Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase Page 10
He knew it hardly needed saying, but still he rallied his men. ‘Remember,’ he said in his native tongue, ‘the Nazi bastards deserve everything they get.’
11
24th June 1940
Dear Dorothea,
So this is the first of the letters I am to write to you. I hope there will be many more – although, of course, that means we shall be apart. But better that than dead, no? Did you see me wave to you last Tuesday? You looked so sad. I hope you are happier now. I would have written sooner to you, but every day there is something to do.
Do not fear for me. I have not yet met danger. My men and I are taking part in exercises, always we are asked to do that which we can do already. It is frustrating! And we are humiliated. But we are not allowed to argue. But I do argue, because I speak English. I reason, but to no good yet. I do not give up. Already they are sick of my pestering. Some of these people, they are arrogant. Only English people can fly, they think. Oh, forgive me, but I am cross. But we shall succeed in the end.
We live in nice quarters here. Food is good, lots of it, beds comfortable. I have my own room, of course, quiet, at the end of a corridor. I can shut the door and shut out the world, and write to you. I wait for your letter,
Jan
2nd July 1940
My dear Dorothea,
I have had no word from you, but I trust you received my letter. I now send another. Badly written, I expect, but I am tired. I argue still. Sometimes I wonder if I should have bothered coming to England. But I had nowhere else to go. Still it is disappointing. My men are in fury. But what to do? The wheels of English minds turn slowly, it seems. They do not trust us, but I think they should be glad of our help, our experience, our skills. They now talk of giving my squadron an English leader. So it seems even my English is not good enough.
But what of you, dear friend? What is happening? My guess is that you carry on as you were? And the girls? They still work hard, still amuse you? They are good young women, good company for my friend, lonely in her red house, hiding in the Lincolnshire fields. I think about you often. I do not know when I shall return to see you, but I hope it will be soon.
I miss you. Please write to me.
Jan
6th August 1940
Dear Dorothea,
Sometimes it is easier to write down on paper our deep thoughts and feelings than it is to speak of them. I have to tell you that the few weeks we enjoyed were the best of my life. Despite everything that has happened, is happening, and will happen, whatever it is that brought me to England and to you is something I will always be grateful for. I have had no time to write. Every day it seems we must practise, practise, practise. And for why? The British officers, they do not like me, I know. My men are desperate to fly, to fight the Germans. We need combat. I think soon we will, they will see they are wasting our talents. The days are long and most are warm and sunny, so there are many battles. The Luftwaffe gives the RAF no peace. But today has been quieter and all have had opportunity for rest.
I am scared, Dorothea. For when you have found the one great joy and comfort in your life, it is hard to say goodbye. So there will be no goodbyes for us. I will return, my death only can prevent it. Can you write? Often? As often as you can? Until I can visit again?
I do not want to say goodbye, so I will not. This is temporary. We shall sit and talk in your garden, we will talk again of this God we do not believe and we will drink your nice tea.
Until then, think of me often, as I will think of you.
Your Jan
12th August 1940
Dear Dorothea,
I hope you received my last letter? Finally, we are in operation, in real combat! Our squadron has been recognised and we fly every day. My men are happy at last. And I am in charge. Remember I told you they wanted an English leader? Other Polish squadrons have a Smith or a Jones, but ours has Jan Pietrykowski. I am trusted! Already we have shot down Germans. I shot down a Stuka myself, I chased it from the sky. It was a moment of pure joy for me. The RAF has suffered great losses, no doubt you have heard the news. Each day we trust we will survive, but for many, they wake to their last day. I cannot see how this can end well. Yet we must believe. The Luftwaffe is strong and persistent and we cannot easily match it. What this will develop for my men I dare not think, nor do I want to think. We can but fight, and hope, and at last we do, and it is so much better than those stupid exercises. Yet already I write too many letters to mothers and fathers of dead sons.
