The Novel in the Viola

by Natasha Solomons

  When I returned to the garden, I found Poppy and Kit sitting in silence, elbows on the table, listening to the Home Service like an oracle. I felt a twist of jealousy and wished for the thousandth time that she would go.

  Kit gave me a grim smile. ‘Well, it looks like Will’s going to get a chance to shoot at more than rabbits. The fighting’s begun in France.’

  ‘He’ll be all right, Poppy, I’m sure he will,’ I said, making use of the platitudes that always irked me, suddenly filled with remorse at having desired her gone.

  But my guilty wish was granted a day later. A telegram arrived for Poppy, summoning her immediately back to work – all leave cancelled – and the same afternoon Mr Rivers announced that he was going up to town for a week. We bade goodbye to Kit’s father, and then drifted about the terrace hand in hand, suddenly unsure how best to make the most of this boon. Kit and I felt like children whose parents had gone out, leaving us to delicious freedom. From the wireless in the dining room came headlines about the formation of ‘Local Defence Volunteers’ and the ‘fifth column tricks’ in the Low Countries, but at that moment war seemed far away. The ancient gardener raked withered azalea blossoms from the lawn and a blue tit yanked a worm from among the lavender beds.

  ‘Let’s not dress for dinner,’ said Kit.

  ‘That’s all? Your father’s away and your best rebellion is not to change your shirt?’

  Kit plucked a daisy and lobbed it at me. ‘And what do you suggest?’

  ‘We should get dressed up for dinner. In black tie. And drink champagne and cognac and get very drunk.’ Then I remembered and shook my head. ‘No. It’s no good.’

  ‘Why not? It’s a splendid plan.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to wear. Diana spoilt my only good dress.’

  ‘I’ve an idea.’

  Kit led me upstairs to one of the spare bedrooms. As a housemaid I had dusted and polished it every day, but since the war started and the staff disappeared from Tyneford, it had been shut up. All the furniture except a great mahogany wardrobe had been pulled into the middle of the room and shrouded in dustsheets. The grey curtains were closed and as Kit drew them back, a family of moths fluttered around his head. Batting them away, he unlocked the wardrobe and seized an armful of dresses.

  ‘These belonged to my mother. Something here’s sure to fit.’

  I stepped back. ‘Kit, no. I couldn’t.’

  ‘Why not? They’re not doing anyone any good in here. And that would have annoyed her.’

  ‘You don’t remember what annoyed her.’

  Kit shrugged. ‘No woman can bear to think of a Parisian couture gown unworn.’

  ‘Couture?’

  Intrigue won over scruples.

  I turned round in front of the mirror. The midnight-blue silk fell away from my left shoulder leaving it bare, and trickled in waves to the ground. A gold belt twisted below my waist and earrings shaped like leaves dangled from each ear. I thought of Kit’s young mother pulling on this dress, checking her appearance, before descending the staircase to greet her guests. I wondered what Anna would say if she could see me. I didn’t feel real.

  Even Mr Wrexham colluded. He served us dinner on the best china, pouring us champagne, sliding back into the shadows so as not to overhear as Kit and I whispered and giggled. I did not feel like the future mistress of Tyneford, but a child playing tea parties who, as a treat, has been allowed to fill the toy pot with real tea and set out miniature sandwiches on the tiny plates.

