Shoes for Anthony (16 page)

Mam and Bopa stared at him, mouths open.

‘How come you know cake recipes, then?' asked Arthur, still trying to find somewhere to sit down.

‘My grandmother had me sit with her when she baked. Always sit with your mother when she bakes, Anthony,' he said, shooting me a look. ‘That way you always get to be person who licks spoon.'

‘Well, I never,' said Bopa, shaking her head. ‘A man giving me a recipe. Did you ever think you'd see the day, Em?'

My mother shook her head then gave Piotr a look I don't think I'd ever seen before. She was thrilled, bursting like a spring flower. She looked ten years younger, her face lit up with joy, lifted with smiling. She'd even put lipstick on. ‘You're a tonic, Piotr,' she said, agreeing with Bopa. ‘I can't remember the last time we had quite so much to talk about.'

‘How long will you be stopping? You off up to Scotland, are you? Be with the rest of your Polish lot?' said Bopa, leaning closer.

‘I hope so,' said Piotr. ‘I'm not sure of when and how. Do you know?' Piotr shifted in the bed so he had a clear view of Arthur.

Arthur was trying to move some towels from a chair, but he wasn't sure where to place them.

‘Arthur!' barked Bopa. ‘Did you hear that? He wants to know if you know when he can go to Scotland.'

Arthur stopped, towels hovering in mid-air. He glanced round. ‘No. No I don't.'

Bopa turned back to Piotr and mouthed, ‘Useless,' while gesturing back towards Arthur with her thumb. Arthur frowned.

‘Put them over there,' I said, pointing towards the dressing table. ‘The towels, I mean.'

Arthur gave me a small appreciative nod, gently laid the towels down, and then sat on the small chair in the corner.

‘Tea up!' said Bethan, carrying in a large tray. ‘And you've got another visitor.' She gestured behind her with her head.

‘It's like having royalty to stay, isn't it, Em?' said Bopa, tapping Mam on the forearm. ‘Actual royalty.'

We all peered past Bethan to see Captain Pugh, poking his head round the bedroom door. ‘Knock, knock,' he said, rapping the doorframe with his knuckles. ‘Come to see the patient!'

He strode into the bedroom, which was becoming quite the squeeze, and stood, full Home Guard uniform on, with his chest puffed out. He stood at the bottom of the bed and saluted Piotr who, looking rather bemused, saluted back.

‘He owns the local sewing factory,' said Bopa, taking a cup of tea from Bethan. ‘His name is Pugh. He's got an inside toilet.'

Captain Pugh shot Bopa a stern look, and cleared his throat. ‘Good afternoon. I am Captain Pugh, head of the local Home Guard, and, as such, I thought it best to present myself as an official delegation of His Majesty's Government.' He then saluted again.

‘You can't be a delegation when there's only one of you,' said Bopa, taking another slurp of tea.

‘Well, Emrys will be home soon, so that'll make two of us,' said Captain Pugh. ‘May I enquire of your rank?'

‘I'm captain,' said Piotr.

‘Captain,' said Mam, beaming. ‘That's higher than you, isn't it, Mr Pugh, because he's a proper captain and you're not?'

‘I am too a proper captain!' protested Pugh, his face reddening.

‘He's not,' mouthed Bopa.

I tried to stifle a laugh.

‘Tell them, Arthur!' said Pugh, voice slightly raised.

Arthur, who had just received his tea from Bethan, looked startled and confused. ‘I'm a constable,' he said, not really understanding what had been asked of him.

‘Oh, never mind,' said Pugh. ‘Now, then. Our first consideration is what is to be done with you. Does he come under your protection, Arthur? Or is he the responsibility of my platoon? It is a military matter so I'm of a mind that he might be ours.'

Arthur's eyes narrowed as he tried to think about that. It was like watching a large, confused dog.

‘There'll be someone to see him from St Athan, I expect,' said Bethan, putting the tea tray down on the end of the bed. ‘They might take you up the base, keep you there till you can transport to Scotland.'

‘No, no, no,' said Mam, interjecting. ‘He's not going anywhere. He needs rest and looking after.'

‘He does,' said Bopa, nodding.

‘He can't go anywhere until he's feeling better. And nobody is going to look after him better than the people in this village. Dealing with the authorities can wait. Father will agree with me. School's on Whitsun holidays so Ant can be his minder. If Piotr needs anything, Ant can come and fetch me. You'll do that, won't you, Ant?'

