The Novel in the Viola (44 page)

‘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 giving no indication of ever having been at Tyneford before and allowed the other girls to revel in the pleasure of showing round 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 had taken 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 any more, and he had clearly been taken by surprise, for although his expression remained inscrutable, there was a tiny smudge of polish on his nose.

‘Wrexham. Could you bring us a bottle of – I don’t know? What do you like?’

‘Gin and orange?’ suggested Juno.

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘You might be trying to fit in or become a socialist or something, but this is not a public bar. Besides, we don’t have any orange. Not even the artificial kind.’

‘Pink gin,’ said Poppy.

‘Yes. What a good idea. Three cocktail glasses, please,’ I said.

‘There’s no ice, miss,’ said Mr Wrexham.

‘I know that. It doesn’t matter. We’re going to get sloshed.’

‘Very good, miss,’ replied the butler, and withdrew.

Half an hour later we were giggling like old chums and taking it in turns to swing in pairs around the stacked chairs. I clapped and wiggled in time as Juno and Poppy danced across the threadbare Persian rug, Juno playing the man and Poppy kicking her heels with deft clicks. I laughed, cheering them on as Poppy leant back in Juno’s arms, her face as grave as a rabbi at a funeral. The music stuttered into silence, and the girls turned to me. ‘Find another. Stick it on, quickly,’ said Juno.

‘Something romantic,’ called Poppy.

‘All right, all right.’

I drained my cocktail glass, and thumbed through the other records.

‘This one. It has to be this one,’ I announced, putting the vinyl on the turntable, and setting the gramophone needle. ‘“Amapola (Pretty Little Poppy)”.’

There was a crackle, then Jimmy Dorsey’s orchestra began to play a lilting dance and, after exchanging a glance, Juno and Poppy started to tango across the drawing room. I leant against the wall, keeping out of their way and giggled as Juno caught the simple lyrics and began to croon them to Poppy, ‘
Amapola, the pretty little poppy . . . must copy its endearing charm from you.
’

My shoulders shook with laughter and I clapped them on as the beat changed and their tango fell apart.

‘Switch!’ called Poppy, and the two girls traded places, with Juno now dancing the girl’s part as they shuffled into a ragged swing.

As I watched them dancing, I couldn’t help remembering the outrage Kit and I had caused when we’d waltzed together in this very room. The dinner suit I had worn that night remained untouched in Kit’s old wardrobe. It was the one item I would not give up to ‘make-do-and-mend’. Juno kissed Poppy’s cheek, and wound her long hair around her wrist with mock solemnity. No society matron would scowl at the two of them dancing – it was schoolgirl fun. In Vienna, I had taken my first waltz lessons with Margot; the great-aunts instructing us while Anna played the piano and rolled her eyes, biting her lip so that she didn’t laugh every time I stamped on Margot’s toes.

‘You seem far away,’ said a male voice.

I turned and saw Mr Rivers standing beside me.

‘They look like they’re having fun,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Shall we? Or do you also only dance with girls?’

‘I suppose I could make an exception.’

I allowed him to lead me onto the woollen rug, which formed the centre of the dance floor. He placed my arms around his neck and we started to dance. I had never danced with him before and, having kicked my shoes off some half hour earlier, it struck me once more that Mr Rivers was very tall.

‘If we’re to do this again, we shall have to find you some heels,’ he said, resting his chin on the top of my head.

We swayed in easy silence; he was a good partner, steering me firmly, his hand resting on the small of my back. Unfortunately, I was dizzy with gin and I tripped over the edge of the rug, stumbling into him.

‘I thought Viennese girls were supposed to be good at this,’ he teased.

I frowned. ‘Yes, well. I’ve had a good deal of gin and not much practice.’

The music finished and we paused in the middle of the drawing room. I began to step away from him but he stopped me, keeping my arms locked around him. Without the music, it was not a dance but an embrace. I rested against him, feeling the warmth of his body and the steady rise and fall of his chest. His chin was covered in only the barest shadow and I realised with relief that he was allowing Mr Wrexham to shave him once again. I allowed my cheek to rest against him. I glanced over at Poppy and Juno and saw that they lingered by the gramophone, conscientiously studying the records and trying not to notice us.

‘Shall we try a waltz next?’ he asked. ‘I’m old fashioned.’

‘No,’ I said too quickly and flushed.

The last waltz had been with Kit.

For a moment, nobody spoke. Mr Rivers looked down at me, but I could not tell whether he was angry or just sad.

‘Let’s try another of the American records. I want to jitterbug,’ said Poppy. ‘Get some practice before the others arrive.’

Mr Rivers frowned, and this time when I moved away he did not stop me.

‘I don’t even know what that is,’ he complained.

‘It’s like a swing but sort of made up,’ said Juno. ‘We have to try it. It’s very modern.’

‘And you can’t possibly not join in because Juno can’t partner both of us at once,’ said Poppy, placing her hands on her hips and giving him an owlish stare, remarkably like Mrs Ellsworth’s.

Mr Rivers’ grim expression broke into a smile. He laughed and shook his head. ‘No of course not. Well. Let’s have at it then.’

Poppy sloshed a good slug of gin and a dash of bitters into my empty glass and handed it to Mr Rivers.

‘Think you’d better have this first. Make it a good deal easier, I expect,’ she said.

