by Kate Morton
Up at the far end of the platform I had noticed a couple of familiar faces: Emmeline, standing near Dawkins, Lord Ashbury’s chauffeur, amid a sea of young officers in smart new uniforms.
‘Grace?’ Myra shook my arm. ‘I was telling Alfred about our gift.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ I reached into my bag and handed Alfred a small package wrapped in brown paper.
He unwrapped it carefully, smiling at its contents.
‘I knitted the socks and Myra the scarf,’ I said.
‘Well,’ said Alfred, inspecting the items. ‘They look mighty fine.’ He closed his hand around the socks, looked at me. ‘I’ll be sure to think of you-all three of you-when I’m snug as a bug and all the other boys are going cold. They’ll envy me my three girls: the best in all of England.’
He tucked the gifts into his kit then folded the paper neatly and handed it back to me. ‘Here you are, Grace. Mrs T will be on the warpath as it is, looking for the rest of her cake. Don’t want her missing her baking paper too.’
I nodded, pressed the paper into my bag; felt his eyes on me.
‘You won’t forget to write to me, will you Gracie?’
I shook my head, met his gaze. ‘No, Alfred. I won’t forget you.’
‘You’d better not,’ he said, smiling at me. ‘Or there’ll be trouble when I’m back.’ He sobered. ‘I’m going to miss you.’ He looked then at Myra and Katie. ‘All of you.’
‘Oh, Alfred,’ said Katie excitedly. ‘Look at the other fellows. Ever so smart in their new uniforms. Are they all Saffron Lads?’
As Alfred pointed out some of the other young men he’d met at the recruiting depot, I looked up the track again, watched as Emmeline waved to another group and ran off. Two of the young officers turned to watch her go and I saw their faces. David, and Robbie Hunter. Where was Hannah? I craned to see. She had avoided David and Robbie as best she could over winter, but surely she wouldn’t miss seeing David off to war?
‘… and that’s Rufus,’ said Alfred, pointing out a skinny soldier with long teeth. ‘His father’s the ragman. Rufus used to help him but he reckons he’s more chance of a regular meal in the army.’
‘That may be,’ Myra said. ‘If you’re a ragman. But you can’t say you don’t do very well for yourself at Riverton.’
‘Oh no,’ said Alfred. ‘I’ve no complaints in that department. Mrs T, and the Master and Mistress, they keep us well-fed.’ He smiled then said, ‘I must say I get sick of being cooped up inside, though. I’m looking forward to living the open-air life for a bit.’
An aeroplane droned overhead, a Blériot XI-2 said Alfred, and a cheer went up amongst the crowd. A wave of excitement rolled along the platform, collecting us all in its wash. The conductor, a distant speck of black and white, blew his whistle then called for boarding through his megaphone.
‘Well,’ said Alfred, a smile tugging at his lips. ‘Here I go then.’
A figure appeared at the end of the station. Hannah. She scanned the platform, waved hesitantly when she saw David. She weaved through the crowd, stopping only when she reached her brother. She stood for a moment, without speaking, then she pulled something from her purse and gave it to him. I already knew what it was. I had seen it on her duchesse that morning. Journey Across the Rubicon. It was one of the tiny books from The Game, one of their favourite adventures, carefully described, illustrated and bound with thread. She’d wrapped it in an envelope and tied it with string.
David looked at it, then at Hannah. He tucked it in his breast pocket, rubbed his hand over it, then reached out and squeezed both her hands; he looked as if he wanted to kiss her cheeks, hug her, but that was not the way it went with them. So he didn’t. He leaned closer and said something to her. They both looked toward Emmeline, and Hannah nodded.
David turned then and said something to Robbie. He looked back at Hannah and she started searching through her bag again. She was looking for something to give him, I realised. David must have suggested that Robbie needed his own good-luck charm.
Alfred’s voice, close to my ear, pulled my wandering attention back. ‘Bye-bye Gracie,’ he said, his lips brushing hair near my neck. ‘Thanks ever so for the socks.’
My hand leapt to my ear, still warm from his words, as Alfred threw his kit over his shoulder and headed for the train. As he reached the door he climbed onto the carriage step and turned, grinning at us over the heads of his fellow soldiers. ‘Wish me luck,’ he said, then disappeared, pushed through the door by the others eager to climb aboard.
