‘I can’t eat here with the stable boy!’
‘Well, then take your plate through into the dining room, and Hermann’s. I’ll stay here with Zed; I have to watch the stove.’
So once more Gudrun and Hermann sat at the vast oak table in the unheated dining room, while Annika and Zed ate in the warmth and comfort of the old kitchen, and he told her about Bertha.
‘She won’t be back till the end of the week; it’s a long way, and her brother needs her. I’m hoping—’ He broke off. ‘Only I don’t suppose he will . . .’
‘What? What are you hoping?’
‘I thought he might ask her to come and live with him. He’s got quite a big farm and he’ll be lonely.’
‘But wouldn’t you miss her?’
‘No. Because I wouldn’t be here.’
Annika stared at him.
‘I meant to go after the Master died, but I knew he worried about Bertha; she’d been his nurse since he was two weeks old, and I thought I had to stay and see she was all right.’
‘But where would you go? And what about Rocco – and Hector?’
‘Yes. There’d be a lot to think about.’
Annika had put down her fork, feeling suddenly terribly bereft. ‘I’ll miss you.’
‘I haven’t gone yet,’ he said.
But tears had come into her eyes. ‘Oh, what’s the matter with me,’ she said, brushing them away angrily. ‘I hardly ever cried in Vienna.’
‘You’re homesick.’
‘How can I be? I’m at home.’
But after lunch, carrying on with the task she had set herself, she felt cheerful again. She cleaned out the bedrooms, lugging the stepladder along the landing so that she could dust high up, and polishing the mirrors. Then Zed returned with a pot of cottage cheese.
‘Bertha hung up the sour milk before she went and it’s ready; you can have it.’
‘Good. I’ve found some big potatoes. I’ll bake them and fill them with the cheese.’
Zed nodded. ‘They’ll go well with the fish.’
‘What fish?’
‘The fish we’re going to catch this afternoon, using your Uncle Oswald’s punt.’
Zed wasn’t boasting. He had the punt ready in the boathouse, with Hector lying curled up as far as possible from the tackle.
‘It’s all right,’ Zed said. ‘He’ll be quiet; he knows you don’t retrieve fish.’
Soon they were in the middle of the lake, putting out their lines. It was lovely to be outside, seeing the house from the water, floating on the reflected clouds.
Zed caught two pike and she caught a small perch, and though she knew that Gudrun and Hermann were watching them out of the window, she didn’t mind.
Later, when Zed had cleaned and filleted the fish, and they were sizzling in the frying pan, Gudrun appeared once more at the door.
‘Oh, goodness, I do love fried fish,’ she said.
‘They’re nearly ready,’ said Annika. ‘Tell Hermann and you can take your helpings through.’
‘Perhaps Hermann would come and eat in here if I asked him. It’s so nice and warm.’
But at that moment the sound of the gong pealed through the house. It was Hermann making it clear that the von Tannenbergs did not slum it in kitchens, and Gudrun scuttled away to follow her hero into the dining room.
The next day Annika got up early and went on with her tasks. When she came to think about lunch she found that Zed had shot and skinned a rabbit, and in the overgrown vegetable patch she pulled up some of last year’s sprouts. ‘What is that?’ Gudrun asked later, helping herself to a thinly sliced white root which Annika had served as a salad.
‘It’s a new vegetable – I can’t remember the name,’ said Annika. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Gudrun, and took another portion of mangel-wurzel.
On the third day Annika was hardly recognizable as the quiet girl drifting through empty rooms. She was working from dawn till dusk, and as each meal approached she and Zed pitted their wits against the empty larder. That afternoon a pedlar came to the door and she bartered Professor Gertrude’s manicure set for a box of gingerbread and a bag of rice.
And she made soup. She made soup of absolutely everything she could find and Zed teased her about it, pretending he could taste firewood and the bristles of her broom – but he ate it. No one trained by Ellie could fail to find something with which to make soup.
