The Novel in the Viola

by Natasha Solomons

  ‘I will not cut it,’ I half shouted, half cried, edging further into the corner.

  ‘Elise. Stop making such a fuss,’ said Mrs Ellsworth. ‘And Mr Wrexham, you’re frightening the girl. She’s turned quite white.’

  Mr Wrexham lowered his scissors and folded his arms. ‘I cannot have anyone waiting in my dining room with long hair. It’s undignified and unsightly. And unclean.’

  Mrs Ellsworth turned to me, her face almost sympathetic. ‘In England, dear, all maids must have their hair cut short. It’s a mark of position. And hygiene,’ she added, as though we Austrians knew nothing of cleanliness.

  I closed my eyes, blinking back the threatened tears. Margot had admonished me to be good. I must not be dismissed, not over something so silly.

  ‘Then I shall cut the hair. But I shall cut. Not him,’ I pointed to Mr Wrexham, now lurking behind the hulking table.

  Mrs Ellsworth gave a curt nod. ‘Very well. Give Elise your scissors, Mr Wrexham.’

  He placed them on the table and slid them towards me. I stared at them, glinting as the light from the high windows fell across the blades. I knew Mrs Ellsworth and Mr Wrexham both watched me, doubting my nerve. Taking a breath, I seized the scissors and stalked to the door.

  ‘Above the collar, Elise,’ called Mr Wrexham.

  I ran helter-skelter up the back stairs to my attic room and slammed the door. I perched on the end of the narrow bed, steel scissors on my lap. The dressing table mirror was tilted so that it reflected my pale face and tight mouth. Mr Wrexham had not unfastened my cap when attempting to cut my hair, and it remained pinned behind my ears. With trembling fingers, I removed the lace, and then drew out each pin holding my long black hair. It tumbled in dark waves down my back and I ran my fingers through it, feeling the softness against my cheek. My hair, my one beauty. I was vain over nothing else. Margot used to tease me when we were small that I was a changeling. Anna and Julian could not be my real parents; they were too clever and beautiful and I was round and ugly and couldn’t play music. I knew she lied. My black hair was the exact colour of Julian’s. At bedtime when I was a child, he snuggled beside me on my bed, our two heads touching, dark as a night river, and he wrapped my long plait around his wrist while he recited stories. Once he whispered the tale of Samson and Delilah. Samson, the Hebrew prince, who ripped open a lion with his hands and pulled a comb of honey from its chest. Samson’s strength was hidden in his straw-coloured hair, until Delilah came with her wine and her treachery and her scissors and cut her prince into a mortal. I stared at Julian with wide eyes, until he laughed and goosed me, but I could not understand the joke and promised him with childish solemnity, ‘Like Samson I will not cut my hair.’

  I picked up my brush. It had real boar bristles sewn into a sponge mounted on a mahogany paddle, a present from Anna for my birthday. I drew it through my hair, slowly teasing out the tangles and knots, until my hair shone in the gloom. Setting the brush aside, I parted my hair and plaited it for the last time. Staring into the mirror, I picked up the scissors and cut. I gasped, before I realised that it did not hurt. My braid was so thick, I had to hack and slice. After a minute, I sat staring at my plait lying discarded on the floor. I scooped it up and walked over to the wastebasket, but hesitated before tossing it in. I held a timeline in my hands: I had been growing my hair since I was nine years old. The feathery ends belonged to the plump child racing barefoot around the apartment, hiding from her sister. I’d played with Margot’s porcelain doll and she pulled my hair so hard, my eyes watered. In revenge, I ran my fingertips along Hildegard’s filthy floor rag and then stole into Margot’s room and, opening her viola case, stroked my dirty fingers along the bow hair. When she came to play, the instrument shrieked a moment before Margot herself. I hid myself in the laundry room, feeling guilty about the damage to her viola bow and tried to appease my conscience by recalling the stinging pain of her pulling my hair.

  I opened an empty drawer and, coiling the plait round, placed it inside. There was something faintly macabre about the detached hair lying in the cardboard container, but I could not quite bear to throw it away.

  When I returned to the kitchen an hour later, eyes red from crying, Mrs Ellsworth was careful not to say a word. She pressed a mug of hot tea and a ginger biscuit into my hands and continued to fuss over her pastry. Recognising this token of kindness, I accepted the tea and tried to eat the biscuit, but it scratched my throat.

