The Novel in the Viola

by Natasha Solomons

  From behind a netted window, an old woman sewed and stared. I smiled and she almost waved, before sealing the gap in the curtain. Several women in floral dresses, cardigans and galoshes walked past me and filed into the shop, the door clattering and brass bell jangling. Peeping through the glass frontage, I saw piles of boxes heaped on top of one another containing flour, polish, sugar, soap flakes, combs, chocolate, suet, envelopes, toilet tissue, bottles of rum and lemon cordial, paperback books, razor blades and balls of wool. I had never seen a shop so tightly packed; it appeared to sell everything, so that the customers were forced to clamber carefully over the stacked goods. In my pocket, I clasped a whole shilling (a reward for having helped Art scrub the interior of the Wolseley) and with only a slight twinge of guilt, I entered the shop. Five minutes later I rushed out, my pockets stuffed with three bars of chocolate.

  The village nestled at the foot of the valley, the ring of hills enclosing it on three sides, and in front the grey sea stretched away into the horizon. I turned away from the clutch of houses and walked along the unmade road towards the beach. The tinkle of cowbells was carried on the wind, and filled the air with an eerie music. On the sloping hillside, two men in shirtsleeves selected pieces of flint from a large pile, stacking it into a curving wall to mark a new field boundary. A solitary rook perched on a gatepost, surveying their progress with lazy curiosity. As I walked further along the track it became rougher, too narrow for cart or car. The roar of the sea grew louder and I started to run.

  In ten minutes, the village lay behind me and I reached the edge of the curving bay. Just above the tide-line lay a tumbledown hut, half concealed by bramble and blue sea-grass, like a fisherman’s cottage in a story. It almost appeared to be growing out of the rock. An old man, his hair as white as dandelion feathers, sat on a lobster pot mending a piece of netting with a rusted knife. He looked strangely familiar, but I couldn’t think where I had seen him before. I smiled and he gave me a curt nod before returning to his net. I scrambled over the rocks leading down to the beach, holding my books under one arm and trying not to drop them in the dirt. It was growing warm, and sweat made my top lip itch. Several fishing-boats lay propped upon the rocks beside a cobbled causeway out of the reach of the high tide. The painted bottoms were speckled with barnacles and stinking scraps of seaweed. Even from several yards away, I could smell the stench of fish.

  Before me, the sea foamed and crashed upon the pebbles. The water cracked against the stones, and there followed a creak as the tide surged and the pebbles rattled and ground together. I glanced back at the cottage. The old man was busy with his lobster pots and no one else was to be seen. I squatted down and drew off my shoes and stockings, and with one last glance behind me, stripped off my skirt as well, weighting my clothes with the books. The breeze was cool, despite the early summer sunshine, and my skin prickled with goose bumps. Barefoot, I picked my way across the pebbles down towards the sea. The wet stones sparkled in the sunlight, while the wind whipped my short hair into my mouth, and I held it back with one hand, muttering crossly. When my hair had been long, I pinned it tightly and it did not flap into my eyes. As my toes touched the cold water, l let out a gasp. A chill tingled up and down my legs and I shrieked.

  No one could hear me. I could shout and stamp and cry out and it did not matter. I waded out into the surf and banged my fists against my thighs, until they were stinging red. I shouted at the sea and my voice was lost.

  I hate it here. I hate it. Hate it. Anna. Julian. Margot. Hildegard. AnnaJulianMargot. Annajulianmargotannajulmaanna . . .

  I chanted their names over and over, until they became a pulp of sound and lost their meanings. Salt spray battered my face and I licked it away. I was tired of behaving and being silent. I wanted more words. Bad words. I tried swearing in German, remembering all the profanities I had heard Julian use, especially those that made Anna wince and mutter, ‘Oh, darling.’ Yet, it was oddly unsatisfying. I wanted English words. The more terrible, the more they would please me. I glanced back at the dictionary lying on the beach. Out of curiosity I had looked up some forbidden words. What was it? Testes. Yes, that must be a very dirty word. But I needed more. I must try and remember. I screwed up my eyes, and recalled a word I’d seen daubed in paint on a wall in London. Yes. I could almost see it. It was like the word belonging to those stinking shellfish in vinegar that Henry the footman had offered me. I filled my lungs with air and hurled my words at the sea.

