by Olga Wjotas
There was an uncertain pause and then everyone nodded vigorously, pretending they had known this all along.
“In me, Lidia Ivanovna gives you the crème de la crème,” I went on. “I am Shona Fergusovna McMonagle, former captain of the gold medal-winning team from the Marcia Blaine School for Girls. We were specially commended at the Royal Scottish Country Dance Society’s spring fling for footwork, flexibility and fervour.”
There was an excited murmuring.
“We’ll start with a Dashing White Sergeant,” I told them. “Kindly get into sets of six, two lines facing one another, boy-girl-boy and girl-boy-girl.”
When I choose to, I have the voice of authority. It comes from having been class prefect. Obediently, the guests rose and took their places in the ballroom. I struck up on the accordion I had borrowed from the band. The school gave me a good training in classical music – the recording of me playing Sibelius’s violin concerto at the annual prize-giving still raises considerable sums for the fund-raising appeal – but I like to think I’m equally adept at traditional music, particularly on the mouth organ.
As I played, the other musicians gamely following my lead, I called out clear, simple instructions for dancing the reel. “Forward, back, forward! Grab an arm! Twizzle! Hoppity-hop!”
But despite the precision of my directions, it was a catastrophe. The dancers careered into one another, crashing into tables and chairs, smashing glasses, knocking over footmen. Then came an ominous commotion at the far end of the ballroom, and a shriek of “Saints in heaven! Save him!”
Something had gone terribly wrong. I realised there could easily be a panic. If the guests stampeded, there would be horrific injuries. Clearly the only responsible thing to do was to keep playing, Titanic-style, in order to distract everyone. I gestured to the other musicians to play louder while I called the steps with even more authority. The dancers responded to my cool leadership, grabbing, twizzling and hopping.
Peering across the room to the cause of the drama, I saw that a tiny elderly gentleman had become lodged in a portly lady’s cleavage and was suffocating. Two immaculately dressed officers rushed up to him, grabbed him by the shoulders and legs and eventually managed to wrench him free. Wheezing, he was helped to a seat where he slowly regained his colour, while the portly lady set about patting everything back into place. And as she made her way to another seat, I caught sight of fat little feet in satin shoes.
So this was the redoubtable countess. I had no doubt where the blame lay: the tiny gentleman would have been completely incapable of steering such a bulky vessel.
Now that the crisis was over, I stopped the band, and the dancers juddered to a halt.
“You see what happens when you don’t pay attention?” I said. “Somebody–” (I looked meaningfully in the direction of the countess) “–obviously went forward when they should have gone back. Or possibly vice versa. There could have been a fatality had it not been for the intervention of the military, and that wouldn’t have been a very nice end to the evening, would it?”
There was an embarrassed muttering and shuffling of feet.
“You have a choice,” I went on. “You can all sit down and listen to the music. But if you want to dance, you’re going to have to obey my instructions to the letter. Do I make myself abundantly clear?”
“Please, Shona Fergusovna, please let us keep dancing!” burst out a guest.
“Please, Shona Fergusovna!” cried another. “This is so much fun! We promise to do exactly as you say.”
Their faces were so eager that I couldn’t help relenting.
“All right. I’ll give you one more chance. Strip the Willow. Sets of four couples, boys facing girls.”
The dancers went in more or less the right directions, clearly making an effort to behave. So I seamlessly led the band into Hamilton House followed by a strathspey. The atmosphere in the ballroom was transformed from its earlier apathy. The dancers smiled and laughed as they hurtled round the room, and there was an enthusiastic hubbub among the observers sitting at the side, who nodded and clapped along in time to the music.
After a particularly vigorous eightsome reel, I announced a refreshment break and gave credit where credit was due.
“Very well done,” I said. “I wish the RSCDS could see you. You’d all be up for dancing achievement awards, elementary level.”
Everybody beamed. I could see people beginning to move towards me, no doubt to compliment me on my language and performance skills. But after a round of hand-shaking with the band, I slipped past the guests, fading into the background.
