All the Days of Our Lives

by Annie Murray

  The sound of them was a distraction. She would sit in her chair, looking across the room with the book in her lap, listening, thinking about them, despite herself. She had shut away any thoughts of men or marriage. Her life now consisted of bringing up Michael. But she couldn’t help thinking.

  At first when they came she had related more easily to Piotr, who was more talkative and friendly. Marek she had been less sure of. He was more distant, with an intensity about him that made her feel shyer of him. And both of them had come from a different country that was mysterious to her and had experienced things that she knew she did not understand.

  Yet as time passed, she found her gaze drawn more and more to Marek, and every so often she would turn to find his quiet gaze fixed on her. She liked watching him in the garden, when his back was turned, that long, strong spine bending and straightening as he forked over the now-empty potato patch, sometimes holding up in triumph a stray potato, which they’d missed first time round. She would look hard at him, wondering. Often she was overcome by the sheer strangeness of a life so brutally uprooted, of their having to come and begin again somewhere new and foreign to them. She was moved by their courage and cheerfulness.

  At first she had told herself she was imagining it – the way each of them sometimes looked at her. It was the same way Simon Collinge had looked at her. Wasn’t it? Or had she got it wrong. These men were foreigners – perhaps they did everything differently.

  Then one warm afternoon, just as she was walking in from the garden, she met Piotr coming from the other direction, by the back door. Both of them dithered, in each other’s way.

  ‘Sorry!’ Katie laughed, leaning back against the wall to let him pass.

  ‘Thanks!’ Piotr smiled, but stopped, fixing her with a stare. To Katie, pressed against the wall, the back corridor suddenly felt very narrow and her summer dress felt thin, and rather too low in the neck.

  Piotr faced her, looking into her eyes, his dark-brown ones full of longing. Then he said, ‘I would like to kiss you.’ And with no further ado she found herself in his arms, his warm lips on hers, his strong, manly smelling body pressed against her. Pushing his tongue in her mouth, he gave her a long, hungry kiss. She was too taken aback to react at first and did not feel repelled by his kiss, just embarrassed. She began to push against him. Piotr drew back.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said crossly.

  ‘But you are beautiful woman.’

  ‘Well, thanks . . .’ She couldn’t help being flattered, and she liked him too much to want to offend him, but she felt panic-stricken as well. She had to put a stop to any ideas he might have! ‘But you can’t just announce that you’re going to kiss someone and simply grab them! It’s not very polite.’

  ‘Polite?’ Piotr looked offended. ‘So you did not like my kissing?’

  ‘It was . . . Well, yes – I mean, no . . . Look, it’s not that I didn’t like it. It’s just not right – I mean we’re not . . .’

  ‘So, we can be . . .’ He made gestures pointing back and forth at her, then himself. ‘You, me’ – he seemed to rack his brains, then said in triumph – ‘we can be courting!’

  ‘No!’ Now she really was panicking. ‘The thing is, Piotr, I’m not free just to be, well, courting. I have a child . . .’

  ‘So what?’ He shrugged, genuinely baffled. ‘I like childs . . . children . . .’

  Katie edged a little further along the wall, feeling its roughness snagging the cotton of her dress. Piotr gazed longingly and sorrowfully at her breasts.

  ‘You are lovely . . .’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ She would have to be blunt. ‘I don’t want to be courting with you. I’m sorry.’

  He frowned. ‘I am not man enough?’

  ‘Man enough? Of course you are. I’m just – I’m sorry. I just don’t want it, that’s all.’

  ‘We are good friends. You marry me?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I tell Marek same? He like you too.’

  Katie’s heart thudded hard and blood flooded her cheeks. Marek – did he really like her? More than like? For a moment she was filled with enormous joy, before it was overtaken by panic. She had to put a stop to this! ‘Yes. Tell him the same. We are friends – yes? Not courting.’

  Piotr looked disappointed. ‘You do not want a husband?’

  The question, as well as Piotr’s strong gaze, drilled into her. Did she? She tried never to think about it, or allow herself to think she might be loved or have a life with someone. Until now, everything had led to rejection. Better to put up with being lonely than the pain of all that. And even if Marek did like her, could he not tell her himself? None of this felt right, and her main feeling was wanting to get away from it. She was happy how she was – she had Michael and Maudie, and this house. What more could she want?

