The Novel in the Viola (14 page)

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘We’ll ring if we need anything else,’ said Mr Rivers kindly, dismissing me.

‘Yes, sir.’

I’d seen the other girls perform a little bob or half curtsy as they said this, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Julian had taught me to bow to no man. The Kaiser was dead, the Empire rightly disbanded, and in a republic no one was greater or lesser than anyone else. I wondered how he reconciled this with Hilde washing his socks and making his breakfast and drawing his bath, but decided these were disloyal thoughts when Julian was not able to defend himself.

On hearing the tinkle of the service bell, I returned to the terrace to discover that Mr Rivers had gone, and Kit sat alone. His food remained untouched, but a pile of spent cigarettes lay in a small heap beside his chair. I piled the tea things back onto the tray, trying not to clatter too loudly.

‘How is your family?’ he asked.

‘Most well, thank you. They have moved to a smaller apartment.’

I swallowed and licked my dry lips. ‘Kit?’

‘Yes, Elise?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘I am very much liking to read Mr Rivers’ paper
Times.
I am having no news of Vienna. When he is finishing, maybe I can be reading? And also good for my English improvements.’

He smiled. ‘Of course. I shall ask Father. He won’t mind.’

‘Thank you very much.’

Kit waved away my gratitude and flicked a stray crumb from the table.

‘Come to church tomorrow. Take your mind off things. It’s nothing to do with God, I assure you. It’s to do with fish.’

‘Fish?’

‘Yes. See, now you’re intrigued, but you’ll only find out if you come.’

‘Fine. I shall come if Mr Wrexham permits it.’

Kit snorted. ‘Course he will. Chance to convert a Jew. He’ll be perfectly delighted.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Balaam and Balak

Kit was quite correct. Mr Wrexham had to refrain from rubbing his hands together with glee when I informed him the following morning that I wished to attend the Sunday service with the other servants.

‘Ah, good. I’m gratified Mr Kit persuaded you. That boy has a pure soul.’

I remained silent, confident that my presence in church had nothing to do with anybody’s soul.

I was sent upstairs to find a hat, but on discovering my pink cloche cap flattened at the bottom of the wardrobe, I tied a silk scarf over my hair instead. Margot always used to tease me that in a headscarf I resembled one of the frumpy Yiddish housewives arrived from shtetls in the east. They jostled in unhappy gaggles before the counter in the Jewish deli, jabbering in their rough German. We were embarrassed by these peasant Jews, who had nothing to do with us. At school, they kept to themselves at the other side of the playground, huddling in their brown wool coats and crude headscarves while Margot, I and the other bourgeois, assimilated Austrian Jews, played tag with the Catholics and giggled at them from afar. But according to Margot I was secretly one of them; even in Hermès I looked like I ought to be selling potatoes.

By the time I returned downstairs, the household had already left for the small church at the foot of the hill. This suited me fine; I preferred to walk alone, free from Mr Wrexham’s litany of behavioural suggestions, and it also meant I could linger by the door, without pressure to sit with the others. I did not want to venture all the way inside and I would not pray.

I remember that Sunday with absolute clarity – it was one of those perfect June mornings that make one certain Eden was a summer’s day in southern England. The bells rang out across the hillside, chiming with the tinkle of the sheep bells in the field beside the churchyard. Swallows zoomed across the empty sky, while on a stone wall a black cat watched yellow ducklings dabble on the pond with greedy eyes. I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with summer. The air was laced with the fragrance of a thousand wild flowers and the sunlight made the snapdragons and foxgloves in the cottage gardens shine vermillion pink. The entire countryside was smeared with colour; the sky a bold throbbing blue and beneath it the meadows sprinkled with buttercups, shining like gold coins. Back then I didn’t know the names of the flowers – they came later – but now instead of patches of orange and yellow petals, I recall cowslips and creeping jenny. In the distance the sea sparkled and glittered, white spray crashing on the shore. It was tempting to forgo church entirely and disappear to the beach, but knowing this would only get me into trouble with Mr Wrexham and Mrs Ellsworth I hastened through the churchyard. I hesitated beside the oaken door leading into the nave. The congregation crowded in tight rows, singing a dreary hymn, and Mrs Ellsworth’s large black hat, perched on her head like a bedraggled rook, was visible above the swaying mass. At the front on a raised pew stood Mr Rivers and Kit.

