22 Britannia Road Part 28

The sound of other men entering the Nissen hut disturbed Ja.n.u.sz's thinking. They were talking about the weather. The rains had eased off and the men were discussing the fog that was coming in across the fields. Ja.n.u.sz stood up and pulled on his greatcoat. Bruno would be landing soon. He stepped outside and felt his feet sink into a puddle. Heavy mists swirled around him. Hands in pockets, head down, Ja.n.u.sz trudged towards the airfield and waited in the mess huts for the planes to come in. He sat and watched the fog curl and thicken outside. And what would he do after the war? Go back to Poland? Bruno was right: too much had happened to ever go back.

'A real pea-souper,' somebody said.

Ja.n.u.sz got up. Why not live in Scotland? Start his life again? He walked out of the mess hut and nearly knocked into an officer on the steps.

'Sorry, sir,' said Ja.n.u.sz. 'I didn't see you.'

'I'm not surprised. Terrible weather,' said the officer as Ja.n.u.sz stepped to one side to let him pa.s.s.

'I hope the planes are going to come in safely tonight, sir.'

'They're not landing here. Visibility's three hundred yards or less over the airfield. They've been diverted to land further north. I'll let everybody know when our crew is back on terra firma.'

Ja.n.u.sz followed him back into the mess hut. He waited. An hour later the news came in.

The squadron had been flying blind in thick cloud base. Only five of thirteen planes had touched down successfully. Bruno's plane had crashed in a cornfield and gone up in flames.

Ipswich

Ja.n.u.sz clings to his routines. He works as many hours as possible and then goes home and mends things the kitchen chair with its broken rung, the back door, the dripping tap, next door's guttering but two weeks and three days after he told Silvana to leave, he still cannot find enough to do to occupy himself.

Heartache burns like a fever in him. He cannot sleep. His muscles twitch, his mind races and at dawn he throws off his bedcovers, dresses and hurries out into his garden. He is so drunk with grief, it is all he can do to stop himself from roaming the streets looking for a fight.

The honeysuckle Ja.n.u.sz trained up the wooden fence has just begun to bud with flowers, and the holly by the shed glows dark green. Ja.n.u.sz grabs the honeysuckle's stem, soft as an exposed throat, and throttles it in his fist, yanking it off the fence. No more flowers. No more suburban garden. No more wife and son. He takes his spade, angrily digging at the holly's woody roots. He rips roses from the soil, slashes flowers with a scythe, kicks over shrubs and piles their ragged remains in a funeral pyre in the middle of the lawn.

The garden was always a dream. A dream of his son playing on a green lawn and his wife cutting English roses from the flower borders. And now there are no more dreams. A splash of rain falls but he carries on his destruction, finding some kind of pleasure in digging up plants, turning the lawn over to a furrowed plot of soil. He wants black soil. Bare earth. The ground new and flecked with stones.

Perhaps he's lost his mind, but he can't stop digging in any case. His muscles are pumping like pistons. Shouldering his work like a farmhorse pulling a plough through deep clay, he kicks the spade, driving it into the soil with a murderous energy.

Hours later, he leans against the fence, wiping sweat from his face. He doesn't rest for long. Throwing down his spade, he goes inside, finds an old newspaper, soaks it in lawnmower fuel and pushes it into his bonfire. He lights it and steps back, smoke clouding around him, stinging his eyes, the smell of smouldering plants filling the air.

The rain gets heavier but still he doesn't look up from his work. He carries on, even though the red-flamed heart of the bonfire has died, suffocated by the rain and the thick clods of green turf and plants he is piling uselessly onto it.

'What the h.e.l.l are you doing?'

Gilbert is looking over the fence.

Ja.n.u.sz steps out of the smoke.

'Clearing up,' he says. 'Getting rid of it all. Leave me alone, please. This is my business.'

And he walks back into the drifting, choking smoke.

Felixstowe Silvana is unsure, but Tony insists. He is smiling, waving his hands as he talks, excited as a child at Christmas.

'It's all right. Come upstairs. I've got a present for you. Something special.'

