Bluebirds

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘Tripe? Yuk!’

  ‘You will like this, I promise. Is not like your tripe. Is very good. But here is another soup made with lemon, if you prefer. And we have cheese dumplings, mushroom dumplings and chlodnik – that is sour cream and cucumber. And, at the end you can see kiesel and tort and babka . . . all kinds of Polish puddings.’

  ‘Well, I think it looks marvellous. When do we start?’

  ‘We begin when the first star shows in the sky. That is our Polish custom.’

  ‘I hope it’s not cloudy.’

  She had been one of the first guests to arrive but before long the hall was crowded and the vodka flowed. When they sat down at the long tables to eat, the Christmas tree candles were lit and wine replaced the vodka. She found it hard to believe that she was in England, sitting in an ordinary English village hall, scene of ordinary English events – flower shows, mothers’ meetings, jumble sales . . . The golden straw, the forest greenery, the magic-making candlelight had turned it into some European folklore place. She ate the strange food and listened to the jabber of Polish spoken all around her, and felt like an alien in her own land. Polish faces, some gaunt with suffering, Polish voices, Polish names, Poland shoulder flashes everywhere, the Polish eagle glinting on uniforms, someone with smouldering eyes leaning right across the table to kiss her hand, Stefan raising his glass rather drunkenly to her from further down and calling out something incomprehensible to Michal beside her.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He says you are very beautiful. And he is envying me very much.’

  Towards the end of the meal one of the Poles, an older man than the rest, went up onto the stage and sat down on a chair to play the accordion. Presently, he began to sing quietly, as though to himself. It was a sad song, full of yearning.

  ‘He is singing of Poland,’ Michal said in her ear. ‘He wishes he was there and he swears to return one day. He sings for us all.’

  Afterwards all the Poles gathered together and sang a carol to their guests.

  Jezus malusieńki, Ležy wśród stajenki

  Ptacze z zimna, nie data mu Matusia sukienki,

  Ptacze z zimna nie data mu Matusia sukienki.

  Anne listened, watching their faces. It didn’t matter that nobody else understood a word. It was about Christmas and that was the same in any language.

  When they had finished, the accordionist shed his solemn mood and began to play a fast polka. The tables were moved aside and people took to the floor with abandon. They danced until the village hall shook to its foundations. The polkas were nothing like the sedate hops that Anne could remember from childhood dancing classes. These were wild, whirling gypsy dances where the Polish men changed partners constantly. The room blurred dizzily about her as she was handed, spinning, from one man to the next. The music got faster and faster and the ring of onlookers clapped their hands loudly to the beat and stamped their feet. Finally, it was Michal who caught her in his arms and kept her there until the music stopped. She leaned against him, laughing and gasping.

  When the evening was over they walked out to the Wolseley, beneath a starry sky.

  ‘It was a lovely party, Michal. Thank you.’ She stopped to look up. ‘Either I’m plastered, or I’m still dizzy from all that polka-ing. Some of those stars seem to be moving.’

  ‘Stars can move . . . sometimes they fall.’

  She went on gazing upwards, awed by the glittering vastness of the heavens. ‘It’s been the best Christmas ever so far. Seems a funny thing to say when we’re in the middle of a rotten war, but it’s true. Last year I missed being at home so much. But this year I don’t seem to be missing it at all.’ She turned to him. ‘I’m sorry. That’s a stupid thing to talk about, when you must miss your home terribly.’

  He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘I do not miss it so much since I meet you, Anne. For me, too, this is a good Christmas. Because of you. And because of England. But specially because of you.’

  He kissed her as they stood there together beneath the stars. And in the car he kissed her again. And again.

  ‘I have small present for you.’ He put a package into her hand and closed her fingers over it with his own. ‘Wesolych Swiat! Happy Christmas, Anne.’

  She was half-dismayed, half-delighted. ‘I’ve got something for you, too, but I wasn’t going to give it to you until tomorrow.’ She had saved up for weeks from her pay to buy him a silk scarf.

  ‘I give now because in Poland we do this. Open, please.’

