Part 29 (1/2)

'Thank you,' said Ja.n.u.sz. 'Thank you very much, sir.'

Ipswich

After work and at weekends, Ja.n.u.sz spends his time digging the garden until he is sure there is nothing left, no fleshy, divided root, no blade of gra.s.s. Even as the sun s.h.i.+nes down, the garden looks as barren as a field in winter. The oak tree is the only green thing in it. Ja.n.u.sz stands under the rope ladder of the tree house, looking up. It wouldn't take much to dismantle the whole thing.

In the garden shed, he picks up his claw hammer and a saw. He puts them down again. He can't do it. He can't bring himself to touch the tree house.

He feels tired for the first time since Silvana left. Exhausted. Now the garden is cleared, he can rest. His muscles ache, his head buzzes. He has to sleep. He staggers into the house, lies down on the boy's bed and sleeps solidly through the afternoon and the night, waking early the next morning, sure of what he must do next.

It is a bank holiday Monday and he has a whole day free. He pulls on wellingtons by the front door, steps outside into a drizzly grey morning and walks briskly down the quiet streets.

The bus conductor looks at him suspiciously as he climbs aboard.

'You'll have to leave that in the luggage rack, sir,' he says, pointing at the garden spade Ja.n.u.sz is carrying.

The bus stops at the paper mill, and he is the only person to get off. He knows the conductor is watching him suspiciously. He hoists his spade over his shoulder, gives a wave to the man and walks away.

On the edge of woodland, between brambles and fields, Ja.n.u.sz turns muddy earth with the spade, bringing up worms for birds to peck at. Blisters appear on his hands as he digs. His fingernails are black with soil. The sun comes out in a blue sky and warms his back.

That first tree makes him sweat. Its roots are more tenacious than he imagined. He spends the morning digging, but it's hard work when there is so much gra.s.s underfoot. The earth is covered with a thick pelt of it. Gra.s.s up to his knees forms a matted skin that closes over the soil, refusing to allow the s.p.a.ce for a tree to be taken.

When he manages to expose the birch's root system, he finds it is caught up in the roots of nettles, knots like tough yellow rope that he can't unravel. That's how he is too. Caught up in English soil. He takes his spade, slams it hard into the soil and kicks down on it, revealing the final tight root of the tree. Carefully, he pulls the sapling free from the ground.

The bus is late. When it arrives, Ja.n.u.sz steps up into it and the conductor shakes his head.

'You can't bring that on with you, sir.'

'Oh, but surely, if I put it in the luggage rack...' He finds himself struggling over his words, his Polish accent getting in the way. He never has this problem. His English accent is perfect. For some reason his voice is full of Polish vowel sounds. He tries again, hears the same thick accent. 'I've vashed ze vashed ze roots. It's clean.' roots. It's clean.'

'What'll you bring next time, chickens? This isn't the b.l.o.o.d.y Continent. Look at it, it's covered in mud. What would my other pa.s.sengers think?'

Ja.n.u.sz looks down the aisle of the bus. There is only one other pa.s.senger, an old man who appears to be asleep.

'Fine,' he says. 'If you are going to be obstreperous obstreperous, I will not get on your autobus.'

Let him chew on that, thinks Ja.n.u.sz as he watches the bus pull away. He hoists the tree over his shoulder and begins the long walk home.

Later that day, in the garden, slabs of heavy soil lie all around him. Once the hole is deep, he scatters bonemeal into it. This tree will be nurtured, cared for until its roots are deep enough for it to stand by itself. He will not fail it. This tree is just a beginning. Just a start.

He will be a part of this land, but on his own terms. He's fought for the English, worn their uniform and learned their songs and jokes. And he's lived here long enough to know this terraced house is his castle, for him to do what he wants with. Who did he think he was anyway, trying to have a perfect English family and an English country garden? To h.e.l.l with all that. Carefully, carefully, he positions the fragile sapling. Pushes the soil back, pressing down, tamping it with the heel of his boot, covering its roots deep like a secret in the ground.

He waters it every day and counts its leaves, watching over it for any signs of disease or weakness. This first tree is for Aurek. The son who died. The next will be for the son who is living.

Felixstowe

Silvana, Tony and Aurek walk along the sands listening to the screech of seagulls and the waves rus.h.i.+ng back and forth. Tony takes off his boots and socks, rolls up his trouser legs and stands at the edge of the water with Aurek, dancing backwards when a big wave crashes towards them. Aurek shrieks and runs back up the beach.

'Right, I'm going for a swim,' Tony shouts over the noise of the wind, pulling his s.h.i.+rt and trousers off and handing them to Silvana. 'Sure you don't want to?'

