Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase Page 8

  ‘I’m sorry, Jan. It must have been difficult for you. I know how fragile a man’s pride can be.’

  ‘A woman’s love. That is the fragile thing.’

  ‘All love, surely?’

  ‘No. Some love is solid and is not breaking.’

  ‘Does not break,’ she corrected, and immediately wished she hadn’t. ‘But you have been disappointed in love?’

  ‘As you have.’

  ‘Yes, and everything can be broken, Jan. I’ve accepted that in my life. You cannot trust anyone or anything, it just doesn’t do.’

  ‘You think not?’

  ‘Why don’t we talk about something more cheery? I know, your music box. The girls are enjoying it so much! They love to sing and dance and they whirl around in the parlour of an evening, so lost in themselves and the music. It’s priceless.’

  ‘And what do you do while they dance?’

  ‘I sew. Mending, of course, and alterations. Nina, the bigger girl, she eats like a horse and her clothes need letting out constantly, it seems. She can’t have had much to eat back in London. She’s from quite a poor family, I think.’

  ‘Yes. She is one of many children?’

  ‘She has two elder brothers, I think, and a little sister and brother – twins, I believe. I so envy her! The twins have been evacuated from London, to Wales. She tries to write letters to them, but I have to help her. She’s hopeless, she can barely read or write. She says she misses London, but I rather think she should be glad to be away from it. Why volunteer for the Women’s Land Army if you would prefer to stay in the city?’ She stopped abruptly, aware that she was talking rather rapidly, and not making much sense. ‘But perhaps you like city living?’

  ‘I have not lived in a city. You have?’

  ‘I lived in Oxford, as a child. It was too noisy and crowded and busy for my liking. And that was in the days before there were so many motor cars.’

  ‘How old are you, Dorothea?’

  ‘Why, I … well, since you have asked, and you did tell me how old you are, I shall tell you. I’m thirty-nine years old. I shall be forty in November.’

  ‘A young woman.’

  ‘Nonsense. Too old. Too old for babies, anyway. Perhaps that was my mistake with Sidney. Trying for too long, allowing myself to fall pregnant so late in my life. It was stupid of me. So I was punished.’

  ‘Punished by whom?’ His clear blue eyes were fixed on her.

  ‘I don’t know. My mother? She may have cast a spell on me.’

  Now his eyes crinkled with mirth. ‘You are not serious?’

  ‘I suppose I’m not. But she is a witch.’

  ‘Why do you say such a thing?’

  ‘Because she had no right to motherhood,’ said Dorothy, standing and beginning to clear the table.

  Jan sprang up to help her.

  ‘She was hopeless, just utterly hopeless. It’s been five, six years now, since I heard from her. She was furious with me, you see.’

  ‘Because you married Albert.’

  ‘Yes. I left her home, my home, to marry a man “beneath me”. She couldn’t stand it. She thinks we still live in Victorian times. Well, we don’t. It’s the thirties now. Actually, it’s the forties already, isn’t it? Modern times, modern women. Look how they go on these days! Look at my girls. They’re shameless at times. But I don’t blame them. I really don’t. You only get one life. And times are hard, they’re frightening. God only knows how this will all end.’ Dorothy turned towards the cottage, holding the tray. ‘Would you like more tea?’

  She insisted that Jan stay where he was, and enjoy the afternoon’s peace while it lasted. She replenished the tray with a fresh pot of tea and clean cups and saucers, and topped up the milk jug and sugar bowl. Today she would not spare the sugar. Then she popped upstairs to look at herself in her dressing-table mirror. She was tempted to apply lipstick, but she resisted.

  On her return to the garden, she found Jan recumbent on the ground, his legs crossed, one hand behind his head, the other holding a blade of grass that he chewed. He smiled broadly at her as she placed the tea things on the table.

  ‘Are you all right down there?’ she asked. She felt bemused, but she could not say why. Perhaps because Albert had not been one for lying around chewing grass. Albert had been anything but nonchalant.

  ‘I am perfectly all right. Dorothea, do you fear this war?’ he said.

  ‘I hoped there wouldn’t be another one. We all did, surely?’

