Mary Nichols - The Kirilov Star

‘I know.’ Alex was drowning in despondency. He had not felt so down since he had been taken prisoner outside Minsk. All his longing centred on Upstone Hall and Lydia, even though he realised, deep inside him, that returning there was an unrealistic dream. Too many years had passed since that tearful parting in Moscow, even though it was the memory of that which had kept him alive when he could so easily have succumbed to cold and hunger and cruelty, as many another had done. And with no good news to take back to her…

‘Cheer up, my friend,’ Leo said. ‘You were taken at Potsdam, weren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s in the Russian zone; the authorities won’t stop you going back to where you came from and you never know, you might be welcomed with open arms. Even if you’re not, you’ll be nearer the West. More chance of hopping over the border.’

This was subversive advice from someone who lived in the Soviet Union, but it sounded like sense and Alex was too tired to argue. ‘I don’t like abandoning the boy,’ he said.

‘I’ll keep an eye on his progress. If he shows promise, I’ll see he gets to university or technical college.’

‘Why should you do that?’ Alex asked in surprise. ‘You don’t even know him.’

‘For our friendship’s sake and because Russia needs educated men. Too many were lost in Stalin’s purges.’

Alex couldn’t stay in Moscow a moment longer. He took his friend’s advice, bidding him and his wife goodbye, choking back tears.

Potsdam was not where he wanted to be. Leo had been right; even as a free man, he could not return to England. Freedom was relative and he would still be inside the Russian zone, stuck until he could think of a way to cross to the West. And it soon became obvious to him that the nearer he came to the border, the more roadblocks and checks there were. Every time the train rushed over a crossing, he could see them from the window. And there were wide swathes of a kind of ploughed-up no-man’s-land between one side and the other, designed to allow no cover for anyone trying to cross.

Arriving in Potsdam he discovered Else had married in his absence and had two children. She was not pleased to see him and anxious enough to be rid of him to persuade her husband to show him where there was a weakness in the rows and rows of barbed wire that separated East from West. He was guided to the spot at the dead of night and quietly abandoned.

He took a deep breath and dashed across, ready to start dodging if the bullets came, but strangely no one saw him. Once on the other side, he trudged westwards, his senses keyed to every rustle in the undergrowth at the side of the road, every drip-drip of water from hedges, every barking dog, ready to dive into a ditch if anyone came along the road. In a mile or so he came to a crossroads and another of the ubiquitous border posts, but this time it was manned by American soldiers. They stopped him, guns at the ready.

‘Take me to the British,’ he said.

‘You’re a Limey?’ one asked in surprise.

‘Yes.’

The sergeant detailed one of his men to take him to their CO, where he explained who he was and how he came to be in the East. ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ the man said. ‘That’s some story.’

Here he was entertained royally with the best meal he had had in years, a couple of glasses of lager and a fat cigar. Later, in their officers’ mess, he had been quizzed again, this time out of curiosity. Most wanted to know what life was like in the Communist East and how he had endured the concentration camp and the gulag. It was dawn when they found him a bed and he collapsed exhausted into it.

Later that day, a gum-chewing driver and a lieutenant with a pistol in a holster took him by jeep to Bonn, the capital of West Germany, where he was left with an aide to the British ambassador. Here he was debriefed thoroughly and given accommodation, while they verified his identity. Two days later he was on a plane heading for London.

The interrogation and the debriefings at the Foreign Office went on for several days, even though they must have been sent the notes of his interrogation in Bonn. When they were satisfied he was who he said he was, he was asked what he intended to do. It was a question he could not readily answer. A quick look at the telephone book had confirmed that Sir Edward Stoneleigh still lived at Upstone Hall and he had been tempted to ring him but decided not to; if he went there he would have to see Lydia, and how could he go there and not tell her he had seen Yuri?

‘I need work,’ he said. ‘And somewhere to live.’

‘You have a job here and all your back pay – years of it.’

‘Thank you, but I’ve had enough of the diplomatic corps. I need to be out of doors, leading the simple life.’

He recognised he was not the man he had been, nor ever would be again. What he had been through would colour the rest of his days. The man of decisive action had been too long inured to obeying orders instantly, to half expecting the blows raining on his shoulders for no reason except the guard was in a bad mood, or one of his fellow prisoners suspected him of stealing his food. After years and years of communal living, of not being able to call his soul his own, he needed solitude. He bought a smallholding in Northacre Green, a small village near East Dereham in Norfolk, where he grew vegetables and reared a few pigs and chickens and kept himself to himself.

Sir Edward Stoneleigh’s obituary in The Daily Telegraph had caught his attention and dragged him, unwillingly, back into the real world.

Robert was working on the deck of the Merry Maid, lovingly polishing the brass work, when Alex found him. ‘Hallo, Rob,’ he said quietly.

Robert whipped round. ‘God God, Alex Peters! It is you, isn’t it? You’re as thin as a rake.’

‘Yes, it’s me.’

‘We thought you were dead. Sir Edward heard it through the embassy. Where the devil have you been?’

‘Here and there. In a German POW camp and then Siberia. It’s a very long story.’

‘Come aboard and tell me about it.’

Alex walked up the gangplank and jumped on deck. After shaking hands, Robert led the way down to the cabin. It was clean but untidy. ‘Don’t mind the mess. I’ve been too busy on deck to clean up.’ He filled a kettle and lit the gas ring. ‘When did you get back?’

‘About six months ago.’

