by Eva Meijer
I get dressed and braid my own hair. The door from the room beside mine opens and then closes—it isn’t half past seven yet, but I’m hungry.
Mrs Sewell is standing at the bottom of the dark wooden staircase. She’s talking to a tall young lady with curly red hair. “No, by Friday,” she says sharply. “This is your last chance.”
The young lady turns abruptly, gives me a brief look, winks and walks away. She’s wearing lipstick.
“Good morning, Miss Howard. Did you sleep well?” Mrs Sewell is all smiles with me. “The dining room is over there.”
I walk across the thick dark-brown carpet to the back room, where the girl I’ve just seen is sitting alone at the table.
“Would you mind if I sat beside you?”
She laughs. “Please do. I’m Thea.” She takes my right hand with her left hand, clasping her teacup firmly in her right.
“Gwendolen, but they call me Gwen. Or Len.”
“Hallo Len, welcome to the Haunted House. That’s what we all call it. The only real spectre here is Mrs Sewell, but still.” She gives a Cheshire Cat grin. “Are you a musician too?”
“I play the violin. What about you?”
“Jolly good, then we can play together. Cello.” Freckles form a pathway, fanning out from her nose to her cheeks. I look dark and pale beside her, lacking in colour.
“Do you also play in an orchestra?”
“I have three auditions this week. Hopefully something will come of them, otherwise things will get a little awkward. Money-wise too.” She pours more milk into her cup and drinks the tepid tea in a single gulp. “Something always turns up. Till now, at least.”
“I’ve been engaged by the Queen’s Hall Orchestra.”
“Phew, you’re good then. So much the better! I say, do you have a young man?”
I shake my head, help myself to some toast and spread it with butter and jam. “What about you?”
“Two, at the moment. Andrew, who’s a soldier, and Johnny, from the last orchestra I played in. That’s the reason they threw me out. They don’t want us to mix love and work. Just so you know.”
“My brother is a soldier.”
“Is he good-looking?” Her eyes open wider, as if she’s searching for him in me.
“No idea. Now, I’d like to explore the neighbourhood after breakfast. Do you want to come along?”
She grimaces. “Why are you bothered about this place? Come into town with me. Do you know London already?”
“Not really.”
“Marvellous. Then I’ll guide you, and you’re in luck, ’cos I’m the best guide ever!”
* * *
“Bring your coat. It’s going to rain.” Thea is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. I run back up, almost bumping into the landlady.
“Miss Howard?”
“Excuse me. I was in a hurry.”
“We do not run on the staircase in this establishment.”
I offer my apologies once again.
Thea laughs at my crestfallen face. “Mrs Sewell isn’t so bad. She can sometimes hit the roof, but she’s helped me out of a fix a couple of times. This time too. I haven’t paid her for two weeks in a row. Anyone else would’ve thrown me out long ago.”
“Do you want to borrow some cash?”
“Rule one: never ask a stranger if she needs to borrow cash. No one here has any money, especially the musicians. Save your cash for a rainy day.” She combs her hand through her curls. “We’re going that way, through the park. You been to London before?”
“A long time ago.” The ground beneath our feet is moving. A heavy wagon rolls along, right beside us. I can smell the horse’s body. Thea doesn’t seem to notice it. “Have you lived here long?”
“I was born here. My parents moved to Scotland when I was thirteen. I moved in with an aunt and uncle. I didn’t want to go with my parents.”
A motor vehicle, with an open-top deck, comes towards us—the soldiers inside it call out to Thea. She sees me staring.
“They’re the new buses. They use them as transport for our boys now. Perhaps your brother’s inside it. They certainly fancy you.”
“They’re calling to you!”
“To both of us. You’re still a bit green, aren’t you?” I look aside, and she laughs.
The bus leaves tracks in the mud, traces in the air. There’s a policeman at the crossroads, sternly gesturing at us to wait.
“Take it easy,” Thea tells him. “It’s her first day in London.”
The man smiles, suddenly ten years younger. “Welcome to London, miss.” He lets us cross.
