by Ruth Sutton
For a short while he sat quite still. The room was very cold and Jessie wondered if he was having second thoughts, or needed some music. When he began to play she was first astonished and then overwhelmed. She found an armchair and sat down, leaning forward to watch as the long fingers moved over the keys. The notes fell into the cold air of the room, clear, harmonious, passionate. She felt tears form in her eyes and brushed them away. He seemed transformed, younger, more energetic than the forlorn figure standing in the porch only half an hour before. Dark hair that had looked so lank now gleamed in the light from the window. The young man’s eyes were closed but his body was awake. Energy poured from him as Jessie watched and listened, entranced.
The music reached a climax, and ended with the gentlest of chords leaving the air vibrating. For a moment Piotr sat very still, his fingers still touching the keys, before his hands dropped into his lap and he looked down. Jessie wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. No response seemed adequate. She leaned forward and took hold of one of his hands. He turned towards her and bowed his head, then got up and put her hand to his lips as he’d done the first time they met. She in turn put first one of his hands and then the other to her lips.
‘Thank you Piotr,’ she said.
‘I play more?’ he offered, and she nodded, sitting down again to listen, wishing that Agnes could have been there to hear the finest sounds the old piano had ever produced.
Piotr turned towards her, rubbing his hands together.
‘Many months,’ he said, ‘I have not played. And this,’ he touched the keys, ‘this is good. A good piano.’
‘Where did you learn?’ said Jessie. She had many questions but knew that Piotr would struggle with too much English all at once.
‘In Warsaw, before the war, before …’ He raised his hands, to compensate for words that could not come. ‘My father brother,’ he began.
‘Your uncle?’
‘Yes, Uncle Wlodya, he had money, for the conservatoire, in Warsaw. He is good to me. Give me money and I get away, before the Germans come.’
‘Your family?’ Jessie asked.
He shrugged. ‘I do not know, I hear nothing.’
‘And your uncle?’
‘Nothing. And now, the Russians. Worse than Germans.’
‘You want to go back?’
‘No. But nothing for me here.’
‘Except your music,’ said Jessie, trying to comfort him.
‘Music no good without money, without job,’ said Piotr.
They looked at each other. There was nothing more to say.
It was nearly an hour before they spoke again. Piotr looked at Jessie’s books while she made a meal for them. He showed no sign of leaving, and she did not want him to. She was intrigued by his strangeness, a visitor from a world she knew nothing of. She ate little herself, giving him the bulk of the food.
‘Where did you learn English?’ she asked.
‘Conservatoire,’ he said. ‘But English no good.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said. Then a thought struck her. ‘Would you like me to teach you more? Then maybe you could find a job, leave the camp.’
He put down his fork, and looked up.
‘Teach?’ he said. ‘But no money.’
‘Not for money, Piotr. I could teach you at weekends. I could come to the camp, on the bus, or you could come here.’
‘At the camp. Teach everyone,’ he said.
She thought for a moment, remembering what Agnes had said about a project. ‘Why not?’
Suddenly she felt a rush of her old self, the energetic, confident Jessie that seemed to have disappeared. These lost men needed her, and she could help them.
‘Why you do this?’ said Piotr. He had eaten well for the first time in months. ‘Why you feed me, help with English?’
‘Because I can,’ said Jessie. ‘I have time.’
‘Husband, he dead?’
Jessie hesitated. ‘No, yes, he died, but a long time ago. In the first war.’
‘Ah,’ said Piotr. ‘You have child, no, children,’ he added, remembering the word.
‘No – yes,’ she hadn’t had time to prepare the lies. ‘I have a nephew, my sister’s child. He’s like a son to me.’
‘He here?’ asked Piotr.
‘No,’ said Jessie, ‘He works in a coal mine, in Whitehaven.’
‘Then you alone,’ he said, ‘like me.’
She stared at him. ‘Yes,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Alone.’
CHAPTER 20
‘NOT GOING IN THERE, ARE YOU MISSUS?’ said the woman on the bus to Jessie at the camp gate. ‘Bloody scroungers in there. Send ’em all home, my man says.’
