Homecoming

by Ellie Dean

  On his return to base, it had always taken two men to unplug him from the cockpit, and four to carry him out of the bar at the end of titanic drinking sessions and deliver him to his hut.

  It seemed the loss of both his legs hadn’t dented his humour or tamed his rather gung-ho attitude to life in general. As far as he was concerned, he’d been blessed, for he was still alive to drink copiously and enjoy the company of beautiful women. He loved women – and they were drawn to him like bees to nectar.

  They had talked for hours on that first visit, and Peter had made a point of going to see him every day to make sure he really was following doctor’s orders and not drinking. It was a forlorn hope, for Stan enjoyed his vodka and would bribe the orderlies to bring some in. Peter had taken Rita to see him, and he’d completely charmed her, so on his next visit Peter had asked him to be his best man.

  Stanislaw had burst into predictable tears and hugged him so hard Peter could have sworn he’d heard his ribs creaking under the strain. The bachelor night had been riotous, with Stan taking centre stage at the Crown and proceeding to drink everyone under the table, until he’d had to be poured into a taxi. It had taken three days for Peter to get over it, but Stan was as bright and cheerful the next day as he always was, and had returned to the Crown to continue his outrageous flirting with the most receptive Gloria.

  They’d hired a taxi to get them to the church in plenty of time, and as it pulled into the large car park, Stan looked up at the red-brick Victorian building and grimaced. ‘Why the English build such ugly things? In Poland we make our basilica beautiful with gold and icons and mosaics.’

  ‘I don’t know, mate. Perhaps the Victorians liked their churches plain,’ Peter replied. ‘We have wooden ones in the outback. They’re easy to rebuild if a bush fire shoots through.’

  He paid off the taxi but didn’t offer to help Stan out of the taxi because his friend loathed being treated like a cripple and always refused. Peter waited and watched nervously while Stan struggled out, swearing under his breath as he dug the two walking sticks firmly on the ground and heaved himself to his feet. Peter knew he hated those walking sticks with a vengeance, but they were a necessary evil, for without them Stan would fall over, and suffer the indignity of having to ask for help to get back up again.

  Peter felt quite amazingly calm as he smoothed the hem of his blue-grey RAAF jacket and tugged the sleeves until they were aligned with his shirt cuffs. He’d been to the barber’s earlier for a haircut and close shave, and had pressed the trousers until the creases were knife-sharp before spending over half an hour polishing his shoes, belt buckle and medals.

  Stan had made an effort too, for he’d had a haircut and shave, and his thick black moustache had been carefully trimmed and waxed at the ends so he could twirl them to his heart’s content. He was also in his dress uniform, the Polish eagle insignia on his cap and jacket lapels; his medals in perfect alignment across his broad chest.

  As it was still early and there didn’t seem to be anyone about yet, they found a bench in the garden of remembrance and sat down. The memorial to the fallen of both wars stood sentinel in the middle of the garden, and through an archway, they could see the graveyard.

  ‘We have plenty time. Perhaps we go for a drink?’ asked Stan hopefully.

  ‘No flaming way, mate. We both need to stay sober.’ Peter lit cigarettes for them both and leaned back. ‘I hope your speech isn’t too long or too rude. There’ll be ladies there today and they might take objection to your dubious sense of humour.’

  Stan waved away this comment. ‘My speech will be beautiful,’ he said. ‘All the ladies will love it.’

  Peter sincerely hoped that would be the case, but Stan could be unpredictable, and if he took it into his head to go off at a tangent, then there was no telling what he’d say.

  ‘I will not spoil this special day, Peter,’ murmured Stan. ‘You have honoured me by asking me to stand with you, and I will repay that with the finest speech you’ve ever heard.’

  He was distracted by something beyond Peter’s shoulder and his brown eyes lit up. ‘Who is that goddess with the hair of fire?’ he breathed.

  Peter turned and grinned. ‘That’s Fran, and she’s well and truly spoken for, so keep those great Polish paws to yourself.’

  ‘There will be other girls like that today?’ Stan asked, his gaze following Fran until she disappeared into the church.

