The House at Tyneford: A Novel
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One - General Observations on Quadrupeds
Chapter Two - In the Bathtub, Singing
Chapter Three - An Eggcup of Salt Water
Chapter Four - Enough Clouds for a Spectacular Sunset
Chapter Five - The Wrong Door
Chapter Six - Seventeen Gates
Chapter Seven - Mr. Rivers
Chapter Eight - Like Samson I Will Not Cut My Hair
Chapter Nine - Kit
Chapter Ten - Fish and a Rose-Patterned Teacup
Chapter Eleven - Balaam and Balak
Chapter Twelve - Diana and Juno
Chapter Thirteen - The Birthday and Broken Glass
Chapter Fourteen - The End of Us All
Chapter Fifteen - Maybe Tomorrow
Chapter Sixteen - Miss Landau
Chapter Seventeen - Black Dogs and White Gloves
Chapter Eighteen - The Anna
Chapter Nineteen - Witch-Stones
Chapter Twenty - A Gull on the Horizon
Chapter Twenty-one - My Name Is Alice
Chapter Twenty-two - Run, Rabbit, Run
Chapter Twenty-three - Red Flags
Chapter Twenty-four - “We Thank You Kindly for Not Smoking in the Bedrooms”
Chapter Twenty-five - I Live Not Where I Love
Chapter Twenty-six - The Novel in the Viola
Author’s Note
A PLUME BOOK
THE HOUSE AT TYNEFORD
NATASHA SOLOMONS is a screenwriter and the internationally bestselling author of Mr. Rosenblum Dreams in English. She lives with her husband in Dorset, England.
Advance Praise for The House at Tyneford
“Natasha Solomons has written a lovely, atmospheric novel full of charming characters and good, old-fashioned storytelling. Fans of Downton Abbey and Kate Morton’s The Forgotten Garden will absolutely adore The House at Tyneford.”
—Kristin Hannah, bestselling author of Night Road
“The House at Tyneford is a wonderful, old-fashioned novel that takes you back in time to the manor homes, aristocracy, and domestic servants of England. In this setting, Natasha Solomons gives us a courageous heroine whose incredible love story will keep you in suspense until the final page.”
—Kathleen Grissom, author of The Kitchen House
“The House at Tyneford is an exquisite tale of love, family, suspense, and survival. Capturing with astonishing detail and realism a vanished world of desire and hope trapped beneath rigid class convention, Natasha Solomons’ stunning new novel tells the story of Elise Landau. Already a bestseller in Britain, American readers will thrill to The House at Tyneford.”
—Katherine Howe, author of The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane
“An engaging read . . . ripe for the screen.”
—The Guardian (London)
“I really didn’t want to put this book down. I didn’t just want to know what happened, I wanted to stay with the people and find out how their stories continued. This book is a real gem.”
—The Bookseller (London)
PLUME
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Originally published in
Great Britain as The Novel in the Viola by Sceptre, an imprint of Hodder & Stoughton.
First American Printing, January 2012
Copyright © Natasha Solomons, 2011
All rights reserved
“Concerto in D Minor” composed by Jeff Rona. © 2011 Silkscreen Music. Used with permission of Silkscreen Music.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Solomons, Natasha.
[Novel in the viola]
The house at Tyneford : a novel / Natasha Solomons.
p. cm.
Originally published as: Novel in the viola. London : Sceptre, 2011.
ISBN : 978-1-101-55933-8
1. Household employees—Fiction. 2. Immigrants—Fiction. 3. Jews—England—Fiction. 4. Aristocracy (Social class)—England—Fiction. 5. Great Britain—History—George VI, 1936-1952—Fiction. 6. England—Social life and customs—Fiction. 7. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.O4374N68 2011
813’.6—dc22
2011029714
Set in Adobe Caslon Pro
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For Mr. S
Acknowledgments
I am hugely grateful to everyone at Plume, especially my wonderful editors Tara and Pamela. James went above and beyond, agreeing to be shaved by a Mayfair barber wielding a cutthroat razor in the name of research, while Kate allowed me to stuff her viola full of paper. Sotheby’s in London kindly helped me establish the value of a Turner in 1939, and Lisa Curzon generously shared her memories of working in service as a young refugee in 1938. Thanks to Jeff Rona, who composed the viola concerto; to Neel Hammond, who performed the viola part so beautifully; and to Michael Glenn Williams, who played the piano accompaniment (to listen to the music go to www.natashasolomons.com). Thanks as always to Jocasta; agent Stan; my parents, Carol and Clive; and to my husband and collaborator, David.
Please treat the church and houses with care;
we have given up our homes where many of us lived for
generations to help win the war to keep men free.
We shall return one day and thank you
for treating the village kindly.
