‘You are enjoying, no?’
‘No. Not much.’
‘I’m sorry. You are tired?’
‘It’s those women. Nosy things. I don’t like them.’
‘I shall sit with you now. And we shall eat. Can I get you some more food? Your plate is empty.’
They ate. He asked her who various people were. That ugly woman in the grey dress? The group of girls looking daggers at Nina and Aggie and the other Land Girls?
‘The fat woman with … what you call? … jewels?’
‘Nearly. Jowls. She is not very nice. Another nosy parker, I’m afraid. The world’s full of them.’
‘You like very few people, Mrs Sinclair?’ said Jan.
‘Is it so obvious?’
‘Yes, I think so. Some of these people are probably very nice, if you give them a chance.’
‘I’ll reserve judgement on that, thank you. It’s not that I dislike people. You must not … please don’t think that of me. I’m just tired of it all.’
‘Yet I hate to see you so lonely,’ he said.
She blushed and looked down at her hands. They lay twisted in her lap, fingers intertwined. The squadron leader apologised. He changed the subject, to music, to the dancing. They ignored the quizzical, envious looks from the villagers. Dorothy reflected, as he left her for a moment to replenish their teacups and choose a cake for each of them, that she was getting almost as many disapproving looks as the Land Girls. It didn’t do, she understood. A married woman, of a certain age, wearing a figure-skimming red dress (so obvious), and hogging the handsome Polish pilot to herself all evening. No. It didn’t do at all.
… and her husband, poor Bert Sinclair, you couldn’t blame him for running off like that, could you? She couldn’t furnish him with a child, and no man deserves that. She couldn’t even furnish him with a smile, in the end. And she never joined in, did she? She was a loner, she was snooty. Not much company for any husband. Too wrapped up in herself, that one. Not one for friends. A cut above, she fancies herself. Jane Frankman’s niece, wasn’t she? That’s how she met poor Bert. They say her mother hasn’t spoken to her since she married him. Lives in the south, the mother, doesn’t she? Reading? London? Oxford? Must be lonely for Mrs Sinclair, in that cottage, and all that laundry to do. Doesn’t seem right, a woman like that taking in laundry. Still, it keeps a roof over her head. Goodness knows what might happen if Bert were to be reported missing. They’ll turf her out. Then where’ll she go? She has no friends round here. Is the mother still alive? Goodness knows. We’re not allowed to know anything, are we …
This is what Jan Pietrykowski heard as he made his way to the trestle tables loaded with food, negotiating ladies with jowls (an amusing word, new to him, that he would try to remember), ladies wearing austere dresses, ladies who were determined to engage him in conversation.
But he escaped from the attention, and he returned to Dorothy.
Before she knew what was happening, before she could protest, before they could even eat their cakes, Dorothy was steered towards the dance floor and the Polish man’s arms were around her, on her, gripping her waist, her shoulder, lightly at first, then more firmly. Around they went, locked together, and they moved in secrecy and silence as if nobody was watching. And yet to Dorothy it seemed that the whole world was judging, but she did not mind. The world could go to hell. She was without a care, for the first time in a long year. And the music seemed to go on forever – in her heart, this music would play forever – and when she looked at the man and he smiled and squeezed her waist in affection and understanding, she let her head fall on to his shoulder and she let herself be danced. And the nervous stirrings in her stomach, her bowel, her groin, the unfurling going on inside her, she accepted with a tacit grace. She was an adult, after all.
Too soon the lights were up, people were standing and shaking hands, couples were linking arms and preparing to leave, some drunk, others yawning and tired. Cigarette smoke hung over the room like a coarse blanket. There was a babble of goodbyes, and the squadron leader stood aside to allow Dorothy to collect her bag, and to see how Aggie and Nina were to go home.
‘We’ll walk, Dot!’ shouted Nina, as a Polish airman – very young, perhaps eighteen – grabbed her face and kissed her, then released her with loud laughter. She hit him on the back of his head. Dorothy wondered if this was the young man she’d had her eye on.