I waited at the back, propped against the cool lime-washed wall, keeping my lips tightly sealed. I would not sing. What would Julian or Anna think if they knew I was here? I felt my cheeks redden and was nearly resolved on slipping away, when Kit caught my eye and smiled. It was a look of pure delight. To my amazement, he appeared genuinely glad that I had come. I decided I must stay, if only for fifteen minutes.

I half-closed my eyes and listened to the soft drone of the vicar as he mumbled through prayers and parish notices. He was a balding man in a long black frock-coat and white cassock, and seemed ill at ease as he stood muttering beside the altar. There was a faint scent of mothballs mingling with the damp in the church, as though the men and women were all dressed in outfits stored at the back of wardrobes for six days a week. The service was every bit as tedious as my rare visits to synagogue, and I felt oddly reassured. I did not find God or his worship spectacular in any language or incarnation. On a shelf in his study Julian kept a hand-painted Indian prayer book, containing hundreds of fantastical illustrations edged in gold; blue-skinned gods with many hands cavorted across yellow cities or hunted howling tigers through green forests. I suspected that even if I should attend one of the exotic Hindu services with incense and marigolds and blue gods, I would still be bored. I surveyed the parishioners, and while a few studied the vicar with careful concentration, most fiddled with their prayer books or stared up at the open window, where a butterfly with brown and purple wings fluttered in a draught, frantic for an escape. In the backmost pew, Burt and Art engaged in a surreptitious game of cards. When a particularly loud chorus of ‘Amens’ distracted Art, Burt slid an ace of clubs into his trouser pocket and shot me a conspiratorial wink.

I fidgeted, toying with the ends of my silk scarf, and swallowed a yawn. I couldn’t understand why Kit had told me to come, and was just about to slip away when I noticed a girl at the front of the church with red hair. She wore no hat or head covering of any kind and her long hair fell down her back in scarlet waves, like a blood-red sea. She stood in the row directly behind Kit, and he swivelled around to whisper some secret, holding up his prayer book beside his mouth so no one else could eavesdrop. She giggled and blinked. I decided to stay.

The congregation grew restless and Burt and Art each tucked his cards inside his jacket. As I watched, I realised that every man was silently unfastening his tie or cravat, shoving it into a pocket or handing it to his wife. There was a low hum of anticipation. Now, every set of eyes watched the vicar. He was patently aware of his parishioners’ sudden focus, and beads of sweat began to trickle down his forehead, and he stumbled over the next prayer. The people were coiled, drawn back like the hissing tongue of a snake, and I was glad to be beside the door. The vicar tottered towards a vast leather tome laid open on a wooden lectern, brushing his damp brow with the back of his hand. He cleared his throat twice, his voice catching as he began to speak.

‘Today’s lesson is from Numbers . . .’

There was a collective intake of breath.

‘Balaam . . .’

All the men in the congregation rose to their feet.

‘. . . and Balak’.

At the word ‘Balak’ all the men ran towards the door. I flattened myself against the wall as they sprinted past me, heart beating wildly, terrified that I would be carried away in the throng and trampled. The noise of fifty pairs of hobnail boots clattering along the stone flagstone reverberated around the small church. Suddenly I felt fingers entwined in mine, as Kit hissed in my ear, ‘Come on!’

He tugged me outside into the river of sprinting men. I saw he also clutched the hand of the redheaded girl. I narrowed my eyes and started to run.

We rushed down towards the sea, the stony path echoing with the sound of a hundred pounding feet. As we reached the beach, two fishing-boats bobbed frantically on the waves, while men gathered beside half a dozen more, heaving against them with broad shoulders and staggering forwards to the surf.

‘Mr Kit, come!’ called a voice.

I turned to see Burt hollering from outside his hut, where a small blue- and white-painted boat rested on a wooden platform.

‘Help me push ’er down,’ commanded Burt.

We scrambled back up the rocks and Kit, the girl and I heaved at the small boat. She was cripplingly heavy, and I nearly crumpled under her weight. The next moment I felt the load lighten and saw a broad young man with sandy hair pushing at the bow of the boat.

‘Git away Poppy, yer’ll hurt yerself,’ he said to the girl. ‘Yoos too,’ he added, with a nod in my direction.

