Gloria came to help me unpack. We sat on the floor in my corner of the room, folding clothes and putting them away in the little chest of drawers which had been cleared to make room for me. The process took longer than perhaps it should have because now and then we would come across a relic of our travels together and would promptly be thrown into a fit of remembrances.
"Oh! That's the scarf you got in Nice, at that little place by the Promenade, when Mrs. Beaufort bought those dreadful engraved bracelets."
They truly had been dreadful, and Gloria and I, looking at them later, had discovered on the inside edge the inscription Made in the USA, which had set us laughing at the time just as it did now.
In the midst of our enjoyment Violet slipped into the room to sit quietly on the edge of her bed, staring blankly at the opposite wall. I, glancing at her just long enough to see that she seemed eager to be left alone, turned my attention back to Gloria.
"I wish you were not leaving so soon," I said. "I don't know what I'll do without you here to keep me company. Or else I wish I could go back with you."
"I wish I could stay," said Gloria. "You're going to be in the most exciting place. Anyway, it won't last that long. England and France won't let it, and the President's bound to come to his senses one of these days and realise that America's simply got to help, and then the war will be over in a snap. Nobody's ready for another long war. They'll put an end to it soon."
Would they? Would it really be over in a snap? We were both hopeful. But we had not experienced the Great War firsthand as our elders had, and I remembered the face of the French woman whose sons were going to war and wondered if our hopes were, after all, brittle and unrealistic.
A sudden commotion reached our ears from downstairs. Violet jumped up and rushed to the door, Gloria and I followed, and the three of us ran down the stairs and entered the sitting room together, tumbling through the door almost on top of each other.
Downstairs we found our elders and a visitor, all apparently absorbed in acting out a scene from an old drama -- with Mrs. Creeley performing the best interpretation I have ever seen of the old, battle-hardened warrior queen. Mrs. Beaufort took on the role of begging prisoner, the stranger (a tall, dark-haired young man) was the courageous knight, a defender of the weak, and Mr. Beaufort stood nearby, obviously waiting for the right moment to come in for the comic relief.
It took me several minutes to realise that Mrs. Creeley's cane was not a sceptre, that the visitor was not dressed in armour, but an airman's uniform, and that the matter they discussed was not Mrs. Beaufort's possible execution but merely the question of whether or not to install an Anderson shelter in the garden.
Mrs. Creeley was against it. She pursed her lips and her sharp eyes glittered indignantly. Mrs. Beaufort was obviously set on the idea, and I saw at a glance that her insistence was only strengthening our hostess's resolve. Mr. Beaufort stood by helplessly, clearly at a loss. The visitor had been saying something which neither I nor anyone else in the room could hear. Indeed it was difficult to hear any distinct part of the conversation because all three of the primary speakers were talking at once. Mrs. Creeley's voice alone carried enough force to be heard.
"I have already hired Samuel to dig up half the garden, and he will plant it to potatoes next spring. I refuse to fill up the rest with a hideous air-raid shelter. We have the corner of the cellar if necessary. In any case, I am old. Who is there to worry if my life is cut short by a bomb a few months earlier than it would be otherwise?"
The visitor looked annoyed, as well he might.
"I'm not only thinking of you," he said, losing patience with her, "even though you are the picture of health and hardly likely to die of natural causes any sooner than the rest of us. I’m concerned about Violet as well. She is young, and if she chooses to stay with you against my advice, we would all wish at least that you both have some way of taking shelter in an emergency. And even if that consideration doesn't move you, surely you would not wish to endanger your guests."
"I do not keep them here by force," she replied waspishly. "They are free to leave whenever they choose, and your sister is under no obligation to stay, daughter of my dead son though she is. If she considers herself unsafe she may go stay with the Bertrams. I can still live by myself, old and infirm though I am."
Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort took advantage of the opportunity to leave the room, both looking extremely offended. Mrs. Creeley exited in the opposite direction. Gloria and I moved to the door more slowly. Nobody had taken any notice of us, except the stranger, Violet’s brother, who acknowledged us with a nod and a disarming smile before turning back to look thoughtfully at his sister. I thought then that I would never have guessed their relationship. Violet’s timidity formed a striking enough contrast to her brother's commanding air even without the physical differences, of which there were many. Yet, in the moment before we left the room, I looked back, and saw a look on Violet’s face that startled me -- a determination which more than equalled her brother's. Stubborn brown eyes stared into equally stubborn blue ones.
"I'm not going, Tristan."
The brown eyes held for a moment, then withdrew.
"I know," said Tristan. "Damn your loyalty."
Chapter 9
Violet did not leave, and neither did we. The Anderson shelter was not put in, though Mrs. Beaufort rarely missed an opportunity to drop a hint about it. The Whildons and Gloria departed, to my great sorrow, but life continued, and we began to establish a sort of routine again, holding tightly to the small tangible traditions of breakfast at eight and tea at four as our only hold on the security of past days.
For some time the expected bombing raids did not come, while Europe went through what became known as the "phoney war" and great men laid their plans and our airmen (including Violet’s brother Tristan) dropped pamphlets over Germany. Through it all the rest of us waited on tenterhooks and scanned the newspapers for word of any change or development. Nerves were constantly frayed, gas masks kept close at all times. Inactive in body but weary in mind, we prepared for a “worst” which was slow in coming.
Gloria wrote to tell me that they had reached home without mishap, and we began a fairly steady correspondence. In all the activity which had taken place before her departure we had forgotten to exchange our portraits from Florence, and she cheerfully informed me that she took that as a good sign, that it meant that I must return home soon, if only to visit her at her home in Georgia and hand over the painting.
Winter came, and the days grew short and dreary. Snow fell from time to time, only to be washed away by the grey drizzle of rain which inevitably followed it. Christmas Eve arrived, and Violet and I were sent out to buy a chicken, our one Christmas luxury.
The two of us had established an understanding over the past months which, if not exactly friendly, was at least workable. I had felt a great deal of respect for her ever since the day she had decided to stay with Mrs. Creeley instead of seeking safety elsewhere, but this was coupled with a feeling of unease in her presence, for I could never tell what she was thinking. At the same time, she was the least demanding companion of those who were available to me, and once I got past the initial shyness her personality was refreshingly uncomplicated. She asked no unnecessary questions and met everything that came her way with a simple, straightforward attitude. A thing either was or it wasn't, it worked or it didn't, the answer was yes or no, never maybe. If Mrs. Creeley was on a rampage looking for clothespins (which had happened several times, not only with clothespins but also with window-shades, straight-pins and sundry items of clothing) and asked everyone in her accusatory fashion where they were, Mrs. Beaufort would spend twenty minutes explaining why she could not possibly know where they were, things were such a mess, she had not been the last to use them, etcetera. Violet would simply say no, she hadn't seen them, then leave the room to search the house and be back with the item required before Mrs. Beaufort had finished listing her excuses.
We found t
he chicken and I carried it under my arm wrapped in brown paper while Violet collected the rest of our groceries in a basket. We went on, stopping occasionally to reply to the Christmas greetings dropped by fellow shoppers, most of whom seemed in a very cheerful frame of mind as they balanced their Christmas chickens and sacks of somewhat wilted greenery. It was Christmas, after all, their faces seemed to say, no bomb had yet fallen on us, and England would beat Germany, of course, because that was just the way things were.
A light drizzle began as we finished the shopping, and it picked up as we hurried home through the crowded streets. We were soaked through and shivering by the time we reached the front door of Mrs. Creeley's house, but on Christmas Eve even Mrs. Creeley was not too economical about the use of fuel. The house was warm to welcome us, a bundle of fresh holly lay on the table in the entrance hall, still spattered with raindrops, and on the rug in front of the fire in the sitting room stood Perry Bertram, drying out his coat.
A thought had passed through my mind some time before, when Mrs. Creeley had alluded to "the Bertrams” that perhaps the family she referred to and my acquaintance were related in some way, but time had passed with no further mention of that family and I had dismissed the idea as foolish. No doubt there were many Bertrams in the country, the relatives of Mrs. Creeley among them, and it was merely a strange coincidence that I had become somewhat acquainted with another who bore that name.
