The Dragonfly Pool (47 page)

“Rat poison?” she had suggested.

In the end he did not go, and Carlotta set off with the Scold and her parents (who had had enough of their Scottish island) for a life of luxury in one of the Middle East's wealthiest states.

Before they left, Karil had a long talk with the Scold. Now that his own life was so happy he was able to value the care she had given him, and she went off contentedly, knowing she was no longer misunderstood.

The other uncles fared less well. Nobody invited them back to sit on their former thrones, so Uncle Dmitri continued to work as a doorman and Uncle Alfonso went on driving taxis.

The new constitution was to be celebrated in the great hall of the palace and the Deldertonians were getting ready, helping each other with pins and buckles and straps. After six years of clothes rationing they were not really ready to take part in a gala—but Bergania, like the rest of Europe, was no longer interested in show. Most of the citizens wore national dress, and whatever else was lacking, there were always the old flags and the bunting that had been kept in their attics—and above all the flowers which grew so abundantly in that lovely land.

Karil was not with his friends.

“I think we should leave him to himself,” Tally had said when they arrived. “The whole thing's going to be an awful strain for him.”

So Karil had watched by his father's grave and then disappeared up into the mountains, getting up the strength to face the ceremony.

The waitress who had stared at them in the Blue Ox when they first came to Bergania put her head around the door to see if they needed any help. She was back in the palace now as housekeeper, and when they said they could manage, she said, “Well, I'd better get back to him. If only he'd keep
still
—and he absolutely won't wear a sash. Just one sash across his chest to make him stand out—is that so much to ask? Really he's impossible, and I've told him so. Sometimes I wonder whether he won't turn tail and run at the last minute.”

All of them wondered this—whether they would get him onto the platform to play his part on this historic day.

The party from Delderton had seats in the front row. Uncle Fritz had retired from politics and was sitting next to Magda. They had found a philosopher who was even sadder and harder to understand than Schopenhauer and were going to collaborate on a book about his life. Poor Heribert had not returned from the war, but Magda, who was helping Uncle Fritz with the Delderton Summer Festival, had quite stopped thinking about marriage.

The delegates made their way into the hall and took their seats. There were scarcely any uniforms; it was ordinary men and women now who represented their country in parliament: teachers and doctors, lawyers and farmers had been elected by the people to speak for them.

Then a man in a dark suit, with touches of gray in his black hair, came out of a side door and made his way to the place of honor: a carved chair in the center of the semicircle.

The waitress had not persuaded him to wear a sash or anything else that would pick him out from the other people on the platform. The only decoration he wore was a medal given to him by the king for services to Great Britain in the war—the George Cross. Yet he did stand out: on account of his height, his air of authority, perhaps a certain weariness, for it had been a long war and he had suffered in it.

When they had first come to ask Matteo to be the president of the new Republic of Bergania, he had laughed in their faces.

“You are joking, of course,” he said.

He was back at Delderton, busy setting up an experiment to establish the egg-laying preferences of crested newts.

But the delegation was not joking. Bergania had decided to become a republic, but they wanted a president. Not a figure of power, like the American president, but a figurehead who would coordinate the work of the assembly and represent the country. They pointed out that other European states had done the same thing, appointing playwrights or respected scientists to preside over the assembly, and they made it clear that as a Berganian, a friend of the former king, and a war hero, he was the perfect choice.

Matteo continued to say no—but he made a mistake. He returned to Bergania to help them find another candidate, and this was his undoing. He returned to the mountains that he and Johannes had climbed as children, to the streams they had fished, to the forests in which they had roamed.

There is a saying that the landscape in which a child spends the first seven years of its life will leave a mark it cannot escape. A child brought up by the sea will always carry a longing for the ocean; a town child, reared to the sound of traffic and the warm bustle of neighbors, will never quite settle in the silence of the countryside.

So it was with Matteo. Standing on the snowcapped peaks of his homeland, breathing in the pine-scented wind, he was caught.

