by Joan Lingard
They heard footsteps overhead. The men must be with Anna in the upstairs drawing room.
‘Will he be allowed to take everything?’ asked Sonya sadly. ‘All the pictures and the furniture? And the books? But a lot of the books are ours! And the pictures.’
‘I’m sure your mother will point that out,’ said Duncan.
‘It’s not even as if Boris needs any of it. I bet he’s got loads of money. Look at his car!’
‘Need doesn’t come into it, I’m afraid, love,’ said her father.
Sonya was unable to sit down while the men were overhead. Snooping about amongst their things! For, no matter what the law said, they were theirs. When they heard feet coming back down the stairs she went to the door and opened it.
The men were looking at the grandfather clock.
‘That’s a very nice piece,’ murmured Mr Hatton-Flitch, making a note of it in his book. ‘Swiss, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Made in Zurich. Early eighteenth century, I would think,’ said Boris, lightly tapping the clock’s face. ‘Maybe even late seventeenth.’
‘Armoire,’ said Mr Hatton-Flitch, turning his attention to the next piece of furniture, a cupboard. ‘Mahogany. Fine condition. She had an eye for a good antique, your cousin.’
‘These antiques were all heirlooms from her husband’s side of the family,’ stressed Anna. ‘They didn’t come from St Petersburg.’ Not much had come from St Petersburg. The family had fled with only what they could carry.
Mr Hatton-Flitch moved on to the pictures. He noted them down. Then they were ready to ‘do’ the sitting room. Their eyes did a quick assessment, seeking out items of value. They weren’t going to bother with the twenty inch TV or the battered settee or the cheap hi-fi in the corner or the worn rug in front of the fireplace. However, Mr Hatton-Flitch’s interest was taken by a sewing basket sitting on top of the sideboard.
‘That looks a nice little item! It has a very Russian look to it. I would imagine it came from St Petersburg.’
The basket was elaborate, made of wicker and furbished with damask and satin. Small seed pearls rimmed its edges.
‘That’s mine!’ cried Sonya.
‘Natasha gave it to her,’ added her father. ‘For her twelfth birthday.’
The lawyer raised the lid. On the inside of it the word ‘Natasha’ was embroidered in pink silk, the colour now a little faded. ‘How pretty,’ he murmured. He took out some ribbons and set them aside. How dare he poke around inside her box? Sonya felt rage building up inside her.
‘Look at this, Boris!’ Mr Hatton-Flitch held a small, silver thimble up to the light.
‘That’s mine too,’ said Sonya. She wanted to go and snatch her thimble from his hand.
Boris had gone to look. The men’s heads were bent over the little object. This was no ordinary thimble and it had never been used for sewing.
‘It’s encrusted with tiny rubies and pearls!’ exclaimed Boris.
‘Real rubies,’ said Mr Hatton-Flitch, bringing the thimble up closer to his eyes. ‘Valuable, I would think. I daresay it also came from St Petersburg. They made some very fine things there prior to the revolution.’
‘Natasha gave it to Sonya as a christening present,’ said Duncan.
‘Do you have proof of that?’ asked the lawyer. ‘I mean, the basket is one thing. Worth a bit, probably, but the thimble must be worth a great deal more.’
‘How could we have proof?’ said Anna. ‘Natasha is dead. She’s the only one who could confirm it. Apart from the four of us. So I’m afraid you will have to take our word for it.’
Sonya was trembling. Surely they wouldn’t be able to take the thimble! She prized that above everything else Natasha had given her, next to the sewing basket itself. Natasha herself had been given the thimble as a christening present. Her christening had sounded like something out of a fairy tale, with everyone bringing small, exquisite presents and gathering round the baby’s white satin-lined crib. The Denisov family had lived in a palace overlooking the river Neva. Natasha’s father had been a prince. That hadn’t meant they’d been members of the royal family of the Tsar. Natasha had told them that there were quite a lot of princes in St Petersburg at that time. They had been members of the aristocracy, however, and they’d had numerous servants and kept two carriages. At the time of her birth in 1906, no one had foreseen the revolution that would sweep everything away and reduce the family to poverty.
