‘Sorry, sir,’ Wladek said.
‘Don’t call me sir, lad. I’m Corporal Smithers. You call me Corporal.’
‘I am Wladek Koskiewicz. You call me Wladek.’
‘Don’t try to be funny with me, lad. We’ve got enough funny people in the British army without you wishing to join the ranks.’
Wladek did not understand what the soldier meant. He undressed quickly.
‘Follow me at the double.’
Another soothing bath with hot water and soap brought back memories of his Russian protectress, and of the son he might have become, but for her husband. The soldier was back at the door with a set of clothes, strange, but clean and fresh-smelling. Whose son had they belonged to?
Corporal Smithers escorted Wladek to the kitchen and left him with a plump, pink-faced cook, with the friendliest face Wladek had seen since leaving Poland. She reminded him of his niania. Wladek could not help wondering what would happen to her waistline after a few weeks in Camp 201.
‘Hello,’ she said with a beaming smile. ‘What’s your name, then?’
Wladek told her.
‘Well, Wladek, it looks as though you could do with a good British meal inside of you - none of that Turkish rubbish. We’ll start with some hot soup and beef. You’ll need something substantial if you’re to face Mr Prendergast.’ She laughed. ‘Just remember, his bite’s not as bad as his bark. Although he’s English, his heart’s in the right place.’
‘You are not English, Mrs Cook?’ asked Wladek, surprised.
‘Good Lord no, laddie, I’m Scottish. There’s a world of difference. We hate the English more than the Germans do,’ she said, laughing. She set a dish of steaming soup, thick with meat and vegetables, in front of Wladek. He had entirely forgotten that food could smell and taste so good. He ate slowly, fearing that this might be his last good meal for a very long time.
The corporal reappeared. ‘Have you had enough to eat, my lad?’
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Corporal.’
The corporal gave Wladek a suspicious look, but saw no trace of cheek in the boy’s expression. ‘Good. Then let’s be moving. Can’t be late on parade for Mr Prendergast.’
The corporal disappeared through the kitchen door. Wladek glanced at the cook. He always hated saying goodbye to someone he had just met, especially when the person had been so kind.
‘Off you go, laddie, if you know what’s good for you.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Cook,’ said Wladek. ‘Your food is best I can ever remember.’
She smiled at him. He again had to trot to keep up with the corporal, who came to a brisk halt outside a door and Wladek nearly ran into him.
‘Look where you’re going, lad.’ The corporal gave a short rap-rap on the door.
‘Come,’ said a voice.
The corporal opened the door and saluted. ‘The Polish boy, sir, as you requested, scrubbed, dressed and fed.’
‘Thank you, Corporal. Perhaps you would be kind enough to ask Mr Grant to join us.’
Edward Prendergast looked up from his desk. He waved Wladek to a seat and continued to work on some papers. Wladek sat looking at him, and then at the paintings on the wall. More men in uniform, but that old bearded gentleman still had the biggest portrait, this time wearing khaki. A few minutes later the other Englishman he’d seen in the market square walked in to join them.
‘Thank you for joining us, Harry. Have a seat, old chap.’ Mr Prendergast turned to Wladek. ‘Now, my boy, let’s hear your story from the beginning, with no exaggerations, only the truth. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Wladek began with his days at the trapper’s cottage in Poland. It took him some time to find the right English words. The two Englishmen occasionally stopped him and asked a question, nodding to each other once he’d given his answer. After an hour of talking, Wladek’s life history had reached the point where he was in the office of Mr Edward Prendergast, His Britannic Majesty’s Second Consul to Turkey.
‘I think, Harry,’ said Prendergast, ‘it’s our duty to inform the Polish delegation immediately, and then hand young Koskiewicz over to them. Given the circumstances he must be their responsibility.’
‘I agree,’ said the man called Harry. ‘You know, my boy, you had a narrow escape today. The Sharia - that is, the old Islamic law which provides for cutting off a hand for theft - was in theory officially abandoned years ago. In fact, it’s a crime under the Ottoman Penal Code to inflict such a punishment. Nevertheless, in practice the barbarians still continue administering it.’ He shrugged.
