The Novel in the Viola (47 page)

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 towards 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 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 saltwater. 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 that 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.

‘Should a 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 a 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 what-not 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 day of winter 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 death-watch beetle rattle and tick. I had unpeeled my gloves, 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.’

The water howled and shrieked in the pipes, loud as a steam train. Fuck the black line. Fuck water rationing. I was going to fill this bath right to the top. Lose myself in scalding water; drink champagne like I was back in Vienna. Anna’s voice drifted up the stairs. I must have put on her gramophone record but I didn’t remember. I could pretend it was Anna herself singing downstairs. Anna. Anna. I crouched on the bathmat and listened as her song curled upwards, her voice filling the air like the scent of warm chocolate. In my hand I clutched Margot’s letter.

Dearest Elise,

I received a letter from Hildegard. Oh, Elise. Anna died on New Year’s Day . . . Typhoid in the ghetto . . . Robert kept the letter from me until I’d had my baby . . . On September
5
th I had a little girl. She weighed five pounds and ten ounces and she has dark hair like you. I have named her Juliana to remember both parents.

The water reached the top of the bath, slopping against the sides. The electric lights flickered. I grasped the champagne bottle and opened the foil, easing out the cork with my fingers – it shot up like an anti-aircraft bullet and ricocheted off the mirror, leaving a mark in the condensation on the glass. I took a swig and closed my eyes.
Anna . . . Typhoid. Juliana. To remember both parents
. Margot knew that Julian was dead. Even if he still breathed, he was dead. He would not live without Anna. He loved us, Margot and me, but he loved Anna best. If my father was not already dead, I knew that somewhere he waited to die. I closed off the taps and the room was quiet save for the groan and gurgle of the pipes.

Dearest Elise . . . Anna died on New Year’s Day.

What had I done on New Year’s Day as my mother lay dying? I couldn’t even remember. That day had passed unmarked, unremembered. I leant back against the bath, and thought of my last night in Vienna – Anna, Margot and me gathered in the bathroom before the party, drinking champagne, rose-scented bath salts lacing the steam. Anna lying in the bath, laughing and singing, while Margot lounged in her silk chemise smoking a cigarette and, unseen by the others, Julian in the doorway, crying.

I took a gulp of cool champagne, the bubbles tickling my throat, and turned back to the letter.

I was angry about the novel in the viola. You should have told me. If something had happened to it and I hadn’t read it . . . you’re right, I don’t think I could have forgiven you. But none of that matters now. You must take the novel out of the viola and you must write it down word by word and send it to me. Send the first pages tomorrow. We still have one conversation left with Papa, Elise.

Margot knew we would never speak to our father again. We could no sooner imagine Julian without Anna than we could daylight without the sun. Julian would disappear. I took another gulp of champagne and addressed my sister.

‘All right, Margot. I’ll take it out. But don’t you see – as long as the novel stays in the viola, unread, the story isn’t finished. And it can’t be finished. It can’t.’

I glanced towards the old viola case propped against the windowsill. I knew I had to open it. I had brought it into the bathroom knowing I must, and yet I stayed leaning against the bath. Taking a long drink of champagne, I crawled over to the case and pulled it onto my lap. I wished I could remember the words to a prayer; it should probably be Kaddish but anything would do. The strains of Anna singing one of Violetta’s arias from
La Traviata
seeped through the floorboards as though she sang her own lament. I unfastened the case, drawing out the viola. The letters I’d written to Anna and never sent cluttered the lining and in my fury I hurled them across the room. They fluttered to earth like scribbled doves, landing on the floor and in the sink and in the bath, where they floated, the ink running in black rivers, dripping into the water.

I took a deep breath and willed my thundering heart to slow. I’d found a knife and I eased the edge of the blade beneath the face of the viola. The glue sealing it to the sides was too strong and I could not find a hold. I swore and shoved the knife inside the f-holes, jamming my fist down on the handle. With a crack the face splintered and broke. The bridge snapped and the strings dangled loose like dislocated fingers. For a moment I stared at the smashed viola in horror, and then I snatched at the first page, drawing the paper to the f-hole, trying to prise it from the viola without tearing it on the splintered wood. With a surgeon’s concentration, I pulled it out. I sat for a second with the thin sheet on my lap, and then I started to read.

Blank.

The page was blank. I turned it over and held it up to the light. Nothing. I sighed – he must have put a blank page on top to protect the manuscript. I slipped my fingers back inside the viola and grasped another page and tugged it up through the f-holes. Heart pounding in my ears, I studied the page. Blank.

No longer caring whether I ripped the pages, I yanked out a clump of paper. I held them up, scrutinising each one for a stray word, the faintest trace of brown ink. Blank. Blank. I cast them aside, letting the sheets drift around the bathroom, mingling with my letters to Anna. The room filled with paper, but the only words were mine.

I tore out more and more pages, knocking aside the tuning struts inside the viola with another crack. Every single sheet was empty. Was it the salt air? Had Julian made some mistake and inserted a void copy into the viola? Had I left it too long and allowed the ink to fade? No. I closed my eyes. Julian was already dead. His words had disappeared with him. I imagined at the moment of his death the pages inside the viola turning white, the words unwritten.