The Novel in the Viola by Natasha Solomons

advertising-ments in Times newspaper every day. Why you hire me to be maid and not some other girl?’
    He straightened, studying me for a moment and then smiled.
    ‘I was glancing through the paper and saw that ridiculous message you’d placed – “I will cook your goose” or some such. It made me laugh.’
    It struck me that Mr Rivers was an unusual man. I couldn’t imagine many men hiring maids according to their comedic possibilities. He bent over the billiard table once again, lining up the red.
    ‘Then, by chance I noticed your name – Landau. There’s a curious novelist with the same name. Seemed an auspicious coincidence. Told Mrs Ellsworth to write to you. She’s always complaining that it’s impossible to find new staff.’
    ‘Julian Landau?’
    ‘Yes. You know of him?’
    ‘He’s my father.’
    ‘Really?’
    He stood up, setting his cue on the table, game forgotten.
    ‘I’ve all his books. Come and see.’
    I followed him into the library, where he pointed to a series of bound books, lined up in symmetrical rows above his desk. In the strange house, they appeared to me as old friends, and I felt the pleasure of recognition as I saw them. I supposed in a way my father had saved me – his books had brought me to Tyneford. I thought of Julian’s new novel hidden away in the viola, and wondered when it would be bound in smart leather and join the others on the shelf.
    ‘You may read them, if you like,’ said Mr Rivers. ‘They must make you think of home.’
    I thanked him politely; Anna always said that a man with an excellent taste in literature was a man to be trusted.
    Dinner passed without incident. I poured water and stacked plates and stood in the corner and was miserable. The two men sat at opposite ends of the dining table, separated by a desert of polished mahogany, so that all conversation had to be yodelled from one end to the other. Mr Wrexham shuttled between them, carrying trays of vegetables and pouring wine. I could not understand why they did not sit together at one end of the table like Julian and Anna did when they had no guests to entertain. It was absurd English manners and tradition over commonsense – if this was Mrs Beeton’s advice, I didn’t think much of it. Mr Rivers neither looked at me nor acknowledged my presence. His guest was a jowly man, with a red beard coating his double chins. They spoke of politics and war and Chamberlain, but I was too unhappy to eavesdrop. Mr Wrexham was pleased with my performance, and sent me up to bed with a cup of cocoa as a reward. I could not understand why the English used food to communicate. In Vienna Frau Finkelstein trained her pug with treats.
    Upstairs in my attic room, I poured the dregs of cocoa out into the yard, watching it spatter down the brickwork. Pulling on my pyjamas, I settled onto the bed and drawing out a scrap of writing paper and a pencil began to compose a letter home.
     
Dear Margot (and Julian and Anna and Hildegard since I know you will all be reading this letter),
I have not yet had a chance to search for shells. They made me cut my hair. But please don’t be sad. I look quite sophisticated. And thinner. I’m not sure which of these is best. I shall go to an excellent hairdresser in New York and have it properly trimmed, and then I shall look very fine indeed.
When do you leave for America? Do you all go together? Remember to send for me straight away. But don’t worry – it is not terrible here, so much as dull – there is no one to talk to. I don’t think the other servants like me very much. Mr Rivers is all right – he likes Papa’s books. I love you all.
     
    I read through the letter, which seemed to hold a lightness that I did not feel, pulled out the viola from its hiding place beneath my bed and cradled it in my arms.
    ‘ What’s your story? Do you have a name yet? I think you are about a girl stranded on a rainy island. A girl with green eyes and a weakness for chocolate.’
    In my