The Novel in the Viola (34 page)

He pulled me tight and I squirmed against him and closed my eyes, listening to the crash of the sea. The tide was starting to turn. Each wave carried forward the moment of departure. I opened my eyes again, fighting against sleep in the warmth of his arms. Above the shadow of the trees nestling in the valley, I distinguished the sharp silhouette of the village church and the silent bell tower. The bells had not rung since the start of the war, not to mark the Sunday service, or the funeral of the Widow Pike, neither the quarter hour nor midnight. I wished that its silence marked the stopping of time; that until the bell tolled, Kit would remain lying beside me on the wooden bench, always waiting for high tide, never leaving. If the bell did not chime, then we could live always in the moment before parting and never part.

Dawn glowed all around. I had betrayed us both and fallen asleep. Mr Rivers sat on the bench opposite. He watched us, and in the second before he realised I was awake I saw that he was sad. He blinked and smiled, and the shadow passed away.

‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Mrs Ellsworth’s cooking breakfast.’

Kit sat up and stretched, giving a great yawn. ‘What time is it?’

‘About four. Tide will be high enough in under an hour.’

‘Jolly good,’ said Kit, pulling me onto his knee as I sat up. He pressed his chin into the nape of my neck, and I felt the scratch of his bristles. The sea lapped several feet from
The Lugger
;
in an hour she would be afloat. A few yards back, carefully positioned out of the reach of high tide, Mrs Ellsworth was frying bacon over a low fire. A handful of fishermen milled around Burt’s yard, gulping tea from enamel mugs and discussing the weather in low voices. In the distance a slight figure dressed in tails walked steadily along the path leading down the beach. As he drew closer I realised it was Mr Wrexham, holding before him a basin of steaming water, a pristine linen towel draped across each wrist. A neat white apron was fastened around his waist. He bowed his head when he saw Kit and Mr Rivers.

‘Good morning, Mr Rivers, sir. Mr Kit, sir. I trust you slept well, and were not too inconvenienced?’

‘Splendid thank you, Wrexham,’ replied Kit.

I thought I saw the butler’s right eye twitch when he spied me perched upon Kit’s knee, but I couldn’t be sure.

‘If I may?’ inquired Mr Wrexham, offering up the basin.

Mr Rivers took it from him, setting it upon the deck, and the next moment the butler was nimbly climbing aboard. Mr Rivers sat on the bench, keeping quite still, while Mr Wrexham draped the towel around his collar and, producing another smaller towel, laid upon it shaving tackle from his apron pocket. I watched with fascination as he soaked a flannel in the basin of water and then pressed it against Mr Rivers’ face, the cloth steaming like early morning mist. From his pocket Mr Wrexham conjured a leather strop and a fearsome razor, which he snapped against the leather until the edge glinted. He whipped up a fine lather with soap and a shaving brush and painted it across Mr Rivers’ chin and lip. This was masculine alchemy. I thought with a pang of Julian. His valet shaved him each morning and although I had often pleaded to watch my father told me in no uncertain terms that this was a moment of privacy for a man; a simple pleasure not to be spoilt by the presence of small girls. I wondered who shaved him now. In all his forty-six years, Julian had never shaved himself.

Mr Wrexham soaked the towel in the saltwater surf and then pressed the cloth against Mr Rivers’ jaw. As the salt touched his skin, he winced, inhaling sharply.

‘Good saltwater. Better than any cologne, sir,’ said the butler.

Then he turned his attentions to Kit, repeating the entire process with fresh towels and brush. Neither gentleman appeared fazed that the butler had traipsed down to the beach, at no small inconvenience to himself, to attend to them in the open air. A British officer could not set sail without a proper shave.

‘Shall I pack the shaving tackle up for you, sir?’

‘Please, Wrexham,’ replied both men.

The small boat was stripped to essentials, but clearly that included a razor. In my fascination, I had missed a crucial detail. Kit had not. He turned to his father in surprise.

‘Your shaving tackle? You intend to sail to Kent?’

‘If you will allow an old army so-and-so aboard. I know you can manage her single-handed, but you’ll be devilish tired before you even get to Ramsgate. It’s a fifteen-hour run.’

‘I know,’ said Kit, as though his father were questioning his judgement. ‘I’ve checked the charts.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ said Mr Rivers evenly. ‘Still, I would very much like to come.’ He looked at Kit as if he were asking permission, his voice light, but I knew that it was not a question. He merely wished to give his son the illusion of choice.

The two men stared at each other, shoulders set firm. Kit gave a short nod, and they both relaxed.

‘All right,’ said Kit, ‘I could do with the help, but I’m supposed to take aboard another wavy navy chap at Ramsgate.’

