The Lost Sapphire (7 page)

‘Thank you so much,' Violet replied. ‘I do appreciate your help.'

Violet had a spring in her step as she went back outside with the camera and rolls of film in her handbag. Instead of waiting by the car, as he usually was, Nikolai was sitting in the front seat reading a book. He was so engrossed in what he was reading that he didn't realise that Violet had come
out until she was right beside the car, peering in the front window.

Nikolai, flushed with mortification, hurriedly placed the large book aside and jumped out of the car.

‘Sorry, Miss Violet,' said Nikolai, saluting as he opened the rear door. ‘I didn't see you come out.'

‘That's all right, Nikolai,' Violet said with a smile. ‘I lose track of everything too when I'm reading a good book. What're you reading?'

Nikolai looked uncomfortable and averted his eyes. ‘Nothing in particular.'

Violet's curiosity was piqued. The book she had glimpsed was battered, but it looked like a beautifully bound textbook, not a cheap thriller.

‘I'm reading
My Brilliant Career
by Miles Franklin for the third time,' said Violet. ‘But I feel I should read Tolstoy's
Anna Karenina
so I can get some ideas for the Russian Ball.'

Violet chatted on about the books she had read recently, and Nikolai murmured short replies when necessary as he drove slowly through the afternoon traffic. Burwood Road was teeming with horse-drawn buggies, auto mobiles, motorbikes and pedestrians. A crowded electric tram rattled down the main street, with shoppers and workers hanging out of the doors.

‘I haven't read many Australian books,' said Nikolai. ‘We had to leave all our books behind when we left Russia, except one. So we don't have a very extensive library here.'

Violet sat forward, intrigued to finally get Nikolai talking. ‘Which book did you bring?' she asked.

Nikolai looked embarrassed. ‘It was a book of old Russian fairytales. It was our favourite book when we were children, and we couldn't bear to leave it behind.'

‘Is your family in Melbourne with you?' Violet asked.

‘Yes, I have three sisters – Tatiana, Katya and Anastacia – who live with my mother here. My father died four years ago during the civil war.'

‘Four years ago? In 1918?'
How strange – just like Mamma, Lawrence and Archie
, Violet thought.

‘Yes,' Nikolai replied, staring ahead through the windscreen as he concentrated on overtaking a horse-drawn baker's cart. ‘We left Russia the following year. It became too difficult for us there. We went to Paris, then to London, but it was hard to get work there so we came to Melbourne. We were told if you work hard in Australia there are many opportunities.'

‘I guess it's much better here than war-torn Russia at the moment,' Violet mused. She thought for a moment. ‘I don't suppose you've ever been to one of the old Imperial Balls in St Petersburg? I'm planning the supper menu for our ball and wanted to think of some truly Russian dishes. What should we have?'

Nikolai glanced at her in the mirror, his tawny eyes flashing with humour. ‘Russian food? Oh, that's easy. Nothing less than seven or eight courses will do.' His voice lost its usual formal tone. He held up his fingers on the wheel as he counted off the courses.

‘Of course you must have hors d'oeuvres, such as
pâté de foie gras
and
petit
pastries, and piles of black caviar with blinis,' continued Nikolai, his French accent sounding perfect. ‘The entree should be lobster or
saumon
with a
hollandaise sauce, followed by the main course – stuffed poultry with truffles and
filet de boeuf
served with asparagus and
salades à la francaise
. All washed down with lots of champagne and French wines.'

‘Mmmm. You're making me hungry, but it all sounds rather more French than Russian,' Violet said.

Nikolai laughed. ‘Well, just like your Monsieur Dufour, the best chefs in Russia were always French.'

Violet nodded. ‘
Naturellement
.'

‘Of course, for a true Russian supper, the highlight is always the dessert table,' Nikolai said. ‘It should be a sumptuous spread – a work of art. With ice sculptures of animals and everything from ice-cream, chocolate and compotes to
petit fours
and
meringues à la chantilly
.'

Violet grabbed a small notebook and pen out of her handbag and began to scribble down Nikolai's suggestions. She could imagine a vast table piled with sweet delicacies and decorated with golden ornaments.

‘That all sounds marvellous, especially the ice sculptures. But if the food is mostly French, how can we make the ball more Russian?'

Nikolai thought for a few moments. ‘The old aristocratic balls usually began with a Grand Polonaise, with all the couples promenading with great ceremony around the ballroom. Then the usual dances, like waltzes and quadrilles, were mixed with colourful Russian folk dances, like the mazurka, which are very energetic and lively. Nothing like a mazurka to get your heart pumping!'

Violet was fascinated. ‘Nowadays everyone is more interested in jazzing. So perhaps we could start with some traditional dances, and then move onto the one-step,
shimmy and foxtrot as the night goes on. And what about decorations?'

