Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase Page 6

  ‘Do you know exactly when he died? The date, I mean? It might help me to trace him.’

  ‘Mum always said in November 1940. She was expecting me. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That I was ever a baby. And so long ago.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I thought you meant … never mind. Does Babunia have her marriage certificate?’

  ‘She told me she thought it was lost years ago, I think.’

  ‘But I could look that up, couldn’t I? In a register?’

  ‘I … well. Yes. I suppose you could.’

  ‘Do you have your birth certificate?’

  ‘Oh, somewhere. Although I rather think that might have gone missing too. I haven’t seen it in years.’

  We drink our tea and nibble on a digestive biscuit each.

  ‘Your grandmother might have it,’ says Dad. ‘She likes to keep things safe for me. I haven’t seen it since I started claiming my pension, I think. And that’s longer ago than I’d like it to be.’ Dad winks at me.

  ‘Do you recall ever seeing their marriage certificate?’ And now I am beginning to press, just the thing I must not do.

  ‘No, love. I don’t think so.’

  ‘But you think Babunia might have it? She probably keeps such things all in one place, doesn’t she? She’s pretty methodical.’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her.’

  ‘Is there a death certificate? For your dad?’

  ‘I don’t know, Rob. If there is, I’ve not seen it. At least, I don’t think I have. You’ll have to ask your grandmother about it all. But, darling?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t let on to her. About me, I mean.’

  ‘I won’t, Dad.’

  ‘It would break her heart. Always assuming she’d be with it enough to understand.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’re a good girl.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Do you fancy staying for your tea? We could watch Antiques Roadshow. I’ve got crumpets.’

  ‘And gooseberry jam?’

  ‘Sadly not your grandmother’s. But I’ve got Tesco’s mixed fruit jam, if that’s any good. There might be gooseberries in it.’

  And now I feel deflected, stalled; I know my father well, and I think he’s hiding something.

  Should I show him the letter? No. I’ll keep it to myself for now. I don’t want to upset him, any more than I want to upset Babunia.

  We eat our crumpets and jam, and nothing further is said.

  7

  Nina eyed the bunch of wild flowers on the mantelpiece. Following her gaze, Dorothy noticed how they burst forth from the enamel jug, a little vulgar, a little showy. She watched her girls as they swiftly ate fried potatoes, fried eggs and broad beans – small, soft and sweet, early beans picked that afternoon by Dorothy under the unblinking sun. Far too early, of course, but there wasn’t much else to choose from, yet.

  Nina nudged Aggie, and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘You been picking flowers, Dot?’ said Aggie, winking at her friend.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Someone picked them for you, then?’ said Nina.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A bloke?’ said Aggie.

  ‘A bloke. Yes.’

  ‘Which bloke?’ said Nina, through a full mouth.

  Oh, how genteel, thought Dorothy. And: which bloke? Did Nina know all the ‘blokes’ in the world? Actually, Dorothy thought, there was quite a good chance of that.

  ‘Squadron Leader Jan Pietrykowski, no less. He flies a Hurricane,’ said Dorothy, more to herself than to the girls.

  ‘Squadron leader, eh?’

  ‘Is he a dish?’ asked Aggie, gleefully.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t really considered. A dish? Yes, possibly. Probably.’

  ‘Well, if he is, you would have noticed, wouldn’t you?’ said Nina. ‘You’re not that bloody old. What’s he like? Where did you meet him?’

  ‘I met him today, here, in this kitchen.’ Dorothy surprised herself. Was it really only this day and in this kitchen? ‘And he’s very nice, very polite. Foreign, of course.’

  ‘What did he want?’ said Nina. ‘Apart from the bleeding obvious.’ Aggie kicked her, and she squealed. ‘I’m only asking, aren’t I? You don’t mind, do you, Dot? It’s just, you’ve got to watch them Polish ones, they’ve got hands like octopuses. We had fun with them, though, didn’t we, Aggie? Blimey, you’d think they’d never seen a girl before. They’ve got girls in Poland, though, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. But these men, you must understand. They’ve had a difficult time. They’re in need of … diversion. The squadron leader had to flee his country in pretty ghastly circumstances. They all did. But I’ll remember that warning, Nina. Thank you.’ Dorothy hid a small smile behind her teacup. It was the cup that the squadron leader had drunk from, and she hadn’t yet been able to wash it.

