Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase (7 page)

‘Anyway, stroke of good luck, eh?’ he said when he telephoned me with the news.

I don’t like him to telephone me at work. He rings my mobile, never the shop telephone. On my mobile I have him listed under the name of Ashley.

I leave ‘Ashley’ in the lounge. In the kitchen I cook, and sip my own glass of wine. I consider showing him my grandfather’s letter. But I decide against it. The Dearhead would probably not be interested, and I would feel I was somehow betraying both my grandparents. Especially Babunia. It’s private.

I’m luxuriating in fine silk underwear, purchased only yesterday for the big occasion. In a dark red colour, like blood from a deep cut. It looks pretty, but it’s all rather uncomfortable; I’m ignoring that, and projecting ahead to his delight later when he removes my clothes to reveal the lingerie. I hope it’s his thing. I hope we have a wild … no, not wild – what am I thinking? – a nice time.

We deserve it.

We do have a nice time. Charles is good in bed, and I may as well be honest about that. It’s a very major part of his charm, and one of the reasons I remain his … other woman. But, somehow, there’s a cynical emptiness to it all.

There’s something missing.

‘What do you expect?’ Sophie, hands on hips, irate, hearing my tale.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Come off it.’

‘I thought … I don’t know what I thought. It’s good to have a lover, for want of a better word. Actually, it’s fun.’

‘Yes, of course it is, and you deserve some fun. But you won’t get it from him, not long term. Being involved with a married man is rubbish, constantly looking over your shoulder. You can’t relax, you can’t hold hands in public unless you’re, I don’t know, three hundred miles away, and you can’t be normal. There’s more to a good relationship than just sex, you know?’

‘I know. I do know that. It’s all a bit … soulless, I think.’

‘Whatever. If I were you, I’d drop him. Get your life back. That’s the way forward.’

And I think. I hear and rehear Sophie’s words, and I end my relationship with the Dearhead. Two days later, over the telephone. Like this.

‘Charles? I’m sorry to ring you at work. But it’s important. Look, Charles, I don’t think we should see each other any more. It’s got to end. I think things have … have fizzled out, rather.’

Of course, he is excessively polite. And after pondering for several moments upon his own shortcomings, he apologises for screwing my life up.

I tell him my life is not remotely screwed up. I’m just uncomfortable with the whole thing; he’s a married man, after all. And I’m a little bored, if I’m honest.

He’s less polite now and says he’s boring, is he?

I say no, he is not boring. But the relationship is, frankly. It’s getting tiresome. And it’s hardly right, is it?

He says I’m not very sensitive, and he always thought that of me. I’m brusque.

I apologise. I try again. The thing is, Charles …

The conversation ends with a promise from him not to attempt any further meetings. Of course, we will both be cordial and professional within the confines of the Old and New. And thank God, that is the only place we are likely to encounter each other.

So now the relationship is over. I can keep the cat. He hates cats, anyway. Bloody butchers.

And we shall be happy together, she and I. Of course, I won’t miss Charles at all, not even on alternate Thursday nights. I shall, instead, make myself useful. I’ll catch up with housework. I’ll tackle that ironing pile before I really do run out of things to wear. I’ll decorate my flat. I’ll take my new cat to the vet. I know I’ll miss Charles Dearhead, despite the shortcomings. I’ll miss his urbane presence. But I won’t feel sorry for myself, I won’t allow my essential aloneness to bring me down. Aloneness is the shell in which I gratefully hide. And it’s not the same thing as loneliness. Aloneness is what I’ve always felt I deserved; I choose it, prefer it and want it. You can’t be hurt if you are alone. Perhaps that was how my mother felt the day she decided enough was enough. I’ll probably never know. But I wonder how alike we might be. I wonder what she is doing, I wonder how she lives her life; how she lives with herself. Guilt is a terrible burden. So, I’m Doing The Right Thing. All is well.

I wish him all joy of this world, as my grandfather might have said.

And I so want to talk to my father about the letter.

I’m visiting him. It’s a Sunday afternoon, it’s pouring with rain – the heavy type that clashes on to windows and roofs like stones thrown by children. My grandfather’s letter is nestled snug and dry in my handbag, and Dad and I are drinking tea.

‘Have you visited Babunia recently?’ I ask my father.

It’s a start, an innocuous enough question.

‘No. I haven’t felt up to it much,’ says Dad.