  ‘Now, go through to the dining room. Remember to stand on the gentleman’s left, just beside his elbow and keep your left arm folded behind you as you lean. Don’t smile. Not that there’s any danger of that,’ she muttered, adjusting my cap and brushing a crease from my apron. ‘Don’t mind Mr Wrexham. He’s not a bad man; he just likes things done in the old ways.’

  Leaving the warm kitchen, pots bubbling, the sound of May banging pans from the scullery echoing behind me, I hurried along the passageway into the panelled hall. It was perfectly quiet and empty. I tried to remember which door led to the dining room. All were shut, and a series of wooden doors faced me on every side. I listened and hearing movement behind one, concluded that this was the dining room and slipped inside, looking for Mr Wrexham.

  Mr Rivers leant over a billiard table, a tumbler of whisky beside him. I mumbled an apology and tried to slide out before he noticed me.

  ‘Your hair.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You cut your hair.’

  ‘Excusing me, I must be finding Mr Wrexham.’

  Mr Rivers lowered his billiard cue and took a step closer, reaching out as if to touch me, and then stopped, reaching for his whisky instead. He took a deep draught. Setting his glass down on the table, he gave a little wave, dismissing me. He adjusted his cue and leant low over the green baize, narrowing his eyes as he aimed for the white.

  ‘Wrexham will be in the dining room. Second door on the right.’

  I made to leave and then, hesitating, addressed him in a most un-parlour maid like manner.

  ‘Why me, Mr Rivers? I know nothing where things are. There are dozen of advertising-ments in Times newspaper every day. Why you hire me to be maid and not some other girl?’

  He straightened, studying me for a moment and then smiled.

  ‘I was glancing through the paper and saw that ridiculous message you’d placed – “I will cook your goose” or some such. It made me laugh.’

  It struck me that Mr Rivers was an unusual man. I couldn’t imagine many men hiring maids according to their comedic possibilities. He bent over the billiard table once again, lining up the red.

  ‘Then, by chance I noticed your name – Landau. There’s a curious novelist with the same name. Seemed an auspicious coincidence. Told Mrs Ellsworth to write to you. She’s always complaining that it’s impossible to find new staff.’

  ‘Julian Landau?’

  ‘Yes. You know of him?’

  ‘He’s my father.’

  ‘Really?’

  He stood up, setting his cue on the table, game forgotten.

  ‘I’ve all his books. Come and see.’

  I followed him into the library, where he pointed to a series of bound books, lined up in symmetrical rows above his desk. In the strange house, they appeared to me as old friends, and I felt the pleasure of recognition as I saw them. I supposed in a way my father had saved me – his books had brought me to Tyneford. I thought of Julian’s new novel hidden away in the viola, and wondered when it would be bound in smart leather and join the others on the shelf.

  ‘You may read them, if you like,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘They must make you think of home.’

  I thanked him politely; Anna always said that a man with an excellent taste in literature was a man to be trusted.

  Dinner passed without incident. I poured water and stacked plates and stood in the corner and was miserable. The two men sat at opposite ends of the dining table, separated by a desert of polished mahogany, so that all conversation had to be yodelled from one end to th
e other. Mr Wrexham shuttled between them, carrying trays of vegetables and pouring wine. I could not understand why they did not sit together at one end of the table like Julian and Anna did when they had no guests to entertain. It was absurd English manners and tradition over commonsense – if this was Mrs Beeton’s advice, I didn’t think much of it. Mr Rivers neither looked at me nor acknowledged my presence. His guest was a jowly man, with a red beard coating his double chins. They spoke of politics and war and Chamberlain, but I was too unhappy to eavesdrop. Mr Wrexham was pleased with my performance, and sent me up to bed with a cup of cocoa as a reward. I could not understand why the English used food to communicate. In Vienna Frau Finkelstein trained her pug with treats.

  Upstairs in my attic room, I poured the dregs of cocoa out into the yard, watching it spatter down the brickwork. Pulling on my pyjamas, I settled onto the bed and drawing out a scrap of writing paper and a pencil began to compose a letter home.

  Dear Margot (and Julian and Anna and Hildegard since I know you will all be reading this letter),

  I have not yet had a chance to search for shells. They made me cut my hair. But please don’t be sad. I look quite sophisticated. And thinner. I’m not sure which of these is best. I shall go to an excellent hairdresser in New York and have it properly trimmed, and then I shall look very fine indeed.

