Aurek taught himself to whistle, to swim, to catch and skin rabbits. He can climb any tree. He can build a fire, kill snakes, and the stars are his compass. Nobody can touch him. He’s a child of the woods.
Bright with energy, Aurek whoops and hollers, slipping and falling and scrambling to his feet. A cock pheasant rises in front of him, a brilliant sheen of red and gold, and Aurek lifts his arms like wings, sure he can follow the bird in its ungainly flight towards the sky.
Behind him, his parents stand side by side; his father holding his hat in his hands, his mother with an armful of wild flowers. They seem lost. Like two people trying to remember the way home. But Aurek cannot stop to help them. He chases through the woods away from them, faster and faster. Further into the trees. He windmills his arms backwards trying to slow himself down, but his legs are too strong. Nothing can stop them. If he knew where he was going, he’d direct his runaway legs and get there. But he doesn’t. He only knows that he cannot stop running.
Janusz takes Aurek to school on Monday morning. Aurek says good morning to his teacher and lifts his cap just like Janusz has told him to.
‘Good lad,’ says Janusz. ‘Don’t get into any fights today, hey? You be a good boy and make some friends.’
‘Las?’
‘Speak English, Aurek. But yes, we can go to the woods again. You’ve only a week left at school and then you’ll be on holiday and we can do lots of things together.’
Aurek watches the enemy walking away. When he is gone, he follows the other children walking into class and at the last minute ducks round the side of the school and hides in the boys’ toilets, a pokey cold place where nobody will find him. He curls up against the brick wall, watching a spider web flap gently in a draught. It’s nice and quiet.
The door to the toilets bangs open and Aurek jumps.
A fat boy stares at him.
‘You’ll be for it if Mrs West finds you in here.’
He lumps down beside Aurek and offers him a wheel of liquorice.
‘Do you speak English?’
Aurek nods. He picked up English from the soldiers in the refugee camp before he and his mother took the boat. His knowledge of English swear words is comprehensive. He tries out a few and the boy laughs and slaps his leg.
‘Don’t let the teacher hear you talking like that. So what’s your name? I’m Peter.’
Aurek looks at him. He’s seen this boy before. In the pub. It’s the boy who fell down dead.
The liquorice tastes sweet. Aurek pushes it all into his mouth and chews, black spittle dribbling pleasantly down his chin.
The fat boy laughs. ‘My old man has a pet shop. We have loads of animals. I’ve got a dog that catches rabbits. He killed somebody’s cat once. A ginger tom. Ate it, guts and all, and then sicked it up over my grandma’s carpet. The fur changed colour when the dog sicked it up. It came out brown.’
‘Shouldn’t eat the guts,’ says Aurek. ‘They’re bad. That’s why your dog was sick.’
‘How do you know? Have you eaten cat?’
Aurek shrugs. ‘Maybe.’
‘What does it taste like?’
‘A bit like chicken.’
Peter’s eyes widen.
‘Do you want to bunk off school? We could go to the park and chase ducks round the lake.’
Aurek and Peter slip through the railings at the back of the school. They run through the streets, hiding behind cars and sidestepping into alleys until they reach the park.
The lake is at the bottom of a green hill. Aurek runs down the hill and skids out into the water. He stands knee-deep in it, his legs turning purple with cold.
‘Do you want to play war games?’ Peter asks. He picks up a stone and throws it at Aurek.
‘Kill the Nazis!’
Chop them down, thinks Aurek. He slices a hand through the air and steps out into the lake. Peter is laughing, throwing more stones at him. A stone hits him on the shoulder. Then another flies past his head and Aurek stumbles, wishing he had stones to throw. He steps back and his feet float as he searches for the ground beneath him. Slipping sideways, the lake claims him, the cold water grabbing at his heart, shrinking his lungs.
Everything feels heavy. He thrashes with his arms, face upwards, trying to swim, but he just keeps sinking. Then hands are pulling him to the surface and Aurek is gasping and coughing and his lungs are on fire. Peter is beside him, pulling on his shoulders so that they both tumble over and over as they crawl their way back to the edge.
