Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase

by Louise Walters

  ‘This is not your home. You haven’t lived here for months. This is my home.’

  The slap came hot and sharp and hard, and it knocked her off her feet. She staggered, righted herself, and put her hand to her cheek. The blow had awakened the pain from the May day – was it really that long ago? – when she had tried to ‘save’ the young Polish pilot. Everybody had made her into a heroine. But her husband now, slapping her in the face, drunk and panting, had no respect for her. He stood before her, his eyes as wide and empty as the Lincolnshire sky. And when he grabbed at her and ripped her blouse open it came as no great surprise. And his mouth pushing on to hers, his breath sweet and sickly and acrid with tobacco, and their teeth clashing as she tried to twist away from him. He gripped her face with one hand, and pulled her skirt up over her hips with the other. He was strong and relentless, and in another era, an earlier life, Dorothy would almost have been thrilled. His fingers dug into her cheek.

  ‘No, Albert. Please!’ she gasped, before his hand covered her mouth.

  He didn’t hear, or didn’t listen, she was unsure which. He spun her round and pressed her face into the settee, his large rough hand pushing her neck down. She could barely breathe, let alone cry out, as he knelt behind her, thrust aside her knickers with his bullet-like fingers and, after a few misdirected thrusts, broke into her body, piercing her. He released her neck and she suppressed the urge to cry out in pain. She would keep still, she must not move, let it be over with, let him do this thing he was determined to do. Please don’t let this wake the girls, it mustn’t, it mustn’t. Be quiet, Albert, please, for God’s sake. If the girls were to hear and come down the stairs … she must make no noise. She bit her lip so hard she tasted the brutal tang of blood. Albert grasped her hips and held them firm, and his movements slowed and became rhythmical, as though they were actually making love. He was pulling her on to him, harder, slower, but he was mercifully quiet, and each thrust told her: You are mine, not his, not that Polish bastard’s. My wife. You are my wife.

  And when it was over, he crept away from her and she remained on the settee, face down, frozen. She could not think, or move, or absorb what had happened to her. After a few minutes, she pulled her skirt down. She stayed on the settee until she heard his breathing become slow and gruff, like a heavyset dog’s. Turning her head, she saw he was in her chair by the window, legs and arms at strange contorted angles, his bullish head lolling to one side.

  Dorothy slowly twisted herself round so that she was sitting on the floor, and leaned back on the settee. She had married this man. She had loved him, once. She stayed motionless and without further thought for an hour, perhaps two, eyes wide open, until she became too cold, until the need for sleep became apparent. She raised herself from the floor and, without a glance at the man snoring in her chair by the window, she quietly left the parlour. Closing the door behind her, she dragged herself to her room, not bothering to visit the privy first, nor wash or brush her teeth. She climbed into her narrow bed, wrapping herself up under the sheets and the blankets and the quilt. It was a freezing, foggy night, but she must have fallen asleep and dreamed, because in the morning she sprang awake with a bright sun streaming through her window. She remembered her dream and in it she had held a young baby, she had kissed a baby’s soft head, and he smelled of musk, of lavender, oranges, honey.

  Albert was gone.

  Nothing of him remained. Nobody would know that Albert Sinclair had returned to his abandoned wife, accused her of adultery, and assaulted her in a few unremarkable moments of rage and jealousy, a common fit of pique. To the world – that is, to her girls and her hens – Dorothy presented her usual face, free of make-up and pretensions, and followed her usual habits, making tea and breakfast, packing lunches, scattering grain for the hens, setting the fire under the copper and watching the girls set off for the North Barn. She found herself thinking about the possibility of a baby who may even now exist in what remained of the red, lush warmth in her womb.

  She found herself also thinking about Jan.

  Jan so far away, in all ways, always.