  When do you leave for America? Do you all go together? Remember to send for me straight away. But don’t worry – it is not terrible here, so much as dull – there is no one to talk to. I don’t think the other servants like me very much. Mr Rivers is all right – he likes Papa’s books. I love you all.

  I read through the letter, which seemed to hold a lightness that I did not feel, pulled out the viola from its hiding place beneath my bed and cradled it in my arms.

  ‘What’s your story? Do you have a name yet? I think you are about a girl stranded on a rainy island. A girl with green eyes and a weakness for chocolate.’

  In my mind I heard a snort, as Julian shook his head.

  ‘I’d never write that sort of story. Not in a million years.’

  I rattled the viola, listening to the stack of pages inside knock against the wood.

  ‘Pirates, then, Papa. I hope there are pirates and a tall ship.’

  Julian laughed, a deep rumble. ‘Far too romantic.’

  ‘Give me a hint?’ I pleaded to the imaginary Julian, and tried in vain to shake a page loose from its hiding place and out through the f-holes. It was no use and I stashed the viola back in its case. I closed my eyes and pretended that I was at home in Vienna, listening to Hildegard fuss in the kitchen, while Anna and Julian slept across the hall. If I tried very hard, I could almost hear Julian snore.

  I awoke in the middle of the night. I sat up in bed, listening to the unfamiliar creak and tick of the old house and feeling utterly alone. I needed comfort. In a daze I padded downstairs and into Mrs Ellsworth’s larder. I reached up to the top shelf and helped myself to the elderflower syllabub left over from the gentlemen’s desserts. Thinking back, I was lucky that no one caught me. Then, I did not consider my midnight snack as theft. I only wanted to gorge like I did at home, but the sweetness was sickly and unfamiliar. All this time later, the taste of syllabub is still the taste of homesickness and if, in early summer, I catch the scent of elderflower, I am nineteen again, sitting cross-legged on the larder floor, clasping a basin of creamy dessert, refusing to cry.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Kit

  The next few days passed in a haze of polish. I dusted in my sleep and my clothes smelt of spilt vinegar. The only respite from loneliness was stolen minutes in the yard, feeding apple cores or lettuce scraps to Mr Bobbin. The yard was situated at the side of the house away from the sea, but I could hear the crash of the surf, while coarse marram grass sprouted at the edge of the cobbles. Each night I lay in bed listening to the water rush and smash on the rocks below, promising myself that in the morning I would walk down to the sea. Yet, when dawn came, I was always too tired, and wriggled under my blankets, desperate for another few minutes of sleep.

  I had no free time. In the five minutes before dinner, when I was supposed to be washing my hands and face, I wandered into the yard. I fed the horse from my palm, feeling his warm breath upon my skin, and listened to the rhythmic grind of his large yellow teeth. He never made any noise but huffed out of his nostrils and bumped his stable door with his nose whenever he saw me. I realised that I was becoming like Art, my only friend having four legs, and decided it was imperative that I improve my English. Mr Wrexham was similarly determined although for a different motive: he had high hopes for me in the dining room. I must not speak, nor eavesdrop and yet I must be capable of impeccable English conversation. He thrust upon me The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary in Two Volumes, as well as Debretts: Baronetage of England 1920. He attempted to add Mrs Beeton to my pile, and his lip twitched in approval when I explained I already owned a copy.

  ‘You would do well to study it, Elise. Devote one hour a day to the wisdom of Isabella Beeton. She writes for the lady of the house, but her insight is universal. Universal.’

  I would have laughed at his familiarity with ‘Isabella’, whispering her name in the dreamy tones of an old lover, but I knew by now that Mr Wrexham was a man entirely without humour, who did not take kindly to the smiles of others. I stashed his books in the corner of my bedroom, resolving never to read them.

