The House at Tyneford (51 page)

I shrugged. I was leaving Tyneford; it didn’t seem to matter much where I went. “Fine. But you must come on my Sunday off and take me out for tea.”

He tried to smile and make his voice light. “Yes, of course. I’ll take you to the Royal Hotel in Dorchester for stale scones and margarine.”

I bit my lip and looked away. I imagined not seeing Mr. Rivers every day. We would not work side by side anymore, catching lame ewes or mending fox holes in the fence. With an uncomfortable twist in my stomach, I realised that the dab of lipstick I applied each evening before dinner was for him. I wasn’t sure which I minded most, leaving Tyneford or leaving Mr. Rivers.

Unable to bear the melancholy of departure any longer, I agreed to go for a picnic with Poppy. I hadn’t really wanted to go, preferring to mope about the farm or wander among the hilltop sheep feeling sorry for myself, but Poppy was insistent. Grumbling under my breath, wishing she’d let me pine in peace, I trudged down to Worbarrow Bay. The day was bright, the autumn sun glimmering on the sea as dry leaves fluttered onto the beach, masquerading as shells. A squadron of cormorants flew in formation across the pale sky while a lone tern perched on the pinnacle of the Tout, filling the air with its yelping cry. A cormorant broke formation to dive into the waves and snatch a flapping fish. I snorted—it would take more than a War Office decree to ban all Tyneford residents. I picked my way along the beach, staying away from the dunes where barbed wire lay in coils. Inside one of the concrete pillboxes nestled into the cliff, I saw a flash of binoculars and waved at the WAAF girls concealed inside. I scanned the bay for Poppy, spying her just beyond Burt’s cottage. Thrusting my hands into my pockets, I hurried over. She’d laid out a tattered woollen rug on the beach and set on top of it a covered picnic basket.

“Hullo,” she said. “I hope you’re hungry. And thirsty.”

She lifted the tea towel covering the basket to reveal a feast of pastries and, to my amazement, a forest of beer bottles. I gaped in awe. Britain had been short of beer for more than a year.

“Where on earth?”

“Wrexham,” she said with a smug smile. “He found a stash in the cellar when he was making space for the furniture. It’s Kit’s last brew.” She looked at me narrowly. “Don’t go sentimental. I’m drinking it. Kit would never waste good beer.”

I retrieved a bottle from the basket and uncorked the stopper. “He certainly wouldn’t.”

To my surprise, I saw Will strolling along the beach toward us, his arms full of driftwood. He was dressed in his army uniform, trousers rolled up above his calves and feet bare. He grinned when he saw me and, setting the wood down in a heap, collapsed beside us on the rug.

“’Ullo, Alice. Yer can be the first ter wish us congratulations. We jist got married. This here is a weddin’ breakfast.”

Poppy shot me a shy smile. “And I’m having a baby. It’s why we got married, really—Will thought it would be tidier. And I suppose now we’re leaving Tyneford, perhaps it is for the best,” she said, her words tumbling out all in a rush.

I kissed Poppy, hugging her tightly, only releasing her so that I could shake Will’s hand. Happiness rolled off them in dizzying waves.

“I’m so pleased for you both. And pleased for me—I can be aunty to a baby close by. I shall spoil him horribly, I’m telling you now.”

I raised my beer, toasting them. Poppy pried a bottle from Will and took a hefty swig. “Yes,” she said. “New beginnings.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that you should? Now you’re in the family way.”

“Tosh,” said Poppy. “Beer’s good for a baby. Shall we swim before eating?”

“It’ll be freezing.”

“Invigorating.”

She was already stripping off, discarding her knitted sweater and wriggling out of her green slacks, as Will lounged back on the rug, watching with quiet approval. I hesitated for a moment and then began to peel off my coat and unbutton my blouse. Poppy was already splashing into the waves in her grey underwear, shrieking at the cold. Her skin was blue-white and her red hair a vibrant waterfall tumbling to her waist. Her long limbs retained the thin gawkiness of childhood, but her freckled belly was slightly swollen. I wondered if her baby would have red hair.

“Come on!” she yelled, and I raced in after her, my mind washing clean at the crash of cold. My skin tingled and I screamed. I dove under the surface, choking with ice, my eyes and mouth filling with salt water. I was empty, every thought numbed. I shivered and retched with cold. The tide poured through me, sluicing away conscious thought. I snorted stinging salt and treaded water, free for a few moments from myself. Then I broke the surface, gasping for air. Poppy giggled on the beach as Will towelled her blue skin. He waved at me to get out. I sprinted from the surf and caught the towel he tossed me and started to rub myself dry, teeth chattering.

Burt appeared on the beach. He crouched beside the pile of driftwood logs, blowing gently on a rustle of burning newspaper. He grinned when he saw me.

“Well, that were right stupid,” he said.

“Invigorating,” I replied.