  Day piled upon day, heavy, grey, those bedraggled days of winter. She was afraid to find blood with each visit to the privy, frequent fevered interruptions to her days. In the two weeks since Albert had left she’d felt no cramping pains, no tension, no anger or clumsiness or weepiness, all of which regularly accompanied the machinations of her monthly cycle. Hope was once again looming in front of her, large and fat, obvious as a prostitute and just as mysterious. She told herself it was almost worth it, those few minutes of Albert’s rage and aggression, the few minutes of pain and humiliation, his lust – as greedy and short-lived as a child let loose in a sweet shop – her shock, and her dread not of what was happening to her, but of being discovered. The hideous thought of Aggie and Nina flinging open the door, their shocked faces, Dorothy, despite herself, crying Help me! And sometimes it seemed to Dorothy as though these things had actually happened; she thought she could remember the girls’ faces, their shock and disgust. And sometimes, while feeding the hens, while darning stockings, she would shudder at these quasi-memories, sick at the thought of being caught.

  Was she caught? No! No. But if she had been … and the possibility now opening up in front of her, despite everything, was thrilling. But she tried to remain unaware, to ignore the secret drama that could, could, be blooming inside her. She tried not to think too much, yet it was impossible not to think about it, and not to dream.

  She tried not to be intimidated by fears, real fears, the fear of blood and failure and of life being washed away along with the precious egg, the lush preparations of her womb, the spring of life itself. The life-spring was in her, on her, around her. It was her, but she had no power over it, she had no control, only hope.

  15

  Jan flew steady, keeping his course, waiting for the enemy. Yesterday, he’d picked one off, a Dornier. He’d fired at it repeatedly, trying to kill the gunner first, as you should. He’d strafed the aircraft and with sweet satisfaction he’d watched as it spiralled towards the ground, caught in the earth’s inexorable pull. There was nothing like it, he thought, nothing as satisfying as killing your enemies. He thought the crew had stayed in the Dornier, he had not seen any of them escaping. Perhaps he had shot them all. That was a small justice. The only good German was a dead German. And one way or another he’d killed four in one attack.

  The day was bright, and so cold that there was no need to climb to any sort of height before the frozen air gripped him. But cold was the least of his worries. The squadron was flying day and night, supposedly protecting the city of London from the German bombs that continued to fall, relentlessly. Sometimes he and his men did all right, sometimes not. Men were lost almost daily, good Polish men. Somehow, today, he was alive. And today, he knew, he would kill again. But he himself would not be killed. It was a matter of faith.

  His gaze flicked around: here, there, above and below. He always used his eyes, his own perceptions. He could not bring himself to trust this new ‘radio direction finder’, nor did he enjoy giving trite, dry orders to other men – even though that was his job, even though they were his subordinates. In the air, in battle, after his initial instructions, it was every man for himself. On the ground, he could be the boss, but not up here, in this diaphanous space that belonged to nobody. Up here was chaos, flight, adrenaline.

  He saw them, a skein of bombers, the hated Dorniers, ugly, elongated, with death written all over them. He pulled his Hurricane round swiftly and gained as much height as he could. Up … up … he wanted the sun behind him, always it was best to have that advantage. It was impossible to get to the bombers this time, he realised, flanked as they were by wearisome Messerschmitts, vicious little aeroplanes, quick, deft, deadly. Admirable too, Jan had to concede. A formation of Spitfires flew in under him, picking off the 109s. But two were on him, he knew it, breaking off from the main group and heading for him, escaping the Spitfires. The 109s split. He
could only keep one in his sights.

  Swinging round, he steadied his Hurricane, aimed, fired his guns for two seconds. Missed. Where was the other? Was somebody on him? He thought so. Two seconds again. Missed, missed, damn! His guns pummelled nothing but sky, and the 109 flew on towards him, firing back.

  Had he been hit? The smell of hot oil swamped his cockpit, and all was clatter and panic. He worked always within panic’s stabbing confines and the fear, he knew, kept him alive. He banked right, gained height, pulled round, levelled, aimed, fired, fired, running out. And yes, as he predicted, the familiar scene of smoke, death, and the welcome sight of the enemy aircraft twisting towards the earth. The pilot bailed out, his parachute opened like a huge silk moth breaking out of its cocoon, and Jan, grimly enraptured by such a perfect target, took his time, slowly flying lower towards the German pilot dangling helplessly in the sky under his huge parachute.

