ghost”, in Polish?’
‘Yes.’
Jack stood up. ‘Come on, Sparks. I think you need to go back to bed, I really do. Just try and think of something else. Count sheep or something. It won’t be even half as scary in the morning. Look – I’ll leave the light on for you, OK? And you can leave your door open, too.’
Sparky reluctantly went back to his bedroom. Jack stood in the middle of the living room for a few moments, not quite sure what to do. He knew that he should go to bed, too, but the visiting card was lying on the table and the phone was lying next to it, and somehow Sparky’s nightmare had made him feel that he needed to call this Maria Wiktoria Koczerska, whoever she was.
He punched out the number and waited. The phone rang and rang with an old-fashioned burring noise. He was about to hang up when a woman’s voice said, querulously, ‘
Halo
?
Sucham
.
Tak
?’
‘
Dobry wieczór
. Is this Ms Koczerska?’
‘Mrs Koczerska, yes. Who is calling?’
‘Jack Wallace, from the Nostalgia Restaurant on North Clark Street. My manager tells me you came around earlier when I was away.’
‘Ah yes, Mr Wallace, I did. But thank you anyhow for calling. There is something I very much wanted to show you.’
‘You wrote the name of my great-grandfather on the back of your card. Grzegorz Walach.’
‘
Tak.
I did. Your great-grandfather is disappearing in the war, is that right?’
‘That’s right, yes. He volunteered to help fight the German invasion in 1939, but his family never heard from him again.’
‘Of course. There were many tens of thousands like that, Mr Wallace, who disappeared without trace, and who do not even have a grave marker that their relatives can visit to lay a few flowers. My own great-uncles, the same happened to them.’
‘So what’s this about my great-grandfather?’
‘It is better if I show you, Mr Wallace. Maybe you can come to my apartment?’
‘I’m a very busy man, Mrs Koczerska. I have a restaurant to run, as you know.’
‘
Tak
, yes, of course. But if I can explain to you the fate that befell Grzegorz Walach – if I can
prove
to you what happened to him—’
‘You can do that?’
‘Why would I lie to you?
Dlaczego miałabym ci ę okłamywa ć ?
What would be the point of it?’
‘OK. I guess I could come tomorrow, around eleven in the morning, if that’s convenient.’
‘That would suit me very well, Mr Wallace. I look forward to it.
Dobranoc
.’
‘Goodnight, Mrs Koczerska.’
Jack put down the phone. He thought he ought to feel excited but instead he felt strangely apprehensive. Maybe he was just exhausted, and upset by the day’s events. There was something else that unsettled him, though. Something that Sparky had said. ‘
There’s a connection between what happened to Malcolm, and our family. That’s why we have to go to Owasippe
.’
Jack didn’t know why this should make him feel disturbed, but it was the earnest way that Sparky had said it, and the fact that Mrs Koczerska had turned up at the restaurant on the same day they had gone to the scout reservation to see Malcolm lying dead in that makeshift morgue. He had never believed in fate, and coincidence. He believed that life was what you made of it yourself. It made him feel distinctly uncomfortable to think that Sparky might be right, and that the stars and the planets determine our destiny, whether we like it or not.
Box of Memories
W hen he drew up outside 4125 West Wellington Avenue in Belmont Gardens it was hammering down with rain. He sat in his car for a short while, to see if it would ease off, but if anything it began to pour down even more heavily. A young woman in a red hooded raincoat scuttled across the road pushing a baby buggy, with a wet, bedraggled spaniel trying to keep up with her.
Jack looked at the detached house in which Mrs Koczerska lived. It was one of several brown brick houses along Wellington Avenue, all with crenellated facades like castles. The
‘Yes.’
Jack stood up. ‘Come on, Sparks. I think you need to go back to bed, I really do. Just try and think of something else. Count sheep or something. It won’t be even half as scary in the morning. Look – I’ll leave the light on for you, OK? And you can leave your door open, too.’
Sparky reluctantly went back to his bedroom. Jack stood in the middle of the living room for a few moments, not quite sure what to do. He knew that he should go to bed, too, but the visiting card was lying on the table and the phone was lying next to it, and somehow Sparky’s nightmare had made him feel that he needed to call this Maria Wiktoria Koczerska, whoever she was.
He punched out the number and waited. The phone rang and rang with an old-fashioned burring noise. He was about to hang up when a woman’s voice said, querulously, ‘
Halo
?
Sucham
.
Tak
?’
‘
Dobry wieczór
. Is this Ms Koczerska?’
‘Mrs Koczerska, yes. Who is calling?’
‘Jack Wallace, from the Nostalgia Restaurant on North Clark Street. My manager tells me you came around earlier when I was away.’
‘Ah yes, Mr Wallace, I did. But thank you anyhow for calling. There is something I very much wanted to show you.’
‘You wrote the name of my great-grandfather on the back of your card. Grzegorz Walach.’
‘
Tak.
I did. Your great-grandfather is disappearing in the war, is that right?’
‘That’s right, yes. He volunteered to help fight the German invasion in 1939, but his family never heard from him again.’
‘Of course. There were many tens of thousands like that, Mr Wallace, who disappeared without trace, and who do not even have a grave marker that their relatives can visit to lay a few flowers. My own great-uncles, the same happened to them.’
‘So what’s this about my great-grandfather?’
‘It is better if I show you, Mr Wallace. Maybe you can come to my apartment?’
‘I’m a very busy man, Mrs Koczerska. I have a restaurant to run, as you know.’
‘
Tak
, yes, of course. But if I can explain to you the fate that befell Grzegorz Walach – if I can
prove
to you what happened to him—’
‘You can do that?’
‘Why would I lie to you?
Dlaczego miałabym ci ę okłamywa ć ?
What would be the point of it?’
‘OK. I guess I could come tomorrow, around eleven in the morning, if that’s convenient.’
‘That would suit me very well, Mr Wallace. I look forward to it.
Dobranoc
.’
‘Goodnight, Mrs Koczerska.’
Jack put down the phone. He thought he ought to feel excited but instead he felt strangely apprehensive. Maybe he was just exhausted, and upset by the day’s events. There was something else that unsettled him, though. Something that Sparky had said. ‘
There’s a connection between what happened to Malcolm, and our family. That’s why we have to go to Owasippe
.’
Jack didn’t know why this should make him feel disturbed, but it was the earnest way that Sparky had said it, and the fact that Mrs Koczerska had turned up at the restaurant on the same day they had gone to the scout reservation to see Malcolm lying dead in that makeshift morgue. He had never believed in fate, and coincidence. He believed that life was what you made of it yourself. It made him feel distinctly uncomfortable to think that Sparky might be right, and that the stars and the planets determine our destiny, whether we like it or not.
Box of Memories
W hen he drew up outside 4125 West Wellington Avenue in Belmont Gardens it was hammering down with rain. He sat in his car for a short while, to see if it would ease off, but if anything it began to pour down even more heavily. A young woman in a red hooded raincoat scuttled across the road pushing a baby buggy, with a wet, bedraggled spaniel trying to keep up with her.
Jack looked at the detached house in which Mrs Koczerska lived. It was one of several brown brick houses along Wellington Avenue, all with crenellated facades like castles. The
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