Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase (28 page)

Dorothy stepped into her mother’s house, and her mother shut the door firmly behind her.

‘Happy Mother’s Day to Mummy I love you soo much, love from Bobby’: A home-made card with a child’s drawing of a mother and a little girl, with a tree, grass and flowers and a huge sun in the corner. The writing inside is wobbly, up and down. It is sweet. I think the creator of this card could be another Roberta and I wonder if her mother regrets losing, or even knows she has lost, this precious card. I keep it safe.

(Found inside a mint 1950 Penguin edition of
Black Narcissus
by Rumer Godden, priced at £5.00 and bought by myself.)

I
put the letter addressed to me in my handbag. I haven’t opened it. It’s from Philip – his writing is always recognisable – but I have no idea what the letter says, and I am too scared to find out. Stupid. But I fear I was too honest with him when he came to my rescue and I know, I fully expect, this letter is his way of letting me down gently. I can’t bear the embarrassment of reading his rebuke, his explanations, however elegantly put. So, I’m ignoring it and carrying on as normal. As is Philip, it seems. You would almost think there was no letter.

Today is bright and cold. I make coffee for everybody once we have all arrived. Philip has decided he needs me to help him sort out his ‘disastrous’ office. It hasn’t been cleaned ‘properly’ since 2001, he claims. He may be right.

We work together for an hour or so, diligently and quietly, as usual. There’s a good deal of dust and clutter and piles of books, and we uncover many forgotten treasures, books that ought to be out on the shelves.

‘Roberta?’

‘Hmm?’

I’m dusting books. He’s sorting through paperwork.

‘Your mother.’

I stiffen. I stop dusting. ‘What about her?’

‘Did you, I mean, of course, I’m trying to ask, it’s not my business but … does she know about your father passing away?’

Silence.

Eventually, ‘I haven’t told her.’

‘Do you not think she should be told?’ he says quietly, eyeing me over his spectacles. ‘Would it not be the right thing to do?’

I look away from him. I do not speak about my mother. Philip has never mentioned her before, and I don’t like it. ‘I don’t have anything to do with my mother,’ I say, stiffly, continuing with my dusting. ‘I haven’t done for years.’

‘Why not? Your parents were divorced from each other, you know. Not from you.’

‘Is that so?’ I say.

Philip looks at me sharply. ‘Is it not?’ he says.

‘No. It’s not.’

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘Would you tell me the truth? About your mother?’

The truth about my mother? What is that? My truth would certainly not be her truth. My truth is actually the frantic ravings of a confused six-year-old. But I’m going to tell him this secret, this thing of which I have always felt ashamed, even though I was, am and always will be entirely innocent of blame. This thing that has cut me in two all my life.

‘It’s all a bore, as you would say,’ I begin.

Philip nods patiently.

‘My mother left us when I was six years old, just walked out one day while I was at school. Dad didn’t know if she was alive or dead for three days. She rang us after the police tracked her down, and she told Dad she couldn’t cope any more with married life or with motherhood … with him, she meant, and me. I haven’t seen her since then, and from that day my father and my grandmother brought me up. Nutshell.’

Philip is stunned. I can see realisation flood through him. But he has no idea what to say, and now I am crying, though I hate myself for it. So he gets up from his desk, walks round it, stands beside me and puts his arms around me. He whispers my name. He kisses me on my head, I think, I can’t be sure. He rubs my back. And at that moment, of all moments, that most innocent of moments – far more innocent than secret (and unread) letters planted in books – Jenna bursts into the office to ask if we would like coffee or tea?

Later, I show Philip the letter written by my grandfather. Embarrassed, stammering a little at first, I tell him about the parts of it that don’t make sense, and about Suzanne’s revelation. We are coming to the end of our big clean-up in his office. It’s been a long day. I ought to talk to Jenna to explain. My mind is racing.

Philip scrutinises the letter, then hands it back to me. ‘Why don’t you just discuss it with your grandmother?’ he says.

‘It would upset her,’ I reply.

‘Wouldn’t it be worth it to discover the truth?’

‘Possibly. But I don’t want to upset her. Obviously.’

‘Did you ever ask your father about it?’

‘I tried to once, but I didn’t get anywhere. I got the feeling he knew things but didn’t want to talk about them.’

