The phone rang, out in the hall.
“That’ll be for you.” Eric nodded to Lindsey, while he got up to answer. He never got phone calls himself. “They’ve tracked you down, hen.” He tried a smile. “You want to speak to him if it’s Graham?”
Lindsey shook her head again, but it turned out to be Brenda in any case: all hoarse with concern.
“Is she with you? She’s at yours now, isn’t she?”
She’d thought Lindsey had gone home when she saw the bed was empty, only then Graham came calling.
“He got Stevie tae school, an then he came lookin for Lindsey. Tail between his legs.”
Eric watched Lindsey blink while he relayed the news, verbatim, her face softening a little as she heard about Graham repentant. She called out from the kitchen:
“Ask Brenda if he’s okay. And where he is now.”
Brenda heard her anyhow:
“I tellt him tae go tae work, hen.”
She said it loud, and then Eric held the receiver out, so both of them could hear her.
“I said tae him I’d find you, Lin. An I’d be tellin you tae keep at him.”
Lindsey smiled at that, even if she was still teary with it. Brenda told her:
“You keep tryin, aye? You’ll find another flat. Graham just needs pushed sometimes, so he does.”
Lindsey nodded, she came out of the kitchen and took the receiver. The two women talked, and Eric only caught half of what was said, but even so, he thought they’d make some united front, Brenda and the girl.
He made Lindsey breakfast, and after she got off the phone, she told him about the flat she’d found; just a little, but enough for him to see the disappointment. Lindsey stayed sitting for ages after she’d finished eating, chin in hand, her eyes turned inward. Until Eric asked her:
“What you gonnae do, then?”
“Go home.” She sighed. And then she smiled, resigned. “Fetch my boy from school. Put the tea on for when Graham gets in.”
She was going to keep trying.
15
Ewa’s phone call had Jozef fretting. He shouldn’t have been so short with her: how was that going to help?
They were into the last few days of June now, time to start on the ground floor, so Jozef got himself up early to keep from brooding, packing up his clothes and his paperwork, ready to move upstairs.
He’d moved to wherever the work was for however long now, he couldn’t count. Jozef had grown up thinking he’d build ships like his father, and shift the world on its axis, but he ended up building houses. The strikes had wrought change, but not enough jobs to go round, so he’d learned his trade, needs must, back and forth across the German border, and he’d been doing that a decade before Ewa came to join him. She was twenty-three then, and that seemed so young now to Jozef; she’d be thirty-two in just a few weeks.
They’d gone from house-sits to bedsits and flats, in Hamburg, Berlin, then Birmingham and London. Ewa finding cleaning jobs that were well beneath her station, and Jozef making plans. He was going to buy or build them their own place, back in Gdańsk: nothing grand or world-shaking, but enough to count for something. He’d secure a good life in the new freedom, for him and for Ewa. But he wouldn’t do it like they did in the West, he decided, with debts above their heads: he’d told her if they had to work like this, then they would save hard too, while they were young, so they wouldn’t have to work so much later on. They’d have a family, and enjoy life properly then. He worked with enough men who only saw their children when they’d scraped enough together for a week or two back in Poland; his own father had been a photo on the mantelpiece for so many years of his boyhood, it was something he didn’t want to emulate.
It had felt right, and it had seemed as though Ewa felt that too, for all that she cried sometimes about her jobs, and about being so far from all her sisters. She’d cried hardest every time one of them had another baby.
Jozef would go out for wine then, or Belvedere vodka; Ewa always knew the Polish shops that sold the right stuff to toast a new life. They’d sit up late and talk it out, through Ewa’s tears: what they were doing here. And where next. And how much longer. They’d talk and talk, until at some stage in the small hours, he’d persuade her into his arms.
That was the way it had always been with them: work and tears and then tenderness to make good. They could have the biggest rows, and then still carry on, finding jobs and the next new place to go to. That was the life they made together, and Jozef had trusted it.
