This historical mini series was published in The Looker during November and December 2016.
From Russia to Lydd - Part One
A grave in Lydd is the unlikely inspiration for our latest mini series by Emma Batten. Couple this with an Andy Holyer painting of Larissa and Owen Tudor in Lydd Churchyard and we have the beginning of a fascinating story: A fictional account of a Russian who moved to Lydd, as seen through the eyes of those who knew her. Names have been changed as this comes from the author's imagination rather than an accurate historical representation of the story.
My story goes back to 1921 and a young woman I knew for a short time. She told me her name was Anna, or Tatiana, and maybe it was. We met on the stage as we were both dancers at a bar in my home city of Constantinople. Like many young women, we were doing what had to be done to survive in the years after the Great War. My fiancé was dead and my brothers too. Dancing in a bar paid far more than shop or domestic work; the army officers tipped well!
But, this is Anna's story. Who was she and where did she come from? She was tall and slim with beautiful auburn hair and huge grey eyes. Her demeanour was haughty at times, yet she danced and joked with the men, the same as the rest of us. These were days of rising at noon and working until the early hours of the morning. Twirling and flirting amidst the haze of tobacco smoke and sweetness of cocktails. She always had a cigarette holder in her slender hand, a feather in her short bobbed hair and a stylish dress that was a little shorter than was decent.
"Ceren, I'm in love," Anna told me one day with a nod of her head toward an army officer. He was English, of course. She always enticed them with her command of their language and seductive Russian accent. He was gorgeous: tall and lean in khaki. Over the next few weeks, I could see that he had eyes only for Anna and her dances were only for him.
"I'm seeing him outside work, away from the bar," she told me, her eyes shining. "He loves me!" as she inhaled nicotine frantically. Then after a few weeks: "We are to marry. I'm going to England. Can you believe it?"
I didn't believe it. An English officer and a Russian dancer? It would never be allowed. But it was! "He has spoken to the Major and they have news from London. We are to leave within the week!" Anna took my hand and screamed the news, then flopped down breathless on the stage. Her health was poor; she suffered from breathing difficulties, but never allowed it to hinder her zest for life.
She sat me down and in whispers told me a story I could hardly believe: She was the Grand Duchess Tatiana of Russia, daughter of the murdered Tsar. Hours before her intended assassination she had escaped with the help of a guard. Her eyes darkened and pale face showed her anguish as she told how she had dressed as a peasant – a peasant in rags but with a petticoat laden with jewels. She had travelled for weeks, begging for and stealing food, until arriving in Turkey. Here she had offered a jewel to a desperate family who gave her a home and a degree of respectability. I asked if Bertram, her love, knew of this. He did, of course, for it was her jewels that she would use as her passport to England and acceptance by the British Army. At that moment, as we perched on the edge of the stage, Anna placed a small ruby in my hand. "For your friendship," she said.
Over the next few days, Anna admitted that all was not well with Bertram and the British Army. They believed he was too young to marry; in fact it was not allowed until he was 28. But under the circumstances (well, not everyone could marry a princess) it had been agreed that the wedding could go ahead in London, but he would lose his rank and would serve in a place called Lydd. Anna was in love and she had her jewels to pay for any extra extravagances; she was blissfully happy.
I wondered what this place, Lydd, was like. It has a huge green, Anna told me, like a park or the lawns surrounding our palaces. It is an old town with a church known as 'The Cathedral of the Marsh'; a grand place indeed. And, listen to this: It is by the sea, just a ten minute train ride away to a place called Dungeness. I'd not heard of this Dungeness, but I knew of Brighton. Would it be like Brighton? Probably, she replied. It sounded very fine indeed.
Part Two
The story continues through the eyes of the daily help:
I were pleased when I got taken on as a daily help for Mr and Mrs Travers. I'd always done a bit of domestic work but with my Walter having been in an accident down the gravel pits, we needed the pennies. It were a nice big house on the Rype that the Travers had taken on and I went in a few days before they arrived. Just to make sure it were all polished nice and the beds were aired. Cook was there, getting the pantry ready and so we had company as we worked.