'No,' she says, watching him adjust the waistband of his swimming trunks. 'We'll be fine here. We'll wait for you.'

Silvana and Aurek sit at the bottom of a bank of silvery s.h.i.+ngle. s.h.i.+elded from the wind, it is warm and quieter. Tony walks out into the brown sea, his solid, hairy legs pus.h.i.+ng against the current as he struggles to keep upright. He drops under the water and reappears, shaking his head like a wet dog. Silvana watches him as he bobs up and down, appearing and disappearing with every wave until he is a small shape far from the beach.

She opens her handbag and takes out a postcard, a colour picture of the seafront and the long pier that juts out into the water. It is a pretty card with lots of blue sky, the sandy beach tinted egg-yolk yellow. She writes a quick message to Ja.n.u.sz, the same message she has sent on every card. A card a week, marked with the address of Tony's house. Ja.n.u.sz hasn't replied. It's been two months since they left Britannia Road. This will be the last card she sends. After that, she will try to forget him. She managed it once before in Poland. She can do it again.

She pulls her coat collar tighter around her chin and her fingers sink into soft blue wool. The coat is satin-lined and feels wonderful to wear. It has decorative st.i.tching in a creamy brown silk thread and big b.u.t.tons that Aurek likes to play with. She has a pair of pearl earrings that Tony says go perfectly with it. Under her coat she wears a crepe de Chine blouse with tiny pleats and a row of b.u.t.tons to the neck. Her skirt is high-waisted tweed, a little old-fas.h.i.+oned but good-quality cloth. The boots she wears s.h.i.+ne like conkers. Italian leather, Tony told her when he pulled them from the wardrobe in his bedroom and suggested she try them on. She asked him about Lucy then. She couldn't help herself.

'Tony, I have to know. You can tell me. Were these Lucy's?'

He'd been matter-of-fact in his response. 'No,' he said, taking her hands in his. 'Of course not. I gave away Lucy's clothes years ago. They are yours. Only yours.'

She turns her ankle to see the leather s.h.i.+ne in the sun. She's never had such good boots.

Tony comes back from his swim, hungry. He takes them to a restaurant and a girl serves them boiled potatoes and fish in parsley sauce, dripping the sauce over the tablecloth as she puts their plates down.

'Aurek, you're as brown as a berry, old chum,' says Tony. 'You could pa.s.s as a little Italian lad,' he continues. 'Don't you think, Silvana?'

No, she thinks. He looks Polish He looks Polish.

'Absolutely,' she says, wiping the sauce off the edge of her plate with her napkin.

Tony finishes his gla.s.s of wine and orders another. Silvana sips her own wine and smiles at Tony and Aurek.

'Good health. Na zdrowie! Na zdrowie!' she says, raising her gla.s.s to them both.

Here we all are, she thinks. She feels such tenderness for Tony, she is carried along by it, by the feel of pearls against her neck, the silk stockings he gives her, the food he offers them. Maybe it is the effect of the wine she is not used to drinking, but she looks at Tony and her brown-faced son and believes they can be a family.

After a long and late lunch, they walk through the Ma.s.sey Gardens. Tony teaches Aurek crazy golf and Silvana sits watching them. At 6 p.m., when the deckchairs on the beach are being packed away and people start drifting towards home, Tony goes to a bar and Aurek and Silvana stroll along the promenade. The two gla.s.ses of wine she drank earlier are still making her feel pleasantly numb. Necklaces of coloured light bulbs swing brightly over kiosks selling seafood and sweets and postcards. The air smells vinegary and sharp. Silvana buys Aurek a toy that whirs in the wind and some chocolate. He gives her a lump of it, popping it into her mouth. She closes her teeth on it and feels the sweet, milky texture. She laughs and throws her head back. As she does, she sees a woman looking at her from across the street. The sight of her sobers Silvana up.

'Look at you,' Doris says, walking over to her. 'Your bread obviously landed b.u.t.ter side up.'

Silvana will not be intimidated. She could walk away. She'd like to, in fact. She'd like to turn on her heels and maybe even swish her elegant blue coat as she does so. A toss of the head would be satisfying. But Doris can tell her how Ja.n.u.sz is.

'So you're living the high life here by the sea while your poor husband goes barmy, digging up his roses?'

Silvana pushes her hair away from her face. 'Have you seen him?'

Doris takes her time. She leans in close, like an actress about to speak her most important lines, making her audience wait. And Silvana is a good audience. She hangs on the woman's silence, waiting for news of Ja.n.u.sz. A smell of cooking fat rises off Doris's clothes.