The Novel in the Viola by Natasha Solomons Page B

drawn, few people were about and those there 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 into 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. Yerl 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 leant 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, and 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 a lady drinking spirits. They did not. But then Anna was far away. I swallowed and felt my throat tingle like 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 shins. 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 it 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