Homeland (28 page)

‘Are you all right?’ Stella cried, running up the track towards him.

Extricating himself from the brambles with some difficulty, Wladyslaw clambered out of the ditch. ‘Still in one piece, I think!’ Rubbing a hand clean, he held it out to her.

She shook it with a quick laugh. ‘I never thought you’d jump!’

‘I don’t wish to miss you.’

She glanced hastily in the direction of the vanished tractor. ‘Well, you’ve missed your ride all right.’

‘I will find it later.’

They took a look at each other, she with a quick smile, he with wonder. Her face had all the elements he remembered – the freckled nose, the even teeth, the frank blue eyes – yet his
memory had somehow failed to do justice to the overall effect.

Her gaze went to his cheek. ‘You’re bleeding,’ she said. ‘Wait . . . I’ve got a handkerchief somewhere . . .’ She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a
dainty cotton square with an embroidered border.

‘I will damage it.’ He knew it was the wrong word and raised his eyebrows, inviting correction.

‘Oh, it’ll wash all right. You won’t spoil it.’

‘Spoil,’ he echoed. ‘Thank you.’

He dabbed at his cheek and looked into the mirror of her lovely face to see how he was doing. A small creasing between the eyebrows and he could tell there was more blood to mop up, a softening
of the features and the last had gone.

Her eyes went to the top of his head. ‘And you’ve got a bramble . . .’ She indicated the site with a forefinger.

He reached up and tugged the offending object out of his hair. ‘There is more?’ He lowered his head for her to inspect it.

‘No, that’s it, I think.’

He shook his head rapidly, like a dog emerging from water, and flicked a hand through his hair to send any last fragments flying. He looked up to find her laughing, and laughed with her.

‘I’ve got a book for you,’ she said. ‘It’s a – Oh!’ Glancing down the track, she spotted her bicycle lying where she had dropped it, with the contents
of the basket scattered over the ground.

Wladyslaw hurried forward to retrieve it. Fortunately the basket’s contents had landed clear of the puddles and the stickier patches of mud, and with some diligent rubbing and dusting a
purse and headscarf and various books emerged none the worse for their spill.

With the air of making an offering, Stella held a book out to him. ‘It’s that grammar I told you about. It’s more comprehensive than the other one.’

‘I thank you.’

‘My mother, along with some of the ladies from the Women’s Institute, has been collecting textbooks for the camp and I just happened to see it there in the box. So . . . well, I took
it.’ Her eyes glinted conspiratorially.

‘I am honoured.’

‘Oh, and I’ve been asking about those grammars written specially for foreign-speaking people, but it seems you can’t get hold of them at the moment, not for love nor
money.’

‘Not for love nor money . . .’ he echoed.

‘It’s a saying.’

‘This one I understand OK.’

‘Not like raining cats and dogs. I’m still trying to find the origin for you, but no luck yet. It’s one of those things you say and never think about. And when you
do
think about it, you can’t imagine why you’ve never questioned it before. How’s it going with the verbs?’

He pressed his fingertips to his forehead in mock despair. ‘Get on, get by, get out, get round, get through . . . I find two, three,
four
meanings for each one.’

‘They’re the worst,’ she conceded. ‘But once you’ve mastered them, you’re halfway there.’

‘Halfway only!’

She made a show of considering afresh. ‘Maybe a touch more.’

They began to stroll up the hill towards the village. He offered to push her bike for her, but she shook her head firmly, and he could only suppose that pushing a lady’s bicycle was
reserved for accredited suitors.

‘You will go to this dance tonight?’ he asked.

‘What? Oh no.’

‘You don’t like dances?’

‘Oh, I like to go sometimes. But tonight I’m going to a birthday party.’

‘Not
your
birthday?’

‘No.’ She hesitated a little. ‘A friend’s.’

The thought of the party seemed to dampen her spirits, and he said, ‘In Poland, name days are big occasion for us, not so much birthdays.’

‘What’s a name day?’

‘This is a special day of saint you are named from, saint who is your – I don’t know this word – protector?’

‘Patron saint?’

‘Patron saint – this is it. And on feast day of this patron saint, friends, family send you card, presents.’

‘How lovely! And when is your name day?’