‘Why not my hand?’ asked Wladek, holding onto his wrist.
‘I told them they could cut off all the Muslim hands they wanted, but not an Englishman’s,’ the Second Consul interjected.
‘Thank God,’ Wladek said faintly.
‘Edward Prendergast, actually,’ the Second Consul said, smiling for the first time. ‘You can spend the night here, and then we’ll take you to your own delegation tomorrow. The Polish Consul is a good fellow, considering he’s a foreigner.’ He pressed a button, and the corporal reappeared immediately.
‘Sir.’
‘Corporal, take young Koskiewicz to his room, and in the morning see he’s given breakfast and returned to me at nine sharp.’
‘Sir. This way, lad, at the double.’
Wladek was led away by the corporal. He had not even had time to thank the two Englishmen who had saved his hand - and perhaps his life. Back in the clean little room, with its small bed neatly turned down as if he were an honoured guest, he undressed, threw the pillow on the floor and slept soundly until the morning light shone through the tiny window.
‘Rise and shine, lad, sharpish.’
It was the corporal once again, his uniform immaculately smart and knife-edge pressed, looking as though he had never been to bed. For an instant Wladek, surfacing from sleep, thought himself back in Camp 201, as the corporal’s banging on the end of the metal bed frame with his cane resembled the noise of the prison triangle that Wladek had grown to hate. He slid out of bed and reached for his clothes.
‘Wash first, my lad, wash first. We don’t want your horrible smells worrying Mr Prendergast so early in the morning, do we?’
Wladek was unsure which part of himself to wash, as he’d never been so clean in his life. He noticed that the corporal was staring at him.
‘What’s wrong with your leg, lad?’
‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Wladek, turning away from the staring eyes.
‘Right. I’ll be back in three minutes. Three minutes, do you hear, my lad? Be sure you’re ready.’
Wladek washed his hands and face and then dressed quickly. He was sitting on the end of the bed, holding his long sheepskin coat, when the corporal returned to take him to the Second Consul. Mr Prendergast welcomed him, and seemed to have softened considerably since their meeting the previous day.
‘Good morning, Koskiewicz,’ he said.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Did you enjoy your breakfast?’
‘I no had breakfast, sir.’
‘Why not?’ asked the Second Consul, looking towards the corporal.
‘Overslept, I’m afraid, sir. He would have been late for you.’
‘Well, we must see what we can do about that. Corporal, will you ask Mrs Henderson to rustle up an apple or something?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Wladek and the Second Consul walked slowly along the corridor towards the front door of the consulate and across the pebbled courtyard to a waiting car, one of the few in Turkey. It was Wladek’s first journey in such a vehicle. He was sorry to be leaving the British Consulate. It was the only place in which he’d felt safe for years. He wondered if he was ever going to sleep more than one night in the same bed for the rest of his life. The corporal ran down the steps and took the driver’s seat. He passed Wladek an apple and some warm fresh bread.
‘See there are no crumbs left in the car, lad. The cook sends her complime
nts.’
The drive through the hot, busy streets was conducted at walking pace as the Turks made no attempt to clear a path for the English camel on wheels. Even with all the windows open Wladek was sweating from the oppressive heat. Mr Prendergast, seated in the back, remained quite cool and unperturbed. Wladek lowered his head for fear that someone who had witnessed the previous day’s events might recognize him and stir the mob to anger again. When the little black Austin came to a halt outside a small, decaying building marked KONSULAT POLSKI, Wladek felt a twinge of excitement mingled with disappointment.
The three of them climbed out.
‘Where’s the apple core, boy?’ demanded the corporal.
‘I eat him.’
The corporal laughed, and knocked on the door. A friendly-looking little man with dark hair and a firm jaw answered it. He was in shirt sleeves, and deeply tanned by the Turkish sun. He addressed them in Polish, the first words Wladek had heard in his native tongue since leaving the labour camp. Wladek answered quickly, explaining his presence. His fellow countryman turned to the British Second Consul.