We didn't know much about our employers, only that he were in the army and an officer too. They arrived by train at Lydd Station and then came to the house by Allen's horse-bus. We could tell they were gentry, coming in style like that! But, when I saw Mrs Travers, she looked that weak, I wondered if she could have walked from the station. She were pale, with red hair, tall and slender, but gaunt with it. Needed fattening up, no doubt about it. I could almost see Cook rub her hands in anticipation of making nourishing egg custards and rice puddings. Then we had a surprise, she said 'good afternoon' all polite and shook our hands and it was when she spoke we realised that she were a foreigner.
Now, Mr Travers... he were a smart young man. Tall and slim with a lovely smile. His brown hair were all brushed neatly in place and his eyes were bright blue. And the way he looked at his poor frail wife, you could see how he adored her. He were all smart in his army uniform, and no surprises... his accent were posh. English of course.
She were lovely to me, that Mrs Travers. Always a kind word, appreciative of my work. She'd often be in bed half the morning, not that she were lazy, just tired out. I'd have to go in and do the fire and collect her laundry and she were never sharp with me. Sometimes she'd ask me to go to Greenings the Chemist to get her a tonic. I didn't mind, it were no trouble to walk across the Rype and into Coronation Square. She were thoughtful towards Cook too. "You go along and choose the groceries," she would say, "but don't strain yourself, let Hutchings deliver it in their cart."
When Mr Travers were at home they would go for a walk across the Rype and maybe to the George Inn for afternoon tea. Sometimes they would just take a stroll along the road; she liked to go as far as Grisbrook Farm, to look at its thatched roof and dormer windows that peeped out. Her eyes were bright for the joy of being out with him, but sometimes she returned breathless and several times I had to run for the doctor. Her chest were weak, so Mr Travers told me. She would get better, she'd had a hard life before she came to Lydd. I wondered what had been hard about it, a beautiful woman like that and rich too. How did I know she had money? Well, he couldn't earn much in the army. That's what people said. I heard Mrs Travers came from Turkey, but I don't know, I thought she looked more posh than that. Turkey didn't sound posh. I imagined she were Italian, that seemed to suit her. But one day I was dusting and I found some papers, fallen behind the cupboard. They were newspaper cuttings, all about that poor royal family in Russia; the ones which had been assassinated. People talked about it a lot, because they were related to our own royal family somehow. Lots of cuttings there were; she must have been interested in them too. I looked at the pictures, at their faces that didn't know what was coming to them. One of them, one of the daughters, she looked just like Mrs Travers. I wondered if she saw the likeness and if that was why she kept those papers.
Once they went to the seaside. By Allen's horse-bus to the station and then to Littlestone-on-Sea. She loved it there, the promenade, the green and the tall Victorian houses. I'd never seen her looking happier but they'd only been home an hour when she were gasping for breath and Mr Travers... he were looking so desperate. I ran for the doctor and I could tell from their voices that they feared for her life. "We need a priest," Mr Travers shouted, "it has to be done right, in the Russian way." That were odd because he had said enough times that she came from Turkey, even though I never did quite believe it.
Part Three
The story of Anna Travers continues this time through the eyes of an army officer's wife:
"I'm going to visit Bertram Travers' wife," Bea announced. "Come on, Maisie, they've been here a month and no-one has seen her."
We finished our morning coffee and set off from my house on the High Street, walking through to Coronation Square. At Whites, we bought some chocolates and had them lavishly wrapped as a gift for the new Mrs Travers. Determined to meet the woman who had spurned invitations to our afternoon gatherings, we strolled across the windswept Rype.
Bertram Travers had caused such a stir amongst us army wives. He was absolutely gorgeous – tall with vivid blue eyes and a dazzling smile. He rode past my house on his stallion every day and I could tell that he had command of the beast. There was a rumour that she, Mrs Travers, was a little older than her husband and foreign too. They say that he met her in Constantinople, where she was a dancer. Of course, there was concern amongst the army wives that she might not be quite... quite suitable for our little circle of officers' wives. A British officer and a dancer – it hardly seemed credible. None of us wanted to believe it of Bertram Travers. We were all half in love with him!