  ‘Well?’ said Nina.

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Do you fancy him?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Liar,’ they chorused, delighted.

  The squadron leader returned the following day, in the heat of the afternoon. The first day of June and, this year, flaming. Dorothy heard his confident, sharp rap on the kitchen door.

  She had hoped he might return, yet she couldn’t imagine why he would. She smoothed her pinny, tucked loose hair behind her ear, cleared her throat. She stood still for a few seconds, breathing in and out, a mechanical effort, consciously performed. She felt a crippling tightness in her throat. Yet she had to be a picture of composure. It didn’t do to be anything else. And her knees almost buckled beneath her. She breathed, deep and loud, she tucked more hair behind her ears. She hummed a tune she had heard on the wireless. She would appear normal. On no account could she … she yanked open the door.

  The squadron leader pushed past her, grinning, carrying a box, bulky and heavy-looking.

  ‘What on earth is this?’ said Dorothy, hands on hips, head on one side, while Jan Pietrykowski placed the box on the kitchen table. Her curiosity emboldened her, if only temporarily, and she forgot the tight throat, the quick breathing, the sweat pooling like oil slicks behind her knees.

  ‘A gift for you. For you, Mrs Sinclair.’

  ‘Oh. Why, thank you. What on earth is it?’

  ‘A gramophone.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You like music, no? I think so, because you always hum. At least, these two times we have met you have been humming as I walk down your path. So I bring you music.’

  She did like to hum – just simple tunes, half heard, half remembered – and perhaps she liked to dance too, in her mind, humming her tunes, performing her duties, trying not to think about war and absconded husbands, dead babies and dead pilots. It was only natural.

  Jan carried the gramophone through to the parlour, at Dorothy’s request. She cleared the sideboard and blew off its thin layer of dust. He returned to his car – ‘Not my car, our squadron car’ – and came back in with a box of records, which he placed alongside the gramophone.

  ‘I can’t accept all this, Squadron Leader,’ said Dorothy, collecting herself. ‘I’m afraid you can’t leave this here.’ She hated to sound disapproving.

  ‘Then it is a borrowing, from me to you, and you will return it to me when I have to depart, when I return home, whenever that shall be.’

  ‘A borrowing?’

  ‘Yes. Actually, it is not mine. It belonged to another man, a good pilot, an Englishman. I met him when I first arrived in your country. A generous man, of good spirit. He told me if anything were to happen to him, I must make sure his gramophone is looked after and is enjoyed. So I think of you, in this quiet cottage, and your girls who you tell me about. Girls, they love to dance, I think. And you too?’

  ‘Dance? Me? No.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We shall see. Anyway, this is yours for as long as you want it, and to enjoy and
to use.’

  ‘Don’t your men want it? For entertainment?’

  ‘We have wirelesses. We have dances. In fact, next Saturday. I invite you and your girls to the dance, as my guests.’

  ‘But I don’t dance. Especially at dances.’

  ‘No need to dance. We can sit and talk. Be like friends.’

  ‘That sounds very nice. I’m sure Aggie and Nina would be thrilled. They so enjoyed the last one.’

  ‘We must have fun when we can get it, in times like these. If my men can’t fly yet, we can drink, eat, make joke, no? No need for guilt.’ And the squadron leader smiled at Dorothy. ‘I shall collect you next Saturday, at seven o’clock,’ he announced.

  ‘All right,’ said Dorothy, smiling broadly despite her misgivings. ‘I’ll go, as you have been so kind as to ask. But I shall not dance.’