“Just a tea for me,” I told a passing footman as I escaped back into the anteroom and sank into the large indentation on the settee.
The footman retrieved the pot from the top of the samovar and poured strong black tea into a glass in a silver filigree holder, adding hot water from the samovar’s tap. I prefer my tea with milk, but I knew better than to show myself up as an ignorant foreigner. I was determined to make a success of my mission, which meant I had to fit in.
I retrieved a cube of sugar from the little dish the footman had left beside me and, holding it between my teeth in the traditional way, took a sip of tea. I was able to identify it as Russian Caravan, its smoky flavour evoking the camp fires during its long journey across the steppes. I still didn’t know exactly what my mission was, but I was more than happy to do whatever was necessary to help our shy, uncertain, stunningly beautiful hostess.
She was an enigma. Why weren’t her parents hosting the party? Why was this the first party she had ever been to? Why wasn’t she married yet? I sucked the pungent tea through the sugar lump and told myself to be patient. I had only just arrived.
When I returned to the ballroom, Lidia Ivanovna ran up to me and clasped my hand.
“Shona Fergusovna, I will never be able to thank you enough! I was so afraid this evening would be a disaster but you have saved it for me!”
“Not a problem,” I said. “Delighted to help.” Not only delighted but also destined and duty-bound. “That was a lovely cup of tea, so now I’m good to go.”
Lidia tried to smile, but her eyes were clouded. Something seemed to have upset her.
“Of course, it is time for you to leave,” she said. “You must have many more important social engagements than this. How kind of you to have come at all.”
It was easy to Russify what I would say in English, but I had to remember that this wasn’t the twenty-first century.
“No, ‘good to go’ is just an expression,” I explained. “I mean I’m going to get them dancing again.”
The orchestra members, anxious to learn more tunes, greeted me warmly.
“Honoured guests!” I called. “You’ve done so well that I think you’re ready to try one of our more complicated dances, the Gay Gordons. This is for couples, so grab the person you most want to dance with.”
The guests all raced to partner up. Lidia Ivanovna, entirely unaware of how beautiful she looked, stood hesitantly at the edge of the dance floor as couples rushed past her.
From the opposite side of the room came a young man. He was absolutely stunning, the most gorgeous man I had ever seen. Blond hair flopping sexily over his forehead. Chiselled cheekbones. Temptingly sensuous lips. And he was wearing new shoes, buffed black with intricate silver buckles. He certainly didn’t have a face for radio: he would have been welcome on any television sofa in the world.
It was clear that he had eyes for nobody but Lidia, and was walking straight towards her, as though the other guests were nothing more than troublesome flies. As I watched, it was like one of those films where everything goes blurred and out of focus except the main characters. All I could see was this one couple, two unbelievably beautiful people preparing to dance with one another. It would be the highlight of the evening. I was already imagining calling the instructions for the Gay Gordon
s: Forwards, forwards backwards, backwards forwards, backwards backwards. Gents skip! Ladies rotate! while the perfect couple danced in perfect harmony.
But before I even had time to pick up the accordion, I saw the hefty lady with the dangerous cleavage totter towards Sasha and intercept him. And just as the countess hauled Sasha into line, Lidia was similarly captured by the tiny elderly gentleman who had nearly expired in the countess’s bosom.
This was all wrong. They had to have a chance to ditch their partners. I got through the Gay Gordons as quickly as possible and, just as Lidia and the tiny gentleman came to a standstill beside me, I quickly announced a ladies’ excuse-me.
“Excuse me,” said Lidia to the tiny gentleman. “I enjoyed our dance very much, but I must take care of my other guests.”
She moved to the side of the room where some elderly ladies were sitting, and signalled to a footman to bring them more champagne. Meanwhile, Sasha had been grabbed from the countess by an eager widow, who was then seen off in her turn by a stocky termagant. He looked longingly towards Lidia every time he was spun past her, but she was deep in conversation with the old dears, as far as their ear trumpets allowed.
