The Kirilov Star (31 page)

Lydia was helping the staff at Upstone Infant School to decorate the Christmas tree. Missing her children more than she could say, she had volunteered to help in any capacity the headmaster might choose to use her. With children around her, she always felt more cheerful. Life did go on, after all.

The tree had been donated by the local nursery and it had taken two strong men to bring it in and erect it in the corner of the assembly hall. It almost reached the ceiling and there was only enough space for the traditional fairy on the top. A box of coloured baubles and a string of lights had been brought out of their hiding place from last year. ‘We’ll have to buy new ones soon,’ the headmaster said. ‘These are beginning to look rather shabby. Still, with the lights shining on them they won’t look too bad.’

Rosie Jarvis, who was a dinner lady and whose main job was serving meals and washing up, was hauling a bundle of
tangled red, green and gold streamers out of another box. ‘Shall I put these up, Mr Groves?’

‘Yes, if you like, but you’ll need the steps and Mrs Conway is using them. Wait until she’s finished.’

It was raining, cold sleety rain, and there was no playtime outside today, so they were working surrounded by children, some of whom were offering gratuitous advice, others dancing round in excitement. When the tree had been decorated to everyone’s satisfaction, including fake parcels about its base, the lights were switched on amid cheers. Mr Groves blew his whistle and the children, ranging in age from five to eleven, were immediately silent. He ordered them to set out the chairs for the parents who would be coming for the carol concert and then find their places. For a few minutes it seemed chaotic, but chairs miraculously appeared in neat rows facing the stage. A little more scrambling and all the children were up on the stage, standing in three rows, tallest at the back, the little ones at the front.

Lydia took her seat on the side of the first row as the parents filed in and the concert began. Even the boys looked angelic, though one of them had his socks about his ankles and his school tie awry. He was about eight, she supposed, blond and rosy-cheeked. Seeing her watching him, he gave her a cheeky grin. She smiled back and from then it seemed he was singing
Away in a Manger
especially for her.

The carol telling of the baby born in a cattle shed reminded her of Yuri, though it had not been a cattle shed but a room in an attic. Had he been born in England, he would have had a proper crib and everything an infant might need: the finest baby clothes, pram, toys, medical attention whenever it became necessary. And she would
have been well-nourished enough to feed him properly. He had had nothing like that at Kirilhor, where hunger and the search for food had dominated their lives to the exclusion of almost everything else.

When the singing was over, the children helped to serve their mothers with tea and cakes which the mothers themselves had contributed. They had also been instructed to smile and answer the grown-ups’ questions politely. The little boy came to Lydia holding out a plate of cakes which looked as if they might slide off onto the floor at any minute. Lydia straightened it up for him and helped herself to a pink-iced fairy cake. ‘Thank you, young man. I enjoyed the singing.’

‘We’ve been practising for ages and ages.’

‘And you would rather have been out playing, I’ve no doubt.’

‘Yes. I’m going to be a famous footballer when I grow up.’

‘I hope you are.’ She smiled. ‘You are quite a big boy already. How old are you?’

‘Eight and three-quarters.’

‘We mustn’t forget the quarters,’ she said. ‘What do you want for Christmas?’

‘A new bike. And some football boots.’

‘You’ll have to be good to get those.’

‘I know.’ It was said with a heavy sigh. ‘I’ve got to go now.’ He moved off to offer the cakes to someone else.

Lydia watched him go. Another Christmas, another year passing, and she still longed for the child she had lost. She had Tatty and Bob, and she loved them dearly, but that did not stop her wondering what had become of her firstborn. Twenty-four years it had been, and the only memory she
had of him was of a toothless baby who was not as heavy as he should have been.

This would be the first Christmas without Robert, and Lydia didn’t know how she was going to cope. Bobby and Tatty would be home and she had to make it good for them. And she had to stop thinking about Alex. It was easier decided than done. She imagined him at his smallholding, going about his daily tasks, taking the dog across the heath. Did he still think of her, or had he given her up as a lost cause? She couldn’t go to him. It was too soon, much too soon. How could she tell Bobby and Tatty there was another man in her life, a man who had been there from the beginning and had never truly gone away? She had stayed away from Northacre Green, though the temptation to go to him was at times so overpowering she had to find something to do to keep her away: a meeting to attend, or someone ill in the village who needed a visit, a carol concert in the village school.

