The Novel in the Viola (11 page)

I awoke in the middle of the night. I sat up in bed, listening to the unfamiliar creak and tick of the old house and feeling utterly alone. I needed comfort. In a daze I padded downstairs and into Mrs Ellsworth’s larder. I reached up to the top shelf and helped myself to the elderflower syllabub left over from the gentlemen’s desserts. Thinking back, I was lucky that no one caught me. Then, I did not consider my midnight snack as theft. I only wanted to gorge like I did at home, but the sweetness was sickly and unfamiliar. All this time later, the taste of syllabub is still the taste of homesickness and if, in early summer, I catch the scent of elderflower, I am nineteen again, sitting cross-legged on the larder floor, clasping a basin of creamy dessert, refusing to cry.

CHAPTER NINE

Kit

The next few days passed in a haze of polish. I dusted in my sleep and my clothes smelt of spilt vinegar. The only respite from loneliness was stolen minutes in the yard, feeding apple cores or lettuce scraps to Mr Bobbin. The yard was situated at the side of the house away from the sea, but I could hear the crash of the surf, while coarse marram grass sprouted at the edge of the cobbles. Each night I lay in bed listening to the water rush and smash on the rocks below, promising myself that in the morning I would walk down to the sea. Yet, when dawn came, I was always too tired, and wriggled under my blankets, desperate for another few minutes of sleep.

I had no free time. In the five minutes before dinner, when I was supposed to be washing my hands and face, I wandered into the yard. I fed the horse from my palm, feeling his warm breath upon my skin, and listened to the rhythmic grind of his large yellow teeth. He never made any noise but huffed out of his nostrils and bumped his stable door with his nose whenever he saw me. I realised that I was becoming like Art, my only friend having four legs, and decided it was imperative that I improve my English. Mr Wrexham was similarly determined although for a different motive: he had high hopes for me in the dining room. I must not speak, nor eavesdrop and yet I must be capable of impeccable English conversation. He thrust upon me
The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary in Two Volumes
,
as well as
Debretts: Baronetage of England 1920.
He attempted to add Mrs Beeton
to my pile, and his lip twitched in approval when I explained I already owned a copy.

‘You would do well to study it, Elise. Devote one hour a day to the wisdom of Isabella Beeton. She writes for the lady of the house, but her insight is universal. Universal.’

I would have laughed at his familiarity with ‘Isabella’, whispering her name in the dreamy tones of an old lover, but I knew by now that Mr Wrexham was a man entirely without humour, who did not take kindly to the smiles of others. I stashed his books in the corner of my bedroom, resolving never to read them.

Early one morning in my second week, while cleaning the blue guest room, a sun-filled space with sky-coloured curtains, I encountered a stack of novels on the windowsill. They were clearly provided for the entertainment of female guests, set apart from the leather-bound volumes in Mr Rivers’ library. I perched on the window seat overlooking the rolling lawns. It had been pouring for hours, and the gardens were soaked, the snapdragons and hollyhocks lay stooped and battered in the beds, but now a streak of sun made the wet grass glisten, while the black storm clouds raced across the hills like smoke from a band of dragons. The sky drifting above the sea was empty and pale blue. I longed to walk down to the beach, sit on the rocks and breathe gulps of salt air. I’d been inside the house for days, and I felt caged and cross. Picking out a novel with a tattered orange cover, I determined to escape for a couple of hours. I concealed the filched book at the bottom of my cleaning box, and disappeared up to my room to collect a volume of the
Oxford English,
before returning to the service corridor. I paused outside Mr Wrexham’s open door. It was not yet eight o’clock, and he stood in his perfectly pressed tails, ironing Mr Rivers’ newspaper. I entered in silence, peering around his elbow as I tried to read the headlines. I needed to find a way of obtaining the discarded papers; I’d been in Tyneford for nearly a fortnight and I was starved of news. Mrs Ellsworth had a wireless in her parlour, and allowed May and me to listen as a treat some evenings, but she only liked the light programmes. The old papers were meticulously stored in the butler’s room, but I suspected that Mr Wrexham would class borrowing discarded newspapers from his room as theft. He did not approve of females taking any interest in politics; newspapers were the preserve of men, while only gentlemen were permitted opinions upon their contents.

‘Mr Wrexham?’

He jumped, nearly dropping the iron.

