A Brief History of Montmaray by Michelle Cooper

after her, then.
    Much later, written in bed (hooray for candles). I stayed in the Solar for an hour this afternoon, then trudged back to our bedroom in a glum mood. Veronica was sitting on her bed reading, having just washed her hair – it splashed like black ink down her back. I offered to brush it for her.
    ‘Thanks,’ she said, smiling over her shoulder at me. ‘Oh, what’s that you’ve got?’
    The photographs did not spark much reaction. She sighed at the label on the ‘twins’ and said she had no idea about the house. Then she went back to her reading. I drew the brush through and through her thick, glossy waves, trying not to sigh with envy.
    ‘I ought to ask you to cut it off,’ she remarked, turning a page. ‘Although I suppose it’s easier to tie it back when it’s this length.’
    ‘How can you even think of cutting it?’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s so beautiful!’
    ‘But isn’t long hair terribly unfashionable?’ she teased.
    ‘I wouldn’t know,’ I grumbled, looking down at my skirt (the hem has been let down so many times that it seems to have horizontal pleats). ‘Especially as ... Veronica, what’s that you’re reading? ’ Because I’d just glanced over her shoulder and seen the most horrific photographs – of people who’d been tortured, it looked like.
    She flipped it over to show me the cover, which was even worse – a maniac dressed in a blood-soaked apron, waving a cleaver. ‘The Brown Book of the Hitler Terror, ’ I read. ‘What is it? And where did you find it?’
    ‘It’s about the Nazi government in Germany,’ she said calmly. ‘Communist propaganda, of course, put out by the Left Book Club. Nevertheless, there are some rather interesting sections. You see, it puts forward a theory about the burning of the Reichstag–’
    I squeezed my eyes shut. I was certain I was going to have nightmares about those awful pictures.
    ‘–and if even a tenth of it is true, it raises some serious questions about the British policy of ... oh, I’m sorry, this must be boring you.’
    ‘No, no,’ I said, suddenly spotting an opening. ‘You mean, about Britain not wanting to get involved in the Spanish war?’
    ‘Exactly!’ she said, clearly too fascinated by the subject to stop and wonder about my puzzling level of interest. ‘I mean, obviously, the Nazis are assisting Franco. And a significant number of British politicians support the principles of Fascism, if only because they believe Fascism is the true enemy of Communism. On the other hand, how can they be seen to support a military coup against the democratically elected Spanish government? Hence their policy of non-intervention. Best to do nothing at all, you see.’ She sighed heavily. ‘There was a time when Montmaray played a vital role in Britain’s diplomatic relations with Spain. In 1710, for example, we hosted secret talks between Henry St John and the Marquis de Torcy regarding who should rule Spain. They may not have agreed to meet otherwise, but this was the perfect location – midway between the two countries, a neutral island with impregnable defences – and both sides were thoroughly sick of the fighting by then. Did you know the Grand Alliance lost more than twenty thousand men in the Battle of Malplaquet – and they were the victors! Really, if it hadn’t been for the Montmaray peace talks, there might not have been a Treaty of Utrecht. The British Foreign Secretary was most impressed with Montmaray’s hospitality, especially the food...’
    ‘Well, Rebecca wasn’t housekeeper then.’
    Veronica smiled. ‘Did you know he was the one who gave us the Laocoön statue?’
    ‘Not that hideous marble thing in the Great Hall, with the men getting crushed by giant snakes?’
    ‘A heartfelt token – or even a totem – of Henry St John’s gratitude,’ nodded Veronica. ‘I’ve often wondered about the symbolism. I mean, did he see himself as Laocoön and the British Parliament as the Trojans ignoring