I tell you a little of my day. This is what we must do. Awake and out of bed at four o’clock, half past four. Early, but necessary. We eat breakfast, good bacon, eggs. Sometimes kippers. Always toast with butter, and lots of tea, only not as nice as yours. We go to the dispersal hut and we wait here, we wait for the telephone to ring. The call can come at any time. Sometimes we are waiting for hours, on bad weather days. I play poker with the men, I win often. But play only with matchsticks. We play chess. We lay on the grass, we have deckchairs, we read newspapers, books. Rainy days, clouded days are the best, we get rest, perhaps we do not fly at all. But mostly the weather is fine and we go out early, often twice, three, four times, any time. My men are exhausted, they sleep when they can, if on leave, they sleep, all day, all night. But there is little leave. Sleep has become a luxury. Some men cry at night, I hear them. I try to comfort, but the fear and despair are too strong and not until morning can they again take hold of their courage and eat, and fly, and fight. When we scramble, some men are sick. We all leap from our skin when the telephone rings. The little click before the ring begins, it is a bad sound. All are nervous, waiting is horrible. You must imagine this.
Yet we get good hits. Yesterday my squadron shot down two Stukas. A good day. One of them was mine, as I told you. Yet I find myself sad at causing death. I don’t know why. The Stuka crashed into the sea. Nothing left of the German crew who I thought I hated. Do I hate? Am I a murderer? I do not know. I can only say I am a fighter.
How is life with you? And the skies above you? Has harvesting begun yet? Aggie and Nina, they continue as normal? They still enjoy the music box?
I must finish now, Dorothea. There is much to do and so little time to do it. I have reports to write. I keep the squadron diary too, which needs to be written while the day is fresh in my memory. It is half past one in the morning. I am tired, but I am alive. Do not fear.
Until next time,
Your Jan
19th August 1940
Dear Jan,
You may not believe me, but it is so. This is the first letter I have written, aside from the three or four I sent to my mother after my marriage. I don’t count those. I apologise for not writing to you sooner. I have no excuses other than my own stupidity and reticence. Things that are written down are so permanent and that always frightens me somehow. But I write to you now in friendship and trust.
Thank you for all your kind words to me in your letters, which come thick and fast and are a joy to receive. The last few weeks have been a special time that I shall always remember. You are a good man, Jan, far too good for a woman like me. Please don’t trouble yourself with thoughts of me while you are down there in the thick of things. You have more than enough on your plate. I am absolutely not worthy of the depth of feeling you express. I am conscious of your feelings and I should like to return them. But it is hopeless.
I trust that you will remain safe. I hope and believe that you will. Any time you can, if you get enough leave, please visit. The girls and I will be pleased to see you.
Dorothy
25th August 1940
My dear Dorothea,
Your letter was a joy to receive, all 225 words of it. But you are wrong. You are worthy. And there is always hope. Hope is all we have now – everyone, all of us. I fear your cities will be next, of that I am certain. Did you not say that your girls are from London? They have families living there? The Luftwaffe bombed London last night. I hope that it will not happen again. Our losses conti
nue, but I think we are still enough, with the RAF, to fight. And your Winston Churchill says such good things about the pilots (the Polish ones too). You may have heard him on the wireless? We are become heroes! Not murderers at all. Our mood is high, despite death all around us. And it is a miracle that we seem to be holding on. But, of course, everything has its price.
What of you? Do you continue with your laundry, your sewing? You are a woman of industry. I think if you don’t work, if you are not busy, you will allow yourself to think too much, and fret?
Now I must write to a mother in Polska. Her son died yesterday, lost in the sea. I do not know if my letters arrive. But I must send. I wish for courage to do a good job and be a small comfort to the boy’s mother.
Your Jan
16th September 1940
My dear Dorothea,
So autumn arrives, and with it a change of tactic, as I thought. Do you recall I said this would happen?