  Peter chuckled. ‘You’re an incorrigible old rogue, and I feel sorry for any Sheila you pounce on today. But you could have your work cut out. Not all of them will fall for your charm – they’re far too sensible.’

  Stan’s brown eyes were full of hurt. ‘But, Pete, all women like to be charmed.’

  ‘Well, now’s your chance to look them over and decide on your victim,’ said Peter, watching the elderly Cordelia being handed out of the car by Bertie as the Beach View girls appeared from around the street corner.

  ‘She is lovely lady,’ murmured Stanislaw, ‘and like my grandmother, so she will laugh at my teasing.’ His gaze moved on to the five girls who were approaching the church steps. ‘Beautiful,’ he sighed. ‘Tell me their names, Peter.’

  ‘The two blondes are sisters, Sarah and Jane; the little one in the velvet hat is April, and I’m not sure about the dark-haired plump one, but from what Robert said last night, it could be Mary.’

  ‘And the pretty little one in the frock dancing with flowers?’ asked Stan.

  ‘Ah, well, you’ll be glad to hear she’s from Poland. Her name is Danuta Chimelweski or some such – you lot have unpronounceable names – and she’s far too serious about things for you, Stan. In fact, she’ll be leaving soon to go back to nurse in Warsaw.’

  ‘Do you mean Chmielewski?’ asked Stan with a frown. ‘I knew a flier with that name. He was with me in the Spanish conflict. Aleksy was a very brave man and good companion. Sadly, he was killed during the Battle of Britain.’

  ‘That was her brother,’ said Peter. ‘Rita told me that Aleksy had been billeted with Peggy for a while and Danuta turned up at Beach View looking for him within days of his death. He’s now buried at St Cuthbert’s alongside her baby. The baby’s father was murdered by the Gestapo.’

  Stan nodded thoughtfully and stroked his moustache, his sad gaze fixed on Danuta as she stood chatting with the other girls by the church steps. ‘She is planning to go back to Poland, you say?’ At Peter’s nod he struggled to his feet and leaned heavily on the walking sticks. ‘You must introduce me,’ he demanded.

  Peter took a deep breath and wondered if it really had been a good idea to have Stan as his best man when he seemed so determined to conquer every woman there.

  Peggy was sharing the limousine with Anne, the three excited little girls and Ivy. The car made its stately way along Camden Road and up the High Street, the ribbons fluttering on the bonnet and the children waving to everyone they passed.

  ‘I feel like a princess,’ squeaked a breathless Ivy who was clearly as excited as the children. ‘Ain’t never ’ad a chauffeur before or been in one of these posh cars. It’s smashing, ain’t it?’

  Dear Ivy , thought Peggy with great affection. She had missed her since she’d gone back to London, but life had certainly been quieter and calmer.

  The car drew silently to a halt by the church steps where the photographer was waiting. The chauffeur opened the doors and Peggy shepherded the children out, warning them to stay together, wait for the bride, and smile to the man with the camera.

  Ivy tottered out on her high heels clutching her posy of pink roses and white gypsophila, then straightened her dress. ‘You go in,’ she said to Anne and Peggy. ‘I’ll watch this little lot.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Peggy with a frown.

  ‘It’ll be good practice for when this one comes,’ she said cheerfully, patting her stomach.

  Peggy looked beyond her, saw the second limousine slowly nose its way into the car park, and realised there wouldn’t be time for any mis
chief. She smiled her thanks to Ivy and followed Anne into the church to be greeted by the familiar scents of damp stone, dusty old books and burnt candlewicks. Today there were the added perfumes of Stan’s flowers which April had arranged in glorious profusion on the altar, by the choir stalls and lectern, and in small bunches at the end of the front rows of pews,

  Despite the beautiful organ music that Mary was playing, their footsteps echoed up into the high, vaulted roof as they walked down the broad aisle of stone slabs and past the many empty back pews. St Andrew’s was a vast, cold edifice even on the warmest summer day, but its saving grace was the stained-glass windows which had been revealed again now war was over, and the warmth of the colours drenched the entire chilly space in a soft, warm glow.

