by Susan Finlay
David took Tzeentch from her, noticing as he did so that the enamel was still a little tacky, and then positioned him, very carefully, on the edge of the counter. He watched as Meg prodded his little tableau with the tip of her long, elegant finger, and then almost disdainfully said, ‘I can’t imagine why anyone would want to buy him.’
‘Then you need to work on your imagination. He’s one of our best sellers, although he never does quite as well as the, err, the Skaven.’
‘The mice people?’
‘Yes,’ he said, even though he knew that really they were anthropomorphic rat men, ‘the mice people.’
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’
‘That’s probably because I’m not very enthusiastic.’
‘And why have you put a badge on your nipple?’
David looked down and laughed, removing his Stop the War Coalition badge to reveal the Games Workshop’s logo.
‘Oh,’ said Meg.
‘Yes. Oh. And why aren’t you wearing yours? Or don’t you want to stop the war?’
‘No, no of course I do, it’s just that I, you know, I felt awkward in front of Kathy . . . ’
But rather than continue with her excuses she put Paul’s copy of The Kaosphere back down on the counter, and then attempted to reposition the little blue figure so that it was standing on top of it and Tzeentch appeared to be rising up out of the fractals. As soon as his foot touched the ‘a’ however, a loud crash emanated from the front of the shop. The shelving unit, which had been badly put together and overladen with boxes, had collapsed into the display unit, and the remaining Gods of Demonic Chaos fell, together with all of the other iron miniatures, onto the Games Workshop floor. Instinctively Meg grabbed David’s arm, and then, almost instinctively, David pulled her towards him.
‘It looks like a bomb exploded,’ said Meg, poking her toe at the cubes of safety glass that glittered all around them. ‘Or else something from a science fiction movie.’
‘Err, yes,’ said David.
He leaned forward and, immediately reverting to his usual fumblings, attempted to remove a wooden splinter from her hair.
‘Or perhaps the, err, the Warp.’
Stanisław
STANISŁAW KWIATKOWSKI STROLLED PAST THE display unit, and towards Dave who, now that he had said goodbye to Meg had resumed reading The Kaosphere. He wore a bright, tight-fitting yellow tee-shirt, on which the image of shattering glass – and underneath it the words ‘In Case of Emergency Break Dance’ – strained, like the skin of an overripe melon, across his ample stomach. As he looked at the hazard tape, which had been dramatically wrapped around the broken shelves, it occurred to him that it was the same waspish colour scheme as he was. Consequently, upon reaching the counter he smiled, pointed at his chest and then the tape and said, ‘Matchie, matchie.’
‘Oh, yes, yes. I see what you mean and, err—’
‘You are Mr Dave, yes? You called me about the broken shelves.’
‘Well I’m Mr Goldstein actually, or even Dr Goldstein, but I mean I’m also Dave. I mean just call me Dave and, err . . . ’
Stanisław laughed so that the gold teeth at the back of his mouth now showed, and then banged his toolbox down between them, but before Dave had time to say anything else a boy with the beginnings of a moustache came over.
‘Excuse me but have you got any more Skaven?’
‘You’re in luck,’ said Dave, producing a new box from underneath the till. ‘We had a delivery this morning which—’
‘You buy this?’ Stanisław interrupted. ‘But meant for child, yes?’
The boy looked nervous.
‘But you are not child, yes?’
‘I’m fourteen.’
‘Fourteen.’ Again Stanisław’s laugh rang out around the room. ‘You are man now, yes?’
‘But it’s a war game,’ said Dave, giving the boy a smile. ‘It involves, you know, tactics.’
‘But Dr Dave,’ said Stanisław, his large, pink finger prodding playfully at Dave’s nipple, ‘you want to stop the war, yes?’
He watched as Dr Dave (who he knew full well was really just plain Dave or else, should he genuinely want to be formal as opposed to merely facetious, Mr Goldstein) laughed, and then began to ring the Skaven through the till. As soon as he had done so the boy grabbed the box and all but ran out of the shop. Dave followed him to the door, and then locked it. Through the window was a large group of young women with bare legs, drinking alcopops and stumbling towards the Market Square, giggling and shrieking as they went . . .