Are you safe and well? I doubt very much the Luftwaffe is interested in bombing Mrs Dorothea Sinclair in her little cottage, lost among the fields of Lincolnshire. But you must be vigilant, being so close to the aerodrome, as the Germans will attack anyone – women, children, it means nothing to them. I told you of that. It has happened. These Nazis, these Germans, are cowards. But they are dangerous cowards. Yesterday, we are told, was a good day for the RAF, we fight on, we score hits. The Luftwaffe are not having it easy.
I hope to get some leave in the next few weeks, perhaps in October. If that is so, could I visit you? To sit with you again in your cottage is a dream I hold dear.
Until then,
Your Jan
20th September 1940
Dear Jan,
Poor Aggie has had word that her fiancé has been killed. His name was Roger and he was a pilot in a Spitfire squadron. I didn’t even know she was engaged to be married. She met her young man shortly before leaving London, and she was in love, she tells me. She is desolate. Nina and I try to cheer her up, but she talks of going home to London – a thought to make one shudder in light of all that is happening there. She will be far better off staying here and enjoying the relative safety of the country. She still goes to the dances and the pub regularly.
Aggie’s news made me think about Albert, my husband, and whether the same will happen to him. Although, of course, he is in the army. As we are still married, I suppose I would receive a telegram? I think of you, every day. I must confess, I’ve started to pray for you, prayers of a sort. Is that silly?
The weather grows colder, and I can smell winter. The trees are becoming bare and such a wind blows, howling around the house at night. Please visit in October. I can make up the bed in the spare room, it is rather small but comfortable enough. Do let me know in advance, if that is possible? So I can make all the preparations. Do you think you may have leave over Christmas time? A long way off, I know, but we need to look forward to things.
Nina is well, although she took a funny turn yesterday evening. She was trying to cheer Aggie up by getting her to dance – you know how those girls love to dance – well, Nina keeled over, out cold for a minute or two. We put her head between her legs, and later we got her to bed and I made her drink a hot toddy. Aggie tells me she slept well. And this morning, when they both went off to work, Nina was cheery enough. She works too hard, I think.
Bombs fell on Lodderston aerodrome last week. Nothing much – some damage, we hear – and two ground crew were killed. The noise was indescribable, so how it must be in London or Liverpool, I cannot imagine.
I have no other news. Mostly day follows night here, and things go on in the old familiar pattern. I suppose there’s a comfort in that.
Dorothy
12
For my best friend, Charlotte, on her 30th birthday, because she also loves to shop!
(Inscription found on flyleaf of Penguin Classics edition of Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert. Evidently, Charlotte does not love to read. Inscription aside, as new copy. Placed on classic fiction shelf in entrance lobby, price £2.50. I bought it myself after a few weeks and have since read it twice.)
Dad was okay in the end, thank God. After three days in hospital, during which his breathing stabilised, he was allowed home. I visit him each day after work. He needs rest, and plenty of it, but he won’t let me ‘do’ for him. He never will. We chat, drink tea, eat crumpets or muffins – ‘There’s only so much brown rice even a gravely ill man can eat!’ – we watch the news, we watch Pointless and he always beats me. But I know that I cannot ask my dad any questions about the letter. It isn’t fair to bother him, and it would be nothing short of cruel to potentially turn his already troubled world on its head. Yet I wonder … I wonder if his world would be turned upside down? Or would it be mine?
And my visit to my grandmother, although it was a pleasure to see her once her initial confusion had passed, was unproductive. In the end, Suzanne left us to ourselves, and I simply sat with Babunia, holding her hand, commenting on the garden. I’m still not sure that she realised who I was.
But in subsequent visits Babunia recognises me, and smiles, and asks me when that son of hers is going to deign to visit. I am going every week, as I resolved, and it’s a joy to meet up first with Suzanne, who tells me about how Babunia is getting on, the things she says, her preoccupations: these are often unfathomable, Suzanne explains, and I nod in understanding. She’s always been like that, I say. I tell her I’m immensely grateful that she has taken the time to befriend my grandmother; it’s a relief to have somebody looking out for her, somebody we can all trust. Suzanne says it’s a pleasure. Of course, Dad wants to go – and will go with me, when he’s up to it – but it’s hard to think up excuses. Babunia is not a stupid woman. She might guess straight away that something is wrong; he has changed so much, and for the worse.
