Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase (14 page)

‘Go upstairs and get a drink,’ he says, looking away from me at last. ‘Tell Jenna to leave you in peace.’

‘Good for you,’ Jenna says, handing me the brandy I have requested.

I take it, gratefully, with a shaking hand. The brandy is hot and angry in my mouth, in my throat, belly, legs.

‘Good?’ I say, between mouthfuls.

‘You told that silly cow where to get off. That’s exactly what I would have done.’

‘I’ve been seeing her husband. She has every right to be angry.’

‘But causing a scene in public like that! I’d be ashamed to make such a fool of myself. Wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes, of course, but she’s upset, isn’t she? She’s half Italian, and you know what they say about Mediterranean temperaments … I thought she was rather cool about the whole thing, really. She just wanted to have it out with her rival. And when she discovered I’m not actually much of a rival … I don’t know. I got the impression she was relieved, more than anything. It could have been worse.’

‘Have you really been seeing him?’ Jenna asks. ‘Was it all true, what you said? What she said?’

‘I was seeing him, kind of. But it wasn’t a grand passion by any means. If that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘He’s a bit old for you, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. But it’s over now, anyway.’

‘God, it was funny. I heard her shout. I should think the whole bloody town heard it! And I just had to come down and see what all the fuss was about. You’ve caused quite a scandal, Roberta P.’

‘Jenna?’

‘Yes?’

‘I wonder if I could be left alone for a few minutes. I just need to recover myself here. You know?’

Jenna looks like a child scolded in public for picking her nose, but she shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly enough. ‘Of course,’ she says.

And leaves me.

12
th November
1940

My dear Dorothea,

I find myself realising today that I have not heard from you for a while. And I remember that today is your birthday. I send you many greetings. I trust all is well with you? I am satisfactory. We are kept busy trying to defend London, but it does not always go well. We are helpless at night-time, the frustration is unbearable.

I hope to be visiting you soon, perhaps the first week in December? A day, maybe two, no longer. I had no leave in October – disappointing for me, and for you, I have to hope. I am tired and I need the rest. I need time to be relaxing and spending time with my friend with her good food and tea and conversations. The room with the little bed, it sounds like a wonderful place to be. I need peace, Dorothea.

Until December,

Your Jan

T
he evenings were drawing in, and Dorothy was finding it difficult to sew without the aid of sunlight. She huddled under her oil lamp, she lit extra candles and she peered more closely at her work, frowning, pins in her mouth, her familiar tarnished thimble a comfortable fit on her middle finger. She listened to Billie Holiday, she listened to the chatter of the girls, she thought about Jan, away from her, in danger, all his strength and maleness no protection against the vulnerability that threatened to take him – at any moment, day or night – one bullet, one destroyed engine, one plunge into the cold, dark sea. The possibilities haunted her.

She was making a set of antimacassars, using an old linen tablecloth with a stubborn stain she hadn’t managed to wash out. She was embroidering on each one a circular rosebud pattern, using green and pink threads. This was the third; the first two were already adorning the settee. It was satisfying work. It kept her busy, and it allowed her to climb into herself, to lose herself in thoughts of Jan. For he was all she wanted to think about. The black hair, the blue eyes, the smile, the near-perfect English, the clear-thinking ideas so similar to her own. His hard-soft face, his foreign accent, faltering, polite. His mile-high laugh.

She read and reread his letters. She was keeping them in a small bundle, one on top of the other in the order she had received them, tied together with a dark blue ribbon; they nestled among Sidney’s clothes in the suitcase. She had a dozen or more letters, all on pale blue paper of an ethereal thinness, all written in a neat hand, recognisably
his
, smudged here and there, all in blue ink. To see the postman open her gate, stride down the path whistling, and then laugh when she rushed to the door to relieve him of his delivery, was the highlight of her week.

‘You’ve got it bad, love!’ he would say. But there was a shrewd look behind his twinkling eyes that spoke of gossip and suspicion. Goodness only knew what tales he told of her in the village, in the pub, everybody mocking her – ‘Falls over herself, she does, for letters from her Polish lover boy!’ She knew she was the subject of talk among people who were friends of her husband, people who had known Bert Sinclair all his life.

