by Lizzie Lane
It wasn’t Pamela she blamed for kicking her stomach, but her mother for spoiling the day.
Spasms of pain seared her stomach and she tasted blood on her lips. She closed her eyes and told herself she could do it.
Although Colin’s legs stood in their usual place in the corner of the bedroom and he could not follow her, Edna felt his presence as the small form slid out of her body and onto the floor.
Chapter Twelve
The kitchen was Janet’s favourite room at the house in Royal York Crescent. Daylight filtered down from street level and into the basement courtyard at the front. The rear door and windows looked out onto lawns, shrubs and groups of tea roses in circular beds. Pine cupboards with round, white china handles stretched from floor to ceiling. A large grey and white enamel stove sat next to a new and very fat fridge on one side of the room and there was a butler’s sink below the window on the other side. Red and black quarry tiles covered the floor on which sat a large pine table, scrubbed to near whiteness by Mrs Grey’s constant elbow grease.
Because it nestled below ground, had south facing windows, and had the benefit of Mrs Grey who insisted on baking her own bread, None of that sliced muck, the room was warm and always smelled good. This was where Janet had always felt safe and cosseted, like a fledgling bird in a cosy nest, but since Ivan’s arrival she’d avoided it entirely because he ate here rather than joining the family for dinner.
This evening she made an exception. Coley rissoles and mashed potato swimming in tomato soup had been the main choice for lunch at work that day. For once her hunger overrode her determination to avoid their Polish lodger, the unwelcome cuckoo in her nest.
Visions of thick slices of homemade bread liberally spread with butter and plum jam lured her across the hall and down the stairs. Smells of something peppery cooking wafted upwards even before she’d opened the door. Not one of Mrs Grey’s usual delicacies, she thought, but perhaps something foreign cooked at Ivan’s request.
Hesitating, she considered her options. Should she control her appetite, retreat and wait for dinner, or follow the dictates of her stomach and barge in?
‘You’re scum! Running scared from the truth!’
Her brother’s voice! He was home unexpectedly from Cambridge again.
The door banged against the wall as she flung it open.
What was this? Geoffrey and Ivan, facing each other, hands flat on the table, stiffly menacing like two bulls about to lock horns.
‘You do not know what you are talking about!’ Ivan growled the words, like a dog just about to sink its teeth into unprotected flesh.
Unmoved, Geoffrey glared at him. ‘Workers of the world unite! That is the creed at the centre of the Communist doctrine. Fairness and equality for all, the dispersal of wealth in fair proportion. That,’ he said, slamming his fist onto the table so that the cups and saucers rattled, ‘is what it is all about!’
With a courage born of necessity, Janet dashed for the stove and turned off the gas beneath the bubbling saucepan. ‘Burnt offerings is what it’s going to be about shortly.’
A treacherous rumble sounded in her stomach in response to the spicy, just slightly burning smell wafting up at her.
Geoffrey and Ivan did not budge. Ivan said, ‘You are an ignorant fool if you really believe that the Soviet Union is not an empire and a greedy giant gobbling up all the small countries around its borders. Thieves, rapists, murderers!’
Janet had never seen such an acrimonious expression on her brother’s face. His eyes were bulging with angry hatred and his lips were pulled back in a menacing leer so that he too looked as if he were going to bite. His voice was as surly as his looks. ‘I’ve been warned about your sort – typical of the fascist pigs that fled Poland when—’
Ivan leapt on him. His hands were around Geoffrey’s throat as they both crashed to the floor. Ivan was on top, Geoffrey flattened beneath him, his face slowly turning puce.
‘No! No! No!’ Janet shrieked like a street girl as she rained blows upon Ivan’s back.
‘Let him go! Let him go, you dirty Pole!’ Ivan loosed his hands, and tried to turn, to get up and escape the rain of angry blows, but couldn’t quite make it.
Geoffrey coughed and, as Ivan got to his feet, now gripping Janet’s wrists, managed to sit up.
