Marking Time by Elizabeth Jane Howard Page A

them. ‘George is looking after me now,’ she said,
‘so you can vamoose.’
    ‘Spying on us, is ’e?’ George said. ‘A Peeping Tom, is ’e?’ He took a step forward, and the floorboards creaked.
    ‘I’m here to take her away from the bombs. And the kid,’ he said, but his voice came out weak.
    ‘The kid’s gone. I sent him off with his school.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Never you mind where. What’s it to do with you?’
    He started to say something about it being his kid, but she laughed again. ‘
Your
kid? You must be joking! Why did you think I married you – a little runt like
you?’
    It was out. Something he’d always wondered about, and shied away from as a wicked notion he shouldn’t believe in.
    ‘I’ll just get my clothes, then,’ he said, and moved blindly up a stair but his legs were shaking and he had to get hold of the banisters.
    ‘Don’t you dare lay a finger on me!’ she cried, and George moved down to her and laid a hand like a bunch of pork sausages on her shoulder.
    ‘Get ’im his clothes, Ethyl,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have no use for them, would I? ‘E’ll go outside and wait for them as quiet as . . .’ he paused
and his light blue eyes were full of considering contempt, ‘a
mouse
,’ he finished.
    So that was it. He’d gone down the stairs and into the street, and she’d opened the upstairs window and just flung the stuff down at him – socks, shirts, two pairs of shoes and
his winter uniform – all thrown onto the pavement and the street, in the gutter, and he’d gone about, picking them up and putting them into the back of the car while George stood
massively in the doorway and watched him. He’d never felt so humiliated in his life; the whole street might be watching, so all he could do was collect everything as quickly as possible, get
into the car and drive away. But as soon as he’d got to the end of the street and turned a corner, he had to stop, because he found he was sobbing, he couldn’t see a thing, and one
thing he’d always been was careful with Mr Cazalet’s cars. He always says there’s no one to touch you for care of your vehicle. ‘I’d trust you with a brand new Rolls
if I had one,’ that’s what he’d said and not so long ago. He remembered this twice. He’d been with Mr Cazalet for twenty-one years now, and few could say the same. It
wasn’t only the driving, it was the upkeep, and he’d defy anyone – anyone at
all
– to find any dirt, anything wrong with the engine, any polishing neglected. He
blew his nose, and felt with trembling fingers in his pockets for his packet of Weights and lit one. And with Mr Cazalet losing his sight, he depended on him more than ever. ‘I depend upon
you, Frank,’ he’d said not so long ago – last summer it had been when it had first looked like war – ‘I know I can always rely on you,’ he said. A gentleman like
Mr Cazalet wouldn’t say that for nothing. And even when he’d had that trouble with Mr Cazalet driving on the right-hand side of the road because that’s how he rode his horses,
‘I put my foot down,’ he said aloud. ‘Either you drive on the left, sir, or I’ll do the driving.’ Now he always drove him, and Madam, and Miss Rachel, who was a really
nice lady, not to mention Mrs Hugh and Mrs Edward. ‘You’re part of the family,’ Miss Rachel had said when she visited him in hospital after that trouble with his ulcer. ‘I
think you’re very brave,’ she had said. Very
brave
. Miss Rachel would never tell a lie. He’d glanced into the back of the car; he’d have to get a box or a case or
something to put his stuff in – couldn’t turn up at Home Place with the car looking like that; he had his pride, after all.
    He was sniffing loudly now by the window. He flexed his biceps and looked at his arm to see if it made a difference, but it didn’t much. Scrawny, she’d called him.
‘You’re bow-legged,’ she’d said on another occasion. He had such