22 Britannia Road (23 page)

‘The British moan about foreign workers,’ she says to Janusz. ‘But they would be stuck without our miners, wouldn’t they?’

Even cheered as she is by this thought, she has to admit the Polish miners seem to be failing to keep her warm. She is wearing two pairs of stockings, a petticoat, a thick tweed skirt, two blouses and a cardigan, but it makes no difference.

She shivers and shakes with cold.

‘Come on, Aurek, pay attention,’ says Janusz. He is sitting in his chair by the fire with Aurek on the rug, trying to finish a jigsaw puzzle. ‘That’s the cowboy’s scarf. It’s blue. See? Look at the picture on the box. There’s a piece like that somewhere else in here. Look for the same blue.’

Silvana wonders what Tony is doing, whether he is with Peter in the grandparents’ big house by the park, doing jigsaw puzzles in front of the fire. She sits back in her chair. She hasn’t seen him since October, when she told him about the letters. She should be pleased. Surely it makes her life easier not to see him, and yet she feels angry. How can he step in and then out of her life so easily?

She watches Janusz searching for the right pieces of the puzzle, steadily, logically, while Aurek piles up the wooden pieces into small towers.

‘Time for a glass of sherry,’ says Janusz after he has dismantled Aurek’s pile of jigsaw pieces and put the last section of the sky in place. ‘Aurek, no. Don’t touch it. It’s finished. Go and put the radio on. The King’s speech will be on soon.’

The three of them sit listening to the radio, Silvana sipping her sherry. It tastes terrible, so she gulps it down, eager to finish the glass and be excused. Her head is thumping and she longs only to be in bed.

‘And we should raise our glasses to the Royal Family,’ says Janusz. ‘And a toast to our own son. Aurek, do you want to try some sherry?’

When the national anthem plays Janusz looks at Silvana expectantly, but she does not move. She is sure that she will fall over if she attempts to stand. Janusz stands up, stiff and serious. His faith in the King is touching. Or is it just that she is too tired to be annoyed right now by his constant desire to be a perfect Englishman? Then Aurek surprises her by leaping to his feet and saluting as the anthem plays on.

‘I’ve taught him the words,’ says Janusz. ‘Come on, Aurek. Sing with me.’

To see Aurek singing the British national anthem with his father, both of them standing to attention together, Aurek breaking into crow calls and dog howls as he sings, makes her laugh and then cough and splutter, and finally retch and vomit.

Janusz turns the radio down. ‘Are you all right?’ He bends over her and pulls his handkerchief from his pocket.

Christmas is a terrible time of year, she thinks, wiping her mouth. It leaves her defenceless.

‘I want to go home,’ she mumbles.

Janusz leans towards her, pushing a lock of hair away from her eyes. ‘Me too,’ he whispers into her ear. Or at least she thinks that is what he said. She looks into his eyes.

‘
Wesolych swiat
,’ she says. ‘Happy holidays.’

Then she lets Janusz help her up to bed.

The rest of Christmas and New Year pass by in a blur. The doctor is called and says she has flu. Her head feels like a steam iron, clunky and heavy, and her body is something she would gladly give up if she could.

During the day, when Janusz is back at work, Doris takes Aurek to school. She brings Silvana beef tea and Easton’s tonic, a sticky brown syrup that Doris swears by and Silvana silently swears at. And all the time, while Silvana lies in bed recovering, she has the feeling that Aurek is slipping away from her.

In the garden, the light is fading. Trees are frosted with white. The rickety garden fence is soft grey against the freezing snow that clings in ice-beaded lines along the top of it. On the ground the snow is the same dry white as a sugar loaf. On the old oak tree at the bottom of the garden the snow is a different colour again. Against the tree’s black trunk it is as blue-white as breast milk.

Silvana turns away from the wintery scene outside her window and looks at Aurek sitting at the kitchen table. Doris has just brought him back from school.

‘Are you still friends with Peter?’

She has promised herself she will not do this, but here she is.

‘I never meant it when I said you shouldn’t be friends, you know. I’m sorry for what I said. He’s a nice boy. Why don’t you ask him over to play?’

‘Peter’s not at school.’

‘Not at school?’

‘The teacher says he’s not coming back. He’s gone away.’

