She held her cup and saucer up before her in bed and sipped delicately at the tea. Virginia sat on a chair, balancing her saucer on her lap. She listened to the crump of exploding bombs, trying to gauge their distance, and to the angry crack-crack of the Ack-Ack guns. Somewhere, among it all, she caught a sound she recognized well – the whining, shallow dive of a bomber starting its bombing run. Her mother went on sipping at her tea as though nothing were happening.
She tried to speak calmly. ‘I’m going to have a look at the cupboard under the stairs in the morning, Mother. I’m sure we could turn it into a sort of shelter for you.’
‘It’s very poky and full of rubbish.’
‘I’ll clear it out for you. It would be much safer than being here. I noticed that the staircase at number twenty-three was still standing.’
‘I have already told you that I intend to stay in my own bed –’
Ears pricked, like a dog, for danger, Virginia heard the warning swishing sound overhead, but before she could say anything, or move, the bomb landed with an explosion that rocked the house on its foundations and must have been only a street away. Pictures and ornaments danced and rattled, the lamplight flickered and plaster fell like snow from the ceiling. She had a momentary glimpse of her mother, teacup frozen halfway to her lips, white dust filming her hair and the sleeves of the pink bedjacket, before there was another terrifying, ear-splitting explosion that seemed to take hold of the house and shake it violently. The light went out. She leaped to her feet and the saucer slid to the floor with a tinkling sound of breaking china.
In the darkness her mother said sharply: ‘Really, Virginia, how could you be so careless? That was my best tea set. And you can’t get replacements now.’
It was several hours before the steady note of the All Clear sounded, along with the frantic jangling of fire engine bells. Virginia peered out of her bedroom window again. The sky was an unearthly ochre colour and the dull crimson glow in the east was not the dawn coming up but London burning. She closed the blackout blind, unable to bear the sight.
‘Speedy, you really shouldn’t be sitting on my desk.’
‘That’s no way to treat a weary hero, Titania.’
‘Well, as you have some leave now, you’ll have time for a rest. Your parents will be so glad to see you. And so proud of your DFC.’
He squinted down at the ribbon on his tunic. ‘Actually, they’re giving them out like sweeties now – just to keep us happy.’
‘I don’t believe that. And I think it’s wonderful.’
‘Thank you, Titania, for those kind words.’ Speedy twirled his cap round on his forefinger. ‘After this short intermission the powers that be have dictated yet another move for our gallant little band of brothers.’
‘Where are they sending you?’
‘Bonnie Scotland. That’s why I called in en route to the parents. It’ll be hoots awa’ in no time at all and nairy a chance then of popping over to see you. The idea is that we put the old boots up for a bit. Rest on our ill-gotten laurels. Not much to do up there in the Frozen North, so I’m told. George is looking forward to chasing a few rabbits, though, aren’t you, George?’
The bullterrier, sitting by the office door, panted happily.
‘I’m just thankful that you’ll be out of it for a while.’
‘To tell the truth, so am I.’ Speedy’s cap came to a stop and he considered it carefully, head on one side, as it dangled from his finger. It appeared to be falling to pieces. ‘Old Whitters bought it the other day. Don’t suppose you heard.’
‘Oh, Speedy, no . . .’ Not Whitters with his toothy grin and tall stories. Not Whitters, so full of life, so amiable, so eager, so nice . . . But she knew better than to say any of this aloud, or to ask how it had happened.
Speedy was still studying his cap. ‘Yes . . . bad show, isn’t it? Silly blighter should’ve hung on a bit longer, then he could’ve come up to Scotland with the rest of us. I’m popping in to see his Grandmama, as a matter of fact. The old girl’s bound to be a bit chokker. Favourite grandson and all that. Good sort, old Whitters.’
‘I’m so sorry, Speedy.’
He let the cap drop into his lap. ‘Oh, well. Can’t be helped. ’Tis fate that flings the dice . . . I wonder who said that.’
