Natasha's Will

by Joan Lingard

  ‘But it’s not our fault!’

  ‘You’ve got more than they have, that’s what makes them angry.’

  Natasha followed Lena’s gaze as it travelled round the room, taking in the furniture and rich upholstery. She began to see things through the maid’s eyes, noticing, as though for the first time, the emerald-green velvet dress that lay on the sofa waiting for Lena to mend the hem and the scarlet fur-lined velvet cloak that hung on the back of the door. She loved wearing velvet in winter, and fur when she went outside. She wondered when she would be able to go outside again. Her grandfather said they were marked people. She shivered at the thought.

  ‘Can’t we give them something of ours?’ asked Natasha. She would gladly part with some of her clothes. She had more than she needed.

  ‘It’s too late now,’ said Lena, threading a needle with emerald green thread and taking up the dress.

  Natasha wished she could run out into the snow and find the ragged woman with the baby and give her the scarlet cloak to keep them warm. But, as Lena said, it was too late now. The maid had a closed-up look on her face. Was she cross with them too?

  ‘You’re not going to leave us, are you, Lena? Please don’t! What would I do if you went?’

  ‘I dare say I shall stay, Miss Natasha. I have no great wish to go back to my village. It’s a poor place. The houses are no more than hovels.’ Lena had come from a remote village up north, before Natasha was born. ‘I don’t know what you’d all do without me, I’m sure.’ They were coming to depend on her more and more. ‘Ask Lena!’ was the cry whenever anyone didn’t know what to do.

  They heard noise below. Lena opened the door and cocked her ear. ‘It’s just your grandfather having his bit of a rant. Poor old soul.’

  Prince Ivan was the one person in the house who did not keep his voice down. He stomped around with his stick, swearing at the absent servants. ‘Just wait until this is all over! If they think they can come and get their jobs back afterwards, they’ll have to think again!’

  He had an arthritic hip, which didn’t help his temper. ‘You must remember that your grandfather is old and often in pain,’ Natasha’s mother told her.

  Prince Mikhail had gone to join the Tsar at the Front. Natasha felt anxious about her father. Her mother prayed a lot in front of the ikon of the Virgin Mary in her room.

  ‘It is your father’s duty to protect the Tsar, Natasha, and you should be proud of him,’ her grandmother told her, adding, ‘Though I would prefer that he was here protecting us!’

  ‘We have Stepan and Pyotr,’ said Natasha. The chief steward and the coachman were the only two male servants to have stayed. ‘They are big and strong.’

  ‘But they are not soldiers.’

  Prince Ivan had been in the Cossacks himself when he was younger. He had laid out his sword in the hall, lest trouble come to their door. ‘I am ready for them!’ he would cry.

  ‘He’d fall over the dashed thing if he tried to draw it!’ said his wife in an aside, though Prince Ivan was hard of hearing anyway.

  Natasha was still recovering from her accident and had been keeping to her room most of the time. Her mother kept telling her she should keep herself occupied and that sewing was a restful activity. Embroidery in particular was a very pleasant way to pass the time. Natasha, though she did persevere, did not find it particularly restful; she pricked her finger too often. But she did like wearing her jewelled thimble. And she loved the colours of the silken threads. She stopped frequently to admire both them and the thimble.

  ‘It’s pretty, isn’t it, Lena?’ She held the thimble up to the light and the tiny jewels sparkled.

  ‘Very pretty.’

  ‘I shall buy you a beautiful thimble for your next birthday.’

  Lena merely smiled and carried on sewing. Her fingers moved swiftly and deftly over the soft velvet.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘People like me don’t expect to have beautiful thimbles, Miss Natasha.’

  ‘Well, you will! We’ll go together to the Singer sewing shop on the Nevsky and I will buy you the most beautiful thimble in the whole shop.’

  ‘Perhaps I would rather have a pretty ring? Or a bracelet?’ Lena glanced over at the dresser on which lay a silver bracelet belonging to Natasha.

  There was an abrupt knock on the door and it burst open to admit Pyotr. He stood there with snow on his hair and his cheeks red from the cold.

  ‘The Tsar has abdicated!’ he announced.