‘This is great city,’ said Stanisław suddenly, flinging his fat, pink arms out wide and so revealing the two dark circles of sweat that lurked beneath them. ‘Perhaps greatest city I will ever know.’
‘And have you known many others? Besides this great one?’ said Dave, putting the key back in his pocket.
‘I have known also Skegness, for the mini-breaks. And city of my birth, which is Gdańsk.’
‘Gdańsk?’ And, as Dave turned back round to face him, a note of curiosity entered his voice. ‘That’s a very beautiful place to, err . . .’
Stanisław opened his toolbox, found a bag of nails and started placing them between his lips.
‘If you say beautiful, you do not know Gdańsk.’
‘But, err—’
‘You do not know Gdańsk,’ Stanisław repeated, apparently unhindered by the nails. ‘But I do know Gdańsk. Which is why I leave, twenty-three years ago, and not one single day do I look back.’
‘But how?’ And again Dave’s tone betrayed his curiosity, while making reference, however implicit, to the fact that it would not have been easy, or legal, to leave a country that had, at that time, sealed its borders. ‘What I mean is, well, it must have been kind of hard to leave what with the, err, the, err, political situation and, err . . .’
‘If you really want to leave the place then you will find the ways to leave the place.’
‘But, err . . . ’
But, rather than explain how his then pregnant, then teenage wife, who had been selected, by what now seemed like providence, to take part in a state-sponsored cultural excursion to the west, had had the foresight, when she got there, to seek asylum, and the numerous appeals, forgeries and bribes that had followed in his desperate attempts to join her, Stanisław turned away. He knelt on the floor beside the remnants of the shelving unit, placed his thumb and index finger around one of the nails as if it were a cigarette and, positioning it over the first board, said, ‘It is good to have the beer. Even when you are working, it is sometimes good to have the beer.’
Dave looked at the nail uncertainly.
‘Would you, err, would you like a beer?’
‘Yes Dave. The beer would be good. The beer would help to make the party.’
Dave looked, uncertainly, at the nail again, and then back at Stanisław again, and then finally disappeared into the storeroom, before returning, a moment later, with two small bottles of beer. He uncapped them both with a gadget on his key-ring and handed one to Stanisław.
‘So what did you, err, what did you do in Gdańsk? I mean were you an, err, an odd-job – I mean were you an, err . . . ’
‘I work in shipyards.’
‘In the shipyards?’
Stanisław was not looking at Dave, but Dave’s eager, curious tone, now ten times brighter than before, betrayed the extent of his curiosity far better than any physical expression could have done, and yet Stanisław was reluctant to indulge him. Instead he raised the bottle to his lips, and then, still without meeting Dave’s eye, drained its contents. He already knew, exactly, what kind of story Dave had attached to his past, and what kind of romantic struggles he wanted Stanisław to relate to him, in his husky, heavily accented voice. The stories of hardship, told as if photographed in black and white, of murdered priests whose faces were now immortalised on sets of highly collectable postage stamps, of the unions, Solidarność, Wałęsa and any other word that could be said with o
ne’s clenched fist in the air . . .
‘The shipyards is bad place,’ said Stanisław curtly, and on the word ‘bad’ he simultaneously slammed down the bottle and hit the first nail, very squarely, on the head. ‘No one want to sit next to smelly workers on the public transportation. I do not miss shipyard. I do not feel what you want me to feel.’
‘But you must feel something?’
Yes of course I feel something, thought Stanisław, driving in another nail and then another, namely that there is nothing ennobling about B.O., but he had already tried and failed to put this into words and besides, who wanted to sully a bright sunny day filled with laughing, bare-legged young women with the dirty grey soot of the past? He reached for his bottle again before remembering that it was empty, and then, looking out into the now empty street and then back at Dave, he said, ‘I think we are nearly ready for another beer now, yes?’
31.08.2004
The first incentive was a phone. A Nokia, pay-as-you-go with £10 credit. The second was £200. Then another £200 when training finished. I thought: That’s better than McDonald’s, count me in. Except out here it doesn’t work. No reception.