‘Very well,’ said his father. ‘But if you’re short-handed, I’m coming with you to France.’

I looked at the set of Mr Rivers’ mouth and I knew, even if Kit didn’t, that his father was going to France, regardless of wavy navy chaps. Mrs Ellsworth summoned us for breakfast and cut the argument short. The sun rose above the hills, glowing yellow gold like a gentleman’s pocket-watch, and caught the sea pinks carpeting the cliff edge. The air filled with the yammer of gulls, while chiffchaffs warbled and flitted to and fro among the shrubs outside Burt’s cottage. The smell of crisp bacon wafted in the morning breeze as Mrs Ellsworth handed round plates filled with hunks of bread and slices of marbled bacon and fried eggs. In the corner of the yard, Burt and Mr Wrexham were stringing odd-shaped stones along a fine piece of rope. The stones were large, misshapen pebbles with holes in the centre where they had been worn away by millennia of tides. The brothers carried the stones over to
The Lugger
and fastened the line around the bow, knotting it tightly around the base of two stanchions, so that the pebbles dangled in a loop at the front of the boat. Burt caught me watching and winked.

‘Witch-stones,’ he called. ‘Ter stop witches catchin’ a lift.’

I said nothing. I thought that German Stukas would be more of a danger than witches. Burt appeared to guess my thoughts and grinned. ‘Aye. Well, better safe than sorry. An’ don’t have nothin’ ter ward off Germans. Least we know that witches won’t be no trouble.’

I could not tell whether he was teasing. I glanced from Burt to Mr Wrexham. The old fisherman was dressed in his usual coarse brown trousers and much-darned sweater, and a week’s stubble, the colour of salt, sprouted on his chin. Mr Wrexham was immaculate in his black tails and starched shirt, but their eyes were the same shade of blue, and as they slung the witch-stones over
The Lugger’s
bow, their limbs moved in unison, with the easy gesture of men used to casting nets and lives spent around boats. The butler was a fisherman still.

‘It’s time,’ called Mr Rivers. ‘Help to cast off.’

The water lapped around her hull, but
The Lugger
needed to be carried out farther into the surf, and the fishermen swarmed around her, indifferent to the water soaking their shoes. Grabbing hold of her sides, they heaved the small boat across the pebbles, shoulders bent to the task, wooden hull grinding against the stones. I waded out with them, drenching my plimsolls and stockings. Mr Rivers appeared beside me. He kissed me lightly on the cheek and took my hand in both of his.

‘I’ll bring him home, I promise. We’ll see you in a few days. A week tops. I’ll try and wire. But you’re not to worry.’

I found that I was crying, and splashed my face with seawater to disguise the tears. Mr Rivers looked at me for a second, and then pulled me close.

‘I am so sorry that I couldn’t bring your parents to Tyneford. Sorrier than I can say. But I promise that I will bring Kit back to you.’

I felt the thundering of his heart through my thin blouse like the pulse of the waves. I thought he was going to speak again, but then he was letting me go, and he was wading through the water and swinging himself into the stern of the boat. I watched him, but he was busy checking the charts and did not see me. I brushed my eyes, and licked saltwater from the back of my hand. Anna. Julian. Now Kit and Mr Rivers.

Kit danced around the bow, holding the painter and swinging
The Lugger
about, so that her nose faced out to sea. Burt took the rope from him and Kit came over to say goodbye.

‘Darling, I love you,’ said Kit. ‘And I will see you very soon. You know I have to go – it’s Will stuck on those beaches.’

I nodded, my voice stuck in my throat. He kissed me, dipping me backwards towards the surf like we were a couple in a moving picture, and the fishermen cheered from the beach. I flushed with sudden anger; he was acting like a hero in some adventure flick, playing it up for the crowd.

‘Kit, please. You must be careful. I like Will very much. But I love you. I’m selfish. I don’t want you to die saving another girl’s young man. If that makes me wicked, then I’m sorry, but you don’t know what it’s like to be parted from everyone you love. I was alone. Then I found you. I don’t want to be alone again.’

He kissed me once more, but I knew he was impatient to be gone.

‘Tosh,’ he said. ‘No one’s going to die, darling.’

‘Yes, Kit. Yes, they are. And if it’s all right, I’d rather it wasn’t you.’

I knew I wasn’t being British. An Englishwoman would have kissed her boyfriend lightly on the lips, and said ‘Darling, I’m quite fond of you, you know. Try not to get into any bother,’ and then waved politely, perhaps concealing a stoic tear in her handkerchief and then make herself a nice cup of tea, and get back to darning socks. Well, I wasn’t British, I was Viennese, and continental women say what they feel. I took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the fact that Kit was fidgeting with embarrassment.

