The House at Tyneford (7 page)

“Yer can sit in the back or yer can sit next ter me.”

The back of the cart was littered with empty grain sacks, assorted pieces of farming equipment and smashed crates. I saw the glint of a scythe and was almost certain that something was wriggling under a piece of tarpaulin. I chose the seat at the front.

“What is your name?” I asked, settling on the wooden bench.

“Arthur Tizzard. But yer can call me Art.”

“Like painting?”

He gave a chuckle, a low sound that started in his chest. “Aye. That’s right.”

We proceeded through the little town of Wareham, my first glimpse of an English village. The buildings were low, mostly faded red brick with tiled roofs, some in peeling lime-wash and here and there brown thatch. Along the high street, the upper stories protruded above the pavement, like Frau Schmidt’s overbite. It was afternoon and most of the shutters were drawn, few people were about and those who were seemed in no hurry. A boy pushed a bicycle, his basket filled with dappled eggs. A woman sat on a front step and smoked, a baby playing peek-a-boo beneath her skirts. The wheels of the cart ground along the road, and the horse’s hooves clack-clacked. We crossed a bridge where a dozen sailing boats bobbed on their river moorings, and passed a handsome public house with men dawdling outside, arguing idly over a pack of cards, as though none of them much cared about the outcome but took slow pleasure in the disagreement. In a few minutes we left the town and plodded along a straight road across a marsh; birds swooped in and out of the reeds and the air stank of damp mud. The ground was flat and riddled with small pools of dark water, filled with paddling fowl. I saw a flash of white wing and a black-beaked swan came in to land, its cry hollow on the wind. The wetlands were edged by a bank of sloping hills, some covered with swaying meadow grass and others woodland dark.

At a crossroads, and needing no instruction from Art, Mr. Bobbin took a sharp right turn and in a short time the marshland was behind us and we crept up a steep track into hilly country once more. I still could not see the sea and, standing up in my seat, tried to peer beyond the ridge of green hills.

Art chuckled. “Jist you wait. Yer’ll see soon enough.”

The banks on either side of the road became tightly wooded, and I only glimpsed flashes of the sloping fields and a blue-and-white-marbled sky. At the top of the rise, I saw a graceful stone manor half concealed by towering rhododendrons studded with crimson flowers.

“Creech Grange,” said Art.

Mr. Bobbin’s back was steaming with sweat, and saliva bubbled around his bit; Art leaned forward and crooned words of encouragement. “Com’ on, yer ol’ loplolly, jist dawk arn.”

The track became steeper and steeper, and the horse wheezed and coughed, the cart inching slower and slower, until we reached a passing place hewn out of the hillside, and Art stopped the cart.

“Right, missy, out ’ere. Mr. Bobbin needs a breather.”

I jumped off the cart, grateful to stretch my legs, landed on a damp patch of moss and slipped straight onto my behind, scraping my hands as I tried to break my fall. Art pulled me up and dusted me down like I was five years old, tutting like Hildegard.

“Aw. Yers not wearin’ right shoes. Need some clod’oppers. ’Ere, rub this on them scritches.”

He handed me a glass bottle and unstuffed the cork. I took a sniff and inhaled whisky fumes.

“Nope, don’t whiff at ’im. Splash it, like. Sting like buggery, but stop it gettin’ nasty. Learnt that in the big war.”

I did as I was told. Sprinkling drops all over my grazed palms, I let out a gasp as the alcohol seeped into them, my cuts tingling with fire.

Art chuckled. “An’ now take a gulp, right enuff.”

Anna was most particular about ladies drinking spirits: they did not. But then, Anna was far away. I swallowed and felt my throat tingle as if I had swallowed red-hot needles.

