leant out, enjoying the wind rushing against my cheeks and tearing at the pins fastening my hair. I opened my mouth and tasted salt. The air was clean and heather-scented, and I scoured the horizon for a glimpse of the sea. We hurtled along wild heath tangled with scrub and black swathes of forest. The trees stretched endlessly into the distance, a mass of swaying green, rippling up and down the sloping hills.
‘Next stop Wareham. Wareham next stop,’ called the guard, hurrying through the train.
I stood in a rush, heart beating in my ears, and snatched up my satchel and the viola case. I wobbled on my feet as the train shuddered to a halt, fumbled with the door, hands shaking, and climbed out onto the platform. Frightened that the train would leave with my belongings, I shouted for the guard and ran to the luggage car.
‘Which one is it, miss? Hurry up now. Train needs to be off.’
Thirty seconds later, I was standing alone on the station platform. A torn poster commanding the reader to DRINK ELDRIDGE POPE’S INDIA PALE ALE flapped in the breeze, and far away a dog barked. I watched as the train became snail-sized and disappeared into the woods, sat down on my trunk and waited.
CHAPTER SIX
Seventeen gates
‘Elise Landau?’
‘Yes?’
I looked up and saw a lean man of at least seventy years, shoulders slightly stooped, standing at the end of the platform and chewing on a pipe with extreme concentration. He ambled across to me in no particular hurry and glanced at my luggage.
‘Yorn?’
I stared at him, uncomprehending. He spat the pipe out of his mouth and enunciated with exaggerated clarity.
‘Them baggages is what be belongin’ ter you?’
‘Yes.’
Muttering something under his breath, he disappeared down the platform again at the same slow lope, reappearing a few minutes later with a trolley. With surprising ease he heaved on the bags and trundled it towards the front of the station.
‘Mr Bobbin don’t like ter be kept waitin’,’ he said gruffly.
I attempted to smooth my dress and hair, while scurrying to keep up. In my experience chauffeurs were invariably impatient. The old man led the way to a cobbled yard, where a smart motorcar waited, engine running, but my companion walked past it, stopping instead beside a ramshackle wooden cart attached to a massive carriage-horse, nose buried in a stash of hay.
‘Ah. Mr Bobbin,’ he said, letting out a small, satisfied sigh.
In those days, carriages and carts were still a common sight in Vienna, but they belonged to tinkers and coal-merchants, or farmers bringing goods to market. I had understood Mr Rivers to be a wealthy man and presumed him the owner of at least one motorcar. I experienced a strange feeling in my belly, as I realised that Mr Rivers may indeed have a smart motorcar and simply did not choose to send it and his chauffeur to collect the new housemaid. As I idled, my luggage was unceremoniously tossed in the back of the cart and after clambering onto the driving seat, the old man reached down and hauled me up with a strong arm.
‘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 a brown thatch. Along the high street, the upper storeys protruded above the pavement, like Frau Schmidt’s overbite. It was afternoon and most of the shutters were
‘Next stop Wareham. Wareham next stop,’ called the guard, hurrying through the train.
I stood in a rush, heart beating in my ears, and snatched up my satchel and the viola case. I wobbled on my feet as the train shuddered to a halt, fumbled with the door, hands shaking, and climbed out onto the platform. Frightened that the train would leave with my belongings, I shouted for the guard and ran to the luggage car.
‘Which one is it, miss? Hurry up now. Train needs to be off.’
Thirty seconds later, I was standing alone on the station platform. A torn poster commanding the reader to DRINK ELDRIDGE POPE’S INDIA PALE ALE flapped in the breeze, and far away a dog barked. I watched as the train became snail-sized and disappeared into the woods, sat down on my trunk and waited.
CHAPTER SIX
Seventeen gates
‘Elise Landau?’
‘Yes?’
I looked up and saw a lean man of at least seventy years, shoulders slightly stooped, standing at the end of the platform and chewing on a pipe with extreme concentration. He ambled across to me in no particular hurry and glanced at my luggage.
‘Yorn?’
I stared at him, uncomprehending. He spat the pipe out of his mouth and enunciated with exaggerated clarity.
‘Them baggages is what be belongin’ ter you?’
‘Yes.’
Muttering something under his breath, he disappeared down the platform again at the same slow lope, reappearing a few minutes later with a trolley. With surprising ease he heaved on the bags and trundled it towards the front of the station.
‘Mr Bobbin don’t like ter be kept waitin’,’ he said gruffly.
I attempted to smooth my dress and hair, while scurrying to keep up. In my experience chauffeurs were invariably impatient. The old man led the way to a cobbled yard, where a smart motorcar waited, engine running, but my companion walked past it, stopping instead beside a ramshackle wooden cart attached to a massive carriage-horse, nose buried in a stash of hay.
‘Ah. Mr Bobbin,’ he said, letting out a small, satisfied sigh.
In those days, carriages and carts were still a common sight in Vienna, but they belonged to tinkers and coal-merchants, or farmers bringing goods to market. I had understood Mr Rivers to be a wealthy man and presumed him the owner of at least one motorcar. I experienced a strange feeling in my belly, as I realised that Mr Rivers may indeed have a smart motorcar and simply did not choose to send it and his chauffeur to collect the new housemaid. As I idled, my luggage was unceremoniously tossed in the back of the cart and after clambering onto the driving seat, the old man reached down and hauled me up with a strong arm.
‘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 a brown thatch. Along the high street, the upper storeys protruded above the pavement, like Frau Schmidt’s overbite. It was afternoon and most of the shutters were
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