The House at Tyneford (47 page)

The WAAF girls were right—we ought to hold a dance at the house. There had been more laughter and brightness in a single morning in their presence than through the entire winter. Mr. Rivers might grumble but it would do him good. And all those new things did deserve a bit of a celebration. Margot had even sent me four pairs of nylon stockings and a new set of silk underwear, all wrapped up in cream tissue paper. The paper was almost as precious as the luxuries themselves—packing paper, even in the finest stores, was now quite illegal. Last month Mrs. Ellsworth caught the bus back from Wareham holding two kippers by their tails, having forgotten to take her own newspaper to wrap them in.

I finished Margot’s letter and had half memorised it before I left to clean out the hen house. As I sprinkled fresh straw around the clucking bantams, I recited it in my mind.

I hummed snatches of
The Magic Flute
to the cockerel and tried to imagine returning to Vienna. I was glad that playing the viola helped Margot. I wore my worry like an old woollen jumper; it scratched and irked me, but I pulled it on every morning nonetheless, finding it almost comforting in its familiarity. I did my best to imagine being without it, but I couldn’t.

It was the final lines of Margot’s letter that I heard over and over again. I tried not to think about them, to think of something, anything, else, but they echoed inside me like a distant voice on the wireless.

Kiss your Mr. Rivers . . . your Mr. Rivers.
Margot was quite wrong. He was not my Mr. Rivers. He was not anybody’s. I would not pass along my sister’s love to him like one would to a father. But she did not mean like a father.

After feeding the chickens, I trudged through the mud-steeped ground leading to the eweleaze. The rams had served the ewes during the winter and I expected the first lambs at the beginning of April. On the high ground, patches of frost lingered in the shade and a bank of primroses lay half buried in ice. I hastened up the slope, grateful to be wearing my new slacks. Mrs. Ellsworth had run them up for me to wear while working outside, and they were so much more practical than skirts or frocks. The material had been recycled from Kit’s old sailing trousers and lined with one of his silk shirts. Mrs. Ellsworth had ceased to complain at my perceived lack of sentimentality, finally throwing herself into the “make do and mend” spirit with religious fervour. She listened to the
Kitchen Front
broadcasts on the wireless every morning without exception, and for a fortnight she insisted on grinding up the eggshells so as to recycle the grit for the chickens to peck at, until I persuaded her that there was no shortage of either grit or dirt in the countryside.

As I reached the top of the hill, Mr. Rivers was already stuffing hay into slotted feed bins as sheep milled around him, bleating and pawing at the frozen ground. The ewes were big with lambs and grunted with the effort of moving, grateful to tear at mouthfuls of hay. Mr. Rivers surveyed them critically.

“Not long now,” he said.

“No. About a month. Maybe less for the purebred Dorsets.”

He nodded and then pointed to a hunched shape on the ridge. “Lost one in the night. Bloody dogs. From the army camp, I expect. Must have been scared off or it would have spoiled the lot. Bloody lucky, really. The other girls seem all right. Still, she was having triplets. Criminal waste.”

A ewe nibbled my fingers, hungry for salt. I pushed her away and started to refill the salt lick container, trying not to look at the mauled carcass sprawled twenty yards away.

“Your sister sent you a package?”

I nodded. “Yes. And a letter.”

“Any news?”

“Not really. This and that. And she sends you her—” I paused, reaching for the right word.
Regards
. Far too cold.
Best greetings
. Not even decent English. Ought I to kiss him from her? Margot was always so good at this. A kiss bestowed by her would be the perfect blend of tenderness and sisterly gratitude. I realised that I was colouring with embarrassment, and Mr. Rivers studied me with an odd expression.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes. Margot sends you her . . . best.”

“And send her my warmest regards when you reply.”

Warmest regards.
Of course, that was the correct expression.

“Yes, I shall,” I said, but I was thinking that if I ever kissed Mr. Rivers, I wanted it to be from me, not my sister. I seized the container of salt and turned away so that he would not see my face.

“Art’s got hold of some paint. I’m going to patch the barn this morning,” continued Mr. Rivers, helping me pour the salt crystals.

“I’ll help, just as soon as I’ve checked the fence to see how the dog got in. I might walk down to the army camp, have a word.”

He gave a curt nod and then tucked my scarf back into my coat from where it had come loose, and brushed stray flecks of salt off the wool and from my cheeks. His fingertips were coarse on my skin.

“There,” he said with a smile, satisfied.

We’d fallen into an easy rhythm over the last months, working contentedly side by side. We didn’t chatter like the WAAF girls, or even talk as I used to with Kit. In fact we were mainly silent, but I liked his company. I liked it better than my own. He started to walk down the hill.

“Don’t be long,” he called, “I shall be glad of your help. And don’t let those army buggers give you any lip.”

I laughed. “Don’t worry. I shan’t. And, Daniel, I think we ought to have a dance up at the house. For the WAAF girls. It’s going to be terribly dull here for them. I shall invite some of the ‘army buggers’ too.”