Robert whistled. ‘Why have you waited so long to contact us? Why didn’t you come to the house? Sir Edward died, you know, two months ago now. Poor Lydia was devastated. You did know we had married?’

‘Yes. It’s why I didn’t go. Thought it best.’

‘Appreciate that, old man.’

Alex smiled. They seemed to be talking in a kind of shorthand but it conveyed their meaning perfectly. He watched Robert put a tea bag in each of two mugs and pour the boiling water on them. He stirred them thoughtfully. Alex could almost hear his brain ticking over.

‘We have two children: Bobby, who’s twelve, and Tatyana, who’s ten.’ He sniffed at the bottle of milk, decided it hadn’t gone off and added some to the mugs. Alex could not get used to drinking tea with milk in it. He watched Rob dip a teaspoon into an open bag of sugar and put some in his tea. He followed suit.

‘I know that too. I congratulate you.’

‘Thank you.’ He looked at Alex over the rim of his mug. ‘Come on, out with the story.’

So Alex told it yet again, while the other drank his tea and listened in silence, until he came to his return to Moscow, a free man. ‘If you can call it freedom,’ he added.

‘How did you get out of Russia and back here?’ Robert asked. ‘It could not have been easy.’

‘That’s another story and, in a way, is why I’m here. I went to Balfour Place, thinking that perhaps you stayed there without Lydia sometimes. The janitor told me where to find you.’

‘Wondering when you were coming to that.’

‘I need your advice.’

‘Go on.’

Alex told him about finding Yuri and both his and Olga’s reaction. ‘I’d like your advice on what to do about it,’ he said. ‘Should Lydia be told or not?’

‘That’s a tough one,’ Robert said, looking thoughtful, while Alex waited, understanding the man’s hesitation. ‘If the boy is so anti the West and Olga hasn’t told him about Lydia, should we upset her all over again? Is that what you’re asking me?’

‘I suppose it is.’

‘Then I would say, no, don’t tell her. Sir Edward tried to locate Yuri soon after the war ended, but failed. She has accepted the boy is lost. Think of the emotional upheaval for everyone, not least Bobby and Tatty. And all for what? It won’t reunite Lydia with Yuri, will it?’

‘No. You’re right.’ He drained his mug. ‘Does Lydia come on the boat with you?’

‘No, she looked it over when I first bought it, but she hates the sea. We had a rough crossing coming back from Russia and she’s never forgotten it. This is my private passion.’

‘Doesn’t she mind?’

‘Not at all. She knows how much I miss the sea since I came out of the service.’

Alex stood up to leave. ‘Good luck with it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I shan’t trouble you again. If, at any time in the future, you want to tell Lydia what I have told you, then that’s up to you.’

They shook hands and Alex went up on deck and jumped down onto the towpath. He took a huge breath of air before striding off towards the city and the railway station. He was exhausted. The encounter had taken more out of him than he would have believed possible. What was more, he had condemned himself never to see Lydia again. He knew Robert would not breathe a word.

July 1961

‘Mum, stop fussing. You look gorgeous.’ Tatty was sitting on her mother’s bed watching her dress.

Lydia stopped twisting herself in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom and smiled at her daughter in its reflection. If anyone looked gorgeous it was Tatty in a lilac print frock patterned all over with tiny white flowers. She had skilfully used a little make-up, blusher and eyebrow pencil and a pale-pink lipstick. Long-legged, enviably slim, full of vitality and so popular there was always a crowd of friends of both sexes visiting Upstone Hall during school holidays. Lydia supposed that one day there would be a special young man and a wedding and she didn’t know how she would feel about that. Tatty always laughed at that idea. ‘I’m not going to get married, Mum, I’ll be too busy enjoying myself.’

Lydia made no comment; she had heard it all before. ‘I can’t believe Bobby is old enough to leave school,’ she said. ‘Where have the years gone? It only seems five minutes since he was a baby.’

‘All mothers say that,’ Tatty said, standing up. ‘Just don’t say it in his hearing, that’s all. Are you ready?’

They were going to Bobby’s last end-of-year prize-giving. He was to receive two prizes and his A-level results from Mr Lockhart, the headmaster, though he already knew what they were. Three straight As in English, European history and politics. How proud she and Robert were of him! And of Tatty too. She had done well in her O levels, which just went to show, Lydia mused, what her daughter was capable of if only she would put her mind to it.

‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’ She slipped into her high-heeled sandals, picked up her clutch bag and took a last look in the mirror. What faced her was a middle-aged woman, whose waist was beginning ever so slightly to thicken and whose hair was growing grey, but she flattered herself she had kept the wrinkles at bay and her skin was still smooth. In the navy linen suit and ruffled white blouse she had chosen to wear she didn’t look half bad.

They found Robert in the drawing room. ‘Smashing,’ Robert said, looking Lydia up and down. He turned to Tatty. ‘As for you, young lady, you will have every young buck falling at your feet.’

‘Young buck!’ Tatty laughed. ‘No one uses words like that nowadays.’

‘Why not, if it expresses what I mean?’ He was grinning with paternal pride. ‘We ought to go, we mustn’t be late.’

They accomplished the journey in less than an hour in what had been Sir Edward’s Bentley. It was getting on in years but it still went well, kept in good repair by Andy at the garage. Lydia rarely drove it, preferring her own little car, but Robert used it to get backwards and forwards to the Merry Maid, which was moored at Ipswich.