I waved my arm. ‘Good luck,’ I called to the backs of strangers, sensing suddenly the hole that would be left at Riverton by his departure.
Up at first class, David and Robbie boarded with the other officers. Dawkins walked behind with David’s bags. There were fewer officers than infantry, and they found seats easily, each appearing at a window while Alfred jostled for standing space in his carriage.
The train whistled again, and belched, filling the platform with steam. Long axels began to heave, gathering momentum, and the train drew slowly forward.
Hannah kept up alongside, still searching her purse, fruitlessly it seemed. Finally, as the train gained pace, she looked up, slipped the white satin bow from her hair, and held it up to Robbie’s waiting hand.
Further along the track my gaze alighted on the sole motionless figure amongst the frenzied crowd: it was Emmeline. She clutched a white handkerchief in her raised hand but she no longer waved it. Her eyes were wide and her smile had slipped into an expression of uncertainty.
She stood on tiptoe, surveying the crowd. No doubt she was anxious to bid David farewell. And Robbie Hunter.
Just then, her face lifted eagerly and I knew she’d seen Hannah.
But it was too late. As she pushed through the crowd, her calls drowned by engine noise, and whistles, and cheers, I saw Hannah, still running alongside the boys, long hair unbound, disappear with the train behind a veil of steam.
PART 2
English Heritage Brochure
1999
Riverton Manor, Saffron Green, Essex
An early Elizabethan farmhouse designed by John Thorpe, Riverton Manor was ‘gentrified’ in the eighteenth century by the eighth Viscount of Ashbury who added two bays, transforming the house into a graceful manor. In the nineteenth century, when countryhouse weekends became popular, Riverton again underwent conversion at the hands of architect Thomas Cubitt: a third level was built to incorporate more guest accommodation; and, in keeping with the Victorian preference that servants remain invisible at all times, a rabbit warren of servants’ rooms was added to the attic, along with back stairs leading directly to the kitchen.
The magnificent ruins of this once great house are surrounded by glorious landscaped gardens, the work of Sir Joseph Paxton. The gardens include two huge stone fountains, the largest of which, representing Eros and Psyche, has just been restored. Though now powered by computerised electric pump, the fountain was originally motorised by its own steam engine and was described as making the ‘noise of an express train’ when it was fired, due to the 130 jets-hidden amongst giant ants, eagles, fire-breathing dragons, horrors of the underworld, cupids and gods-that shoot 100 feet into the air.
There is a second, smaller fountain, representing the fall of Icarus, at the end of the rear Long Walk. Beyond the Icarus fountain is the lake and the summer house, which was commissioned in 1923 by Riverton’s then owner, Mr Theodore Luxton, to replace the original boathouse. The lake has become infamous in this century as the site of poet Robert S Hunter’s suicide in 1924, on the eve of the annual Riverton midsummer’s night party.
The generations of Riverton residents were also instrumental in sculpting the garden. Lord Herbert’s Danish wife, Lady Gytha Ashbury, created the small topiary area lined with miniature yew hedges, still known as the Egeskov Garden, (named for the Danish castle which belonged to Lady Ashbury’s extended family), and Lady Violet, wife of the eleventh Lord Ashbury, added a rose garden on t
he rear lawn.
Following a devastating fire in 1938, Riverton Manor fell into long decline. The house was donated to English Heritage in 1974 and has undergone restoration since that time. The north and south gardens, including the Eros and Psyche fountain, have recently been restored as part of the Contemporary Heritage Garden Scheme run by English Heritage. The Icarus fountain and summer house, accessed via the Long Walk, are currently undergoing restoration.
The Riverton church, situated in a picturesque valley near the house, contains a tea room (not managed by English Heritage) which is open during the summer months, and Riverton Manor has a marvellous gift shop. Please call the site (01277 876857) for details of the fountain firing.