She steps through the open door of his bedroom. She has avoided this room so far. Avoided the memory of his wife which must lurk in the rose-patterned wallpaper and the polished wooden furniture.

'This house,' she asks, 'does it make you sad? Do you think of your wife when you are here?'

'No,' he says as he ushers her inside. 'No, we barely spent any time here together. And I've had lodgers since she died. The house has been decorated several times. There is nothing left that belonged to Lucy.'

Silvana sits at the dressing table, the chintz fabric pleated around it like a tidy skirt. She presses her knees together and takes in the details of the room: the pink satin bedspread on the double bed; the bed table with a small lamp on it; and above the bed, a print of a mountain landscape, green hills rolling down to a lake where sheep graze.

Tony brandishes a key in his hand and unlocks the big wardrobe.

'Here,' he says, swinging the wardrobe door open. 'For you.'

Colours glint shoulder to shoulder. The wardrobe is packed full of clothes. Brick red, holly green, duck-egg blue, eau de nil, salmon, pale blue, black, coral pink, cream, gold and silver. Furs, silks, ribbons, velvet, feathers, pearls, sequins. Evening gowns, tailored jackets, day dresses, trouser suits, silk nightdresses, blouses with tiny pearl b.u.t.tons. Silvana runs her hands over them all. Tony laughs and pulls a fur coat out for her to see.

'They're all for you.'

Silvana can't believe her eyes.

'Where did they come from? You've the contents of a dress shop in here.'

'I admit they're not all new, but you'll agree they're hardly worn. I've been collecting them for you. Some of them belonged to a countess. A very beautiful one.'

'How did you know my size?'

He puts the coat on the bed and shrugs. 'I guessed. But it was a lucky guess, right? Try something on and we'll see.'

Silvana watches him push through the rails, looking for something. Had he always known she would end up in this house with him? Had he planned it all along? She dismisses the thought. There is no point wondering in any case. She is here.

'This one,' he says, pulling a silver lame evening gown from its wooden hanger. 'This one is my favourite.'

His hand trembles as he pa.s.ses her the dress, his eyes full of expectation.

'Try it on,' he says, and his voice cracks. 'I want you to have it.'

A thought comes to her. Lucy Lucy.

'These clothes. They're not...' She falls silent. She can't ask him that. She looks at him steadily. 'You bought them all for me?'

'Yes. Of course. Who else would I get them for?'

He turns his back while she undresses and slips the silvery dress over her head.

For one terrible moment she thought he might have been dressing her in his dead wife's clothes. But of course he wouldn't do that. Truly, she is far too morbid these days. The dress slides over her hips. It settles on her body, heavy as silver coins, fish scales rippling over her hips, clinging to her thighs. She doesn't dare look in the wardrobe mirror.

'Ready yet? Can I see?'

'Yes.'

Tony smiles, opening his arms wide.

'Bella! Look at yourself. You're beautiful.'

The woman looking back at her in the mirror wears the dress confidently. She puts a hand on her hip, twists her body so that its curves show, lifts her ribcage, turns to see her back, the round swell of her b.u.t.tocks. The woman in the mirror is beautiful. Film-star beautiful.

Silvana looks into Tony's eyes. They are gla.s.sy with emotion.

'Tony? Are you all right?'

'I'm tired,' he says. 'My eyes water when I'm tired.'

He picks through the clothes, suggests she try on a floral linen day dress.

'All right,' she says, though she prefers the look of the pale-green silk dress that hangs beside it. He strokes her arm, his fingers tracing her shoulder, running along the dip of her collarbone.

'You know I love you,' he whispers.

Silvana nods. She takes the day dress and holds it up to her.

'Perfect,' he says, and kisses her cheek so gently, so lightly, she finds herself closing her eyes and leaning into him, lifting her lips to his.

Poland

Silvana

Silvana started to understand the way the forest worked. It was like a compa.s.s. Spider's webs faced south. The tops of the pine trees bent to the east. Squirrels nested in tree holes that faced west. Woodp.e.c.k.e.rs' nests had their openings to the north. The forest was a map if you could learn how to read it. She and the boy were part of it all.

