like friends. But Emmeline could not give her the answer to what she really needed to know:
Where is Tom?
He should be standing by the tables, with his sister clutching his hand, too shy to speak.
Help me!
Celia wanted to beg her sister. But she couldn’t say any of it. Instead, she stared at the cake, the icing dripping now on to the plate, leaving bare patches over the top. Emmeline continued to gaze forward, as if willing everything to turn out right. Celia was trying to think of something to say to please her, generous words about her hat, when she saw Rudolf and Verena turn and walk towards them again.
‘Now, girls, have you left the cake alone?’
‘Yes, Papa,’ said Celia.
‘Well, we shall tuck in now. The children should be on their way. Let us sit.’
‘Celia, run in and find Michael,’ said Verena. ‘Tell him we need him here.’
Celia nodded and hurried off into the house, her skirts flurryingaround her legs as they always did when she was trying to do
anything.
Michael was not in the parlour. She called his name, walking to the library, but he was not there either. She started upstairs and then on the first landing she heard the sound of thumping, something being hit over and over. It was coming from Michael’s room. She hurried up. His door was shut. She knocked and put her ear against the dark wood. The sound wasn’t stopping.
‘Michael!’
No reply came. She hardly ever went into his room. In the old days, they had the big sunny room upstairs as a playroom, with all their bears, his toy trains and their Noah’s ark. Michael had told her that Verena had talked of making it the schoolroom, but they had begged her not to, so she had changed her mind and appointed the smaller room next door that had previously been used as a place to store her gowns and Rudolf’s boxes of maps and books. Whenever she went into the playroom, Celia sat in front of the stained-glass window that coloured the light blue and green and thanked Verena for giving them this room. Even from the age of six or so, she felt certain Michael would not want to play ark with her, or bears’ hospital – their favourite – in a poky, darkened room. He was so tall and handsome, everything about him made of light. She was lucky he played with her at all.
She called again at the door. ‘What are you doing?’
He didn’t answer. She grasped the handle and pushed, expecting the door to be locked. It fell forward in her hand and she stood at the threshold of the room. Michael was lying face down on his bed, banging his hand into his pillow. He was making a terrible coughing sound, almost like a sob. She was about to speak when her eye was drawn upwards. The movement of the opening door was fluttering the air – and the dozens of little wooden planes hanging from the ceiling.
‘What are those?’ she asked, gazing at the ceiling. ‘Did you make them?’
He didn’t look up.
‘They must have taken
ages.’
She wanted to touch them. Over bythe far wall was a chair and a desk covered in books and papers, the only untidiness in his spotless room. She wanted to hoist herself up on the chair and hold one of the little planes. ‘Did you really make them all?’
He punched the pillow again. ‘Who cares about the bloody planes?’
‘But this one here. The wings are all lacy.’ He had carved out holes and frilled edges on the plane. ‘When
did
you do them?’
He turned over and looked up at her, his face reddened and angry. ‘Why are you asking about planes? You are as bad as them, fiddling about with that ridiculous bunting.’
‘Why are you being so mean? The local children love the party, you know that. And Papa is so happy when he gives it. Mama too.’
He let out a groan and pushed himself up on his arm. ‘You just don’t see, do you? There isn’t going to be a party. There isn’t going to be anything. We are going to war. And everybody hates us, they already do.’
‘Sir Hugh has sent a letter to Emmeline. He
Where is Tom?
He should be standing by the tables, with his sister clutching his hand, too shy to speak.
Help me!
Celia wanted to beg her sister. But she couldn’t say any of it. Instead, she stared at the cake, the icing dripping now on to the plate, leaving bare patches over the top. Emmeline continued to gaze forward, as if willing everything to turn out right. Celia was trying to think of something to say to please her, generous words about her hat, when she saw Rudolf and Verena turn and walk towards them again.
‘Now, girls, have you left the cake alone?’
‘Yes, Papa,’ said Celia.
‘Well, we shall tuck in now. The children should be on their way. Let us sit.’
‘Celia, run in and find Michael,’ said Verena. ‘Tell him we need him here.’
Celia nodded and hurried off into the house, her skirts flurryingaround her legs as they always did when she was trying to do
anything.
Michael was not in the parlour. She called his name, walking to the library, but he was not there either. She started upstairs and then on the first landing she heard the sound of thumping, something being hit over and over. It was coming from Michael’s room. She hurried up. His door was shut. She knocked and put her ear against the dark wood. The sound wasn’t stopping.
‘Michael!’
No reply came. She hardly ever went into his room. In the old days, they had the big sunny room upstairs as a playroom, with all their bears, his toy trains and their Noah’s ark. Michael had told her that Verena had talked of making it the schoolroom, but they had begged her not to, so she had changed her mind and appointed the smaller room next door that had previously been used as a place to store her gowns and Rudolf’s boxes of maps and books. Whenever she went into the playroom, Celia sat in front of the stained-glass window that coloured the light blue and green and thanked Verena for giving them this room. Even from the age of six or so, she felt certain Michael would not want to play ark with her, or bears’ hospital – their favourite – in a poky, darkened room. He was so tall and handsome, everything about him made of light. She was lucky he played with her at all.
She called again at the door. ‘What are you doing?’
He didn’t answer. She grasped the handle and pushed, expecting the door to be locked. It fell forward in her hand and she stood at the threshold of the room. Michael was lying face down on his bed, banging his hand into his pillow. He was making a terrible coughing sound, almost like a sob. She was about to speak when her eye was drawn upwards. The movement of the opening door was fluttering the air – and the dozens of little wooden planes hanging from the ceiling.
‘What are those?’ she asked, gazing at the ceiling. ‘Did you make them?’
He didn’t look up.
‘They must have taken
ages.’
She wanted to touch them. Over bythe far wall was a chair and a desk covered in books and papers, the only untidiness in his spotless room. She wanted to hoist herself up on the chair and hold one of the little planes. ‘Did you really make them all?’
He punched the pillow again. ‘Who cares about the bloody planes?’
‘But this one here. The wings are all lacy.’ He had carved out holes and frilled edges on the plane. ‘When
did
you do them?’
He turned over and looked up at her, his face reddened and angry. ‘Why are you asking about planes? You are as bad as them, fiddling about with that ridiculous bunting.’
‘Why are you being so mean? The local children love the party, you know that. And Papa is so happy when he gives it. Mama too.’
He let out a groan and pushed himself up on his arm. ‘You just don’t see, do you? There isn’t going to be a party. There isn’t going to be anything. We are going to war. And everybody hates us, they already do.’
‘Sir Hugh has sent a letter to Emmeline. He
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