Read Online The Russian Concubine by Kate Furnivall - Free Book Online Page B

room to peek behind her mother’s curtain.
    In sharp contrast to the colours and sensuality of the sitting-room area, Valentina kept her sleeping section stark and plain. White unadorned walls, white bed linen, even a white-painted old wardrobe with doors that were warped and hard to open. The curtain had once been a pair of white bedsheets that were now discoloured with age. It was an unforgiving and soulless cell. Sometimes Lydia wondered what it was she was trying to atone for.
    ‘Mama?’
    Valentina was lying in a tangle of sheets, her hair twisted into a dark muddle of misery on her pillow, and shadowy hollows bore witness under her eyes. Her eyelids were closed but not for one second did Lydia believe she was asleep. All the signs were of a restless, tormented night.
    ‘Mama, Antoine is here.’
    The eyes did not open. ‘Tell him to go to hell.’
    ‘But he’s brought you flowers.’ Lydia sat down on the end of the bed, not something she normally did unless invited. ‘He looks very sorry and . . . ,’ she thought quickly for something else to tempt her, ‘and he’s driving a sports car.’ She omitted to mention that it was very small and rather odd looking.
    ‘So it will be easy for him to drive himself straight into the river.’
    ‘You’re too cruel.’
    Valentina’s eyes shot open at that and they were not pleased. ‘You’re too soft on him. Just because he’s a man.’
    Lydia blushed and stood up. In her worn-out bodice and knickers she knew she lacked dignity, but she lifted her chin and said, ‘I shall go down and tell him you are asleep.’
    ‘If you really want to make yourself useful, tell him to bring me some vodka.’
    Lydia swept out past the curtain and risked no comment. She splashed chilly water from the sink over her hands and face, rubbed her teeth with a finger dipped in salt, and scrubbed at her forehead with the heel of her hand to try to dislodge the tight band of fear that gripped it. It only took the word vodka to panic her. She pulled on her school uniform, grabbed her satchel, and picked up a couple of sugared dumplings. She was walking out the door when her mother’s voice called out. Softly this time.
    ‘Lydia.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Come here, my sweet.’
    Reluctantly Lydia entered the white bedroom. She stood just inside the curtain and stared down at her scuffed black shoes. She was used to them hurting, like she was used to her head hurting.
    ‘Lydia.’
    She looked up. Her mother was lying languorously back against her pillows, her hair brushed out in a gleaming fan, and she was smiling, holding out one hand. Lydia was too cross to respond and stayed where she was.
    ‘Darling, I haven’t forgotten what day it is.’
    Lydia stared at her shoes, hating them.
    ‘Happy birthday, sweetheart. S dniom rozhdenia, dochenka. I didn’t mean it about the vodka, honestly I didn’t. Come and give me a kiss, darling. A birthday kiss.’
    Lydia did so, brushing her warm cheek against her mother’s cool one.
    ‘Sit down a minute, Lydia.’
    ‘But Antoine is . . .’
    ‘Damn Antoine.’ Valentina waved a hand dismissively. ‘I want to say something to you.’
    Lydia sat down on the bed. Abruptly she realised she was hungry and took a bite out of the dumpling, her tongue chasing the sugary bits around her lips.
    ‘Darling, listen to me. I am glad to see you eating something nice on your birthday but sorry I was not the one to give it to you.’
    Lydia stopped eating, the sweetness in her mouth suddenly soured by a vague sense of guilt. ‘That’s all right, Mama.’
    ‘No, it’s not all right. It makes me sad. I have no money to buy you a present, we both know that. So instead I invite you to come with me when I play at the Ulysses Club tonight. You can be my page turner.’
    A cry of delight burst from Lydia and she threw her arms around her mother. ‘Oh, Mama, thank you, it’s the very best birthday present.’
    ‘Mind your dumpling in my hair.’
    ‘It’s what