Shooting The Past...3

...to complete then the tale of Anastasia's Doll.

It is a blazing hot summer's day at Tsarskoe Selo, where the Romanovs have come to escape the stultifying heat of the city. Alexander Palace is a favourite of the Romanov children. Tall, white, elegant yet not cramped with the formality of the Court. They love to play in the wide parklands and to pretend to camp out at the White Tower.

1909. A lull in time. For them, the Imperial family, the revolution has already happened four years before. There need not be another, nor indeed could there truly be a European war between the nations. Russia had been struck a blow but had not fallen. The children and the land were safe.

A picnic is arranged and Father is coming. The children are gleeful, too excited perhaps for the taste of their English nanny. But she cannot scold as they happily prepare a feast for all. And it will be for all, for servants, for soldiers guarding the family - at peace but alert to danger is their Father - for the whole Palace.

Tables are set by the White Tower. There is a High Table for Father and Mother, but other than that it is catch-as-you-can, sit where you please. The children are seated with Nanny of course and they are joined by Captains and Colonels from the regiments encamped nearby.

There is a photographer to record the day.

Anastasia is giddy with pleasure. She leans over to grasp her sister in a girl's joke at the soldiers' expense. Then laughing she topples backwards off her chair and in falling is caught by a fat and kindly Colonel.

As the photographer, keen to capture all moments and unafraid of any protocol, leaps forward to take his photograph of this silly, lovely moment, the English nanny glowers at him in distaste. She cannot countenance such behaviour. These are royal girls and her girls. This is a light summer's frolic. It is a private moment, not to be seen by others. She looks sternly straight into the lens chiding the man and his machine.

Yet the photograph is taken. There is Anastasia falling to the ground. There is the fat Colonel catching her and there is Nanny, tight-lipped, round faced, very English and very disapproving.

On the table before Nanny is a doll. It is Anastasia's favourite doll and Nanny is keeping it safe for her. It is the very doll we now have in our house.

The Nanny was Auntie Margaret's friend. This we knew. Nanny was with the Romanovs. That we were told. The note said the doll she came home with was Anastasia's and we believed it.

And now I have seen the photograph, risen by chance from the pages of an archive collection just published, and now therefore belief is truth.