The Novel in the Viola (41 page)

‘Well?’ demanded Poppy, shoving him away affectionately.

Will shrugged. ‘Not too much longer, I ’spect. Rest of the afternoon, anyhoo.’ He thrust his hands into his pockets and scowled. ‘Don’t like these wretched fences. Too quick. Not thought out. Nothin’ like a good stone wall. Some things is supposed ter be slow. If yer goin’ ter cut up hillside, yer got ter do it right, an’ that takes time.’

I glanced across the hill and saw the flint walls running across the hillside like stone rivers. In the warmth of the morning sun they shone bone white, speckled with flecks of jet – as much part of the landscape as the swaying grass or wind-battered hazel.

‘What’s wrong with the old wall?’ I asked.

‘Army’s creepin’ in,’ replied Will, pointing to a row of red flags between the wall and fence. ‘Keep takin’ more an’ more farmland fer their trainin’. Barely sev’n hund’erd acres left. Be fencin’ the beach soon enuff.’

Poppy kicked at a daisy and gave a sharp snort. ‘Fencing? Ha! Mines more like. Soon the beaches and the barrows will be crawling with barbed wire and machine-gun posts.’

Will bent to pick up the axe. ‘Nuff jibber-jabber. Can do nothin’ ’bout it. Leave it to the yows ter bleet an’ blether. Yoos twos goin’ ter help?’

Poppy tossed me a stout mallet and, following her lead, I started to beat a thick wooden post into the earth. The cattle and sheep dawdled about us in the cowleaze, oblivious to the new fence, the red flags or the prickle of change that I felt running up my arms with each beat of the mallet. From the army camp on the Lulcombe estate, just beyond the brow of the hill, came the rat-a-tat of gunfire and the mosquito whine of shells. The animals ignored the noise; the fat summer lambs flicked their tails and danced among the dandelions, while the cows chewed the cud and blinked away the buzzing flies.

When I arrived home that evening, I heard raised voices on the terrace. It was almost seven and I expected to find Mr Rivers alone, drinking his whisky in the last glow of the afternoon. On the walk back I’d filled my sunhat with blackberries, ready to bake into a pie, and I quietly set them down beside the garden gate before venturing across the lawn. Mr Rivers stood on the terrace, while Lady Vernon and Diana Hamilton perched uneasily on the upright garden chairs. None of them saw me approach.

‘I am sorry,’ said Lady Vernon. ‘I only wished to say that I am so very sorry.’

Mr Rivers spun to face her. ‘Everyone is sorry. What good to me is sorry? Hang your sorry.’

Lady Vernon winced but her serene society smile did not waver. Diana studied her neat little hands folded in her lap, as Mr Rivers started to pace the terrace. I stood at the edge of the lawn, in the shadow of the walnut tree, and waited, unnoticed.

‘Perhaps he will come home,’ said Lady Vernon. ‘It is possible he was taken prisoner. Many were.’

‘No. He is dead.’

Mr Rivers came to a halt beside her chair. He watched her with steady eyes, forcing her to look at him. For a moment, her glass expression cracked and a look of pity flitted across her bulldog face. For a moment, I did not hate her.

‘Will you have a memorial service?’ she asked softly, twisting the gold wedding ring on her pudgy finger.

‘No. I remember. Alice remembers. That is enough.’

He turned away from her and stared absently out towards the bay.

‘It is usual in these cases—’ she began.

‘Damn what is usual. What world is it that the murder of a man’s son is usual?’

She smoothed over his outburst with a practised social smile. ‘I’m perfectly happy to take on the organisation.’

In two strides he was beside her chair, a hand on either armrest. He towered over her, eyes cold with fury. To her credit she did not flinch, nor even lean back in her chair, but sat upright, her back finishing-school straight.

‘Don’t turn me into one of your projects!’ he hissed. ‘If you are idle then knit socks for soldiers, or repaper your damn drawing room.’ He straightened, fists trembling, and with visible effort succeeded in controlling his temper. ‘I’m going up to change. Ring for Wrexham if you require refreshments. Good night.’

He strode away into the gloom of the house. I slipped out of the shadow and came up the terrace steps.

‘Well,’ tutted Lady Vernon, shocked as a bantam hen disturbed in her egg laying. ‘Well.’

‘I told you we shouldn’t have come,’ said Diana, nostrils flaring with displeasure when she saw me.