‘Have you ever thought of marrying a Canadian settler?’ Zed asked her when he found her chopping what seemed to be the last onion in Spittal.
She shook her head. ‘Why a Canadian?’
‘Haven’t you ever wanted to go there? To the north-west – the coast is full of islands and there’s forest for miles and miles and everybody’s equal there.’
‘No, I haven’t.’
But that night she took a lamp to the library to look for an atlas. She found one too, which had not been sent to be rebound or cleaned in Bad Haxenfeld, and looked up the coast of British Columbia. Zed was right. It looked wild and beautiful, but her mother would never leave this place. If there was one thing Annika had learned, it was that there had been von Tannenbergs at Spittal for 500 years.
Annika had put off cleaning the library. It was never used and even colder and danker than the other rooms. But there were some beautiful old pieces of furniture there – in particular a large carved desk with numerous drawers and claw-footed legs that had belonged to the Freiherr. Nobody had used it since his death; it had been completely neglected and Annika did not feel that this was right.
She mixed a fresh consignment of beeswax, decanted a jar of silver polish, and made her way to the library.
There was a bunch of keys in one of the pigeonholes, but none of the drawers were locked. One by one she pulled them out and stacked them carefully on the floor. Then she began on the desktop, the back, the legs, dusting, polishing – and polishing again.
When she had finished she turned back to the drawers. Though they were empty they still had their lining paper – paper almost as thick as vellum with a design of fleur-de-lis. It would be a pity to throw it out; she would wipe it as best she could, and replace it.
First, though, the silver handles. Whoever had crafted them had not been troubled about the people who would have to clean them. They were elaborately wrought with a design that soaked up the polish but took longer than she would have believed to produce a shine.
By the time she got to the actual drawers, Annika was tempted just to push them back in, but at this point, as so often when she tried to take short cuts, Sigrid seemed to be leaning over her shoulder, looking pained. So she removed the paper from each of the drawers, wiped it, replaced it back . . . When she reached the bottom drawer she found something wedged right under the lining at the back.
A letter. She took it out and held it in her hand for a minute, not sure what to do. Then she heard Gudrun calling her and she put it in her apron pocket.
It was time to get lunch.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
GYPSIES
Annika was just dropping off to sleep that night when she heard the creak of her bedroom door being opened. Then footsteps – but she had no time to feel frightened before she heard Zed’s voice.
‘Get up and get dressed. Put on warm things and come downstairs. Don’t let anyone see you.’
She fumbled her way into her clothes and found Zed in the hall, waiting.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Is anything the matter?’
‘The gypsies are here. They’re camped on the other side of Felsen Woods. I said I’d take you.’
She followed him out of the house and into the courtyard. It was a clear, cold night, and in the lane she could make out Rocco, packed up and waiting.
‘Are we riding?’
‘You are. It isn’t far. I’ll lead you.’
Annika followed him, her eyes gradually getting used to the darkness. ‘But you can’t walk all that way.’
/> Zed ignored this. He helped her to mount and adjusted the stirrups.
‘Just grip hard with your knees.’
It was like being in a dream, except colder and more uncomfortable. The stirrup leathers pinched her legs.
‘Won’t they mind me?’
‘No. You’re my friend.’
‘Do you know them then? The ones that are camped here?’
Zed shrugged. ‘They’re from Hungary and on the way to the Horse Fair at Stettin. They may have known my mother, she came from there. But it doesn’t matter. They’ll welcome us.’
They met no one on the dark road.
‘Are you all right?’ Annika asked after an hour.
‘Don’t fuss.’
They had come to the part of the wood where they had hidden from the bailiffs. Now Rocco’s ears went forward. He whinnied excitedly and answering whinnies came from behind the trees. They skirted a coppice and came out at a patch of waste ground.
It was like coming suddenly to a lighted stage. Fires burned and crackled, lanterns hung between the trees. There were wagons and tethered horses – and everywhere movement and bustle and life.
