Nicholas set down his leather suitcase and looked around. He should never have crossed the Carpathian border, not now, not at this time. August 1916, the fragile neutrality ending, the Central Powers on the cusp of invasion. Even a businessman with international standing was not safe in such circumstances. And he was far from that.
Nicholas preferred to think of himself as an adventurer. It sounded colourful, if not quite respectable, which seemed appropriate enough. Although he was a Londoner he had always made his way to foreign climes, accumulating money by gambling, speculating and occasionally stealing. He knew he was heading in the wrong direction, but the choice had not been his to make. He had been escaping creditors, escaping girls, and escaping more than that...
As the smoke cleared he heard nothing but crickets and skylarks, saw no-one on the platform except an elderly man in a stained uniform folding away his green flag. No other passengers had alighted. No-one had been stupid enough to do so.
Nicholas smoothed his slender brown moustaches and looked around: scrubland, tall animated beeches and indeterminate bushes bearing sickly yellow berries. A tree-lined avenue leading away from the station, a dirt road, no tarmacadam. A grey-walled town—possibly abandoned—lay in the distance. Fields and more fields. The rustle of wheat sheaves. A solitary dog barking. No human sounds.
He checked his silver pocket-watch and noted that there was only an hour left before sunset. Had the blasted connection been on time leaving Sofia he might have caught the right train, or at least have arrived in time for lunch somewhere. He wondered what the stationmaster might think of him, a dashing English gentleman, twenty eight, as sturdy and handsome as one of the new automobiles lately seen in Park Lane, dressed in a black brocade waistcoat, a silver-grey suit and a trilby, far too stylishly attired for this rural retreat. He belonged in London, of course, and acted accordingly, but Nicholas liked to make a fine impression on the ladies of Eastern Europe—sophistication made them so susceptible, and gained access to their husbands’ pocketbooks.
He waited for the stationmaster to arrive, and tapped him insolently with his Malacca cane.
‘I say, you there. Are you in charge here?’
All he got back was a blank look.
‘Ah.’ He reopened the dogeared phrase book and spoke loudly. ‘De tren mi-a laut pentru a gresit locul.’
The ancient stationmaster grimaced like a gargoyle. ‘We speak English in this town,’ he said.
‘Where am I?’
‘You are in Chelmsk.’ The name was pronounced like a gob of spit.
‘Well, your train appears to have set me off at the wrong stop.’
‘That is no concern of mine.’
‘There must be a village, yes? I expect you have carriages waiting.’
‘You can expect nothing here.’
‘Where are your porters?’
The stationmaster looked contemptuous. ‘We do not have porters. Here, people carry their own belongings.’
Nicholas was indignant. ‘But I am English! I will do no such thing.’
‘Please yourself.’ The stationmaster turned to leave.
‘Ah yes, your famous European hospitality. Look here, my good man, just tell me the time of the last train back.’
‘There are no more trains tonight. And I am not your good man.’
‘But I distinctly heard the passengers speak of a train which runs at midnight.’
‘There is no such train. You understand? No such train.’ The stationmaster spat close to Nicholas’ boot, then walked away.
‘Extraordinary fellow.’ Nicholas sighed and hoisted his own valise. It really was the most astounding inconvenience.
There were no carriages waiting, not even a rustic hack. There was nothing else for it. He was forced to set off up the dusty road carrying his own case, the afternoon sun beating down on the gap between his collar and his brilliantined hair. Removing his hat, he stopped before a tall wooden sign consisting of utterly incomprehensible words. He attempted to look them up in his guidebook, but was finally forced to guess the right direction.
‘Ridiculous peasant language,’ he muttered, wiping goat shit from his boot.
After a few minutes, he passed over a crossroads. How on earth was he supposed to tell where the nearest village was? Where had the grey walls gone? He knew he should have made a note of their direction from the station platform.
