The last train of the journey, boarded at Birmingham New Street, was just as crowded with servicemen, just as smoky and dark and noisy. In the carriages it was stifling, in the corridors icy. Leaving Birmingham, Dorothy was offered a window seat, and a brash but polite soldier placed her suitcase on the rack above. She settled into the corner as best she could, and fed John his third bottle of goat’s milk; the Thermos had enough milk left for one more feed. Dorothy hoped it would be enough to pacify him for the rest of the journey, and prayed he would not need another change of nappy – having already changed three of them on dirty, rocking, cold corridor floors, she did not relish the thought of changing any more. She would not use the filthy toilets.
But what to do with the soiled nappies? They were in her basket, and they reeked. She wished now she had had the forethought to dispose of them in a rubbish bin on a platform when changing trains. She would have to do something about them now, so she smiled at the servicemen who looked her up and down as she pushed past them into the corridor, carrying John and the basket of dirty nappies. She put down the basket and forced open a window with her free hand. The blackening air whistled past her like a sudden wish for death, and one by one she threw the wet, filthy nappies from the window as the train rattled and swayed through the darkening afternoon.
At three minutes to five, the train at last pulled into Oxford station and Dorothy was able to disembark for the final time, carrying her suitcase, her basket, her handbag and her baby. She felt that now the journey was almost over, now that she and John had reached Oxford and were a long way from Lincolnshire, from Aggie and Nina and Mrs Compton – the people who knew her secret – he was finally hers. Trembling with fatigue and anxiety, Dorothy found a seat in the ticket hall, where she sat for a few moments, composing herself. John was asleep, and she held him gently.
A minute or two later, she left the station and entered her home city for the first time in seven years, marvelling at its old familiar grandeur, its air of insistent superiority. It was dark, cold, and the dastardly blackout had settled over the early evening. Dorothy knew she would have to walk home. She estimated it would take an hour or more to get to her mother’s house in the north of the city, carrying everything. She was so tired, but she would avoid the buses. She could not bear the thought of another smoky and overcrowded journey. There was less snow here, she noticed with some relief, and the evening was milder than she had been used to in recent days. She walked past the Ritz cinema on George Street, with its queue of cold and war-weary people waiting to get inside its warmth and be transported to an altogether lighter, more sparkling world. She walked past shops, some of them familiar to her, all of them closed now. The shop workers were making their way home, as she was.
She walked. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time.
Be in the moment, she told herself. Be here, and now, and be thankful for it.
The house just off the Woodstock Road still looked the same, as far as Dorothy could tell in the dark. The front door, she thought, was still blue. She stood a minute or two, breathing deeply, preparing herself for this final hurdle, then rang the bell. John began to whimper. Her arms burned with the burden of holding him for so long, one-handed, with the suitcase in the other, and the basket and her handbag hooked over her elbows. It might be nice, Dorothy thought, to lay John down. It would be a relief to have that weight lifted from her, just briefly, to hand him to somebody else. She felt that, any moment now, everything – including John – would tumble from her.
Her mother answered the door. She peered through the gloom at her only daughter, seemingly without recognition. Had Dorothy changed so much? Then, suspicion clouded her mother’s face. Yet the bitterness around the mouth was gone, although the lines were deeper. Her mother looked tired. Perhaps lonely. Definitely old.
‘Hello, Mother.’
‘You came?’ gasped Dorothy’s mother, a wrinkled hand held to her chest. She stared at the baby, who was mewling like a kitten, his little restless movements becoming stiffer, angrier.
Dorothy knew the mewling would soon become screeching. He needed milk, quickly. They had come so far. And he had been so good.
‘This is your grandson, John. Mother, we’ve come home. Like I said we would.’
Dorothy’s mother held out her arms and took John, and Dorothy slowly lowered the suitcase, bag and basket on to the doorstep. The shock of suddenly empty arms made her feel light and insubstantial, as if her arms were floating, and she found herself in the queerly painful state of emptiness, after hours of burden.