‘Saint Wladyslaw is in June.’

‘
Wladyslaw
,’ she repeated carefully. ‘I’m sorry – I think I’ve been saying your name wrongly all this time.’

‘You say it fine. I prefer English way.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you don’t really. You must get fed up with it.’

‘Not when it is spoken by such good friend as you, Miss Stella.’

She seemed disconcerted by this, and, colouring a little, concentrated her attention on the track ahead. Not for the first time Wladyslaw reflected on the pitfalls of getting to know English
girls, how the most basic compliment, the most sincere declaration of friendship could be taken amiss. He couldn’t make out whether this reaction sprang from a suspicion of men in general or
Polish men in particular, but in Stella’s case he liked to think it came from nothing worse than surprise, maybe even – he dared to hope – pleasure.

For a time the track had been reasonably level, but now it had steepened again, and Stella panted a little with the effort of pushing her bicycle uphill.

She said between breaths, ‘The WI ladies have had another idea . . . They thought that with the camp filling up so quickly . . . and so many of the men separated from their wives and
sweethearts . . . feeling lonely and cut off . . . that they might like to see how we live . . . to visit English families in their homes . . . and get to practise their English, all at the same
time. What do you think?’

Wladyslaw took a moment to answer. ‘Sure,’ he murmured.

‘Just for a couple of hours on a Sunday afternoon – something like that.’

‘Afternoon tea, English fashion.’

‘Oh, they won’t get cucumber sandwiches, not round here. They’ll get cake – but plenty of it. So, what do you think?’ she asked brightly. Catching his hesitation,
she slowed down. ‘You don’t like the idea.’

‘This is fine idea, Stella.’

She searched his face. ‘No – tell me.’

He hesitated again. ‘It is only – many speak no English, not even one word.’

‘No. But they’ll be learning, won’t they?’

‘Yes . . .’ he agreed uncertainly. ‘But many also – they arrive only just now. They are still uncertain of future.’

‘All the more reason to get to know us, surely. To feel they’re at home.’

Wladyslaw gave up gracefully. ‘Sure.’

She nodded happily, and bent her weight to pushing the bicycle up the last hill.

The lane merged with another before joining the road that ran up to the church. Hitting the metalled surface of the road, the rattling bicycle wheels subsided to a soft whir. Stella was telling
Wladyslaw about afternoon tea at its most English – cucumber sandwiches, jam-filled scones, Victoria sponge, doilies, and fine china – when she suddenly looked at her watch.
‘Help!’ she cried. ‘I’m going to be late.’

‘Miss Stella – one thing I wish to ask you.’

‘Yes, Wladyslaw.’ She said his name carefully, according to the Polish pronunciation.

He had prepared his speech diligently, with the help of a dictionary, and began with confidence. ‘I wish very much to improve my English to the point where I can talk of anything –
everything. I am very grateful for these grammar books you have given me, but to learn well I need to practise conversation. So I wish to ask, Miss Stella, if you will please give me
classes?’

He thought she would be pleased, but her smile had faded, she said awkwardly, ‘Well, I . . . At the camp, do you mean?’

‘I thought, here?’ He indicated the village ahead.

‘I wish I could help, Wladyslaw, I really do. But . . . well, I’m not sure I’ll have the time, you see. I have school all day. And I’ve just agreed to take classes at the
camp four times a week. With all the preparation . . .’

‘Sure,’ Wladyslaw said, suppressing a sharp pang of disappointment.

In the pause that followed, conflict and uncertainty flickered over Stella’s face, as though his request had stirred up some deeper, more intractable anxieties. She said, ‘I’d
suggest an evening, but . . .’

‘It is not any problem.’

She looked away, distracted again, before saying, ‘Unless Sundays were any use to you.’

‘Please. I don’t wish to trouble you.’

He would have walked on, but she said rapidly, ‘But it’s no trouble at all. I could do Sundays easily. The only reason I didn’t suggest it was because I assumed you’d be
with your friends at the camp all day.’

‘I go to camp for two, three hours only.’

‘Well then, Sundays will be perfect!’ She spoke with all her old warmth, the worries forgotten or pushed aside. ‘It’s settled. Shall we begin tomorrow?’

