by Joan Lingard
They crawled out of their hiding place. It would take a long time to rid their hair and clothes of the smell of the sacking.
Some time later, the barge stopped again, which was a great relief to Natasha. She had been feeling sick. The bargee came down and told them to follow him up on to the deck. Emerging into the fresh air, they saw that they had left St Petersburg behind. Looking back, they could just make out the glimmer of its golden spires and domes against the intense blue of the sky. At least they had been blessed with a fine day for their escape. The mist of early morning had evaporated.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Eva, a small catch in her voice. Natasha slid her hand into her mother’s.
‘I think you know where to go next?’ said the bargee.
Eva nodded. ‘I cannot thank you enough for your kindness. Here is something you might sell.’ She put a gold watch into his hand.
‘But, Madame,’ he protested.
‘Take it, please. You have done us a great favour and put yourself at risk.’
‘It was the least I could do for the good doctor. He saved the life of our youngest child. But thank you. And safe journey!’
As he handed them down on to the path, a water rat crossed in front of them and then vanished into the depths of the dark water. Natasha shivered a little.
‘Goodbye,’ they said to the bargee. ‘We won’t forget you.’
‘Go quickly,’ he said.
In spite of the brightness of the day, a cool wind was coming off the river. They put up the collars of their coats. Further along the bank a man was fishing. There appeared to be no one else around. But one never knew whether even the fisherman could be a spy.
‘It’s a terrible thing when one comes to suspect everybody,’ said Eva with a sigh. ‘Let’s go then, Natasha. We must take the first turning on the right.’
It took them into a street of shabby, old wooden houses. Many of the windows were shuttered though the shutters were splintered and broken. Paint was peeling from doors and window frames. The small patches of ground that passed as gardens were over-grown and littered with rubbish. A mangy dog rooted around in amongst them. A strange eerie silence hung overall. It had the effect of making them look over their shoulders.
‘People are afraid to go out, I expect,’ said Eva. ‘We want the first street on the right. And the third house on the left-hand side.’
It was a low, run-down dwelling, like all the others, and it looked deserted. They glanced about before going up the two steps into the sagging porch. Eva knocked.
Immediately, the door was opened.
‘Come in, please,’ said a bearded man, dressed in a peasant smock and baggy trousers.
They went into a small room where Leo sat with his wife and son. He sprang up to embrace them.
‘Thank goodness! I’ve been anxious. No one saw you leave the house?’
‘Not as far as we know,’ said Eva.
‘They must be missing us by now though,’ said Natasha.
‘They won’t do anything, not with Lena away,’ said Leo. ‘They will stay in the house and mind their own business. They might well think you’ve been taken away by the Secret Police.’
‘Would you like some food?’ A woman came from a room at the rear carrying a tray on which was set some black bread and a pitcher of jam diluted in water. She wore a peasant skirt and a kerchief on her head.
The travellers ate and drank, urged on by Leo, who said that they would have to take nourishment when and where they found it from now on.
The man with the beard brought out an envelope from a dresser drawer. ‘These are your new identity cards and travel documents. Your name until you leave Russia will be Kolkov. And you, Madame, will have the first name of Nadia. Natasha, you will become Katya.’
Natasha took the forged card which would give her a new identity. Katya Kolkova.
‘Remember if you are stopped to give the correct name.’
‘I am Katya Kolkova,’ Natasha repeated inside her head and wondered if she would be able to answer without stumbling.
The woman lifted some garments from a chair. ‘Please will you take off your coats and put on these instead. You have to look like peasants who have not much money.’
‘But these are not our best coats,’ protested Natasha. ‘Won’t they do?’
‘They are still too good for peasants.’
They gave up their wool coats and put on the cheap, thinner ones. But it was almost May and summer should not be long in coming.
‘And your shoes,’ said the woman. She had a collection of old boots for them to try on. Natasha found a pair that fitted her not too badly. She was beginning to feel like someone else, a completely different girl.
Their bags were next to go and were replaced with grubby canvas sacks.
‘These clothes are much too good quality for peasant people,’ said the woman, exchanging their spare underwear and nightwear for coarser versions. ‘And the musical box, Natasha.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid you can’t take that. If anyone searches your bag they will want to know how you came to have such an expensive toy.’
Natasha wondered what they would do with their things after they left. Sell them? Perhaps this was a good way for the two of them to get hold of other people’s possessions. How terrible of her to think such thoughts! Here she was suspecting the very people who were helping them. Uncle Leo must know them well enough to trust them.
Her mother had some jewels in her bag. ‘I brought them so that we would have something to sell.’
‘Hide them on your person then, Madame. And you, Natasha, keep your necklace well hidden.’
Natasha and her mother stood in the middle of the room in their new clothes, transformed.
‘You’ll do,’ said Leo, who had changed before they came, as had Marie and Kyril.
The bearded man had been keeping watch at the window. ‘The cart is here,’ he said. ‘Come!’
They followed him into the street. The cart was a covered wagon. The driver sat on his box holding the horse’s reins loosely in his hands. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long coat. He did not turn his head to look at them, but continued to stare straight ahead.
