Homeland (30 page)

‘Saw pigs swimming,’ Stan chuckled. ‘Right there in Athelney, just by where Billy was living. And chickens perched in trees. And cider barrels floating about, ready for the
taking. Oh, it was a lovely time, it was! A cracking time! Never seen anything like it in all my life.’

‘Billy – he lived there with his family?’

‘Yes, yes, in Athelney. That’s where the worst of the flood was. That’s where the banks broke right open. Whoomph! Bang! In the middle of the night.’

‘But did people die in this?’ Wladyslaw asked.

‘Not on account of the flood, they didn’t. Most of them, they knew what was coming, see. They only had to hear the wind and the rain, and the force of the water in the sluices, and
feel the quaking and quivering through the walls – well, it was obvious then, wasn’t it? No, no one died from the flood. But after three months stuck upstairs with no work and plenty of
cider? Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if there weren’t a few who went off their heads and no one the wiser!’

‘People lived in their houses still?’

‘You bet they did! They got food fetched in boats, cooked it on the fires upstairs. And then there was charity from the city folk in Bristol. Clothes and food and all manner of stuff. Yes,
people managed all right. Only ones that needed rescuing were Billy and his dad. But then some said it was high time Billy was rescued anyways, flood or no flood.’

‘He had no mother?’

‘Mother? Goodness,
no
. She were long dead by then.’

‘Ah. And this flood, it was not usual?’

The old man said with a touch of irritation, ‘Like I’ve been telling you – there’s regular flooding, and there’s the other sort. It ain’t enough to have the
rain, see. Not even weeks and weeks of the stuff. No, you’ve got to have a storm too, and from the north-west, so as to push the water over the wrong side of the Tone and wash the whole
bloody bank away. That was the trouble, see – the wind blew so blooming hard it wouldn’t let the flood water slop onto Curry Moor. Kept blowing it over the
other
bank. And it
were soft soil on that south side, soft as buggery. So soft they was growing vegetables in it. Well, soil like that’s never going to be any bloody use for holding up a whole bloody river, is
it?’

For seven days and nights the villagers patrolled the banks, shoring up the weak points with sandbags, Stan recounted. Then the sandbags ran out. After that, he said cheerfully, it was only a
matter of time. In the early hours of the Saturday morning, as another surge of water came down from the hills, the bank above Mrs Miller’s cottage gave way, and with a roar that could be
felt at the top of the hill, a great wave fifteen feet high leapt clear over Mrs Miller’s garden shed to the other side of the road, flooding every house thereabouts, buckling walls, causing
a couple of cottages to collapse altogether.

‘Billy and his dad lived right there, not two doors from Mrs Miller’s.’ Stan chuckled. ‘They’d never had much in the way of furniture or china or ornaments, but
they had a bloody sight less once the water’d gone through, I can tell you!’

‘So what happened to Billy?’

But Stan was bent on telling the rest of the story, how after a week or more of the floods the farmers on the far side of the Parrett began to guard the banks. ‘Not against the banks
giving way – oh no,’ chuckled Stan, ‘but against the banks getting
cut
in the dead of night, accidentally on purpose, if you understand my meaning. Getting cut by the
people who were fed up to the back teeth with their homes being flooded and wanted to see the water spread a bit more evenly, you might say. The farmers on the far side of the Parrett, their land
were dry, see, dry as a bone, and they didn’t want no wet, not at any price, so they walked the banks with loaded guns. Yes indeed! And I’ve no doubt they’d’ve used
’em too.’

‘What happened to Billy?’ Wladyslaw prompted again.

‘Billy . . . Well, he and his dad, they moved back in, didn’t they? Soon as the water went down a bit. Weren’t no good, though. Billy had to be rescued all the same, must have
been a year later. Not getting fed. Left on his own too much. That father had holes for pockets. Couldn’t earn a ha’penny that he didn’t go and spend it on beer and horses.’
He added in a low knowing voice, as if it explained everything: ‘But then he worked on the railways, see. That’s how he fetched up here in the first place. Irish, of course. Come with
the railway.’

Sunday morning. Wladyslaw allowed himself an extra hour in bed before setting off for the Bennetts’. In a dark dawn under low scudding skies the church bell drew him up
the hill, a slow tolling on a single note that ebbed and spiralled on the racing air before descending to a muffled clang as the steeple came in sight. Lights glimmered behind the stained-glass
windows, the doors were closed, but if there were people inside they must have been at prayer because he heard no chanting or singing.