  The girls, tired and grubby, arrived back at the cottage around half past five. They took one look at the gramophone and the records, and it seemed their world was complete. They searched eagerly through the stack of records, digging out their favourites. Aggie was delighted to find some Billie Holiday songs – ‘You must listen to her, Dot!’ – and that odd, brittle-strong voice was now flowing through the house, the jaunty music restoring something to them all. Dorothy immediately liked the joyful-joyless sound of the American woman’s voice. And, for an evening, they forgot about the war. There was none of their usual talk: In a year it could all be over, in six months it could all be over, six weeks even, and Hitler will be here, and we’ll have no freedoms, and Churchill will be strung up, and …

  ‘Dance, Nina!’ cried Aggie, pulling the heftier girl to her feet, and spinning her around, laughing, red-faced.

  Dorothy sewed and watched. She smiled. It was an inspired idea of the squadron leader’s, she thought. Of course, young women like to dance. They like music. Why wouldn’t they?

  ‘There’s more,’ said Dorothy, remembering the invitation. ‘We are invited to the dance next Saturday night. Special guests of the squadron leader.’

  ‘Oh, we know all about that,’ said Nina, throwing herself down on to the settee, still red-faced, her mousy hair clinging to her face. ‘Already invited, we are. All the Land Girls are going.’

  ‘What are you going to wear, though?’ said Aggie. ‘I’ve got my blue frock.’

  ‘I don’t know. Don’t much care either. Might just wear my uniform. All that lovely food up there too! They put on such a spread last time, Dot. You should’ve seen it. Cakes. Jellies. All sorts of sandwiches. Lovely, it was.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s why your dress won’t fit you any more!’ said Aggie, moving rhythmically around the room, arms held out as though dancing with a partner, her blonde curls flying behind her.

  ‘It’s all right for you. Just I’ve got a healthy appetite, haven’t I, Dot?’

  ‘Indeed you have. Why don’t you bring me your dress, and we’ll see if I can let it out for you?’ said Dorothy.

  The dress was a pale green lawn, with a matching fabric belt. Rather old, and in need of a darn or two, as well as letting out. Dorothy examined the seams, which were mercifully generous. After suggesting Nina try it on, she unpicked and pinned it, and managed to let it out to the required size. Nina looked well in it. Green suited her nondescript, pale brown hair, her country-tanned face and arms. Not exactly pretty – and, frankly, fat – but Dorothy still felt something akin to a mother’s pride looking at the smiling girl wearing her newly altered frock.

  The day before the dance, Dorothy examined her own wardrobe and pondered what to wear. She had three ‘special occasion’ frocks. The first was red, woollen, with long sleeves, more of a winter frock. It was a little close-fitting, but not too tight. She had never regained the weight she’d lost in the weeks after giving birth to Sidney. The red dress was of a pleasing length, just below the knee, and would show off her calves to advantage if she were to wear her black court shoes. She still had reasonable-looking calves. This she allowed.

  She also had a green and blue patterned dress in a crisp cotton, which creased easily and was, besides, too young for her now. She would see if Aggie might like it. And lastly she had her summer frock, with a tiny flower print in pink, black, white and orange. It was undoubtedly her favourite with its summery, short puffed sleeves and its comfy, faded feel. It was perfect for a June dance. She had her pink cardigan she could wear with it, and her brown shoes looked smart with it too. Understated and admirably appropriate for a woman approaching forty, childless, and, for all she knew, widowed.

  Her dressings had been removed, and the skin on her face was pink, no longer red and angry. It was still slightly sore to the touch when she covered it as best she could with her powder, just to see how it might look the following evening. It looked acceptable, she thought. She considered her frocks, hanging over her wardrobe door, draped across her bed. She liked them all, but at the same time she couldn’t care less if she never wore any of them again. It was indifference, she knew – a horrible, blank feeling that she had become accustomed to over the past year. But still, she would have to choose.

  Three dresses. One dance. One decision. There really was only one contender.

  Nina had been right about the food. Trestle tables were loaded with plates of sandwiches, jellies, trifles, sausages, even cakes. There were large tea urns. And there was mild, if you wanted it, and cider. Some folk even had bottles of wine on their tables, Dorothy noticed. She took a cup of tea and a modest plate of food, and found a chair in a corner. Music erupted all around, loud and insistent. British and Polish airmen and their guests were dancing and laughing. Swing, Dorothy thought the music was called. She liked it, the soaring movement of it, the brashness. She watched the young people dancing, keeping a distant eye on her girls, who were oblivious of her – at least, for now – as they danced and laughed, cheeks rosy, freshly curled hair bouncing on their firm young shoulders. Dorothy felt weak as she compared herself to all these young people; she felt inconsequential. How glad she was to be sitting in the corner.