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  She told Maudie about it the next day, when she’d had time to think, making a joke of it. Maudie, who had only met Marek and Piotr in passing, smiled at first, but then eyed Katie seriously over the ironing board.

  ‘It’s a pity, though,’ she said.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Katie was indignant.

  ‘Well, they seem rather nice. I know people say things about the Poles, but these two seem really decent – all they do to help Miss Routh and everything. Do you not think you could develop some feelings for one of them?’

  Just then, little Petie, Maudie’s son, came roaring up in fury at some falling-out with his sisters. Most of their conversations happened in broken threads, in between the needs of children. In those seconds Katie thought of Marek’s eyes, his gaze often quietly resting on her. When Maudie returned, having sorted out the squabble, she looked squarely at Katie.

  ‘Well? You don’t want to be on your own forever, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Katie protested, though she knew Maudie’s remark had hit home. ‘I mean, what’s the use in thinking about it? Que sera sera. And they’re – well, I don’t really know them very well. So much has happened to them, and I don’t really know what, and . . .’

  ‘Well, why don’t you ask?’ Maudie said, as if it was obvious.

  ‘I don’t like to. It’s not that easy. And they’re so – well, foreign!’

  ‘Of course there’ll be differences.’ Maudie hung one of John’s shirts rather haphazardly over the back of a chair, and Katie straightened it. ‘But it’s not as if they come from Outer Mongolia. And they’re both Catholic – and so are you.’

  ‘But I don’t feel anything: not for Piotr, the one who kissed me.’

  ‘What about the other one?’

  Again Marek’s face, so often in her mind. That was the truth. But she was so shy of him and he was reserved, not forward or easy like Piotr. She felt drawn in and terribly afraid all at once.

  ‘Maudie, stop being a matchmaker, for goodness’ sake! I just don’t know, so stop keeping on! And anyway, I’m a disaster with men. I’m much better off as I am – without them!’ She knew she sounded really huffy now. ‘And by now Piotr will have told him that I’m not interested.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you?’

  ‘No! I keep telling you.’

  ‘Ah,’ Maudie teased. ‘The lady doth protest too much, I think . . .’

  ‘Oh, stop it. You’re just being ridiculous.’

  That night, at supper, Katie asked Marek again how his sister was getting on at the Daglingworth Camp. She knew he had letters from Agnieska sometimes. She did not often start conversations at the meal table, and he looked across at her surprised and obviously pleased. Partly she just wanted him to speak. She enjoyed the deep sound of his voice.

  ‘I think she is OK. They are looking after her and she is feeling a little better. She has . . .’ He placed a hand to his belly. ‘Sometimes she is sick – I mean her . . .’ He ran his hand up and down his front, fumbling for the right word.

  ‘Digestion?’ Sybil suggested.

  ‘Yes, I think it is. Her dige
stion is not so good. Because in the camp, and in Tashkent, everyone was very hungry and sick. Many are dying. But for her, something has been wrong . . . inside . . .’

  Katie felt her heart go out to him at this description. What on earth had happened to these people? From the very small amount she had heard it sounded appalling and, to her, unimaginable.

  ‘I hope she feels better soon,’ she said gently.

  Marek turned to her. ‘I hope so too. Thank you.’ He smiled.

  Every so often she was woken in the night. The first time she had been terrified, jolting upright, the blood banging round her body, unable to identify the noises coming out of the darkness. It did not sound like Michael. It was too far-off and unearthly, a howl of anguish and a cry of terror mixed. It brought her flesh up in goose pimples and she sat hugging her knees. She could not tell which of the men had cried out. It was a sound of distress that touched her to the core, that begged for the offer of comfort.

  After a moment she heard a voice from below, quiet and soothing, and the sound began to die away. For a time then she heard the two men talking in low voices, before it all went quiet again. She felt very stirred up by it and lay awake for a long time afterwards.

  None of them ever mentioned it in the daytime.