Following the doctor’s directions, he turned right past the George and took a long looping lane between low hedgerows up to the ridge road.

Lights were showing in the Bennetts’ windows, but reluctant to disturb them so early Wladyslaw tiptoed across the gravel drive. He found the bicycle where the doctor had promised it would
be, in a shed attached to the side of the house. Wladyslaw was wheeling it to the gate when he heard a door opening and the doctor’s voice called out, ‘Wladyslaw! Hello there! Would you
like some breakfast?’

Wladyslaw wheeled the bicycle up to the door. ‘Thank you, Doctor, but I think I will go directly to the camp.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to drop in on your way back then? For a cup of tea?’

It was the first time Wladyslaw had seen the doctor in anything but formal clothes. He was wearing baggy corduroy trousers, a threadbare shirt, and the long shapeless knitted garment the English
call a cardigan, worn lopsided and, it appeared, incorrectly buttoned. Absorbing this, it was a moment before Wladyslaw registered the heave and fall of the doctor’s chest as he laboured for
breath.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I will drop in later.’

The doctor came down the step onto the gravel. Close up, Wladyslaw could hear the rattle and rasp of his lungs.

‘Wladyslaw, I wonder if you would do me a favour while you’re at the camp?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘I attended a young Pole from the camp a few nights ago. A friend of yours, I think. Jozef Walczak.’

‘Jozef? Is he OK?’

‘He’d suffered some sort of collapse when I saw him. As for how he is now – that’s what I was going to ask you. Would you find out and let me know? I’m concerned
that his friends might have put him straight to bed and failed to alert the medical staff.’

‘He is in sick bay?’

‘That’s the thing – I’m not sure. I saw him here at the house, you see. Some people brought him in a van from the George.’

‘The George?’ Wladyslaw gave a harsh groan and swore in Polish, before saying in despair, ‘Idiot. Crazy man. I hear about this fight.’

‘Fight? No one mentioned anything about a fight.’

‘Sure! I hear good about this,’ said Wladyslaw, his grammar rapidly deserting him under pressure. ‘Fight at George pub. Tuesday. Two Poles.’

‘But I found no injuries on Jozef. No cuts or bruises. I was told he’d simply fallen ill. Unless I missed something,’ the doctor added doubtfully.

‘I go see Jozef all right. Sure! But it’s possible I kill him – me myself!’ Wladyslaw tapped a finger to his chest. ‘If he is not too badly sick already.’

‘Don’t be too quick to believe everything you hear, Wladyslaw. You know what gossip’s like. People are always getting the wrong end of the stick. No, I’m certain Lyndon
would have told me if there’d been any sort of fight.’

Wladyslaw stared at him.

Misunderstanding his silence, Bennett repeated, ‘I’m sure he would have told me.’

‘Sorry. Who is . . . this person?’

‘Lyndon Hanley. He brought Jozef here. He took him on to the camp.’

‘Ah.’

‘Stella’s cousin.’

‘Ah yes . . . yes.’ Wladyslaw glanced away as a keen wind came gusting round the side of the house and bowled into them. He became aware of the doctor shuddering reflexively.

‘You will catch cold, Doctor.’

‘Yes.’

‘Remember – plenty raw onions.’

Bennett’s chuckle was lost in a wheezing cough. ‘Thank you, Wladyslaw. I’ll try not to forget.’

The bicycle was ancient and upright, and Wladyslaw set off at a wobble.

The doctor called after him, ‘Careful on the bends. The tyres are a bit worn.’

The warning would have been better aimed at the brakes, whose shortcomings became apparent as the ridge road descended in a long downward slope towards the River Parrett. Fortunately there was
no traffic about as, out of control, Wladyslaw shot across the road at the foot of the river bank, and, taking the escape route offered by a track on the far side, rattled chaotically over its
rough surface and skidded to a halt. Laying the bike on the ground, he strolled up an earth ramp to a wooden bridge and found himself gazing down on a high wind-scuffed river held tight between
muddy banks, bordered on the near side by brushwood, poplar and birch, and on the far side by a path and a drop to a wide water-streaked moor. The wind off the moor was strong and blustery, it
drove angry cat’s paws over the river and flecked the surface with dancing metallic flashes. Only under the bridge was the water oily-smooth and dark, the colour of earth and dung. It moved
slowly but resolutely on its secret way.