Aggie agreed, yes, they would walk, and she too was with a young man, who whispered to her. Aggie giggled.
And the group of village girls, one of whom Dorothy recognised as Mrs Compton’s oldest granddaughter, called out, ‘Tarts!’
Dorothy looked at Jan. ‘Do you think they will be all right?’ she asked.
‘They are not children,’ he said, and shrugged.
Dorothy hesitated and he waited, politely.
‘All right, then,’ she said. And she advised the girls to be home within the hour, as she would wait up for them with a pot of cocoa.
The squadron leader was silent, lost in calm concentration, during the twenty-minute journey back to the cottage. There was a strong moon, and the evening was warm, and the moonlight was enough to see by, if he drove slowly. Dorothy too was silent. The road looked like a slick oily river. She watched him drive, confidently, safely. He was a man accustomed to being in control.
‘Thank you, Squadron Leader,’ said Dorothy, as he opened the passenger door.
As she got out of the car, he kept his hand on the door and blocked her way. But Dorothy did not feel threatened.
‘You use my title all of the time,’ he said. ‘But my name is Jan. I lead a squadron, yes, and I am a member of the Polish Air Force and that is my job, that is my role, but I am Jan. That is my name. That is the name I wish to hear you call me. I make a point. That is all.’
‘I see. Jan. Thank you, then, Jan, for a pleasant evening.’
‘Merely pleasant?’
‘Enjoyable. Hot and noisy, but fun. Actually, I had a marvellous time with you.’
‘That is better. Thank you for being my guest. I am sorry you were so uncomfortable. Those gossiping ladies do not like you, I see. But I do.’
‘Thank you. I don’t mind being not liked. I prefer it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t have to spend time with those gossiping women. My life is my own. Do you see? I don’t want them to befriend me. I like my quiet life in this cottage, with just the girls for company.’
‘You are like a mother for them?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘They are very fond of you.’
‘Well, they give me a reason to get out of bed in the morning.’
‘Then it’s what I say. For them, you are a mother.’
‘Jan, I don’t wish to appear rude, but …’
‘You are tired?’
‘Yes. Rather.’
Jan released his hold on the car and walked Dorothy to the cottage door, and he waited while she struggled to unlock it. The lock had been stiff for months, she explained. He said he would bring oil for it on his next visit. The kitchen was dark and warm and smelled of bread, fresh laundry and, faintly, of fish. Dorothy was struck by the smell, as if it were new to her, and she realised suddenly how much this cottage was her – not just her home, but her life. Solidly built of red bricks, with square rooms, neatly plastered walls, high ceilings. She felt as though she had betrayed the cottage by staying away for so many hours. She felt like a stranger standing in her own kitchen, listening to her clock on the mantelpiece – tick, tick, tick – and she resolved to reacquaint herself with her home.
As soon as the squadron lead—
As soon as Jan had left.
He didn’t want to, she could tell. Probably he wanted a kiss. Possibly he wanted more. But she wouldn’t, and she couldn’t, do any of those things. He was a man whom she could imagine herself kissing and touching, enjoying his body. And the thought of doing that did not make her blush or feel ashamed. But she would not d
o any of it. And she could not tell herself why, because she didn’t know. It was certainly not a moral objection. It was not mere rectitude.
‘Goodnight, Mrs Sinclair,’ said Jan. ‘I will leave you now. I may visit again?’
‘Oh, please do. But my name is Dorothy. That is the name I would like you to call me. Now that we are on a more … friendly footing.’
‘Dorothy,’ he repeated slowly.
‘It’s such an awful name. I absolutely loathe it.’
‘No. A good name, very English, I think.’
‘Goodnight, Jan. Thank you for a lovely evening.’
‘It’s true. The British are so polite!’
‘Come for tea? Tomorrow, at four o’clock? I can’t promise a big spread, but … tea and sandwiches. Perhaps cake.’
‘English afternoon tea? Yes, I will be here. Thank you.’