  Dorothy liked to sit in the corner at parties. There was nothing worse than sitting with a large group of people, feeling left out. Or, even worse, trapped. Stupid people, asking stupid questions, interfering. Laughing at jokes that she was not privy to. No, she would take her own company any day. She nibbled at a fish paste sandwich, and wondered why on earth she had agreed to come to this dance. Squadron Leader Pietrykowski had duly arrived at the cottage at seven o’clock, driving the squadron car. He had smiled broadly at her, told her he liked very much her dress. Dorothy felt both elated and shameful. The girls, dolled up and excited, giggled and chatted in the back seat. Nina had her eye on a chap who she hoped to ‘talk to’ at the dance. The interior of the squadron car smelled of straw and leather and cigarettes, and Dorothy felt dizzy as they flew along the lanes, the hedges and trees and flowers, the cottages, people and bicycles all flashing by them.

  The room swam with pulses and energies and jealousies, with chatter and spite and laughter. Dorothy, from her seat in the corner, continued to watch Aggie and Nina, and the other young women and men dancing, laughing, flirting. The squadron leader moved around the room, talking to people, ensuring the music was loud enough but not too loud, chatting with his fellow pilots, with the British pilots. There was talk of the Polish squadron being formed soon. And Dorothy thought yes, how useful it was that he could speak and understand English so well. It seemed that everybody wanted to speak to Jan Pietrykowski. He had that magic, that allure. So whatever she felt – what she thought she might have begun to feel – was nothing, was of no import. Dorothy watched him, her eyes roaming inconspicuously from her girls to him, and back again, and again. She watched as he spoke to the ladies of the village, who were eating greedily, nodding and smiling and gushing.

  A couple of them, vaguely known to Dorothy as Marjorie and Susan, marched over to her corner. Dorothy smiled at them as they sat either side of her.

  How was she? Everybody was talki
ng about her recent escapade, did she know that? Her heroics?

  ‘It was nothing,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘Really—’

  ‘And you seem to have made quite an impression on the Polish squadron leader!’

  ‘I—’

  ‘He is a very handsome man, isn’t he? And such a gentleman.’

  ‘Yes, if you say so.’

  ‘And he speaks such good English!’

  They smelled of mild and wine. And were far too loud, even for them, she thought, although she barely knew them and had no desire to know them better or speak to either of them. She thought they were friends of Mrs Compton, if Mrs Compton had any friends.

  ‘Marvellous English, yes.’

  ‘And, Dorothy, how are you keeping these days?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. The girls keep me busy,’ said Dorothy, pleased to come up with a change of subject.

  ‘We always meant to say – didn’t we, Susan? – how sorry we were to hear about—’

  ‘These things happen. Don’t they?’ said Dorothy. She wasn’t certain if they were about to talk about the loss of Sidney, or Albert’s desertion of her. But she would not talk about any of it with these women. She would not.

  ‘But you must miss him,’ said Marjorie. ‘And we never see you any more. You do keep yourself to yourself, Dorothy, don’t you?’

  ‘I think it’s best.’

  Susan, more astute than her friend – and bored, or uncomfortable, or both – murmured that Mrs Sanderson had arrived and she should very much like to talk to her, and she and Marjorie excused themselves and returned to their side of the room. They whispered to their friends, among them the newly arrived Mrs Sanderson, Mrs Pritchard, Mrs Twoomey. Perhaps Mrs Compton was with them? But Dorothy had not noticed her. The women looked over at Dorothy from time to time, turning away hastily if she caught their eye. She was being talked about, she knew, but it didn’t matter. Let them talk.

  Perhaps she should give them something to talk about?

  Scanning the room, she smiled brightly at Jan Pietrykowski. He joined her, pulling out the chair recently vacated by Marjorie, and smiled back.