Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase (12 page)

She put her hand on his arm. She wondered at his bodily strength, his solidity. She fantasised their skin might meld together and they could disappear into the red and bloody safety of each other’s bodies. But she had no right to think about this man in such crude terms. She was a married woman.

‘But yes,’ he said, ‘I have told you. I have good luck, always. Polish luck. Can I write to you? Please?’ And at last he sounded not like the confident 30-year-old man he always projected, but like a young boy. He placed his other hand over hers.

‘Yes, of course. But I don’t write letters,’ she replied, blushing again; he was rather too good at embarrassing her.

‘Why do you not write letters?’

‘I don’t like the way I write them.’

‘You are a strange lady. Now is a good time to make an exception, no?’

‘Perhaps.’

He removed his hand and looked down at hers where it still rested on his arm. Hastily, she used it to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, flushing even more fiercely. He seemed not to notice.

‘We leave in two hours, three at most. We shall fight, eventually, when your compatriots wake up and see what we can achieve. Perhaps in France, perhaps in England. So I must return and prepare. I got away, to say goodbye to you, my new friend. But I must now return quickly. Look out for me. We will fly over. You must wave to me. I will be in front.’

Jan started to ride off. He looked back and waved, which made him wobble. ‘Mrs Sinclair?’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Your biscuits definitely need more sugar!’

Dorothy laughed.

But when he was gone, the laughter drained from her throat, tears gathered in her eyes, and real fear crept into her blood, despite her claim to no longer feel it – an idle boast, of course. And so already she was no longer Dorothea to him. Their fledgling intimacy had taken a step backwards, and it was her fault. She was his ‘new friend’. She was Mrs Sinclair again. Fear she would conquer. Because if he could, she could. He had good luck, he claimed. Was there such a thing as Polish luck? Such a notion! But it was something to cling to. He would be safe. There was no room for fear.

She returned to her kitchen and, against all her thrifty impulses, she broke up the remaining biscuits, carried them on the rosebud serving plate out into the garden, and scattered what remained on to the ground for her hens.

Dorothy lingered in the garden, slowly gathering in her laundry. It was stale-dry and stiffened by the sun. The sky was pure blue, and the sun beat down on her like a public flogging, so she stripped down to her blouse and skirt, and undid her two top buttons, confident that she would not be visited again today. She removed her stockings – something she had done often this summer – and she felt the sun’s fierce heat on her bare legs, like the caress of a giant.

She admitted to herself that she was enraptured. Alone in her garden, unwatched, unshackled, she could open up to herself, and she did. She wanted to kiss Jan, hold Jan, she wanted Jan to—

She just wanted Jan.

And then, hearing the distant roar as the squadron of Hurricanes started its engines, Dorothy ceased her work and looked towards Lodderston. She left her laundry and the sanctity of her garden and wandered out into the Long Acre, where she watched as the Hurricanes appeared from beyond the elm trees on the far side of the field, one by one, and fell into formation. She shielded her eyes from the sun, and within seconds the large formation was heading her way. The Hurricane in front suddenly dropped, low, lower, flying towards her as though to crash, and for one awful moment it seemed to Dorothy that he
was
going to crash, and suddenly it was that day in May all over again, only this time Dorothy felt no need to end her life. And of course it was Jan – in absolute control, as one would expect – and he waved, he actually waved to her, and he was so low that she could even see his large grin, his gloved hand waving to and fro like a mechanical puppet.

This was their time, theirs alone, and she felt this moment could never be taken from her. This smiling, gentle man, flying over her, was preparing to kill other smiling, gentle men, to actually kill and maim and injure other men. And he was looking forward to it, she knew. He had already killed.

