Read Online Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase by Louise Walters - Free Book Online
Authors: Louise Walters
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I’ll tackle that ironing pile before I really do run out of things to wear. I’ll decorate my flat. I’ll take my new cat to the vet. I know I’ll miss Charles Dearhead, despite the shortcomings. I’ll miss his urbane presence. But I won’t feel sorry for myself, I won’t allow my essential aloneness to bring me down. Aloneness is the shell in which I gratefully hide. And it’s not the same thing as loneliness. Aloneness is what I’ve always felt I deserved; I choose it, prefer it and want it. You can’t be hurt if you are alone. Perhaps that was how my mother felt the day she decided enough was enough. I’ll probably never know. But I wonder how alike we might be. I wonder what she is doing, I wonder how she lives her life; how she lives with herself. Guilt is a terrible burden. So, I’m Doing The Right Thing. All is well.
I wish him all joy of this world, as my grandfather might have said.
And I so want to talk to my father about the letter.
I’m visiting him. It’s a Sunday afternoon, it’s pouring with rain – the heavy type that clashes on to windows and roofs like stones thrown by children. My grandfather’s letter is nestled snug and dry in my handbag, and Dad and I are drinking tea.
‘Have you visited Babunia recently?’ I ask my father.
It’s a start, an innocuous enough question.
‘No. I haven’t felt up to it much,’ says Dad.
He looks wan today. Tired. I want to ask him about his pain management, I want to hear about the outcome of his last visit to the hospital. We have rarely talked about his illness. He broke the news to me several years ago, but he insisted that we shouldn’t discuss it any more, unless it was ‘absolutely necessary’. He vaguely refers to visits to the hospital. He mentions a Dr Moore, but it’s pretty much a closed subject and one he usually forbids me to even try to discuss with him. So I don’t. Of course, he’s known for many years, but being the stoic he is, he was determined to keep it from me. Babunia still doesn’t know about it. He doesn’t want to burden her.
‘I’m thinking of visiting her tomorrow,’ I say. ‘I haven’t been for a month or so. I really should go.’
‘Good. I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you. I can’t go at the moment. She’ll know straight away …’
‘I know, Dad. I’ll tell her you’re busy. Actually, I might have a couple of questions I’d like to ask her.’
‘What sort of questions?’
‘Well, I’m thinking of doing a family tree thing.’ I’m pretty good at thinking on my feet. ‘Everyone else seems to do one, so I thought I’d give it a go.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘I’d like to ask Babunia about your father.’
‘Well, we don’t know much about him, do we? He died during the war, before I was born. You know that, love. I don’t know much else about him. He was Polish, that’s about it. Your grandmother likes to remind us that he was a squadron leader in the Battle of Britain, God bless her. But you know that already.’
‘Do you know exactly when he died? The date, I mean? It might help me to trace him.’
‘Mum always said in November 1940. She was expecting me. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘That I was ever a baby. And so long ago.’
‘Oh, I see. I thought you meant … never mind. Does Babunia have her marriage certificate?’
‘She told me she thought it was lost years ago, I think.’
‘But I could look that up, couldn’t I? In a register?’
‘I … well. Yes. I suppose you could.’
‘Do you have your birth certificate?’
‘Oh, somewhere. Although I rather think that might have gone missing too. I haven’t seen it in years.’
We drink our tea and nibble on a digestive biscuit each.
‘Your grandmother might have it,’ says Dad. ‘She likes to keep things safe for me. I haven’t seen it since I started claiming my pension, I think. And that’s longer ago than I’d like it to be.’ Dad winks at me.
‘Do you recall ever seeing
I wish him all joy of this world, as my grandfather might have said.
And I so want to talk to my father about the letter.
I’m visiting him. It’s a Sunday afternoon, it’s pouring with rain – the heavy type that clashes on to windows and roofs like stones thrown by children. My grandfather’s letter is nestled snug and dry in my handbag, and Dad and I are drinking tea.
‘Have you visited Babunia recently?’ I ask my father.
It’s a start, an innocuous enough question.
‘No. I haven’t felt up to it much,’ says Dad.
He looks wan today. Tired. I want to ask him about his pain management, I want to hear about the outcome of his last visit to the hospital. We have rarely talked about his illness. He broke the news to me several years ago, but he insisted that we shouldn’t discuss it any more, unless it was ‘absolutely necessary’. He vaguely refers to visits to the hospital. He mentions a Dr Moore, but it’s pretty much a closed subject and one he usually forbids me to even try to discuss with him. So I don’t. Of course, he’s known for many years, but being the stoic he is, he was determined to keep it from me. Babunia still doesn’t know about it. He doesn’t want to burden her.
‘I’m thinking of visiting her tomorrow,’ I say. ‘I haven’t been for a month or so. I really should go.’
‘Good. I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you. I can’t go at the moment. She’ll know straight away …’
‘I know, Dad. I’ll tell her you’re busy. Actually, I might have a couple of questions I’d like to ask her.’
‘What sort of questions?’
‘Well, I’m thinking of doing a family tree thing.’ I’m pretty good at thinking on my feet. ‘Everyone else seems to do one, so I thought I’d give it a go.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘I’d like to ask Babunia about your father.’
‘Well, we don’t know much about him, do we? He died during the war, before I was born. You know that, love. I don’t know much else about him. He was Polish, that’s about it. Your grandmother likes to remind us that he was a squadron leader in the Battle of Britain, God bless her. But you know that already.’
‘Do you know exactly when he died? The date, I mean? It might help me to trace him.’
‘Mum always said in November 1940. She was expecting me. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘That I was ever a baby. And so long ago.’
‘Oh, I see. I thought you meant … never mind. Does Babunia have her marriage certificate?’
‘She told me she thought it was lost years ago, I think.’
‘But I could look that up, couldn’t I? In a register?’
‘I … well. Yes. I suppose you could.’
‘Do you have your birth certificate?’
‘Oh, somewhere. Although I rather think that might have gone missing too. I haven’t seen it in years.’
We drink our tea and nibble on a digestive biscuit each.
‘Your grandmother might have it,’ says Dad. ‘She likes to keep things safe for me. I haven’t seen it since I started claiming my pension, I think. And that’s longer ago than I’d like it to be.’ Dad winks at me.
‘Do you recall ever seeing
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