A Different World (12 page)

Colin soon had them out, told her he would have to turn off the water to her tap while he worked and disappeared into the boiler room. He worked all afternoon and then she heard a pulsating rumble and rushed in to see him standing admiring his handiwork. Already the room was a little warmer. ‘I have turned off all gas connections to the upper part of the house,’ he said. ‘If I had a bit of piping I might be able to rig up a hot-water tap.’

‘Finding that won’t be easy and if I could, it would cost too much. You have no idea how prices have shot up.’

He pointed upwards. ‘You had a kitchen and bathroom up there, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, more than one. It was once a well-appointed house, it even had central heating in the downstairs rooms.’

‘Let me out. I’ll see what I can salvage. I’ll take care not to be seen.’

She hesitated. Her orders were clear not to let him out, but if he dressed in an old overcoat with a scarf tied over his head and
anyone saw him clambering over the rubble, they would assume he was a looter. Looting might be frowned upon by the occupiers, but to the Varsovians it was a legitimate way of surviving. ‘Very well,’ she said.

Taking a few spanners, he disappeared. He was gone a long time and she was on tenterhooks, listening for the sound of jackboots. When he did come back he was covered in cement dust and his hands were grazed, but he was loaded with mangled lengths of piping and a couple of taps. He dumped them in the boiler room and disappeared again, returning a few minutes later with a bathroom basin. A third trip produced a small radiator.

‘You’ve got a whole plumber’s shop there,’ she said.

‘I don’t know how much I can use, but I’ll see what I can do.’

She became his plumber’s mate for the next three days, at the end of which, connected by a maze of joined pipes, she had a basin and hot water and the living room was cosily warm from the radiator. The first time she turned on the hot tap, she threw up her hands in delight. ‘Colin, you are a magician.’

‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Mind you, I don’t know how efficient it will be. If the gas pressure drops or is cut off, we’ll be back to square one.’

‘Square one?’ she queried.

He laughed. ‘Back to where we were.’

‘Well, I am going to take advantage of it, while I can. Go into the boiler room and stay there, while I strip off and wash. You can take your turn later.’

They were both feeling more civilised when Boris arrived. He commented on the warmth of the room immediately.

‘Colin mended the boiler and now we have hot water and heating.’

‘Sergeant Crawshaw seems to be a good innovator,’ he said,
taking off his coat and revealing a crumpled brown suit.

This was translated for Colin’s benefit and the rest of the conversation between the two men was conducted in English.

‘Your story checks out,’ Basil said.

‘I did not doubt it would. So, are you going to help me?’

‘As soon as we can, we hope to get you to Gdansk, that’s Danzig to you, but there are complicated arrangements to be made first and it may take some time. In the meantime, you stay here.’

Colin grinned at Rulka. ‘That’s no hardship for me, but I do not want to put Krystyna at risk.’

‘The risk will be minimal if you do exactly as you are told. There are a lot of French workers in Warsaw due to the collaboration of the French Vichy with the Germans. They are mainly technicians and engineers. You will become one of those. Krystyna tells me your French is reasonable.’

‘Nothing like good enough to pass as a Frenchman among Frenchmen.’

‘No, but you will avoid your so-called countrymen. It will explain your accent if you are questioned by the
shkopy
, that’s the Polish equivalent of Jerry, by the way.’

‘I do know that word,’ Colin said, laughing. ‘Krystyna uses it all the time. She has been trying to teach me Polish, but with little success. It’s a diabolical language.’

Boris smiled. ‘A few words would help.’ He paused. ‘I have been instructed to make you a proposition. You may refuse, but I hope you will not.’

‘Go on.’

‘While you are a guest of the Polish people, we can use you.’ He spoke warily, waiting for a reaction, and when none came, went on, ‘You are, according to the information we have, an explosives man; a skill that could be very useful.’

‘You mean to the underground?’

‘Yes. Since the beginning of this month it has been called the
Armia Krajowa
or AK, the Home Army.’

‘And Krystyna is part of it?’

‘Do not ask.’

‘Very well, I will not ask. All I can say is that it was a fortunate day for me when the good father brought her to me. I would die rather than expose her to risk.’

Rulka looked sharply at him but did not comment.

‘Is that a yes?’ Boris asked him.

‘Yes.’

