Spring Will Be Ours (46 page)

‘Yes … yes,' he said uneasily. ‘It's just that he isn't usually …'

‘Then you have a nice surprise. You'd better go along now.'

‘Yes.' He stood in the doorway and looked at them, Babcia with her apron over her Sunday dress, wiping a strand of grey hair from her forehead with the back of her hand; Dziadek beside her, arranging the sliced tomato in a dish. So secure they probably didn't even need to think about each other.

‘Ewa's there, isn't she?' he asked.

‘No, she's working again.' Babcia sighed. ‘She and Mama had a little upset.'

‘What do you mean?' Ewa never worked on Sundays. When was she coming back?

‘Let Mama tell you, darling, or perhaps you'd better just let her forget all about it.'

Jerzy looked at Dziadek, who winked. ‘Women …'

He winked back. ‘Bye, then.'

‘Goodbye, Jerzy. Thank you for coming.'

On the landing, he found Mama had taken in his rucksack, leaving the door on the latch. He pushed it open, almost cautiously, suddenly filled with resentment, as well as anxiety, that his father should be there.

‘Mama?'

‘In the kitchen, darling.'

He went in, sniffing. A large casserole dish stood on the stove, gently reheating. ‘I'm
starving.'

‘It won't be a minute.' She reached up to touch his cheek. ‘You've caught the sun. Have you grown, too?'

‘I don't know. Where's Tata?'

‘In the sitting room. He thought you might like a game of chess after supper.'

Jerzy helped himself to a slice of bread and butter from the worktop. ‘Why?'

‘Oh, Jerzy, come on,' Anna said lightly. ‘Wouldn't that be nice? It would please him so much.'

He shrugged. ‘I'm filthy, can I have a bath?'

‘Of course. Are you all right? Was it a good trip?'

‘So-so.' He took the bread out of the kitchen, along towards the bathroom.

‘Jerzy?' Tata was calling from the sitting room, and he stopped.

‘Yes?'

A silence; Tata was waiting for him to go back. More questions: how was it, who did you see, who did you talk to. But with Tata it was like a trial, an inquisition.

The living room door swung open. ‘I called you.'

Jerzy drew a breath, turned round. ‘Sorry, Tata, I was just coming.'

‘No, you weren't.'

He bit his lip, and looked down. ‘I'm going to have a bath.'

‘You can say hello to your father first, can't you?'

Between them, Anna's clattering in the kitchen stopped abruptly.

‘Of course. Hello, Tata. How are you?'

‘I am well. Must I talk to you across ten feet of carpet?'

Miserably, Jerzy walked towards him.

‘Look at me!'

He jerked his head up, ashamed of the tears stinging his eyes, unable to stop them. Through the blur he could see his father in the sitting room doorway, looking at him with contempt.

‘Excuse me, Tata …' He turned and walked unseeingly along the corridor to his room, longing to slam the door, not daring to do anything more than close it with the utmost care. Then he flung himself on the bed and cried, muffling the sound in his pillow until he began to have a fight for breath, and sat up. Where was the Ventolin? Not in his pocket – Christ, was he going to have to go outside to get his rucksack? No, Mama had put it in here already, thank God; he got up and wrenched the flaps open, panting, fumbled inside but couldn't find it. It must be in his pocket then: he felt again, beginning to panic, gasping, but it wasn't there, it must have fallen when he got off the train, or else he'd left it on the bloody seat. There was a spare one in the bathroom – but if he went out there he'd have to face Tata again. Sweat was pouring down his face, he'd have to go. He made for the door, pulled it open, heaving. At the far end of the corridor, thousands of miles away, he heard his parents' voices, very loud. He made his way slowly down, towards the bathroom, hearing Mama say suddenly: ‘Jerzy!' and run towards him.

‘Ventolin …'

She ran to the bathroom, came back, thrust it into his hands and he puffed and puffed it, standing gasping, until he could breathe again. It felt a very long time before he was able to lean weakly against the wall.

‘Better now?'

He nodded, his head swimming. ‘I'll lie down.'

She helped him back to his room, pulled off his anorak and gymshoes as he sat on the side of the bed. ‘There … Poor Jerzy.'

