‘Craters?’
‘Big, deep, dark holes where the Martians keep their children.’
An arm appeared and began to pull the door closed.
‘Like wells?’ said Emmeline.
‘But deeper. Darker.’
‘Why do they keep their children there?’
‘So no one sees the hideous experiments they’ve performed on them.’
‘What kind of experiments?’ came Emmeline’s breathless voice.
‘You’ll find out,’ said Hannah. ‘If David ever gets here.’
Downstairs, as ever, our lives were murky mirrors to those above.
One evening, when the household had all retired to bed, the staff gathered by the raging servants’ hall fire. Mr Hamilton and Mrs Townsend formed bookends either side, while Nancy, Katie and I huddled between on dining chairs, squinting in the flickering firelight at the scarves we were dutifully knitting. A cold wind lashed against the windowpanes, and insurgent draughts set Mrs Townsend’s jars of dry goods to quivering on the kitchen shelf.
Mr Hamilton shook his head and cast aside The Times. He removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes.
‘More bad news?’ Mrs Townsend looked up from the Christmas menu she was planning, cheeks red from the fire.
‘The worst, Mrs Townsend.’ He returned his glasses to the bridge of his nose. ‘More losses at Ypres.’ He rose from his seat and moved to the sideboard where he had spread out a map of Europe, host to a score of miniature military figurines (David’s old set, I think, retrieved from the attic) representing different armies and different campaigns. He removed the Duke of Wellington from a point in France and replaced him with two German Hussars. ‘I don’t like this at all,’ he said to himself.
Mrs Townsend sighed. ‘And I don’t like this at all.’ She tapped her pen on the menu. ‘How am I supposed to prepare Christmas dinner for the family with no butter, or tea, or even turkey to speak of?’
‘No turkey, Mrs Townsend?’ Katie gaped.
‘Not so much as a wing.’
‘But whatever will you serve?’
Mrs Townsend shook her head, ‘Don’t go getting in a flap, now. I daresay I’ll manage, my girl. I always do, don’t I?’
‘Yes, Mrs Townsend,’ said Katie gravely. ‘I must say you do.’
Mrs Townsend peered down her nose, satisfied herself there was no irony intended, and returned her attention to the menu.
I was trying to concentrate on my knitting but when I dropped the third stitch in as many rows, I cast it aside, frustrated, and stood up. Something had been bothering me all evening. Something I had witnessed in the village that I didn’t rightly understand.
I straightened my apron and approached Mr Hamilton who, it seemed to me, knew just about everything.
‘Mr Hamilton?’ I said tentatively.
He turned toward me, peered over his glasses, the Duke of Wellington still pinched between two long, tapered fingertips.
‘What is it, Grace?’
I glanced back to where the others sat, engaged in animated discussion.
‘Well girl?’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
I cleared my throat. ‘No, Mr Hamilton,’ I said. ‘It’s just . . .
I wanted to ask you about something. Something I saw in the village today.’
‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Speak up, my girl.’
I glanced toward the door. ‘Where is Alfred, Mr Hamilton?’
He frowned. ‘Upstairs, serving sherry. Why? What’s Alfred got to do with all this?’
‘It’s just, I saw Alfred today, in the village—’
‘Yes,’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘He was running an errand for me.’
‘I know, Mr Hamilton. I saw him. At McWhirter’s. And I saw when he came out of the store.’ I pressed my lips together.
Some unaccountable reticence made me loath to speak the rest. ‘He was given a white feather, Mr Hamilton.’
‘A white feather?’ Mr Hamilton’s eyes widened and the Duke of Wellington was released unceremoniously onto the table.
I nodded, remembering Alfred’s shift in manner: the way he’d been stopped in his jaunty tracks. Had stood, dazed, feather in hand as passers-by slowed to whisper knowingly at one another. Had dropped his gaze and hurried away, shoulders bent and head low.
‘A white feather?’ To my chagrin, Mr Hamilton said this loudly enough to draw the attention of the others.
‘What’s that, Mr Hamilton?’ Mrs Townsend peered over her glasses.
He brushed a hand down his cheek and across his lips.
Shook his head in disbelief. ‘Alfred was given a white feather.’
