Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase

by Louise Walters

  I have telephoned ahead, and I am met in the entrance hall by a woman who introduces herself as Suzanne. I don’t remember meeting her on my previous visits.

  ‘I’m the new Entertainments Manager,’ she explains, ‘but I do all sorts, really. I wanted to meet you. Your grandmother and I have formed something of a rapport.’ Suzanne tells me what I already know – Babunia is the ‘darling’ of the home. She is no trouble, and not even incontinent yet. Probably she never will be. Dignity, that’s what she has kept hold of, Suzanne tells me, glowing with pride, as though she is talking about a high-achieving niece.

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘Yes, come on, I’ll take you down to her room.’

  I follow Suzanne, who is slim and wears a purple dress with purple high-heeled shoes. She has masses of thick red hair, walks with a feminine wiggle, and it’s impossible to guess her age. We reach my grandmother’s room and Suzanne knocks. When there is no reply, she slowly opens the door.

  ‘Dorothea?’ she calls.

  Babunia is sitting in her armchair, her back to the door, facing the large bay window. The garden is filled with flower beds, which look pretty in the height of summer, but are fading a little now that it’s August. There are small fruit trees, a bird table, wooden seats. I look at her. She does not turn round. She is so still, she may be asleep. She may be dead.

  Suzanne stands back to let me pass into the room.

  But I hesitate.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Suzanne says, smiling at me kindly.

  ‘I don’t want to upset her,’ I whisper. ‘She’s so … vulnerable.’

  ‘Why would you upset her? She’ll be delighted to see you.’

  I slowly walk towards my grandmother and stop beside her chair, looking down at her grey hair, which is in her habitual neat chignon. She slowly inclines her head towards me and I smile at her. She opens her mouth and struggles to speak, tears pooling in her green eyes as she searches my face. She looks utterly dismayed.

  I had not expected this. I’ve stayed away too long, a month is too long. I should come every week, as I used to do.

  ‘Who are you?’ she says.

  Despite our reassurances that I am her granddaughter, Babunia continues to ask me who I am. She wants to know what I am doing here. It feels like an accusation. I can see real fear in her eyes, which is horrible.

  Suzanne and I sit either side of her, holding a hand each.

  ‘It’s me, Roberta. I … I love you.’ It seems an odd thing to say in the circumstances; but it’s the right thing to say, all the same.

  She shakes her head, and Suzanne tries to explain. But Babunia, panicked and tearful, is not listening. So we sit, the three of us, in silence.

  When, eventually, Babunia dozes off, Suzanne and I converse in whispers.

  ‘She’s not always like this,’ I tell her.

  ‘I know,’ says Suzanne. ‘Only yesterday we were doing a crossword together and she got some of the answers.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she know me?’ I ask.

  Suzanne shrugs. ‘I don’t know. She gets easily confused some days,’ she says. ‘You must try not to worry.’

  I am at work when I get one of the calls I have been dreading.

  ‘Is that Miss Pietrykowski?’ says a female voice, navigating my surname with some difficulty.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, hello, I’m a staff nurse from the ward where your father … Mr—’

  ‘Yes? Is he all right? What’s happened?’

  Philip, talking to a female customer, looks over her shoulder at me and raises his eyebrows enquiringly.

  ‘He’s okay, Miss Pietry—’

  ‘Look, I know it’s a bloody mouthful. Why don’t you just call me Roberta?’

  ‘It is rather, Roberta, yes. Thank you. Your dad had to come into hospital, an ambulance brought him in an hour or so ago. He’s all right, a little uncomfortable, but stable.’

  ‘But what’s the matter?’

  ‘Breathing problems. He’s on oxygen. The doctors are hoping to change his medication and send him home again, but not today. I know his wish is to be at home as much as possible.’

  Dad made me swear he will be allowed to die at home, and I have promised him. But I don’t think he’s going to be dying any time soon, as I frequently remind him.

  I thank the nurse, finish the phone call, and tell Sophie I must go. I grab my bag and jacket and, as I hurry to the door, Philip calls after me to take all the time I need.

