Miss Blaine's Prefect and the Golden Samovar

by Olga Wjotas

  “To our great founder, whose great name

  We praise for ever, Marcia Blaine,

  We owe whate’er we have of fame,

  Cremor, Cremor Cremoris,” I sang.

  Cremor Cremoris. The crème de la crème. Our motto.

  As I sat in my new Russian home, I thought back to the pouring wet Edinburgh day that had changed my life. The library was full of people who had come in to take shelter. I became aware of a woman, not one of the regulars, standing dripping in front of my desk, not bothering to take down the hood of her raincoat.

  “Good morning,” she said before I had time to ask how I could help her. Her accent was local, her tone authoritative. “Do you have a copy of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie? I can’t find it on the shelves.”

  There was a time when I wasn’t sure what hackles were. But the mere mention of That Book makes mine rise like cholesterol levels after you’ve been eating saturated fat.

  I fought to keep my tone level. “If it’s not on the shelves, then it will be out on loan.”

  “Yes, I imagine it’s very popular.”

  My fingers tightened round the edge of the desk. “For those who like that sort of thing, that is the sort of thing they like.”

  “Could you order it from another branch?”

  I could, but I wouldn’t. I would play no part in disseminating That Book. “I’m afraid I can’t. My computer’s playing up.”

  “Have you tried switching it off and switching it on again?”

  All the old biddies are technomeisters these days. “I mean, the system’s down. It won’t get fixed for ages. Council cuts.”

  “Tell me,” there was a new edge to her voice, “is there some problem with this book?”

  Where to begin? “Just up the road is the Marcia Blaine School for Girls, which I attended. That Book purports to be about my school, but never has a school been so traduced under the veil of fiction. It is nothing but a distortion, a travesty, a betrayal. That Book mocks the school’s dedication to academic and sporting excellence, and exposes us to public ridicule.”

  That was what I wanted to say, but didn’t. Libraries have changed over the years, but shouting at borrowers is still discouraged. I also didn’t say, “Whenever people find out what school I went to, they snigger and say, ‘So you’re a Brodie girl, the crème de la crème.’ I am not a Brodie girl, but every single Blainer is the crème de la crème by virtue of having had the finest education in the world.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, “someone else can help me.”

  I couldn’t have that, one of my officious colleagues discovering that That Book was missing, and reordering it yet again. I would log this wretched woman’s details and rely on the council cuts to lose them almost immediately.

  “May I have your library card?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Let me sort that out for you.” I was reaching for the mouse when I remembered I had told her the system was down, and reached for a notepad. “May I take your email address?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Your postal address?”

  “My address is . . . fluid.”

  Sometimes I think Morningside Library is nothing more than an annexe of the psychiatric hospital round the corner.

  “Do you have a name?” I asked in my most cheerful-in-the-face-of-adversity voice.

  The prospective borrower pulled down her hood. She had never been in the library before, but she was as familiar to me as my own family. That aquiline nose. That resolute jaw. That interrogatory stare. I recognised her from the portrait I had seen every day in the school assembly hall.

  “Miss Blaine,” I stammered. “I thought you were–”

  “Dead? Obviously not. I am neither ghost nor mirage.”

  There was only one thing I could say. “May I offer you a cup of tea?”

  The small upstairs meeting room was free, so I installed her there and went off to brew my home-made blend of Darjeeling and Earl Grey. The Founder, here, in Morningside Library. Neither ghost nor mirage, but what was she? By my calculations, she would be over two hundred years old, but this was a woman in her prime. A woman whom I had almost harangued with views on That Book, which she clearly didn’t share. I returned to her with the tea and a plate of Bourbon biscuits.

  “Now,” she said, “I should like you to explain yourself. Your computer was working perfectly well when I approached you. Are you always that unhelpful?”

  “I am the crème de la crème,” I protested. “I pride myself on my professionalism, which includes being as helpful as possible.”

  “And yet you were being positively obstructive.”

  I couldn’t lie to the Founder. “It was the particular volume you wanted. I’m sorry, I can’t share your enthusiasm for it.”

  “My enthusiasm? What makes you think I’m enthusiastic about it?”

  “You wanted to borrow it. I assumed–”

  Her voice cut across me. “Never assume. When you assume, you make an ass of you and me.”

  I stored away the epigram for future use.

  “What view do you think I would hold of a book which describes me – me! – as the widow of a book-binder?” She grabbed a Bourbon and snapped it in two.

  “Blainers do not depend on a man for their identity,” I agreed. The school has always been a bastion of feminism.

  “It is a deplorable, pernicious fabrication. I cannot imagine how it got published,” she said. “I wished to check your loyalty to the school, and I have been reassured. Well done.”

  Praise from the Founder; I blushed in gratitude. “There’s something you should see,” I said, taking the key out of my jacket pocket and unlocking the cupboard.

  She raised an eyebrow at the copies of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie in all its various editions, which filled every shelf.

