In Armenia, servants had done everything for them. ‘Are you all right?’ She looked rather strained, he thought.
‘Something’s happened, I’ll tell you later.’ Her eyes flickered towards Anne, who was attempting to uncork the wine.
Levon’s stomach lurched. ‘Does it mean we might lose her?’ he enquired in their old language.
‘No, and please speak English, Lev,’ Tamara whispered, ‘otherwise you’ll frighten her.’
Neither could understand why Anne’s face froze and she ran from the room when sometimes, inadvertently, they addressed each other in a foreign tongue. Perhaps she felt shut out or scared by something she didn’t understand.
‘Lev will see to the wine, darling,’ she said. He saw that Anne’s efforts were taking pieces out of the cork. ‘You set the table. I’ve nearly finished the salad.’
They ate in the small dining room, the sinking sun illuminating the room like a stage set. It was a cheerful meal, gay and full of laughter, so different from the meals eaten in the same room before Anne had arrived to bless their lives with her vivid smile and delightful presence.
It was three months since he’d found her and he found it unbelievable how quickly she’d settled in. Within the space of a day or two, she had begun to talk in a strong Irish accent, not about the past, but the present. She seemed to accept him and Tamara without question, calling them by their first names, as if she’d known them all her life. Levon realized that her brain wasn’t wholly sound: no normal girl would behave the way she did.
Tamara thought she was hiding from something. ‘What?’ Levon had asked.
‘How should I know, Lev? She shows no sign of being homesick: she isn’t missing anybody. She never talks about her past, yet she must have one. I think she feels safe with us: she knows we’ll never harm her.’
Tamara was a new woman nowadays. She taught Anne the songs she’d sung at weddings back in Armenia, translating the words, bought her clothes, ornaments, ribbons for her long hair, purses, and pretty shoes. And she bought clothes for herself: lacy blouses and skirts, not as short as the latest fashion - Tamara wouldn’t dream of showing her knees - a hat made entirely of pink velvet petals to frame the aristocratic face that now seemed miraculously free of careworn lines.
Anne had been there barely a fortnight when she’d asked for a drawing pad and pencil. Tamara, always willing to indulge her every whim, rushed out and bought them. When he came home, she showed him the drawing Anne had done: a small grinning boy in a nightshirt with a candleholder in his hand.
‘She said his name is Aidan.’ They had studied the drawing, not speaking. ‘It might be her brother,’ Tamara had said eventually.
‘I wonder if he’s missing his sister?’ For the first time, Levon felt a sense of guilt. It had been rash and utterly irresponsible to virtually kidnap the girl off the streets. He’d told himself he was rescuing her from the people who’d been careless enough to put her in a taxi to be delivered like a parcel to an address where no one was in. He couldn’t have just left her there to wait for someone who might never come. That would have been even more irresponsible.
The day after the drawing, he’d said nothing to Tamara, but had taken it with him when he went to collect the taxi from the depot, written a message on the back, and put it through the letterbox of 88 Bleecker Street. If someone were worried, it would reassure them that Anne was safe.
Since then, she’d drawn more pictures: another boy older than the first whose name was Thaddy; a sad-eyed girl called Mollie; a young man named Finn; a woman of about Tamara’s age who appeared to be seated on a cloud. Tamara, who seemed attuned to the girl’s every mood, deduced that this was her mother and she was dead. ‘The cloud means she’s in heaven,’ she explained.
One morning, she’d taken Anne to Mulberry Street
‘Something’s happened, I’ll tell you later.’ Her eyes flickered towards Anne, who was attempting to uncork the wine.
Levon’s stomach lurched. ‘Does it mean we might lose her?’ he enquired in their old language.
‘No, and please speak English, Lev,’ Tamara whispered, ‘otherwise you’ll frighten her.’
Neither could understand why Anne’s face froze and she ran from the room when sometimes, inadvertently, they addressed each other in a foreign tongue. Perhaps she felt shut out or scared by something she didn’t understand.
‘Lev will see to the wine, darling,’ she said. He saw that Anne’s efforts were taking pieces out of the cork. ‘You set the table. I’ve nearly finished the salad.’
They ate in the small dining room, the sinking sun illuminating the room like a stage set. It was a cheerful meal, gay and full of laughter, so different from the meals eaten in the same room before Anne had arrived to bless their lives with her vivid smile and delightful presence.
It was three months since he’d found her and he found it unbelievable how quickly she’d settled in. Within the space of a day or two, she had begun to talk in a strong Irish accent, not about the past, but the present. She seemed to accept him and Tamara without question, calling them by their first names, as if she’d known them all her life. Levon realized that her brain wasn’t wholly sound: no normal girl would behave the way she did.
Tamara thought she was hiding from something. ‘What?’ Levon had asked.
‘How should I know, Lev? She shows no sign of being homesick: she isn’t missing anybody. She never talks about her past, yet she must have one. I think she feels safe with us: she knows we’ll never harm her.’
Tamara was a new woman nowadays. She taught Anne the songs she’d sung at weddings back in Armenia, translating the words, bought her clothes, ornaments, ribbons for her long hair, purses, and pretty shoes. And she bought clothes for herself: lacy blouses and skirts, not as short as the latest fashion - Tamara wouldn’t dream of showing her knees - a hat made entirely of pink velvet petals to frame the aristocratic face that now seemed miraculously free of careworn lines.
Anne had been there barely a fortnight when she’d asked for a drawing pad and pencil. Tamara, always willing to indulge her every whim, rushed out and bought them. When he came home, she showed him the drawing Anne had done: a small grinning boy in a nightshirt with a candleholder in his hand.
‘She said his name is Aidan.’ They had studied the drawing, not speaking. ‘It might be her brother,’ Tamara had said eventually.
‘I wonder if he’s missing his sister?’ For the first time, Levon felt a sense of guilt. It had been rash and utterly irresponsible to virtually kidnap the girl off the streets. He’d told himself he was rescuing her from the people who’d been careless enough to put her in a taxi to be delivered like a parcel to an address where no one was in. He couldn’t have just left her there to wait for someone who might never come. That would have been even more irresponsible.
The day after the drawing, he’d said nothing to Tamara, but had taken it with him when he went to collect the taxi from the depot, written a message on the back, and put it through the letterbox of 88 Bleecker Street. If someone were worried, it would reassure them that Anne was safe.
Since then, she’d drawn more pictures: another boy older than the first whose name was Thaddy; a sad-eyed girl called Mollie; a young man named Finn; a woman of about Tamara’s age who appeared to be seated on a cloud. Tamara, who seemed attuned to the girl’s every mood, deduced that this was her mother and she was dead. ‘The cloud means she’s in heaven,’ she explained.
One morning, she’d taken Anne to Mulberry Street
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