He was turning back when something caught the edge of his visual map, a shape that didn’t belong to the river or the moor or the brushwood. Looking hard, he made out what appeared to be a
military beret showing over the grassy rim of the far bank some thirty metres away. As he watched, the beret moved a little, then a soldier in British army uniform got slowly to his feet, hauling a
rifle onto his shoulder. The soldier put some field glasses to his eyes and scanned the moor, then turned to speak to someone out of sight to his right. After a moment a second soldier stood up,
also with a rifle. The second soldier glanced up the length of the river, then over his shoulder, and saw Wladyslaw. Wladyslaw remained very still and so did the soldier. They continued to stare at
each other for several seconds until the soldier, eyes still on Wladyslaw, said something to his mate, who jerked round and peered fiercely at Wladyslaw.

Wladyslaw turned away and walked down the track to his bicycle. He glanced back once, just before the gradient and the brushwood hid the soldiers from view, and saw them walking purposefully
towards the bridge, faces turned his way. He mounted the bike and began pedalling down the road. He had nothing to fear, yet his nerves juddered and his back crawled, and until he had got safely
round the first bend he might have been back in Italy again, caught in the cross hairs of a sniper’s sights.

Approaching the camp, he saw people strung out in twos and threes coming over the fields from Camp C, making their way down the lane to Camp B for Mass. Cycling past them, he went to the post
room to find it firmly locked and no indication of when it might open.

Worshippers from the first Mass were streaming out of the chapel and mingling with the crowd waiting for the next service. Through the open doors of the corrugated-iron hut Wladyslaw could see
candles burning on the altar and the shadowy figure of the priest passing in front of the flames like a giant moth. For a brief moment he felt a nostalgic pull for the ritual and solace of the Mass
and the memories of home and family it would bring him. But he had determined to stay away, and he was not going to let emotion undermine his resolve now. His dispute with God had begun in
Archangel, deepened in Uzbekistan, and rumbled on with varying degrees of intensity ever since. He could no longer accept the idea of a loving, all-powerful God who stood aside and allowed the
innocent to suffer and the wicked to triumph in the name of free will. The promise of justice and retribution in the next life wasn’t nearly enough. In the beginning this argument had caused
him the sort of misery he’d felt on quarrelling with his father when he was seventeen. But while he had been quickly reconciled with his father, his dispute with God had proved more
intractable.

Among the line of people making their way into the chapel Wladyslaw recognised the solid form of Jozef’s honorary godmother Alina, followed by the equally unmistakable Danuta. And,
obscured at first, then becoming clearly visible, the sharply etched profile of Jozef. Wladyslaw hurried forward but before he could attract Jozef’s attention a tall figure detached himself
from a nearby group and stepped into his path. It was Major Rafalski.

‘Ah, Malinowski,’ he said. ‘How’s the farm labouring?’

Wladyslaw watched Jozef disappearing into the chapel. ‘Fine, thank you.’

‘Not too arduous?’

‘I have no complaints.’

‘And the people – have they made you feel welcome?’

‘Oh yes. They’ve been lending me books. Asking me into their homes. Helping in all sorts of ways.’

The austere face registered mild astonishment. ‘Really. And what about the conversation? Do you find enough to talk about?’

‘Plenty,’ Wladyslaw replied, thinking of Stella.

‘Then they must have hidden qualities,’ the major said dubiously. ‘I find them impossible myself. Warm and jovial one minute, stiff and insincere the next. And so very coarse.
Don’t you find them coarse? Their jokes are really disgusting.’

‘I ignore the jokes.’

‘Their attitude to women is dreadful – disrespectful, callous. And then they have the effrontery to accuse Polish men of being gallant and well-mannered, as if it were unsporting in
some way.’ The major scanned the horizon like a man undergoing a long and futile siege, searching for the relief force that would never come. ‘You’ll be staying on then, will
you?’ he asked.

‘All being well, yes.’

‘Well, careful how you go. A British patrol took a potshot at one of our people yesterday. They were looking for two escaped German POWs and got their nationalities, not to mention their
uniforms, mixed up.’