We walked up the hill, Art resting his palm on Mr. Bobbin’s sodden flank, and me hobbling, feeling the ache of my bruised behind. I wondered what Margot would say if she could see me—bedraggled, mud splattered, hair tumbling down from the pins. Our progress was slow, as every few minutes the way was barred by an ancient wooden gate. The horse halted, standing well back as Art clicked the catch and swung each one open. In less than a mile I counted eleven gates leading up the road, and yet I felt quite content at the slowness of our pace. The air was full with unfamiliar smells of damp earth and strange flowers. Insects hummed and crawled, falling from the low branches into my hair and onto my cheeks. I brushed them away, smearing black across my skin. The tree tunnel bathed everything in a green glow, and I slipped and skidded on the broken stones underfoot. It was humid beneath the canopy, and I felt clammy and damp, slightly embarrassed about the dark patches of sweat showing through my blouse. Eventually a white hole of daylight appeared at the end of the line of trees, blocked by another gate. The horse paused once more, and Art unfastened the latch and ushered us into the sunshine. The air changed instantly. Salt wind whipped around me, flinging my hair into my face, and I saw we were perched upon the open backbone of the hill range. The landscape fell down to the sea on both sides. To the right lay a lacework of silver rivers running through small green fields, spotted with the brown-and-white backs of cattle. Ponds glimmered like ladies’ hand mirrors, growing larger until they rushed into the vast grey sea. Breakers foamed on the distant beaches and I imagined that the rush of noise in my ears was not the sound of the hilltop wind but the crash of the sea. On my left, coarse heath grass rolled down into a shaded valley nestled between the banks of hills, which formed the vale like a pair of cupped hands.

Art chewed on his pipe and the horse huffed and sighed.

“Tyneford Valley,” said Art. “Can yer feel it?”

I looked at him and then at the yellow beach beyond. I smelled heather and wood smoke and something else, something intangible that I did not yet have the words to express. Art chuckled.

“Aye. Gits everyone. Spell o’ Tyneford.” He turned to face me and gave me an odd look. “Don’t talk much, do yer? Some of them new maids, won’t stop their rattlin’.”

I smiled, wondering what Julian would think of this assessment of me—a quiet girl, not chattering on like the others. It had only been a week and already he would not know me. I was not quiet—my lack of English imprisoned me in silence. I was longing to question Art about Mr. Rivers and Mrs. Ellsworth and Tyneford and the name of the bay that I could see glimmering in the distance, and if it was safe to swim out to those rocks where the gulls rested, and what kind of bird it was, with the long tail feather, that burst out of the bush, singing a flurry of honeyed song. Questions tumbled over one another in my mind, and yet I could form none of them into sentences. So I walked beside the horse in dumb silence and allowed Art to believe me a nice, quiet kind of girl.

He steadied my elbow as I clambered back onto the cart, grateful for the rest. I had been travelling all day, and my head was starting to ache. The track was narrow and tufts of dusty grass and thistle sprouted in the middle in a dull green stripe. Mr. Bobbin plodded along as birds soared to and fro and twittered frantically from the low gorse bushes. The sky stretched vast and open from the hills to where it merged with the sea in a grey-blue line, and I tilted my head back to gaze at the racing clouds, feeling myself reel, dizzy at the thought of my own smallness; I realised I was nothing more than a feather on the wing of one of the brown-backed geese that swooped overhead.

The horse turned to the left, down an even narrower track leading into the valley of Tyneford itself. The path sloped steeply, and he edged forward, hooves slipping and catching on the loose pebbles. Wildflowers and shrubs brushed the cart on either side, and tiny heads of cow parsley ripped from their stems and lodged in the wheels of the cart and the wooden side slats. A tiny speckled bird hitched a lift on a battered milk crate in the back. Another series of gates barred our descent, and Art leaped down again and again to open them. Cattle and sheep grazed freely beside the road, or dawdled in front of the cart, causing Art to hiss and shout, “Git, git. Yer bony good-fer-nuthins.”

Art steered us through the final gate and past a pair of low stone cottages, their walls darkly overgrown with ivy and smoke curling from their chimneys. I saw more cottages and a scattering of larger houses all cut from the same rough grey rock, lining a narrow street leading to a water pump and a small church, but the horse, needing no direction from Art, turned to the left and ambled along an avenue of waving lime trees. The leaves sprouted new green, bright and soft, and the trees towered above me, their branches a mass of clasping hands and limbs.

