Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope

by Anne Plichota

  “Baba, we’re just waiting for you now,” Oksa shouted up the stairs leading to the third floor of the house.

  Dragomira Pollock came out onto the landing, immediately prompting cries of admiration. This remarkably imposing woman was respectfully called Baba Pollock by her immediate circle. She had a very straight, almost stiff bearing, but her face, far from being haughty, was always animated, and her piercing dark-blue eyes were enhanced by flushed cheeks and a broad forehead. Her blonde hair, threaded with silver and braided around her head, added a subtle Slavic touch to her arresting appearance. Yet this morning it was not these qualities that sent her family into raptures but her outfit, which was stunning.

  “I’m ready, my darlings!” she said, walking downstairs regally. Her long purple dress was patterned with hinds embroidered in black pearls, and it floated around her like the petals of a flower.

  “Wow, Baba, you look amazing!” exclaimed Oksa in delight, throwing herself into her arms and giving her a hug.

  In her enthusiasm she didn’t pay any attention to the happy cries coming from Dragomira’s earrings. Intricately worked in the shape of perches, they carried two tiny golden birds, about an inch high, who were swinging on them and whispering shrilly about their feats as fighter pilots.

  “Oh! I forgot something… give me a minute, I’ll be right back.”

  As soon as she said this, Dragomira turned round and ran back upstairs to her apartment, double-locking the door behind her.

  3

  THE REUNION

  GAZING INTO HER MIRROR, DRAGOMIRA BEGAN SCOLDING her reflection, wagging an admonishing forefinger.

  “I can’t take you two anywhere! You’re supposed to be quiet, my Ptitchkins, you promised! Otherwise I’ll never take you out of your cage again. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Graciousness, we get it! Message received loud and clear. Radio silence!” sang the tiny golden birds at the top of their voices, rubbing against Dragomira’s neck to earn her forgiveness.

  She gently patted their little heads and they continued swinging enthusiastically on their golden perches—this time, silently.

  “Ahem, Your Graciousness, Your Graciousness…”

  Nearby, the creatures in blue dungarees were wringing their hands in distress and coughing softly to attract her attention.

  “What’s the matter, my Lunatrixes?” she asked, turning round.

  “The Abominari has snapped its nerves,” one of them told her, his eyes impossibly round.

  Dragomira went over to the double-bass case and went inside. She hastily climbed the staircase leading to her workroom, which was strictly private. A creature just over a foot tall was standing in front of the skylight, scratching angrily at the glass. It whirled round, growling and glaring evilly at everyone within reach. The Abominari had stumpy legs, long arms and a skeletal body, and its head was covered in a greyish skin which gave off a nauseating stench. An iridescent white substance was dripping from its wide mouth, which revealed two sharp, protruding fangs.

  “The Abominari has performed bitings on the Goranov plant,” explained one of the Lunatrixes. “We did attempt to initiate preventative measures but our limbs sustained stinging scratches.”

  The two Lunatrixes held out their badly scratched arms as evidence of the violent encounter. When she saw this, Dragomira exploded with anger—anger which doubled in intensity when she saw the poor Goranov, which had been attacked and was writhing in pain. Sap was slowly oozing from one of its stems and pooling on the earth of its pot.

  “ABOMINARI!” shouted Dragomira. “This is intolerable, you’ve gone too far! What on earth is the matter with you?”

  The creature leapt onto some boxes and growled, revealing its pointed fangs and filthy claws.

  “Curse you! Curse you all! You’re not my mistress, old lady, you are nothing to me! You won’t be so full of yourself when my Master comes to get me…”

  “No, of course not,” replied Dragomira with cool indifference. “Let me remind you that you’ve been saying the same thing for fifty years or more and your so-called Master still hasn’t come.”

  The Abominari gave an angry growl.

  “You are nothing to me, do you hear? You’re just a stinking pile of garbage! A dirty speck of blowfly excrement!”

  At these words, all the creatures huddling in the four corners of the workroom shuddered with indignation. Dragomira walked over to the boxes on top of which the insolent Abominari was arrogantly perched. But as soon as she came close, the creature leapt down onto the floor and pounced on one of the Lunatrixes, seizing him from behind and tightly squeezing his neck as if to strangle him.