  After dinner, Kit and I slipped away onto the terrace. The blackouts were drawn and the only light in the garden was the glow of our cigarettes. I discarded my shoes and tucked my feet onto the bench, wishing I had scarlet polish for my toes. We passed champagne back and forth, sipping straight from the bottle. I tingled, thrilled by our decadence. I slid into his arms and we began to kiss, gently at first and then more eagerly. He stopped and unsure why, I tried to draw him back to me, but then I felt the warmth of his breath on my bare shoulder, and then the damp of his mouth on my skin. His fingers eased under the strap of my dress and as I felt his hand brush my breast, I heard myself wonder, as though from a distance, precisely how many of Anna’s rules of etiquette I was breaking at that moment. He kissed me again and I kissed him back. I was drunk on champagne and on him. He pushed me down against the bench, and his fingers reached for the hem of my dress. I knew I ought to make him stop. It was what girls must do when young men got too fresh, too amorous, too delightful. I didn’t want him to stop. I didn’t want to disappoint Anna. I didn’t want to be one of the fast girls in the chorus who made her sigh. I’d like to say that I considered the consequences, picturing myself as the deflowered heroine – Tosca, or perhaps Tess D’Urberville – but I was struggling to think very much at all. At that moment my body was utterly uninterested in the proper decorum expected from girls like me. Kit nudged my thighs apart with his knee and I heard the beautiful silk dress tear. That brought me back to myself and I tried to wriggle away but he held me firm, making a cage with his arms.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said, pushing at him but he didn’t seem to hear. Sweat glistened on his upper lip and he was now intent on reaching the waistband of my knickers. ‘Don’t,’ I said again and shoved at him.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispered, but rather than encouraging me, his words made me cross and I elbowed him, hard. He recoiled and sat up, staring at me with a wounded expression.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said. ‘You wanted to make the most of having the place to ourselves.’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t want to do that. Not yet.’

  I suddenly felt very childish, conscious that my finery was only borrowed.

  ‘I’m wearing your mother’s dress. And we’ve spoilt it.’

  Kit shrugged. ‘You could always take it off.’

  ‘I most certainly cannot.’ I heard Anna’s voice coming from my mouth. My fingers flew to the pearl necklace heavy around my throat. I felt the cool disapproval of the two absent mothers. Adjusting my dress, I picked up my shoes and fled into the house, feeling hot tears prick my eyes.

  When his father returned Kit grew restless. He knew that somewhere others were busy with war, while he was reduced to planting cabbage seedlings or fishing for haddock with Burt. His leg was almost healed and he would not admit to any pain, desperate to be cleared for active service at the earliest possible moment. He prowled the garden, smoking, or disappeared down to the beach. He no longer insisted on my company. Somewhere a battle raged and The Angelica, small as she was, had her part and Kit was lost. I could not help wondering if things had gone differently, and I’d allowed him to make love to me, he might have confided in me more. In the years since I have had a long time to think about these things, and sometimes I still wonder. If the silk dress had not torn. If I had not been struck by a sudden pang of conscience. Is it possible that everything would have ended differently? But that is why the English invented gardens. When I find myself maudlin over such things, I prune the roses or attack the ground elder with renewed vigour.

  A letter arrived from Margot, the first in months, the post having been hopelessly disrupted by the wolf packs. I imagined her missing letters sinking into the waves, and tried not to think of the ships missing as well. I read in the sunshine on the terrace, forcing myself not to rush, to savour every word.

  I can’t tell you how useless I feel marooned here in America. Have you had many bombs yet? Are you very frightened? I went to the cinema and heard on the newsreel the noise those blasted sirens make and they were quite terrifying, even in the movie theatre – I can’t imagine what they’re like when accompanied by planes and bombs. You must drink brandy for your nerves.

  I wished I could tell her that we felt similarly useless on the quiet part of England’s coast.

  Spring here is beautiful. We have a lovely house now with a view of the harbour and a glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge. I practise in a room with a view of the water, and as I play I think of you, gazing at the other side
of the same sea. I’ve been a little low lately. I am empty inside from missing all of you and I so want a family of my own and I know I should not worry about it not happening and that worrying only makes it more difficult and Robert and the doctor (who is terribly kind) both say the same thing but, Elise, it is very hard. Robert has bought me a dog, a beautiful golden retriever, to take for walks and dote upon. I have called him Wolfgang, Wolfie for short. You would love him. I remember how you used to plead with Anna and Julian to let you have a dog.

  I wished my sister were at Tyneford so that I could comfort her. I knew that she’d always wanted to call her son Wolfgang. I pictured the two of us rambling along the ridge throwing sticks for Wolfie, laughing as the dog swam in the bay and then shook his coat all over us. It is interesting to note that in none of my fantasies did I tell her about the novel in the viola. Even though my sister longed for a word or a sign from our parents, I hoarded the viola to myself. It is too late now for regrets. Today will be a day spent in the garden. I shall plant the crocuses for next spring and try to think of other things.

