I have registered for war work and Mother will take care of J while I am out of the house. I hope to be useful. The money I earn will certainly help Mother too, as her own source of income has practically disappeared. I wonder she had enough to lend me to send to you. Of course, I did not tell her what I needed the money for, and I shall work hard to repay her. My father left her money, but she has been using it for living expenses for many years now. I had no idea. I have suggested to Mother that we sell the house and buy something smaller, in which case we may leave Oxford. This would also mean my whereabouts will be less detectable, just in case. I know I shall live in fear of discovery all my life, but all mothers live in daily fear anyway, I have realised, even my own.
Thank you for all your help with J. I do appreciate it. Perhaps it might be prudent if you were to destroy this letter? I think it best if my exact location was to remain unknown. For that reason I am not including my address. I trust you will keep your side of our agreement, as I have kept mine.
Thank you again, and kind regards,
D
26th January 1941
Dear Jan,
Forgive me for not writing to you before now. I hope you received my last letter. It was written in a mad haste after your departure on Boxing Day. Was that really a mere month ago? Four short weeks that seem to me a lifetime – and in a sense, that’s exactly what they are.
I expect I made a complete fool of myself writing such silly sentimental things in my last letter, things I can’t even recall now. Perhaps you have replied? But I will not get your letter, because I no longer live at the cottage. I have left no forwarding address.
Darling, events took such a turn after you left on Boxing Day. I hardly know where to begin. So I’ll just plunge in, as it were, and tell you everything. Nina, poor silly Nina, she had a baby. A darling little boy, on Boxing Day, after you had left. Do you recall she was complaining of feeling unwell that morning? None of us had any idea she was expecting. She claims she didn’t know either. Somehow, against my better judgement, I believe her. I thought at first she was fibbing. How could any woman not know she had a baby nestling inside her? But she’s not bright, I must be honest. And a large girl, as you know. And, if I can mention such a thing, she was irregular in her monthly cycle. So you can see how she may not have realised.
The little chap was born in the North Barn, among the straw and the hay and the sacks and the cows. It was positively biblical. He is a beautiful boy, born a little small, but in these few short weeks he has become plump and pink and healthy. I helped to deliver him – I was alone with her – and, Jan, it was incredible, and it has changed my life.
So, now to the crux of the matter. Nina doesn’t want him. She seems to have no maternal instincts and, Jan, I have. I have them in abundance. You know that about me. I have taken the baby as my own. I have told a lie here and there, I confess. No doubt I shall continue to do so for the rest of my life. But Nina is happy. She would have had him sent to the nuns! I had to step in, don’t you see? Her parents would have disowned her, she says, with the baby being born out of wedlock, of course. It doesn’t do, as you know. Just think of the poverty this poor boy would have been brought up in. And think of me. I smile now, all the time, I am bursting with joy. Living with my mother again is hard, granted. But she has welcomed her grandson into her home and I believe she has welcomed me.
I have started work, making torpedoes. The day is long and it’s hard to leave John, but my mother does a grand job of caring for him. She is a far better grandmother than she was a mother. I am not sure why that should be, but there you are. So you see, we get on all right. And, Jan, do you know, people will never again look upon me with pity in their eyes. I despised those looks people gave me, people who knew about my losing Sidney.
Darling, I know you will react strongly to this news. You will disapprove of what I have done, I know. But please try to understand how I feel. I have a child at last, to love and care for, and motherhood has eluded me for so long, I thought forever. And once upon a time I thought death preferable to life because losing my child was so unbearable to me. Now my life is almost complete.
But I dearly want you to be part of my life too. Dare I hope you had marriage on your mind, as much as I did? I’m sorry for being so forward but, Jan, I can be myself with you, and marriage is something I considered and even hoped for after our very first meeting. I didn’t realise at the time, of course, but yes, it felt like you were my husband even then. Can I ask you to please think about it? You must know, and it is only fair that I tell you, that I will not turn back. I cannot. I have named the baby John, for you. I love him as I did my Sidney. He has become my son and you must understand it is impossible for me to give up this child whom I now hold so dear. I have to be honest with you, even though I shall be dishonest with everybody else.