He drew a long breath, feeling the pain in his chest begin to fade. ‘Mama? Where's Ewa?'

‘At the pub. She's covering for someone off sick, that's all.'

‘Oh.' He leaned back on to the pillows. ‘Babcia said you'd had a row – a “little upset”.'

They both smiled. ‘A row,' said Anna. ‘Never mind – it's all blown over.' She got up. ‘I'll bring you some supper, all right?'

‘Thanks.'

At the door, she paused, hesitating. ‘Would you like Tata to come and see you?'

He turned away to the wall. ‘He hates me.'

‘Of course he doesn't.'

‘He does. You know he does.'

‘Well … I'll talk to him.'

He didn't answer, and she went out quietly, leaving the door open.

Jerzy lay for a few minutes, exhausted. There was a slow, unsteady sound from the corridor, and then Burek came in, and put his nose on the edge of the bed.

‘Hello, boy.' He reached down and patted him. Burek sat, his tail moving slowly from side to side. ‘Dear old boy.' Jerzy swung his legs carefully off the bed and went over to his rucksack again. He took out
The Imitation of Christ
and put it on a high shelf. The evening sun slanted through dusty window panes – impossible to keep them clean for long, even though no steam trains puffed by now.

The sun touched the photographs of engines cut out from the
Railway Magazine
and taped all over the wardrobe doors, and the wall beside his bed. It touched the photographs on the chest of drawers which Mama had put in a large frame for his Saint's Day last year: he and Ewa on the common when they were little, playing with Burek; both of them in national costume for a Christmas concert at Saturday school; Dziadek and Babcia in their sitting room, he reading, she doing her tapestry – he had taken that one himself, it was one of his best. He took his camera out of his rucksack and put it on the chest of drawers. Tomorrow he'd take the film to be developed.

With the photographs here, of family and places he knew, were others: the family he had never known, the country he had never visited. His other Dziadek, Mama's father, who had been murdered by the Russians at Katyń his uncle, his namesake, who had been shot down in a Warsaw street by the Germans. They were sitting together under a silver birch tree by a river, laughing at Mama, who was taking the picture. The photograph was small and cracked and faded, like the one of Mama and Uncle Jerzy taken by their father on the same holiday, just before the war, smiling at the camera from a boat on a glinting river. Mama had her hair in plaits, and wore shorts; Jerzy, in cotton shirt, had his arm round her. In the studio picture of him on Mama's chest of drawers he looked very intense, dark and clever; here he was carefree and ordinary, the kind of person Jerzy himself would like to be. But his uncle had been a hero, had been killed running under gunfire to try to save his friend's life.

Also in the frame was a picture of Tata, wearing his white and red AK armband, standing smoking behind a heap of sandbags in the early days of the Warsaw Uprising. He looked young and tough; he had been tough, noble, even, carrying and dragging his best friend for hours through a sewer, when he himself was wounded. No wonder he hates me, Jerzy thought: I can hardly run down the road. He went over to the window, looked out on to warehouses and trees across the track. Beneath the window a tube train rattled past, and he saw in his mind's eye the Black Five, puffing faster and faster along the gleaming track through the hills, the steam rising towards the fresh blue sky,

Behind him, his father coughed. Jerzy jumped, and turned round.

‘Tata?'

‘Are you feeling better?'

‘Yes, thanks.'

They stood awkwardly, as the sound of the train faded. Jerzy, conscious of sweat-stained shirt and jeans grimy from the train, shifted in his socks on the lino, and almost fell over his feet, knocking the narrow bed frame.

‘Your mother thinks I am too hard on you,' said Jan, watching him.

‘It's all right,' Jerzy mumbled.

‘What do you mean, it's all right? I am too hard on you, or not?'

‘No. I mean … it doesn't matter.' He couldn't think straight, wanting only for his father to go, and leave him alone.

‘Perhaps when you've eaten – and had your bath, of course – we could have a game of chess.'

He'd have to sit opposite him, perhaps for an hour, trying to concentrate, nervous of making a mistake.

‘Okay.'

‘Good. Well … I'll leave you to have your meal in peace.'

They could hear Anna coming along the corridor with a tray, the clink of knife and fork. She came in smiling at a space somewhere between them, as Jan brushed past and went out. Jerzy settled himself on the pillows again and she put the tray on his lap.