I nodded.

‘Well, there it is, then.' Mam nodded decisively, then continued, ‘Could you look after him down the cop shop, Arthur?'

‘No, I could not,' said Arthur, shaking his head.

‘He couldn't,' said Bopa, shaking her head in agreement.

‘Could you look after him up the factory? Or in your house, Mr Pugh?'

‘Well, I …' began Pugh, shuffling a little.

‘No, you could not,' said Mam, standing firm. ‘He'll stay here until he's stronger, and then we'll think about where he goes. Right, then. That's settled. Now, finish up your tea and be off. There's men due home.'

There were many things that Father had the final word on, but going upstairs in your coal clothes wasn't one of them. I had set up the bath as I always did, and waited till Father was dried and dressed. He stood in front of the kitchen mirror, combing his wet hair, and asked for a tie. I passed him his only tie, a black one that came out on Sundays and whenever someone died, and he took it, flipping the thick end over the thin and tying the knot into a solid triangle just below his collar. He had shaved in the tub and, despite the ingrained coal dust that could never be cleaned from under his nails, he was as spick and span as I'd ever seen him. ‘Right, then,' he said. ‘Take me to our guest.'

I inched open the door into Bethan's bedroom. I'd given Piotr my
Dandy
to read. He was the only person I'd ever lent it to, and as we came in, he was frowning slightly at the open comic. ‘This man,' he said, seeing me come in. ‘Desperate Dan. Explain him to me.'

‘He's a cowboy and he likes pie,' I said. ‘Father is here. He wants to meet you.'

Piotr closed the comic and sat up.

‘Excuse my wet hair,' said Father, holding out his hand. ‘Welcome, Mr Skarbowitz. It's a pleasure to have you in our home.'

Piotr took his hand and smiled. ‘You have all been so kind. Your wife, especially. She's given me some clothes of yours to wear. I hope you're not inconvenienced. And young Ant hasn't taken eyes off me. He's my guardian angel.'

Father cast a glance down towards me and stuck his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. ‘You're welcome to any shirt or pair of trousers. We don't have much, but what we have is yours. I'm told you're a Polish prisoner of war. See much action before you were captured?'

Piotr nodded. ‘Signed up first day. I seem to have dodged every bullet. My mother says I have nine lives, like a cat. Do you know that expression?' he said to me.

I shook my head.

‘It means he's very lucky,' explained Father.

‘He jumped out of a plane that crashed, and survived,' I said, jumping up onto the edge of the bed. ‘I can't think of anything more lucky.'

‘Well, let's hope his luck rubs off. Pipe down now, Ant. We're talking. Anyway, you were saying?'

‘I was posted to France. Holding up Maginot Line. Then it fell. We fought corridor to Dunkirk, where I was captured by the Germans.'

‘That long ago?' said Father, leaning into the back of his shoes. ‘Goodness.'

‘We were in POW camp in Northern France, but they began moving us month ago. Worried about Allies coming and liberating us. They were marching us somewhere. Four of us managed slip away. But we were picked up by another platoon. I don't think they realised we were already POWs. If they had, they would have shot us. Another of my nine lives. So we found ourselves in plane.'

‘Quite the adventure,' said Father, his voice softening. ‘You're a brave man. I was too old to enlist in 1939. My middle boy would have liked to. But he's a Bevan Boy – made to work down the pit for the war effort. He sees the newsreels, hears about boys his age out in the world, fighting for their country, and he resents it, but the way I see it, he's already fighting for his country. The only difference is our army works underground.'

‘Middle boy? You have another?'

‘Alwyn's my eldest. He's got no stomach for putting on a uniform. Good job, really, he's not one for discipline.'

‘Dangerous work, mining,' said Piotr, shifting in his bed. He winced. Father cast a look down at his swollen ankle.

‘Bethan's sent for Dr Mitchell. A fine sort, he'll take a look at that leg for you. Is there anything else we can help you with? You mentioned your mother. Is there some way we can get her word that you're alive, if not quite well?'

Piotr's eyes lit up. ‘Actually, yes,' he said, pushing himself up a little. ‘Do you have paper and pen? I could write her letter. I would like that very much.'

‘Of course,' said Father. ‘Ant. Fetch up some paper from the top drawer in the kitchen cupboard. And there's a pen in the inside pocket of my jacket in the hallway. Ask your mother for a tray. Mr Skarbowitz can use that to lean on.'

