Gwennie's Girl Read online

  Gregor had obviously thought of something equally theatrical. It was a scene that fostered theatrics. He started to gobble, ‘What do I say? What do I say? What do I say?’ Clearly, this was no time for strict honesty.

  ‘Tell the general’, said Lizzie, ‘that I am honoured to meet him because I have heard so much about his courage and his care for the people.’

  Gregor snapped onto automatic pilot and began relaying the message so Lizzie continued, ‘Tell him I am here to take a message from him back to the outside world, to the United Nations and to the leaders of all the great religions.’ Nothing venture, she figured. Just in case he really was thinking of hostages, she would give him a reason for letting her go. Apart from Gregor’s voice, the only noise in the room was the video camera. Blue Eyes and Mr Warlord were absolutely immobile, and when Gregor stopped, the silence seemed to last forever.

  Lizzie broke it again, taking out her pen and pad. ‘Does he have a message for the world?’

  Well, it seemed he did have a message. For an hour or more, he talked, Gregor interpreted, Lizzie wrote, Blue Eyes watched and Madame Lash filmed. Was there any film in that bloody camera? Somewhere in the process or in Mr Warlord’s mind the message became a load of rubbish, incoherent gobbledegook. Once Lizzie interrupted with a question but the frozen reaction was so hostile that she quickly apologised. This was clearly an audience, not an interview. One part of Lizzie’s mind kept threatening to make her laugh out loud, but, probably fortunately, her instinct for survival kept it controlled and her face serious and, she hoped, suitable impressed with this bullshit.

  Finally, the stream dried up. Mr Warlord stood and stretched. Blue Eyes stood too, but the gun was still looking Lizzie’s way. Gregor was desperate to say their good byes and was offering thanks as obsequiously as possible.

  Then Lizzie thought, In for a penny, in for a pound… And she said to Gregor, ‘Will you ask if I may take a photo?’

  ‘No, Lizzie. We go now; quickly.’

  ‘Gregor, ask if I may take a photo,’ she insisted.

  Mr Warlord seemed quite chuffed, as Lizzie had guessed he would be. She motioned to the light and the door and walked ahead. He posed, really posed in the day light. When she pointed, he lifted the shades and wore them on his shaved dome. Then, for a giggle and the family album, Lizzie set the camera and handed it to Gregor. ‘Take one of me with him,’ she said.

  Blue Eyes was watching closely, and Lizzie was pretty sure he was brighter than his boss. She stood solemnly beside Mr Warlord, and Gregor clicked the camera. Now, Blue Eyes had had enough. He spoke to Gregor quite roughly and pointed to the gate with the barrel of his gun.

  ‘He says we must go now and we must go quickly, Lizzie. We must not stop anywhere, but go straight to the border. If we are too slow, we may not reach it. I think he is threatening us, Lizzie.’

  ‘OK, we’re done. Let’s go, Gregor.’

  They scuttled out past the watching soldier, climbed into the van where the driver was being watched by two guards and set off for home. The shelling continued, and at one point, Russian forces were attacking a local airport. Evening was approaching, and again there were numerous Russian convoys on the road but these trucks were empty. It was perhaps not surprising that when they made it out of Chechnya, well after dark, the driver wanted more than the negotiated amount. On the way back, he and Gregor had been talking to each other, looking at Lizzie and signalling “loco”. They had both been very unhappy when she made them stop to talk to some of the Russian soldiers and to take a look at the massive weapons they were firing. Once they were safe, she felt their fear had turned to anger, anger at Lizzie. She paid him the extra money.

  Early the next morning, she and Gregor visited the Russian army camp and saw the military in appalling conditions. The hospital tent set up as a surgery was splattered with mud. There were bloody cloths and swabs spilling over the sides of buckets. The men, even in their uniforms, were huddled together, obviously freezing. There was nothing very glorious about any of it. They were to lunch with Father Alex and his family, take their train back, spend one more night with the rats and the icon, then fly to Moscow, stay one night and fly home.

  Lizzie was tired; there had been too much sadness again. Gregor was being quite surly. She felt this was probably just reaction from his first time in a conflict zone, but he was behaving like an adolescent who had lost face. When they arrived at Father Alex’s house, she was surprised to find that they were eating lunch in a room she had not seen, quite a formal dining room. On either side of the table were long seats covered with beautiful tapestry cushions. There was a lace cloth, and Father Alex had the most ginormous bottle of something in his hands. It turned out to be locally brewed, rotgut vodka that was more “proof” than would be legal in any country or any laboratory for that matter.