  10

  Mrs Compton smiled at Dorothy as they sipped tea and avoided, as usual, talk of any importance. Dorothy – also as usual – had not actually invited her visitor, and she wished the older woman gone. She was trying not to look at her, not to gaze too long into those eyes that were as cold and hard as a bathroom in winter. Perhaps if she stayed silent long enough, Mrs Compton might take the hint, and go away. How Dorothy wished now for the simple presence of her two girls, with their loud, frank talk, their apparent lack of fear, and their no-nonsense attitude to life. Dorothy was ‘too nice’, they often told her. You just have to stick up for yourself from time to time. It won’t do you no harm. But the girls were across the fields, at the North Barn, up to their elbows in cow shit, straw, milk, calves, cauls, blood. And Dorothy wasn’t sure what ‘sticking up’ for oneself could really mean.

  She had no idea why Mrs Compton had called round again so soon after her last visit. The woman was asking her inane questions. Was she coping? How was the wound on her tummy? Healing up by now? Her face was certainly looking better, and she would not scar, anybody could see that. Such a relief, wasn’t it?

  Dorothy gave perfunctory, correct answers, and drank her tea.

  ‘And how are you keeping, nowadays?’ said Mrs Compton, with crushing predictability.

  Dorothy gave whatever answer was expected, barely registering the words. She had not seen Jan for three days. Something was happening, there were aeroplanes coming and going. There were rumours that the Germans were poised to attack, they were going to gas the entire country, they were going to invade any day, and soon. They were slaughtering people on the streets of Warsaw. They were ‘rounding up’ the Jewish people. Perhaps in Krakow too?

  Dorothy didn’t join in with the rumours. She laundered, she sewed, she cooked, she tended her hens, she thought about how much she wanted to see Jan, she wished for him to appear in her wash-house doorway, solid and strong, looming through the moisture like a saviour.

  ‘The war news isn’t good,’ announced Mrs Compton.

  Dorothy made no reply. She could think of none.

  ‘I reckon we’re for it,’ the older woman went on, leaning forward, inviting Dorothy to speak, to open up, to smile at her.

  Sullen, rude, stand-offish, Dorothy didn’t care. She knew she would be described as all these and more later, in the village, Mrs Compton shaking her head, gossiping with the other women. Dorothy knew she was something of a mystery, and therefore unlikeable. She knew she was without friends.

  Eventually, Mrs Compton rose to leave, promising to return the following week.

  ‘There’s really no need,’ said Dorothy in what she hoped was a determined, assured tone.

  ‘Oh, I like to keep up with all my ladies!’

  ‘But I am not one of your ladies. I am my own lady. Now please go, and don’t bother to return. Ever. You nosy old witch. You baby-stealer.’

  Of course, Dorothy didn’t say these things. She only smiled a dry, scornful smile. And said over and over to herself, in her head, her head that seemed to be stuffed with cotton wool, with wood shavings, with pure white flour: Leave me, woman, leave me alone.

  A further week passed with still no word from Jan. Dorothy, resigned, deduced that she had put him off forever with her reaction to their kiss. Perhaps he thought her immature, or neurotic. Perhaps he thought she did not like him and no longer wished to see him. Perhaps he had simply not enjoyed kissing her as much as he hoped he would.

  Oh, it was disappointi
ng, and she berated herself, over and over. What else did she expect? What else did she deserve?

  But in the end, he came. There was the confident knock at the door, another bunch of wild flowers, another smile that seemed to welcome her, even though he was the guest. He entered the kitchen, he put down his hat, he loosened the top button on his tunic as he took the chair she offered him at the table. She wanted to ask him why he had not visited for almost a whole fortnight. But she could not. It was not her business. It was not important. So she made tea, while he watched her wordlessly. She wished he would speak, though she half enjoyed the intensity of the silence between them. It was another hot day and he rolled up the sleeves on his tunic, revealing brown, lean, strong forearms.

  Dorothy tried not to notice. Really! It was all so inappropriate but … oh, heavens. It was out of her control, and she had not admitted to herself, despite her longings, what had happened to her. She had not yet accepted the state she was in.

  His arms were poetry.