‘Somebody threw a baby in the lake last year,’ says Peter.
They are under a tarpaulin in the boat shed by the lake. ‘Divers came and got it out. It was wrapped in weeds and the fish had eaten its fingers. It was covered in blood and its face was all mush.’
Aurek wraps the tarpaulin closer around himself. He’s not impressed with Peter’s stories. He could tell far worse ones. He wonders if Peter knows about rusalkas, the ghost women who live in lakes or hide in trees and pull men to their deaths.
‘I don’t reckon it’s time to go home yet,’ says Peter. ‘I can’t go too early. My old man would know something’s up. Have you got a mother?’
Aurek frowns. What kind of question is that?
‘My mum’s dead,’ says Peter. ‘She had a wasting disease. I’ll probably get it when I’m older. I’m weak. What did your dad do in the war?’
Aurek considers. He doesn’t know, and anyway, he is trying to work out how Peter lives without a mother.
‘My dad was a spy for British intelligence,’ says Peter. ‘He’s got medals and all. I lived with Gran and Grandad while he was away and I couldn’t tell anybody where he was. Everybody’s dad went away. Lizzie Crookshank’s died and her mum went mental. Lizzie’s in an orphanage and wets the bed every night. My gran says Lizzie’ll go mental too, one day. You don’t remember me, do you? You shot me. In the pub. I fell off my chair.’
‘I remember,’ says Aurek, but Peter isn’t listening. He’s holding his hand out like a gun, shooting off imaginery rounds into Aurek’s chest.
‘So,’ he says, when he’s shot Aurek for long enough. ‘Shall we go to your house, dumb boy?’
They run through the park, their faces shiny red with cold. Aurek’s throat is still burning and he has a headache, but he feels happy running alongside this other boy. Friend, he whispers to himself, trying out the word. That’s what the enemy said he should have. A friend.
Silvana is in the road looking for Aurek. When she went to pick him up from school today the teacher told her that he and another boy had played truant. Janusz will be furious when he finds out. And who is the other boy?
She sees Aurek coming up the hill and runs to meet him, hugging him to her, kissing him, the relief of finding him overshadowing her anxiety. He is safe. That’s all that matters.
The other boy is short and square. It surprises her to see such plumpness. It is rare to see a child that looks so well fed. Perhaps he is a farmer’s child. Doris says the Suffolk farmers are the only ones not to have suffered from rationing; that they fill themselves up on eggs and pies and home-cured hams and sausages. Yes, that’s it. He is a peasant’s child. A prosperous peasant’s son, and his family will be very angry when they find him here with Aurek.
‘Your teacher says you were not at school,’ Silvana tells Aurek. ‘She says she will get the police next time. The police!’ She shakes him by the shoulders. ‘Do you want them to take you away from me? And you bring another boy with you. What will his parents say? What will your father say? Come in and get out of those wet clothes and get by the fire. You look frozen. Go on. Hurry up.’
‘What did she say?’ Peter whispers to Aurek.
‘We have to go in.’
‘Yes,’ snaps Silvana. ‘Yes. In. Go!’
In the front parlour, Silvana undresses Aurek and asks the other boy his name.
‘Peter Benetoni.’
‘In Polish, you are called Piotr. But because you are a boy and not a man we say Piotrek.’ S
he pauses. He is not listening to her. He’s looking at Aurek as if they are sharing a private joke, laughing at her accent.
‘You too,’ she says to Peter, more sharply than she means to. ‘You take your clothes off. They are soaking wet.’
She hands him a towel and leaves the room, coming back with fresh clothes when she thinks enough time has elapsed for the fat, sniggering boy to undress and dry himself.
She is helping Aurek into his pullover when somebody knocks at the door.
‘If that’s my dad,’ says Peter, ‘he’s going to kill me.’
‘Nobody will kill you,’ says Silvana. ‘I will talk to him. Tell him you boys made a mistake.’
She stands in the hallway, the shape of a man darkening the coloured glass pane in the door. She ties her headscarf tight and opens the door, preparing words in her head. She will explain that the boys meant no harm.