‘Elise! You almost made me scald Mr Rivers’
Times.
’

‘I am most sorry, Mr Wrexham.’

‘No, it’s “I am
very
sorry”. You must learn.’

‘I am
very
sorry.’

He set the iron beside the stove in the corner. ‘Almost. It’s “v-very”. Not a “w-wet wellington”. Ah. Good, I see you have the dictionary.’

‘Yes, I have the headache, Mr Wrexham. Please, I go and study English in fresh air?’

He scowled. ‘But your duties?’

‘I have cleaned guest rooms. Fires are laid. With air I be better by lunchtime.’

He hesitated, and then shrugged. ‘Very well. One hour. But this is not to become a habit, mind. You need to be strong in service, yes?’

I nodded and gave a smile, which I hoped appeared sincere. ‘Yes, I am strong girl.’

‘Very well, then. Off you go.’ He returned to ironing the newspaper.

I hesitated, and then cleared my throat. ‘Mr Wrexham? I can put newspaper in morning room. I know.
Times
placed on side plate, headlines facing Mr Rivers.’

‘Yes. All right. Don’t crease it,’ he said, handing me the paper with reverence.

I scurried out of his room before he could change his mind, slowing down to a forbidden dawdle as soon as I left the servants’ corridor, so that I had time to read the headlines.

Cabinet meet over Refugee Crisis . . . Unemployment Fears . . .

There was insufficient time for me to do anything but scan the first few lines, and I wanted to search inside for any snippets about Vienna. I ambled into the morning room and placed the paper on the side plate of the single place setting. Since my first night serving in the dining room, Mr Rivers had had no other guest. He appeared to live in the house in quiet solitude, save for the staff. He went into the study in the mornings, and then walked out each afternoon. The only regular caller was Mr Jeffreys, the estate manager, a gentleman invariably clad in muddy breeches and accompanied by a wagging red setter. I wondered why we scrubbed and polished the half-dozen guest rooms each day, when no guest ever stayed.

I lifted the front page of the paper, peeking for any scraps of news. I’d had no letter from Vienna since Margot’s, and I was desperate for word. The brass clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour and I scurried out, not wanting to be found rifling through the newspaper by Mr Rivers. It was a habit my father detested. ‘A man’s newspaper is his own. It’s a thing of sanctity.’

I exited through the back door into the yard, but for once I did not pause to pet Mr Bobbin, even when he thudded his nose against the stable door to draw my attention. I hurried along the footpath leading off the beech grove, and headed towards the village. The hedgerows trickled with rain, and my shoes were instantly sodden from the dripping grass, but I did not care. For the first time at Tyneford, I was free, even if it was just for an hour. The track was slippery with liquid mud, gnats slapped into my face, and white butterflies flitted amongst the honeysuckle, which smelt sickly sweet in the damp air. I emerged in front of a cluster of houses and a neat row of stone shops: a bakery, a butcher’s and post office cum general store, with a scarlet-painted letterbox set into the wall outside. Behind the shops lay a small church, built out of the same grey limestone, and in the distance the low bank of the Purbeck hills. The ancient roof and chimneystacks of the great house peeked out from above the beech copse like the masts of a command ship amongst the fleet of cottages.

From behind a netted window, an old woman sewed and stared. I smiled and she almost waved, before sealing the gap in the curtain. Several women in floral dresses, cardigans and galoshes walked past me and filed into the shop, the door clattering and brass bell jangling. Peeping through the glass frontage, I saw piles of boxes heaped on top of one another containing flour, polish, sugar, soap flakes, combs, chocolate, suet, envelopes, toilet tissue, bottles of rum and lemon cordial, paperback books, razor blades and balls of wool. I had never seen a shop so tightly packed; it appeared to sell everything, so that the customers were forced to clamber carefully over the stacked goods. In my pocket, I clasped a whole shilling (a reward for having helped Art scrub the interior of the Wolseley) and with only a slight twinge of guilt, I entered the shop. Five minutes later I rushed out, my pockets stuffed with three bars of chocolate.

The village nestled at the foot of the valley, the ring of hills enclosing it on three sides, and in front the grey sea stretched away into the horizon. I turned away from the clutch of houses and walked along the unmade road towards the beach. The tinkle of cowbells was carried on the wind, and filled the air with an eerie music. On the sloping hillside, two men in shirtsleeves selected pieces of flint from a large pile, stacking it into a curving wall to mark a new field boundary. A solitary rook perched on a gatepost, surveying their progress with lazy curiosity. As I walked further along the track it became rougher, too narrow for cart or car. The roar of the sea grew louder and I started to run.