  ‘I bring news,’ said Jan, eventually, after clearing his throat and taking a cup and saucer from Dorothy’s hands. ‘Thank you.’ He sipped.

  ‘Good or bad news?’ said Dorothy.

  Now they were talking, it was all right again. She could now be the polite, interested, middle-aged, educated woman, befriending the foreigner who could speak her language so well, and was a long way from home. Propriety came rushing through her door.

  ‘Ah. That is for your own interpretation.’

  ‘It’s not good so far. Go on.’

  ‘I am leaving Lodderston. Not just me. The men. My men. We have formed a proper squadron.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Kent. Closer to the fighting.’

  ‘It makes sense.’

  ‘It makes perfect sense, dear lady, no?’

  ‘Would you like a biscuit? I made them this morning. A little lacking in sugar, but they’re perfectly acceptable. At least, Nina always says so.’ She slid the plate across the table.

  ‘Thank you.’ Jan took a biscuit, ate it quickly and took another.

  ‘When do you leave?’ Dorothy asked, not wanting to hear the answer.

  ‘Today.’

  ‘Today! Oh. I see. Things happen so suddenly these days, don’t they?’

  ‘I apologise. I should have let you know this was likely. But we have been busy, training, flying, negotiating with the RAF.’

  ‘No, no, please don’t apologise. You owe me nothing, Jan. And I did think something like this would happen.’

  ‘It’s going to get worse before it gets better. You do realise that, Dorothea?’

  ‘Of course. I’m not a fool.’

  ‘No. You are not a fool.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I hope not,’ she said, to fill the silence.

  ‘So I must take my leave. But I vow to return, whenever I can. I will return to visit my friend in her little house made of bricks.’

  ‘You make me sound like a character from a fairy tale.’

  ‘You are.’

  Dorothy felt herself redden, all over, a strange, hot, thrilling rash seeping over her body. Her spine tingled.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Well, I’ll certainly be here. I hope.’

  ‘That is good, as it should be. Now I must go. Thank you for your tea.’

  ‘You have to go right now?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

  ‘But you’ll be safe, won’t you?’

  Jan leaned across the table, took Dorothy’s face in both hands and looked into her eyes. She dared not blink.

  ‘I give you my word,’ he said, and let her go.

  So he would not kiss her again.

  He stood up and put his hat back on. Dorothy walked once again to the front gate with him, and watched him mount his bicycle.

  ‘But shall you truly be safe?’ she said.

  She put her hand on his arm. She wondered at his bodily strength, his solidity. She fantasised their skin might meld together and they could disappear into the red and bloody safety of each other’s bodies. But she had no right to think about this man in such crude terms. She was a married woman.

  ‘But yes,’ he said, ‘I have told you. I have good luck, always. Polish luck. Can I write to you? Please?’ And at last he sounded not like the confident 30-year-old man he always projected, but like a young boy. He placed his other hand over hers.

  ‘Yes, of course. But I don’t write letters,’ she replied, blushing again; he was rather too good at embarrassing her.

  ‘Why do you not write letters?’

  ‘I don’t like the way I write them.’

  ‘You are a strange lady. Now is a good time to make an exception, no?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He removed his hand and looked down at hers where it still rested on his arm. Hastily, she used it to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, flushing even more fiercely. He seemed not to notice.

  ‘We leave in two hours, three at most. We shall fight, eventually, when your compatriots wake up and see what we can achieve. Perhaps in France, perhaps in England. So I must return and prepare. I got away, to say goodbye to you, my new friend. But I must now return quickly. Look out for me. We will fly over. You must wave to me. I will be in front.’

  Jan started to ride off. He looked back and waved, which made him wobble. ‘Mrs Sinclair?’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Your biscuits definitely need more sugar!’

  Dorothy laughed.

  But when he was gone, the laughter drained from her throat, tears gathered in her eyes, and real fear crept into her blood, despite her claim to no longer feel it – an idle boast, of course. And so already she was no longer Dorothea to him. Their fledgling intimacy had taken a step backwards, and it was her fault. She was his ‘new friend’. She was Mrs Sinclair again. Fear she would conquer. Because if he could, she could. He had good luck, he claimed. Was there such a thing as Polish luck? Such a notion! But it was something to cling to. He would be safe. There was no room for fear.

