Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase (32 page)

That is all. No more to be said, for now. I am not returning to
Polska
, to live under Communists, no, and I am bitter about that. But my life will be mine. I have a plan to go to Italy, be with the sun, swim, eat, find work. There will be work. I have a friend who says it is a good place to regain strength. Then, I think of the USA, land of opportunity. Perhaps you and your son could join with me there? This is my most cherished hope.

Jan

I’
m still here, just. Still breathing and sleeping, waking, watching, thinking.

I remember now, that day we travelled down to London on the train. Just the three of us – me and John and Roberta. It was her tenth birthday, into double figures, so something to be celebrated. John was recovering from the break-up of his friendship with a woman called Kate. It hadn’t been a very serious affair, and I had thought all along it had been ill advised. John could be intense when he was younger. And in those days he was, of course, still suffering from the shock of being abandoned by Anna. I’m not surprised Kate broke it off. She understood the heartache both of them laboured under, and she didn’t fancy trying, and failing, to fill Anna’s shoes. You really cannot blame her.

So, to London. Madame Tussauds first, which Roberta loved. Then, on the Tube to Trafalgar Square. We fed the pigeons, admired the lions – we got Roberta to sit on one for a photograph. She was wearing a striped sweater. It was a chilly day, so we decided to eat lunch indoors. We none of us knew London well enough to have a restaurant in mind, so we wondered what to do and where to go. I was tired.

About to suggest the cafe in the National Gallery, I turned towards the building and I saw her, a tall woman, somewhere in her sixties, staring at me. She may have been looking at me for some time, I’ll never know. She was standing by one of the fountains. With her, a woman, fortyish, and two children, about Roberta’s age, a little younger perhaps, both boys. I thought them twins. They were both tall, with mousy hair, and definitely, terrifyingly there was a look of Roberta about them. The younger woman was a feminine version of John. The older woman, Nina – for it was her, unmistakeably – stared at us. She looked at the two young boys, surely her grandsons, and back at John. She was plump, more so than before. She looked tired, grey and careworn. But, I dared to hope, she did not look unhappy. For a second, perhaps two, we looked straight at each other. And in her eyes, behind her eyes, I saw the brash nineteen-year-old, strong, loud, ignorant. All of this in a few seconds. By then my eyesight was failing, of course, but a person’s essence never leaves them – especially, you cannot mistake the face of a woman who was once in pain, in need, begging you to help her.

And soon enough she was obscured by other people, with other lives, who had stories of their own, and I realised, with relief, that she was not going to advance upon me. I stopped looking. We found lunch, but I could not eat. My heart would not slow its beating, not for an hour, two hours. Finally, later, as we wandered around the galleries, I found myself thinking about Aggie. Had they kept in touch? And also, thank goodness it had not been Aggie. She might have stormed over, she might have caused a scene.

And soon after that, I found myself wondering about Jan, of course. Always, it was Jan. I don’t believe a day of my life has passed since I last saw him when I haven’t thought about him, and wondered what became of him. I harboured a hope for many years that I would hear from him, that he would track me down. But he did not. There has been one other man, but he was no more than a minor possibility, five decades ago, divorced, charming. Rich, I think, and rather lonely. We had a love affair that never really ignited. He wanted more from me than I could give. He faded away, or I did.

And now, all of them must be dead, as I should be. Even John is dead. She thinks I don’t realise. Roberta, the dear, dear girl, and her with a fiancé now, a very nice man, she tells me. I think I can recall him, bookish and quite funny and charming. They must go on, have children, and build a good, strong life together. I know they will.

I am happy that I can frame these thoughts, happy that this core of me is intact; I can still think clearly in this innermost part, this kernel we all have, that remains undamaged throughout our lives. And I must sleep, of course. I’m so tired. I should have been asleep for years by now. Roberta is brushing my hair, she is so gentle and I am fading, I can feel myself, cell by cell, dropping away. I think it is time. Yes. I will keep my eyes closed now, and not open them again, and I shall go to Jan. If I think it, it will be so.

But — no! Roberta wants something. She wants to know the truth, just like John did. Yes, so simple, in two minutes I can tell all, pull myself together, and put an end to this fretting of hers, so—

‘Roberta?’

‘Yes?’

There. It is done. Confusing at first, but I got there in the end.

And she’s shocked, a little, but not very shocked. I rather think she already knew more than she realised. And her hug, so strong, and she meant it, and I’m still her babunia and always will be. And it might have been nice to meet Jan, because he sounded like a wonderful person.

She was proud that I had tried to save the life of her ‘real’ grandfather. I had to keep that part in; everybody else believed it, so Roberta must too. Perhaps it will become a family legend. That’s all right.

She tried to show me something … but I couldn’t see what it was, I couldn’t understand what she was telling me. It’s a terrible thing to grow so old, to lose everything you once had, and to find life, the act of living, weaving your way through the day, so impossible.

And now, to Jan I must go. At last, it is his moment and mine. Such a roar, and that sun, my goodness it is hot, and my smooth, strong legs are bare and here comes the squadron, such a roar, and there is Jan’s Hurricane, dipping from the sky like a pebble falling through stilled waters, and his face, his beautiful face, his smile, his wave, and I wave back (‘Hush, Babunia,’ I think I hear Roberta whisper), and stillness now, and heat, all around, and no sound, no sight, and there, it is perfect. And his words, those words at the last, cruel to me then, a comfort now: I knew you were for all time, even as there is no time.

I’d like to thank everybody at Hodder and Stoughton, especially my keen-eyed editor Suzie Dooré. Thank you to my agent Hannah Ferguson for taking a chance on me and my work. Also to Debi Alper, Ian Andrews, Victoria Bewley, Sonja Bruendl-Price, Emma Darwin, Katherine Hetzel, Sophie Jonas-Hill and Jody Klaire for the advice, opinions, ‘WIP’ cracking and all round helpfulness and encouragement. And thanks to Neil Evans and Mark Forster for the technical input. I’d also very much like to thank Susan Davis and all at Cornerstones Literary Consultancy, and Jo Dickinson.

My research led me to three books that were a particular pleasure to read: I forgot I was supposed to be researching! They were
Battle of Britain
by Patrick Bishop,
How We Lived Then: A History of Everyday Life during the Second World War
by Norman Longmate and
For Your Freedom
and Ours: The Ko
ś
ciuszko Squadron – Forgotten Heroes of World War II
by Lynne Olsen and Stanley Cloud. Any mistakes are my responsibility.

Thank you to my friends Radosława Barnaś-Baniel, for her help with the Polish language, and Tessa Burton, for her delight and encouragement. My mum and dad provided me with the books and the time to read from a young age, thank you to them, and to Pete for being my brother and so much more. Thank you to my children Oliver, Emily, Jude, Finn and Stanley for all the inspiration and excitement; finally, thank you to my generous husband Ian, who makes everything possible.