A Different World (28 page)

It had been Tommy’s idea to write to them. ‘I believe they give advice and financial help to ex-Polish airman in need,’ he had said. ‘I think it’s only for men still in England, but it’s worth a try.’

It was the first half-positive reply Angela had had and she gave a whoop of triumph and tucked it into her jacket pocket intending to show it to Tommy when he came home from work. He had a job at Marshall’s aircraft works in Cambridge and commuted every day from the Pheasant while he looked for somewhere permanent to live.

‘Don’t get so excited,’ he warned her that evening. ‘It’s something and nothing. And how do you know this Boris Martel will even contact you?’

‘I don’t, but it’s a name. I looked it up in the telephone directory. There’s only one Boris Martel listed. It’s a London number.’

‘Angela, you must not ring him, you really must not. Wait for him to get in touch with you if he wants to. Have you shown this to your mother?’

‘No. She told me to give up.’

‘Then perhaps that’s what you should do.’

‘Tommy Carter, you are being a stuffy old man.’

He laughed ‘So I’m stuffy, am I? Too old and stuffy to take you to the dance on Saturday?’

‘No, I didn’t mean it. I want to go to the dance. But I can’t give up. Don’t you understand? It’s all about who I am, the genes that made me. Mum says I’m like him. I want to see that for myself.’

‘OK, so you tell your mother about that letter and I’ll take you.’

‘He’s too old for her,’ Faith said, referring to Tommy Carter’s friendship with Angela. ‘She’s still a child and he’s a grown man.’ They were talking in the kitchen while they washed up the dinner plates. Angela and Tommy were in the living room; they could hear their low voices and the occasional burst of laughter.

‘Mum, she is no longer a child, she is a young woman and I have nothing against Tommy, nothing at all. He used to look out for her when she was a toddler, like a big brother. I’ve no doubt that’s how she sees him now.’

‘I don’t know what the world is coming to. Am I supposed to stand by and watch my granddaughter make a fool of herself?’

Louise sighed heavily. ‘I don’t think she will, Mum.’

‘I suppose she got her wilfulness from her father.’

‘You never met him, Mum.’

‘No, nor do I want to. If Angela brings him here, I shall leave.’

‘Whatever are you talking about? No one has suggested he should come here, even if Angela were to find him.’ It was becoming harder and harder to deal diplomatically with her mother, and though she might dismiss the idea of Jan coming to Cottlesham, there was a corner of her heart and mind that dreamt
of it happening. ‘The reason he left in the first place is just as valid now as it was then.’

‘All the same, I give you due warning.’

Louise laughed. As a threat it was meaningless, but it did show just how far apart they were on some issues. She hung up the tea cloth. ‘Let’s go back to Angela and Tom, but please don’t say anything more about Angela’s search for Jan. Leave that to me. She’s off to Rome next week, in any case; she might forget all about it.’

‘I think she ought to go back to hospital,’ Lech said, looking down at Rulka. ‘You can’t look after her properly here.’

‘Yes, I can.’ Jan sat on the edge of the bed and took Rulka’s hand. ‘What do you say, Myszka?’

‘I want to stay here.’ The voice was barely audible.

‘Then you shall.’ He turned to Lech. ‘Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.’

They left Rulka to sleep and returned to the sitting room where Jan poured them both a shot of vodka.

Rulka had come through an operation to remove her breast, but she had not picked up as they had hoped. It was feared the cancer had spread. Jan looked after her devotedly. It was his fault she was like she was; he had left her to fend for herself when he should have been at her side shielding her, preventing her from driving herself so hard in the Home Army. She might then have come through the ordeal of the occupation in good health. His guilt was compounded by his inability to forget his life in that other world, so far from the reality of his present existence, it seemed like a dream. He shook these thoughts from him to listen to what Lech was telling him.

‘You do realise, Jan, that it is only palliative care she needs now, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You have nothing to be sorry for. You’ve been a good friend to us. I often wonder if things would have been different if I had stayed in Warsaw in ’39.’

‘You would almost certainly have been arrested, if not by the Germans then the Russians. It would not have made any difference to Rulka; she would still have done what she felt she had to do. She always used to say she was glad you were safely out of it.’ He paused to drain his glass. ‘Let me know when you need me.’