  “I warn you, old lady, if you touch me I’ll kill him, then I’ll tear you and your pathetic menagerie to shreds!” the Abominari spat at Dragomira.

  Unimpressed, she gazed up at the ceiling with a vexed expression. She took a slim iridescent cylinder about six inches long from the folds of her dress and coolly pointed it at the threatening Abominari. In a weary voice, she said: “Get Set Croakettes!”

  Then she blew softly into the cylinder. A flurry of green sparks immediately sputtered from one end with a loud crackle. Two small live frogs with translucent wings appeared and flew at the Abominari, grabbing it firmly beneath its puny arms and lifting it almost three feet into the air. They shook the creature to make it release its hostage and the Lunatrix tumbled heavily onto the parquet floor. Dragomira marched over to the Abominari and seized it by the scruff of the neck, holding her arms out in front of her to avoid being clawed or bitten. When she opened a cage to imprison it, though, the aggressive creature took its chance and viciously scratched her forearms.

  “I’ll deal with you later,” she warned imperiously as she double-locked the cage. Then, addressing the Lunatrixes, she held out a small pot and said softly: “My Lunatrixes, I must go out now. Please put this ointment on the Goranov, it should ease its pain. I won’t be long.”

  “Our obedience is never in doubt and your return our greatest desire,” they replied, still shaken by the attack.

  Just before leaving her apartment, Dragomira readjusted her crown of hair braids. “That’s better,” she concluded, before heading back downstairs. “But I really am going to have to do something about that Abominari.”

  “Is everything okay, Dragomira?” asked Marie Pollock a few seconds later. “You look annoyed. Oh! Have you hurt yourself?”

  Dragomira looked down at the two bloody stripes on her forearms. She’d been so preoccupied with that insufferable Abominari’s malevolent behaviour that she hadn’t even realized she’d been scratched.

  “Oh, it’s nothing, Marie. I had a fight with a pair of scissors when I was unpacking my boxes and I’m afraid I came off worst,” she fibbed with a grin. “But it’s probably time to go now, isn’t it?”

  The little group set off for St Proximus, the French school which Oksa was about to see for the first time in a few minutes. She was going to be in Year 8 and, despite her seemingly laid-back attitude, she was feeling a bit apprehensive: everything was so new! Starting with her… Oksa often dreamt of being a heroic adventurer or an invincible ninja warrior, but high on the list of things she hated most in the world, along with leeks, the colour pink and creepy-crawlies, was drawing attention to herself. And new kids, as everyone knows, rarely go unnoticed in lessons. Nervously she put her hand in the pocket of her grey blazer and touched the talisman given to her by Dragomira the evening before—a small flat leather pouch containing seeds with relaxing properties—and remembered her advice: “If you feel tense in body and mind, hold this and gently stroke it. It will make you feel more at peace with the world, the sky will seem clearer and your path more sure.”

  As she recalled these comforting words, fat raindrops softly began splashing on the London pavements that were bringing her closer to school with every step.

  “Yeah, right! The sky isn’t likely to seem clearer today,” she grumbled to herself.

  “OKSA!” She
turned round. A boy accompanied by his parents was running towards her, his dark-blue eyes shining with joy.

  “Gus! Gosh! Is that really you?” she asked with a laugh.

  “Save your sarcasm for yourself,” he replied, looking her up and down. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? I’m finding it hard to believe my eyes—Oksa Pollock in a pleated skirt!” he added, sniggering.

  “Yeah, and Gustave Bellanger in a suit and tie!” said Oksa in the same tone. “Stylish or what?! Actually, you look rather classy. Not bad at all.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Gus, flicking back his long dark hair, “and try to forget that these shirt collars are super-tight.”

  “You could begin by loosening your tie. You might not look so flushed,” teased Oksa, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

  After Gus had taken this good advice, the two friends picked up the bags they’d dumped on the pavement in the excitement of their reunion and everyone continued walking to the school, chatting.

  “So how are you after all this time?” asked Gus, his face glowing. “It’s been a whole week since we’ve seen each other.”

