Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase (13 page)

Thank you for all your kind words to me in your letters, which come thick and fast and are a joy to receive. The last few weeks have been a special time that I shall always remember. You are a good man, Jan, far too good for a woman like me. Please don’t trouble yourself with thoughts of me while you are down there in the thick of things. You have more than enough on your plate. I am absolutely not worthy of the depth of feeling you express. I am conscious of your feelings and I should like to return them. But it is hopeless.

I trust that you will remain safe. I hope and believe that you will. Any time you can, if you get enough leave, please visit. The girls and I will be pleased to see you.

Dorothy

25
th August
1940

My dear Dorothea,

Your letter was a joy to receive, all
225
words of it. But you are wrong. You are worthy. And there is always hope. Hope is all we have now – everyone, all of us. I fear your cities will be next, of that I am certain. Did you not say that your girls are from London? They have families living there? The Luftwaffe bombed London last night. I hope that it will not happen again. Our losses continue, but I think we are still enough, with the RAF, to fight. And your Winston Churchill says such good things about the pilots (the Polish ones too). You may have heard him on the wireless? We are become heroes! Not murderers at all. Our mood is high, despite death all around us. And it is a miracle that we seem to be holding on. But, of course, everything has its price.

What of you? Do you continue with your laundry, your sewing? You are a woman of industry. I think if you don’t work, if you are not busy, you will allow yourself to think too much, and fret?

Now I must write to a mother in
Polska
. Her son died yesterday, lost in the sea. I do not know if my letters arrive. But I must send. I wish for courage to do a good job and be a small comfort to the boy’s mother.

Your Jan

16
th September
1940

My dear Dorothea,

So autumn arrives, and with it a change of tactic, as I thought. Do you recall I said this would happen?

Are you safe and well? I doubt very much the Luftwaffe is interested in bombing Mrs Dorothea Sinclair in her little cottage, lost among the fields of Lincolnshire. But you must be vigilant, being so close to the aerodrome, as the Germans will attack anyone – women, children, it means nothing to them. I told you of that. It has happened. These Nazis, these Germans, are cowards. But they are dangerous cowards. Yesterday, we are told, was a good day for the RAF, we fight on, we score hits. The Luftwaffe are not having it easy.

I hope to get some leave in the next few weeks, perhaps in October. If that is so, could I visit you? To sit with you again in your cottage is a dream I hold dear.

Until then,

Your Jan

20
th September
1940

Dear Jan,

Poor Aggie has had word that her fiancé has been killed. His name was Roger and he was a pilot in a Spitfire squadron. I didn’t even know she was engaged to be married. She met her young man shortly before leaving London, and she was in love, she tells me. She is desolate. Nina and I try to cheer her up, but she talks of going home to London – a thought to make one shudder in light of all that is happening there. She will be far better off staying here and enjoying the relative safety of the country. She still goes to the dances and the pub regularly.

Aggie’s news made me think about Albert, my husband, and whether the same will happen to him. Although, of course, he is in the army. As we are still married, I suppose I would receive a telegram? I think of you, every day. I must confess, I’ve started to pray for you, prayers of a sort. Is that silly?

The weather grows colder, and I can smell winter. The trees are becoming bare and such a wind blows, howling around the house at night. Please visit in October. I can make up the bed in the spare room, it is rather small but comfortable enough. Do let me know in advance, if that is possible? So I can make all the preparations. Do you think you may have leave over Christmas time? A long way off, I know, but we need to look forward to things.

Nina is well, although she took a funny turn yesterday evening. She was trying to cheer Aggie up by getting her to dance – you know how those girls love to dance – well, Nina keeled over, out cold for a minute or two. We put her head between her legs, and later we got her to bed and I made her drink a hot toddy. Aggie tells me she slept well. And this morning, when they both went off to work, Nina was cheery enough. She works too hard, I think.

Bombs fell on Lodderston aerodrome last week. Nothing much – some damage, we hear – and two ground crew were killed. The noise was indescribable, so how it must be in London or Liverpool, I cannot imagine.

I have no other news. Mostly day follows night here, and things go on in the old familiar pattern. I suppose there’s a comfort in that.

