‘You’re enough of a swan to migrate?’
‘I must, so I am there, and this day I am flying, but I am caught in storm. Is terrible, you cannot imagine – such wind, it takes you, you have no control – and then there is sea and I must fly over, I cannot live on sea with no land, because if night comes, then whoosh, I am girl again. And in winter, days are very short, and I am so tired, I cannot go on. When I reach here I am blown at window, I have no strength left and all I can do is try to stay alive, so I go with wind and break glass with beak.’
‘How come you speak such good English?’
‘I have two governesses as child—’ Odette held out a hand three feet above the floor. ‘One is French lady, the other is English. With my father and governesses we speak only French on Fridays and only English on Tuesdays, always. I still do. This way I know what day it is, how many days, how many weeks and months, even if I do not know how many years. You are too kind to say my English is good, I know it is not…’
‘How old were you when the Baron put the spell on you?’ Mitzi couldn’t believe she was asking this.
‘Nineteen years old.’
‘And now?’
Odette shrugged. ‘I not know about time. Years come and go, but I stay under spell. Many, many, many years.’
Mitzi wrestled with the concept. Here was a lunatic in her lounge – but Odette’s directness, her straight, clear gaze, was just a little too sane. She felt a chill on her neck. ‘Do you mean you’re nineteen forever?’
‘Until spell is broken.’
‘And then? You’ll be older all at once?’ Mitzi vaguely understood that if she wasn’t dreaming, then she must be entering an altered state of awareness, a condition in which she could almost accept this preposterous notion. Giddy with shock, she wanted to disbelieve, doubt and destroy. Yet another part of the Mitzi who sat mesmerised by the swan girl was wondering if life was no longer as uninteresting as she had thought earlier that day.
‘I not sure,’ Odette was saying. ‘I think I will be at age I am when bewitched; then I live normal life. But spell is hard to break.’
‘But don’t people give you advice, or try and do something about it?’
‘People?’
‘People you meet. Someone like me?’
‘I not meet people often. I live in forest near enormous lake, and in winter on that island, always swan by day. I see few people in many years. Sometimes in winter, in the migration.’
‘My God. So how do you remember…?’
‘… how to talk? My memory is always good, since I am little girl. I find or build huts in forest, and once I go to castle by night and see my father, once only did Baron allow me this, to see and speak to him – and he gives me books in French and English. I talk to myself, always, so I do not forget. And sometimes I must ask people for food… and I must talk, but very little, because is dangerous for me. I always keep my hope that one day, like this, I talk with people again.’
‘So you have to do what the Baron directs?’ Mitzi guessed.
‘If I disobey, he will kill me.’
‘Why? What’s in it for him?’
‘Power – and life,’ said Odette. ‘My father is dead, the precious stones mine is taken by others, but still he will not set me free, because then he has lost. He lives today because of his power. If he sets me free, I have won, and then his power is gone, and his life will go too.’
Something was prodding at Mitzi’s memory. A princess who turned into a swan? She picked up the book of fairy tales from the floor by her chair and rifled through it. Plenty of metamorphoses, but not that one. No – she’d read it in a children’s book that belonged to her when she was six, a beautiful volume illustrated with delicate drawings, maybe Arthur Rackham’s. She loved it so much that the page corners frayed with use, but her father gave it away to her younger cousin, thinking she’d grown out of it. How did the story go?
‘How do you break the spell?’
‘Spell is nearly broken, once.’ Odette’s eyes lost their brightness. ‘A man must swear to love me forever, and keep his vow.’ She surveyed Mitzi, one cheek brushed by a strand of her black hair. ‘So far, only vow made to me was broken, very fast.’
‘So… What happens now?’
Odette shrugged. ‘I want to break spell, to be myself once more, but…’
‘Presumably you also want to go home?’
‘I do not know how. A long way, too long for one day without big wind – you see?’ Odette made a flapping motion with her hands, then gestured stopping and falling. Her fingers were as flexible as willow branches and as expressive as music. Mitzi was about to suggest that Odette took a plane to Novosibirsk, or for the winter Aarhus or Stockholm, but then envisaged delays, a transformation at the wrong moment, consternation, crashes, and—
‘Have you got a passport?’