He didn’t know now: Ewa was so young when they’d left, maybe she’d trusted it at first. But then all that hard work had made her grow up. She’d come away with him thinking it would be for three years, or four at the outside. Ewa had just got to grips with German when she had to start learning English. She’d taken classes, found friends among the Walworth Road Polish, even a Warsaw couple rich enough to have her as a nanny. Much better than cleaning, those twin girls; Ewa taught them all the Polish songs she didn’t get to sing to her nieces.
It was their seventh year away when London jobs began to run dry. Friends were moving on, some were even going home, following the turning tide of work, and Jozef had felt that pull too, but couldn’t trust it. He hadn’t secured them that house yet, hadn’t worked his way high enough up the pay grade. What if they bought a place, only to have to leave again to afford it? It was a job half done, so when Ewa asked, he’d told her:
“Not now. Soon, soon.”
Jozef had been so intent, on work and the bringing in of funds, he’d not seen the change when it came, until it was upon them. Ewa didn’t shout or cry when he landed his first job in Glasgow. It was his first in charge, but she told him:
“Don’t you open your arms to me.”
She stood and counted on two hands all the people they knew who’d gone back to Poland, and she was quiet and resolved, refusing to pack up.
“Not unless it’s to go home.”
Her sisters all had children, all her school friends, and Ewa told him:
“Look around you, even the London Polish have kids, they don’t put off their lives.”
She said:
“This is a half-life we’re living. It’s not worth it.”
Jozef shifted his boxes alone this time. Early on Friday, to have it done for when the men arrived. So he was on his own and feeling low in the ground floor when Marek turned up.
His nephew surprised him, coming in ahead of the others, and lending a hand with the last of his cases, unasked, up the stairs to the first floor.
“Is this what I’m paid for?”
Jozef was in no mood to respond. But Marek was a distraction at least. And Jozef remembered it had given him hope, when Ewa had asked if he’d take him on; another one of her phone calls, seemingly out of nowhere. She could have turned to Romek, or any number of other friends in London and Berlin, so it had felt as though a door was being kept open, maybe. You watch out for yourself, too. Okay?
“Is this all?”
Marek looked around Jozef’s new room when they’d finished, surprised that there wasn’t more for him to fetch. Or perhaps that these few boxes were all his uncle had to show for all those years of work. It looked pitiful to Jozef as well: so provisional, this stop-gap room and single bed, and scant belongings stored in cardboard. He had his savings, of course, and life hadn’t been quite as bare when Ewa was with him; she’d been the one who bought things, made each new place look lived-in. But it still threw him. Jozef had reckoned on putting things in storage before he went to Gdańsk, only looking about himself now, taking stock, he saw it would all fit in his van; not much more than what he’d come with. It was a relief when his mobile rang with the first of the day’s deliveries.
Most of the materials for the ground floor were due that morning, and Jozef went outside to meet the truck with the new boiler on board. Tomas was due to do the fitting, but he wasn’t there yet to check through the order, so Jozef handed Marek the delivery notes.
; “I am paying you to learn.”
Marek squinted at them while the driver unloaded, laughing at Tomas’s cramped script.
“Is that a two or a seven, do you think?”
Jozef didn’t rise to the bait. But then his nephew picked up on some parts that weren’t right; a set of thermostats.
“See? It’s a different number on the delivery note. That’s not what Tomas wrote.”
Marek even cleared the return with the driver, and then reported back to Jozef.
“They’ll bring the right ones over tomorrow.”
“On a Saturday?”
“They made the mistake,” Marek shrugged. “So I made out it was urgent. He said they’d send a van sometime middle of the morning.”
Jozef eyed his nephew, thinking how much easier life would be if he was always this useful. And how Ewa might be happy too, if he kept Marek on beyond this job. He was due to rip out the ground-floor carpets after breakfast, so Jozef told him:
“We have three more deliveries on the way. You’ll be down here anyway, so you can check them all in.”
“With Stevie too?”