  Lizzie’s heart sank. She hated vodka, and anyway, she was still the cheapest drunk in the world, especially when it came to spirits. Before lunch was served, the glasses were filled and a toast made “for peace”. Everyone downed their drinks in one go, and Lizzie felt bound to follow suit before turning her glass over to indicate she would not have any more. Some hope. It was turned right way up amidst lots of laughing and loud talk.

  ‘To Russia.’

  Here goes nothing. Lizzie tried to toss it back with some sort of style, meaning without choking and spluttering.

  ‘To brothers and sisters in Chechnya.’

  This time, she pleaded with Gregor, ‘Gregor, please explain that I cannot drink so much vodka?’

  ‘It will be an insult, Lizzie,’ he said. Was there a glint of enjoyment in this boyo’s eyes as he pointed to her glass? Could this be some sort of revenge?

  After this third toast, Lizzie was getting fairly desperate for food, and fortunately, Tatiana began serving a stew and more of the delicious carrot salad. Unfortunately, Father Alex was on his feet again, ‘To Mother Tatiana.’ Bloody hell, four straight vodkas. Number five was coming. ‘To Father Alex.’ Then, ‘To Lizzie,’ made six. By now, she was definitely unwell. She was sweating, and she knew the spins were on their way. ‘To our sons.’

  ‘Please, Gregor, I really can’t. I think I will die.’

  The Russian version of her plea brought laughter and another bottle of vodka. Sure enough, the room began to move. Lizzie was cold and she was burning up. ‘Oh hell,’ she groaned. ‘I’m gone.’ She pushed in the general direction of one of Father Alex’s sons who was sitting next to her, and then she fell on top of him in total misery. The room went round and round and round.

  I’m going to die, she thought. Or did she say it? She didn’t know. ’Leave me here, I’m going to die.’ And the room went round and round. Let me sleep or let me die. Oh hell, I feel dreadful. She may have been talking or she may have been dreaming. Her mouth was not working properly. What had happened to her lips? Where had they had gone? Then she felt a churning in her stomach. And in her bowels.

  ‘Get me to the toilet. Please Gregor, get me to the toilet. Quickly.’

  Did he hear her? Did he understand? It was urgent. Very urgent. She could feel her stomach retching. And the room went round and round. Then she knew she was out in fresh air, still sweating but freezing as she fell up the rough step and recognised a toilet. The next minutes were not pretty.

  Someone was calling her name. She became aware of it. Someone was banging on a door somewhere. She couldn’t move. She was going to stay here forever. The calling continued. So did the banging. It was somewhere very close. Something about a train.

  What train? You mean the train back to the rats? I’m not going. I shall stay here. It is enough now. I do not feel very well, you understand. I do not like that train and I do not want to sleep with the rats. Not ever again. No. No train. No rats. I am going to stay here, thank you. Spasibo.

  There was a lot of light coming into where she sat. Who are you? Mother Tatiana? Why are you making me stand up? I do not want to walk outside. No, thank you. Actually, Mother
Tatiana, I don’t think I am very well. And what is that foul smell? Oh no, I have vomited. It’s on my clothes. Oh shit, how embarrassing. Oh, Mother Tatiana I am sorry, so sorry. I do not feel good. In fact, I feel like shit. I smell. These two young men are walking me along the street between them. Am I walking? I cannot feel the ground, Ugh. That smell. It’s going to make me sick. Let go my arms. I am going to be sick again. See. See. I told you to let me go. I don’t care about the train. I do not ever want to get on that train again. It’s too sad. Too sad, do you hear? All those people, all crying, all frightened. Too sad. No more. No more. I told you, it is enough now. Make it better, Lizzie, make it better. Can’t. Too sad too much sadness. Goodbye, Father Alex. Goodbye, Mother Tatiana. Sorry. So sorry. Nice boys. Good to help me. Sorry I was sick on you. Smells bad. Smells very bad. I smell bad. How embarrassing. I am so embarrassed. So sorry. Gregor, are you there? I must sit here? Yes, sit here. I think I’m going to sleep now, Gregor. Dreadful smell.

  When she woke, she was acutely aware of the smell and had slept long enough to realise how badly she had behaved. ‘Oh Gregor, I am so sorry. Whatever must they think of me? Oh hell,’ she groaned.