In vain, I taught the guests Strip the Willow, Wind on Loch Fyne and The Bees of Maggieknockater. Lidia didn’t come near the dance floor again, her attention solely on the guests who were too old or infirm to whirl round the ballroom. Sasha had been commandeered once again by the countess, who, when she wasn’t dancing with him, insisted that he fetch more champagne, arrange her shawl round her shoulders, find her a footstool, fetch more champagne, take her shawl off her shoulders, and fetch more champagne. He did all this without the slightest complaint.
It was as though everything was conspiring to keep the two beautiful young people apart. Finally, the party started to break up and the guests headed for the cloakroom to retrieve their cloaks.
I turned to the orchestra. “Great gig, guys,” I said. “With a bit more practice, you could almost sound like a Scottish country dance band. That would be a nice wee earner for you.”
The leader of the orchestra bowed. “A generous suggestion, your excellency, but this was our final performance. We are all about to enlist in the army.”
I was quite surprised – nothing I had read suggested that the Imperial Russian Army had a band. But I could see that it might work very well. “If you got the cannons synchronised, you could do a brilliant version of the 1812 Overture,” I said.
“The what?” asked the leader.
It was an awkward moment. I realised I had no idea what year it was. And it would be totally unprofessional just to ask – what sort of numpty doesn’t know the date? I couldn’t appear unprofessional on my very first mission. So I decided to solve it myself. I would easily be able to work it out from clues. After all, when I’m doing a jigsaw, I always keep the edge pieces aside until the end. And here was my very first clue: Tchaikovsky wrote the 1812 Overture in 1880, so it must be earlier than that.
“Well,” I said heartily, “have a lovely time in the military band. I’m sure there will be lots of rousing martial music for you to play.”
The leader shook his head. “We will never play again, your excellency. To be allowed to accompany you this evening has been the pinnacle of our musical careers. We can be musicians no longer, for, without you, our music will have no meaning. During the interval, we decided that our only option was to enlist, because it guarantees us certain death.”
The others all nodded enthusiastically. “Mikhail, whose accordion you played, is already making arrangements to have it buried with him,” said the percussionist.
“Really?” I said. “Mikhail, are you married?”
“Of course, your excellency,” said Mikhail. “We all are. With many children.”
“Then isn’t it a bit excessive having your accordion buried with you? How about letting your widow and dependents sell it to raise some cash?”
Mikhail lifted the instrument high over his head. “Now that you have played it, your excellency, I will allow nobody to profane it by playing it again,” he said. “Rather, I will hurl it to the ground and dance the kazachok on it.”
“Oh, please don’t do that,” I said, worried in case he scratched the fabulous parquet floor. I could see their minds were made up, so all I could do was thank them again for their help, and express the hope that their certain deaths would be swift and painless.
They appreciated the sentiment, bowed to me, and departed.
The ballroom was practically empty, so it was time for me to go as well. I had no idea where I was going, but I had been told that accommodation would be provided
Lidia Ivanovna was at the grand entrance, bidding farewell to her guests as they prepared to leave in their drozhkies.
“Dear Shona Fergusovna!” she cried when she saw me. “I shall never be able to repay your kindness – I thank you with all my heart.”
“Absolutely no thanks necessary. It was a great pleasure,” I assured her. “Well done for throwing such a great party and I look forward to seeing you again soon.”
As I got to the foot of the steps, an elegant four-wheeled drozhky drew up and the coachman dismounted to help me into the carriage. He was shaggy-haired and heavily bearded, and wore a long shabby coat.
“Home, your excellency?” he asked.
“Home,” I agreed, feeling quite excited about finding out where home would be. The coachman set the horse off at a brisk trot and after a few minutes, we overtook a carriage containing the tubby countess and a cadaverous gentleman who gave me a haughty stare.
“Who’s that in the carriage with the countess?” I asked the coachman.