—Notice pinned to the door of Tyneford Church
by departing villagers, Christmas Eve, 1941
Chapter One
General Observations on Quadrupeds
When I close my eyes I see Tyneford House. In the darkness as I lay down to sleep, I see the Purbeck stone frontage in the glow of late afternoon. The sunlight glints off the upper windows, and the air is heavy with the scents of magnolia and salt. Ivy clings to the porch archway, and a magpie pecks at the lichen coating a limestone roof tile. Smoke seeps from one of the great chimneystacks, and the leaves on the unfelled lime avenue are May green and cast mottled patterns on the driveway. There are no weeds yet tearing through the lavender and thyme borders, and the lawn is velvet cropped and rolled in verdant stripes. No bullet holes pockmark the ancient garden wall and the drawing room windows are thrown open, the glass not shattered by shellfire. I see the house as it was then, on that first afternoon.
Everyone is just out of sight. I can hear the ring of the drinks tray being prepared; on the terrace a bowl of pink camellias rests on the table. And in the bay, the fishing boats bounce upon the tide, nets cast wide, the slap of water against wood. We have not yet been exiled. The cottages do not lie in pebbled ruins across the strand, with hazel and blackthorn growing through the flagstones of the village houses. We have not surrendered Tyneford to guns and tanks and birds and ghosts.
I find I forget more and more nowadays. Nothing very important, as yet. I was talking to somebody just now on the telephone, and as soon as I had replaced the receiver I realised I’d forgotten who it was and what we said. I shall probably remember later when I’m lying in the bath. I’ve forgotten other things too: the names of the birds are no longer on the tip of my tongue and I’m embarrassed to say that I can’t remember where I planted the daffodil bulbs for spring. And yet, as the years w
ash everything else away, Tyneford remains—a smooth pebble of a memory. Tyneford. Tyneford. As though if I say the name enough, I can go back again. Those summers were long and blue and hot. I remember it all, or think I do. It doesn’t seem long ago to me. I have replayed each moment so often in my mind that I hear my own voice in every part. Now, as I write them, they appear fixed, absolute. On the page we live again, young and unknowing, everything yet to happen.
When I received the letter that brought me to Tyneford, I knew nothing about England, except that I wouldn’t like it. That morning I perched on my usual spot beside the draining board in the kitchen as Hildegard bustled around, flour up to her elbows and one eyebrow snowy white. I laughed and she flicked her tea towel at me, knocking the crust out of my hand and onto the floor.
“Gut. Bit less bread and butter won’t do you any harm.”
I scowled and flicked crumbs onto the linoleum. I wished I could be more like my mother, Anna. Worry had made Anna even thinner. Her eyes were huge against her pale skin, so that she looked more than ever like the operatic heroines she played. When she married my father, Anna was already a star—a black-eyed beauty with a voice like cherries and chocolate. She was the real thing; when she opened her mouth and began to sing, time paused just a little and everyone listened, bathing in the sound, unsure if what they heard was real or some perfect imagining. When the trouble began, letters started to arrive from Venice and Paris, from tenors and conductors. There was even one from a double bass. They were all the same: Darling Anna, leave Vienna and come to Paris/London/New York and I shall keep you safe . . . Of course she would not leave without my father. Or me. Or Margot. I would have gone in a flash, packed my ball gowns (if I’d had any) and escaped to sip champagne in the Champs Elysées. But no letters came for me. Not even a note from a second violin. So I ate bread rolls with butter, while Hildegard sewed little pieces of elastic into my waistbands.
“Come.” Hildegard chivvied me off the counter and steered me into the middle of the kitchen, where a large book dusted with flour rested on the table. “You must practise. What shall we make?”
Anna had picked it up at a secondhand bookstore and presented it to me with a flush of pride. Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management—a whole kilo of book to teach me how to cook and clean and behave. This was to be my unglamorous fate.
Chewing on my plait, I prodded the tome so that it fell open at the index. “‘General Observations on Quadrupeds . . . Mock Turtle Soup . . . Eel Pie.’”I shuddered. “Here.” I pointed to an entry halfway down the page. “Goose. I should know how to cook goose. I said I knew.”
A month previously, Anna had walked with me to the telegraph offices so that I could wire a “Refugee Advertisement” to the London Times. I’d dragged my feet along the pavement, kicking at the wet piles of blossoms littering the ground.
“I don’t want to go to England. I’ll come to America with you and Papa.”
My parents hoped to escape to New York, where the Metropolitan Opera would help them with a visa, if only Anna would sing.
Anna picked up her pace. “And you will come. But we cannot get an American visa for you now.”