‘Then you will be given your new identity, a work permit and a ration card, together with a potted biography which you will memorise until it becomes second nature. When we are satisfied, you will be assigned your task.’

He shrugged himself back into his coat and took his leave, leaving Rulka and Colin facing each other. They stood in silence for several moments. There had, they both realised, been a subtle change in their relationship. It was no longer simply a business one, but had become personal. They were comrades together in the universal fight and though Boris had not said so, they knew that whatever role they played in the future, it would be together.

It was Saturday and Louise was pegging washing on the line in the garden at the back of the Pheasant. It was closed off from the public area of the pub by a six-foot wall and was a sun trap where she would sit, reading or knitting. Today there was a stiff breeze; the cot sheets, nappies and tiny nightdresses would be dry in no time. Not far away, three-month-old Angela slept in her pram. She slept peacefully, unaware of the turmoil of the world about her. She knew nothing of the fall of Singapore, when thousands of British soldiers had been taken prisoner, many from Norfolk and Cambridgeshire, two from Cottlesham. She didn’t know that British shipping was still being lost at an alarming rate, that Tommy was old enough to worry about his father on board a merchant navy ship carrying vital supplies, that Rommel had the upper hand in North Africa and poor old Malta was still taking a pounding. She was innocent of the suffering of the defenders of Stalingrad or the plight of the Polish people.

Louise was determined to protect her from all harm. She knew when the war ended Jan would return to his wife and she would
be left to bring up Angela alone, but she tried not to think of that. While she had him, she would cherish him, just as she cherished his daughter. He had supported her all through her pregnancy, not only with money and extravagant presents for the baby but, more importantly, by coming to see her as often as he could, helping her to hold her head up in the village, where she felt everyone’s eyes were on her. She would have moved away but Jenny had been adamant she would not allow it. ‘You’re staying right here, where I can look after you,’ she had said. ‘You’ll need your friends when the time comes. And just because one or two round here look sideways at you, doesn’t mean everyone is like that. Most are right behind you. They like you and they like Jan.’

Jenny’s friendship meant a great deal to her, especially as she had no contact with her parents at all, in spite of writing regularly to her mother. ‘I thought she might have found some way of getting in touch, if only to let me know she was OK and thinking of me,’ she had said to Jenny. ‘I would be notified if anything dreadful happened to her, wouldn’t I?’

Jenny, who had found the Reverend Fairhurst rude and overbearing, had seen the marks on Louise’s back when she returned from that fateful visit and knew how matters stood. ‘Yes, of course. Perhaps when the baby is born, she will come to see you.’

‘Perhaps,’ she had agreed, but she didn’t hold out much hope.

She had given up her job as soon as her condition became obvious and a new teacher had been appointed. Fresh out of teacher training college, she was unsure of herself and too diffident to manage ten-year-old scamps like Freddie Jones and Tommy Carter. As far as Louise was concerned the evacuees were still her children and she kept a motherly eye on them. They, in turn, often came to her with their troubles, either a grievance against another child or a sense of injustice over a punishment, or they would
have bad news from home and needed a shoulder to cry on. Her shoulder and lap were always there, even when her lap disappeared beneath her bump.

By Christmas, she had felt huge and ungainly, but the pub had been warm and cheerful and, in spite of rationing, Jenny had somehow managed to provide plenty to eat and drink. Jan had managed a forty-eight-hour pass and was able to join in the festivities, bringing with him a silver brooch for Louise in the shape of the squadron’s emblem, besides small presents for everyone else: perfume for Jenny, tobacco for Stan, a model of a Spitfire on a stand for Tommy and a doll with a china face for Beattie. Louise had knitted him an air force-blue scarf which he said was just what he needed to keep him warm in the air. Some of the time he was boisterous and laughing and then suddenly he would become sober and thoughtful and Louise knew he was thinking of home. When he was like that she didn’t try to jolly him out of it and he soon recovered. And then he was his usual loving self. As far as Jenny was concerned, they were a married couple and she was not going to spoil things for them by insisting on separate rooms.

The baby girl had been born on 22nd February in Louise’s bedroom in the Pheasant with Jenny to hold her hand and the local midwife to deliver the baby. The arrival had been a cause for great rejoicing in the bar that evening, where many a toast was raised to her and her child and to Jan, who was looked upon as something of a hero. He had come down the following weekend, loaded with flowers and a big teddy bear, which he told her was to be called Cuddles.

