‘Keep it,’ says Virginia, unsure quite what she intends by such a gift. The girl doesn’t seem to understand either. She falls still and casts her eyes down, and there’s no Really? or Thank you! or Wow! None of that guff.
The car pulls up outside the front door and a woman gets out. Even in the dark you can tell she’s moneyed, and it’s not just because of the purring car at her back. It’s the way she holds her shoulders, and the way her hair falls when she pushes it off her face. It’s the way she walks and looks up at the house.
The woman knocks on the door and turns her back immediately, as if she’s already decided there’s nothing to wait for.
The man stays in the car, staring straight ahead in the direction of the marsh. Virginia can’t see much of him: just a heap of darkness, and the glint of an eye, and knuckles tight around a steering wheel.
New Year’s Eve, 1941
Master Theodore Deering requests the pleasure of your company on the occasion of his twelfth birthday.
Wednesday 31st December, 1 o’clock till 4.
Thorney Grange, Tollbury Point.
RSVP
The wording was almost identical to last year’s, except for the jaunty note at the bottom, which read: Lorna – Don’t bother walking up, I’ll pop down in the car around quarter to one to collect her. No mishaps en route this time!
Mishaps. Virginia had been repeating that word to herself ever since the invitation arrived last weekend, and it had lost its force through over-thinking. It had become a jumble of letters, and she could hardly remember what it meant or why it had hurt so much to begin with.
For a while, she’d hoped that the invitation might be allowed to sink under the pile of post on the hall table, never to be seen again, but Lorna had fished it out and propped it up against a vase. Apparently there was no getting out of Theo’s birthday party this time – the expectation that she’d attend was so absolute she didn’t know how to resist, let alone dare try – but at least she was determined not to have another ride in Mr Deering’s car. She would walk by herself, mishap or no mishap.
At a quarter past twelve on the afternoon of the thirty-first, Virginia snatched the invitation off the hall table and stuffed it in her coat pocket. She tried to fit Theo’s sweets and birthday card in her other pocket, but they wouldn’t go so she carried them loose.
‘Bye?’ she called, with a querying rise, to the empty downstairs rooms. There was no reply; they couldn’t hear her in the attic. She slammed the front door shut and as she walked along the lane she crumpled the invitation up as small as it would go and shredded the edges with her nails.
The wind was galloping off the sea today: breakneck, black and scented with rain. Virginia clambered on to the wall and stood to face it, Lorna’s green dress rippling round her shins. Of course the dress was too big, but there’d been nothing else for her to wear – or nothing smart enough, anyway. She was like Alice in Wonderland, veering from one proportion to another and never quite finding her proper self. In the red dress she’d been lumpen and fleshy, but this green one swamped her and turned her back into a stick-limbed child, foolish in plaits and scuffed shoes.
The cold was making her eyes stream. She ought to get on, before Mr Deering’s car came gliding down the lane to pick her up, but it was hard to tear her gaze from the horizon. It wasn’t that she believed in Jozef’s ‘Curlew’ – she was twelve years old, for goodness’ sake, and she knew a made-up story when she read one – but a part of her wanted to, and over the last four months she’d begun to keep a lookout, just for the fun of it. Just because it was hard to tell what might be lurking in that strip of haze where marsh and sky met and mingled. Nothing, of course – or at any rate, not what Jozef’s story kept leading her to believe. She knew that. But there was no harm in standing still from time to time and making sure.
It was the church clock that roused her. As the chimes struck the half-hour Virginia jumped down from the wall and broke into a run; after a minute, and a few stumbles, she slowed to a resolute march.
She thought of Lorna and Jozef, cosy in the attic with the blackout tacked up and a gas fire hissing. Their book was pretty well finished and they were going to spend the afternoon drafting letters to publishers.
Lorna had been so pleased yesterday, when Virginia announced she was going to walk to the party. ‘Good idea!’ she’d said, looking up from her latest print with a frank smile. It meant she wouldn’t have to spruce herself up for Max and come downstairs to say hello.
