Magda's Daughter (9 page)

‘No,' Alma contradicted. ‘It's deeper than that. It's something in the blood. A bond between a person and their birth country that transcends logic. I can't explain it better than that. But what I do know is that no matter how hard an exile works to build a new life, how good that life is, or how cruel or hateful the government in their native country, people born behind the Iron Curtain will always feel as though they belong there and nowhere else.'

Ned looked at Helena. ‘Perhaps it's just as well that your first memory is of moving into the flat above the shop.'

‘Perhaps, but I still sensed that my mother was never really at home here,' she answered.

Ned didn't disagree. He too felt that Magda hadn't really be­ longed in Wales. Or ever been truly happy in Pontypridd.

After talking it over with Alma and Bethan, Helena had decided that she would move in with Ned and his parents while she cleared the flat and made arrangements to take her mother's ashes to Poland. But when Ned drove Helena into the town centre after the funeral to pack her clothes, he sensed that she was having second thoughts about living with his family. He parked outside the shop and switched off the ignition.

‘I'll come up and help you,' he offered.

‘There's no need.' Helena opened the passenger door and stepped onto the pavement. Ned followed her. ‘I think I'll stay in the flat tonight so I can sort through a few things. I'll ring you tomorrow …'

For all of Ned's resolve not to put any extra pressure on Helena, he snapped. ‘I know you're grieving for your mother, I know you're distraught, and I can't begin to imagine what you are feeling right now, but don't keep shutting me out.'

‘I'm not,' she protested unconvincingly. ‘It's just that I have so much to do. I have to go through all Mama's possessions …'

‘I thought Alma spent the last week helping you.'

‘With the insurance papers and the business side, but not Mama's clothes and personal things. Apart from the bed, which I changed so Auntie Alma could sleep in it, Mama's bedroom is just as she left it.'

He could see her visibly tensing at the thought of sifting through Magda's belongings. ‘You don't have to do anything, sunshine, especially on your own. Why don't I come upstairs with you and pack everything in the flat that belonged to your mother into boxes and put them in the car? We can take them up to the new house and they can stay in the spare bedroom for as long as it takes you to get around to sorting through them.'

‘My mother would be horrified. You know how spotless and tidy she kept the house. Everything neat and in its place. If something had happened to me she would have gone through everything at once … she wouldn't have … wouldn't have …'

The moment Ned had been waiting for arrived. Helena sank her head in her hands and sobbed. Harsh cries tore from her throat, savage and rasping. Ned held her tight.

‘You got your key?'

She fumbled blindly in her handbag and handed him the key. He opened the door and closed it behind them as he led her inside. She sank down on the stairs and he wrapped his arms around her.

They sat there for over an hour. Helena rested her head on Ned's shoulder, her tears soaking through his shirtsleeves to his skin. When she finally grew quiet, Ned moved away and held her at arm's length.

‘I'll drive you up to my parents' house. You can go to bed. I'll bring you your supper on a tray. You won't have to talk to anyone.'

‘No.' Helena shook her head fiercely. ‘It's bad enough that you've seen me like this. Besides, I haven't packed any clothes.'

‘If you want privacy we could stay here, or go up to the new house.' When she didn't answer, he released her, and rose to his feet. ‘Let's go upstairs.'

She led the way into the living room. He followed, opened the sideboard and took out the bottle of brandy Magda kept there. She bought one every Christmas, and it invariably lasted until the next. He poured a small glass and handed it to Helena.

‘There's no urgency to clear the flat,' he reminded her. ‘Alma said that you can keep it for as long as you like, rent-free.'

‘I know, but every day the shop is closed, it's losing money. And whoever runs it will need the flat. It wouldn't be fair to leave our things here.' She looked feverishly around the room. ‘Auntie Alma arranged to have half a dozen tea chests delivered from the grocer's yesterday as well as some cardboard boxes. And we scavenged a pile of newspapers to wrap the china. They're in the kitchen. It's a good idea of yours to take everything up to the new house. That's if you're sure you don't mind cluttering up the place,' she qualified.

‘Why would I mind? It's your house as much as mine. And we're not likely to need the spare bedroom often. If we do, we can always pile the boxes into a comer.' He breathed a heady sigh of relief. Helena was talking to him – granted only about practical matters, but it was conversation of a sort.

‘I'll get the boxes.' She put the untouched glass of brandy down on the table.

