The Novel in the Viola (31 page)

‘Come. Time to paint,’ he said, with a smile.

Everyone helped slick the bottom of the two fishing-boats with layers of anti-foul, aimed at repulsing the weed and barnacles and keeping the hull smooth and cutting through the water at a lick. The sun began to slide down the sky, until it was a round red chequer hovering above the horizon. The clouds flamed, bright as coals, and the sea shimmered pink, a miracle of watery fire.

‘Needs ter ’ave a name. Smart boat like ’er needs a smart new name,’ said Burt. ‘Yer want ter name ’er?’ he asked, with a grin in my direction.

‘Are you sure?’ I said, looking round the hoary faces of the fishermen, their beards daubed with red by the setting sun.

‘Needs ter be the name of a woman,’ added Art, scratching at a smear of paint on his forehead. ‘It’s tradition.’

I thought for a moment. There was only one possible name.

‘
The Anna
,’ I announced.

‘Right yoos are,’ said Burt, passing me the flask of rum.

I sprinkled a few drops over the bow, wetting her. ‘
The Anna!
’ I shouted and the men grunted their approval. I gulped a sip of the rum and handed it to Mr Rivers. He drank, head thrown back. The sun dropped beneath the horizon and the pink sky dulled to grey. No lights appeared in the cottage windows, as blackout blinds were pinned into place. I thought of Anna and Julian. They’d be thrilled knowing there was a ship named for her. I wished I could launch
The Anna
that minute, and set sail to find them. I took the flask from Mr Rivers and swallowed another gulp of burning rum.

‘Come,’ said Mr Rivers, turning for home. I hurried to catch him, and together we strolled along the stone path in the early dark. I stumbled and he reached out to catch hold of my elbow, steadying me. Behind us, the slap of the sea and the laughter of the fishermen faded.

One March morning I woke early and padded downstairs in pyjamas and bare feet. It was soon after six and the daily housemaid had not yet started to clean the hallway. I unfastened the blackouts by the porch so that dawn light peeped in through the mullioned windows. The small drawing room was piled high with scraps of fabric and wisps of cotton filling floated out in the draught. The ladies in the village, marshalled by Poppy’s aunts, had decided to make bed-jackets for wounded servicemen, and the yellow drawing room was declared ideal for this worthy occupation. The ladies descended upon us twice a week and sat round the fire and stitched, drank Mrs Ellsworth’s plum wine, gossiped about the misery of war and the hideous inconvenience of the blackout and were very happy. My efforts were endlessly criticised and pulled apart, quite literally, to be re-sewn. In my opinion, the fact that my running stitch was not perfectly even would be the least concern of the corporal or private or captain who sat in bed clad in my mauve floral bed-jacket (recycled from a pair of old curtains – waste not, want not). It was an odd thing, making clothes for soldiers who were not yet wounded. The wearer of the ugly bed-jacket was presently preparing to ship off to France, or running exercises in a damp Wiltshire field, or drifting in the North Atlantic, in rude health. We sewed and prepared for future injury, ready to cosset our soldiers in beautifully stitched bedroom curtains, while they drilled with guns and bayonets and learnt to salute. It felt almost as though by making the wretched bed-jackets we were dooming them to months lying in the hospital, doing
The
Times
crossword with one hand.

From the kitchen, I could hear the sound of May cussing as she tried to keep the vast black stove lit, so that Mr Rivers could have hot water for his morning bath. The range was ancient and as temperamental as a maiden aunt. I had spent hours fawning to its every whim, stoking it with coal, coke and kindling or simply pleading with it.

‘Can I help?’ I asked.

May was kneeling on the floor beside the range. She gave a shrug. ‘If yer like. It’s my last week anyways. Then Mrs Ellsworth will have to light the stupid fing herself.’

‘Don’t speak about Mrs Ellsworth like that. It’s disrespectful.’

May snorted. ‘Did you not hear me sayin’ that I was off?’

I knelt beside her in my pyjamas, balling up old newspaper and feeding it into the stove. ‘I thought you liked it here. Mrs Ellsworth is very fond of you.’

May had the grace to look a little guilt-stricken.

‘Well. I has to do war work, doesn’t I? Got a job in a factory in Portsmouth. Get my own money every week. No uptight old bugger to tell me what’s what,’ she said with a glance towards the butler’s closed door. ‘Dad wouldn’t hear of a factory before. Said it wasn’t nice. Girls in my family has always been in service. But it’s my patriotic duty now, isn’t it, and he can’t say a word.’