‘This way, Mr Prendergast,’ he said in perfect English. ‘It was good of you to bring the boy over personally.’
A few diplomatic niceties were exchanged before Prendergast and the corporal took their leave. Wladek gazed at them, fumbling for an English expression more adequate than ‘Thank you’.
Prendergast patted him on the head as he might a cocker spaniel. And as the corporal closed the door, he turned and winked at Wladek. ‘Good luck, my lad. God knows you deserve it.’
The Polish Consul introduced himself as Pawel Zaleski. Once again Wladek was required to recount the story of his life, finding it easier in Polish than he had in English. Zaleski listened in silence, shaking his head sorrowfully.
‘My poor child,’ he said. ‘You have borne more than your share of our country’s suffering for one so young. And now what are we to do with you?’
‘I must return to Poland and reclaim my castle,’ said Wladek.
‘Poland,’ said the Consul. ‘Where’s that? The region where you lived remains in dispute, and there is still heavy fighting going on between the Poles and the Russians as they attempt to agree on a border. General Pilsudski is doing all he can to protect the territorial integrity of our fatherland. But it would be foolish for any of us to be optimistic. There is little left for you now in Poland. No, your best plan would be to start a new life in England or America.’
‘But I don’t want to go to England or America. I am Polish.’
‘You will always be Polish, Wladek - no one can take that away from you, wherever you decide to settle. But you must be realistic about your future while you’re still so young.’
Wladek lowered his head in despair. Had he gone through all this only to be told he could never return to his homeland, never see his castle again? He fought back the tears.
The Consul put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. ‘Never forget that you are one of the lucky ones who escaped and came out alive. You only have to remember your loyal friend Dr Dubien to be aware of what your life might have been like.’
Wladek didn’t speak.
‘Now you must put all thoughts of the past behind you and think only of the future, Wladek. Perhaps in your lifetime you will see Poland rise again, which is more than I dare to hope for.’
20
ALAN LLOYD arrived at the bank on Monday morning with a little more to do than he had anticipated before his meeting with William. He immediately put five departmental managers to work on checking the accuracy of William’s allegations. He feared he already knew what their enquiries would reveal, and because of Anne’s relationship with the bank, he made sure that no department was aware of what the others were up to. His instructions to each manager were clear: all reports were to be strictly confidential, and for the chairman’s eyes only.
By Wednesday, he had five preliminary reports on his desk. They all seemed to confirm William’s judgement, although each manager had asked for more time to verify some details. Alan decided against discussing the matter with Anne until he had more concrete evidence to go on. The best he felt he could do for the time being was to take advantage of a buffet supper the Osbornes were giving on Friday evening, when he could advise Anne against taking any immediate decision on the loan.
When Alan arrived at Anne’s home - he could never think of it as Osborne’s - he was shocked to see how tired and pale she looked, which made him decide to soften his approach even more. He finally managed to catch her alone, but they only had a few moments together. If only she were not having a baby just at the time all this was going on, he thought.
Anne smiled at him. ‘How kind of you to come, Alan, when you must be so busy at the bank.’
‘I couldn’t afford to miss one of your parties, my dear. They’re still the most sought-after invitation in Boston.’
She smiled. ‘I wonder if you ever say the wrong thing.’
‘All too frequently. Anne, have you had time to give any more thought to the matter we discussed last week?’
‘No, I am afraid I haven’t. I’ve been up to my ears preparing for this evening, Alan. How did Henry’s accounts look?’
‘Fine, but we only have one year’s figures to go on, so I think we ought to bring in our own accountants to double-check them over. It’s standard banking policy to do that with any company that’s been operating for less than three years. I’m sure Henry would understand our position.’
‘Anne, darling, lovely party,’ interrupted a loud voice over Alan’s shoulder. He did not recognize the face; presumably one of Henry’s political friends. ‘How’s the little mother-to-be?’ continued the effusive voice.