I did not see the house itself until we were nearly upon it. Poking above the trees on the lime walk were the chimneystacks and a brass weathervane in the shape of a ship, tacking and jibing in the wind; it appeared to be sailing across a sea of green leaves. Then a flash of light, and the windows on the north gable glinted through the trees. I stood up in my seat, eager for a better view, and there, as we emerged from the avenue, was Tyneford House. I will never forget that first sight. It was a handsome manor, at once elegant and easy; the stone a different colour from the cottages—a warm yellow that glowed in the sunshine. A gothic porch stood at the side of the house, a family shield carved into its sandstone façade, a pair of stone roses in each corner, and around the westerly windows grew an ancient wisteria with a profusion of heavy blossoms, shaking in the wind. It was not merely the beauty of the building itself that struck me on that afternoon or on the many since, but the loveliness of its position; there are few places in England where nature has done more. Beech woods edged the gardens and the house stood on rising ground, the bank of hills behind. A smart terrace ran along the length of the house, with a few stone steps leading to a velvet-striped lawn sloping down toward the sea. Every window at the front gazed out upon the water, which glittered, calm and beguiling. I breathed in that strange scent again: thyme, freshly turned earth, sweat and salt.

Art guided the cart to brick stables in a large yard at the back of the house and set about unfastening Mr. Bobbin and hosing him down. I climbed down and stood awkwardly in the cobbled yard, listening to the crash of the sea.

“In there,” said Art, pointing to a wooden door at the back of the house. “Git now. I’ll bring yer stuff in a bit.”

I frowned, realising that Art spoke to me in exactly the same tone he used to address the wayward cows. Only later did I discover that this was in fact a gesture of great trust and affection; there were very few two-legged creatures that Art esteemed. A pair of young stable lads appeared from one of the empty stalls and one started to brush down Mr. Bobbin, while the other hauled a large bucket of water. One of the boys stared at me, mouth agape, and slopped the water all over Art’s boots.

“Ninnywalling, clod-’oppin’ turd . . . ,” Art started to yell, and I decided to vacate the yard, before any of his wrath was directed at me.

The back door led into a dark passageway smelling of damp and mouse—a sickly stench, rather like urine. The walls were whitewashed but the slit windows cast almost no light. Voices came from behind a closed door at the end of the passageway, along with wisps of steam. I tapped on it with my knuckles, unsure whether I actually wished anyone to answer. While at home I was cautious on entering Hildegard’s domain; there was always the unspoken restraint—my mother was her employer. The kitchen door flew open, and I was knocked back against the wall.

“Oh, what you standin’ there fur?” said a stout girl in a white apron and a matching cap.

“May Stickland, stop idling. Get them potatoes an’ come back inside.”

“Aye. There’s a girl lurkin’ in the passageway,” said May.

“Well, bring her in then.”

I followed her into the kitchen—what seemed then a large, modern room, with gleaming expanses of tiled counters and a huge wooden table in the centre covered in flour and littered with pastry cutters. Racks of utensils hung from hooks above a vast cast-iron cooking range, and armies of wooden spoons huddled in jars beside twin butler sinks. The windows were set high into the wall so that I could not see outside, but light streamed in, illuminating the particles of flour that hovered in the air like floating snow. I knew Hildegard would have wept with joy to even glimpse such a kitchen—this would be her Xanadu. The housekeeper, Mrs. Ellsworth, sat in state at the table, surrounded by baking trays, a round pat of butter, flour bucket, packets of spice and yeast. Her grey hair was drawn back into a neat bun, her skin tanned and lined, suggesting a life out of doors, despite being monarch of the kitchen. She wore a starched white shirt and full black skirt with a crisp apron fastened around her middle.

“Elise Landau.” She made this a statement, not a question, and I was unsure how to respond.

I reached into my pocket and produced the envelope from the Mayfair Private Service Agency and gave it to Mrs. Ellsworth. She opened it and glanced at the contents: several coins and a receipt for my train ticket.

“Did you have nothin’ for lunch? I hope you didn’t let some young man purchase you refreshments, missy.”

I said nothing and willed my cheeks not to redden. Mrs. Ellsworth huffed, then waved at May. “Get the girl some bread and cheese. She must be hungry. No dinner, indeed. I hope you’re not one of them continentals what doesn’t eat. I’m too busy for skinny girls.”

She scrutinised me with pale eyes. “Well, you don’t look like one them meal-skipping wenches. There’s too much work for you to pine away, mind,” she warned.

“She don’t speak much,” said May, dumping in front of me an enamel plate with some bread and crumbling cheese.

“Well,
you
could do with talkin’ a good deal less,” said Mrs. Ellsworth, and May slunk to the sink, where she could wash the dishes and spy without being criticised.