Russian Reckoning

Prologue: Then

She stood clutching a battered blue passport and a crisp new airline ticket, watching Aeroflot 649, destination London Heathrow, taxi to a halt.

“Stop blubbing will you? Everyone is staring.”

Indeed, several British expats nervously patrolling the airport lounge hoping to flee potential civil war, were gawking although most turned from her fraught gaze in that apparently unconcerned British way. Not that she cared. With a Russian doll cradled in her pocket and a heart full of sorrow, her dreams were shattered. She’d gambled and lost. There was nothing left for her here. She let the tall, pinstriped man shuffle her closer to the glare of the Russian ticket agent, closer to the aeroplane which she had been informed was her ‘last chance’.

“Maybe if I could just—”

“Julia, I cannot and will not be responsible for you staying in Moscow a day longer.”

Yesterday, after falling into Kevin’s embassy official arms, he’d been kind. Today he was Sergeant-Major. When she’d woken, groggy from a drug-induced sleep, sore in all the places a girl never wants to be, his exaggerated Oxbridge tones had insisted she take the plane ticket and leave this very morning.

“Are you sure he didn’t come to the embassy?”

Kevin glowered. “What did you expect? I warned you about these Russian boys. They’re only after one thing. He never loved you, no matter what he said.”

Biting her lip, she struggled past the ticket clerk to seat 43B, where, sandwiched between a bellicose gentleman and a rotund embassy wife, the four-hour flight back to England passed in the blink of a tearful eye.

Chapter 1: Mia in Noosa (Christmas 2019)

If there is one thing Mia hates, it’s the lack of noise. The plush carpets and homogeneously white walls of her holiday villa consume the minutest of sounds. Even the water lapping against the jetty is stilled, the cries of curlews and cormorants mute against the thundering silence of betrayal.

The massive door to the two-storey property sweeps shut behind her and, throwing the key as usual between the trailing fronds of the potted philodendron, she sets off at an ambitious trot towards Main Beach and the National Park. A hundred metres later, she turns and jogs back.

After a glance over her shoulder and a scramble in the dirt, she hides the key under the crossed legs of the stone Buddha. It might be silly but … you can never be too careful with abandoned fiancés. She jogs again, regretting the last hedonistic six months with the investment banker from whom she’d accepted a ring.

It’s a glorious summer morning in Noosa – a beautiful holiday town on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast famous for its protected north-facing beach (Main Beach), strip of fabulous shops and restaurants (Hastings Street), lush National Park and acres of luxurious properties bordering miles of both natural and manmade waterways. However, anger rather than appreciation propel her along the path. Anger at HIM of course but also at herself for allowing a career-minded and successful ex-pat lawyer to get side-tracked by a man. She should know better. She has time for only one man in her life and that is Dad.

She’ll call Dad after the run. She hasn’t spoken to him since IT happened – odd actually, as they normally text and talk all the time. His breezy attitude to life and self-belief will cheer her up. Hopefully Mum won’t answer. Not that there’ll be too much risk of that: she’ll be too caught up with her masters in Russian studies to even notice the phone.

After four kilometres, obstinate muscles screaming, Mia slows to a walk on Hastings Street. The pavements bustle with early joggers, swimmers—even cyclists back from a pedal—she still has to pinch her northern hemisphere self that this is the week before Christmas and not the middle of July. If it’s early morning here then it’s late night back in England. Ten hours’ time difference, according to the iPhone. Damn, no time to go back to the privacy of the villa. She’ll have to make the call from here to catch the man she yearns to talk to before he goes to bed.

Biting her lip hard against the angst of sitting single in a café, something she rarely does without a laptop for company, she wanders between laughing, lycra-ed people bemoaning the loss of her bravado. Two years ago, she could swagger into Sydney airport flashing her newly acquired work visa ready to take on the world. Now a tall, loud and confident bronzed Australian male has stolen her ability to order a latte. It might be easier not to call home at all and just walk back to her rented villa.