One morning, early, when they had put their clothes on and were trekking across the forest looking for a new place to camp, they stumbled out of the woods onto a road. Aurek sniffed the air and backed away. It was a long straight road, disappearing into the horizon like an upside-down V. In the other direction the road disappeared at a dip where the trees rose up over it.

Silvana felt the hard surface of the road beneath her boots. She b.u.t.toned her coat and kicked at stones and Aurek joined her, picking up a handful of gravel and throwing it into the air. She heard a dusty grumble, getting louder. Standing with Aurek in the middle of the road, backs to the sun, they waited for the noise to arrive.

A line of green army trucks and tanks came into view, rising up over the dip in the road. On the first truck a flag was flying. Silvana recognized it. It was British.

'Aurek, look,' she said, trying to fix her headscarf and pull the boy up straight beside her. 'Look.'

Ja.n.u.sz Ja.n.u.sz took the train to Stirling and met Ruby in a pub in the village. She looked tired and her skin was pale, but she was cheerful.

'Well, it's good to see you.'

She squeezed his arm. 'How are things in England? Can't be as b.l.o.o.d.y awful as they are up here.'

'I don't know,' said Ja.n.u.sz. 'It's been raining so long I think we may need to build an ark. What can I get you to drink?'

'I'll have a shandy, thanks.'

Ja.n.u.sz put their drinks down on the table and watched her pick up her gla.s.s. He might as well say it now. What point was there in waiting?

Ruby sipped her drink and put it down carefully. 'Did you come here to tell me something? Is something wrong? Did Bruno send you?'

Ja.n.u.sz took a deep breath and started to talk. It was easier than he thought it would be. Ruby didn't interrupt. She nodded her head, listening. Tears ran down her face, making two pink streaks of clean skin through her make-up.

'Are you staying around here?'

'No,' said Ja.n.u.sz. 'I'm going back tonight.'

He leaned across the table and kissed her on the cheek.

'Don't,' she said, pulling away. 'Don't. I'm all right. But what about you, Jan? What are you going to do now?'

He looked at Ruby's tired face and said nothing.

'You were married, weren't you?' she said. 'Bruno told me you've got a little lad.'

'Did he?'

'He thought the world of you. Why don't you try to find your wife and son? Put your family back together.'

'I don't know,' he said. 'I don't know if I can.'

'Listen,' she said. 'Life's a total mystery and I don't know why things happen like they do. The world's a complete mess, isn't it? But the way I see it, I'm sitting here crying because I've got no one, and you're sitting here with a wife and a son out there somewhere and you look more miserable than me. You're the lucky one. You've got a family. You're b.l.o.o.d.y lucky.'

On the train he thought about what she had said. She was right. He had a family. Of course he had to find them.

A tall RAF officer helped Ja.n.u.sz fill in the missing-persons forms.

'We need as much information as you can give us. Last known address, family relations.h.i.+ps, maiden names. Work details. Just put it all down. It might take a while, but if we can, we'll help you get in contact with your family.'

He handed Ja.n.u.sz a cigarette and lit one himself.

'I wish you luck, Mr Nowak.'

Ja.n.u.sz was pleased to find someone who could p.r.o.nounce his name. Pleased with the man's clear, well-spoken voice. He prided himself on his own careful accent. A couple of the men on the base liked to joke that he had a better English accent than any of them.

The officer stood up and opened a cupboard, pulling out a bottle and two delicate gla.s.ses. 'Have a sherry with me. You don't mind it, do you? I know you soldiers prefer beer or in your case, I imagine, a shot of vodka. Sherry's the only thing I drink. Look, we might find your wife and son at one of our camps. Or an American camp perhaps. That's all we can do. But if she's there, we'll find her. The British will look after her. We'll do our best, I promise you.'

The man's kindness was a relief. He called Ja.n.u.sz 'old boy', 'chum', 'my dear man'. He told him he'd follow this up personally, chivvy up the paperwork.

He shook Ja.n.u.sz by the hand, firmly.

'Good luck.' He was already pouring himself another gla.s.s of sherry. 'Let's hope we get you all back together again.'