In ten minutes, the village lay behind me and I reached the edge of the curving bay. Just above the tide-line lay a tumbledown hut, half concealed by bramble and blue sea-grass, like a fisherman’s cottage in a story. It almost appeared to be growing out of the rock. An old man, his hair as white as dandelion feathers, sat on a lobster pot mending a piece of netting with a rusted knife. He looked strangely familiar, but I couldn’t think where I had seen him before. I smiled and he gave me a curt nod before returning to his net. I scrambled over the rocks leading down to the beach, holding my books under one arm and trying not to drop them in the dirt. It was growing warm, and sweat made my top lip itch. Several fishing-boats lay propped upon the rocks beside a cobbled causeway out of the reach of the high tide. The painted bottoms were speckled with barnacles and stinking scraps of seaweed. Even from several yards away, I could smell the stench of fish.

Before me, the sea foamed and crashed upon the pebbles. The water cracked against the stones, and there followed a creak as the tide surged and the pebbles rattled and ground together. I glanced back at the cottage. The old man was busy with his lobster pots and no one else was to be seen. I squatted down and drew off my shoes and stockings, and with one last glance behind me, stripped off my skirt as well, weighting my clothes with the books. The breeze was cool, despite the early summer sunshine, and my skin prickled with goose bumps. Barefoot, I picked my way across the pebbles down towards the sea. The wet stones sparkled in the sunlight, while the wind whipped my short hair into my mouth, and I held it back with one hand, muttering crossly. When my hair had been long, I pinned it tightly and it did not flap into my eyes. As my toes touched the cold water, l let out a gasp. A chill tingled up and down my legs and I shrieked.

No one could hear me. I could shout and stamp and cry out and it did not matter. I waded out into the surf and banged my fists against my thighs, until they were stinging red. I shouted at the sea and my voice was lost.

I hate it here. I hate it. Hate it. Anna. Julian. Margot. Hildegard. AnnaJulianMargot. Annajulianmargotannajulmaanna . . .

I chanted their names over and over, until they became a pulp of sound and lost their meanings. Salt spray battered my face and I licked it away. I was tired of behaving and being silent. I wanted more words. Bad words. I tried swearing in German, remembering all the profanities I had heard Julian use, especially those that made Anna wince and mutter, ‘Oh, darling.’ Yet, it was oddly unsatisfying. I wanted English words. The more terrible, the more they would please me. I glanced back at the dictionary lying on the beach. Out of curiosity I had looked up some forbidden words. What was it?
Testes.
Yes, that must be a very dirty word. But I needed more. I must try and remember. I screwed up my eyes, and recalled a word I’d seen daubed in paint on a wall in London. Yes. I could almost see it. It was like the word belonging to those stinking shellfish in vinegar that Henry the footman had offered me. I filled my lungs with air and hurled my words at the sea.

‘Testes! Testes and cockles!’

My cries were absorbed in the pounding of the surf. I looked up at the racing clouds and shouted again, so loudly that my voice cracked and rasped in my throat.

‘Shit. Hell. Hate. Testes and cockles! Cockles.’

‘Titties. Titties and fishcakes!’

I whirled around and saw a tanned young man, trousers rolled up to his knees, hopping across the rocks towards me. I stared at him, open-mouthed. He raised a hand in greeting and then dropped it as he reached my side.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Is it a private game? I rather fancied joining in.’

I was too startled to be embarrassed. I gaped at him. He must have been my age, perhaps a year or two older. He had dark blond hair, and had apparently not shaved this morning as his chin was coated in straw-coloured bristles. Margot would declare him a ‘slovenly sort of person’ while Anna always warned me to beware of young men who did not shave. A smile played around his lips. I was suddenly conscious of the fact that I was standing in the surf in my knickers. I tugged my woollen sweater down low to cover myself and without acknowledging his presence, turned around and stalked across the beach to my clothes. I sat down and quickly pulled on my skirt. He came and settled beside me. I shuffled away, leaving a space between us and picked up my books, placing them as a further barrier. He glanced at my defensive heap, clearly amused and turned to gaze out at the sea.