Mr. Rivers smiled. “Whatever you want, Alice.”

That afternoon, I felt rather pleased with myself. The officers at Lulcombe Camp were delighted to be invited to a dance the following week. They also promised to discover the offending dog and shoot it. I felt no regret for the doomed animal, not after seeing the mutilated ewe—meat was scarce enough without such wanton waste. I hurried back to the house to collect my lunch and Mr. Rivers’ as usual. The wind had picked up and the daffodils trembled beneath the lime avenue, while the taut barbed wire fence hummed a melancholy tune. My skin had turned red, battered by the cold, and I was looking forward to the prospect of warming myself by the kitchen range for a few minutes before venturing out on the windswept hill in search of Mr. Rivers. I paused in the hall, unfastening my gloves, when I noticed one of the WAAF girls standing on the bottom stair, watching me. I hadn’t seen her among the others this morning, and I turned to her with a friendly smile, holding out my hand.

“Hullo,” I said. “Alice Land.”

“Yes. I know who you are,” she said.

Instantly I lowered my hand. “Juno.”

“Yes. I didn’t think you’d be terribly pleased to see me.”

I didn’t reply. She looked well, dressed in her smart green uniform, strawberry blond curls slick beneath her little cap. I despised her: elegant, perfectly at ease and superior. Then, very deliberately, she stepped down from the bottom stair. Since she was a good few inches shorter than me, when she spoke she was forced to look up at me.

“I am sorry,” she said. “Just so sorry about Kit. It’s simply too awful. I don’t know how you bear it.”

“Thank you.”

She gazed up at me with violet eyes, a shade softer than her sister’s, and I realised that they brimmed with water.

“I don’t want your tears,” I said.

“Oh, they’re not for you,” said Juno. “Just because you got him doesn’t mean the rest of us didn’t care frightfully about him too.”

Her snappish reproof made me dislike her a little less.

“Yes. You’re quite right. I’m sorry,” I said.

“No. Don’t be.” She sat down on the step. “I joined the WAAFs after Kit died. Felt so helpless sitting at home, listening to Diana complain about not having enough sugar in her tea.”

I snorted. “Yes. I can imagine, joining up would seem better than that.”

To my surprise, Juno laughed. “I’m not like her, you know. I realise it probably seemed that way. Diana’s a cow to everyone.”

Before I could reply, a huddle of WAAFs burst into the hallway, sweeping Juno up in their midst.

“Come on up and see where we’re staying! It’s the most amazing old place.”

I watched them lead her away. Juno gave no indication of ever having been at Tyneford before and allowed the other girls to revel in the pleasure of showing around the newcomer. She gave suitable murmurs of excitement.

“I’m afraid all the good beds have been bagged,” confided a black-haired girl, “so you’ll have to sleep on a put-you-up.”

To my amazement, Juno made no complaint.

After a week, I had almost forgotten that I had known Juno before. The war had reversed our roles once again, and she slotted into the new ways at the house with apparent ease. It took Mr. Rivers two days to recognise her, and when he did, it was without pleasure or grace.

“Oh, it’s you,” he remarked, wandering into the kitchen in his work clothes one evening as the girls ate spam hash around the large table. A battery of forks were lowered, as fifteen pairs of eyes turned to gaze at him. Mr. Rivers did not notice and continued to frown at Juno. “Don’t bring your aunt up to the house. I’ll only shout at her again.”

Juno shook her curls. “No, Mr. Rivers. My aunt doesn’t know I’m here.”

I believed her. I rather suspected that the other WAAFs had no idea that it was Juno’s aunt who owned the splendid castle over the hill. Only the day before I had overhead her telling Sandra that she needed “the lav” rather than “the loo.” From time to time I might doubt the outcome of the war, but I knew with utter certainty that the naming of the water closet was the most important marker of class among British women. Juno, I realised, wished to cast off her aristocratic heritage and appear lower class.

On Saturday it was Juno and Poppy who helped Mrs. Ellsworth and me prepare the house for the dance. We pushed the furniture against the walls and stacked the more fragile chairs in the morning room. Juno wrapped the netsuke and china bells in rags for safekeeping. Poppy put on the gramophone to “get us in the party spirit” but really it was so that we didn’t have to talk. All of us remembered the last party in these rooms and none of us wished to discuss it, so we listened to the loud, honeyed songs of Cole Porter. Poppy chewed her scarlet plaits and Juno sniffed. In a minute someone was going to cry. I rolled my eyes.

“That’s it. No more maudlin. We’re getting drunk,” I declared.

I marched over to Juno, took the silver bell out of her hand and rang it with enthusiasm. A few minutes later the old butler appeared, looking a little startled. We hardly ever rang anymore, and he had clearly been taken by surprise, for although his expression remained inscrutable, there was a tiny smudge of polish on his nose.