‘There … all right?'

‘Fine. Thanks.' He took a mouthful, broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in the gravy. ‘Delicious. God, I was hungry. Mama – I'm sorry, I couldn't bring you a present this time.'

‘Darling, it doesn't matter.' She sat down on the bed. ‘Did Tata talk to you?'

‘Sort of. He wants me to have this chess game …'

‘But you're too tired now? I'll tell him.'

‘No. Don't. It'll only make it worse. I'll do it.'

She shook her head. ‘I thought it would be something to share. Not an endurance test.'

Jerzy went on eating. From the other end of the flat they could hear the television murmur, and Jan's cough. ‘Don't Mama,' he said. ‘Don't try to throw us together, it won't work.'

‘Such a sad thing …'

‘You sound like Babcia.' He finished his plate, put down the knife and fork. ‘I'm going to have a bath now, all right? Then I'll tell him.'

Anna picked up the tray. ‘I'll run it for you as I go past.'

‘Thanks.' He looked at his watch. Well after nine – Ewa might be back by ten? He heard the water running, yawned and got up, taking his spongebag from the rucksack, a clean pair of pyjamas from the drawer. In the bathroom, almost all the natural light had gone; he did not turn on the switch but stood looking in the mirror, clouding with steam, seeing his features blur and disappear. Then he undressed quickly, and lay in the bath, already almost asleep. He could just hear Mama and Tata talking, their voices no longer raised. Like an ordinary family, he thought sleepily. After a while, he got out and got dry, and into his pyjamas, and then he crept out and back to his room, slipping guiltily into bed. By the time he woke up tomorrow, Tata would have gone to work: they might not have to see each other all week.

It was almost dark. A train went past, the light from the windows flickering along the ceiling. Then it was very quiet.

He woke with the sound of running water and blinked, wondering for a moment where he was, half-expecting to see rows of bunks around him and sense beyond them the silence of the countryside at night. Then he recognised the bluish fluorescence of the lights from the railway line, and turned over, hearing Ewa, in bare feet, going quietly down the corridor, back to bed.

‘Ewa?' He propped himself up on his side. ‘Ewa!'

‘Sssh!' She came into the room, looking for a moment quite ghostly in the bluish light, wearing her long cotton nightdress, her hair tumbled over her shoulders.

‘Are you all right?' she whispered. ‘Mama said you'd had an attack.'

‘I'm fine now. Come and talk to me.'

‘It's the middle of the night.' She came over, and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘How was your weekend?'

‘It was a beautiful place,' he said, yawning. ‘But … something happened.'

She rolled her eyes. ‘It would. Go on, what was it?' She moved on to the bed so that she could hunch up her knees with her arms round them, leaning against the wall, and the pictures of the trains, and gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘You look awful, Jerzy. Why can't you be normal?'

They both giggled. Then he said slowly: ‘There was a man. He was sort of … after me. I think.' Already it seemed as if the whole thing might have happened to someone else, or been imagined. He told her, remembering the quiet, sunny airiness of the kitchen, the bleating sheep in the field beyond the window, and the sudden sense of menace in the man's approach.

Ewa listened. ‘He didn't touch you, or anything.'

‘No. I think he would have.'

‘Saved by the Germans. Tata would like that.'

‘Yes.' They giggled again, helplessly.

‘Sssh!'

‘Oh, Ewa, I'm so glad you're back.' He thought of the train journey home, his thoughts eating away at him, gnawed at by doubt: it wasn't just that the man might have … touched him, it was the fact that he and the man had something horrible in common, some sort of twisted thing about God, where faith had become obsession. Suddenly none of that seemed to matter now – he reached across to Ewa and hugged her. ‘What about you? Where were you tonight?'

‘Working. Your feet are poking me – move up.'

He moved, rustling the sheets. ‘You never work on a Sunday.'

‘Well, I did this Sunday.' There was a pause. ‘If I tell you what I did, you won't tell them?'

‘Of course not.'

‘I've got a boyfriend.' She buried her head in her knees.

‘Oh.' He felt a sudden, sharp pang of disappointment. Ewa with a boyfriend. ‘Oh.'