‘Not now. Just pack a bag with what you need for tonight. We'll come back tomorrow –'

‘No!' She glanced at the clock. ‘It's only half past five. We could get a lot done this evening. But you don't have to help –'

‘I want to,' he interrupted, realising that grief had made her irrational. ‘And later on, I'll go out and get us fish and chips.'

‘I'm not hungry.'

‘You haven't eaten for days, and that's your doctor talking. Keep it up and you'll be too ill to go to Poland,' he warned, knowing this was the only threat that would work. ‘Where do you want to start? Here or Magda's bedroom?'

Helena couldn't bear the thought of taking her mother's clothes out of her wardrobe, but she disliked the idea of someone else doing it even more, which was why she had refused Alma's offers of help.

‘In here, please,' she said decisively. ‘We'll start by emptying the sideboard and packing the crockery and cutlery.'

‘I'll get a chest and some newspaper.'

‘And I'll stack everything on the table.'

Chapter Five

When Ned returned to the living room with a tea chest, he was amazed by the height of the piles of china and silverware on the table, and Helena was still stacking them.

‘I had no idea one sideboard could hold so much.' He opened a newspaper and began wrapping pieces of Magda's cherished porcelain dinner service.

‘This is only one cupboard. We've the tea service, glasses and everyday sets to do next. As well as the silver.' Helena lifted out the butler's tray that held the silver cutlery Magda had bought, one place setting at a time, from the jeweller on the comer of Mill Street. She picked up one of the forks and looked at the hallmark on the back.

‘Your mother had good taste and always bought the best.' Ned was anxious to keep the conversation flowing.

‘She used to say that no matter how dismal the room, or how bad the situation, you could always lay a festive table. And a clean, embroidered, well-ironed tablecloth and a few wild flowers could make bread and jam taste like a banquet fit for a king.'

‘She was right, although Magda never served me anything as ordinary as bread and jam.' Ned placed the heaviest meat and dinner plates in the bottom of the chest.

‘That's because you were never here for breakfast.'

He steeled himself to ask the question that had been bothering him for days. ‘Have you decided what you're going to do if you don't hear from your relatives in Poland?'

‘Yes.' She busied herself lifting Magda's prized cut glasses from the sideboard so she wouldn't have to look him in the eye. ‘The undertaker will fetch Mama's ashes from Glyntaff tomorrow. He offered to bring them to me here, but, as I wasn't sure whether I would be staying here tonight, I told him that I would collect them. He suggested I choose an urn, but Father O'Brien told me to pick out a plain box casket as it would be easier to transport.'

‘And?' Ned pressed when she didn't volunteer any more information.

‘My passport arrived yesterday and I have the forms to apply for the visas I'll need for East Germany and Poland. As soon as they come I'll book the train and ferry tickets.'

He took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten. ‘I'm going with you, remember?'

‘You don't have to.'

‘How many times must I remind you that I love you? If it was up to me I'd marry you tomorrow.'

‘No!' Her voice pitched high in hysteria.

‘I don't mean the lavish white wedding in the Catholic church that Magda planned for us, but a quiet ceremony in the register office.'

‘Mama would have been horrified.'

‘We could ask Father O'Brien to bless our union afterwards.'

‘No, Ned.' She saw that she'd hurt him again and whispered, ‘Please, give me time.'

Sensing she would shrink from a more intimate embrace, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and dropped a kiss on top of her head. ‘You can have all the time in the world, sunshine, on one condition.'

She looked up at him.

‘Come back to me, when we return from Poland, Helena. Because without you, I'm lost.'

‘As you see from the number of tickets, you have to make a lot of changes, but I've booked seats for you on all the trains, and berths on the overnight ferry.' The clerk in Pontypridd's only travel agency laid the tickets on the desk in front of Ned and Helena. ʻYou take the train from here to Cardiff, change at Cardiff for London Paddington. At London Paddington you take the underground to Victoria – they have maps showing you where to go on the station walls –'

‘We have been to London.' Ned resented the man's patronizing tone.

‘Sorry, but not many people in Pontypridd go there. Not often, anyway,' the clerk amended defensively. ‘You'll have four hours to kill there if you want to do some sightseeing. But you'll have your luggage.'

‘There is a left luggage at Liverpool Street.' Ned sat back and crossed his arms.