Feudalism
STANISŁAW KWIATKOWSKI PRESSED THE DOORBELL and waited. Then he pressed it again. And again. And then he remembered that he was there to fix the doorbell and felt stupid, all the more so since it was a Sunday morning and he was wearing a shirt and tie. His wife, Iwona, put one hand on his arm, which had been her usual sign for him to stop whatever he was doing ever since they had first started dating, while his daughter bent down until her face was level with the letterbox, pushed it open and shouted, ‘Margaret are you there? Margaret it’s me, it’s Kathy I’ve—’
‘Is that you Kathy?’ came a voice from inside the house.
‘Yes it’s me Margaret, I’ve brought my dad to fix the bell.’
‘Is that you Stan?’
‘Yes Margaret, I am Stan.’
‘And there is also me Margaret, Iwona,’ said Iwona, who then smoothed her hair in the same brusque, efficient way she had always done. ‘You need have no concern.’
From inside the house came the noise of several keys twisting in several locks and a large, heavy bolt being pulled back, and a moment later Margaret herself appeared.
‘Oh well this is grand, just grand. Now please, please you must all come in.’
Stanisław stepped inside. As he did so he saw the calendar (which was now on September, meaning more roses and fewer crosses), the plates on the wall and the elaborately patterned furniture; indeed, the only real difference, as far as he could see, between Margaret’s home and theirs was that his wife had hung a picture of Pope John Paul II in the exact same spot that Margaret had placed Our Lady. Noticing this last detail he stopped and bowed his head, an action that alerted him to his too-tight collar.
‘Don’t you think that dad looks smart?’ said Katarzyna, as Stanisław began to tug at his top button.
‘Oh yes Stan. Yes of course. You’re a fine figure of a man you know,’ said Margaret.
‘But my family call me a fat man.’ And in spite of her protestations Stanisław burst out laughing. Once more he tugged at his collar, while the three women stared into the carpet’s swirls, until the guilt finally overcame him and, after tucking his tie inside his shirt, he pointed to a patch of wall above the door. ‘I have located source of your problem Margaret,’ he said, gesturing to an exposed inch of wire, ‘and you will be pleased to know that it is the simple one to fix.’
‘Oh Stan I am glad, but only if it’s no trouble. Now can I get you all a cup of tea?’
‘No, no we are all fine for the teas thank you Margaret,’ said Stanisław, and then, almost hopefully, ‘and I suppose it is too early for the beer?’
‘Oh well I don’t really drink beer Stan but—’
‘The teas would be very nice Margaret,’ Iwona cut in. ‘Kasia will help you to prepare the teas now, yes?’
Margaret nodded and shuffled off into the kitchen, with Katarzyna dutifully in tow. Stanisław then turned off the electricity, removed a penknife from his pocket and began to strip the wires. It was an easy enough job, and within a matter of seconds, or so it seemed, he had joined them together again, turned the electricity back on, and was sitting, heavily, on the settee where, straight away, the cushions began to conspire against him.
‘I’m glad that you’re helping Margaret,’ said Iwona, in Polish, and then in spite of this not being a language that Margaret spoke she paused and lowered her voice. ‘It must be hard for her now that Eoin isn’t here.’
Her manner, which wanted, yet refused to be, entirely tender, was one that Stanisław knew well. It was the manner of those who would rather feel sorry for other people than be the victim of pity themselves, and of those who had grown up with nothing, yet considered it vulgar to mention this fact. He had met Iwona one week after the 1979 Ms Gdańsk pageant, at which she had been awarded second place before going straight back to work at the factory that also employed his cousin. Iwona should have come first in his opinion, and might have done so had she joined the Party – except that like him she had a heart and a brain. What good was a better flat when no one decent would want to come and visit you in it? Or better food when no one you liked would want to eat it with you? And then of course they were both Catholics, who had listened to the Holy Father; ‘Be not afraid’ was what he had said . . .