  ‘Is OK, Lizzie. Is OK.’ He took her hands in one of his and began wiping her face with a wet hanky with the other hand.

  She submitted like a child, holding her face up to be cleaned.

  ‘Is OK, Lizzie. Everyone understand. Is OK now.’

  She began to cry. She felt so tired, so embarrassed and suddenly so sad, so dreadfully sad. Gregor wiped her tears, gave her the wet hanky to blow her nose, put her hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Is OK, Lizzie. You do a good job. Now sleep until we arrive.’

  She had only a dim awareness of the train stopping and Gregor finding some sort of taxi to take them back to the church compound. She did realise that when she was helped out of her coat and boots and put under blankets that there was something she had to do. She could not go to sleep. She had to do something. Then she heard Gregor’s voice. ‘We must move the bed away from wall.’ That was it. Bless you Gregor. No rats. Bless you.

  By morning, her clothes had been sponged, and she was able to face the world most shamefacedly. ‘Gregor, I just don’t know how to apologise.’

  ‘Do not worry, Lizzie. You needed good vodka. It helped you after the sadness. Everyone react differently. You were strong. You needed vodka to let you be sad.’

  ‘I don’t think I shall ever, ever touch vodka again, Gregor.’

  ‘No,’ he grinned before adding seriously, ‘But you must find something to help with all the sadness. It is not OK to keep it all inside. Sometimes, Lizzie, you can be sad or scared. It is OK. Father Alex and Mother Tatiana knew that. Sometimes is OK to be sad and scared. Trust yourself Lizzie.’

  He gave her a quick hug, and they set off for the airport and the flight back to Moscow. Lizzie had recovered sufficiently to finish most of her report during the long hours of flight and delays, but by the time she walked out through customs at Geneva, she was totally despondent. She was also incredibly tired and she was afraid she could get teary very easily. Probably, the effect of all that bloody vodka.

  Maybe/Maybe Not

  She came out past customs, looked around, and there was Sam with a big bouquet of beautiful, yellow roses. She stood still, and he walked to her and just put his arms around her, and she did start to cry. For absolutely no reason at all. He just held her and patted her back. Then, as Gregor had done, he wiped her eyes and gave her his hanky to blow her nose. Twice in two days, Lizzie. Or how many days? How long since she had been on that train, smelling of vomit and feeling overwhelmed by the sadness of it all? Another world.

  Sam tucked her into the car and slid behind the wheel, ‘Now, my love, I am in charge. OK?’

  ‘Sounds good to me, Sam,’ she said as she relaxed back and closed her eyes.

  ‘You are going home to bed but before you collapse, there is dinner ready and waiting. In the morning, you will pack your prettiest, sexiest things and we are going away. Did you book anywhere? If not, your humble servant will do so.’

  ‘Yes. I did. I booked us into the Grand Hôtel des Bains at Yverdon. Is that OK?’ she asked.

  ‘You are not just clever and beautiful—although I’ve seen you looking better than you do at the moment—you are also efficient. And I love you.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said and started to cry all over again.

  Sam was as good as his word. There was a light, elegant warm chicken salad, a fresh baguette, grapes and cold white wine organised while Lizzie took a shower and washed her hair. Then he let her talk while they ate, asking a few questions here and there, but really just listening. When she had eaten and she could feel the tears coming again, he took her by the hand and put her into bed, lay beside her, holding her until she slept.

  It was nearly ten the next morning when she blinked herself awake and smiled to see her beautiful rose and turquoise silk carpet on the wall just catching a sunlight. She stretched lazily beneath the fresh linen and the light warmth of the duvet. Then she remembered something of the last few days and could feel a creeping emptiness.

  ‘Good morning, Boozy Face,’ said Sam from the doorway. ‘If you really are awake, you can move that gorgeous but lazy body of yours. I’ve unpacked the charming and interestingly perfumed load of rags you brought home, so now you need to put some frillies together and let me take you away from all “Zis”.’ The day was good again, and Lizzie was soon ready to lock the apartment, put their bags in the car and head to Ruth’s for coffee, croissants and drive by the office so Lizzie could drop off the report.

  They drove easily to Yverdon, taking the lake road where possible. It was one of Geneva’s opalescent winter days, all sheeny and full of lustrous glow without any sharpness or brilliance.