‘No,’ Mrs Townsend gasped, plump hand leaping to her chest. ‘He never was. Not a white feather. Not our Alfred.’
‘How do you know?’ Nancy said.
‘Grace saw it happen,’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘This morning in the village.’
I nodded, my heart beginning to race with the uneasy sense of having opened the Pandora’s box of someone else’s secret. Being unable now to close it.
‘It’s preposterous,’ Mr Hamilton said, straightening his waistcoat. He returned to his seat and hooked his spectacles over his ears. ‘Alfred is not a coward. He’s serving the war effort every day he helps keep this household running. He has an important position with an important family.’
‘But it’s not the same as fighting, is it Mr Hamilton?’ said Katie.
‘It most certainly is,’ blustered Mr Hamilton. ‘There’s a role for each of us in this war, Katie. Even you. It’s our duty to preserve the ways of this fine country of ours so that when the soldiers return victorious, the society they remember will be waiting for them.’
‘So even when I’m washing pots I’m helping the war effort?’ said Katie in wonderment.
‘Not the way you wash them,’ Mrs Townsend said.
‘Yes, Katie,’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘By keeping up with your duties, and by knitting your scarves, you’re doing your bit.’ He shot glances at Nancy and me. ‘We all are.’
‘It doesn’t seem enough, if you ask me,’ Nancy said, her head bowed.
‘What’s that, Nancy?’ Mr Hamilton said.
Nancy stopped knitting and laid her bony hands in her lap. ‘Well,’ she said cautiously, ‘take Alfred, for example. He’s a young, fit man. Surely he’d be of better use helping the other boys what are over there in France? Anyone can pour sherry.’
‘Anyone can pour . . . ?’ Mr Hamilton paled. ‘You of all people should know that domestic service is a skill to which not all are suited, Nancy.’
Nancy flushed. ‘Of course, Mr Hamilton. I never meant to suggest otherwise.’ She fidgeted with the marbles of her knuckles. ‘I . . . I suppose I’ve just been feeling a bit useless myself of late.’
Mr Hamilton was about to denounce such feelings when all of a sudden Alfred came clattering down the stairs and into the room. Mr Hamilton’s mouth dropped shut and we fell into a conspiracy of collective silence.
‘Alfred,’ Mrs Townsend said at last, ‘whatever’s the matter, racing down them stairs like that?’ She cast about and found me. ‘You scared poor Grace half to death. Poor girl nearly jumped out of her skin.’
I smiled weakly at Alfred, for I hadn’t been frightened at all.
Merely surprised, like everyone else. And sorry. I should never have asked Mr Hamilton about the feather. I was becoming fond of Alfred: he was kind-hearted and had often taken time to draw me from my shell. To discuss his embarrassment while his back was turned made a fool of him somehow.
‘I’m sorry, Grace,’ Alfred said. ‘It’s just, Master David has arrived.’
‘Yes,’ Mr Hamilton said, looking at his watch, ‘as we expected. Dawkins was to collect him from the station off the ten o’clock train. Mrs Townsend has his supper ready, if you care to take it up.’
Alfred nodded, catching up his breath. ‘I know that, Mr Hamilton . . .’ He swallowed. ‘It’s just . . . Master David. He has someone with him. From Eto
n. I believe it’s Lord Hunter’s son.’
I take a breath. You once told me that there is a point in most stories from which there is no return. When all the central characters have made their way onstage and the scene is set for the drama to unfold. The storyteller relinquishes control and the characters begin to move of their own accord.
Robbie Hunter’s entrance brings this story to the edge of the Rubicon. Am I going to cross it? Perhaps it is not yet too late to turn back. To fold them all away, gently, between layers of tissue paper in the boxes of my memory?
I smile, for I am no more able to stop this story than I am to halt the march of time. I am not romantic enough to imagine it wants to be told, but I am honest enough to acknowledge that I want to tell it.
And so, to Robbie Hunter.
