The Lost Sapphire (12 page)

Nikolai looked puzzled. ‘What does “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” mean?'

Violet laughed. ‘It's a funny saying, isn't it? It means to pull yourself to greater heights by the impossible task of dragging yourself up by your shoelaces. To make your fortune through hard work.'

Nikolai chuckled at the image. ‘English is definitely a very strange language. But that's what I hope to do in Australia. I'm going to pull myself back up, by my bootstraps.'

‘Not back up, just up,' Violet corrected. ‘And I'm sure you will, Nikolai. Look how well you're doing already. You're awfully young to be a chauffeur. It's a very responsible position.'

‘Thank you, miss,' said Nikolai, looking straight ahead through the windscreen.

‘Where did you learn to drive?' Violet asked. ‘Was it here in Australia, or in England before you came over?'

Nikolai chuckled and shot Violet a mischievous look. ‘It was actually in Russia before the Great War.'

‘Before the Great War? That's impossible. You were only a tiny child then!' Violet exclaimed, incredulously.

‘I know, but it's true,' Nikolai insisted. ‘You see, my cous–, I mean, the son of my father's employer, was given his own small car for his ninth birthday. It was a Peugeot Bébé – a real motor car but made a lot smaller. I was the same age as him, and we often played together, so I learned to drive it too.'

‘That's ridiculous! What sort of parents would buy their nine-year-old child a motor car?' Violet huffed.

Nikolai laughed. ‘Very wealthy aristocrats who adore their children. Poor Alexei wasn't very well and couldn't do lots of normal, active boy things, so his parents spoiled him. They had a whole fleet of motor cars and several chauffeurs, so the Head Chauffeur taught us both to drive.

‘Later on, after the Revolution, when we were in Paris, we stayed in the house of a Russian benefactor, Countess Orlova. When the countess found out I could drive, I became her chauffeur.'

Violet was fascinated. It was the first time Nikolai had opened up with details about his past working for Russian countesses and spoiled princelings.

‘I would like to learn to drive a motor car,' Violet said. ‘I used to drive the buggy all the time, and I miss it now that the horses are gone.'

‘It's easy to drive with a bit of practice,' Nikolai said. ‘Perhaps I could give you a lesson one day on a very quiet street.'

‘Would you, Nikolai? That would be marvellous.'

‘It would be a pleasure. Speaking of driving, would you like me to take you home now?'

She shook her head and laughed. ‘I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.'

‘Sorry, Miss Violet?' Nikolai asked, looking puzzled.

‘I want to go and take some photographs around the streets,' Violet explained, pulling the Kodak Brownie from her new handbag. ‘Would you like to come for a walk with me?'

‘Absolutely,' Nikolai said. ‘It would be good to get some exercise.'

The two walked together, chatting and pointing out interesting things to photograph.

‘What about the Chinese market gardener?' Nikolai suggested, indicating a man zigzagging through the crowd with baskets of greens balanced at each end of a long pole over his shoulder.

The market gardener pattered past, wearing traditional Chinese garb – wide blue trousers, heel-less slippers and a long black pigtail hanging below his hat. He stopped, calling out his wares to passers-by. He saw Violet with her camera and stopped to pose, looking very serious. She waved her appreciation and carefully set the shutter speed, framed up the man and clicked the button. She took some of the photographs she had planned earlier – the newsboy selling his newspapers, and an overcrowded tram rattling past, with workers hanging off the back.

The iceman – whose shirt and trousers were soaked with water – pulled up in his horse-drawn cart, yelling, ‘Ice.
Ice
. Ice.' His horse stood patiently still by the kerb while he ran into each of the cottages with a huge block of ice wrapped in sacking and balanced on his shoulder. The ice would be put inside the iceboxes to keep food cold.

A crowd of children gathered around the cart, begging and pleading. The iceman teased the kids but then
relented, chipping off splinters of ice, which the children sucked with delight. Violet snapped a photograph of the scene, focusing on a boy in the foreground, eyes closed and face beaming as he crunched the unexpected treat.

