by Isla Dewar
‘Your Anna looks gentle. Kindly, I’d say. And clever,’ she said.
‘Oh yes,’ said Jacob. ‘She’s a botanist. She worked at Krakow University, but when the Germans came she moved back to her parents’ house in Lubin.’
‘She’ll be safe there?’ Emily Brent had no idea where Lubin was. But her William would know. He was good at geography, had once got two gold stars from his teacher because he knew every capital city in the world.
Jacob shrugged. He hoped Anna was safe. He told Mrs Brent about his journey from Poland to here.
He’d been in the south when the Germans attacked and had moved with his unit, sometimes only miles ahead of the advancing troops. Standing in a potato field, he’d watched the last of their planes take off for Rumania. He’d stared after it, till it was a dot in the sky. Then he’d turned and started his long walk out of his homeland.
There it was. A few facts, and what did facts say about upheaval, misery and fear? Nothing at all. He didn’t tell her he’d joined thousands of people fleeing. Refugees. A moving mass of humanity, walking, crawling along in cars, carrying bags and sacks. All of them hungry, all of them scared. There had been horses and oxen pulling carts full of tables, chairs, lamps, books and children. Families uprooted, lives and homes abandoned.
Once in Rumania, he’d stayed in an internment camp for several weeks till he and another two officers exchanged their watches and rings for a car that they’d driven to Bucharest. He thought sadly about his watch, a beautiful engraved gold pocket watch, worth more than the ancient, rusting, farting car.
‘It took ten days to get there.’
Mrs Brent nodded.
‘Then ten months in Bucharest trying to get a visa to travel to France. All the time no word from Anna.’
He was aware of Mrs Brent studying his face as he spoke, but carried on. ‘Then we got visas and drove to France. But in Grenoble the car went phut. Phut, the engine was dead. So we walked to Paris. Then we came to London. I went to the Polish General Staff Building in Buckingham Palace Road, and they found me a job driving for the ATA. First in Prestwick, then Kirkbride, now I am here.’
He’d been lost in his story, remembering nights when they’d slept in barns, and how hungry, cold and exhausted he’d been. So, it was only now that he noticed Mrs Brent wasn’t listening to him. He thought he might have lost her sometime in Bucharest.
‘You speak good English,’ she said.
‘I taught it before the war. English teacher in Krakow.’ He leaned his elbow on the table, chin cupped in his palm, and studied Mrs Brent as she studied him.
He’s a handsome cove, she thought. Warm lips and brown, brown eyes. But he’s a rogue. Soft, though, with it. Love will have knocked all the rascal out of him. It does that. But he’s sizing me up and that’s what rogues do. He’ll be back to living on his wits, surviving, using all his tricks to get back to his Anna.
She asked where he was staying. Looking at his face, the lines and curves of his cheeks, the way his lips moved as he spoke, she’d decided yes, he was a rascal, but kindly. She liked kindly.
‘You can stay with us. There’s room.’
He told her he had to report to the airbase that afternoon, and someone there would find him a billet.
‘They’ll only put you with someone you don’t know. But now you know me, best stay with friends.’
He agreed.
‘You go right up the High Street and keep going. Only a mile outside the village. The first house you come to. You’ll find it easy, you having walked here from Bucharest.’
He was right, she hadn’t been listening. He smiled and told her he’d go before reporting to the base in the afternoon.
She stood at the door saying goodbye when he left. Then she walked to the end of the garden path, to the gate – a crumbling white picket thing, greening with damp – and watched him go, a battered brown leather case clutched in his hand. She could see from the way he moved, the slope of his shoulders, that he was lonely. But he carried it well, long steps, head up. Loneliness didn’t bother him. It was part of his life. Mrs Brent thought he’d probably use it, almost revel in it, to survive till he got back to the woman in his picture. Yes, she thought, he’d made friends with it.
