The Lost Sapphire

by Belinda Murrell

  An easel in the corner held an unfinished painting – a vase filled with blue and white flowers from the gardens. Other canvases were stacked against the walls. A table held dried-up oil paints, a pot of brushes and a crumpled ball of tissue paper, as though her mother had just tossed it there, before she left the room forever.

  Violet could see her mother as though she were a ghost, wearing a paint-spattered smock, frowning in concentration as she dabbed at the canvas, or smiling at Violet as she taught her how to draw. Violet had spent many, many happy hours in this studio painting beside her mother.

  ‘Mamma,’ Violet sobbed jaggedly. ‘Mamma, why did you leave us?’

  It was too much – the rush of emotion and memories. Violet felt she had to flee the studio at once.

  As she stumbled back towards the stairs, she noticed her mother’s Brownie folding camera sitting on the side table in its brown leather case. She had been a keen photographer as well as an artist, taking many candid photos around the house and garden, as well as family picnics, birthdays, holidays and games.

  Violet picked up the case and took out the camera, caressing it lovingly. She unlatched the lock at the top and unfurled the lens. A hazy memory darted into her mind, like a silvery fish: herself as a child of ten or eleven and Mamma in her long, swishing skirts and wispy chignon. Mamma stood at Violet’s back, her arms encircling her, holding the camera at Violet’s waist. Her mother’s breath tickled her ear as she whispered the instructions: Look down through the viewfinder at the top, just here. Think about your picture. Make it beautiful – a perfect balance of sky and land and subject. Then when the shot is perfect, hold your breath, stay still and push the shutter button. And it’s magic – a moment of truth frozen forever.

  Violet made a quick decision and took the camera with her as she slipped down the stairs and out the door, locking it firmly behind her. Her father must never know she had found the key to the tower. Her father must never know that she had found Mamma’s camera. It was a secret she must keep safe.

  Back in her room, Violet folded out the accordion lens and cleaned the camera carefully, polishing the lens with a small brush and a soft cloth.

  At first Violet merely thought of keeping the camera concealed in her room, like a memento of happier times. But she couldn’t keep it hidden. She kept taking it out of her cupboard, holding it, stroking it. There was an old film still in the camera, a film from before. Violet yearned to use the camera to make her own magical photographs, her own moments of truth.

  The first few days of the unexpected holiday flew by. It was the height of Melbourne’s social season, so Imogen was busy with a whirl of engagements – the Melbourne Cup, the Lord Mayor’s dinner, a garden party at Federal Government House with Lord and Lady Forster, dances, luncheons and visits to the theatre. Violet was left to her own devices – books, drawing, dancing classes, illicit swims in the river.

  Violet also researched menu and design ideas for the Russian Ball. She borrowed books from her father’s library and doodled in her sketchbook. Most of all, Violet wondered about her mother’s camera and how she could learn to take photographs without raising her father’s suspicion.

  On Thursday afternoon, on the way home from dancing class, Violet asked Nikolai to drive her to Hawthorn’s main shopping strip on Burwood Road, where there was a small camera shop that sold film cartridges and printed photographs. Nikolai parked the car and waited out the front while she went inside.

  The shop was filled with glass cases displaying cameras and various accessories. Large prints of Melbourne landmarks and buildings were hanging on the walls. A male shop assistant stood behind the long timber counter, polishing the glass lens of a professional-looking camera.

  ‘Good morning, miss,’ he said, laying the cloth and camera down. ‘Can I help you?’

  Violet carefully drew her mother’s camera out of her handbag and took it out of its case. ‘Yes, please. I would like to buy some film for this camera.’

  The assistant pulled open a drawer under the bench and pulled out a yellow cardboard box. ‘How many would you like? Each roll takes six photographs.’

  ‘Could I have three rolls, please?’ Violet asked, pulling out her purse.

  The assistant placed the boxes of film in a bag and Violet paid for them from her pocket money.

  ‘Thanks,’ Violet said, hesitating. ‘I was wondering if you might be able to show me how to use the camera, please? It was my mother’s and I’d like to learn how to take particularly good photographs with it.’