Thea tells me that she can’t choose between Andrew and Johnny, because they’re both so handsome. Andrew is manly and Johnny plays beautifully. She thinks she perhaps likes Johnny best. I gaze around. The houses are so tall and the street is filthy, black with dirt, fumes, horse droppings. “Don’t they ever clean the streets here?”
“The sweepers come every morning!”
Our route becomes a path through a park. There’s a man sitting on a bench with his eyes closed, tattered trousers, no coat or shoes. Thea pulls me along. “Tramp,” she says, when we’re out of earshot. By the park exit there are two more of them. Thea acts as if she hasn’t seen them. They do exactly the same. Then we turn right—low houses with washing lines strung between them, pegged with cotton clothing: white shirts, dresses, long johns. When we get closer I can see how many times they’ve been mended. White on lighter white.
In the shopping street she tells me about the last orchestra she played in, and asks again if we can play together. She says work is scarce, that I’ve been lucky. “I hope it goes well for you. That Stockdale has a bit of a temper.” We look at the shop windows, untouched by the war: thousands of kinds of soap, silk dresses, jewellery. “Will you have a drink with me?” She indicates a door with wooden ornamentation, gold-leaf paint and green glass.
“Sorry. I have to rehearse pretty soon.”
She asks if I can find my way home and embraces me, as if we’re already very good friends. Then she enters the pub and I’m left alone in a city that bids me a reluctant welcome. Two Crows are chattering to each other, high in a poplar tree. I feel a pain grip my stomach. Charles will have no idea where I’ve gone, or why.
* * *
The rehearsal room is in a former school building. It has high windows and an even higher ceiling. Today only the strings are rehearsing. I shake hands, forget names, a smile on my face. The butterflies aren’t just in my stomach, but in my fingertips too. A bony woman with mousy hair, who had introduced herself as Joan, starts to tune up and soon everyone is softly playing, all higgledy-piggledy, a patchwork of tonalities and random themes. My music stand is stiff, won’t open. I tug and wrench at it, my face growing red. I can see a tall man in a brightly coloured shirt look enquiringly at me—and then, thank goodness, it springs open. The sheet music stays in place, the violin is only a little out of tune, and then I also start warming up, long low lines that climb softly higher—I let the sound disappear into everyone else’s.
“Are we all ready?” Stockdale casts his eye over the whole troupe. There’s a young woman beside me with light-blonde curly hair and sea-grey eyes. She’s wearing a frock that seems far too good for a rehearsal. She sits down on one of the wooden chairs. I take the seat beside her. “I’m Billie,” she whispers. “Welcome!”
“I think you’ve all met Gwendolen by now. She’s joining the violins.”
I give him a nod and nod to those around me. I gaze at the ground again and try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. Behind me someone gives a loud, prolonged cough.
“Right. Haydn. Father of the symphony. Roman Catholic. Nasal polyps. Pocky face. Didn’t even die young.”
He carries on talking about the piece we’ll play. I bite my lip and practise my fingering. My entry comes later. I don’t have to do anything special, just play with everyone else and count well. The first violin begins to play, four bars, eight, and then we c
ome in, at the right point, and I have the feeling that I’m being lifted up, that we’re lifting something together, higher and higher.
“Yes. Stop. Priscilla, you’re playing much too fast. Gwen, I can’t hear you. Somewhat louder, please. Joan, a little quicker.” I wipe the palm of my hand against my skirt.
And again, and again. My heart begins to beat more calmly. I can hear the others better now. I start to sense when I have to come in, though I keep counting in my head, to be on the safe side.
When it’s over my fingers are tingling and my cheeks and ears are red. Voices ring through the room, cases are snapped shut. I smile at the woman with the curly hair and, carrying my violin, leave the room in my new shoes that are hurting my feet a little. From now on it will only get better.
* * *
“Are you coming for a drink with us?” Billie asks, picking up her violin case. I follow her to the hotel bar, past wicker baskets piled high in front of the laundry. On the other side of the street a girl is walking. She looks like Olive. She’s just as tall and blonde. If only Olive could see what it’s like here. Yesterday I sent her a long letter. I hope she’ll write back soon.
