The House by the Dvina (4 page)

They danced in silence for some time. Then suddenly he asked her: “We have met before, have we not?”

She laughed. “Yes, we have. You were the man in the window.” They danced all night after that, completely oblivious of others circling around them, and unaware of StephenТs silent disapproval of this foreigner monopolising his sister.

Sitting together at the supper table they talked of many things. In his broken English Gherman described his life in Russia, his home, his mother.

He tried to convey a picture of his beloved country, of her immense vastness, the endless forests, great rivers, the snows and frosts of the winter and the lovely white nights of summer when the sun glided around the horizon and there were gay midnight parties down the river. Nelly listened intently. She had lived all her life in Broughty Ferry. She had never been out of Scotland and spoke about simple mundane things. He learned that she was the eldest of four girls, that two of her five brothers were abroad in Kenya and New Zealand and Henry was hoping to go to India. Her life consisted of helping her mother in the house and travelling every Saturday afternoon by train into town to do some shopping.

As they danced the last waltz he asked if he could take her home. She became confused. “You will have to ask Stephen,” she said unhappily.

Stephen was cold and distant. “I and I alone will escort my sister home,”

he answered shortly.

That night, walking home through the dark empty streets, Gherman remembered the conversation at the supper table. “I travel to town every Saturday afternoon”, Nelly had said. The rest was simple. He knew the timetable of the trains departing in the afternoon from the small station at West Ferry. Passengers approached the platform either from the east or west entrance. Arriving early the following Saturday afternoon through the east entrance, Gherman watched the passengers coming in. Nelly, whose home was to the west of the station, was bound to come through that entrance.

Soon after, a train steamed in. Passengers were opening doors and settling down in their compartments. He was already preparing to wait for the next one when he saw the familiar figure hurrying across the platform and disappearing into the front carriage. Running towards the same compartment he opened the door, sat down and leisurely scanned the passengers. In feigned surprise, he discovered Nelly sitting opposite. At Dundee, he accompanied her along the streets, waited patiently outside all the shops and escorted her back to the station. They travelled together back to West Ferry. This little game, as old as time itself, continued for several weeks. With a little ingenuity Gherman varied the pattern. At all times these meetings had to appear accidental. Boarding an earlier train to Dundee he would stand near some unobtrusive place and approach her casually as she mingled with the other passengers.

One Saturday, my father boldly suggested that if Nelly cared, they could go to the theatre the following Saturday afternoon. Poor Nelly, torn between fear and longing, eventually timidly agreed. She had never been anywhere with any young man and was excited and apprehensive as the day of their appointment drew near. She hurried to finish her shopping, met Gherman and and slipped into the theatre as the curtain was rising. From that day there were no more “surprised” meetings. They met every Saturday and attended the matinee. Her sister Aggie, who was very close to Nelly, and in whom Nelly confided, helped her in every possible way. She often did all the shopping and after meeting them, travelled back with them to West Ferry. Nelly never allowed Gherman to escort her to her house. They parted as they came out of the station.

Nelly blissfully continued meeting Gherman every Saturday. It was obvious that sooner or later someone, even innocently, might inform her parents.

She tried not to think about it, living only for these few precious hours that passed all too quickly. In the end the inevitable happened, but not in the way she imagined. It was also my grandfatherТs custom to travel every Saturday afternoon to Dundee to his office. He usually caught an earlier train than Nelly and came back on the 4.10. Being set in his ways, this arrangement never varied. Nelly travelled back on the 5.10 train, which was an hour later than her fatherТs. It fitted in very nicely with her attendances at the theatre.

That certain Saturday, as she stood on the platform talking to Gherman while waiting for the train, she was horrified to see her father walking towards them. He did not appear to be aware of the young couple and stopped a short distance away.