  Early one morning in my second week, while cleaning the blue guest room, a sun-filled space with sky-coloured curtains, I encountered a stack of novels on the windowsill. They were clearly provided for the entertainment of female guests, set apart from the leather-bound volumes in Mr Rivers’ library. I perched on the window seat overlooking the rolling lawns. It had been pouring for hours, and the gardens were soaked, the snapdragons and hollyhocks lay stooped and battered in the beds, but now a streak of sun made the wet grass glisten, while the black storm clouds raced across the hills like smoke from a band of dragons. The sky drifting above the sea was empty and pale blue. I longed to walk down to the beach, sit on the rocks and breathe gulps of salt air. I’d been inside the house for days, and I felt caged and cross. Picking out a novel with a tattered orange cover, I determined to escape for a couple of hours. I concealed the filched book at the bottom of my cleaning box, and disappeared up to my room to collect a volume of the Oxford English, before returning to the service corridor. I paused outside Mr Wrexham’s open door. It was not yet eight o’clock, and he stood in his perfectly pressed tails, ironing Mr Rivers’ newspaper. I entered in silence, peering around his elbow as I tried to read the headlines. I needed to find a way of obtaining the discarded papers; I’d been in Tyneford for nearly a fortnight and I was starved of news. Mrs Ellsworth had a wireless in her parlour, and allowed May and me to listen as a treat some evenings, but she only liked the light programmes. The old papers were meticulously stored in the butler’s room, but I suspected that Mr Wrexham would class borrowing discarded newspapers from his room as theft. He did not approve of females taking any interest in politics; newspapers were the preserve of men, while only gentlemen were permitted opinions upon their contents.

  ‘Mr Wrexham?’

  He jumped, nearly dropping the iron.

  ‘Elise! You almost made me scald Mr Rivers’ Times.’

  ‘I am most sorry, Mr Wrexham.’

  ‘No, it’s “I am very sorry”. You must learn.’

  ‘I am very sorry.’

  He set the iron beside the stove in the corner. ‘Almost. It’s “v-very”. Not a “w-wet wellington”. Ah. Good, I see you have the dictionary.’

  ‘Yes, I have the headache, Mr Wrexham. Please, I go and study English in fresh air?’

  He scowled. ‘But your duties?’

  ‘I have cleaned guest rooms. Fires are laid. With air I be better by lunchtime.’

  He hesitated, and then shrugged. ‘Very well. One hour. But this is not to become a habit, mind. You need to be strong in service, yes
?’

  I nodded and gave a smile, which I hoped appeared sincere. ‘Yes, I am strong girl.’

  ‘Very well, then. Off you go.’ He returned to ironing the newspaper.

  I hesitated, and then cleared my throat. ‘Mr Wrexham? I can put newspaper in morning room. I know. Times placed on side plate, headlines facing Mr Rivers.’

  ‘Yes. All right. Don’t crease it,’ he said, handing me the paper with reverence.

  I scurried out of his room before he could change his mind, slowing down to a forbidden dawdle as soon as I left the servants’ corridor, so that I had time to read the headlines.

  Cabinet meet over Refugee Crisis . . . Unemployment Fears . . .

  There was insufficient time for me to do anything but scan the first few lines, and I wanted to search inside for any snippets about Vienna. I ambled into the morning room and placed the paper on the side plate of the single place setting. Since my first night serving in the dining room, Mr Rivers had had no other guest. He appeared to live in the house in quiet solitude, save for the staff. He went into the study in the mornings, and then walked out each afternoon. The only regular caller was Mr Jeffreys, the estate manager, a gentleman invariably clad in muddy breeches and accompanied by a wagging red setter. I wondered why we scrubbed and polished the half-dozen guest rooms each day, when no guest ever stayed.

  I lifted the front page of the paper, peeking for any scraps of news. I’d had no letter from Vienna since Margot’s, and I was desperate for word. The brass clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour and I scurried out, not wanting to be found rifling through the newspaper by Mr Rivers. It was a habit my father detested. ‘A man’s newspaper is his own. It’s a thing of sanctity.’

  I exited through the back door into the yard, but for once I did not pause to pet Mr Bobbin, even when he thudded his nose against the stable door to draw my attention. I hurried along the footpath leading off the beech grove, and headed towards the village. The hedgerows trickled with rain, and my shoes were instantly sodden from the dripping grass, but I did not care. For the first time at Tyneford, I was free, even if it was just for an hour. The track was slippery with liquid mud, gnats slapped into my face, and white butterflies flitted amongst the honeysuckle, which smelt sickly sweet in the damp air. I emerged in front of a cluster of houses and a neat row of stone shops: a bakery, a butcher’s and post office cum general store, with a scarlet-painted letterbox set into the wall outside. Behind the shops lay a small church, built out of the same grey limestone, and in the distance the low bank of the Purbeck hills. The ancient roof and chimneystacks of the great house peeked out from above the beech copse like the masts of a command ship amongst the fleet of cottages.