‘Good afternoon,’ the man says, lifting his hat. ‘I am Peter’s father. Mr Benetoni.’
Silvana forgets her words. Something in the man’s smile makes her forget to speak. Everything about him, from his polished shoes to his trilby hat and even his thick head of hair, shines like something brand new. If the price labels were still attached to his clothes she wouldn’t be surprised at all.
She realizes she is staring like an idiot and looks quickly at the ground, as if she has dropped something. His shoes are brown leather lace-ups. Elegant shoes. They must be handmade. Her eyes take in the turn-ups of his sharply creased trousers. The man is the newest-looking thing she’s seen in years.
‘I’m Peter’s father,’ he says, extending his hand to her.
They shake hands and still she doesn’t look up because she’s blushing now. His hand is wide and fleshy and he encloses her own small fingers gently, the way you would hold a small bird.
‘He is here, isn’t he, Peter?’
‘Yes,’ she says, trying to pull herself together. ‘Yes, he is here.’
She invites him inside and he fills the hallway. He looks well fed like his son, a double chin framing a large-nosed face and bright, concerned eyes. He has dark curls that glisten with hair oil. This is not a peasant farmer. Not at all. Silvana looks at his broad chest and imagines him as an opera singer.
‘I’m very sorry, Mr Benetoni,’ she says. ‘Please do not be angry with the boys. Aurek is very sorry.’
‘Call me Tony,’ he says. He speaks slowly, his voice careful and steady. ‘I’m not angry. What does a day missed from school matter? Peter is often in trouble at school. He hasn’t had an easy life.’
And then he launches into his own story, which is not at all new. They stand in the hall with the door half open, and Silvana has not even asked him if he would like to take his coat off, and he is telling her about his wife who died.
‘I lost her just after Peter was born,’ he says, holding his hands out, splaying his thick fingers as if sand is spilling through them.
Silvana would like to stop him talking. She doesn’t need his sad stories. She has enough of her own, and anyway, the world is full of sad stories. But this man carries on as if he has come to the house explicitly to tell her, and she is drawn in by him. She can feel her head tipping to one side as she listens.
He is a foreigner too. Italian parents who came to Suffolk and worked in the cider orchards. He was born and brought up in England, and lost his mother when he was just a child. When he was old enough to leave school, his father moved to Kent but Tony stayed in Suffolk and married a local landowner’s daughter. Her parents were furious. She had married down.
‘Down?’ Silvana is not sure what this means.
‘Down. She was upper-class. They thought I wasn’t good enough for her. Once we had Peter, they changed their minds. They’ve been very good to me. And then, after the birth of Peter, my wife became ill and died.’
He tells her how, when Italy entered the war, he was interned, separated from his parents-in-law and his son and sent to prison, despite all the influence his father-in-law wielded in town.
‘Local politics,’ he said. ‘A lot of people profited from the war, and my father-in-law was on the wrong side of certain people at that time. He got me out eventually, but it took some time.’
Silvana struggles to keep up with his story; it is long and winding and involves different places – the Isle of Wight, a prison in Kent, other places in England she has never heard of – and the machinations of local councils and crooked government officials. She finally edges round Tony and shuts the front door. Then she finds she is stuck between him and the staircase. Peter opens the parlour door.
‘Hello, Dad.’
‘Peter, what are you wearing?’
‘I got wet. These are Eric’s clothes. He lent them to me.’
They are so obviously small for him that Silvana wants to apologize for making the boy look ridiculous. ‘Not Eric,’ she says. ‘Aurek.’
‘Well,’ says Tony. ‘We must make sure you give them back to him. Peter, what am I to do with you? Why are you getting other boys into trouble?’
‘Oh, no,’ says Silvana, climbing the stairs slightly to give herself a better vantage point to look at them all. ‘Don’t be angry with Peter. Aurek doesn’t like school either.’
‘He’s my friend,’ says Peter.
Silvana likes the boy suddenly. If he is a friend to Aurek then he is a friend to her. No matter that he is a child with no obvious graces.
‘I blame myself for his misbehaviour,’ says Tony. He addresses her as if they are alone. ‘I never liked school and I have always told Peter that. It’s my own mistake.’
