Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase (17 page)

It was his right arm, which was unfortunate. He couldn’t write. He had thought of asking a nurse to help him, but no, he did not want his words to one woman shared with another. The nurses were pretty, young, confident and – with him, at least – flirtatious. He flirted back too, a little, if he wasn’t too tired, but only to be polite. They were gentle girls doing a difficult job. He did not desire them.

A new doctor came. He sat on the bed, introduced himself as Dr Burton. He wanted to talk, if that was all right. Jan was no fool, he knew he was a head doctor immediately. He told him so, and Dr Burton smiled. So, then. They could be frank.

It was not a good idea to return to flying too soon.

‘We fear you are fragile, mentally. Exhausted. You need to rest longer,’ he said.

‘That cannot be done. I am needed,’ said Jan.

It was a fine winter’s day with pale diluted sunshine, small puffs of cloud skittering across the blue sky. Out of the window he could see other wounded men sitting in wheelchairs with blankets on their laps, being wheeled around by the pretty nurses, or sitting and smoking, contemplating the views across the hospital gardens to the fields beyond.

He had no idea, he suddenly realised, exactly where he was. Which hospital was he in? It appeared to have been converted from a grand house. But he did not know its name. He thought he was still in Kent, but perhaps he wasn’t. Somehow he hadn’t ever thought to ask.

‘If you return so soon,’ said Dr Burton, ‘have you considered that you may be a liability? Your judgement impaired? Not to mention your injuries, which will not have healed fully.’

Jan found the young doctor smug, like most doctors. This Burton thought he was God, obviously. He looked dapper in a grey flannel suit. But he was not God, and Jan was determined to keep this young man in his place.

‘I am not “impaired”,’ he told him. ‘I shall return today, if you like. No? So I give myself three, no, two more days, and I return. I flew back to my aerodrome with one arm. Two weeks ago, I think? It is healed. I feel it is healed. It is very near to healing. I will remove this plaster myself if you do not do it for me. I will do this.’ He made a violent tearing action at his injured arm.

Dr Burton shook his head. He asked Jan questions: Where did he come from in Poland? Where did he learn his English?

Jan, bored, defensive, said as little as possible.

The doctor reiterated his warning not to be foolish, to consider his squadron – its safety, his own safety.

Jan kept up his stubborn silence. He was behaving, he knew, like a spoiled brat. But he would not be bossed around by a doctor who looked as though he had never killed a rabbit, let alone a fellow human being. Jan could not communicate with such a man.

Dr Burton gave up, thanked Jan for his time and left him.

D
orothy smiled to herself as she basted the chicken, slaughtered just the day before by Nina. Dorothy could not bring herself to perform the task, and Albert had always been the one to snap the birds’ thin tremulous necks. Last Christmas, alone, she had not bothered with Christmas lunch, but this year she had plucked, gutted and now cooked the bird with great pleasure. The smell was divine, she thought, the house was warm, the frost outside clinging to the world like washed lace, and she and the girls were cosy and contented. Dorothy was determined to make Christmas Day a good one for all three of them. Besides the chicken, there were roasted potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, parsnips from the garden. And port, a bottle hidden away by Dorothy for years, taken from her mother’s house. Why she had taken it, Dorothy couldn’t fathom; it was just another item in her strange and ill-considered trousseau. Perhaps, she mused, today was why: Christmas Day 1940, cold, but calm. And safe, for now.

The girls had sipped two small glasses each already and were lounging, listening to their favourite Billie Holiday songs. They had loved the presents Dorothy had made for each of them: simple linen handkerchiefs she had dug out from the bottom of her rag bag and which she had embroidered with their initials, pressed and then scented with a handful of lavender; a silk scarf for Aggie that Dorothy no longer wore; a red lipstick, barely used, for Nina. Not astounding gifts, but something sitting under the small Christmas tree for the girls to open, wrapped simply with brown paper and kitchen string.

