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Authors: Louise Walters
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their marriage certificate?’ And now I am beginning to press, just the thing I must not do.
‘No, love. I don’t think so.’
‘But you think Babunia
might
have it? She probably keeps such things all in one place, doesn’t she? She’s pretty methodical.’
‘You’ll have to ask her.’
‘Is there a death certificate? For your dad?’
‘I don’t know, Rob. If there is, I’ve not seen it. At least, I don’t think I have. You’ll have to ask your grandmother about it all. But, darling?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t let on to her. About me, I mean.’
‘I won’t, Dad.’
‘It would break her heart. Always assuming she’d be with it enough to understand.’
‘I know.’
‘You’re a good girl.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Do you fancy staying for your tea? We could watch
Antiques Roadshow
. I’ve got crumpets.’
‘And gooseberry jam?’
‘Sadly not your grandmother’s. But I’ve got Tesco’s mixed fruit jam, if that’s any good. There might be gooseberries in it.’
And now I feel deflected, stalled; I know my father well, and I think he’s hiding something.
Should I show him the letter? No. I’ll keep it to myself for now. I don’t want to upset him, any more than I want to upset Babunia.
We eat our crumpets and jam, and nothing further is said.
7
N ina eyed the bunch of wild flowers on the mantelpiece. Following her gaze, Dorothy noticed how they burst forth from the enamel jug, a little vulgar, a little showy. She watched her girls as they swiftly ate fried potatoes, fried eggs and broad beans – small, soft and sweet, early beans picked that afternoon by Dorothy under the unblinking sun. Far too early, of course, but there wasn’t much else to choose from, yet.
Nina nudged Aggie, and raised her eyebrows.
‘You been picking flowers, Dot?’ said Aggie, winking at her friend.
‘No.’
‘Someone picked them for you, then?’ said Nina.
‘Yes.’
‘A bloke?’ said Aggie.
‘A bloke. Yes.’
‘Which bloke?’ said Nina, through a full mouth.
Oh, how genteel, thought Dorothy. And: which bloke? Did Nina know all the ‘blokes’ in the world? Actually, Dorothy thought, there was quite a good chance of that.
‘Squadron Leader Jan Pietrykowski, no less. He flies a Hurricane,’ said Dorothy, more to herself than to the girls.
‘Squadron leader, eh?’
‘Is he a dish?’ asked Aggie, gleefully.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t really considered. A dish? Yes, possibly. Probably.’
‘Well, if he is, you would have noticed, wouldn’t you?’ said Nina. ‘You’re not that bloody old. What’s he like? Where did you meet him?’
‘I met him today, here, in this kitchen.’ Dorothy surprised herself. Was it really only this day and in this kitchen? ‘And he’s very nice, very polite. Foreign, of course.’
‘What did he want?’ said Nina. ‘Apart from the bleeding obvious.’ Aggie kicked her, and she squealed. ‘I’m only asking, aren’t I? You don’t mind, do you, Dot? It’s just, you’ve got to watch them Polish ones, they’ve got hands like octopuses. We had fun with them, though, didn’t we, Aggie? Blimey, you’d think they’d never seen a girl before. They’ve got girls in Poland, though, haven’t they?’
‘Yes. Of course. But these men, you must understand. They’ve had a difficult time. They’re in need of … diversion. The squadron leader had to flee his country in pretty ghastly circumstances. They all did. But I’ll remember that warning, Nina. Thank you.’ Dorothy hid a small smile behind her teacup. It was the cup that the squadron leader had drunk from, and she hadn’t yet been able to wash it.
‘Well?’ said Nina.
‘Well, what?’
‘Do you fancy him?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Liar,’ they chorused, delighted.
The squadron leader returned the following day, in the heat of the afternoon. The first day of June and, this year, flaming. Dorothy heard his confident, sharp rap on the kitchen door.
She had hoped he might return,
‘No, love. I don’t think so.’
‘But you think Babunia
might
have it? She probably keeps such things all in one place, doesn’t she? She’s pretty methodical.’
‘You’ll have to ask her.’
‘Is there a death certificate? For your dad?’
‘I don’t know, Rob. If there is, I’ve not seen it. At least, I don’t think I have. You’ll have to ask your grandmother about it all. But, darling?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t let on to her. About me, I mean.’
‘I won’t, Dad.’
‘It would break her heart. Always assuming she’d be with it enough to understand.’
‘I know.’
‘You’re a good girl.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Do you fancy staying for your tea? We could watch
Antiques Roadshow
. I’ve got crumpets.’
‘And gooseberry jam?’
‘Sadly not your grandmother’s. But I’ve got Tesco’s mixed fruit jam, if that’s any good. There might be gooseberries in it.’
And now I feel deflected, stalled; I know my father well, and I think he’s hiding something.
Should I show him the letter? No. I’ll keep it to myself for now. I don’t want to upset him, any more than I want to upset Babunia.
We eat our crumpets and jam, and nothing further is said.
7
N ina eyed the bunch of wild flowers on the mantelpiece. Following her gaze, Dorothy noticed how they burst forth from the enamel jug, a little vulgar, a little showy. She watched her girls as they swiftly ate fried potatoes, fried eggs and broad beans – small, soft and sweet, early beans picked that afternoon by Dorothy under the unblinking sun. Far too early, of course, but there wasn’t much else to choose from, yet.
Nina nudged Aggie, and raised her eyebrows.
‘You been picking flowers, Dot?’ said Aggie, winking at her friend.
‘No.’
‘Someone picked them for you, then?’ said Nina.
‘Yes.’
‘A bloke?’ said Aggie.
‘A bloke. Yes.’
‘Which bloke?’ said Nina, through a full mouth.
Oh, how genteel, thought Dorothy. And: which bloke? Did Nina know all the ‘blokes’ in the world? Actually, Dorothy thought, there was quite a good chance of that.
‘Squadron Leader Jan Pietrykowski, no less. He flies a Hurricane,’ said Dorothy, more to herself than to the girls.
‘Squadron leader, eh?’
‘Is he a dish?’ asked Aggie, gleefully.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t really considered. A dish? Yes, possibly. Probably.’
‘Well, if he is, you would have noticed, wouldn’t you?’ said Nina. ‘You’re not that bloody old. What’s he like? Where did you meet him?’
‘I met him today, here, in this kitchen.’ Dorothy surprised herself. Was it really only this day and in this kitchen? ‘And he’s very nice, very polite. Foreign, of course.’
‘What did he want?’ said Nina. ‘Apart from the bleeding obvious.’ Aggie kicked her, and she squealed. ‘I’m only asking, aren’t I? You don’t mind, do you, Dot? It’s just, you’ve got to watch them Polish ones, they’ve got hands like octopuses. We had fun with them, though, didn’t we, Aggie? Blimey, you’d think they’d never seen a girl before. They’ve got girls in Poland, though, haven’t they?’
‘Yes. Of course. But these men, you must understand. They’ve had a difficult time. They’re in need of … diversion. The squadron leader had to flee his country in pretty ghastly circumstances. They all did. But I’ll remember that warning, Nina. Thank you.’ Dorothy hid a small smile behind her teacup. It was the cup that the squadron leader had drunk from, and she hadn’t yet been able to wash it.
‘Well?’ said Nina.
‘Well, what?’
‘Do you fancy him?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Liar,’ they chorused, delighted.
The squadron leader returned the following day, in the heat of the afternoon. The first day of June and, this year, flaming. Dorothy heard his confident, sharp rap on the kitchen door.
She had hoped he might return,
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