The Lost Sapphire (6 page)

‘A pleasure,' replied Audrey. ‘It was splendid to meet you. And don't forget to dream up some concepts for our Russian Ball. We're meeting again in a few days to finalise the details, so I'm expecting lots of fabulous ideas from you.'

Violet walked out to the car. Nikolai was waiting, standing to attention as before. Violet checked back towards the large red-brick villa, with its steep terracotta roof and white dormers. Storm clouds had begun to roll in from the south, and the temperature had dropped. It felt like rain was on its way. Of course there was so sign of Imogen.

‘What part of Russia did you come from, Nikolai?' Violet asked on impulse.

Nikolai glanced at her in surprise. ‘Petrograd, Miss Violet,' he replied. ‘Or St Petersburg, as it was called before the war. We still can't get used to calling it Petrograd.'

Violet leaned against the yellow car, looking out over the manicured lawns. Three gardeners were clipping the shrubs into perfect spheres in the distance. Violet could hear the rhythmic
click-click
of their shears. Bees hummed in the warm air.

‘Tell me about St Petersburg,' said Violet. ‘What's it like?'

A look of pain crossed Nikolai's face. For a moment, Violet thought he might not answer her.

‘It was once the most beautiful city in the world,' Nikolai replied, turning to Violet, his face alight with enthusiasm. ‘Imagine a city of extravagant gilded palaces and ornate bridges, surrounded by parks and crisscrossed with canals and rivers. In summer, there are the white nights, when the sun never quite sets. In winter, the rivers freeze over and the whole city is mounded with thick white snow. It is dazzling.'

Violet felt a shiver. ‘It sounds wonderful. I wish I could see it.'

‘It
was
– before the war,' said Nikolai, looking despondent. ‘Perhaps not so wonderful now.'

‘When did you leave?' asked Violet. Nikolai looked away and didn't answer. Violet felt a rush of remorse. ‘I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. You must think I'm being frightfully nosy, but Russia sounds like a fascinating country.'

Nikolai shook his head and lifted his chin. ‘No, it's all right. It's just something I try not to think about very often. My family and I left Russia three years ago, in 1919, and we came to Australia just recently. We are trying to start a new life here, which can be … fraught.' His r's rolled more than usual on the last word.

‘I'm so sorry,' said Violet. ‘You must miss your home.'

Nikolai lifted his chin and stared into the distance. ‘We are lucky to be here in Australia.'

Violet was thinking of dozens more questions that she would like to ask Nikolai. Where had he lived in St Petersburg? What was his life like there? How did they come to Australia? What did he miss about Russia? Did he have family back there who were starving like so many of their countrymen? But as the questions bubbled on her tongue, Violet saw Imogen walking towards the car, escorted by Tommy. Violet reluctantly repressed the tantalising questions and, instead, slid into the back seat, waiting as they said their goodbyes. Imogen hopped in the car. Nikolai tipped his cap and closed the back door.

‘Nikolai, would you mind taking us back via Glenferrie Road?' Imogen asked.

‘Yes, miss,' Nikolai replied in a toneless voice with little trace of his foreign accent.

Imogen turned to Violet. ‘I've changed my mind about my hat for tomorrow's Melbourne Cup. I think ostrich feathers would be more stylish than flowers.' She pulled out her compact and touched up her lipstick.

‘So, did you have a lovely
long
stroll with Tommy in the shrubbery?' asked Violet with a wicked grin. ‘You didn't happen to get lost?'

Imogen flushed and looked up quickly. ‘We were with Edie and Jim,' she said defensively. ‘Edie and I were talking about how to advertise the ball.'

Violet swatted her sister on the shoulder and chuckled, leaning back against the leather seat. ‘Of course you were. I'm sure Tommy was keen to hear all about Edie's posters.'

Imogen laughed as well and shook her head. ‘I don't think so, but the boys did say they could help. What did you think of Tommy? Isn't he a honey?'

Violet smiled affectionately at her sister. ‘He seemed very nice. I think he was rather keen on you.'

Imogen glowed. ‘Do you think so?'

‘Ab-so-lutely! Head over heels,' Violet assured her.

