‘Bloody hell,’ he says under his breath.
He flips through, not quite believing what he sees. Each dealer is perfectly captured; not only the likeness, but the very essence of the person. The Turk’s possessive glare cast over his domain, and also his eagerness. The knitting grandmothers in the next compartment, their heads almost touching, assembled as they gossip. The Mongolian traders and their stash of alcohol, clothing and tobacco. All in remarkable detail, and so quickly drawn.
Finn turns another page. ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Well, well.’
He had always wondered what keeps Rafe going – who or what does he love. He knew it wasn’t him – a surprising flush of shame – and sure as hell not Clovis. He thought perhaps Rafe nursed a lusty love for Willa. But Willa had changed and bathed him, dressed and fed him, the memory of which never faded. Whatever Rafe may have felt for her went unrequited.
Finn turns page after page of drawings of the sisters Fitzgerald. There’s no mistaking their distinguished and elegant faces. The punch comes out of the blue, out of the rolling sky flying by his window. Gutted, he is. A baby first parted from his mother, then a little boy made miserable by being snatched away from the doting sisters. And Finn had done nothing. He’d done bugger all to turn a kinder hand to ease the boy’s wretchedness. In fact, he admits, he has always been intimidated by him. Rafe had received more education by nine years of age than Finn had in his entire lifetime. And now, here in his hands is an extraordinary gift that he has failed to notice before; a hard-wrought, earthly talent to accompany that strange and otherworldly gift that Rafe has possessed since birth.
Regret constricts his throat as he reflects. I could have offered a soft word here and there instead of my cold indifference. It’s no wonder he does not call me ‘Father’. They’ve already lived a lifetime together. He feels like a grandfather who reminiscences with shame, for his memory is sharp and it cuts him.
It’s appallingly late, and not nearly enough recompense, but a spark of an idea forms, something that calms him.
Finn returns the sketch book to the seat when the heavy compartment door rolls back. Rafe juggles glasses and a basket of sugary pastries, followed by a woman who expertly manages a tray of tea and water.
I wonder that you’re not full of hate. He offers Rafe a smile.
The train rattles on. Finn is pensive for the rest of the evening. He watches Rafe sleep; his broad chest gently rises and collapses. The light comes and goes whenever they pass through the remaining stations. When it falls on Rafe he turns in his sleep, and it’s then that Finn recognizes the unmistakeably strong resemblance. How he missed it all these years is beyond him. Rafe’s hands, folded above his waist, are Elísabet’s hands. Her son dreams as the train rocks him to St. Petersburg.
They reach Berlin at the end of July and plan to scour the capital for two days before visiting Finn’s most prudent dealer in Dresden. Jostled through the streets of Berlin by swarms of exuberant Germans, within an hour of their arrival they are consumed with panic. Young men sing patriotic songs in the cafés, and the popular Piccadilly Café is promptly renamed Kaffeehaus Vaterland; the city is rife with patriotic ardour. War with Britain is all but painted on their tongues.
‘Thank Christ I shipped the goods I’ve bought so far. We’re going home, Rafe.’
Zamovars, historical swords, silk and cashmere shawls and Venetian glass have been packed and shipped to England from St Petersburg. Finn wonders if he’ll ever see his investment again. There will be no buying in Dresden, nor Madrid, nor Paris.
As they make their way back to the station to board the first available train to France, they are crushed in the onslaught. Finn grabs Rafe’s wrist and directs his hand to Finn’s shoulder.
‘Don’t let go,’ Finn says.
Rafe swallows an unexpected knot of emotion. He offers a grateful nod to Finn, who for the first time in eighty years doesn’t seem annoyed by his presence.
* * *
Never before was there such a sight. They stand in Victoria Station slack-jawed. It is impossible to take it all in. Great swirls of men, but also women – more women than they had ever seen in one place. Worry is written on their faces in a thousand different ways on only the third day since war has been declared.
‘London is already changed,’ Rafe whispers.
Sorely aware of their dark, three-piece suits amongst the great waves of khaki, their unease grows, as does the realization of their predicament. Rafe entertains images of being shot over and over again, of rising from the dust, the snow, the mud and the sea, like the great immortal monster he believes he is.
Finn’s first thoughts are of equal alarm; one word, one scenario in their survival they have never before had to consider. Bombs.
They feel an urgency to be in their own home, another foreign notion neither had before experienced. A further surprise meets them outside the station. It seems travellers are forgoing motor taxis and one sporting the Union Jack on its bonnet coasts to the kerb in an instant to cart them home – never before so quickly. They sit on the edge of their seats to view the transformed city, in which there are flags everywhere – in shop windows, above entries, on hats, and in small versions pinned onto torsos. The pointing fingers of placards and recruitment posters flash by. Rafe elbows Finn and points back at the appeals for enlistments.
There is no visible pall of gloom over the house in Magdalen Street, yet they face their return with girded loins and dread. Rafe expects Clovis’s wild anger, and an accusation of abandonment from