‘I will.’

He left and Jan went back to Rulka. She was awake and smiled wanly. ‘Poor you,’ she said.

‘Why poor me?’

‘You will have to carry on. I’ll be out of it. At peace.’

It was no good denying it; she was a nurse and knew exactly what was happening to her. ‘Are you worried about it?’

‘No. I’ve had enough, there’s no fight left in me. It’s time to go. But I worry about you.’

‘Don’t think about it.’

‘Don’t grieve, Jan. Don’t go about with a long face for me. The Rulka Grabowska you knew died and was buried in 1942. The woman you have been living with since you came back is a wraith. And now she must go too. Give thanks, as I do, for the life we had.’

‘Stop talking, Myszka, you’ll wear yourself out. Go to sleep.’

She subsided against the pillow, a slight smile on her lips. ‘Good night, my love, pleasant dreams.’

He bent to kiss her and watched until she fell asleep. For almost the first time since he had come back, he felt the tug of a love he thought had vanished and could not stem the tears.

She died in his arms in the early hours of the morning. He sat holding her for an hour, unwilling to give her up to death, but in the end he laid her gently on the bed and went down to the hall where there was a communal telephone, and rang Lech.

He attended the funeral in a daze, watched the coffin being lowered, scattered a handful of soil on it and wondered what his life had all been about.

‘Dear Miss Fairhurst, your letter to the Polish Airman’s Association has been passed to me. I confess I am surprised to hear the Flight Lieutenant had a daughter but I only met him once in 1946 when I returned to England from Poland and brought him news of his wife. As far as I am aware he returned to her. I have not been back to Poland since then, so I cannot vouch for that. I must caution you against interfering, not only because his wife may not know about you, but also because of the political situation. I ask you to think long and hard before pursuing this enquiry. Yours sincerely, Boris Martel.’

‘Damn him!’ Angela said. ‘Damn him, damn him, damn him.’ She stuffed the letter back into the envelope and put it in her bag. If he thought she was going to give up, he had better think again. She left to go to work without showing the missive to her mother. All day, while she served the Pheasant’s guests, she brooded on it. Boris Martel had been her only lead, she had been banking on his being able to tell her something. She still thought he could if he wanted to. The letter had an address at the top of it; there was nothing for it but to beard him in his den. She’d go on Saturday. All she had to do was persuade Tommy to go with her and not tell her mother.

He was above middle age, tall and thin, with a mass of iron-grey hair. There was a scar down one side of his face which hardly showed
when his face was still, but wrinkled when he smiled, which he did now as he showed her into a spacious sitting room and indicated a couple of armchairs. ‘Please sit down, Miss Fairhurst, Mr Carter. I must confess I did not expect you to arrive on my doorstep.’

‘I wanted to meet you face to face,’ she said.

‘Why? I explained the position in my letter.’

‘And very unsatisfactory it was too. Did you think I would take no for an answer and meekly give up? I have always been led to believe my father was killed in the war and when I found he had not, that he might still be alive, can you blame me for wanting to find him?’

‘No, but he has a wife.’

‘I am aware of that. It was the only reason he and my mother did not marry. Theirs was a true love story.’

He smiled. ‘My dear young lady, you are not the only English child with a Polish father.’

‘I don’t suppose I am, but that doesn’t alter the fact that I want to know if he is alive, to meet him if it’s possible, and if not at least let him know that I think of him and wish I could get to know him.’

‘I knew his wife well during the war, she was a very brave lady. I should hate to be responsible for causing her a moment’s unhappiness.’

‘You are assuming he has not told her about me. That might not be the case.’

‘If you can give us the smallest clue, we would be very grateful,’ Tommy put in.

‘And what is your interest in the affair, Mr Carter?’

‘I am a long-standing friend of the family and I knew Jan well. I am convinced he would like to know that he can be proud of his daughter. I thought we could work through intermediaries.’

Boris paced the floor. ‘It is years since I was in Warsaw. Times have changed, are changing …’ He paused. ‘There is a name I could give you, but before I do, I want your assurance you will not make direct contact with Jan. It would be for him to approach you.’

