by Eva Ibbotson
Annika went back to bed. When she woke again it was light and she saw the room she had slept in clearly.
She had never dreamed that she would wake in such a room and know that it was hers. The walls were covered in brocade hangings, dark and heavy, embroidered with the kind of battle scenes which Uncle Emil had shown her to explain the movements of the Lipizzaners. There were two crossed swords nailed to one wall; a table with heavy carved legs and a chair with a high leather-covered back stood in the middle of the room, and on the headboard of her enormous bed were carvings of people in helmets trampling on other people whose helmets had come off.
But there were things that surprised her. The rugs on the floor were threadbare, the curtains were frayed and the pelmets hung crooked. The tiled stove had gone out – or perhaps it had not been lit the night before; her toes as she put them to the ground curled up with cold, and there were bare discoloured patches on the wall where pictures had been removed.
She dressed quickly, washing in cold water in the basin high on its stand. The von Tannenbergs must all be tall, and clearly they were strong and hardy. They weren’t pampered and spoilt as she had been in Vienna, waking in a warm room, washing in warm water.
Feeling for a moment rather desolate, she went to the window – and suddenly her mood changed, and she thought, No, it’s going to be all right, it’s going to be good. For she had almost forgotten one of the best things about her new life. She had almost forgotten Hermann.
Now she saw a boy riding bareback across the fields beside the house. He was galloping, letting the black horse go full out. But what she could see even from the distance was the ease and enjoyment with which he rode.
Perhaps Hermann would teach her to ride? Perhaps – no, there was no ‘perhaps’ about it – she and Hermann would be the greatest of friends. Sometimes you see someone even quite far off and know he will become part of your life.
‘I have a brother,’ said Annika aloud – and she turned from the window and hurried down the stairs.
She found herself in a square hall with a stone-flagged floor. A heavy wooden chest stood against one wall, and above it, fixed to the walls, were a number of glass cases containing stuffed fish: stuffed pike, stuffed roach, stuffed perch . . . all carefully labelled. In one corner stood an enormous brass gong; beside it was a stand holding a broadsword, a cutlass and a battleaxe.
Several doors led off the hall. Which one should she take?
Then from a corridor on the left, she smelt coffee and, making her way along it, she opened a door.
She’d been right – the door she now opened led to the kitchen.
It was much bigger than Ellie’s kitchen in Vienna, and darker, with its high, barred window, but at once she felt at home. There was a scrubbed table, an iron range, a set of copper dishes on the dresser – and it was warm! An old woman was stirring something on the stove. It was Bertha, who had let them in last night, and now in the daylight Annika could see how old and wrinkled she was, how tired. She must have begged to be allowed to stay at Spittal; there were servants who couldn’t face that they had come to the end of their working life.
‘Good morning,’ said Annika.
Old Bertha swivelled round. ‘Good heavens, miss, you mustn’t come in here. This is the kitchen.’
Her Norrland dialect was hard for Annika to understand.
‘Yes, I know it’s the kitchen. Can I help you to take anything through into the dining room?’
‘No! No! What would Frau Edeltraut say, her daughter helping in the kitchen! Go back down the corridor, and into the hall. The dining room is the second door on the right. Quickly – go, go, or I’ll be in trouble.’
The dining room faced north over the lake. It was huge with a long, dark table, and pictures of a number of von Tannenbergs on the walls, but here too there were spaces where some ancestors were missing and the wallpaper was stained with damp. After the warm kitchen it seemed very cold.
Her mother was sitting at one end of the table, buttering a piece of bread. She was wearing a morning robe of green brocade, and her thick, dark hair was loose down her back. Annika, filled with pride, ran up to her for a good-morning kiss and it was only then that she really took in that there was another person in the room: a large man with red hair, a red beard, and a long scar running down his left cheek. He wore corduroy breeches and a green loden jacket, and a small feather was caught in his beard. A duck feather it seemed to be. This then must be the man she had seen in the punt.