She stopped in the middle of the street and took my face in her hands. “I promise you that before I even take a peek at the shoes in Bergdorf Goodmans, I will see a lawyer about bringing you to New York.”
“Before you see the shoes at Bergdorf’s?”
“I promise.”
Anna had tiny feet and a massive appetite for shoes. Music may have been her first love, but shoes were definitely her second. Her wardrobe was lined with row upon row of dainty high heels in pink, grey, patent leather, calfskin and suede. She made fun of herself to mollify me.
“Please let me at least check your advertisement,” Anna pleaded. Before she’d met my father Anna had sung a season at Covent Garden and her English was almost perfect.
“No.” I snatched the paper away from her. “If my English is so terrible that I can only get a place at a flophouse, then it’s my own fault.”
Anna tried not to laugh. “Darling, do you even know what a flophouse is?”
Of course I had no idea, but I couldn’t tell Anna that. I had visions of refugees like myself, alternately fainting upon overstuffed sofas. Full of indignation at her teasing, I made Anna wait outside the office while I sent the telegram: VIENNESE JEWESS, 19, seeks position as domestic servant. Speaks fluid English. I will cook your goose. Elise Landau. Vienna 4, Dorotheegasse, 30/5.
Hildegard fixed me with a hard stare. “Elise Rosa Landau, I do not happen to have a goose in my larder this morning, so will you please select something else.”
I was about to choose Parrot Pie, purely to infuriate Hildegard, when Anna and Julian entered the kitchen. He held out a letter. My father, Julian, was a tall man, standing six feet in his socks, with thick black hair with only a splash of grey around his temples, and eyes as blue as a summer sea. My parents proved that beautiful people don’t necessarily produce beautiful children. My mother, with her fragile blond loveliness, and Julian so handsome that he always wore his wire-rimmed spectacles to lessen the effect of those too-blue eyes (I’d tried them on when he was bathing, and discovered that the lenses were so weak as to be almost clear glass). Yet somehow this couple had produced me. For years the great-aunts had cooed, “Ach, just you wait till she blossoms! Twelve years old, mark my words, and she’ll be the spit of her mother.” I could spit, but I was nothing like my mother. Twelve came and went. They held out for sixteen. Still no blossoming. By nineteen even Gabrielle, the most optimistic of the great-aunts, had given up hope. The best they could manage was: “She has her own charm. And character.” Whether this character was good or bad, they never said.
Anna lurked behind Julian, blinking and running a pink tongue-tip across her bottom lip. I stood up straight and concentrated on the letter in Julian’s hand.
“It’s from England,” he said, holding it out to me.
I took it from him and with deliberate slowness, well aware they were all watching me, slid a butter knife under the seal. I drew out a creamy sheet of watermarked paper, unfolded it and smoothed the creases. I read in slow silence. The others bore with me for a minute and then Julian interrupted.
“For God’s sake, Elise. What does it say?”
I fixed him with a glare. I glared a lot back then. He ignored me, and I read aloud.
Dear Fräulein Landau,
Mr. Rivers has instructed me to write to you and tell you that the position of house parlour maid at Tyneford House is yours if you want it. He has agreed to sign the necessary visa application statements, providing that you stay at Tyneford for a minimum of a twelvemonth. If you wish to accept the post, please write or wire by return. On your arrival in London, proceed to the Mayfair Agency in Audley St. W1, where ongoing travel arrangements to Tyneford will be made.
Yours sincerely,
Florence Ellsworth
Housekeeper, Tyneford House
I lowered the letter.
“But twelve months is too long. I’m to be in New York before then, Papa.”
Julian and Anna exchanged a glance, and it was she who answered.
“Darling Bean, I hope you will be in New York in six months. But for now, you must go where it is safe.”
Julian tugged my plait in a gesture of playful affection. “We can’t go to New York unless we know you’re out of harm’s way. The minute we arrive at the Metropolitan we’ll send for you.”
“I suppose it’s too late for me to take singing lessons?”
Anna only smiled. So it was true, then. I was to leave them. Until this moment it had not been real. I had written the telegram, even sent the wire to London, but it had seemed a game. I knew things were bad for us in Vienna. I heard the stories of old women being pulled out of shops by their hair and forced to scrub the pavements. Frau Goldschmidt had been made to scrape dog feces from the gutter with her mink stole. I overheard her confession to Anna; she had sat hunched on the sofa in the parlour, her porcelain cup clattering in her hands, as she confided her ordeal: “The joke is, I never liked that fur. It was a gift from Herman, and I wore it to please him. It was much too hot and it was his mother’s colour, not mine. He never would learn . . . But to spoil it like that . . .” She’d seemed more upset by the waste than the humiliation. Before she left, I saw Anna quietly stuff an arctic rabbit muffler inside her shopping bag.