My grandfather, Augustus Stephen Cameron, was then a man in his early fifties. Of stocky build, he had clearly defined features and deeply set blue eyes that contrasted sharply with his silver white hair and ruddy complexion. A handsome man, always immaculately dressed, usually in a navy blue suit complete with a grey stetson hat and flower in his buttonhole, he was a well-known autocrat, capable of great generosity or petty tyranny. He also had the disconcerting habit, when annoyed or contradicted, of staring long and hard right through his opponent. Now he was standing still, gazing straight ahead.

Nelly already visualised the dire consequences at home. The end of all her happy meetings. To my father, this was an opportunity he did not intend to miss. He walked resolutely up to my grandfather, with Nelly a few paces behind him, raised his hat and asked if he would be allowed to introduce himself. He had been introduced to his daughter at a dance some time ago, he continued, and had since met her several times. He hoped Mr Cameron did not think he was too presumptuous to want to meet her father.

My grandfather glanced coldly at his daughter and back to the young man in front of him. My father felt himself being silently appraised and stood waiting. “Tell me,” my grandfather enquired unexpectedly, “what is happening exactly between your country and Japan?” If my father was taken aback, he certainly did not show it. At that time the attention of the whole world was focused on the war between the small yellow men and the Russian colossus. My father, who like all Russians passionately loved his country and kept abreast with all the events, expressed his opinion. The train came in and after a momentТs hesitation they all got into the same compartment. The conversation continued until they arrived at West Ferry.

Walking out of the station, Gherman raised his hat and prepared to take his leave. There was again some hesitation, as if my grandfather was trying to make up his mind. “Young man,” he said suddenly, “I enjoyed our conversation. I should like to hear and know a little more about your country.” Something warm and elusive like a shaft of sunlight lit up his proud countenance. “Perhaps,” he continued, “you may care to come along and join us all for lunch tomorrow?”

Nelly, sitting beside her father, had travelled in silence, listening to the conversation. Now she was too relieved to say anything at all. My father bowed, expressing his thanks and acceptance. Raising his hat once again, he turned and walked away.

That night he sat down and wrote a long letter to his mother. He described Nelly in every detail. How he had met her and was now invited to meet her people. He was certain his mother would like her. He loved her and wanted to marry her. In the end, according to the old Russian custom, he begged his mother for her blessing.

The following day Gherman arrived at the house and rang the bell. Bay House, aptly named, stood on the sheltered banks of the bay in West Ferry.

It was a typically solid Victorian house, built at a time when neither money nor materials were spared to create an air of elegance and prosperity.

A young maid opened the door and led Gherman into the drawing-room. He found my grandfather talking to a young man who, he learned, was Andrew, NellyТs elder married brother, paying his usual Sunday visit with his wife and children. My grandmother entered, politely shook hands and sat down.

She was not blessed with any outstanding good looks, but possessed fine taste, and in spite of her numerous children, had a neat, well-proportioned figure with the small waist so fashionable in her day.

Nelly appeared, flashed a quick shy smile, said a few words and vanished.

The family had all been to church. The girls were busily engaged in setting the table and assisting with the preparations for the lunch, as was their custom every Sunday. At this point my grandfather stood up and suggested that Gherman accompany him to the conservatory and inspect what my grandmother described with a fleeting sly smile as his latest toy.

Curious, my father followed him into the garden and into the conservatory.

Standing in the middle of the floor on a tripod was a powerful telescope.

My grandfather invited Gherman to scan the opposite shore. Having no experience of telescopes, my father was amazed to see the line of vision brought so close. He was able to discern the smallest details, even down to the flowers decorating the hat of a young woman. He watched her smiling face as she talked to a man reclining beside her on the bank. Their game was abruptly interrupted by the loud clanging from the house of a gong announcing that the lunch was ready. The whole family were assembled in the dining-room. It would never have occurred to any of them to sit down before the head of the house took his place at the top of the table.

Gherman was introduced to the two other sisters Ч Mary, a pretty round-faced girl with a reticent manner, and Vicky, the youngest, a happy extrovert.

