Directors of the ‘splendid chaps’ who were ‘discovering rich deposits on an almost monthly basis.’ The Turk, he said, was ‘already sniffing around, to say nothing of the Prussian and the Hebrew!’ Montford's decision to strike an exclusive deal at once, without waiting to consult the Board, was to prove farsighted, and immensely lucrative to the Ural Caucasian Mineral Company. His week in Krassnia was also, of course, to prove of great personal significance to Lord Montford!” The British Adventure in Russia, From Peter to Nicholas , Dame Sheila Gardiner, London, 1939.
That one made me jump. My heart was hammering.
Was this Lord Montford my maternal great-great-grandfather? Did my family's connection to the godforsaken place go back that far?
I flicked through the book, but found no further reference. The time was 7:50 p.m. The library was about to close. I sighed and shoved the stack together, gathered up my stuff—laptop, shoulder bag, still-damp umbrella—and set about replacing the books on the shelves. I'd just finished that and was about to walk out when I happened to notice a couple of shelves set aside for the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography .
Dumping my stuff at my feet, I grabbed the “M” volume. There were a lot of Lord Montfords. There were a lot of Lord Hugh Montfords. The first Lord Hugh died on a Crusade, for Christ's sake! Bloody family had probably come over with William the Conqueror.
Ah, there was one that looked likely:
Montford, Lord Hugh (1881—1962) …lots of abbreviations of titles, decorations, and clubs… Lieutenant, Army Signal Corps 1914—1920, s. France, Bulgaria, Russia …honourable discharge 1921, mentioned in dispatches (twice)… Major, Home Guard, 1940—1945 …business interests…
My eye skipped to the foot of the entry:
m. Katerina Koblyakova (b. 1882, Krasnod, Russ., d. 1965) 1900, two sons (Hugh, 1902-1940; Edward, 1904-1944), one daughter (Eugenie, 1915-)
At this point I said “Fu-u-uck!!” so loudly that I was pointed to the door two minutes before the library closed.
The rain had stopped. The evening was still not dark. The street lights had come on. It was Friday. I had a party to go to. I should have felt jaunty. In circumstances like these I've been known to skip.
Not this time. I trudged on wet slippery pavement past Greyfriars Bobby and the art shops and charity shops and the building with the Digital Damage office on its second floor, and hesitated a moment before turning right into Lauriston Place. The avenue to the Meadows stretched off gloomily into the distance. Across the way a young guy crouched in the lee of the coffee kiosk with an upturned hat at his feet and nobody walking past him.
Feeling sorry for him, I did my bit for the poor by buying a copy of the Big Issue from a pathetically young and pretty girl in a headscarf and long skirt who'd stood in the rain outside the post office all day. She smiled and thanked me. I hurried on.
I glanced to the left at the bright lights of the Doctors', the pub on the corner, and considered nipping across and diving in. But the lads would be long gone and I had a party to go to.
I felt thoroughly rattled. My hand strayed a couple of times to the latch of my bag. Each time, I was within a second of digging out my mobile and speed-dialling Amanda. It would be expensive, but it would wake her up and serve her right. How dare she never mention once in our entire lives that our family's connection with Krassnia went back a generation further than she—or Great-Grandma Eugenie, come to think of it—had ever let on?
It was at that moment, I think, right on that corner, that all my connections with Krassnia—from my birth there, through to the scariest day of my life, and Amanda's admissions and shortly afterward Eugenie's confession that Saturday evening in Boston, and the old photo and the game and the book that had subconsciously inspired it, and my guesses as to what the game was for,
That one made me jump. My heart was hammering.
Was this Lord Montford my maternal great-great-grandfather? Did my family's connection to the godforsaken place go back that far?
I flicked through the book, but found no further reference. The time was 7:50 p.m. The library was about to close. I sighed and shoved the stack together, gathered up my stuff—laptop, shoulder bag, still-damp umbrella—and set about replacing the books on the shelves. I'd just finished that and was about to walk out when I happened to notice a couple of shelves set aside for the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography .
Dumping my stuff at my feet, I grabbed the “M” volume. There were a lot of Lord Montfords. There were a lot of Lord Hugh Montfords. The first Lord Hugh died on a Crusade, for Christ's sake! Bloody family had probably come over with William the Conqueror.
Ah, there was one that looked likely:
Montford, Lord Hugh (1881—1962) …lots of abbreviations of titles, decorations, and clubs… Lieutenant, Army Signal Corps 1914—1920, s. France, Bulgaria, Russia …honourable discharge 1921, mentioned in dispatches (twice)… Major, Home Guard, 1940—1945 …business interests…
My eye skipped to the foot of the entry:
m. Katerina Koblyakova (b. 1882, Krasnod, Russ., d. 1965) 1900, two sons (Hugh, 1902-1940; Edward, 1904-1944), one daughter (Eugenie, 1915-)
At this point I said “Fu-u-uck!!” so loudly that I was pointed to the door two minutes before the library closed.
The rain had stopped. The evening was still not dark. The street lights had come on. It was Friday. I had a party to go to. I should have felt jaunty. In circumstances like these I've been known to skip.
Not this time. I trudged on wet slippery pavement past Greyfriars Bobby and the art shops and charity shops and the building with the Digital Damage office on its second floor, and hesitated a moment before turning right into Lauriston Place. The avenue to the Meadows stretched off gloomily into the distance. Across the way a young guy crouched in the lee of the coffee kiosk with an upturned hat at his feet and nobody walking past him.
Feeling sorry for him, I did my bit for the poor by buying a copy of the Big Issue from a pathetically young and pretty girl in a headscarf and long skirt who'd stood in the rain outside the post office all day. She smiled and thanked me. I hurried on.
I glanced to the left at the bright lights of the Doctors', the pub on the corner, and considered nipping across and diving in. But the lads would be long gone and I had a party to go to.
I felt thoroughly rattled. My hand strayed a couple of times to the latch of my bag. Each time, I was within a second of digging out my mobile and speed-dialling Amanda. It would be expensive, but it would wake her up and serve her right. How dare she never mention once in our entire lives that our family's connection with Krassnia went back a generation further than she—or Great-Grandma Eugenie, come to think of it—had ever let on?
It was at that moment, I think, right on that corner, that all my connections with Krassnia—from my birth there, through to the scariest day of my life, and Amanda's admissions and shortly afterward Eugenie's confession that Saturday evening in Boston, and the old photo and the game and the book that had subconsciously inspired it, and my guesses as to what the game was for,
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