  Jan’s flight officer (English, as the Poles were not entirely trusted to manage their own squadron effectively) shouted over the radio: Where the bloody hell was he? They’d lost one, bloody hell, they’d lost him and the rest of them needed orders. Now!

  Jan carried on, barely listening to the pompous and panicked Englishman. He had the parachute in his sights. He knew he was acting against the Geneva Convention. Would he be court-martialled? Perhaps. But he knew of at least two other Poles in his own squadron who had performed this act, and countless more Germans. Everybody seemed to get away with it. So would he. The British didn’t seem to approve. But so what? And the Nazis had trampled over the Geneva Convention every day of this war. Rumours out of Krakow spoke of them shooting hospital patients as they lay in their beds and forcing men to dig their own graves at gunpoint – and not only men. They were throwing sweets on to the ground, and as the children scrambled for them, the Nazis laughed and kicked them to death. Jan doubted none of these rumours.

  Nazi bastards get all they deserve.

  Jan fired. His last ammo, he knew. And no real need to waste it in this fashion.

  The parachute shut up on itself, disappearing into a thin silver column, lethal as a blade. What did the British call it – the Roman candle? And the German who had been dangling aimlessly beneath it suddenly shot earthwards to his death. His name was Hans, or Dieter; he had a sweetheart in Berlin, or in Munich; he had a mother, a father. For just a few more seconds, they had a son. It was a cruel death, Jan knew – but was not all death cruel?

  And what would the Englishwoman say? He could imagine her, if he allowed himself to, her stray hair being pushed back off her face, but he did not allow himself to think of her while he was flying. But the killing – murder? – of this young German, it stuck in his throat, it stalled him, just for a moment, and he feared her reproach more than anything, this woman who had lost her own precious son. And he understood what her son had meant to her. He should have told her how he—

  And for a moment, two moments, he lost concentration, he didn’t look.

  Jan felt an explosion in his arm. He caught the stench of pumping blood, of something else, something chemical. God, not the cooling fluid? He felt a torturous, burning sensation, although he felt – he knew – there was no fire. He had to fight the fog that threatened to close in on him, and he struggled to pull his Hurricane round, one-handed and bellowing in pain. He radioed he’d been hit, and then he remembered there had, of course, been two 109s. He’d made the indelible mistake of focusing on the one, one he had already rendered harmless. And where now were the bombers? They were gone, they had got through, and they were going to release their terror, as Jan had released his.

  He looked around for the other 109 and he saw him in his mirror, on his tail, so close, so fast, he swore he could see the whiskers on the German pilot’s face. Jan dropped his aircraft – a useless manoeuvre, he knew, but at least it brought him closer to the earth. He was determined he would land this stricken aircraft. The RAF could not afford to lose it for no good reason, and pain was not a reason. He was damned if he was going to simply sit there and die. He could barely breathe. And suddenly he saw the 109 aflame, black smoke, a shrill whine, a twist, a turn, and it was gone.

  And Jan’s flight officer gloated over the radio that he’d got the bastard, and for Christ’s sake get down, Pietrykowski. Now, if you can. Get back, man.

  16

  3rd October 2010

  Dear Philip,

  I hereby give you one week’s notice of my intention to leave my employment at the Old and New Bookshop. I have enjoyed the past eleven years in so many ways, but now I feel it is time to move on.

  Yours,

  Roberta

  (Letter written and waiting in my handbag to give to Philip tomorrow.)

  At least now the customers have got over The Scene. The gossip has subsided, nobody is talking about me any more. For a while there I was a scarlet woman, but my infamy has been short-lived and now I am plain old Roberta (‘Rebecca?’) again, Philip’s right-hand woman and stalwart of the Old and New. It’s a good place to be.

  But Philip has not forgotten. He is keeping his distance and avoiding any mention of The Scene. I don’t blame him, of course, but I do wish he would forget about it – like everybody else seems to have done – and I wish he would forgive me. I apologised, of course, the same day. Fuelled by my hastily downed brandy, I sailed back down the stairs to the shop, and found Philip continuing with the rearrangements in the back room, pencil in mouth, frowning, his hair perhaps a little more dishevelled than it had been, his cheeks a little pinker. He looked at me, as I stood in the doorway.