Annika had thought she knew what gypsies were like. They lived in brightly painted caravans, they cooked hedgehogs in clay pots, the girls wore flounced petticoats and golden earrings. They made clothes pegs and told fortunes . . . they stole babies.
But these gypsies were not like that. Some of the wagons were brightly painted but some were ordinary wooden wagons of the kind used by tradesmen. The young girls who were busy with the cooking wore gold loops in their ears, and bangles, but most of the women looked like the village people Annika had met everywhere, with thick shawls and woollen skirts.
And they didn’t look at all like people who stole babies; they looked, after days of travelling, too tired for anything like that.
Now an elderly man came forward. He wore a baggy suit and a woollen cap; his black eyes were bright and eager, and his enormous moustache curved round his face like a scimitar.
‘Izidor,’ he said, introducing himself, and it was clear from the way the others hung back and let him speak that he was the ‘father’ of the group; the man who gave the orders.
Zed bowed his head. ‘Zedekiah Malakov,’ he replied, giving his full name.
There was a murmur from the onlookers. Old Izidor pulled Zed closer to the light of the fire and studied his face. Then he nodded.
‘You have her eyes,’ he said in his own language. ‘We remember her.’
Annika had dismounted and was holding Rocco, standing outside the circle of light. Now Zed turned and took the bridle and led him forward.
‘Rocco,’ he said, presenting his horse.
Izidor had been pleased to see Zed, but the sight of Rocco overwhelmed him. He whistled through his teeth, he passed his hands over Rocco’s flank . . . Carefully he removed Rocco’s saddle and handed it to a man standing by so that he could run his fingers over the horse’s back.
‘Zverno?’ he asked, recognizing the stud, and Zed nodded.
Two trusty youths were summoned and allowed to lead Rocco to the patch of grass where the other horses were tethered. Water was brought for him, and handfuls of hay . . . More and more admirers came to stroke him; girls as much as men.
After that it was Annika’s turn. As Zed took her to old Izidor she was very nervous. She knew that gypsies did not approve of outsiders, of gadjos, and she knew that compared to a finely bred horse she did not count for much – but she gave her hand to Izidor and then, remembering her manners, she curtsied.
Then came the meal. They sat round the largest of the fires and ate some delicious meat roasted with herbs and the fiery paprika they had brought with them from the south. A girl of about Annika’s own age came and sat beside her. She was cradling a small grey kitten, which she put in Annika’s hand.
‘Rosina,’ she said, but it was not clear if she was naming the kitten or herself.
But Zed did not forget his promise. In halting Romany, mixed with Hungarian, he explained that Annika had never heard proper gypsy music.
The men were sleepy now, some had gone back into the caravans, but Annika had left her mark: not many little gadjo girls had curtsied to old Izidor. He clapped his hands and demanded music – and when Izidor demanded something, he got it.
Annika had seen gypsy musicians in their colourful romantic costumes in the cafes in Vienna. They had beribboned guitars and celestas and cymbalines and exotic-looking instruments of which she did not know the names.
The men who came out of the caravans were not like that. Yawning, rubbing their eyes, they came out of their wagons carrying battered fiddles, ancient cellos, accordions with worn-looking keys.
And then they started to play.
At first Annika did not like the sound they made; it was so different from the lilting Viennese waltzes she was used to. This music attacked you; it was fierce and angry . . . at least it was at first; she listened to it with clenched hands. Then suddenly one of the fiddlers stepped forward and played a melody that soared and wreathed and fastened itself round the heart – a sad tune that sounded as if it was gathering up all the unhappiness in the world – and then the other musicians joined in again and it was as though the sadness had been set free. The music was no longer about life being sad and lonely. It was about life being difficult, but also exciting and surprising and sublime.
When the players stopped, Annika shook her head, bewildered to find herself still on solid ground. She had hardly returned to the real world when something happened that frightened her badly.