The house was well proportioned and of a fair size. My husband insisted that Mr Travers had no independent means, and the gossip flourished as to how he supported a wife, servants and the stallion on an army wage. It's not as if a dancer would have brought a fortune with her! The door was opened by the daily help, rather a coarse woman. She'd done well to secure that position. She dithered, unsure as to whether Mrs Travers was receiving guests. After much delay, we were offered tea and met the elusive Mrs Travers.
Bea and I were surprised to find an invalid, albeit rather a regal one. She was slim, to the point of being gaunt and tall as well. Her hair was set in a short bob and her clothes were the latest fashions; she wore a low-waisted dress with a hemline that brushed her knees. Mrs Travers, or Anna as she insisted we call her, rose to greet us and wafted a slender hand in our direction. Then she sat, with some relief, and explained that she was asthmatic and had suffered a fit only the day before. It was the autumn mists, she declared; her chest really couldn't tolerate the damp air. If the mist cleared then she would take a turn around the Rype, or the park as she called it, when dear Bertram returned.
I asked her about her wedding and how was she enjoying married life. She had married in London she said, but gave no other details. Bea asked if it has been a large affair with family and friends. No, Anna told us it was just herself and Bertram. That was all that mattered to them. We asked a couple more questions but she was not to be drawn into further explanations. I could only surmise that either she had no family of consequence or that there was some reason why the match had not met approval.
The tea was carried in by the maid, who was so busy bobbing her curtseys that she spilled a little on the tray. Anna didn't seem at all perturbed. "Have you lived in this country long?" I ventured to ask.
"Not long," she replied and then busied herself with pouring us all a cup of tea. I must say that her English was excellent and I wondered where she had mastered our language. Again, the reply was deliberately vague – her parents had thought it important.
It was only when she spoke of her husband that Mrs Travers' eyes shone and her voice was animated. They had been on the train to Littlestone, she told us, then took a pony and trap to the seafront. She very much liked the elegant tree-lined avenue to the sea; it reminded her of... of what, she didn't say, but her eyes took on a dreamy faraway look. They had walked along the seafront and she had admired the tall Victorian houses, the Jubilee water fountain and the Grand Hotel. It had been a wonderful day, but spoiled by the subsequent asthma attack.
Bea and I found it hard to sustain any conversation; we left feeling that we knew no more about Anna Travers. She was intriguing, but either had nothing of interest to tell or was intent on keeping her secrets close to her heart. I felt very disappointed in Bertram Travers' choice!
Part Four
The story continues through the local vicar:
It was the Travers' maid who knocked on my door one Saturday evening. It wasn't the first time I'd been called when her husband feared for the worst and asked for a priest. But when I saw her lying in bed, dark rings around her eyes and gasping for breath, I feared it would be the last time I saw her alive. Her eyes sought mine and a slight wave of her hand showed her husband that she wished to speak to me alone. Her voice was no more than a whisper, which came in desperate bursts.
"I'm going to die," she rasped. "I've sinned, Father, sinned..." Waiting for her next words, I couldn't push her to speak before she had gathered enough air in her lungs. "I told him I was Tatiana, not just Betram... the army too. Told them I was the Russian Princess and I had the jewels to prove it." Again she paused, gasping for breath, "I looked like her... like Tatiana."
Her mind was clearly wandering, it was known that she came from Turkey and her name was Anna. I just patted her hand, letting her know that I was there to listen. The mind can do strange things but a priest at a bedside can help soothe someone during their last hours.
"They were being kept like animals at Ekaterinburg, none of the fine dresses and parties that they were used to. The Tsaritsa Alexandra, granddaughter... granddaughter of..." It was too much, she turned her waxen face away from me and the room was silent for a while, apart from her ragged attempts to breathe. Then she turned towards me again and continued: "The Tsaritsa... she used to speak English to them, that's how I learnt it. All the maids did. And it was her... it was her that said for us to sew the jewels into their petticoats... just in case."