Your music box waits for you at the cottage. I trust the girls will look after it until you are able to collect it one day. Will you? I wonder. It was a marvellous gift, thank you. I shall always love the songs of Billie Holiday, and whenever I hear her sing, for the rest of my life, it will remind me of you, and the time we spent together. It was a marvellous time, my dear.
Yours always and forever in hope,
Dorothea
Jan posted his reply to Dorothea. As he heard it flutter down into the pillar box, so his heart and his hope sank ever further. His life settled back down into its pre-Dorothea state, a state he could only think of now as oblivion.
This woman had soared so high in his imagination. Leaning his head on the cold, hard pillar box, he closed his eyes, for a second … two … three … four … five.
But no. He could do this. He began a slow walk back to the squadron car. It was time to get back.
Everything ached, everything was cold.
34
Dear Helen, How’s it going at uni? I kind of wish I’d gone too now, things are a bit boring around here since you left. I went to the wedding of the year, and I have a report for you, as promised.
It went well, I suppose. Arlene looked a fright in her frock, of course. And Craig looked, well, like Craig, the big-headed arse. Arlene’s mother was totally blotto and cried loudly all through the ceremony, and she got even more pissed up in the evening. Darren looked daggers at Craig the whole time, I thought there would be a scrap once the booze started to flow, but he managed to control himself. Don’t know what he ever saw in Arlene anyway. I think he had a narrow escape, don’t you? She picked the wrong brother to marry, that’s for sure. But hey, they deserve each other, I reckon. The disco was shitty, as you’d expect, and the first dance an embarrassment, I thought. But hey, that’s weddings for you!
How’s it going with you?
See you in the holidays, I suppose. Missing you,
Vanessa
(Letter found inside a book club edition of Maeve Binchy’s Circle of Friends. A fair copy, priced at £2.50 and placed on the hardback fiction shelves.)
I disembark from the train at Marylebone station and bustle through the ticket barriers with everyone else, caught up immediately in the hustle and haste of the city. I pop to the loo, and afterwards I stand and look around me, trying to spot my mother. I have a strong image of her in my head, though I know she must now look quite unlike the slender young woman she had been when I last saw her.
I sweat, a little. My heart beats faster than it normally does. But why? She is the one who should feel nervous, not me.
And then I see a woman, petite, wearing high heels to compensate and wearing them very well, moving serenely through the crowds, smiling at me. She stands before me.
‘Roberta.’
‘Anna?’
‘Yes. I could see you straight away. I knew it was you, I mean.’
We look at each other; I don’t know what to say next. I have her eyes. But she is elegant, and I am not. I am tall, a little clumsy, a little bumbling. She is compact, graceful, contained. And I, thankfully, am my father’s daughter.
> ‘Would you like to get a drink?’ she says.
I nod.
We find a table in the corner of the pub on the station, and she glides to the bar and returns with two glasses of wine. All the while, I can’t keep my eyes from her. She is hypnotic. She looks no more than ten years older than me. She is sensual in her movements, attractive and confident. Is this woman really my mother? I imagined her bitter and cruel, wizened, old. Not this. I am having problems recognising her, even though I know, I can tell, I can remember her. Her hair is glossy, an expensive shade of pale caramel brown – not at all mousy, like mine.
‘I feel I owe you an explanation, Roberta.’
‘Yes, please. I’d … like that.’
‘But first I want to know how you are, what your life is like.’
‘My life is good, usually.’
‘I’m sorry your father died. He was a good man.’
‘He can’t have been that great, surely, if you felt the need to walk out on him,’ I say, thrilled to have scored the first hit. She makes me feel like a child, which is not good.
‘We’ll come to that. I promise. But first, tell me about you. I have often wondered, so much.’