Dorothy

For my best friend, Charlotte, on her 30th birthday, because she also loves to shop!

(Inscription found on flyleaf of Penguin Classics edition of
Madame Bovary
by Gustave Flaubert. Evidently, Charlotte does not love to read. Inscription aside, as new copy. Placed on classic fiction shelf in entrance lobby, price £2.50. I bought it myself after a few weeks and have since read it twice.)

D
ad was okay in the end, thank God. After three days in hospital, during which his breathing stabilised, he was allowed home. I visit him each day after work. He needs rest, and plenty of it, but he won’t let me ‘do’ for him. He never will. We chat, drink tea, eat crumpets or muffins – ‘There’s only so much brown rice even a gravely ill man can eat!’ – we watch the news, we watch
Pointless
and he always beats me. But I know that I cannot ask my dad any questions about the letter. It isn’t fair to bother him, and it would be nothing short of cruel to potentially turn his already troubled world on its head. Yet I wonder … I wonder if his world
would
be turned upside down? Or would it be mine?

And my visit to my grandmother, although it was a pleasure to see her once her initial confusion had passed, was unproductive. In the end, Suzanne left us to ourselves, and I simply sat with Babunia, holding her hand, commenting on the garden. I’m still not sure that she realised who I was.

But in subsequent visits Babunia recognises me, and smiles, and asks me when that son of hers is going to deign to visit. I am going every week, as I resolved, and it’s a joy to meet up first with Suzanne, who tells me about how Babunia is getting on, the things she says, her preoccupations: these are often unfathomable, Suzanne explains, and I nod in understanding. She’s always been like that, I say. I tell her I’m immensely grateful that she has taken the time to befriend my grandmother; it’s a relief to have somebody looking out for her, somebody we can all trust. Suzanne says it’s a pleasure. Of course, Dad wants to go – and will go with me, when he’s up to it – but it’s hard to think up excuses. Babunia is not a stupid woman. She might guess straight away that something is wrong; he has changed so much, and for the worse.

I have not mentioned Jan’s letter, not yet, to either of them. I need to find the right time.

I am in the Old and New, the place where I am always to be found. Philip and I are undertaking the task of rearranging some of the shelves in the large old books room. He also wants the French windows to the patio to be polished, closed and locked, as it is late September, and so we are closing up the garden for winter. Jenna is not at work today. Philip explains to me she is unwell, and in bed with a whisky and hot water – a cure-all his mother always swore by. I have my own thoughts regarding this illness, but I say nothing. I hope she is okay. But she will not let me know. Our friendship, I fear, is finished, turned in on itself.

At the desk, which is manned by Sophie, a woman is asking for me. She has a cultured voice, educated, confident. I know who she is instantly. I freeze. A surge of bad adrenaline flows through my veins, the dread-rush of certainty. I look at Philip, who looks back at me quizzically. A roar starts up in my ears, a cacophony of cursed voices. This cannot be happening. Oh no, no, no, not this, not now.

‘Roberta?’ calls Sophie.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll find her,’ says Francesca Dearhead.

Slow, deliberate footsteps in high-heeled shoes become more pronounced as they tick through into the back room. She has come in search of me, as I knew she would one day. And now she stands in the doorway.

Like a child, I hope that if I close my eyes this will stop. If I concentrate hard enough this won’t be happening, the roaring in my body will end, here and now. But nothing stops. The roaring becomes louder.

Mrs Dearhead’s scent floats around her, and it is not Febreze at all, but something expensive, and tasteful. And as I open my eyes again she is upon me, slender hands on slender hips, a queasily triumphant smile revealing even, white teeth. She seems taller than me, although she is probably around my height, elegantly dressed in a cream wool coat, her black hair immaculately styled. She is invading my personal space and I take a step backwards, intimidated.

‘You …
shameful
little woman,’ she whispers, staring at me as though I were a tarantula.

‘Hang on a minute,’ says Philip. He puts down his pile of books on a footstool, takes off his spectacles and glares at her. Almost imperceptibly, he moves an inch or two closer to me.

‘Are you aware that this … employee of yours … has been carrying on with my husband?’ says Mrs Dearhead. ‘Do you know who my husband is?’