The range finally lit, I stood up and brushed myself off.

‘Don’t you look at me like that, miss,’ said the girl. ‘You know what it’s like. Why would anyone stay when they has got a choice?’

Knowing the miserable drudgery of the scullery maid’s existence, I could not argue. ‘I hope you’ll be happy, May.’

As I walked down the corridor, I listened to Mrs Ellsworth in the store rattling jars and muttering to herself about the dwindling stock of jam. The back door opened with a slam, and the daily bustled inside with a blast of cool air and rustling parcels.

‘Mornin’,’ she grunted, hurrying past me to start cleaning the house.

She looked more harassed each day as she attempted to undertake the work of three maids and a footman. With a sigh, I wondered how we would manage without May. I had beseeched Mr Wrexham to put away the dinner silver and china, and to use the plain luncheon set for both meals to keep down the amount of polishing, but he would not hear of it. ‘The standard of a house is measured by its silver. What would the Ladies Hamilton think?’ I thought that living in the Dower House, with the army teeming through Lulcombe Park, that they might tolerate luncheon silver. I was not sure that I cared; I was more concerned that our last daily might give her notice, exhausted by endless work. I tried to help the servants by stealth; dusting the china when Mr Wrexham was busy in the cellar, rolling out Mrs Ellsworth’s pastry and setting it to blind in the oven, rubbing the beeswax onto the dining room table. Mr Wrexham was gratified by May and the daily housemaid’s surprising efficiency, while the maids believed that Mr Wrexham had undertaken the work himself. I knew that this system of haphazard subterfuge could not continue.

The door to Mr Wrexham’s pantry was open, and I watched for a moment in silence as the old butler knelt by the grate, his elegant tailcoat covered by a white apron while he buffed his master’s shoes to a gleam. The room was devoid of decoration, save for a faded photograph in sepia tones of Mr Wrexham with a young Mr Rivers and his bride. There were no pictures of Mr Wrexham’s family. On the low table beside a lamp rested a calendar, each day tidily crossed out with blue ink as it passed. I glanced at the calendar. 6th of March.

‘Oh,’ I said.

Mr Wrexham looked around, a frown sliding across his face for an instant, before his features smoothed over once more. I knew he viewed my presence in the servants’ halls as a violation of the green baize door.

‘You may ring the bell in your room, should you require anything, miss,’ he said, with mild reproach.

I ignored the reproof and continued to stare at the calendar.

‘The date, Mr Wrexham. It’s my birthday. I’m twenty-one today.’

‘No argument, I’m taking you to lunch,’ said Mr Rivers, propelling me across the driveway and into the waiting motorcar.

‘But the petrol?’

‘We’ve been saving the ration for months. And this is an essential journey. I’m taking you out to celebrate your birthday.’

He opened the door for me, and helped me inside.

‘All right,’ I said, sliding into the leather seat. ‘Thank you. But it’s really not necessary.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Good grief. I never realised how troublesome you can be.’

I said nothing. I saw myself dancing with Kit, my hair slicked smooth as a boy’s. Kit dipping me, kissing me. I thought Mr Rivers knew exactly how troublesome I could be.

Art drove us to Dorchester. Mr Rivers and I did not speak much during the journey. He appeared busy with his thoughts, and trying not to knock into me as Art swung the Wolseley around the tight, hedged corners (Art was much more at ease driving Mr Bobbin than the smart motorcar). I was transfixed by the rushing green of the fields, punctuated around Lulcombe by the sage of the crawling army trucks and khaki tents that had sprung up across the parkland like giant molehills. We became stuck in a traffic jam of great army lorries outside Dorchester. They crawled towards us like dragons, the brown hedges brushing them on both sides. There was something ominous in the tick and growl of their diesel engines, and Art had to steer the car almost into a ditch in order to pass. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up outside the Royal Hotel and, grumbling, lumbered around to open my door. Mr Rivers offered me his arm. ‘Shall we?’ he asked with a smile.

We drank champagne. An elderly waiter filled my glass and I looked at the bubbles rushing to the surface. Champagne always made me think of Anna. I was wearing the pearls she had smuggled into my luggage, and pretended that they were my birthday present. They felt tight around my throat.