He had found Louise sitting in a chair by the window of her room, nursing the baby and looking out at the leafless trees in the lane, the tops of which were bowing in a strong breeze. She turned when she heard him come into the room. ‘Jan! You came.’

‘Of course I came.’ He strode over to kneel at her side and gaze at his little daughter with eyes full of tears, which he brushed impatiently away. ‘She is perfect,’ he murmured. ‘A little cherub, an angel.’

‘She is like you.’

He looked from the baby to Louise and grinned sheepishly. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Definitely. Everyone says so. Especially her eyes. She has a way of looking at me so knowingly, which reminds me of you.’

‘Knowingly?’ he queried.

‘As if she knows what I’m thinking, how I’m feeling.’

‘Do I do that?’

‘Yes, you do.’

‘That’s because I love you.’

‘Oh, Jan!’ She had been feeling emotional herself and the least thing seemed to set her off

‘Hey, it’s not something to cry about,’ he said, leaning over to kiss her. ‘What are you going to call her?’

The tears turned to a watery smile. ‘You said she was an angel, so what about Angela?’

‘Angela,’ he repeated. ‘Yes, I like that, but can we have a Polish name too?’

‘Of course. What would you like?’ She hoped he wasn’t going to suggest Rulka.

‘My mother’s name was Zofia. It’s spelt with a Z, by the way.’

‘Then Angela Zofia she shall be. We’ll have the christening here in the village church the next time you have leave.’ She paused. ‘You don’t object to that, do you?’

‘No. You must do what you think best.’

It was, she knew, a reference to the fact that he would not always be with her and Angela would be brought up in England.
Insisting on his daughter being christened in the Catholic faith would not help to bring about a reconciliation with her parents. ‘Thank you, Jan.’

‘Don’t thank me. I have to thank you. It is thinking of you and this little one that keeps me going.’

‘You are looking very tired. Can’t you get a spot of longer leave?’

‘When my turn comes.’ It was said flatly and she wondered if he was talking about leave at all.

‘There’s something wrong.’

‘No, nothing. How could there be?’

‘Come on, out with it.’

‘My friend, Miroslav Feric died two days ago. His Spitfire broke up in the air and crashed into the runway. We stood on the ground and watched it happen. The aircraft buried its nose in the concrete. Mika was half hanging out of the cockpit as if he had been trying to bail out. He didn’t even die in combat. It might be easier to bear if he had. He was one of the best. I had known him for years and I can’t believe he’s gone.’ He paused, gulping back tears, but when she did not speak and simply put her hand over his, he went on. ‘I’ve lost many friends in this war, but no one like him. He was always so optimistic. He kept a journal and everyone was expected to contribute. As soon as we came off an op, there he was with his book and a pen. We teased him unmercifully about it. Now the book is all that’s left of him.’

‘Perhaps you should keep it up in his memory.’

‘We have already decided that. It is a chronicle of all the squadron has been through. One day, when Poland is free again, it may be important.’

Christenings had a low priority when it came to the conduct of the war and Angela’s had to be postponed twice because Jan’s leave was cancelled, but eventually it had taken place on Easter Sunday
with Jenny and Edith as godmothers and Stan as godfather. Louise looked for her mother in vain. Jenny had somehow managed a christening tea and a little cake which she said she had made with carrots. Louise would not have believed it if she had not seen the cake in the making. It tasted exceptionally good. Jan had gone back next day and she had not seen him since but letters went back and forth regularly.

The new teacher at the school had enrolled in the ATS, where she would probably be more at ease and a replacement was hard to find. John asked Louise to step in and fill the breech and when Jenny offered to look after Angela while she was at work, she jumped at the chance to be useful again. Gradually she was losing all her evacuee children, either to grammar school, and that included Tommy Carter, or because they had gone home. Now employed by the Norfolk education authority, her pupils were a mix of Londoners and natives of Cottlesham. Her life was full to overflowing and, but for the estrangement with her mother, she was content.