  ‘I’m sorry, Philip. I never thought … I didn’t think she would ever … but she has. I don’t know what else I can say. Really. I am so very sorry.’

  He looked at me with what I can only describe as dissatisfaction. He didn’t seem to hear my apology. He sighed, he looked away, he scribbled a price inside a book cover with his characteristic flourish. I have never seen anybody look more disappointed.

  ‘Perhaps you could take over here while I grab some lunch?’ he said wearily. ‘These need pricing, those over there need dusting, and these need putting on the lower shelf, as we discussed this morning. Oh, and could you remember to clean the windows too, please? Or get Sophie to do them. Thank you.’

  He hasn’t spoken to me since.

  Getting home from the Old and New, to my flat, to my cat bought for me by Charles Dearhead – the cat I call Portia – is a relief. I tell Portia all that happens each day, and she listens and asks for her supper, and I cook mine, or more often I butter some bread, splash milk over cornflakes, nibble on chocolate digestives and sip coffee. I’m not sleeping, I’m tired, I look washed-out and lank-haired, and I’m so sorry all this has happened.

  I’m lonely.

  That’s the bottom line. Lonely and, I believe in my heart, a little messed up. Charles Dearhead meant nothing to me. In fact, I didn’t even like him. Boring. Self-centred. Urbane? Did I ever truly believe that? I put his poor wife through a terrible time, their marriage perhaps irreparably damaged. And that was a matter of choice, my choice. I shall not do that again, I promise myself.

  And now my friend – the only person, I have realised, whose opinion is essential – appears to despise me. I have been thinking, and thinking, I can’t stop thinking, and I have to leave the Old and New. Philip does not want me there, he has made that clear. I shall write a letter of resignation tonight. I think he will be shocked, though probably relieved, and will thank me for my integrity. Except I have none. This I have proved to myself, to Philip, to Sophie and Jenna, to various intrigued and scandalised customers. Thank God my father hasn’t got wind of it.

  Did I ‘invite dishonour’, like my grandmother before me? Yes. Of course. And I have brought dishonour to the shores of Philip’s life too. Oh, I should live a little! Not hide away in a bookshop all my life, dipping my toes into the murky waters of sex with a man so much older and so much more married than me. Sophie was right.

  I am not s
cared to hand in my notice tomorrow. I’ll find another job. I have savings, I am frugal with clothes and food, I run an economical car. The Old and New is more of a home to me than anywhere else on earth, but I am resolved now to leave that place of warmth and humour because that is what must be done.

  But it will kill me.

  In the morning, I ask to speak to Philip. He is accommodating, as usual, and we go to his small office at the back of the shop. I take my time in closing the door. When I turn, I see that he has retreated behind his desk, the expansive but cluttered desk that he was sitting on, relaxed and interested, on the day he ‘interviewed’ me for the job.

  ‘Philip,’ I begin, not looking at him, ‘I want to give you this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s my notice.’

  He takes it from me. He eyes me, opens the envelope, reads the note, rips it in two, and throws it into the bin. ‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘I’m not sure what love is.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Do you love him?’

  ‘Charles Dearhead?’

  ‘Are there others?’

  ‘No! And no. I don’t love him. Why would I?’

  ‘That’s precisely what I’ve been pondering. So what on earth are you playing at?’

  ‘I’m not playing at anything. It’s finished. I … I stepped outside myself. That’s all.’

  ‘Yes. I think you did, rather. You see, I keep asking myself … I keep asking why a woman like you … why are you wasting your life on a man like him? I mean, come on. He’s a complete twat. Sorry.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Frankly.’

  ‘Whatever you think, it’s none of your business.’

  ‘Oh, but it is.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  We stand, facing each other across the huge walnut desk, this gigantic obstacle it seems we shall never be able to surmount, in a pantomime of our own making. But neither of us is laughing. Philip removes his glasses, cleans them awkwardly on his shirt front, puts them back on and clears his throat. It is a familiar routine. His face twitches with a strange kind of pleading innocence, willing me to do what he wants me to do. Philip’s eyes are fixed on me, and my heart—