The House at Tyneford (44 page)

T
he following morning a letter arrived from Margot, the first since Kit’s death.

Reading my sister’s letter, I saw my own fears reflected. Our parents had disappeared. Were they hiding in the French countryside, Anna disguised as a pink-cheeked peasant, or concealed by friends in Amsterdam? I preferred to imagine cheerful adventures for them than voice the other possibility.

Needing to be distracted from my own thoughts, I walked down to the bay in search of Poppy. As I approached the shingle, I saw that it teemed with people. Three strange men dressed in labourers’ overalls addressed the fishermen clustered beside the boats outside Burt’s cottage. Wooden boxes littered the beach. The fishermen leaned against the boats, arms folded across their chests and eyes narrowed with suspicion. A bearded fisherman spat and then slouched off, dismissing the stranger with a curt wave as he tried to pursue him. At the back of the crowd, seated on a lobster pot, I spied Poppy. Easing my way through the throng, I settled beside her.

“Home Guard,” she said, pointing to the three strangers, before I’d even had a chance to ask. “Mr. Rivers asked them to get the fishermen to mine the bay. Stupid idea, if you ask me. Excellent way to kill a lot of perfectly good mackerel. Come on.”

She scrambled to her feet and, tugging my arm, led me away from the group.

“Best let them get on with it. Won’t want our interference,” she said, hauling me off along the strand.

I jogged to keep up with her. The sun warmed the cliffs and they glowed golden brown, as tempting as freshly baked biscuits. Crimson poppies studded the coarse sea grass sprouting in tufts along the top, while sand martins zoomed in and out of tiny holes quarried from the sandstone face. We walked to the far end of the beach, where Flower’s Barrow loomed above the valley and the bay. A steep path crawled up the precipice and, without breaking step, Poppy started to climb. In five minutes we reached the top and she pulled me onto the grass ledge. Sprawled on the ground, I closed my eyes, catching my breath.

“Come on. No time to nap,” said Poppy.

Grumbling, I dusted myself off and hurried after her.

“Where are we going?”

“Will,” she replied, as though this were enough of an answer.

We headed along the ridge. Below us the fields were spread in a haphazard patchwork, as though stitched together by a careless seamstress. At the bottom of the combe, where the hillside flattened into wide meadows, Mr. Rivers and the boys were finishing the haymaking. The school had been emptied of children for the last day, and boys in short trousers and girls in Wellingtons and faded summer dresses rushed through the meadows gathering up armfuls of dry grass and moulding them into mountainous peaks. Their shouts mingled with the spaniel’s barking and drifted up toward us on the wind. Mr. Rivers tossed the dog a stick and it scrambled in pursuit, ears flapping in ecstasy. Under the wide sky, Mr. Rivers appeared at ease. Then, as if he sensed me watching, he paused and glanced up at the hill, shielding his eyes from the sun. I hurried on, embarrassed, and hoped he had not seen me.

Poppy waited at the next stile, sitting contentedly on the wooden bar, tap-tapping with her sandal.

“He won’t be the only one,” she said. “By the end of the war, there will be lots more.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No,” she said slowly. “I just meant, he will survive this.”

“What does that even mean?” I snapped. “That he will carry on breathing and spreading butter on his toast and speaking on the telephone? I don’t want him to survive. I want the possibility of happiness. Not moments of pleasure like a square of chocolate or a hot bath. Happiness.”

I stopped talking, no longer sure whether I spoke of Mr. Rivers or myself. Poppy watched me.

“You will. Both of you. It gets easier, and then it gets worse again as you realise it’s getting easier and you feel guilty.” She paused, seeing my puzzled expression, and smiled. “My parents. When I was ten. Why did you think I lived with my aunts? Ma and Pa died in a fire while taking a holiday in a hotel in Blackpool. They went to see the lights. The aunts think holidays are very dangerous. I’ve never been allowed to take one, certainly not to a northern seaside resort.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

Poppy shrugged. “’S all right. Long time ago. Let’s go and find Will. He has only two days’ leave left.”

When we reached Will he was splitting timber with an ax and wedge, slicing the wood apart so that it lay on the grass, gleaming in the sunshine. Behind him a new fence curled up to the top of the hill, pale struts slotted neatly into round upright posts, like pieces of a giant jigsaw. He let his ax fall into the grass and, placing a thick arm around Poppy’s waist, pulled her in to him and kissed her. I looked away, suddenly self-conscious, and tried not to think of Kit.

“Don’t like these wretched fences,” said Will. “Too quick. Not thought out. Nothin’ like a good stone wall. Some things is supposed ter be slow. If yer goin’ ter cut up hillside, yer got ter do it right, an’ that takes time.”

I glanced across the hill and saw the flint walls running across the hillside like stone rivers. In the warmth of the morning sun they shone bone white, speckled with flecks of jet—as much part of the landscape as the swaying grass or wind-battered hazel.

“What’s wrong with the old wall?” I asked.

“Army’s creepin’ in,” replied Will, pointing to a row of red flags between the wall and fence. “Keep takin’ more an’ more farmland fer their trainin’. Barely sev’n hund’erd acres left. Be fencin’ the beach soon enuff.”