He looks wan today. Tired. I want to ask him about his pain management, I want to hear about the outcome of his last visit to the hospital. We have rarely talked about his illness. He broke the news to me several years ago, but he insisted that we shouldn’t discuss it any more, unless it was ‘absolutely necessary’. He vaguely refers to visits to the hospital. He mentions a Dr Moore, but it’s pretty much a closed subject and one he usually forbids me to even try to discuss with him. So I don’t. Of course, he’s known for many years, but being the stoic he is, he was determined to keep it from me. Babunia still doesn’t know about it. He doesn’t want to burden her.

‘I’m thinking of visiting her tomorrow,’ I say. ‘I haven’t been for a month or so. I really should go.’

‘Good. I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you. I can’t go at the moment. She’ll know straight away …’

‘I know, Dad. I’ll tell her you’re busy. Actually, I might have a couple of questions I’d like to ask her.’

‘What sort of questions?’

‘Well, I’m thinking of doing a family tree thing.’ I’m pretty good at thinking on my feet. ‘Everyone else seems to do one, so I thought I’d give it a go.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘I’d like to ask Babunia about your father.’

‘Well, we don’t know much about him, do we? He died during the war, before I was born. You know that, love. I don’t know much else about him. He was Polish, that’s about it. Your grandmother likes to remind us that he was a squadron leader in the Battle of Britain, God bless her. But you know that already.’

‘Do you know exactly when he died? The date, I mean? It might help me to trace him.’

‘Mum always said in November 1940. She was expecting me. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘That I was ever a baby. And so long ago.’

‘Oh, I see. I thought you meant … never mind. Does Babunia have her marriage certificate?’

‘She told me she thought it was lost years ago, I think.’

‘But I could look that up, couldn’t I? In a register?’

‘I … well. Yes. I suppose you could.’

‘Do you have your birth certificate?’

‘Oh, somewhere. Although I rather think that might have gone missing too. I haven’t seen it in years.’

We drink our tea and nibble on a digestive biscuit each.

‘Your grandmother might have it,’ says Dad. ‘She likes to keep things safe for me. I haven’t seen it since I started claiming my pension, I think. And that’s longer ago than I’d like it to be.’ Dad winks at me.

‘Do you recall ever seeing their marriage certificate?’ And now I am beginning to press, just the thing I must not do.

‘No, love. I don’t think so.’

‘But you think Babunia
might
have it? She probably keeps such things all in one place, doesn’t she? She’s pretty methodical.’

‘You’ll have to ask her.’

‘Is there a death certificate? For your dad?’

‘I don’t know, Rob. If there is, I’ve not seen it. At least, I don’t think I have. You’ll have to ask your grandmother about it all. But, darling?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t let on to her. About me, I mean.’

‘I won’t, Dad.’

‘It would break her heart. Always assuming she’d be with it enough to understand.’

‘I know.’

‘You’re a good girl.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Do you fancy staying for your tea? We could watch
Antiques Roadshow
. I’ve got crumpets.’

‘And gooseberry jam?’

‘Sadly not your grandmother’s. But I’ve got Tesco’s mixed fruit jam, if that’s any good. There might be gooseberries in it.’

And now I feel deflected, stalled; I know my father well, and I think he’s hiding something.

Should I show him the letter? No. I’ll keep it to myself for now. I don’t want to upset him, any more than I want to upset Babunia.

We eat our crumpets and jam, and nothing further is said.

N
ina eyed the bunch of wild flowers on the mantelpiece. Following her gaze, Dorothy noticed how they burst forth from the enamel jug, a little vulgar, a little showy. She watched her girls as they swiftly ate fried potatoes, fried eggs and broad beans – small, soft and sweet, early beans picked that afternoon by Dorothy under the unblinking sun. Far too early, of course, but there wasn’t much else to choose from, yet.

Nina nudged Aggie, and raised her eyebrows.

‘You been picking flowers, Dot?’ said Aggie, winking at her friend.

‘No.’

‘Someone picked them for you, then?’ said Nina.

‘Yes.’

‘A bloke?’ said Aggie.

‘A bloke. Yes.’

‘Which bloke?’ said Nina, through a full mouth.

Oh, how genteel, thought Dorothy. And: which bloke? Did Nina know all the ‘blokes’ in the world? Actually, Dorothy thought, there was quite a good chance of that.