‘What’s that?’ said Odette.
‘A document that lets you travel… oh no… and any money?’
‘Money?’ Odette shrugged.
‘Do you have anything? Clothes? Shoes? Something that can prove who you are?’
‘As woman I have nothing,’ Odette said, shaking her head. ‘I think you know who I am if you see me change into swan.’
No passport. No visa. No means. No proof of identity. No way to board a flight even if she could buy a ticket. At the same moment Mitzi realised that she must have accepted Odette’s story. That was as incredible as the story itself.
‘Well…’ She wanted to say: ‘You can’t stay here.’ She had work to do, and not enough money right now to support anyone, not even a fictional fairy tale character, not even for a few days. Resentment rose in her throat. Yet what alternative was there for Odette? She had nowhere to go – and at dawn, if she could be believed, she’d turn back into a swan. Worse, she was cold, injured and probably feverish. The dark eyes fixed on Mitzi, pleading.
‘Look.’ Mitzi’s conscience took over. ‘You can sleep in the study tonight, but you can’t stay here forever. We’ll get you better, then we’ll think about what to do.’
Odette’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘Mitzi, you are beautiful person! I cannot believe, I crash upon window of most fantastic person in world!’
Mitzi squirmed. ‘I can’t just turf you out onto the street.’
‘Thank you,’ said the girl, her hands clasped. ‘Mitzi, where is your husband?’
‘No husband.’
‘Truly? You are beautiful woman, you still young—’
‘Thanks.’ Mitzi gave a grimace.
Odette started, caught her eye and began to laugh, saying, ‘Please forgive, I not mean—’
Mitzi laughed with her, to her own surprise. She’d never heard a laugh quite as infectious as Odette’s: clear and free as a bird in flight.
‘But someday.’ Odette reached out and pressed her hand.
‘Maybe.’ Mitzi drew away from the touch, too warm, too human. ‘Now, would you like something to eat? I’m going to have some supper.’
Odette shook her head gently. ‘Thank you, but I feel strange.’ She held up a hand and moved it clockwise.
‘Maybe it’s the tranquilliser. Come on, I’ll sort out somewhere for you to sleep.’
Mitzi took her into Robert Winter’s ‘study’ – the cubicle of a room at the back of the flat, which she was not supposed to use; anything he had not taken to the cottage with him and that was not for the tenancy was somewhere in there now. Among the heaped-up boxes and crates, there was just enough room to fold out the camp bed he had left behind. Mitzi fitted it with pink cotton sheets. In the morning, she thought, smoothing them, I’ll find it was a dream. But if she’s still here—
‘When you wake,’ said Odette, ‘I will be swan.’
‘Yes… well, you’re welcome to stay in the swan box if you like. With the paw-print blanket. And tomorrow evening we’ll decide what to do.’
‘You are so kind,’ Odette stated simply. ‘I thank you from bottom of heart.’
&nbs
p; The quiet words tugged at Mitzi. ‘That’s OK. I’ll say goodnight and leave you to get some sleep.’
‘Goodnight, Mitzi,’ said Odette. ‘May a hundred angels guard you and rest you.’
Mitzi, turning her back, made for her computer and sat for a long time staring at the screen, taking in nothing. Eventually she persuaded herself to Google ‘Siberia’ and ‘charoite’. In front of her there materialised images of high mountains; rivers as wide and winding as satisfied pythons; the shores of Lake Baikal with powder-blue hills on its distant horizon; bright-coloured churches like French wedding cakes with conglomerations of onion domes; tumbledown wooden huts with slatted brown sides and long fronds of grass up to their skew-sided windows; frozen landscapes where shining ice and metres-deep snow blazed in the light. And deep lilac, opalescent stones, polished and glowing in Russian antique jewellery.
She had to be dreaming. She would wake up and start her day anew, without this insane nightmare unfolding in front of her. Wouldn’t she? Supposing, as the chocolate stains on the two mugs suggested, this was not a dream? What if the impossible really were happening to her, in her own home? Down Mitzi’s back trickled something she realised was a sweat of fear.