  ‘Never!’ cried Lena, jumping up and allowing the velvet dress to slide to the floor in a heap. But her eyes were gleaming.

  ‘The Tsar has given up his throne?’ stammered Natasha, unable to believe it.

  ‘That’s right, Miss Natasha. He had no choice in the end.’ Pyotr shook his head. ‘He was on his way back to St Petersburg. Revolutionaries stopped his train.’

  ‘Revolutionaries?’ repeated Natasha, still feeling stupified by the news.

  ‘He’ll be under armed guard now then?’ said Lena and she looked at Natasha, reading her thoughts. Prince Mikhail would have been on the train.

  ‘It’s the end of an era,’ said Pyotr, ‘that’s what they’re saying.’

  ‘It had to come,’ said Lena.

  Natasha pricked her finger again, but this time the needle went deeper and blood spurted on to her embroidery and ruined it.

  SEVEN

  WAR AND PEACE

  Alex and Duncan went straight away to the library to look for War and Peace. The room was walled with books on three sides from floor to ceiling. On the remaining wall, on either side of the window, hung paintings, the most prominent of which was one of St Petersburg in winter. The city skyscape was broken by numerous golden spires and domes, which glittered against the bright blue of the sky. Winter was magical, Natasha used to say, with the snow lying deep and crisp and even. She had loved skating on the frozen river and going for sleigh rides into the countryside. It was magical as long as one had a fur rug to cover one and a warm, dry house to go back to.

  On the table under the window stood a photograph of Nikolai, the last Tsar of the Russian Empire, with his wife and children on the veranda of their summer palace. The four young grand-duchesses, Olga, Tatiana, Marie and Anastasia, wore long white, sashed dresses and broad, ribboned hats, and Alexei, the son of the Tsar, heir to a throne he would never inherit, a sailor suit. Natasha had known the children. She had always spoken of them sadly for they had all been murdered by the Communists.

  The books in the library were roughly classified, but only roughly. Biographies and travel books could be found amongst novels and volumes of poetry. Anna had said she must set herself to putting them in order one day. But there had never seemed to be time. And now the books that had belonged to Natasha would be taken away by Boris. Unless they found the will.

  Alex trawled along the shelves, letting his eyes slide over the titles. He had to stand on the library steps to reach the upper shelves. ‘Tolstoy!’ he read at length. ‘Anna Karenina’. He touched the spine and his fingers came away dusty.

  ‘You could be close,’ said Duncan from below.

  But Alex still could not see War and Peace.

  The front doorbell broke the silence and then they heard the postie shouting from the hall, ‘Post!’ He always came straight in. The front door wasn’t locked, except when they went to bed.

  ‘In here,’ called Alex.

  There were a couple of bills in the mail and a letter with a London postmark.

  ‘How’s the lassie doing?’ asked the postman.

  ‘Not much change, I’m afraid,’ said Duncan.

  ‘Aye, it’s a bad business. Remember me to Anna when you’re speaking to her.’

  ‘We will,’ promised Duncan.

  The postie left and Duncan opened the London letter. It was from Cousin Boris.

  ‘Maybe he’s changed his mind,’ said Alex.

  ‘Not a chance, son!’

  ‘What does he say, Dad?’
/>
  ‘How sorry he is about Sonya, et cetera. But repeating, of course, that he could not be held in any way to blame.’

  ‘Except that if he hadn’t come Sonya wouldn’t be lying in hospital now at -’ Alex had been going to say, ‘at death’s door,’ but had bitten it back. What if Sonya did die? He hadn’t allowed himself to think that, until now. ‘Dad, she will get better, won’t she?’

  ‘She’s got to!’ said Duncan. ‘And we’ve got to find this annoying will so that we have a home for her to come back to when she’s better. Do you know, Alex, there’s no way Natasha could have climbed up those steps.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Alex jumped down, half stumbling as he landed. He ended up sitting on the floor. He glanced at the shelf level with his eyes and saw War and Peace! How could he have missed it? He had already looked there. He eased the book carefully out of its slot. It wasn’t as dusty as some of the others. Someone must have taken it out of the shelf not too long ago.