‘Squadron Leader Jan Pietrykowski, no less. He flies a Hurricane,’ said Dorothy, more to herself than to the girls.

‘Squadron leader, eh?’

‘Is he a dish?’ asked Aggie, gleefully.

‘I don’t know. I haven’t really considered. A dish? Yes, possibly. Probably.’

‘Well, if he is, you would have noticed, wouldn’t you?’ said Nina. ‘You’re not that bloody old. What’s he like? Where did you meet him?’

‘I met him today, here, in this kitchen.’ Dorothy surprised herself. Was it really only this day and in this kitchen? ‘And he’s very nice, very polite. Foreign, of course.’

‘What did he want?’ said Nina. ‘Apart from the bleeding obvious.’ Aggie kicked her, and she squealed. ‘I’m only asking, aren’t I? You don’t mind, do you, Dot? It’s just, you’ve got to watch them Polish ones, they’ve got hands like octopuses. We had fun with them, though, didn’t we, Aggie? Blimey, you’d think they’d never seen a girl before. They’ve got girls in Poland, though, haven’t they?’

‘Yes. Of course. But these men, you must understand. They’ve had a difficult time. They’re in need of … diversion. The squadron leader had to flee his country in pretty ghastly circumstances. They all did. But I’ll remember that warning, Nina. Thank you.’ Dorothy hid a small smile behind her teacup. It was the cup that the squadron leader had drunk from, and she hadn’t yet been able to wash it.

‘Well?’ said Nina.

‘Well, what?’

‘Do you fancy him?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Liar,’ they chorused, delighted.

The squadron leader returned the following day, in the heat of the afternoon. The first day of June and, this year, flaming. Dorothy heard his confident, sharp rap on the kitchen door.

She had hoped he might return, yet she couldn’t imagine why he would. She smoothed her pinny, tucked loose hair behind her ear, cleared her throat. She stood still for a few seconds, breathing in and out, a mechanical effort, consciously performed. She felt a crippling tightness in her throat. Yet she had to be a picture of composure. It didn’t do to be anything else. And her knees almost buckled beneath her. She breathed, deep and loud, she tucked more hair behind her ears. She hummed a tune she had heard on the wireless. She would appear normal. On no account could she … she yanked open the door.

The squadron leader pushed past her, grinning, carrying a box, bulky and heavy-looking.

‘What on earth is this?’ said Dorothy, hands on hips, head on one side, while Jan Pietrykowski placed the box on the kitchen table. Her curiosity emboldened her, if only temporarily, and she forgot the tight throat, the quick breathing, the sweat pooling like oil slicks behind her knees.

‘A gift for you. For you, Mrs Sinclair.’

‘Oh. Why, thank you. What on earth is it?’

‘A gramophone.’

‘Oh.’

‘You like music, no? I think so, because you always hum. At least, these two times we have met you have been humming as I walk down your path. So I bring you music.’

She did like to hum – just simple tunes, half heard, half remembered – and perhaps she liked to dance too, in her mind, humming her tunes, performing her duties, trying not to think about war and absconded husbands, dead babies and dead pilots. It was only natural.

Jan carried the gramophone through to the parlour, at Dorothy’s request. She cleared the sideboard and blew off its thin layer of dust. He returned to his car – ‘Not my car, our squadron car’ – and came back in with a box of records, which he placed alongside the gramophone.

‘I can’t accept all this, Squadron Leader,’ said Dorothy, collecting herself. ‘I’m afraid you can’t leave this here.’ She hated to sound disapproving.

‘Then it is a borrowing, from me to you, and you will return it to me when I have to depart, when I return home, whenever that shall be.’

‘A borrowing?’

‘Yes. Actually, it is not mine. It belonged to another man, a good pilot, an Englishman. I met him when I first arrived in your country. A generous man, of good spirit. He told me if anything were to happen to him, I must make sure his gramophone is looked after and is enjoyed. So I think of you, in this quiet cottage, and your girls who you tell me about. Girls, they love to dance, I think. And you too?’

‘Dance? Me? No.’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’

‘We shall see. Anyway, this is yours for as long as you want it, and to enjoy and to use.’

‘Don’t your men want it? For entertainment?’

‘We have wirelesses. We have dances. In fact, next Saturday. I invite you and your girls to the dance, as my guests.’

‘But I don’t dance. Especially at dances.’