‘The balls in St Petersburg always had masses of flowers, potted palms and hundreds of candles,' Nikolai said, his voice alight with enthusiasm. ‘And we always finished the evening with fireworks, lighting up the night sky with thousands of coloured falling stars.'

Nikolai paused before continuing. ‘But perhaps you could re-create some typical Russian scenes, like ice skaters or horse-drawn troikas, or you could dress the waiters as colourful Cossacks with baggy crimson trousers, sashes and vests.'

‘Yes. That would be brilliant.' Violet scribbled down these suggestions, her mind bubbling with ideas. ‘I'm sure we could find some Russian folk dancers to perform. Perhaps you might know of some?'

Nikolai turned left, heading off the main road into a quieter, tree-lined suburban street. Out the window Violet could see the familiar houses, gardens and paddocks flash by.

‘All Russians love to dance,' Nikolai said. ‘The winters are so long and cold that without music, dance and good books, we'd all go mad. In St Petersburg, before the war, there were dances and balls and dinners every night, as well as opera, theatre and ballet.'

‘It sounds marvellous,' Violet said. ‘I suppose your parents were in service back in Russia. Did they work for one of the big aristocratic families?'

Violet could see the muscles in the back of Nikolai's neck stiffen. He didn't answer for a moment.

‘Yes. I suppose they did,' Nikolai said quietly. ‘But all the Russian aristocratic families are gone now. Dead, or scattered to the far corners of the world.'

Violet felt as though she had touched a raw nerve. ‘I'm sorry, Nikolai. I didn't mean to upset you. It must be very difficult to be so far from your home and your old life.'

‘Yes, miss,' Nikolai said in his old voice – the formal one he reserved for speaking to his employers – and Violet felt inexplicably disappointed.

A week later, Nikolai was driving Violet home from a ball committee meeting. The members of the committee had met at the Hawthorn Town Hall to inspect the venue and meet the caterers. Audrey, Imogen and Edie had gone on to see the printer to get the invitations and posters organised. Everything was coming together well.

Violet sat back, watching the shadows of the trees flash past, then the familiar high stone wall of her own garden appeared, partially hiding the cream-coloured tower and graceful arches of her home. The car slowed down as they neared the front gates, with their stone-capped pillars and the name
Riversleigh
scrolled in brass letters on a black plate.

As Nikolai stopped the car, Violet noticed Sally hurrying towards them across the gravel driveway, her head down. She was wearing her daytime uniform – a demure blue floral dress, but with a black straw hat instead of her usual starched white apron and cap.

‘Nikolai, would you mind checking if everything is all right, please?' asked Violet. ‘Sally looks bothered about something.'

Nikolai jumped out of the car and opened the gate. He chatted to Sally and then Sally came over and leaned through the open driver's window.

‘Pardon me, miss,' Sally said. ‘But Mrs Darling has given me a couple of hours off. My brother brought a note to say me ma is sick, so I'm goin' to visit her. Is there anythin' you need me to do?'

‘I'm so sorry to hear that, Sally,' Violet replied. ‘Is she very ill?'

Sally frowned. ‘She's been workin' awful hard since me da took sick. My brother said she can't get out of bed, so I thought I'd better check.'

Violet glanced at her wristwatch. She knew that Imogen had gone to stay at Edie's house overnight for dinner and an evening dance. ‘Is my father home yet?'

‘No, he's not,' Sally said.

‘Mr Hamilton asked me to pick him up from the factory at five o'clock, Miss Violet,' Nikolai said.

‘Perfect. Why don't we give you a lift then, Sally?' Violet suggested. ‘Your mother lives in Richmond, so it's a long walk. Then we can pick up my father on the way home.'

‘Oh, that's kind of you, but I can take the tram from Burwood Road,' Sally said.

‘Nonsense,' replied Violet. ‘You only have two hours off, so please let us drive you. That way you won't waste most of the time walking there and back.'

Sally gave a huge grin. ‘Thanks awfully, miss. That would be lovely.'

Nikolai opened the front passenger door for her, and Sally settled back into the comfortable leather seat with a sigh of satisfaction.

‘Which part of Richmond are we driving to?' Nikolai asked.

‘If you cross the river at Hawthorn Bridge then drive north to Victoria Street, I'll direct you from there,' Sally said.

As Nikolai drove, following Sally's directions, Violet leaned forward to stare out the open window at the passing landscape. Immediately the view changed from leafy, spacious parks and gardens to grimy-grey, tightly packed shops, cottages, tramsheds and factories.