  She returned to her kitchen and, against all her thrifty impulses, she broke up the remaining biscuits, carried them on the rosebud serving plate out into the garden, and scattered what remained on to the ground for her hens.

  Dorothy lingered in the garden, slowly gathering in her laundry. It was stale-dry and stiffened by the sun. The sky was pure blue, and the sun beat down on her like a public flogging, so she stripped down to her blouse and skirt, and undid her two top buttons, confident that she would not be visited again today. She removed her stockings – something she had done often this summer – and she felt the sun’s fierce heat on her bare legs, like the caress of a giant.

  She admitted to herself that she was enraptured. Alone in her garden, unwatched, unshackled, she could open up to herself, and she did. She wanted to kiss Jan, hold Jan, she wanted Jan to—

  She just wanted Jan.

  And then, hearing the distant roar as the squadron of Hurricanes started its engines, Dorothy ceased her work and looked towards Lodderston. She left her laundry and the sanctity of her garden and wandered out into the Long Acre, where she watched as the Hurricanes appeared from beyond the elm trees on the far side of the field, one by one, and fell into formation. She shielded her eyes from the sun, and within seconds the large formation was heading her way. The Hurricane in front suddenly dropped, low, lower, flying towards her as though to crash, and for one awful moment it seemed to Dorothy that he was going to crash, and suddenly it was that day in May all over again, only this time Dorothy felt no need to end her life. And of course it was Jan – in absolute control, as one would expect – and he waved, he actually waved to her, and he was so low that she could even see his large grin, his gloved hand waving to and fro like a mechanical puppet.

  This was their time, theirs alone, and she felt this moment could never be taken from her. This smiling, gentle man, flying over her, was preparing to kill other smiling, gentle men, to actually kill and maim and injure other men. And h
e was looking forward to it, she knew. He had already killed.

  It was all so peculiar. He was brave, or he was evil, or perhaps he was both – one doesn’t necessarily preclude the other, she thought, does it? – and Jan was gone, off ahead like the lead in a skein of geese. And Dorothy waited and watched until the whole growling squadron had flown over. And soon it was out of earshot, it had flown beyond the horizon, and she knew that she might never see the squadron leader again. He could be gone forever, snatched out of her life, out of their burgeoning friendship, after such a short beginning – like Sidney, her darling little purple-blue-dead Sidney. Jan could be plucked from the sky by a capricious quirk of fate, or more likely just a belligerent German. Things happen because they can, he had said, and although this idea should have been a comfort, it truly wasn’t.

  Fighting her tears, she took down the remaining rows of laundry and folded it, pressed it, aired it, and while performing these familiar tasks she trawled through each and every moment of her time with Jan – their conversing, their kissing, their dancing. She vowed to pray for him every day, to pray to that wide, empty sky that Jan occupied, even if God did not.

  Jan saw her, a small figure, not among the white sheets and pillowcases and tablecloths billowing in the breeze in her garden like gigantic white flags, but standing starkly in the field like a lonely scarecrow. He had wanted her to surrender, this strange Englishwoman he might never see again. He had forewarned his men that he would be flying down towards her garden to keep a promise, and he ignored the smiles, nudges and winks that this prompted. It was an open secret that their leader had fallen in love with this (widowed?) Englishwoman, for he was a soft bastard, despite being a hard bastard. They indulged him, and made jokes over their radios as he swooped down, ahead of the rest of the squadron. He turned off his set, because this was his moment and hers. He wanted to be alone with her. He saw her face turned up like a child’s as she stood, minute and alone, in the field, looking at the sky, expectant and awed. He smiled and waved, and he was convinced she had clearly seen him and waved back.

  Once past her, past her garden and the surrounding fields, he allowed himself a sob, two sobs, strangling a third before switching back on his radio and telling his men to be vigilant, to be safe; they would all be needed in the coming days, weeks, possibly months. God forbid, but yes, perhaps even for years to come. If they were to spot any Luftwaffe aircraft on this journey – which was unlikely, but possible – they were to shoot the Germans down; they were to show no mercy.