  One evening at the end of May I lingered in the drawing room after dinner with Kit and Mr Rivers. It was past eleven o’clock, the windows were tightly shut and the curtains drawn over the blackouts. It was too warm and I longed to open a window for some fresh air. Kit hunched on an armchair beside the empty grate, staring into nothing, while Mr Rivers pretended to read. I studied the household hints in Woman’s Own, feeling terribly self-righteous and terribly bored. From the hall came the sound of the telephone. We all bristled, listening to the soft pad of the butler’s footsteps and his low murmur. A few moments later the drawing room door opened and Mr Wrexham entered.

  ‘Mr Kit. The telephone for you, sir, it’s a Captain Graham Parsons.’

  Kit leapt up and crossed the room in two strides. Mr Rivers and I lowered our papers and held our breath so we could eavesdrop. I craned forward in my chair and listened to Kit’s voice, ‘Yes, sir . . . certainly, sir . . . there is . . . twenty-four hours . . . yes, right away, sir . . . high tide . . . perfectly fit, thank you, sir . . . goodbye . . .’ and then the echo of his footsteps on the parquet floor. He came back into the drawing room, and I noticed that he was flushed with excitement, his eyes bright. He stood looking at Mr Rivers and me and leant against the wall, studying to appear nonchalant, but his lip twitched with a smile.

  ‘I have orders. I am to commandeer a boat and sail her to Kent and then join a convoy to France.’

  ‘Good God. Then it’s true. The army’s in retreat,’ said Mr Rivers, discarding his newspaper.

  ‘I suppose so. The captain didn’t say. I’m to receive final orders when I reach Ramsgate.’

  Kit perched on the edge of a sofa, then unable to settle, stood up and paced, circling the room. I caught his hand as he passed and forced him to a stop.

  ‘When will you leave?’

  ‘High tide. I’m to get the boat ready and sail for Kent as soon as she’s ready.’

  A sick feeling grew, and I gripped his hand so hard my knuckles turned white. Kit smiled at me, brushing a curl of dark hair behind my ear. ‘Don’t fret, darling. It’s a relief to do something at last. I’ll be back before you know it.’

  I tried to smile but I did not release his hand. Despite everything that had happened to my family, Kit still could not imagine that sometimes people were parted for longer than they wanted.

  ‘Go and change,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘Then we’ll go down to the beach and speak to Burt. I presume that you wish to take The Lugger?’

  Kit nodded. ‘Yes. She’s the nimblest of the fishing-boats. She’s not the largest, but she’s fast, and I know the quirks of her engine. That wretched outboard has blown up more times than I care to remember, and I’ve never not been able to fix her.’

  Ten minutes later we were hurrying down to the cove, Kit dressed in his naval uniform and carrying his mackintosh. He looked handsome and older than before, clad in his long coat, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes. I dug my fingernails into the fleshy part of my palms and wished I believed in God so that I could pray for his safe return. Mr Rivers had also changed into his work clothes, and I noticed a set of oilskins tucked under his arm. The night was cloudless and full of stars. An owl cried out in the dark and flew low across the pebbled beach, while the wind strummed the marram grass. I scrambled to keep up with the men’s easy strides, and as we reached the beach I slithered across the rocks in my plimsolls. Burt’s cottage windows were blacked out, but in the starlight a thin plume of smoke was visible as it curled out from the broken chimneypot. Kit knocked on the door, and a minute later it flew open. Burt blinked as he took in Kit standing on his front step in his naval trench coat and his lieutenant’s cap.

  ‘Burt, I need to commandeer The Lugger. I have to take her to France. Our boys are stranded on the beaches.’

  Burt gave a slow nod, and then a half-salute. ‘Aye, Officer. Well, yer told us before that The Lugger wis now part of His Majesty’s navy. If the Admiralty needs her, then she mist go. Only wish I wis a bit younger an’ a bit less creaky an’ I’d sail with yoos.’

  Kit strode across the darkened yard to the beach where the boat lay upon the pebbles under a blanket of tarpaulin. Mr Rivers helped him throw off the covering, and Burt joined them both, walking around the hull, scrutinising the paintwork with the flickering light of a match. Kit climbed onto the deck and started handing down coiled fishing-nets and lobster pots.

  ‘She must be stripped of everything except essentials.’