I jumped from the bed and clattered downstairs. Alwyn was standing in the parlour, towel wrapped round his waist; Emrys was in the tub, foot in air, rubbing it with the coal soap. ‘What's he like, Ant?' said Emrys, seeing me in the hallway. ‘Bethan's gone a bit moony. Can't get any sense out of her.'

‘Keep quiet, you,' said Bethan, handing Alwyn a clean shirt. ‘I only said he was nice.'

‘And handsome. Handsome this, handsome that, if I remember correctly,' said Alwyn, pulling his shirt on.

‘Shut up, Alwyn,' said Bethan, ignoring him. ‘If Emrys was hurt and in Poland, some family would do the same for him.'

‘You must be joking,' said Alwyn. ‘Look how ugly he is. Nobody'd touch him with a bargepole. They'd run away, more like. Anyway, I'm glad you're moony on him. Keeps him away from Gwennie Morgan, dunnit?'

‘What about Alf?' I said, reaching inside Father's jacket for his pen. ‘He's a bit moony on you, B.'

‘How many times do I have to tell you, I don't like Alf Davies?' said Bethan, turning away to unfold a pair of trousers. ‘There's more fellas in Treherbert, you know?'

‘There is now,' said Emrys, winking at Alwyn.

‘Here,' said Alwyn, seeing me forage, ‘what you doing in other people's pockets?'

‘Father wants me to get his pen and a piece of paper so Piotr can write his Mam and tell her he's all right.'

‘I hope you're taking note, you lot,' shouted Mam from the kitchen. ‘Writing to his mother. Who is probably worried sick, I expect. Do I ever get letters from my children? No. I do not.'

Alwyn and Emrys exchanged a puzzled glance. ‘We live with you in the same house, Mam,' said Alwyn, calling back. ‘I'd write you a letter, but I can't think of a single thing you don't know already.'

‘She doesn't know how sweet you are on Gwennie Morgan,' said Emrys.

‘Yes, I do,' shouted Mam.

‘Here,' said Emrys to me, ‘chuck us that towel.'

I picked up one of the towels from a small pile that sat on Father's armchair. They would have been white once, but the coal had taken its toll. Mam could scrub for all eternity and she'd never shift the stain of underground.

‘Mam,' I yelled. ‘Father says there's paper in the kitchen cupboard. Can I have some?'

Paper was a luxury and letter writing, a great pastime of Father's, was now restricted to emergencies only until further notice. ‘Births, deaths and marriages, that's it,' Father had said almost a year ago, as he'd tucked away his precious Basildon Bond.

I walked through to the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe. Mam was pulling out a pale-blue pad. ‘There you go,' she said, carefully tearing out a couple of pages. ‘Two sheets. I expect he's got lots to say.'

‘Father asked if Piotr can have a tray to lean on, 'n' all?' I asked, rubbing my fingers on my shorts before taking the paper. I didn't want to get mucky prints on it.

‘Take that small green one,' said Mam, pointing over towards the corner of the counter. ‘And give it a wipe. Piotr's Mam won't want Welsh grease spots all over her lovely letter, I half expect.'

By the time I'd cleaned the tray and taken it upstairs, both Emrys and Alwyn were in the bedroom with Piotr. Alwyn was perched on the edge of Bethan's dressing table; Emrys was leaning against the far bedpost. Both had their arms tightly folded, as if important business was being done.

‘How many Germans you killed, then?' Emrys was saying as I squeezed in, next to Father.

Piotr's eyes drifted towards the ceiling and he cleared his throat. ‘I suppose I have killed many people. But as to how many, I don't know. I'm not sure I want to know.'

‘I'd give anything to kill a German,' mumbled Emrys, with a sniff.

‘My middle son is something of the hothead, Mr Skarbowitz,' said Father. ‘I put it down to an excess of energy. We're not city people, Mr Skarbowitz. Village life isn't suited to everyone. I think, perhaps, after the war, Emrys would be better placed somewhere with a racier pace of life. Be the man you want to be, not the man you think you are.'

Emrys shifted on his feet and turned to look at the open window. There was a warm evening breeze, and the lace curtain was fluttering. I placed the tray with the paper and pen down on the bed by Piotr's hand. ‘Mam gave you two pieces. In case you had lots to say,' I said.