The House at Tyneford (45 page)

Diana simpered in triumph. “Daniel? Who is he? Christopher Rivers? A pet name. How adorable!”

“I’m sure your aunt is wanting you,” I said, my Austrian accent growing stronger with my rage.

Diana dismissed my feigned concern with a wave. “Oh, she’s quite all right. She’ll be simply fascinated. As I said, people
love
to talk—especially about love. The more scandalous the better.”

“Please leave,” I said, abandoning any pretence of civility.

Clapping her hands with pleasure and laughing happily, Diana stood. “It’s too delicious. Obscene. But delicious.”

She leaned forward and planted a cool kiss on my cheek, ignoring my distaste. “Good-bye. Thank you for a charming afternoon.”

When she had gone I sat on the step, resting my chin in my hands. I didn’t care what people said. Perhaps it was obscene. Did such things even matter anymore? What I’d said was true: I had to stay. Mr. Rivers needed me.

That night as I lay awake listening to the sea rush in the dark, I did not think about Kit but Mr. Rivers. Was Diana right? I climbed out of bed and rummaged through the drawer in my dressing table until I found the Liberty-patterned notepaper Mr. Rivers had purchased for me on his last trip to London. Tucking one leg beneath me, I wrote to my sister.

The wind huffed through the leaves outside my window, making them patter against the glass like raindrops. I was restless and sticky with unease. In the night I listened to the creak of floorboards in the library below and knew that it was the sound of Mr. Rivers pacing up and down. When later I fell asleep, I heard him in my dreams, walking restlessly, footsteps echoing in the dark.

Will’s leave ended and it fell to Poppy and me to finish the fence. August was fading into September. We had that melancholy feeling that accompanies the last days of summer; the sunshine had lost its ferocity and I wished I could catch handfuls of it in my fists to preserve until the next year. The fields, stripped during haymaking, looked bald and yellow, and only snatches of ragged robin and frog orchids were left at the edges. We worked in shirtsleeves—me in an old pair of shorts that I’d discovered at the back of Kit’s cupboard. I’d taken to wearing his old clothes. It irked Mrs. Ellsworth, who fretted that my appearing in Kit’s blue school shorts would strike a blow to Mr. Rivers’ heart. I’d remonstrated with her—“His heart is broken whether I stain my only good dress mending fences or wear Kit’s old things.” In truth I didn’t care about ruining my clothes; I liked wearing Kit’s belongings—they smelled of him. Anything taken from his wardrobe was infused with that scent of sandalwood and cigarettes. I’d almost smoked the last of Kit’s Turkish blend and had decided to order some more from his place in Jermyn Street, when silently the store in his room was replenished, the slim silver case refilled. Of course it was Wrexham. The butler had recognised the paraphernalia of my grief and quietly seen that it was taken care of.

I lay on my stomach in the grass, feeling the blades scratching my skin, removing stray pieces of flint from the dry ground. Poppy passed me a trowel and I hacked at the earth, creating a small hole for the next fence post. The sheep milled around us, bleating amiably, oblivious to our work and the sinister flutter of the creeping flags. From the cliffs a kittiwake called, its shrill cry piercing the steady boom of the waves. Lulcombe Camp was silent, but we could see green army trucks crawling across the hill like armoured beetles, and soldiers the size of lead toys marching in steady formations in the empty fields.

Poppy dug her hand into her pocket and reached out a couple of pear drops, tossing one to me. I sucked on it, satisfied for a minute to close my eyes in the sunshine and taste sugar on my tongue. This was how I lived now, savouring the pleasure of an odd moment, always trying not to think. So it took a few seconds for me to register the staccato roar of the Messerschmitt. I sat upright, almost crashing my head against the bottom rail of the fence. Poppy perched on her haunches, alert as a March hare, every part of her listening. I felt bile rise and burn my throat, sweat prickle the backs of my knees. No. I willed myself to calm. I hadn’t survived his attack just to die in the meadow grass a few weeks later.

“It’s all right,” said Poppy. “Look.”

She pointed to a white bobtail of a cloud and I saw a Spitfire drop out from behind it. The afternoon exploded into gunfire. First from the Spitfire: the rattle and crack of bullets. A howl as the Messerschmitt engine screeched and the plane arced around. The Spitfire gave chase and I laughed out loud.

“Get the bastard! Get him,” I shouted, gleeful in my revenge.

