The Novel in the Viola

by Natasha Solomons

  Guests clustered in small groups at round tables, nibbling Mrs Ellsworth’s poached salmon and quail egg tarts. A woman in a lavender gown stroked the cuff of a tall man with a clipped moustache, as she perched upon his knee. Two girls, both in red dresses, ate slices of chocolate cake and drank virulent coloured cocktails from long glasses. I collected plates and helped ladies to slices of cold pie and chicken and watched out of the corner of my eye as Kit flitted amongst his guests. He stole closer and passed me an empty champagne flute.

  ‘No more news.’

  I refilled his glass and fought the impulse to drain the contents. I wanted to disappear with a bottle down to the beach, drink and shout and rage at the sea. Instead, I noticed Diana in Anna’s dress, picking iced rose petals off a sponge cake and alternating smiles between two men.

  ‘It’ll be all right, Elise. Really it will.’

  ‘Why do you keep saying that? You don’t know anything.’

  Kit looked so utterly dejected that I felt a nudge of guilt. This was his party, and what was happening in Europe was hardly his fault. I took a breath and forced myself to smile.

  ‘Anna would love your party. She’d be furious if she knew that you worried about her and did not enjoy yourself.’

  Kit stared miserably at his champagne, shaking the glass so that golden bubbles rose to the surface like shooting stars.

  ‘I promise you, she’d be very angry. If she were here, she’d be standing halfway up the stairs. Perfect acoustics, you see. And she’d have organised the band. And she’d be singing.’ I gave a short sigh. ‘I wish you could hear her sing.’

  Over Kit’s shoulder, I saw Mr Wrexham glowering at me. A parlour maid in conversation with the host was not acceptable. I hurried away and, grabbing an ashtray, made for a group of gentlemen smoking on the terrace.

  ‘Ah, excellent, do you have a light?’ asked a sandy-haired chap, brandishing an empty box of matches.

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ I said, pulling out a new box from my apron pocket. I’d learnt over the last several months that there were certain things I always needed to keep handy. Mr Wrexham was most gratified when he’d realised that I perpetually carried matches, a spare handkerchief, paper and pencil, a hair net and peppermints in my pocket, viewing it as a sign that I had finally accepted my role in life was to attend to their comfort. In fact, I detested having to hurry away in search of elastic bands or aspirin and found that I saved a good deal of time by keeping a supply of bits and pieces upon my person. It was for my convenience rather than theirs.

  It was cold on the terrace, and several candles had blown out, even those inside the storm lanterns. A thick mantle of cloud blocked out stars and shrouded the top of Tyneford hill. The night was black dark and the crash and boom of the sea seemed to come from nowhere. The doors to the house had been thrown open, and music drifted into the air, wafting down towards the beach like an invisible haar. I hovered in the shadows, grateful for a moment’s rest. Beneath the string of glimmering lanterns couples danced, girls floating to and fro in their pastel dresses like soap bubbles on the breeze. I was content to gaze upon them, and remembered the last dancers I had watched at the Opera Ball, the previous March. It was only a few weeks before the Anschluss, and on that night at least it appeared that nothing would ever change. Anna was invited to sing of course, and for the first time, I attended with my family. As it was my first ball, I wore white like all the debutantes. Great-aunt Gerda lent me her diamond earrings, which shone in my ears like slivers of ice. For the first half hour, I could not join the dancing. I was transfixed. The girls spun and whirled in their spotless gowns across the ballroom. It seemed that the whole of Vienna was in that one theatre, a thousand girls turning, turning. I grew dizzy. It was like watching snowflakes rushing in a blizzard. At Kit’s party, as I watched a fair-haired girl lean back in her partner’s arms, I saw Margot, her faced flushed with happiness. The church clock chimed the quarter hour and I willed time to turn backwards. I wanted the hands on the clock to rush the wrong way, and whisk me back to that other place. I did not care if I had to live it all over again, minute by minute, second by second; I wanted to return to Vienna and another time.

  Diana and Mr Wrexham appeared at my side, half hidden in the gloom.

  ‘Lady Diana requires your assistance, Elise,’ he said, giving me a curt nod.