  ‘Of course. But it was always coming, I think. It was going to happen sooner or later. And now it has, and we must fight again for the good.’

  ‘I hope we’ll win. All of us. Somehow! It’s really starting now, isn’t it? Churchill in charge at last … it makes it all seem more real somehow. You feel that something will happen now. And you Polish chaps arriving. But we need a miracle. Don’t we?’

  ‘We need a miracle. And yes, the war it is coming. Hitler will not stop short.’

  ‘Will there be one, do you think? A miracle?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jan, and for the first time he sounded sad.

  ‘Are you afraid?’ she asked him.

  ‘In my heart lies hatred. I want to kill these Nazis. The biggest pleasure, no, the next biggest pleasure in my life is killing Nazis.’

  ‘Have you killed any yet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really? Is that murder?’

  ‘No. It is justice. Those monsters have destroyed my country. They kill children, they kill women, like you, women in their gardens, in the fields, they shoot down, there and then. They forced me to flee my homeland and so they should expect me to kill them. They destroy my country. I have no mercy.’

  ‘I see. I’m sorry, Jan. It’s all so bleak. And all these soldiers returning from France. The newspapers can dress it up how they like, but it’s a defeat, surely?’

  ‘Defeat? No. A tactical withdrawal, I have heard it said. Many are rescued, don’t forget. They can gather themselves, rearm themselves, start again. Like me, leaving Polska, getting here eventually, my men and I, all of us with one aim, to kill the bastards that took over our country. Dorothea, has my fighting talk alarmed you?’ He sat up, discarding his blade of grass.

  ‘No, I’m not scared. I’ve given up being scared. I’ve feared so much in my life, and my worst fears came true. The spell of fear has been broken somewhat. There’s no fear left in me.’

  ‘That is hard talk for a woman.’

  ‘I am weary, but that’s all.’

  ‘World-weary?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. Nothing much shocks or surprises or delights me any more.’

  ‘Nothing?’ He moved closer to her, and perched at her feet like a dog seeking affection.

  ‘Don’t you know that feeling?’ said Dorothy.

  ‘I think I do. But I don’t like it.’ He frowned when she shrugged. ‘You do like it? You like being, in Polish is cynik. Is it the same in English?’

  ‘It is. But I’m not a cynic.’

  ‘But yes, you are cyniczny. It’s understandable. Hard times bring hard reactions. This is war. This is life, all our wars and battles. Nobody will blame you.’

  ‘Blame me?’

  ‘For feeling as you do. You are not alone, Dorothea. Not you.’ He put an odd emphasis on the last word.

  ‘You say that … are you alone?’

  ‘In my thoughts and my heart, yes. But I am surrounded by men, some of them boys, who look to me, who listen to me, who rely on me. In that way I am not alone.’

  Dorothy was suddenly very aware that Jan was a mere inch or two from her knees, which were bare and quivering. Really, it was … inappropriate. Why on earth had she not put stockings on? She tried to pull her skirt down a little, but Jan appeared not to notice her discomfiture.

  ‘But you are lonely?’ she asked.

  ‘As you are,’ he replied.

  ‘Loneliness can be a good thing. Sometimes.’

  ‘How is this?’

&
nbsp; ‘It makes one think properly, and understand things. When you have time to be alone, to think, to just cogitate.’

  ‘Cogitate?’

  ‘Cogitate … um … mull things over. No, that’s no good … consider? Anyway, I think we are all essentially lonely, don’t you? Nobody can really understand another’s mind. We’re all inside our own heads and minds and hearts. But that’s how it has to be. We can only reach out so far to others. Maybe our fingertips will meet somebody else’s, and that will be a beautiful moment. But it can never be more than fingertips.’

  The squadron leader was examining his hands. Dorothy felt as if she had stopped breathing. She inhaled deeply, and sighed.

  ‘You are a philosopher,’ he said at length.

  ‘Goodness me, no. I’m just a woman with time to think. Mundane tasks lend themselves well to thinking. Washing, ironing, mending.’

  ‘You are “just a woman”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But a thoughtful woman. A woman of intelligence. You see in clearness where others do not.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think so.’