  Peggy smiled a welcome to Gloria who was in bright pink, and to Rosie in her pale blue dress and coat. Ron looked very smart for once in a suit and tie, and Sally had changed into a floaty dress of rose-printed chiffon with a large-brimmed cream hat. Her husband and the rest of the fire station crew were all in uniform; Sally’s brother, Ernie, was in his new school uniform, and little Harry, who’d refused point-blank to be a page boy, was in a smart jacket and short trousers.

  Peggy’s youngest son, Charlie, grinned back at her, resplendent in his first grown-up suit, and looking more like her Jim than ever, which made her heart twist. There was no sign of Doris or the Colonel, and Frank seemed to be without his wife Pauline. His son, Brendon, sat with Betty and their baby, and there was a smattering of patients from Cliffe who’d come to know Peter during his recuperation there.

  As Anne went to sit next to Martin in the front pew, Peggy noted that Fran was now standing by the organ to accompany Mary on the violin, their music soft and unobtrusive as it mingled with the quiet murmurs of the wedding guests. Fran looked stunning as always in a crêpe de Chine dress of tawny ochre which set off her lightly tanned skin and autumnal hair to perfection.

  Peter was standing rather nervously at the foot of the steps leading to the choir stalls and altar, the vicar murmuring quiet words of encouragement. The enormous and moustachioed best man seemed quite calm and sober, and Peggy breathed a sigh of relief. She’d yet to meet this Polish baron, but had heard enough about him to know he enjoyed a drink and could be the life and soul of the party, but it seemed he was on his best behaviour today.

  She went to give Peter a peck on the cheek, assured him that his bride was on her way, and was introduced to Stanislaw, who bowed over her hand and kissed it.

  ‘It is always a great pleasure to meet a beautiful woman, Mrs Reilly,’ he murmured, his mesmerising gaze making her go weak at the knees. ‘I hope you will do me the honour of talking with me later.’

  Peggy nodded, then snapped out of her trance and retrieved her hand before quickly sitting down next to Cordelia. ‘Whew,’ she breathed, reaching for the order of service card to fan her hot face.

  ‘He’s quite the charmer, isn’t he?’ giggled Cordelia. ‘My goodness, if I was three decades younger, I’d certainly give him a run for his money.’

  ‘I have no doubt of it,’ replied Peggy distractedly. ‘No woman’s safe with him around.’

  ‘Stanislaw and I have a lot in common, so we do,’ rumbled Ron, wriggling his eyebrows. ‘To be sure I know how hard it is to be so attractive to women.’

  Cordelia snorted. ‘Only in your dreams, you deluded old rogue,’ she retorted, swiping his arm with a gloved hand.

  Their exchange was halted by the sound of the church door creaking open, and as the vicar nodded to Mary and Fran, the music soared to the rafters to welcome the bride.

  There were soft gasps of delight, surprise and admiration as Rita slowly walked down the aisle on her father’s arm. The silver embroidery on the hem of her dress and the tiny butterflies on her shoes shimmered with every step. Her veil couldn’t quite dim the sparkle of the tiara, and her necklace and earrings caught the light from the windows and shot reflected fire around her like a halo, until it was as if she’d come from another world entirely and was being carried to Peter on a sunbeam.

  Peggy could hear Cordelia sniffling beside her and she had to blink back her own tears as she shot a quick glance at Peter. The young Australian was clearly stunned, his gaze fixed in awe on this ethereal beauty approaching him.

  Peggy lost her battle with her tears as the three little girls held hands and followed Rita and Jack towards the altar. They looked so endearingly sweet that she wanted to snatch them up and kiss them. But she managed to restrain herself, and mopped up her tears as Ivy brought up the rear and shot her a wink.

  Rita had reached the steps and, having squeezed her father’s arm in love and thanks, took Peter’s hand and gazed up at him. He bent to whisper something in her ear and she giggled before turning her attention to what the vicar was muttering to them.

  As the service was about to begin, Ivy took charge of Rita’s bouquet, herded the children into the front pew where Anne and Martin were waiting for them, and then sat down next to Andy.

  Peggy’s tears soaked her handkerchief. She did so love weddings, and none could possibly be as beautiful or moving as this one.

