It all happened in a single tick of a pocket-watch. I stopped and blinked and I was alone on the driveway. The mirage of Anna and Julian had vanished, but I willed it to be them. I listened to the thud-thud of the car doors and saw that a police car was parked outside the house. But why had they come in a police car? Art would have picked them up from the station but it didn’t matter, not now. The midday sun was blinding me; I shielded my eyes and scoured the driveway for my parents.
‘Anna! It’s me. Papa?’ I called, unable to see.
‘Miss?’ said a voice, and I turned to see a uniformed constable standing beside the back door, round helmet clasped beneath his arm.
‘Yes?’ I answered, impatient.
‘I understand that an Austrian maid is employed at this house.’
‘Not anymore. Did you bring a couple with you? An Austrian couple? A fair-haired lady, very small, and a tall man with black hair and —’
‘Slow down, miss, I can’t understand when yer talk so fast.’
The constable was joined by his partner, a round youth who sported what must have been his very first moustache, a grazing of brown hairs on his upper lip.
‘Are you a British citizen, miss?’ he enquired.
‘No. I am Austrian. But it doesn’t matter. Where is Anna? Where is Julian?’
‘No one here but us, miss. I need you to come along now. No trouble. Just need you to come to the station.’
I made some feeble effort to object but, dazed with disappointment, I allowed myself to be hustled into the back of the police car. I was vaguely aware that I did not have my hat and coat. Anna always impressed upon me the importance of never venturing out in public without a hat. The young officer started the engine, and the motorcar rumbled across the gravel. Art came running in from the paddock, waving frantically at the car to stop, but the constable put his foot down and we surged forward. I turned and stared at Art, as he mouthed something at me through the glass.
They were very kind to me in the station. I was given cups of lukewarm tea and chocolate biscuits that I did not want and told to fill out endless forms. A plump secretary in an ill-fitting tweed skirt and a blouse that gaped to reveal a triangle of dimpled stomach, confided, ‘Been told to round up all “enemy aliens” for assessment, we have. Not many continentals in these parts, so you is a bit of a novelty.’ I said nothing and sipped at the sugary tea. Despair clutched at me with icy hands. If they were already rounding up foreigners in England, they would not be letting in any more. England’s borders were closing with the inevitability of a clamshell at dusk. I barely noticed when Mrs Tweed led me to a cell and, muttering her apologies, asked a constable to lock me in. I did not care. I was glad it was cold. I was glad it smelt damp. A pain started to build behind my eyes, a piercing ache sharp as the knife Mrs Ellsworth used for boning quail. Bright lights flashed at the edge of my vision, blinding me. History happens somewhere else. Men march across Europe. Julian’s books are hurled out of the window and moulder in the rain, words drifting in the puddles. Herr Finkelstein is beaten so hard that when he returns home to Esther, he spits his teeth out on the carpet like grains of sweetcorn. Even that is not large enough for history. History is the whole fleet of ships, not Bert’s fishing-boat trawling for mackerel in the bay. Sitting on the floor of the cell I felt the brush of history along my arm. I saw two great black dogs chasing Anna and Julian across the fields at the top of the hill. Black dogs with white teeth and wide red jaws. They weren’t dogs but wolves escaped from my old fairy tale book. Anna and Julian had to run run run. Kit would come and let me out but Anna and Julian had to run.
‘This instant, I said. This instant!’ I heard a familiar voice outside.
A moment later the cell door was unlocked and Mr Rivers entered. I ran over to him and hurled myself into his arms, and to my surprise discovered that I was crying, great shaking sobs that made my shoulders jolt. He pulled me close, whispering, ‘Hush, Elise. Hush. You’re safe. I promise they won’t take you away.’
I tried to explain that it wasn’t me but Anna and Julian, but found that I could not speak. Mr Rivers removed his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. I leant into him, trying to swallow my sobs, as he stroked the tears from my cheek with his thumb and kissed the top of my head.
‘Shh. The car’s outside. Let’s take you home.’
I nodded dumbly, and then was sick upon his polished brogues.