The cattle and sheep dawdled about us in the cowleaze, oblivious to the new fence, the red flags and the prickle of change that I felt running up my arms with each beat of the mallet. From the army camp on the Lulcombe estate, just beyond the brow of the hill, came the rat-a-tat of gunfire and the mosquito whine of shells. The animals ignored the noise; the fat summer lambs flicked their tails and danced among the dandelions, while the cows chewed the cud and blinked away the buzzing flies.

Later that evening, I heard raised voices on the terrace. It was almost seven and I expected to find Mr. Rivers alone, drinking his whisky in the last glow of the afternoon. On the walk back I’d filled my sun hat with blackberries, ready to bake into a pie, and I quietly set them down beside the garden gate before venturing across the lawn. Mr. Rivers stood on the terrace, while Lady Vernon and Diana Hamilton perched uneasily on the upright garden chairs. None of them saw me approach.

“I am sorry,” said Lady Vernon. “I only wished to say that I am so very sorry.”

Mr. Rivers spun to face her. “Everyone is sorry. What good to me is sorry? Hang your sorry.”

Lady Vernon winced but her serene society smile did not waver. Diana studied her neat little hands folded in her lap, as Mr. Rivers started to pace the terrace. I stood at the edge of the lawn, in the shadow of the walnut tree, and waited, unnoticed.

“Perhaps he will come home,” said Lady Vernon. “It is possible he was taken prisoner. Many were.”

“No. He is dead.”

Mr. Rivers came to a halt beside her chair. He watched her with steady eyes, forcing her to look at him. For a moment, her glass expression cracked and a look of pity flitted across her bulldog face. For a moment, I did not hate her.

“Will you have a memorial service?” she asked softly, twisting the gold wedding ring on her pudgy finger.

“No. I remember. Alice remembers. That is enough.”

He turned away from her and stared absently out toward the bay.

“It is usual in these cases—,” she began.

“Damn what is usual. What world is it that the murder of a man’s son is usual?”

She smoothed over his outburst with a practised social smile. “I’m perfectly happy to take on the organisation.”

In two strides he was beside her chair, a hand on either armrest. He towered over her, eyes cold with fury. To her credit she did not flinch, nor even lean back in her chair, but sat upright, her back finishing-school straight.

“Don’t turn me into one of your projects!” he hissed. “If you are idle then knit socks for soldiers or repaper your damn drawing room.” He straightened, fists trembling, and with visible effort succeeded in controlling his temper. “I’m going up to change. Ring for Wrexham if you require refreshments. Good night.”

He strode away into the gloom of the house. I slipped out of the shadow and came up the terrace steps.

“Well,” tutted Lady Vernon, shocked as a bantam hen disturbed in her egg laying. “Well.”

“I told you we shouldn’t have come,” said Diana, nostrils flaring with displeasure when she saw me.

“Good evening, Lady Vernon. Lady Diana,” I said, forcing a smile. “I’m sorry for Mr. Rivers’ behaviour. He is not himself.”

This was not true. He was absolutely himself. He was simply not the person he had been before. Neither of us was; but unlike me he did not even look the same, with his unkempt hair, stubbled chin and coarse workman’s clothes. His eyes had an empty, feral look, which proclaimed him to be a man beyond the restraint of civility. I wondered that neither woman had noticed it and cursed them for provoking him. A child could tell them that this man was no longer a gentleman—any rudeness they had brought upon themselves. Both women studied me with unconcealed displeasure. Diana’s lip curled in contempt. That it was left for me to apologise made it worse—the fact that it was necessary at all was awful, a violation of social niceties; that the apology came from me, the Kraut-Yid and usurping maid, was unbearable. Lady Vernon rose and gave me a curt nod.

“Good evening, Miss Land, or whatever it is you’re calling yourself today. I shall walk through the park in this pleasant weather. Diana?”

She nodded at the girl, but Diana shook her blond curls.

“No, thank you, Aunt. I shall join you in a minute.”

Lady Vernon’s eyebrow twitched in surprise at Diana choosing my company over her own, but she made no comment and swept down the terrace steps into the garden. I turned and watched Diana, waiting for her to speak. She stared at me, to see if I would be first to break the silence. I sighed. I just wanted her gone.

“Would you like some tea, Lady Diana?”

“Are you asking as my hostess or as the maid?” she inquired, gazing at me with her large violet eyes.

“What do you want, Diana?” I asked, leaning against the back of a chair.

She settled into her seat, smoothing the cotton print of her yellow summer dress, carefully chosen to bring out the creamy pink of her skin. She smiled at me through the thick veil of her lashes.

“People talk, you know,” she said.

I said nothing and scratched at a piece of moss sprouting between the paving slabs on the terrace with my plimsoll. Diana watched me for a second and then tried again.

“Why do you stay here?”

I snorted in surprise. I had never considered leaving.

“Because I must.”

She gave a coy smile. “Why? You’re not a servant anymore. You’re not engaged to Kit. I’m sorry, darling, but you never reached ‘death do us part.’ There’s no reason at all to stay.”

Anger heated my cheeks. “Mr. Rivers. Daniel. I stay for him. I cannot possibly leave him.”