Silver Wattle Read Online Free PDF

tulle. We created mini puppet shows together to showcase the dolls—Klara composed the songs while I penned the dialogue and storyline. But when the time came to perform for Mother and her friends, my tongue always managed to lodge itself in my throat and Klara would be left to carry the extravaganza on her own. My only consolation was that afterwards Mother would praise the story. ‘You may not be a performer but you created some wonderful scenarios,’ she was always quick to comfort me.
    The evening of the soiree, Milosh, who had been in Brno for business, arrived home just after seven. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, glaring at his watch and yelling at us to hurry. My heart sank. Milosh was always impatient with us, but that night was especially so. I hurried down the stairs, tripping on the rug in my haste to avoid his wrath. But Klara remained unruffled. She glided down the staircase with the grace of a princess.
    ‘You had better not act so proudly at the party, young lady,’ Milosh muttered, ‘or it will be your last.’
    Mother emerged from the drawing room looking splendid in a lilac dress with silver beads over the bodice and hem. The scent of lily of the valley, her favourite perfume, wafted around her. She glanced at Milosh and I wondered if she had heard him, but she said nothing and turned to Klara and myself. Her face broke into a smile. ‘You will be the most beautiful girls in the room.’
    Mother always lavished praise on us, but from the way Miloshs skulked to the car, I wondered if the comment had been made with a more pointed purpose on this occasion.
    Paní Koutska’s apartment was everything a grandmother’s home should be, down to the Tiffany lamps, tulip-patterned wallpaper and upholstered chairs. The piano was in the drawing room, and when we arrived there were already guests drinking tea and eating honey cake. Paní Benova, in a claret gown with an overdress of iridescent sequins, was talking to a man with white hair and peaked eyebrows. I recognised him as Leosh Janachek, the composer of Jenufa . I had heard he was in Prague that month to attend a concert. Paní Koutska had barely a chance to greet us before paní Benova left the esteemed guest’s side and minced over to us.
    ‘I am charmed to meet you,’ she said to Mother. ‘Milosh did a wonderful job of my house and I have been dying to meet the woman who inspires him.’
    Mother grimaced at the compliment. The young widow was even more striking up close, with fine skin and sapphire eyes. But there was something insincere about her, like people who say they like opera when they do not. And the way she had rushed in without waiting for an introduction was vulgar. I was surprised that Milosh welcomed her so warmly, being quick to correct ‘bad’ manners in myself and Klara, and was even more surprised when he kissed paní Benova on the hand.
    Pan Doubek, who was sitting with his wife near the fireplace, called out to Milosh and engaged him in conversation about the design he wanted for a new hotel. While my stepfather’s attention was taken, paní Benova leaned towards Klara.
    ‘I cannot wait to hear you play,’ she said, placing her hand on Klara’s shoulder. ‘Would you like to be first or second?’
    Klara lifted her chin. ‘I would like to play second, thank you.’
    Paní Benova’s eyes narrowed. She glanced at me. Although the way she held her torso and head straight made her appear controlled, annoyance flashed in her eyes. It was rude of Klara to have taken the second place as that was usually reserved for the better pianist, which paní Benova assumed herself to be. I glanced at Mother but she simply pursed her lips and rubbed her bracelet. Normally she would have scolded Klara for impertinence, but it appeared she did not intend to say anything and I decided that I would not either. Paní Koutska’s only comment was that she was going to serve another round of tea.
    Paní Benova glanced around for our