  They lapsed into silence, Jan resuming his prostration at her feet. He took up another blade of grass.

  ‘This is nice, Jan. To sit quietly and not have to talk.’

  The sun was beginning to sink, casting a golden glow over the Long Acre, over Dorothy’s garden, over Jan as he lay now on his stomach, examining the earth beneath him. He looks like a child, she thought.

  ‘I dislike too much talk,’ said Jan. ‘Too much of talk is nonsense. With you there is exception. But almost always I prefer my own company.’

  ‘Yes. I understand. Where did you grow up?’

  ‘In a small village. Near Krakow.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You told me on the day we met. I’d not heard of it before.’

  ‘As I had not heard of Lincoln before arriving here.’

  ‘You lived with your parents?’

  ‘I lived with my mother. The woman I called mother. I had no father. He was never known to me.’

  ‘Ah, you said. Forgive me. But what do you mean, you called her your mother?’

  ‘And so we get to it.’ Jan shook his head. ‘She took me as her own child. My true mother was young when she became pregnant. Young and not married. I don’t know too much about what happened. I was lucky, I have been told, to have been born. If you understand. I was brought up by my aunt, my mother’s elder sister, a widow. My mother left the village, she never returned. I have not heard from her.’

  ‘My goodness. But your aunt? Was she good to you?’

  ‘Of course. Yes. She loved me. I called her matka. Mother. I was safe, I was fed and clothed and educated. I was bright. She had more children, after me. Two girls. But I do not regard them as my sisters.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Because they were not the children of my mother. You understand? She left me, my mother, it doesn’t matter who with. She did not want me. I was a shame. I am a person with no roots.’ He sat up, stretched and stood.

  She looked up at him. ‘But she was your real mother’s sister, you said, the woman who brought you up? Not so far removed from your roots.’

  ‘But still removed. That is enough. I wanted to be with my mother. Ever since I can remember, since I could understand. If I was naughty, I would hear, “You are like your mother!” It was not said in cruelty, you understand. But it was said. My mother was not loved, you see, she was not respected for having a baby outside of marriage. I think she had to leave. But she should have taken me with her. She chose not to.’ He sat in the wooden chair opposite Dorothy, sighed and looked deeply into her eyes.

  ‘Thank you for sharing these things with me, Jan,’ she said.

  ‘We all need a friend, no?’

  It felt as though the night would never fall, and Dorothy didn’t want it to, but the sun finally dropped all the way below the horizon, and stars and planets announced themselves one by one, prompting her to rummage around in her kitchen for a candle. She brought it outside in tremulous hands. As soon as Jan had lit it with his cigarette lighter, moths and indeterminate insects busied themselves flying into the flame, their tiny bodies fizzling and dropping beside the candle. Dorothy and Jan looked on in speechless fascination, powerless to prevent the deaths. They heard owls in the distant woods, small scurryings in the hedges, and the eerie night-time rustle of the birch trees.

  Jan rose to leave at thirty-two minutes past ten, and she rose with him, mirroring his movement. He did not say when he would return, but he held Dorothy’s hands in his and kissed them, first one, then the other. She stared at him. His kiss on her mouth, when it came, was the most alive thing she had ever known. His lips moved soft and hard on hers and she felt a rush of white heat, like nothing she had ever imagined. His teeth were like tight, hard pearls. She found herself, against all her sense of propriety, running the tip of her tongue over them. And as if waking from a stupefied and tropical dream, she stiffened, she became aware of the facts. Her hands rose up and she pushed at his chest, unsure, panic rising in her like vomit. He drew back, took her hands in his again and smiled at her. He said he was sorry. Mute, Dorothy shook her head. But she tried to smile at him, until her lips trembled and her cheeks stiffened. She felt like a young girl, sickened by the shock of her very first kiss.

  They walked together to her front gate, and he took her hand in his as though they were taking a lovers’ stroll past a duck pond. He whispered goodnight and rubbed her arm reassuringly. She thought he winked at her, but in the failing light it was hard to tell. She watched the Polish man and his bicycle disappear into the darkening night, slipping away from her like an apparition.