Jozef paused, knowing Ewa wouldn’t like that, but it would help the day run smoothly. He gave Marek the rest of the paperwork.
“Just make sure they’ve charged us the list price, yes?”
Marek did the calculations on his mobile over breakfast. They’d put the big table in one of the first-floor rooms, and the others joined them as they arrived, bringing rolls and coffee. Stevie was late down, coming in as Jozef dealt out the morning’s jobs; he came in the door all thin T-shirt and narrow shoulders, with a deep sleep-crease across his cheek. Tomas gave him a nod:
“Good morning.”
And then:
“Looks like our boy-thief has been out half the night again.”
He said it in Polish, but it raised enough knowing smiles to have Stevie shifting, casting a nervy glance around the assembled workers. Jozef motioned to Marek to give him his orders, and then kept on handing out tasks, moving things along, aware any move he made in Stevie’s favour might be reported back to Ewa.
He waited until all the men were standing before he pushed his way through to the boys.
“Use the back room, but stack everything neatly, yes?”
One of the trucks would bring all the copper pipes and fittings for the new central heating.
“We’ll need them for every room, so keep them to hand.”
Stevie nodded, short, aware he’d been the butt of a joke, and then Marek kicked at Tomas’s boot as he was passing, holding out his mobile so he could see what the heating order came to.
“Look how much you spent.”
Marek tapped the screen in emphasis, but he only got a shrug from Tomas:
“Now you know what things cost here. See why I get at you for cutting pipes too short? Measure twice, cut once: no waste.”
“Right, right.”
Marek turned away, but Jozef frowned at him to listen; high time he knew how these things worked. He told him:
“We’ll sell on what we don’t use. Claw some money back.”
“From the supplier?”
“Wherever we get the best price. Maybe I’ll get you to find out.”
He wanted Marek kept on his toes now.
Jozef sent the boys down to work, thinking he’d most likely just pass on any leftover pipes to Romek. Fit them in his van, along with his boxes, drive them down to London en route to Ewa and Gdańsk.
He only went downstairs just before lunch, to check the goods were all in, and stored properly.
He heard the boys from out in the ground-floor hallway: still in the back room and sorting, but Marek’s mind already on the weekend.
“I’m out tonight. With Tomas, maybe a couple of the others.”
He wanted Stevie along, but the boy didn’t sound too keen on the company. Even when Marek told him:
“Tomas is all right.”
“Naw, the guy’s out tae drive a wedge. Cannae be daen wae that shite.”
Wise before his time, Jozef thought, coming to a stop by the door; the boy still sounded tired too, not in the best mood. There was the clank of pipes, so Jozef knew they’d arrived, and then Marek asked:
“Who’s best to sell to up here, then?”
But Stevie just shrugged the question off.
“What you askin me for, pal? Ask around the pubs when you go. I havnae lived here for ages, not since I was a boy.”
Jozef thought he was still a boy now. A strange young-old child who’d seen too much of life. Bare floorboards, bad conscience, too many wedges driven through his family: who knew what kept him from sleeping?
He and Marek were in need of another task in any case. He saw they’d left a bundle of pipes in the hallway, it was just at Jozef’s feet, so he picked it up, stepping into the room:
“You forgot these.”
Both boys turned to face him, swift, as though he’d caught them slacking, but the back room was full and well-enough organised. Marek started searching out the paperwork, so Jozef took a quick look around the rest of the ground floor while he was waiting, to check they’d torn up all the carpets. The living room was clear, but they’d put another two bundles of pipes in there, over by the window.
“Have you done that in every room?” Jozef called, and Marek came to find him, with Stevie holding back, just behind.
“It’s just the lengths that are needed.” Marek handed over the delivery notes and explained. “I measured up, and put enough pipe in every room for the heating.”
