Summerland

by Lucy Adlington

  I cut him off. ‘That’s all right.’

  It wasn’t of course. I still handed over my second gift to him.

  Lady Summer was curious. ‘What is it, darling?’

  Joe had fallen silent. Had I done something wrong? Why did he look almost tearful? He walked to the upright piano on the far side of the drawing room and set his gift there. ‘Will you play it for me?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Is it music?’ asked Lady Summer. ‘Play it for all of us.’

  So I did. I sat and played a melody that had begun in my head as a few simple notes and grown into a wordless song. Sitting at the kitchen table, I’d drawn lines to score the music. It had no title. To me it meant friendship. A reprieve from solitude. A call to dance freely and fly high. To the listeners, who knows? They were all quiet as I finished.

  I turned on the piano stool, heart banging like a hammer. ‘Lady Summer. You had a friend at school. She visited Summerland when Joe was a baby. Her name was …’

  ‘Heavens, what is that awful caterwauling?’ cried Miss Baggs, leaping to her feet.

  The moment was lost. Miss Baggs was at the window making hand-flappy shooing gestures to a group of carol singers on the front steps. During the war I’d heard the Trautwein tone-deaf rendition of Stille Nacht, and a post-war Russian army improvisation too rude and rowdy to repeat, but I’d never had my ears assaulted so badly as when the Varleys caroused outside Summerland with their robust English version of Silent Night.

  Lady Summer went to pay them to cease immediately.

  It was late when the washing-up was done and the guests ejected. Late when I trudged upstairs.

  I reached my bedroom, weaving around ghosts who were dancing some kind of reel in tartan skirts. There was a faint light under the door. I opened the door slowly. Ursula was standing in the middle of the room, entranced by the glow of tiny candles that burned on the drawers and on the windowsill, some shining through her grey body. Magical.

  On the bed there was a sheet of art paper and a written note. The paper was a sketch. A face. It was me.

  Me, regardless of how long my hair, what I wore, what language I spoke, where I came from. Me, captured in confident pencil strokes and shadings.

  I picked up the note.

  Sorry this took so long and wasn’t ready before. I couldn’t quite capture what makes you so beautiful. Yours, Joseph.

  Down I flew to his room, hoping no one would spot me.

  Knock, knock.

  ‘Door’s open – I was hoping you’d come by,’ he whispered. ‘Do you like it? I mean, the sketch was rubbish, I know. My left hand isn’t so good, but I’ll get better … What is it?’

  I passed him a penny.

  He looked at the penny. Looked at me. Remembered what he’d offered for that price.

  Then I panicked. Snatched back the penny. Made for the door. He caught up with me.

  ‘Keep the money,’ he whispered. ‘This one is for free.’

  It was just a light brush of his lips against my cheek.

  Ursula winked at me when I got back to my own room.

  ‘Mind your own business,’ I said in German. I spotted the grey glove abandoned on the chest of drawers. I didn’t pick it up. I didn’t want it. The past was past. I wanted to live now. Why shouldn’t I stay in Summerland and be happy?

  Sherry Trifle

  It snowed.

  On 26th December, a day called Boxing Day for no understandable reason, the local hunt gathered outside Summerland. Lady Summer went out in her furs to patronise the riders in their red jackets and to get jumped at by hounds with wagging tails. I had no wish to see horses go galloping across the white fields. I had been a fox, streaking away from pursuers. We ran across an icy city bridge one time, chased by braying thugs from the Hitler Youth, after easy prey. That was early on in the war, when we still thought things couldn’t really get so bad. I was hit by a stone on the back of my head. Mama turned on those boys in their fascist uniforms and screamed, ‘Stop right now or I’ll rip your scrawny little heads off with my bare hands and throw them in the river for the ducks!’ Some sense of shame made them drop their missiles and let us limp away. We were lucky that time.

  It snowed.

  Drifts up to the windowsills, ice thick on the lake. The water in my bedside mug had a film of ice on it when I woke.

  It snowed.

  I went out to shovel the paths and doorsteps, working till my muscles ached and I was too tired to stay up late with the ghosts. Mr Varley worked with me. We fought back when the little Varleys ambushed us with snowballs.

  It snowed.