I have not mentioned Jan’s letter, not yet, to either of them. I need to find the right time.
I am in the Old and New, the place where I am always to be found. Philip and I are undertaking the task of rearranging some of the shelves in the large old books room. He also wants the French windows to the patio to be polished, closed and locked, as it is late September, and so we are closing up the garden for winter. Jenna is not at work today. Philip explains to me she is unwell, and in bed with a whisky and hot water – a cure-all his mother always swore by. I have my own thoughts regarding this illness, but I say nothing. I hope she is okay. But she will not let me know. Our friendship, I fear, is finished, turned in on itself.
At the desk, which is manned by Sophie, a woman is asking for me. She has a cultured voice, educated, confident. I know who she is instantly. I freeze. A surge of bad adrenaline flows through my veins, the dread-rush of certainty. I look at Philip, who looks back at me quizzically. A roar starts up in my ears, a cacophony of cursed voices. This cannot be happening. Oh no, no, no, not this, not now.
‘Roberta?’ calls Sophie.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll find her,’ says Francesca Dearhead.
Slow, deliberate footsteps in high-heeled shoes become more pronounced as they tick through into the back room. She has come in search of me, as I knew she would one day. And now she stands in the doorway.
Like a child, I hope that if I close my eyes this will stop. If I concentrate hard enough this won’t be happening, the roaring in my body will end, here and now. But nothing stops. The roaring becomes louder.
Mrs Dearhead’s scent floats around her, and it is not Febreze at all, but something expensive, and tasteful. And as I open my eyes again she is upon me, slender hands on slender hips, a queasily triumphant smile revealing even, white teeth. She seems taller than me, although she is probably around my height, elegantly dressed in a cream wool coat, her black hair immaculately styled. She is invading my personal space and I take a step backwards, intimidated.
‘You … shameful little woman,’ she whispers, staring at me as though I were a tarantula.
‘Hang on a minute,’ says Philip. He puts down his
pile of books on a footstool, takes off his spectacles and glares at her. Almost imperceptibly, he moves an inch or two closer to me.
‘Are you aware that this … employee of yours … has been carrying on with my husband?’ says Mrs Dearhead. ‘Do you know who my husband is?’
‘Vaguely,’ says Philip as he wipes his spectacles and puts them back on. ‘Are you aware that this is my bookshop, and are you further aware that I do not tolerate any form of abuse, physical or verbal, towards myself or any member of my staff? Is that clear? Nor do I listen to … loathsome tittle-tattle.’
The few customers, formerly leafing through books, chattering, murmuring, are inexplicably quiet. There is a marked silence in the Old and New. Somebody coughs. I even think I hear a muffled ‘Shh!’
‘This woman deserves to be sacked!’ she shouts, her composure finally slipping a little as she indicates me with a dismissive wave of her slender hand.
I find myself wondering whether she has recently touched her husband with those hands. She’s a lot more attractive than I had imagined, and younger. Did they still …? Of course. Don’t be so naive, Roberta. My God, Jenna had a point.
‘I do the hiring and firing around here,’ says Philip, flustered, and both myself and Francesca Dearhead stare at him, wrong-footed. Did he really say that?
She turns back to me. ‘Do you have anything to say?’
‘I think I do, actually.’
‘Then please say it. I am all ears.’
‘I am not carrying on with your husband.’
‘Of course, you would deny it. But I know you are.’
‘But I’m not. Whoever told you such a thing?’ I know, absolutely and certainly, that my former lover would not reveal our affair to anybody, least of all to his wife. It would make no sense for him to do so. Especially now that it was over, and I had been the one to finish it.