22 Britannia Road Part 22

'Really?'

He is so surprised and grateful to her, he whoops with joy and stumbles through a few steps of a mazurka, kicking his legs and singing, Aurek giggling at the sight of him.

Ja.n.u.sz stops and regards his family, his life, the small kitchen. The table takes up most of the room, that and the three wooden chairs. The dripping tap that he must fix one day plays a repet.i.tive plink plink plink plink tune in the ceramic sink. He looks at the suburban garden through the window. It may not be a big garden, but the lawn is smooth and weed-free, the flower beds are blooming this spring, and the vegetable patch is overflowing with produce. Aurek is making car noises, tune in the ceramic sink. He looks at the suburban garden through the window. It may not be a big garden, but the lawn is smooth and weed-free, the flower beds are blooming this spring, and the vegetable patch is overflowing with produce. Aurek is making car noises, vroom, vroom vroom, vroom, jigging from one foot to the other. On the stove, the pearl-barley soup, brown and viscous, is gently boiling over.

'You have a smudge on your cheek,' says Silvana. She wipes it with her finger and he feels the softness of her gesture. He thinks of Helene.

'There,' says Silvana. 'It's gone now.'

Ja.n.u.sz looks down at his son and ruffles the boy's hair gently.

'Aurek, I do believe you are growing,' he says. He leans behind Silvana and turns off the stove.

Silvana opens a drawer and looks at her red headscarf. She hasn't worn it since Doris dyed her hair for her and showed her how to curl and coif it in the modern style. Underneath the scarf is a neat pink box. She takes it out and opens it, running a finger over the diaphragm inside. Doris had helped her get it. She'd given her the name of a doctor.

'You go and see him. He'll give you something. Some of them don't like it when you want to take matters into your own hands. They think you're trying to escape your duties. They give you all that stuff about the population and your role as a woman. This one'll see you all right. Me, I've been lucky. I had our Geena and afterwards Gilbert never really bothered me for that kind of thing. We're too old now in any case. I'm looking forward to grandchildren.'

'I have my son,' she told the doctor. 'It's enough to look after him. I don't think I could cope with another.'

'And your husband treats you well?'

'Yes. Yes, he's a very good husband.'

And ask about me, she thinks. Ask me if I am a good wife and I could tell you I am a liar and a cheat Ask me if I am a good wife and I could tell you I am a liar and a cheat.

'He doesn't want any more children either?'

'No. We both feel our son is enough.'

He nodded and wrote her a prescription. He had half a finger missing from his right hand and scarring across the back of his wrist. He held his pen awkwardly, wrote slowly.

'You're not alone,' he said. 'There's nothing to be ashamed of. A lot of couples feel like this. The war has affected all of us. Quite frankly, who would want to bring a child into this world?'

'You'll be all right, love,' Doris said when Silvana came home. 'We women always are. We have to be.'

Silvana lays her headscarf back over the pink box. It's been three weeks since she agreed to try for a baby. Three weeks of feeling like she should be burning in h.e.l.l and three weeks since Ja.n.u.sz has been nothing but kind, bringing flowers for her and toy cars for Aurek. A perfect husband when she is fast becoming a terrible wife. She can't go on like this. All her lies are stacking themselves up. Sooner or later, they will fall apart.

Poland

Silvana

For six months Silvana stayed in the cottage. She gladly threw herself into the steady peasant life. It was a slow, hidden world she had moved into, and it suited her. n.o.body asked her who she was or where she and the boy had come from. She was a young woman unafraid of hard work. That's all the family were interested in. And that suited her fine. She cooked, fetched water from the well, cleared their fields of stones and planted out crops in May.

Each Friday, Marysia disappeared from the house for hours. She came back on Sat.u.r.day morning with a flush in her cheeks and a bag of bread and meat. Once, she carried an ox tongue into the kitchen and her mother took it without a word of surprise. Silvana asked where she had found meat like that, but Ela didn't seem to hear and Marysia only laughed, a coa.r.s.e laugh. She set her hands on her waist and flicked her hips at Silvana.

'Be careful. Talk of the wolf,' she said, 'and he's sure to appear.'

Ela was often ill, and Marysia left it to Silvana to nurse her. One day when Ela lay doubled up with pain she asked Silvana to bring her last bottle of medicine.

'What is it?' Silvana asked, looking at the thick cloudy mixture.

'Chaga. And yes, it tastes as bad as it looks. But it works. I get it from a Russian doctor who makes it for me.'

Silvana held the bottle up to the light. 'A Russian doctor?'

'He's in hiding, not far from here. He is a very good doctor.'

There was only one person who could have made this for her. Gregor. And this was the cottage, then, that he had got food from when they were all together in the woods. Silvana handed Ela the bottle and said nothing, but for weeks afterwards, every time she looked across the fields, she wondered whether Elsa had had her baby and if Gregor might come to the cottage one day.

