The Dragonfly Pool

by Eva Ibbotson

  Arrival in Bergania

  The Deldertonians came by train through one of the longest tunnels in Europe and suddenly they were in a valley that seemed to be a kind of garden because everywhere there were flowers—in the window boxes of the little houses, trailing around lampposts, hanging down from verandas. Yet when one looked upward, leaning out of the windows of the train, there were the mountains, cold and majestic and very, very high.

  For Tally it was as though the newsreel she had seen in the cinema had burst into color and life. She had wanted to come to Bergania because of the bravery of the king and his people, but now she was just glad to be there, in a country she had never dreamed of seeing.

  “Make sure you leave nothing behind,” said Magda—and Tally and Julia exchanged glances, for it was Magda who left things behind: her handbag when they changed trains in northern France, her scarf on the boat. As long as she had her briefcase with her notes on Schopenhauer in it, she felt herself fully dressed.

  The children scrambled for their belongings. Kit had sat on a tomato sandwich and Julia dabbed at him with a paper napkin. Verity was tossing out her hair—it had to be untidy in just the right way and this took time. Matteo was out in the corridor. Whenever Tally woke in the night he had been standing there with his back to the crowded compartment, looking out at the landscape.

  The children from Delderton had three compartments in the front of the train. Then came the group from Germany—well-behaved, good-looking children in dark blue shorts and spotless white shirts. In the second carriage were the Swedes and the French; then came the Italians, the Norwegians, the Spaniards . . . They had all just begun to make friends at Innsbruck, where the train had halted for a couple of hours.

  The station came in sight, its pillars wreathed in roses. As the children got out they were greeted by a blast of music.

  “My goodness, they’ve sent a band to welcome us,” said Barney.

  At the end of the platform stood a distinguished-looking man with long silver hair, wearing a loden jacket, flanked by two officials with badges and golden chains.

  “A reception committee,” said Borro. “Well, well. They must think we’re important.”

  “We are important,” said Tally firmly. “We’re here because of goodwill between nations and all that.”

  All along the train, children tumbled out on to the platform and re-formed in a line beside their teachers. The Delderton children, who were not used to standing in line, stayed in a huddle, blinking in the warm sunshine.

  The band, which had played various national anthems, broke into “God Save the King.” Then the distinguished gentleman with the long gray hair, flanked by the mayor and his aldermen, came down the platform, greeting each group, shaking hands. It was the minister of culture, Prince Karil’s uncle Fritz, who had come in person to welcome them.

  When he reached the Deldertonians he spoke to them in perfect English.

  “We are particularly glad to welcome you to Bergania,” he said, “because as you may know our beloved queen came from your country. The links between Bergania and Britain have always been strong.”

  Everyone looked around for Matteo, expecting him to reply, but he had vanished and Magda was silent, overcome by shyness. But the minister had seen the book under her arm and reached out for it.

  “Ah, Schopenhauer,” he said. “You are interested in his work?”

  Magda blushed. “I am writing a thesis on his stylistic influences,” she said.

  “How interesting. I myself have always been fascinated by his views on Reason and the Will, but alas there is so little time to pursue such things.” He pulled himself up. “Now here is the program for the week,” he said, handing Magda a brochure. “There will be two days to rest and to see our beautiful country. Then on Monday the festival will be opened officially and the dancing will begin. We have buses ready to take you to your camp, and tonight there will be dinner at the Blue Ox. Here you have a map of the city, a timetable, and a list of excursions.”

  It was only as they were making their way to the buses waiting in the station forecourt that Matteo came to join them.

  “Where have you been?” asked Barney. “You were supposed to greet the minister.”

  Matteo gestured to a clump of aspens on the embankment.

  “The perfect habitat for the poplar moth. I saw one as long as my thumb.”

  The children did not ask if he had brought it back. Matteo never killed the butterflies he found . . .

  The field in which the dancers’ bell tents had been pitched was a pleasant place—by the side of the river and adjoining the park with its bandstand and pavilion and its pool full of carp. At the far end of the park, the ground sloped upward toward the hill where the palace stood. Behind the palace—as everywhere in Bergania—one could see the mountain peaks.

  Each group of dancers had been given two tents, and there was a flag on top of the tent poles to show which nationality they belonged to. The British were in the tents next to the bridge which crossed the river on to the promenade and into the town. Beside them were the Germans, with the other nationalities strung out along the bank. There was a washhouse and toilet block shared by all the groups. The Yugoslavs, who had arrived earlier on a bus from the south, were already busy splashing and showering and singing, while their teachers, two large and cheerful ladies, were rinsing their feet in the sinks meant for washing up.

  A wooden platform had been erected close by so that the visitors could practice their dances, but the actual festival would be held in the town’s main square. Fortunately Matteo had stopped chasing butterflies and looking at the view, and in a short time the sleeping bags were arranged in the two tents, with Magda and the girls in one, and Matteo and the boys, with the boxes of costumes, in the other, and it was time to cross the bridge and make their way to the Blue Ox for supper.

