| |
Arthur had never imagined a house like the one he and his classmates shuffled toward. They lugged their suitcases and rations down the gravel drive. He had never seen warm gray stone before, but that was what the place seemed to be made of. Aside from the color, the rest of the structure was imposing: rectangular windows all in perfect, symmetrical order, blank and gaping, a sharp and depressing slate-colored roof, and a portico adorned with impressive columns at the top of a sharp stair. Even against the sweet September evening sky, it seemed lonesome and haunted with overgrown gardens and lawns and a courtyard scattered with last winter’s leaves.
“There it is, children.” Miss Pelles chirped, her hands full with the timid digits of two particularly homesick girls. She seemed to think that taking the same tone used to entice five-year-olds would work with young people who were nearly thirteen. “Look at it, isn’t it beautiful? Carolean architecture, I believe. Late 1600s. Wasn’t that a long time ago? It has an Italian garden and a fountain out back and loads of space for you all to play and bask in the sun and fresh air. So much better than the drab city, isn’t it?”
As they approached, Mrs. Balin ushered them into two lines, boys and girls, a phalanx of refugees tripping timidly up the drive. When they neared the bottom of the great stone staircase, the enormous door at the top swung open, and three figures emerged. One was a pot-bellied gentleman clad in a butler’s fine weeds, and the other two were female, one gray-haired woman with powerful forearms, and the other a stick-thin girl in a maid’s uniform.
Mrs. Balin held up a hand for them to stop, and the children obeyed, clutching their suitcases while regarding the keepers of the mansion.
“Welcome to Willowind House,” the balding butler greeted, his posture and pronunciation perfect. “On behalf of the Baroness Lady Barlow, myself, and the rest of the staff, we are pleased to have you here as our guests.”
“Thank you very much, sir.” Mrs. Balin smiled, and it forced her blunt and weathered features into a face resembling a turtle with indigestion. “The children and their families are ever so grateful for your hospitality.”
“I am Mr. Marlin,” the butler said. “Allow me to introduce our cook, Mrs. Galhad, and my lady’s maid, Miss Ivaine.”
While the man spoke, Arthur’s eyes wandered up to the second story windows where a sudden movement caught his attention. As a cloud passed over the sun, he made out the figure of a bent old hag peering down through the glass, the wispy curtains clutched in her gnarled hands. Her owlish eyes stared back into his gaze, and a chill raced through him. Arthur dropped his head to break the spell.
Once the introductions and drippy, yet obligatory thank-yous had been dealt with, the children were marched into the main hall, a massive foyer with a black and white checkered floor. Through an arched doorway, Arthur could see a grand staircase leading up to the second story.
Mr. Marlin led them through another set of intricately carved double doors. Their shoes echoed over the marble floor and disturbed the grave-stillness of the house. The room they entered spanned almost the length of the back of the house, and was lined with row upon row of dusty windows providing sunlight and views of the back garden, now wild and overgrown, the fountain dry and lifeless. “I thought this would do for a classroom, and a place to take your meals,” Mr. Marlin said.
“Plenty of light.” Miss Pelles admired the forest green and brown paneled walls and complicated plaster ceiling.
“Rooms on either side of this one have been cleared,” Mr. Marlin went on. The calm softness of his voice appealed to Arthur, as did his gray eyes, which seemed to focus on everything and nothing simultaneously. “One for boys and one for girls. The chapel is down this way.” He indicated the doors at the end of the right side of the long, empty saloon. “Mrs. Galhad, will you be so kind as to show Miss Pelles the kitchen?”
“Right away, sir. This way, if you please.” Miss Pelles and Mrs. Galhad disappeared through the far left doors.
“Mrs. Balin, please inform me if there is anything further you require.” Mr. Marlin clasped his hands behind his back. “Mrs. Galhad will see to your provisions, laundry, and water for washing.”
From somewhere in the distant depths of the house, the muffled tinkle of a bell reached Arthur’s ears.
Apparently, the sound alerted Mr. Marlin as well. “If you will excuse me.” He disappeared back into the main hall, leaving the class alone in their new quarters.
“All right, children,” Mrs. Balin barked, “boys, your quarters are to the left, girls to the right. There should be cots, mattresses, and bed clothes stacked there for you. Help one another set out the beds and prepare them. I’ll go speak to the cook and Miss Pelles about scrounging up some tea.”
The boys filed into what had once been a drawing room, decorated with heavy red damask draperies that flowed over white panels. In the dim light permitted through the curtained windows, gold gleamed on mirror frames and small furnishings. Most of the furniture had been removed, and the fine carpet rolled away, replaced with two stacks of cots, a pile of mattresses, and several boxes of sheets. The room’s museum-like intricacy was oppressive, and Arthur was afraid to touch anything.
“All right, boys, let’s get this room ship shape.” Miss Pelles called cheerfully as she emerged through the opposite door from a stairway that led from the kitchen. Morgan and his friends fell on the stacks without hesitation, and put their cots next to each other near the fireplace. The rest of the boys lined up their beds adjacent to the classmates they were friendliest with. Arthur and James held back and waited to see what was left. With quick, curious glances, Arthur looked around the room, scanning the chaotic activity of children settling into new surroundings. James, on the other hand, stood with his head bowed and his arms crossed, gently tapping an innocent dust bunny with the toe of his shoe.
