it was difficult to watch any wild animals unless you waited for ages; they knew people were awful and quite sensibly ran or flew away from them. He tried to think about death – it happened to everything, of course, in the end, but
making
it happen was probably wicked, well, it was murder, which people got hung for if they just killed one other person, but got medals for in wars. He would be a pacifist like a boy’s father at school and he’d rather be a vet than a doctor any old day because it seemed that animals didn’t have enough people on their side. Then, because he saw a Painted Lady, he remembered how he’d killed butterflies last year just to collect them and he had honestly to admit to being a bit of a murderer himself. The fact that he didn’t want to do it any more was only because he’d got all the kinds that were in this part of the country, so there was nothing very marvellous about stopping. He was no better than his cousin, who was, after all, a year younger – only fourteen. But if he was serious about not murdering things, he ought to give away his collection. This was a horrible thought: Mum had given him a collector’s chest with twelve shallow drawers, and he’d only just got everything properly arranged, with each specimen set on pale blue blotting paper and a little white ticket to say what each one was. Perhaps he needn’t give the chest away as well and he could use it for collecting something else. The point was, he loved the butterflies and wanted to keep them, but he could also see, rather uncomfortably, that that wasn’t the point. It was no good
saying
you were against something if you went and did the opposite. He wondered whether being a pacifist would turn out to be like this, only worse; he didn’t know much about what it entailed, except that Jenkins got ragged about having a father who was one. He supposed he’d be bullied about it, but he was used to that: they already bullied him about his father being the school bursar. Perhaps he could put off being a pacifist until he left school, and just begin by being against people killing animals for any reason except when they needed to eat them? That certainly meant giving away the butterfly collection. Giving the chest away with it would hurt his mother’s feelings. There he went again; it might, but the point was, he wanted to keep the chest. ‘Admit it!’ he said furiously aloud.

‘Admit what? Hallo, Christopher! Are you coming to the museum meeting? It’s happening now in the old hen-house. You are cordially invited to attend.’

It was Polly. He’d gone into the stable yard of Home Place without thinking because he’d always stayed there before. Polly was sitting on the wall that led to the kitchen garden. She wore a bright blue dress and was eating a Crunchie. His mouth watered.

‘Want some?’ She held the bar waveringly down to his mouth. ‘That was a pretty large bit.’

He nodded. When his mouth was less full, he said, ‘I missed tea.’

‘Oh, poor you!’ She gave him the rest of the bar. So then he felt he had to go to the museum meeting.

Tonbridge, with one expert movement, pinched out the cigarette and put it back behind his ear. ‘Good evening, Mr Rupert.’ The boot was still open. ‘I’ll take the lunch in, sir.’ He hadn’t been able to eat any of the awful tea Ethyl had provided him with, with her blinding on about the country being too quiet and, anyway, everything fried kicked up his ulcer something wicked, which well she knew and much she cared. Mrs Cripps would give him a nice cup of tea and a fairy cake before he went off to fetch Miss Rachel from the station. Rupert, who guessed that he would do anything to get away from Mrs Tonbridge, took one end of the handle of the heavy wicker picnic basket and they marched with it to the kitchen back door. Rupert walked around to the front. The door of his father’s study was open and he began calling as soon as he heard Rupert’s steps.

‘Hugh? Edward? Which one of you is it?’

‘It’s me, Dad.’

‘Oh, Rupert. The very feller I wanted to see. Come in, my boy. Have a whisky. Shut the door. I wanted to have a word with you.’

‘Darling, eat your cake.’

‘I suppose if I can’t
have
it, I’d better.’ Then she saw Rachel’s eyes cloud with comprehension and pain and added quickly, ‘Don’t mind me. I always feel blue when you go.’ She broke off a piece of the walnut cake with her fork and ate it. ‘I meant it would be quite nice to be able to take it to eat on the bus on the way home.’

Rachel’s face cleared. ‘Why don’t you? Better still, have another piece for the bus. Have mine. I don’t want it a bit.’

They were sitting in Fuller’s in the Strand, having tea before Rachel caught her train to Battle. She had been up for the day, attending a meeting that was called to raise funds for her Babies’ Hotel. That had been in the morning, and she had met Sid for lunch – a picnic of ham and rolls and apples consumed amid the dust sheets at Chester Terrace. The house was shut for the summer, with only old Mary caretaking in its vast and cavernous basement. Afterwards, they had walked in the Park, arm in arm, discussing, as they nearly always did, the problems of the holidays and Evie’s health and state of mind, and the consequent difficulties of Sid coming down to stay. It had been finally determined that Rachel should sound out the Duchy about the possibility of Evie coming too, if the conductor for whom she worked as a secretary went on tour and did not need her.

‘Walnut cake reminds me of going back to school,’ Rachel now said. ‘The Duchy used to take me out to tea, but I always felt homesick and I couldn’t eat anything. So do have it,’ she added.

‘Righty-ho.’ Sid picked up the piece, wrapped it in the paper napkin, and put it in her battered bag. Rachel had been eating or rather not eating a piece of buttered toast.

‘You know I’d stay up if I possibly could.’

You possibly could, thought Sid, if you weren’t so damnably unselfish.

‘My darling, I’ve come to accept that you live for others. It’s just that – sometimes – I wish that I could be one of them.’

Rachel put down her cup. ‘But you couldn’t ever be!’ There was a silence, her face flooded with colour that slowly ebbed away as Sid watched. Then, in a voice that was both casual and unsteady and not looking at Sid, she said, ‘I’d always rather be with you than anyone in the world!’

Sid found she was unable to speak. She put her hand over Rachel’s, then, meeting those troubled innocent eyes, she winked and said, ‘Oy, oy! We must catch your blasted train.’

They paid for their tea and walked without speaking to Charing Cross to the platform barrier.

‘Want me to see you off?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘It’s been such a lovely day,’ she said, and tried to smile.

‘Hasn’t it just? Goodbye, my darling. Mind you ring.’ She put two fingers on Rachel’s face, stopped for a moment when she reached her mouth to receive the minute trembling kiss. Then she turned clumsily away and walked out of the station without looking back.

‘The fact is, my dear, that it’s jolly unfair. We’re the
only
ones who aren’t allowed grown-up supper.’

‘Wills isn’t.’

‘
Wills!
He hardly exists! He’s not even a
child
.’

‘Well, we don’t have to have supper with him. And I quite like him, anyway. He is my brother,’ she added.

‘Oh, he’s all right as far as he goes. But it doesn’t alter the fact that it’s jolly unfair. Even Simon has dining-room supper and he’s only twelve. You have to admit that there’s not much justice there.’

‘No, there isn’t. Pass the soap.’

They were sitting in each end of the bath, not washing. Clary’s plate lay on the mahogany shelf by the tooth mugs. Their backs were pink from the sun, with white marks from their bathing dresses. The soles of their feet were dark grey from not wearing sandals. Polly scrubbed her flannel with soap and began to wash a foot.

‘We should stop washing as a protest,’ said Clary.

‘I’m only washing the bits that are dirty, only my feet, in fact. Mummy always inspects them.’

Clary was silent. Zoë wouldn’t dream of bothering with her feet and Dad wouldn’t notice. In some ways this was better, and in some ways worse. Polly looked up, and recognising Clary’s silence, said quickly, ‘It was a jolly good meeting. Christopher was super. Think of having all those butterflies. It was a good idea of yours to make him Curator of the Natural History section.’