  The Blue Ox was on the promenade: an old-fashioned hotel and inn which was the favorite gathering place for the people of the town. It had a big terrace overlooking the river, and tables with red-and-white checked tablecloths were set out under a chestnut tree. Inside, everything was very large and very solid and made of wood. The benches gleamed with polish, there were stands with salted pretzels on the tables, and the walls were covered in antlers and the stuffed heads of mountain goats.

  The landlord, Herr Keller, was the kind of man one would expect an innkeeper to be: genial and burly with a big stomach and a loud laugh.

  It was clear that he was a staunch royalist, because for every pair of antlers or stuffed goat, there was a portrait of the king. Johannes III was pictured with whiskers and before he had grown them. He was pictured on horseback and at the head of a procession and just standing very straight in his uniform with his decorations on his chest. There were a number of pictures, too, of Queen Alice but these were draped in black crepe and had been for the last eight years, since she died.

  Herr Keller spoke a little English and, with Magda translating, the children were made acquainted with the history of the Royal House of Bergania.

  “What about the prince?” asked Tally. “Aren’t there any pictures of him?”

  Herr Keller frowned and said that His Highness hated to be photographed.

  “Why?” asked Verity. “Is there something wrong with him?”

  “Certainly not,” said Herr Keller, offended. “He is a very nice-looking boy. I can show you a picture in the smoking room.”

  But the picture was of a very small boy in a sailor suit, his face hidden by an enormous sun hat.

  He led them into the dining room, where the other children were already sitting.

  The food was delicious, and the waitresses were very helpful about bringing a plate of boiled rice for Augusta Carrington. Only the head waitress, a middle-aged woman with ginger hair and a square, plain face, behaved oddly; they caught her again and again staring at Matteo and it was not till he glared at her angrily that she stopped.

  “Perhaps she just wanted you for a
friend,” suggested Tally, who was sitting next to him, but then he turned and glared at her instead. Well, he can suit himself, thought Tally as she helped herself to a gigantic pancake oozing with apricot jam.

  When the Deldertonians returned to the camp, the German children were already in their tents, their belongings stacked neatly outside. From inside their tent came the sound of an old Bavarian folk song sung in perfect harmony.

  “Why are they so good at everything?” said Julia irritably. “If they weren’t so nice one would be really annoyed.”

  But the German children were nice: friendly and helpful and kind. They could not have been less like those Hitler Youth Corps one saw on the newsreels, saluting and stamping and marching about.

  “Right, it’s time for bed,” said Matteo.

  One by one they crawled into their sleeping bags. Magda and Matteo stayed up a while, talking very quietly, but at last all the tents were silent.

  Tally fell asleep at once, but two hours later Verity turned over in her sleep and kicked her. The soles of Verity’s feet were very hard from walking barefoot even in Paddington Station, and Tally was jerked into instant wakefulness. She tried to go back to sleep again but she was overtired; images from the journey kept running through her brain, and presently she gave up the attempt.

  Matteo had insisted that everyone bring a torch, which they put beside their pillow. Now, as she slipped into her gym shoes and put on a jersey over her pajamas, she reached for hers and crept out of the tent.

  But when she got outside and straightened up she found there was no need for a torch, because she had come out into a world of silvery brightness: the moon was full over the mountains; the single snow-covered peak dazzlingly white; the trees in the park standing out black against the sky.

  She left the tents behind and made her way toward the little pavilion, built like a Greek temple, but her eyes kept being drawn upward to the moonlit palace on its hill. Now, in the night, it looked like the impenetrable fortress it must once have been, not a place of pleasure.

  The statue appeared before her suddenly as she crossed a foot-bridge and rounded a bend on the path. It was very white in the moonlight, and when Tally got close to it she saw that the woman was wearing a long white dress, and in her hair was a kind of tiara—or was it a crown?

  Tally switched on her torch. The woman was very beautiful, though her face was sad. In her hands, which were loosely clasped, was a bunch of flowers. At first, because of the unreal white light Tally thought they were made of marble like the rest of the statue, but as she went closer she saw that the flowers were real; she could even smell, very faintly, the scent that came from them. Someone must have brought them and put them in the statue’s hands.

  At the base of the statue was a plaque. Like all the notices in Bergania it was in three languages—Berganian, English, and Italian.

  ALICE, QUEEN OF BERGANIA,

  BORN 10 APRIL 1900, DIED 15 JUNE 1931.

  DAUGHTER OF THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF ROTTINGDENE,

  WIFE OF HIS MAJESTY KING JOHANNES III

  AND MOTHER OF THE CROWN PRINCE KARIL.

  SHE SERVED HER PEOPLE WELL.

  Tally switched off her torch. The marble face looked down at her, thoughtful and sad. The prince had been four when his mother died, so he would remember her, thought Tally, but only just. She herself had no memories of her mother, but one could manage without a mother if one had a good father, and both she and the prince had that. The prince would be all right.

  She was turning away when she heard footsteps and saw, coming over the little bridge, a man in dark clothes. He was walking very fast, almost running, and from his hurrying figure there came a sense of menace. He looked dangerous and angry.

  Tally braced herself. She was quite alone. There was nothing to do except wait and hope he would go past.

  But he did not go past.

