All the Days of Our Lives

by Annie Murray

  Katie struggled to imagine Agnieska’s journey. ‘Mombasa?’ she had asked. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know where it is.’

  ‘See on that shelf . . . ?’ Sybil pointed. ‘That’s it, below our Mr Tiger – there’s an old atlas. Your legs are younger than mine, dear.’ Katie fetched the atlas, and Sybil pushed some dishes out of the way to make room. They all gathered round. ‘There . . .’ She pointed with a soil-grimed fingernail to the east coast of Africa. ‘Mombasa.’

  Katie, bewildered in her ignorance of all this, became aware of Marek standing over her shoulder, his breath on her ear as he bent down to look.

  ‘Well, what was she doing in Africa?’ she asked, feeling foolish.

  ‘She was in another camp for displaced persons,’ Sybil said. ‘Some of the Poles have made journeys that you would hardly believe.’

  ‘Before – she was in India,’ Marek said. ‘Another camp. And before that . . .’ He pointed north and Sybil turned the pages to another map. ‘Arctic Circle. Soviet camp.’

  ‘And we, to start with, here . . .’ Piotr got up too, suddenly eager to join in. ‘Soviets come – they take many of our people, from here, in East Poland. Then we go to – where is? – ah yes, here – near to Sverdlovsk, in Russia. They want my father for working in steel works.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Geoff Jenkins said, looking at the map from the other side of the table. ‘That’s a long way.’

  Piotr flashed a glance at him, an angry one, Katie thought. She had had no idea of any of this. Was he angry with them for being so ignorant? Even now she hardly knew what questions to ask, or whether they wanted to be asked anything. They would say a little sometimes, then clam up.

  Most of the time the two of them were more concerned about the present. They were also full of questions about Birmingham, and English life. Their preparation in the camp had taught them about general aspects of life in Britain.

  ‘They tell us,’ Piotr said another night, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘not to kiss the hand of the women. That it is not good – that the women will be, er . . .’

  ‘Suspicious?’ Sybil chuckled.

  ‘Er, yes – suspicious!’ They all laughed.

  ‘Our men are a little more reserved,’ Sybil said, picking up the serving spoon. ‘Now, there’s one more potato – are we going to fight over it? Or cut it into five?’

  ‘I think give it to the men,’ Katie said.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Sybil said. ‘Into three then?’

  ‘No, no,’ Marek argued courteously. ‘The women must not be hungry. Into five!’

  The two Poles were curious about Geoff’s work, and asked Katie about herself, her job. Sometimes their questions were very blunt.

  ‘So, Katie,’ Piotr said at one of the first mealtimes. ‘Where is your husband? He is dead?’

  Katie avoided Sybil’s gaze and looked coolly back at him. She was not used to being asked things in such a way.

  ‘Yes. He was killed in the war. At Arnhem.’

  ‘He was a soldier?’

  ‘Yes.’ She could feel a guilty blush rising right up through her. She hoped they couldn’t see it. How awful it was to pretend, when they had truly lost so many loved ones.

  Everyone was watching her sympathetically.

  ‘Michael has never seen his father,’ she said. This at least was true.

  ‘Mr O’Neill,’ Piotr said.

  ‘Er – yes.’

  ‘That reminds me . . .’ Sybil seemed to come to her rescue. ‘Mrs O’Neill is a Catholic – I assume you are too?’

  ‘Catholic? Yes, of course,’ Marek said. He seemed to see Katie with new eyes. ‘You are Catholic?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You can show them where to go to Mass on Sunday, can’t you?’ Sybil suggested.

  Katie felt her heart sink, though she knew it was only because of shyness. It felt hard work being with them. But she could hardly refuse.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she agreed, and made herself smile.

  Forty-Eight

  ‘Are they coming with us?’ Michael asked, excited, as they waited in the hall before setting off on Sunday morning to an early Mass.

  ‘Yes – that’s nice, isn’t it?’ And it was, in a way, not to feel like the only exotic foreigner in the house because she was a Catholic. Katie knew a lot of people regarded the church as the ‘Italian mission to the Irish’.

