The Novel in the Viola

by Natasha Solomons

  ‘It’s you! Goodness, Elise, you gave me a fright.’

  She hurried over and hugged me quickly. I held her tight, reluctant to let go.

  ‘Are you here to see Will?’ I asked. ‘Because he’s joined the Dorsets.’

  ‘I know. I saw him for an afternoon in Salisbury. He’s waiting to ship. We strolled about the town and went for tea. Place was full of couples in uniform, all looking as miserable as us. Funny really, staring in your lover’s eyes thinking, “When shall we meet again?” while eating buttered crumpets.’

  ‘I wish you’d told me that you were coming home,’ I said, picking a piece of moss from her hair.

  She plunged mittened hands into her coat pockets. ‘Ah, well. You see I’m not home. Not really. Secret war business.’ She glanced over her shoulder, but her companions were already half a mile away, climbing the slope to the small tower. Her cheeks glowed with cold and excitement. ‘Not really any point in your not knowing though, if you ask me.’ She took a breath and then explained in a rush, ‘We’re dumping piles of ammunition and guns in hides around the coast. In case of the worst and invasion. Idea is that if it comes to it, locals will discover them and use ’em to fight the Germans. Bit pointless though, if no bugger knows where they are.’

  I shrugged. ‘Well, now I know.’

  ‘Yes. But you mustn’t tell anyone, else they’ll be sure it’s me and I shall be in awful trouble.’ She coughed. ‘Except if they invade. You can tell everyone then.’

  I stared out across the sea, where wisps of mist drifted across the water like giant reams of silk from a vast spider’s web. The sky had turned ink black and threatened snow. The stark trees on the horizon looked thin and cold, and the mouths of the caves were dark enough to swallow the last dregs of daylight. The breakers crashed against the shore, competing with the wind’s howl. In the weird half-light I could imagine an armada of black ships sailing for England, their masts slicing through the mist. I saw men teeming upon the beach and crawling in their thousands up the steep cliffs, clawing the rocks with sharp nails and fever-bright eyes.

  ‘I’ll remember,’ I said.

  In February I picked snowdrops. They never lasted more than a day inside the house before wilting as though they really were beads of snow. Before breakfast, I set a vase of them upon the sideboard. That morning I’d received a letter from Margot, addressed to Mrs Julian Landau, c/o Tyneford House, sent when she still believed Anna and Julian were coming to Tyneford, and postmarked from California last September. I’d opened it without hesitation, frantic for any word.

  Darling Mama,

  I am so pleased the visa arrived at last! Tell me how was your journey? No, never mind that, tell me about life by the sea. Has Papa been sea-bathing yet? I bet he looks very serious and never gets his hair wet. What do you think of England? Is it as green as the pictures and the food as terrible as everyone says?

  And what do you think of Kit? Does he love Elise enough? I had thought at first that perhaps – well, never mind. I wish I were there with all of you. You must write and tell me EVERYTHING. I spoke to Robert about sailing to England but I suppose it might be dangerous if war’s declared when we’re at sea and we should really wait until after the war which must be declared soon but surely can’t go on too long and oh I miss you all. Robert talks of going to Canada so he can fight when it starts but the University of course does not want him to go. And neither do I, even though I know I am being terribly selfish and that he should fight and then you will be safe and we can all go home.

  Love to Elise and Papa.

  Your daughter,

  Margot

  p.s. We went to the opera and saw The Marriage of Figaro. The soprano who sang Cherubino was fat and sharp. But Robert wouldn’t let me walk out, the beast.

  p.p.s. Still no sign of a baby. I hoped I would be like you and fall pregnant on honeymoon. Your horrible tea didn’t help at all. I made it exactly as you said (you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find dried marigolds here) but it was simply disgusting. It made me feel quite sick and I thought that perhaps it had worked but it was just the wretched marigolds.

