22 Britannia Road (35 page)

‘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 lamé evening gown from its wooden hanger. ‘This one is my favourite.’

His hand trembles as he passes 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
.

‘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 buttocks. The woman in the mirror is beautiful. Film-star beautiful.

Silvana looks into Tony’s eyes. They are glassy 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.

Silvana

Silvana started to understand the way the forest worked. It was like a compass. Spider’s webs faced south. The tops of the pine trees bent to the east. Squirrels nested in tree holes that faced west. Woodpeckers’ 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 buttoned 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.’

Janusz

Janusz 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 bloody awful as they are up here.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Janusz. ‘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.’

Janusz put their drinks down on the table and watched her pick up her glass. 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?’

Janusz 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 Janusz. ‘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 bloody 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 Janusz fill in the missing-persons forms.

‘We need as much information as you can give us. Last known address, family relationships, 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 Janusz a cigarette and lit one himself.

‘I wish you luck, Mr Nowak.’

Janusz was pleased to find someone who could pronounce 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 glasses. ‘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 Janusz ‘old boy’, ‘chum’, ‘my dear man’. He told him he’d follow this up personally, chivvy up the paperwork.

He shook Janusz by the hand, firmly.

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

‘Thank you,’ said Janusz. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

Ipswich

After work and at weekends, Janusz spends his time digging the garden until he is sure there is nothing left, no fleshy, divided root, no blade of grass. Even as the sun shines down, the garden looks as barren as a field in winter. The oak tree is the only green thing in it. Janusz stands under the rope ladder of the tree house, looking up. It wouldn’t take much to dismantle the whole thing.

In the garden shed, he picks up his claw hammer and a saw. He puts them down again. He can’t do it. He can’t bring himself to touch the tree house.

He feels tired for the first time since Silvana left. Exhausted. Now the garden is cleared, he can rest. His muscles ache, his head buzzes. He has to sleep. He staggers into the house, lies down on the boy’s bed and sleeps solidly through the afternoon and the night, waking early the next morning, sure of what he must do next.

It is a bank holiday Monday and he has a whole day free. He pulls on wellingtons by the front door, steps outside into a drizzly grey morning and walks briskly down the quiet streets.

The bus conductor looks at him suspiciously as he climbs aboard.

‘You’ll have to leave that in the luggage rack, sir,’ he says, pointing at the garden spade Janusz is carrying.

The bus stops at the paper mill, and he is the only person to get off. He knows the conductor is watching him suspiciously. He hoists his spade over his shoulder, gives a wave to the man and walks away.

On the edge of woodland, between brambles and fields, Janusz turns muddy earth with the spade, bringing up worms for birds to peck at. Blisters appear on his hands as he digs. His fingernails are black with soil. The sun comes out in a blue sky and warms his back.

That first tree makes him sweat. Its roots are more tenacious than
he imagined. He spends the morning digging, but it’s hard work when there is so much grass underfoot. The earth is covered with a thick pelt of it. Grass up to his knees forms a matted skin that closes over the soil, refusing to allow the space for a tree to be taken.

When he manages to expose the birch’s root system, he finds it is caught up in the roots of nettles, knots like tough yellow rope that he can’t unravel. That’s how he is too. Caught up in English soil. He takes his spade, slams it hard into the soil and kicks down on it, revealing the final tight root of the tree. Carefully, he pulls the sapling free from the ground.

The bus is late. When it arrives, Janusz steps up into it and the conductor shakes his head.

‘You can’t bring that on with you, sir.’

‘Oh, but surely, if I put it in the luggage rack …’ He finds himself struggling over his words, his Polish accent getting in the way. He never has this problem. His English accent is perfect. For some reason his voice is full of Polish vowel sounds. He tries again, hears the same thick accent. ‘I’ve
vashed ze
roots. It’s clean.’

‘What’ll you bring next time, chickens? This isn’t the bloody Continent. Look at it, it’s covered in mud. What would my other passengers think?’

Janusz looks down the aisle of the bus. There is only one other passenger, an old man who appears to be asleep.

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘If you are going to be
obstreperous
, I will not get on your autobus.’

Let him chew on that
, thinks Janusz as he watches the bus pull away. He hoists the tree over his shoulder and begins the long walk home.

Later that day, in the garden, slabs of heavy soil lie all around him. Once the hole is deep, he scatters bonemeal into it. This tree will be nurtured, cared for until its roots are deep enough for it to stand by itself. He will not fail it. This tree is just a beginning. Just a start.

He will be a part of this land, but on his own terms. He’s fought for the English, worn their uniform and learned their songs and jokes. And he’s lived here long enough to know this terraced house is his castle, for him to do what he wants with. Who did he think
he was anyway, trying to have a perfect English family and an English country garden? To hell with all that. Carefully, carefully, he positions the fragile sapling. Pushes the soil back, pressing down, tamping it with the heel of his boot, covering its roots deep like a secret in the ground.

He waters it every day and counts its leaves, watching over it for any signs of disease or weakness. This first tree is for Aurek. The son who died. The next will be for the son who is living.

Felixstowe

Silvana, Tony and Aurek walk along the sands listening to the screech of seagulls and the waves rushing back and forth. Tony takes off his boots and socks, rolls up his trouser legs and stands at the edge of the water with Aurek, dancing backwards when a big wave crashes towards them. Aurek shrieks and runs back up the beach.

‘Right, I’m going for a swim,’ Tony shouts over the noise of the wind, pulling his shirt and trousers off and handing them to Silvana. ‘Sure you don’t want to?’

‘No,’ she says, watching him adjust the waistband of his swimming trunks. ‘We’ll be fine here. We’ll wait for you.’

Silvana and Aurek sit at the bottom of a bank of silvery shingle. Shielded from the wind, it is warm and quieter. Tony walks out into the brown sea, his solid, hairy legs pushing against the current as he struggles to keep upright. He drops under the water and reappears, shaking his head like a wet dog. Silvana watches him as he bobs up and down, appearing and disappearing with every wave until he is a small shape far from the beach.

She opens her handbag and takes out a postcard, a colour picture of the seafront and the long pier that juts out into the water. It is a pretty card with lots of blue sky, the sandy beach tinted egg-yolk yellow. She writes a quick message to Janusz, the same message she has sent on every card. A card a week, marked with the address of Tony’s house. Janusz hasn’t replied. It’s been two months since they left Britannia Road. This will be the last card she sends. After that,
she will try to forget him. She managed it once before in Poland. She can do it again.

She pulls her coat collar tighter around her chin and her fingers sink into soft blue wool. The coat is satin-lined and feels wonderful to wear. It has decorative stitching in a creamy brown silk thread and big buttons that Aurek likes to play with. She has a pair of pearl earrings that Tony says go perfectly with it. Under her coat she wears a crêpe de Chine blouse with tiny pleats and a row of buttons to the neck. Her skirt is high-waisted tweed, a little old-fashioned but good-quality cloth. The boots she wears shine like conkers. Italian leather, Tony told her when he pulled them from the wardrobe in his bedroom and suggested she try them on. She asked him about Lucy then. She couldn’t help herself.