Suddenly Nikolai noticed the time. ‘We'd better get back, miss. I need to get you home so I can pick up Mr Hamilton. He's playing golf this afternoon, and he'll be annoyed if I'm late.'

Violet suddenly felt disappointed – she had been enjoying their laughter and conversation. She packed the camera away in its case.

‘Of course,' Violet said. ‘I'd hate Dad to be cross with you. He's going to be furious enough when he sees my hair.'

Albert Hamilton usually came home in a good mood after playing golf, especially if he'd played well. He arrived just in time to change into his evening clothes for dinner.

Violet had changed into her only good dinner dress – a blue silk, which was getting a little short, with white silk stockings and Mary Janes. She came downstairs and took a seat in the drawing room to wait for dinner. Saunders was standing nearby, ready to serve the pre-dinner drinks. Imogen had already seen Violet's hair, so she made sure she came down early for once, to give her sister moral support.

Violet could hear her father's footsteps on the stairs, right before he strode into the drawing room. She felt a flicker of hope – he seemed to be in a jovial mood.

‘Good evening, girls. Did you have a good day?' he asked.

‘Delightful,' said Imogen hurriedly. ‘How was your golf game?'

Then Mr Hamilton caught a closer look at Violet. For a moment he looked confused, then he looked thunderous.

‘Violet, what on earth have you done to your hair?' he demanded, his voice rising. ‘Please don't tell me you've cut it.'

‘Dad, yes … I … decided to cut my hair today,' Violet confessed, looking down at the toes of her Mary Janes.

Her father's face flushed. ‘What were you thinking?' he shouted. ‘How
dare
you cut your hair? No daughter of mine will be seen in public looking like that. It's just not … seemly.'

‘Daddy, lots of girls cut their hair these days,' Imogen interjected, trying to restore the peace.

‘I sold my hair,' Violet explained. ‘I gave the money to Sally for her family. Her mother will be in hospital for months with tuberculosis, and I don't know what they are going to do to get by.'

Albert's face crumpled, as though he would break down in tears. ‘But why didn't you just ask me for some money? I would have given them something.'

‘But I tried last night, Dad,' Violet objected. ‘We talked about it and Mr Ramsay said it was just a story to bamboozle me. You were so angry that I'd been to Sally's house that I didn't dare ask you to help them.'

Mr Hamilton came over to Violet. She braced herself for more scolding, but he simply ran his hands through her short curly hair.

‘It was your mother's hair,' he said softly. ‘Red-gold, like copper. It was always her greatest beauty.'

Violet felt as though she had been slapped. She had not heard her father mention her mother for four long years. It had been as though she'd never existed. Or her brothers. Their names and memories were sealed away, just like the locked tower rooms.

Imogen stood up and clutched his arm. ‘Daddy, it's all right. It'll grow back.'

Mr Hamilton turned away abruptly, shaking off Imogen's hold. He looked at the two girls coldly. ‘Saunders, please give my apologies to Monsieur Dufour. I have just realised that I have another engagement, so I won't be here for dinner. Can you please send for Khakovsky? Tell him he's to drive me into the city and wait until I'm finished. It could be late.'

‘Of course, sir,' Saunders replied. ‘May I fetch anything for you, sir?'

‘No, Saunders,' Mr Hamilton said heavily. ‘Tell Harry he needn't wait up for me.'

‘Yes, sir,' replied Saunders, and he turned to go.

‘On second thought, Saunders, bring me a whisky in the billiard room,' Mr Hamilton added. ‘And call me when Khakovsky's ready to go.'

Mr Hamilton left the girls in the drawing room and crossed over the hall. Imogen and Violet looked at each other as the billiard room door banged shut.

‘Well, that wasn't so bad?' Imogen said.

‘I guess he could have locked me in my room and thrown away the key,' Violet replied darkly.