What a fool she must appear to everybody.

Yet the letters arrived. She snatched them from the postman, she read them eagerly, once, twice, three times. And then the unbearable wait for the next one, occasionally punctuated by her own inadequate replies – short, but not succinct, not interesting or funny, not even particularly informative. The immense disappointment on the days when the postman failed to arrive. These were long days.

Thank God, she thought many times, for the girls. Like birds of paradise, they coloured her life. True, Aggie was more sombre these days, but she tried hard to be cheerful, and sometimes succeeded. Nina and Dorothy tried hard to rouse her, talk to her, and console her when the tears flowed. Both girls lived in daily fear of bad news from home. The bombings were continuing, and the news was no comfort. All three women listened in respectful silence to the wireless each evening. Both girls talked of visiting their families in London, but the estate could not spare them, and Dorothy was secretly glad.

Another washday, a dull mid-November morning, winter hanging over the world’s window like a threadbare curtain. The girls were long gone, hiking off across the fields wrapped up in their coats, hats, scarves, gloves, boots, each with a bag of lunch prepared by Dorothy – sandwiches with fish paste, a boiled egg, slices of pickled beetroot, a Thermos of tea and, for a treat, a home-baked biscuit. It was the least Dorothy could do. She had eggs – plenty of eggs compared to most – flour, some butter. Even sugar. She always made sure now to put enough in her biscuits.

There was a breeze, cold, but strong enough for drying, if only partially. Sheets flapped and slapped on the lines, gulls and rooks circling, cawing and fighting, the clouds racing by as though late for an appointment. Hens, earthbound like Dorothy, clucked and pecked at the hardening ground. And Dorothy, alone, was lost in hot water, in soda crystals and soap, lost in her longings. So many longings that she couldn’t tell them apart, couldn’t separate them any more.

Suddenly aware of a presence, she turned from the copper, wiping her hair back from her face, and there he was, a man in the doorway, a heavy-looking kitbag slung across his shoulder. He was leaning against the door frame, a cigarette protruding from his lips and the smell of the smoke breaking through the steam.

She stared.

‘Hello, Dot.’

‘Albert.’

Aggie and Nina returned at dusk and seemed surprised to see this man, Albert, sitting at the table drinking tea. He was brawny, muscled, yet his eyes were pale and insipid, and appeared not to focus on anything. Even so, he looked the girls up and down, lingering on Aggie.

The evening meal was a stilted affair, punctuated by awkward conversation and long, impenetrable pauses. Under Albert’s unnerving scrutiny, the young women ate their dinner slowly, propriety replacing their usual abandon and appetite. Even Nina, perennially hungry, finished second. They all listened politely as he told jokes and stories none of them wanted to laugh at.

After the meal, after their tea and the daily dose of news on the wireless, the girls yawned and said an early night would be just the ticket. And Dorothy and her husband were alone in the lounge. If he noticed the changes she had made – the rearranged furniture, the crazy-patchwork cushions she had made last winter, the antimacassars – he didn’t comment.

‘You got a gramophone?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘Where d’you get that, then?’

‘A friend gave it to me. It’s a … borrowing.’

‘What friend?’

‘You don’t know him.’

‘Oh, it’s like that, is it?’

‘No. It’s not “like that”, not at all.’ Keeping her voice light and steady, Dorothy explained the events of May and June, and the respect and friendship she had earned from the squadron leader. She did not mention the letters. She did not mention the kiss, or how much she missed him, or his lean, strong, brown arms.

‘Well. That’s all right, then,’ said Albert, leaning back on the settee with his hands behind his head, his legs stretched out in front of him.

‘Can I ask, Albert? What … why are you here?’

‘A man can come home, can’t he?’

‘I suppose so. But you have been gone for over a year with no word. I had no idea if you were alive or dead. And I am your wife.’

‘I’m not dead, am I?’

‘No.’

‘Those girls give you the runaround?’

‘No.

‘Just make sure they don’t. You’re not their bloody mother, are you? Don’t worry, Dot, I’m not hanging around for long. I’ve got four days’ leave. Then I’m back to it. But I want to come home after the war, if it ever bloody ends. I want to come back and … I was unfair, a bit. But I want to make it up afterwards, when we get back to normal. Perhaps we could try again? Have a baby?’