I thought he was going to object, but Mr Rivers shrugged and downed the gin all at once with barely a shudder. I’d forgotten how much he drank. Poppy refilled the glass. He drained it again.

‘Now you won’t notice when Elise gets it wrong and steps on your toes,’ she said with approval.

Mr Rivers shook his head. ‘No, but she might notice if I stand on hers.’ He turned to me. ‘Can we not find you some shoes?’

‘Why don’t you take yours off too?’ I asked. ‘Then you won’t be so horribly tall.’

He hesitated, as though considering the propriety of such a request, and then sat down on the edge of the sofa and removed his brogues, revealing a pair of much darned grey socks. Juno wound up the gramophone and the music started to growl ‘A Chicken Ain’t Nothin’ But a Bird’
.
Mr Rivers stared at me for a second, and then pulled me into a swing. He swung me round and round and I kicked up my heels, shrieking with laughter, trying not to collide with Poppy and Juno. We twisted and shook, and I giggled and slid across the polished floorboards in my stockings while Cab Calloway crooned in the corner:
‘a chicken’s a popular bird . . . you can boil it roast it broil it cook it in a pan or a pot, eat it with potatoes, rice or tomatoes but a chicken is still what you got . . .
’

‘Oh God,’ called Poppy, breathless from dancing, ‘I wish I’d got a chicken. And I don’t mind how you cook it.’

‘Yes, it’s making me hungry,’ complained Juno. ‘I can’t concentrate on jitterbugging. I can only think about roast chicken.’

I frowned, rubbing at the stitch in my side. ‘Margot really shouldn’t have sent us this one at all – not unless she was going to post an actual chicken at the same time. Though, I did think that one of the cockerels has been looking a bit seedy the last few days. If he gets worse—’

Mr Rivers seized my hand and swung me round again. His face glowed from alcohol and exercise and I saw that he was happy. I didn’t want the music to stop. I wanted it to keep on playing its tunes, however silly, and I wanted Mr Rivers to keep on smiling. I hadn’t seen him laugh like this since before. I danced towards the gramophone, pulling him with me, so that he objected, ‘Who’s leading whom?’ and tried to haul me back towards the far end of the room, making me turn and turn until I grew dizzy and saw colours blur and flash.

‘No. The music mustn’t stop,’ I cried, a frantic note in my voice, and reached for the gramophone handle.

I knew if it stopped, the spell would be broken and we would return to our regular dreary selves. As long as the music played, he would be happy and we wouldn’t think, only drink and laugh and dance.

I lay in bed, humming Cole Porter and Vera Lynn and Tommy Dorsey. The party had been a huge success. Even Wrexham’s foot had started tapping as he hovered in the hallway, guarding the refreshment table from the hungry fingers of flushed dancers. He actually smiled as he reproved Maureen and Sandra with a ‘may I assist you?’ as they reached for the spam fritters without serving spoons. I danced all night since there were not enough girls to partner the men. I had intended to be terribly grown-up and act as a sort of chaperone to the WAAFs, but the gin and laughter made me forget all my good intentions. It seemed churlish to refuse the barrage of sweet-faced young men who begged for a dance. There were so few girls that frequently I did not make it to the end of a song before switching partners halfway across the floor. No one seemed to mind, and the drawing room and panelled hall echoed with music and friendly shouts of ‘may I cut in?’ and the pounding of boots on the parquet floor. Of course none of us knew then that this was the last party at Tyneford House. Had we known, it would have spoilt our jitterbugging and lessened the laughter, but we did not so the house reverberated with joyful clatter and the lights beamed behind the blackouts.

I only danced one number with Mr Rivers that night, but I knew he watched me and I was glad. He gallantly refused to dance again, not wanting to deprive any soldier of a partner, so patrolled the floor, offering glasses of burgundy and port, which most of them had not tasted for years. Wherever he was – discussing Churchill with the commanding officer, the shortage of boots with a second lieutenant, or lingering beside the fireplace – I knew he looked for me among the dancers. I was easy to find: the men were a sea of khaki and most of the girls elected to wear their smart WAAF green, so I rather stood out in my new pink cashmere and scarlet lipstick. The sweater now lay, neatly folded, on the wicker bedroom chair. It was the first day since the war began and Kit had died that I had been almost happy. It was fleeting and, even while I laughed, I knew the feeling could not last. But during those hours, I enjoyed moments of pleasure strung together like beads along a string, so that they formed something like happiness. It was neither content nor ease, but it was something and I was glad.

After the last revellers left for Lulcombe and I had finally gone up the stairs to bed, I lingered on the landing, listening to the bass chime of the grandfather clock resonate midnight through the now empty hall. I found myself remembering that other clock, ringing out in the Vienna apartment all those years ago. Mr Rivers joined me and we stood together in silence, listening until the bells ceased and the only sound was the steady tick-tick of the minute hand, the heartbeat of the old house. I reached for his hand and he took mine between his fingers, raising it to his lips, brushing my knuckles briefly. He stepped towards me and opened his mouth, and my own heart hammered as I waited for him to speak. But then he said nothing. He only leant forwards, tucking a stray curl behind my ear and stooped to kiss me on the cheek. I half turned, and he caught the soft edge of my mouth. When he straightened, his eyes black in the darkness, I saw a tiny smudge of crimson in the corner of his mouth. My lipstick. Cherry red. Margot’s gift. I had kissed him after all, and not from her.