THE TWELFTH OF JULY
I am to be in the film. Well, not me, but a young girl pretending to be me. Regardless how peripheral one’s connection to calamity, it would appear that to live long enough is to be rendered an object of interest. I received the phone call two days ago: Ursula, the young film-maker with the slim figure and the long ashen hair, wondering whether I would be willing to meet the actress with the dubious honour of playing the role of ‘Housemaid 1’, now retitled, ‘Grace’.
They are coming here, to Heathview. It is not the most atmospheric place to rendezvous, but I have neither heart nor feet to journey far and can pretend otherwise for no one. So it is I am sitting in the chair in my room, waiting.
There comes a knock at the door. I look at the clock-half past nine. They are right on time. I realise I am holding my breath and wonder why.
Then they are in the room, my room. Sylvia and Ursula and the young girl charged with representing me.
‘Good morning, Grace,’ Ursula says, smiling at me from beneath her wheat-coloured fringe. She does something unexpected then, leans over and brushes a kiss on my cheek, warm lips on dry, dusty skin.
My voice sticks in my throat.
She sits on the blanket at the end of my bed-a presumptive action that I’m surprised to discover I don’t mind-and takes my hand. ‘Grace,’ she says, ‘this is Keira Parker.’ She turns to smile at the girl behind me. ‘She’ll be playing you in the film.’
The girl, Keira, steps from the shadow. She is seventeen, if a day, and I am struck by her symmetrical prettiness. Blonde hair to her shoulderblades pulled back in a ponytail. An oval face, a mouth with full lips coated in thick, shiny lip gloss; blue eyes beneath a blank brow. A face made to sell chocolates.
I clear my throat, remember my manners. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ And I point to the brown vinyl chair Sylvia brought in earlier from the morning room.
Keira sits daintily, wraps her thin denim-clad legs, one around the other, and glances surreptitiously to her left, my dressing table. Her jeans are tattered, loose threads hanging from the pockets. Rags are no longer a sign of poverty, Sylvia has informed me; they are an emblem of style. Keira smiles impassively, letting her gaze turn over my possessions. ‘Thanks for seeing me, Grace,’ she remembers to say.
Her use of my first name rankles. But I am being unreasonable and admonish myself. If she had addressed me by title or surname, I would have insisted on the dispensation of such formality.
I am aware that Sylvia still lurks by the open door, wiping the dust from the jamb in a show of duty designed to disguise her curiosity. She is a great one for film actors and soccer stars. ‘Sylvia, dear,’ I say, ‘do you think we might have some tea?’
Sylvia looks up, her face a study in irreproachable devotion. ‘Tea?’
‘Perhaps some biscuits,’ I say.
‘Of course.’ Reluctantly, she pockets her cloth.
I nod toward Ursula.
‘Yes, please,’ she says. ‘White and one.’
Sylvia turns to Keira, ‘And you Ms Parker?’ Her voice is nervous, her cheeks disappear beneath a creeping crimson, and I realise the young actress must be known to her.
Keira yawns. ‘Green tea and lemon.’
‘Green tea,’ Sylvia says slowly, as if she has just learned the answer to the origins of the universe. ‘Lemon.’ She remains unmoving in the doorjamb.
‘Thank you, Sylvia,’ I say. ‘I’ll have my usual.’
‘Yes.’ Sylvia blinks, a spell is broken, and she finally pulls herself away. The door closes behind her and I am left alone with my two guests.
Immediately I regret sending Sylvia away. I am overwhelmed by a sudden and irrational sense that her presence warded off the past’s return.
But she is gone, and we remaining three share a moment’s silence. I sneak another glance at Keira, study her face, try to recognise my young self in her pretty features. Suddenly a burst of music, muffled and tinny, breaks the silence.
‘Sorry,’ says Ursula, fumbling in her bag. ‘I meant to turn the sound off.’ She withdraws a small black mobile phone and the volume crescendos, stops mid-bar when she presses a button. She smiles, embarrassed. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She glances at the screen and a cloud of consternation colours her face. ‘Will you excuse me a moment?’
Keira and I both nod as Ursula leaves the room, phone to her ear.
The door sighs shut and I turn to my young caller. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘I suppose we ought to begin.’
She nods, almost imperceptibly, and pulls a folder from her tote bag. She opens it and withdraws a wad of paper, held together with a bulldog clip. I can see from the layout that it is a script-bold words in capitals, followed by longer portions of regular font.