Perry greeted me with a friendly nod and smile.
"They were all just telling me that you were expected soon, and here you are. I seem to have a strange habit of meeting you at random and now it turns out we are attached to the same people. How delightfully strange that is. How are you Violet?" He approached to give his cousin an affectionate hug. His presence seemed to have had a calming effect on everyone in the room. It was strange to see Mrs. Beaufort and Mrs. Creeley smiling at the same time -- strange indeed to see Mrs. Creeley smiling at all as she did at this young man, in spite of the water still dripping from his coat onto the Persian rug which had been her mother's.
After the greetings had been exchanged Violet and I hauled the chicken, along with the rest of the groceries, into the kitchen. We could hear the sound of voices drifting in from the next room, along with the most cheerful laughter to be heard in that house for months. For once in perfect accord, we glanced at each other, hurriedly put the things away, and returned with speed to the sitting room -- to the firelight flitting over the walls -- to the unaccustomed warmth and laughter.
"It's lovely to have fresh holly from Ashford," Violet said to Perry later that evening, when we were all seated around the fire. Mrs. Beaufort's head was nodding, and Mr. Beaufort, who sat too near the fire, fanned his red face sleepily with the air of someone trying to frighten away a swarm of gnats. Mrs. Creeley still watched and listened, her sharp old eyes fixed on whoever was speaking at any particular moment. Her gnarled stick leaned against her chair, and in the shadows she looked like a witch from old legend, yet I was no longer afraid of her. I had heard her laugh, and I had seen the look of affection she gave Perry. No creature capable of love should be feared -- only loved in return and respected. It was something that both Violet and Perry had learned long ago. Love begets love, and even Violet’s timid devotion and loyalty earned her affection of a sort, while Perry's less guarded feelings of regard for his great-aunt had clearly made him a favourite.
I had been drifting in my thoughts again, gazing vacantly at the fire, and earned a laugh from Perry.
"You've had that look on your face at least once every time I've seen you," he said, "like a seeress staring into the future and seeing the fate of the world. I hope your visions were happy ones."
I laughed in return to shake off my thoughts.
"I'm just getting a little tired."
In truth I was a little sleepy. Better to say that than to retrace the winding journey my thoughts had taken.
In a rare moment of openness, Violet said quietly, "If I were a seeress I would be afraid to see the fate of the world today."
We all became a little solemn at that point. It was easy to forget for short moments the threat which shadowed all our lives, but it was always there in the background, waiting.
Perry left soon after that, saying he must return to Ashford that night. Violet and I walked with him to the door. The evening was growing dark and a light snow was falling. Perry said good-bye to both of us, then said more quietly to Violet.
"Tristan wrote to me about what happened before he left. If anything happens you are welcome at Ashford -- all of you." The last words were directed at me as well. "I hope you can convince Aunt to come. London may not be safe for much longer. We have two refugee children from Poland in the house at the moment, and Jerry and Mum and Dad and Grandma are all there, but we can always manage a few more."
He waved his hat at us and left the house. I found myself looking at the bunch of holly on the side table -- bright, festive spots of red berries against dark green leaves, lighting up the dim hall.
“We should put it up in bunches all over the house," said Violet suddenly. "It will help it feel like Christmas tomorrow."
Chapter 10
Christmas passed uneventfully, set apart from other days only by the holly, the chicken, and a nameless aura which, for one day, kept peace in the house. For that day Mrs. Creeley and Mrs. Beaufort avoided sharp words, though they came near it several times, and the atmosphere was easy and tranquil, if not exactly festive or buoyant.