  “What the devil are you doing out here alone?” came Matteo’s furious voice. “You must be out of your mind. Surely it’s obvious that you should stay in the camp?” He shone his torch, infinitely stronger than her own, and transfixed her in a beam of light. “You’re in a strange country—anything could happen to you.”

  But Tally stood her ground. “I don’t feel as though I’m in a strange country,” she said. “I feel as though I’m in a place where nothing bad could happen.”

  But Matteo was not appeased.

  “There is no place where nothing bad could happen,” he said. “Not in the world we live in now.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Prince Watches

  Karil had removed the latest photograph of Carlotta from the table by the window so that he could rest the arm with which he was steadying the big telescope he had borrowed from the library. Usually when he looked down at the town he used the binoculars his father had given him for his birthday, but to make out actual people he needed a stronger magnification.

  But even with the telescope he saw the children only as scurrying ants, not as individuals. The British tents were the closest, next to the bridge; the other tents were partly screened by the trees that grew along the river, but he could see the wooden platform which had been put up so that the dancers could practice.

  There was a group there rehearsing now, stamping and swirling. They were brightly dressed in red and yellow—Spanish perhaps, or Portuguese? He could hear very faintly the sound of guitars and tambourines.

  He directed the telescope back to the British tents. The children there seemed to be doing chores, shaking out sleeping bags and fixing a clothesline. Two boys were banging wooden sticks together—one girl, small as a grasshopper, was taking a little boy through the steps of a dance. Karil tried to follow her with the telescope, but she was like quicksilver and he kept losing her.

  An angry voice behind him made him turn around.

  “May I ask you what you are doing, Karil, staring out of the window when Monsieur Dalrose is waiting to give you your history lesson?” said Countess Frederica. She walked over to the window. “And where is the photograph of Carlotta? What have you done with it?”

  “It’s on the chest of drawers.” Karil sighed and put down the telescope. Actually it seemed to him that the whole room was full of pictures of Carlotta. She was like those earthworms that one cut in half and each half grew again. “I only wanted to see what the folk dancers are doing. Especially the British ones.”

  “The less said about the British team the better,” said Countess Frederica. “I saw the Baroness Gambetti this morning and she told me that their behavior is shocking.”

  Karil turned away from the window. “How? How is it shocking?”

  The countess drew her ferocious brows together. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. But I can only say that you can stop showing an interest in what appear to be ruffians with no discipline and no manners.”

  The Scold did not normally spend time with the Baroness Gambetti. Whether the wife of the foreign minister did or did not sleep with a picture of Hitler under her pillow, she was certainly a woman who disagreed with the king, and whatever the countess’s faults she was utterly loyal to Johannes. But they had met in the salon of the dressmaker who made clothes for the court, and the baroness had been full of gossip and indignation.

  “The British rabble have no uniform—they came with a ragbag of clothes and not one of them can curtsy. And they call their teachers by their Christian names. But that’s not all—they wear nothing in the shower rooms.” She lowered her voice. “Nothing at all.”

  Countess Frederica had tried to be fair. “Of course, it would not be sensible to shower in one’s clothes,” she pointed out.

  “No, of course not,” snapped the baroness. “But it is customary to slip off one’s bathrobe at the very last second, whereas these children just wander about in the washroom till it is their turn. They have no modesty and no shame. And the man who is in charge of them looks like a bandit. My husband says his face is familiar—he’s probably wanted by the pol
ice.”

  There had been no time to hear more about the British children but the countess had learned enough.

  “Put the telescope away, and put Carlotta back in her rightful place, please.”

  But at lunchtime Uncle Fritz seemed to be very pleased with the way things were going down in the park.

  “Everyone has settled in very well,” he said. “It’s so good to have young people.” He sighed.

  “They’re going to have a tour of the town today,” he went on. “They’ll come to the palace—only the staterooms, of course, and the ramparts—but if you look out of the window you’ll be able to see them. Fortunately they seem to be getting on very well, the different teams. That’s because it’s not a competition, just people coming together to make music and dance,” said Uncle Fritz happily.

  But the best news was still to come. After the meal was over, an equerry sent for Uncle Fritz and asked him to come to the council chamber because His Majesty wanted to speak to him. When he came back he was beaming.

  “Your father will come himself to the opening ceremony,” he told Karil. “It is quite unexpected—no one thought the king would have time to open what is after all only a children’s festival. You will accompany your father, of course. The master of ceremonies is arranging the details now.”

  But if Uncle Fritz was delighted and the prince, too, the chief of police and the head of the army were appalled.

  “It’s madness—trying to arrange proper security at such short notice. Two days! My reservists will be away at camp,” said Colonel Metz.

  “We’ll have to use the trainees,” said the chief of police. “And he’s going on horseback—both he and the prince will ride. He thinks the children will prefer it. What’s got into the king—and just now when everything is so tense?”

  The king himself could not have told them what had got into him. He only knew that after yet another week of endless meetings, threatening telegrams from the German chancellor, heckling and nagging from Gambetti and his followers, he was reaching the end of his tether. He had forgotten what it was like to be a human being, to have a son whom he loved, to live in a world where children came together to make music and to dance.