  I caught the nets and carried them into a corner of the yard.

  ‘Are there any blankets?’ called Mr Rivers. ‘It’ll be cold on the channel. And food. We need food in tins and at least three gallons of fresh water.’

  ‘I’ll go and ask Mrs Ellsworth,’ I said, and turned to hurry back up the path to the house.

  ‘There’s plenty of time,’ called Mr Rivers. ‘Tide must turn. It’s at the lowest ebb. We’ll need to wait at least six hours until The Lugger can sail.’

  I didn’t care if there was time. I ran along the track as fast as I could – I wanted to spend every last minute with Kit. The moon cast a cold glow on the chalk path, white as bone. The night smelt sweetly of dog roses, which wove in tangles through the black hedgerows. I rushed past the tawny owl, now perched on a fencepost, his head swivelling to watch me with yellow eyes. I reached the back door, my breath coming in gasps.

  ‘Mrs Ellsworth! I need blankets and tins of fruit and meat and custard and a flask for water . . . and dressings and bandages . . . and some brandy if you have it.’

  She came bustling along the passage, her tanned forehead furrowed like plough lines across a field.

  ‘Yes, yes, all right. Come in and close the door – you’re letting out the light.’

  I realised that in my hurry I’d forgotten about the blackout rules and light was streaming onto the cobbles in the yard. I slammed the door and followed her into the pantry. She thrust a sack into my hands.

  ‘Fill this with tins from the bottom shelf. Take a dozen evaporated milk. Fruit pieces. Potted meat. And put in two tin openers. And spoons.’

  Once I had packed the food, I dragged the sack to the back door. Wondering how on earth I was going to carry it all to the beach, I spied Art’s wheelbarrow with relief. Mrs Ellsworth joined me in the yard, holding a pile of blankets and a picnic hamper, which she dumped on top of the wheelbarrow. I started to wheel it along the drive and back down the path to the bay. It clattered in the dark, and I was sure that I would wake every villager. I wondered how on earth the old smugglers managed. I supposed they didn’t use wheelbarrows. It was heavy and kept sticking on the stones, but we returned to the beach within the hour. The men were checking The Lugger’s rigging and arguing over whether to take a spare sail.

  ‘Can’t sail into battle,’ said Kit, arms folded across his chest. ‘We’ll use the outboard once we get near France.’

  ‘But if the engine packs in?’ asked
Mr Rivers.

  ‘Then we use the oars.’

  ‘She’s a devil ter row,’ said Burt, shaking his head.

  ‘Well, there’ll be plenty of men. Some of them will have to help,’ said Kit, determined.

  ‘Right yer are,’ said Burt. ‘Take another set then.’

  ‘What about flares?’ asked Mr Rivers.

  ‘Under bench in stern,’ replied Burt.

  Kit climbed down and came to stand beside me, draping his arm around my shoulders. ‘Nothing more to do but wait for the tide.’

  ‘Why don’t you go back to the house and get yourself a few hours’ sleep, sir?’ asked Mrs Ellsworth.

  Kit laughed. ‘Couldn’t sleep now. I’ll stretch out on deck and rest,’ he added, to mollify her. ‘Come on,’ he said, grabbing my hand and scooping up a blanket. ‘You’re always asking what it’s like to sleep aboard a ship – come and find out.’

  I allowed him to help me clamber onto the deck of The Lugger. He spread a blanket across one of the narrow wooden benches and lay down, tapping the space beside him. I hesitated for only a second before squeezing in next to him. He wrapped his arms around me and I felt his breath on the back of my neck. I was still cold and I gave a shiver. Kit wriggled upright.

  ‘I’m sorry. Very ungallant. Here,’ he removed his woollen trench coat, and laid it over us both. The tide was far out in the bay, and the water rushed against the rocks in the distance.

  ‘It’s not as comfortable as a Snottie’s hammock,’ he said.

  ‘Snottie?’

  ‘Midshipmen. We officers have the luxurious discomfort of a hard bunk in a broom cupboard and being flung onto the floor if the wind picks up. I’ve slung a hammock once or twice though, and magic things they are. Swing with the rhythm of the ship, sleep like a baby rocking in a cradle.’