by Annie Murray
As the sound of footsteps advanced up the stairs Katie quickly shut the door. When it was clear that the three of them were inside the room below, she took Michael’s hand and led him speedily downstairs and out into the sunshine, wondering who the prospective new lodgers might be.
Sometimes she found the weekends hung heavy and she felt lonely. She loved Michael with a passion, he was her everything, but even so, the hours spent in just the company of a four-year-old could seem very long. Last weekend she had been to see the Millers. She didn’t like to call on Maudie at the weekend when her husband was at home as it felt like an intrusion, so she made the best of it, spending a bit of time with Sybil and sometimes chatting to other young mothers in the park.
She had bought Michael a little blow-up ball with bright-coloured stripes around it and they played catch, Katie waiting patiently for his clumsy catches and throws. Then they kicked it to each other for a bit. Another little boy came and joined in and Katie exchanged a few words with his mother, a blonde woman with a rounded figure and friendly manner.
‘Nice to see some sun, isn’t it?’ the woman said, eyeing Katie’s summer dress enviously. ‘That’s nice – did you make it yourself?’
The dress was fitting at the top, with a fuller skirt, in a narrow navy-and-white stripe.
‘I did, as a matter of fact,’ Katie laughed, as to her the dress seemed drab now. ‘But a long time ago – before the war. It’s quite faded.’
‘Well, it looks very nice on you,’ the woman said wistfully. ‘You’ve kept your figure, haven’t you? Oh, I wish I could sew. I’m like a bull in a china shop with a needle.’
The two lads were getting along quite nicely and their mothers passed the time for a while, sitting on a bench nearby and drinking in the sun. An ice-cream barrow came into the park and Katie and her new acquaintance bought wafer sandwiches for themselves and their boys. The ice cream, still always made from substitutes like evaporated milk, tasted a bit odd. But it was better than nothing.
‘I have to come out with Peter to get him out of my husband’s hair,’ the woman confided. ‘He says he has enough going on in the week without having his Sunday disrupted. He likes to sit and read the paper after his dinner – and of course Saturday’s his cricket, in the summer anyway.’ Without actually complaining, she sounded wistful. ‘What about your husband? Is he having a sit-down as well?’
‘Actually I’m a widow,’ Katie said. It was her story, for most people.
The woman’s good-natured face creased in sympathy. ‘Oh, I am sorry. And there’s me having a little moan . . . Was it the war?’
Katie nodded, feeling guilty. ‘Yes – at Arnhem.’
‘Oh, and your poor little lad as well. Well, I do hope you meet someone else – I’m sure you will.’
‘Oh no, I doubt it,’ Katie said. Her voice came out bitter. ‘I don’t want to – we’re all right as we are.’
‘Well, I think you’re very brave,’ the woman told her.
When they had said their goodbyes and ambled back home, Sybil was just coming in from the vegetable patch in her wide-brimmed hat, secateurs in hand and Archie at her heels. She met Katie in the hall.
‘Ah, hello, dear – I’m just battling the brambles. Did you hear our callers earlier? I’ve got replacements for the room. Two Poles – not long demobbed. About time too, one might add. Still in uniform, after all this time . . .’
‘Poles?’ Katie said, alarmed. So that explained the strange accents!
‘Yes – two chaps. They seem pleasant fellows. They’re coming tomorrow.’ She was drifting through to the kitchen. ‘Actually one of them is waiting to meet his sister, so his friend is bunking up with him until she arrives.’ She vanished out to the back.
Katie led Michael upstairs, suddenly feeling cross and out of sorts. She wasn’t pleased to hear about the new lodgers. Somehow her safe little haven here felt threatened and she found herself wishing that Sybil was a bit more choosy about who she allowed to live in her house! Nervously she remembered the sound of the deep, ringing voice she had heard rising from the hall. All she had heard about Polish servicemen was quite contradictory – that they were rude and rough on the one hand and terrible womanizers and that, on the other, they were charmers who were forever kissing women’s hands.
Well, I’ve had enough of male charm to last a lifetime, she thought sniffily, going into her room. But she did have to remind herself that if Sybil hadn’t been so open-minded about her lodgers, she wouldn’t be here, either.