In all the noise and jollity going on around her, she felt her misery again and tears pricking her eyelids. Was anywhere proof against her melancholy?

Making her excuses, she left the school to walk home. She would make a cup of tea and do the jigsaw she had started on the day before. It was a big one, a thousand pieces it said on the box. It depicted a farmyard with a tractor, chickens and a dog lying outside its kennel. There were trees in the background and cobbles in the foreground and the sun was casting a dappled shade over all. It was going to be difficult, but that was the whole point of it. It would keep her occupied and keep her mind off Alex. Perhaps she should do as Tatty had often suggested and write her life story, not for publication, but simply to
channel her thoughts into a more positive direction. But doing that involved Alex. Everything involved Alex.

The rain had stopped, though the wind was icy cold, coming as it was straight off the North Sea. She had known cold far worse in Russia and she did not mind it. She considered herself completely British, had done so almost all her life, and yet the pull of her roots was strong. She could not quite forget the land of her birth, perhaps because Yuri was there. She imagined him growing up, leaving school, finding himself a job. Why, he might even be married!

‘Lydia, where are you off to in such a hurry?’ Claudia’s voice brought her to a standstill. ‘Running to catch a train, are you?’

Lydia laughed. ‘No, trying to keep out the cold. How are you? How’s Reggie?’

‘We’re fine. I’ve just got off the bus. Christmas shopping.’ She held up two loaded carrier bags. ‘How about you?’

‘OK. I’ve just been to the carol concert at the school. I went every year when the children were there.’

‘I know.’ She looked closely into Lydia’s face. The wind had whipped the colour into her cheeks but, as usual, her eyes gave her away. ‘Come home with me. Warm yourself up and let’s have a chat.’

‘Chat? What about?’

‘This and that.’ She took Lydia’s arm and Lydia went without protest.

‘Now,’ Claudia said, when they were in her small sitting room nursing cups of tea. ‘Tell me how you’ve really been getting on. And remember it’s me, Claudia, you’re talking to.’

Lydia laughed. ‘I hate the empty nest, especially now Robert’s gone.’

‘Bobby and Tatty will be back for the holiday, won’t they?’

‘Of course. And I mean to make it as happy a time as I can under the circumstances.’

‘You will. You always have. But there’s more, isn’t there?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You’re not brooding over that girl, are you? What’s her name? Pamela Osborne.’

‘No. I don’t think about her at all. And it was no more than I deserved.’

‘Whatever nonsense is that?’

Lydia gulped a mouthful of hot tea. It would be so good to tell someone. ‘You remember Alex?’

‘Of course I remember Alex. You’re going to tell me he’s alive, aren’t you?’

Lydia stared at her in astonishment. ‘How did you know?’

‘I saw him. On the day of your father’s funeral. That’s why you fainted, wasn’t it?’

Lydia nodded. ‘I didn’t know you’d seen him too. I thought he was a ghost.’

‘I take it you’ve seen him again.’

‘Yes. Twice.’ She went on to explain the circumstances. ‘I kept away,’ she finished. ‘I had to. It wasn’t fair on Robert.’

‘Robert’s gone, Lydia. And you are being foolish. I know how you feel about Alex. I’ve always known.’

‘How many other people knew?’

‘Sir Edward, I should think, perhaps Robert, but that’s about it. Why would anyone else know? It makes no difference. What is important is what do you intend to do about it?’

‘Nothing. What can I do? The children—’

‘They are not children anymore, Lydia, and they are busy leading their own lives. Given the chance I bet they’d understand.’

‘It’s too soon.’

‘For goodness’ sake, go to him,’ Claudia said. ‘You are free, Robert’s gone and he had been playing you false, so you go to Alex. You deserve some happiness after all you’ve been through.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘No. You’ll get in your car and go now.’ She stood up and took the cup and saucer from her. ‘You don’t have to tell Bobby and Tatty yet.’