Hours later, when she was scrubbing her hands at the kitchen sink, she’d remembered to add, ‘You’ll be all right, will you? Walking to Thorney Grange on your own?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I suppose one of us ought to give him a ring and let him know?’
Virginia had crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘All right,’ she’d lied. ‘I’ll do it.’ She’d tried not to imagine the novelty of speaking to Mr Deering on the telephone; of voluntarily pressing his voice to her face and allowing it to caress the delicate folds of her ear.
Before leaving the lane, Virginia turned one last time to look back across the marsh. The great silence, as she’d thought of it on her very first evening, when Clem was bringing her home from Sinclair House. The great, secret, stirring silence.
It was tempting to do something else with this Wednesday afternoon. Hide inside St Dunstan’s and take a proper look at the crib. Catch the bus into town and see what they were playing at the cinema. Walk across the marsh, polishing off Theo’s birthday toffees as she went; walk all the way to the brink where magic might – or might not – be; where sky, sand and water dissolved into nothing and nowhere.
In the end she turned on to the main road and made her way to the village, and Thorney Grange. Not today. But if the worst came to the worst – if Lorna and Max really did get married – she knew where her refuge lay.
Every time Virginia came face to face with Thorney Grange she wondered whether Mr Deering employed someone to scrub the walls. It was a genuine question – though doubtless he’d think it was cheek – otherwise, how did those red bricks stay so clean? There were no weeds poking out of the mortar, no mossy stains, no mottling, not even the ghost of a creeper. Every single brick was shiny and smooth, as if he wrapped them overnight in tissue paper. It was the same with the roof tiles and the windows and the white gravel in the drive. Even the lawn looked dusted and polished. There were horse-chestnut trees in the churchyard next door, but Virginia had never seen a conker or a rusty leaf on Mr Deering’s grass. Maybe one of the servants kept watch and rushed outdoors with dustpan and brush if anything untoward drifted over the wall.
She dithered again on the edge of the drive, standing between the stone lions, pretending to check her pockets. She’d been here a few times for afternoon tea, and once for dinner, but always with Lorna – never alone. Just as well it was a party. However dire the prospect of an afternoon spent passing the parcel with Theo and friends, at least there’d be safety in numbers.
‘Virginia?’
Mr Deering was scrunching across the gravel driveway with his hands in tight fists.
‘Virginia? What are you doing here so early?’ An elderly couple emerged, arm in arm, from a cottage across the way, and Max hid his fists inside his jacket pockets. ‘I was just about to get the car out. I told Lorna I’d fetch you; that was the plan.’ He was doing his best to sound amused, but his pockets kept twitching.
‘We didn’t like to trouble you.’
She followed him up the drive, and he ushered her inside, murmuring something in her ear as she brushed past.
‘You know, you could be more gracious when a fellow offers you a compliment,’ he said more loudly, as the door closed behind them and the sound of the wind was replaced by plush silence. Apparently his humour had improved.
‘What?’
He laughed as he came up behind her and peeled the coat from her shoulders, like the good host he was. The housekeeper – pale-faced Mrs
Bellamy – bustled by with a tray of jellies, her lips tight with concentration. Mr Deering waited till she’d gone before he ran a finger round the nape of Virginia’s neck, snagging his nail on the little hairs that didn’t fit into her plaits.
‘I was complimenting you on your dress, you little goose.’
You’d think he’d have jumped or faltered when his son came thundering down the stairs, but he merely straightened and smiled, and kept his hand on Virginia’s shoulder.
‘Theodore! Your first guest!’
Theo scowled. ‘I thought it was Robert. He said he’d come early.’
Max pushed her forwards and Theo kicked the bannister. The silence that followed was awkward for the children but not, apparently, for Mr Deering, who stood at ease with his arms folded, watching and waiting.
Virginia held out the birthday card and the squashed box of sweets, and Theo took them begrudgingly. Not a word was exchanged.
‘Isn’t that kind?’ Mr Deering murmured. ‘Hmm?’
