The House at Tyneford (35 page)

I assisted Mrs. Ellsworth with the cooking. She refused to listen to the Home Service with its constant news bulletins, complaining that it was “stuffed to the gills gruesome,” preferring the endless tunes playing on the forces radio. She loved the cheerful wartime songs, and the kitchen echoed to the strains of “Bye, Bye, Blackbird,” “All the Nice Girls Love a Sailor” and “We’re Gonna Hang Out the Washing on the Siegfried Line.” She’d hum along as she curried parsnips and bottled elderflower cordial, breaking off to complain, “Why can’t they come up with such good tunes in peacetime? I don’t know.”

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 good-bye 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 spoiled 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 dust sheets. The faded 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 around 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 my ears. I thought of Kit’s young mother pulling on this dress and 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, poured us champagne and slid 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 of the d’Urbervilles—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 spoiled 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 wished I could tell her that we felt similarly useless on the quiet part of England’s coast.

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 sat hunched in 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 Clive Carsley.”

Kit leaped 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 . . . good-bye . . .” 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 leaned 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.