Felicity shook her head helplessly. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Nor’ve I. Must’ve been one of Snodders’. Dumbo’s out of it, too, by the way. His kite went up in flames and he had to jump out of the window pdq. Trouble is it got stuck at first. I went to see him in hospital yesterday. They’re moving him to some special burns place. Shouldn’t think he’ll be doing the Highland Fling just yet.’
Poor Dumbo, she thought. She had seen a badly burned pilot on the station. Poor Dumbo.
‘Moses? Sinbad?’
‘Not so dusty. Looking forward to a spot of extra shut-eye. But stay, who cometh hither?’
George had pricked up his ears and lumbered stiffly to his feet. There was the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor outside, a brisk knock on the door, and Sergeant Beaty strode into the office. The bullterrier moved forward, his teeth bared in a snarl. Speedy clicked his fingers.
‘It’s all right, old chap, you can let her pass. She’s friend, not foe.’
The dog moved aside reluctantly, still showing his teeth. Speedy put on his cap and slid off the corner of the desk.
‘Come on, George, we must continue valiantly on our way.’ He touched the cap in a casual salute towards Felicity. ‘Fare thee well, Section Officer Newman! And if forever, still forever, fare thee well. The Bard, I believe.’
‘Byron, actually,’ she said.
‘Him again? What a fellow for words!’
He smiled at her from the door, and pulled a dreadful face at the WAAF sergeant’s back as he closed it.
Felicity held out her hand for the papers, ignoring the bristling indignation on the other side of the desk.
‘Where are we going to exactly, Michal?’
He took his eyes from the empty road ahead to glance at her. ‘Is place called Hambledean, in Hampshire. The New Forest you call it. Is little village, I think.’
‘To a hotel?’ The words sounded unbelievably daring to her ears.
He turned the wheel of the Wolseley. ‘No, not hotel. Something better. A little house. Cottage, you say. Is belonging to the family of a pilot I know. He tells me to use this place any time, because I have nowhere to go. He has given key and drawn map. There is no-one there. We shall be alone.’ He glanced at her again. ‘You want I go back, Anne? You change your mind?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘You look nervous . . . very worried.’
‘No, I’m not. Not at all.’
She sat rigidly in the passenger seat beside him. She was nervous, there was no use in denying it to herself. But it was a sort of nervous excitement, rather than fear, unless she counted the fear of making a complete mess of things, of being dismally inadequate. The trouble was she had no idea what to expect, or what was expected of her. Not a clue how to behave, or what to say or do. And he must be used to women who knew all those things very well. He’d obviously been around, as Pearl had remarked sagely. He probably expected her to be sitting here nonchalantly, if not elegantly, giving him occasional little significant smiles or smouldering looks, not chewing her nails and staring out of the window.
‘Don’t do it, duckie,’ Pearl had warned her. ‘You’re not the sort. You’ll regret it.’
‘Nothing may happen.’
‘Give me patience! He’s asked you to go away on leave with him – just the two of you! He’s not planning to sit and hold your hand, I can tell you that. Even if he was English he’d be thinking of a bit more than that. As he’s a Pole, God knows what he’s got in mind . . .’
They stopped at a roadside pub and she sat watching him as he went over to the bar. She saw how the barmaid smiled at him as he ordered their drinks and
how a middle-aged civilian drinking there turned to talk to him. He is special, she thought, anyone can see that. His looks and his bearing set him apart. And he is from another world than my world. She watched him speaking to the civilian, his dark head bent politely towards him, and her stomach fluttered again. I can’t believe it, she thought. I can’t believe that tonight I am going to get into a bed with that man who is standing over there and that he is going to do this thing to me – whatever it is exactly . . . He is going to become my lover. That word sounded unbelievably daring, too. Incredibly sinful and worldly. She chewed at a torn fingernail. This time tomorrow I shall know what It is like. And, actually, I’m scared stiff. I’m not sure I want to find out.
He came back to the table, carrying brimming mugs.
‘You are sure you like beer, Anne?’
‘Oh, yes, thanks. I always drink it now. I’ve got used to it.’ She smiled at him brightly.
He raised his mug to her. ‘Na Zdrowie!’
‘Cheers!’
