10th Ticket. A Visit From Katie

He wanders through the main house alone. The maids are gone, the kitchen staff walked out years ago, the butler, his driver, the wife and children have all either died or fled the premises.

Except one.

He is the sole occupant. He misses the noise a house full of people make. Children running, playing, screaming, the maids shuffling through rooms doing their cleaning, fluffing pillows and telling tales: ‘Whatever you do don’t get caught unawares by the Papa Bear unless you want to find yourself with child.’ He remembers, with fondness, the games they played, their hiding places. Oh how fast they could run. He misses the steady heat of wood fires crackling in the kitchen, the cook stirring pots of soups and gravy, adding a pinch of this and a teaspoon of that. Cakes, pies and crumpets coming out of the ovens. The aroma alone could almost satisfy a man’s hunger. Now, all of it, was gone.

He confined himself to one room upstairs, everything he needs he keeps in a few cupboards and an icebox. He cooks his meals on a hotplate. TV dinners. Everything in one box. Meat, potatoes, vegetables with gravy and butter. Not bad but not the Russian meals the old cook prepared. At night as he falls into dreams and wonders if he will wake up in the morning. He looks forward to death and seeing his parents, sisters and brothers. And his wife; the more time he spent alone the more he wanted to see her again. He missed her. He prayed she would forgive him for his indiscretions. In the next life he would give her the time he never had for her in this life.

How had he lived this long?

She parked her car just inside the old broken down iron gates. She knew beyond doubt that she had arrived in the right location. Saint Boltov was carved on brass plates and attached to the stone walls on both sides of the entry. She wondered how one word from her, a mere suggestion really, managed to convince him he was a saint.

He came to the door himself but struggled to open it. He was not the robust, ‘fire breathing dragon,’ her mother had described in letters. Rather he was thin and pale and looked every bit the 91 years he had spent on this earth. Finally after some exertion the door creaked open and Katie was able to squeeze inside.

She had asked her sister, Clara to come along. Clara declined. She never left Mills as Katie had and came of age listening to and believing the stories that grew up around the old man. He treated his family and staff in a horrible manner. His three teenage maids all became pregnant by him, each of their children carried his name. His driver was found dead or was it dead drunk behind the wheel of his Rolls Royce. Stories vary depending on who one talks to. He forced his butler to marry one of the girls he impregnated to try and give her some honor. At his lowest point he pushed the cooks head into a pot of boiling cabbage soup nearly drowning the poor man and then served that same soup to twenty dinner guests including the parish priest. And his wife, Alexandra, a woman of extraordinary beauty, had affairs with his banker, Phipps, and his attorney, Lushington in an attempt to keep an eye on his business dealings and find out how he was spending his money. Her money. Alexandra was no angel herself but despite indiscretions claimed to love her husband and children above all else. His five legitimate offspring are another matter altogether.

Despite Clara’s vast knowledge of Yuri’s decadence she hugged the old man and kissed both his cheeks. “I’ve come a long way to thank you, Yuri Boltov.”

“I have waited decades to meet my young witch.” He said.

“No witching or black magic anymore, Yuri. I have turned away from such things.”

“How long has it been, Katie? You know, since that night?”

“Sixteen years. I am thirty-one years old now with a husband and two children, twin girls.”

“Wonderful.” Yuri exclaimed. “What are their names?”

“Gabrielle and Juliette. They are the names of my husband’s twin sisters.”

“And what does your husband do?”

“He’s a lawyer.”

“My you’ve done well,” Yuri said. “I am curious though Katie, do you remember much about that night?”

“The hanging?”

“Yes.”

“It’s something I have tried to forget and not something I ever talk about. My girls don’t know. But when I knew I was coming for a visit I decided I would try to recall details. I’ve always wondered, how did the plan come about?”

“Yes, yes. Your mother approached me in the pub and gave me a letter you had written.”

“I remember that letter. I wrote it when I was angry, defiant and scared. I really thought I was going to die. I met women and girls in that horrible place who had been locked up for years. The only thing worse than hanging was a life sentence. What was it about the letter that drew your attention?”

“The pub was crowded, I remember that. Your mother pushing the letter into my chest and asking me to read it. Remember that too. What I’ll never forget was your age. It is absolutely criminal to hang a fifteen year old. I read the letter several more times and kept coming to the date you were born and the date you were going to die. My anger and rage could not be extinguished. Usually, unfortunately, in those days, I saved my rage for my family and staff. I gave my love to strangers and people in town. Now I have all this time to spend alone. I pray and repent and wish I could undo everything. But the past is the past.”