  He held a torch for her while she undid the paper. Inside there was a small cardboard box and inside the box a silver brooch in the shape of the Polish eagle with outstretched, drooping wings, exactly like the one he wore on his breast. She held it cupped in her palm and it shone bravely in the torchlight.

  ‘Oh, Michal . . . thank you. It’s beautiful. But I won’t be able to wear it when I’m in uniform. We’re not allowed to.’

  ‘Wear it inside your tunic, where nobody can see.’

  He unbuttoned her greatcoat and then her tunic and pinned the brooch to the lining on the left side. ‘Next to your heart, you see. Why are you crying?’

  She wiped her eyes. ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘You must not. It is Christmas and you should be happy.’ He took her hands in his and held them up to his lips. ‘I want you to be happy always, Anne. And I ask you something now that I have no right to ask. I am a foreigner with no home, no money, perhaps no country, and maybe a short life . . . but I ask you to marry me, Anne. I am trying to tell you that I love you with all my heart, and I want so much I am your husband and you are my wife. I say this very bad . . . I am sorry. Kochana, you are crying again. I should not ask this.’

  ‘Yes, you should. And I’m not crying because I’m upset or anything, but because I’m so happy.’

  ‘You mean . . . you marry me?’

  ‘Oh, Michal!’ She flung her arms round his neck. ‘Tak! Tak! Tak!’

  ‘Well, congratulations, duckie. Can’t say it’s a big surprise.’ Pearl gave Anne a big hug. She grabbed her left hand to inspect it. ‘No ring yet?’

  ‘Just this, for the moment.’ Anne opened her tunic and showed the brooch. ‘It’s not official. Not ’til he’s met the parents. He insists on asking Daddy for my hand formally. Bit of a bore.’

  ‘And what’s Daddy going to say, do you think? When he hears his daughter’s planning on marrying a foreigner?’

  ‘He’ll be all right. Once he’s met Michal.’

  ‘Won’t he think you’re a bit young?’

  ‘I’m nineteen.’

  ‘Old Mother Riley!’

  ‘I’ll stay on in the WAAF, of course. I suppose they’ll make us be at separate stations – that’ll be grisly, but I’m not going even to think about that now . . . Oh, Pearl, I’m so happy! So terribly happy!’

  ‘I can see that, love. You’ve got bloody great stars in your eyes. No need to wish you a Happy Christmas.’

  He wore the silk scarf she had given him, tucked inside the neck of his RAF shirt, and she thought as she sat beside him in the Wolseley on the drive to Buckinghamshire in January, how wonderful he looked. So special. Her parents would be bound to think so too and to like him from the very first and make him welcome. On the way he stopped to buy flowers for her mother and when they arrived at the house and she had introduced him proudly, he bowed and kissed her mother’s hand before he presented the bouquet. Her father came out of his study, all smiles, and Barley pushed himself forward to be patted, wagging his tail in approval. She only wished that Kit could have got leave from his camp up in Yorkshire to be there too, and that their leave could have been more than a forty-eight. It was so little time.

  She took Michal all round the house, revelling in the chance to show him her home and her other life – to share it all with him and to make him somehow a part of it. In the old nursery he admired Poppy, pushing the rocking horse to and fro and looking about him.

  ‘In Poland, in my home, we have ro
om very like this, with many toys and books.’ He picked up a lead soldier in a scarlet tunic. ‘My brother, Antek, and I, we fight many battles with soldiers like these.’ He stared down at it in his palm.

  ‘Kit and I did, too. Well, he did all the commanding, and I just moved things round, actually. Come on, I’ll show you his room.’

  The model ’planes still flew from the ceiling. Michal exclaimed in surprise and examined them closely.

  ‘He did not want to join the RAF, your brother?’

  ‘No. He wanted to be in the army, like my father.’

  ‘Your father is army?’

  ‘Was. He left it ages ago. He works in the City – of London, that is. Or he did until the war started. Now he’s doing some sort of hush-hush work. I don’t know what exactly. He never talks about it and we never ask.’

  ‘And all these things on the walls – these things for boats . . .?’