  “Great!” replied Oksa, looking just as happy. “I’m now the proud owner of a pleated skirt—have you any idea how long I’ve dreamt of that? And have you seen these ultra-cool grey ankle socks? I wonder how I’ve managed to live without them all this time,” she continued lightly. “Other than that, the house is a complete tip. You have to open thirty boxes to find anything you need. But that’s fine. I love the neighbourhood.”

  “Me too… I can’t get over the fact that we’re here. We left France so fast! This place is incredible. It feels like we’ve travelled thousands of miles and ended up on the other side of world.”

  As soon as Pavel Pollock had mentioned his plans, Gus’s father, Pierre Bellanger, had jumped at the chance to go into partnership with him and they were about to open up a world-class French restaurant. The Bellangers had been the first to cross the Channel a few days earlier, and had taken up residence a few streets away, right next to the colourful streets of Chinatown.

  “I hope we’re in the same class,” continued Gus.

  “You can say that again,” said Oksa. “If we’re not, I’ll make a scene. Or have hysterics. I’ll roll around on the floor, foaming at the mouth with my eyes bulging and I’ll bite the calves of anyone who comes near me.”

  “I can’t wait to see that!” laughed Gus. “You obviously haven’t changed a bit, despite the uniform of a model student. Or, at least, not for the better.”

  At these words, Oksa pounced on him with a roar and pretended to strangle him.

  “Ungrateful so-and-so. After all I’ve done for you. You’ll never understand girls,” she growled, shaking him like a pear tree.

  “And you’re off your rocker, you loony,” replied Gus, crying with laughter. “Off your rocker and totally OTT.”

  “I can’t help that, it’s genetic,” objected Oksa, shrugging in resignation. “You know full well that the Pollocks are over-the-top by nature. It’s all down to our Russian blood. Anyway, I reserve the right to make a scene and have hysterics. All I want is for us to be in the same class! Is that too much to ask?”

  4

  ST PROXIMUS COLLEGE

  THE HEAVY WOODEN DOUBLE DOORS OF THE ENORMOUS entrance were wide open. Under the magnificent stone arch leading into the paved courtyard, two bowler-hatted porters greeted the crowds of schoolchildren and their families. Gus and Oksa made their way hesitantly under the porch, attracting quite a few glances between them. A group of girls seemed particularly interested in Gus, elbowing each other and making remarks. Oksa couldn’t help noticing, once more, that wherever Gus went, girls stopped talking and stared at him, probably fascinated by his good looks. The boy blushed in embarrassment and ran his hand through his hair. The two friends kept walking, reluctantly leaving their families with the parents gathered at the back of the courtyard.

  “Great, Cave-Girl is still here,” muttered a schoolboy loud enough to be heard by the two friends.

  “Who?” asked Oksa, turning to look at him.

  The boy who’d just spoken gazed at her intently. Blond curls framed a face animated by big brown eyes.

  “Hi! I’m Merlin Poicassé,” he continued enthusiastically, holding out his hand formally. “How are you? Are you new?”

  “Yes,” replied Oksa, instinctively holding out her hand too. “We’ve just arrived in London. I’m Oksa Pollock.”

  “I’m Gustave Bellanger. But you can call me Gus.”

  “Well, Gus. She’s Cave-Girl,” he said, jutting his chin discreetly towards a remarkably large girl with a bad-tempered expression. “Her real name is Hilda Richard and all I’d say is that no one who’s had any contact at all with that girl is likely to forget the experience in a hurry.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Gus.

  Merlin sighed, looking serious.

  “She’s all about ambushes, bruises and humiliation, if you get what I mean? Well, that’s life… Welcome to St Proximus!”

  “I warn you, Gus,” said Oksa through gritted teeth, “if you’re not in my class and I have to be with that girl, I swear I’ll have a fit, a real one.”

  “Ah, that’s the roll call,” said Merlin briskly, suddenly standing up straighter. “Let’s go nearer.”