So Iwona had continued to work on the production line, making tractor parts with all of the other intelligent, uneducated women. And then, because they were young, and she was beautiful, and both had hearts as well as brains, they got married. And made a home together. And had a child together. And stayed together just as the Holy Father had instructed them to do. And the love that they still shared, after all these years, was shaped by gratitude and stoicism and faith, as much as habit . . .
‘Well it’s hard for everyone,’ began Stanisław, gripping the armrest. ‘But it’s not as if—’
He stopped at the sound of what he assumed was crockery being taken out the cupboard, and a moment later Margaret shuffled back into the room, weighed down by a tray of cups and saucers. Katarzyna, who was following behind, pulled out one of the tables from the nest in the corner and helped Margaret set everything down, somewhat shakily, upon it, then arranged herself on one of the chairs.
As soon as she was settled Iwona said, ‘And you have heard from Eoin yes? Kasia sends the electronic letters.’
‘Soon she’ll be a famous journalist,’ said Margaret, proudly.
‘Unless she gets married,’ said Stanisław, dully.
Katarzyna shot him a pointed look, picked up the teapot and said, ‘They’re called emails.’ She poured out a cup and handed it to Margaret, and then a second one for Stanisław, thus forcing him to loosen his grip on the armrest, and veer, even further, towards the settee’s depths, while trying not to spill tea upon his trousers.
Iwona, meanwhile, had already turned her attention back towards Margaret. Smiling at her, she said, ‘Yes, soon I will start to make the dress. I will make the long, white dress for church. And also the veil of netting.’
‘And which church will that be Kathy? The Polish Church or . . . ?’
‘The Polish Church,’ said Iwona, and then, ‘or maybe even the Cathedral.’
‘The Cathedral,’ said Margaret, beaming at all three of them. ‘Now wouldn’t that be grand?’
‘Yes,’ said Iwona, very firmly. ‘The Cathedral would be very nice, yes.’
Suddenly, however, another of the settee’s cushions began to slip away from Stanisław, and seeing this he punched it back into place in such a way that all three women started. Then he took a large gulp of tea, thinking as he did so that it had been made with too much water and not enough lemons or leaves or, in Polish, that it lacked ‘esencja’, then he began to swill it around his mouth like mouthwash in the hope that this would increase the taste. As he did so he looked out of the window where autumn was already begi
nning. He saw that the leaves were dying, and that the trees would soon be bare; and then he wondered what anyone, least of all his Kasia, could possibly see in Eoin O’Shea?
Militarism
MARGARET O’SHEA WALKED INTO ST Flannan’s with what would have been a spring in her step if it hadn’t been for the ache in her knees. To the casual observer the church, which was both dingy and sparse, would not have appeared to be anything special, but for those who had had been there since its inception it was a thing of beauty pure.
When Margaret had first come over, at the end of the 1960s, there hadn’t been anywhere on The Meadows estate for her or any of the other Catholics, meaning Irish, to pray. Every week they’d had to walk to the Cathedral, and put a little of their little in the plate. But afterwards they’d had another collection, and then another, until eventually they’d saved enough to buy a piece of land, and pay an architect to make a plan. Until all those good strong Irish hands that had worked so hard to build the English roads had built an Irish church. And not just any church – St Flannan’s!
It was the first time since Eoin had been away that anyone had accompanied Margaret to mass there, but now here she was, not only with Kathy, who was pretty, and Iwona, who was smart, but also Stan, a fine, fine figure of a man who, just like her late husband, Steven, had worked in a shipyard (although the less said about what had happened to Steven there the better).
Margaret squeezed Stanisław’s hand, and said hello to Blessings, and then to one or two of the Rwandan ladies, before finally greeting Danny and Padraig and Sinead. She’d met all three of them at the Irish Centre the very first day that she and her daughter had arrived in Nottingham, and although they had all come from other places – Derry, Antrim and, in Sinead’s case, another, not so different, suburb of Belfast – they had all immediately taken her to be what they were too: survivors. She could see that Sinead was in the process of putting the hymnbooks back on the little wooden trolley, but as soon as she noticed Margaret she straight away stopped what she was doing and smiled.
