IN THE SITTING ROOM
Pamela Ryder
Madame rings: “Violet, dear!”
as if this was a manor house on the Continent or the cottage in Sussex or the residence in Devonshire or York:
“Oh, Violet!”
and not stuck way out here in what they call “the colonies” back home.
The Colonel had explained it all as she was shown about: a system of speaking tubes, a series of wires and bells permitting the staff to be summoned from anywhere in the house—“buzzed” or “rung” was what the Colonel said, so she—Violet—could be called—for instance, if he had misplaced his razor in the second story bath, or downstairs dinner guests were waiting for dessert. Or, the Colonel said, up in the nursery, the boy—the baby—their little Charles—was wanting his porridge hotter, or Madame, dressing in the master bedroom, needed help with a clasp or hook.
This was, of course, when Madame took the trouble to dress.
When dinners were still given.
When there used to be a baby wanting his porridge hotter.
Back when Madame would sit at her stitching, evenings after the baby had been bathed and tucked and the lamps were lit against the early dark of winter woods at every window.
“Privacy,” the Colonel said. Reporters, photographers—there was always someone lurking somewhere. Flying buffs and fanatics—someone always out there hoping for a glimpse.
“Admirers,” Madame called them.
“Trouble-makers,” said the Colonel. Sight-seers. Snoops. Crowds with binoculars, cameras.
“Hey, Colonel Lindbergh!” someone would call from a carload of day trippers. “Give us a peek at that baby boy of yours!”
“Aw, Lindy,” someone would say, being hauled off the property. “How ‘bout a look at the Missus?”
“Lunatics,” said the Colonel. Someone trying to sneak past or sneak in.
“Violet!”
“‘Reliable,’” the Colonel read, reviewing her letter of reference.
“‘Efficient,’” Mrs. Willoughby had written when the cottage was closed and the staff was sent off, services no longer required.
“‘No vices.’”
(It was the cook—thank goodness—who eventually confessed about the sherry. Or was it the port?)
“‘Fond of children.’”
“How kind of Mrs. Willoughby to say,” Violet said. How very kind, considering.
Of course, no mention was made.
Not of the boy—Mrs. Willoughby’s boy—young Master Paul.
(Poor Master Paul.)
It was absolutely irrelevant, what had happened in Sussex in her last place of service, in her last situation, in her summer with the Willoughbys, in the cottage, in the country, at the close of the summer.
Absolutely, everyone said.
There was no need to mention the Willoughby boy or the pond behind the cottage where there were peepers singing every evening. Or the willow on the bank. Or the larkspur blooming on the path.
No need to speak of faded roses or shouldered picks and shovels.
The fresh-turned earth of churchyards.
The pitch of it flung from the hole: pebbles, soil, old bones, the little worms. The grit in her hair.
“Careful, Mum,” the digger had said when she stepped too close and closer.
The spark and clang of spaded stone.
The seep and dark she could see down there in the hole. Mist. Damp.
No need to speak of English afternoons of clotted cream and tea.
After all, the boy—the Willoughby boy—had not been in her charge. And Mrs. Willoughby wanted scones. Mrs. Willoughby wanted marmalade. Mrs. Willoughby wanted the madeleines arranged on the serving dish just so (“Don’t crowd them, Violet—a dozen is plenty!”) and sprinkled with cinnamon. And the trifle filled with gooseberry jam and sweetened cream, not sliced oranges and custard. And the silver service pattern of forget-me-nots. (“Violet, not the fleur-de-lis.”)
“Silver polish for that platter, please.”
“A sprinkling of salt on that spot.”
“Use the teacups with the rosebuds.”
“Fetch the sugar tongs and matching teaspoons.”
“Oolong, Violet, not the Pekoe!”
"Pots de creme beside each plate."
Mrs. Willoughby wanted the roses displayed in a nicer vase (“Violet, goodness, use the crystal”), the lemons cut in slices (“Never wedges, Violet”), the napkins folded in the shape of swans (“Turn the wings to hide the seam”), and (“Please”) a little stiffer crease.
The cook was uncooperative. The cottage stove had a tendency to overheat. And marmalade, as everyone knows, requires constant stirring. Not surprising, it was said at the investigation, what with Mr. Willoughby away on business and Mrs. Willoughby—well, just busy—that the boy’s whereabouts had simply been “overlooked.” After all, he had been in nobody’s charge. Such a boy of such a tender age needing more looking after—Violet thought, but never thought to say. Hardly her place to give her views to the lady of the house. Hardly in a position to tell Mrs. Willoughby that a boy like that—the sort of a boy always being here and there or nowhere-to-be-found at any given moment or too much around and always underfoot—that sort of boy was best not be given the run of the place. Into the kitchen came that boy, for a taste of this or a lick of that. Into the dining room, rummaging through the server for a spoon for turning up worms or poking down in the cellar for a jar for keeping pollywogs.
