Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope (2 page)

S
OME TWELVE YEARS LATER
. B
IGTOE
S
QUARE
. L
ONDON
. Oksa squeezed between the removal boxes to reach the window of her room. She raised the blind and pressed her nose against the cold glass. The square was filled with activity that morning, and she watched the comings and goings for a moment with a doubtful expression, then gave a deep sigh.

“Bigtoe Square… I’ll just have to get used to it,” she murmured, a faraway look in her slate-grey eyes.

The Pollock family—first, second and third generations—had left Paris for London a few days earlier on what appeared to be a sudden whim by Pavel Pollock. After hours of secret meetings which had been off-limits to Oksa, her father had made a formal announcement with his customary solemnity: for the past ten years, he’d held the coveted job of head chef in a renowned restaurant, but now at long last he had the opportunity to open his own restaurant. In London. This small detail had been added so casually that Oksa had suddenly wondered whether she’d heard correctly.

“You mean… London… England?” she’d asked after pausing for a few seconds.

Her father had nodded with obvious satisfaction and, at the sight of her stunned expression, had added immediately that, of course, if his wife and daughter didn’t want to move, he’d respect their decision, even though it was a dream opportunity.

“This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance for me!” he’d stressed.

Marie Pollock hadn’t taken long to think about it: her husband had been very jumpy of late and she’d told herself that a complete change of scene would do the whole family good. As for Oksa, did she really have a say in any of this? Although she was almost thirteen, the important decisions were out of her hands. She didn’t want to leave Paris, even less France. But she’d get used to it. The main thing was that her gran and her best friend were coming with them. After all, there was no way she could live without Dragomira—her Baba!—and Gus.

After absent-mindedly watching the traffic driving around the square, Oksa turned away from the window. Hands on hips, she looked around and gave a long whistle.

“What a mess! It’ll take months to unpack everything! Such a hassle.”

In every room, umpteen boxes took up what little space wasn’t already occupied by furniture. Although there was less room here than in their Paris apartment, the Pollocks had been incredibly lucky to find a typically English red-brick Victorian house, with steps leading up from street level to the front door, a bow window and a tiny garden enclosed by wrought-iron railings through which you could glimpse the basement windows. The ground floor and first floor were occupied by Oksa and her parents and the second by her gran, Dragomira, who’d lived with them for as long as Oksa could remember. She looked up at the ceiling.

“What on earth is Baba doing?” she wondered, running her fingers through her chestnut hair. “
It sounds like she’s skipping or something! Anyway, I should probably start getting ready if I don’t want to be late
,” she thought with a start, heading for the wardrobe. Being late on her first day at school would be all she needed!

The scene upstairs where Dragomira had her apartment was much more unusual. The baroque living room, hung with lustrous bronze drapes, was in total chaos. This was the work of the mischievous magical creatures which seemed to be vying with each other to see who could make the most mess. Two tiny golden birds were lending a helping hand; after a few joyful test flights around the crystal chandelier, they were tormenting what looked like a large, frizzy-haired potato as it ambled over the crimson wool carpet, dive-bombing the creature as if they were fighter planes.

“Down with the dictatorship of the gastropods!” chanted the tiny birds. “It’s time to stop living under the yoke! We must play our part in the struggle against mollusc imperialism, my friends!”

“Hey, I might be a little short in the legs, but I’m no mollusc, I’m a Getorix! And I have fabulous hair,” it replied, puffing out its little chest and tossing its hair back to one side.

“Bombs awaaaay! Long live the liberation of oppressed nations!” shouted the birds in reply.

With these fighting words, they dropped their missiles: ten or so sunflower seeds, which bounced off the back of the Getorix.

“Talk about the oppressed,” it grumbled, picking up the seeds and munching them.

The plants, easily upset by this commotion, were wailing and writhing frantically in their pots. One of them, which was perched on an antique gold pedestal table and seemed more nervous than the others, appeared to be trembling and all its leaves were drooping.

“THAT WILL DO!” yelled Dragomira. “Look how stressed the Goranov is now.” The old lady gathered up the folds of her purple velvet dress and knelt on the floor. The terrified plant was sighing pathetically and she massaged its leaves, humming a soft tune. “If you go on like this,” she continued, eyeing the troublemakers severely, “I’ll have to send you all to stay with my brother. And you know what that would mean: a very long journey!”

These words had the immediate effect of silencing the creatures and plants. They had very bad memories of their last journey, when Dragomira had suddenly embarked on what they’d regarded as a totally ridiculous move. None of them could bear any kind of transport. Trains, boats, planes, cars—they were all demonic inventions designed to upset your stomach and make you feel sick. The birds had thrown up for almost the entire journey and the plants had nearly been poisoned by their own chlorophyll, which had curdled like off milk.

“Come on, everyone into the workroom!” ordered Dragomira. “I have to go out—my granddaughter is going to school today. Come, my Lunatrixes, I could do with some help, please.”

Two eccentric creatures in blue dungarees hobbled in as fast as they could. One was plump with a downy head and the other was spindly with a lemon-yellow tuft of hair but they shared certain distinctive features: they were short—two and a half feet tall—with pudgy faces and huge blue eyes full of kindness.