Early next morning, Mr Hamilton called me to his pantry, closed the door gently behind and conferred on me a dubious honour. Every winter, each of the ten thousand books, journals and manuscripts housed in the Riverton library was removed, dusted and re-shelved. This annual ritual had been an institution since 1846. It was Lord Ashbury’s mother’s rule originally. She was mad for dust, said Nancy, and she rightly had her reasons. For one night in the late autumn, Lord Ashbury’s little brother, a month shy of his third year and favoured by all who knew him, fell into a sleep from which he never awoke. Though she could find no doctor would support her claim, his mother was convinced that her youngest boy caught his death in the ancient dust that hung in the air. In particular she blamed the library, for that was where the two boys had spent the fateful day—playing make-believe amongst the maps and charts that described the voyages of long-ago forebears.
Lady Gytha Ashbury was not one to be trifled with. She put aside her grief to draw from the same well of courage and determination that saw her abandon her homeland, her family and her dowry for the sake of love. She declared immediate war; summoned her troops and commanded them banish the insidious adversaries. They cleaned day and night for a week before she was finally satisfied that the last hint of dust was vanquished. Only then did she weep for her tiny boy.
Each year thereafter, as the final coloured leaves fell from the trees outside, the ritual was scrupulously re-enacted. Even after her death, the custom remained. And in the year 1915, it was I who was charged with satisfying the former Lady Ashbury’s memory. (Partly, I’m sure, as penalty for having observed Alfred in town the day before. Mr Hamilton gave me no thanks for bringing the spectre of war shame home to Riverton.)
‘You will be released early from your usual duties this week, Grace,’ he said, smiling thinly from behind his desk. ‘Each morning you will proceed directly to the library where you will begin in the gallery and work your way down to the shelves on the ground level.’
Then he bid me equip myself with a pair of cotton gloves, a damp cloth and an acquiescence befitting the awesome tedium of the chore.
‘Remember Grace,’ he said, hands pressed firmly on his desk, fingers wide apart, ‘Lord Ashbury is very serious about dust. You have been given a great responsibility and one for which you should be thankful—’ His homily was interrupted by a knock at the pantry door.
‘Come in,’ he called, frowning down his long nose.
The door opened and Nancy burst through, thin frame nervous as a spider’s. ‘Mr Hamilton,’ she said. ‘Come quickly, there’s something upstairs that needs your immediate attention.’
He stood directly, slipped his black coat from a hanger on the back of the door and hurried up the stairs. Nancy and I followed close behind.
There, in the main entrance hall, stood Dudley the gardener, fumbling his woollen hat from one chapped hand to the other. Lying at his feet, still ripe with sap, was an enormous Norway spruce, freshly hewn.
‘Mr Dudley,’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve brought the Christmas tree, Mr Hamilton.’
‘I can see that. But what are you doing here.’ He indicated the grand hall, dropping his gaze to take in the tree. ‘More importantly, what is this doing here? It’s huge.’
‘Aye, she’s a beauty,’ said Dudley gravely, looking upon the tree as another might a mistress. ‘I’ve had my eye on her for years, just biding my time, letting her reach her full glory. And this Christmas she’s all growed up.’ He looked solemnly at Mr Hamilton. ‘A little too growed up.’
Mr Hamilton turned to Nancy. ‘What in heaven’s name is going on?’
Nancy’s hands were clenched into fists by her side, her mouth drawn tight as a crosspatch. ‘It won’t fit, Mr Hamilton. He tried to stand it in the drawing room where it always goes, but it’s a foot too tall.’
‘But didn’t you measure it?’ Mr Hamilton said to the gardener.
‘Oh yes, sir,’ said Dudley. ‘But I never was much of a one for arithmetic.’
‘Then take out your saw and remove a foot, man.’
Mr Dudley shook his head sadly. ‘I would, sir, but I’m afeared there’s not a foot left to remove. The trunk’s already short as can be, and I can’t go taking none from the top now, can I?’ He looked at us plainly. ‘Where would the pretty angel sit?’
We all stood, pondering this predicament, the seconds yawning across the marble hall. Each of us aware the family would soon appear for breakfast. Finally, Mr Hamilton made a pronouncement. ‘I suppose there’s nothing for it then. Short of lopping the top and leaving the angel with neither perch nor purpose, we’ll have to stray from tradition—just this once—and erect it in the library.’