  ‘Testes! Testes and cockles!’

  My cries were absorbed in the pounding of the surf. I looked up at the racing clouds and shouted again, so loudly that my voice cracked and rasped in my throat.

  ‘Shit. Hell. Hate. Testes and cockles! Cockles.’

  ‘Titties. Titties and fishcakes!’

  I whirled around and saw a tanned young man, trousers rolled up to his knees, hopping across the rocks towards me. I stared at him, open-mouthed. He raised a hand in greeting and then dropped it as he reached my side.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Is it a private game? I rather fancied joining in.’

  I was too startled to be embarrassed. I gaped at him. He must have been my age, perhaps a year or two older. He had dark blond hair, and had apparently not shaved this morning as his chin was coated in straw-coloured bristles. Margot would declare him a ‘slovenly sort of person’ while Anna always warned me to beware of young men who did not shave. A smile played around his lips. I was suddenly conscious of the fact that I was standing in the surf in my knickers. I tugged my woollen sweater down low to cover myself and without acknowledging his presence, turned around and stalked across the beach to my clothes. I sat down and quickly pulled on my skirt. He came and settled beside me. I shuffled away, leaving a space between us and picked up my books, placing them as a further barrier. He glanced at my defensive heap, clearly amused and turned to gaze out at the sea.

  ‘I’m Christopher. Christopher Rivers. Though everyone calls me Kit.’

  I looked at him in surprise. ‘But you’re not supposing to be coming till Thursday.’

  ‘Well, it’s Tuesday and here I am.’

  ‘Mr Wrexham will be being most annoyed. He is liking to be prepared.’

  ‘Wrexham is always annoyed. He was born cross. And goodness, your English really is dreadful.’

  I shot him a furious glance, picked up my books and scrambled to my feet. He caught my wrist and tried to draw me back down. I wrenched my arm away from him, to my shame feeling tears prick my eyes.

  ‘Let me go! Stop you.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m only teasing. Honestly. I’m a bit of an idiot. Really didn’t want to upset you. Here.’

  He offered me a dirty handkerchief. I looked at it in disgust and he shoved it back into his pocket.

  ‘See? Told you I was an idiot.’

  I found myself repressing a smile. His hair fell across his eyes, and there was a large hole in the elbow of his navy sweater, which was rather endearing. Although, I suspected, he would not be short of girls eager to darn his sweaters, socks or anything else.

  ‘You’re working up at the big house?’

  ‘Yes. I am Elise Landau. New house parlour maid.’

  He fumbled inside his pocket and produced a damp packet of cigarettes. He placed one between his lips, and offered me another. I shook my head. Anna did not approve of young men smoking, especially before four in the afternoon. I tried to disapprove of Kit.

  ‘Ah, yes. Elise. I know all about you. You’re from Vienna. And I’m sorry to say, you’re terrible at polishing silver. Oh, yes, and your father is the rather serious novelist Julian Landau.’

  I stared at him in surprise, and he preened, clearly gratified by my reaction. I must learn to disappoint him. And it was all true – only the day before Mrs Ellsworth had reprimanded me for leaving polish residue on the silver and not buffing the spoons.

  ‘You’ve read my father’s books?’

  Kit tried to light his cigarette. The matchbox was soggy and he tried sever
al times before he finally discarded the sodden box and struck the match against a rock.

  ‘No. I’m afraid I haven’t. Though, now of course, I must.’ He exhaled a puff of smoke. ‘My father is an avid reader. And since he only reads very earnest, and I’m sorry to say, rather dull books, I must therefore deduce that your father’s books are . . . serious.’

  ‘They are most serious. And also . . .’ I reached for the dictionary and thumbed through the pages, while Kit watched, ‘profound.’

  ‘Profound? Oh, well, in that case I rescind my offer to read them. The Racing Post is as profound as I can manage.’

  I laughed. ‘You are not so stupid. I am very sure.’