‘Vaguely,’ says Philip as he wipes his spectacles and puts them back on. ‘Are
you
aware that this is my bookshop, and are you further aware that I do not tolerate any form of abuse, physical or verbal, towards myself or any member of my staff? Is that clear? Nor do I listen to … loathsome tittle-tattle.’

The few customers, formerly leafing through books, chattering, murmuring, are inexplicably quiet. There is a marked silence in the Old and New. Somebody coughs. I even think I hear a muffled ‘Shh!’

‘This woman deserves to be sacked!’ she shouts, her composure finally slipping a little as she indicates me with a dismissive wave of her slender hand.

I find myself wondering whether she has recently touched her husband with those hands. She’s a lot more attractive than I had imagined, and younger. Did they still …? Of course. Don’t be so naive, Roberta. My God, Jenna had a point.

‘I do the hiring and firing around here,’ says Philip, flustered, and both myself and Francesca Dearhead stare at him, wrong-footed. Did he really say that?

She turns back to me. ‘Do you have anything to say?’

‘I think I do, actually.’

‘Then please say it. I am all ears.’

‘I am not carrying on with your husband.’

‘Of course, you would deny it. But I know you are.’

‘But I’m not. Whoever told you such a thing?’ I know, absolutely and certainly, that my former lover would not reveal our affair to anybody, least of all to his wife. It would make no sense for him to do so. Especially now that it was over, and I had been the one to finish it.

‘That’s my business,’ says Mrs Dearhead.

I take a deep breath. I can see she has the bit between her teeth and she’s not going to give it up. I don’t have much choice if I am to salvage anything even resembling dignity. ‘I
was
seeing your husband. For a while. But it’s over now. It’s been over for some time. I can assure you that is the truth.’

‘I see. Is there anything else?’

‘Only that I’m sorry. I am truly very sorry. I’m not sure what happened, really. To me, I mean. It was a mistake.’

I am aware that Sophie and Jenna are in the doorway, watching us, Jenna obviously roused from her sick bed by the commotion. There’s a look of fascinated, intrigued horror on their beautiful young faces. I look at Sophie. She grimaces. Jenna avoids meeting my gaze. Behind them, dear little Mrs Lucas – a regular customer with an inexhaustible appetite for second-hand Mills and Boon – is peering over their shoulders, aghast.

And Francesca Dearhead’s face is calm again, her smooth, tanned skin unpuckered. She studies me, her curled lip betraying her thoughts before she voices them.

‘Well. You’re not quite as I pictured you. You are younger, I suppose, just about. But what else? I can’t see it.’

‘That’s enough!’ says Philip.

Jenna reddens, glaring at Philip. Sophie looks at me, raising her eyebrows.

‘I really am very sorry,’ I say, ‘but it truly is over. And not much happened, anyway, if I’m perfectly honest. Your husband is in love with you. Not me. I’m too shallow for him. I’m no good for a man like him, not good enough, as you seem to be suggesting, and you’re absolutely right about that. And if it took a stupid … pseudo-affair for your husband to find out where his true affections lie, and to appreciate what he already has, that’s not such a bad thing. Now, if you don’t mind, Mrs Dearhead, I’d like to get on with my work.’

Francesca Dearhead turns and pushes past Sophie and Jenna and Mrs Lucas, all of whom gape after her, open-mouthed. I hear her high heels tap-tap-tapping on the flagstones in the foyer; I hear the front door open and close. A pause; then the silence breaks, customers murmur again, there are sniggers; a throat clears. Sophie and Jenna recede like discreet angels. Mrs Lucas stays a moment or two longer, then she too evaporates, and only Philip and I remain.

I can’t look at him.

‘Put the books down, Roberta,’ he says.

And I realise I have been clinging on to a large pile throughout the whole episode, hiding behind them, barricading myself in. I am trembling, so Philip takes the books from me, and sets them on the floor. He leans towards me and suddenly he gently moves aside a stray strand of hair from my face. He looks at me warily, as one would stare at a troublesome wasp, deliberating whether to kill or rescue it. Our heads have never been so close. But I won’t look away from him, I will not twist my eyes to the side like a person ashamed. Even though I
am
ashamed, horribly so, and my face must be reddened and anguished.