‘Your house in St Petersburg has been burned down,’ the bearded man instructed them. ‘You are going back to your village to stay with relatives. Many people are returning to their villages. The police are pleased enough to see them go. There isn’t enough food in the city.’
They said quick goodbyes and the travellers climbed into the back of the wagon. The carter cracked his whip. They were off.
They travelled slowly. The cart wheels rumbled and lurched along pot-holed minor roads. Kyril’s mother held on tightly to him. There was little traffic. They passed a number of people trudging along on foot carrying bundles. Fleeing like themselves, it seemed. Twice their horse came to an abrupt halt and stood stock-still in the road. For a few minutes it looked as if he might remain there for the rest of the day, munching grass from the verge. After some cajoling, he eventually made a move.
They had travelled about ten miles when they were met by another cart that would take them on.
‘We must cover our tracks as far as possible,’ said Leo. ‘It is best not to have total trust in anyone.’
‘Even the man and woman in the house?’ asked Natasha.
‘As far as I know, they are reliable. But if the police were to come and question them and put pressure on them?’ He shrugged. ‘Who can tell? Who can tell what any of us would do under such circumstances? It is best that each person we encounter does not know the next stage of our journey.’
The second cart had smoother wheels and a livelier horse. It clopped along briskly, considering the load it pulled.
‘I hope we’ll make better time now,’ said Leo. ‘We must get to our destination before nightfall. It would not be safe to be out on the roads after dark.’
The sun had long since disappeared behind grey, leaden clouds and before they had
gone far on this stage of the journey the rain descended. It came down in torrents that the canvas roofing of the cart was inadequate to repel. Soon the travellers were wet through.
They held on to one another as the cart swung wide on a sharp bend. Natasha’s shawl slipped from her head.
‘Whoa!’ cried the carter, reining in his horse.
Up ahead was a roadblock.
EIGHTEEN
ANOTHER JOURNEY
‘ “Another difficult journey, this time involving four-legged creatures.” ’
‘Well, we know it’s not Travels with a Donkey,’ said Duncan. ‘So we can rule that out.’
‘Anyway, it says “creatures”,’ Alex pointed out.
‘That’s true. And Natasha would be precise about that, I’m sure.’
Lots of people must have travelled with horses, they concluded. There were a number of travel books on the shelves, but most of them Sonya or Alex would not be expected to know. And so far, all the books had been ones that they had read, or in the case of War and Peace, heard of.
‘There’s Don Quixote,’ said Duncan. ‘He had great adventures with Sancho Panzo and they must have had mules or horses.’
Alex found it on the shelf, but there was nothing inside.
One thing that the treasure hunt was doing was making them forget about Sonya’s condition for periods of time. And that was good, said Duncan, for they couldn’t dwell on it all the time. That would only make them morbid and they had to keep their spirits up.
Anna phoned while they were thinking about journeys and they asked her if she could think of any that might fit the clue.
She sighed. ‘I’m afraid my brain doesn’t seem to be functioning properly these days. I can’t even seem to concentrate enough to read. I just sit here by Sonya’s bedside in a kind of coma myself.’
They had felt that was happening to her these last few days and that was why they were trying to interest her in their treasure hunt.
‘You must try to go out,’ urged Duncan. ‘You need the exercise and fresh air. Maybe we should come down?’
‘No, no, what’s the point?’ Anna sighed again. ‘Nothing new is happening here. Our Sleeping Beauty just lies, hour after hour. We might need a prince to come and waken her! Or a miracle,’ she added quietly.
They were depressed after they rang off.
‘I’m worried about your mother,’ said Duncan. ‘I wish I could go down there and relieve her. I would, if only I weren’t so useless, stuck in this stupid chair!’
It was not often that he railed against his disability. But it was understandable that he should sometimes. Anna had talked to them about that after his injury.
‘You’re not useless, Dad,’ said Alex. ‘You make great soup.’
Duncan’s face relaxed into a grin. ‘Glad I’m appreciated.’
‘Let’s get on with our hunt,’ said Alex. ‘If we could find the will that would be one thing solved for us.’
‘It certainly would!’
The phone rang again and Alex answered it. This time it was Mr Hatton-Flitch on the line. ‘I was just phoning to enquire about your sister.’
Alex told him that there was nothing new to report.
‘Oh dear, I am so sorry to hear that. You will keep me informed, won’t you, if there is any change? By the way, I just thought we’d let you know that we’re expecting to get confirmation from the court in a week or two.’
Alex put down the receiver, feeling as if vultures were out there waiting to pick over their bones.
‘Come on, lad,’ urged his father. ‘Journeys! What other ones do you know? With animals?’
Alex frowned. He seemed to think there had been a book about animals going on a long journey. ‘Across Canada, wasn’t it? A couple of cats and a dog were involved, something like that. But I can’t remember the title or who wrote it.’
He scanned the shelves. It took a few minutes, but eventually he gave a whoop of triumph and reached up to pull out The Incredible Journey by Sheila Burnford.
‘Fingers crossed, Dad!’
Alex flicked through the pages and found a slip of paper.
‘Well?’ Duncan was waiting impatiently.