Into her sewing basket for a length of string for catching little fishes with an elderberry stick and a quilting pin.
Mud on his britches and sopping wet by mid-morning. Scrapes on his shin by noon. Burrs in his hair and badly needing a brushing before his bath and bed, when Violet brought him his tea and he asked for a tuck-me-in-tight.
“‘Tidy, quiet, considerate,’” read the Colonel—what Mrs. Willoughby had written, had so very kindly written when the inquest was over. When the Willoughby boy’s britches and shirts and books were put away. The beds were stripped and the linen was folded and the furniture was sold and what was left was sheeted over. When the sinks were scrubbed and the pipes were drained and the water shut. And the cupboards were emptied and the dishes were crated and the chips of wood and dust from the oaken box that was made for the boy were swept from the floor and the boy was tucked in tight. And a new space was made among the old skulls and spaded bones in the churchyard earth and the space was filled with the wet of late summer rain and roses and the Willoughby boy.
“‘Diligent, loyal.’”
“‘Helpful in the nursery. Organized in the kitchen.’”
Poor Master Paul, was what everyone said when speaking of it; what everyone had called him when referring to the Willoughby boy that summer in Sussex.
What the cook and the gardener and the constable had said so quietly while they all stood on the bank and watched what was coming up from the bottom of the pond.
What Violet whispered to herself when she was finally off and on her way, on the sea, on deck where she stood as cold and wet as the boy had been—“Poor Master Paul”—she said to herself, when the steward on his watch, making his rounds inquired, “Dear lady, would you be speaking to me?”
Why, yes, she would like to ask him: was that buzz she was hearing coming from below deck—the vibration of an engine?—or was it from another a ship sending out a signal? Amessage over the wires? Over the air? A coded signal of distress?
And yes, she had been wondering: did he think that the sound of someone speaking in the engine room could come right up the stack with the cinders and smoke?
And, yes, she would like to inquire: had he ever been in a storm at sea? Did the lightning crack? Did the mast glow and spark?
And was it possible, did he think, that the voice of someone speaking in a storm or fog might be amplified by the heaviness of the air?
And lastly, had he seen the fog settle on the deck? Had he noticed it slip along the rail the way the mist from the pond at the cottage back home sometimes crept into the kitchen where she sat scouring a pot or turning a collar or polishing the silver, carrying with it the sounds of the pond: watery sounds of fish, frogs, waterfowl? The ring of crickets. Peepers. The evening buzz in the trees. The splash of something going under.
“Violet!”
She tried to hear.
“‘Even-tempered, earnest, industrious.’”
She set the spoon back in its box without so much as a “clink” and tried to listen. But all she could hear was a sort of a whisper.
Wind, no doubt, in the kitchen flue.
Steam, she supposed, singing in the kettle.
“Violet! Are you coming with my tea?”
The soft whistle of the spout.
“Violet, the Darjeeling, unless we are out!”
The hiss in a faucet shut off.
The hush of earth as it slides from a shovel and rains down the hole and patters like rain on old bones, on earth-stained skulls, on the oaken lid.
“‘Devoted, conscientious,’” the Colonel read. “‘An asset to any household’—well, then!” the Colonel said. Yes, she would be most welcome. She was just the sort of person. An excellent addition, and so forth. Just what they needed to get the new house up and running. Just what they were looking for.
Would she like to see her quarters?
They climbed the stairs. They passed the stairway window. She could see the woods at the edge of the clearing. Far cloud. Rust along the horizon: the light going dim with the last of the sun.
First floor landing: dumb-waiter, dustbin. Second floor landing: broom closet. Mop. Bucket. Rags for the windows. Sponges for the bath. Bottles on the shelf. Rose soap for sheets. Bleach for cottons. Cedar oil for the woodwork. Lemon oil for the wainscoting. Solutions for stains: grass, earth, tea, blood. Cleaners. Caustics. Poisons for the drains and for polishing the silver. Crossed bones. Old skulls. Brushes for scrubbing the mud tracked in. For churchyard earth. Faded roses. For seep and dark in a new-dug hole. Second floor, top of the stairs: laundry chute, linen closet.