Imogen laughed. ‘Oh, don't be so glum. Let's play some music. When Daddy's gone, we're going to practise your dance steps. We have the Russian Ball coming up in a
few weeks, and I can't have you disgracing me by treading on all the boys' toes.'

A few minutes later, they heard Saunders open the front door and their father stride out without a word to them.

Violet shrugged, her stomach heavy with disappointment. Imogen jumped up, went to the wooden gramophone with the shiny brass horn and cranked the handle. She pulled a record out of its brown paper sleeve and put it on the turntable, carefully dropping the needle onto the track.

‘Cheer up, Violet,' Imogen said. ‘This is my favourite foxtrot, “Angel Child” by Al Jolson.' The jaunty song blared from the horn. Imogen dragged Violet up from her chair. ‘I'll be the boy.'

‘Do we have to?' Violet complained. ‘I don't particularly feel like it.'

Imogen ignored her and, grabbing her hand, began to dance. Violet laughed despite herself as Imogen crooned along to the music.

The two girls swept around the drawing room, avoiding the furniture, then moved out into the hall where there were fewer obstructions.

‘Not quite so upright. Lean into me a little,' Imogen instructed. ‘Not so heavy on your heels. Put your weight more on your tippy-toes – and glide gracefully.'

Violet obeyed, concentrating on the rhythm. She went to dance classes every week at the Town Hall, but the Russian Ball would be her first large ball, and she was keen to dance well.

Imogen directed her into a spin.

Saunders came into the hall from the passage that led to the kitchen. He stood by, watching the girls until the
music ended. His normally impassive demeanour slipped, and Violet thought she detected a look of affection.

‘Dinner is served, Miss Imogen,' Saunders announced. ‘Mrs Darling thought you might like something simpler tonight, as Mr Hamilton is out.'

‘Thank you, Saunders,' said Imogen, dropping Violet's hand. ‘That would be heavenly.'

Saunders hesitated for a moment. ‘Don't be too upset by your father, Miss Violet. Mr Hamilton means well, but he just doesn't know how else to deal with his sorrow.'

‘Sometimes I think that Dad doesn't care much about us anymore,' Violet confessed, looking at the carpet.

‘No, don't say that,' said Imogen, horrified. ‘You know Daddy loves us. He just has lots on his mind these days.'

‘I've worked for your father for twenty-five years – ten years as head footman and fifteen years as the butler,' said Saunders. ‘He was always such a kind and funny man, but all that changed when your brothers ran away to war. Then, when the telegram came and your mother … Well, it was just too much for one man to bear. It was too much for any of us to bear.'

Violet blinked back her tears. She felt comforted by this unexpected support from Saunders, the perfect butler who was usually so discreet. ‘It
was
too much to bear – you're right, Saunders.'

‘Now we don't want to raise the ire of Monsieur Dufour by ruining his meal,' Saunders reminded them with a wry smile.

The girls trailed into the dining room. The huge table had two lonely places set, with all the silver, crystal and candelabra in place. Saunders served a simple meal of roast
beef with asparagus and baked potatoes, followed by a green salad. Imogen and Violet chatted about the Russian Ball and all the ideas that Violet had come up with so far.

Saunders cleared the plates. ‘Would you like me to serve the pudding, Miss Imogen?'

Imogen exchanged a quick glance with Violet, who shook her head. ‘Thank you, Saunders, but we're finished.'

After dinner, Imogen demanded that Violet continue to practise her dancing, but this time she asked Harry to move the gramophone into the ballroom.

‘I've selected a lovely set of records, and there's plenty of room in the ballroom,' Imogen explained as she threw open the door and flicked on the light.

The ballroom was a huge open space across the back of the house, overlooking the lawns towards the river. It was painted a pale Wedgwood blue, with the ceiling and plaster mouldings in white, and a waxed timber parquet floor. In the old days, the French doors would all be opened onto the terrace so guests could mingle in the fresh evening air.

The room had very little furniture other than a glossy grand piano, which was rarely played anymore, a few velvet banquettes along the wall and two side tables. Gilt mirrors hung along the inside wall to reflect the light from the chandeliers and the wall-mounted candelabra. Harry set the gramophone up on one of the cedar side tables.