‘Well, so what if your grandparents weren’t married? It’s not the end of the world, is it?’

‘No, I suppose not. I just hate the idea that her life has been a lie.’

‘That’s up to her, Roberta. Did she draw a war pension, do you know?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m not sure. I never heard her talk about one. But then if he was Polish, she perhaps wasn’t entitled to one.’

‘She wouldn’t be entitled if she wasn’t married either. It all adds up, rather. But she was married to this other chap, you say? Hmm. It’s all quite a mystery, isn’t it? Of course, that would appeal to you. But don’t eat yourself up over it.’ He sips his coffee. ‘I’m sure this Suzanne woman is telling you the truth. And you’ve seen the deed poll, you say? There’s your answer.’

‘Oh, I don’t know what to think any more. It’s driving me crazy.’

‘It’s been a hard few weeks for you,’ says Philip, softly.

‘You have helped me so much. I’m ever so grateful. Really.’

I wonder if I should bring up the subject of the letter I found and say I don’t intend reading it. That actually I understand. And I don’t need a letter to let me down gently.

But Philip waves his hand, and moves the moment on. ‘Will you tell her about your father?’

‘I couldn’t bring myself to last week. She’s lost her only son.’

‘Hmm. Perhaps it would be kinder to say nothing.’

‘I think so, but she asks about him every time I visit. I’m running out of excuses for his absence, you know?’

‘Poor you. What about your mother?’

‘What about her?’ I snap, angry that he’s brought her up again.

‘Couldn’t she throw any light on this letter?’

‘Oh. I see. Actually, I don’t know. I’ve not considered that.’

‘Well, it might be worth trying to make contact with her over this, if nothing else. This business seems to be consuming you, rather,’ and a strange look clouds Philip’s face.

I’m not sure if it’s something he said, or something I said. But he looks pink and flustered. Jenna enters the office and strolls over to Philip, snaking an arm around his waist and declaring herself very, very bored. Can’t they call it a day? She’ll cook. The office looks immaculate! She beams at me, with a smile that I’m not certain is really a smile.

I must talk to her.

From: Roberta Pietrykowski

Sent: 08 December 2010 20:25

To: Anna Mills

Subject: John Pietrykowski

Anna,

I hope you don’t mind my contacting you out of the blue like this. If you are the right Anna Mills, I am your daughter. I thought I should let you know that your former husband, John Pietrykowski, died in October. He had been unwell for many years. He was brave and strong until the very end, avoiding hospital as much as he could. Maybe you can recall how much he hated hospitals? He died at home, and I was with him. I thought it only right to let you know.

Regards,

Roberta Pietrykowski

From: Anna Mills

Sent: 09 December 2010 18.19

To: Roberta Pietrykowski

Subject: RE: John Pietrykowski

Dear Roberta

Thank you for your email. I wonder how you tracked me down. But, of course, nobody is invisible these days. I have also wondered if I would ever hear from you. I am sorry to hear about your loss, and I am not surprised to hear that your father was stoic in his illness and death. You have not asked me about my life, and that is understandable, so I will not volunteer any information. The people in my life know nothing of you.

Anna

From: Roberta Pietrykowski

Sent: 09 December 2010 19:52

To: Anna Mills

Subject: RE: John Pietrykowski

I have no intention of giving away my existence to the people in your life. Sorry I am such a shameful secret.

Roberta

From: Anna Mills

Sent: 09 December 2010 21.40

To: Roberta Pietrykowski

Subject: RE: John Pietrykowski

You are not shameful, Roberta. I have just moved on with my life in more ways than I ever thought possible and I bear no resemblance, on any level, to the woman that was Mrs Anna Pietrykowski.

From: Roberta Pietrykowski

Sent: 09 December 2010 21:58

To: Anna Mills

Subject: RE: John Pietrykowski

I understand.

From: Roberta Pietrykowski

Sent: 10 December 2010 19.03

To: Anna Mills

Subject: My grandmother

Anna,

Sorry to trouble you again. I still don’t want anything from you, apart from some information. I wonder if you know anything about my grandmother, Dorothea, who I am sure you can remember. I have discovered that she was not married to my grandfather. Did she ever speak to you about this? And also, do you have any idea when my grandfather died?