‘Did he tell you that he's studying medicine at Melbourne University?' Imogen asked. ‘He's halfway through his studies. Audrey does charity work at the hospital, and she met him there a few months ago, so she's invited him to lots of our parties.'

‘Aha!' Violet crowed. ‘I was right – Tommy
is
the mysterious, romantic, poor medical student!'

Imogen dropped her eyes into her lap. ‘Don't be such a silly. We're friends and nothing more.'

Hawthorn, modern day

Marli was sitting at the round dining table in Didi's apartment, drinking a cup of tea. Her grandfather smiled at her across his teacup.

‘What a lovely surprise,' he said. ‘I was hoping to see lots of you while you're down here.'

‘Dad's at work so I thought it was a nice day for a cycle,' Marli said. ‘I've been exploring.'

Didi nodded. ‘I hope your father takes some time off work while you're here. It would be good for him.'

Marli changed the conversation to why she had really come. ‘Could you tell me some more about your mother, Violet Hamilton, and her family? Someone told me that the family was cursed.'

Didi raised his shaggy, grey eyebrows. ‘I don't know about cursed, but they certainly had their fair share of tragedy. Who told you that?'

‘Just some kid I met,' Marli replied. She thought about Luca and his surly manner. ‘He was probably making it up.'

‘I've been thinking about my mother a lot since I got the letter,' said Didi. ‘She was always very adventurous and never seemed afraid of anything. My parents were passionate about travelling to exotic, faraway places all their lives. But she was also kind and compassionate, always helping other people.' He stood up and fetched a large oval box from the sideboard. It was decorated with peacocks, flowers and ferns in a faded swirl of turquoise, green and lavender. ‘I finally remembered where I hid Mother's old hatbox. She stored some of her treasures in here, including her scrapbook from 1922 – it must have been a special year for her.'

Marli felt jittery with anticipation as Didi untied the turquoise ribbon around the box. He pulled out a black leather scrapbook with the words
My Memories
embossed on the cover.

Didi opened it to the first page and showed her the inscription in neat, loopy handwriting:

There were two black-and-white photographs on the front page. The first showed a girl, aged about fifteen, with long, wavy hair hanging loose, wearing a white dress. The second was the same girl, with her hair cut short in a curly bob, wearing a stylish 1920s evening dress. A caption underneath read,
December 14, 1922 – The Russian Ball
.

‘What a beautiful photo,' Marli said, taking a closer look. ‘She was just a year older than me when this was taken. She certainly looks very glamorous.'

‘The 1920s was a glamorous time,' Didi replied. ‘Especially for the wealthy families of Melbourne like the Hamiltons. But it was also a time of huge social change after the First World War.'

Didi turned the pages carefully. The scrapbook was crammed with invitations, newspaper articles, sketches, tickets, menus, dance cards and black-and-white photographs with captions written in the same neat calligraphy. There were informal shots of a spotted Dalmatian and an aristocratic cat in Riversleigh's garden, and more formal photos of garden parties, dinners and balls. It was a fascinating insight into a long-ago life.

‘These photos are amazing,' Marli said. ‘Look at that fantastic old car.'

Didi turned the page. ‘Here's a photo of the house in the grand old days. Wouldn't it be nice to be able to see it like that?'

‘And look at all the servants in their uniforms, lined up out the front in a reception line.'

‘They probably had lots more servants than that before the war,' Didi replied with a laugh. ‘Those grand houses needed a lot of staff to run them in the old days.'

‘There are
ten
of them,' Marli said. She pored over a photograph of a factory that had a large sign painted on the wall: Hamilton's Fine Gloves and Bags.

‘I thought you might like to take the box home and go through it, Marli,' Didi suggested. ‘I always meant to give it to you.'

Marli felt a thrill of excitement. It was like being a detective trying to solve the mysteries of the past by sifting through the evidence. ‘I'd love that, Didi. I promise I'll take good care of everything.'

‘I have some of Violet's jewellery in the safe too,' Didi added. ‘There are some beautiful pieces, but you might find them too old-fashioned now. I was saving them for when you get a bit older.'

‘Thanks so much, Didi,' Marli replied enthusiastically. ‘I actually love old jewellery. Mum and I look at antique pieces at the markets and imagine who might have owned them and what their stories might be.'

Marli showed Didi the engraved silver bangle that she always wore on her wrist.