Hearing a ringing bicycle bell, he nimbly stepped back as a girl passed by, dressed in a red dirndl and a white peasant frock, hitched high away from the spokes, exposing her fine tanned legs.
‘I say, look out!’ he called, and she turned in surprise toward him.
She was stunningly beautiful, with wide blue eyes and corn-sheaf hair that streamed out behind her elegant neck—but it was already too late to stop her, and a moment later she had gone.
It took another half hour to reach the walls of the town. Up close, they were much higher and more forbidding than he had expected. Passing in through one of the great wooden gates, he found himself in a deserted street bookended by big ugly churches that were virtually windowless and were probably always freezing to pray inside. A pack of mangy stray dogs set to barking. One of them limped behind him, looking as if it might try for a taste of his leg.
Somewhere off to his left, a mournful steeple bell rang, as if to warn people away. He looked up at the high grey stone walls, the cobbled thoroughfares, wide and empty, the unadorned houses with closed green shutters.
There was something so grimly utilitarian and military about the scene that he half expected to see Russian soldiers marching around the next corner. Somewhere above him, in the belfry of a dark bell tower, the leathery rustle of bats’ wings could be heard. He looked up and saw a cloud of them filling the sky. They swooped down and some brushed against his hair, filling him with dread. He was not comfortable with the things that crawled and flapped through the countryside at dusk. His natural home was in the streets of Belgravia and Mayfair, at the gaming tables, in the pubs, not here where there were only inbred farmers and their sow-faced wives. Where was everyone?
As he reached the corner, a pair of drunk old men staggered past.
‘Look here,’ Nicholas called, ‘is there a hotel? I need a room for the night. I’m from London. You do know London?’ He was met with more blank looks. ‘The most important city in the world? Glittering jewel of the Empire? Ring any bells? No?’
‘It is not safe to be here,’ said one of the old men. ‘There is a curfew. Have you not heard the news? The army has already reached the next town.’
‘When will they arrive here?’
‘Tonight, after dark. You must go! Go!’ One of the drunks waved him away. ‘We want no more trouble.’
‘Is there a train I can catch?’
In the distance there was the sound of a train whistle. Blast the stationmaster for his lies.
‘That was it,’ said one of the drunks, unhelpfully. ‘There are no more now.’
‘But there is one at midnight. I heard tell—’
‘Catch that if you want to dance to the Devil’s tune.’ The beery old men took one last opportunity to stare at him before bursting into phlegmy laughter and staggering away.
‘Cretinous yokels,’ Nicholas muttered under his breath, and continued on. Ahead was a great stinking factory of some kind, from which came the smell of smelted ore and the clang of beaten iron.
The foundry had a vast blank stone wall topped with a steep tiled roof, and tall chimney stacks that pumped out oily black smoke. As he passed, he looked through the great rusted iron doors and saw a vision of Hell. Men stripped to the waist in the heat, silhouetted against the furnace flames, shovelling coal and hauling glowing rods from a bank of fire that looked and felt like the surface of the sun. What kind of lives did these men have? How long did it take before they began to cough up black soot and expire? It would be a miracle for any of them to survive into their thirties.
Nicholas considered himself wise bey
ond his years. He understood how men behaved and how women could be controlled. And yet for one so wise, he often seemed to make the kind of mistakes that required him to get out of town as quickly as possible.
He carried on walking. A soldier in a khaki uniform was leaning against a wall lighting a cigarette. ‘Hey, friend,’ he called to Nicholas, ‘have you seen any men coming over the hill?’
‘No, but I hear they aren’t far way.’
‘Good. We’ll have some pleasure from this town tonight.’
‘You’ll be garrisoned here?’
‘You could say that.’ He shook his match out. ‘We’ll drink the place dry. You find good beer in towns like this.’
‘Perhaps I’ll join you,’ said Nicholas.
‘You may not want to. After we’ve had our fill of the beer and the women, we’ll bayonet every man who isn’t with us and burn these damned houses to the ground.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘The next time you pass this way, all you’ll find is a blackened pile of rubble.’