  ‘They’re sort of prizes. Kit rowed at Eton – the school he went to. He was rather good at it, actually. That’s him in the middle of that group there . . .’

  ‘He looks so much like you. Same eyes, same shape of face. Same smile.’

  ‘Does he? People always say we’re awfully alike, though we’re not identicals, of course, so we needn’t be any more alike than any ordinary brother and sister.’

  ‘But a twin must be special, I think. To know you have been together since the very beginning of life.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘Yes, it’s true.’

  He smiled. ‘I think I am jealous of him.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve felt jealous of him myself sometimes. He’s definitely my mother’s favourite. She adores him.’

  ‘I cannot believe she adores him more than you.’

  ‘I can. I used to mind a lot, but I don’t so much any more. In fact, I can understand it now. I must have been an awful drag sometimes – always bolshi about things and arguing. Kit’s always been the easy one and done everything so well. Never been any trouble, like me. Are you your mother’s favourite? I bet you are.’

  He smiled. ‘She always says she loves us all the same. I am sure is true. And is the same for you.’

  She watched his smile fade and could have kicked herself for bringing up the subject of his family. When would she ever learn to guard her tongue? He had turned away and was looking at the row of school photographs along the back of the chest-of-drawers.

  ‘Who are these?’

  ‘Kit’s special schoolfriends. They all give each other photographs of themselves when they leave. It’s a tradition.’

  ‘Such fine clothes for school . . .’

  ‘They always dress like that. It’s a sort of uniform. Only they don’t usually look so clean and tidy.’ She pointed at the photograph of Villiers. ‘He was killed in France. At the time of Dunkirk.’

  ‘I am so sorry. He was very nice, I can see. And so young.’

  ‘Yes, he was very nice. I liked him the best of them, I think. He was great fun. A great sport. He’d have been about nineteen when he was killed. Kit’s age, and mine.’

  She took her eyes away from Villiers’ smiling face. What had happened at that farmhouse in France was between Kit and herself. She would never tell another living soul. Not even Michal.

  At dinner she was anxiously ready to smooth over any awkwardness for him, to help with his English, if necessary, to fill any gaps in the conversation . . . but everything seemed to go well. Her father poured some of his best wine.

  ‘So, you’re on Hurricanes, then? How do you find them?’

  ‘Very good aircraft, sir.’

  ‘Ever flown Spitfires?’

  ‘No, sir. Not yet. One day, I hope. Then I see if they are so wonderful like everybody says. But I am very happy with Hurricanes. It is a wonderful fighter. Very steady for aim and shoot, and you can see very well. She climb fast and she turn, like you say, on a sixpence. That is big advantage. And because the fuselage is fabric, she goes on flying with many holes.’

  He was making it sound so casual, so unremarkable. There was no clue to the ferocious battling that she knew lay behind his words – to the frantic twisting and turning, the desperate corkscrewing, the screaming dives, the deadly rattle of machine guns, bits of aircraft flying off, fireball explosions . . . Her mother was feigning interest, her head inclined politely as to an unusual guest whom she couldn’t quite make out; her father, genuinely curious, was asking more questions. She caught Michal’s eye and smiled.

  After dinner she went to help her mother clear up and make coffee in the kitchen. Only the daily cleaning woman remained now out of the domestic servants. The cook, the parlour maid and the gardener had all left to join up. Her mother who had hardly ever washed up a cup in her life, much less cooked, seemed to have got quite used to working in the kitchen. She even spent hours helping in some canteen, apparently, making tea and sandwiches and dishing them out.

  ‘What do you think of Michal, Mummy?’

  ‘He’s very charming, darling. Impeccable manners. I haven’t had my hand kissed for years . . . it was rather nice. Lovely flowers, too. And, of course, one feels so sorry for the wretched Poles.’

  ‘I don’t want you to feel sorry for him, Mummy. I want you to like him.’

  ‘Well, I do, darling. Such a brave young man.’

  ‘Because we want to get engaged. He’s asked me to marry him and I’ve said yes. He’s speaking to Daddy about it right now, while they’re alone.’