The children weren’t free to breathe until the doorbell rang and Theo ran to admit his friends. Virginia loitered by the stairs, unsure what to do with her hands now that she had no pockets, and no present to hold. Mr Deering kept trying to catch her eye, so she feigned an interest in the wallpaper.
‘Robert’s here!’ shouted Theo. ‘And he’s brought Charles!’
‘Good, good,’ said Max under his breath, but she could feel his gaze still fixed on her neck, and on the little pulse that throbbed under her jaw bone.
The boys didn’t invite Virginia to come upstairs but she followed them anyway, breaking into a run to keep up. There was a little sign on the first door they came to – a flimsy thing made of wood and decorated with bumblebees – which said Juliet and Theodore’s Play Room. Theodore scowled at Virginia before opening the door and elbowing his friends inside. She hated to trail them, but she could hear Max’s velvety tread coming up the stairs and there was nowhere else to go.
The play room was long and light, with diamond-bright windows and a table groaning with party food. Balloons had been tied to every available mooring – chair backs, table legs, the fire-guard – and they couldn’t have been the normal kind you blow up yourself, because they were floating upwards on their strings, the way they do in picture books. Mrs Bellamy was fussing over the table, arranging plates of sandwiches and jugs of lemonade, and she regarded the four of them sharply as they trooped in. Theodore shrank a little under her gaze and stuck his hands in his pockets.
‘My father had a proper cake delivered from Fortnum’s,’ he told his friends, and they all looked with interest at the creamy creation at the centre of the table.
‘You could layer bricks with that icing,’ Mrs Bellamy sniffed. It was hard to know whether or not she was trying to be funny. One of the boys chuckled appreciatively, but Theo just scuffed the floor with his heel.
Virginia sidled to the nearest window. The play room was at the side of the house, with a view over the main street, so she could see the post office and the pub, and if she stood on tiptoe she could just make out the weathervane on the school roof. There were two old men chatting in the doorway of the Black Horse, and a woman was pushing a pram along the opposite pavement.
More guests edged into the play room and Virginia turned round, reluctantly. Boys – all of them boys – scrubbed up and slicked down. They handed over their gifts as quickly as possible, or slid them on to the table, as if there was something shameful about coloured paper and ribbons; as if to say I wouldn’t have bothered, you know, but my mother insisted. It seemed to her that they were still individual people for the moment, stuck inside themselves, with their own ways of seeing – but she knew it wouldn’t last. Any second now they’d shed their singularities and meld together as a gang. You could see them searching for a way in: jostling one another; trying out grimaces and lame jokes; looking for Theo’s approval.
Mrs Bellamy surveyed the table – and them – with her arms folded across her chest. She seemed unhappy, especially when her eyes fell on Virginia, as if she’d have liked an explanation for this odd one out. Virginia pulled discreetly at her unfilled dress, and wondered whether she should have resisted shredding the invitation inside her coat pocket. She would have liked to produce it now; to prove her right to be here.
‘Are you going to play something nice?’ demanded the housekeeper. ‘Come on now, Theodore, you’re the host. You should organise a game while you’re waiting for everyone to arrive.’
The boys gathered into a whispering huddle and a bark of laughter rose from their midst – then another, and another. Only one or two actually turned to stare at Virginia, but their eyes carried the gaze of the whole pack. She ran a finger round the inside of her collar and turned back to the window. The wind was speckling it with rain.
‘Theodore?’ Mrs Bellamy’s voice had developed a warning tone.
‘We’re going to play Hide and Seek,’ Theo replied, daring the housekeeper to object. He and his friends were waiting openly for her departure now, insolent in their unity, and she gave in.
‘Don’t you go leaving anyone out.’
The pack quivered with amusement, but Theo kept a straight face. ‘We won’t.’
‘And you’re not to eat a crumb of that food until teatime. Understood?’
‘Yes, Mrs Bellamy.’