A large café halfway up Hastings Street, shelves loaded with colourful mugs and plates piled high with Danish pastries sends the rich aroma of roast coffee across tables spilling into the neighbouring square. Waitresses march in and out of the kitchen carrying plates loaded with scrambled eggs. Couples chat and gossip. No one appears to notice her. Large enough, impersonal enough and busy enough for her to fade into the background, this café is perfect. Deep breaths evoke her former chutzpah and she sits at an empty round table, its plastic legs moulded in the ornate style of a Parisian café.

“Can I help?”

Startled, Mia searches for a smile for a waitress who, black shorts halfway up her pert crotch, blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears, looks like THE SKIRT. A response far too curt for such a beautiful day pops out. “Latte. And a croissant … please.”

“Are you expecting anyone?”

“No. It’s just … me.”

As the waitress leans over to remove the spare cutlery, memories slam back into focus … another pert bottom, blonde ponytail swinging … Mia shudders, grabs her phone, wipes the screen dry on the linen napkin and scrolls hoping to replace the images in her head with those on the screen. Anything to take her mind off the events of a few days ago. She leans back on her chair, thumbing mindlessly until the coffee arrives, relishing the Instagram-sized space created within the clutter of her mind.

A beep. She jumps. A text message. She should have switched off notifications but she’s not yet thought through all the ways to protect herself from HIM. At the top of the screen; ‘I’m sorry, I fucked up. Please come back’.

How does he do it? Eight hundred kilometres away in Sydney, he still screws with her mind. She stabs the screen and bingo, his number is blocked. Now he can’t ruin her escape anymore.

Her phone beeps again. Must be someone else. They can wait. She sinks her teeth into the crisp croissant and sips the creamy, sweet latte letting caffeine lift her mood before calling. She mustn’t miss the opportunity to hear a nice friendly voice.

Glancing at the phone—the pink pansy home screen photo so much better than HIM on the Harbour Bridge—she can’t help but see the long number heading the notification. International. Not Dad’s but still +44. And vaguely familiar.

‘How are you? Love to chat before Christmas.’

Wow. Mum’s not one for messaging. Mia can count on the fingers of both hands the number of text messages received from Mum in the last six months. They’re not close, not like the kind of mother-daughter relationships Mia reads about in books, the kind she secretly craves.

Holding the phone away from her, Mia looks around, not seeing the scurrying waitresses; not feeling the bright sunshine heating her bare shoulders but conjuring an image of the woman who ignored school sports day and preferred the company of Tolstoy to helping Mia with her English homework. The best she can expect from Mum, who often comes across as a distant, though related, adult colleague, is a cool, efficient fact-finding cross-examination.

She reads the text aloud checking she hasn’t misread. ‘How are you? Love to chat before Christmas.’ These are the first words she’s uttered in twenty-four hours and her squeak brings on a new wave of loneliness.

Mum has no idea Mia is alone in Noosa. Why would she text out of the blue and particularly this late on an English evening? And why hasn’t Dad texted? She’ll call now and hope he’s there. Mia’s fingers poise over the phone keypad. This could be a disappointment if Mum answers but she needs to chat to someone so even Mum might not be so bad right now. She dials quickly before second guessing herself.

“Hello, Sotherby residence.”

It’s a female voice. Not as plummy as Dad’s, the northerly accent still dominant despite years of living south of Watford. Despite her resolution, Mia’s heart tumbles and her greeting sounds flat. “Mum – it’s Mia.”

“Mia! I’d hoped you’d call. How’s the land down under?”

Mia grits her teeth. Normal Mum is difficult enough, but what’s with today’s forced breeziness? “Fine.”

“And that spunk of a fiancé? He looks rather handsome judging from that photo you sent.”

“He’s not here.” Horror, tears loitering behind her eyelashes escape down her cheeks and drip onto the fresh white tablecloth.

