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Anna Valenn, Le Blog |
'I do. Any no telling is a sign of not love.'
And Polly answered in the Duchy's voice 'I do agree, my dear.'
Marking Time (vol. 2/5 of The Cazalet Chronicles), Elizabeth Jane Howard. A rude épreuve, traduction Cécile Arnaud pour les éditions de la Table Ronde - Si vous avez aimé la série Downton Abbey, vous allez adorer la saga de la famille Cazalet, famille, bien anglaise, bourgeoise et généreuse et ouverte et unie, qui démarre l'été 1937 (tome 1) et s'achève fin des années 50 (tome 5). C'est récréatif et éducatif, et addictif.
‘I’ll carry your mask if you want to take your writing,’ Polly said while they hunted in their bedroom for the cardboard boxes that contained their masks. ‘Damn! Where did we put them?’ They were still hunting when the siren went again, not wailing up and down this time, just a steady howl. ‘All Clear!’ someone shouted from the hall.
‘Must have been a false alarm,’ Teddy said; he sounded disappointed.
‘Although we wouldn’t have seen a thing buried in that awful old shelter,’ said Neville. ‘And I suppose you’ve heard, they’re using the war as an excuse not to go to the beach, which seems to me about the most unfair thing I’ve ever heard in my life.’
‘Don’t be so stupid, Neville!’ Lydia said crushingly. ‘People don’t go to beaches in wartime.’
There was a generally quarrelsome feeling in the air, Polly thought, although outside it was a mellow September Sunday morning, with a smell of burning leaves from McAlpine’s bonfire, and everything looked the same. The children had all been sent away from the drawing room: the grown-ups wanted to have a talk and, naturally, everyone not classed as one resented this. ‘It isn’t as though when we’re there they make funny jokes all the time and scream with laughter,’ Neville said as they trooped into the hall. Before anyone could back him up or squash him, Uncle Rupert put his head round the drawing-room door and said, ‘Everyone who couldn’t find their masks bloody well go and find them, and in future they’re to be kept in the gun room. Chop chop.’
‘Must have been a false alarm,’ Teddy said; he sounded disappointed.
‘Although we wouldn’t have seen a thing buried in that awful old shelter,’ said Neville. ‘And I suppose you’ve heard, they’re using the war as an excuse not to go to the beach, which seems to me about the most unfair thing I’ve ever heard in my life.’
‘Don’t be so stupid, Neville!’ Lydia said crushingly. ‘People don’t go to beaches in wartime.’
There was a generally quarrelsome feeling in the air, Polly thought, although outside it was a mellow September Sunday morning, with a smell of burning leaves from McAlpine’s bonfire, and everything looked the same. The children had all been sent away from the drawing room: the grown-ups wanted to have a talk and, naturally, everyone not classed as one resented this. ‘It isn’t as though when we’re there they make funny jokes all the time and scream with laughter,’ Neville said as they trooped into the hall. Before anyone could back him up or squash him, Uncle Rupert put his head round the drawing-room door and said, ‘Everyone who couldn’t find their masks bloody well go and find them, and in future they’re to be kept in the gun room. Chop chop.’