‘Do you not like champagne?’ asked Mr Rivers, seeing I was not drinking. ‘I can order something else, if you prefer.’

‘Oh, no, thank you. It’s lovely.’

I reached for the glass, and gulped down the liquid in a few swallows. There was a pleasant buzzing in my head. There was no linen on the table, only a waxed cloth that felt slightly sticky beneath my fingers. Mr Rivers ordered quail eggs and poached salmon and hot cucumbers and we ate a sort of trifle made with eggless custard for dessert. It tasted mainly of brandy and the buzzing in my ears built to a roar. The dining room was almost empty. A tired-looking man in army uniform lunched across from a woman with startling dyed-yellow hair, and in the far corner two old ladies in thick beige stockings sipped tea and gossiped beside the fireless grate. I couldn’t help but think of Café Sperl or the Demel and the mirrored coffee houses of Vienna, where the towers of pastries and chocolates were reflected into infinity and neat waitresses in black and white glided between the tables, pouring creamy hot chocolate from polished silver jugs.

When we had finished eating, Mr Rivers ordered a cigar and a glass of port. Leaning back in his chair, he laughed softly.

‘This is rather awful, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘Think we might have been better to have stayed at home, opened a bottle of the ’23 Latour and let Mrs E. cook.’

I smiled. Mr Rivers did not know that it was usually me who now prepared his bourguignon or rhubarb sponge.

‘No. It’s lovely. Just the war’s all. Makes it difficult.’

‘Yes, well, if they’re going to stay open, might as well try to be a bit less grotty.’

He took a puff on his cigar. ‘When Kit’s home, we’ll take a trip to London. I’ll take you both to the Savoy and we can celebrate properly.’

At the mention of Kit we both fell silent, and at that moment I did not want to go back to the empty house. It was my birthday and I wanted to forget for an hour.

‘Mr Rivers. Let’s stay out a little longer, please.’

He looked at me in surprise and then he seemed glad. ‘All right. Well. We could go to the pictures, I suppose.’

The Dorchester Picture Palace was showing
Rebecca.
Mr Rivers purchased two tickets, right at the back, and we tiptoed in, the main feature having already started. The auditorium was thick with smoke, and I stared at the screen through a yellow fog. We elbowed our way to our seats, stumbling over the tangles of embracing sweethearts who grumbled at our interruption. The seats at the rear were cramped and, as the airman sleeping beside me half sprawled onto my lap, I was forced to edge closer to Mr Rivers. I watched, enthralled, as the young Mrs de Winter fluttered through the house. The screen filled with the writhing sea and a timber boat bounced like a toy on the waves, and I shuddered, relieved Kit was aboard a proper ship. I had not been to the cinema in England, and I loved the ribald atmosphere – the audience cajoled and cheered the actors as though it was a live stage play. I belonged among them – squire, former housemaid/refugee, army officers, shop girls and WAAFs – we were just an audience, united by the story on the big screen. I forgot the world beyond the picture and I was happy.

We did not speak during the drive home. It began to rain and drops thrum-thrummed against the glass, while the motorcar roared through puddles, throwing up water as brown as milky tea. I must have fallen asleep, for the next moment we were drawing up outside the house. Mrs Ellsworth was waiting on the front steps. She clasped an umbrella with both hands, but it threatened to take off like a frightened bird. Filled with instant dread, I was opening the car door before it had even stopped. I hurled myself out, oblivious to the cascading rain, tore across the drive and ran up the steps, two at a time.

‘It’s Kit—’ she started.

‘Oh God, oh God,’ I said.

I looked past Mrs Ellsworth into the gloom of the hall. Kit sat in a rather splendid wheelchair, his leg out in front, sporting my hideous hand-stitched mauve bed-jacket. ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Happy Birthday.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Witch-stones

Kit was in plaster for six weeks. The cause of his injury was a source of considerable irritation to him. His ship had seen some brief skirmishes as part of an escort protecting merchant convoys in the North Atlantic from the wolf packs. Two officers had been injured and a midshipman killed by mines while running exercises, but Kit’s broken ankle was more ignominious, caused by slipping on an icy deck during night watch off the coast of Norway. The ship’s doctor set his leg, but on returning to Scapa Flow, Kit was transferred to land and sent home to recover. There was no room on the tightly packed corvette for an injured sailor.