Alan slipped away, hoping he had bought a little time for the bank. There were a lot of local politicians from City Hall at the party, and even a couple of congressmen, which made him wonder if William would turn out to be wrong about the hospital contract. Not that the bank intended to investigate that: after all, the official announcement from City Hall was due in a week’s time. He picked up his black overcoat from the cloakroom and slipped out.
‘If I can just hold on until this time next week,’ he said out loud as he walked back down Chestnut Street to his own house.
During the party, Anne found herself watching Henry whenever he was near Millie Preston. There was certainly no outward sign of anything between them; in fact, Henry spent far more time with John Preston. Anne began to wonder if she had misjudged her husband, and thought about cancelling her appointment with Glen Ricardo. The party finally came to an end two hours later than Anne had anticipated; she only hoped it meant that the guests had all enjoyed themselves and Henry would benefit.
‘Great party, Anne, thanks for inviting us.’ It was the loud voice again, the last person to leave. Anne couldn’t remember his name - something to do with City Hall. He disappeared down the drive.
Anne climbed the stairs slowly and started to undo her dress even before she had reached the bedroom, promising herself that she wouldn’t give any more parties before the baby was due in ten weeks’ time.
Henry joined her a moment later. ‘Did you get a chance to have a word with Alan, darling?’ he asked, trying to sound casual.
‘Yes, I did,’ replied Anne. ‘He said your books look fine, but as the company can only produce one year’s figures, the bank’s accountants have to double-check. Apparently that’s standard banking policy.’
‘Standard banking policy be damned. Can’t you feel William’s presence behind all this? He’s trying to hold up the loan, Anne.’
‘How can you say that? Alan didn’t even mention William.’
‘Didn’t he?’ said Henry, his voice rising. ‘So he didn’t bother to tell you that William had lunch with him on Sunday, and they played a round of golf at his club?’
‘What?’ said Anne. ‘I don’t believe it. William would never come to Boston without seeing me. You must be mistaken, Henry.’
>
‘My dear, half your set was there, and I can’t imagine that William travelled fifty miles just to play a round of golf with Alan Lloyd. Some time, Anne - and very soon - you’re going to have to decide whether you trust William more than your husband. Don’t you understand that I must have the money by next Wednesday, because if I can’t show City Hall I’m good for that amount, I’ll be disqualified. Disqualified because a schoolboy doesn’t approve of your being married to someone other than his father. Please, Anne, you must call Alan tomorrow and tell him to transfer the money.’
His insistent voice boomed in Anne’s head, making her feel faint and dizzy.
‘No, not tomorrow, Henry. Can it wait until Monday?’
Henry smiled and strolled over to join her as she stood naked, looking at herself in the mirror. He ran his hand over her bulging stomach. ‘I just want this little fellow to be given the same opportunities as William.’
The following morning Anne told herself a hundred times that she would not go to see Glen Ricardo, but just before noon she found herself flagging down a cab. Twenty minutes later she was climbing the creaky wooden stairs, apprehensive of what she was about to learn. She hesitated before knocking on the door and even thought about turning back.
‘Come in.’
She opened the door.
‘Ah, Mrs Osborne, how nice to see you again. Do have a seat.’
Anne remained standing.
‘The news, I’m afraid, is not good,’ said Ricardo, pushing his hand through his long, dark hair.
Anne’s heart sank, and she collapsed into the nearest chair.
‘Mr Osborne has not been seen with Mrs Preston, or any other woman, during the past week.’
‘But you said the news wasn’t good,’ said Anne.
‘Of course, Mrs Osborne. I assumed you were looking for grounds for divorce. Angry wives don’t normally come to me hoping I’ll prove their husbands are faithful.’
‘No, no,’ said Anne, with relief. ‘It’s the best piece of news I’ve had in weeks.’
‘Oh, that’s good,’ said Ricardo, slightly taken aback. ‘Then let’s hope the second week also reveals nothing.’
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