So it really is true. Tony has left. And to think, she had nearly told him everything. Aurek looks as if he might cry. His only friend, and she has forced him to leave town.

‘You can have the day off school tomorrow,’ she whispers to him.

As it is, the school is closed. The snow keeps on falling and the roads become impassable. Everybody talks about it being the worst winter in living memory. Janusz stays home for a week when his factory closes and they live on soup with dumplings because even if the shops had any food in them, which is doubtful, they are all closed.

Every morning, Silvana goes walking. She knows she should stay in the house, but her legs won’t let her.

‘We have snow like this in Poland every year,’ she says to Janusz. ‘I don’t know what the fuss is about.’

‘People are freezing in their homes,’ says Janusz. ‘Don’t you read the news? The country is on its knees. And you can’t take Aurek with you. It’s too cold for him out there.’

‘I just need to walk,’ she says. Truth is, she is ashamed of what she feels when she sees Janusz and the boy together. She has what she wanted, a father for Aurek. He loves the boy and Aurek, she can see, is beginning to trust him. She should be happy, but instead she can’t bear to see them together.

She trudges through the blue light of sleet and ice, her lungs burning with cold, and pretends she is back in the frozen Polish winters of the war, back with her own memories and the importance of survival, of having nothing else to consider.

She walks past sheep huddled in fields. She sees a train buried in snow, glassy icicles hanging like daggers off shopfront windows. In the centre of town, Tony’s pet shop is shut up, blinds over the windows, a closed sign in the door. She stands in front of it, looking up at the windows of the flat above the shop and wonders where he could be.

The estuary freezes over and Silvana walks out onto the ice, listening to the low moan of wind skating across its surface. She feels the ice bow and creak under her feet. If the ice opened and she fell into the dark waters, her secret would be gone with her. Only Aurek
would be left. Just a boy and his father. But the river doesn’t take her. She is as dry and weightless as the wind itself, and the constant snap and shiver of ice as she steps out towards the middle of the river becomes companionable, like sticks breaking on a forest floor.

The town stays frozen for weeks and then the thaws come, causing the river to flood and the canals to fill with surging brown waters. In the centre of town, the buses and trams start running again, people walk the streets in wellingtons and sou’westers and the schools are all open.

On a bright morning, after taking Aurek to school, Silvana walks through the backstreets of Ipswich. She passes by the Methodist church with its bleak yellow-brick front and sees a small passageway she has not been down before. She enters it, running her fingertips against narrow moss-lined brick walls, marvelling at the darkness that gathers at her feet like blackened leaves.

The passageway comes out into a cobbled street full of garages and repair shops. Cars, lorries, vans and coaches are parked in an orderless jumble, blocking the road. She makes her way through them, and at the end of it she finds a yard. A painted sign hangs over the wooden doors:
Harry Goldberg & Son. Rag & Bone & Scrap Metal Merchants.
The man who sold her the shoes. She is curious, drawn to the place.

The next day she bakes gingerbread. Half of it she puts on the kitchen table for Aurek and Janusz. The other half she wraps in a tea towel and takes to the rag-and-bone man. He remembers her. He pushes the gingerbread into his mouth and smiles, showing sticky teeth and receding gums.

‘Have a look around. I’ve got everything here, antiques an’ all. I have dealers coming down from London to look over my stock. My father ran this place before me. He used to buy bones an’ all. Boiled ’em up right here.’

‘Bones?’

‘Rag and bone. That’s what we dealt in. We sold bones for fertilizer. No money in it now. Have a look around.’

The stables are full of clothes and bric-a-brac. Dining-room chairs are piled to the ceiling of one stall. Bales of damp-smelling linen fill
another. Dozens of cats, sleeping in among the linen, wake at Silvana’s approach and watch her with sharp eyes. She looks into dark stalls filled with carpets and silk parachutes, beds and blanket boxes. For the first time since coming to England, she feels a moment of recognition. She is surely part of this jetsam of human life.

The following week, Silvana bakes more gingerbread for the rag-and-bone man. He has a sweet tooth and, she suspects, nobody in his life to feed it. The simple exchange of cake for time to wander through his barns and stables pleases her.

‘It’s my birthday,’ she tells him, encouraged by the obvious pleasure with which he greets her. ‘Today.’