‘Here it is!’ Alex read out the clue, ‘ “A small abode in an open place.” ’
NINETEEN
MAY 1918 CROSSING THE BORDER
The rain had stopped, but the wind was piercingly cold. They stood in the roadway, shivering in their wet clothes, keeping their eyes averted from the two policemen who had ordered them down from the cart.
‘Identity cards!’
They handed the cards over and the men scrutinized them. Natasha moved closer to her mother.
‘Your name?’ they demanded of Leo. He answered calmly and surely. They fired the question at Marie and then Natasha’s mother. The two women were also able to keep their nerve and did not hesitate before replying, though there was a slight tremor in Eva’s voice. The men turned to face Natasha, ignoring Kyril.
‘And you. What is your name?’
‘Katya Kolkova,’ she said calmly. She felt amazingly calm.
They looked again at Leo. ‘So, where are you going?’
Leo named a village some distance away. He went on to tell how their house in the city had been set alight by a mob and had burnt to the ground. ‘We have nowhere to live so we are going back to stay with our relatives.’
‘What work will you do there?’
‘Anything. Labouring. I will work on the land if I can.’
His hands did not look like those of a labourer or farm worker. They were too white and smooth. As if he had suddenly become aware of that himself, he stuck them into the pockets of his baggy coat.
The men seemed to hesitate for a moment as if they were not totally happy with the answers they’d received. Then one of them took out his watch and said, ‘It’s late. We should be back at the barracks.’
‘We’d better take a look at their luggage first,’ said the other. ‘Fetch your bags from the cart. Bring them here.’
They did as they were told, laying their bags out in the road for inspection. The men rifled quickly through them, letting clothes spill on to the road. A teddy bear landed in a puddle and Kyril began to cry. His mother comforted him and his father reached for the bear, but one of the policemen barked, ‘Leave it!’ He picked it up himself and examined it closely, looking perhaps for concealed jewels or something of that nature. Then he tossed it back to the child.
As he reached for Natasha’s bag, the rain started again in earnest. The man glanced up at the sky and swore and only gave the contents at the top a quick check.
‘Let’s go,’ said his companion. ‘It’s past supper time. There’ll be no food left.’
The policeman shoved Natasha’s bag aside. ‘All right then. On your way!’
They gathered up their possessions and clambered back into the wagon to resume their journey.
They travelled till the sun was sinking in the western sky, by which time they were exhausted. Their minds felt dulled from the rumbling of the wheels and their bones ached from the pitching and rolling of the cart. Their clothes stuck to them in a damp mass.
They passed the night in a remote farmhouse, where they were expected. The farmer and his wife said little and kept their names to themselves. The travellers’ wet clothes were spread in front of the kitchen stove. After a meal of bread and soup they lay down on a bed of furs on the floor and slept until the cocks crowing at dawn wakened them. A new cart and a new driver awaited them. And so they journeyed on.
And then, one morning, after many long, weary days on the road, they emerged from their overnight lodging to find the road was empty. There was no sign of a cart.
‘We are going to have to walk for the next part of our journey,’ Leo told them.
It was a relief to be on foot rather than being tossed about in the back of a cart. For a while their route took them along a riverbank, whose edge was curtained by a line of willows. After a kil
ometre or two, they veered off on to a track leading into a birch wood. The path under the trees was soft underfoot and the sun shone through the branches, making the fresh green leaves glitter. Overhead, numerous birds chattered and warbled. For the first time since leaving home, Natasha felt that it might be possible to smile again. The morning was beautiful. The wood felt safer too than the open road. Here, they were sheltered from the curious gaze of passers-by. Not that anyone would take them for an aristocratic family now, they were so bedraggled and stained. They looked like any other homeless peasant family on the move, carrying their canvas sacks.
Emerging from the wood, they found themselves in open, rolling countryside. They glanced nervously about. In a nearby field, a man was ploughing. Two lumbering oxen pulled the heavy wooden plough. The man lifted his head and Leo called out a greeting.
‘Fine morning!’
‘It will rain before lunchtime,’ the ploughman responded. Looking up, they saw that clouds had started to move in from the west, from the direction of the Baltic Sea.
They pushed on, taking a rutted lane that ran between two fields. They had been steadily moving southward, Natasha realized. Her uncle kept looking at the position of the sun. He had no map on him, would not have dared to carry one. And anyway, tracks such as these would not feature on any map.
‘I’m tired,’ whined Kyril, when they had gone only a short distance. ‘Can’t walk any more. My feet hurt.’ He plonked himself down on the path.
His father hoisted him up on to his back.
Natasha felt the first spot of rain on her cheek. In a brief time, the sky had turned from a soft blue to a steel grey.
‘We’d better shelter,’ said Leo, indicating a clump of trees up ahead. By the time they reached it, their clothes were damp again. The downpour proved heavy and the trees, not yet being in full leaf, did not give sufficient cover. When the sun re-emerged they were soaked to the skin.
‘We’ll catch our death if we go on like this getting repeatedly soaked,’ said Marie. Kyril began to cry again. He had been crying at intervals ever since they had left St Petersburg.