“The count,” he said and then elaborated, “her husband.”
Perhaps coachmen, like taxi drivers, knew everything. “The countess spent a lot of time with a young man, blond, early twenties, slim, unbelievably good-looking,” I said. “What’s his relationship to her?”
The coachman’s reply was blighted by a bout of coughing.
“Did you say protégé?” I asked.
“If your excellency will forgive me.”
“Of course – you can’t help a cough. So what do you know about him?”
“I have no personal knowledge of the young man,” said the coachman. “His name is Sasha and he is new in town. I hear he is the first cousin of the old prince. And he is believed to bear a close family resemblance to the blue-eyed baroness.”
“That’s very interesting,” I said.
And I meant it. First, it confirmed that coachmen know everything. And second, it revealed that the gorgeous young man was being passed off under a false identity. Other people might be hoodwinked, but I was on a mission, and nobody was going to hoodwink me.
Two
We pulled up outside a two-storey house built in a restrained neo-classical style, its white façade enlivened with turquoise and gold decorations. I recognised it instantly as the work of Charles Cameron, Catherine the Great’s favourite architect. A really nice touch to give me a house designed by a fellow Scot.
Candles glowed softly through all the windows.
The coachman clambered off his box and waited to help me down from the cushions. This was completely unnecessary, since I still retain all the flexibility I displayed in the school gymnastics team, plus I had the added benefit of the DMs. But I felt it would be ungracious to point this out, and accepted his assistance.
His vast bushy black beard and long straggly hair hid most of his face, and there wasn’t enough light to let me see him properly. But there was something endearing about him, like Bambi.
“Thank you,” I said. “May I ask your name?”
“Old Vatrushkin, your excellency.”
“That was a very pleasant drive, Mr Vatrushkin,” I said.
Despite the camouflage of the beard, I could see his face crumple. “O
ld Vatrushkin,” he whispered, distress in his voice.
“Right,” I said. “Hope to meet you again some time.”
His tone changed from distress to bewilderment. “I’m your driver, your excellency. You will see me tomorrow. What time will you require me?”
I had no idea I was going to get a regular driver – another thoughtful touch.
“That’s great,” I said. “I’ll have a walk round to get my bearings in the morning, so I won’t need you until the afternoon. Sleep well, and thanks for bringing me home.”
“Your excellency.” He bowed, clambered up to his seat, clicked his tongue at the horse and drove away.
I walked up to the elegant front door, wondering how many more staff I was going to have. A major-domo, a housekeeper, a cook, a lady’s maid, a brace of footmen? I didn’t much relish the idea. I wanted to concentrate on my mission, whatever it might be, and I didn’t want to be distracted by HR issues.
I looked for a doorbell but couldn’t see one. It was really frustrating that none of my reading had told me when doorbells had been introduced to Russia: it would have helped me discover what year it was. I started to knock on the door, and at my touch it swung open.
I stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind me on the outside world, turning the iron key I found in the lock. I leaned back against the door and massaged my face with my fingertips. My jaw was aching after an evening speaking Russian and French.
So this was my new home. I was greatly relieved to see the interior was as douce and sober as the exterior. I would have loathed the architectural excesses of one of Bartolomeo Rastrelli’s rococo palaces. Here, the gilding on the walls and ceiling was discreet, the carved woodwork minimal, and there was absolutely no sign of any vulgar neo-classical statues.
“Hello!” I called. There was no answer. Presumably the staff were lined up to greet me in the reception rooms. I took the white marble stairs two at a time. At the top was a small anteroom, and I pushed open its double doors into the salon. No one was there, but the room itself glowed in welcome. The sparkle of the candlelit chandeliers was reflected in the polished mirrors. The sofas and chairs had white-painted frames and were upholstered in a warm peach satin. At the far end of the room was a pianoforte, its lid already open. I couldn’t resist. I sat down, and my fingers automatically sought out the notes. I don’t think there’s any music in the world that’s more stirring than our school song.