‘Please.’

‘Would six suit you?’

‘Yes. This suits me well.’

‘At my house? It’s up past the windmill – ’ She corrected herself with a small laugh. ‘But you don’t know where that is! No, the best thing is to follow the
lane to the junction and turn
right
– ’ She directed him with neat hand movements interspersed with questioning glances to see if he had understood. ‘It’s the cottage
with the yellow door. And if you get lost anyone will be able to tell you where we live.’

‘Thank you.’

She prepared to mount her bike. ‘Do you think we should choose the subject for our talk now? So that we have time to think about it?’

‘This would help, yes.’

‘So, what would you like to talk about?’

He deferred to her with a small dip of the head. ‘Please – you choose.’

‘Let me think.’ She chewed her lip softly, tilted her head to one side and cast her blue eyes skyward, while he absorbed her loveliness like a man who has spent a long time in a dark
and desolate place.

‘I know!’ she declared. ‘What about Polish customs?’

‘England will be more useful, I think.’

‘Of course! English customs then.’ She swung one pedal up, ready to start off.

‘I study hard before then, like good student.’

She smiled. ‘I
will
study hard, like
a
good student.’

He spread his arms wide, his case vindicated, then bowed low in farewell. For this, or something else altogether, he was rewarded with a last smile before she pedalled away, a trim figure
sitting erect in the saddle, her copper hair like a conflagration in the thin sunlight.

Wladyslaw watched her until she was lost behind the bend in the churchyard wall, then, buoyed by an unassailable happiness, set off in the same general direction. Pausing only to admire the
solid stone church with its octagonal tower, niched statuary, crenellations and stumpy spire, he followed the lane around two bends into a long stretch with cottages strung out on either side. He
didn’t know where he was meant to be going, and saw no people and no post office, nor any other sort of place where he might ask. The lane ended in a junction with a similar lane, narrow with
a scattering of cottages on either side and no indication as to which way, if any, the village centre lay. For no particular reason, except perhaps that it was the way to Stella’s house, he
chose to go right, and after some fifty metres came to a cluster of farm buildings. Wandering through the gate, he found himself in the corner of a large yard completely concreted over and bordered
on three sides by barns and sheds. It was a withy yard all right – on the side that was open to the fields quantities of hurdles stood in serried ranks, while through the doors of the shed on
the far side he could make out stacks of withies – but the tractor and trailer that stood by the shed door weren’t right, the tractor shiny blue instead of dusty red, and the trailer
with no load.

He was standing at the corner of a long stone building which formed the left-hand side of the yard. In front of it stood two carts with draught horses dozing in their shafts. He moved forward to
look along the length of the building, saw an open door, and halted abruptly as a roar of raucous laughter rang out.

From the clamour that followed, Wladyslaw reckoned there were at least ten men inside, maybe a lot more. Too many for comfort at any rate. His distrust of groups had been born during the Russian
occupation, confirmed by the journey out of Siberia, and reinforced in Taunton during an evening out from the convalescent home, when a gang of drunken ruffians who outnumbered them by more than
two to one had tried to pick a fight.

He was on the point of slipping quietly away when a cadaverous old man shuffled out of the stone building, and, spotting him, beckoned to him with a loose-jointed wave.

Wladyslaw’s instincts urged him to walk away, to take no chances, while his reason argued for calm and confidence. This is the countryside, he told himself, these are friendly people and
the world is at peace.

The old man beckoned with another wild scoop of the air. ‘Ain’t no good stay’n there,’ he croaked, swaying slightly. ‘The zider’s this a-way.’

The argument for confidence won, just.

The babble of voices fell away as Wladyslaw stepped into the doorway. The interior was dark, but in the light at his back Wladyslaw could made out a vaulted room with a huge screw-down press on
one side and, standing around it, twelve or more men in the garb of farm workers. There was a strong smell of apples or cider or both.

A voice called what sounded like ‘Hurrup!’ but it was impossible to tell if this was a salutation or a challenge.

Wladyslaw responded with a ‘Good morning.’

There was a stream of ‘Mornings’. The men’s tone was curious, but not, he thought, unfriendly.

Wladyslaw began, ‘I am looking for withy yard—’