She spilled some as she lifted her half pint with a slightly shaking hand.
‘Stefan, you know, he puts gin with his beer. He says is tasting much better.’
‘What a funny thing to do.’
‘For myself, gin is tasting like medicine. Whisky like paraffin.’
‘I quite like gin,’ she said. ‘Actually.’
‘You like a cigarette?’
He held out the silver case she had noticed before – heavy, engraved – something saved from his past. She wondered what sort of background he came from. What his family was like. He had never spoken of them.
She coughed a little as he lit her cigarette. ‘What was that man at the bar saying to you?’
He flicked the lighter and bent to his own. ‘Oh, he sees Poland on my uniform and he asks me about this. He says nice things. A very nice man. Very sympathetic.’
As he raised his head again, she met his eyes – that mesmeric un-English light blue-grey that she had never seen before. Bedroom eyes, Pearl had called them. She thought unsteadily: I love him so much, that’s the trouble. I’m mad about him. Nothing else seems to matter. I don’t care what other people say or think. I don’t give a damn if what I’m doing is immoral or wrong. And I don’t even care much about losing my virginity. Underneath being scared stiff, I’m so happy, and I want him to make love to me more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my whole life . . .
‘What are you thinking, Anne?’
She tapped her cigarette unnecessarily against the ashtray between them. ‘Oh, nothing special.’
‘I think you are very nervous of me. Please . . . there is no need. Believe me.’
Watching them from his place at the bar, the middle-aged civilian saw the way the pretty WAAF looked up and smiled at the Polish pilot. He sighed enviously.
Fallen leaves lay like russet carpeting beneath the beeches of the New Forest. Anne consulted the hand-drawn map on her knee.
‘Next left, I think.’
‘You only think? I never take you as navigator in my ’plane.’
‘Navigators have the equivalent of signposts. They’ve taken all those away now and I don’t know this part of the country.’
‘Is very beautiful.’
‘Do you have forests in Poland?’
‘We have many forests, but not exactly like this. Different trees. Everything is different. Poland is much bigger than England. Not so . . . so cosy. In north is sea, in south is hills and mountains, and we have many lakes. But in middle is all lowlands. Poland is Polska in our language. That is from pole – is word for field. We have many flat fields, you see. Nature is not stopping other people to invade us, like your sea all around has stopped the Germans.’
‘What about the climate?’
‘In summer is hot. In winter very cold. Sometimes there is a lot of rain. Now, it will already be getting cold. Next month, perhaps, there will be snow.’ He turned the car to the left. ‘I think you not know very much about my country.’
‘Before I met you I wasn’t even sure where it was. I had to look you up in an atlas.’
He clicked his tongue and smiled. ‘That is very bad. I knew where you were.’
‘Just as well, or you might never have got here. But we’re an island, so we’re easier to find. You’re all sort of mixed up with all those other countries – Czechoslovakia and Hungary and Bulgaria, and places like that.’
‘Bulgaria is nowhere near Poland. Is in south by the Black Sea.’
She sighed. ‘If you’d been our geography teacher instead of Miss Carpenter I’d’ve paid much more attention.’
‘What else do you not know? What is our capital city?’
‘That’s easy. Warsaw. What’s it like?’
‘Very beautiful – once. Many old buildings with very high roofs, painted in colours . . . yellow, pink, orange. Many balconies full of flowers in summer. Many churches. Old streets with . . . I don’t know how you say this . . . small stones in the ground.’
‘Cobblestones.’
‘Tak. Cobblestones. And there are cafés and people who sell flowers on the corner of streets . . . And there is a river, like your London has the Thames.’
‘I’d like to see it one day.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘One day. But is not beautiful any more. All is in ruins.’
‘I’m sorry. That was stupid of me. I was forgetting . . .’ She bent her head over the map again. ‘According to this, we take the next right by a pub called The Green Man.’
‘In England,’ he said, ‘you do not need signposts. Instead you have pubs to tell the way.’