  The Land Girls from Old Rory’s farm came with their red tractor to clear the avenue, ready for guests at the New Year’s party.

  ‘’Tis the season to be jolly …’ sang Sophie Rover as she upended a bottle of alcohol into a mix-up of sponge cake, tinned fruit and jelly, dolloping custard and cream on top. Trifle, she called it. An English thing. ‘There, that’s enough sherry to get even the near-dead relatives singing ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay on the tables as the clock chimes midnight.’

  ‘The clock is broken,’ I said.

  ‘Good news for Cinderella. She won’t turn into a pumpkin, or a frog, or whatever’s supposed to happen when the clock strikes twelve. That said, I did spot Rom Varley lugging ladders to the roof for a tinker with the clock tower. But talking of Cinderella, when’s your fairy godmother coming over to help with your fancy dress? Angie’s a dab hand with crêpe paper and scissors. She does the school-play costumes every year. What’s that face for? Every girl likes a bit of a twirl in a fancy frock.’

  ‘Even you?’

  ‘I’ve been known to cut a rug! Get Glenn Miller on the radio and I’ll show you how army lasses get in the mood.’ She grabbed my hand in one meaty paw and began to Lindy Hop, steps that Colin Oakley had taught me at the airbase dance. She was pretty nifty too, although we didn’t get as far as cutting rugs up, whatever that was all about. She had just spun me out towards the pan rack when Vera Baggs came through to the kitchen.

  ‘I see I’m not interrupting anything worthwhile,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I hardly think that sort of gyration will suit the evening’s music. We have a very elegant string quartet booked,’ she announced with a smirk.

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’ replied Mrs Rover. ‘Lady Summer is being unusually jolly in her invitations this year – she’s invited local children to join the toffs, and you’re to supervise their party games.’

  ‘That … That cannot be true. Lord knows I adore children – dear little cherubs – but here? In Summerland? Party games? Oh dear, I shall speak with her at once … There must be some mistake …’

  No mistake.

  ‘I told you Mother was human,’ said Joe, when I quizzed him about it. ‘It makes her feel like Lady Bountiful to let the commoners come and romp around Summerland every once in a while.

  ‘Have you told her about the string quartet yet?’

  He grinned. ‘Cancelled them yesterday as we agreed, and informed dear old Ma that they’re stuck in snowdrifts up in Scotland. She called them snivelling buffoons and almost postponed the start of 1947, saying there simply had to be music. Then yours truly –’ he bowed – ‘informed her that he knew of a rather marvellous band, which should be arriving to set up any time … now!’

  A crashing knock on the front door. I scooted off to open it. And it did open, thanks to Roman Varley’s handiwork – swinging wide to reveal Connie Crackerthorpe, Val, Charlie and the other members of the band. Perhaps Lady Summer would kill me for setting this all up, but it would be worth it.

  Connie gave me a crushing hug.

  ‘Nice pad!’ she whistled, gazing at the chandelier. ‘Thanks for getting us the gig, Brigitta – you’re a star. How’ve you been?’

  ‘All right.’ This was how northern people answered enquiries about their well-being, whether they were exploding with happiness or facing certain death. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Same old, same old. No
nearer to New York, more’s the pity, and Val reckons she’ll jack in the horn playing so she can take evening classes and become an accountant, or something serious. Wowser, that’s one hell of a piano – Charlie, Charlie, come and tinkle these ivories!’

  I hovered by the piano. ‘I … I have been playing …’

  ‘You do play – thought so. Go on then.’

  I was paralysed. Come on come on come on, I told myself. You can’t live your life in fear. I gave them a few bars of Debussy’s ‘The Snow Is Dancing’.

  Charlie came over.‘Nice. Duet? Squish up …’

  ‘I can’t …’

  He made me. He took the lead, improvising runs of notes. As soon as I realised it was just a matter of taking the tune and messing around with it, I was away. It all came so naturally. I felt as if gravity had been switched off and I was floating into the fun.

  ‘You should play more,’ Charlie said eventually. ‘Seriously, try this …’

  As soon as she heard us playing what she snortingly called honky-tonk, Vera Baggs ran, arms flapping, to fetch Lady Summer, escorting her to the ballroom.