“I'll do it for five years,” he had said, “and then you must find someone else.”

The hall erupted into applause. The secretary announced the historic inauguration of the new Republic of Bergania. And the president rose to make a speech.

It was the shortest speech ever made by a president, but no one forgot it.

“Today sees the start of the new Republic of Bergania. I have agreed to serve as your president, but I do so because of three things: the memory of my friend Johannes who reigned as your king and gave his utmost; the example of his son, Karil, who has had the humility to reject kingship . . .”

Here Matteo had to pause because the clapping and cheers were deafening, and Karil, who was sitting with his friends, had to stand up and bow.

“And because of the people of Bergania,” he finished, “who toiled and suffered through the years of hardship and occupation and who deserve their turn in the light.”

The party went on all night. The dancing in the square, the fireworks, all the festivities, which had come to an end with the shot that killed Johannes, were unleashed. The next morning most of the visitors slept late, but two people crept out by the back door of the palace and made their way to the dragonfly pool.

It was unchanged in its stillness and its beauty.

“I suppose it all began here,” said Tally.

“Yes. When you said you would be my friend and nobody could stop you.”

“And nobody has,” said Tally. “Nor ever will.” And then: “Will you come back here to live do you think, ever?”

“Perhaps. I would like to work here one day. Not yet—but when I've got enough experience, try to set up clinics and hospitals. It's because you lent me your father after mine died.”

Dr. Hamilton had not been able to keep Tally and Karil out of harm's way in the holidays after the bombing began. They had insisted on coming back and helping in any way they could. Digging people out of the rubble, carrying stretchers to the ambulances, Karil had seen what the arrival of a doctor could mean to the injured, and when it came to choosing his profession he found that the decision was already made. He was starting at medical school in the autumn.

“But I'd need someone to help me. Someone a bit fierce maybe. The kind of person whose great-grandmother removed the socks of tramps in the London Underground.”

Tally felt no need to answer. She had known from the start that her life and Karil's were bound up together and now she watched as he felt in his pocket for the pebble he had brought back to his homeland and dropped it into the water. Their reflections, side by side, were still there, steady and unmoving, when the surface was quiet again.

But there was one more ceremony to attend, and they had left it till the day on which they were going home. It took place out of doors, high in the mountains, at the base of the Quartz Needle, where Uncle Fritz had erected a small headstone with an inscription.

Pom-Pom had lived with the government-in-exile throughout the war, and the news that his bride had passed away in Brazil had come as a considerable relief. Uncle Fritz had intended to do what he could to save the ancient line of Outer Mongolian pedestal dogs, but the journey would have been arduous and Pom-Pom, in human terms, was already over a hundred years old. When the little dog died at last (not in Uncle Fritz's arms but on his feet) it did not seem right that he should lie in a London pet cemetery surrounded by traffic and fumes, and since the mountains of Mongolia were out of reach, Uncle Fritz had brought his ashes back to the high peaks of Bergania and interred them there.

The party from Delderton had not expected a big turnout, but when it got about that the little creature who lay under their soil had freed their prince from a cruel and sadistic bully, a surprising number of people came to pay their respects—and with them came the stonemason and his family, for it had not been easy to inscribe the unusual poem in a foreign language neatly onto the gravestone and he wanted to make sure that all was well. He had been working to a deadline but now, as he removed the cloth that had been covering his handiwork, he knew that he had produced a masterpiece.

When news of Pom-Pom's death reached Delderton, O'Hanrahan had organized an epitaph competition—and now Karil stepped up to the tombstone and while everyone bowed their heads respectfully, he read out the winning entry.

 

There had been some doubt about the last line, but when it was put to the vote this was the poem that was judged the best and Kit flushed a modest pink, for the winning entry had been his.

Then from higher up the mountain there came the sound of “The Last Trump” played on Matteo's sackbut—and realizing that nobody could have had a more fitting send-off, the mourners linked hands and ran down to the buses that were waiting to take them to the station—and home.