The Shifting Fog (19 page)

David turned then and said something to Robbie. He looked back at Hannah and she started searching through her bag again. She was looking for something to give him, I realised. David must have suggested that Robbie needed his own good-luck charm. Alfred’s voice, close to my ear, pulled my wandering attention back. ‘Bye-bye Gracie,’ he said, his lips brushing hair near my neck.

‘Thanks ever so for the socks.’

My hand leapt to my ear, still warm from his words, as Alfred threw his kit over his shoulder and headed for the train. As he reached the door he climbed onto the carriage step and turned, grinning at us over the heads of his fellow soldiers. ‘Wish me luck,’  he said, then disappeared, pushed through the door by the others eager to climb aboard.

I waved my arm. ‘Good luck,’ I called to the backs of strangers, sensing suddenly the hole that would be left at Riverton by his departure.

Up at first class, David and Robbie boarded with the other officers. Dawkins walked behind with David’s bags. There were fewer officers than infantry, and they found seats easily, each appearing at a window while Alfred jostled for standing space in his carriage. The train whistled again, and belched, filling the platform with steam. Long axels began to heave, gathering momentum, and the train drew slowly forward.

Hannah kept up alongside, still searching her purse, fruitlessly it seemed. Finally, as the train gained pace, she looked up, slipped the white satin bow from her hair, and held it up to Robbie’s waiting hand.

Further along the track my gaze alighted on the sole motionless figure amongst the frenzied crowd: it was Emmeline. She clutched a white handkerchief in her raised hand but she no longer waved it. Her eyes were wide and her smile had slipped into an expression of uncertainty.

She stood on tiptoe, surveying the crowd. No doubt she was anxious to bid David farewell. And Robbie Hunter. Just then, her face lifted eagerly and I knew she’d seen Hannah.

But it was too late. As she pushed through the crowd, her calls drowned by engine noise, and whistles, and cheers, I saw Hannah, still running alongside the boys, long hair unbound, disappear with the train behind a veil of steam.

English Heritage Brochure

1 9 9 9

Riverton Manor, Saffron Green, Essex

An early Elizabethan farmhouse designed by John Thorpe, Riverton
Manor was ‘gentrified’ in the eighteenth century by the eighth
Viscount of Ashbury who added two bays, transforming the house
into a graceful manor. In the nineteenth century, when country-
house weekends became popular, Riverton again underwent
conversion at the hands of architect Thomas Cubitt: a third
level was built to incorporate more guest accommodation; and,
in keeping with the Victorian preference that servants remain
invisible at all times, a rabbit warren of servants’ rooms was
added to the attic, along with back stairs leading directly to
the kitchen.

The magnificent ruins of this once great house are surrounded
by glorious landscaped gardens, the work of Sir Joseph Paxton.
The gardens include two huge stone fountains, the largest of
which, representing Eros and Psyche, has just been restored.
Though now powered by computerised electric pump, the fountain
was originally motorised by its own steam engine and was
described as making the ‘noise of an express train’ when it was
fired, due to the 130 jets—hidden amongst giant ants, eagles,
fire-breathing dragons, horrors of the underworld, cupids and
gods—that shoot 100 feet into the air.

There is a second, smaller fountain, representing the fall of
Icarus, at the end of the rear Long Walk. Beyond the Icarus fountain
is the lake and the summer house, which was commissioned in
1923 by Riverton’s then owner, Mr Theodore Luxton, to replace
the original boathouse. The lake has become infamous in this
century as the site of poet Robert S Hunter’s suicide in 1924, on
the eve of the annual Riverton midsummer’s night party.
The generations of Riverton residents were also instrumental
in sculpting the garden. Lord Herbert’s Danish wife, Lady Gytha
Ashbury, created the small topiary area lined with miniature yew
hedges, still known as the Egeskov Garden, (named for the Danish
castle which belonged to Lady Ashbury’s extended family), and
Lady Violet, wife of the eleventh Lord Ashbury, added a rose
garden on the rear lawn.

Following a devastating fire in 1938, Riverton Manor fell
into long decline. The house was donated to English Heritage in
1974 and has undergone restoration since that time. The north
and south gardens, including the Eros and Psyche fountain, have
recently been restored as part of the Contemporary Heritage
Garden Scheme run by English Heritage. The Icarus fountain
and summer house, accessed via the Long Walk, are currently
undergoing restoration.