  ‘The band are here, my lady. Not at all suitable, my lady. They are Negroes, my lady.’

  ‘I am Connie Snow. We are Swing Sensations,’ said Connie with a flourish. I burned inside at Baggs’s bigotry.

  ‘They’re black,’ said Miss Baggs.

  ‘How very observant.’ Lady Summer was as cool as ever. ‘Haven’t you an urgent matter to attend to elsewhere in the house, Vera? Miss Snow …’ She extended a hand.

  Connie took it and lightly shook it.

  ‘Tell Brigitta what you require, Miss Snow. You know, Vera and I, along with our friend Hélène, had the honour of seeing Miss Josephine Baker perform in Paris once, at the Folies Bergère. We were just schoolgirls. It was the first time we had seen a black woman, believe it or not. Perhaps we lived sheltered lives. She had remarkable talent.’

  ‘That Baker woman should have stayed in Africa,’ muttered Miss Baggs from the safety of the corridor.

  ‘She’s American,’ came a chorus from me and Connie and Lady Summer.

  ‘French now,’ added Connie.

  ‘Is that so …?’ said Lady Summer. ‘Brigitta, when Miss Snow and her friends are settled, come and see me in the dining room. I wish to speak with you before guests begin arriving.’

  The dining room was decorated for the party in paper chains, lovingly and messily stuck together by little Varleys. Lady Summer shuddered at how gaudy it was.

  ‘Come here. I have something for you.’ She went to a sideboard and fetched out a box and a packet. ‘These are best kid leather,’ she said, passing me the packet. ‘You wear them in the evening.’

  ‘When I am drying dishes after tea?’

  ‘Tonight, at the party. I understand Reverend Goose’s daughter will dress you in something more suitable.’

  I stroked the backs of the soft white gloves. My mother would have loved them. Inside they had the Gant’s label.

  Next Lady Summer opened the box. A string of creamy-white pearls nestled on the velvet.

  ‘You may wear these also – a loan only. I never had a daughter to pass them on to, nor do you have a mother to lend you hers.’

  ‘My mother sold her pearls to pay for protection.’

  ‘How disagreeable.’

  ‘It was when the landlady took her money but turned us out into the street in winter anyway because we were Jews.’

  She slammed the box down. ‘Did I not tell you, we do not speak of the past? There is too much to lament. I lost my husband, remember, and my beautiful boy.’

  ‘Joe is alive.’

  ‘Joseph will never be the same again. You did not know him when he was whole and handsome and king of the world.’ Even though she turned away I still saw her face in the mirror above the fireplace. ‘I lost a dear friend to the nightmare in Europe also.’

  ‘Hélène Jacobs.’

  ‘Yes.’

  My voice was rough as a cheese grater. ‘Perhaps she had no one who would take her in and protect her.’ I stopped. I would not speak of the war with Barbara Summer. I would play her fancy pianos and eat her sherry trifle and enjoy myself.

  Angela climbed up the stairs to my attic room, armed with packets of blue crêpe paper, sewing gear and a pot of glue. She was in fancy dress as Joan of Arc, complete with painted cardboard breastplate. ‘Trust me,’ she said. ‘I’ll have you looking amazing in no time. I’m going to pin your hair up and make the dress around you.’

  ‘I don’t want to undress.’ I folded my hands across my chest.

  ‘Silly, I’ve brought an old slip. Put that on first.’

  ‘Go outside.’

  ‘God, B, it’s just us two girls. Fine, I’m going. Yell when you’re ready.’

  I yelled as instructed. It was still excruciating to stand there and have someone so near to my body. She quickly covered me in sweeps of blue, splodged with glue and stitched with great lengths of thread.

  ‘Hey, B, are you joining the rest of the children in the dining room? We’re having party games – musical bumps, musical statues, musical squares, musical chairs …’

  ‘I would like to see the band.’

  ‘Oh yeah, me too, yeah. Games are for kids, right? I suppose you’ll want to dance with Colin Oakley again …’

  I wanted to dance all right. With Joe.

  Angela laid one more dab of glue and I was ready.