Jacob didn’t go straight to Mrs Brent’s cottage. Instead of turning right at the end of the lane and on up to the High Street, he turned left down a small narrow track that led to the river. The ground was still frosted hard. Puddles turned to pools of muddied ice. He stamped on them, heard the ice squeak and groan under his weight, but it didn’t break. The river was wider than he’d imagined. He thought it must be three hundred yards to the other side. He thought he’d swim here come summertime. Right now, the water was pewter and murkily still, iced at the banks. The trees were stark. Leafless. A single lonely duck pottered slowly by, centre stream. Jacob thought it looked how he felt – bedraggled, isolated, cold and wondering how he got here, and where were all his friends?
Up on the road that ran parallel to the river path, he heard the milk cart. The steady clip-clop of the horse, the trundle of old wheels over cobbles and the milkwoman’s cry, ‘Milko.’ Voices as women came out carrying their jugs to be filled from the metal milk churns on the back of the cart.
He would wait a while before he went to Mrs Brent’s cottage. It was always upsetting to tell his story, and he needed some time alone before facing anyone new.
He could never properly describe how awful it had been joining that mass of refugees, and he felt that nobody he spoke to understood how exhausted and scared he’d been. So, he avoided company and, when the few people he did mix with asked how he’d got here, he kept his story as short as possible. And told it in a flat, almost monotone voice. He did not want to share his feelings – his relief at getting away, his guilt that his wife, Anna, was still back in Lubin.
He rounded a bend in the riverbank and came across a small jetty. At one time, before the war, he supposed there might have been several small boats anchored here. But now there was only one weathered rowing boat tied to a post.
On the bank, in front of the jetty was a small café – Mary’s Tearoom. It looked pleasantly empty – only two other customers, a couple sitting by the window sharing a pot of tea, staring out at the river. The café backed onto the Golden Mallard Hotel, a huge building with long lawns stretching down to the water. There was an ornate summerhouse in the middle of the lawns, and he could see just beyond it a tennis court. A man in RAF uniform was walking hand in hand with a woman in a trim red suit – jacket with a nipped-in waist and shoulder pads, a neat straight skirt. She had long dark hair that swept past her shoulders. From a distance, she reminded him of Anna. The couple climbed a few steps that led onto a terrace, then disappeared through a wide set of French windows.
Watching couples, even fleeting glimpses of them, always depressed Jacob. He momentarily imagined himself and Anna walking up that lawn, disappearing into the hotel and discussing if they should have a pot of tea in the lounge or take a stroll through the village. He thought, She’d want the tea; I’d want the stroll. Or maybe he’d try to persuade her to come with him to their room where they’d make love and lie afterwards, side by side, holding hands listening to the river slipping past.
He decided to have a cup of tea in the café. It looked dingy enough to suit his mood. He took a window seat at the table next to the couple and ordered a pot of tea and a slice of ginger cake from the young waitress. The couple stood up, nodded to him, a brief acknowledgement that he was in the world. They paid at the counter, then on their way out slipped a sixpence from their change under one of the saucers still on their table. Jacob watched them walk away, back along the path and out of sight. Then, as the waitress went into the kitchen to fetch his tea and cake, he leaned over, took the sixpence and put it in his pocket.
Just after noon, Jacob arrived at Mrs Brent’s cottage. She wasn’t there, but William, her husband, was digging in the garden. ‘Letting the frost in to kill the weed
s,’ he said. Then he added, ‘You’ll be Jacob, come to stay.’
Jacob nodded. ‘Your wife has already told you.’
‘Oh no, won’t be seeing her till tonight. She told Grace, the milkwoman, all about you. Her man’s away at war so she took over the round. Grace told Jenny at the post office. And Jenny told Ben the postman who told Roger, barman at the Duck’s Foot, who told me when I popped in to deliver some eggs. It’s a small place, no secrets, everybody knows all about everybody here. You’ll soon get the hang of it.’
Jacob said he thought he would and thanked William for the room and board.
‘Think nothing of it. There’s a war on, got to do your bit.’ He put an old hand, liver-spotted and muddy, on Jacob’s shoulder. ‘Come away in and sit down. You’ll be weary after walking here all the way from Bucharest.’
Jacob didn’t bother to put him right about his journey from Poland. In fact, he rather liked that people might have misconceptions about it.