And I tell her, bit by bit, and she asks questions, and I answer them, and we have another glass of wine.
‘So,’ she says eventually, leaning back in her chair, fiddling with her wine glass. ‘Your boss, Philip. He sounds very nice.’
‘Yes, he’s great.’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘Jenna’s nice too – his girlfriend I told you about. They make a good couple, I think.’
‘Mm-hmm.’
I want to change the subject. My … Anna is looking at me with some sort of glint in her eye, and I don’t like it. What does she know about my life? About my friendship with Philip? Only what I’ve told her and, well, it’s nothing, really. And it’s not what I came here today to discuss, anyway. And how can she be so composed? I’m your fucking daughter, I want to shout. Or feel that I should want to shout. But I don’t really feel that. I know I’m a bit of a pushover at times, a bit naive, as Jenna said, but my mother is likeable. She is confident and poised, and I like having people like that around me. People like Philip.
‘Can I have that explanation now, please?’ I say, fiddling with my own wine glass. I feel slightly drunk.
She suggests lunch first, and yes, I am hungry, all of a sudden. She orders, pays and returns to our table. ‘I’ll begin at the beginning, shall I?’ she asks.
It sounds light-hearted, but really it isn’t. And perhaps, just perhaps, this is harder for her than it is for me.
‘All right, then. I was young when I met your dad. Just twenty, and already married, can you believe that? My husband was a brute. A rough man, a bully, he left me scarred in many ways. Your dad was the opposite, so kind and gentle, much older than me. He was already an architect then, getting his career off the ground, and quite lonely, I always felt. I had an affair with him and he encouraged me to leave my husband. It caused something of a scandal in my family. They seemed to think that Simon – my first husband – was this great guy, a good catch for me. Nobody could see, or they refused to see, what he truly was. I fell out with my family, and moved in with your father, and fell pregnant with you. I divorced my first husband, and John and I were married just before you were born. And you know, your grandmother, Dorothea, was never anything but kind and accepting of me, the situation, all of it. I’ll always remember that.’
‘So what went wrong?’ I ask, so quietly I’m surprised she hears me.
‘I went wrong, Roberta.’
‘What does that mean?
‘I shouldn’t have married your father. I shouldn’t have had a child. I’m not a natural mother, Roberta.’
‘Again, what does that mean?’ My voice is angrier than I intended.
We sit in silence for a few moments. I eat my salad, finish my wine and look around the pub, which is louder now, busier. I notice it is gaudy with tinsel and fairy lights. Everybody looks inordinately happy.
‘What I mean is, I’m not mother material. I couldn’t stand it. I loved you. But that was all. I couldn’t bear looking after you all day … the boredom … no stimulation … being at home all day. I know it sounds horribly, horribly selfish.’
‘If you hated it so much, why did you have me? You could have got rid of me.’
‘I’m so very glad I didn’t.’
We talk on.
She thinks I did the right thing to terminate my pregnancy at university. But she thinks I’ll be a good mother one day. She says to have one child, maybe two, but not to subsume myself. Be me. Do things I want to do. Get babysitters. Get help. Be an interesting woman for my children to live with. I must inspire them.
‘I let you down,’ she says. ‘As your mother.’
‘Actually, the letting down part was when you left. I didn’t want you to go. I don’t know how you did it. You must be very … hard.’
‘I am hard.’
‘Well, it’s not a good way to be. Dad was a nice man, you said so yourself. What did he do wrong?’ My voice is wobbling and warbling, and the pain in my throat is proving too much as I fight tears.
‘Shall we get coffee?’ she says, putting her hand on my arm.
It’s good to see there is still a spark of wisdom in my mother.
And later, after the tears, after a second coffee, I show Anna the letter from Jan to Dorothea. She reads it once, then a second time, frowning a little.
‘What do you know about them?’ I ask. ‘If anything?’
‘A little. I think I told you that Dorothea confided in me once, many years ago, when I was expecting you. We had a little talk. I remember she lent me a dear little old suitcase full of beautiful baby clothes.’