It was all so peculiar. He was brave, or he was evil, or perhaps he was both – one doesn’t necessarily preclude the other, she thought, does it? – and Jan was gone, off ahead like the lead in a skein of geese. And Dorothy waited and watched until the whole growling squadron had flown over. And soon it was out of earshot, it had flown beyond the horizon, and she knew that she might never see the squadron leader again. He could be gone forever, snatched out of her life, out of their burgeoning friendship, after such a short beginning – like Sidney, her darling little purple-blue-dead Sidney. Jan could be plucked from the sky by a capricious quirk of fate, or more likely just a belligerent German. Things happen because they can, he had said, and although this idea should have been a comfort, it truly wasn’t.

Fighting her tears, she took down the remaining rows of laundry and folded it, pressed it, aired it, and while performing these familiar tasks she trawled through each and every moment of her time with Jan – their conversing, their kissing, their dancing. She vowed to pray for him every day, to pray to that wide, empty sky that Jan occupied, even if God did not.

Jan saw her, a small figure, not among the white sheets and pillowcases and tablecloths billowing in the breeze in her garden like gigantic white flags, but standing starkly in the field like a lonely scarecrow. He had wanted her to surrender, this strange Englishwoman he might never see again. He had forewarned his men that he would be flying down towards her garden to keep a promise, and he ignored the smiles, nudges and winks that this prompted. It was an open secret that their leader had fallen in love with this (widowed?) Englishwoman, for he was a soft bastard, despite being a hard bastard. They indulged him, and made jokes over their radios as he swooped down, ahead of the rest of the squadron. He turned off his set, because this was his moment and hers. He wanted to be alone with her. He saw her face turned up like a child’s as she stood, minute and alone, in the field, looking at the sky, expectant and awed. He smiled and waved, and he was convinced she had clearly seen him and waved back.

Once past her, past her garden and the surrounding fields, he allowed himself a sob, two sobs, strangling a third before switching back on his radio and telling his men to be vigilant, to be safe; they would all be needed in the coming days, weeks, possibly months. God forbid, but yes, perhaps even for years to come. If they were to spot any Luftwaffe aircraft on this journey – which was unlikely, but possible – they were to shoot the Germans down; they were to show no mercy.

He knew it hardly needed saying, but still he rallied his men. ‘Remember,’ he said in his native tongue, ‘the Nazi bastards deserve everything they get.’

24
th June
1940

Dear Dorothea,

So this is the first of the letters I am to write to you. I hope there will be many more – although, of course, that means we shall be apart. But better that than dead, no? Did you see me wave to you last Tuesday? You looked so sad. I hope you are happier now. I would have written sooner to you, but every day there is something to do.

Do not fear for me. I have not yet met danger. My men and I are taking part in exercises, always we are asked to do that which we can do already. It is frustrating! And we are humiliated. But we are not allowed to argue. But I do argue, because I speak English. I reason, but to no good yet. I do not give up. Already they are sick of my pestering. Some of these people, they are arrogant. Only English people can fly, they think. Oh, forgive me, but I am cross. But we shall succeed in the end.

We live in nice quarters here. Food is good, lots of it, beds comfortable. I have my own room, of course, quiet, at the end of a corridor. I can shut the door and shut out the world, and write to you. I wait for your letter,

Jan

2
nd July
1940

My dear Dorothea,

I have had no word from you, but I trust you received my letter. I now send another. Badly written, I expect, but I am tired. I argue still. Sometimes I wonder if I should have bothered coming to England. But I had nowhere else to go. Still it is disappointing. My men are in fury. But what to do? The wheels of English minds turn slowly, it seems. They do not trust us, but I think they should be glad of our help, our experience, our skills. They now talk of giving my squadron an English leader. So it seems even my English is not good enough.

But what of you, dear friend? What is happening? My guess is that you carry on as you were? And the girls? They still work hard, still amuse you? They are good young women, good company for my friend, lonely in her red house, hiding in the Lincolnshire fields. I think about you often. I do not know when I shall return to see you, but I hope it will be soon.

I miss you. Please write to me.