Angela had that stubborn look on her face Tom had become familiar with in the last few months. He smiled at their host. ‘You have it,’ he said quickly. ‘Isn’t that so, Angela?’

She nodded; if that was the way it had to be done, so be it.

Boris went to a desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, took the cap off a fountain pen and wrote down a name and address. ‘This is where he was in 1946,’ he said. ‘I cannot guarantee he will still be there.’ He handed the paper to Tom. ‘Let me know how you get on.’

Stanisław Roman often went to the Church of the Holy Cross to consult Father Karlowicz about funerals, but today’s visit had nothing to do with a dead body needing burial. He had received a strange letter that morning. The envelope bore British postage stamps and contained a photograph enclosed in another page of closely written script. The words were in English and all he could make out was the name Jan Grabowski. His first reaction had been to take it to Jan, who knew English, but on reflection he decided to consult the good father first.

He found the priest enjoying a cup of coffee laced with vodka while toasting his toes by a fire in his quarters; at his age he felt the cold in his extremities even in summer. He greeted Stanisław and stood up to pour more coffee and vodka. The two enjoyed a close friendship which had begun during the occupation, when both had been working towards the same end. They had seen the destruction of their beloved city and watched it emerge from
the ashes, almost as good as new. Neither liked the regime under which they lived and longed for a free, independent Poland, but the days of militant action had gone. It served no purpose except to bring the Soviet Union down on the perpetrators with brute force. The events in Hungary four years before had taught them that. They had to be more subtle and more patient, but both were convinced it would happen in the end.

But it was not that which occupied Stanisław on this occasion. He sat down and handed the letter to the priest. ‘This came today,’ he said. ‘It’s in English. Can you understand it?’

The old man perched a pair of wire-framed spectacles on his nose to read it. It took some time because he was translating as he read aloud and his English was rusty. ‘How extraordinary,’ he said when he finished. ‘I would never have believed it of Jan. He was devoted to Rulka.’

Stanisław picked up the photograph and studied it. It pictured a woman and a young lady, presumably mother and daughter. The elder appeared to be in her early forties. She was slim and dressed in a flowered skirt and a white blouse. Her dark hair curled about her ears and she had a smiling mouth. The younger one was in jeans and shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her hair was fair and tied back in a ponytail. She was holding a stuffed toy. ‘Apparently devoted to an English schoolteacher as well, if this young lady is telling the truth,’ he said.

‘Don’t you think she is?’

‘She says Boris Martel gave her my address,’ Stanisław said. ‘So presumably he believed it. The question is, do we tell Jan? It’s only a couple of months since Rulka died.’

‘True,’ the priest said thoughtfully. ‘I have been worried about that young man. He seems lost and bewildered since she died. This might be a way of reviving his spirits. On the other hand, it 
might send him into even greater gloom. He is unlikely to be given permission to leave the country and I would not recommend the young lady to come here, even if he did want to meet her.’

‘You think we should do nothing about it, then?’ Stanisław prompted.

‘I did not say that. I was simply thinking aloud. I’ll go and talk to him, try and find out what’s going on in his head, how he feels. If I think he should know about this …’ – he stopped to consult the letter – ‘Angela Fairhurst, then I will give him the letter.’

Jan had returned from his day’s work to an empty apartment. Before long someone would suggest that, being a single man, he did not need so many rooms and he would be asked to downgrade to allow a family to take the tenancy. When that happened, he would have lost his last link with Rulka. He had already given her clothes to charity and destroyed all evidence of her involvement with the underground as had been her wish. There was nothing left of her. He felt lost, as if he had found himself in an alien land that did not welcome him. Poland was not the Poland of his boyhood and without Rulka his whole
raison d’être
had collapsed.

He thought about trying to return to England but dismissed the idea as impractical. Even if he could get an exit visa, too many years had passed. Louise might have changed, more than likely had married and had a new family. She might not have told Angela about him. He would be an interloper. And what had he to offer? He had very little money and hardly a decent suit of clothes. It was nothing but a pipe dream.