‘This is my brother-in-law, Herr von Seltzer. You may call him Uncle Oswald,’ said Frau Edeltraut, and explained that he was the husband of her sister, Mathilde, who lived near by and that he came over most mornings to shoot. Then she turned to him. ‘Well, this is my Annika, what do you think of her?’
‘She’s pretty,’ he said, ‘but not very much like you.’
Frau Edeltraut frowned. ‘Sit down there, dear. Do you drink coffee?’
‘Yes, I do, thank you.’
Breakfast was simple: black bread cut into thick slices, butter – and a single jar of a kind of jam Annika had not seen before. It was a dark-yellowish colour and tasted like turnips, but of course it couldn’t have been. It had to be a special kind of fruit that grew here in the north. As Annika spread it on her bread she looked across at the fourth place laid at the table.
‘Is that where Hermann sits?’ she asked.
‘Yes. He’ll be here in a minute. Ah, I think I can hear him now.’
Footsteps . . . the door opening . . . and a boy stood on the threshold.
‘This is Hermann, Annika. Your brother.’
The two children stared at each other. The boy did not come forward to shake her hand. Instead, still standing in the doorway, he bowed from the waist, clicked his heels sharply together, and said, ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’
He was an amazingly handsome boy, with fair curly hair cut very short, his mother’s dark-blue eyes, and a clear pale skin. He was neatly dressed in a cadet uniform: khaki trousers, a khaki tunic with brass buttons, and highly polished riding boots.
And he was most definitely not the boy on the horse.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE HOUSE AT SPITTAL
After breakfast, Annika was shown round the house by her mother.
‘You come too, Hermann,’ she said to her son. ‘Annika may be interested in your plans.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘When he is of age, Hermann will of course be the master here. I am just looking after Spittal for him until then.’
The house, with its massive stone walls and windows protected by iron grilles, was ancient. It had survived the Thirty Years War in which Protestants and Catholics had slaughtered each other in various gruesome ways. Even now it seemed to be a house meant for sieges and wars, with its surrounding moats, and the long lake that stretched away to the front and made it impossible to approach it from the north.
They went through the downstairs rooms first. The drawing room, which, like the dining room, faced over the water, was grandly furnished with rich, dark hangings, and gilt-legged tables and claw-footed chairs. The vast floor was bare, which made their footsteps sound very loud, and on the walls were still more portraits of von Tannenberg ancestors, and glass cases housing – not stuffed fish as in the hall but stuffed waterbirds: ducks, geese, teal and pochard all crouching among realistic-looking reeds.
‘My father shot those before he went away,’ said Hermann. ‘He’s the best shot in Germany.’
But here too there were unexpected spaces on the walls. Which ancestors had been removed, wondered Annika, and why? Wicked great-aunts? Drunken uncles banished to the cellar? They would be my relatives too, she thought. But the truth was simpler: the pictures and tapestries, explained Frau Edeltraut, had been taken to Bad Haxenfeld to be cleaned.
‘They’re very valuable,’ she said, ‘and have to be looked after carefully.’
In the library, which looked out over the moat to the east, there were more bare patches, and a lot of th
e bookshelves were empty because the books, as Frau Edeltraut explained, had been taken away to be rebound. ‘The leather bindings can be affected by the damp, and some of the books are priceless,’ Annika was told.
Hermann didn’t seem interested in the fate of the books, but he showed Annika a table on which was painted a large shield in crimson and black with two griffins rampant and a mailed fist. The motto, in gold round the edge of the shield, said: ‘Stand Aside, Ye Vermin Who Oppose Us!’
‘That’s the family crest,’ said Hermann. ‘We’ve had it since the time of the Emperor Charlemagne.’
Annika was impressed. The room was icy like the drawing room, but the crest was splendid and for a moment she wished that Loremarie was standing by her side.
The other downstairs rooms were shuttered, and Spittal, unlike the professors’ house in Vienna, did not have electric light.
‘We won’t fetch lamps now,’ said Frau Edeltraut, and she explained that the rooms they entered were the billiard room and the music room, but that the piano had been taken away to be retuned.