  ‘I seem to have had an accident with my dress,’ said Diana with a giggle, feigning embarrassment. ‘I’ve been such a silly thing. I’ve gone and spilt my wine.’

  I examined her, and through the darkness saw a crimson stain down the front of Anna’s dress. Diana watched me, a smile playing on her lips, daring me to complain. Not saying a word, I followed her into the house and up the stairs to her bedroom. We made our way through the throng, weaving through revellers lining the landing. I opened the door to the blue room and Diana slipped inside. She unfastened the dress herself, undoing the hooks along the right seam, and stepped out of it, leaving it in a heap on the floor. She stood in the middle of the bedroom in her high-heeled shoes and her silken underwear, perfectly unembarrassed, and shot me a look of pity.

  ‘I hear there are problems for your kind at home. Such a shame for you. Not wanted there. Not wanted here.’ She sighed deeply. Anyone who did not know her would believe her heart breaking in sympathy. She gazed at me with her dark eyes, the colour of bruises. ‘I just can’t imagine.’

  Kneeling down, I scooped up the spoilt dress and ran upstairs to my bedroom. It was ruined. I buried my face in the fabric. It reeked of wine and Diana’s sickly gardenia perfume. She’d stolen a piece of Anna from me. I was so angry, I scratched at my arms until little beads of red appeared on my wrists. I stuffed the dress into the wastebasket in my room and strode back down to the party. A girl with a long dark plait woven with silver thread stood on the landing, feeding strawberry ice cream to a young man. A half-drunk bottle of wine rested on the carpet beside them. I swept it up and hurried away, despite their protestations. Checking over my shoulder for Mr Wrexham, I darted into the bedroom at the far side and clicked the key in the lock.

  The room was empty. Curtains drawn. I took a gulp of wine, and marched over to Kit’s closet. The room smelt of his cigarettes. A damp towel hung over the back of a rail and a bottle of cologne left open on the vanity table emitted his scent of sandalwood and honey. I took another sip of wine, straight from the bottle, spilling a drop on my chin, and wiped it away with the back of my hand. Music drifted up through the floorboards like smoke. There was a shriek from outside the window but I did not open the curtain and I did not look. In the distance I felt the black sea, crashing, crashing.

  Despite the chaos of the party, Mr Wrexham had still found time to tidy up the customary mess in Kit’s room. All his trousers were neatly folded away into the large wardrobe. I tugged at a black pair. Not part of a dinner suit. I let them fall to the floor. I pulled out another pair and then another, dropping them all, until I came to a dinner jacket and matching trousers – deep grey with a matt black ribbon running along the fold. I unbuttoned my dress and hauled them on. Kit was slim, a lithe man-boy, and yet, to my surprise, they were loose around my waist. When had I become thin? Anna wouldn’t approve. I found a white shirt with a starched collar and, slipping it on, stuffed the shirttails into the waistband. The jacket was big around my shoulders but the trousers were only very slightly too long and I supposed that the suit must have belonged to Kit some years ago, while he was still at school. I picked up his comb, and sitting down at the dressing table drew it through my short hair. His mother smiled at me from the brown photograph. Snatching up the wine bottle, I drained the dregs. It was Diana’s fault. The ruined dress. Red stained. Blood stained. Frau Baronstein’s spoilt fur. The disappeared. Not wanted here. The Jews killed Herr von Rath. Pogrom. Anna’s dress. She stole Anna. The novel in the viola. Diana. It was all Diana.

  I checked my reflection in the mirror. Eyes too bright. Lips marked with wine. Leaving my dress in a crumple in the middl
e of the floor, I unlocked the door and ventured out onto the landing. I half expected a gasp, cries of disgust. Nothing. The girl with the long plait had gone. A couple kissed in the shadows. Snatches of music mingled with the chatter and shouts of laughter but no one noticed me. I supposed they took me to be a boy with my short, slick, smooth hair. Sauntering down the stairs, I scanned the crowd for Kit. No one accosted me for drinks or cardigans or clean plates or the way to the powder room. For a few minutes I was one of them again. Despite the heat and the noise, and the girls banging into me as they danced up and down, up and down, I could breathe. I spied Kit on the terrace and made straight for him.