5
When Mitzi floated up from the bottom of a lake of sleep, the clock showed eight thirty. It was all a dream. Everything. ‘Thank almighty God!’ she said aloud.
A crash threw her dream away from her: something falling and breaking in the next room. In an instant she was on her feet and in the kitchen where, squat on its short black legs, the injured swan was standing. It had tried to jump or fly onto the side of the sink, toppling the drying rack to the floor. Water glistened in the washing-up bowl, but the swan’s dish was empty.
‘Poor old thing!’ Mitzi exclaimed, before she saw her favourite breakfast mug, a present from Pete once upon a time, on the lino in shards. The swan gazed at her as if guilty.
‘Princess indeed.’
It was a dream, wasn’t it?
She ran to the study. The camp bed’s pink sheets had been slept in – and on the carpet, beside the discarded purple fleece, lay a single white feather.
Fetching her well-used dustpan and brush, she gazed at her bird visitor. ‘Odette?’
The swan waddled towards her, stretching its neck out to touch her elbow with its beak. So gentle. And it was thirsty. Mitzi filled a bowl with water and put it on the floor. ‘Odette? Is it you?’ As she watched, the swan seemed to her to be nodding, before it bent its head to drink.
Mitzi breathed deeply, too deeply – was she hyperventilating? Was her imagination in overdrive? What was wrong with her? Her eyes felt heavy, her mind paralysed with dismay and confusion. She was reaching for the kettle when the telephone rang – the chief sub on Nature Now, chasing late copy.
‘I’ve had some problems with the flat,’ Mitzi told her. She wondered how one explained the interchange of swan and girl to anyone, let alone someone sane, let alone herself. Restricting her story to the window smash, plus a plea for a deadline extension, she headed back to her cafetière.
With a great rustle of feathers, Odette settled onto the dog blanket in the box. Mitzi folded away the camp bed, then tried to concentrate on work. She could almost taste her heartbeats. What could she do? Who could she tell? Who could help? And who would ever believe her? Mum, in Dorset, had a hard enough time without having to worry about this. Harry would laugh at her and tell everyone in the play and the pub and they would laugh at her too. Perhaps it wasn’t the mysterious intruder who was crazy, but Mitzi herself. She’d be dragged away, screaming, in a straitjacket.
The doorbell signalled the glazier’s arrival. Mitzi froze. She couldn’t let a wild bird be seen in her flat, especially not a wild bird that was really a woman.
‘Odette? Come on, we’ve got to hide you. Someone’s come to fix the window.’
The swan shook herself and padded to the study, where Mitzi placed the box in a corner, ushered her into it and closed the door.
The glazier was curious about what had happened to the window, but, while he worked, seemed more interested in telling Mitzi about his next job. It was at St Mark’s College, he said. One of the dons had been involved in a fight. ‘Apparently over a girl,’ he remarked.
‘St Mark’s?’ Mitzi said, feeling her face redden.
She’d been standing in the queue at the Arts Cinema with Lara when they’d begun to chat to the young man behind them, who turned out to be a junior research fellow at St Mark’s. It took Mitzi, who’d broken up with Pete a few months before, twenty seconds to decide he was The One. He was cultured and well-spoken; he loved cooking. She pictured them together in a pristine kitchen, stirring and laughing, listening to clever quiz games on Radio 4. ‘You’ll have to come over and sample a Stephen special,’ he remarked, while her mind galloped. Lara, who’d been with the same man since she was twenty and was now engaged to him, tapped Mitzi’s ankle with a pointed toe.
‘Watch yourself,’ she hissed, once Stephen was out of earshot and they were finding their seats for the film.
‘But he’s lovely!’ Mitzi scrambled over a row of knees.
‘I’m not worried about him. I’m worried about you. You’ve been getting through them, you know…’
‘They just didn’t work out. This one’s different.’
‘Aren’t they all?’
‘How’d you know? You’ve been with the same guy for nine years…’
Two nights later a text message delivered Stephen’s invitation to dinner in his college rooms. His suite overlooked the river from huge windows.
‘It’s great because you can feed the ducks,’ he remarked, chopping pieces of red mullet in his kitchen. ‘You’re not one of those veggies who doesn’t even eat fish, are you? I’m told my bouillabaisse is the best in town.’
