The Dragonfly Pool (15 page)

He turned, startled, as the door suddenly opened. Someone had come in with a firm stride and without knocking.

In a second Karil had run forward to embrace his father. He had come to say good night after all, and at once the world seemed to be a different place.

The king did not ask his son whether he had had a good day. He knew full well about Karil's day; he had had so many days of his own like that when he was a boy. Days when he felt trapped and weary and wanted nothing except to escape into the hills and never return.

“When this crisis is over we'll go out together, you and I, and hide,” he said, “and they can look for us as much as they want.”

Karil nodded. “Can we go to the dragonfly pool?” he asked. “It's the right time of year.”

“Yes. That's where we'll go.”

For a moment the king stood looking down at his son. The dragonfly pool belonged to his own childhood, before he was weighed down by duties. To the days when he had had a friend to share adventures with. The friend had betrayed him in the end, but the memory of those days still warmed his heart.

After the king had left, Karil stood by the window, looking down at the tents in the park below. Perhaps he would not always be cut off from real people and real life. Perhaps he would get to know the children who were coming. Those few moments with his father had given him courage and hope.

T
he Deldertonians came by train through one of the longest tunnels in Europe and suddenly they were in a valley that seemed to be a kind of garden because everywhere there were flowers—in the window boxes of the little houses, trailing around lampposts, hanging down from verandas. Yet when one looked upward, leaning out of the windows of the train, there were the mountains, cold and majestic and very, very high.

For Tally it was as though the newsreel she had seen in the cinema had burst into color and life. She had wanted to come to Bergania because of the bravery of the king and his people, but now she was just glad to be there, in a country she had never dreamed of seeing.

“Make sure you leave nothing behind,” said Magda—and Tally and Julia exchanged glances, for it was Magda who left things behind: her handbag when they changed trains in northern France, her scarf on the boat. As long as she had her briefcase with her notes on Schopenhauer in it, she felt herself fully dressed.

The children scrambled for their belongings. Kit had sat on a tomato sandwich and Julia dabbed at him with a paper napkin. Verity was tossing out her hair—it had to be untidy in just the right way and this took time. Matteo was out in the corridor. Whenever Tally woke in the night he had been standing there with his back to the crowded compartment, looking out at the landscape.

The children from Delderton had three compartments in the front of the train. Then came the group from Germany—well-behaved, good-looking children in dark blue shorts and spotless white shirts. In the second carriage were the Swedes and the French; then came the Italians, the Norwegians, the Spaniards . . . They had all just begun to make friends at Innsbruck, where the train had halted for a couple of hours.

The station came in sight, its pillars wreathed in roses. As the children got out they were greeted by a blast of music.

“My goodness, they've sent a band to welcome us,” said Barney.

At the end of the platform stood a distinguished-looking man with long silver hair, wearing a loden jacket, flanked by two officials with badges and golden chains.

“A reception committee,” said Borro. “Well, well. They must think we're important.”

“We are important,” said Tally firmly. “We're here because of goodwill between nations and all that.”

All along the train, children tumbled out on to the platform and re-formed in a line beside their teachers. The Delderton children, who were not used to standing in line, stayed in a huddle, blinking in the warm sunshine.

The band, which had played various national anthems, broke into “God Save the King.” Then the distinguished gentleman with the long gray hair, flanked by the mayor and his aldermen, came down the platform, greeting each group, shaking hands. It was the minister of culture, Prince Karil's uncle Fritz, who had come in person to welcome them.

When he reached the Deldertonians he spoke to them in perfect English.

“We are particularly glad to welcome you to Bergania,” he said, “because as you may know our beloved queen came from your country. The links between Bergania and Britain have always been strong.”

Everyone looked around for Matteo, expecting him to reply, but he had vanished and Magda was silent, overcome by shyness. But the minister had seen the book under her arm and reached out for it.

“Ah, Schopenhauer,” he said. “You are interested in his work?”

Magda blushed. “I am writing a thesis on his stylistic influences,” she said.

“How interesting. I myself have always been fascinated by his views on Reason and the Will, but alas there is so little time to pursue such things.” He pulled himself up. “Now here is the program for the week,” he said, handing Magda a brochure. “There will be two days to rest and to see our beautiful country. Then on Monday the festival will be opened officially and the dancing will begin. We have buses ready to take you to your camp, and tonight there will be dinner at the Blue Ox. Here you have a map of the city, a timetable, and a list of excursions.”