Mum hesitates until a break between sobs. “Whatever happened?”

“Nothing. Where’s Dad?”

A pause and then, “Dad’s not here. But ¼ you can talk to me. I know it’s not as easy between us as it is with you and Dad. But I’m here for you. Always and about anything. You know that, don’t you Mia?”

A door opens which Mia needs to pass through. She wants to talk to Mum because not telling anyone is killing her. Leaning forward, hands supporting her head, she stares straight down so no one can see her crying. “Ten days ago, the last Friday before the City shut down for Christmas, I’d been working from home so I got on a ferry to surprise Pete in his office.”

Mum grunts, like she’s saying she’s listening although thousands of miles away. She will be perched on the armchair next to the phone, ruffling the ears of a dog lunged across her lap. Mia goes gooey inside, like she’s the one getting stroked.

Taking a deep breath, she continues. “The ferry stops just next to the Opera House, you know?” She doesn’t wait for a grunt but charges on. “Everyone’s outside drinking – like London, Mum, on a sunny summer day. Sydney’s like that most days in December.”

Mum chuckles. Mia is padding the story but Mum sensibly doesn’t hurry her.

“Anyway, there’s a particularly noisy table where a big crowd is partying; men with shirts open down to their navels, girls lolling in skirts you can barely see. And one couple caressing, just metres from my boat.” She buries her face in her hands, embarrassed because the images still haunt her.

Ploughing on. “It was Pete. He had his hand up some floozy’s shirt and his tongue down her throat.” The tears drip. “He’s engaged to me. How dare he? I’m such a dork.”

“Bastard.”

Swearing is not a typical Mum response. It dries the tears and Mia sits a little straighter. “So I packed my bags and took the next flight up here. We already had the house booked ‘coz Pete and I were supposed to be coming the next day together anyway.”

“Here?”

“Noosa. It’s in Queensland. But he keeps texting me saying it was just a Christmas cock-up. Yada yada yada.”

“You should block him on your phone.”

Despite her misery, Mia snorts. “Mum, you sound so ‘with it’!”

“I’ll have you know I’m a proficient iPhone user. I even have a Facebook profile!”

Is Mum lightening the mood, poking fun at herself to allow Mia time to get it together? Mia had no idea she was even capable. “Are you having a fifty-plus life crisis?”

Mum chuckles again but says nothing.

“Trouble is Mum, now I’m in Noosa I’m lonely.”

“Will you be there for Christmas – on your own?”

Mia sinks her head further into her hands, the mobile squishing up against her ear. She craves more of the sympathy, and Mum’s switch back to her normal business-like interrogation grates. “Of course I’ll be here, alone.”

“OK, I’ll come and join you.” Pause. “If you’ll have me?”

“Join me?” It sounds like the wail of tyres on the smooth concrete of a multi-storey carpark.

“Yes. You can’t spend Christmas on your own. Anyway, no Brit passes up the opportunity for some winter sun. If I get a ticket tomorrow, I will be with you early Wednesday. I’ll text you the flight number and you can meet me at Brisbane airport.”

Why does Mum keeps saying ‘I’? “What about Dad?”

Pause. “Dad will stay home.”

“What?”

“Mia, I know you and I are not close, not as close as we should be at least, but this is an opportunity to fix that.” There’s a wobble in Mum’s voice.

Mia’s mind freezes. “What are you not telling me? Mum?”

There’s a long pause, so loud it drowns the clatter of coffee mugs, the chatter of people, the scrape of chair legs over the tarmac.

“Dad and I have separated.”

What the heck? Separated? And this is the first she’s heard of it? How dare they! “It’s a bit rich Mum, dropping it into the conversation like that.” The couple on the next table look her way and Mia cups her hand over her mouth.

“I know, I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to mention it till I’m with you but …”

“What happened?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a conversation that’s better had in person over a glass of wine. I’ll tell you when I get there ¼ if I’m still welcome.”