Silvana suddenly remembers she has not offered him something to drink. Janusz would think this unforgivable. What should it be, tea or sherry?
‘But I must make you tea.’
She takes a hurried step down, misjudges the stair and swings into mid-air, falling forwards. Peter’s father catches her.
He has strong arms, this man. She can smell the lemony scent of him. Clean and soapy. What on earth is she thinking? His cheek shows a shadow of dark stubble. Dashing. She read that word on a cinema poster just the other day.
This man is dashing.
He carries on talking, setting her upright, ignoring her excuses and discomfort, as if women always fall into his arms, telling her how he breeds canaries and owns a pet shop.
Not an opera singer then.
‘No, it’s very kind of you but we mustn’t take up any more of your time,’ says Tony. ‘I must say, it has been a real pleasure to talk to you, Mrs …’
‘Please, my name is Silvana.’
‘Silvana. What a beautiful name. And I will make sure Peter brings back the clothes you’ve lent him.’
As Silvana and Aurek walk them to their car, Janusz appears, walking up the hill, back from work, a newspaper and his dictionary under his arm, his face grimed with oil and dirt.
‘This is my husband,’ she says, glad to see Janusz’s welcoming smile. She feels exhausted by Peter’s father and all his talk, exhausted by her own girlish reaction to him earlier. She wants her husband beside her. He knows how to talk to people. She has long ago lost the skill.
‘What a view you have up here,’ Tony says to Janusz after they shake hands. ‘I’ve always liked this terrace. I know a couple who live in the street, the Holborns?’
‘Doris and Gilbert? The Holborns are our neighbours,’ says Janusz. ‘Yes, we know them very well.’ He sounds proud. ‘Everybody keeps to themselves here, you know how it is. But the Holborns are very friendly.’
‘I should call in on them again. I haven’t seen Gilbert in ages. If you see them, say hello from me. Tell them if there’s anything they need they can give me a call.’
Janusz doesn’t get angry with Aurek that night. Nobody mentions the truancy. Instead Janusz says he is pleased Aurek has found a friend.
‘A black Wolseley? That’s a lovely car to own. I wouldn’t mind a car of my own. Hey, Aurek? That’s what we’ll get one day, and I can driv
e you out to the woods to play.’
Silvana remembers Janusz as a young man, always mad about cars. It reminds her of who they both once were. He hasn’t changed. She feels something move within her, as though someone has put his hand on her heart and squeezed it. It is love. Not just gratitude but real love.
‘You look different,’ he says.
‘Do I?’
‘Yes. There’s something about you today.’
She laughs, a womanly sound. She can feel a warmth inside her, as if the sun has been shining on her. Janusz puts his arms around her waist and kisses her. She closes her eyes and breathes in the scent of his skin. It takes her back to the riverbank where they met, to the dusty seats of their hometown’s cinema, where their hands touched in the dark.
Is it really possible that meeting Peter’s father, the man with a brand-new smile, has nudged the block of coldness wedged inside her for so long?
Poland
Silvana
Silvana walked away from the wreckage of the plane and sat down at a crossroads beside an abandoned, wooden handcart and a pile of spilled blankets. She sat there for a long, long time. The rain turned to sleet. She put on her fur coat and cradled her child inside it. He was crying lustily and the sound was something wonderful to her.
Someone stopped in front of her and she looked up. A woman stared down at her.
‘Go away,’ Silvana said. ‘Get away. Get away from my baby.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ the woman said briskly. ‘I don’t want your child. I want you to get up. You’re going to die sitting here in the cold.’
She was older than Silvana, and even in that terrible weather, wearing, as she was, a man’s overcoat and peasant boots, she had a worldliness about her, an aura of sophistication that made Silvana see her not as she was, with her ragged clothes and thin pale face, but as she could be, as she probably had been, a red-lipped pouting beauty with diamonds in her hair.
‘Come on,’ the woman said, frowning so that her pencil-thin eyebrows creased. ‘Get up off your arse and get moving.’
22 Britannia Road Page 10