Ja.n.u.sz Ja.n.u.sz and Helene lay on a gra.s.sy mound together. Below them the Mediterranean sea was a thin pen line of blue meeting a sky the same colour. Villages, vineyards and towns, soft and gauzy in the heat, spread out below them. Waxy-leaved myrtle grew in clumps around them, hiding them from view.

'Stay,' Helene said, her head resting on Ja.n.u.sz's shoulder. Stay here with me. We can be happy together, you and me.'

Ja.n.u.sz smiled at her. 'How can I? If I stay here I'll be arrested.'

'The war won't go on for ever.'

Ja.n.u.sz pressed his fingers against his eyes.

'Ja.n.u.sz, are you listening? Will you? Will you stay?'

He took his hands away and looked at her.

'Stay,' she repeated.

He thought of the sailors at the docks in Ma.r.s.eilles, unloading goods from Africa, the Ivory Coast, places where the sun mapped lines on faces toughened by sea air and salt water. When he had stepped onto the docks nearly three months ago, Ja.n.u.sz had envied these men their bronzed muscularity. He had listened to their voices and tried to copy their fierce vowel sounds, the questioning rise to every sentence. He felt closer to them now, as if his body turning from red to brown was part of something deeper. Ja.n.u.sz was warmed by their laughter, comfortable in his new skin. I am a Frenchman I am a Frenchman, he thought. He was wrapped in sunlight and love and a dream he didn't want to wake from.

He pulled out the photograph of Silvana and Aurek from his pocket and looked at it.

Helene took it from him. She stood up and walked to the edge of the cliff.

'Will you stay?'

She held the photo out over the edge of the rocks.

'Shall I let this go?'

Ja.n.u.sz hesitated.

'I love you,' Helene said. 'Do you love me? Shall I let it go?'

Ja.n.u.sz shut his eyes.

'If you want to.'

Helene gave the photo back to him and he put it on the ground beside him, pulling her into his arms.

The same day, as Ja.n.u.sz was standing on the barn roof, setting red tiles into place, he heard the noise of a motorbike coming up the hill towards the farm. He slithered quickly down, climbed down the ladder and stood in the shadows watching as the motorbike cut up the white stone drive, sending dust clouds high into the air.

He picked his way carefully around the back of the barns and watched Bruno get off the bike and walk across the yard. The fields beyond the farm looked tempting. n.o.body would find him up there. Or he could hide in the barn. He could get himself lost all day and not come out until Bruno had gone. But no, he had to see what this was about. He'd see his friend again and explain he was staying.

He found Bruno smoking a cigarette, talking to Helene in the loud, playful voice he used with women. Ja.n.u.sz quickened his pace and stepped between them.

'Bruno.'

'Ja.n.u.sz? Helene was just telling me you weren't here. There's a boat leaving for Southampton tonight. The British are taking Polish soldiers with them.'

Ja.n.u.sz glanced at Helene. 'I'm not going.'

'You've got no choice, mate.' Bruno dropped his cigarette, stamped on it. 'The Germans are moving down through France. They'll be in Ma.r.s.eilles before you know it. I'm sorry, Jan. You have to come with me. Pack up your stuff. We have to go now.'

'What did he say?' Helene asked. Then she backed away from him. 'I can see it in your face. You're leaving, aren't you?'

'No, I...'

She slapped him on the chest and turned away, hurrying towards the house.

'I'm sorry,' said Bruno.

Ja.n.u.sz ignored him. He hurried after Helene and caught up with her by the front porch.

'Wait.'

'For what?'

She fell into his arms, sobbing.

'I'll come back,' he said. 'I will.'

'You have to,' she whispered, clinging to him.

He could hear the stiff bravery in her voice and was reminded of Silvana. Was this what the war would be for him, a series of goodbyes?

'You have to,' she repeated. 'I'll die without you.'

'I swear I'll come back to you.'

She raised her eyes to him. 'I'll be here. Waiting.'

Ja.n.u.sz let her go and she turned, walking into the farmhouse, shutting the door behind her. Ja.n.u.sz tried to fix the moment in his head, to give himself a picture of her: how pretty her hair was, the way her shoulders rounded as she hugged herself, her steady step up as she went indoors.

'I'll come back,' he said to the wooden front door. 'I promise I'll come back.'

He had nothing to take with him, only the clothes he stood in. He walked back to Bruno and climbed onto the motorbike behind him. They rounded a corner and tall, dark poplar trees hid the farm from view. Then he concentrated on watching the road in front of them.

A coal boat took them to Britain. It set sail with its crop of foreigners, and Bruno and Ja.n.u.sz were billeted down in the hold, eating hard yellow cheese from the iron rations they had been given, sitting on sheets of metal, shoulder to shoulder, squashed in with crowds of men all talking about their beloved Polska Polska.

Ja.n.u.sz borrowed a Polish guidebook on England from a group of men, the only book of its kind among hundreds of them, pa.s.sed between them all like a bible. He started studying it, learning a few phrases, muttering them under his breath.

