Kingsley knocks on the open door. “Are you nearly ready? We have to leave at a quarter past six tomorrow morning. Papa and Olive are coming to the station too, to help with the cases.” He’s letting his beard grow, and looks even more like Father now.
“Exciting, isn’t it?” I was going to leave home last year, but suddenly my parents decided I was too young for it. I’m twenty-one now and they can’t stop me any more.
He laughs at my enthusiasm; the air of dissatisfaction he always carries with him vanishes a while. “I’m going to miss the chaps, though.” He has a large group of friends, young men from the village he meets for sports and drinking.
“Perhaps it’s different for a boy.”
He gives me a wink. “I’ve promised them I’ll keep an eye on you.”
A half-smile, and then I turn back to my suitcase. He probably won’t be in London for long. Most of the soldiers are sent to the Continent, to Belgium and France.
The sun suddenly breaks through. The birch tree opposite my window throws its shadow across the bed, across my suitcase. Cook rings the bell for teatime, swift shrill stabs. I run downstairs.
The table is lavishly spread: pots of jam and butter and cream; plates filled with cake, scones, muffins, sandwiches and pancakes. And there’s tea and cocoa.
“What a feast!” I sit beside my father.
“Two of my little ones are flying the nest. That calls for a celebration.”
I help myself to a muffin. “Olive, pass the strawberry jam, please. And the clotted cream.”
She pushes them towards me, stony-faced.
“Is something wrong?”
“Why should anything be wrong? Don’t be silly.”
“You can always come and visit.”
Dudley wolfs down the pancakes as if his life depended on it. He spreads them thickly with butter and jam, or puts cheese and ham on them, rolling them up and cutting them into big chunks. They vanish into his mouth bite by bite. At pancake number five I see Mother stare at him. At number six she says his name. At number seven she gestures to Cook to take the pancakes away. “Hang on,” Kingsley says, “I’d like another one.”
“Just one, then,” Mother says. She takes one from the dish, and puts it on Kingsley’s plate, stretching her arm across the table.
“I’m awfully hungry, Mama. I’d like two,” he says.
She picks up another one. Her lips form a straight line. Cook asks if anyone else would like a pancake.
“I’d like another,” Dudley says.
“Should you really?” Mother asks him.
Father taps her hand with his fingers, then taps his fork on the table top. “Don’t grudge the lad his pleasures.”
“He’s eaten six already.”
Seven.
My father turns his attention back to his own plate. “Delicious,” he tells Cook. “You’ve excelled yourself again. What a sumptuous feast! Splendid.”
Dudley belches. He swiftly places a napkin in front of his mouth. “Sorry.”
“Ugh,” Olive says.
Cook coughs. She’s still standing there, dish in hand.
“All right then,” says Mother.
Dudley treats this pancake exactly like the previous one, but the butter is spread thicker and the jam too.
I can feel Olive looking at me as I take a bite from my scone. I don’t return her glance.
The following morning I knock at my mother’s door before we leave. She doesn’t open it. “Perhaps she isn’t well,” Olive says.
I push the door handle down. “It’s locked.”
“Len,” my father calls up from the bottom of the stairs. “We really must leave.”
I knock one more time.
“Come on,” Olive says. I follow her downstairs. My suitcase is heavy, but I want to carry it myself.
The first thing I see when I wake up is my violin, in an open case across two chairs at the foot of the bed. The room is narrow and dark and perfect. Somewhere in the distance a clock is striking. I count along, to seven. I get out of bed and open the window, then sit on the sill with my violin, softly plucking the strings. Trams, voices, wind, the sound of an engine. On the opposite side of the street someone has hung a washing line in front of their window. Underclothes are pegged to it. The rehearsal won’t take place till two. I have plenty of time to explore. Someone knocks at the door and I hurriedly put on my dressing gown.
“Miss Howard? Good morning. My name is Sylvia. Mrs Sewell asked me to wake you. Breakfast will be ready at half past seven.” Sylvia is shorter than me by a head. She’s wearing a white cap perched on flaxen hair. She can’t be more than sixteen.
I get dressed and braid my own hair. The door from the room beside mine opens and then closes—it isn’t half past seven yet, but I’m hungry.
Mrs Sewell is standing at the bottom of the dark wooden staircase. She’s talking to a tall young lady with curly red hair. “No, by Friday,” she says sharply. “This is your last chance.”
The young lady turns abruptly, gives me a brief look, winks and walks away. She’s wearing lipstick.
“Good morning, Miss Howard. Did you sleep well?” Mrs Sewell is all smiles with me. “The dining room is over there.”
I walk across the thick dark-brown carpet to the back room, where the girl I’ve just seen is sitting alone at the table.
“Would you mind if I sat beside you?”
She laughs. “Please do. I’m Thea.” She takes my right hand with her left hand, clasping her teacup firmly in her right.
“Gwendolen, but they call me Gwen. Or Len.”
“Hallo Len, welcome to the Haunted House. That’s what we all call it. The only real spectre here is Mrs Sewell, but still.” She gives a Cheshire Cat grin. “Are you a musician too?”
“I play the violin. What about you?”
“Jolly good, then we can play together. Cello.” Freckles form a pathway, fanning out from her nose to her cheeks. I look dark and pale beside her, lacking in colour.
“Do you also play in an orchestra?”
“I have three auditions this week. Hopefully something will come of them, otherwise things will get a little awkward. Money-wise too.” She pours more milk into her cup and drinks the tepid tea in a single gulp. “Something always turns up. Till now, at least.”
“I’ve been engaged by the Queen’s Hall Orchestra.”
“Phew, you’re good then. So much the better! I say, do you have a young man?”
I shake my head, help myself to some toast and spread it with butter and jam. “What about you?”
“Two, at the moment. Andrew, who’s a soldier, and Johnny, from the last orchestra I played in. That’s the reason they threw me out. They don’t want us to mix love and work. Just so you know.”
“My brother is a soldier.”
“Is he good-looking?” Her eyes open wider, as if she’s searching for him in me.
“No idea. Now, I’d like to explore the neighbourhood after breakfast. Do you want to come along?”
She grimaces. “Why are you bothered about this place? Come into town with me. Do you know London already?”
“Not really.”
“Marvellous. Then I’ll guide you, and you’re in luck, ’cos I’m the best guide ever!”
“Bring your coat. It’s going to rain.” Thea is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. I run back up, almost bumping into the landlady.
“Miss Howard?”
“Excuse me. I was in a hurry.”
“We do not run on the staircase in this establishment.”
I offer my apologies once again.
Thea laughs at my crestfallen face. “Mrs Sewell isn’t so bad. She can sometimes hit the roof, but she’s helped me out of a fix a couple of times. This time too. I haven’t paid her for two weeks in a row. Anyone else would’ve thrown me out long ago.”