  I lowered the letter in surprise, pricked by hurt. Why hadn’t Margot told me that she was hoping for a baby? Exiled from her confidence, I felt that she was further away than ever. Even as a girl she had never told me her secrets, hoarding her romances and whispering them to Anna behind the closed bathroom door. I listened with my ear to the keyhole and never heard anything more than the swish of water, or stray giggles. Even though she was far across the sea, Margot still made me feel like the little girl locked outside, ear pressed to the door. I was growing used to missing Anna and Julian. It was a constant ache, like an old injury, where the pain does not subside but one becomes accustomed to its presence. Reading Margot’s letter, the pain throbbed and I felt a little dizzy. I missed Anna more than ever. All Margot’s letters to me seemed empty and thin. I was not the pigtailed girl she’d said goodbye to all those years ago. Unlike Margot, I no longer dreamt about going home. Home in Vienna was gone. It existed before the war, in another time.

  That morning, I felt hollow with hurt and worry. Kit’s absence was more direct than my family’s. I was used to seeing him, kissing him, walking with him every day. Several weeks had gone by without one of his letters. I supposed he must be somewhere far away, where the armed forces postal service could not function, but I wasn’t sure whether I was concerned by his silence, or just annoyed. I slapped the flowers down so vigorously that the water slopped onto the polished cherry sideboard, and I had to mop it up with my sleeve before it stained. Mrs Ellsworth would not scold me but she’d rub at the mark with a cloth, her stooped back eloquent in reproach. I hoped Kit was missing me as much as I him. My sleeve was soggy and damp with the flower water. Did I really want Kit to be miserable? Surely it was more important that he was not too homesick while he was undertaking important war work. I propped up a snowdrop that was already starting to droop like the white head of a drowsy old man. No. It might be wicked, but I wanted Kit to be miserable. Just a little. A few tears at night perhaps – not so many that other officers would notice and tease him, but enough to demonstrate that his heart was a bit wounded. Three or four tears a night. Yes. That would be quite sufficient.

  ‘Elise? What are you doing?’ asked Mr Rivers.

  Glancing down, I realised that I was flicking beads of water from a snowdrop stem all across the sideboard. Mr Rivers drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped away the mess.

  ‘Join me for some coffee?’ he said.

  I sat down as he passed me a cup. A moment later Mr Wrexham appeared with a silver toast rack full of neat triangles, a dish of butter and another of marmalade. I reached for a slice, started to nibble it dry and then discarded it in disgust. Mr Rivers watched me in silence and then observed, ‘You seem awfully fidgety.’

  I did not tell him about Margot’s letter. He felt bad enough. I’d overheard him remonstrating aloud when he thought no one was listening. ‘If only I’d pushed them harder. One day. Even a single day.’

  He smiled at me. ‘You’ll hear from Kit soon, I’m sure.’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, toying with the crumbs on my plate.

  ‘I’m organising some repairs to a pair of old fishing-boats this morning. Since fish shan’t be rationed, seems rather important to get all the boats in order. I want as many boats out in the bay as possible. You can help if you like.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and forced a smile. ‘I’d like that.’

  An hour later we walked briskly down to the beach, where Art, Burt, a dozen of the village fishermen and a couple of boys too young for the army were all gathered in the ramshackle yard outside Burt’s cottage. Two boats, about the size of The Lugger were propped up on stacks of bricks, with pieces of old carpet on top of the stacks to protect the hulls. The men circled the boats, peering closely, inspecting the keel here and the rudder there. They all seemed to be waiting for Mr Rivers’ arrival before
beginning work. Faint writing stencilled on the port side of one boat declared it to be The Margaret, but the name on the other had been rubbed away.

  ‘They don’t look too bad to me,’ said Mr Rivers, after a careful inspection. ‘That one needs a new tiller, and the keel on The Margaret needs repairing, and the rigging on each must be replaced, but I think we’ll manage.’

  There were grunts and nods of approval and the men got to work. A pair of overalls was thrust into my hands.

  ‘’Ere are,’ said Burt. ‘Go an’ put these arn. Can’t do no dirty work in that slip o’ a skirt. Be a ballywag o’ a mess if yer tries.’

  I slipped around the side of the cottage and quickly pulled them on, then returned to the throng. Burt grinned at me. ‘Yer looks luverly, I must say. Jist needs a pipe.’