I slept through the start of the war. The migraine lasted four days, and when I awoke I found myself in a strange room. It was absolutely dark. The bed felt soft and unfamiliar, and I smelt roses, sweet and sickly. I thought I should choke on roses and darkness, and I screamed. The door flew open, spilling yellow light into the room and Mrs Ellsworth appeared by my side and folded me into her bosom.
‘All right, lovey. You’ve been awful poorly. Here, have a drink.’
She forced me to sip some lemon barley water, and I felt a little better, and rather silly for making such a fuss.
‘I’m in the blue room,’ I said, the light from the hallway falling on the curtains and wallpaper, making them shine like an evening sky.
‘Yes, dear. Tired my old knees, scurrying up to the attic to look to you.’
I noticed the blackout blinds pinned to the windows. War.
‘Have there been any bombs yet, Mrs Ellsworth?’
‘No, miss. Not even in London.’
In a strange way, I was glad not to have missed anything. It was an odd feeling to go to sleep in peace and wake up in the midst of war, if not battle. Had the fighting started in Europe? Where were Anna and Julian? I felt a pain pulse behind my eyes and was glad of the blackouts.
‘Oh, you gave the gentlemen a scare. When Mr Rivers came back from his walk and discovered you gone, he took the car and just left. Never seen him drive like that. Such a tearing hurry. I had palpitations that he’d crash!’
Mrs Ellsworth broke off to fan herself with her hand, as if to cool the memory.
‘And when Mr Kit came back from the beach to find you vanished and the master off in the car. Well! We was all in a flummox, let me tell you. Then Mr Rivers storms in, carrying you in his arms he was. Mr Kit was all in a state. Didn’t calm down till the doctor came and said it was a nervous attack. Mee-grain or something.’
Feeling guilty for even thinking it, I wished that I could remember Mr Rivers carrying me in and Kit beside himself with worry. It sounded quite charming, the way Mrs Ellsworth told it. If only I hadn’t rather spoilt things by being sick on Mr Rivers’ shoes. Violetta or Juliet or Jane Eyre would never have done such a thing. Nor Anna.
I winced and, curling onto my side, drew my knees up to my chin. When I was a little girl and I was ill, Anna would stroke my ears. I hated it. The sound was too loud and it tickled, and I always batted her away, but at that moment I wanted her to stroke my ears so much that I ached.
There was a gentle rap at the door, and I glanced up to see Mr Rivers in the doorway.
‘You’re awake,’ he said, a slow smile spreading across his face.
‘You can come and sit with her,’ said Mrs Ellsworth, seeing him hesitate, unwilling to venture any closer without permission. ‘I’m going down to fetch her a little supper.’
She bustled out and Mr Rivers pulled up an easy chair beside the bed. On impulse, he took my hand. He didn’t speak for a minute. He made one or two attempts to start, and then finally spoke in a low voice, gripping my hand in both of his.
‘Elise, I’m so terribly sorry. The war has started. All visas have been cancelled.’ He squeezed my fingers so tight that it hurt. ‘You are safe. I won’t ever let them take you again. But Mr and Mrs Landau . . . they will not be allowed to enter the country. There is nothing I can do. We can only wait and hope for the war to be over quickly.’
I forced myself to breathe. ‘Do you know where they are?’
He shook his head. ‘I have a man in Paris. He will try to discover something.’
He reached out for the glass
of water. ‘Please, drink this. You’re very pale.’
I took it and tried to drink, but my hands shook and the glass tipped over, spilling water on the bedcovers. Mr Rivers took it from me and, brushing my hair from my face, held the glass to my lips so that I could drink.
‘Where’s Kit?’ I asked, as he replaced it on the bedside table.
‘I sent him outside for some fresh air. He’s been wearing a hole in Mrs Ellsworth’s carpets with his constant pacing. I’ll send him up to see you the moment he’s back.’
He watched me in silence. I was too tired and miserable to be embarrassed, or wonder why he stared. I only knew that he looked as unhappy as I.
I felt the shadows draw around the house. They went up with the blackouts while I was sleeping, but when Mrs Ellsworth unfastened the blinds, the shadows remained. I had not realised that I had been living in Arcadia until it was time to leave. The horrid trick was that for the present we all remained, but the place shifted around us. The trees and lawns and shrubs were the same, and the house changed more slowly, but something was different. We did not know it then, but our lives at Tyneford had shifted key, and we were rushing towards the final movement, whether we were ready for it or not.