  “I can’t let That Book fall into the hands of readers,” I said. “Whenever one comes in, I hide it in here. People keep reordering it – I have to be constantly vigilant.”

  Her nod of approval was all the thanks I needed.

  “Tell me,” she said, dunking half a Bourbon in her tea, “what do you know about time travel?”

  So Marcia Blaine was a time traveller. At least I assumed she was. It would take some practice to start never assuming. I explained that, thanks to the finest education in the world, I had a good understanding of the basic principles of quantum physics and Einstein-Rosen Bridges.

  “What is the chief purpose of a Blaine education?” she demanded.

  “To make the world a better place,” I responded automatically.

  “Correct. I have now established a time-travelling scheme to enable my girls to extend their efforts across the centuries. I believe you would be a suitable recruit.”

  I felt quite faint at the honour of having been chosen by the Founder herself.

  “You can depend on me,” I said.

  And then I thought. I have a commitment to the library, with late-night opening three times a week. In my spare time, I’ve currently got Zumba, aquafit and weight training, as well as classes in Etruscan art, contemporary social theory and advanced Mandarin.

  “Actually, it’s probably best if you don’t depend on me. I don’t think I’ve got the time to take on another commitment,” I said.

  She fixed me with a laser stare. “You told me you understood time travel. You don’t need any time – you come back at exactly the same time you left. That is, if you complete your mission by the requisite deadline.”

  She picked up another Bourbon and bit into it.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You are allowed up to one calendar week to complete a mission.”

  “And if I fail?”

  That stare again. “Are you anticipating defeat before you’ve even begu
n?”

  “Of course not,” I assured her.

  “Very well. In that case, all you need to know is that there would be repercussions if you fail to meet the deadline. No remuneration attaches to the post, but your travel and accommodation are covered, and reasonable expenses are allowed. I look after my girls – for you are the crème de la crème.”

  Cremor cremoris. I thought back to that day as I played through the school song again on the Russian pianoforte. I would complete my mission in record time. Whatever my mission was. Miss Blaine had merely told me that it would be obvious.

  I closed the pianoforte lid and went to look round the salon. Two spectacular landscape paintings adorned the room. Drawing on my knowledge of flora, fauna and earth sciences, I deduced that one was of the River Volga near Yaroslavl, and the other was of the River Dvina near Veliki Ustyug. I examined them more closely, and was pretty puzzled. Whoever had painted these was exceptionally talented; yet, for all my encyclopaedic knowledge of art history, I didn’t recognise the artist.

  There had been another painting in the anteroom. I went to check and found a delightful Parisian panorama definitely painted by the same artist, with scenery where you would expect the Eiffel Tower to be. So, painted before 1889 – another clue. I would painstakingly piece them all together until I found out what year it was.

  I wandered back into the brightness of the salon and saw at the far end of the room my second samovar of the evening, vaster than the first, big enough to hold boiling water for the largest tea party I could host. It was golden, the pinnacle of the craftsman’s art. It had whorls, it had curlicues, it had scallops, it had convolutions, it had involutions, it had dimples, it had excrescences, it had gibbosity, it had indentations, it had crenellations – it was utterly spectacular. And most magnificent of all was the design of the spigot. It was shaped like a ferocious eagle, its wings outstretched, its beak – I was about to run my fingers down it when I backed off. Its beak was razor sharp. I couldn’t help tutting. It was an accident waiting to happen. I would have to remember that this was an era before health and safety, and treat the samovar with extreme caution.

  And I wasn’t too happy that the lighting came from unguarded candles. But even as I thought about going back down the marble staircase, a faint breeze wafted through the salon and one by one, the candles went out.

  “Thank you,” I said. Politeness costs nothing. I didn’t specifically add “Miss Blaine”, but I did have the comforting feeling that the Founder was watching over me.

  On the ground floor, I discovered my bedroom. It was as though I had walked into a fairytale cottage. It was made entirely of wood, with log walls, and the huge wooden bed was in the shape of a sleigh, with a sheepskin cover.

  When I examined the room more closely, I discovered that one wall was actually a fitted wardrobe. Inside was an array of day dresses, afternoon dresses and evening dresses. And a fur coat. I lifted it out, and staggered slightly at its unexpected weight. Of course a fur coat would be heavy, but this was heavier still. When I tried it on, my hands hit a series of unexpected objects before emerging from the sleeves. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. Throwing knives.

  “Now that’s clever!” I said aloud, to show I appreciated the additions. I couldn’t help smiling at the memory they evoked. I had still been in primary school. My mother was furious. “Shona Aurora McMonagle!” she said. “You could have had your father’s eye out!” But Dad was understanding as always. “I’m fine, it’s only a flesh wound. Try again, sweetpea.”

  Thanks to his tutoring, I eventually became an expert at knife-throwing. But I certainly wasn’t at the start, and I still didn’t get it right with that next try. We never did manage to get the bloodstains out of the cushion cover.