In the months that followed Violet and I grew more comfortable with each other and though she remained a mystery to me I came to like her better than ever. I especially loved the stories she told me about Ashford. It seemed so separate from London, set apart by itself in the wooded hills of Devonshire. From Violet’s descriptions I could see the old, rambling house with its odd angles, sloping slate roofs and the high, ivy-covered stone walls of its garden filled with sweet-smelling flowers: roses and lavender, lilac, and one old knotted wisteria in the corner. From her stories, I gained a misty view of the family there, as if I were seeing them through a light rain. There was Perry's grandmother, the matriarch, warm and calm, "as if" said Violet "she carried the sunlight with her" as different from her sister Mrs. Creeley as could be, except for a certain stubborn streak which was a family characteristic and in this case had resulted in a ban on the use of electric lights at Ashford. There was Perry's beautiful, absentminded mother, flitting about the house on noiseless feet, as silent and graceful as the gauzy dresses she always wore. Mr. Bertram, an older version of Perry, had a passion for scholarship, an interest in cultivating rare herbs, and an extreme compassion for anything hurt or helpless, which led not only to the addition of occasional homeless waifs (and refugee children) to the household, but also to the transformation of one corner of the garden into a sort of hospital for injured creatures in various stages of recovery. Perry's younger brother Jerry was their father's special care. Violet described Jerry as "both slow and quick at once, as if part of his mind were missing but the loss only made the rest sharper". The two refugee children and the English sheepdog Mopsy rounded out the household, but Violet had not been to Ashford since the children's arrival, and could not put portraits of them in my head with her descriptions.
"There's always a lovely smell about it too," Violet said one day as we ironed shirts and linens together. "Something like this," she held a freshly pressed tablecloth to my nose "and like freshly baked bread, and herbs from the garden, with a little bit of Aunt Lilly's perfume mixed in. It really isn't very nice perfume," she added "but it all combines to make the Ashford smell, and that's perfect."
It was in these conversations as well that I learned what I had wondered before but would never have asked, that Violet was an orphan as I was. Her father had been Mrs. Creeley’s only child. Neither of her parents had had very good health, partially due to their residence in a coal-mining town where the black fragments rarely left the air clear for long, and they died within two
years of each other when Violet and Tristan were very young. The brother and sister had grown up at Ashford in the care of their relatives, until Mrs. Creeley’s husband had died, when she asked for Violet to come live with her. I guessed that Violet had come out of a sense of duty as well as out of pity for her grandmother, else I could not see her leaving a place that she still spoke of with such affection and longing. But duty and pity, I guessed, had been the driving forces of Violet’s life for some time.
So the winter passed, and the phoney war continued -- a time of strained nerves, of expectations never fulfilled, and constant anticipation of terror or triumph. We had so much to fear and nothing to do but sit and wait for our fears to be fulfilled, or not. We listened for the warning sirens -- heard them echo in our sleep -- but nothing happened. Tristan wrote to Violet of missions over Germany and the smell of danger. Violet would read me his letters sometimes and we both envied him his position of action.
The news from Europe grew worse. America remained officially neutral. Gloria wrote letters describing the frustration of her two brothers and the unrest of the young set in her hometown who longed for action while their elders warned and fretted and advised caution.
An air of frustration permeated the house. The source of our restlessness was rarely named, but it was always there lingering around the corner in the hall or up the stairs. Mrs. Creeley found release by ordering Violet and me to rearrange the household furniture repeatedly, move that chair against the wall, take that table upstairs, turn the carpet the other way. Mrs. Beaufort in her turn objected to the changes and expressed her feelings to her husband, and sometimes to me, often purposely in the hearing of our hostess, which only served to intensify the animosity already existing between them. Violet avoided everyone, including me, though I hope I do not exaggerate in saying that she was less eager to avoid my company than that of others. As usual her manners were incredibly difficult to read, but I think I may safely say that she was not usually averse to my company, even if she did not necessarily welcome it or initiate contact. She was more content with solitude than any human creature I have met, before or since. Mrs. Beaufort, even at her most peevish, required the company of somebody at all times. I think she would willingly have endured several hours with only Mrs. Creeley for company rather than one completely alone. From glimpses I caught of Violet from time to time, I guessed that her fertile mind needed little or no outside stimulation. She was almost completely self-sufficient, most at ease in a task she could complete herself, accepting assistance if it was offered yet never seeking it. The only people I ever saw her completely at ease with were her brother Tristan and her cousin, Perry.
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