Jessie walked through the main gate, round a central patch of grass yellowed by thawing snow, and towards the nearest building, a low-lying brick hut with small chimneys poking through the sloping roof. There was no one about. Most of the men were working on farms or digging drainage ditches. Suddenly a remarkably well-dressed man appeared round the side of the building: a short man, with a slight limp, and a worried expression.
‘Miss Whelan?’
Jessie held out her hand, guessing. ‘Mr Andrews?’
‘You found us, then. Not hard to spot I suppose. Most people know where the camp is, but they get mixed up about who’s here now. We try to call it a hostel these days, but the name sticks. Let me show you round before we talk,’ he said. ‘Give you an idea of how things work. I’m a bit slow.’ He tapped his leg. ‘Old wound, from the last war, but it’s not far.’
Jessie was surprised by the extent of the camp. The sleeping huts were less crowded than they had been during the war, but it was a drab place: concrete floors, bare walls save for the odd faded photograph, old iron beds.
‘Hard to make it homely,’ said her guide as they peered into yet another bleak space. ‘But there’s something that might surprise you.’
Mr Andrews guided her to one of the huts, which from the outside looked the same as all the others. He opened the door and stood back to let Jessie enter ahead of him. She gasped. Every wall and the entire low ceiling were covered with painted murals and inscriptions. At the far end was an altar, and sunlight streaming in from the south picked up the rich colours of the figures painted on the wall behind it. Above the altar, reaching to the apex of the ceiling, was a carved wooden cross. On the altar itself a smaller cross, heavy and ornate.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Every time I come in here I see something new, a detail I’ve never noticed before. Father O’Toole had to explain some of the symbols.’
‘Who painted it?’ asked Jessie, looking at each wall in turn.
‘One of the German prisoners. They were here before the Italians,’ he said. ‘Can’t remember his name. He was an artist in Germany before the war apparently. He got most of it done before they sent him home, and another bloke finished it off. They used their mates as models for the faces. Someone made the altar cross too, out of scrap metal, really solid and heavy. I’d love more people to see this place, but locals wouldn’t come and it’s too far from London for anyone important to bother.’
‘Do they still have services here?’
‘Oh aye. Catholic ones, like. Father O’Toole comes out from Millom regular, and spends a lot of time here with the men. All of them, not just Catholics. He’s an amazing man. What day is it? Tuesday, he should be here later. Always comes on Tuesdays to see the men when they come back from work. Has supper with us often. Can you stay?’
This was more than Jessie had bargained for. She tried to recall the times of the buses back to Newton, but before she could reply, music reached them through the open door of the chapel. She cocked her head to listen. ‘Is that Piotr?’ she asked.
‘It is,’ he said, ‘but how …?’
‘He came to visit me in Newton,’ she said, smiling at his astonishment. ‘My friend has a piano, and he played for me, wonderfully. That was the day I decided I could help the men with their English.’
‘He
’s over there,’ said Mr Andrews, ‘in the main hall. The piano’s pretty poor but he doesn’t seem to mind.’
They had been standing at the door listening for a while before Piotr noticed them. He stopped playing, and when he turned towards the light Jessie could see that tears were running down his face. He wiped them away quickly with the sleeve of his jacket and got up.
‘Miss Whelan,’ he said, with a small bow.
‘Hello again, Piotr,’ she said, inclining her head towards him. ‘More wonderful playing.’
‘Miss Whelan is having a look around,’ said Mr Andrews. ‘We shall see you later.’ As they walked away he spoke more quietly. ‘Very emotional, some of the men. Slavs, you know. They cry a lot.’
By the time Jessie and the warden had finished their tour of the camp and discussed the details of her proposed English lessons for the men, it was after five o’clock. They heard a car engine as it rounded the grass circle and pulled up outside Mr Andrews’ office. A moment later a large head appeared round the door, followed by a burly body dressed in black.