What Claudia was advising was so close to her own desires, she wavered. It wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it? Just to go to him, see how he was, let him know that if he still wanted her, she might, sometime in the future … Somehow she found herself out on the pavement and Claudia was waving her goodbye from the door. She dithered more than once on the way home, but her car was standing in the drive and it was full of petrol. She got in and drove to Northacre Green, eager and yet half-afraid.

Twice on the way she pulled into a lay-by and sat undecided whether to go on. It was not her feelings she doubted, but her sense of right and wrong, her scruples. She had betrayed Robert; would going on betray Bobby and Tatty? How could she do this to them so soon after their father’s tragic death? Going on would be making a commitment. It would change everything; she would not, could not keep it a secret. Where would it lead? To strife with her children? Was she ready for that? She almost turned back, but then she remembered what it was like to
be in Alex’s arms and the enticement of that was too much to resist. She drove on.

The gate to the smallholding was wide open. She turned in, stopped the engine and sat a minute to still her fastbeating heart. Supposing he was out, should she wait or go home? Supposing he no longer cared. It had been so long … The door of the cottage opened and he stood on the threshold, waiting for her, as he had always waited for her, and simply opened his arms. She scrambled from the car and ran into them and was enfolded.

The sheer ecstasy of their reunion told her all she wanted to know. The years rolled away and they were young again, making love, talking non-stop, laughing at each other’s jokes, drinking wine and tea and making love all over again. Only later, when they had both calmed down and they were sitting at the kitchen table over a cup of coffee, did he tell her about the letter. ‘Do you believe in fate, Lidushka?’ he asked.

She laughed. ‘You mean, “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will”?’ She paused to consider. ‘Yes, I suppose I must, after all that’s happened to us. Why do you ask?’

‘Because when you arrived, I was debating whether to write to you or come over and see you, and here you are, saving me from having to make the decision.’

‘Why were you thinking it today especially?’

‘Oh, don’t think I haven’t had that same debate every day since I learnt of Robert’s death. But today there was a special reason. Do you remember me speaking of my friend, Leonid Orlov?’

‘Yes, he helped you when you came out of Siberia.’

‘I received a letter from him today. Goodness’ knows
how he managed it but it came via the diplomatic bag. It’s amazing the number of pies he’s got his fingers in. It enclosed a letter for you from Yuri.’

‘Yuri!’

‘Yes. It’s sitting up there.’ He nodded towards the mantelpiece where an envelope was propped against the clock.

She jumped to her feet and snatched it up. He watched as she slit it open and read it, quickly the first time, then more slowly. ‘Olga’s dead,’ she said. ‘She confessed the truth before she died. He says he found it hard to believe, but he wants me to write to him. He wants the story from me. Oh, Alex!’ Tears blinded her and she could not read anymore. She groped for his hand and he took it and squeezed it.

He remained silent while she recovered herself and read the letter again. ‘Why did it come through your friend?’

‘Leo has kept an eye on Yuri, watched over his development and made sure he fulfilled his potential. It was to Leo Yuri turned after Olga made her revelation, and I suppose he confirmed the truth of what she had said. I imagine he was one angry young man.’

‘I would be angry too, except that I’m too happy. Oh, Alex, I must write to him at once.’

‘Wouldn’t you rather go and see him?’

She stared at him. ‘Alex, you can’t mean it.’

‘Leo thinks it’s possible. You have to be invited through official channels but Leo says he can manage that. Things are a lot easier since Stalin’s death. Relations with the West are thawing, thanks to Khrushchev, who has opened up international trade and cultural contacts never allowed before. There is to be a trade conference at the beginning of February in Kiev and Leo says he can invite me onto that as
an agriculturist, with Foreign Office approval at this end. I think I can wangle that. Leo suggests I put you down as my personal assistant.’

‘But I know nothing about being a PA.’

‘Doesn’t matter. I don’t know much about agriculture. Are you on?’

‘But won’t you be arrested?’

‘I don’t see why I should be. I’m Alex Peters, it says so on my British passport. And you are Lydia Conway, also a British subject. Of course, we shall be given a minder, set to watch what we are up to, but we should be able to give him or her the slip with Leo’s help, so what do you say?’