‘The library, Mr Hamilton?’ Nancy said.
‘Yes. Beneath the glass dome.’ He looked witheringly at Dudley. ‘Where she’ll be sure and achieve her full postural opportunity.’
So it was, on the morning of 1 December 1915, as I perched high atop the library gallery at the furthest end of the furthest shelf, steeling myself to a week of dusting, that a precocious pine stood glorious in the library centre, uppermost limbs pointing ecstatically to the heavens. I was level with her crown, and the fecund scent of pine was strong, impregnating the library’s lazy atmosphere of warm dustiness.
The gallery of the Riverton library ran lengthways, high above the room itself, and it was hard not to be distracted. Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination, and the view of the room below was tremendous. It is a universal truth that no matter how well one knows a scene, to observe it from above is something of a revelation. I stood by the railings and peered over, beyond the tree.
The library—usually so vast and imposing—took on the appearance of a stage set. Ordinary items—the Steinway and Sons grand piano, the oak writing desk, Lord Ashbury’s globe—were suddenly rendered smaller, ersatz versions of themselves, and gave the impression of having been arranged to suit a cast of players, yet to make its entrance.
The sitting area in particular bore a theatrical spirit of anticipation. The sofa at centre stage; the armchairs either side, pretty in William Morris skirts; the rectangle of winter sunlight that draped across the piano and onto the oriental rug. Props, all: patiently awaiting actors to take their marks. What kind of play would actors perform, I wondered, in such a setting as this? A comedy, a tragedy, a play of modern manners?
Thus I could happily have procrastinated all day, but for the persistent voice inside my ear, Mr Hamilton’s voice, reminding me of Lord Ashbury’s reputation for random dust inspections. And so, reluctantly, I abandoned such thoughts and withdrew the first book. Dusted it—front, back and spine—then replaced it and withdrew the second.
By mid-morning I had finished five of the ten gallery shelves and was poised to begin the next. A small mercy: having begun with the higher shelves, I had finally reached the lower and would be able to sit while I worked. After dusting hundreds of books my hands had become practised, performing their task automatically, which was just as well, for my mind had numbed to a halt.
I had just plucked the sixth spine from the sixth shelf when an impertinent piano note, sharp and sudden, trespas
sed on the room’s winter stillness. I spun around involuntarily, peering down beyond the tree.
Standing at the piano, fingers brushing silently the ivory surface, was a young man I’d never seen before. I knew who he was, though; even then. It was Master David’s friend from Eton. Lord Hunter’s son who’d arrived in the night.
He was handsome. But who amongst the young is not? With him it was something more, the beauty of stillness. Alone in the room, his dark eyes grave beneath a line of dark brows, he gave the impression of sorrow past, deeply felt and poorly mended. He was tall and lean, though not so as to appear lanky, and his brown hair fell longer than was the fashion, some ends escaping others to brush against his collar, his cheekbone.
I watched him survey the library, slowly, deliberately, from where he stood. His gaze rested, finally, on a painting. Blue canvas etched in black to depict the crouching figure of a woman, her back turned to the artist. The painting hung furtively on the far wall, between two bulbous Chinese urns in blue and white.
He moved to inspect it closely, and there he remained.
His utter absorption made him fascinating and my sense of propriety was no match for my curiosity. The books along the sixth shelf languished, spines dull with the year’s dust, as I watched.
He leaned back, almost imperceptibly, then forwards again, his concentration absolute. His fingers, I noticed, fell long and silent at his side. Inert.
He was still standing, head tilted to the side, pondering the painting, when behind him the library door burst open and Hannah appeared, clutching the Chinese box.
‘David! At last! We’ve had the best idea. This time we can go to—’
She stopped, startled, as Robbie turned and regarded her. A smile was slow to his lips, but when it came all hint of melancholy was swept away so completely I wondered if I’d imagined it. Without its serious demeanour, his face was boyish, smooth, almost pretty.
‘Forgive me,’ she said, cheeks suffused with pink surprise, pale hair escaping from her bow. ‘I thought you were someone else.’ She rested the box on the corner of the sofa and, as an afterthought, straightened her white pinafore.