The House at Tyneford (36 page)

“Go and change,” said Mr. Rivers. “Then we’ll go down to the beach and speak to Burt. I presume that you wish to take the
Lugger
?”

Kit nodded. “Yes. She’s the nimblest of the fishing boats. She’s not the largest, but she’s fast, and I know the quirks of her engine. That wretched outboard has blown up more times than I care to remember, and I’ve never not been able to fix her.”

Ten minutes later we were hurrying down to the cove, Kit dressed in his naval uniform and carrying his mackintosh. He looked handsome and older than before, clad in his long coat, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes. I dug my fingernails into the fleshy part of my palms and wished I believed in God so that I could pray for his safe return. Mr. Rivers had also changed into his work clothes, and I noticed a set of oilskins tucked under his arm. The night was cloudless and full of stars. An owl cried out in the dark and flew low across the pebbled beach, while the wind strummed the marram grass. I scrambled to keep up with the men’s easy strides, and as we reached the beach I slithered across the rocks in my plimsolls. Burt’s cottage windows were blacked out, but in the starlight a thin plume of smoke was visible as it curled out from the broken chimney pot. Kit knocked on the door, and a minute later it flew open. Burt blinked as he took in Kit standing on his front step in his naval trench coat and his lieutenant’s cap.

“Burt, I need to commandeer the
Lugger.
I have to take her to France. Our boys are stranded on the beaches.”

Burt gave a slow nod and then a half salute. “Aye, Officer. Well, yer told us before that the
Lugger
wis now part of His Majesty’s navy. If the Admiralty needs her, then she mist go. Only wish I wis a bit younger an’ a bit less creaky an’ I’d sail with yoos.”

Kit strode across the darkened yard to the beach where the boat lay upon the pebbles under a blanket of tarpaulin. Mr. Rivers helped him throw off the covering, and Burt joined them both, walking around the hull, scrutinising the paintwork with the flickering light of a match. Kit climbed onto the deck and started handing down coiled fishing nets and lobster pots.

“She must be stripped of everything except essentials.”

I caught the nets and carried them into a corner of the yard.

“Are there any blankets?” called Mr. Rivers. “It’ll be cold on the channel. And food. We need food in tins and at least three gallons of fresh water.”

“I’ll go and ask Mrs. Ellsworth,” I said and turned to hurry back up the path to the house.

“There’s plenty of time,” called Mr. Rivers. “Tide must turn. It’s at the lowest ebb. We’ll need to wait at least six hours until the
Lugger
can sail.”

I didn’t care if there was time. I ran along the track as fast as I could—I wanted to spend every last minute with Kit. The moon cast a cold glow on the chalk path, white as bone. The night smelled sweetly of dog roses, which wove in tangles through the black hedgerows. I rushed past the tawny owl, now perched on a fence post, his head swivelling to watch me with yellow eyes. I reached the back door, my breath coming in gasps.

“Mrs. Ellsworth! I need blankets and tins of fruit and meat and custard and a flask for water . . . and dressings and bandages . . . and some brandy if you have it.”

She came bustling along the passage, her tanned forehead furrowed like plough lines across a field.

“Yes, yes, all right. Come in and close the door—you’re letting out the light.”

I realised that in my hurry I’d forgotten about the blackout rules and light was streaming onto the cobbles in the yard. I slammed the door and followed her into the pantry. She thrust a sack into my hands.

“Fill this with tins from the bottom shelf. Take a dozen evaporated milk. Fruit pieces. Potted meat. And put in two tin openers. And spoons.”

Once I had packed the food, I dragged the sack to the back door. Wondering how on earth I was going to carry it all to the beach, I spied Art’s wheelbarrow with relief. Mrs. Ellsworth joined me in the yard, holding a pile of blankets and a picnic hamper, which she dumped on top of the wheelbarrow. I started to wheel it along the drive and back down the path to the bay. It clattered in the dark, and I was sure that I would wake every villager. I wondered how on earth the old smugglers managed. I supposed they didn’t use wheelbarrows. It was heavy and kept sticking on the stones, but we returned to the beach within the hour. The men were checking the
Lugger
’s rigging and arguing over whether to take a spare sail.

“Can’t sail into battle,” said Kit, arms folded across his chest. “We’ll use the outboard once we get near France.”

“But if the engine packs in?” asked Mr. Rivers.

“Then we use the oars.”

“She’s a devil ter row,” said Burt, shaking his head.

“Well, there’ll be plenty of men. Some of them will have to help,” said Kit, determined.

“Right yer are,” said Burt. “Take another set then.”

“What about flares?” asked Mr. Rivers.

“Under bench in stern,” replied Burt.

Kit climbed down and came to stand beside me, draping his arm around my shoulders. “Nothing more to do but wait for the tide.”

“Why don’t you go back to the house and get yourself a few hours’ sleep, sir?” asked Mrs. Ellsworth.

Kit laughed. “Couldn’t sleep now. I’ll stretch out on deck and rest,” he added, to mollify her. “Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand and scooping up a blanket. “You’re always asking what it’s like to sleep aboard a ship—come and find out.”

I allowed him to help me clamber onto the deck of the
Lugger
. He spread a blanket across one of the narrow wooden benches and lay down, tapping the space beside him. I hesitated for only a second before squeezing in next to him. He wrapped his arms around me and I felt his breath on the back of my neck. I was still cold and I gave a shiver. Kit wriggled upright.

“I’m sorry. Very ungallant. Here.” He removed his woolen trench coat and laid it over us both. The tide was far out in the bay, and the water rushed against the rocks in the distance.

“It’s not as comfortable as a Snottie’s hammock,” he said.

“Snottie?”

“Midshipmen. We officers have the luxurious discomfort of a hard bunk in a broom cupboard and being flung onto the floor if the wind picks up. I’ve slung a hammock once or twice, though, and magic things they are. Swing with the rhythm of the ship, sleep like a baby rocking in a cradle.”

“We’ll try it when you get back,” I whispered. “By Durdle Door. Like you said in your letter.”

We fell silent, conscious of the intimacies expressed in his letters and of the weeks squandered in Tyneford. He’d spent much of them wishing to be at sea and now that he was about to depart he brimmed with regret.

“I’m sorry, darling. It’ll be different when I’m on leave. It was being out of action that made me act like such a cad.”

I twisted in his arms so that I could kiss him. His mouth was warm against mine.

“Elise,” he said, as he at last drew away, “I want to marry you now. I don’t want to wait anymore.”

I swallowed, feeling something lodge in my throat. “Yes, all right.”

He brushed my cheek with his fingertips. “Really? Yes?”

I tried to imagine the letter I would write to Anna . . .
Darling Anna, today I married Kit. I wore your pearls.

I brushed Kit’s jaw with my lips. “But”—I glanced down at my hands, too shy to look at him—“even if we don’t marry straight away . . . The things in your letter. We could try the things in your letter, even if we’re not married. I won’t stop you next time. If you like.”

“Yes, I’d like,” he said, his voice low. “When I’m back.”

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, not 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 spoiled 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 salt-water surf and then pressed the cloth against Mr. Rivers’ jaw. As the salt touched his skin, he winced, inhaling sharply.

“Good salt water. Better than any cologne, sir,” said the butler.

Then he turned his attention 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 judgment. “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 around 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 a hole 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.