The following morning Kit bounded into my room laden with a breakfast tray. Mrs Ellsworth hovered in the doorway, suspicious that he would spill orange juice and marmalade all over her spotless carpet. He set it down with a wobble on the bedside table. Spoons clattered and the teapot rattled dangerously, and I reached out to catch the diving milk jug.
‘You see, Flo? All’s well,’ he called to Mrs Ellsworth.
With a roll of her eyes and flick of her apron, she vanished. Kit sat on the edge of the bed. I wished I’d had time to brush my hair and wash my face. I couldn’t imagine how dreadful I must look. I’d fallen asleep as soon as Mr Rivers left me the previous evening, and I’d not spoken to Kit since my adventure at the police station. He pulled me into him, wrapping his arms tightly around me.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, and his voice cracked. ‘The minute the war’s over, we’ll find them. We’ll go to Austria together. Or Paris, or Amsterdam. Wherever they are, we’ll find them and bring them to Tyneford. I promise.’
I nodded dumbly.
‘And they might still come.’
‘Kit, no. Please.’
Nothing more must be said. Silence meant that it was not quite real. He loosened his hold, keeping his hands firm upon my shoulders. He caught my mood and scrutinised me, a faint smile playing on his lips.
‘You look quite awful,’ he announced with forced gaiety.
‘Thank you,’ I said, turning my head away.
‘Yes,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Really dreadful. Hideous in fact. Good thing I’m hopelessly in love.’
He grabbed the breakfast tray and set it on the bed.
‘I’m under strict instructions to make sure that you eat everything.’
I scowled, still cross with him, but I was hungry, so I took a spoon and attacked an egg.
‘Ah, one moment at death’s door and the next eating a boiled egg.’
He tried to kiss me, but I had a mouth full of yolk and I shooed him away.
‘So cruel,’ he sighed. ‘Did Flo tell you that I was there every minute that you were poorly? I was most attentive.’
‘Yes. You’ve been very kind. But I’m better now.’
I watched him over the top of my cup of coffee. It was such a relief not to have to drink that awful brown tea in the mornings anymore. I dunked a toast soldier in my egg.
The warm September sun spilt into the room. Kit unfastened the window and a breeze fluttered inside, carrying the scent of heather and the sea.
‘Kit. Will you fetch me paper and a pen. I must write to Margot.’
‘Darling, you can send a wire.’
I shook my head, regretting it as the pain cracked against my skull. ‘No. Let her have another few weeks of hope and happiness. The letter will arrive soon enough.’
It has started and they have not come. We must hope they reached Paris. Kit swears he will find them at the end of the war. When I am with him, I believe him. You must too. Anna and Julian will come to Tyneford and so will you and Robert and your twelve children and we will drink lemonade and eat cucumber sandwiches on the lawns and the sun will shine.
‘Mrs Ellsworth, I should like to work tomorrow,’ I said a few hours later when she brought me up a pile of magazines and some lunch.
I needed to do something. Anything but lying here thinking. The housekeeper fussed around the bed, straightening the covers and picking at a non-existent mark on the blanket.
‘When you feel better, you can order the dinners, and there’s some linen you can help me sort.’
‘No. I need to work.’
There was a trill of desperation in my voice, and Mrs Ellsworth stopped fussing and turned to look at me. For the moment the burning behind my eyes helped me, but when the pain subsided I must have work. Scrubbing the scullery, digging in the vegetable garden – I did not care.
‘Has Henry joined up yet? Because he will, you know that,’ I said, pleading. ‘And the gardener’s boy will go and May must do war work, and who knows if the dailies will stay. You and Mr Wrexham can’t keep the house between the two of you.’
Mrs Ellsworth busied herself tidying the already neat scent bottles lined up on the dresser.
‘Mr Rivers was very clear about you not washing any floors no more. It’s not proper.’
I snorted. Until a few months ago, I’d been making his bed and folding his pyjamas.