Second floor, end of the hall: second bath, maid’s quarters. Not far from the bedroom if anything might be needed. Convenient to the kitchen. Not far from the nursery if something was missing.
Did she find it to her liking?
Would she like some time to settle in?
Her trip—“the crossing” he called it—-did she find it tiring?—“Did she find it tedious,” the Colonel asked, “going transatlantic—being so long on the sea?”
“Oh, no,” Violet said. No. And she thought she might tell him how she stood nightly on the deck and leaned so far beyond the rail that a cloud of moonlit spray surrounded her. She thought she might tell him how she felt as if she might disappear into the salty air as she watched the bright glowing bow slice its way through the sea. Or how she lay in her berth in her cabin in steerage, so cold and soaked through that she thought she might catch her death.
And she thought for a moment that if she told him—then perhaps the Colonel would tell her how it was when he was so alone in the clouds, so long and alone in the air.
She would like to ask him: was it true—what she had read—what all the papers—all the news—had said about how he kept awake with the spray of the sea in his cockpit window?
She would like to inquire: did he ever see the birds that dip into the waves, just above the foam where the sea becomes air?
Had he ever tilted in so the whitecaps touched a wing?
Did the engine ever start to sound like someone buzzing or humming or—can you imagine it?—someone speaking?
And did he ever feel he might take his plane and plunge himself into the sea?
“Oh no, sir,” she told him. “Not at all tedious, not a bit. A comfort, if anything,” she said.
“Ah,” he said, and nothing more about it; and not a word at all about his flight.
She unfolded the sheets that had been placed for her there on the ticking. She made up the bed. Pull and tuck, top sheet and bottom so snug to the mattress. A hospital corner, was what they had called it: ever so tidy and never a wrinkle. (Hospital corners, the nurse had said—the one who pulled the sheets so tightly at the foot; pulled the sleeves so tightly once around and across Violet’s chest and tied them so neatly at her back.
The sheets had been stiff, Violet remembered—cold and somewhat coarse, smelling of bleach. She could smell it while they held her shoulders to the bed, pressed her down and parted her hair, and scraped the razor to the places they pressed the wires in. She could taste it in the cloth they put in her mouth and told her to bite.
She remembered the hand on the dial on the box, and then the heat, the burn, the buzzing in her head.
She felt herself lifted up.
She saw herself in a little boat in a storm at sea, perched on the crest of a wave, the just-tucked sheets in hospital corners coming all undone; the sheets becoming sails as she kicked and arced. She saw the mast bright and crackling as the lightning struck and the hand turned the dial on the box, notch, by notch, by notch as the undersides of the clouds were lit and the sparks fell into the waves with a sizzle and a hiss.
She tasted the spray, the whitecap foam, the froth on her lips.
She remembered the nurse who had untied her wrist so she could hold a cup. The ice they had let her suck for the place she had bitten though the cloth and her tongue had bled. The salve they had dabbed on her scalp where her hair had been singed.
She remembered the nurse who told her that now, after this, she would be, well—“cured”—and she would not weep or rock.
She remembered the nurse who had held her mouth for the tube so she would eat.)
Hospital corners—Violet remembered as she made the double fold, evened out the edge. She arranged the coverlet at the foot. Pillow. Pillow case. Lamp on the nightstand. Doily. Water glass. Towels on the rack. Curtain in the little window. She peered out. Above her—chimney top, roof tiles, gutter spout. Below her: the clearing, the cut in the woods made just the way these Americans do—all slash and hack and rough-cut stump of straggly oak cut down to the sour clay and a smattering of soil that was all just rock beneath the surface. All just clang and spark if someone were to take to it with a pick or a shovel or spade. If someone might want to add some cheer with a planting of roses, a patch of color in the clearing before the woods began again at the far front gate. And beyond the gate, a dip in the road. Barren fields. Old stone walls. The slit of a stream glittering down a hillside. Then farm, field again, town, steeple. Oh, yes, she could feel it now. Tired, after all. The crossing. The train. The ride from the station. Stair climb. Smooth and tuck. Pond. Pillow case. Footstool. Coverlet at the foot. Might she have time for a rest before dinner? Would that be permissible? Might she have enough time, at least for a cup of tea? Might someone offer: Pekoe for Violet, please. Light is how she takes it. Light, one sugar and Violet likes a dash of cream. (“But didn’t you hear, dear? It is nearly time for dinner.”) And Madame would soon be ringing. The Colonel would be knocking. She shortly would be called for some sort of chore. Would she hear, so very soon, the sound of bells and wires? Her name come crackling through a series of speaking tubes: a call to bedroom or the nursery or the kitchen? A summons to the sitting room? Of course she would. Someone would be calling, needing something.