‘Yes, there is.' The man coughed in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal his embarrassment. ‘From Liverpool Street you get the boat train to Harwich,' he continued hastily. ‘You take the overnight ferry from Harwich to the Hook of Holland. At five in the morning you disembark and catch the train to Germany. It will stop at the East German border – you have applied for visas?'

‘They came this morning,' Helena informed him. ‘For East Germany and Poland.'

‘Good, because without them you'd be turned back.' The clerk traced their journey on an imaginary map on his desk. ‘In Berlin, you change trains for Warsaw. It's about an eighteen-hour journey from the Hook of Holland to Warsaw. I can't be more precise because the train has to go through four customs' checks, and there could be a delay on any one of them, depending on what the officials find. The first will be at the Dutch port, the second at the Dutch-German border, the third at the West-East German border, and the last at the border between East Germany and Poland. I can't book you into a hotel in Warsaw but I can give you a list of hotels that are reasonably dose to the railway station.'

‘That might be useful.' Ned said dryly.

‘I have booked you on the nine a.m. train from Warsaw to Zamosc, and that's as far as I can help you. You'll have to make enquiries in Zamosc for a local bus or train to take you to this … this …' He squinted at the destination Helena had written out for him on a piece of paper. ‘This unpronounceable village,' he finished lamely.

‘Thank you. You have booked us open return tickets?' Ned asked.

‘I have, and they are valid for three months, but don't forget to call into the local travel agency and ask them to reserve seats for you on the trains, and berths on the ferry, before you journey back. It shouldn't cost very much and it will be well worth it. The trains can get crowded, particularly in summer, and you don't want to stand all the way from deepest darkest Poland back to Pontypridd  now, do you?' he joked.

‘That would be good advice if such a thing as a travel agency exists in deepest darkest Poland.' Ned studied the dates on the tickets before pocketing them. ‘I don't believe the Poles have much call for them.'

‘Every town needs a good travel agency,' the man retorted indignantly.

‘When was the last time you saw a Russian or Polish tourist in Wales?' Ned asked.

‘I take your point,' the clerk replied sheepishly.

‘Tourism isn't something the Eastern bloc governments encourage. Either way.' Ned rose to his feet.

Helena stood too, and offered her hand to the clerk. ‘Thank you for making the arrangements.'

‘My pleasure, Miss Janek. I was sorry to hear about your mother. She was a lovely woman. Lovely. Had a smile and a kind word for everyone. I always bought my lunchtime sausage rolls and pasties from her. I'm going to miss her and our little chats.'

‘Thank you.' Helena almost ran from the shop.

‘Everyone loved your mother, even travel clerks who can't see further than the nose on their face. Travel agency in Poland my …' Ned saw a policeman standing close to them in Taff Street and amended what he was about to say, ‘… eye.'

‘He meant well,' Helena said absently.

‘I suppose so, and he did take pains over booking the journey. Where do you want to go now?' he asked. ‘Back to the flat for a last look around, or up to the new house?'

‘Back to the flat, so I can telephone Auntie Alma. I need to tell her we've finished emptying it, and ask her what she wants me to do with the keys.'

‘And tonight?'

‘Our suitcases are at your house, so we'll have to sleep there.'

‘I thought we'd go for a meal first,' he suggested. ‘Just the two of us. We haven't spent a quiet minute alone together since … well …' He lapsed into silence, remembering the phone call from his father in their new house.

‘I know, Ned, and when we return from Poland I'll make it up to you.'

‘There's nothing to make up. I just want to spend some time with you alone – and I don't mean making love,' he added, conscious of how she shrank from his slightest touch since learning of Magda's death.

‘We've an early start and a long day tomorrow. Do you mind if I just look round the flat, leave the keys and then go back to your parents' house so I can get a good night's sleep?'

Ned did mind. But he thought of his own large and supportive family and how devastated Helena had been by the loss of Magda, the only relative she had ever known.

‘Do you want to look around the flat by yourself?' he asked.

‘Please.'

‘I'll wait for you in Ronconi's restaurant. We'll eat there when you've finished – even if you're not hungry,' he said firmly. ‘That way you can go straight to bed when we go in.'

She didn't look at him again until he left her at the door to the flat. Then, to his amazement, she kissed his cheek and hugged him. ‘Thank you for being understanding. See you shortly.'

‘I'll be waiting,' he promised.