‘I’m in the soup, rather,’ she began. ‘But John’s father is a good man. Make no mistake. He flies a Hurricane. He’s a squadron leader, like Douglas Bader. Only he’s Polish. He had an injury and he carried on flying. He’s a brave man and he’s very honourable. I was asked to leave the cottage. Like I said in my letter.’ She stopped abruptly, aware that she was babbling.
Her mother had been ignoring her, cooing and shushing at the baby. Now she looked up at Dorothy quizzically. ‘The house is not, perhaps, as you remember it,’ she said slowly. ‘Have you really come home? There are no more servants. There is not a great deal of money any more. Your room is as you left it, though possibly a little dusty. But nothing you can’t manage.’ Then she seemed to realise where they were. ‘But what on earth am I doing!’ she cried. ‘Come in out of this cold, child! Whatever next!’
‘Mother—’
‘You’re exhausted, my dear. The fire is lit and tea is on the hob. Perhaps I was expecting you? That’s it, in, in, let’s close this door … it still sticks, do you see? Oh, Dorothy, let’s not mind what has passed between us. Mothers and daughters should never talk over the threshold.’
Dorothy stepped into her mother’s house, and her mother shut the door firmly behind her.
32
‘Happy Mother’s Day to Mummy I love you soo much, love from Bobby’: A home-made card with a child’s drawing of a mother and a little girl, with a tree, grass and flowers and a huge sun in the corner. The writing inside is wobbly, up and down. It is sweet. I think the creator of this card could be another Roberta and I wonder if her mother regrets losing, or even knows she has lost, this precious card. I keep it safe.
(Found inside a mint 1950 Penguin edition of Black Narcissus by Rumer Godden, priced at £5.00 and bought by myself.)
I put the letter addressed to me in my handbag. I haven’t opened it. It’s from Philip – his writing is always recognisable – but I have no idea what the letter says, and I am too scared to find out. Stupid. But I fear I was too honest with him when he came to my rescue and I know, I fully expect, this letter is his way of letting me down gently. I can’t bear the embarrassment of reading his rebuke, his explanations, however elegantly put. So, I’m ignoring it and carrying on as normal. As is Philip, it seems. You would almost think there was no letter.
Today is bright and cold. I make coffee for everybody once we have all arrived. Philip has decided he needs me to help him sort out his ‘disastrous’ office. It hasn’t been cleaned ‘properly’ since 2001, he claims. He may be right.
We work together for an hour or so, diligently and quietly, as usual. There’s a good deal of dust and clutter and piles of books, and we uncover many forgotten treasures, books that ought to be out on the shelves.
‘Roberta?’
‘Hmm?’
I’m dusting books. He’s sorting through paperwork.
‘Your mother.’
I stiffen. I stop dusting. ‘What about her?’
‘Did you, I mean, of course, I’m trying to ask, it’s not my business but … does she know about your father passing away?’
Silence.
Eventually, ‘I haven’t told her.’
‘Do you not think she should be told?’ he says quietly, eyeing me over his spectacles. ‘Would it not be the right thing to do?’
I look away from him. I do not speak about my mother. Philip has never mentioned her before, and I don
’t like it. ‘I don’t have anything to do with my mother,’ I say, stiffly, continuing with my dusting. ‘I haven’t done for years.’
‘Why not? Your parents were divorced from each other, you know. Not from you.’
‘Is that so?’ I say.
Philip looks at me sharply. ‘Is it not?’ he says.
‘No. It’s not.’
‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘Would you tell me the truth? About your mother?’
The truth about my mother? What is that? My truth would certainly not be her truth. My truth is actually the frantic ravings of a confused six-year-old. But I’m going to tell him this secret, this thing of which I have always felt ashamed, even though I was, am and always will be entirely innocent of blame. This thing that has cut me in two all my life.
‘It’s all a bore, as you would say,’ I begin.
Philip nods patiently.