Janet’s sudden courage left her. Ivan was too close, too frightening. He was foreign and, although she would never have held that against anyone in the past, she couldn’t help doing so now. ‘Let go of me!’ She struggled and got her wrists out of his grasp. ‘Look what you’ve done,’ she shouted as she helped Geoffrey to his feet. Just as she did so, the kitchen door opened. Tall and elegant in a soft wool dress that was blue in a certain light, but green in others, her mother stood there and, for once, Charlotte’s expression was less than serene.
Silently but emphatically, she looked at each of them in turn. ‘Is anyone going to explain?’
Janet couldn’t stop herself. ‘It was his fault!’ She pointed her finger at Ivan. ‘He almost strangled my brother.’
Charlotte raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Your brother? I haven’t heard you call him that for years. And as for strangling him …’ She grinned sardonically. ‘There have been times just lately when the idea has occurred to both me and your father.’
With an undeniable sense of purpose, she pulled a chair out from under the table and sat down. ‘Right,’ she said, her gaze raking over each of them. ‘Who is going to explain why Bedlam erupted in my kitchen?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ivan, clicked his heels and bowed his head. Janet presumed he was going to relate exactly what had happened. She couldn’t have been more wrong. ‘I cannot talk about it. Do excuse me.’ He didn’t wait for Charlotte’s reply, but marched smartly out of the room.
Geoffrey slammed himself down on a chair. ‘Bloody rude!’ he said as he rubbed at the redness of his neck. ‘Typical bloody foreigner!’
Grim-faced, Charlotte got up from the chair, slammed the kitchen door shut and leaned against it looking as if she meant business. ‘What is this about?’ She directed her question at Geoffrey.
Geoffrey adopted an air of disdainful indifference. ‘We were talking politics. We disagreed.’
‘Politics!’
Janet jumped. Geoffrey looked surprised. It wasn’t often that Charlotte shouted, but when she did she certainly commanded full attention.
‘Geoffrey, you may talk all the politics you wish at university. You may argue at great length with those with as much experience of the world at large as you, but you do not argue such matters in this house. It is obvious from Ivan’s reaction that you said something to upset him.’
Geoffrey was noticeably indolent. ‘I called him a fascist.’ His mother stared at him in disbelief.
‘Ivan attacked him,’ Janet interjected, for once taking her brother’s side, an infrequent occurrence at the best of times. Charlotte’s eyes glittered with anger as she looked from son to daughter then back to Geoffrey. ‘I’m not surprised. Do you have any idea of what Ivan and his family suffered during the forties?’
Geoffrey opened his mouth to say something, then, seeing his mother’s steely gaze, changed his mind.
Charlotte went on, ‘Ivan’s family suffered as much under the victors of that war as they did at the hands of the vanquished. But that’s beside the point. I will not have a guest in this house – any guest – assailed by ill-conceived arguments offered by persons of minimal experience. Do I make myself clear?’
Janet had never seen her mother looking so fierce, so ready to defend one of her ‘projects’ against her own family.
Charlotte repeated the question – louder this time. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
Geoffrey was jolted into agreeing, begrudgingly.
Janet’s stomach chose that moment to rumble. Charlotte turned to her. ‘Judging by that noise, I take it you were coming into the kitchen for another reason.’
‘Yes. I was hungry.’
> ‘Fine. But you, Geoffrey, may leave the kitchen.’
She opened the door wide. Smothered in hurt pride, he got up from the chair, raised his eyebrows briefly in Janet’s direction as if to say, Oh well, better humour the old girl, then left.
Charlotte, her expression bereft of its usual serenity, then said to Janet, ‘Although you were not involved in this shameful display, I have noticed that you are not as friendly towards Ivan as you should be. Is there any particular reason for this?’
A shiver accompanied another stomach rumble as Janet fought to make the right decision. Should she tell her mother about the man who had pounced on her from out of the shadows? Should she tell her about the way he smelled, the way he spoke – and what he did to her?
No. No. She could not. Her mother made a career helping people rebuild their lives. How much more sympathy and assistance would she heap onto a member of her own family? Janet would be swamped with affection and not necessarily in the way she wanted. The look of knowing would never disappear from her mother’s eyes. She couldn’t live with it.
