The Song of Hartgrove Hall by Natasha Solomons Page A

this side of the green-baize door. We may not have had the staff nor the wealth of our pals, but we kept up the pretence as the least we could do. The upstairs might have been very nearly as shabby as the downstairs, but we maintained the illusory barrier. It was expected, after all. Now, by silent accord, Jack, George and I simply can’t do it any more. There’s a shortage of beddersat Cambridge, so it seems perfectly ridiculous to pretend that I can’t brew a simple pot of tea. Standards have fallen, and Chivers and the General are the only ones who wish to see them reinvigorated.
    â€˜Sir, miss, I believe you’d be much more comfortable in the morning room. I’ll ask one of the dailies to light a fire.’
    Chivers attempts to conceal the note of pleading in his voice but he’s the last man standing in Camp Civilisation and it’s been overrun by us Champions of Informality, and he knows it.
    George waves him off. ‘They won’t be in for ages yet, Chivers. It’s bloody freezing in the morning room and it’s toasty by the range.’
    The aged butler sighs and retreats to the far side of the kitchen. It’s true. The daily girls won’t be in for an hour at least. Gone are the days when fires were lit before the family ventured downstairs.
    â€˜Thank you, Mr Chivers,’ calls Edie. ‘It’s very kind of you. We don’t mean to put you out.’
    For the first time, I grasp that she isn’t quite one of us. She doesn’t realise that her polite apology, her ‘Mr Chivers’, will be taken by the man as an affront to his dignity.
    â€˜Tea?’ asks George, hunting for the kettle, and at that poor Chivers withdraws to his pantry, unable to bear witness to standards having slipped so far that one of the young masters is brewing his own pre-breakfast cup.
    â€˜Oh, good morning, Fox,’ says George, spying me at last. ‘Bloody cold, isn’t it. I went for a piss and the bloody bog’s frozen solid.’ He pauses, remembering Edie. ‘Sorry.’
    She waves away his concern and shudders with cold. Looking down, I see that she’s wearing several pairs of Jack’s old army socks and no shoes.
    â€˜Here, have this,’ I say, offering her the blanket.
    â€˜I’ll share it with you,’ she says and comes to stand rightbeside me, draping the blanket around both our shoulders. I’m acutely aware that I haven’t washed since early yesterday and I smell of brandy and fags.
    â€˜Have you seen Jack?’ I ask.
    Edie smiles. ‘He’s still asleep. He can sleep through anything. Bombs. Irate landladies. Arctic bedrooms.’
    I glance at George and try to appear nonchalant and sophisticated, taking in that Edie has admitted not only to sleeping with Jack – which we suspected – but to having actually shared his bedroom here at Hartgrove Hall. I’m torn between dizzying, hopeless envy of Jack and intrigue. I hope she’s more guarded around the General or the morning will be very interesting indeed. It was jolly good luck that Chivers had made his exit before her confession or he’d have dashed straight upstairs and told him everything. There are no secrets between those two. They’re worse gossips than the old women in the village.
    The three of us lurk beside the ancient range, watching the light ripen through the high kitchen windows. I want to go outside onto the terrace, watch the morning slink across the white fields and count the sets of footprints dimpling the lawn, then choose a journey to follow into the hills – a deer, or a hare perhaps – but I don’t want to break the spell. I like standing here with George and Edie, my back warm from the range fire, the gurgle and hiss of the boiler. It’s a comfortable quiet, an orchestrated rest between notes, and automatically I count the beats. Edie’s laugh punctures the pause.
    â€˜Are you