‘You may go into any of these rooms if you wish,’ said Frau Edeltraut, and Annika thanked her mother though she was not sure how much she wished to enter these cold and echoing places. ‘But there are other places which you must be careful to avoid. That door there leads down to the cellar and you must on no account go there. It is flooded at the moment and if you slipped on the steps you could be drowned. And Hermann doesn’t like anyone to go into his room – he has everything carefully arranged, haven’t you, dear?’
Hermann nodded. ‘I’ve got three hundred lead soldiers lined up in battle formation. They’re valuable and I count them every day.’
‘Hermann is going into the army. He’s waiting for a place at cadet college now, St Xavier’s. He’ll be off as soon as—’ She broke off.
They were making their way up the stone stairs that led to the first floor. Ahead of them, her back bent and breathing heavily, was old Bertha, holding both handles of a basket piled high with logs which she was carrying up to her mistress’s bedroom.
In a moment Annika had bounded up the next three steps and taken one of the handles. ‘Let me help,’ she said. ‘It’s awfully heavy.’
As she began to lift the basket, her mother’s voice came from behind her.
‘Annika, what on earth are you doing? Put it down at once. Bertha doesn’t want to be helped.’
‘No . . . no . . .’ muttered the old woman. ‘I can manage.’
Bewildered but obedient, Annika let go of the handle and the old woman stumbled on.
‘Perhaps now is the time, dear, to make something clear to you,’ said Frau Edeltraut, when they reached the landing. ‘I know you have been brought up to make yourself useful, but now you must promise me not to interfere with the servants in any way. For example, I don’t ever want to see you go into the kitchen or the scullery or any of the rooms where the work of the house is being done. It’s particularly important because of your background.’ She put an arm round Annika’s shoulder. ‘You see, I want my daughter to take her rightful place in society, to be part of our family. If anyone found you with the servants they would think . . . well, that you were nothing better than a servant girl yourself. And that would break my heart,’ she said, pulling Annika closer and dropping a kiss on her head. ‘You do understand, don’t you?’
Annika nodded, safe in her mother’s embrace. ‘Only . . . Jesus did help people—’ she began, but then she realized that she was being foolish. Jesus had not been an aristocrat, he had been a carpenter.
They went on to look at the other bedrooms, the old nursery, the guest rooms . . . Everything was very large and very grand – and everywhere there were spaces on the walls where pictures or tapestries or statues were being reframed or cleaned or polished by experts in Bad Haxenfeld.
‘This is my boudoir. I work here and for that I need to be alone. But of course if you want me you only have to knock and I shall come out at once. And now, dear, I will let Hermann show you the grounds – and tell you where it is safe to go. I have some tiresome papers to see to. Don’t forget to be ready at half-past twelve to go to lunch with your new aunt and your cousin.’
Hermann led her out into the cobbled courtyard. The cobbles were covered in a layer of mud. There was a large stable, but some of the doors hung off their hinges, and the loose boxes were empty. Most of the outhouses were deserted; wisps of straw blew about. They passed an old cider press, a rusty ploughshare on its side. A flock of starlings flew out suddenly from under the sagging roof of the old brewery.
‘I’m going to rebuild the stables and keep my carriage horses up here,’ said Hermann, ‘as soon as I’m of age. And build some proper kennels for the hunting dogs – Uncle Oswald keeps them at his place, but they’re ours really – and a decent gunroom that can be locked properly. You can’t trust people nowadays.’
‘Are there any animals here now?’ asked Annika.
Hermann shook his head. ‘They’re down at the farm, across those fields.’ He led her round to the front of the house, to a terrace of paving stones which abutted the lake. On each side were drainage ditches, dark with waterweed and frogspawn.
‘This is Spittal Lake. It’s fifteen kilometres long and it all belongs to us.’