  There were sounds of movement upstairs and soon the two of them came hurrying downstairs.

  ‘We are not too late?’ Piotr said.

  ‘No – we’ve got plenty of time.’

  Both of them looked appreciatively at her best Sunday dress, a neat navy shirt-waister with a tiny white spot, and her straw hat – also in navy, which she knew was a colour that flattered her.

  ‘You are looking very nice.’ Marek half bowed at her to usher her out of the front door.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. Though wary of them, she found herself absurdly pleased by the compliment and couldn’t help smiling at their courtly manners.

  ‘It is lovely day!’ Piotr said in a stilted way, as if this was something straight from a phrasebook. But they seemed in a good mood, glad that it was Sunday – no work and time to look around and get acquainted with the place. And it was a lovely still, sunny day. It would not take many minutes to walk across to the church in Hunters Road.

  ‘Did you have Mass at the camps?’ she asked.

  ‘Here, in England?’ Marek said. Walking beside him, she realized just how tall he was, with a loping, wiry strength, and his voice was strong, booming. ‘Oh yes, of course.’ He explained that in the camps every attempt had been made to keep up precious aspects of Polish culture – the Church, the national dancing – to help people feel at home, yet strengthen their sense of Polishness. ‘Our people have lost so much,’ he said. ‘Their lands and country – and now they belong to the Soviets.’ She thought for a moment he was going to spit, his voice was so bitter. ‘They keep what they can, in this country.’

  ‘Can you not go back?’ she asked.

  It was Marek who answered. ‘No, we can’t.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said abruptly. ‘Sure.’

  A silence followed and then, changing the tone completely, Piotr bent towards Michael. ‘Come here, young man – take my hand. Marek . . .’ He added something in Polish.

  Michael found himself between the two men, being swung high by each hand, and he was soon excited and shrieking with laughter. But soon Marek said, ‘Now, it is enough’ and handed him back to Katie. She smiled gratefully at them. It was lovely, and sad at the same time, to see Michael with them. He had never had a father to play with him.

  ‘In England there are not many Catholics?’ Marek asked her.

  ‘Some. A lot of us are Irish – my father was Irish, you see.’

  ‘He is dead?’

  ‘Yes. When I was very young. His brother took me to Mass.’

  ‘Not your mother?’ They seemed curious.

  ‘No – she’s English, and not Catholic.’

  ‘She is here: you live close to her?’

  Katie hesitated. How could she explain to these men, who seemed to have lost so much of their family?

  ‘No, she lives a long way away,’ she said. ‘Look – here we are.’

  The high brick church loomed over them and they quietened. Walking inside, it took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust to the shadows. She saw Piotr and Marek genuflect deeply and make the sign of the cross, and she did the same as they all found a seat. Michael knew that this was a place where he had to be very quiet and behave. Katie had already started taking him to Mass more often. She felt that the faith that her uncle had passed on to her should be his as well. She had begun to take Michael swimming sometimes too – another good memory of Patrick. When she was standing listening to the altar boys and the priest, taking in the familiar words and the scent of incense, she often thought of her uncle.

  Though the Poles struggled with their
English, the words of the Latin Mass were common to all of them. Looking along the Victorian church, Katie wondered whether the churches in Poland were the same. Standing beside the two men, she was very aware of all that she didn’t know about them and what had happened to them. She found herself praying for them.

  As the priest gave out communion and the Mass came to an end, both men stood with their heads bowed. She saw Marek quickly flick each of his eyes with his finger, as if there were tears forming. Piotr’s eyes were closed. She felt very moved, sensing the strong emotions flowing through them, brought out by the familiar rituals.

  Afterwards they had a word with the priest, who welcomed them.

  ‘Where are you living?’ he asked. They explained: in the house of Miss Routh, the same house as Mrs O’Neill. Katie already knew that the priest had some idea who Sybil was. Everyone seemed to know her.

  On the way back they walked in silence for a few minutes, and the men seemed lost in thought.

  ‘Why did you leave the camp?’ she asked, thinking there they could be among their own people, the comfort of it.

  ‘Too much camp,’ Piotr said.