  The assistant’s face lit up. ‘Let’s see. What you have here is a Kodak Autographic Folding Brownie, about five years old.’ He took the camera from her and clicked the lever so the front opened to release the lens.

  ‘It’s easy to use,’ he assured her. ‘You hold the camera about waist high and against your body, like this, and look down through this viewfinder on top to see how your photo graph will look. It’s worthwhile taking the time to frame your photograph carefully. You want to make sure your subject is in the centre of the frame and that the photo graph is nicely composed and balanced. You don’t want too much sky or too much ground.’

  Violet nodded to show she understood. Her mother and her drawing teacher at school had taught her about composition and balance in art.

  The assistant explained how to set the aperture and shutter speed for the amount of light available, and how to focus the camera, demonstrating the various levers and settings.

  ‘Once you have the settings and composition right, you push the shutter release here to take the photograph,’ he said. ‘I suggest that you hold your breath while you take the shot to make sure the camera stays completely still. If you or the subject moves while the shutter is open, the photograph will be blurry.’

  He took a similar camera out of a display case. ‘Why don’t you have a quick practice on this one? It doesn’t have any film in it. Imagine we’re outside on a sunny day, and your subject is standing there. Make sure the sun is behind you, shining on the person.’

  Violet took her gloves off and worked through each step of the setting-up process, moving the various levers then clicking the shutter. She had to concentrate to remember which shutter speed she should use and exactly how to focus.

  ‘Is that right?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ve got it.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Violet felt elated. ‘Let’s hope I can remember it all.’

  The assistant showed her how to load a new film into the camera. ‘Don’t take too many snapshots until you’ve had one of your films developed. That way you can check the prints and make sure you’re doing everything right. Bring it back in if you have any questions.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Violet replied. ‘I do appreciate your help.’

  Violet had a spring in her step as she went back outside with the camera and rolls of film in her handbag. Instead of waiting by the car, as he usually was, Nikolai was sitting in the front seat reading a book. He was so engrossed in what he was reading that he didn’t realise that Violet had come out until she was right beside the car, peering in the front window.

  Nikolai, flushed with mortification, hurriedly placed the large book aside and jumped out of the car.

  ‘Sorry, Miss Violet,’ said Nikolai, saluting as he opened the rear door. ‘I didn’t see you come out.’

  ‘That’s all right, Nikolai,’ Violet said with a smile. ‘I lose track of everything too when I’m reading a good book. What’re you reading?’

  Nikolai looked uncomfortable and averted his eyes. ‘Nothing in particular.’

  Violet’s curiosity was piqued. The book she had glimpsed was battered, but it looked like a beautifully bound textbook, not a cheap thriller.

  ‘I’m reading My Brilliant Career by Miles Franklin for the third time,’ said Violet. ‘But I feel I should read Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina so I can get some ideas for the Russian Ball.’

  Violet chatted on about the books she had read recently, and Nikolai murmur
ed short replies when necessary as he drove slowly through the afternoon traffic. Burwood Road was teeming with horse-drawn buggies, auto mobiles, motorbikes and pedestrians. A crowded electric tram rattled down the main street, with shoppers and workers hanging out of the doors.

  ‘I haven’t read many Australian books,’ said Nikolai. ‘We had to leave all our books behind when we left Russia, except one. So we don’t have a very extensive library here.’

  Violet sat forward, intrigued to finally get Nikolai talking. ‘Which book did you bring?’ she asked.

  Nikolai looked embarrassed. ‘It was a book of old Russian fairytales. It was our favourite book when we were children, and we couldn’t bear to leave it behind.’

  ‘Is your family in Melbourne with you?’ Violet asked.

  ‘Yes, I have three sisters – Tatiana, Katya and Anastacia – who live with my mother here. My father died four years ago during the civil war.’

  ‘Four years ago? In 1918?’ How strange – just like Mamma, Lawrence and Archie, Violet thought.