  Dad instilled in me the importance of practice. Now, in this distant foreign bedroom, it was time for a quick refresher course. I positioned myself in front of one of the wooden walls and took a deep breath. I fluffed the first few attempts because of the density of the fur, but then I started to improve. First, I practised throwing with my right hand, then with my left. Then with both hands simultaneously. Within half an hour, it was as though the coat, the knives and I were one. But the wall would never be the same.

  A capacious drawer held accessories: ribbons, necklaces, feathers, earrings. I unfastened the strands of pearls round my neck and added them to the collection. The drawer underneath contained a letter of introduction and money: wads of banknotes and piles of coins. I would be scrupulous in how I used it.

  The last drawer was full of underwear. I was being supported, not only financially but with several multiway bras that would work with whatever style of dress I wore.

  But it was puzzling that the staff still hadn’t emerged.

  I wandered back out into the corridor and called “Hello!” again. Still no answer. I walked on further and pushed open a door that turned out to lead to the kitchen and pantry. There was nobody in either of them. I stood very still and listened. There was not a sound in the house and it was clear I was completely alone. But preparations had been made for my arrival. Alongside the formal Sèvres dinner services, cheerful blue and white painted crockery was stacked on wooden shelves. And lying on the kitchen table was a plain wooden platter laden with oatcakes, butter and a knife. Self-catering. Ideal.

  I crossed over to the pantry and found everything I could want, including a jug of fresh milk. Marcia Blaine was certainly looking after me. But I felt she was doing so in a supervisory capacity rather than micro-managing: there was something slightly impertinent about associating Miss Blaine with multiway bras.

  “Thank you!” I said again into the silence. “This is wonderful. I’ll just make myself a cup of tea.”

  The kitchen samovar was large, brass and barrel-shaped, full of bubbling hot water. I retrieved a white cup with a bold blue floral pattern, poured in some concentrated tea and diluted it before adding milk. It was perfect, Dianhong tea from China’s Yunnan province, mellow, with notes of chocolate and dried fruit. I sat sipping it at the broad table, reviewing the past few hours. I had been sent to help Lidia, sweet, nervous Lidia who felt so friendless and vulnerable. And the stunningly lovely Sasha, he was significant as well, I was sure of it, even though I had failed to tingle when he sat on top of me.

  I had only a week to complete my mission, whatever it was. The clock was ticking. Hopefully everything would become obvious in the morning.

  Three

  I woke to a sunny autumn morning and put on a demure mauve day dress. I would have a walk round town after breakfast. Then I hesitated. It had not at all been the done thing to go for walks round town until a certain tsar (but which one?) had started taking a daily constitutional. At that point, it became not only chic but de rigueur.

  I looked out of the window to see if any of the upper classes were yomping past. There was no sign of life except for a carriage with a heavily bearded figure sitting on the box.

  I raced out of the house.

  “Mr Vatrushkin!”

  The sun was behind him and I couldn’t see his face properly, but I could hear the anguish in his voice. “Please, your excellency, I don’t deserve to be addressed as ‘Mr’. I’m a serf. So I must be called Old Vatrushkin.”

  A serf. That was very helpful information. Serfdom was abolished in 1861.

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll be emancipated soon.”

  “Your excellency!” he choked. “May that day never come! It would be the end of me. What would I do? Where would I go?”

  At some stage, I was going to have to raise his consciousness about his human rights.

  “The point is,” I said, “what are you doing here? I told you I didn’t need you till this evening. You’re supposed to be on a day off.”

  “Your excellency might have changed her mind. I am at all times at your service.”

  “How long have yo
u been here?” I demanded.

  “Not long,” he said. “After you came home, the horse and I rested in the stables for almost half an hour before we returned to our post.”

  And I was going to have to explain employment rights to him. “I don’t suppose you’ve had breakfast,” I said. “I’m just about to have mine – come inside and join me.”

  He lowered his head. “Impossible, your excellency; I could not sully your residence with my presence.”

  I still found him endearing, but ever so slightly less so than previously. I pride myself on my understanding of human psychology, and this was verging on passive aggression.

  “Old Vatrushkin!” I snapped. “Get down, right now, and you’re having breakfast with me whether you want to or not.”

  He responded well to tough love, scrambling down to the pavement and following me into the house to the pantry, where he stopped at the door, twisting his black lamb’s wool cap in his hands, his wild straggly hair cascading to his shoulders.

  “Sit!” I commanded. I was about to set the table when I saw his face properly for the first time. Most of it was shaggy dark beard and moustache, but there wasn’t a single wrinkle on the uncovered bits.

  “Tell me, Old Vatrushkin, just how old are you?” I asked.

  He calculated. “Twenty-nine years, your excellency.”

  “Then why on earth are you called Old Vatrushkin?”

  He looked baffled. “My father was Old Vatrushkin, and his father before him. If, God willing, I marry and have a son, he will be Old Vatrushkin also.”

  “You’re half my age,” I said. “I can’t possibly call you Old Vatrushkin. What’s your full name?”

  “Gregori Gregorievich Vatrushkin, your excellency.”