Jan stared at Dorothy, and she smiled at him, fixed, obtuse. He smiled back at her – resigned, she guessed – and he took his leave with a slight, stiff bow.
After watching the car drive away, Dorothy roamed through her house, ignoring the marital bedroom, now the girls’ room, where her only child had been conceived and born. She entered her own small bedroom under the eaves and removed her red dress, her shoes, her stockings, corset, knickers and bra. She put on her nightdress and dressing gown, and with her cold cream she scrubbed her face free of its lipstick and powder.
She returned to the kitchen and made cocoa, stirring the milk slowly, and then she sat and waited for the girls, who returned two hours later, breathless, dishevelled and drunk.
8
‘Dorothea, your tea is different.’
Jan had arrived at exactly four o’clock, on his bicycle. Despite the heat, he was unflushed, not even sweating. True to his word, he’d brought an oil can, and he oiled the lock, catch and hinges on the kitchen door. In preparation for their tea together, Dorothy had placed her wooden table and chairs under the shade of the silver birch trees in her back garden. The trees rattled and whispered in the warm breeze. She’d invited him to sit under them after his handiwork, while she prepared the tea and brought it out into the garden.
‘How is my tea different?’ she asked, sitting down at last.
‘It is very tea-like. Very refreshing. And you have a pretty … what is it?’ He gestured at the tea-strainer.
‘Oh, the tea-strainer? It belonged to my mother.’
‘She is dead?’
‘No. I took it when I left to marry Albert. I’m afraid I took some rather odd things from my mother’s house. It was rather sudden, you see. I thought certain items might come in useful. And some of them have.’
‘And some of them have not?’
‘Quite.’
‘Why did you marry him?’
‘Why?’ She laughed, a little flustered. ‘Because I wanted to.’
‘And why did you want to?’ Jan stirred sugar into his tea, slowly, looking at Dorothy.
‘Well, I suppose the right answer would be that I loved him dearly, I simply had to be his wife, he could offer me a wonderful life and eternal happiness. That I fell in love.’
‘And the actual answer?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Escape, I think. I wanted to escape from my mother. I wanted to strike out on my own and I had no means of doing so, other than marrying. I thought his life sounded interesting, and he was kind to me. There.’
‘A sad tale, Dorothea.’
‘Dorothea’ watched Jan take a bite from a sandwich. His teeth were small, even and white. She noticed the way his fingers curved lightly around the sandwich. He was an elegant man.
‘Perhaps it is sad,’ she replied.
‘Were you ever happy?’
‘Oh. What a question. Perhaps I was happy when I was very young.’
‘Not since then? I am sorry to hear it. You deserve happiness.’
‘I’m not sure what happiness would mean to me, anyway.’
‘Perhaps a child?’
‘Yes. Oh yes!’ Dorothy realised she was leaning eagerly on the table – brazenly, she thought – squaring up to this man, engaging with him in a way that could be considered literally ‘forward’. She checked herself, sat back in her chair, and sipped her tea.
‘You have regrets, no?’ said Jan. He raised his eyebrows at her encouragingly.
‘I have regrets, you could say, about certain things,’ said Dorothy.
‘I have heard talk of it.’
‘I expect you have.’
‘You lost a baby?’
‘I lost more than one.’
‘But you gave birth to a child?’
‘You are very full of questions!’ Dorothy picked up the plate of cakes and offered it to Jan.
She watched him eat, and he seemed unabashed, eating under her scrutiny. She, for her part, always ate guardedly. She hated the way eating contorted her face, and it made her feel exposed.
‘I ask too much,’ said Jan, wiping his mouth with a serviette. ‘Forgive me, I am sorry. I like to know, that is all. You are an interesting lady and I would like to hear more about you. Sadness turns us into people, surely you understand? People with hearts that thump in our chests, and souls that dream. You see?’
It was becoming increasingly difficult to hold off from Jan.