  ‘We will have to leave one day,’ Marek said. ‘We want to find job, have life in house and street – find woman!’

  Again, the bluntness startled her. ‘Not a Polish woman?’

  ‘Um, perhaps,’ Piotr said with a grin. ‘But for Poles, there is shortage. Too many soldiers – not so many women.’

  ‘Ah,’ Katie said, then laughed suddenly as they were approaching Sybil’s house. ‘I think I might have the answer for you.’

  Standing by their front gate, very obviously waiting, were Mrs Arbuckle and Susan, all in their Sunday finery. Both of them wore wide-brimmed hats made of white straw. As the four of them came up to the house, the Arbuckles’ attention was riveted by them.

  ‘Woo-hoo – good morning!’ Edna called out. She was wearing a voluminous purple frock. Susan’s was of a swirling pink-and-white pattern. Both were smiling broadly. ‘We were just off to church! I don’t think we’ve been introduced?’ She stepped into their path.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Arbuckle,’ Katie said. ‘These are Miss Routh’s new lodgers: this is Mr . . .’ Once again she realized she had no idea what their surnames were and was sure that, even if she had, she would not have been able to pronounce them. ‘Mr Piotr. And Mr Marek. This is Mrs Arbuckle from next door – and Miss Arbuckle.’

  ‘Oh, you can call her Susan – we don’t need to stand on ceremony!’ Edna seemed almost overcome by the two strong handshakes she received, the polite nods.

  ‘How d’you do?’ they both said. In the sunlight Katie realized suddenly just how handsome Marek was, his eyes a vivid blue. And Piotr looked strong and masculine. Susan appeared shy and uncomfortable when faced with the two of them, but her mother was smiling from ear to ear.

  ‘Well, we are pleased to meet you,’ she gushed. And, after dithering for a few seconds, ‘Well, we’d better be off. Come along, Susan.’

  As they turned to the house, Sybil was coming out as well. She smiled.

  ‘Ah, so you’ve been introduced, have you? Mrs Arbuckle is our neighbour – and she is looking for a husband for her daughter . . .’ Sybil limped on past them. ‘I expect one of you would like to volunteer? Cheerio, I’m off to church. See you later.’

  Marek and Piotr were looking rather bewildered.

  ‘What did she say?’ Piotr asked.

  Suppressing a smile, Katie said, ‘She thinks one of you ought to marry Susan.’

  The boys looked alarmed.

  ‘Oh, not me!’ Piotr said.

  ‘No, not me,’ Marek added. ‘I don’t think this is right lady for me.’

  Katie grinned then. ‘Don’t you think so? Well, maybe not.’

  The fine weather drew everyone outside that afternoon, and Sybil was happy for them to be in the garden. Her whole approach to life seemed to be communal, like a puppy that likes to lie in a heap. The top end of the long garden, with the old shed extending from the back of the house and a brick path running alongside it, was baking hot today. Further down grew two large apple trees, both dense and in need of pruning, and so close together that the ends of their branches were entangled, making a kind of bower, which cast a cool shade over the grass. Katie settled there with Michael on an old rug, trying to read him storybooks they had borrowed from the library, but his attention kept wandering to the bottom of the garden, to where the two Poles had been drawn, as if to a magnet, by Sybil’s large vegetable patch.

  This was now in full bloom, so that every night they were feasting from it on new potatoes, carrots, runner and French beans, beetroots, lettuces, radishes, spring onions and chives. Against the sunniest wall lazed a tangle of tomato plants, hanging with red fruit. Sybil undoubtedly had green fingers. But she was elderly and needed help. As she pottered, pulling up weeds and depositing them in a trug nearby, Sybil noticed Marek and Piotr watching her, pointing, conferring in Polish as to the names of things.

  ‘Ah, now if you two like gardening, I’ve plenty for you to do,’ she announced, straightening up, pink in the face, despite the shade of her straw hat.

  ‘Yes!’ Piotr enthused. ‘We like. We can help you! We do dig – everything!’

  ‘Well, the digging will be later in the year, but there’s plenty of weeding and hoeing. I’m stopping now – it’s too hot. I’m going to have a snooze in the shade . . .’