‘Father O’Toole, come in, come in,’ said Mr Andrews.
‘Good afternoon, Philip,’ said the priest. His Irish accent was immediately obvious. Round black spectacles gave his face a scholarly expression, at odds with the body of a rugby player.
‘This is Miss Whelan, father,’ said Philip, turning to Jessie, ‘from Newton. She’s going to be teaching the men English.’
‘Thank heaven for you, Miss Whelan,’ said the priest, taking Jessie’s outstretched hand in his. ‘That’s exactly what they need. Just enough to let them speak to the people they work with, or to the girls they meet at the weekend. Language – it’s the key, don’t you think?’ He had kept hold of her hand: she felt the warmth of his grip.
‘They’re not back yet, father,’ said Philip, looking at his watch.
‘I came early, to see Piotr. How is he today?’
‘He played for us,’ Jessie interrupted, drawn to the energy that surrounded Father O’Toole. ‘It was astonishing, full of longing,’ she went on. ‘I’ve never heard playing like it.’
‘It’s a gift right enough,’ said the priest. ‘And he’s a sad soul, desperate to go home but afraid that his life there has gone, poor man. I’ll see him before the others get back. Easier to get close when there’s no one else around.’ He turned to Jessie. She noticed the green of his eyes behind the spectacles. ‘You’ll stay for supper with us, Miss Whelan. That’s a good Irish name, so it is.’
‘She’s already agreed to stay,’ said Philip. ‘Good chance to meet the men. Gives them a chance to meet her, too.’
It had been a while since someone had asked about her name. Jessie reminded herself of the customary lies about her family and hoped she could keep the questions at bay.
At supper Jessie sat with the group of men she’d met at the schoolhouse when they had come to dig out the road. After their meal Philip Andrews stood up to explain to the hundred or so men sitting at long benches that their guest would be offering English lessons. He paused and a dozen voices around the room spoke simultaneously in different languages, as one man from each national group translated for the others.
Jessie tugged at Philip’s sleeve. ‘Tell them how much we appreciate their help with the snow,’ she said. He raised his hand for silence, waited until the babble of voices faded, repeated what she had said, and the babble started again. Group by group the men smiled and nodded as they understood what had been said.
Father O’Toole caught her eye. ‘Tower of Babel isn’t it?’ he said to her across the din. ‘But it works.’
On the late bus back to Newton, Jessie’s mind was full. There was a whole world out there that she’d known nothing about. All these years her life had been confined in the cocoon of the school and the village, and today she had encountered people from all over Europe, each of them with a talent and a story that was a mystery to her. It was only when she let herself into the porch at Applegarth that she realised that the lamps were lit, and there were voices in the front room.
‘Is that you, dear?’ called Agnes. ‘We’re in here.’
Jessie pushed open the door from the hall. Agnes was on her feet, smiling, and getting to his feet beside her was a man Jessie had never seen before.
‘Jessie, dear, this is Edwin Bennett, from my office in London. Edwin, this is Jessie Whelan. She’s been the schoolteacher here for many years, and now she’s looking for a new challenge, aren’t you, dear?’
More new people. Jessie took off her coat and hat, giving herself time to take it all in.
‘Have you eaten?’ asked Agnes.
‘I had supper at the camp,’ she said. ‘I wrote to you about it, giving English lessons for the DPs, you remember?’
‘Of course,’ said Agnes. She turned to Edwin Bennett to explain about Jessie’s encounter with the men from the camp and her plans for helping them. Mr Bennett listened attentively. He wore round spectacles and a suit with a waistcoat. His small hands were crossed in his lap, and his small feet in polished shoes hovered just above one of Fred’s hookie rugs on the floor.
‘That’s a very laudable thing to do,’ he said gravely to Jessie. ‘These men are here through no fault of their own, but some people treat them as if they were prisoners of war.’
‘I think I’m going to enjoy it,’ said Jessie. ‘The whole experience was so interesting.’ She told them about the chapel, and Father O’Toole, whom Agnes had heard of but never spoken to.
