intrusive since it seemed to need no
response. She had recognised that the offer for her to do the flowers was a gesture; she tried very hard and found that she enjoyed doing them and was actually good at it. From there, she picked
with the Duchy and began to learn the names of different roses and so forth, and later, at her request, the Duchy taught her how to smock – another skill which she acquired. The Duchy never
mentioned the baby – Zoë had been afraid that their increased intimacy might lead to that, and that she would have to say things she did not feel or mean under that direct and honest
gaze, but this never happened – nor did the Duchy, by any remote implication, suggest that she should have another baby. Because the thought of this, which sometimes seemed her only future,
hung heavily over her, unmentioned but somehow implicit. In the Cazalet family, wives had children – several of them – it was normal and expected. Neither Sybil nor Villy appeared to
have the horror that she felt about the whole business; they seemed to her blessed with the full set of maternal feelings, disregard for their own bodies or discomfort or pain and, what was more,
they seemed invariably delighted by the results, whereas she found babies mildly disgusting, and most children, at least until they reached Clary’s age, a nuisance. It was these feelings that
held her in thrall; she was not like them, and while a year ago she had felt superior, more beautiful and therefore interesting, now she felt inferior – a coward, a freak, somebody they would
all be horrified to have in their midst if they knew. So she clung to her convalescence, her lack of energy and the attenuated relationship with Rupert, whom she was alternately afraid of loving
her too much or not at all. At least so far he had not
asked
her whether she wanted another baby.
By lunch-time (on Saturday), Neville and Lydia had both become bored with watching the squash court roof painted and had given up being messengers. ‘They don’t give
us anything to messenge,’ Neville complained. They decided that when they went to Pear Tree Cottage for lunch, they simply wouldn’t go back. ‘That means getting well out of reach
of all of them,’ Lydia remarked as they trudged homewards for their meal, ‘they’re in a very bossy frame of mind.’
‘When aren’t they?’
‘Of course, there’ll be Ellen trying to take us for a walk with boring Wills and Roland.’
‘We’ll tell her we’re wanted at Home Place. She won’t know.’
‘What shall we actually do?’
‘I’ll tell you after lunch. As soon as we can get down, say you’ll race me to Home Place.’
Later, and full of fish pie and marmalade pudding, they went through the act, but as soon as they were out of sight, Lydia wanted to know the plan. Neville hadn’t got one which annoyed
him. ‘I was thinking of cutting your hair,’ he said.
Lydia clutched her pigtails. ‘No! I’m going to grow it to the ground.’
‘You’ll never reach
that.’
‘Why not, pray?’ said Lydia, imitating her mother at her most formidable.
‘Because every time your hair gets longer, you’ll get taller. It’ll sap your strength,’ he warned. He had heard Ellen saying that. ‘Ladies have been known to die of
having too long hair. They get weaker and weaker and on the fifth day they are dead.’
‘You didn’t make that up, I know where it comes from. It’s Augustus not eating in that frightening book.
I
know. Mr York has got evacuees. Why don’t we go and
see them?’
‘We might as well. We can’t go back past the cottage. They might see us. We can go on our stomachs through the corn in front, or through the wood and round the back.’
‘Quicker round the back.’ Lydia knew that going through corn any old way made people cross.
‘What
are
evacuees?’ she asked, as they trotted through the small copse and into the field at the back of Pear Tree Cottage.
‘Children from
response. She had recognised that the offer for her to do the flowers was a gesture; she tried very hard and found that she enjoyed doing them and was actually good at it. From there, she picked
with the Duchy and began to learn the names of different roses and so forth, and later, at her request, the Duchy taught her how to smock – another skill which she acquired. The Duchy never
mentioned the baby – Zoë had been afraid that their increased intimacy might lead to that, and that she would have to say things she did not feel or mean under that direct and honest
gaze, but this never happened – nor did the Duchy, by any remote implication, suggest that she should have another baby. Because the thought of this, which sometimes seemed her only future,
hung heavily over her, unmentioned but somehow implicit. In the Cazalet family, wives had children – several of them – it was normal and expected. Neither Sybil nor Villy appeared to
have the horror that she felt about the whole business; they seemed to her blessed with the full set of maternal feelings, disregard for their own bodies or discomfort or pain and, what was more,
they seemed invariably delighted by the results, whereas she found babies mildly disgusting, and most children, at least until they reached Clary’s age, a nuisance. It was these feelings that
held her in thrall; she was not like them, and while a year ago she had felt superior, more beautiful and therefore interesting, now she felt inferior – a coward, a freak, somebody they would
all be horrified to have in their midst if they knew. So she clung to her convalescence, her lack of energy and the attenuated relationship with Rupert, whom she was alternately afraid of loving
her too much or not at all. At least so far he had not
asked
her whether she wanted another baby.
By lunch-time (on Saturday), Neville and Lydia had both become bored with watching the squash court roof painted and had given up being messengers. ‘They don’t give
us anything to messenge,’ Neville complained. They decided that when they went to Pear Tree Cottage for lunch, they simply wouldn’t go back. ‘That means getting well out of reach
of all of them,’ Lydia remarked as they trudged homewards for their meal, ‘they’re in a very bossy frame of mind.’
‘When aren’t they?’
‘Of course, there’ll be Ellen trying to take us for a walk with boring Wills and Roland.’
‘We’ll tell her we’re wanted at Home Place. She won’t know.’
‘What shall we actually do?’
‘I’ll tell you after lunch. As soon as we can get down, say you’ll race me to Home Place.’
Later, and full of fish pie and marmalade pudding, they went through the act, but as soon as they were out of sight, Lydia wanted to know the plan. Neville hadn’t got one which annoyed
him. ‘I was thinking of cutting your hair,’ he said.
Lydia clutched her pigtails. ‘No! I’m going to grow it to the ground.’
‘You’ll never reach
that.’
‘Why not, pray?’ said Lydia, imitating her mother at her most formidable.
‘Because every time your hair gets longer, you’ll get taller. It’ll sap your strength,’ he warned. He had heard Ellen saying that. ‘Ladies have been known to die of
having too long hair. They get weaker and weaker and on the fifth day they are dead.’
‘You didn’t make that up, I know where it comes from. It’s Augustus not eating in that frightening book.
I
know. Mr York has got evacuees. Why don’t we go and
see them?’
‘We might as well. We can’t go back past the cottage. They might see us. We can go on our stomachs through the corn in front, or through the wood and round the back.’
‘Quicker round the back.’ Lydia knew that going through corn any old way made people cross.
‘What
are
evacuees?’ she asked, as they trotted through the small copse and into the field at the back of Pear Tree Cottage.
‘Children from
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