She had just finished pegging the washing out and was picking up the empty clothes basket, when she became aware of an aeroplane flying very low, almost at rooftop height. Thinking it was a stricken bomber coming in to land at Watton, she glanced up and found herself looking at a huge black cross, painted on the wings of a German Messerschmitt. It was so low she could clearly see the pilot. She grabbed Angela from her pram and dashed for the back door. ‘It’s a Jerry,’ she shouted, and flung herself into the Morrison shelter, followed by Jenny. Outside they could hear the spat-spat of machine gun fire as the pilot raked the village. ‘The cheeky devil,’ Jenny said lightly to cover her terror.

After a while there was silence and they crawled out from the shelter and went outside. One of the cot sheets was in shreds and Angela’s pram had a hole clean through it. Louise stood clutching
Angela to her bosom, and stared at it in disbelief. ‘He was low enough to see exactly what he was doing,’ she said furiously. ‘How could anyone who calls himself a human being do anything so callous? I hope he gets shot down and dies a horrible death.’ Until that moment she had not known what it was to hate. Now it consumed her.

Stan, returning from an errand to the post office, came running up the road towards them. ‘Are you all right?’

‘We’re fine,’ Jenny said because Louise was still looking at the pram, still shaking at the thought of what might have happened. ‘Is anyone hurt?’

‘Only a cow belonging to Bill Young. Everyone else dived for cover. Pauline Johns fell over trying to hide in a ditch and it looks like she’s broken her wrist. Edith is taking her to the hospital in Swaffham. It’s a good thing the children weren’t in school. The bullets ripped into the playground.’ He stopped when he saw the pram. ‘God! What happened there?’

Louise found her voice to tell him. He swore softly. ‘No one’s safe in this war, not even babies. I’d kill the fellow with my bare hands if he came anywhere near me. Let’s get indoors and make a cup of tea. A bit of the strong stuff in it wouldn’t go amiss by the look of you. You’re shaking.’

‘I am shaking with fury,’ she said. ‘You can’t even put babies out in prams now.’ She had been in the habit of putting Angela in the garden in her pram for some fresh air while she helped with the housework, assuming she was safe there. She would be brought in if the air raid siren went, which it did sometimes because they were so near the airfield. This time there had been no warning. ‘If I hadn’t been outside myself …’ Now the danger was over, she was crying softly. ‘Oh, it doesn’t bear thinking about. I’ll never be able to put her out again, not while this war lasts.’

Angela herself was unperturbed and continued to thrive. By the
beginning of the autumn term she was crawling and investigating everything about her with wide blue eyes and inquisitive fingers. Tommy and Beattie hauled her about like a living doll, treatment she bore with good humour. Louise’s letters to Jan were full of his daughter’s progress. Occasionally he came to see for himself. His daughter fascinated him. He would help to look after her and croon a lullaby in Polish when she was put to bed, and when she slept he would sit watching her. He knew about the German fighter machine-gunning the village and it had affected him deeply. ‘It is for her and all children I fight,’ he murmured on one occasion. ‘They must live in a world at peace, a very different world from the evil we see around us now.’

If he came in the middle of the week, Louise, being at school, wasn’t able to have much time with him, but he would spend the day helping out at the pub and wheeling Angela out in her new pram, much to the amusement of the men of the village: such domesticity was not manly in their eyes. He didn’t seem to mind their ribaldry. If he managed a weekend, he would ask Jenny to look after Angela so that he could take Louise to the cinema in Swaffham or for a day’s outing in Norwich, though that had been badly damaged in air raids earlier in the year. He always appeared cheerful, but Louise was not deceived.

The strain he had been under was showing, though he still smiled and joked. She knew he had been escorting bombers raiding German targets and worried about him being shot down. She loved him unreservedly and knew she would do so for the rest of her life, but she also knew that she was destined to lose him. She would rather it was to his wife than to enemy action.

Privacy was hard to come by in the Pheasant, especially in the evenings when the bar was crowded, so on one visit towards the end of July, she suggested going for a walk after Angela had been put
to bed. Leaving Jenny in charge of her they strolled, hand in hand, through the village to their favourite place on the common. It was a warm evening and would be light until late. The grass on the common was turning brown, the blackberry bushes were laden with green fruit and elderflowers spread their heady scent. It was a peaceful summer evening in rural England, but the peace was illusory.

‘How long have you got?’ she asked. It was the first question anyone asked when loved ones came home on leave. It was as well to know when the next parting would be and cram everything into a few hours.