The maid brought in a steaming tureen and placed it on the table. At the other end of the table, my grandfather, resting his head on the palm of his hand, in a manner that never varied through his whole life, said the grace. My grandmother began to ladle out the soup.

This was the first occasion the Cameron family entertained a young man.

The conversation, with the exception of the head of the house, was a bit constrained, but as the meal progressed and the plates with the carved Sunday joint were being passed round, all gradually relaxed.

Grandfather was a man who could talk on many subjects. Well read, with a keen, shrewd mind, he had at times almost an uncanny insight into what was going on around him and in the outside world. The question of the Russian-Japanese war was brought up again. At the end of January 1904, the Japanese fleet had treacherously attacked the Russians in Port Arthur.

Russia was doing badly, and my grandfather deplored her weakness. Then, suddenly turning to my father, he said, “Just the same, mark my words, laddie. One day, not in my time, but perhaps in yours, Russia will become a force the whole world will be obliged to notice. Yes,” he added grimly, “that will include us as well.” These strangely prophetic words, spoken at a time of BritainТs greatest power and prosperity, my mother was to recall many years later.

Talking about himself, he told my father that he was the youngest child of a big family and was brought up by his aunt, a Mrs Dick, who was known as “Grandma Dick”. His mother had died at the time of his birth and this childless aunt had taken him to her home in Broughty Ferry. He was completely cut off from his brothers and sisters during his childhood.

This aunt, who was quite well off, having no children of her own, had lavished all her love and devotion on her nephew and when she died left him all her estate. That set him off on the road as a prosperous property owner and house factor.

Having spent all his life in Broughty Ferry, my grandfather had witnessed the fast-changing scenes of that period. As a schoolboy, he had travelled in an open carriage in the first train, to the Dundee Grammar School, as the present High School was named in those days. As a young man he had watched the building of the famous Tay Bridge and had seen the triumphant journey of the first train to cross what was reputed to be the longest bridge in the world. A mere two years later he also witnessed the terrible disaster, although he was not actually aware of it at the time.

It so happened that my great-grandmother, a widow, who was known as Helen Hay and lived in Leuchars in the Kingdom of Fife, was spending Christmas with her daughter and son-in-law. On 28 December 1879, she was preparing to leave on the evening train back to her home in Leuchars. During the day the weather worsened. Angry white horses galloped across the Tay and thundered against the pebbles on the beach. My grandparents became alarmed. Great-grandmother, a determined old lady who disliked having her plans altered, was in the end persuaded to stay overnight. She was fated never to cross the bridge. In the evening, when the force of the gale had reached the highest pitch, grandfather decided to inspect the garden for any damage. He donned his heavy coat and struggled down to the foot of the garden. The furious lashing of the waves against the shingle, the screaming of the wind like some demented soul, all fused into one horrifying roar. In the pitch darkness, he could see very little beyond a few lights from the opposite shore and the winking eyes of the lighthouse.

Involuntarily he glanced to the west where a long ribbon of lights could be seen spanning the river. A small red light appeared to be moving from the opposite side towards the high girders of the bridge. As he watched, the lights vanished and everything plunged into darkness. He struggled back to the protective warmth of the house. The two ladies were sitting beside the glowing fire enjoying their cup of tea. “IТve just seen the lights on the bridge go out,” he told them. “I donТt like the look of it,”

he added. A few hours later the news of the Tay Bridge disaster reached the house. The train and passengers had all been swallowed by the angry waters of the Tay. In the cold grey light the following morning my grandfather rose and went down to the beach. The storm had abated, but the waves were still lashing against the shore and already throwing up the broken wreckage of the carriages.

In my father, grandfather found a good listener, one who asked many questions and was interested in everything that was said. Scotland was still comparatively new to my father. He wanted to know everything about her customs, traditions, her way of life, so that he in turn could feel, absorb and understand everything and in this way perhaps would be accepted.