  ‘Ta da! You look …’ She stepped back for a full view. ‘You actually look beautiful.’ Her admiration was genuine. I hated myself for hating the dress. I knew it was lovely, I just didn’t want to wear it. I was conscious of wood-chopping muscles, and floor-scrubbing hands. My legs were bare – too downy, I thought, but I had no stockings.

  ‘A proper blooming flower. Oh, I love your gloves, so elegant. And you’re wearing pearls? Mum said I was too young. She didn’t even want me to stay up till midnight, can you believe it? As if I’d miss the countdown to the new year and ‘Auld Lang Syne’. Come on, you can’t hide in the bedroom forever. Let’s go downstairs and dazzle!’

  Colin Oakley stood among the crowd of guests at the bottom of the main staircase, looking smart in a black beret, a striped top and a black leather jacket.

  ‘He’s dressed as a French resistance fighter!’ sighed Angela.

  For a moment I remembered the horror of the cinema trip. Would Colin pester me about it? Luckily he had other things on his mind.

  He whistled. ‘You look absolutely smashing!’

  ‘I made her outfit!’ said Angela, pushing in front of me. ‘Brigitta’s a flower – a forget-me-not.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bloody forget her in a hurry, looking that gorgeous.’

  Angela’s face soured. ‘As if it matters what you think. Girls waste too much time on boys. I’m going to pass my A levels with triple distinctions and go to university and be a professor and give lectures which change the course of history.’

  ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘Fancy a dance, Brigitta?’

  What a moment, when Charlie stepped out onto the makeshift stage in the ballroom to announce the Swing Sensations. Mr Varley had made the stage that morning by nailing wooden blocks together, and the little Varleys had decorated it with paper streamers and ribbon rosettes. Next Val blew her horn like a huntsman calling the hounds. I wish I could have photographed the faces of all the guests when Connie Snow appeared, dressed in the royal robes of a Snow Queen. How dark her skin looked against her white dress. How powerful her stage presence.

  She’d been nervous backstage, otherwise known as the butler’s pantry.

  ‘They’ll hate me, Brigitta. They were born with silver spoons rammed up their pasty behinds. When they see this … me …’

  ‘You have to go out and show them what you are. What you can do. You are amazing, Connie Crackerthorpe. One day you will have your name in lights, and your songs on the wireless. I will come to New York to hear you sing.’

  ‘Will you
come to Harlem, you little flatterer? If you learn how to play jazz piano, we can perform together.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  We shook hands, neither of us believing it could ever really happen.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, guys and gals. Welcome to Summerland on the last day of 1946. Let’s see out the old year in style, starting with this little gem, often sung by the great black lady Adelaide Hall, who entertained us all during the war …’

  Connie didn’t kill them with swing, not at first. She took up a ukulele and drew them in with ‘I Can’t Give You Anything But Love, Baby’, for a touch of old-fashioned romance.

  It was pitched perfectly. By the time she began to notch up the rhythm, everyone’s feet were tapping, even the grisly aristocrats. The first couple started dancing and others were keen to move. Connie winked down at me and called to the crowd, ‘Don’t be shy, grab a girl or guy, and come move your feet to the snappy new beat known as Shim Sham and a song called “T’ain’t What You Do (It’s the Way That You Do It)!”’

  Colin grabbed my hand. ‘This is magic – come do the Shim Sham with me, B! Here, let me show you how …’

  He was definitely a great dancer. So light on his feet … sending me out, sending me back, then leading the way with a slower Shim Sham step. My feet couldn’t help moving too, usually in the wrong places, though I had the beat right at least.

  Val’s horn was glorious, as was the chorus that Connie belted out. Summerland had never seen or heard anything like it.

  Angela pounced. ‘Teach me!’

  Colin wiped his face with a hanky. ‘Come here, Miss Goose, and learn to swing …’

  His face. Joe’s. I saw him through the crowds in the ballroom. Val was playing a solo horn piece called ‘I Need That Man’ when the elusive Lord Summer arrived. He wore a blue cap and uniform with a pair of wings on his chest and one blue band at the sleeve cuff. At first he went unnoticed, apart from a few people nudging and pointing. Quickly his mother was at his side. Her ice cool melted with pleasure that he’d chosen to appear. Other relatives and aristocrats soon swarmed.

  For her sake he stood there to be congratulated and commiserated. For her sake he was paraded before them all.