Helena closed the front door behind her, walked up the jute­carpeted stairs and on to the landing. She stared at the row of hooks on the wall at the top of the stairs, and recalled all the times she had hung her county school blazer on one of the wooden coat hangers there.

Magda's voice echoed, lecturing her from the past. ‘Don't you dare hang that blazer by the hook sewn into the back, Helena. The weight will pull it out if shape and then what will it look like on you? Like it's not fit for the rag-bag. Look after it, Helena. It cost a great deal of money.'

Her own voice rang back. ‘1know it did, Mama, but I hang it on a peg in school. All the girls do the same.'

‘All the girls! Phoo! I don't care what “all the girlsË® do. You are not “all the girlsË®. Take a hanger to school, Helena. People judge you by the pride you take yourself and the care you bestow on your clothes. Never leave the house with a dirty face, hands or nails. Your hair should always be brushed, your clothes neatly pressed and mended, your shoes polished. And remember, a real lady is never, ever seen in public without her hat and gloves, no matter how warm the weather.'

‘Poor Mama,' Helena murmured to the silence. ‘You saw so many changes in your life, so many conventions overthrown.'

She walked down the passage into the living room, which overlooked Taff Street. She had cleaned the window panes, dusted the furniture and vacuumed the carpet, but the room looked forlorn, as though it sensed the flat had been abandoned. There were lighter squares on the wallpaper where her mother's mirror and wedding photograph had hung. The sideboard looked bare, bereft of the other photographs Magda had displayed.

Helena as a small blonde toddler dressed in white for Sunday outings to Pontypridd Park. Aged four in a home-made knitted swimsuit. Almost five, forcing a nervous smile, dressed in a sensible navy-blue pinafore dress and white blouse for her first day at primary school. Aged six, surrounded by her classmates in the backyard behind the shop, all of them dressed in their best summer cotton print frocks and cardigans, chattering excitedly, as they waited for Magda to snap a memento of her birthday party. Her subsequent birthday parties until the age of eleven. The momentous photograph her mother had taken outside the front of the shop when she had left for her first day at the Girls' Grammar School, proudly wearing the braided blazer, gymslip, tie and girdle that had cost her mother the enormous sum of twenty pounds.

Holiday snaps of her in Porthcawl and Barry Island on day trips, and the annual two-week holiday Magda had booked every year to coincide with ‘miners' fortnight' because it was the shop's quietest two weeks of the year. They invariably spent it in a caravan, once in Devon but more usually Porthcawl. Pictures Magda had taken of her on the days she had received her O- and A-level results. A posed shot of her standing next to her suitcase on Pontypridd station before she'd left for Bristol University. When she'd taken them down she'd realised that every photograph on display had been of her, because Magda had always been behind the camera. Unlike her college friends, who'd possessed any number of photographs of both parents, she had very few of her mother. The only ones that existed had been taken by their friends, and Magda had left them in folders and envelopes. There had been half a dozen of her on church outings and Holy days, taken either by Father O'Brien or one of the other ladies on the church committees, and a couple of Magda and the rest of Alma's staff at the annual staff dinner and dance.

Helena had collected all the photographs and put them, together with the framed photograph of her parents on their wedding day, into a box in her suitcase, hoping that she'd soon be able to show them to her mother's family.

Although she and Ned had checked every inch of the room, she opened the doors of the sideboard again, pulled out the drawers and ran her fingers underneath them and over the back. She searched beneath the cushions on the three-piece suite but found no more pennies or halfpennies. She moved the sofa and chairs to see clean, unblemished carpet.

Then she went to the door, her mother's voice still echoing in her mind. ‘A part if your life is over. Your student days are behind you.

‘Now you're a young lady …'

‘A young lady without a family, Mama.' She took one last look at the living room and closed the door behind her.

The kitchen smelled strongly of bleach and ammonia. She had scrubbed out the cupboards and bin ready for the next occupant. Was it her imagination, or could she smell faint traces of cinnamon and paprika, which her mother had used so lavishly. She could see Magda standing at the table, rolling pastry, and shaking sugar onto the fruit pies she had baked most Thursday afternoons after closing the shop.

Helena walked down the passage to the bedrooms and bathroom.

She didn't know why, but she had to double-check everything, even though she and Ned had checked the flat a dozen times already. Alma's offer to allow her to stay there rent-free for as long as she liked had been a kind one, but she knew she had made the right decision to leave. Her mother's ghost met her in every room.