Was she saying that she wasn't from Turkey, but from Russia? Was she claiming to be a princess or a maid? If only my wife had been there; this needed a woman's understanding. But the story wasn't over...
"Tatiana, she had a plan to escape. She'd become friendly with one of the guards... I was to go with her. We got out one evening and then... then the shots came. She was dead, my beautiful Princess. I couldn't do anything for her; I tore off her petticoat and ran."
It took all Mrs Travers' effort to reach out to me and I saw that she held something in her claw of a hand – a piece of glass... no a precious stone... a ruby?
"I took it from her petticoat... Tatiana's. It's for you."
"For me?" Why would she do that, give me a jewel? Her mind was clearly wandering.
"I need you to keep my secret... I told you...I confessed, but you're not to tell." She pressed the ruby into my hand and closed her eyes. Her lies had played heavily on her mind, but having confessed, her face relaxed as she fell asleep. I left her, allowing her husband to take his rightful place at her bedside. This was the last time I saw Mrs Travers alive.
Now, I became an onlooker in Mrs Travers' death as I was told, with all due respect, that I would not be overseeing the funeral or preparation of the grave. A grave-digger came from off the Marsh and in the corner of the cemetery he prepared the grave. "I'm not allowed to say about it," he told me. "It's to be done like them Russian graves; fit for a princess. Funny business. I'm not saying nothing."
Later, while the relentless winds blew over our small town, the stonemason came. Again, I was drawn to the grave. "Feodorovna," muttered the craftsman. "What sort of name is that? Someone came along and said I'd got it wrong, that her name was Tudor." He shrugged his shoulders, "I don't want any trouble." I knew that name, it was that of the females of the Russian Royal family.
Now, as my own life comes to an end and I sit at the window, I look out across the cemetery and think of that young woman. How desperate she was to pretend to be a princess and how well she carried it out. They are all talking about it, the people here in Lydd. They want to make her story into a book or a film. I won't spoil it for them; it might bring fame to our town. And as for the ruby... it paid for the deposit on my daughter's new house in Harden Road.
A grave in Lydd is the unlikely inspiration for our latest mini series by Emma Batten. Couple this with an Andy Holyer painting of Larissa and Owen Tudor in Lydd Churchyard and we have the beginning of a fascinating story: A fictional account of a Russian who moved to Lydd, as seen through the eyes of those who knew her. Names have been changed as this comes from the author's imagination rather than an accurate historical representation of the story.
My story goes back to 1921 and a young woman I knew for a short time. She told me her name was Anna, or Tatiana, and maybe it was. We met on the stage as we were both dancers at a bar in my home city of Constantinople. Like many young women, we were doing what had to be done to survive in the years after the Great War. My fiancé was dead and my brothers too. Dancing in a bar paid far more than shop or domestic work; the army officers tipped well!
But, this is Anna's story. Who was she and where did she come from? She was tall and slim with beautiful auburn hair and huge grey eyes. Her demeanour was haughty at times, yet she danced and joked with the men, the same as the rest of us. These were days of rising at noon and working until the early hours of the morning. Twirling and flirting amidst the haze of tobacco smoke and sweetness of cocktails. She always had a cigarette holder in her slender hand, a feather in her short bobbed hair and a stylish dress that was a little shorter than was decent.
"Ceren, I'm in love," Anna told me one day with a nod of her head toward an army officer. He was English, of course. She always enticed them with her command of their language and seductive Russian accent. He was gorgeous: tall and lean in khaki. Over the next few weeks, I could see that he had eyes only for Anna and her dances were only for him.
"I'm seeing him outside work, away from the bar," she told me, her eyes shining. "He loves me!" as she inhaled nicotine frantically. Then after a few weeks: "We are to marry. I'm going to England. Can you believe it?"
I didn't believe it. An English officer and a Russian dancer? It would never be allowed. But it was! "He has spoken to the Major and they have news from London. We are to leave within the week!" Anna took my hand and screamed the news, then flopped down breathless on the stage. Her health was poor; she suffered from breathing difficulties, but never allowed it to hinder her zest for life.
