The House at Tyneford (32 page)

On New Year’s Day, I walked across the cliffs to the Tilly Whim caves. I had helped Mrs. Ellsworth prepare the beef Wellington for dinner (a final treat before rationing commenced), peeled endless potatoes and sieved a quart of sloe gin, and after the heat of the kitchen, I craved some fresh air. The sky was iron grey, and the dark sea writhed and crashed, white waves cresting before they reached the shore. Sleet began to fall, pockmarking the stone and seeping into my mackintosh, but I didn’t mind. I’d learned to relish the wind and cold slapping my cheeks, turning them bright as holly berries. I stalked along the cliff-top path, passing above the sandy smear of Brandy Bay and onto the limestone shelf at Tilly Whim. In the distance I could see the black shadows of the warships at anchor in Portland. I wondered if I were looking at a ship like Kit’s. I wore a ruby cashmere scarf, a Christmas present from Mr. Rivers, and took pleasure in its luxuriant brightness against the dull winter world. It was an item of such glamour that I could hardly believe it was mine. It was the sort of thing that Anna or Margot wore. I had not been expecting a gift, so gave Mr. Rivers a book of Goethe’s poetry that I had discovered in a secondhand bookshop in Dorchester and had intended to give to Kit. The gift was probably more suited to Mr. Rivers anyway. Kit only really liked poetry that was either rude or made him laugh, and preferably both at once.

The shelf of rock leading to Tilly Whim shone wetly, the limestone coated with a slick of freezing rain. The square mouths of the caves gaped as a lone white gull circled overhead, its cries drowned by the wash of the surf. A blur of movement caught my eye, and then a flash of red, like a fox’s brush. But it wasn’t a fox. It was Poppy. I ran toward her and then hesitated on seeing she was not alone. I lingered in the shadow of a rock and spied several men in khaki greatcoats lugging boxes and tarpaulin drapes into the caves. There was an urgent furtiveness about them, like squirrels burying their hazelnuts on the lawns each September. After half an hour the men drifted away along the cliff, back up toward Lovell’s Tower. Poppy loitered for a minute or two and then, pulling her wool coat around her, made to hurry after the men. I emerged from my hiding place and called to her. She spun around, hands fluttering to her throat in alarm.

“It’s you! Goodness, Elise, you gave me a fright.”

She hurried over and hugged me quickly. I held her tight, reluctant to let go.

“Are you here to see Will?” I asked. “Because he’s joined the Dorsets.”

“I know. I saw him for an afternoon in Salisbury. He’s waiting to ship. We strolled about the town and went for tea. Place was full of couples in uniform, all looking as miserable as us. Funny really, staring in your lover’s eyes, thinking, ‘When shall we meet again?’ while eating buttered crumpets.”

“I wish you’d told me that you were coming home,” I said, picking a piece of moss from her hair.

She plunged mittened hands into her coat pockets. “Ah, well. You see, I’m not home. Not really. Secret war business.” She glanced over her shoulder, but her companions were already half a mile away, climbing the slope to the small tower. Her cheeks glowed with cold and excitement. “Not really any point in your not knowing, though, if you ask me.” She took a breath and then explained in a rush, “We’re dumping piles of ammunition and guns in hides around the coast. In case of the worst and invasion. Idea is that if it comes to it, locals will discover them and use ’em to fight the Germans. Bit pointless, though, if no bugger knows where they are.”

I shrugged. “Well, now I know.”

“Yes. But you mustn’t tell anyone, else they’ll be sure it’s me and I shall be in awful trouble.” She coughed. “Except if they invade. You can tell everyone then.”

I stared out across the sea, where wisps of mist drifted across the water like giant reams of silk from a vast spider’s web. The sky had turned ink black and threatened snow. The stark trees on the horizon looked thin and cold, and the mouths of the caves were dark enough to swallow the last dregs of daylight. The breakers crashed against the shore, competing with the wind’s howl. In the weird half-light I could imagine an armada of black ships sailing for England, their masts slicing through the mist. I saw men teeming upon the beach and crawling in their thousands up the steep cliffs, clawing the rocks with sharp nails and fever-bright eyes.

“I’ll remember,” I said.

In February I picked snowdrops. They never lasted more than a day inside the house before wilting as though they really were beads of snow. Before breakfast, I set a vase of them upon the sideboard. That morning I’d received a letter from Margot, addressed to Mrs. Julian Landau, c/o Tyneford House, sent when she still believed Anna and Julian were coming to Tyneford and postmarked from California in September
.
I’d opened it without hesitation, frantic for any word.