‘That's pretty,' said Didi. ‘You don't often see craftsmanship that fine these days.'

‘Mum gave it to me for my fourteenth birthday. We found it, tarnished black, in a box of junk at the op-shop for a few dollars. Mum polished it until it gleamed. We took it to a jeweller and he told us it's from the 1920s – it's actually quite valuable. So I'd love to see my own great-grandmother's jewellery.'

Marli closed the scrapbook and reached for the hatbox.

Didi frowned. ‘The only thing that's worrying me is that I can't find my mother's sapphire engagement ring. It was stunning and had a fascinating history, and it's worth a king's ransom. I can't think what could have happened to it – I hope it's not lost.'

‘That's a shame,' said Marli as she peered inside the hatbox. There was a jumble of items at the bottom. Marli pulled out a large, old-fashioned key with ornate fretwork
on the bow. It was hanging on a faded velvet ribbon. It was such a beautiful key that Marli felt sure it must open something special. She laid it down on top of the scrapbook.

Next, she pulled out an antique Kodak Brownie folding camera.

‘That must have been Violet's first camera. Isn't it quaint?' Didi took it from Marli and flicked a lever, revealing a lens that folded out like an accordion. ‘Did I tell you that Violet was a professional photographer? She started taking photos when she was not much older than you. It was a much more complicated hobby back then.'

‘I love taking photos too,' said Marli. ‘Dad and I used to do it together. But I haven't really had time lately.'

Didi closed the lens back up and carefully replaced the camera inside the box. ‘It was Violet who encouraged your Dad to take up photography when he was a teenager.'

‘What was your mother like when she was a girl?' Marli asked.

Didi gazed down at the scrapbook, searching back through the mists of time. ‘Violet was quite unconventional, really. She always taught me to fight for what I believed in. I imagine her poor father, Albert Hamilton, found her rather a handful …'

Riversleigh, 7 November 1922

A storm came in late in the afternoon, buffeting the house with wind and rain. Violet rummaged through her desk drawers, looking for a fountain pen and notepaper to scrawl letters to her sick friends at school. She was annoyed to find that her fountain pen was dry and her paper stocks low. Sally was meant to keep the writing desk stocked with pens, ink and paper.

For a moment, Violet thought about ringing the servants' bell to order fresh supplies, but she decided instead to fetch a pen and fresh paper from her father's desk in the library. It would be quicker.

Violet hurried towards the stairs. For a moment her eye was drawn to the white panelled door that led to the tower halfway along the southern side of the house. The door had been locked for the last four years. Violet barely thought about it anymore. It was like so much else in her life that
was never talked about, and hardly even thought about, anymore. She ran downstairs.

The dark library, with its thousands of books, was at the very front of the house, on the south-east corner. The room smelled of old leather, beeswax and pipe tobacco. Violet ran her fingertips across the gilt-etched book spines. Two deep velvet armchairs stood before the black marble fireplace, while her father's large roll-top desk stood in the centre of the room, facing towards the terrace.

Juliet, the grey cat, was asleep in one of the armchairs. She yawned and stretched, begging Violet for a tummy rub. When Violet obliged, she purred with contentment, four paws in the air.

Violet opened the bottom drawer, where her father kept the spare stationery, searching for what she needed. As she rifled through the drawer, she felt something cold and sharp that was hidden right at the very back. Pulling it out, she saw it was a key with an ornate bow, hanging from a purple velvet ribbon. Violet looked at it for a moment then returned it to the back of the drawer. It was only as she was picking up her pile of paper and pens that she wondered which door the key might open. A memory stirred from long ago.

Could it be the missing key to the tower?
Violet wondered. She picked the key up again and weighed it in the palm of her hand.

On the ground floor, the square tower held a small guest powder room, but above that were a further two rooms, one on top of the other, accessible from the first floor of the house. These rooms had been locked up for years. Violet suddenly had an overwhelming urge to see if this key would fit that lock.

Back upstairs, she checked around carefully. The servants had cleaned all the bedrooms in the morning and were now occupied in the servants' quarters. Violet crept towards the locked tower door, her heart thudding.

She glanced around once more to check that no-one was around, then pushed the key in the lock and turned. For a moment the lock refused to budge, sticky with lack of use. Then it gave suddenly, turning with a loud creak. Violet pushed open the door and went inside, still holding her breath.