  ‘Kit. Kit.’

  He stared for a second, not seeing me. I tugged on his sleeve.

  ‘Kit. It’s me.’

  A slow smile of delight spread across his face.

  ‘You did it. You really did it.’

  He grabbed my hand and drew me under a lantern so he could see me better, turning me first one way, then the other.

  ‘You look fine. Jolly fine.’ He tucked a stray curl behind my ear, smoothing it flat. ‘Almost like a boy.’

  ‘Well?’ I demanded. ‘Are you going to ask me to dance?’

  Kit gave a snort. ‘Or you could ask me. Doesn’t make much difference right now, does it?’

  ‘Will you dance, Kit?’

  ‘Delighted. Wait here a mo.’

  He ducked inside, leaving me alone on the terrace. I slunk into the shadows, not wanting to be discovered. Not yet. The music stopped. Then, as I listened, there began the lilt of a familiar melody, ‘Tales from the Vienna Woods’, Johann Strauss. Kit reappeared at my side.

  ‘I thought a Viennese waltz seemed appropriate.’

  Appropriate was not a word I would have used in the circumstances. He offered me his hand and, as I took it, led me towards the lights of the house and the swaying couples.

  ‘One second.’

  I grabbed a stray glass of champagne off a side table and drank it, the bubbles tickling my throat, before slapping it down empty on the tray of a passing waiter. The doors from the large drawing room leading to the great panelled hall were thrown open, and couples waltzed from one room to the next, weaving amongst each other in intricate patterns. I imagined silken threads connecting them all and the waves of dancers making some vast piece of embroidery. The men were all clad in their black tie and tails, while the women formed a bouquet of colours. Ruby dresses swirled and a girl in seawater blue arched back in her partner’s arms, her long, sand-coloured hair brushing the floor.

  ‘Come on,’ said Kit, taking my hand and leading me into the throng.

  I had never danced with Kit before, never would again. I stiffened as he clasped my waist with his left hand, and pulled me into a firm hold. He smiled down at me.

  ‘Thought I’d lead? That all right with you?’

  I was not an excellent dancer, but every Viennese girl can waltz just as sparrows can fly. I ignored the other dancers and moved with Kit. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Glide and turn. Whispers behind me. The other couples began to notice that two men were dancing together. The girl in blue missed a beat. Her partner slowed. Only look at Kit. Rise and fall. And turn. He swept me round. Where was Diana? She needed to see. Couples fell back against the wall and watched us with a hiss of disapproval. That’s not a man, it’s a girl. And turn. Glide and sweep. Isn’t that the maid? Kit dipped me in his arms. I hear she’s from Vienna. Rise and fall. Maid or Jew whore? He held me close.

  ‘It was called the “wicked dance”, you know,’ he whispered.

  ‘And was banned in London.’

  ‘Indeed. A waltz is supposed to be shocking.’

  I saw our reflection in the long hall mirror as we sashayed past, two slim figures in black and white: Kit tall, golden head shining in the candlelight and me, small beside him, with dark hair and darker eyes. I glimpsed Diana standing at the foot of the stairs in a clean taffeta gown. She stared at us, lip curled in revulsion. I smiled at her, warm in Kit’s arms. I heard the crack of breaking glass, as Kit stepped on a discarded champagne flute. It shattered and I skidded, the sole of my shoe sliding over the shards. Broken glass in the temple. Sorrow. Always remember the sadness. No joy without sorrow. We surged forwards on the music. I closed my eyes. Breaking glass. Kit’s birthday and the temples are burning. Kit was speaking softly in my ear, but I had not heard him. Instead I listened to the echo of breaking glass.

  ‘I think we should shock them a little more,’ he said, loudly this time.

  He dipped me again and as I leant back in his arms, he kissed me. For a moment I forgot Diana, the murmurs of disapproval and let him kiss me. He tasted of brandy and cigarettes.

  ‘Let her go.’

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. I opened my eyes. Mr Rivers stood beside us, eyes black with anger.