It was only as they were making their way to the buses waiting in the station forecourt that Matteo came to join them.

“Where have you been?” asked Barney. “You were supposed to greet the minister.”

Matteo gestured to a clump of aspens on the embankment.

“The perfect habitat for the poplar moth. I saw one as long as my thumb.”

The children did not ask if he had brought it back. Matteo never killed the butterflies he found . . .

The field in which the dancers' bell tents had been pitched was a pleasant place—by the side of the river and adjoining the park with its bandstand and pavilion and its pool full of carp. At the far end of the park, the ground sloped upward toward the hill where the palace stood. Behind the palace—as everywhere in Bergania—one could see the mountain peaks.

Each group of dancers had been given two tents, and there was a flag on top of the tent poles to show which nationality they belonged to. The British were in the tents next to the bridge which crossed the river on to the promenade and into the town. Beside them were the Germans, with the other nationalities strung out along the bank. There was a washhouse and toilet block shared by all the groups. The Yugoslavs, who had arrived earlier on a bus from the south, were already busy splashing and showering and singing, while their teachers, two large and cheerful ladies, were rinsing their feet in the sinks meant for washing up.

A wooden platform had been erected close by so that the visitors could practice their dances, but the actual festival would be held in the town's main square. Fortunately Matteo had stopped chasing butterflies and looking at the view, and in a short time the sleeping bags were arranged in the two tents, with Magda and the girls in one, and Matteo and the boys, with the boxes of costumes, in the other, and it was time to cross the bridge and make their way to the Blue Ox for supper.

The Blue Ox was on the promenade: an old-fashioned hotel and inn which was the favorite gathering place for the people of the town. It had a big terrace overlooking the river, and tables with red-and-white checked tablecloths were set out under a chestnut tree. Inside, everything was very large and very solid and made of wood. The benches gleamed with polish, there were stands with salted pretzels on the tables, and the walls were covered in antlers and the stuffed heads of mountain goats.

The landlord, Herr Keller, was the kind of man one would expect an innkeeper to be: genial and burly with a big stomach and a loud laugh.

It was clear that he was a staunch royalist, because for every pair of antlers or stuffed goat, there was a portrait of the king. Johannes III was pictured with whiskers and before he had grown them. He was pictured on horseback and at the head of a procession and just standing very straight in his uniform with his decorations on his chest. There were a number of pictures, too, of Queen Alice but these were draped in black crepe and had been for the last eight years, since she died.

Herr Keller spoke a little English and, with Magda translating, the children were made acquainted with the history of the Royal House of Bergania.

“What about the prince?” asked Tally. “Aren't there any pictures of him?”

Herr Keller frowned and said that His Highness hated to be photographed.

“Why?” asked Verity. “Is there something wrong with him?”

“Certainly not,” said Herr Keller, offended. “He is a very nice-looking boy. I can show you a picture in the smoking room.”

But the picture was of a very small boy in a sailor suit, his face hidden by an enormous sun hat.

He led them into the dining room, where the other children were already sitting.

The food was delicious, and the waitresses were very helpful about bringing a plate of boiled rice for Augusta Carrington. Only the head waitress, a middle-aged woman with ginger hair and a square, plain face, behaved oddly; they caught her again and again staring at Matteo and it was not till he glared at her angrily that she stopped.

“Perhaps she just wanted you for a friend,” suggested Tally, who was sitting next to him, but then he turned and glared at her instead. Well, he can suit himself, thought Tally as she helped herself to a gigantic pancake oozing with apricot jam.

When the Deldertonians returned to the camp, the German children were already in their tents, their belongings stacked neatly outside. From inside their tent came the sound of an old Bavarian folk song sung in perfect harmony.

“Why are they so good at everything?” said Julia irritably. “If they weren't so nice one would be really annoyed.”

But the German children were nice: friendly and helpful and kind. They could not have been less like those Hitler Youth Corps one saw on the newsreels, saluting and stamping and marching about.

“Right, it's time for bed,” said Matteo.

One by one they crawled into their sleeping bags. Magda and Matteo stayed up a while, talking very quietly, but at last all the tents were silent.

Tally fell asleep at once, but two hours later Verity turned over in her sleep and kicked her. The soles of Verity's feet were very hard from walking barefoot even in Paddington Station, and Tally was jerked into instant wakefulness. She tried to go back to sleep again but she was overtired; images from the journey kept running through her brain, and presently she gave up the attempt.