“Oh my, you’re a strapping lad, aren’t you?” Miss Pelles patted Arthur’s swollen bicep. “I’ll be happy to have your help around the vegetable garden... Arthur.” She read his name from the tag on his coat. “I’m sure you’re quite strong. Why don’t you help James with his bed?”
Arthur nodded, nearly imperceptibly, and did as she asked, fetching two cots and mattresses. James retrieved the sheets and handed a set to Arthur without looking at him.
“Oh, the strong silent type.” Miss Pelles winked at them. “The girls go mad for that, don’t they, gentlemen?”
Morgan made a sound of dismissal. “He’s always silent, Miss.” He took a tone of concerned confidentiality while Tommy handed out pillows to his mates. “Never says a word, so don’t take it personal. He’s an imbecile.”
Tommy, Kenneth, and some of the other boys tittered, but Miss Pelles hushed them. “Make those sheets tight. I don’t want to see a single sloppy bed,” she warned.
Arthur and James made their beds, which had been shoved farthest from the fireplace and closest to the door leading back to the saloon. The two outcasts smoothed their blankets and passed inspection.
The schoolchildren helped carry a long wooden table into the saloon and outfitted it with chairs. They also brought in smaller tables and other fine, but mismatched, furnishings to serve as their classroom. Mrs. Balin opened a crate sent by the government and began to assemble the blackboard while Miss Pelles unpacked the primers and paper.
At long last, late in the evening, they sat down to supper. Though the bowls were heaped with a chunky, vile-looking stew, the children were ravenous. Mrs. Balin forced them to wait, however, and the table was surrounded by lolling, covetous eyes as fingers itched to snatch up spoons.
Mrs. Balin rose next to her chair. “Children, you have all been very brave today. We expect you to continue this and be on your best behavior while Britain fights off those nasty Germans. Now, I know Miss Pelles has referred to this trip as a holiday. Of course, there will be time for fun and games, but we will continue our studies as well. The best way we can work to defeat our enemies is to carry on as if life has not been disrupted. His Majesty’s armies need intelligent boys, as well as dependable and capable girls to hold the country together while the men are away. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Balin,” they chanted. All but Arthur, who simply mouthed the words.
“Now, understand these rules,” she droned on. Arthur’s mouth watered as the grisly soup’s steam reached his nostrils. “Lights out will be at 8:30. No talking or mischief of any kind will be tolerated. You will be awakened at 6:00 to wash up. Breakfast is at 6:30 and lessons begin promptly at 7:00. Keep your bed, your clothes, and your bodies clean. You will also be assigned certain chores about the house, whatever Mr. Marlin needs us to do. This is to help pay the gracious Baroness back for use of her estate-” she cut herself off sharply, “Jane, if you touch that bread, I’ll thwack your knuckles until they bleed!”
Jane put her hand back in her lap, and bowed her head with a whimper.
“Speaking of Lady Barlow,” Mrs. Balin continued, “I have been informed that she is elderly and infirm, and is, for the most part, confined to the upstairs of the mansion. It is imperative that we do not disturb her in any way when going about our daily business. Do not wander away from the designated areas we have been assigned, and keep the shouting during recreation time to a minimum. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mrs. Balin,” came the dirge of childlike voices.
“Good. Now, let us say grace.”
Arthur’s stomach roared so loudly that the girl to his left shot a disgusted glance his way. She put her hand in his with intense reluctance as they bowed their heads.
“Bless, O Father, Thy gifts to our use and us to Thy service; for Christ’s sake. Amen.”
“Amen.” the schoolchildren cried, and took up their spoons.
An hour later, Arthur lay on his bed while his feet dangled from the bottom edge. The room was dark, save for a twinkle of moonlight that seeped in through the heavy draperies. A lantern burned near the door to the loo. The dark air filled with little noises and rustlings as the boys tried to get comfortable on their hard cots, wrapped in scratchy sheets. They were used to city sounds; the ear-shattering peace of the nighttime countryside provided no comfort.
Arthur knew sleep would not come. He did not try to coax it. Yes, the country was too quiet, the bed too small, the linens dreadful (not to mention, his rations weren’t nearly enough to fill his stomach) but his insomnia came from a different place. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw his father’s face, twisted, monstrous, disfigured by the gout of fire from a Nazi flamethrower. Nothing had been the same since Papa had come home from Norway. The scarred face, the scarred heart, all of these things were strange to Arthur. His powerful, vigorous father, reduced to a trembling invalid, his features unrecognizable, his laugh slaughtered and buried. It was as if Papa had died trying to defend the iron mines and they’d sent someone else back in his stead.
A gentle sniffle wafted over from his left. There was only one bed between Arthur and the wall, where James lay, folded into a protective ball, covers yanked up under his chin. The moonlight fell over his heart-shaped face as he shifted, turning towards Arthur’s cot, near sleep but not fully in its grasp. Tears streaked his face and glimmered as his features relaxed gradually into slumber.
Arthur stared at him until he drowsed and slept; one face replaced with another.