Mum is about to jump on a plane and fly to Australia to spend Christmas with her. What are they are going to talk about? It’s like a Great Aunt she’s only met once coming to visit for an unspecified length of time. It wouldn’t be so bad if Dad were coming, he’s always been the life of the party. But Mum, alone? Mind you, it might give her a chance to get to the bottom of this inexplicable separation. Sudden cold shock: is Mum getting in fast because Mia will have to choose sides? That would be a mistake, because if she has to do that it will be Dad. Though why didn’t he think to phone her and tell her himself? They usually talk about everything so why has he suddenly gone silent? Anger bubbles to the surface.

“You’re welcome but you’ve got a lot of explaining to do. I need to know everything, no secrets.”

“I agree, no more secrets. See you in Brisbane.”

Mia slams the phone onto the table. She’s not looking forward to time with Mum. Yet, maybe it’s just what she does need? It can’t be worse than being on her own and who knows, it might help them rebuild their own fractured relationship? Or at least be enough to find out what went wrong between Mum and Dad? And Mum has promised no more secrets. She’s going to hold her to that promise.

Chapter 2: Julia in Moscow (August 1991)

If there was one thing Julia hated, it was being glared at. A sturdy woman resplendent in military-esque uniform, eyes festooned in clownlike blue eyeshadow, glared at her, gaping palm like a greedy seagull. Julia swallowed. This female held the key to Julia experiencing the thrill of Moscow: a city shedding its cold war shroud encouraged by Gorbachev’s glasnostian caress.

Eyes lifting just enough to observe the frown wrinkling the Seagull’s tight features, Julia offered her British passport, its pages battered from the seven-day train journey on the Trans-Siberian Railway. Having left Beijing, the train, the passport and she had traversed the Mongolian ranges, edged the shores of the world’s largest freshwater lake, crawled the endless steppes of Siberia and climbed the Ural Mountains – arriving today in the hitherto mysterious capital city of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

“Proyezdnoy bilet?” snapped the woman, gripping Julia’s precious identification in one hand whilst digging the sharp index finger of her other into Julia’s shoulder.

Gasping, chest tight with worry, Julia searched for Debi.

“Your ticket, dopey!” Debi mouthed, clinging to Jonathan’s hand.

Cooped like pigeons in the tiny train cabin for seven days, Debi and she had become the tightest of buddies before Jonathan, a plump-faced ex-private school boy, had swept the voluptuous Debi off her feet. Now Julia was lucky if she could get a word in edgeways.

“Julia! Concentrate!”

“I am.”

“Give Olga your ticket and let’s get out of here.”

“It should be inside my passport, but it’s not.” The strangled words squeezed their way through gritted teeth. Tears throbbed ominously behind her eyelids, ready to add shame to the complex emotions—fear, betrayal and excitement to name a few—lurking beneath her faded suntan.

Julia dug in the pockets of her grubby shorts, finding only an old stick of gum. She patted her bumbag, hidden under the folds of her smelly t-shirt. Not there. What about the top pocket of her gigantic rucksack?

“You put it in your neck purse!” exclaimed Debi.

Julia’s hand flew to the soft threads of the woven purse hanging around her neck, purchased from a tiny Russian several stations ago (Yekaterinburg perhaps?) to help the scarecrow-thin girl buy dinner. Fishing inside … ancient pen for bartering … list of useless addresses … the wretched ticket. What a clutz!

“My ticket!” She smiled winningly at the blue eyeshadow. “Can I have it back for my scrapbook please?”

Olga stopped tapping her booted foot on the floor, rolled her eyes and jerked her thumb in the direction of the station concourse.

“That’s a no then.” Re-joining her friends, Julia made her own eye roll. “Close call, thought I was bound for the gulags, not Moscow.”

Jonathan, fixing her with one of his ‘how-could-you-be-so-dumb’ looks, hissed, “If I were you, I wouldn’t be mentioning the gulags here.”