Dorothy was glad there were no presents for her. She had never liked them. She would be expected to smile and say thank you; she felt obliged to be thrilled. Her mother’s idea of presents had been
The Infant’s Progress: From the Valley of Destruction to Everlasting Glory
, and other hideous books that Dorothy had never read but had hidden away under her bed. They were probably still there, she thought, as she took a modest sip of her own glass of port. The thrill of alcohol, its exuberance, was a sensation Dorothy rarely allowed herself. She loved too much the hot, glowing feel of it in her mouth, her throat, her gullet, through her stomach, down deep into her legs. She loved too much the feeling of losing oneself, of being buoyed up, and the opportunity it afforded for blurring and forgetting. But she could not forget the way in which Albert had acted towards her after he had taken too much drink. She would never allow herself to get into that state, to lose her mind completely to drink’s calamitous charms. But today, this Christmas Day, she was allowing herself the pleasure of alcohol. December had been a month of further disappointments, and she needed to forget.

Despite his promises, his hints and suggestions, Squadron Leader Jan Pietrykowski had not visited. Indeed, he had not written for over a month. Was he dead? Dorothy thought not. She
knew
not. Was he injured? It was possible. It was probable. Perhaps the squadron had been moved again? Perhaps he was cross with her? Did he know, somehow, about Albert and her brief, shameful, blameless relations with him? Such a shrewd man, she would not have been surprised if he had guessed from the tone of her last letter, from her careful choice of words. But, of course, it was impossible. Wasn’t it? Nobody was that intuitive.

‘What’s up, then, Dot?’ Nina said. She was languishing on the settee, her port glass glowing in her plump hand, the glass rimmed by the red lipstick she had been unable to resist trying on.

Dinner was nearly ready, and Dorothy had emerged from the kitchen to take a short rest. ‘Nothing at all, Nina,’ she said. ‘Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. I’m just letting the chicken stand.’ Dorothy sank into her chair by the window.

‘You’re the best ever cook,’ said Aggie.

‘Oh no, but it’s good to feel useful. You both looked so cold this morning.’

‘It’s bloody freezing out there,’ said Nina. She shifted on the settee, wincing as she did so.

‘Are you quite well?’ said Dorothy.

‘Yeah. Course I am. Just feel a bit funny. Can’t get comfy. I’m ever so hungry. Can’t wait for that dinner.’

Dorothy turned to the window. Slowly, she rose from her chair, transfixed, wide-eyed.

‘What is it, Dot?’ said Aggie, coming to stand beside her. She flicked the yellowed lace curtains to one side. ‘Oh!’

Squadron Leader Jan Pietrykowski was opening the gate. He was carrying a bottle-shaped brown package and a kitbag. A small open-topped car was parked half on the road, half on the verge, crimson and bright as a brand-new toy. Dorothy wondered that they hadn’t heard the car arrive. But, of course, the music was loud.

‘You’ve been pining for months, and now he’s here. And you’re just going to stand there?’ said Aggie, taking her glass from her.

As if in a dream, Dorothy made to go back into the kitchen, to open the door and let him in. But her knees, disobedient, would not budge.

‘I can’t,’ she whispered.

‘I’ll go!’ said Aggie brightly, handing Dorothy’s glass back, and she half ran, half skipped through to the kitchen.

Dorothy looked aghast at Nina, who grinned in her disingenuous manner, took a large mouthful of port and shrugged. Dorothy groped behind her for her chair and sat down. She stood again immediately as Aggie entered the lounge, followed by the unmistakeable smell of uniform, of hair grease, of kindness. And the man, more handsome than she remembered, the man she had longed for, stood once more in her parlour, smiling, unwrapping a bottle of champagne, no less, and looking at Dorothy as though she were Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon herself.

‘I apologise for arriving without asking,’ he said. ‘I had a last-minute pass. Twenty-four hours only. Tomorrow, I must return to Kent.’

‘I see,’ said Dorothy. Her throat was so tight she felt she might suffocate. He was extraordinarily handsome. Had she not noticed this before? She thought she had. But there was something wrong, something amiss with the way he held himself, the way he moved. And it was still a shock to her that she cared so much.

‘But for now, today, Christmas. Good times, good wine. Good company.’ He looked at her, and smiled.

She smiled back.

Suddenly, it was Christmas.

Jan followed her into the kitchen where she helped him remove his greatcoat, which was wet and cold, and laid it over the clothes horse in front of the range to dry. Gentle plumes of steam filled the room. He opened and poured the champagne, with his left hand, holding the bottle awkwardly against his body. Goodness knows how he had come by champagne. But who cared? It was champagne! And Dorothy could see he was in pain. He held his right arm at a curious angle. Nevertheless, he helped her to dish up the dinner, putting the heavy plates on to the table one at a time, using his good arm.

