Rugby Flyer (12 page)

A
ll the way home to Ormondstown Eoin worried about the egg.

‘You don’t look like a man who won the cup,’ said his dad as they were bringing the bags in from the car.

‘I’m just tired, Dad, sorry,’ replied Eoin, although he had slept on the plane and in the car all the way home.

He soon hit his bed too, glad of the familiar mattress after a week away, but sleep was slow in coming.

His clock said 2.15am, but he decided to get up. He rambled downstairs and into the washroom where he had left his bags. He rummaged in the pockets and took out the small box in which Alex had placed the bluegreen egg.

Back in his room he examined the treasure that had so bewitched the dead rugby player. Now he knew its true value he realised the tiny jewels must be diamonds, and the decorative bands wrapped around it were solid 
gold. On the side of the egg was a gold medallion which showed a serious-looking man with an oval-shaped head and a bushy moustache.

Eoin switched on his computer and typed ‘Tsar of Russia’ into a search engine. Up came lots of pictures of men in uniform, most with bushy beards or moustaches. But he eventually narrowed it down to one who resembled the man on the egg, who he now knew was Tsar Alexander III.

He typed in ‘Tsar of Russia Easter egg’ and his mouth dropped open at the stunning jewels that appeared. There were dozens of the Fabergé eggs, covered in gold and precious stones and with little intricate paintings of Russian royals. Eoin checked the prices that collectors paid and saw that Alex had been right.

He lay back in bed, now more disturbed than ever by the situation in which he found himself. He dozed off, but woke with the dawn chorus.

Eoin dragged himself out of bed and decided to go for a run, his usual solution to a problem that needed serious thinking. There were very few people about as he trotted along the pavements past the homes of his friends and the shops he called into every time he was in town. Having twenty million pounds in his bank account would mean he couldn’t do that again easily. He
probably couldn’t go for a run without being stopped by someone – or worse.

He jogged out of town towards his grandfather’s house, and past it to the gates of the old Lubov mansion. He was sure there was someone standing at the doorway this time, but who could it be? They certainly weren’t wearing rugby gear.

He paused, unsure whether he should venture inside, but a friendly wave from the figure encouraged him. He knew he was a fast runner and this person looked very old, so he could surely escape if there was any danger.

‘Good morning, Eoin,’ said the stranger.

‘Eh, good morning…’ replied Eoin, ‘but how do you know my name?’

‘I know quite a bit about you, actually,’ he smiled, ‘but don’t worry, it’s all good. My nephew Alex filled me in.’

‘Are you Uncle Nick?’ asked Eoin.

‘Yes, that’s what he called me, and your grandfather too. But as you now know, my real name is Alexander Romanov and I was once the last uncrowned Tsar of Russia.’

‘Why did you come here?’ asked Eoin. ‘I’ve never seen you here before.’

‘I have been gone a long time,’ said Alexander. ‘And I am sad to see what has happened to my old home. I
wasn’t very good at paperwork and I should have made better plans for what would become of it.’

‘So why did you come back?’

Alexander smiled. ‘I understand you know just what the gift I gave Dixie was. Alex was very grateful that you helped him to put together the mystery at last, and I am delighted that he has presented you with the complete treasure.’

Eoin looked at the ground.

‘And I also understand that you are burdened by the ownership of the egg. But I am here to tell you not to be. It is too much a treasure for one man to own, or one young boy. Ireland has been good to me. Perhaps the people of your nation would enjoy it more than if it were stuck in a bank vault, or a smelly old sock.’

Eoin grinned and suddenly saw the solution. He thanked Alexander, who said goodbye and walked back into the old mansion. Eoin turned on his heels and raced home as fast as he could.

B
ack in his bedroom he collected the egg and returned to his grandfather’s house. It was still very early so he waited outside for a few minutes until he saw the curtains being drawn and Dixie waved him in.

He sat at the kitchen table as Dixie made tea and toast, and when the old man sat down he produced the little cardboard box from his pocket and placed it in the middle of the table.

‘Do you remember that little rugby ball, Grandad?’

‘Oh, that old thing? Yes, why do you ask?’

‘Well I brought it to England with me as a sort of lucky charm. It obviously worked, too. Anyway, after the final I found this box in my locker, and inside was the other half of the ball, or the Easter egg as it really is.’

He opened the box and removed the treasure. Dixie was amazed how beautiful it looked when complete,
and how it really did look more like an egg than a rugby ball.

‘This is really very special. What have you found out about it?’

‘Well, I’ve found that it could be worth twenty-five million euro for a start…’

Dixie dropped his toast.

‘Twenty-five…’ he started.

‘… million,’ Eoin finished the sentence for him.

‘Oh, lord, and I nearly threw it in a bag for the charity shop.’

‘Well, that would have been a pity – but they might have made something out of it, I suppose,’ chuckled Eoin.

‘What are you going to do with it?’ asked Dixie.

‘Well, I don’t want it,’ said Eoin. ‘It’s a stupid amount of money and it would change everything. I love living here and going to school in Dublin, and all that. If I had twenty-five million I’d need security guards and we’d probably have to move.’

Dixie smiled at his grandson. ‘That’s very sensible of you, but what are you going to do with the egg? You can’t leave it in your room.’

‘I thought I’d give it to the National Museum up in Dublin,’ he said. ‘They could fix it and look after it, and
maybe more people would go to see the museum if this was in it. We’d all be winners then.’

Dixie nodded his approval, and Eoin thanked him for his support. He would still have a bit of explaining to do, and maybe even the Gardaí would want to talk to him, but he reckoned he would be able to tell them the story without mentioning ghosts.

Eoin closed the gate carefully and jogged back towards Ormondstown with a huge weight off his shoulders. It was time to call for Dylan – school was just around the corner again and it was time to get the banter started about London. Eoin would never let him forget about the day he wore that Leinster scarf.

GERARD SIGGINS was born in Dublin and has lived almost all his life in the shadow of Lansdowne Road; he’s been attending rugby matches there since he was small enough for his dad to lift him over the turnstiles. He is a sports journalist and worked for the
Sunday Tribune
for many years. His other books about rugby player Eoin Madden,
Rugby Spirit,
Rugby Warrior
and
Rugby Rebel,
are also published by The O’Brien Press.