‘It’s different now. I’ll be called up to the labour exchange. Unless I’m doing essential work in the house and on the farm, I’ll be sent away. I don’t want to be in a factory. I want to stay here, but I must work.’
Mrs Ellsworth tutted softly. ‘Mr Wrexham won’t like it one bit,’ she complained.
‘Well, you tell him that if he won’t let me, I’m going straight to the dairyman to offer my services for the milking of cows. In fact, I’m not sure that wouldn’t be more fun . . .’
‘No, no, miss. I’ll tell him,’ said Mrs Ellsworth, shooting me an anxious glance. ‘But it’ll never do. You’re not to do any cooking. And you’re not to set a foot in my kitchen.’
We sat before the hulking kitchen range, Mrs Ellsworth demonstrating the correct technique for the peeling of carrots. ‘It’ll be over by Christmas,’ she announced, snatching the peeler out of my hands. ‘Like this, stop scraping at it. Or spring at the latest,’ she concluded, moving seamlessly between the prognosis of war and vegetable peeling.
‘Such a to-do. And the digging up of all those potatoes for an air-raid shelter,’ she snarled. ‘What a waste! What’s Mr Hitler want to bomb a potato patch for? He won’t do very well in the war if he goes around bombing people’s onions and taters.’
I did not try to explain. Mrs Ellsworth remained convinced that the Anderson shelter had to be dug in the potato patch because that was the most likely target of attack, rather than because the sheltered kitchen garden was the safest place.‘All this disruption. Gives me the collywobbles.’
I said nothing, and let her rattle on. Mrs Ellsworth was tired. The kitchen boy, who it turned out was eighteen despite the skinny legs and pimples (or else taking the opportunity to escape the most horrid job in the house) joined up at the first instant and disappeared in the night. We never heard from him again. It meant that Mrs Ellsworth had a great deal more to do in the kitchen, and my helping became a necessity. Several of the farm boys volunteered early for service, not waiting for their call-up, and the dairyman required his daughter’s assistance, which meant that we were down to one daily maid. Then Henry the footman joined up, and marched off for training in Wiltshire on the 12th of September, much to Mr Wrexham’s disgust. ‘One week’s notice. That’s the legal requirement,’ the old butler complained, when the footman appeared in his parlour, dressed in his new green uniform, and handed back his once treasured foo
tman’s livery, now shoved into an unwashed bundle.
Henry shrugged. ‘Don’t pay me my last week’s wages then. But it’s not very patriotic of you. There’s a war on, you know.’
Of course, Mr Rivers would not hear of Henry not being paid his last week’s wages, and would have ordered the motorcar to take him to Dorchester, if it weren’t for the rationing of petrol. Only essential journeys were to be taken by motorcar, but then Mr Rivers and Kit always seemed to prefer travelling with Art and Mr Bobbin, so there wasn’t much difference. I listened to Mrs Ellsworth chatter and hum along to ‘The Frog King’s Parade’ on the wireless. I liked being in the kitchen. It reminded me of home and hours spent getting in Hildegard’s way as she baked sachertorte or diced steak for a goulash. The smells in Mrs Ellsworth’s kitchen were different – pears, suet, sizzling bacon, kippers, scones and baked custard – but I liked them just the same. I’d just made my first fish and parsley pie and was feeling rather proud of myself. Mrs Ellsworth took it out of the oven with a hiss of steam, and placed it on the top of the cooker.
‘Very good. Nice and brown. Go and wash, now. Mr Wrexham will ring the bell for lunch in five minutes.’
There was no use objecting. I hurried out of the kitchen and went to straighten my hair and splash water on my face. Despite the lack of staff, and the inordinate distance between kitchen and dining room, standards had to be maintained. The digging up of the potato patch and the disappearance of the under servants had disturbed Mrs Ellsworth, and she sought reassurance in the details of luncheon in the wainscoted dining room at one o’clock. Mr Wrexham, walking past the kitchen door with his laden tray and perfectly starched shirt, proved to her that England was mighty and indestructible. Wars might be declared, kitchen boys vanish to join the navy, blackout curtains smother the French windows, and previously reliable footman leave without notice, but lunch would be served at five minutes past one and the butler would wear white cotton gloves.
The Novel in the Viola Page 21