  She stood alone for many minutes, staring after him into the gloom.

  9

  13th September 1947

  Dear Marion,

  I write to thank you for your visit last week, it was lovely to spend time with you and Lionel again. Peter had a marvellous time too. So nice to play tennis once more. We made a grand set, didn’t we? Since your departure I have been bottling and jamming fruit, we have a bumper crop this year. And the weather has been so hot! I think of Denis always at this time of year, how he loved his fruit! And his tennis, of course. Peter played terribly well, didn’t he? He grows more and more like Denis with each day that passes. Very soon he will be off to university, and I don’t mind admitting, dear Marion, that I shall miss him dreadfully.

  Do visit us again, dear, any time you can manage it, and please give my love to Lionel. I hope his tooth has stopped playing him up? And that your headaches are subsiding? Headaches are such a trial.

  Yours, with love,

  Hilda

  (The first letter I found at the Old and New, and I can’t remember in which book I found it. It’s not the most fascinating of letters, but it has a sweet poignancy, and I took it home to begin my collection, which is now housed in Mrs Sinclair’s suitcase. I have formed a mental picture of Hilda, her teenage son Peter, her dead husband Denis. I see her with her hair scraped back in a bun, I see her face hot and red as she throws herself into jam-making. But I don’t think it helps.)

  There are changes in Jenna, changes only I notice. Hair not brushed so well, make-up clumsily applied, or missing altogether – something I thought I would never see. Her clothes are creased, her skin is dry and flaky across her nose. Her cheeks are hollowing, and she has shadows under her eyes, grey-purple shadows that speak silently, I think, of guilt. Of regret. Sleep-dust litters the corners of her eyes. These changes are subtle, you understand. She has hitherto been impeccably presented, and now she is less than impeccable. Now she is more like me. She is a seven out of ten.

  I know exactly how she feels, and I know how much it hurts, though the circumstances were different.

  It was at university. I hooked up with a student who was good-looking, clever and funny. I’ll spare his blushes and keep his name to myself. I felt flattered by his attentions, and I fell in love,
I thought. It was fun. It was bloody brilliant, in fact. Until my period was two weeks late. Panic. A solitary late-afternoon trip to Boots. A long wait overnight (because in those days you needed to test your first urine of the day). Two pink stripes. Not one, which is what I wanted, but two, very clearly, very pinkly. There was little discussion between myself and the handsome student. Just a conviction that it ‘might be best to terminate’. ‘We’ were too young. ‘We’ were career minded. ‘We’ had no intention of … so I visited the GP, then the clinic, discreetly, swiftly, alone. Handsome Student said he was ‘grateful’. I broke up with him.

  I’ve never told anybody else about my termination. I’ve never felt the need to.

  Does Philip notice the differences in Jenna? Surely he must. Does he know? Perhaps Jenna bled for days, prompting concern, which led to a confession? Perhaps she is still in pain? I hope not. And yet I feel hardened, somehow. Something has changed between Jenna and me.

  I shouldn’t have helped her. It was a mistake. It was all too raw, too close to my own experience. I could have told her it was something I had been through too; I could have told her in the car as I drove her to the clinic, or even on the way home. I understand, I could have said. It will be all right in the end. She would have nodded, maybe smiled. Instead, she smoked a cigarette, holding it outside the car window, and we spoke barely at all.

  I can see that Jenna now wishes she had confided in anybody else but me. She’s done her best to avoid me since the very day after the clinic. I try to be kind; I make her tea, take it to her wherever she is in the shop; I once went to hug her, because she looked so very sad. But there was no hug. Now, we speak only when we have to, in clipped, purposeful sentences. Neither of us alludes to that day. She doesn’t look at me. I want to help, but I’m not sure how to, I’m not sure what to say. It is so much simpler to do these things alone.

  Babunia’s care home is serene and hushed. There are pretty gardens behind the building, and the house itself is reassuringly small. It smells nice. The nurses and carers are uniformly professional and kind. Dad and I, and Babunia, chose the home together, and I know we chose the right one. It’s a pity it’s not a little closer, but a thirty-minute drive is not such a big deal.