LITMIR.BIZ

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not exist. Come to my room when you can, and I will tell you a story.’

      There was no mistaking the bitterness in her voice, nor could I fail to understand what lay behind it. ‘You have no need to fear me,’ I said slowly. ‘I am not your rival. Nor will I listen to any tales.’

      She gave a short, incredulous laugh. At this moment, Dolly Denisov, accompanied by her brother Peter and followed by Ariadne, swept into the room. Behind, fussing and chattering in various tongues, came the little suite of attendants who seemed needed to get her off on any major expedition: French maid, Russian assistant and German secretary.

      ‘You will not be going,’ hissed Laure Le Brun in a whisper. ‘You’ll see.’

      ‘Oh, Rose, you are not to come with us,’ said Ariadne.

      ‘No, I know. Mademoiselle told me.’

      ‘We are too frivolous for you today.’

      ‘I should have enjoyed a peep inside a couture house.’

      Dolly dimpled. ‘You shall have one, but on another day. Today, your cousin Emma wishes to meet you, and wants you to see your godfather, Erskine Gowrie. She sent a message round early. It’s one of his good days and she wants you to take advantage of it. She is there herself today.’

      Everything had obviously been arranged in detail days before, and without a word to me. I was becoming increasingly annoyed, and puzzled, by the Denisovs’ habit of presenting me with ready-made decisions, careful faits accomplis. Was it a Denisov habit – or was it the way that Russians behaved in general? It made one feel awkward and helpless, particularly if one pretended to any kind of independence …

      But I accepted it without protest; I wanted to see my Gowrie relatives. Soon after Dolly and her party had left, one of the Denisov carriages came for me, and after a smart ten-minute trot, drew up outside a large house in another fashionable district of St Petersburg. The footmen took me up to the Gowrie apartment and there was Emma Gowrie herself waiting for me.

      Emma Gowrie was short, plump and elderly, with a frizz of grey hair and bright, bird-like eyes. I could just imagine the kindly relish with which she had prepared my little biography for Dolly Denisov. There was no doubt that she would love to have spent an hour with me now in interesting gossip about Jordansjoy, and my life with the Denisovs, but she plainly felt she had a duty to perform, and Erskine Gowrie must not be kept waiting.

      Erskine’s apartment was full of dark wood and dark leather, very masculine in tone, with no trace of a feminine influence. His style of furnishing was a mixture of Russia and Europe: heavy oak and well-stuffed tartan cushions side by side – or even in competition with – shiny baroque furniture clearly of local workmanship. There was even something Asiatic about the total effect, and this notion was reinforced by the appearance of Erskine Gowrie himself. My godfather, a tiny shrunken figure propped up on silken cushions in a great chair, with his slippered feet on a stool, and wearing a rich brocade robe, looked like some Chinese Mandarin.

      ‘Here we are, Erskine, then,’ announced Emma cheerfully. ‘It’s Emma Gowrie.’

      ‘I can see that,’ said my godfather. ‘I know you. No need to shout.’

      ‘It’s one of his good days,’ whispered Emma to me. ‘He knows me.’

      ‘I always know you, Emma Gowrie,’ announced the old man. ‘Only sometimes I prefer not to.’

      ‘Well, that seems wise,’ said Emma, in no way put out. ‘Only fair, too. There are many days I’d prefer not to know you, Erskine Gowrie, ill-tempered chiel you can be, but I promised your wife.’

      So there had been a wife, I thought. ‘Hardly remember her myself,’ said Erskine. ‘So don’t you bother.’

      ‘Oh, you old wretch, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why, I’ve seen you weeping over her memory.’

      ‘Can’t say I remember,’ repeated the old man. ‘I expect you’re making it up. You always were a liar, Emma Gowrie. If you are Emma Gowrie; I’ve only got your word for it.’

      Looking at him, I thought he displayed the essential unpredictability of impaired old age, his rudeness, his disparaging remark about what had probably been a loved wife, were part of his sickness. Underneath was a man who did indeed still remember, but who had to struggle against an irrational disturbance of his feelings which he could no more control than we ought to mind. Perhaps Emma understood this as well as I did, because she remained unmoved.

      ‘I’m Emma Gowrie, all right,’ she said.

      ‘Of course you are. Know your face, know it anywhere. As I would know you, my dear,’ he said, turning to me and speaking with great tenderness. ‘A perfect amalgam of your grandmother and your grandfather. So lovely to see their sweet faces again.’ He pressed my hand. ‘My perfect Rose.’

      I was deeply touched. ‘Oh, sir,’ I said – I may even have blushed a little, without benefit of rouge. ‘But Granny was such a great beauty, and I’m not that.’

      He still hung onto my hand. ‘Ah, how do you know? Do you see what I see, then? Let’s have some tea,’ he announced, ringing a little silver bell. ‘Good strong Scotch tea, not this weak Russian stuff.’ His eyes closed.

      ‘He’ll drop off in a minute,’ said Emma, with irritation. ‘And he hasn’t gone into things nearly enough.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I’ve said quite enough,’ said Erskine Gowrie, opening his eyes. ‘Inside myself, at least.’

      ‘What’s the good of that to us?’ demanded Emma, her irritation in no way appeased. ‘Here have I brought Rose to you, and you do nothing but go to sleep.’

      ‘You always were a fool, Emma Gowrie. I have done enough, and Rose has done everything.’

      ‘Rose Gowrie has done nothing,’ I said.

      He patted my hand. ‘Exactly what was required of you, my dear. Just to be.’

      ‘Oh Godfather.’ To myself I thought: ‘And that is the hardest thing in the world – just to be. Perhaps I should have handled Patrick better if I had had the knack of it.’ I was beginning to blame myself for Patrick, you see. Guilt has to be apportioned for such a tragedy as his, and I had to bear my share.

      ‘Where’s my tea?’ Erskine Gowrie demanded, dropping my hand and apparently forgetting me.

      ‘Tea, you live on tea,’ said Emma, pouring him a cup.

      But after one long gulp he set the cup down and closed his eyes. It seemed time to leave, and I followed Emma silently to the door. But before I got there he called me back.

      ‘Rose.’

      ‘Yes, Godfather?’

      ‘Come here.’

      He had a struggle for breath then, and I had to wait for him to speak. ‘Come back in a week’s time,’ he whispered. ‘And without that old witch if you can. She listens to everything and then talks about it to everyone else.’

      ‘I will come if I can.’

      ‘Promise. Because you see, there is something I wish to do, something I must …’ The words were hard for him.

      ‘Don’t talk any more,’ I said gently. ‘I’ll be back.’

      ‘Not longer than a week, mind.’ To himself he said: ‘A week will just do it.’

      When I returned to Emma she said: ‘What did he want?’

      ‘He wants me to come back next week.’

      ‘Without me?’

      ‘You heard?’ I said.

      ‘Erskine’s whispers are not exactly inaudible,’ she said drily, but not with any air of displeasure.

      ‘I’m

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