It is probably not the kind of thing you say to a stranger, but Silvana wants to tell somebody. Janusz went off this morning without a mention of it. Not that it matters. She is twenty-eight years old. Too old for cakes and singsongs.

‘Well then, you just help yourself,’ the man tells her. ‘Happy birthday, miss. You go on and take what you want. Most of the clothes go to charity in any case. I sort them and they get sent off to people who need them. Foreigners mainly. Poor beggars who’ve got nothing.’

For a moment she thinks he is insulting her. But then she stares at his hooded eyes and sallow face and realizes she sees him in the same way, as just another lonely foreigner who has nothing.

Silvana helps him sort the clothes. Bedlinen and cotton for rags. Musty-smelling coats in one pile; men’s clothes in another; women’s and children’s in a third. She thinks of the refugee camp, the long lines of people who came and went and disappeared just like she did onto trains and buses and boats heading for other countries. The clothes they were all given must have started their journey in places like this. Sorting clothes with the rag-and-bone man is like moving among lost people, and they are the kind she knows best.

Silvana opens a hessian sack filled with blouses and imagines the women who once wore them. The stains and cloudy marks on bed sheets are a registry of births and marriages and deaths. Sweat rings on collars make her sigh. She puts her hands in sleeves and traces the roughened seams of stitching pulled open by bodies that must have, day after day, strained against the cloth. Buckets of shoes leave her
trembling. The hardened leather shoes and boots are like the misshapen feet of the dead.

She notes the repairs and the slow decline of garments and feels like she is in mourning for the people who once wore them. Yet she can resurrect them. She will package and parcel and sort the clothes. They will travel on, into the arms of men and women and children who have arrived at the end of the war with nothing but the curious realization that they have survived something and a dull sense that they might not survive the beginning of something else.

She finds a black cotton dress with wide skirts, the kind her mother wore. She imagines her mother in the dismal gown, head bent in sorrow or annoyance, her hands holding the shape of her dead sons. Silvana lifts the dress by its shoulders and shakes the creases out of it.

‘I’m your daughter,’ she says, holding it at arm’s length. She gives it another shake and its sleeves flap aggressively, black and sullen, like the wings of a cornered crow.

‘So, what shall I do, Mother?’ she asks the dress. ‘I think of Tony all the time. ‘Tell me, what should I do? What would you do? Why can’t you help me when I need you?’

The dress gives her no advice. Of course it wouldn’t. When did her mother ever help her before? And yet she misses her.

She walks home carrying it over one arm and finds Janusz and Aurek sitting in the front parlour with Doris.

‘Happy birthday!’

They break into song. ‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you …’

Silvana cannot move to take her coat off. Her frozen fingers throb in the sudden warmth, tingling as if they are coming back to life. Mottled red and white, they sting and swell so she couldn’t unbutton her coat even if she wanted to.

‘You thought they’d forgotten,’ says Doris. She takes a drag on her cigarette and coughs heartily. ‘Jan’s been doing things behind your back!’

‘Here.’ Janusz hands her a large white box with a blue ribbon across it. ‘Doris helped us choose it.’

‘Me,’ says Aurek. ‘Me, me, me.’

Doris laughs. ‘All right. You chose it. Go on, Sylvia, open it.’

Silvana opens the box and lifts out a dress. It is a dark-blue fabric with a white polka dot. Three-quarter-length sleeves edged with lace and a wasp waist with a boned girdle over a wide skirt.

Janusz hands her another box. He speaks quietly so that only she can hear. ‘I’ve missed too many of your birthdays.’

Inside the box are a pair of court shoes and kid-leather gloves.

‘I’ve kept those boxes in my spare bedroom for weeks now,’ says Doris. ‘And believe me, it’s lucky you’re smaller than me or I’d have had that frock and worn it myself! Come on. Give us a fashion show. Let’s see what you look like.’

In her bedroom, Silvana puts the black gown in the wardrobe. She changes into her new dress, spinning around to feel the skirts swirl. The skirt is gathered. Imagine that! Folds of fabric all around her. And new! Bought for her, never worn by anyone else. She can’t remember the last time she wore a brand-new dress. She slips her feet into the shoes and puts the gloves on, pushing her fingers into firm leather. In the bathroom she looks in the mirror. The dress is beautiful, but the woman staring back at her looks blank-eyed, harsh. When, she wonders, will I look less like a stranger to myself?