(“Violet, are you there?”—all static and hiss.) Darjeeling, Pekoe, if the Oolong is out. (“And a biscuit, please.”) And she would be on her feet—“Efficient.” She would be “up and running” to the sound of her name coming through the walls from somewhere to please come down and draw the curtains, now that the sun was setting. Now that cold might creep though a crack of an off-kilter window. To shut out a draft. Shut out the woods. To carry a tray. To rinse a dish. (“Violet, dear! A streak of soap?”) To pour the tea. (“One dunk, Violet; not too dark.”) Polish a spoon. (“Is that a bit of tarnish?”) Help the cook with dinner in the kitchen. Mince. Slice. Wedge. Wipe. Give something a stir? Arrange the dessert. (“Use a dish, please, for pastries and biscuits. A plate for cheese or pie.”) Clear the table. Shake the cloth. Turn back the covers. (“A diagonal fold, Violet, and be careful of the wrinkles.”) Run a bath. Fluff a pillow. Oh, the lateness of the day. The room so spare. The chill. Lamp. Pillow. The sheet tucked square and cornered. Coverlet at the foot.
“Violet, dear!”
What, what, what could Madame be wanting at this hour? Violet wonders: a glass of something for swallowing her pill for sleeping? Tea—with lemon—the way she takes it, and a portion of tart? Shortbread biscuit? (“Place the teaspoon on the saucer, Violet. Never in the cup.”) And the Colonel would certainly be wanting pie—(“Dear Violet, since you’re already up”)—a slice of pie, and topped with a cheese—pie is what Americans eat in the middle of the night. Or a sandwich with mustard and left over meat.
Would they see?
Would the Colonel and Madam note that she might seem unsteady in her step?
Madame would wonder. The Colonel would certainly inquire. Not quite a stagger. More a series of missteps, the motion somewhat off. What so small a glass of sherry (or was it the port?) before bed can do, she thinks and now, moving about the room, feeling with her feet for slippers, that she might very well trip. In the kitchen, something might drop. There would be smash and clatter. And Madame would surely hear her. Most nights, now, the Madame was up.
She might offer to fetch her a book: “Would Madame care for a book?”
Violet thought she might. Perhaps one of her own, but oh, no—she preferred tales of true confessions, Violet did. Not to the Madame’s taste. Not her cup of tea.
Perhaps Madame might like to try a square of needle point. Soothing. Diverting. Something that she would want to frame and hang for the baby in the sitting room, in the nursery—for when the baby would be back all safe and sound.
Perhaps a picture of a stripy stitched kitten with one paw up and a puddle of milk.
Or Mother Goose in her apron and bonnet.
Or a boy at a pond with his fishing pole leaned against a tree and hoping for a nibble.
Or a Hansel and a Gretel setting out in the woods and a trail of crumbs for finding their way back.
“Violet, did you fetch the biscuits?”
“Violet, have you warmed up the porridge?”
“Have you scrubbed out the tub?”
“Have you folded the nappies?”
“Is the soap on the sink?”
“Are the towels in the rack?” “Do I feel a draft?”
“Is a window still open?”
Oh! thinks Violet, as she gets herself up and the room is a rocking deck and the floor is sliding away.
The doily on the nightstand floating like foam.
Madame was still ringing. Madame would keep ringing.
“Violet, are you there?”
Madame rang most nights now, while the Colonel slept—sat up most nights now in the master bedroom in the grey silk chaise. Or sometimes in the nursery—nearly bare now without the baby’s bed.
But the rocker—that was left. Unlike the crib, which was taken away with the note left on the sill and the broken shutter and the clump of mud on the nursery floor and the ladder that was left leaning to the nursery window.
Oh, Madame would be rocking!
Oh, Madame would be ringing: the sound of a spoon touched to porcelain or crystal; the sound of a shovel striking stone. Madame would be buzzing: the sound of a fly at a window; of a lamp when the light flickers. Of a saw being slid back and forth along a board, making chips of wood and dust.
“Violet” through the speaking tubes.
“Violet” in the walls.
A night-time transmission from the far-off sea.
A creak in the floor from the rungs of the rocker.