By the time she came in from work the next day they had moved in. Creeping upstairs, she could hear muffled voices and the sound of something being scraped across the floorboards. Katie rolled her eyes. It seemed too soon, their arrival. She hadn’t had time to get used to it yet. Archie kept letting out little woofs downstairs as well, not sure about all these strange new noises.
‘Sybil’s gone and rented out the middle room to a couple of Poles – soldiers,’ she complained to Maudie, interested to test her reaction.
‘Really?’ Maudie was jiggling her third child, a little blonde girl called Elizabeth, now a year old, on her hip. ‘Well, that’ll be interesting. John says the Poles were marvellous in the forces, the ones he came across.’
Sybil had evidently explained to them about the communal eating arrangements and, as soon as the mellow sound of the gong rang out at six-fifteen, there was an almost instant thudding of feet down the stairs.
They must still be wearing army boots, by the sound of them, Katie thought. What a racket!
She had decided that Michael should eat with them tonight, instead of having his tea earlier. Somehow having him beside her made her feel less of the shyness that suddenly came over her, in the face of these foreign newcomers.
Mr Jenkins followed her down.
‘Have you met them?’ he mumbled to her in the hall. He seemed ill at ease.
Katie had a sudden feeling that the men they were about to meet were likely to be altogether more full-blooded and vigorous than Mr Jenkins. However, he did seem to be walking out with someone at last – a girl called Dolly, whom they hadn’t yet met.
‘No, not yet.’ His shifty nervousness made her feel impatience of her own. ‘But now’s our chance.’
In the dining room Katie found two men standing rather formally to one side of the table. Her first impression was of the difference in their sizes, one very tall and lean, with prominent cheekbones, the other short and stocky, looking as if he was made of pure muscle. Both had hair of varying shades of brown – the taller one’s a slightly lighter shade than his more ursine companion, whose hair was a thick brush covering his head, and his eyebrows equally bushy. She could not have begun to guess their ages.
‘Ah,’ Sybil said, limping to the table with a pot of something that smelt discouragingly fishy.
The tall Pole immediately held out his arms saying, ‘Please – I help.’ As his face caught the light, Katie saw that he had vivid, ice-blue eyes.
‘No, it’s all right – I’m there now.’ She put the pot on the table with a grunt and laid the towel she had used to carry it over the back of a chair. ‘Here we are. Now you can all be introduced.’ She turned to Katie and Geoff Jenkins. ‘These are our new lodgers. This is’ – she indicated the taller one – ‘Marek. I don’t think we’ll go into surnames for the present.’ Marek gave a faint smile and a rather military nod of the head. Katie thought he looked rather forbidding, and that beneath his formal manners there was a sadness about him. ‘And this’ – indicating his shorter friend – ‘is Piotr. Is that right?’
The man gave a broad smile and nodded very agreeably. ‘Piotr – yes, that is me.’
‘I imagine that means Peter, to us,’ Sybil said. ‘Now – this is Mrs O’Neill. Katie O’Neill, and little Michael.’ Marek, who was standing further away, again gave his nod of acknowledgement and Katie could only think to nod back. Piotr seemed on the point of stepping forward and taking her hand, but she saw him restrain himself.<
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‘Hello,’ he said, smiling again. ‘Hello, little Michael. He is lovely boy.’
‘Hello,’ Michael said. Katie had her usual feeling of pride, seeing her son’s lovely blue-eyed face turned up to them so trustingly. She was glad she had brought him down for tea.
Sybil introduced Geoff Jenkins, who said a rather shy hello, and then they all sat down. Katie was at one end, seated between Michael and Geoff Jenkins and facing Sybil, who had the two newcomers on either side.
‘Now,’ Sybil took the lid off the pot and the fishy smell increased. Michael wrinkled his nose and Katie gave his hand a warning squeeze. Sybil did not take kindly to fussiness over food. ‘This is a recipe of my own invention . . .’ Katie saw the two Poles making a visible effort to keep pace with Sybil’s English. ‘The meat ration has been cut almost to nothing because of the dock strike, so I thought, there’s nothing for it: I had two tins of snoek – fish,’ she explained unnecessarily as, by the smell, it couldn’t be anything else.