‘Good evening, Lady Vernon. Lady Diana,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘I’m sorry for Mr Rivers’ behaviour. He is not himself.’

This was not true. He was absolutely himself. He was simply not the person he had been before. Neither of us were; but unlike me he did not even look the same, with his unkempt hair, stubbled chin and coarse workman’s clothes. His eyes had an empty, feral look, which proclaimed him to be a man beyond the restraint of civility. I wondered that neither woman had noticed it, and cursed them for provoking him. A child could tell them that this man was no longer a gentleman – any rudeness they had brought upon themselves. Both women studied me with unconcealed displeasure. Diana’s lip curled in contempt. That it was left for me to apologise made it worse – the fact it was necessary at all was awful, a violation of social niceties; that the apology came from me, the Kraut-Yid and usurping maid, was unbearable. Lady Vernon rose and gave me a curt nod.

‘Good evening, Miss Land, or whatever it is you’re calling yourself today. I shall walk through the park in this pleasant weather. Diana?’

She nodded at the girl, but Diana shook her blonde curls.

‘No thank you, Aunt. I shall join you in a minute.’

Lady Vernon’s eyebrow twitched in surprise at Diana choosing my company over her own, but she made no comment and swept down the terrace steps into the garden. I turned and watched Diana, waiting for her to speak. She stared at me, to see if I would be first to break the silence. I sighed. I just wanted her gone.

‘Would you like some tea, Lady Diana?’

‘Are you asking as my hostess or as the maid?’ she inquired, gazing at me with her large violet eyes.

‘What do you want, Diana?’ I asked, leaning against the back of a chair.

She settled into her seat, smoothing the cotton print of her yellow summer dress, carefully chosen to bring out the creamy pink of her skin. She smiled at me through the thick veil of her lashes.

‘People talk, you know,’ she said.

I said nothing and scratched at a piece of moss sprouting between the paving slabs on the terrace with my plimsoll. Diana watched me for a second and then tried again.

‘Why do you stay here?’

I snorted in surprise. I had never considered leaving.

‘Because I must.’

She gave a coy smile. ‘Why? You’re not a servant anymore. You’re not engaged to Kit. I’m sorry, darling, but you never reached “death do us part”. There’s no reason at all to stay.’

Anger heated my cheeks. ‘Mr Rivers. Daniel. I stay for him. I cannot possibly leave him.’

Diana simpered in triumph. ‘Daniel? Who is he? Christopher Rivers? A pet name. How adorable!’

‘I’m sure your aunt is wanting you,’ I said, my Austrian accent growing stronger with my rage.

Diana dismissed my feigned concern with a wave. ‘Oh, she’s quite all right. She’ll be simply fascinated. As I said, people
love
to talk – especially about love. The more scandalous the better.’

‘Please leave,’ I said, abandoning any pretence of civility.

Clapping her hands with pleasure and laughing happily, Diana stood. ‘It’s too delicious. Obscene. But delicious.’

She leant forward and planted a cool kiss on my cheek, ignoring my distaste. ‘Goodbye. Thank you for a charming afternoon.’

When she had gone I sat on the step, resting my chin in my hands. I didn’t care what people said. Perhaps it was obscene. Did such things even matter anymore? What I’d said was true: I had to stay. Mr Rivers needed me.

That night as I lay awake listening to the sea rush in the dark, I did not think about Kit but Mr Rivers. Was Diana right? I climbed out of bed and rummaged through the drawer in my dressing table until I found the Liberty-patterned notepaper Mr Rivers had purchased for me on his last trip to London. Tucking one leg beneath me, I wrote to my sister.

Do you think my staying here shocking? I hope you don’t. I think it would be very unfair if you did. You were always kissing Robert in public even after you were married (and no one likes to see married people kiss their own spouses) so I don’t believe that you’re entitled to disapprove.

I can’t help wondering what Anna and Julian would think. The great-aunts would never approve of my staying in the house unchaperoned, but then the aunts rarely do, disapproval being one of their chief pleasures in life, along with a whiff of scandal and toasted marzipan squares. Anna probably has an opinion on such matters – she has one on most things. I know she is against a woman removing her hairpins and shaking out her hair in front of a man with whom she does not intend to fall in love, and she is decidedly for rosewater being sprinkled on underthings. You know how I listen to Anna (always looking over my shoulder before adjusting a single hairpin), but this is not like those things.