The Riverton church, situated in a picturesque valley near the
house, contains a tea room (not managed by English Heritage)
which is open during the summer months, and Riverton Manor
has a marvellous gift shop. Please call the site (01277 876857)
for details of the fountain firing.

The Twelfth of July

I am to be in the film. Well, not me, but a young girl pretending to be me. Regardless how peripheral one’s connection to calamity, it would appear that to live long enough is to be rendered an object of interest. I received the phone call two days ago: Ursula, the young film-maker with the slim figure and the long ashen hair, wondering whether I would be willing to meet the actress with the dubious honour of playing the role of ‘Housemaid 1’, now retitled, ‘Grace’.

They are coming here, to Heathview. It is not the most atmospheric place to rendezvous, but I have neither heart nor feet to journey far and can pretend otherwise for no one. So it is I am sitting in the chair in my room, waiting.

There comes a knock at the door. I look at the clock—half past nine. They are right on time. I realise I am holding my breath and wonder why.

Then they are in the room, my room. Sylvia and Ursula and the young girl charged with representing me.

‘Good morning, Grace,’ Ursula says, smiling at me from beneath her wheat-coloured fringe. She does something unexpected then, leans over and brushes a kiss on my cheek, warm lips on dry, dusty skin.

My voice sticks in my throat.

She sits on the blanket at the end of my bed—a presumptive action that I’m surprised to discover I don’t mind—and takes my hand. ‘Grace,’ she says, ‘this is Keira Parker.’ She turns to smile at the girl behind me. ‘She’ll be playing you in the film.’

The girl, Keira, steps from the shadow. She is seventeen, if a day, and I am struck by her symmetrical prettiness. Blonde hair to her shoulderblades pulled back in a ponytail. An oval face, a mouth with full lips coated in thick, shiny lip gloss; blue eyes beneath a blank brow. A face made to sell chocolates. I clear my throat, remember my manners. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’

And I point to the brown vinyl chair Sylvia brought in earlier from the morning room.

Keira sits daintily, wraps her thin denim-clad legs, one around the other, and glances surreptitiously to her left, my dressing table. Her jeans are tattered, loose threads hanging from the pockets. Rags are no longer a sign of poverty, Sylvia has informed me; they are an emblem of style. Keira smiles impassively, letting her gaze turn over my possessions. ‘Thanks for seeing me, Grace,’ she remembers to say.

Her use of my first name rankles. But I am being unreasonable and admonish myself. If she had addressed me by title or surname, I would have insisted on the dispensation of such formality. I am aware that Sylvia still lurks by the open door, wiping the dust from the jamb in a show of duty designed to disguise her curiosity. She is a great one for film actors and soccer stars. ‘Sylvia, dear,’ I say, ‘do you think we might have some tea?’

Sylvia looks up, her face a study in irreproachable devotion.

‘Tea?’

‘Perhaps some biscuits,’ I say.

‘Of course.’ Reluctantly, she pockets her cloth. I nod toward Ursula.

‘Yes, please,’ she says. ‘White and one.’

Sylvia turns to Keira, ‘And you Ms Parker?’ Her voice is nervous, her cheeks disappear beneath a creeping crimson, and I realise the young actress must be known to her.

Keira yawns. ‘Green tea and lemon.’

‘Green tea,’ Sylvia says slowly, as if she has just learned the answer to the origins of the universe. ‘Lemon.’ She remains unmoving in the doorjamb.

‘Thank you, Sylvia,’ I say. ‘I’ll have my usual.’

‘Yes.’ Sylvia blinks, a spell is broken, and she finally pulls herself away. The door closes behind her and I am left alone with my two guests.

Immediately I regret sending Sylvia away. I am overwhelmed by a sudden and irrational sense that her presence warded off the past’s return.

But she is gone, and we remaining three share a moment’s silence. I sneak another glance at Keira, study her face, try to recognise my young self in her pretty features. Suddenly a burst of music, muffled and tinny, breaks the silence.