  He squatted beside his father’s chair and opened the book at the first page. The paper was thin and yellowed at the edges.

  ‘What is it going to tell us, I wonder,’ said Duncan.

  The first chapter was called ‘Anna Scherer’s Soirée’ and was set in St Petersburg in July 1805. They stared at it.

  ‘Well now, that doesn’t seem to be much help,’ said Duncan.

  ‘It’s an awfully long book,’ said Alex, turning to the back page. ‘One thousand three hundred and fifty two pages! We can’t read through all that.’

  ‘No, I don’t think we can.’

  Alex flicked through some of the pages, but there were no markings on any of them. Then he held the book by its covers to see if he could shake anything loose.

  ‘Careful now,’ cautioned his father. ‘It’s an old book. Don’t break the spine.’

  Cautiously, Alex swung the book from side to side. And out fluttered a slip of thin white paper. He gasped and his father drew in his breath sharply. Neither spoke for a moment. Could it be the will?

  Alex’s hands trembled as he lifted the paper from the floor. He recognized Natasha’s handwriting with its strong loops and curls. He swallowed, before reading the message aloud.

  ‘ “Congratulations! You’ve reached the first post in the hunt for the will. You were always good at treasure hunts, so I knew you’d find me.

  ‘ “So, for my next clue, see if you can find me again.” ’

  Alex looked up.

  ‘Is that all?’ asked his father.

  ‘That’s all.’

  EIGHT

  SONYA SLEEPS ON

  ‘It’s Mum here, Sonya,’ said Anna, for what must have been the hundredth time. ‘I’m sitting right beside you and I’m holding your hand. It’s a lovely day outside, fresh and bright. I can see blue sky through the window with a few puffy white clouds. The sun is coming into the room lightening it up.’

  Anna’s own life had been reduced to this small room, except for brief walks in the city streets. At night she slept on a truckle bed, often lying awake, listening to the sound of Sonya’s breathing. What had Sonya’s life been reduced to? Was there anything going on inside her head? There must be! She wasn’t brain dead. The x-rays and scans had seemed to indicate that she was not. At times, a range of emotions appeared to cross her face. She would smile almost, then frown, then show signs of anxiety and Anna would have to bend over her and say, ‘It’s all right, Sonya, it’s all right. You’re safe and I am here with you.’

  ‘Dad sends his love,’ she said now. ‘So does Alex. Alex says to tell you that Tobias is missing you and you are to come back soon and have a long ride round the loch shore.’ Anna talked on, mentioning names of family and friends. She spoke too, of Natasha. Duncan had said, ‘Talk to her about Natasha. She was so much a part of her life and her imagination.’

  NINE

  ST PETERSBURG, NOVEMBER 1917 THE RED TERROR

  ‘I have an errand to do, Natasha,’ said her mother. ‘I would like you to come with me.’

  Natasha was surprised that her mother would want to go out, considering the dangers that lurked in the streets, but she ran at once to fetch her cloak. Her mother seldom wanted to do anything these days; she seemed poorly much of the time and often stayed in bed all day.

  ‘It is her spirit that is low,’ said Lena. ‘She is pining for your father, poor woman.’

  Prince Mikhail had managed to escape when the Tsar’s train was stopped by the revolutionaries and he was now in southern Russia with the White Army, fighting the Red Army. There was no battle left to be fought in St Petersburg. The Bolsheviks were completely in control of the city, conducting a reign of terror. They took people away in the night who were never seen again. In the provinces, the Whites, who represented the old order, were losing ground. At least, so said the newspapers, which were censored according to Natasha’s grandfather, who refused to believe any of it.

  ‘They are full of lies, the Bolsheviks! They tell the papers what to print. My regiment and my son’s regiment would never be defeated. Can you imagine, the Cossacks on their knees!’

  Natasha prayed that her father would not be on his knees as she went up to her room.

  ‘You can’t wear that,’ objected Lena, when she saw her dressed in her cloak. ‘Not with all that fur trimming! Put on a dark-coloured coat that won’t attract attention. And wear a kerchief to cover your hair. If you don’t, you will look like a little princess. And princesses are not in favour any more!’ Everyone in the house looked now to Lena for advice, even Prince Ivan, although he would not have admitted it.