Do you remember Herr Aldermann when his wife died? We watched him shrivel. He went from being a fat man who wobbled with laughter as he wiped the chicken schmaltz from his jowls, to a husk. He shuffled into our apartment for supper, drank his schnapps and shuffled back to his empty house. I don’t want Mr Rivers to shuffle. At the moment, he is angry. He rages at the world, but his fury will cool to despair and I must be here. I don’t want him to turn into an old man who doesn’t care to pick up his feet as he walks or lets the grease stay on his chin.

You understand why I cannot leave, whatever they say, don’t you, Margot?

The wind huffed through the leaves outside my window, making them patter against the glass like raindrops. I was restless and sticky with unease. In the night I listened to the creak of floorboards in the library below, and knew that it was the sound of Mr Rivers pacing up and down. When later I fell asleep, I heard him in my dreams, walking restlessly, footsteps echoing in the dark.

Will’s leave ended and it fell to Poppy and me to finish the fence. The small boys who had helped were summoned back to school to practise reading and arithmetic, and so Poppy and I were alone on the hillside. August was fading into September. We had that melancholy feeling that accompanies the last days of summer; the sunshine had lost its ferocity and I wished I could catch handfuls of it in my fists to preserve until next year. The fields, stripped during haymaking, looked bald and yellow, and only snatches of ragged robin and frog orchids were left at the edges. We worked in shirtsleeves – me in an old pair of shorts that I’d discovered at the back of Kit’s cupboard. I’d taken to wearing his old clothes. It irked Mrs Ellsworth, who fretted that my appearing in Kit’s blue school shorts would strike a blow to Mr Rivers’ heart. I’d remonstrated with her – ‘His heart is broken whether I stain my only good dress mending fences or wear Kit’s old things.’ In truth I didn’t care about ruining my clothes; I liked wearing Kit’s belongings – they smelt of him. Anything taken from his wardrobe was infused with that scent of sandalwood and cigarettes. I’d almost smoked the last of Kit’s Turkish blend and had decided to order some more from his place in Jermyn Street, when silently the store in his room was replenished; the slim silver case refilled. Of course it was Wrexham. The butler had recognised the paraphernalia of my grief, and quietly seen that it was taken care of.

I lay on my stomach in the grass, feeling the blades scratching my skin, removing stray pieces of flint from the dry ground. Poppy passed me a trowel and I hacked at the earth, creating a small hole for the next fencepost. The sheep milled around us, bleating amiably, oblivious to our work and the sinister flutter of the creeping flags. Poppy hammered cross sections into place, nails pursed between her lips. A kite soared above us, its red wings flashing in the afternoon sun. From the cliffs a kittiwake called, its shrill cry piercing the steady boom of the waves. Lulcombe camp was silent, but we could see green army trucks crawling across the hill like armoured beetles, and soldiers the size of lead toys marching in steady formations in the empty fields. The ancient stone castle crouched over them, an oversized model, and I imagined that it smiled, content to watch battles played out in its shade once again.

Poppy straightened, stretching her arms above her head, revealing a triangle of freckled midriff. She’d used the last of her hair elastics, and there were no more to be had, so she’d used a smooth stick to pin up her tumble-mane of hair. The effect was striking, and if she chose to sunbathe on the rocks I couldn’t help thinking that the fishermen would mistake her for a pale-skinned mermaid. She dug her hand into her pocket and reached out a couple of pear drops, tossing one to me. I sucked on it, satisfied for a minute to close my eyes in the sunshine and taste sugar on my tongue. This was how I lived now, savouring the pleasure of an odd moment, always trying not to think. So it took a few seconds for me to register the staccato roar of the Messerschmitt. I sat upright, almost crashing my head against the bottom rail of the fence. Poppy perched on her haunches, alert as a March hare, every part of her listening. I felt bile rise and burn my throat, sweat prickle the back of my knees. No. I willed myself to calm. I hadn’t survived his attack just to die in the meadow grass a few weeks later.

‘It’s all right,’ said Poppy. ‘Look.’

She pointed to a white bobtail of a cloud and I saw a Spitfire drop out from behind it. The afternoon exploded into gunfire. First from the Spitfire: the rattle and crack of bullets. A howl as the Messerschmitt engine screeched and the plane arced around. The Spitfire gave chase and I laughed out loud.

‘Get the bastard! Get him,’ I shouted, gleeful in my revenge.