She sat me down and in whispers told me a story I could hardly believe: She was the Grand Duchess Tatiana of Russia, daughter of the murdered Tsar. Hours before her intended assassination she had escaped with the help of a guard. Her eyes darkened and pale face showed her anguish as she told how she had dressed as a peasant – a peasant in rags but with a petticoat laden with jewels. She had travelled for weeks, begging for and stealing food, until arriving in Turkey. Here she had offered a jewel to a desperate family who gave her a home and a degree of respectability. I asked if Bertram, her love, knew of this. He did, of course, for it was her jewels that she would use as her passport to England and acceptance by the British Army. At that moment, as we perched on the edge of the stage, Anna placed a small ruby in my hand. "For your friendship," she said.
Over the next few days, Anna admitted that all was not well with Bertram and the British Army. They believed he was too young to marry; in fact it was not allowed until he was 28. But under the circumstances (well, not everyone could marry a princess) it had been agreed that the wedding could go ahead in London, but he would lose his rank and would serve in a place called Lydd. Anna was in love and she had her jewels to pay for any extra extravagances; she was blissfully happy.
I wondered what this place, Lydd, was like. It has a huge green, Anna told me, like a park or the lawns surrounding our palaces. It is an old town with a church known as 'The Cathedral of the Marsh'; a grand place indeed. And, listen to this: It is by the sea, just a ten minute train ride away to a place called Dungeness. I'd not heard of this Dungeness, but I knew of Brighton. Would it be like Brighton? Probably, she replied. It sounded very fine indeed.
Part Two
The story continues through the eyes of the daily help:
I were pleased when I got taken on as a daily help for Mr and Mrs Travers. I'd always done a bit of domestic work but with my Walter having been in an accident down the gravel pits, we needed the pennies. It were a nice big house on the Rype that the Travers had taken on and I went in a few days before they arrived. Just to make sure it were all polished nice and the beds were aired. Cook was there, getting the pantry ready and so we had company as we worked.
We didn't know much about our employers, only that he were in the army and an officer too. They arrived by train at Lydd Station and then came to the house by Allen's horse-bus. We could tell they were gentry, coming in style like that! But, when I saw Mrs Travers, she looked that weak, I wondered if she could have walked from the station. She were pale, with red hair, tall and slender, but gaunt with it. Needed fattening up, no doubt about it. I could almost see Cook rub her hands in anticipation of making nourishing egg custards and rice puddings. Then we had a surprise, she said 'good afternoon' all polite and shook our hands and it was when she spoke we realised that she were a foreigner.
Now, Mr Travers... he were a smart young man. Tall and slim with a lovely smile. His brown hair were all brushed neatly in place and his eyes were bright blue. And the way he looked at his poor frail wife, you could see how he adored her. He were all smart in his army uniform, and no surprises... his accent were posh. English of course.
She were lovely to me, that Mrs Travers. Always a kind word, appreciative of my work. She'd often be in bed half the morning, not that she were lazy, just tired out. I'd have to go in and do the fire and collect her laundry and she were never sharp with me. Sometimes she'd ask me to go to Greenings the Chemist to get her a tonic. I didn't mind, it were no trouble to walk across the Rype and into Coronation Square. She were thoughtful towards Cook too. "You go along and choose the groceries," she would say, "but don't strain yourself, let Hutchings deliver it in their cart."
When Mr Travers were at home they would go for a walk across the Rype and maybe to the George Inn for afternoon tea. Sometimes they would just take a stroll along the road; she liked to go as far as Grisbrook Farm, to look at its thatched roof and dormer windows that peeped out. Her eyes were bright for the joy of being out with him, but sometimes she returned breathless and several times I had to run for the doctor. Her chest were weak, so Mr Travers told me. She would get better, she'd had a hard life before she came to Lydd. I wondered what had been hard about it, a beautiful woman like that and rich too. How did I know she had money? Well, he couldn't earn much in the army. That's what people said. I heard Mrs Travers came from Turkey, but I don't know, I thought she looked more posh than that. Turkey didn't sound posh. I imagined she were Italian, that seemed to suit her. But one day I was dusting and I found some papers, fallen behind the cupboard. They were newspaper cuttings, all about that poor royal family in Russia; the ones which had been assassinated. People talked about it a lot, because they were related to our own royal family somehow. Lots of cuttings there were; she must have been interested in them too. I looked at the pictures, at their faces that didn't know what was coming to them. One of them, one of the daughters, she looked just like Mrs Travers. I wondered if she saw the likeness and if that was why she kept those papers.