  ‘Yes,’ Nikolai replied, staring ahead through the windscreen as he concentrated on overtaking a horse-drawn baker’s cart. ‘We left Russia the following year. It became too difficult for us there. We went to Paris, then to London, but it was hard to get work there so we came to Melbourne. We were told if you work hard in Australia there are many opportunities.’

  ‘I guess it’s much better here than war-torn Russia at the moment,’ Violet mused. She thought for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to one of the old Imperial Balls in St Petersburg? I’m planning the supper menu for our ball and wanted to think of some truly Russian dishes. What should we have?’

  Nikolai glanced at her in the mirror, his tawny eyes flashing with humour. ‘Russian food? Oh, that’s easy. Nothing less than seven or eight courses will do.’ His voice lost its usual formal tone. He held up his fingers on the wheel as he counted off the courses.

  ‘Of course you must have hors d’oeuvres, such as pâté de foie gras and petit pastries, and piles of black caviar with blinis,’ continued Nikolai, his French accent sounding perfect. ‘The entree should be lobster or saumon with a hollandaise sauce, followed by the main course – stuffed poultry with truffles and filet de boeuf served with asparagus and salades à la francaise. All washed down with lots of champagne and French wines.’

  ‘Mmmm. You’re making me hungry, but it all sounds rather more French than Russian,’ Violet said.

  Nikolai laughed. ‘Well, just like your Monsieur Dufour, the best chefs in Russia were always French.’

  Violet nodded. ‘Naturellement.’

  ‘Of course, for a true Russian supper, the highlight is always the dessert table,’ Nikolai said. ‘It should be a sumptuous spread – a work of art. With ice sculptures of animals and everything from ice-cream, chocolate and compotes to petit fours and meringues à la chantilly.’

  Violet grabbed a small notebook and pen out of her handbag and began to scribble down Nikolai’s suggestions. She could imagine a vast table piled with sweet delicacies and decorated with golden ornaments.

  ‘That all sounds marvellous, especially the ice sculptures. But if the food is mostly French, how can we make the ball more Russian?’

  Nikolai thought for a few moments. ‘The old aristocratic balls usually began with a Grand Polonaise, with all the couples promenading with great ceremony around the ballroom. Then the usual dances, like waltzes and quadrilles, were mixed with colourful Russian folk dances, like the mazurka, which are very energetic and lively. Nothing like a mazurka to get your heart pumping!’

  Violet was fascinated. ‘Nowadays everyone is more interested in jazzing. So perhaps we could start with some traditional dances, and then move onto the one-step, shimmy and foxtrot as the night goes on. And what about decorations?’

  ‘The balls in St Petersburg always had masses of flowers, potted palms and hundreds of candles,’ Nikolai said, his voice alight with enthusiasm. ‘And we always finished the evening with fireworks, lighting up the night sky with thousands of coloured falling stars.’

  Nikolai paused before continuing. ‘But perhaps you could re-create some typical Russian scenes, like ice skaters or horse-drawn troikas, or you could dress the waiters as colourful Cossacks with baggy crimson trousers, sashes and vests.’

  ‘Yes. That would be brilliant.’ Violet scribbled down these suggestions, her mind bubbling with ideas. ‘I’m sure we could find some Russian folk dancers to perform. Perhaps you might know of some?’

  Nikolai turned left, heading off the main road into a quieter, tree-lined suburban street. Out the window Violet could see the familiar houses, gardens and paddocks flash by.

  ‘All Russians love to dance,’ Nikolai said. ‘The winters are so long and cold that without music, dance and good books, we’d all go mad. In St Petersburg, before the war, there were dances and balls and dinners every night, as well as opera, theatre and ballet.’

  ‘It sounds marvellous,’ Violet said. ‘I suppose your parents were in service back in Russia. Did they work for one of the big aristocratic families?’

  Violet could see the muscles in the back of Nikolai’s neck stiffen. He didn’t answer for a moment.

  ‘Yes. I suppose they did,’ Nikolai said quietly. ‘But all the Russian aristocratic families are gone now. Dead, or scattered to the far corners of the world.’