Good morning. How do you do? Do you know where I can find a post office?

He and Bruno had stilted English conversations about buying umbrellas and visiting the doctor.

'Is that all they do in Britain?' Ja.n.u.sz asked, handing the book over to another soldier.

Bruno shrugged. 'I don't know. Here's another I learned. 'Will you please sell me a ticket for the dance tonight?' He grinned. 'That one'll come in useful. All those British girls.'

Ja.n.u.sz put his head in his hands and thought of Helene. He curled up, vulnerable as a child with stomach cramps, rocking himself. Then Silvana and his son entered the confused fields of his thoughts. He reached into his pocket for Silvana's photograph and couldn't find it. He remembered Helene handing it back to him, but what had he done with it then? He must have left it behind.

A storm blew up in the Atlantic and the boat crashed and heaved in heavy waves. Ja.n.u.sz was sure they would never reach England, home to doctors, dancers and umbrella sellers. That either the high waves or the patrolling German boats would sink them.

Down in the bunks, where the throbbing of the engines was deafening, all around him was seasickness and complaining. Ja.n.u.sz sat in silence, watching the anonymous faces, the backs of heads, the crush of men, everybody covered in fine layers of earthy black coal dust. As the s.h.i.+p dipped and groaned, the men s.h.i.+fted back and forth in the gloom, hundreds of Polish lads rolling together like a cartload of potatoes rattling across a vast furrowed field.

Ipswich

Aurek knows it is best to look from underneath. Keep your head down and push through with your shoulders. From underneath they appear as a dark spot in the branches. Like a diver swimming towards the light, push upwards until your hand touches the mossy side of the nest. Take only one egg except from rooks' nests, where you can take as many as you like, because everybody knows they are the devil's birds.

It is the enemy who taught Aurek to collect bird's eggs for fun. At home they have a box lined with cotton wool, full of soft-hued eggs. Each one has a label. Blackbird. Linnet Blackbird. Linnet. Song Thrush. Warbler Song Thrush. Warbler, Treecreeper Treecreeper, Flycatcher Flycatcher. There are important rules too. If a bird is sitting on the nest you must leave it be. Most birds nest in bushes and thick hedgerows, so expect scratches and nettle stings. These things are proof of your bravery.

When he and his mother lived in the forest, Aurek ate the eggs he found, picking holes in the top of them, sucking the soft insides into his mouth, swallowing them down in one.

'Like an oyster,' his mother told him. She'd never eaten oysters but she'd supposed they were similar, fluid and solid at the same time. 'They're a luxury,' she said. 'In Warsaw only the rich eat oysters.'

Aurek will never tell the enemy he ate the eggs he found. He won't tell him that sometimes the eggs were full of blood or the blue-skinned beginnings of birds. That they picked the sh.e.l.ls off those and cooked them on a stick over a fire. He will not mention the fledglings he stole from nests or the strips of birch bark he chewed on in the dead of winter. Even a child knows that it is shameful to admit to that kind of hunger.

The enemy says egg collecting is part of learning about nature and every boy should be interested in Britain's wildlife, fauna and flora. In the kitchen, Aurek watches him heat the point of a needle in a flame until it blackens. He uses it to make a tiny hole in each end of a blackbird's egg, pus.h.i.+ng the needle inside the fragile sh.e.l.l, mas.h.i.+ng up the contents. Then he presses his lips to the hole he has made and blows gently until the yolk and the white slip out of the other end, into the sink. When it is Aurek's turn, he finds it hard to resist sucking in. He wants to draw the eggy mess into his mouth and swallow it. But he won't do it. Not in front of the enemy. He wouldn't want to disappoint him.

Aurek stares up at a tall elm tree with Peter beside him, thinking of rooks' eggs. They are picnicking in the woods today, and there's a kind of glory in the thick spring air, the shudder of fresh leaves and the sunlight flickering through them. The gra.s.shoppers buzzing in the nettles sound like a fanfare just for him. It's better than any orchestra at the town park's Sunday bandstand, and it makes him want to climb every tree he can see. If he could, he'd split into a hundred different boys so he could climb them all, and he imagines the boys and himself perched up high like a great cackle of magpies.

Peter's dad brought them here on this perfect Sat.u.r.day. He arrived at the house in the morning with Peter and a picnic basket. Silvana told him they couldn't go out. Not when Ja.n.u.sz was working and she has the front steps to clean and rugs to beat.

Tony said the day was too good to waste doing housework. Then he went down on one knee, making a big show of it, begging her to give him her duster. Finally she looked at Aurek and asked him what he wanted to do. He nodded. Let's go to the woods. Please. Silvana handed the duster to Tony, who threw it into the air and declared the day a holiday.

And now here they all are in the woods, and Aurek is so happy he can hardly stop himself from dropping to his knees like Peter's dad.

In the elm's uppermost branches is a big, untidy nest of twigs. Two black rooks hunker on a branch beside it, heads tucked into their wings.