The boys rustled with excitement as she creaked away down the stairs. When she’d definitely gone, Theo took a jam sandwich from the table and pulled it apart. They watched him with a kind of admiration, as he swallowed it in two mouthfuls and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
‘You’re “It”.’ Theo tossed his order across the room and the others followed its trajectory with their eyes. Virginia shrugged; she’d expected worse. At least if she was ‘It’ she’d be alone for a minute or two while she was supposed to be counting.
‘Well? Go on, then.’
Virginia covered her eyes and began slowly. ‘One … two … three … four …’ When she was sure they’d all left, she lowered her hands from her face and looked out of the window again.
Mrs Hill came into view, walking down the main street with her back to Thorney Grange. Mrs Hill with her claret headscarf and herringbone coat and a shopping basket over one arm. The sight of her was so redolent of times past – of a warm, gossipy kitchen, and rabbit pies and marmalade-making; of God in his heaven and Clem in his study, and all well with the world – that Virginia almost banged on the window, with the unformed idea that she might beg some of these things back, if she asked nicely enough.
‘… Ten … eleven … twelve …’ Virginia murmured, as Mrs Hill carried on. But what was she doing now? Pausing to wave; flapping her hand high in the air; trying to attract the attention of someone further down the street. Whoever it was must have seen her because she stopped waving and stood waiting, her hands folded under the handle of her basket and her headscarf fluttering round her ears. Virginia shivered. Someone was walking over her grave, as Mrs Hill herself would have said.
‘… Fifteen … sixteen … seventeen …’
The man Mrs Hill had hailed came pushing his clunky tricycle along the middle of the street, stopping to lean on the handlebars while the two of them exchanged a few words. Virginia stopped counting. Slowly – very slowly, and hardly daring to breathe, as if the slightest movement might be fatal – she rested her fingertips on the glass. Rosenthal Knife-Grinding and Repairs. She closed her eyes and opened them again, but the words were still there, emblazoned in white letters across the trunk at the back of the trike. The door of the play room opened behind her and shut again softly, but she paid no attention.
That man in the street was Mr Rosenthal; the real Mr Rosenthal who’d come to Salt Winds many moons ago in order to sharpen the kitchen knives and mend Clem’s shears. Virginia tried to convince herself he wasn’t, but he was. There was no helping it. This was Mr Rosenthal, and Mr Rosenthal was not Jozef. He was an old man with grey hair and leathery skin an
d a big greasy coat and wrinkles round his eyes.
Virginia stared and stared as Mrs Hill chattered and the knife-grinder listened. Every now and then he bowed slightly, and once he scratched his ear, but he didn’t have much to say.
The floorboards creaked right behind her and a damp darkness pressed itself against her eyes. She recognised Mr Deering by the soapy scent of his hands, and the metallic bite of his signet ring.
‘Guess who?’ The question licked, like fire, round her ear.
If it hadn’t been for Mr Rosenthal she’d have frozen with fear, but above all else Virginia wanted to keep looking; to keep gauging the reality of the man outside, with his ancient face and tradesman’s tricycle. She batted Mr Deering’s hands away with more impatience than fear, and as she did so the pair in the street began to draw away from one another, nodding their good wishes and farewells. Virginia stood on tiptoe to see which way the knife-grinder would go, but Mr Deering’s hands came over her eyes again. He wasn’t so gentle this time, and he began pressing against her from behind as well, squashing her body against the windowsill.
‘Stop it!’ There was no space in which to turn or hit out; all she could do was shout. ‘Stop it! I need to see!’
Virginia twisted and bit, but her teeth only found the thick weave of his jacket, and all the time he was laughing at her and making soothing noises. At one point her nose got pressed up against his shirt front, and she was surprised by the flabby softness of his chest. She’d thought he’d feel more solid than that; an edifice of stone.
‘Shush now!’ he cooed, as if she was a fractious baby, though his hands were tight around her wrists and his face was buried in the curve of her neck. He seemed to be everywhere, like a noxious vapour that swirls and spreads and fills every last space, until she felt as though she was breathing him in. She became dizzy for lack of air, and when she closed her eyes she saw tiny lights popping on and off inside her head.
Call of the Curlew Page 21