Thank you,

Roberta

From: Anna Mills

Sent: 11 December 2010 09.34

To: Roberta Pietrykowski

Subject: RE: My grandmother

Roberta,

I guessed I had not heard the last from you. Dorothea and I were never on close terms, sadly, but I do remember her quite clearly. She was a noble woman, which may sound odd, but I can’t think of a better word to describe her. She did tell me, while I was expecting you, that your father was a ‘miracle’ in her life. And that she lost a baby boy before John came along. I have no idea if your grandparents were married or not, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they hadn’t been. Dorothea didn’t discuss him with me, but I always got the sense that John’s father was her lover. There was never any husband talk, if that makes sense in this day and age. To be quaint, I suspect your father was a ‘love child’. I don’t know when your grandfather died. During the war, wasn’t it? John never knew him.

If you would like to meet up, somewhere neutral, I am happy to do this. I live in London. I won’t blame you if that is not on your agenda, I will understand perfectly. The offer is on the table, that’s all.

Anna

From: Roberta Pietrykowski

Sent: 11 December 2010 20.17

To: Anna Mills

Subject: RE: My grandmother

Thank you, Anna. I am researching the family tree so that is why I asked. Ancestry is fascinating, at least to me. I didn’t know that my grandmother had an earlier baby. Isn’t it odd how we all keep secrets from those we love, or are supposed to love? She is still alive, by the way. She turned 110 in November. Tomorrow I am going to visit her. I will think about meeting up with you and I’ll let you know.

Roberta

From: Anna Mills

Sent: 12 December 2010 12:11

To: Roberta Pietrykowski

Subject: Secrets

Roberta,

Your grandmother was – is – a deep woman. Sometimes secrets are necessary. You will find this out in life, if you haven’t already.

Anna

18
th January
1941

Dear Mrs Compton,

I enclose an order for thirteen guineas. It includes the two pounds you kindly lent to me and some extra for A, if you think it will help. I do hope she will see sense over this. At any rate, I was not apprehended on the journey as I feared I would be. J and I arrived safely at my mother’s house. The journey was long and arduous, as I expected. My mother is delighted with her grandson. She is less so with me, I think, but I am happy to say we get along well, much better than we ever did before I left. J has broken the ice between us and we are set to make a happy household, I hope.

I have registered for war work and Mother will take care of J while I am out of the house. I hope to be useful. The money I earn will certainly help Mother too, as her own source of income has practically disappeared. I wonder she had enough to lend me to send to you. Of course, I did not tell her what I needed the money for, and I shall work hard to repay her. My father left her money, but she has been using it for living expenses for many years now. I had no idea. I have suggested to Mother that we sell the house and buy something smaller, in which case we may leave Oxford. This would also mean my whereabouts will be less detectable, just in case. I know I shall live in fear of discovery all my life, but all mothers live in daily fear anyway, I have realised, even my own.

Thank you for all your help with J. I do appreciate it. Perhaps it might be prudent if you were to destroy this letter? I think it best if my exact location was to remain unknown. For that reason I am not including my address. I trust you will keep your side of our agreement, as I have kept mine.

Thank you again, and kind regards,

D

26
th January
1941

Dear Jan,

Forgive me for not writing to you before now. I hope you received my last letter. It was written in a mad haste after your departure on Boxing Day. Was that really a mere month ago? Four short weeks that seem to me a lifetime – and in a sense, that’s exactly what they are.

I expect I made a complete fool of myself writing such silly sentimental things in my last letter, things I can’t even recall now. Perhaps you have replied? But I will not get your letter, because I no longer live at the cottage. I have left no forwarding address.

Darling, events took such a turn after you left on Boxing Day. I hardly know where to begin. So I’ll just plunge in, as it were, and tell you everything. Nina, poor silly Nina, she had a baby. A darling little boy, on Boxing Day, after you had left. Do you recall she was complaining of feeling unwell that morning? None of us had any idea she was expecting. She claims she didn’t know either. Somehow, against my better judgement, I believe her. I thought at first she was fibbing. How could any woman not know she had a baby nestling inside her? But she’s not bright, I must be honest. And a large girl, as you know. And, if I can mention such a thing, she was irregular in her monthly cycle. So you can see how she may not have realised.