Beginning - Book Three

four

One chair was still empty when we returned to the dining table for lunch. I begrudgingly listened to the girlish voice at the other end of the room natter about our 'delightful ladies' meeting' to her parents. Whilst Olive and Emma beamed, I forced a small smile and returned quickly to my food, not especially keen to trap myself into another conversation like I had experienced over the confectionary not long before.

"Who is your friend who was having some bother last night?" Florence had chirped, placing another boiled sweet on her tongue. "The one who wasn't at breakfast this morning."

"Oh, Enoch." Emma replied. "Yes, I don't think he's feeling very well."

"Poor thing. How old is he?"

"He turns twenty today, actually. Not much of a celebration for him, though, is it?" Olive continues, glancing at me with a grin which suppressed upon seeing my uncomfortable facade.

"Perhaps we should make him a cake, maybe a pudding. It would make it a little more special for him, don't you think? I know a spectacular sponge cake recipe that I can run down to-"

"His favourite is chocolate." I snapped. My blood was beginning to boil at her simpering sweetness.

"Well, I'm sure father will have some bars stashed away somewhere." She said, leaning in as if to tell me something important. "He ordered dozens of crates from the factory in Bournville before the war and asked Catherine to lock them away so nobody could be tempted."

I took little notice, as I really couldn't have cared less. I made myself scarce as soon as we were called down for lunch and was disappointed to see Enoch's chair unoccupied. I ate my meal in silence, keeping my head low and not saying a word other than politely asking for Jake to pass the salt shaker. As I stared at perfect Florence from a safe distance, even the shining of her pearly teeth and the fluttering of her thick lashes made me want to screech in frustration. However, good table manners does not allow for such actions, so I merely clenched my fists beneath the tablecloth. Upon examining my palms afterwards, four curved indents had appeared: the area was tender to touch.

"I don't understand why you dislike her so much, Vi." Olive had replied in a whisper. I confided in her as Marguerite took us on a guided tour of her home. To my delight, Florence had gone to practice her cello and left us in peace as we wound our way through seemingly endless hallways and an infinite number of rooms.

"There's something about her. Can't put my finger on it, but I don't like it." I hissed back to her, trying not to slip over on some wet tiles. We had gathered in a large conservatory, where a cobalt swimming pool rippled peacefully.

"My husband saw many homes with swimming pools like this one whilst on a business trip to Washington." Marguerite gestured to the almost-still water - the sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling and glittered on the surface. Mouths hung open in awe - many of us had never seen a swimming pool which was not on a postcard or in a magazine. Bronwyn had taken off her shoes and poked her toes beneath the surface, but drew her foot away with a shriek.

"It's cold!" She exclaimed, but her words were met by laughter rather than the sympathy the little girl craved. Scowling, she pulled her sock back over her ankle and followed on as we leave the glass room, her stomping causing the floor to shudder unnervingly beneath us.

"Flo hasn't done anything wrong yet, Violet. Give her a chance, won't you?" Olive continued as we were herded into a considerably smaller room than anything which we had previously seen. A polished desk with a white quill standing in an ink pot was set in front of a window which looked out onto the manicured lawn, whilst three embroidered settees surrounded a dormant fireplace. A ridge of last night's ashes had tumbled from the grill onto the hearth.

"I suppose I'll have to - but look at all these books!" I found my mood significantly lifted when my attention was drawn to shelves upon shelves of tiny, leather-bound columns. Golden lettering on the spines distinguished one from another, and the print glimmered in the winter light entering through the window. The structures towered all the way to the ceiling and a varnished ladder waited patiently against the wall to take one to the very highest ledge.

"Yes, it's quite spectacular." Olive wandered to the corner whilst Marguerite proceeded with the story behind this particular room, and brushed her fingers along the scalloped edge of a brass gramophone. I became aware of how startlingly similar this place was to that library in the hotel, where Enoch and I danced, where Enoch and I sat before a crackling fire after I caught him reading that book, where our heads came so close together that our lips were almost touching. My heart swelled inside my chest and I tried hard to conceal a tiny smile which crept across my mouth before I could stop it.

Now, with the tiny hands on the clock on my mantelpiece creeping towards dinner time, I sweep my hair back into a bun in front of my mirror. My fingers work swiftly, as I am eager to pay Enoch a visit and accompany him down to the dining room. I want to tell him about the library on the floor beneath - perhaps the flood of memories will make him smile as I did. It frightens me that something could be wrong with him. What I saw this morning was not the boy I knew - I want him back.