Once they went to the seaside. By Allen's horse-bus to the station and then to Littlestone-on-Sea. She loved it there, the promenade, the green and the tall Victorian houses. I'd never seen her looking happier but they'd only been home an hour when she were gasping for breath and Mr Travers... he were looking so desperate. I ran for the doctor and I could tell from their voices that they feared for her life. "We need a priest," Mr Travers shouted, "it has to be done right, in the Russian way." That were odd because he had said enough times that she came from Turkey, even though I never did quite believe it.
Part Three
The story of Anna Travers continues this time through the eyes of an army officer's wife:
"I'm going to visit Bertram Travers' wife," Bea announced. "Come on, Maisie, they've been here a month and no-one has seen her."
We finished our morning coffee and set off from my house on the High Street, walking through to Coronation Square. At Whites, we bought some chocolates and had them lavishly wrapped as a gift for the new Mrs Travers. Determined to meet the woman who had spurned invitations to our afternoon gatherings, we strolled across the windswept Rype.
Bertram Travers had caused such a stir amongst us army wives. He was absolutely gorgeous – tall with vivid blue eyes and a dazzling smile. He rode past my house on his stallion every day and I could tell that he had command of the beast. There was a rumour that she, Mrs Travers, was a little older than her husband and foreign too. They say that he met her in Constantinople, where she was a dancer. Of course, there was concern amongst the army wives that she might not be quite... quite suitable for our little circle of officers' wives. A British officer and a dancer – it hardly seemed credible. None of us wanted to believe it of Bertram Travers. We were all half in love with him!
The house was well proportioned and of a fair size. My husband insisted that Mr Travers had no independent means, and the gossip flourished as to how he supported a wife, servants and the stallion on an army wage. It's not as if a dancer would have brought a fortune with her! The door was opened by the daily help, rather a coarse woman. She'd done well to secure that position. She dithered, unsure as to whether Mrs Travers was receiving guests. After much delay, we were offered tea and met the elusive Mrs Travers.
Bea and I were surprised to find an invalid, albeit rather a regal one. She was slim, to the point of being gaunt and tall as well. Her hair was set in a short bob and her clothes were the latest fashions; she wore a low-waisted dress with a hemline that brushed her knees. Mrs Travers, or Anna as she insisted we call her, rose to greet us and wafted a slender hand in our direction. Then she sat, with some relief, and explained that she was asthmatic and had suffered a fit only the day before. It was the autumn mists, she declared; her chest really couldn't tolerate the damp air. If the mist cleared then she would take a turn around the Rype, or the park as she called it, when dear Bertram returned.
I asked her about her wedding and how was she enjoying married life. She had married in London she said, but gave no other details. Bea asked if it has been a large affair with family and friends. No, Anna told us it was just herself and Bertram. That was all that mattered to them. We asked a couple more questions but she was not to be drawn into further explanations. I could only surmise that either she had no family of consequence or that there was some reason why the match had not met approval.
The tea was carried in by the maid, who was so busy bobbing her curtseys that she spilled a little on the tray. Anna didn't seem at all perturbed. "Have you lived in this country long?" I ventured to ask.
"Not long," she replied and then busied herself with pouring us all a cup of tea. I must say that her English was excellent and I wondered where she had mastered our language. Again, the reply was deliberately vague – her parents had thought it important.