She served each of them a helping of a mushy fish-and-tomato mixture, which had a few other bits of stray vegetable in it – carrot and a good deal of onion and cabbage. They ate it with potatoes, and when Katie tasted it she realized it did at least taste a bit better than it smelled.
Sybil did most of the talking, asking the Poles questions, which they struggled slowly to answer while the others listened, and Katie quietly goaded Michael to eat some of the food.
‘So,’ Sybil spoke slowly and with care, ‘where have you come from?’
‘We?’ Piotr was the one who seemed most eager to answer. He had a naturally smiling face and dark-brown eyes. ‘We are come from . . . Black . . . Shaw – yes Blackshaw Moor . . .’
‘Where is that?’ Sybil asked, before a forkful of boiled potato.
‘Where is . . . ?’ Piotr glanced uncertainly at his companion, whose sculpted face was working, chewing on the fish stew.
‘Blackshaw Moor – in Staffordshire,’ he said, a little more fluently. Katie was already warming much more to Piotr, of the two of them, as he seemed more relaxed and amiable. ‘It was army camp,’ Piotr said.
‘Yes, of course – but where were you before that?’
Piotr looked to his friend for help.
‘We come . . . We came from Austria, and Italy,’ Marek said.
‘Ah – Cassino . . .’
‘Yes,’ they both agreed. ‘Monte Cassino, yes.’
‘And before that – before you were in Italy?’
For a moment they looked helplessly at each other as if overcome by the enormity of the question. Eventually Piotr shrugged, holding his fork, and said, ‘Everywhere, we have been. Before that – Polska, Poland, our homeland.’
‘I see, yes, of course,’ Sybil said. She had the sense not to push her questioning too far.
Piotr suddenly looked down the table at Michael and grinned. ‘Hey – little Michael! You like it? It’s good?’ He pointed at the food, grinning and nodding.
‘Yes,’ Michael fibbed, nodding back, unable to resist all this good humour. He had barely touched the snoek and was eating only the potato.
‘And you say your sister is coming?’ Sybil asked Marek.
For the first time Katie saw his rather mournful face lift and become more animated. He put his fork down and turned to Sybil.
‘Yes, I think this month. She is coming from Africa – I hear through the Red Cross that she is there. She will come, but first, before she will be coming to this house, she goes to camp . . .’
‘Ah, I see,’ Sybil nodded. ‘To acclimatize – I mean, get used to this country . . .’
The two of them were nodding solemnly.
‘She learn English,’ Piotr added.
‘And how old is your sister?’
Marek considered, head on one side. ‘Now – she will be twenty yearses old.’
‘I see.’ Gently Sybil asked, ‘When did you last see her?’
‘Er – I see her four years ago.’
Katie saw the solemn look on Sybil’s face. She felt the years of the war open out a fraction in her understanding. All of them had been so taken up with their own concerns, their families, the bombing and shortages and, in her case, Simon Collinge and all that had happened to her, that the newspaper headlines and Pathé newsreels had so often felt distant and hardly real. She realized she had only the barest idea of whatever turmoil had taken place across the great span of Europe and beyond.
Very gently Sybil asked him, ‘You are from a large family?’
Marek looked down for a second as if counting, then raised his head. In a flat voice he said, ‘We were seven. Now, I think, we are but two.’
Katie felt the words sink into her.
‘And you?’ Sybil asked Piotr.
He shrugged. ‘My family is six people then. Now – I do not know.’
This led to a silence, filled with questions that it did not seem possible to ask. Then Marek broke it, gazing longingly across the room.
‘You have a piano,’ he said.
‘Oh yes!’ Sybil looked pleased. ‘Why – do you play?’
‘Yes,’ he said in his serious way. ‘In my home, I play piano. I have not played since . . . For a long time.’
Well,’ Sybil invited. ‘You must feel free to play. I don’t think one ever forgets completely. I should love to have a pianist in the house.’
‘Thank you – I will try,’ Marek said. His smile lit up his face.