His room pleased him. It was tiny, but he found it snug. And it was sparsely furnished – a bed, a small dresser and a wardrobe, all very old and neglected. The floor was bare boards. The ceiling sloped towards a small six-paned window. He had to bow his head to look out. He had a view of the Brents’ large immaculate garden – neatly turned over, awaiting spring planting – and beyond were fields, then trees, bare at the moment, so he had a shining glimpse of the river.
Jacob turned to William, who was standing in the doorway – there wasn’t room for two – and told him it was perfect. And so it was. Luxury in any form troubled Jacob these days. He didn’t want to be warm and comfortable when he was sure Anna wasn’t. He couldn’t stand the guilt.
He dumped his bag on the bed, and told William he needed to change into his uniform before he reported to the base.
‘Fair enough,’ said William. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ He turned to go down the narrow rickety stairs leading to the kitchen. Paused. Turned back. ‘It’ll be ten shillings a week for the room and board, and we’ll be needing two pounds deposit.’
Jacob said he’d bring the money with him when he came down. He changed into his uniform, he took his papers and all his money, including the sixpence stolen from the café, and put them in his pockets. He didn’t think the Brents would actually steal anything. But he was sure they’d have a sneaky rifle through his things. He’d have to find a good hiding place for his back-to-Poland fund.
In the kitchen, William took the money and put it in an old teapot on the dresser, then offered Jacob lunch. He took a platter of roast beef from the pantry. Jacob wondered how he could have got hold of such a large joint of beef. Looking round, he saw shelves of jams, chutneys, salted runner beans and pickles. There was a bowl filled with speckled eggs on the draining board and, next to the cooker, a plate of sausages. Rationing seemed to have passed these people by.
William set two roast beef sandwiches on floral plates down on the table and slammed a pot of mustard dead centre. ‘There you go. Proper food. You’ll be wanting a drop of beer to go with that.’
Jacob refused. He didn’t want to turn up at the base with the smell of alcohol on his breath.
‘Quite right,’ said William. ‘I’ll do you some tea. And we’ll be needing your ration book. Can’t be feeding you without it. Not that we need it for ourselves, mind. Sons working on the land get extra cheese that they hand on to us, and Emily and me, being over seventy, get tea without coupons. Tea and cheese, what more do you need?”
Jacob reluctantly handed over his ration book.
He walked slowly to the base, and was late for his appointment with Fiona Driscoll, the adjutant at Skimpton airbase. She rapped the top of her desk with her knuckles and told Jacob that lateness just wasn’t in order with the ATA. Jacob apologised and said he’d been held up, and it had been a bit further to walk to the base from the village than he’d realised.
‘You should have started out earlier than you did if you weren’t sure of how long it would take. We have planes to deliver, we expect punctuality.’
Jacob said it wouldn’t happen again. And Fiona told him to take his hands out of his pockets when addressing an officer. ‘It looks slovenly. We may not be a military organisation, but we have standards. We expect you to be turned out in uniform looking smart, shoes shined, trousers creased. But we’re civilians here, so no saluting or any of that. If you don’t come up to snuff or break any rules, you won’t be court-martialled, you’ll be fired.’
Jacob decided he didn’t like her. He supposed nobody really liked her. She must be lonely. She was achingly thin. So thin, she looked as if she’d be permanently cold. She moved stiffly. She was a woman who was all bones, no fat, no muscle. Her skin was translucent, her nose slightly red. She asked if he had a reliable watch. ‘You’ll need one.’
He did have a watch. He’d got it in exchange for a car – a beautiful MG that had belonged to one of the pilots on the base where he’d last been posted. He’d been killed when he crashed a Hurricane into the side of a hill one foggy afternoon four months ago.
The pilot’s widow had come to the base to collect her husband’s belongings from his locker, and Jacob had been given the job of driving her home to the house she and her husband rented. The car, mud-splattered and forlorn, had been sitting in the drive. The widow, a small nervous woman, so burdened by grief she looked as if she might, at any moment, slump to the ground, told him she didn’t know what to do with the car. She didn’t drive and didn’t want to see it standing unused. ‘It would be painful. Besides, I’m moving to Cornwall next month and can’t take it with me.’ Jacob offered to take it off her hands for twenty-five pounds, saying it wasn’t worth much more than that. ‘Hard to sell a car these days. Petrol rationing.’ Besides, he told her the car was almost five years old and had high mileage. The widow had been glad of the deal, and thanked him profusely.