‘I can’t help it,’ she blurted.
Her mother eyed her speculatively as though it couldn’t possibly be the truth. Then the moment passed. Charlotte sighed. ‘Well, do your best, Janet. Ivan has a lot of healing to do. We must help him as much as we can.’
After her mother had gone, Janet stood looking out of the window on the garden side of the kitchen. The leaves were turning gold and heavy-headed dahlias flopped forward despite the string and bamboo canes meant to keep them in place. Summer was coming to a close and she was glad. The sooner this year was over and a new one started, the happier she would be. It would be like, she thought, turning to the next chapter of a book, starting a fresh, clean page as yet unread and unsullied by events. But then, she thought, the events in preceding chapters always have a bearing on the present one.
Another hungry rumble came from her stomach. Although her initial yearning had been for bread and cheese, the spicy contents of the saucepan drew her close. Steam rose from the meat and vegetables still hot despite the gas having been turned off. She tentatively dipped her finger into the mixture, brought it to her mouth and sucked on it. The taste was alien, but wonderful; a mix of many spices. She fetched a bowl down from the cupboard, a spoon from a drawer and carved a hunk of sweet-smelling bread from a new loaf. The contents of the saucepan made a satisfying sound as they plopped into the bowl. After sitting down, she spread butter onto the bread and eagerly ate the bowl’s contents. Goodness, what had possessed Mrs Grey to cook such a delight? she thought.
After using the bread to sop up the last vestiges of the feast, she sat satisfied, her arm curved across her stomach. Full and contented, she contemplated whether to make herself a cup of tea straight away or investigate the possibility of pudding. There was bound to be a custard tart in the larder, perhaps a cold rice pudding, thick enough to slice in squares, or a piece of Dundee cake.
A need for anything vanished as Ivan came back. He was dressed in a clean white shirt and dark trousers. The top buttons of the shirt were undone exposing a few inches of gleaming, hairless chest. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and not because they’re frayed, she thought. Faint stripes of dubious colour ran through the fabric. She was positive she’d seen it before and eventually remembered where she’d seen it. Ivan, she decided, was wearing one of Colin’s cast-offs.
Mindful of her mother’s instructions, she resolved to be polite, but not too friendly. Why should she?
‘I think Mrs Grey’s left you something on the stove,’ she said matter of factly. She took her dish and spoon to the sink and avoided looking at him.
‘No, she has not! I left myself something to eat. I cooked it. Myself?’
Two bottles of what looked to be brown ale thudded onto the table.
‘You have eaten my food!’ Ivan strode to the stove. His presence, like his voice, seemed to fill the room.
One part of Janet wanted to flee. The other half was defiant and would not be intimidated. She would stand her ground. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was yours.’
‘Never mind.’
He took a large plate from the rack above the gas rings and transferred the remaining contents of the saucepan onto it, cut bread and fetched a spoon – a tablespoon – much too large to eat it with. But eat he did, sitting at the table, shovelling the food into his mouth as quickly and as messily as possible, swigging from the opened bottle between mouthfuls, and all the time his eyes not leaving Janet’s face.
Her stomach rumbled in revulsion, partly due to his actions and partly because unknowingly she’d eaten something cooked by a man she couldn’t help regarding as an enemy. The urge to comment was too overpowering to ignore.
‘You’re disgusting!’
Another spoonful of food went into his mouth. His eyes stayed fixed on her face. ‘So as well as being a dirty Pole, I am now disgusting? Is this because I am foreign?’
Janet could not control her anger. After all this man had almost strangled her brother a moment ago. The fact that Geoffrey might have deserved it was beside the point.
‘Yes! Yes! Yes! Because of all those things,’ she hissed through clenched teeth, mindful of not disturbing her mother for a second time that evening. ‘Because of all those things! Because of everything!’
He shook his head and smiled. It was like torture. Torture! It was plain torture to have him here. He spooned the last morsel of food into his mouth. ‘What is “everything”?’
