by Olga Wjotas
I turned to Old Vatrushkin. “And you’re happy to give up your name?”
He gazed doe-eyed at Lidia. “Whatever makes Lidia Ivanovna happy makes me happy,” he said. “But I shall not be giving up my name. I believe I once told you, your–”
I glared at him and gave a warning nod towards Tresorka.
“You’re forgetting my family tradition,” he continued quickly. “If, God willing, I marry and have a son, he will be Old Vatrushkin like me, my father and his father before him. Old Vatrushkin Chrezvychainodlinnoslovsky.”
“And if it’s a girl?”
“Old Vatrushkina Chrezvychainodlinnoslovskaya.”
Boy or girl, the kid was going to have a rough time at school.
For a moment, I thought Old Vatrushkin had just outed himself as my ex-serf, until I realised that since he wasn’t their serf, they had paid no attention to what his name was.
“What a charming family tradition,” said Nanny. And then I felt a twinge in my abdomen, not excruciating, but noticeable. My mission was accomplished. I hoped Marcia Blaine was impressed, and that this would be the first of many.
“Are you all right, Shona Fergusovna?” asked Lidia anxiously.
“That’s what comes of too much champagne,” said Nanny.
“Perhaps it’s the cake,” said the general.
“There’s nothing wrong with–” I began and then had to stop to catch my breath as the twinges came again, more strongly. “I’m going to have to leave you,” I said.
“I told you the cream cheese was off,” the general whispered to Nanny.
“I understand!” gasped Lidia, clasping her hands to her bosom. “I know you said I mustn’t tell, but all of us here owe you such a debt of gratitude. Nanny, General, Gregori Gregorievich – Shona Fergusovna is an angel!”
They all nodded sagely.
“And the best mistress any man could hope to have,” said Old Vatrushkin in a low voice.
“It’s all right,” I reassured Lidia. “His reference is to serfs.”
Lidia reached for his hand and held it tight. “I have never known anyone with such a concern for serfs,” she said. “It is an inspiration. I can’t wait to teach them woodwork.”
I was practically bent double now. “I really must go,” I said.
In an undertone, the general exhorted Nanny not to eat any more cake but just to throw it in a plant pot.
Old Vatrushkin was looking at me with tear-filled eyes. “Are you really leaving us?” he whispered.
I realised I didn’t want to. I wanted to see the academy being founded, I wanted to go to Nanny’s wedding, I wanted to go to Lidia’s wedding, I wanted to take Tresorka for walks in the park.
There was a yelp behind me. Tresorka had managed to collapse off the sofa and was limping towards me. How could I leave him? But how could I take him? It wouldn’t be fair to leave him in the flat all day, and he wouldn’t be allowed in the library.
I picked him up gently and kissed him on the nose. He licked my nose in return. Then I handed him to Nanny. “Look after him. Don’t forget about the physiotherapy,” I said, my voice cracking. Then I doubled over as another twinge caught me.
“You must return to your heavenly abode,” said Lydia.
“It’s not a bad wee flat,” I agreed. “You know what would make it even more heavenly? Gregori Gregorievich, do you have any of that hyacinthine paint left?”
He swallowed. “Come with me to the orangery.”
“There will be plant pots in the orangery,” the general whispered to Nanny. “Bring your plate.”
I had never been to the orangery before. It was south-facing, with long windows and a glass roof, and a large number of orange and lime trees. One corner had been cleared for Old Vatrushkin’s art. I had assumed there would be dozens of canvases lying around, but I could see only one, an enormous thing propped on a huge easel and covered in a velvet cloth.
He fetched me a bucket of blue paint, which I could tell was going to transform my kitchen.
“And this,” he said, his voice wavering. “This is for you.”
He whipped the cloth off the canvas, and there it was. A full-length, larger than life-size portrait of me in what I had been wearing the night I arrived, the lilac evening gown and white kid gloves. Just peeping out from underneath the hem of the gown were the DMs.
“I couldn’t,” I demurred.
“Please.”
“No, really I couldn’t,” I said. It was far too big for the flat. And while there are no written rules, I’m pretty sure that in Morningside you’re not supposed to have larger than life-size portraits of yourself. It smacks of conceit.
Lidia put her arm round him. “Don’t press her,” she said. “She cannot take it. Angels have no possessions.”
“She’s taking a bucket of paint,” he objected.
“We’re allowed wee things,” I said.
“Gregori Gregorievich,” said Lidia softly. “The proper place for this portrait is your salon. Then every time we look at it, we will remember our beloved Shona Fergusovna and that will ease the bitter pain of parting.”
“That’s nice,” I said. “You’ve definitely got the wall space.”
But I sensed that Old Vatrushkin was still distressed. Just behind the easel, I caught sight of an A4 sheet of paper with a drawing on it. “I’d really like to have one of your pictures,” I said. “What’s that?”
He brought it over. It was a preparatory sketch for the portrait. It looked great.
“Would you be so good as to allow me to take this instead?” I asked.
He nodded, too emotional to speak.
I was determined to let him know how much it meant to me.
“This painting,” I said, “is the boys.”
He leaned over and kissed my shoulder. “Your excellency,” he said.
It was a beautiful moment.
Lidia collapsed with laughter. “He’s pretending to be a serf! You’re right, Shona Fergusovna! Gregori Gregorievich is so amusing!”
In the background, I could see Nanny scraping her bit of cake into a bucket of white emulsion.
“I’ll just go then,” I said. The scene around me began to shimmer and the temperature started to drop.
“Oh, one last thing–” I said, before I was forced to close my eyes. It was like being in the middle of a wind tunnel.
When I opened my eyes, I was in the kitchen of my flat, holding an A4 sketch and a bucket of blue paint that, now that I saw it against the kitchen units, was completely the wrong shade.
The remainder of my sentence echoed across the room, “–what year is it?”
Acknowledgements
My sincere gratitude to the following:
The Scottish Book Trust, in particular Lynsey Rogers, Caitrin Armstrong and Will Mackie, without whose New Writers Award this would not have been written;
Linda Cracknell, not only a generous and encouraging mentor, but also an ace companion when crossing the Moroccan desert by camel;
Sara Hunt and all at Saraband, especially editrix mirabilis Ali Moore;
matchmaker Al Guthrie;
Iain Matheson, Elaine Thomson, Margaret Ries and Michelle Wards who read drafts without complaint and with brilliant suggestions;
for their kindness, help and encouragement: Helen Boden (in whose Writing Room at the Southside Community Centre Shona was born); Simon Brett; Jenny Brown; Mike Cash; Bill Kirton; Helen Lamb; Theresa McInnes; Colin Mortimer; Marina Partolina; Lesley Rowe; Vicki White;
Dame Muriel Spark and Count Leo Tolstoy;
James Gillespie's High School where I was taught by the finest English teacher in the world, Iona M Cameron;
and above all, Alistair, who has the Latin.
Author's Note
Clever readers may have noticed that if Shona
had been a bit more on the ball she could have found an additional clue about the year during her interactions with the folk in Russia. Alas she wasn’t and she didn’t! Will she overlook any important details during her future missions?
Olga Wojtas was born and brought up in Edinburgh where she attended James Gillespie’s High School – the model for Marcia Blaine School for Girls, which appears in Muriel Spark’s The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. Like Dame Muriel Spark herself, Olga was encouraged to write by an inspirational English teacher there – in Olga's case, Iona M. Cameron. Olga won a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award in 2015 and has had more than 30 short stories published in magazines and anthologies. This is her first novel.