  Fifty

  ‘There you are – didn’t I tell you?’ Maudie said distractedly as she wiped Elizabeth’s nose. ‘Goodness me, we’re drowning in snot in this house – all three of them and me! I’m astonished Michael hasn’t caught it yet . . . Anyway,’ she looked up, ‘I told you they’d soon get paired up. They’re far too handsome a pair to be single for long.’

  It was a Friday evening, in the cold of November, and Katie had come to pick Michael up after work and have her usual end-of-the-week cuppa with Maudie. Katie made the tea and Maudie came to sit down at the kitchen table, mournfully blowing her pink, sore-looking nose.

  ‘Oh!’ She sank onto the chair. ‘I feel really grotty today. And so do the children, of course. Michael’s been angelic, I have to report, amid this sea of pestilence – and at least they weren’t ill enough to stay off school.’ She had Michael and Elizabeth to look after during school hours.

  ‘Poor you,’ Katie said. ‘You look all in.’

  Maudie pulled back her long hair and retied it in a rough knot at the back. ‘Well, it sounds worse than it is. It’s good for getting sympathy. I think I felt worse about three days ago. Anyway . . .’ She stirred her tea. ‘Tell me then – you say there are women in the offing?’

  Making light of it (why was she actually aching inside?), Katie said, ‘I think Piotr is fixed up. He keeps talking about a girl called Patsy. And another one called Gina.’

  ‘Ah, a fast worker! And what about the blue-eyed giant – I don’t know how you can resist him! Now, if I was single . . .’ Maudie gave a mock-pining look, then laughed.

  ‘Marek? Yes, I’m sure there’s someone – I don’t know her name. I mean, I can’t exactly ask.’

  ‘Why not? If it’s nothing to you, why should it matter?’

  Katie blushed. Maudie’s eyes lit up with amusement over the rim of her teacup. ‘There you are, you see – you do like him! So it matters! Honestly Katie, you’re hopeless. What’re we going to do with you?’

  ‘Marriage isn’t everything,’ Katie said grumpily.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ Maudie agreed, serious now. ‘But if it’s a good one – I mean, for all my grumbles, I wouldn’t be without John – it can be lovely, honestly.’

  Katie walked home through the winter evening, warmed by her chat with Maudie.

  ‘We’re lucky, aren’t we?’ She looked down at Michael, who was holding her hand, muffled up in his coat and balaclava. There was a cold, mean wind, but at least it was clear, no fog tonight. ‘Having a nice friend like Maudie.’

  ‘She’s my auntie,’ Michael said.

  ‘Well, yes – she is, sort of. She’s very kind, isn’t she?’

  A bitter thought of her mother crossed her mind for a moment. Kindness – not one of Vera’s gifts. In the end, didn’t it matter more than blood ties, for all that people said blood was thicker than water? Not very thick blood in my family, she thought bitterly. Sybil was more of a mother to her in her odd way than her own had been.

  They reached Sybil’s gate.

  ‘Let’s get in out of the cold,’ she said to Michael.

  As they walked up the path, a voice behind said, ‘Hello, we reach home together.’

  Katie turned, her heart thumping hard on hearing Marek’s voice. For goodness’ sake, she said to herself. She couldn’t seem to help her physical response to his presence, no matter how hard she tried. What on earth was the matter with her!

  ‘Oh – hello!’ She smiled in the darkness, trying to sound casual and banged the heavy knocker. ‘I’ll be glad to be inside – it’s very cold, isn’t it?’

  Marek shrugged. ‘Oh, a little bit. Not so bad.’

  ‘Ah, the world’s workers,’ Sybil said, swinging the door open. ‘Oh, and Marek too. Jolly good.’

  They all went thankfully into the dimly lit hall.

  ‘We’ll just get our things off,’ Katie said. Thank goodness she had Michael to busy herself with.

  ‘Are you going to give him his tea, or let him stay up with us?’ Sybil asked. ‘It is Friday.’

  Katie considered, one foot on the bottom step. Marek was standing back politely to let them go first. ‘Oh – he’s very tired. Maudie’s lot have all got awful colds. I think I’ll get him to bed in case he’s coming down with it too.’

  ‘Right-oh,’ Sybil was disappearing out to the back. ‘Come down when you’re ready then.’

  There was another banging on the knocker.

  ‘I expect that’s Piotr. Open it, will you, Marek?’ Sybil called. ‘Save my poor old feet.’