She wanted to look away, but didn’t want to retreat. She stared fixedly into his face. At last she said, ‘I don’t like upsets in my life.’
Ivan sprang to his feet, rested his hands on the table and leaned forward. His jaw continued to grind at his food. Fine features were just inches from her face, but she did not flinch or turn away.
‘Ah!’ he said with an air of sudden understanding.
He sat back down. His features softened, but the intensity of his eyes held her, kept her immobile, determined to be brave, determined not to run away.
‘Men,’ he said with a resolute nod. ‘You are afraid of men. One man above all others must have hurt you very much indeed. Yet it could not have been me. I have only met you one time before and I did not hurt you.’
She knew it! They’d met before!
‘Where?’ she asked, her voice trembling with emotion. ‘Where did we meet?’
He smiled and shook his head. ‘I leave you to remember. You will, when you are ready.’
There was something about his voice, the fact that he sounded like Charles Boyer with a very excellent foreign accent, the fact that it had softened, did not threaten. And yet she could not stay in the same room with him. He’d admitted they had met before. She too felt they had met before, but whereas he appeared to remember exactly where and when, she did not and that fact in itself frightened her.
There was something decadent about lying in bed with the sun streaming through the gap down the middle of the curtains. Sounds of a family preparing for the day ahead drifted up the stairs.
Susan sounded as though she’d taken charge of Peter. ‘This is your satchel,’ Edna could hear her saying. Peter was answering with a series of ‘Neighs’ as if in receipt of a nosebag full of oats rather than a tan leather satchel in which resided a plastic pencil case, school books and a collection of last year’s conkers.
Things seemed little changed. Was it possible they were managing without her?
Unable to resist finding out, Edna eased herself out of bed and placed her feet on the floor. Gradually she raised herself and took tentative steps to the bedroom door. Gripping the door handle to give herself support, she listened, aching to be part of a normal morning, but mindful that Colin would not approve.
‘Now come along, Pammy. Just a mouthful.’ The tone of Colin’s voice made her smile.
A loud wail soared in protest.
‘Now come on …’
Colin had oodles of patience,
but she sensed by the sound of his voice it was running out.
There was a sudden clattering of crockery and cutlery hitting the floor. Pamela was not good in the mornings.
Edna smiled, turned and made her way back to bed. Things were fine enough for now, but it wouldn’t be long before they were missing her very sorely indeed.
Footsteps thundered up the stairs. She’d been expecting them.
Susan came in with the tray on which tea slopped from cup to saucer and a plate of buttered toast, which slid from one side to the other.
‘You have to eat it all up,’ said Susan as her mother took the tray from her.
‘I did the buttering,’ said Peter.
‘I can see that,’ said Edna with an amused smile as she eyed the thickly spread butter. She asked, ‘Have you brushed your teeth?’
They replied in unison. ‘Yes.’
‘Have you washed behind your ears?’
‘Yes, of course we have,’ said Susan, as though not to do so was too disgusting to contemplate. ‘Though he wasn’t keen,’ she added with a backwards glance at her younger brother.
She was sorry to hear the last goodbye and the door closing on her departing family. The day would be long despite the copies of Woman’s Realm and Titbits that were delivered on a weekly basis. Colin was taking Pamela to work with him. ‘Is that wise?’ she’d asked when he’d first told her. He’d shaken his head at her as he might an errant child. ‘Would it be wise if I left her here and you picked her up or ran down the garden after her?’
He was right. It wasn’t easy to keep a two-year-old occupied. Shame, she thought, that the television wasn’t on all day. Pamela loved it, especially Muffin the Mule, a gangly puppet whose strings were obvious to adults but, apparently, not to children.
Colin left the back door unlocked. ‘Charlotte’s popping in lunchtime, so she said.’
‘If Charlotte said so, that means she’ll be here,’ said Edna as she made herself comfortable and flicked at a copy of Woman’s Realm.
The district nurse came in at ten thirty to take her temperature and check that the bleeding had returned to normal.