The lake on this cloudy morning was uniformly grey with only a few sudden bubbles of marsh gas breaking the surface. There were thick reeds growing right round the edges, and the ground surrounding the water was a muddy swamp. Wooden duckboards led to a boathouse on the eastern shore, and another walkway connected with a path over the fields which led to a huddle of farm buildings. The wind rustled in the reeds, a flock of geese flew over, honking mournfully, bitterns boomed, and in the ditch dark shapes darted through the water.
‘Do you swim here in the summer? In the lake?’
Hermann shook his head. ‘It’s too muddy – you have to wade for ages to get into clear water.’
It was a mournful, lonely scene, yet Annika was happier here than she had been in the house. In spite of the wind it felt less dank and cold than in the unheated rooms, and there were living things. She looked curiously at the frogspawn; she had never seen so much. ‘You must get an awful lot of frogs.’
‘The cats mostly kill them,’ said Hermann, ‘but there always seem to be more. I’m going to change everything as soon as—’ He broke off. ‘I’m going to clean the moat and dredge the lake and fill it with trout and freshwater salmon – they give you good sport. And I’ll invite all the important people to come and shoot; there used to be famous wildfowl shoots here before—’
This sentence too he left unfinished. ‘Could we go and look at the farm?’ asked Annika.
Hermann sighed. ‘It’s time for my bayonet practice,’ he said. ‘I always do it at eleven.’
Annika stared at him. Surely he was joking?
‘I have a straw dummy on a stand in my room. It’s important to stick to the routine.’
‘Would it be all right if I went alone, then? I’ll be very careful and not disturb anyone.’
‘There isn’t anyone to disturb down there. They’re just farmworkers. Tell Zed I’ll want my horse saddled for three o’clock tomorrow. He’s to bring him into the courtyard, to the mounting block, not hang about in the lane.’
‘Who’s Zed?’ Annika asked.
‘He’s the stable boy. He’s called Zedekiah because his mother was a gypsy and gypsies are all mad. Be careful of him; he steals.’ Hermann was making his way back to the house, but at the door he turned. ‘He stole my dog,’ he said.
It was a relief to be alone. There was a high light-grey sky over the sombre lake, and she could see the yellow heads of coltsfoot just appearing on the banks. Spring was coming, even to Norrland.
All the same she was hungry. In Vienna no one had bayonet practice at eleven. What they had at eleven was a drink of milk and whatever it was that Ellie had been baking, but obviously the aristocracy did not go in for feeble things like
midday snacks, and resolutely she started off down the path towards the farm.
The low buildings were made of lath and plaster and looked homelier than the main house. Being sunk in the swampy earth seemed to suit them better. As she came closer she heard the sound of lowing cattle, and stopped at the door of a shed to find three black-and-white cows tethered in their stalls, and an old man carrying a milking stool. It was the man who had driven them from the train the night before, and when she had said good morning, she asked him if his name was Zed.
He shook his head. ‘I’m Wenzel. Zed’s in the paddock. Go through the farm and you’ll see him.’
Annika thanked him and watched for a moment before she went on.
After the cow byre came the hen-house; the chickens were scratching about outside in the mud and a handful of ducks were cleaning their feathers in a puddle in the rutted lane.
If there were chickens and ducks, thought Annika, there must be eggs. Perhaps they would have omelettes for lunch; soufflé omelettes, soft and golden and splendidly filling. She imagined herself hurrying them out of the oven, sprinkling them with chopped chives . . . and then drew in her breath as she remembered that she was never going to cook again. She would obey her mother, but it was going to be hard – harder than anybody realized. It wasn’t till you were told you couldn’t do something that you realized how much it had meant to you.
The door of the pigsty was closed and the pigs were inside. She walked past it, past a storage shed and the dairy . . . past the two big carriage horses that had brought her to Spittal the night before, looking over their stable door. There seemed to be a lot of empty buildings here too – deserted sheds and byres and stalls like the ones she had seen in the courtyard of the big house. The farm must have been much bigger once.
Then the path dipped into a hollow and she came to a small house. It was a very small house; a hovel really, though the checked red-and-white curtains looked clean and fresh.
But what made Annika stop and give a cry of pleasure was what was on the roof.