“The orders given by Your Graciousness are an everlasting pleasure. You can be assured of our support and our loyalty,” they said gravely.

Dragomira went over to the huge double-bass case leaning upright against the wall at the far end of the room and opened it. There was nothing inside. She placed her palm flat against the wooden back, murmured a few mysterious-sounding words and the back of the case immediately opened like a door. Dragomira bent down and walked in to reach a spiral staircase which led to her attic and workroom. Obediently following her, the two Lunatrixes each picked up a plant and led the way for the other creatures, which also entered the strange passageway. When everyone was in the workroom, Dragomira went back out through the case and closed it carefully behind her.

“H
I
D
AD
,
HI
M
UM
!”

Marie and Pavel Pollock were sitting at the table in the functional kitchen. When they heard their daughter come in, they both looked up from their steaming cups of tea at the same time and stared at her in amazement.

“Yes, I know,” sighed Oksa. “I’m unrecognizable.”

“Well… yes, you are, apart from your adorable little face,” said her father, looking at her with curiosity. “It’s hard to believe that this is the intrepid ninja warrior I know and love, although I must admit the change of style is delightful. Drastic, but delightful.”

“It’s certainly drastic, you can say that again,” muttered Oksa.

Her parents couldn’t help chuckling at her irritated expression. She looked at them reproachfully and snapped: “My life has been turned upside down and you think it’s funny? Have you seen
how ridiculous I look
!”

“You look like a real English schoolgirl,” replied her mum lightly, sipping her tea. “And, to my mind, it really suits you!”

Oksa gazed down at herself again doubtfully and grunted. Who’d have thought that she’d ever be caught wearing a pleated skirt, a white blouse and a blazer
in
public
? Certainly not her.

“If I’d been told that I’d have to wear a school uniform, I’d have refused to come to England,” she muttered, crossly loosening the green and black tie displaying her new school colours.

“Oh, please, Oksa,” sighed her mum, studying her with attractive hazel eyes. “It’s just for school. You can wear your jeans and clumpy trainers outside as much as you like.”

“Fine!” said Oksa, resigned, throwing both hands up in the air. “I won’t say another word. But I’ll never forget that you sacrificed me on the altar of your career. And for parents who claim they love their only daughter, that’s pretty low. Don’t complain if I end up suffering from serious psychological after-effects.”

Her parents smiled at each other, well accustomed to Oksa’s fiery outbursts. Marie Pollock stood up, put her arms around her daughter and they stood there for a long moment, hugging tightly. Although Oksa thought she was a bit too old for demonstrations of affection, deep down she had to admit she really enjoyed hugs like this, so she happily buried her face in her mum’s mane of chestnut hair.

“What about me?” Pavel Pollock butted in, pretending to be put out. “No one cares about me. They never have. No one ever gives me a big kiss on my lovely unshaven cheek. No one cuddles me. I’m left all alone in my corner, like a sad, smelly dog!”

Her father’s pronounced features always wore a solemn expression. His ash-grey hair and grey eyes made him look a little less dejected, but those who knew him well knew that his worries ran deep. Even his smile seemed sad. Marie Pollock summed up her husband’s charms perfectly when she affectionately referred to his strangely appealing whipped-dog expression. To which he’d usually reply, “That’s what shouldering life’s painful burden has done to me,” revealing his biggest asset—a robust sense of humour, inherited from his mother Dragomira, which he employed all the time, although no one knew whether he did it in jest or out of desperation.

“Oh! The great Russian tragedian, Pavel Pollock, is making a
come-back
,” joked Oksa’s mum with a merry laugh. “Aren’t I lucky to have you two around!”

Oksa looked affectionately at her parents. She loved their witty repartee, which both touched and amused her. The alarm on Pavel’s
mobile broke in, noisily announcing that it was 7.30 a.m. Time to go.

“Baba, we’re just waiting for you now,” Oksa shouted up the stairs leading to the third floor of the house.

Dragomira Pollock came out onto the landing, immediately prompting cries of admiration. This remarkably imposing woman was respectfully called Baba Pollock by her immediate circle. She had a very straight, almost stiff bearing, but her face, far from being haughty, was always animated, and her piercing dark-blue eyes were enhanced by flushed cheeks and a broad forehead. Her blonde hair, threaded with silver and braided around her head, added a subtle Slavic touch to her arresting appearance. Yet this morning it was not these qualities that sent her family into raptures but her outfit, which was stunning.

“I’m ready, my darlings!” she said, walking downstairs regally. Her long purple dress was patterned with hinds embroidered in black pearls, and it floated around her like the petals of a flower.

“Wow, Baba, you look amazing!” exclaimed Oksa in delight, throwing herself into her arms and giving her a hug.

In her enthusiasm she didn’t pay any attention to the happy cries coming from Dragomira’s earrings. Intricately worked in the shape of perches, they carried two tiny golden birds, about an inch high, who were swinging on them and whispering shrilly about their feats as fighter pilots.

“Oh! I forgot something… give me a minute, I’ll be right back.”

As soon as she said this, Dragomira turned round and ran back upstairs to her apartment, double-locking the door behind her.