It’s dark in the bar-room. My colleagues are already sitting in the corner. Coloured light falls through the stained-glass windows onto the round wooden table. I sit beside Priscilla. The velvet of the upholstered bench is so plush it barely dents. Stockdale asks us what we’d like to drink. I’m the only one who asks for tea. “Don’t you drink?” Billie, who is on my other side, asks me.
“I want to get up early tomorrow morning to practise.” And I still have to get home, without getting lost or being bothered by unwanted attentions.
“Sensible. I was like that too, you know, at the start. You’ll soon adapt.”
The barmaid puts a tray on the table. Stockdale picks up his whisky. “Cheers. Health to the men, and may the women live for ever!”
“At least it’s still well stocked here,” Priscilla says, taking a large sip of sherry. “Most of the other places don’t have hardly any proper stuff now. Because of the bloody war.” Her cockney accent modifies the words, making them somehow plumper and sturdier: chubby, cheeky toddlers.
Billie leans across to her. “Have you any idea what happened to Marion? Did that young man really put her in the family way?”
I must be giving her a questioning look, since she starts to tell me that Marion was my predecessor, a good violin player, but a little too easy.
Stockdale grabs a chair and pushes it between Priscilla and me. “How have you found your first week?” I can smell his sweat, his breath.
“It’s been good. But I’m exhausted.” I shuffle a little towards the wall, but there’s not much space left.
“Don’t be scared. Fatherly concern, you know. I’ve promised Newman to keep an eye on you, and that’s what I’ll do. Like a dog with a bone.” They were at boarding school together and both of them were outsiders. They’ve been friends ever since. Father finds much to criticise in him, but says he’s a sterling fellow nevertheless.
The tea is still too hot to drink. I should have asked for water. And I don’t know who will pay for it. “I didn’t bring my purse. I’m sorry. I forgot.”
“I always pay for the first round. But only on Fridays, and only if we’re not performing in the evening. I’m pleased you’ve come, Gwen. You’re an asset to the orchestra. If there’s any problem at all, you know you can always call on me.”
He gives me a little pat, as if I’m a good pet, and then moves on to Sonia, a Russian clarinettist who is in London for six months, at the orchestra’s invitation. She wears red lipstick and a tight black dress. Stockdale sees me watching and gives a wink before he turns to her.
* * *
On my first free day I go to Hyde Park. It’s a long way from my lodgings, an hour and a half’s walk, but I miss the birds. There are only two sycamore trees in my street, and although the small parks in my neighbourhood do attract some birds—Pigeons, Crows, the odd Blackbird or Sparrow, and of course Starlings—most of them live elsewhere. I bought birdseed with my first pay, and put some of it on the windowsill, only to have to brush it off a few days later. But I kept the rest in my handbag and when I see Pigeons in the neighbourhood I strew some on the ground for them. The days are growing shorter. There’s frost at nights and they’re hungry.
Hyde Park isn’t a wood, but there are plenty of oaks and beeches and Blackbirds and Sparrows. There’s a lake with water lilies, Ducks, Coots, Geese and Swans, and on one of the lawns a group of Greylag Geese are grazing. I walk the restlessness out of my body, then sit down on a bench and take a sandwich from my bag. As I am taking it out of its brown paper, a man comes and sits beside me. The smell of his coat makes me feel queasy. “Would you like a sandwich?” I ask him. He silently accepts it, takes a few bites, leaves the rest on the bench, still in its paper, and walks on. Three Pigeons, two of them grey and one white, land in front of me. I take the bread from the paper and crumble it up. The white one is smaller than the other two and so I give her the most. “All gone,” I say, letting them see my empty hands before wiping them on my dress. The Pigeons scratch around a little longer, then fly off, only to land at the next bench where someone is eating.
* * *
Mother writes to me each week. In December she announces that she’ll come to visit me at Christmas. The day I go to the station to fetch her it’s raining cats and dogs. I haven’t brought an umbrella with me, only a scarf wrapped around my head. People are sheltering in doorways or waiting in shops where the lights shine brightly. It’s the weekend before Christmas and everyone is shopping: handbags, hats, toy trains. The war seems far away, till a motor vehicle laden with soldiers suddenly passes, or until there’s no more chocolate somewhere, or alcohol.