  Surrounded by the schoolteachers, Lucien Bontempi, the Headmaster of St Proximus, was perched on a small platform, tapping the microphone in front of him. His chubby cheeks and bulky figure gave him the appearance of a roly-poly clown, an impression enhanced by his apple-green tie and the orange handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket. However, as soon as he began giving his short speech, everyone realized that his firm, authoritative tone was in marked contrast to his affable figure.

  “Next we’ll come to what you’ve all been waiting for: class allocation. As is customary at London’s French school, the three classes in every year are named after chemical elements: Mercury, Hydrogen and Carbon. We’ll begin the roll call with the youngest: Year 7.”

  The names were read out one by one at regular intervals and the uniformed schoolchildren gradually formed lines. But at the end of the second list, Mr Bontempi’s voice suddenly faltered.

  “Williams, Alexandre,” he called.

  The Headmaster beckoned to a young boy who came over, accompanied by a very pale woman dressed all in black. Visibly upset, the Headmaster placed his hand on the boy’s head, leant over and whispered a few words into his ear.

  “Is that his son?” murmured Oksa to Merlin.

  “No,” he replied. “That’s the son of the maths teacher who was found dead in the Thames two weeks ago.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Oksa, upset. “How awful—was it suicide?”

  “No, he was murdered,” continued Merlin in a confidential tone. “A terrible murder. It was in all the papers.”

  “Poor boy,” said Oksa, swallowing with difficulty.

  Suppressing a shudder, she concentrated again on the roll call of students.

  “Now, the Year 8 Hydrogen class with Dr McGraw,” shouted Mr Bontempi, inviting a tall, thin man to come and stand by his side. “Will the following students please step forward: Beck, Zelda… Bellanger, Gustave…” Gus shouted “Here!” and, giving Oksa one last look and a smile, he went over to the group gradually forming in front of Dr McGraw. Oksa’s heart was beating fit to burst. Her eyelids fluttered nervously over her large grey eyes and she felt as if the heartbeats thumping against her chest were echoing off the walls of the courtyard like the names as they were read out one by one by the Headmaster. She felt terribly alone. She looked around for her parents. They were only a few yards away. Her father was making encouraging signs to her, clenching his fists. Feeling better, she gave him a little wave. At his side, Marie and Dragomira were grinning widely. Oksa’s eyes were suddenly drawn to a movement on her gran’s skirt: for a nanosecond, she thought she saw the embroidered hinds leaping as they frantically c
hased each other! Her eyes had to be playing tricks on her because of the stress. How she hated feeling stressed. “I can’t start seeing things now… please let this be over soon, let me be in Hydrogen! Please say Pollock, P-O-L-L-O-C-K, say it now,” she thought to herself, closing her eyes and crossing her fingers so hard that she almost dislocated the joints.

  The alphabet was completely mixed up in her head, she was hearing names all over the place. She even thought that the letter P had already been read out.

  “Prollock, Oksa,” said the Headmaster finally, looking around for her in the courtyard.

  Dr McGraw leant over to murmur something in his ear.

  The Headmaster began again:

  “Sorry… Pollock! Pollock, Oksa, please,” he announced, placing a great deal of emphasis on the Po.

  This time Oksa’s heart exploded into a thousand sparks. She managed to splutter “Here”, then, feeling weak with relief, she rushed over to join Gus, darting a joyful look at her parents.

  “St Proximus, here we come.”

  Following Dr McGraw into one of the school’s lofty corridors, the students in Hydrogen walked along with upturned faces and eyes wide with amazement. “Wow,” murmured Oksa, “this place is unreal!”

  Housed in a former seventeenth-century monastery, the school had a highly distinctive atmosphere. The stately entrance hall was adorned with faded coats of arms engraved with Latin inscriptions which Oksa had difficulty deciphering. There were classrooms all along the cloister and on the two arcaded floors giving on to the courtyard. The slender granite colonnades had been preserved, as had the stained-glass arched windows, which gave the daylight a colourful, opaque quality.

  “You said it,” agreed Gus in a low voice. “And look! They’re keeping a close eye on us.” He glanced up to point out the many statues lining the high passageways. The students had the strange, unsettling sensation of being unable to escape from their fierce, unwavering vigilance.