serve in this house. May we live long and graciously.’
We clinked glasses and I leaned back against my chair, sipping champagne and savouring the tang of bubbles against my lips. Throughout my long life, whenever I have had occasion to drink champagne I have been reminded of that evening in the servants’ hall at Riverton. It is a peculiar energy that accompanies a shared success, and Lord Ashbury’s bubble of praise had burst over all of us, leaving our cheeks warm and our hearts glad. Alfred smiled at me over his glass and I smiled back shyly. I listened while the others replayed the night’s events in vivid detail: Lady Denys’s diamonds, Lord Harcourt’s modern views on matrimony, Lord Ponsonby’s penchant for potatoes à la crème.
A shrill ring jolted me from contemplation. Everyone else fell silent around the table. We looked at one another, puzzled, until Mr Hamilton jumped from his seat. ‘Why. It’s the telephone,’ he said, and hurried from the room.
Lord Ashbury had one of the first home telephone systems in England, a fact of which all who served in the house were immeasurably proud. The main receiver box was tucked away in Mr Hamilton’s pantry foyer so that he might, on such thrilling occasions as it rang, access it directly and transfer the call upstairs. Despite this well-organised system, such occasions rarely arose as regrettably few of Lord and Lady Ashbury’s friends had telephones of their own. Nonetheless, the telephone was regarded with an almost religious awe and visiting staff were always given reason to enter the foyerwhere they might observe first-hand the sacred object and, perforce, appreciate the superiority of the Riverton household.
It was little wonder then that the ringing of the phone rendered us all speechless. That the hour was so late turned astonishment into apprehension. We sat very still, ears strained, holding our collective breath.
‘Hello?’ Mr Hamilton called down the line. ‘Hello?’
Katie drifted into the room. ‘I just heard a funny noise. Ooh, you’ve all got champagne—’
‘Sshhh,’ came the united response. Katie sat down and set about chewing her tatty fingernails.
From the pantry we heard Mr Hamilton say, ‘Yes, this is the home of Lord Ashbury … Major Hartford? Why yes, Major Hartford is here visiting his parents … Yes, sir, right away. Who may I say is calling? … Just one moment, Captain Brown, while I connect you through.’
Mrs Townsend whispered loudly, knowingly, ‘Someone for the Major.’ And we all went back to listening. From where I sat I could just glimpse Mr Hamilton’s profile through the open door: neck stiff, mouth down-turned.
‘Hello, sir,’ Mr Hamilton said into the receiver. ‘I’m most sorry to interrupt your evening, sir, but the Major is wanted on the telephone. It’s Captain Brown, calling from London, sir.’
Mr Hamilton fell silent but remained by the phone. It was his habit to hold onto the earpiece a moment, that he might ensure the call’s recipient had picked up and the call was not cut off short.
As he waited, listening, I noticed his fingers tighten on the receiver. Can I really remember that? Or is it hindsight that makes me say his body tensed and his breathing seemed to quicken?
He hung up quietly, carefully, and straightened his jacket. He returned slowly to his place at the head of the table and remained standing, his hands gripping the back of his chair. He gazed around the table, taking each of us in. Finally, gravely, he said:
‘Our worst fears are realised. As of eleven o’clock this eve, Great Britain is at war. May God keep us all.’
I am crying. After all these years I have begun crying for them. Strange. It was all so long ago, and they were none of them family,yet warm tears seep from my eyes, following the lines of my face until the air dries them, sticky and cool against my skin.
Sylvia is with me again. She has brought a tissue and uses it to mop cheerfully at my face.
We clinked glasses and I leaned back against my chair, sipping champagne and savouring the tang of bubbles against my lips. Throughout my long life, whenever I have had occasion to drink champagne I have been reminded of that evening in the servants’ hall at Riverton. It is a peculiar energy that accompanies a shared success, and Lord Ashbury’s bubble of praise had burst over all of us, leaving our cheeks warm and our hearts glad. Alfred smiled at me over his glass and I smiled back shyly. I listened while the others replayed the night’s events in vivid detail: Lady Denys’s diamonds, Lord Harcourt’s modern views on matrimony, Lord Ponsonby’s penchant for potatoes à la crème.
A shrill ring jolted me from contemplation. Everyone else fell silent around the table. We looked at one another, puzzled, until Mr Hamilton jumped from his seat. ‘Why. It’s the telephone,’ he said, and hurried from the room.
Lord Ashbury had one of the first home telephone systems in England, a fact of which all who served in the house were immeasurably proud. The main receiver box was tucked away in Mr Hamilton’s pantry foyer so that he might, on such thrilling occasions as it rang, access it directly and transfer the call upstairs. Despite this well-organised system, such occasions rarely arose as regrettably few of Lord and Lady Ashbury’s friends had telephones of their own. Nonetheless, the telephone was regarded with an almost religious awe and visiting staff were always given reason to enter the foyerwhere they might observe first-hand the sacred object and, perforce, appreciate the superiority of the Riverton household.
It was little wonder then that the ringing of the phone rendered us all speechless. That the hour was so late turned astonishment into apprehension. We sat very still, ears strained, holding our collective breath.
‘Hello?’ Mr Hamilton called down the line. ‘Hello?’
Katie drifted into the room. ‘I just heard a funny noise. Ooh, you’ve all got champagne—’
‘Sshhh,’ came the united response. Katie sat down and set about chewing her tatty fingernails.
From the pantry we heard Mr Hamilton say, ‘Yes, this is the home of Lord Ashbury … Major Hartford? Why yes, Major Hartford is here visiting his parents … Yes, sir, right away. Who may I say is calling? … Just one moment, Captain Brown, while I connect you through.’
Mrs Townsend whispered loudly, knowingly, ‘Someone for the Major.’ And we all went back to listening. From where I sat I could just glimpse Mr Hamilton’s profile through the open door: neck stiff, mouth down-turned.
‘Hello, sir,’ Mr Hamilton said into the receiver. ‘I’m most sorry to interrupt your evening, sir, but the Major is wanted on the telephone. It’s Captain Brown, calling from London, sir.’
Mr Hamilton fell silent but remained by the phone. It was his habit to hold onto the earpiece a moment, that he might ensure the call’s recipient had picked up and the call was not cut off short.
As he waited, listening, I noticed his fingers tighten on the receiver. Can I really remember that? Or is it hindsight that makes me say his body tensed and his breathing seemed to quicken?
He hung up quietly, carefully, and straightened his jacket. He returned slowly to his place at the head of the table and remained standing, his hands gripping the back of his chair. He gazed around the table, taking each of us in. Finally, gravely, he said:
‘Our worst fears are realised. As of eleven o’clock this eve, Great Britain is at war. May God keep us all.’
I am crying. After all these years I have begun crying for them. Strange. It was all so long ago, and they were none of them family,yet warm tears seep from my eyes, following the lines of my face until the air dries them, sticky and cool against my skin.
Sylvia is with me again. She has brought a tissue and uses it to mop cheerfully at my face.
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