  ‘Not stupid, Elise. Idle.’

  He leant back on his elbows in an elegant sprawl, and I found myself wishing my hair were still long. I felt awkward beside this English man-boy. Not wanting to seem childish, I sat back down, maintaining my careful distance. He pointed at the cliffs behind us – sandy brown and heather cropped. Tufts of coarse grass and purple thistle sprouted amongst the crumbling rock face. ‘This is Worbarrow Bay. And that snout-shaped rock just there is the Tout.’ Then he gestured to the sweeping curve of the beach, curling for a mile to a precipitous cliff of jagged yellow stone, which bookended the bay. He wriggled upright a little more and leant closer to me, so that I could follow the tip of his finger. ‘And that is Flower’s Barrow.’

  I squinted, the round disc of the sun dazzling my vision, and saw a stark outline of rock on the pinnacle of the hill towering above the sea. Running back from it were grass ridges cut in sprawling rows, all trailing down the slope and back towards Tyneford. Kit closed his eyes and lay flat on the pebbles. ‘Yes, you need a tour guide. And someone to teach you proper English.’

  I scowled at his audacity. ‘I have dictionary. And books to learn me.’

  ‘Oh yes? What books?’

  I pulled out the battered paperback from inside the dictionary and handed it to him, daring him to laugh. Kit opened one eye and studied the first instalment of the Forsyte Saga with a serious expression, and returned it to me, giving a helpless shrug.

  ‘Well, you’re quite right, Elise. I can’t do better than that – the first family of England is not the Windsors but the Forsytes. I think we ought to read together.’

  I looked at him, trying to discern whether he was teasing, but he shot me an easy smile. Only this morning, I had been silently bemoaning my loneliness and poor English. Lessons with Kit sounded fun.

  ‘Yes. Very well, Mr Rivers.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘My father is Mr Rivers. I told you, I’m Kit. Anyway, I’m going to call you Elise, although I must admit “Fraulein Landau” has a lovely ring to it. Stern and exotic all at once.’

  I giggled and held up the book. ‘Who is to read him first?’

  ‘It. Not him. And I’ve read it. You shall read the adventures of the beautiful Irene and the dastardly Soames tonight and we’ll discuss tomorrow.’

  As I gathered up my books, I dropped my chocolate bars onto the ground. Kit rolled his eyes.

  ‘Can’t eat all of those. Give yourself a bellyache.’

  I shrugged and stuffed them into my pocket, suddenly not wanting them at all. ‘I must be travelling back to the house.’

  Kit yawned, stretched and stood, offering me his hand and when I took it, he hauled me to my feet. ‘I’ll walk with you,’ he said, and I found to my surprise I was glad.

  We strolled past the pair of stone cottages, the old man still busy with his lobster pots. The space outside his hut was littered with nets, some tangled and torn waiting to be mended, others neatly folded. Kit waved to him.

  ‘Morning, Burt.’

  The old man looked up from his broken lobster pot and grinned at us.

  ‘Mornin’, Mister Kit.’ Comin’ boatin’ soon?’

  ‘Course. This afternoon if the weather holds.’

  Burt shook his head. ‘Nope. Rain comin’ in later. Jist after luncheon’s my guess. Tomorrow’ll be fine. But Sunday’s best.’ He winked, and grinned at Kit showing a mouthful of bare gums, brown and pink like an earthworm. ‘Yup. Sunday’s the day. I can feel it.’

  Kit studied the old man, appearing to read something in his expression. He thrust his hands in his pockets, and gave a curt nod, as though to mark he understood. ‘Sunday then. And I’ll bring Elise.’

  ‘Righty ho.’

  Burt bent his head back over his pots and we continued up the lane. The muddy surface was drying in the sunshine, and cloudy puddles formed in the dips.

  ‘Did you recognise him?’ asked Kit.

  I frowned. ‘He is seeming familiar but I cannot think . . .’

  Kit laughed. ‘He’s Burt Wrexham. Wrexham the butler’s elder brother.’

  I thought about the two men and suddenly realised the likeness between them was striking: they could almost be twins. ‘But they sound so different. Were they both birthed in Tyneford?’