On the western riverbank were the tanneries and wool scouring warehouses, with their jumble of smokestacks and sheds. Violet could smell the industry – belching smoke, the foul tanneries and the underlying stink of sewage. She pulled a lacy handkerchief from her bag and covered her nose. Violet had rarely ventured across the bridge into Richmond, and she was intrigued to explore. It truly was a different world. The newspapers called it ‘Struggletown'.

Driving up Burnley Street, the shops were smaller and close together, their windows filled with a jumble of colourful goods. A warren of narrow streets and laneways ran off on either side. Trams clattered and jangled back and forth, the bells clanging. Cars and motorbikes battled with horse-drawn delivery carts, buggies and two-wheeled jinkers. Violet felt a rush of exhilaration at the chaotic scene.

Victoria Street was narrow and dingy, hemmed in by ramshackle buildings. There was barely room for traffic to
pass in each direction. Pedestrians took their lives in their hands as they tried to cross the congested thoroughfare.

Violet gave a start of recognition when she saw the red-brick, two-storey factory belonging to her father, and the large sign painted over the arched doorway: Hamilton's Fine Gloves and Bags.

Many of her father's wealthy friends, who lived on large estates in Hawthorn or Kew, just on the other side of the river, also had factories and businesses in busy Richmond. There were boot factories, furniture-makers, breweries, clothes workshops and tanneries, all surrounded by cramped workers' cottages and tiny terraces.

Directed by Sally, Nikolai continued further down Victoria Street, then turned left and left again down a narrow laneway barely wider than the car. It was cobbled with bluestone, and a gutter ran down the centre. A gang of barefooted, grubby young urchins were playing cricket in the lane, using a fruit crate as a wicket, a homemade ball and a bat made from two fence posts spliced together with twine. One girl had crutches and a twisted, withered leg, but she hopped around, chasing the ball with the others.

‘Freddy's out,' yelled one of the boys as the fruit crate was knocked over by the flying ball.

‘I ain't,' cried Freddy, refusing to hand over the bat. ‘The motor car put me off.'

Nikolai honked the horn and the kids reluctantly packed up their game and moved to the side of the laneway, staring curiously inside the yellow Daimler.

‘That's a bloomin' fancy car,' called one of the girls with tangled hair, carrying a baby on her hip. ‘Is that Maisie Burke's sister in the front seat?'

Violet sank back against the rear seat as the dirty faces peered in on each side, the boys' faces shadowed by their oversized flat caps. She felt vaguely afraid, although they were only children no older than twelve. Perhaps it was because she could see the hunger in their eyes and gaunt faces. Her father's luxurious buttercup motor car cost more money than most working families would earn over years.

‘Get on with the lot of you,' Sally yelled out the window.

The children jeered and taunted, but soon lost interest and went back to their game.

Nikolai parked the Daimler outside Sally's family home. It was a tiny timber place, one of a row of six terraces built right on the laneway. There was only a narrow, rickety porch and a low picket fence between the cobbled lane and the front door. The door flew open and a scrawny boy raced out and through the front gate. He was closely followed by a sister and a brother.

‘Sally, is that you?' The boy was wearing a darned shirt and shorts that were too big for him, with clumpy, battered boots and grey socks that had fallen around his ankles. ‘Ma'll be pleased to see you.'

Sally climbed out of the car to meet him. ‘How is she, Frank?' Her voice sounded strained.

‘She's in bed,' Frank replied. He looked over his shoulder towards the front door and lowered his voice. ‘Ma says she's fine an' will get up later, but she's as weak as a kitten. She just has her head turned to the wall. I made her some tea but she wouldn't drink it.'

‘I'll come an' see her,' Sally said. She leaned in the car window. ‘It's awfully good of you bringin' me here. It saved a lot of time.'

‘Is there anything I can do?' Violet asked.

‘Oh no, miss,' Sally said hurriedly. ‘I'm sure she'll be better soon. It's more 'n likely just exhaustion. Ma works real hard to feed four kids an' pay the rent, now that me da's too sick to work. He's never been the same since the Great War.'

‘Should we get a doctor?' asked Violet.

‘That's good of you, miss, but we can't afford a doctor,' Sally replied tersely. She turned to go inside. Her siblings stayed outside, milling around with the other kids in the street.

Violet felt helpless.

‘What would you like to do, Miss Violet?' asked Nikolai. ‘We have an hour before I need to pick up your father. Shall I take you home?'

Violet shook her head. ‘No, we'll stay here for a little while, Nikolai. Then we can give Sally a lift home so she can spend more time with her mother.'

‘Very well, Miss Violet.'

They sat in silence for a few moments. Outside, the local children continued their game of cricket, with Sally's siblings joining in. Nikolai sat still, staring through the windscreen, his book beside him on the seat. Of course he couldn't read while Violet was sitting in the car.

‘Let's get out and stretch our legs,' Violet suggested.