  ‘What have you done?’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The end of us all

  We stood in the library before Mr Rivers. From the other side of the door came the swell of chatter, a collective murmur of disapproval. The curtains were open and I could see the reflection of our pale faces in the windowpane. Outside, the last of the candles on the lawn puffed out and the garden vanished into darkness.

  ‘You can’t speak to me like that anymore. I’m twenty-one,’ said Kit, angrier than I had ever seen him.

  ‘Only a boy would do something so foolish.’

  Mr Rivers paced up and down before the window, hands folded behind his back.

  ‘You can’t dress up the housemaid in men’s clothes in front of half the girls in the county set. This isn’t some cabaret or a pansy club. You’ve made a fool out of yourself.’

  ‘It was fun. A piece of fun,’ said Kit, shouting.

  ‘No. You wanted to poke fun at them. Shock them. Make them think that you were “one of those”. You invited half of the county to a party and then insulted them.’

  Mr Rivers turned to me, his voice cold. ‘I don’t know what it is like in Vienna but in England amongst polite society young ladies do not dress up as boys outside of the pantomime.’

  I thought of Anna dressed in breeches as Cherubino, her hair looped up in a boyish bob. But that was Mozart, not real life. Julian always said that Mozart was music hall for intellectuals.

  Mr Rivers shook his head, words faltering in disbelief and looked back at Kit. ‘Why did you kiss her? And in front of all the society girls.’

  Kit met his father’s eye, defiant. ‘Because I wanted to.’

  I was not sure which made Mr Rivers angrier: the fact that Kit had kissed me or that he had done it before the county. He paced up and down on the worn Persian rug, pausing beside me.

  ‘How can I possibly fail to dismiss you after this?’

  I shook my head and sat down on the wooden steps propped against the bookcase. The black tie choked me and I felt ridiculous. I wanted nothing more than to change back into my itchy maid’s uniform. Even the white cap and apron would be a relief.

  ‘No. It’s my fault. I asked her to do it,’ said Kit.

  ‘She can’t stay,’ replied his father. ‘Mr Wrexham and Mrs Ellsworth will demand her dismissal.’

  ‘Whose house is it? Yours or theirs?’

  Kit was so angry that bright red marks appeared on each cheek.

  ‘My house, Kit. Until I die, it’s my house.’ Mr Rivers took a breath, trying to calm himself. ‘I have to think of the good of the household. What’s best for you. Your reputation.’

  ‘Don’t bother about me. What about Elise?’

  ‘I can find her a suitable position elsewhere.’

  Despite all Mr Rivers’ kindness and attentions, I was still just the maid – whatever I used to be. My head throbbed. Sharp fingers of pain jabbed in my temples. As I remembered the brandy and the wine and the champagne, a sick feeling churned in my stomach. What had I done? Above Mr Rivers was a row of books with Julian Landau inscribed in gold letters along the spine. I felt that it was my father himself ga
zing down upon me, his face sagging with disappointment.

  ‘Please. I shall go. I knew it was wrong. I leave.’ Under the stress my English disintegrated. My voice choked and I swallowed a sob. Kit crouched beside me, and tried to take my hand.

  ‘No. No.’

  I shook him off, refusing to look at him. ‘Don’t do this,’ said Kit, his face contorting with unhappiness.

  I looked past him to his father. Mr Rivers stood with his back to me, his shoulders stiff with fury. He said nothing.

  ‘Good night, Kit. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Mr Rivers. I told you I was a terrible maid. I really am very sorry.’

  The French doors were open to the night, and I slipped outside and into the darkness.

  Tears streaking my cheeks, I sprinted across the black lawns and down the steps leading to the cliff path. As I drew closer to the water, my sobs were drowned out by the smash of the sea. Why hadn’t Kit followed me? He was supposed to pursue me into the night and plead with me to stay. Instead, I was alone. I shuddered and slowed as I reached the edge of the cliff. Beneath, the sea boomed and foamed, flecks of salt spray pounding against the chalk. A few hundred yards away a yellow light winked in the dark. The bungalow above the cliff. Poppy. I would go to Poppy. I started to run.