She took a deep breath. ‘Sidney. That was his name. A dear little boy. He was taken away. They – Mrs Compton and Dr Soames – thought it best. But I didn’t want them to take him away. I wanted him to stay with me. I wanted to hold him and comfort him and tell him how sorry I was to have let him down.’ She was breathless and close to tears, but it felt right to have said such things – things that she needed to say. Things she had never said.
‘The child was born dead?’ Jan asked. The birch trees swayed softly around them, gently rattling their silvery leaves.
‘A stillbirth, yes. He was silent, no crying, you understand? There was just this dreadful quietness. The stillness was terrifying. He was blue, I shall always remember that. Translucent.’
‘Trans …?’
‘… lucent. As if I could almost see through him.’
‘Ah.’
‘Not like a little human being at all.’
‘I wish it had not been so.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And now I have upset you.’
‘No, no. Truly. I think I need to talk about it with somebody, from time to time. It doesn’t help to bottle it all up and try to pretend it didn’t happen. It did happen. And it’s with me all the time, I can’t stop thinking about my little Sidney … his little body … what became of him? He was a person, you see. A dead person, but he had been alive, kicking inside me, I felt him kicking every day. I so wanted to be his mother.’
Jan said nothing, but he passed her a serviette. Dorothy took it, wiped her tears and blew her nose, then apologised.
‘Fate played a cruel trick on you, Dorothea. Or God did.’
‘God?’ said Dorothy.
‘You believe in God?’
‘No. I do not.’
‘You never pray?’
‘I have done.’
‘But you prayed to an empty sky, no?’
‘Of course.’
‘So for what did you pray?’
‘For my babies. For Sidney, in the last few days before he was born. I thought it might make a difference. I thought prayers might keep him safe.’
‘But the prayers did not work.’
‘No.’
‘There are no gods. This I know. There is no sense to this life, what we call life. All around is madness and cruelty and things that are unfair. That which pleases one person dismays another. Nothing is personal, no great being is up there or down here, plotting against us. Everything that happens, happens because it can. There is no meaning beyond life itself, the breathing and sleeping and eating and talking and loving and hating, all of this. And the losses, we lose from the minute we are born, or whenever life begins. I do not know when life begins. Does anybod
y know? But life, it is hard. It will always be hard. This I believe, Dorothea.’
‘I see.’
‘You do not like?’
‘I think I do. It makes far more sense.’
‘More sense than what?’
‘Oh, Sunday sermons. The bleatings in church.’
‘You go to church?’
‘No. Not now. It’s ghastly. I was forced to attend every Sunday as a child. Jan? Do you mind if I ask why you are calling me Dorothea?’
‘Because it is an even prettier name than Dorothy. You are a Dorothea.’
‘I think I like it. Say something to me in Polish. Please.’
‘Ty jesteś piękną kobietą.’
‘Such a strange language!’
‘No, simple. Much simpler than yours.’
‘You think so?’
‘Of course.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘I said this is a beautiful garden, this is a beautiful afternoon, and all is perfect here and now.’
‘I’m not sure I believe that.’
‘Well. You will have to wonder, then.’
‘I shall.’
‘My wife was always “wondering”. I think I am not easy to understand. Not translucent perhaps?’
Wife? But she thought …! You ridiculous woman. Oh, goodness, had she—?
‘Jan, I … I’m sorry. You are married.’
Dorothy berated herself. Of course, but of course. Did she really think a man like Jan wouldn’t be spoken for? Oh, how awful—!
‘I am not married,’ he said. ‘I was married.’
‘Your wife died?’
‘No. She was young – a beautiful, young woman. We married when we were both eighteen. My mother said no, not to marry, but we didn’t listen, we married, we were in love.’
‘What happened?’ She barely dared to ask, so her words were whispered, and were lost in the swaying of the trees.
‘We lived happy, for a few months only, we made a pretty home. But I was not enough for her. She was restless. She wanted more. Other men. She took other men. I angered, I shouted. I was betrayed and I made her out of the house. And I was lonely. So I too left the house. I joined the Air Force and I have not seen her since. She returned to the house of her father. We have divorce.’
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