Violet quickly closed the door behind her and leaned against it. She was in a small square room with windows on three sides, looking out over the treetops. To her right, a narrow spiral staircase led up to the room on the third level of the tower. Violet looked around, her throat tight.

This had been her mother's study. Did she imagine it, or did it still smell, warm and familiar, of her mother's floral perfume? No, the air smelled merely of hot, stale air.

The tower room was simply furnished with a white painted writing desk and chair, and a duck-egg blue velvet armchair by the western window, next to a side table piled with books. A tall bookcase was against the wall on her left. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.

On her mother's desk was a collection of photographs in tarnished silver frames. Violet walked over slowly, as if in a dream. There was a formal portrait taken on the front steps of Riversleigh. Violet, Imogen, her father and mother – and the two boys. Tears sprang to Violet's eyes. It was her family, before the war that changed everything.

There were old photographs that Mamma had taken of Violet's brothers, Lawrence and Archie, dressed in
knickerbockers, riding hobby horses in the garden. Imogen and Violet were dressed in white pinafores over their cotton dresses, playing with Romeo as a wrinkly, spotted puppy.

Beside these were framed portraits of the two boys – Lawrence at eighteen years old and Archie at seventeen, dressed in their Australian Imperial Forces uniforms, just before they were sent to the Western Front in France. The two boys had run off together to enlist, with Archie convincing the recruitment officers that he was old enough. The first that their desperately worried parents had known of it was when the photographs arrived in the mail with their farewell letters.

Their faces looked so young, so serious. The boys had disembarked just a few short months before the war ended. Later, the newspaper stories said that the battle for the town of Villers-Bretonneux had been a crucial turning point in the war. It had certainly been a crucial turning point in Violet's life – in a matter of weeks she lost two brothers and a mother. And her grief-stricken father had never been the same again.

Violet sank down to the dusty rug. Hot, thick tears flowed as the memories rose up – memories she had tried to suppress. How could her world be ripped apart so savagely? How could she lose nearly everything she held most dear? Violet wept as though her heart was breaking all over again. She imagined it glued together, like a smashed plate that could never be made properly whole again.

Eventually the tears stopped. She rubbed her eyes and slowly stood. It was best that the tower room stayed locked, hiding away all the painful memories. Violet
shuffled slowly towards the door, but instead of leaving and locking the memories behind her, she couldn't resist climbing the spiral staircase to the room above.

At the very top of the tower was Mamma's studio, an eyrie above the rest of the house, with views on four sides of the river, lawns and gardens. Over the high stone wall she could see to the paddocks and estates beyond. Rain dribbled down the window now, the wind rattling the glass. A ladder led from the studio up to a rooftop terrace, but the weather was too wild to go up there today.

An easel in the corner held an unfinished painting – a vase filled with blue and white flowers from the gardens. Other canvases were stacked against the walls. A table held dried-up oil paints, a pot of brushes and a crumpled ball of tissue paper, as though her mother had just tossed it there, before she left the room forever.

Violet could see her mother as though she were a ghost, wearing a paint-spattered smock, frowning in concentration as she dabbed at the canvas, or smiling at Violet as she taught her how to draw. Violet had spent many, many happy hours in this studio painting beside her mother.

‘Mamma,' Violet sobbed jaggedly. ‘Mamma, why did you leave us?'

It was too much – the rush of emotion and memories. Violet felt she had to flee the studio at once.

As she stumbled back towards the stairs, she noticed her mother's Brownie folding camera sitting on the side table in its brown leather case. She had been a keen photographer as well as an artist, taking many candid photos around the house and garden, as well as family picnics, birthdays, holidays and games.

Violet picked up the case and took out the camera, caressing it lovingly. She unlatched the lock at the top and unfurled the lens. A hazy memory darted into her mind, like a silvery fish: herself as a child of ten or eleven and Mamma in her long, swishing skirts and wispy chignon. Mamma stood at Violet's back, her arms encircling her, holding the camera at Violet's waist. Her mother's breath tickled her ear as she whispered the instructions:
Look down through the viewfinder at the top, just here. Think about your picture. Make it beautiful – a perfect balance of sky and land and subject. Then when the shot is perfect, hold your breath, stay still and push the shutter button. And it's magic – a moment of truth frozen forever.