The squeak of a fingertip in the mist on the mirror.
A hiss in the kettle when the water is boiled out. A sizzle in a pot.
A crackling in the walls. A hum in the faucet.
A drumming in the pipes when the baby has his bath. Reaches for his little duck! Beats his little fists against the water!
Something had splashed, Violet remembered. Frogs, fish, water fowl?
Who could have known the depth?
Who could have known the weight of the boy, the sway and crack of the branches of the willow?
“Oh, someone!” called Mrs. Willoughby, who found the elderberry stick and the string and the silver fish.
“Poor Master Paul,” said the butler who called the constable.
And the cook who waded in and lost a shoe.
And the gardener whose sleeve was caught on the overhang of willow.
While the fish was caught on the quilting pin.
While the boy was caught on the chain and hook, and came up dripping with larkspur and lavender.
Something had fallen, Violet remembered. A saucer on a ledge, a slippery dish?
Who could have known the height?
Who could have known the crack of a window pried, the snap of a rung?
“Someone, please,” Madame called when she found the crib was empty.
It was the father—the Colonel—who found the window open.
The butler who found the note on the sill.
The cook who searched the woods and found the broken ladder.
Violet who found the soap going soft in the sink.
“Violet, are you there?” Madame is ringing.
“Violet, please,” Madame will keep on ringing.
Of course, no mention will be made.
Madame will buzz and Madame will ask if her tea is nearly ready, if the Colonel has his pie, if the baby could have his porridge just a bit hotter—but no mention will be made of the night when the room was cold and the window was open.
Madame will ring and Madame will ask if the drapes have been drawn, if the nursery window has been shut, if the baby is warm enough—but no mention will be made of the night when the shutter was unlatched and the crib was empty.
Madame will call,
“Oh, Violet, dear!”
and will want to know—still she will want to know—“Just where are all the baby’s things?Oh please,” she will say as she says nightly, now, “Where have they all gone? And where is the crib?” and “Violet, please”— would someone please tell her—please, right now—just where in the world was her little Charles? Would someone please tell her just where the baby is?
Perhaps, thinks Violet, Madame would like a cup of tea and her medicine for sleeping.
Or, Madame would like some help with her stitching: finishing a border, unraveling a tangle. Or a bit of assistance in tucking a sheet. Or an extra hand in unfastening a clasp or button or belt or hook.
“Violet,”
comes the sound in the wall along the stair as Violet steps. Oh, she thinks, so much steadier now. On her feet now, up and running.
The faucet hissing while she fills the kettle.
The stove is lit.
She goes to the cupboard for a dish for the biscuits. A plate for the pie.
The kettle is hot. The whispering spout.
Oolong for Madame. Yes, Madame likes the Oolong. Prefers the Oolong. And Madame will take her tea in the sitting room. (“Two dunks, Violet. Not too dark.”) No cream. (“Please.”) A slice of lemon. (“Never a wedge, and alongside the cup, on the saucer. Not stuck so precariously there on the rim! Careful of the pits. Careful of the pulp!”) One half spoonful of sugar. (“Rounded, Violet. Careful not to spill.”) Shortbread biscuit—(“Oh, use a separate dish”) with a dab (“Just a bit!”) of jam.
And a cup for herself, please. A cup for Violet. The Pekoe for Violet. Yes, Violet likes the Pekoe. Violet likes one dunk, light, no lemon. And Violet prefers a dash of cream. And Violet takes one spoonful of sugar.
And Violet takes one spoonful of poison for polishing the silver. Caustics, cleaners, solutions for stains: the crossed bones, the smiling skull. The cap stuck tight. (“Three sharp taps, Violet, will loosen it up.”) White and rich as cream it is, with a bubble of foam. The bow slicing the water. The seabirds dipping in.
How still and spare her little room!
The bed turned down. Diagonal fold. The teacup drained. A faint sort of buzzing, perhaps from the lamp, flickering now. The bulb spent? The wire frayed? The sound, the stinging—pressed to her temples. Her name being called through static and fog. A dull kind of ringing, perhaps from the spoon: the sound of a spoon touched to porcelain, to crystal. The silence of something going under. The view from the window. Wood. Barn. Clearing. Pond: silvered and still now, without wrinkle or wave.
The sheet so neatly tucked. A smooth and seamless sea where the wake closes over her. And she vanishes in the spray. And the sea becomes air. Foam on the crest. Froth at the lip. Far cloud. Pillow fluffed. Whitecap, wing. Coverlet at the foot.