Izidor was speaking to Zed and what he said was important because the others fell silent. If she did not understand all the words, Annika understood the gestures that went with them perfectly.
Izidor was asking Zed if he would go along with them. He pointed to his caravan and to the old woman who stood on the steps, nodding, agreeing with what he said. He pointed to Rocco, grazing peacefully under the trees.
Then he repeated his offer. Zed was one of them, he said. He belonged and so did his horse.
Annika held her breath.
But Zed had shaken his head. He pointed to Annika, and back in the direction of Spittal.
‘Not yet,’ he seemed to be saying. ‘Not now.’
Izidor drove her back in a small cart to which he had hitched one of his horses, while Zed rode Rocco beside them. The little girl with the kitten came too and as they stopped at the turning to Spittal, she put the kitten firmly into Annika’s lap. It was a present.
Annika’s hand closed round the soft warm fur and she realized how badly she wanted something living of her own. But Zed leaned down and said something to the girl in her own language, and she looked troubled and bewildered. Then she gave a sad shake of her head and took the kitten back again.
‘What did you tell her?’ asked Annika after the cart had turned back.
‘I told her that Spittal was not a good house for animals.’
Zed took her to the door and she got back safely to her room, but it would be a long time before she forgot the evening. Would Zed really be able to resist what his people offered: the warmth, the firelight, the freedom – and the care they would give his horse?
He had refused to go with them. ‘Not now,’ he had said. ‘Not yet.’ But ‘Not ever’? She did not think he had said that.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE GODFATHER
The next day, Annika was back at work, cooking, contriving, cleaning. She had been sure that when the grown-ups returned she would have time to take off her apron and become again the girl her mother wanted her to be.
But she was working in the drawing room on the other side of the house, standing on a stepladder cleaning the windows, when the carriage returned, and the first she knew of it was hearing her mother’s voice.
‘Annika! What on earth are you doing?’
Annika started and nearly lost her balance. Then she came slowly down; there was no point in even
trying to pull off her apron. She had been caught red-handed. Behind her mother, Annika saw Hermann, smirking. He had obviously led her into the drawing room on purpose, wanting to make trouble.
‘She was doing something like that all the time you were away, Mother. Scrubbing and sweeping and cooking – and she had all her meals in the kitchen. She’s just a servant through and through!’
Annika waited for her mother’s anger, but something had happened to Edeltraut. She was elegantly dressed in a new velvet coat and skirt and her hair was swept up in a different style which made her look younger and very beautiful.
‘Oh, Annika, my darling,’ she said with a rueful laugh. ‘What are we going to do with you?’
And she bent down and swept Annika into her arms and hugged her.
Everything had changed, Annika saw that at once. Her mother was no longer stiff and anxious. Mathilde had stopped looking like an unhappy camel. Uncle Oswald had trimmed his beard. Whatever the business was that had taken them to Switzerland, it must have gone well.
It was decided that the family from the hunting lodge would stay the night. Uncle Oswald had bought a hamper full of good things in Zurich: tins of pâté, truffles, hothouse grapes, a smoked leg of lamb, a bottle of champagne.
‘We’ll have a party,’ said Edeltraut. ‘But first I must tell you what has happened, because we shall need to pay our respects and say a prayer.’
So the children gathered round her and Edeltraut told them why they had gone away.
‘I told you there might be news which would help us here at Spittal,’ she said. ‘And there has been such news. Our money troubles are over. Everything won’t be settled at once, but I was able to raise enough money on my expectations to start on the things that need to be done.’
‘What are expectations, Aunt Edeltraut?’ asked Gudrun.
‘Well, in this case they are money, which has been left to me in a will. Quite a lot of money. And this, my dears, is where the sad part comes in, because my godfather, Herr von Grotius, has died. He was a widower and we went to Zurich to make sure he had a fitting funeral. I can’t tell you what a wonderful man he was and I was his favourite goddaughter.’