  He chuckled loudly at his joke and gave me a piece of sandpaper and a chisel.

  ‘Use him ter chip away at them barnacles and nasty weed. Her bottom must be smooth as a fish before she goes back in the drink. Jist do what the Miller boy is doin’.’ He pointed to one of the boys whittling away at the muck with a knife.

  For an hour I crouched beneath the boat, rubbing and scraping away at the weed welded to the paintwork, green as flecks of rain-soaked lettuce. The barnacles were small, hard warts and required the sharp chisel point to prise them away. All around me the men sanded or sawed small planks to replace the rotten pieces of timbers. Art and Burt climbed onto The Margaret and unscrewed the rusted fittings on the mast and the starboard rail, replacing them with salvaged ones. My arms cramped from work and I stood up to stretch and pace. The low winter sun peered from beneath a cloud, making the sea glitter. I squinted, shielding my eyes from the glare. In the far corner of the yard, Mr Rivers bent over a white sliver of wood, rubbing it smooth with a plane. He’d stripped to the waist, and leant into his work, the plane sliding to and fro, thin curls of wood dropping to the ground. I looked away.

  ‘’Ere, ’ave a drink,’ said Burt, offering me a flask of water.

  Grateful, I took it from him, swallowing in gulps. Taking a lobster pot to use as a stool, I settled back beneath the spotted hull of the nameless boat and continued sanding. After a time Burt joined me, and we worked in companionable silence. He handed me the flask from time to time, but then once when I drank, it wasn’t water but rum. I nearly spat it out in surprise and Burt gave a low chuckle.

  ‘Aye. Needs a bit o’ a boost. A good tingle in yer veins.’

  Mr Rivers and Art stood on the deck of The Margaret with coils of new rope, and began to feed them through the cleats, ready to rig the canvas sails, which lay in brown clouds beneath the mast. Placing a wooden handle in the jaws of the winch, Mr Rivers heaved while Art fed a line attached to the sail up the mast. The sail fluttered and flapped like a furious tethered bird, and the boat rocked on its makeshift platform. The noise was deafening, like claps of stage thunder, and I lowered my sandpaper to watch the two men wrestle with the wind. Mr Rivers left the winch to help Art, embracing the brown sail and reaching up with long arms to wrench it free. Suddenly it spilt along the boom, a great brown wing, half an eagle.

  ‘Champion seaman, Mr Rivers. Used ter race fer England when he wis a young man. Brilliant at yachtin’,’ murmured Burt in admiration.

  I glanced at him in surprise and the old man smiled.

  ‘Aye. Doesn’t really understand yachtin’ myself. If yer is goin’ out arn the sea, might as well do a spot o’ fishin’. Sailin’ an’ no supper, seems a lot o’ bother ter me.’ He gave a tiny shrug. ‘But Mr Rivers. Best yachtsman an’ sailor. Better an’ Kit. That boy’s too impatient. Brave an’ reckless. Dangerous that is. Sea is hungry fer foolish men.’

  I put down my chisel and walked away. I didn’t want to hear his doubts about Kit. Not now, when he was at sea. Behind me in the crumbling rocks, sand pipits had made nest holes, but they were abandoned, the owners far away in sunnier climes. The dwellings had an empty look, like cottages with unlit windows at dusk.

  ‘Burt doesn’t mean anything, Elise. He just worries about Kit. He’s very fond of him,’ said Mr Rivers.

  He stood quietly beside me, watching the waves recede along the shoreline, the tide starting to turn.

  ‘I don’t like the silence,’ I said. ‘He always writes.’

  ‘I know. But I am sure he’s all right. Navy wires the families straight away if there’s been a problem. Just up to something secret, that’s all,’ he said.

  ‘Have you heard anything from your friend in Paris?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. Nothing.’

  He rested his arm lightly around my shoulders, and I leant into him. His skin was damp and he smelt of sweat and work. Suddenly we were both aware of his nakedness; he dropped his arm and I stepped away.

  ‘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.’