I lowered the letter in surprise, pricked by hurt. Why hadn’t Margot told me that she was hoping for a baby? Exiled from her confidence, I felt that she was farther away than ever. Even as a girl she had never told me her secrets, hoarding her romances and whispering them to Anna behind the closed bathroom door. I listened with my ear to the keyhole and never heard anything more than the swish of water, or stray giggles. Even though she was far across the sea, Margot still made me feel like the little girl locked outside, ear pressed to the door. I was growing used to missing Anna and Julian. It was a constant ache, like an old injury, where the pain does not subside but one becomes accustomed to its presence. Reading Margot’s letter, the pain throbbed and I felt a little dizzy. I missed Anna more than ever. All Margot’s letters to me seemed empty and thin. I was not the pigtailed girl she’d said good-bye to all those years ago. Unlike Margot, I no longer dreamed about going home. Home in Vienna was gone. It existed before the war, in another time.

That morning, I felt hollow with hurt and worry. Kit’s absence was more direct than my family’s. I was used to seeing him, kissing him, walking with him every day. Several weeks had gone by without one of his letters. I supposed he must be somewhere far away, where the armed forces postal service could not function, but I wasn’t sure whether I was concerned by his silence, or just annoyed. I slapped the flowers down so vigorously that the water slopped onto the polished cherry sideboard, and I had to mop it up with my sleeve before it stained. Mrs. Ellsworth would not scold me but she’d rub at the mark with a cloth, her stooped back eloquent in reproach. I hoped Kit was missing me as much as I him. My sleeve was soggy and damp with the flower water. Did I really want Kit to be miserable? Surely it was more important that he was not too homesick while he was undertaking important war work. I propped up a snowdrop that was already starting to droop like the white head of a drowsy old man. No. It might be wicked, but I wanted Kit to be miserable. Just a little. A few tears at night perhaps—not so many that other officers would notice and tease him, but enough to demonstrate that his heart was a bit wounded. Three or four tears a night. Yes. That would be quite sufficient.

“Elise? What are you doing?” asked Mr. Rivers.

Glancing down, I realised that I was flicking beads of water from a snowdrop stem all across the sideboard. Mr. Rivers drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped away the mess.

“Join me for some coffee?” he said.

I sat down as he passed me a cup. A moment later Mr. Wrexham appeared with a silver toast rack full of neat triangles, a dish of butter and another of marmalade. I reached for a slice, started to nibble it dry and then discarded it in disgust. Mr. Rivers watched me in silence and then observed, “You seem awfully fidgety.”

I did not tell him about Margot’s letter. He felt bad enough. I’d overheard him remonstrating aloud when he thought no one was listening: “If only I’d pushed them harder. One day. Even a single day.”

He smiled at me. “You’ll hear from Kit soon, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” I answered, toying with the crumbs on my plate.

“I’m organising some repairs to a pair of old fishing boats this morning. Since fish shan’t be rationed, seems rather important to get all the boats in order. I want as many boats out in the bay as possible. You can help if you like.”

“Thank you,” I said and forced a smile. “I’d like that.”

An hour later we walked briskly down to the beach, where Art, Burt, a dozen of the village fishermen and a couple of boys too young for the army were all gathered in the ramshackle yard outside Burt’s cottage. Two boats about the size of the
Lugger
were propped up on stacks of bricks, with pieces of old carpet on top of the stacks to protect the hulls. The men circled the boats, peering closely, inspecting the keel here and the rudder there. They all seemed to be waiting for Mr. Rivers’ arrival before beginning work. Faint writing stencilled on the port side of one boat declared it to be the
Margaret
, but the name on the other had been rubbed away.

“They don’t look too bad to me,” said Mr. Rivers after a careful inspection. “That one needs a new tiller, and the keel on the
Margaret
needs repairing, and the rigging on each must be replaced, but I think we’ll manage.”

There were grunts and nods of approval and the men got to work. A pair of overalls was thrust into my hands.

“’Ere are,” said Burt. “Go an’ put these arn. Can’t do no dirty work in that slip o’ a skirt. Be a ballywag o’ a mess if yer tries.”

I slipped around the side of the cottage and quickly pulled them on, then returned to the throng. Burt grinned at me. “Yer looks luverly, I must say. Jist needs a pipe.”

He chuckled loudly at his joke and gave me a piece of sandpaper and a chisel.

“Use him ter chip away at them barnacles and nasty weed. Her bottom must be smooth as a fish before she goes back in the drink. Jist do what the Miller boy is doin’.” He pointed to one of the boys whittling away at the muck with a knife.

For an hour I crouched beneath the boat, rubbing and scraping away at the weed welded to the paintwork, green as flecks of rain-soaked lettuce. The barnacles were small, hard warts and required the sharp chisel point to pry them away. All around me the men sanded or sawed small planks to replace the rotten pieces of timber. Art and Burt climbed onto the
Margaret
and unscrewed the rusted fittings on the mast and the starboard rail, replacing them with salvaged ones. My arms cramped from work and I stood up to stretch and pace. The low winter sun peered from beneath a cloud, making the sea glitter. I squinted, shielding my eyes from the glare. In the far corner of the yard, Mr. Rivers bent over a white sliver of wood, rubbing it smooth with a plane. He’d stripped to the waist and was leaning into his work, the plane sliding to and fro, thin curls of wood dropping to the ground. I looked away.