‘Really? Did you know Babunia changed her name to Dorothea Pietrykowski?’ I say. ‘She was really Dorothy Sinclair. The woman at her care home is adamant that my grandparents weren’t married.’
‘I think she’s right. I think your babunia – God, I’d forgotten that name! – I think she had a love affair. I always assumed John was the result of that. Sinclair, you say? That rings a bell for some reason.’
‘It’s written on a label inside the suitcase, I think it must be the same one. I have it now.’
‘Yes! You’re right! I thought nothing of it at the time.’
I carefully fold up Jan’s letter and put it back in my handbag alongside the unopened letter from Philip that I carry with me too. I should – I must – open it. Soon. I must face the music.
‘I have to go now,’ I say. ‘My train … Do you know when he died? My grandfather? Did she ever …?’
Anna shakes her head. She glances at her watch. ‘No, I don’t know. I think during the war but, well, perhaps not when she liked to claim. When did you last see Dorothea?’ Anna stands and puts on her pretty coat.
‘Last week. I try to talk to her but she’s pretty confused most of the time. She keeps calling me Nina.’
‘Nina?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there a Nina in the family?’
‘No, I don’t think so. There is no family other than Babunia and me. You should know that.’
‘Of course. She must have been a friend, then. Maybe you look like her. We all have that confusion to look forward to.’ She grimaces.
Anna leaves the pub with me. She’s going home on the Tube. I realise I know nothing about her life now, the ‘people in my life’ she referred to.
‘Perhaps we could meet again, another time?’ I ask.
‘Yes. I would like that. In the New Year? Merry Christmas, Roberta. It’s been wonderful to meet you.’
I stand and watch her disappear down into the Tube, before heading for my own train home.
35
Mrs D. Sinclair
(Inscription inside my suitcase)
When I get home from my trip to London, I retrieve the suitcase from the top of the wardrobe. I use it now to house out-of-seaso
n clothing, so it’s stuffed with summer tops, shirts, shorts, sunglasses, a floppy floral sunhat, a swimming costume I stubbornly hang on to even though I wore it only once and it’s at least one size too small. I take out the summer gear and toss it all on to the bed. Suzanne was right, I think. Babunia must have been married, and my grandfather must have been her lover. I have never seen any marriage certificates, any decrees for divorce or any death certificates. Only the deed poll showing her change of name. No wonder she was so sympathetic towards beautiful, twenty-year-old Anna. I look closely now at the label and, yes, it does look like my grandmother’s handwriting – a younger, larger, bolder, firmer version of it. I wonder that I didn’t notice on the day Dad gave me the suitcase.
I have so many questions and I cannot articulate them all. Why did she call herself Pietrykowski? To hide her shame? I do know that many a woman has done that – women not actually married to the man they call ‘husband’ – to save embarrassment, to throw nosy neighbours, colleagues, friends, perhaps even family, off the scent. Did she marry my grandfather at a later date? If she did, why didn’t Dad remember him? Did this Sinclair, her actual husband, die in the war? Was he really my grandfather? And, finally then, it’s an unavoidable question … who am I? I am called Pietrykowski, but am I really a Pietrykowski?
I notice the name label is peeling off, so I carefully press it back into place, smoothing it down, holding it firmly until the glue takes. I trace over the letters, lingering over them with my index finger, letter by letter.
A week before Christmas, and we’re throwing a party for our customers. Philip’s idea – uncharacteristic, but something he seems excited about. Jenna’s gregarious nature must be rubbing off on him, I suggest to Sophie. She shrugs. Upstairs in Philip’s flat, Jenna and Patricia are preparing trays of mince pies, bottles of champagne, orange juice, mulled wine, coffee. Nibbles and cheeses. The till will remain open until late into the evening, of course, and I think Philip hopes the whole soirée will generate sales. We could do with them, he says. But he says this every year, and we’re still here.
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