  Violet felt as though she had touched a raw nerve. ‘I’m sorry, Nikolai. I didn’t mean to upset you. It must be very difficult to be so far from your home and your old life.’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ Nikolai said in his old voice – the formal one he reserved for speaking to his employers – and Violet felt inexplicably disappointed.

  7

  Journey to the Slums

  A week later, Nikolai was driving Violet home from a ball committee meeting. The members of the committee had met at the Hawthorn Town Hall to inspect the venue and meet the caterers. Audrey, Imogen and Edie had gone on to see the printer to get the invitations and posters organised. Everything was coming together well.

  Violet sat back, watching the shadows of the trees flash past, then the familiar high stone wall of her own garden appeared, partially hiding the cream-coloured tower and graceful arches of her home. The car slowed down as they neared the front gates, with their stone-capped pillars and the name Riversleigh scrolled in brass letters on a black plate.

  As Nikolai stopped the car, Violet noticed Sally hurrying towards them across the gravel driveway, her head down. She was wearing her daytime uniform – a demure blue floral dress, but with a black straw hat instead of her usual starched white apron and cap.

  ‘Nikolai, would you mind checking if everything is all right, please?’ asked Violet. ‘Sally looks bothered about something.’

  Nikolai jumped out of the car and opened the gate. He chatted to Sally and then Sally came over and leaned through the open driver’s window.

  ‘Pardon me, miss,’ Sally said. ‘But Mrs Darling has given me a couple of hours off. My brother brought a note to say me ma is sick, so I’m goin’ to visit her. Is there anythin’ you need me to do?’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Sally,’ Violet replied. ‘Is she very ill?’

  Sally frowned. ‘She’s been workin’ awful hard since me da took sick. My brother said she can’t get out of bed, so I thought I’d better check.’

  Violet glanced at her wristwatch. She knew that Imogen had gone to stay at Edie’s house overnight for dinner and an evening dance. ‘Is my father home yet?’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Sally said.

  ‘Mr Hamilton asked me to pick him up from the factory at five o’clock, Miss Violet,’ Nikolai said.

  ‘Perfect. Why don’t we give you a lift then, Sally?’ Violet suggested. ‘Your mother lives in Richmond, so it’s a long walk. Then we can pick up my father on the way home.’

  ‘Oh, that’s kind of you, but I can take the tram from Burwood Road,’ Sally said.

  ‘Nonsense
,’ replied Violet. ‘You only have two hours off, so please let us drive you. That way you won’t waste most of the time walking there and back.’

  Sally gave a huge grin. ‘Thanks awfully, miss. That would be lovely.’

  Nikolai opened the front passenger door for her, and Sally settled back into the comfortable leather seat with a sigh of satisfaction.

  ‘Which part of Richmond are we driving to?’ Nikolai asked.

  ‘If you cross the river at Hawthorn Bridge then drive north to Victoria Street, I’ll direct you from there,’ Sally said.

  As Nikolai drove, following Sally’s directions, Violet leaned forward to stare out the open window at the passing landscape. Immediately the view changed from leafy, spacious parks and gardens to grimy-grey, tightly packed shops, cottages, tramsheds and factories.

  On the western riverbank were the tanneries and wool scouring warehouses, with their jumble of smokestacks and sheds. Violet could smell the industry – belching smoke, the foul tanneries and the underlying stink of sewage. She pulled a lacy handkerchief from her bag and covered her nose. Violet had rarely ventured across the bridge into Richmond, and she was intrigued to explore. It truly was a different world. The newspapers called it ‘Struggletown’.

  Driving up Burnley Street, the shops were smaller and close together, their windows filled with a jumble of colourful goods. A warren of narrow streets and laneways ran off on either side. Trams clattered and jangled back and forth, the bells clanging. Cars and motorbikes battled with horse-drawn delivery carts, buggies and two-wheeled jinkers. Violet felt a rush of exhilaration at the chaotic scene.

  Victoria Street was narrow and dingy, hemmed in by ramshackle buildings. There was barely room for traffic to pass in each direction. Pedestrians took their lives in their hands as they tried to cross the congested thoroughfare.