His nephew blinked at him, ready to hear he’d done wrong. It was rare to see Marek hesitant, so Jozef had to smile then. He patted him on the shoulder: he’d shown initiative, and humility too, all in the one day, and Jozef thought he’d have to tell Ewa, if she called again. He told the boys:
“They’ll get in the way, those pipes. But you can just leave them for now. Come upstairs. I’ve got more work for both of you before lunch.”
Friday passed quickly, all the working days did now; still the whole ground floor to finish, and it would be July next week.
After the others had gone, Jozef went through his job lists, laptop on his lap, perched beside his boxes, on the corner of his bed. Trying to work it out. If they could get this done by the first July weekend; how soon he could get to Ewa.
The evening quiet had fallen over the house, the leafy street outside, and Jozef was left there, missing her. Mulling over the slow slide of his marriage. It would be a year soon since she left, and it was still hard for him to grasp. How that rift had opened up between them: how had they let it happen?
He was going to Gdańsk, but he still wasn’t certain if he could ask her to come back here. Or what he would do if she said no. What would he say if she asked him to stay at home?
16
They never used to shout, Stevie’s Mum and Dad, not when he was wee. Now he was eight, and they did it behind closed doors, sending him out if he came in the room, but Stevie still heard them through the walls. They shouted about the flat. Or if Stevie’s Dad went out they shouted about that: where he’d been and who with. Mostly it was his Mum’s voice Stevie heard.
He was glad of the times she was happy, and Stevie knew his Dad was too because he did things to keep her that way, like watching the football at Uncle Brian’s house. Or not watching the football at all.
He drove them off the scheme one Saturday morning: the three of them, all together, out to the hills, and Stevie’s Mum laughed when he parked them up by a sheep-scattered field.
“What we doing here, then?”
Stevie’s Dad shrugged at that, like he wasn’t too certain himself.
But he used to come and camp here sometimes, with Uncle Craig and Malky Jnr., back in their army days, when they came home on leave. He said they’d shown him the best way to the woods, and how to keep a fire lit, and then he built them one just by a stream, so Stevie could stand on the bank and throw stones in.
; Stevie’s Mum crouched next to him at first, harder to win over, arms tight about her knees. But then she rolled up her jeans, and slid down to the water to put her toes in. She ended up wading right across barefoot; hands up for balance and fingers spread wide, and then she turned and stood grinning over at them from the far side.
“I’m needing that fire now!”
When the next weekend came, she asked to go back again.
“Has Malky Jnr. still got his tent?”
They didn’t go every Saturday, but most. Driving off early in the van, windows still misted from the cold, borrowed camping mats and sleeping bags in the back, between the red plastic tray shelves that held Stevie’s Dad’s tools.
The drive was just long enough for Stevie to get drowsy, strapped into the front between his parents, and he’d nod off sometimes after they’d stopped, with the warm sunlight on him through the windscreen, and the wind buffeting the sides of the van. His Mum and Dad would be outside when he woke up. Leaning over the gate and talking, sharing a smoke, their heads level and close; his Mum’s feet up on the metal rungs, and his Dad’s in work boots, planted in the wide tractor ruts.
If they stayed away overnight, then Stevie slept lying across the seats, in a sleeping bag under the windscreen. He’d be up with the sun, earlier than his Dad and Mum: they’d still be sleeping in the back, in the narrow space down the middle of the van, just wide enough for the camping mats. Stevie would climb over to find them, half-dressed but warm, lying under old blankets and clean dust sheets, and he’d nudge each of them over so he could slot himself between them.
The wheels got stuck one Sunday morning, in the soft verge, and dug themselves in deeper when Stevie’s Dad tried to drive them home. The engine roared, the back of the van sagged and his Dad cursed. Then he set off down the road, on foot, his solid back receding, Rangers shirt flapping: royal blue, picked out by the sun, standing out against the surrounding green and grey and brown. There was a farm a mile or so on, and while his father was gone, Stevie pressed all the buttons he could reach on the dash, and his Mum unclipped her seatbelt, climbing out to stand by the van.
The Walk Home Page 12