Later, once the bowls were stacked in the sink, fishy dregs congealing round the rims, Stephen dimmed the lights. Mitzi needed no encouragement to sit with him on the sofa. And even if she hadn’t meant to stay the night, stay she did – wishing she’d gone home instead.
It wasn’t that she hadn’t enjoyed it, but why the hurry? Had she led him on? Why couldn’t she be firmer? But wasn’t this what people did these days? Meet someone, go on a date, shag them? Wasn’t it supposed to be normal? So why did she feel… as lonely as she had on the first day her mother took her to school and left her there. How can you feel more alone in bed with another person than when you’re truly alone?
Soon he was snoring, his body well satisfied. Mitzi lay awake until dawn, asking herself questions, finding no answers. At last she slid out from under the duvet, dressed quietly and slunk away from St Mark’s College via the back gate.
When he phoned, she was asleep; her machine took the call. She rang him back and promised to try again the next day. She hadn’t seen him since, except once in the distance at Sainsbury’s fish counter.
‘I thought he was The One,’ said Lara, sardonic. ‘Mitzi, seriously, can’t you get a grip?’
‘Don’t I try…’
‘Maybe you try too hard,’ said Lara.
The window was mended, boasting a spotless new pane – conspicuous beside the grainy patterns of dust and limescale on the old ones – and the glazier had gone. Mitzi bundled the black plastic into the bin, then awarded herself extra coffee while she worked on her piece for Nature Now, which was more than a little late.
Finished at last, she was able to do what she’d wanted to all day: plunder the ivory pages of the fairy tale book for any trace of transforming swans. Coming back out of its world, she seemed to see the room from a great distance, from a land of woodcutters and witches, forests, fields and magic carpets, which made Cygnford on a Friday afternoon seem remarkably insignificant. She looked across at the great white bird, reinstated in the living room. ‘Odette?’
The swan lifted its head.
‘I’ve got to go shopping. But supposing we go out this evening and I show you the town? Assuming, that is, that
you are indeed going to turn yourself back into a human being at sundown.’
The swan gave a protesting honk.
‘I’ll treat you to a good dinner,’ Mitzi promised. ‘See you later.’
Mitzi zipped around Sainsbury’s, avoiding students’ trolleys of baked beans, peanut butter and beer, then through the market for fresh fruit and vegetables. She eyed the various doorway sleeping bags for a gleam of fair hair and a glimpse of a plum-coloured scarf that used to be hers. No trace. Perhaps her friend had made it to Ripon; at least it was accessible by cheap bus, unlike Siberia…
Cycling home, she took her favourite route along the riverside, earthing herself with the familiar bike-ache of her thigh muscles, and trying to guess the faculty destinations of students as they pedalled over the hump-backed bridge. This was her town, her home by choice. She’d find a way to make her unusual visitor welcome, on her own terms.
Her phone rang; she pulled over to the side of the towpath to answer.
‘Hey, Mits. I’m pissed off.’ Her brother sounded petulant rather than sorrowful. ‘I’ve been dumped. Not so much as a thanks-for-the-burger. Where did I go wrong? I gave her tickets for the play and everything!’
‘You’re at a loose end, then?’
‘There’s a show this evening, but yeah, tomorrow’s a bit empty. And Chris fixed me free tickets to this Christmas charity ball he’s playing at on Tuesday, and now I’ve got nobody to go with.’
‘Come for supper tomorrow, then. Can’t have you sitting around feeling sorry for yourself.’ Odette would have moved on by then. She would have to; the alternative was unthinkable.
‘You’re a star, Mits. Coming to the Shakespeare tonight?’
‘I’m sorry, Hal – something came up. Next time.’
‘Next time. And there will be a next time. I’m off to the theatre to get ready.’
Harry paced about in the wings, trying to warm his hands, which were icy. His fingers were long and straight, his palms wide, the thumb curving back in what he’d been told was a sign of a strong will. It was in his hands that Harry’s emotions first manifested. Anger would arrive as a hot reddening in the centre; performance nerves made the blood rush away, turning his fingertips blue. He thanked heaven he wasn’t a musician like his housemate, Chris.
Odette Page 5