There was a grace and an unreality to the fight. I’d spent hours and days on the top of this hillside, watching birds of prey. I’d seen a hawk attacked by a flurry of black crows, which swarmed the larger bird in a dark storm of wings as it made desperate attempts to escape. I’d seen a peregrine swoop and snatch songbirds out of the sky, catching a lark into silence. This aerial game was no more real than the bloodied battles of birds, and I felt oddly distanced as I watched them weave among the clouds. It was hard to imagine that inside each cockpit lurked a young man, filled with sweat and terror and fighting to the death with the tenacity of any buzzard or falcon. The hill echoed with gunfire, and tracer rounds strafed the blue sky. Vaguely, I wondered that they didn’t pierce the clouds and cause a storm of pellets and rain.

“He must be low on fuel,” observed Poppy, shading her eyes as she studied the Messerschmitt with her steady green gaze.

I stared at the yellow-nosed plane hurtling toward the bay, only to be fired upon by the Spitfire and forced to loop back inland, and tried to feel pity at the pilot’s choice: fire and death, escape and drown. I felt none. Like any cornered animal, the Messerschmitt was desperate. It would break its wing to get away, even if that meant death in any case. Escape. Nothing else mattered. The Spitfire was in no hurry; it had enough fuel and was on home ground, and it seemed almost leisurely as it soared and rattled its guns, dodging the bullets of the other plane with casual ease, staying behind a cloud here, dancing through the sky with balletic grace. Then it came. High above us, but close enough that we saw the burst of fire, like flames from the mouth of a dragon, the Spitfire lined up in perfect position behind the enemy and spat a stream of tracer rounds. The Messerschmitt fell from the sky. The Spitfire lingered to watch for a moment and then vanished into the early evening glow. Poppy and I climbed onto our half-finished fence to watch the descent of the wounded plane. Out of the wreckage floated a white parachute, as smooth and unhurried as a seed case from a dandelion; it dawdled on the breeze, wafting toward the ridge of Tyneford Barrow. Poppy jumped off the fence and grabbed my hand.

“Run,” she said.

Hauling me beside her, she took off along the hillside. My lungs burned and my eyes streamed in the wind, but I didn’t slow or stop. We had to find him. I blinked and envisioned the pilot freed from his parachute, wielding his handgun and shrieking as he fired upon us. I picked up the pace, so that for once Poppy trailed behind me. I bounced from stride to stride, remembering how Kit used to run across the hills and realising how effortless it was. I scoured the bare hilltop for a sign of the parachute. Smoke. A flash of white.

“There,” I said, pointing to a wind-rushed field.

Wreckage from the plane blazed and the air stank of burning fuel. Smoke billowed in thick plumes like a thousand chimneys and a slick of grey began to coat my skin. Poppy and I held hands by silent accord. We spoke in whispers.

“Do you see him?” she asked.

“No. Let’s get closer.”

I crept toward the gate, keeping her fingers firmly clasped in mine, and wished we had thought to bring either the mallet or hammer to use as a weapon. I hoped the airman was unconscious or dead.

“They wear British uniforms in case they crash. And they speak perfect English,” hissed Poppy. “You have to stamp on their feet really hard to see which language they swear in.”

“Well, we know he’s a Nazi, don’t we? So there’s no need to go stamping on his foot, unless we want to.”

A cry cut through the air. It was a note of fury and hate. Feral rage and fear pooled in my stomach. We dropped over the gate and slid through the grass, grateful for the mask of smoke as we edged across the field. A figure loomed in the murk, towering over the fallen silk of the parachute and clutching a pitchfork. With the flames from the plane licking the sky behind him, he looked like the devil himself. I felt a scream build in my throat and willed myself not to turn and run. The figure turned to look at me.

“’Ullo. Caught myself a Nazi,” said Burt. “Makes a nice change from cod.”

The prisoner sat in the dining room at Tyneford House. He dabbed at a gash on his forehead and vomited into a bucket Mrs. Ellsworth had placed beside his boots. His face was smoke blackened and his eyes bloodshot and furious. He looked incongruous in the sunlit dining room, clad in his tan sheepskin jacket with the small Nazi insignia on the sleeve. The Wedgwood shepherds and shepherdesses watched him with staunch disapproval from the mantelpiece. Burt lingered in the doorway, still clutching the pitchfork. Poppy stood flat against the wall, her hands folded behind her back. Mr. Rivers was perfectly relaxed, no more concerned than he would be with a tedious dinner guest. He sat across from the pilot on one of the upright dining room chairs, removing the cartridges from the German’s service revolver with practised ease.