It was only when she spoke of her husband that Mrs Travers' eyes shone and her voice was animated. They had been on the train to Littlestone, she told us, then took a pony and trap to the seafront. She very much liked the elegant tree-lined avenue to the sea; it reminded her of... of what, she didn't say, but her eyes took on a dreamy faraway look. They had walked along the seafront and she had admired the tall Victorian houses, the Jubilee water fountain and the Grand Hotel. It had been a wonderful day, but spoiled by the subsequent asthma attack.
Bea and I found it hard to sustain any conversation; we left feeling that we knew no more about Anna Travers. She was intriguing, but either had nothing of interest to tell or was intent on keeping her secrets close to her heart. I felt very disappointed in Bertram Travers' choice!
Part Four
The story continues through the local vicar:
It was the Travers' maid who knocked on my door one Saturday evening. It wasn't the first time I'd been called when her husband feared for the worst and asked for a priest. But when I saw her lying in bed, dark rings around her eyes and gasping for breath, I feared it would be the last time I saw her alive. Her eyes sought mine and a slight wave of her hand showed her husband that she wished to speak to me alone. Her voice was no more than a whisper, which came in desperate bursts.
"I'm going to die," she rasped. "I've sinned, Father, sinned..." Waiting for her next words, I couldn't push her to speak before she had gathered enough air in her lungs. "I told him I was Tatiana, not just Betram... the army too. Told them I was the Russian Princess and I had the jewels to prove it." Again she paused, gasping for breath, "I looked like her... like Tatiana."
Her mind was clearly wandering, it was known that she came from Turkey and her name was Anna. I just patted her hand, letting her know that I was there to listen. The mind can do strange things but a priest at a bedside can help soothe someone during their last hours.
"They were being kept like animals at Ekaterinburg, none of the fine dresses and parties that they were used to. The Tsaritsa Alexandra, granddaughter... granddaughter of..." It was too much, she turned her waxen face away from me and the room was silent for a while, apart from her ragged attempts to breathe. Then she turned towards me again and continued: "The Tsaritsa... she used to speak English to them, that's how I learnt it. All the maids did. And it was her... it was her that said for us to sew the jewels into their petticoats... just in case."
Was she saying that she wasn't from Turkey, but from Russia? Was she claiming to be a princess or a maid? If only my wife had been there; this needed a woman's understanding. But the story wasn't over...
"Tatiana, she had a plan to escape. She'd become friendly with one of the guards... I was to go with her. We got out one evening and then... then the shots came. She was dead, my beautiful Princess. I couldn't do anything for her; I tore off her petticoat and ran."
It took all Mrs Travers' effort to reach out to me and I saw that she held something in her claw of a hand – a piece of glass... no a precious stone... a ruby?
"I took it from her petticoat... Tatiana's. It's for you."
"For me?" Why would she do that, give me a jewel? Her mind was clearly wandering.
"I need you to keep my secret... I told you...I confessed, but you're not to tell." She pressed the ruby into my hand and closed her eyes. Her lies had played heavily on her mind, but having confessed, her face relaxed as she fell asleep. I left her, allowing her husband to take his rightful place at her bedside. This was the last time I saw Mrs Travers alive.
Now, I became an onlooker in Mrs Travers' death as I was told, with all due respect, that I would not be overseeing the funeral or preparation of the grave. A grave-digger came from off the Marsh and in the corner of the cemetery he prepared the grave. "I'm not allowed to say about it," he told me. "It's to be done like them Russian graves; fit for a princess. Funny business. I'm not saying nothing."
Later, while the relentless winds blew over our small town, the stonemason came. Again, I was drawn to the grave. "Feodorovna," muttered the craftsman. "What sort of name is that? Someone came along and said I'd got it wrong, that her name was Tudor." He shrugged his shoulders, "I don't want any trouble." I knew that name, it was that of the females of the Russian Royal family.
Now, as my own life comes to an end and I sit at the window, I look out across the cemetery and think of that young woman. How desperate she was to pretend to be a princess and how well she carried it out. They are all talking about it, the people here in Lydd. They want to make her story into a book or a film. I won't spoil it for them; it might bring fame to our town. And as for the ruby... it paid for the deposit on my daughter's new house in Harden Road.