Jacob had taken the car back to his base, washed and polished it. For three days, he’d driven it with joy. It thrilled him to hurtle down narrow roads, roof down, wind whipping his hair, face stiff with cold. He’d be smiling. It was the happiest he’d been since he’d left Poland. Then another pilot, visiting the base, had asked if he was interested in selling and offered Jacob fifty pounds for the car.
How Jacob had laughed. ‘This car is worth at least twice that. Look at her. She shines. Leather seats, just four years old, one previous owner and such low mileage.’
After a bit of haggling, Jacob had sold the car for seventy pounds, plus the splendid gold watch the pilot sported on his wrist. A very good deal, he thought. He tossed the keys over to the car’s new owner, slid the watch onto his wrist, and planned to put the money into his getting-home-to-Poland fund, except for the money he used to buy the widow of the car’s original owner a bunch of pink and white roses.
When Fiona asked if he had a watch, Jacob shoved up his sleeve and tapped with pride the handsome gold timepiece on his wrist. Fiona nodded, a curt movement of her head. She liked to remain aloof. She asked if he had anywhere to stay, and seemed relieved when he told her he had a room with the Brents. Plainly, she didn’t like having to billet people out. Jacob supposed she lacked the charm necessary to persuade people to take strangers into their homes.
She slapped her hands on her desk and stood up. ‘Right, I’ll show you round.’
It was a shining place. Gleaming green lino that squeaked beneath the soles of his shoes, polished wood – doors, tabletops in the mess – the colour of freshly shelled conkers. Fiona walked briskly, pointing as she went. ‘The CO’s office. He’s not here today, you’ll meet him soon enough. The ops room, Edith is ops officer.’ He peered in, a small neat woman, telephone to her ear, smiled and flickered her fingers at him.
Fiona strode on. ‘The met room – that’s Nigel.’ Jacob caught a swift passing glimpse of a tall, awkward man wearing a bowler hat standing marking up a huge map. Fiona didn’t give him time to say hello. ‘The mess,’ she said. A large room, a scattering of tables and ch
airs, newspapers lying unread and a couple of abandoned cups on a table, but nobody around to be introduced.
Outside the air was crisp, chilled. Fiona’s breath spilled in tumbled mists from her mouth as she spoke. Jacob couldn’t make out anything she was saying, a plane was booming overhead, coming in to land. Fiona held on to her hat. Jacob’s trousers flapped wildly. Two more planes were doing circuits overhead, awaiting their turn to land. A van from the car pool trundled past
The landing plane was so low that, looking up, Jacob could see the faces of the passengers inside. They seemed to be having a good time.
‘That’s the gels back,’ said Fiona pointing upwards. ‘The taxi dispersal area is at the end of the runway.’ She pointed to the plane, now landed and skimming into the gathering late-afternoon gloom. ‘You’ll be expected to take the van down to pick up the pilots and bring them back here.’
Jacob nodded. This job was much the same as his last job. Only this base smelled of polish and there were women here. He thought that if he kept his distance from Fiona, he could be happy here.
She led the way to the car pool. It was a short walk away from the main building. Inside the car pool were three Humbers lined up. All were gleaming. Fiona introduced Jacob to Douglas and Brian. ‘They’ll show you the ropes.’ Then she handed him a slip of paper. ‘You will collect the CO, the Ops Officer and myself tomorrow morning, eight-fifteen. Me first, then Edith and the CO last. You’ll have to come out here to collect the car. Brian will tell you which one.’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there to get you in the morning.’
Fiona gave him a small stiff smile, ‘Till tomorrow morning, then.’ She whirled round and strode off. A stiff military walk. Jacob shoved his hands back into his pockets and watched her go.
Brian, Jacob’s new colleague, came up and stood beside him, ‘She’s not so bad when you get to know her.’