‘Sorry,’ says Ursula, fumbling in her bag. ‘I meant to turn the sound off.’ She withdraws a small black mobile phone and the volume crescendos, stops mid-bar when she presses a button. She smiles, embarrassed. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She glances at the screen and a cloud of consternation colours her face. ‘Will you excuse me a moment?’

Keira and I both nod as Ursula leaves the room, phone to her ear.

The door sighs shut and I turn to my young caller. ‘Well,’ I say,

‘I suppose we ought to begin.’

She nods, almost imperceptibly, and pulls a folder from her tote bag. She opens it and withdraws a wad of paper, held together with a bulldog clip. I can see from the layout that it is a script—bold words in capitals, followed by longer portions of regular font. She flicks past a few pages and stops, presses her shiny lips together. ‘I was wondering,’ she says, ‘about your relationship with the Hartford family. With the girls.’

I nod. That much I had presumed.

‘My part isn’t one of the big ones,’ she says. ‘I haven’t many lines, but I’m in a lot of the earlier shots.’ She looks at me. ‘You know. Serving drinks, that sort of thing.’

I nod again.

‘Anyway, Ursula thought it would be a good idea for me to talk to you about the girls: what you thought of them. That way I’ll get some idea of my
motivation
.’ The final word she speaks pointedly, annunciating as if it were a foreign term with which I might not be familiar. She straightens her back and her expression takes on a varnish of fortification. ‘Mine isn’t the starring role, but it’s still important to give a strong performance. You never know who might be watching.’

‘Of course.’

‘Nicole Kidman only got
Days of Thunder
because Tom Cruise saw her in some Australian film.’

This fact and these names, I see, are supposed to resonate with me. I nod and she continues.

‘That’s why I need you to tell me how you felt. About your job and about the girls.’ She leans forward, her eyes the cold blue of Venetian glass. ‘It gives me an advantage, you see, you still being . . . I mean, the fact that you’re still . . .’

‘Alive,’ I say. ‘Yes, I see.’ I almost admire her candour. ‘What exactly would you like to know?’

She smiles; relieved, I imagine, that her faux pas has been swallowed quickly by the current of our conversation. ‘Well,’ she says, scanning the piece of paper resting on her knees. ‘I’ll get the dull questions out of the way first.’

My heart quickens. I have decided to answer honestly, no matter what she asks. A little game of roulette played for my own amusement.

‘Did you enjoy being a servant?’ she says.

I exhale: more an escaped breath than a sigh. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘for a time.’

She looks doubtful. ‘Really? I can’t imagine enjoying waiting on people all day every day. What did you like about it?’

‘The others became like a family to me. I enjoyed the camaraderie.’

‘The others?’ Her eyes widen hungrily. ‘You mean Emmeline and Hannah?’

‘No. I mean the other staff.’

‘Oh.’ She is disappointed. No doubt she had glimpsed a larger role for herself, an amended script in which Grace the housemaid is no longer an outside observer, but a secret member of the Hartford sisters’ coterie. She is young, of course, and from a different world. 

She doesn’t conceive that certain lines should not be crossed. ‘That’s nice,’ she says. ‘But I don’t have scenes with the other actors playing servants, so it’s not much use to me.’ She runs her biro down the list of questions. ‘Was there anything you
didn’t
like about being a servant?’

Day after day of waking with the birds; the attic that was an oven in summer and an ice box in winter; hands red raw from laundering; a back that ached from cleaning; weariness that permeated to the centre of my bones. ‘It was tiring. The days were long and full. There was not much time for oneself.’

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘that’s how I’ve been playing it. I mostly don’t even have to pretend. After a day of rehearsal my arms are bruised from carrying the bloody tray around.’

‘It was my feet that hurt the most,’ I say. ‘But only in the beginning, and once when I turned sixteen and had my new shoes.’

She writes something on the back of her script, in round cursive strokes, nods. ‘Good,’ she says. ‘I can use that.’ She continues to scribble, finishing with a flourish of the pen. ‘Now for the interesting stuff. I want to know about Emmeline. That is, how you felt about her.’

I hesitate, wondering where to begin.

‘It’s just, we share a few scenes and I’m not sure what I should be thinking. Conveying.’

‘What kind of scenes?’ I say, curious.

‘Well, for instance, there’s the one where she first meets RS

Hunter, down near the lake, and she slips and almost drowns and I have to—’