  Natasha’s mother was ready, dressed also in a dark coat with a kerchief covering her hair.

  ‘Have you got the piece of paper?’ Lena asked her.

  Princess Eva nodded.

  They left the house by the back door after Stepan had checked the street.

  ‘Where are we going, Mama?’ asked Natasha.

  ‘You’ll see soon enough.’

  It was a relief to be outside and to smell the fresh air. They headed away from the river towards the main thoroughfare. Although the sun was shining brightly on the golden domes of the city, the wind blowing up the wide Nevsky Boulevard carried a chilly sting in its tail. Natasha tucked her hand into the crook of her mother’s arm and drew close to her.

  The boulevard used to bustle with carriages and horse buses and motor cars, while pedestrians thronged the pavements on their way to the shops and cafes. Today, the street was almost deserted. The eerie quiet made Natasha want to keep looking over her shoulder. They passed a group of beggars. Two of the women clutched babies to their chest. As Natasha and her mother drew level they held out cupped hands. ‘For the love of God, Madame! For the children’s sake!’

  ‘Can’t you give them something, Mama?’ pleaded Natasha.

  ‘No, I can’t.’ Her mother walked on with her head down. ‘I have nothing to give.’

  Natasha glanced back. The women were still holding out their hands forlornly. Quickly she unwound the cashmere scarf from around her neck and tossed it to them. They scrambled to reach it, each seizing an end. Their voices rose up in dispute.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ said Natasha’s mother. ‘What are they going to do with it? Cut it in two?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Natasha defiantly. ‘It might make a scarf for each baby.’

  ‘And what about you? Your neck will get cold and then you’ll start coughing.’

  Natasha pulled up the collar of her coat. ‘I have plenty of scarves at home.’

  ‘Not so many as before.’

  That was true. Some of her clothes were now being worn by young relatives of Lena. ‘You don’t need so many pairs of stockings, do you, Miss Natasha?’ she’d say. ‘I have a niece the same size as you. She has no stockings. Her legs are bare. You wouldn’t want her to go cold in winter, would you?’ Of course Natasha would not.

  ‘Please don’t give anything else away!’ said Princess Eva. ‘Lena is sucking us dry enough witho
ut you helping.’

  ‘Lena helps us too!’

  ‘She looks after her own interests. Everyone does these days.’

  These days. It was a phrase constantly on Natasha’s mother’s lips and on those of the grandparents. Everything is different these days…

  They passed other beggars. Some stood simply with a hand stretched out, as if the effort to move would be too much for them. Others, the ill and the crippled, sat in doorways, crying out in thin voices to passers-by. For the love of God…

  ‘Don’t look at them,’ said Princess Eva. ‘It is best not to engage their eyes since there is nothing we can do.’

  They stopped to read a notice fastened to a drain-pipe. ‘For Sale,’ it said. ‘A fine mahogany sideboard, English, Sheraton. Also, a grand piano, Bechstein, and two fur coats, tailored in Berlin.’ An address on the fashionable Fontanka Canal was given at the bottom. The writing had blurred with the rain and was barely readable. Another family had fallen on hard times. Princess Eva sighed.

  On the next corner, a woman stood like a statue, holding out her arms, over which lay a long hank of hair.

  ‘Is she selling her hair?’ asked Natasha.

  ‘Everything is for sale these days,’ said her mother.

  Not a muscle in the woman’s face moved as they went by.

  ‘Now let me see,’ said Princess Eva, consulting the piece of paper that she had been given by Lena. ‘Yes, we turn down here.’

  They entered a side street.

  ‘It should be just a few doors along.’

  Many of the shops were closed, having nothing to sell. The one Princess Eva was looking for had a curtain drawn across its window though a dim light could be seen within. The door jangled as they opened it.

  The owner, an elderly man with a spade-shaped beard, was sitting behind the counter wrapped in a bulky beaver coat. The temperature stood no higher than zero, but few people in the city had any form of heating. In the Denisov palace they had a few skimpy fires, which were kept going with old pieces of wood collected by Pyotr in the streets.