‘Tell Edwin about your other plans for life after school, Jessie.’
Before Jessie could respond, Agnes continued. ‘She’s learning shorthand,’ she said proudly, as if Jessie were a much-loved child. ‘From a book. Making such progress. Just shows what a well-trained mind can achieve.’
‘Another splendid idea,’ said Edwin, positively beaming his approval. ‘Teaching’s loss will be others’ gain, that’s for sure.’
Jessie was curious now. She’d heard Agnes speak of Mr Bennett before, but what was he doing here? And why was Agnes so keen to tell him about the shorthand?
‘Agnes tells me you’ve lived here for many years,’ said the little man, shifting in his chair to look directly at Jessie through his round lenses. ‘You must know the community very well.’
‘I suppose I do,’ she said, ‘especially having taught so many of the children. You get to know a great deal about the families, sometimes more than you want to.’
‘Ah, yes, discretion,’ he nodded. ‘So important in a small community, don’t you know.’
Jessie began to feel alarmed. What had Agnes told him about her? ‘It’s important for a teacher, wherever they are,’ she said, trying to move the conversation away from the particular to the general, but Mr Bennett continued his theme.
‘There are always good reasons,’ he said, ‘why some things need to be, well, not exposed to the public gaze.’
Agnes interrupted, seeing the puzzlement in Jessie’s face. ‘Edwin is working on a very sensitive project,’ she said, glancing at him. He nodded, and she continued. ‘It concerns, rather it may concern, this area, and I’ve explained to him how easily information, or even gossip, can get around. We don’t seem to need many telephones, do we?’ Edwin Bennett’s face creased into a humourless smile. ‘Anyway, he’s going to be staying here a few days, and maybe coming back again in a month or two. I said that was fine, but I wasn’t happy about leaving you completely out of the picture now that you will be living here, too.’
Jessie wondered what was coming next. She excused herself for a few minutes. When she came back into the room the two of them were talking earnestly, their heads close together.
Agnes gestured slightly towards the guest, who began to speak.
‘You see, Miss Whelan,’ he said, ‘We at the Ministry of Supply have been charged with finding a site for a new, er, facility. The site has to meet various … criteria, and I’ll be looking at the old ordnance factory just north of here.’
‘I thought that was all finished now,’ said Jessie.
‘Well, yes it is,’ he said, ‘but the site is a good choice for this new project. It has to be in a isolated area, just like the ordnance factory had to be.’
‘Oh,’ said Jessie. She still had no idea what all this might have to do with her. She looked patiently at Edwin Bennett, but he was sitting back, as if there was nothing more to say.
‘It all sounds pretty mysterious, I know, Jessie,’ said Agnes. ‘I’m sure Edwin wouldn’t mind me telling you that if this project goes ahead, the Ministry will be looking for people to be part of it, people who know the area and who have absolute discretion.’
‘Jobs for local people, you mean? Seems a good idea to me.’
‘But only very special local people to start with, with the right sort of skills,’ said Agnes, emphasising ‘right sort’ as she looked meaningfully at Jessie.
‘Oh, you mean people like me?’ said Jessie, surprised. ‘But I have a project of my own now, at the camp.’
A small cloud of irritation passed over Edwin’s round face.
‘I cannot share the details at this time, Miss Whelan,’ he said, ‘but suffice to say that this matter is of national importance, concerning the defence of the realm.’
‘I see,’ said Jessie, although she didn’t see, at all. That’s the end of that, she thought to herself. And so it was.
Mr Bennett stayed for a few days. Every morning after breakfast he and Agnes drove away in her car, returning late in the afternoon. Nothing more was said, the three of them passed their evenings playing rummy, and at the end of the week Agnes and Mr Bennett returned to London.
After they had gone, Jessie found a note from Agnes on her dressing table.
Sorry to leave you in the dark, dear. Couldn’t say much more really without getting into trouble myself.
I’ll fill you in when I get back, not sure when that’ll be. I’ll call you when I know.