  The Grand Hôtel des Bains was one of Lizzie’s favourite places, an old hotel that lived up to its name. The grounds were not large but were impeccably maintained; the foyer was enormous with a double, curved, marble staircase sweeping up to the dining room from either side. A porter quietly took their bags and led them to the lift and their room. Lizzie had booked a double room, but they were shown into a suite where there was a huge bouquet of roses and an ice bucket with champagne. The carpets were deep and soft, and there were two fluffy white towelling dressing gowns laid out on the bed. Lizzie looked at Sam, who grinned as he tipped the porter and closed the door.

  He eyed her and said, ‘You are not the only one who can organise lovely places. Of course, it was easier for me—one telephone call and voila. Like it?’

  ‘Like it? Like all this decadence and disgusting, capitalistic luxury? I love it. I love it.’

  She fell back on the bed, bouncing slightly in sheer delight. He joined her, and the champagne waited a while.

  When she was sitting up in bed wrapped in the fluffy dressing gown, Sam brought two glasses and said, ‘I think this deserves a toast.’

  ‘Oh no,’ squawked Lizzie. ‘No more toasts. I can’t. I can’t.’

  ‘Then you can’t have the champagne, Madame. What did those Ruskies have that I haven’t got?’

  ‘Rotgut vodka. That’s what they had. But I’d love some champers, so, go ahead, propose your toast,’ she said.

  He gave her the glass, kissed her shoulder under the towelling dressing gown, looked serious and said, ‘To Lizzie and Sam and Thailand and Happy Ever Afters. Will you drink to that Lizzie?’

  She looked at him, thought of his loving and caring and said, ‘I’ll drink to something like that, Sam.’

  ‘That’s good enough for now. I’ll talk details to you later. That’s a promise,’ he said.

  ‘Or a threat?’ countered Lizzie.

  ‘Drink your champagne, woman. And don’t get stroppy. I like you better when you are tearful and weak like those old-fashioned genteel drones in the movies.’

  ‘Well, don’t expect that too often,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘I do declare, the lady’s feeling more herself,’ he grinn
ed. ‘Shall we bathe when we have finished this bottle of fancy stuff? Or shall we try the bed again?’

  ‘Oh, sir, I think we should bathe,’ Lizzie said, trying to ape Scarlet O’Hara and failing completely. ‘But first, I’ll have another drink—but, only one more. I have had a nasty lesson about the perils of alcohol, and I’m not going to behave like that again, for a while.’

  They lazed back on the pillows, sipping the cold champagne, and Lizzie enjoyed the deep gold of the roses on the mahogany table in the centre of the adjoining room. They were framed by the connecting door, soft green wallpaper and the dark forest shade of the lush carpet. Without meaning to, she drifted off to sleep, propped against Sam’s shoulder and the soft pillows. She woke later to find she had been covered with the light duvet, and Sam was sitting quietly watching her.

  ‘Goodness, how long did I sleep?’ she asked.

  ‘About two hours,’ he replied.

  ‘My dear man, I’m sorry. It must have been the champagne.’

  ‘The exercise may have helped,’ he said with a grin. ‘Stay where you are for a while. I’ll just go down and organise a table for dinner. I didn’t want to leave in case you woke up and wondered where I’d gone.’

  ‘Thank you, Sam. You are very good to me.’

  ‘I try to be. I’d like to take care of you properly…but I promise not to overdo it,’ he added from the doorway.

  Lizzie relaxed and found she was smiling. It was so good to feel safe enough to go to sleep with him and to wake up smiling.

  She remembered one other sleep like that in Samoa just after she had finished chemotherapy. She was visiting a village that was straight out of a story book, each house a roof supported by posts, open to the breeze from the sea, the beach of gleaming white sand and coral, the water soft and gentle until it reached the reef where foam topped waves crashed and banged as they tried to get into the calmness. Lizzie had met Helen, a woman with the strong, impressive beauty of many of the islanders, at a conference in Melbourne. They had not made friends quickly. Helen later explained that she found Australians in general very racist, and Lizzie then understood something of the reason why this chief who was also a government minister in the Samoan Parliament held herself aloof. But they did become friends. When Lizzie was at her lowest, Helen and other Islander friends had sent messages of love and care, and Helen had added in a letter, Lizzie, if you need somewhere to just be, somewhere to be cared for, come to us. The village is peaceful and we would care for you, no matter what the outcome. In our place both life and death are natural and can be beautiful.