‘My mother left us when I was six years old, just walked out one day while I was at school. Dad didn’t know if she was alive or dead for three days. She rang us after the police tracked her down, and she told Dad she couldn’t cope any more with married life or with motherhood … with him, she meant, and me. I haven’t seen her since then, and from that day my father and my grandmother brought me up. Nutshell.’
Philip is stunned. I can see realisation flood through him. But he has no idea what to say, and now I am crying, though I hate myself for it. So he gets up from his desk, walks round it, stands beside me and puts his arms around me. He whispers my name. He kisses me on my head, I think, I can’t be sure. He rubs my back. And at that moment, of all moments, that most innocent of moments – far more innocent than secret (and unread) letters planted in books – Jenna bursts into the office to ask if we would like coffee or tea?
Later, I show Philip the letter written by my grandfather. Embarrassed, stammering a little at first, I tell him about the parts of it that don’t make sense, and about Suzanne’s revelation. We are coming to the end of our big clean-up in his office. It’s been a long day. I ought to talk to Jenna to explain. My mind is racing.
Philip scrutinises the letter, then hands it back to me. ‘Why don’t you just discuss it with your grandmother?’ he says.
‘It would upset her,’ I reply.
‘Wouldn’t it be worth it to discover the truth?’
‘Possibly. But I don’t want to upset her. Obviously.’
‘Did you ever ask your father about it?’
‘I tried to once, but I didn’t get anywhere. I got the feeling he knew things but didn’t want to talk about them.’
‘Well, so what if your grandparents weren’t married? It’s not the end of the world, is it?’
‘No, I suppose not. I just hate the idea that her life has been a lie.’
‘That’s up to her, Roberta. Did she draw a war pension, do you know?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m not sure. I never heard her talk about one. But then if he was Polish, she perhaps wasn’t entitled to one.’
‘She wouldn’t be entitled if she wasn’t married either. It all adds up, rather. But she was married to this other chap, you say? Hmm. It’s all quite a mystery, isn’t it? Of course, that would appeal to you. But don’t eat yourself up over it.’ He sips his coffee. ‘I’m sure this Suzanne woman is telling you the truth. And you’ve seen the deed poll, you say? There’s your answer.’
‘Oh, I don’t know what to think any more. It’s driving me crazy.’
‘It’s been a hard few weeks for you,’ says Philip, softly.
‘You have helped me so much. I’m ever so grateful. Really.’
I wonder if I should bring up the subject of the letter I found and say I don’t intend reading it. That actually I understand. And I don’t need a letter to let me down gently.
But Philip waves his hand, and moves the moment on. ‘Will you tell her about your father?’
‘I couldn’t bring myself to last week. She’s lost her only son.’
‘Hmm. Perhaps it would be kinder to say nothing.’
‘I think so, but she asks about him every time I visit. I’m running out of excuses for his absence, you know?’
‘Poor you. What about your mother?’
‘What about her?’ I snap, angry that he’s brought her up again.
‘Couldn’t she throw any light on this letter?’
‘Oh. I see. Actually, I don’t know. I’ve not considered that.’
‘Well, it might be worth trying to make contact with her over this, if nothing else. This business seems to be consuming you, rather,’ and a strange look clouds Philip’s face.
I’m not sure if it’s something he said, or something I said. But he looks pink and flustered. Jenna enters the office and strolls over to Philip, snaking an arm around his waist and declaring herself very, very bored. Can’t they call it a day? She’ll cook. The office looks immaculate! She beams at me, with a smile that I’m not certain is really a smile.
I must talk to her.
From: Roberta Pietrykowski
Sent: 08 December 2010 20:25
To: Anna Mills
Subject: John Pietrykowski
Anna,
I hope you don’t mind my contacting you out of the blue like this. If you are the right Anna Mills, I am your daughter. I thought I should let you know that your former husband, John Pietrykowski, died in October. He had been unwell for many years. He was brave and strong until the very end, avoiding hospital as much as he could. Maybe you can recall how much he hated hospitals? He died at home, and I was with him. I thought it only right to let you know.