VIII
EM
Forty-One
Summer 1948
‘Tara, Mr Perry – see you on Tuesday!’
The forced smile faded from Em’s face as she hurried away from work after her Saturday half-day. Her head was throbbing and she felt weary and a bit queasy. When the sick feeling started, it had given her a momentary jolt of excitement. Did that mean . . . ? Could she be . . . ? So often that had happened over these past two years, some small thing giving her hope. But no, of course there was no baby. Her monthly visitor had only just finished. She was just a bit tired, and churned up, that was all. If she took a couple of aspirin she’d feel better.
There might even be a few things left to buy in the shops before she went back to Norm’s mom’s. Even now she struggled to call the place ‘home’.
The long years of rationing had not improved anyone’s temper. The only thing derationed so far was bread, and everyone was worn out and fed up with it all. The war had been over for three years and nothing much seemed to have improved! She knew Edna Stapleton would have done the main food shop, but she wanted to get Robbie his sweets, and Edna had asked her to go to a particular shop for eggs.
There was no luck with the eggs, but she managed to get Robbie’s sweet ration, then headed back, feeling weary and irritable. Turning into Reginald Road in Saltley, she met with a sight that did nothing to improve her temper. Ahead of her along the road was Norm, dragging a sobbing Robbie by the hand.
Em tutted. Norm was supposed to have taken Robbie to the barber’s – early on before it got too crowded. He had obviously left it until the last moment and they were only just on their way back. And why was Robbie blarting? she asked herself crossly. God knew, Norm didn’t have to do much for him – couldn’t he even manage to keep the child happy for the short time that he did spend with him?
She reached the house just after them and was all ready to be snappy.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ she demanded, as they all crowded into the tiny hall. She could hear her mother-in-law somewhere at the back, calling, ‘Now, now – what’s all that noise and fuss about?’
She could see that Robbie had been to the barber’s and received a severe short back and sides. Then she caught sight of his ear.
‘He cut me!’ Robbie howled even harder for his mother’s benefit. ‘He cut me with the scissors and then put ’is stingy pencil on it and it hurt!’
‘Oh dear, let’s have a look.’ Ignoring Norm, on whom she still, rather unreasonably, blamed all the trouble,
Em squatted down and looked at Robbie’s smarting ear. The barber had nicked it and then tried to ease the damage with a styptic pencil, which tended to sting even more than the cut. ‘Ooh, that looks sore – never mind, we’ll see if we can find a plaster. And, look, I got your sweeties for you. You can have one before dinner, just as a treat.’
Robbie brightened up no end at the sight of a pineapple chunk. Em stood up as Norm disappeared out to the back.
‘I s’pose you’re off fishing this afternoon?’
Norm turned, half shamefaced. ‘For a bit. Me and Wal. Looks a good day for it.’
Most Saturdays now he was either out fishing with a mate or two or, in the winter season, playing football with the lads. There was a police team. It was something new that the army had given to him – that he had more need of male company. And, Em thought bitterly, to be away from her, from having to bring up a child. It felt a long time since they’d done anything together, just the two of them.
‘What’re you going to do?’ he asked.
Fat lot you care, she thought. ‘Well, I suppose I’ll be looking after Robbie – just for a change,’ she said sarcastically. Turning away, to go and fetch aspirin and a plaster, she said. ‘I’ll go to our mom’s.’
‘All right then,’ Norm said. As if trying to make things better, he followed her and pecked her on the side of the head, adding, ‘It’s nice for them to see him. See you later, love.’ And off he went with his rod and sandwiches.
Em’s mother-in-law, Edna Stapleton, was a kindly woman who had always made them welcome in her house. She had had a long and stable marriage, her husband Bill employed at Metro-Cammell ever since his working life had begun, and, having had only two sons, they had been reasonably comfortably off. Their terraced house was neat and always immaculate.
The housing shortage was so extreme, the queues for council properties to rent so long, that it was a good job she was so even-tempered, as they were all stuck with each other for the moment. Em was ashamed of the fact that, however kind her mother-in-law was, Edna Stapleton was also rather interfering and got royally on her nerves.