‘Of course I shall take your word.’ Boris rewarded Anna with a smile which she did not return. He took the thimble from the lawyer, put it back in the basket and closed the lid. He then presented it to Sonya as if it was a gift from him to her.
Mr Hatton-Flitch carried on with his note-taking. The carpet was a bit too worn, he decided. Perhaps the family could make use of it? But the two Persian rugs, now they were rather attractive. Didn’t Boris think so? Boris did. Finally, the lawyer’s inventory was complete.
‘That would seem to be everything in the house.’ The lawyer replaced the cap on his fountain pen.
‘What about the downstairs loo?’ said Sonya, avoiding her mother’s eye. ‘We’ve got some quite nice lino on the floor.’
Mr Hatton-Flitch gave her a somewhat pitying look, as if she were throwing a tantrum. And, indeed, she wished she could stamp her foot on the floor and shout.
‘Perhaps we might take a look at the garden and outbuildings?’ said the lawyer. ‘No need for you to come with us, Mrs McKinnon. We don’t want to trouble you any further. We’ll be able to manage on our own now.’
They left the room and Alex once again closed the door behind them.
‘Do you think they’re going to write down the number of spades we’ve got?’ he said. ‘And rakes? And I hope they don’t miss the old wheelbarrow!’
From the window, they watched the men moving around the outbuildings and then crossing the grass to go down to the old boat shed at the edge of the loch.
‘If only he would rent the house to us!’ said Anna.
‘He won’t,’ said Alex gloomily. ‘He wants the money.’
‘We’ll find somewhere to go.’ Duncan was trying to sound cheerful. ‘Even if it’s only a small cottage. The main thing is for us to be together.’
‘But we couldn’t take in B&B in a cottage,’ objected Alex.
‘And we love this house!’ cried Sonya.
‘I know, dear! But remember, Natasha survived much worse. She had to leave more than one home in her life and start again. So we can do it too.’
‘We can’t give in that easily though, can we?’ asked Alex.
‘I don’t see what we can do to fight it,’ said his father. ‘We haven’t got a leg to stand on legally.’ They had already consulted their lawyer.
The two men were currently examining the boat shed, which was all but falling to bits. The lawyer was still scribbling in his notebook. Now he was putting it in his pocket.
‘It looks like they’ve finished their stupid old inventory!’ said Sonya.
The men were starting back for the house and their car.
‘I’d better go and see them off the premises, I suppose,’ said Anna.
Sonya and Alex accompanied her. They waited by the front steps until the men reached them.
‘I think that’s everything for now, Mrs McKinnon,’ said Mr Hatton-Flitch. ‘I’ll be getting in touch with an estate agent and he’ll make arrangements to call on you. And rest assured that if there is any way in which we might assist you…’
Sonya couldn’t stand the man’s talk any longer. Lawyer talk. Speak nicely and stick a knife in under your ribs at the same time. She turned her back on him and Cousin Boris and ran off across the grass to the old copper beech tree. It was her favourite tree in the garden. She loved its russety, mulberryish colour. She stood under its spreading branches and looked down at the loch. It was peaceful today, not a ruffle disturbed the surface of the blue-grey water. She couldn’t bear to leave this place. She couldn’t.
She glanc
ed round. The men were shaking her mother’s hand, pretending to be perfectly nice and reasonable. Surely she could reason with them! Plead with them! Ask them to let them keep their home.
They were getting into the long, sleek black car. The doors closed on either side, the engine purred into life. The car began to move slowly down the drive. The lawyer raised a white hand in farewell. In no more than one or two minutes they would be gone, heading south, back on the road to London. And her chance to make one last appeal to them would be gone.
Sonya made up her mind quickly. Taking to her heels, she went racing across the grass to cut them off at the entrance to the drive. She shouted and waved her arms in the air, but the car didn’t slow. The driver was looking up ahead, getting ready to turn out of the gate, into the road.
‘Stop!’ she cried. ‘Stop, please!’
‘Sonya!’ yelled Alex somewhere behind her. ‘Get back, you silly idiot!’