Regards,
Roberta Pietrykowski
From: Anna Mills
Sent: 09 December 2010 18.19
To: Roberta Pietrykowski
Subject: RE: John Pietrykowski
Dear Roberta
Thank you for your email. I wonder how you tracked me down. But, of course, nobody is invisible these days. I have also wondered if I would ever hear from you. I am sorry to hear about your loss, and I am not surprised to hear that your father was stoic in his illness and death. You have not asked me about my life, and that is understandable, so I will not volunteer any information. The people in my life know nothing of you.
Anna
From: Roberta Pietrykowski
Sent: 09 December 2010 19:52
To: Anna Mills
Subject: RE: John Pietrykowski
I have no intention of giving away my existence to the people in your life. Sorry I am such a shameful secret.
Roberta
From: Anna Mills
Sent: 09 December 2010 21.40
To: Roberta Pietrykowski
Subject: RE: John Pietrykowski
You are not shameful, Roberta. I have just moved on with my life in more ways than I ever thought possible and I bear no resemblance, on any level, to the woman that was Mrs Anna Pietrykowski.
From: Roberta Pietrykowski
Sent: 09 December 2010 21:58
To: Anna Mills
Subject: RE: John Pietrykowski
I understand.
From: Roberta Pietrykowski
Sent: 10 December 2010 19.03
To: Anna Mills
Subject: My grandmother
Anna,
Sorry to trouble you again. I still don’t want anything from you, apart from some information. I wonder if you know anything about my grandmother, Dorothea, who I am sure you can remember. I have discovered that she was not married to my grandfather. Did she ever speak to you about this? And also, do you have any idea when my grandfather died?
Thank you,
Roberta
From: Anna Mills
Sent: 11 December 2010 09.34
To: Roberta Pietrykowski
Subject: RE: My grandmother
Roberta,
I guessed I had not heard the last from you. Dorothea and I were never on close terms, sadly, but I do remember her quite clearly. She was a noble woma
n, which may sound odd, but I can’t think of a better word to describe her. She did tell me, while I was expecting you, that your father was a ‘miracle’ in her life. And that she lost a baby boy before John came along. I have no idea if your grandparents were married or not, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they hadn’t been. Dorothea didn’t discuss him with me, but I always got the sense that John’s father was her lover. There was never any husband talk, if that makes sense in this day and age. To be quaint, I suspect your father was a ‘love child’. I don’t know when your grandfather died. During the war, wasn’t it? John never knew him.
If you would like to meet up, somewhere neutral, I am happy to do this. I live in London. I won’t blame you if that is not on your agenda, I will understand perfectly. The offer is on the table, that’s all.
Anna
From: Roberta Pietrykowski
Sent: 11 December 2010 20.17
To: Anna Mills
Subject: RE: My grandmother
Thank you, Anna. I am researching the family tree so that is why I asked. Ancestry is fascinating, at least to me. I didn’t know that my grandmother had an earlier baby. Isn’t it odd how we all keep secrets from those we love, or are supposed to love? She is still alive, by the way. She turned 110 in November. Tomorrow I am going to visit her. I will think about meeting up with you and I’ll let you know.
Roberta
From: Anna Mills
Sent: 12 December 2010 12:11
To: Roberta Pietrykowski
Subject: Secrets
Roberta,
Your grandmother was – is – a deep woman. Sometimes secrets are necessary. You will find this out in life, if you haven’t already.
Anna
33
18th January 1941
Dear Mrs Compton,
I enclose an order for thirteen guineas. It includes the two pounds you kindly lent to me and some extra for A, if you think it will help. I do hope she will see sense over this. At any rate, I was not apprehended on the journey as I feared I would be. J and I arrived safely at my mother’s house. The journey was long and arduous, as I expected. My mother is delighted with her grandson. She is less so with me, I think, but I am happy to say we get along well, much better than we ever did before I left. J has broken the ice between us and we are set to make a happy household, I hope.
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