  Halfway up the stairs, half dragging Michael, Katie heard Marek open the door, then voices. It was not Piotr, but another man. She paused to listen, only just hearing a voice say, ‘I’m sorry to trouble you. I hope I’ve got the right house.’

  Dimly, in the recesses of her memory, the voice seemed familiar, while her more conscious mind only detected a stranger.

  ‘Mrs O’Neill,’ Marek called to her with unusual formality. ‘There is a visitor for you.’

  Katie came down again into the dimly lit hall to see a man standing just inside the front door. All she could make out was a pale face, a head of thick hair, perhaps grizzled, dark eyes, a long, dark coat and in his hands a black trilby, which he held, looking very ill at ease.

  ‘I go . . .’ Marek started to say, but she quickly responded, ‘No – don’t!’ Who was this person? She didn’t want to be alone with him, whoever he was.

  ‘I . . . The thing is . . .’ The man began, then stopped, capable only of false starts. He seemed in a terrible state. Something about him was familiar and Katie was filled with the oddest sensation, half dread, half trembling. She had wondered if one day Simon would come – would he ever? – to find her, find his son. But this was not Simon Collinge . . .

  ‘Are you Katie O’Neill?’ the man said at last. She saw him staring hard at Michael, who had also come back down and was standing beside her, holding onto her skirt.

  She nodded. ‘Why – who are you?’ She glanced at Marek, who was also looking bewildered.

  ‘My name . . .’ He stopped, in difficulty, and cleared his throat. ‘My name is Michael O’Neill.’

  ‘No, it isn’t!’ Katie heard her son pipe up crossly from her side. ‘That’s my name!’

  The man smiled faintly. ‘Is it now?’ She heard the Irish in his voice. She was finding it hard to breathe.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ she asked faintly. ‘Who are you? Why are you here?’

  ‘I think I must be your father,’ he said with an air of humble apology. He was turning the hat round and round in his hands.

  Katie heard Marek gasp, or had she gasped herself? She wasn’t sure. Her legs were suddenly so useless that she stepped back a
nd had to sit on the bottom step.

  ‘Mom?’ Michael sounded panicky. ‘What’s the matter? Who’s the man?’

  ‘But . . .’ All Katie could say was, ‘No. No. You’re dead. You died. She told me.’ She was shaking her head, her whole body beginning to tremble.

  ‘Is that what she told you? Well, I suppose it was for the best – I might as well have done, I suppose.’ There was a long pause as they stared at each other. ‘You’re mine all right,’ he said. ‘You’re the girl I remember – and look at him.’ He nodded at Michael. ‘He’s the image of you.’

  ‘Why . . . what . . . ? But you were in bed – you had TB. I saw you. You were sick . . . And then you went to the hospital and you never came back . . .’ She clutched at the wooden banister, needing something to hang on to. ‘I remember it – I swear I do.’

  ‘It’s true, I was sick at one time – I remember. I had some chest problem, bronchitis or something. And I was in bed. She must have told you . . . Or you got it muddled. But I didn’t die. I’ – he held his hands out helplessly – ‘I left. I had to; she was . . . impossible . . .’

  Katie’s mind was spinning. She couldn’t think what to ask about the past. Everything she had believed was exploding into pieces. She felt as if she too might fall apart. Why should she want to know about him? Why ask? But she couldn’t seem to stop staring at him.

  ‘You’ve been alive all this time?’

  ‘I’ve been in Coventry, most of the time. But I always knew that I had a little girl in Birmingham somewhere – a lovely little girl . . .’

  Pain flared harshly in her. ‘Go away!’ She jumped up, screaming at him. ‘You just go away and leave me alone! Why have you come back now, when you’ve been dead to me all this time? What use are you now, after . . . after everything? Get out – just go away from me!’

  The sobs started to break out of her and Michael, terrified by his mother’s emotion, clung to her, crying too. She pulled him close, clinging to him, dimly aware of Marek and that man – that man – talking in low voices. She put her face in her hands and sank back down on the step, crying so deeply that she was aware of nothing until a warm presence materialized beside her, and strong arms were round both her and Michael and she was being held tightly and lovingly.