‘I’ll call the girls through,’ she said.

But Jan put a finger to his lips and shook his head. He gently took hold of Dorothy’s waist with both hands. She looked away, embarrassed. He took her chin in his good hand and softly tilted her head towards his. He kissed her, soft and light. She did not want the kiss to end.

‘You have lost weight, no?’ he said, releasing her.

She opened her eyes.

Had she? Perhaps. Since Albert’s visit she had certainly lost her appetite.

‘I’ve been pining for you,’ said Dorothy, and she smiled shyly at him.

He laughed his big, hearty laugh – the laugh of one who doesn’t laugh as often as he should – and she blushed and pulled away from him, calling to the girls that dinner was on the table.

They ate the food and washed it down with the champagne and more port. Jan said he was hopeful that all was not lost; the death all around was not in vain. There had been a victory, of sorts, despite the bombings, and the war could and would be won. There had been no invasion, and there was no sign of one coming any time soon. They could all take heart from that.

‘But I have no idea when the war will end,’ he said, pouring himself another glass of port. The last glass. The women had insisted.

‘Years?’ said Dorothy.

‘I hope not, but I suspect so. I do not expect to return to my homeland for a long time.’

After dinner, they listened to the King’s speech, and then the girls made space in the lounge and insisted on dancing, giddying themselves until Nina, red-faced and full, plonked herself on the settee, laughing. Drunk and tired, she soon slept, and Aggie left the cottage to milk the cows alone. It would take three times as long, she said, but Nina was all in. Let her sleep. She deserved some time off. She worked like a bloody packhorse.

Alone in the house, apart from the sleeping girl, Dorothy and Jan cleared the dishes and washed up. Jan, ever mindful of his arm, winced once or twice.

‘May I have a look at your arm?’ she asked him as she put away the last of the dishes.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said.

‘But it looks as though you’re in a lot of pain.’

He shook his head and changed the subject. ‘May I stay tonight? On the settee will be all right, I have my kit. Only it is so cold, and colder still now it is almost dark. And I am not expected back until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

‘Yes. Of course you can stay. You must. But in the spare room. I prepared it for you weeks ago.’

After Albert’s departure, Dorothy had stripped the bed, turned the mattress, scrubbed the floor. She had remade the bed and scrubbed the settee, over and over.

Aggie returned, and Dorothy made sandwiches and tea. One of the cows had mastitis, Aggie thought. Nina, awake now and slothful, announced herself to be ‘full to the bloody brim’ but happy to accompany Aggie to The Crown, to ‘see who was about’. The girls disappeared upstairs and returned, a few minutes later, changed and lipsticked. Jan offered them a ride, one at a time, in the little red sports car. It was an MG, loaned to him that morning by his English flight officer. ‘Take care of her, Pietrykowski,’ he had said. Jan wasn’t certain that he had meant the car.

Dorothy watched and waved from the parlour window as each girl was whisked away. And while Jan was ferrying for the second time, Dorothy made up a fresh tea tray and set it out on the low table in the lounge.

‘Thank you for giving the girls a trip in that car,’ she said. ‘I’m sure they think it very glamorous.’

‘It is glamorous, isn’t it? And fast too. And red! But so cold, like flying. So I got here in time, in time for your delicious dinner.’

‘You didn’t write.’

‘I’m sorry. I hoped a surprise would do. Besides, I could not write,’ and he raised his arm.

‘It’s incredible to see you again,’ said Dorothy. ‘Please may I have a look at your injury?’

‘There is no need.’

‘What happened to you?’

‘Nothing. Nothing to speak of. A small injury, a scratch. No need for any worry.’

Dorothy said nothing. She slowly sipped her tea, and concentrated on the tick, tick, tick of the clock, the crackling of the fire. She felt the man’s gaze on her, unwavering. He perched on the edge of the settee, drinking his tea in long gulps. She had hoped he might be more comfortable with her. But, of course, she could not expect too much.

Truly, they barely knew each other.

He recalled these cups from their first meeting, when they had tea in her kitchen, all those months ago, in May, months that could just as easily be years. And yes, she had aged – imperceptibly to others, perhaps, but he noticed one or two new lines around her mouth, her eyes. She was definitely thinner. He noticed these things, because he looked. He looked at Mrs Dorothy Sinclair as only a man in love can look, with attention to detail.