Sonya didn’t hear or if she did, she paid no attention. She went dashing on, into the path of the oncoming vehicle. It swerved to try to avoid her, but the drive was muddy and its wheels spun. The shiny black car struck her sideways on, throwing her up and over the bonnet. She landed on the other side, on her head.
THREE
SONYA IN A COMA
Everyone who witnessed the accident – Sonya’s mother, Anna, her brother, Alex, the lawyer, Mr Hatton-Flitch – had to agree that it had not been the driver’s fault. Not directly, at any rate, muttered Alex underneath his breath, but not loudly enough for the policeman taking down particulars to hear. Certainly not legally; there could be no dispute over that. Sonya had run into the path of the car. Mr Hatton-Flitch was able to testify that Mr Boris Malenkov had done everything in his power to avoid hitting her.
‘He had no chance. None. She came out of nowhere. The first thing we knew, we felt a thud on the side of the car.’ The lawyer smacked his closed fist against the palm of his other hand. ‘Mr Malenkov is very distressed, as you might imagine.’
No one would deny that. Cousin Boris sat on the front steps of the house, holding his head between his hands. He looked as if he might be sick. His face was ashen. When they were ready to leave, Mr Hatton-Flitch had to take the wheel of the car, which now looked slightly less sleek with the dent in its right side.
Sonya was flown to a hospital in Glasgow by helicopter, which came down on the lawn in front of the house to pick her up. Her mother went with her, leaving Alex and his father to look after each other. They watched numbly from the front steps as the machine went whirring up into the sky like a great black insect. They watched until they could no longer see or hear it.
‘Dad,’ started Alex, but he couldn’t go on. He wanted to ask his father if Sonya would be all right, even though he knew his father couldn’t possibly answer that.
‘She’ll get the best of attention where she’s going,’ said Duncan. ‘Let’s go inside, son, and have a cup of tea.’
Alex gave his father a push up the ramp to get him going, then followed him in. The whole thing seemed like a dream, it had happened so quickly. He couldn’t quite take it in. He filled the kettle, not paying attention until the water ran over. His mind had gone with his mother and sister.
To Anna, everything that was happening also had that unreal quality: the flight in the helicopter, as it swooped over glens and blue-grey lochs, snaking rivers and dark-green forests, grey-stone villages and cars that moved like child’s toys on narrow roads. Then, as they travelled further south, towards the central belt of the country, the roads thickened with traffic, and houses ran together in long rows and there were factories and church spires and tall tenement blocks, their windows flashing in the late-afternoon sunshine. And all the time, Sonya lay like Sleeping Beauty on her narrow stretcher.
They reached Glasgow and the helicopter touched neatly down on the hospital forecourt.
While Sonya was being attended to, Anna sat in a small waiting room. From time to time she got up and opened the door and listened to the muted hospital noises: the swish of the nurses’ soft soles on the corridor, lowered voices. After several hours, a nurse came to tell her that Sonya was in a side room and Anna could see her.
Perhaps Sonya would have recovered consciousness! A rush of hope surged through Anna as she followed the nurse along the corridor. But when she entered the room she saw that her daughter still lay with eyes closed, her lashes resting on her pallid cheeks. Tubes protruded from her in all directions. A large navy-blue bruise was flowering on her forehead, but there was no other visible sign of any injury to her head. Her pale, straw-coloured hair was wildly dishevelled and streaked with red that could only be blood.
Anna pulled a chair up close to the bed and took her daughter’s limp hand in hers. She spoke softly to her. It was said that no one knew how much a person could hear or understand when they were unconscious. It was supposed to be good though to talk to them, to try to stimulate messages to the brain.
‘You are Sonya,’ her mother told her, ‘and I am Anna, your mother, and I am here with you, watching over you. Dad and Alex are at home and they are thinking about you. We know that you are going to be all right, Sonya.’
A doctor came in. He said that it was impossible yet to estimate the extent of her injuries. She had broken a couple of ribs and had extensive bruising on one side, but it was the head injury that was causing them most concern.