Her stomach roiled. ‘Albert.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m forty years old now.’

He waved a dismissive hand. ‘My Aunty Lou had her last when she was forty-two, or forty-three. Can’t remember which. But she was an old bird. And I’ve been thinking, I should send money – for your keep, like.’

‘No.’ Her voice was tight and clenched. She would not take money from him, not now.

‘A man should support his missus.’

‘I have all the money I need, thank you, Albert. I launder for the estate and get paid by them. I’m independent now.’

‘Oh. I see. Doesn’t seem right, though.’

Dorothy allowed herself a smile. Albert wasn’t a malicious man. He was just a man. Simple. There was no hatred here, on either side. Yes, she had been bewildered and disappointed when he had abandoned her. But all was well. Because she had found her life after he had gone. She was his wife, but in name only.

Albert seemed disappointed but resigned when she firmly showed him to the small bedroom with the single bed. The bed was made up with brisk cotton sheets, two woollen blankets and her favourite quilt. Albert, who had no reason not to imagine the room was made up in readiness for his anticipated return, made no comment. He sat on the small bed, looking up at her, as she stood in the doorway. His eyes were dispassionate. He never had been able to read her. They were, and always had been, utter strangers.

‘Goodnight, Albert.’

‘Goodnight, Dot.’

A
lbert kept out of her way for much of the following day. She made him breakfast, which he praised highly. He spent the morning pottering around in the garden and the shed, tinkering with his bicycle. After lunch, he slept. And when he awoke at around five, he said he would go down to the pub. She made some sandwiches, and watched him eat his before he went.

He left, negotiating the November fog and the blackout on his bicycle; with relief, she made herself a fresh pot of tea and ate her own sandwich alone in the parlour as the girls had not yet returned from their day of work. She listened to the wireless while the fire crackled in the grate, warm and glowing and safe. Yet she felt uneasy. What if there were
talk
, in the pub? From Albert’s friends – those still there, at least? He would hear things.

… your wife and the squadron leader, the Polish one. Friends, eh? Come off it, Bert. Very friendly, they are. Postman says she fair climbs the wall waiting for letters from him.

She’s head over heels. Got the goat of girls around here, set their cap at him some of them had, but he didn’t seem to notice. You missed the boat, mate. Bad luck …

Albert would drink his mild. He would listen. He would say little.

The girls returned, tired, cold and hungry, putting an end to Dorothy’s uneasy thoughts. They ate their evening meal in the kitchen, and then the three women retired to the lounge with their cups of tea and listened to the wireless. The girls seemed as relieved as Dorothy that Albert had gone to the pub. They stayed home and kept her company while she sewed, and later they listened to the gramophone, and none of them mentioned him.

Albert reeked of alcohol, the mild he had always favoured. It was late, and there was an edgy new rawness about him that Dorothy didn’t like, a flaming in his face that spoke of anger. It spoke of danger, and she was on her guard. She had hated those nights, which became more frequent as their marriage went on, when he returned from the pub drunk and stinking, loud and often obnoxious. It looked as though those nights had returned.

The girls were in bed. Dorothy was in her seat by the window, sewing by the light of the oil lamp, peering from behind the wire-rimmed glasses that she wore only for close work, only at home. For Dorothy was still vain, in her own quiet way.

Albert threw himself into the settee and sat wordlessly for a few minutes, crossing his legs, uncrossing them, sighing, clearing his throat.

Dorothy continued to sew. Perhaps he would fall asleep, and wake up in the morning hung-over and forgetful. She would say nothing to him.

He glowered, shifted and cleared his throat again.

Still Dorothy did not speak. If he had something to say, he would just have to come out with it. He was a grown man. He must act like one. She would say noth—

‘You going to tell me what’s been going on with this Polish cunt?’

Dorothy continued to sew, not daring to look at the man who was her husband, but not her husband. She wasn’t even sure she had heard him correctly. Albert was an earthy man, she knew, but he had never sworn around her (apart from the occasional ‘bloody’), not once. He had never said anything so crude.