  Peter had always known that Rita was beautiful, but today she was so utterly stunning that he found he could barely breathe, let alone speak. He stumbled through the hymns and over the vows, making a complete hash of them and getting hot under the collar until Rita reached up to touch his face and whisper that she loved him.

  He relaxed and smiled down at her and suddenly felt calmer than ever before. He promised to love, honour and cherish her until death parted them, and then carefully eased the gold band onto her finger.

  ‘I now pronounce you man and wife,’ said the vicar, his voice ringing out in the hush. ‘You may kiss your bride.’

  Peter lifted the veil from her beautiful face, saw the light of love in her eyes and with aching tenderness kissed her lips, his heart swelling with such emotion he thought he might weep at the power of it.

  3

  Danuta had watched Stanislaw work his charm on all the other women, and had coolly resisted his overtures. She knew that most Polish men of the noble class were just as chivalrous and over-attentive, and as it was as natural to them as breathing, she’d made little of it.

  She’d managed to avoid him while the photographer fussed about outside the church, and had quickly climbed into the taxi with the other girls as he was busily shepherding the guests to their cars and ensuring no one got left behind. Just because they were both Poles, it didn’t mean she had to get stuck with him.

  ‘That Stanislaw’s definitely got all the women in a fluster,’ said Sarah on a giggle as the taxi headed for the Officers’ Club. ‘You want to watch out, Danuta, he’s clearly got his eye on you.’

  ‘He has eyes on all women,’ she replied with a shrug. ‘Polish men always think they are irresistible.’

  ‘But you must admit, Danuta, he is handsome,’ said Jane. ‘And a baron too.’

  ‘Maybe. But I am not interested.’

  This flat statement was met with an awkward silence until Mary broke it. ‘I would have thought you’d be delighted to meet someone from home,’ she said quietly. ‘After all, Danuta, he told me he knew your brother.’

  Danuta felt a stab of surprise and eyed her sharply. ‘He did not say this to me.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure he’s just waiting for the right moment,’ Mary replied. ‘He told me they’d trained together in Poland and flown together in Spain and over here. He said he would have liked to talk to you about him, but you seemed a little frosty towards him.’

  ‘Hmph. I was polite, is all. Because I not fall for his smooth talk, does not make me frosty.’

  The three other girls giggled. ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Jane. ‘The look you gave the poor man when he kissed your hand should have felled him right there and then. It’s no wonder he’s been avoiding you ever since.’

  ‘I avoid him,’ she said firmly. ‘Not other way round.’

&nbs
p; She breathed a short sigh of relief as the taxi turned into the club car park, for this conversation was becoming too awkward. She didn’t miss the silent exchange of knowing looks from the others, but said nothing as she climbed out and, with as much dignity as she could muster, made her way up the steps to the entrance.

  Rita and Peter were standing with Jack, Ivy and Peggy in the doorway to the large reception room to greet their guests. Danuta was all too aware of Stanislaw watching her and knew she could avoid him no longer.

  He bent over her hand, refraining from kissing it but keeping it firmly within his own. ‘Spotykamy znowu, piekna siostra Aleksy ,’ he murmured in Polish. ‘Będę zaszczycony jak będziemy rozmawiać o twoim bracie? ’

  ‘I prefer if we speak English,’ she replied, not at all flattered by being called beautiful. ‘Is polite in such company. But yes, I would like to hear about your friendship with my brother.’

  ‘Later then,’ he said, his dark, soulful gaze steady on her face.

  Danuta felt pinned to the spot by his penetrating gaze, but managed to nod before swiftly retrieving her hand and moving away from the line-up. Gratefully, she accepted a glass of chilled wine from the waiter. She understood perfectly well how easy it would be for most women to be enraptured by his charm, and wasn’t impervious to it, but she had more important plans to fulfil than falling for a large Pole with an even larger ego.

  Peggy had witnessed that short exchange, and although Danuta had been stiffly polite, she’d seen the flush on the girl’s cheeks as she’d turned away from Stanislaw, and had wondered if that brief moment might lead to something. Romances often started at weddings, and surely their meeting here was a sign that it was meant to be? She quickly pulled herself together. She was getting ahead of herself with all these wistful, romantic thoughts, and should concentrate on the delicious luncheon the club had provided.