  ‘Snooze?’ Furrowed brows.

  ‘A sleep. We can work later.’

  ‘No – is OK. We do now.’

  ‘Well, as you please. You know which are the weeds?’

  ‘Of course!’

  Sybil came and joined Katie, pulling up her deck-chair. ‘Ah!’ She sank into it and released her swollen feet from her mannish sandals. ‘That’s what we need – some young male muscles. And they seem frightfully keen.’

  ‘I want to go there,’ Michael said.

  ‘No, you’d better stay here,’ Katie said, trying to restrain him. ‘You’ll get in the way. What about this nice story? Look – Goldilocks came to the cottage . . .’

  ‘No!’ Michael squirmed out of her grasp.

  ‘Oh, I don’t suppose he’ll do any harm,’ Sybil said through a yawn. ‘Let him go and watch.’

  ‘Go on then,’ Katie said. ‘But don’t get in their way, will you?’

  She watched as Michael advanced importantly on the vegetable patch and stood shyly at the edge. There was something touching about the way he was so fascinated by the men, and it made her heart ache. His father had been an absent ghost, just as hers had.

  ‘You want to help?’ she heard Piotr say.

  Michael nodded and, as Piotr beckoned him forwards, Marek carried the large trug over and laid it at Michael’s feet. ‘You guard this, OK? When it is full, we go and put over there.’ He indicated Sybil’s bonfire pile further down.

  Katie felt herself relax. After a hard week in the office it was nice to have a little time just to sit, for someone else to look after Michael. Sybil soon fell into a doze, her hat down over her eyes. Katie sat hugging her knees, watching as Michael solemnly accepted the fistfuls of weeds that the two men thrust into his trug. She wondered if gardening made them feel more at home, and felt sad for them. For a few moments she watched Marek’s strong limbs bending and straightening, tackling the weeding with a speed and strength beyond anything Sybil was capable of. Piotr started working with the hoe. Michael was happy and Katie smiled, realizing that she was too. With a grateful glance at Sybil, who in her odd way had created a home in this house for various stray dogs, she lay back on the rug and enjoyed the warm, languid afternoon until she fell into a snooze herself.

  Forty-Nine

  As the summer passed things fell into a routine. Everyone would come back from work, and Marek and Piotr would almost always head straight out into the garden. The supply of vegetables began to thin out, and Sybil was busy bottling and stewing apples and plums from her trees. They gardened sometimes a
t the weekend too, and Michael was usually keen to help, to be anywhere where the two Poles were. One afternoon they promised Sybil that they would creosote the shed and found a little brush for Michael to help, with careful warnings about not getting the acrid-smelling stuff in his eyes or mouth. Katie had never seen him so proud as when standing beside the two men with his brush and the little tin into which they had poured some creosote.

  Katie, though she could not admit it to herself, was drawn to them as much as Michael was. It was lovely to have some people of her own age around her, other than Geoff Jenkins, whom she found dull. Piotr, she had discovered, was a year older than herself and Marek. The two Poles approached everything with a cheerful vigour, joking and mucking about in between the hard work, teasing and cursing in Polish, or sometimes laughing so hard they would end up sitting down.

  On Sunday they went with her to Mass. On payday they disappeared to one of the pubs, where sometimes they met a few other Poles. Katie assumed they also met women, though there had not been talk of anyone in particular. They would arrive home late and in high spirits, although one night Katie heard a loud, bitter-sounding argument between them in the room below. The rest of the time they worked hard and stayed in, and sometimes when everyone lingered over the evening meal there would be longer conversations, or they went up to their room.

  Katie had made her own attic cosy and had arranged a little corner, a lamp placed next to the armchair where she often sat and read while Michael slept. But when they were all in their rooms, it was difficult not to be aware of the two men living so close to her, the sound of their voices rising from the floor below, sometimes laughter – a loud bray from Marek, or Piotr’s deep, rumbling chuckle. She heard glasses clinking, and occasionally there were heated discussions, shouts even, but all in Polish. They soon cooled down. They had too much respect for Sybil to want to cause any trouble.