Nicholas moved swiftly on.
Eventually the street gave way to a leafy lane, and it seemed he was about to run out of houses when he arrived at a picturesque local inn with a well and a cobbled coaching yard.
Nicholas glanced up at the inn sign, which showed a fiery crimson steam train with devil’s horns sprouting from its tank. It was running over the severed body of a naked woman tied on the tracks. Using the dictionary in his guidebook, it appeared the inn’s name was best translated as ‘The Tormented Virgin,’ although the wording probably meant something far worse.
Charming, he thought. There seemed to be nowhere else open, so Nicholas headed in through the low porch. He stopped in the doorway and surveyed the busy tavern. With depressing predictability, the locals—all men—immediately ceased their prattling and turned to study him. A couple of them snickered at his outfit. Somebody farted insolently. Determined to remain undaunted, he approached the bar.
‘Good evening, landlord. I am in great need of a gin and Italian, please. With plenty of ice.’
The landlord was boozy-nosed, bucolic and rotund, with wild sideburns and a face like a bulldog chewing a nettle. Without bothering to reply, he pulled a cloudy, frothy pint of ale and slopped the pewter tankard in front of Nicholas. To be polite, Nicholas took a sip. It tasted as if a rabid dog had broken wind in it. He quickly set it back down.
‘I need a room for the night. A clean one, if you have such a thing.’
The landlord was clearly displeased, but his natural parsimony prevented him from turning away a customer, even one from the city. ‘Englishman, you are no friend to us. You cannot stay here long.’
‘I’m not asking you to hide me. I’m not ashamed of being English.’
Without removing his eyes from Nicholas, the landlord called over his shoulder. ‘Isabella!’
The landlord’s daughter—for there was a mercifully faint resemblance within the eyes—appeared in the doorway behind the bar. Nicholas found himself looking at the firm-legged beauty on the bicycle. Too young, too pert and far too innocent, but what a challenge! Perhaps, he thought, she might prove to be sport for a city gentleman craving a little excitement on what had otherwise been a ghastly journey.
‘Yes, father?’ She briefly caught his attention, but did not smile. She looked as if she had never had much of a reason to smile, and yet she had eyes as hopeful as sunrises.
‘Where have you been? Show this gentleman a room.’ He turned back to Nicholas. ‘If the soldiers ask for you, I will tell them you are here.’
Pushing up the counter top with a strong, tanned arm, Isabella stepped back. ‘Follow me, please.’
The room was sparsely furnished, but clean enough. There were blurry photographs of sturdy men posing before train sheds on the walls, but fresh gardenias stood in a vase beside a white china jug and water bowl. Nicholas dropped his bag on the bed and tested the mattress, only to realize that it was stuffed with straw and was likely to give him the worst night’s sleep of his life.
‘Please excuse the room,’ Isabella ventured in perfect English.
‘You speak our language beautifully.’
‘Our schoolteacher was English.’
‘Excellent. I hope he continues to teach you.’
‘No, he was shot.’
‘We’re not all bad, you know. I’m Nicholas.’
‘I am Isabella. We have very few visitors here.’
‘Well, you’re not exactly near anywhere important, are you? I’m amazed anyone finds this place. I’m not supposed to be here. There was a problem with my train home. I’m from London.’
‘London.’ She tried the sound in her mouth, savouring the word.
‘It’s the most exciting city in the world. I work there, you know. I have rooms in Park Lane but my family is from Herefordshire. Do you know Herefordshire?’
Isabella shyly lowered her glorious eyes. ‘I have never left Chelmsk.’
‘What, you’ve never been anywhere?
‘No.’
Nicholas took a step closer. ‘Isabella, do you know where a beautiful girl can go?’
‘No, where?’
‘Anywhere she damn well pleases.’
Her blue eyes widened. He watched in amusement as she fled the room, reddening with embarrassment.