She flicks past a few pages and stops, presses her shiny lips together. ‘I was wondering,’ she says, ‘about your relationship with the Hartford family. With the girls.’
I nod. That much I had presumed.
‘My part isn’t one of the big ones,’ she says. ‘I haven’t many lines, but I’m in a lot of the earlier shots.’ She looks at me. ‘You know. Serving drinks, that sort of thing.’
I nod again.
‘Anyway, Ursula thought it would be a good idea for me to talk to you about the girls: what you thought of them. That way I’ll get some idea of my motivation.’ The final word she speaks pointedly, annunciating as if it were a foreign term with which I might not be familiar. She straightens her back and her expression takes on a varnish of fortification. ‘Mine isn’t the starring role, but it’s still important to give a strong performance. You never know who might be watching.’
‘Of course.’
‘Nicole Kidman only got Days of Thunder because Tom Cruise saw her in some Australian film.’
This fact and these names, I see, are supposed to resonate with me. I nod and she continues.
‘That’s why I need you to tell me how you felt. About your job and about the girls.’ She leans forward, her eyes the cold blue of Venetian glass. ‘It gives me an advantage, you see, you still being… I mean, the fact that you’re still…’
‘Alive,’ I say. ‘Yes, I see.’ I almost admire her candour. ‘What exactly would you like to know?’
She smiles; relieved, I imagine, that her faux pas has been swallowed quickly by the current of our conversation. ‘Well,’ she says, scanning the piece of paper resting on her knees. ‘I’ll get the dull questions out of the way first.’
My heart quickens. I have decided to answer honestly, no matter what she asks. A little game of roulette played for my own amusement.
‘Did you enjoy being a servant?’ she says.
I exhale: more an escaped breath than a sigh. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘for a time.’
She looks doubtful. ‘Really? I can’t imagine enjoying waiting on people all day every day. What did you like about it?’
‘The others became like a family to me. I enjoyed the camaraderie.’
‘The others?’ Her eyes widen hungrily. ‘You mean Emmeline and Hannah?’
‘No. I mean the other staff.’
‘Oh.’ She is disappointed. No doubt she had glimpsed a larger role for herself, an amended script in which Grace the housemaid is no longer an outside observer, but a secret member of the Hartford sisters’ coterie.
She is young, of course, and from a different world. She doesn’t conceive that certain lines should not be crossed. ‘That’s nice,’ she says. ‘But I don’t have scenes with the other actors playing servants, so it’s not much use to me.’ She runs her biro down the list of questions. ‘Was there anything you didn’t like about being a servant?’
Day after day of waking with the birds; the attic that was an oven in summer and an ice box in winter; hands red raw from laundering; a back that ached from cleaning; weariness that permeated to the centre of my bones. ‘It was tiring. The days were long and full. There was not much time for oneself.’
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘that’s how I’ve been playing it. I mostly don’t even have to pretend. After a day of rehearsal my arms are bruised from carrying the bloody tray around.’
‘It was my feet that hurt the most,’ I say. ‘But only in the beginning, and once when I turned sixteen and had my new shoes.’
She writes something on the back of her script, in round cursive strokes, nods. ‘Good,’ she says. ‘I can use that.’ She continues to scribble, finishing with a flourish of the pen. ‘Now for the interesting stuff. I want to know about Emmeline. That is, how you felt about her.’
I hesitate, wondering where to begin.
‘It’s just, we share a few scenes and I’m not sure what I should be thinking. Conveying.’
‘What kind of scenes?’ I say, curious.
‘Well, for instance, there’s the one where she first meets RS Hunter, down near the lake, and she slips and almost drowns and I have to-’
‘Near the lake?’ I am confused. ‘But that’s not where they met, it was the library, it was winter, they were-’
‘The library?’ she wrinkles her perfect nose. ‘No wonder the scriptwriters changed it. There’s nothing dynamic about a room full of old books. It works really well this way, the lake being where he killed himself and all. Kind of like the end of the story is in the beginning. It’s romantic, like that Baz Lurhmann film. Romeo + Juliet.’