The cottage lay on the outskirts of the village, at the edge of the forest. A thatched roof curved low over the upstairs windows, like two beetling brows, and there was a wellhead, complete with bucket and chain, in the front garden. They walked up the brick path through a wilderness of long neglect. Late roses bloomed blowsily and crimson red on the walls and a thicket of honeysuckle smothered the door.
Inside it smelled musty and, in the dim light of the fading day, pieces of furniture stood about as shadowy shapes – a table in the centre of the room, some chairs round it, a sagging sofa, a Welsh dresser against the wall, a tall cupboard in the corner . . . There was a copper jug on the windowsill and a row of pottery cows stalked, head to tail, along the shelf above the inglenook. A brass warming pan hung beside the fireplace.
Anne went through to the scullery at the back. She turned on the tap over the stone sink and a gurgling and spluttering heralded a gush of rusty cold water. The iron cooking range looked as though it should have been in a museum. She opened cupboards and drawers, disturbing cobwebs and frightening spiders and wrestled with stiff bolts on the back door which opened onto what once might have been a vegetable patch but was now another jungle of weeds and flourishing stinging nettles. She stared in disbelief at the brick privy and at the tin bath hanging from a nail outside the door.
Every tread of the staircase creaked. Upstairs she discovered two bedrooms – a little one at the back with a single camp bed and a larger one at the front, with a big brass bed that was propped up by bricks at the foot end and covered by a patchwork quilt. The floorboards sloped down towards the window like a pitching deck in a rough sea, and she had to kneel down to see out of the window and beneath the overhanging thatch. Michal was bringing in the luggage from the car – her kitbag and his suitcase. When she went downstairs he was setting the case down on the table.
‘I bring food for us.’ He began to take out the contents. ‘Eggs, bacon, potatoes, a tin of ham, bread, butter, tea, chocolate . . . Tomorrow we get other things.’
‘How on earth did you manage to get all that?’
‘I beg. I exchange. I buy.’ He delved into the case again and held up a bottle. ‘And, most important thing of all, real Polish vodka. Stefan finds this in London. He finds everything. We find glasses and then we drink. But first we must find wood for a fire and fuel for the lamps, before is dark. I am told there is some i
n a small place outside. There is no electricity, you see.’
‘I had noticed.’
‘You do not mind? This is not like hotel, I know. Not very comfortable . . .’
She began to giggle. ‘I think it’s much nicer than a hotel.’
They found logs and kindling and paraffin in a shed at the back, as well as a camping stove that looked encouraging in view of the iron range. Before long the lamps were lit and a fire was crackling in the inglenook grate. The sitting-room had come into soft focus with the warm colours of chintz, oak and brick, and the gleam of copper and brass. Michal found some glasses in the bottom cupboard of the Welsh dresser. He poured vodka into each one.
‘Now, you must drink this Polish fashion – very quick, one swallow.’ He handed her a glass and raised his own to her. ‘Na Zdrowie!
‘Na Zdrowie!’ she repeated carefully after him and tossed back her glass. She choked as the neat vodka hit the back of her throat and tears came into her eyes. ‘Gosh, it’s a bit strong!’
He poured some more into her glass, smiling at her. ‘You are not used to it, that is all. This is wyborowa, a plain vodka, but we have others flavoured with different things – all kinds of berries. I think, perhaps, you like wisńiówka best – that has taste of cherries. When you come to Poland after the war you can try all kinds.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘After the war.’
His smile faded as he looked at her. ‘Oh, Anne . . .’
He put down his glass slowly and took hers from her hand. Then she was in his arms and he was kissing her passionately in the way she had dreamed about and imagined so many times. She put her arms around his neck, eyes closed. Against her cheek he said presently:
‘Is better now? Not so much nervous?’
‘Much better.’
They drank more vodka, sitting on the rug in front of the fire and talking while they watched the flames flicker and leap, the logs shift and settle as they burned. Later on they made thick sandwiches from the tinned ham and the loaf of bread and ate them beside the fire too, like a picnic. She thought that nothing had ever tasted so good. Nothing had ever been so wonderful.
‘You want music?’ Michal asked suddenly. ‘I remember there was machine where I find glasses. And some records.’
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