‘Will that be all, miss?' asked Harry.

‘Yes, Harry,' Imogen replied, and the footman left, closing the white panelled door behind him.

Violet practised her foxtrot steps by herself, gliding around the floor, arms held wide, while Imogen rifled through the records.

‘Do you remember that very wet Easter, when it rained for days on end?' Violet asked. ‘And Nanny made us play in the ballroom?'

A shadow passed over Imogen's face and she put the records down on the table. The girls usually avoided sharing childhood memories. Imogen nodded stiffly. Violet stopped mid-twirl.

‘Do you remember Archie and Lawrie had been playing the most dreadful pranks on everyone?' Violet continued. Their names felt unfamiliar on her tongue. ‘Salt in the sugar bowls at breakfast. Buckets of water balanced on the tops of the doors in the servants' wing. And we dressed up as ghosts, in the bedsheets, and haunted the maids' sitting room.'

Imogen laughed at the memory. ‘And we used the fire pokers as swords and battled up and down the stairs,' Imogen's eyes grew misty, ‘pretending to be the Knights of the Round Table.'

‘Archie thought we girls should sit on the top step and be Queen Guinevere and her lady, and cheer the knights on,' Violet said. ‘But we soon grew bored with that and attacked them with our own swords.' She mimed stabbing Imogen in the stomach.

‘Then, when Nanny banished us to the ballroom, Archie crept upstairs and stole all the chamber pots,' Violet reminded her. ‘And we had a battle where we slid the chamber pots across the waxed floor to see whose would go the furthest.'

Imogen giggled helplessly. ‘And Nanny was furious because we smashed three of them.'

‘Luckily they were empty,' said Violet, trying to keep a straight face.

Imogen laughed even harder. ‘That was hilarious, but when Daddy came home, instead of getting cross with us, he just laughed out loud and promised to take us to the cinema.'

Violet's throat closed tight as tears welled up. ‘I miss them, Immy.'

Imogen hugged her close. ‘I miss them too, Vivi.'

‘We never talk about them,' Violet said. ‘It's like they never existed.'

Imogen nodded. ‘It's for Daddy. He used to get so upset if we ever mentioned their names, so it was easier just to pretend it never happened.'

Violet scrubbed her face with her handkerchief and sniffed. ‘I miss the old Dad, too. He always had time to play with us, take us swimming or boating or riding.'

‘Do you remember when we were young, and Daddy used to play that game of hide-and-seek with us?' asked Imogen. ‘And Romeo would have to track us down?'

Violet nodded. ‘We'd run and hide in the gardens or the stables, and Romeo would always find us.'

‘He always had an excellent hunting nose,' Imogen said.

Violet hesitated. ‘And Mamma? Sometimes I think I catch a hint of her perfume.'

Imogen smiled. ‘Sometimes I feel I can sense her presence, as though she's just left the room, or she's watching us.'

‘Me too – maybe she is still watching over us.'

Imogen walked to the door and pulled the lever for the servants' bell. Harry appeared a moment later. He looked like he had hurriedly left his own meal.

‘Harry, I wonder if you could please bring us some hot chocolate?' Imogen asked. ‘And perhaps some of that delicious raspberry cake that was left over from tea? We're going to have a little picnic in the ballroom.'

Harry did his best not to look too surprised by this request.

‘Do finish your own dinner first though, Harry,' Violet suggested.

‘I'll fetch it straightaway, miss,' said Harry in a tone of mild reproof. ‘It will only take a few minutes.'

The girls sat on a rug in the middle of the floor and enjoyed their picnic of hot chocolate and cake. They laughed and chatted and shared memories from their childhood. Violet liked to imagine that the ghosts of her brothers might be sitting on the rug with them, enjoying the stories and thinking up more mischievous pranks.

It hurt to talk about the boys and Mamma, but it somehow also felt good, like a wound that was slowly beginning to heal.