Part 28 (1/2)

The sound of other men entering the Nissen hut disturbed Ja.n.u.sz's thinking. They were talking about the weather. The rains had eased off and the men were discussing the fog that was coming in across the fields. Ja.n.u.sz stood up and pulled on his greatcoat. Bruno would be landing soon. He stepped outside and felt his feet sink into a puddle. Heavy mists swirled around him. Hands in pockets, head down, Ja.n.u.sz trudged towards the airfield and waited in the mess huts for the planes to come in. He sat and watched the fog curl and thicken outside. And what would he do after the war? Go back to Poland? Bruno was right: too much had happened to ever go back.

'A real pea-souper,' somebody said.

Ja.n.u.sz got up. Why not live in Scotland? Start his life again? He walked out of the mess hut and nearly knocked into an officer on the steps.

'Sorry, sir,' said Ja.n.u.sz. 'I didn't see you.'

'I'm not surprised. Terrible weather,' said the officer as Ja.n.u.sz stepped to one side to let him pa.s.s.

'I hope the planes are going to come in safely tonight, sir.'

'They're not landing here. Visibility's three hundred yards or less over the airfield. They've been diverted to land further north. I'll let everybody know when our crew is back on terra firma.'

Ja.n.u.sz followed him back into the mess hut. He waited. An hour later the news came in.

The squadron had been flying blind in thick cloud base. Only five of thirteen planes had touched down successfully. Bruno's plane had crashed in a cornfield and gone up in flames.

Ipswich

Ja.n.u.sz clings to his routines. He works as many hours as possible and then goes home and mends things the kitchen chair with its broken rung, the back door, the dripping tap, next door's guttering but two weeks and three days after he told Silvana to leave, he still cannot find enough to do to occupy himself.

Heartache burns like a fever in him. He cannot sleep. His muscles twitch, his mind races and at dawn he throws off his bedcovers, dresses and hurries out into his garden. He is so drunk with grief, it is all he can do to stop himself from roaming the streets looking for a fight.

The honeysuckle Ja.n.u.sz trained up the wooden fence has just begun to bud with flowers, and the holly by the shed glows dark green. Ja.n.u.sz grabs the honeysuckle's stem, soft as an exposed throat, and throttles it in his fist, yanking it off the fence. No more flowers. No more suburban garden. No more wife and son. He takes his spade, angrily digging at the holly's woody roots. He rips roses from the soil, slashes flowers with a scythe, kicks over shrubs and piles their ragged remains in a funeral pyre in the middle of the lawn.

The garden was always a dream. A dream of his son playing on a green lawn and his wife cutting English roses from the flower borders. And now there are no more dreams. A splash of rain falls but he carries on his destruction, finding some kind of pleasure in digging up plants, turning the lawn over to a furrowed plot of soil. He wants black soil. Bare earth. The ground new and flecked with stones.

Perhaps he's lost his mind, but he can't stop digging in any case. His muscles are pumping like pistons. Shouldering his work like a farmhorse pulling a plough through deep clay, he kicks the spade, driving it into the soil with a murderous energy.

Hours later, he leans against the fence, wiping sweat from his face. He doesn't rest for long. Throwing down his spade, he goes inside, finds an old newspaper, soaks it in lawnmower fuel and pushes it into his bonfire. He lights it and steps back, smoke clouding around him, stinging his eyes, the smell of smouldering plants filling the air.

The rain gets heavier but still he doesn't look up from his work. He carries on, even though the red-flamed heart of the bonfire has died, suffocated by the rain and the thick clods of green turf and plants he is piling uselessly onto it.

'What the h.e.l.l are you doing?'

Gilbert is looking over the fence.

Ja.n.u.sz steps out of the smoke.

'Clearing up,' he says. 'Getting rid of it all. Leave me alone, please. This is my business.'

And he walks back into the drifting, choking smoke.

Felixstowe Silvana is unsure, but Tony insists. He is smiling, waving his hands as he talks, excited as a child at Christmas.

'It's all right. Come upstairs. I've got a present for you. Something special.'

She steps through the open door of his bedroom. She has avoided this room so far. Avoided the memory of his wife which must lurk in the rose-patterned wallpaper and the polished wooden furniture.

'This house,' she asks, 'does it make you sad? Do you think of your wife when you are here?'

'No,' he says as he ushers her inside. 'No, we barely spent any time here together. And I've had lodgers since she died. The house has been decorated several times. There is nothing left that belonged to Lucy.'

Silvana sits at the dressing table, the chintz fabric pleated around it like a tidy skirt. She presses her knees together and takes in the details of the room: the pink satin bedspread on the double bed; the bed table with a small lamp on it; and above the bed, a print of a mountain landscape, green hills rolling down to a lake where sheep graze.

Tony brandishes a key in his hand and unlocks the big wardrobe.

'Here,' he says, swinging the wardrobe door open. 'For you.'

Colours glint shoulder to shoulder. The wardrobe is packed full of clothes. Brick red, holly green, duck-egg blue, eau de nil, salmon, pale blue, black, coral pink, cream, gold and silver. Furs, silks, ribbons, velvet, feathers, pearls, sequins. Evening gowns, tailored jackets, day dresses, trouser suits, silk nightdresses, blouses with tiny pearl b.u.t.tons. Silvana runs her hands over them all. Tony laughs and pulls a fur coat out for her to see.

'They're all for you.'

Silvana can't believe her eyes.

'Where did they come from? You've the contents of a dress shop in here.'

'I admit they're not all new, but you'll agree they're hardly worn. I've been collecting them for you. Some of them belonged to a countess. A very beautiful one.'

'How did you know my size?'

He puts the coat on the bed and shrugs. 'I guessed. But it was a lucky guess, right? Try something on and we'll see.'

Silvana watches him push through the rails, looking for something. Had he always known she would end up in this house with him? Had he planned it all along? She dismisses the thought. There is no point wondering in any case. She is here.

'This one,' he says, pulling a silver lame evening gown from its wooden hanger. 'This one is my favourite.'

His hand trembles as he pa.s.ses her the dress, his eyes full of expectation.

'Try it on,' he says, and his voice cracks. 'I want you to have it.'

A thought comes to her. Lucy Lucy.

'These clothes. They're not...' She falls silent. She can't ask him that. She looks at him steadily. 'You bought them all for me?'

'Yes. Of course. Who else would I get them for?'

He turns his back while she undresses and slips the silvery dress over her head.

For one terrible moment she thought he might have been dressing her in his dead wife's clothes. But of course he wouldn't do that. Truly, she is far too morbid these days. The dress slides over her hips. It settles on her body, heavy as silver coins, fish scales rippling over her hips, clinging to her thighs. She doesn't dare look in the wardrobe mirror.

'Ready yet? Can I see?'

'Yes.'