Violet made a quick decision and took the camera with her as she slipped down the stairs and out the door, locking it firmly behind her. Her father must never know she had found the key to the tower. Her father must never know that she had found Mamma's camera. It was a secret she must keep safe.

Back in her room, Violet folded out the accordion lens and cleaned the camera carefully, polishing the lens with a small brush and a soft cloth.

At first Violet merely thought of keeping the camera concealed in her room, like a memento of happier times. But she couldn't keep it hidden. She kept taking it out of her cupboard, holding it, stroking it. There was an old film still in the camera, a film from before. Violet yearned to use the camera to make her own magical photographs, her own moments of truth.

The first few days of the unexpected holiday flew by. It was the height of Melbourne's social season, so Imogen was busy with a whirl of engagements – the Melbourne Cup, the Lord Mayor's dinner, a garden party at Federal Government House with Lord and Lady Forster, dances, luncheons and visits to the theatre. Violet was left to her own devices – books, drawing, dancing classes, illicit swims in the river.

Violet also researched menu and design ideas for the Russian Ball. She borrowed books from her father's library and doodled in her sketchbook. Most of all, Violet wondered about her mother's camera and how she could learn to take photographs without raising her father's suspicion.

On Thursday afternoon, on the way home from dancing class, Violet asked Nikolai to drive her to Hawthorn's main shopping strip on Burwood Road, where there was a small camera shop that sold film cartridges and printed photographs. Nikolai parked the car and waited out the front while she went inside.

The shop was filled with glass cases displaying cameras and various accessories. Large prints of Melbourne landmarks and buildings were hanging on the walls. A male shop assistant stood behind the long timber counter, polishing the glass lens of a professional-looking camera.

‘Good morning, miss,' he said, laying the cloth and camera down. ‘Can I help you?'

Violet carefully drew her mother's camera out of her handbag and took it out of its case. ‘Yes, please. I would like to buy some film for this camera.'

The assistant pulled open a drawer under the bench and pulled out a yellow cardboard box. ‘How many would you like? Each roll takes six photographs.'

‘Could I have three rolls, please?' Violet asked, pulling out her purse.

The assistant placed the boxes of film in a bag and Violet paid for them from her pocket money.

‘Thanks,' Violet said, hesitating. ‘I was wondering if you might be able to show me how to use the camera, please? It was my mother's and I'd like to learn how to take particularly good photographs with it.'

The assistant's face lit up. ‘Let's see. What you have here is a Kodak Autographic Folding Brownie, about five years old.' He took the camera from her and clicked the lever so the front opened to release the lens.

‘It's easy to use,' he assured her. ‘You hold the camera about waist high and against your body, like this, and look down through this viewfinder on top to see how your photo graph will look. It's worthwhile taking the time to frame your photograph carefully. You want to make sure your subject is in the centre of the frame and that the photo graph is nicely composed and balanced. You don't want too much sky or too much ground.'

Violet nodded to show she understood. Her mother and her drawing teacher at school had taught her about composition and balance in art.

The assistant explained how to set the aperture and shutter speed for the amount of light available, and how to focus the camera, demonstrating the various levers and settings.

‘Once you have the settings and composition right, you push the shutter release here to take the photograph,' he said. ‘I suggest that you hold your breath while you take the shot to make sure the camera stays completely still. If you or the subject moves while the shutter is open, the photograph will be blurry.'

He took a similar camera out of a display case. ‘Why don't you have a quick practice on this one? It doesn't have any film in it. Imagine we're outside on a sunny day, and your subject is standing there. Make sure the sun is behind you, shining on the person.'

Violet took her gloves off and worked through each step of the setting-up process, moving the various levers then clicking the shutter. She had to concentrate to remember which shutter speed she should use and exactly how to focus.

‘Is that right?' she asked.

‘You've got it.'

‘Wonderful.' Violet felt elated. ‘Let's hope I can remember it all.'

The assistant showed her how to load a new film into the camera. ‘Don't take too many snapshots until you've had one of your films developed. That way you can check the prints and make sure you're doing everything right. Bring it back in if you have any questions.'