She had certainly pulled all the stops out. Once they were back from France, she had got in touch with a whole clutch of agents, and stuff about houses had poured through the letterbox every morning. He had only stipulated that the place must be within reasonable distance from London as he was going to have to commute.
Hugh had suggested that he go to Southampton to run the wharf there, but he suspected that this was simply Hugh trying to get him out of the way to avoid the ceaseless arguments about capital, income and, of course, the bank. The worsening relationship with his brother, to whom he had always been so close, cut him to the heart. He knew that Diana came into this: Hugh maintained (in Edward’s view) a totally unreasoning prejudice. He had made no effort with her at all, refused – with transparent excuses – to dine with them, and never invited them to Ladbroke Grove. Bang went their quiet evenings of chess or bridge. They met occasionally for lunch at one of their clubs, but chiefly in the office, where constant interruptions seemed to mean that they went over the old ground again and again, without ever venturing beyond it. Supposing the bank ceased to wear their steadily increasing overdraft (him); what a dangerous difference it would make to their books if Southampton was to go (Hugh), and if they were to hang on to Southampton, who should be put in to run it? He was of the opinion that McIver was the best candidate: he’d been with them for thirty years now – hadn’t been called up due to poor eyesight – and worked his way up from office boy in Great Uncle Walter’s time to managing one of the London sawmills. But Hugh had insisted that the place must be run by a Cazalet. Which would mean Rupert, who, bless his heart, was not cut out for running anything, or Teddy, who, though promising, was not really experienced enough.
‘We’re nearly there, darling. Slow down a bit, it’s a very small turning.’
With a jolt, with relief, he was back in the present – always his best place. They were going to look at a house just outside Hawkhurst, and Diana had the agent’s instructions on her lap.
‘Now! This is it. There it is!’
It stood on a small eminence above them, a rectangular stone house with a slate roof, and a portico with two stone pillars each side of the front door. It was in what might once have been its small park, but was now let to farmers for grazing. He stopped the car for a moment so that they could look at it from afar. A plain house that had a kind of mini-grandeur about it that he knew she would love.
‘It looks marvellous. I can’t wait to see inside.’
She had been very excited ever since she had been sent the particulars, and this had made her more affectionate to him than she had been since before they’d gone to France. He squeezed her knee. ‘Off we go, then.’
It was a balmy September morning – the trees turning but still well leafed. They pulled into a narrow drive that had an open gate marked ‘Park House’. Mr Armitage, the agent, was already there, his bicycle propped against the porch. He was happy to show them round, he said, but most clients liked a first viewing on their own. Just give him a shout if they wanted him. He unlocked the front door and went to sit on the shallow stone steps that led up to it.
‘He looks as though he’s got a hell of a hangover,’ Edward said, and Diana answered, ‘He probably hates working on Saturday mornings.’
The house was empty, which Diana said she liked. The wallpaper was marked where pictures had hung, soot had fallen in the grates of the pretty fireplaces and paint had blistered on the shutters; there were a large number of prosperous spiders’ webs everywhere, the bathrooms both had green stains from dripping taps and the kitchen showed signs of mice. They saw it all: the bedrooms that were graded from the front of the house – grand then gradually becoming more and more spartan as they reached the back – the drawing room that had a double aspect, its large bow window looking out onto a walled garden, the dining room, with its serving hatch to the kitchen, the stone-floored larder, with its marble slabs and ancient flypapers studded with bluebottles, the ice-cold scullery and store room, and, at the very back, a dank little lavatory for servants.
‘Oh, darling! It’s perfect! Don’t you think so? And a walled garden. All my life I’ve yearned for one.’ She turned to him, her lovely hyacinth eyes glowing with excitement and pleasure.
‘If you’re sure you want it, darling.’
‘Oh, I do. And you do too, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. And if you want it, it’s yours.’
She flung her arms round his neck. ‘Our house! Our first real house.’ She kissed him, and all his earliest feelings for her returned. He’d got the old Diana back.