Nikolai opened the door for her and tipped his cap. Violet wandered up and down the laneway, watching the children play and examining the tiny terraces, with their peeling paint and falling down fences. They looked like abandoned cubbyhouses.

Fortunately the stench from the tanneries was fainter
here, but Violet could still smell the whiff of coal smoke, mixed with rotting garbage and the outdoor lavatories behind the terraces. A woman sat on the narrow porch of one terrace house, shelling a basin of peas. A baby sat in a push-chair beside her, waving a wooden spoon. Violet called a friendly good afternoon, but the woman only replied with a surly nod.

The cricket ball skidded up beside her, and Violet leaned down to pick it up. It was made of tightly rolled rags tied with string. Of course a rag ball didn't bounce, so it had to be bowled on the full. She threw it back towards the wicketkeeper, who caught it easily and hurled it at the fruit crate, sending it flying. The kids threw their arms in the air and cheered.

Violet remembered her Brownie tucked away in her bag on the back seat of the car. This would be an excellent opportunity to practise using it. She had already taken some photographs when her father was out – of the house and garden, of Romeo and Juliet, but she was keen to try taking some more natural photographs.

She fetched the camera and took it out of its brown leather case, folding the lens out. For a few minutes she wandered up and down the street, stopping every now and again to practise framing up a shot, even though she didn't actually take any photographs.

She moved back and forth, checking the framing through the viewfinder to see if it looked better close up or further away, or as a portrait or landscape shot. Violet fiddled with the shutter, aperture and focus and pretended to take shots, the camera at her waist, holding her breath to keep it totally still.

Sally's sister finally noticed what Violet was doing. ‘Look, she's takin' our photo!'

‘No,' Violet replied hurriedly. She felt it might be impolite to take people's photographs without asking permission. ‘I didn't take any. I was just practising.'

‘Oh,' groaned Sally's brother, disappointed. ‘I've never 'ad my picture taken.'

‘Would you like to me to take your photograph?' Violet asked the children.

A buzz of enthusiasm rippled through the gang as they crowded around her.

‘Yes. Yes,' came a cacophony of exuberant shouts.

Nikolai moved closer from where he had been waiting beside the car. Violet felt more confident with his tall frame and authoritative uniform behind her.

‘So you're Sally's brother, aren't you?' Violet asked, trying to remember which of the children in the crowd were Sally's family.

‘Yes, I'm Frank, an' this is my brother Billy – he's ten – an' little sister Maisie, who's eight,' Frank replied. ‘My other sister Peggy is fourteen, but she's at work – she just started at Hamilton's Gloves as an apprentice machinist.'

‘At Hamilton's Fine Gloves? My father's factory?' Violet asked, wondering at the coincidence that both sisters worked for him. Frank nodded.

‘She didn't want to go into borin' old service like Sally,' Billy explained, jostling for attention. ‘The hours are too long an' 'ard, an' Peggy wanted to stay close to help Ma.'

Violet was a little taken aback by Billy's brutal honesty. She had never considered that Sally might find the hours as a Riversleigh maidservant long and difficult.

‘Oh?' said Violet. ‘I hope Peggy enjoys working at the factory?'

‘No. It 'urts her back, but Ma says she'll get used to it,' Maisie said, a tiny, barefooted girl who looked much younger than her eight years.

Frank glared at his siblings and their indiscretion. ‘It's all right. Peggy likes the money an' most of the workers are nice. I'm goin' to start work next week too,' he boasted. ‘I got a job trainin' as a strainer at Ramsay's Tannery by the river.'

Violet was shocked. The boy in front of her was a mere child, with his oversized clothes and snub nose with freckles.

‘How old are you, Frank?' Violet asked. ‘Shouldn't you be still at school?'

Frank drew himself up tall. ‘I'm thirteen, but they ain't too fussy at Ramsay's, as long as I work hard,' he objected. ‘I'll get ten shillings a week to start an' thirteen shillings after three months.'

Ten shillings for a week's work
, thought Violet.
We're charging more than twelve shillings for a ticket to our Russian Ball.

‘Frank, perhaps it might be better if you stayed at school,' Violet said. ‘Then you could get a better job in a few years.'

Frank looked at Violet as though she were crazy. ‘With Da not workin', me ma works day an' night, an' we still can't pay the rent. Sally an' Peggy give all the money they earn, but it's still not enough. Now Ma's sick – how're we to eat?'

Violet felt sick to her stomach. She had been shocked when she'd seen the photos of the starving Russian
children on the other side of the world, but these hungry children were right here – just a ten-minute drive from her grand home on the other side of the Yarra River.

The children around her were losing interest in the conversation. Talk of how to pay the rent or feed the family was all too common for them. Some began to drift back towards the abandoned cricket game, while others argued over whether to play skipping or hopscotch.