After he had gone, Anna went to the payphone and rang home. She told them the little she had to tell. ‘It’s a case of waiting.’ Waiting was the worst thing of all. Minutes crawled like hours when you were sitting in a small, hot room staring at a white bed and willing the person lying there to open her eyes. Just to open her eyes.
Duncan asked if he and Alex should come to Glasgow to give Anna support.
‘It’s too difficult,’ she said. ‘Where would you stay? You’d have to go to a B&B and that would cost money. And you’d have to find one that could take your chair. No, it would be far too complicated, Duncan. It’s all right for me, I can stay in the hospital.’ She would sleep beside Sonya and be there the moment she opened her eyes.
‘If you’re sure?’ said Duncan.
‘Let’s wait and see how things go. Are you managing?’
‘Very well. Don’t worry about us.’
‘I’m making Dad spag bol for supper,’ said Alex, who was on the extension line. Spaghetti bolognaise was Duncan’s favourite meal.
‘Fantastic! I don’t suppose I’ll get anything as good here.’
When Anna put down the phone she burst suddenly into tears. A passing nurse stopped to ask if she was all right. She blew her nose and nodded, too choked up to speak. The reality of the situation had just overwhelmed her.
She took a few deep breaths to calm herself and then returned to her patient and the long, indefinite wait. People could stay in comas for days, weeks, even years. Sometimes they never came out. And if they did, their brains were often never the same again. She shook herself. Such thoughts would not do.
‘You’re going to be fine, Sonya,’ she told her daughter again. ‘You’re going to wake up and say, “Hello, Mum. That was a big long sleep I had. And while I was sleeping I had the most wonderful dreams.” ’
FOUR
ST PETERSBURG, FEBRUARY 1917 NATASHA IS INVOLVED IN AN ACCIDENT
‘Is she all right?’
‘Look, her eyes are closed.’
‘Is she breathing?’
‘Watch, move her gently.’
‘Careful! Mind her head’…
Natasha heard the voices as if through thick fog. She felt hands on her wrist, on her head, on her heart. Opening her eyes, she looked up into the rim of faces leaning over her. For a moment, they swam like photographic negatives in solution; then they settled. The night sky behind them was black, broken by a few floating white specks. Snow, she thought, gentle, dancing snow. Each flake looked a perfect prism. It was strange how everything seemed to stand out clearly, as if etched with a fine pen. In the
past few days, fierce blizzards had been raging, causing chaos in the city.
Someone was holding a lantern. The faces flickered in its shadowy yellow light. They were the faces of strangers with bulbous eyes and mouths full of rotting teeth. The hot flow of their breath and the stench of their bodies enveloped her like a blanket. She felt a panic in her chest and tried to rise. Then she recognized the bulky fur-coated figure with the lantern. It was Pyotr, their coachman. She fell back.
‘Are you all right, Miss?’ he asked.
‘What happened?’
‘The carriage toppled over.’
The road had been clotted with thick ruts of snow. She remembered how the carriage had jolted and swayed before it had made that horrible, sickening lurch. She had screamed as she’d seen the road coming up to meet them. After that, blackness had descended.
She remembered something else too. Something that had happened before the lurch. The mob! There had been a mob, a crowd of angry men and women, who had come rushing towards them shouting, waving their arms above their heads. A young woman had carried a blue-faced baby in the crook of her shawl, but the rest of the band had been wielding sticks. One of them had thrown something. A cabbage, Natasha had thought. It had thudded against the side of the carriage. Pyotr had cracked his whip in the air and shouted to them to get back. But they had been in a frenzy and in no mind to retreat.
She looked at the people who surrounded her now. They had not been part of the mob, she felt sure of that. They didn’t want to hurt her. They had no sticks in their hands. Their faces showed no anger, only dejection. The bitter wind ruffled their rags and their wild hair.
Pyotr told them to move, to give the young lady room to breathe. They edged away, as instructed, to allow him to set down the lantern and kneel beside the girl who lay slackly in the road.
‘Can you sit up, do you think, Miss Natasha?’ The coachman put his strong hands under her shoulders to help her. She cried out as a pain jabbed her chest. He lifted her up into his arms.