On the timetable in the station hall I see that my mother’s train is expected in ten minutes. I wipe the damp, gleaming wood of the bench with my hand before sitting down. Cold creeps into my body and I sneeze, twice. My coat is heavy with rain; the air smells of coats. The sound of trains vibrates through the ground, not their cadence but the braking. I think about the piece that will premiere tomorrow—I left the rehearsal early to meet my mother and I’m not sure I should have allowed myself to do so. It’s a piece with many changes of tempo and it needs a delicate touch. But Stockdale certainly thought I should meet her. And he added that he felt a great affection for my mother.
Brighton, Manchester, Edinburgh—it would be so easy to travel elsewhere from here. Movement always bears a promise with it. On stations, in music.
A man in a long black overcoat comes and sits beside me. “Terrible weather, isn’t it?” he says. I nod. “All on your lonesome?”
“I’m waiting for my mother.”
“Oh indeed. Your mother.” He leans towards me. I shuffle along a little. He hawks into a handkerchief.
“Gwennie!” Mother is walking towards me across the smooth station floor. She kisses me on both cheeks. Behind her there’s a young man carrying a large suitcase. “This is Jim. He has kindly offered to carry my case for me. Where should I tell him to bring it?”
She talks all the way back to Mrs Sewell’s house—about Papa and Olive and Dudley, and about Kingsley too, who has finally sent her a letter, in his usual scrawl. About where she lived in London when she was a little girl. And about the neighbours and the other people in the little town in Wales and how they really are going to move now but not to London, probably back to Surrey again. Stories that are repetitions of other stories. Variations. When you’ve known someone a long time, then most stories are variations, sometimes with a modulation. I only have to nod, put in an occasional “Hmm”, and make sure we’re on the right route. Jim walks through the wet city with us, a silent, docile individual, always obediently following two steps behind Mother.
“How may I reward you?” she asks him when we’re almost there.
“With a kiss.”
Mother hesitates, or pretends to hesitat
e.
“Just a joke. But please do visit me, tomorrow or the day after.” He writes his address on a piece of paper that is immediately soaked by the rain. “Is it still legible?” He presses it into her hand.
Mother nods, then kisses his cheek. Once she’s in the house she throws the slip of paper into the wastepaper basket, beside the staircase. She smiles at me. “Come on then. Show me your room.”
* * *
We have Christmas lunch at the Criterion. The enormous Christmas tree is decorated with candles and gold ribbons; there are pine branches tied with red ribbon at all the windows. A waiter wearing a shining, golden bow tie takes our coats from us, while a second waiter shows us to our table.
“You were marvellous yesterday, darling,” Mother says as soon as we’re seated. She said that yesterday too, after the performance, and again as we walked home. “I’m so glad we finally have the time to talk. But I do understand that you have to practise. A performance like that is quite something.”
“Would you like to order your drinks, ma’am?”
My mother smiles at the waiter, turning her décolleté towards him. “A glass of champagne. And you, darling?”
“Darjeeling tea, please.” The gold mosaic on the ceiling is glittering.
“First Flush then. She’s performing this evening. She plays the violin. In the Queen’s Hall Orchestra.”
The waiter gives my mother a nod, and the sound of his footsteps vanishes into the carpet.
“Things are awfully difficult with Papa, you know. His new book isn’t going at all well. He’s becoming more and more critical of his work. He labours for weeks at a poem, but then he simply tears it up.”
“Perhaps you ought to find something to occupy you too, Mama. Piano. Or painting. Margaret’s things are still in the attic.” Mother has often told us that she used to be quite a good artist, but we’ve never seen any evidence of that.
“I have enough to occupy me, as you well know. Organising the soirées, managing everyone. And Cook may leave us in February, to care for her sister—and it won’t be easy to replace her. That new maid can’t be properly trusted either, so Dolores says, you know, from Towyn. So I have to keep a careful eye on her. And then there’s Dudley, who does nothing at all, but constantly criticises everything. And your sister, who can’t find a man.”