  She hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but she couldn’t keep the secret any longer. She wanted to see the delight on her mother’s face when she heard the news. Instead, she saw shocked dismay.

  ‘Oh, Anne! I didn’t realize . . . I thought you had just brought him home because he had nowhere else to go. I thought you were rather sorry for him – like that girl at St Mary’s whose parents lived abroad, and you used to ask to stay here in the holidays.’

  ‘Mummy, what are you talking about? I’m not sorry for Michal. I love him. And he loves me. I told you, we want to get married.’

  ‘But, Anne, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re only nineteen. Much too young. You’ve had no experience of life.’

  ‘I’ve been away from home for more than a year. I do have some experience of life, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Yes, but in the WAAF – that’s not the real world.’

  ‘Well, it seems pretty real to me. People really get killed. We’ve had real bombs dropping on us. Real things like that happen all the time.’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, Anne. That’s not what I meant.’ Her mother was looking appalled. ‘I can see why you like him, of course. That type can be very attractive. He’s very good-looking, very . . . worldly. Much older than you.’

  ‘He’s twenty-five, that’s all.’

  ‘He seems more.’

  ‘He’s suffered a lot, that’s why. He’s lost his home and his country, and perhaps his family too. And he’s been fighting the Germans for a long time.’

  ‘Yes, well, as I said, darling, I feel very sorry for him – for them all. But he’s a foreigner, Anne, and from a country you know nothing about, not even somewhere like France. You can’t know much about him either.’

  ‘I know a great deal about him, as it happens. We’ve been seeing each other for more than six months, whenever we could.’ She met her mother’s eyes steadily. ‘I know him very well.’

  They faced each other for a moment in silence before her mother looked away. She said coldly: ‘I hope you’ve remembered, Anne, that we’ve brought you up to have certain moral standards . . . I expect that of you, at least. It seems to me that in all this you’re letting us down yet again. Being wilfully difficult and headstrong. You’re far too young and it’s quite ridiculous for you to think of marrying an RAF fighter pilot in wartime, even if he were English. Apart from the fact that he could be killed any day and leave you a widow, how is he going to support you properly on service pay?’

  ‘I’d far sooner be
his widow than never have been his wife. And I don’t care about the money.’

  ‘There’s no need to raise your voice like that at me. You’re speaking like the child you still are. You’ve never had to worry about money, never had to count every penny or go without. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Daddy will never hear of your marrying him. What could this Pole possibly offer you? What sort of background does he come from anyway?’

  ‘It’s just as good as mine – probably better. His family have a big estate in Poland.’

  ‘So he says. It might be a complete lie for all you know. It almost certainly is –’

  ‘I’m not going to listen to you speaking like that about Michal.’ She was shouting now. ‘Just because he’s not one of those chinless wonders out of Debrett that you’ve always wanted me to marry . . . he’s worth ten times any of them!’

  She blundered furiously from the kitchen. Upstairs in her bedroom she sat on the windowseat, hugging Eliza in her arms and letting her angry tears fall on the doll’s head.

  Her father came in search of her later, knocking quietly on the door. He sat down beside her and offered his silk handkerchief.

  ‘Dry your tears, poppet. I’ve given my permission for you and Michal to get engaged because, knowing you, if I said no you’d simply go and elope. But I’m making one condition of giving my blessing. I want you to wait until your next birthday before you actually get married.’

  She stared over the handkerchief. ‘But that’s six months away at least! Why?’

  ‘Because I want you to be very sure of what you’re doing – both of you. I like your Pole, Anne. I know a brave and decent man when I see one, but he’s a foreigner and you’re foreign to him.’

  ‘You sound just like Mummy. You’ll be telling me he hasn’t got the right sort of background in a moment.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with right or wrong backgrounds, but of two different ones. Two different countries. Different languages, customs, ideas, religions – he’s Roman Catholic, of course. And I’m thinking ahead to the future. When this war is over, he may want you to go and live in Poland. To leave England and your family and everything you’ve known all your life. Have you really thought about that? Because you should.’