“My mother told me you made her promise not to drink.”

“She made a promise to God never to drink if you were saved. I told her to go home and sober up so when you walked in her house she wasn’t drunk.”

“Nice of you to do that. I hated it when she drank.”

“Did you get to meet her that night?”

“Only for a very short time. And she was sober, so I thank you. But they were after us, the guards and others from the school. Mother said you were dressed like a priest so she thought you could save me.”

Yuri laughed. “Oh that, yes, well we had the priest for dinner a few nights before the night in question and he spills cabbage soup up and down his clergy shirt and collar. So I gave him one of my shirts to wear home and he left his shirt with me to be cleaned. After the shirt was cleaned I put it on and wore it to the pub.”

“Maybe she thought, as a priest, you could intervene on my my behalf.”

“It turned out to be a night of miracles. God was watching out for you, Katie. It didn’t seem to bother him that you practiced black magic or called yourself a witch. That night you were a child of God. If pretending to be a priest helped facilitate that then I was happy to help.”

“God’s loving grace.”

“There was one other, rather selfish reason, I wanted to save you.”

“Oh?”

“Your writing was impeccable. You expressed yourself like such an adult. Even my lawyer said he didn’t believe you were only fifteen. My children on the other hand were nearly illiterate. I needed a teacher for them and thought you would make a perfect teacher.”

“Thank you for the confidence.” Said Katie. “I would have taught them.”

“I was told that after the rescue you would be going to France. I had no choice in the matter.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice either. Mother said you withdrew funds to pay men to rescue me. Is that true?”

“I thought I had taken money out of my account but discovered the banker left me an empty case. My wife, I think, prevailed upon him to with hold funds. I received a suit case full of confetti.”

“And the cowboys?” Katie wanted to know. “Where did they come from?”

“Everywhere and nowhere. The one I spoke to was from the north of England, Yorkshire. Others spoke a variety of languages. It’s a mystery I’ve never figured out.”

“What was their purpose do you think, besides helping me escape?”

“The four guards claimed you flew away while cowboys shot at them. It was too unbelievable from the start. And the tale became taller the more it was told. You were able to remain hidden by being someone nobody could believe in.

“Comforting.” Said Katie.

“What happened after the initial rescue? By then I was no longer involved.” Yuri leaned forward in his seat eager to hear her answer.

“At my mother’s house the people from the school came banging on the door. One of the girls carried me out the back of the house to the ally. There was a car waiting. I remember sitting in the back seat, a Glen Miller song was on the radio. It was so relaxing. I remember going very fast and eventually I fell asleep.”

“Where did you wake up?” Yuri asked.

“On a boat to Calais. I don’t remember boarding the boat. But I had money and a ticket in my pocket.”

“And when you got to France?”

“I was lost and after I found Paris I was broke. I was begging for food on the street for a week when a woman asked me if I wanted to work. She owned a tailor shop. That was the family I told you about in the letter. They treated me like their daughter. I started school and learned about the saints. In time I departed from black magic and started believing in saints and God, his Son and the Virgin.”

“I see your wearing a cross.”

“Yes, it is always with me. If you want truth, Yuri, I was making promises to God while I was in jail, I was making promises while I was walking up that hill. I will probably spend the rest of my life trying to keep up my end of the bargain but I know God kept his. My mother and sister are the ones who told me that without you my escape would have never taken place. I think, Yuri, that you are in his hands too.”

“Yuri Boltov, patron saint of small differences.”

Katie stood up to leave and kissed him on both cheeks. “You made a big difference to me, Yuri. I will always remember you and always love you.”

“Thank you Katie. You were my last good deed. I love you too.”

As Katie pulled her car back onto the road she had a feeling she might never see him again, given his advanced age. She received a letter from Clara six months later saying that Yuri had passed. He was discovered by one of his former maids, a young girl he had brought from Russia during the Revolution. She bore him a son at the tender age of seventeen. She never completely left St. Bolts because she had no place to go. Anastasia, now 61 years of age, was paid a small stipend to bring food in three times a week so his children didn’t have to.

Before he was even buried every living member of his family and household staff descended on St. Bolts trying to lay claim to what wealth he had left. Most were enraged, disappointed or just bewildered. The house was left to his son, Alex, who planned to sell it. The rest was given to Anastasia Galina Boltov. His one time seventeen year old lover who agreed to secretly marry him on his 75 birthday.

Yuri Boltov 1875 – 1966 91 years,

Another Chapter was about to begin.

TBC

Thanks for reading.