‘Everyone I love in England is about to climb into that wooden boat and disappear across the sea. Sail carefully because you sail with everything I hold dear on this funny, damp little island.’

(I am almost sure that is what I said. In the years since I have thought about that moment so often. If I did not, then it was what I wanted to say.)

Mr Rivers waved from the boat, and Kit cupped my face in his hands, kissing me gently.

‘Goodbye, my darling.’

I remained in the surf watching as the small boat skirted the shore, before tacking towards the mouth of the bay and racing out into the open sea. The sun glinted off the bow and the brown sails soared across the waves like a peregrine falcon skimming for prey. In a minute the boat was toy-sized and in another it was gone. I turned around and trudged back to the beach, perching on one of the flat rocks beneath the cliff. I knew that I ought to feel proud, exhilarated by the bravery of the two men, but I did not. They were rushing off to France to save men stranded on the beaches, but their gallantry was muddied. Kit was excited by the adventure of it all. The danger and the daring thrilled him, even if he claimed that he only sailed for Will. I adored Kit, but I knew Burt had been right when he called him brave and reckless. Mr Rivers knew it too, and he went to France to make sure that his son came home.

CHAPTER TWENTY

A gull on the horizon

I tried cooking with Mrs Ellsworth, but it was no good; I burnt the pastry, spoiling half the week’s fat ration, and sliced into my finger while skinning a rabbit. I listened to the wireless for news, but the reports were vague and circumspect, careful not to compromise the ongoing rescue mission. Retreating into the small attic room (which I still thought of as mine despite my promotion to the blue room), I paced the bare wooden boards and pulled out the viola.
I opened the little attic window, letting the salt air fill the room and drive away the sickly smell of damp and dust. Unfastening the instrument case, I took out the bow and a small clump of wax, which I warmed in my hands before brushing it softly along the bow hair. I slid the viola underneath my chin and pulled the bow across the strings.
I played all afternoon – Vivaldi, Donizetti,
Bing Crosby
–
not stopping for meals, nor to listen to the lunchtime news bulletin.

I spent the next few days either playing the viola or digging in the vegetable patch with old Billy. I tended the neat rows of lettuce seedlings, crushing up shells from the beach to drive off the slugs; sweat rolling off my forehead into the earth, I hacked furrows for a new crop of beetroot and chard. As I toiled, I heard the strange sound of the viola in my mind. It lodged inside my imagination like the sound of the sea in a dream, and I paced and hewed and dug and planted to its refrain
.
At dusk, I ambled down to the beach and sat with Burt on the lobster pots outside his hut. He packed his pipe with tobacco and we rested in amiable silence, watching the tide surge. The water rushed the beach, relentless in its constancy. At high tide it pounded the large flat rocks just beyond Burt’s cottage, turning the pale grey stone into glistening black and the cracked slime into green velvet. At low tide, the water drew back to the edge of the bay, and the pebbles dried to gold and yellow and russet in the setting sun. I knew that somewhere far away the beaches echoed with guns and shellfire and the screams of Stukas and men, but here at Worbarrow the sea licked the shore and the only cries were those of the gulls.

The sun slid behind the horizon and Burt’s pipe glowed in the darkness, like a second, red moon. There was the creak of footsteps on loose pebbles, and a fox streaked across the strand, the night air full of its sharp stink.

‘Mustn’t worry, missy. Squire’ll keep young Mr Kit out o’ trouble,’ said Burt.

I reached for a smooth stone and sent it clattering across the beach.

‘I want them both to stay out of trouble,’ I said.

May turned into June and I sleepwalked around the house. I felt as if I carried a heavy string of witch-stones around my neck; two for Anna and Julian, and now two more for Kit and Mr Rivers. I was dull and slow and wanted only to sleep, but whenever I did, I dreamt of torn sails and churning, bloody seas. The newspapers printed photographs of weary and bedraggled men, dressed in khaki rags, limping off endless ships and pouring onto the quays at Dover and Portsmouth. The wireless reports and
The Times
insisted that they were ‘tired but undaunted’ and triumphant in defeat. Villages along the coast served twenty thousand rounds of sandwiches and thirty thousand cups of tea, and the nation was drunk with its daring rescue and the un-dashed spirit of its young men. I scoured the photographs for a glimpse of
The Lugger
or a snapshot of Kit or Mr Rivers, but of course there was nothing. I heard the click as rescued soldiers slipped their penny into the telephone callbox. I heard the shouts of other men’s mothers and sweethearts and grandpas. One of the farm boys returned to Tyneford straight from Portsmouth, hitching a lift on the dawn milk cart. I instructed Mrs Ellsworth to send a bottle of celebratory port and a cigar to his father. I tried not to wish that it were Kit and Mr Rivers who had returned safely and not this unknown boy loved by strangers.