Jan

6
th August
1940

Dear Dorothea,

Sometimes it is easier to write down on paper our deep thoughts and feelings than it is to speak of them. I have to tell you that the few weeks we enjoyed were the best of my life. Despite everything that has happened, is happening, and will happen, whatever it is that brought me to England and to you is something I will always be grateful for. I have had no time to write. Every day it seems we must practise, practise, practise. And for why? The British officers, they do not like me, I know. My men are desperate to fly, to fight the Germans. We need combat. I think soon we will, they will see they are wasting our talents. The days are long and most are warm and sunny, so there are many battles. The Luftwaffe gives the RAF no peace. But today has been quieter and all have had opportunity for rest.

I am scared, Dorothea. For when you have found the one great joy and comfort in your life, it is hard to say goodbye. So there will be no goodbyes for us. I will return, my death only can prevent it. Can you write? Often? As often as you can? Until I can visit again?

I do not want to say goodbye, so I will not. This is temporary. We shall sit and talk in your garden, we will talk again of this God we do not believe and we will drink your nice tea.

Until then, think of me often, as I will think of you.

Your Jan

12
th August
1940

Dear Dorothea,

I hope you received my last letter? Finally, we are in operation, in real combat! Our squadron has been recognised and we fly every day. My men are happy at last. And I am in charge. Remember I told you they wanted an English leader? Other Polish squadrons have a Smith or a Jones, but ours has Jan Pietrykowski. I am trusted! Already we have shot down Germans. I shot down a Stuka myself, I chased it from the sky. It was a moment of pure joy for me. The RAF has suffered great losses, no doubt you have heard the news. Each day we trust we will survive, but for many, they wake to their last day. I cannot see how this can end well. Yet we must believe. The Luftwaffe is strong and persistent and we cannot easily match it. What this will develop for my men I dare not think, nor do I want to think. We can but fight, and hope, and at last we do, and it is so much better than those stupid exercises. Yet already I write too many letters to mothers and fathers of dead sons.

I tell you a little of my day. This is what we must do. Awake and out of bed at four o’clock, half past four. Early, but necessary. We eat breakfast, good bacon, eggs. Sometimes kippers. Always toast with butter, and lots of tea, only not as nice as yours. We go to the dispersal hut and we wait here, we wait for the telephone to ring. The call can come at any time. Sometimes we are waiting for hours, on bad weather days. I play poker with the men, I win often. But play only with matchsticks. We play chess. We lay on the grass, we have deckchairs, we read newspapers, books. Rainy days, clouded days are the best, we get rest, perhaps we do not fly at all. But mostly the weather is fine and we go out early, often twice, three, four times, any time. My men are exhausted, they sleep when they can, if on leave, they sleep, all day, all night. But there is little leave. Sleep has become a luxury. Some men cry at night, I hear them. I try to comfort, but the fear and despair are too strong and not until morning can they again take hold of their courage and eat, and fly, and fight. When we scramble, some men are sick. We all leap from our skin when the telephone rings. The little click before the ring begins, it is a bad sound. All are nervous, waiting is horrible. You must imagine this.

Yet we get good hits. Yesterday my squadron shot down two Stukas. A good day. One of them was mine, as I told you. Yet I find myself sad at causing death. I don’t know why. The Stuka crashed into the sea. Nothing left of the German crew who I thought I hated. Do I hate? Am I a murderer? I do not know. I can only say I am a fighter.

How is life with you? And the skies above you? Has harvesting begun yet? Aggie and Nina, they continue as normal? They still enjoy the music box?

I must finish now, Dorothea. There is much to do and so little time to do it. I have reports to write. I keep the squadron diary too, which needs to be written while the day is fresh in my memory. It is half past one in the morning. I am tired, but I am alive. Do not fear.

Until next time,

Your Jan

19
th August
1940

Dear Jan,

You may not believe me, but it is so. This is the first letter I have written, aside from the three or four I sent to my mother after my marriage. I don’t count those. I apologise for not writing to you sooner. I have no excuses other than my own stupidity and reticence. Things that are written down are so permanent and that always frightens me somehow. But I write to you now in friendship and trust.