‘And you are so very beautiful,’ he told her retreating form.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE ASSIGNATION
LONG AFTER ISABELLA had left the room, Nicholas could smell her scent, redolent of wild summer fields and wide blue skies. Of course, there was the novelty of country girls—London women were sharp and sly with their charms, but so made up and used up, and these days it seemed that the fresh ones were seized before their buds had even come into bloom, snapped up by old roués as if they were purchasing opening night buttonholes.
He stepped down the narrow stairs and stood in the shadows, watching her deliver drinks to the saloon tables. The men grabbed at her buttocks and breasts as she passed. Nicholas knew the importance of shielding his cards, but as Isabella returned to the bar, he found himself catching her arm.
‘Why do you let them do that to you?’
She looked surprised, as if the thought had not crossed her mind before. ‘I have no choice. A woman is nothing here.’
‘Can’t you get away?’
‘It is not possible.’ She looked back in desperation at the swaying, braying villagers.
‘Isabella, the war will tear this town apart.’
‘I know nothing of war.’
‘You will soon enough. What time do you finish?’
‘I never finish. Father never closes until the last man has gone back to his wife. Most would never leave if they had a choice.’
Nicholas looked at the locals slumped across their tables and imagined conversations that rarely rose above discussions of compost and the comparison of farming implements. ‘Then meet with me,’ he suggested.
Isabella looked back at the hard drinkers in the bar. One was stamping the caked mud from his boots and throwing it at the cat.
‘Isabella, you have nothing to lose, and the world to gain. What is the best restaurant in town?’
‘There is only one. It is called The Pig.’
‘The Pig. Meet me there.’
She turned back to the bar, her mind in turmoil. ‘I don’t know how long it will take to get away.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I will wait for you.’
Nicholas walked through the deserted streets on his way to the restaurant. The sun had set abruptly, without colour, and cones of cold light now fell from the tin lamps suspended over the road. On the way he passed an incredibly wrinkled old woman carrying a reluctant squealing pig. A drunken farmer was slung out of a doorway and fell before him into the gutter, where he was violently and copiously sick. Nicholas watched in growing disgust. Isabella deserves a better life than this, he thought angrily. She belongs upon my arm in London. How fine we would look together, enterin
g the Café Royal!
He stood before the windows of The Pig. The restaurant was empty except for a snoozing waiter with brown soup stains on his vest, slumped over the bar counter. Upon each bare wooden table was an arrangement of dried wheat, framed around a flyblown severed pig’s trotter. The thought of dining here appalled him. Drawing a deep breath, he entered.
It took a minute for the waiter to rouse himself. Surprised by the unexpected appearance of a client, he wiped the table and placed a grubby leather menu before Nicholas. There were no other patrons in the restaurant. Nicholas studied the dishes with distaste and pointed to an unpronounceable item.
‘What is this?’
‘It is pig,’ the waiter replied.
‘And this one?’
‘It is pig also.’
Sighing, Nicholas stared from the window and checked his pocket watch.
‘WHAT DID HE want?’ asked the landlord.
‘I told you, Father. He is an English gentleman.’
‘There is no such thing. I know gentlemen. They only bring trouble.’
‘He was being polite.’
‘Polite!’ Isabella’s father gave her a look of disgust. He touched his daughter gently on the arm, but she drew away. ‘All I want is what’s best for you. Be happy with what you have. Please, tend to your future husband.’
Isabella looked over at Josef, who was seated with his cronies by the fireside, and hesitated. She loved her father and was keen to obey him, but sometimes her life felt stifling and predictable.
Josef was a handsome man from solid working stock. He was not refined, but his nature was predisposed to kindness. It had long been decided that she would be joined in matrimony at St Peter’s. No doubt she would bear the first of his children in the following spring. There would be four, according to the priest: three strong boys and a girl to keep house. This pattern, as predictable as the seasons, was a source of joy in the lives of the other village women, but the root of dissatisfaction in her own.
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