We stepped back and watched the three men dash down to the surf, dragging the small fishing-boat, feet sinking into the pebbles like mud. They waded out into the water, trousers instantly black wet, the boat tossing in the breakers.

‘Well, are you coming?’ Kit yelled.

The redhead grabbed my hand and hauled me along the beach to the boat. She hitched her skirt up high, tucking it into her knickers, and pulling off her shoes tossed them onto the deck. I raised my dress up over my thighs, but drew the line at tucking it into my underwear. She leapt in, shaking her head as the tall man offered her a hand. I tried to do the same, and crashed into the wooden side, bruising my shins. The next moment, I felt hands around my waist, and found myself being thrown into the boat head first, like a catch of fish. Kit jumped in beside me.

‘Sorry about that. No time for grace.’

He grabbed an oar and pushed off the beach, as the other men hoisted a battered brown sail.

‘See? Aren’t you glad you came?’ Kit demanded.

I sat in a puddle on the bottom of the boat, my shin trickling with blood and did not answer.

‘Oh, and this is Poppy,’ he said, gesturing to the girl with scarlet hair. ‘And that’s Will.’

The young man gave a lopsided smile and raised a hand, before continuing to adjust the rigging.

‘Didn’t yer forget summat?’ asked Burt, his voice holding a note of reproach.

‘Ah yes. This great old gal,’ Kit tapped the wooden mast, ‘is
The Lugger.
’

Poppy sidled up beside me. ‘Did he even tell you what today is?’ she asked with a dark glance in Kit’s direction.

I shook my head dumbly.

‘He’s such a beast. You must think us all barbarians.’

‘It’s to do with fish?’

‘Yes. This is the first day of mackerel season. We go out looking for mackerel as soon as the vicar tells the story of “Balaam and Balak”.’

‘We could be startin’ any time in June, mind,’ said Burt, appearing from behind the sail. ‘Jist isn’t so much fun.’

‘Yes. Running out of church really upsets the vicar,’ said Kit. ‘And it adds a certain sense of occasion.’

‘Sawed a shoal this mornin’. Far out in Worbarrow. We’ll head for there,’ said Burt.

The Lugger
was the last boat to launch, and all around us small fishing vessels joggled up and down on the waves. Some were already so far out that they appeared to be toy-sized, white sails like folded pocket-handkerchiefs. Above us the sky was streaked with herringbone clouds, while the green-blue sea stretched away into the horizon, curving around the earth. Salt spray battered my cheeks, and the wind lifted my headscarf and made Poppy’s hair writhe, Medusa-like.

‘Durst yer worry,’ said Burt, pointing to the other boats. ‘They doesn’t know nothin’. I don’t git much but I does git fish. Ready about.’

Everyone ducked instinctively. Everyone except me. I was whacked cleanly on the back of the head as the boom whipped across
The
Lugger
. I crumpled into the bottom of the boat, pain exploding at the base of my skull.

‘You idiots!’ Poppy screamed. ‘She doesn’t know what to do.’

She crouched beside me, wrapping her skinny arms around my shoulders. I felt dazed and a little sick, and wished she’d let go.

‘Leave her be, Poppy. Give her a minute, she’ll be fine,’ said Kit, coming closer. ‘You will be fine, won’t you?’ he said, eyeing me cautiously.

‘If the girl is goin’ ter up-chuck, over the side please an’ I thank yer,’ said Burt.

I lay down in the bottom of the hull, feeling the throbbing pain subside.

‘Yes. She’s all right,’ said Kit. ‘Her colour’s coming back.’

He helped me sit up and ushered me to the bow, giving me a pile of sail covers and coiled lines to settle on.

‘If someone says “ready about” – you duck. “Jive oh”. Duck. “Bugger it”. Duck. Understand?’ asked Kit.

I nodded and then instantly regretted it, as my head started to pound. But despite the pain, I smiled. I had never been out on a boat before. The crossing on the ship from France did not count. I had sat hunched on my trunk in the belly of the liner, unable to see out, retching quietly into a paper bag. This was different. Grey-backed gulls and black cormorants circled us, hurling their whooping cries into the wind. I found that I rather liked the rocking sensation as the boat dipped up and down across the waves. The rushing air and pounding saltwater made me forget everything but the sound of the sea and the call of the gulls. I shrieked as a wave crashed over the bow, soaking me, and thinking it was a game Poppy, Will and Kit joined in, shouting for joy.