He chuckled and sat back on his heels as the logs began to crackle and hiss. He spat on his hands and wiped them on his trousers, leaving a trail of charcoal. Pulling on my slacks and sweater I knelt next to him, warming my hands over the blaze. Poppy, no longer blue, snuggled in beside me and handed me a piece of cold rabbit pie. I chewed and stared at the bonfire, hypnotised by the flames. He and Will hummed an old melody.
“Let us sing together for to pass away some time . . . for my heart’s within her, though I live not where I love.”

I joined in the chorus and then stopped, prodding the fire. “Well, that was my last swim in Worbarrow Bay,” I said.

“None o’ that magpie chatter,” said Burt, clapping his hands. “If yer eats rabbit pie when yer is moanin’, yer belly’ll be groanin’.”

Poppy looked at him narrowly. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

“Nope. That’s cos I jist made him up. Sounds right enuff, though.”

“We won’t be so far away,” said Will. “An’ all this coast is washed by the same sea. Everywhere has a bit o’ Tyneford, if yer think about it.”

Poppy planted a kiss on the tip of his nose and lazed back on the blanket.

“Knew it were comin’,” said Burt. “That we’d be ousted.” He gave a guilty grin. “It’s my fault, if yer wants ter know the truth of it.”

We stared at him with blank faces.

“Well. Everyone were talkin’ ’bout hin-vasion. Hin-vasion this. Hun-vasion that. Well. I don’t want no Hitlerin’ Nazi bastards in Tyneford vale. So, I does what a man must. I went up ter Tyneford Barrow an’ got proper drunk. An’ then proper starkers. I walked buttock naked along the long barrow and the short barrow and Flower’s Barrow an’ I shouted out ter them ol’ English kings what lie buried there that if they doesn’t want Nazi boots clatterin’ about on their noggins they better do something. Keep out them bastarding Jerry-Huns. Keep Tyneford free.”

He paused and poked the fire with a stick, so that vermillion sparks flew out of the blue driftwood flames. The light shone on his hoary bristles, turning them rosy red.

“Only I reckon I wis a bit too heffective. My shoutin’ and prayin’ or whatever worked a bit better than I expected. Them kings of the barrows kept out Hitler, but they’ve gone an’ buggerin’ chucked us out too.”

A nugget fell out of the bonfire in a flurry of sparks, and Burt stamped on it crossly.

“Shoulda stuck ter witch-stones. Strung ’em along a bit o’ twine from ’ere ter Dover. That would o’ done the trick wi’out unforeseen consy-quinces.”

We stared at him in silence, even Poppy for once speechless.

“Well, them army chaps say we can come back at the end of this here war. An’ I don’t see that Hitler feller lasting much longer. An’ wi’ a bit of pleadin’ and maybe a little sacrifice . . .”

Here Poppy interrupted. “A sacrifice? Don’t look at me.”

Burt gave her a withering glare. “When do yoos think this is? It’s 1941, not the Middle Ages. An’ fat lot o’ good yoo’d be as a sacrifice in yer current state, madam.”

Poppy scowled and Burt chuckled. He gave a luxurious stretch, his bones creaking like the burning driftwood. “Anyway, wi’ a bit o’ luck the army and them ol’ kings and whatnot will let us back ter Tyneford.”

“Yes,” I said, not looking at him. “With a bit of luck.”

The letter from Margot arrived on the first of November. It was the first wintery day and as I walked back to the house from the eweleaze, the air was thick with wood smoke. It puffed from the towering chimneystacks of the great house, curling up to meet the clouds. The air crackled with rooks. The light faded from grey to black, and in the dark I heard the bleat and shuffle of the distant sheep on the hillside, the wash and crack of the tide against the shore.

The house was quiet. The WAAFs who were not on shift had vanished to a dance at the army camp, and the stillness was like old times. I lingered in the panelled hall listening to the deathwatch beetles rattle and tick. I had unpeeled my gloves and unwrapped my scarf and was halfway across the room before I saw the cream-coloured envelope resting on the hall table. I’d like to say that I had some premonition, that the paper scalded my fingers and I dropped it or, as I reached out to touch it, that the wind screamed and a bird dashed itself against a windowpane, but there was nothing. Such things only happen to gothic or operatic heroines. I only felt a twinge of pleasure when I saw the handwriting. I studied the postmark: San Francisco, September 1941. I felt a thrill of excitement and wondered whether Margot’s baby was a girl or a boy. I hoped my package had reached her in time. These pleasant musings were quickly followed by a nudge of apprehension—supposing Margot was still angry with me?

I ran, no, I walked down the servants’ corridor. The smell of damp. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I called for Wrexham but my voice belonged to a stranger and did not come from my own lips.

“Champagne, Wrexham. Champagne.”

He appeared in the doorway of his parlour and gaped at me. He clutched a pair of Mr. Rivers’ boots encased in mud and lowered them as he stared, his gaze lingering on the letter dangling between my fingers. I stamped my foot.

“Champagne. I need goddamn champagne.”

He flinched. “Yes, miss.”

“Please bring it upstairs. I’m running a bath.”