cleaning the streets . . . scrubbing . . . There were quite a few of us – people who’d been on the stage or in the music world. And there were soup kitchens . . . I managed. Then I decided to come home to Austria. I suppose I wanted to die here, or perhaps I thought my family would . . . and you see in the end they did take me in, though I don’t know why.’
Annika did know why. It was because Herr Egghart wanted to become a statue and you can’t become a statue if you leave your aunt to die in an asylym – but of course she said nothing.
‘Anyway I’m glad I did,’ the old lady went on, ‘because I made a new friend and not many people make friends at ninety-four.’ And she stretched out her hand and laid it for a moment on Annika’s arm.
Ellie was right about the Eggharts’ great-aunt. She was getting very weak. Sometimes now when Annika came she would do no more than smile at her before she drifted off to sleep, and when she spoke it might be just a few words, which did not always make sense.
‘A rose garden in the sky,’ she said once, and the maid who had come to straighten the bed said, ‘Poor old thing, she’s wandering in her mind.’
But just a week before the Eggharts were due to return, Annika found the old lady alert and excited with a mischievous look in her eye.
‘I’ll show you something,’ she said, ‘if you can open the trunk. It’s locked, but I wouldn’t let them keep the key. I made them give it back and then I forgot where I’d hidden it, but now I’ve found it. It was in my other bedsocks.’
The trunk was a big one, banded in rings of wood, but Annika found she could pull it over to the bed.
The key turned easily in the lock and Annika lifted the lid.
Inside were dresses in gauze and satin, wisps of muslin, a wreath of daisies, silver gloves . . . The clothes were very old; some were a little torn, here and there were splashes of powder still clinging to the material, or dabs of greasepaint. It was like opening a door on to a theatre dressing room.
‘Now take off the top shelf . . .’
The trunk was separated into two parts, like a box of chocolates. Annika took off the top – and found herself looking at a large number of parcels wrapped in newspaper.
‘Go on. Unwrap them.’
Annika took out a packet wrapped in paper so old that it was beginning to crumble, and unwrapped it.
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Oh, how beautiful!’
She was holding a necklace of rubies, the jewels seeming to flash fire against the setting of gold.
‘The stones came from a special mine in Burma. I was given it after I was an Eastern Princess and strewed lotus blossoms. I think it was lotus blossoms . . . You wouldn’t know the stones aren’t real, would you?’
‘No. And anyway it doesn’t matter – they couldn’t be more splendid.’
‘Go on; unwrap them all. I’d like to see them once again.’
The next parcel was a butterfly brooch in sapphires – the stones as blue as the famous morphos of the Amazon. The wings were outlined in tiny diamonds and the antennae trembled with filigree gold.
‘I wore that when we were presented to the Duc d’Orléans. And those earrings were brought round after I was Cupid and strewed pink-paper hearts. The diamonds were eighteen carats – if I still had the real ones you could have bought a castle with them. But you can see what a craftsman that jeweller was. You’d have to know a lot about jewels to tell the difference.’
One by one Annika unpacked the parcels and laid them on the bed, till the old lady seemed to be floating on an ocean of colour: the piercing blue of the sapphires, the warm glow of the rubies . . . and the brilliance of the Star of Kazan from the country of dark firs and glittering snow . . .
Right at the bottom was a small parcel, wrapped not in newspaper but in a piece of black velvet. Inside was a box which opened to show a picture of a man and a woman standing in front of a house – a woman with thick, light
Annika did know why. It was because Herr Egghart wanted to become a statue and you can’t become a statue if you leave your aunt to die in an asylym – but of course she said nothing.
‘Anyway I’m glad I did,’ the old lady went on, ‘because I made a new friend and not many people make friends at ninety-four.’ And she stretched out her hand and laid it for a moment on Annika’s arm.
Ellie was right about the Eggharts’ great-aunt. She was getting very weak. Sometimes now when Annika came she would do no more than smile at her before she drifted off to sleep, and when she spoke it might be just a few words, which did not always make sense.
‘A rose garden in the sky,’ she said once, and the maid who had come to straighten the bed said, ‘Poor old thing, she’s wandering in her mind.’
But just a week before the Eggharts were due to return, Annika found the old lady alert and excited with a mischievous look in her eye.
‘I’ll show you something,’ she said, ‘if you can open the trunk. It’s locked, but I wouldn’t let them keep the key. I made them give it back and then I forgot where I’d hidden it, but now I’ve found it. It was in my other bedsocks.’
The trunk was a big one, banded in rings of wood, but Annika found she could pull it over to the bed.
The key turned easily in the lock and Annika lifted the lid.
Inside were dresses in gauze and satin, wisps of muslin, a wreath of daisies, silver gloves . . . The clothes were very old; some were a little torn, here and there were splashes of powder still clinging to the material, or dabs of greasepaint. It was like opening a door on to a theatre dressing room.
‘Now take off the top shelf . . .’
The trunk was separated into two parts, like a box of chocolates. Annika took off the top – and found herself looking at a large number of parcels wrapped in newspaper.
‘Go on. Unwrap them.’
Annika took out a packet wrapped in paper so old that it was beginning to crumble, and unwrapped it.
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Oh, how beautiful!’
She was holding a necklace of rubies, the jewels seeming to flash fire against the setting of gold.
‘The stones came from a special mine in Burma. I was given it after I was an Eastern Princess and strewed lotus blossoms. I think it was lotus blossoms . . . You wouldn’t know the stones aren’t real, would you?’
‘No. And anyway it doesn’t matter – they couldn’t be more splendid.’
‘Go on; unwrap them all. I’d like to see them once again.’
The next parcel was a butterfly brooch in sapphires – the stones as blue as the famous morphos of the Amazon. The wings were outlined in tiny diamonds and the antennae trembled with filigree gold.
‘I wore that when we were presented to the Duc d’Orléans. And those earrings were brought round after I was Cupid and strewed pink-paper hearts. The diamonds were eighteen carats – if I still had the real ones you could have bought a castle with them. But you can see what a craftsman that jeweller was. You’d have to know a lot about jewels to tell the difference.’
One by one Annika unpacked the parcels and laid them on the bed, till the old lady seemed to be floating on an ocean of colour: the piercing blue of the sapphires, the warm glow of the rubies . . . and the brilliance of the Star of Kazan from the country of dark firs and glittering snow . . .
Right at the bottom was a small parcel, wrapped not in newspaper but in a piece of black velvet. Inside was a box which opened to show a picture of a man and a woman standing in front of a house – a woman with thick, light
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