  ‘Yes, both born and bred here, sons of Dick the fisherman and Rose Wrexham – I suppose that made Rose a fishwife.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘They called their first son Burt, but Rose insisted on calling their second son Digby. Don’t know why. Rumour has it that Lord Digby did her a kindness, picked her up in his coach when she was pregnant and walking back from market or something. Nonsense probably. But people here believe that the name Digby gave the younger Wrexham boy airs and graces. Aspirations above his station.’

  I gave Kit a suspicious look.

  ‘Oh, I’m permitted airs and graces. I’m a son and heir, you know.’

  He held up his hands in mock surrender, giving me an innocent smile, before he paused to light another cigarette, puffing smoke happily into the breeze. ‘Anyway, Digby Wrexham vanished from Tyneford on his thirteenth birthday – day he was supposed to be apprenticed to his dad. All Wrexham men are fishermen. But he came back five years later with no trace of his Tyneford accent and knocked on my grandfather’s door and asked for a position as upper footman.’

  I tried to imagine Mr Wrexham growing up in the tiny hut on the beach and running away so he wouldn’t have to become a fisherman. I couldn’t really understand it. Burt exuded contentment as he pottered in the sunshine, surrounded by his nets.

  ‘He still goes fishing with Burt on his afternoon.’

  I pictured Mr Wrexham perched at the bow of the small rowing boat in his black coat and tails, like an oversized seasick crow, and giggled.

  We walked along the lime avenue and into the empty stable yard. The cobbles were almost dry, although a dribble of water trickled out of the pump and sluiced between the stones, forming a miniature river system.

  ‘Wait,’ said Kit, catching my arm. ‘Your cap.’

  I stood quite still as he adjusted my white maid’s cap, squaring it neatly on my head. He brushed down my apron and picked a burr from my sleeve.

  ‘There. Now Flo won’t complain.’

  ‘Flo?’

  ‘Mrs Florence Ellsworth. Although I wouldn’t recommend that you try calling her that.’

  As I scurried through the back door and along the servants’ corridor, I could hear Kit shouting after me, ‘Hurry up and read about the Forsytes. Then we can start our English lessons.’

  I raced up the stairs to my room under the eaves, shoving the books onto the dresser, and smiled for the first time in several days.

  As I suspected, Mr Wrexham was exceedingly put out by Kit’s unanticipated arrival. He was fully prepared for Kit’s disembarking the 11:43 train from Basingstoke on Thursday morning. Art had been told to prepare the car; the appropriate brand of cigarette had been sent from London, the Racing Post had been ordered into stock at the general store, and additional marmalade taken down from the high shelves in the pantry. However, May was in the middle of washing the curtains in Kit’s room, and presently they lay draped all around the scullery and laundry, and the room was not ready. If he had been able, Mr Wrexham would have reproached Kit, but since he could not, he made do with scolding
me. He somehow connected Kit’s early arrival with me, and though he could not quite deduce why, I was deemed responsible.

  ‘These things should not happen. How is a butler to be prepared in such circumstance? And with such a small staff. It’s not to be borne. Not to be borne.’

  All my work was found to be at fault: the knives were dirty, the mirrors smeared and the fires did not draw properly. Mr Wrexham was so dissatisfied with my duties that he banned me from serving at dinner, a dishonour he was certain I must feel keenly. ‘Go upstairs to bed early tonight, girl. Study your English and let us try to do better tomorrow.’

  That night I lay on my bed watching the evening sky turn orange, then black, and wondered if I was disappointed to be banished from dinner. I was grateful to have another hour of freedom; usually I crept into bed wanting nothing but sleep. Yet I experienced a pang of disappointment at the thought that I would not see Kit again until tomorrow. And perhaps not even then: I knew from watching Anna’s operas that foreign gentlemen were inevitably fickle and not to be trusted. And yet, life at Tyneford already seemed less awful than it had that very morning when I had raged at the sea. When I thought of Kit, I felt a fulsome glow in my belly, as though I had eaten a large helping of Hildegard’s goulash and dumpling stew.