Spring Will Be Ours (45 page)

‘Oh God, in your power and glory,

For centuries you have watched over Poland.

Before your altar we beg you:

Return a free homeland to us …' He had sung the words so fervently, remembering that once in the war Mama had been able to sing not ‘Return a free homeland'but ‘Bless our free homeland'. Among all the exiles and children of exiles in White City that day, he had felt part of a great circle of Polishness, certain that somehow, despite centuries of suffering and oppression, his country had a particular place in God's plan: wasn't the Virgin Mary traditionally Queen of Poland?

Later, they heard that in Poland itself, the government had tried to suppress the Millenium events by another celebration: one thousand years of nationhood. Military parades had blared next to open-air masses; a pilgrimage had been broken up by the police. The procession, carrying flowers, singing hymns, had been moving towards Warsaw from Czestochowa, bearing from the monastery Poland's most cherished, most sacred image: the Black Madonna, traditionally said to have been painted by St Luke. The painting was seized by the police, and taken back to the monastery, the pilgrims were scattered; a few days later a demonstration in protest outside the Party headquarters in Warsaw was dispersed by riot police. On the orders of Gomułka, the border was closed to foreigners for over a month.

Jerzy had listened to Dziadek and Babcia discuss all this one Sunday. Later, going into their bedroom to fetch Babcia's cardigan, he looked again at the familiar postcard reproduction of the Black Madonna on the wall, and standing amongst the utility furniture and candlewick bedspreads had tried to imagine the long procession winding through the countryside, singing the hymns they'd sung in White City; then the sudden arrival of the police, and the painting wrenched away.

Had his doubts and fears begun then? He wasn't sure, but even if they had, he knew that they were more to do with something already lacking in himself than with anything outside. His grandparents, after all, had lost everything they knew without losing their faith – in fact it seemed to be all the stronger. Why couldn't he be like them, going to mass every Sunday, praying every night, unafraid of death and what lay beyond it, even as exiles sure of their place in the world?

He opened his eyes. Rain dashed the carriage windows; he watched the hypnotic trickling across the glass of long thin snakes of water, each with a rounded head, pushing through the brownish dirt towards the corner. Beginning as a single drop, each gathered more into itself on its journey, and grew thicker and faster, the movement jerky, almost comical, until it reached the corner, and splashed into nothingness. At once, another followed.

Jerzy fumbled in his anorak pocket for the Ventolin, took it out and had a few quick puffs, cupping it in his hand. The little girl across the carriage looked at him curiously, still munching. He put the Ventolin down, felt in the other pocket, and pulled out the book he'd bought from the second-hand shop yesterday. It was called
Of the Imitation of Christ
, and had an inscription on the flyleaf in thin brown ink: To Lawrence, from Mother, 1889. He held it to his face and sniffed the pages: they smelt musty, like the dark interior of an empty church, or an old damp cellar. He opened at the first page.

‘He that followeth me walketh not in darkness, saith the Lord. These are the words of Christ, by which we are admonished how for we must imitate his life and manners if we would be truly enlightened and delivered from all blindness of heart …'

Outside the window the rainswept landscape blurred. He shifted in his corner, and tried to concentrate.

A low wall before an unkempt privet hedge stood in front of the house where Leo lived, and a green-painted gate leaned awkwardly open, missing a hinge. Ewa walked up the short concrete path to the front door, which was scruffy white; it stood beneath a small tiled porch, between two bay windows. Net curtains hung there, almost the only ones in the street, and she had the feeling that someone very old lived behind them. The house proclaimed itself as rented, jointly uncared for, quite unlike the owner-occupied sleekness of most of the others. She hesitated in the porch, looking at the Biroed labels to the flats, the fingermarked bells beside them.

Over Sunday lunch with the grandparents, Ewa had slipped in lightly to Mama that they were short-staffed, and needed her to work an extra night this weekend – ‘but it's only for a couple of hours or so, I expect, so there's no need for anyone to meet me. I'll be home long before it gets dark. If there's any problem, I'll phone.' At the time, convincing her, and actually getting out of the house without being told to go and change seemed such a triumph – and so easy, really, Mama quiet and preoccupied today, clearly wanting no more quarrels – that nothing else had mattered. Now, it seemed less triumphant than foolish – though wasn't it absurd that she felt like this? After all, as she'd yelled at Mama on Friday, most girls of her age weren't even living at home, and they went out by themselves all the time.

Perhaps they told their flatmates where they were going.

Ewa cautiously bent down and pushed open the aluminium letter box. She couldn't see a thing, was just aware that the hall was very large, and windowless. From far above she could hear music, and then she thought a door was being opened somewhere, and quickly snapped the letter box shut. For a moment she wanted simply to run away; she thought briefly of going into the pub, only a street or so round the corner, to tell Stan what was happening, he would understand; and then she remembered that it was his night off, Kevin and Barbara did Sunday nights.

She took a deep breath. If I don't like it, I can always go, she told herself, and pressed the middle bell. Her hands felt clammy; she wiped them quickly on her skirt – washed and hung on the balcony to dry last night, carefully pressed this morning – and waited, hearing the swish of a bicycle go past the broken gate, and then the thump of footsteps running down the stairs inside. The door was pulled open, and Leo stood there, smiling.

‘Hi. You made it.'

What had she been afraid of?

She smiled back, feeling slightly at a disadvantage with him already so tall, standing on the doorstep looking calm and ordinary, while she had been standing here all nervous. His tan had deepened, and his eyes were very blue.

‘Come on in.'

She followed him into the hall, which was high-ceilinged, carpeted in chocolate brown and needed a Hoovering. There was a faint smell of damp. Leo led her to the curving staircase, past a painted shelf where uncollected bills and letters lay; a time switch on the light hummed as they went up the curving stairs.

‘Right – go ahead.'

He held open a door left on the latch, and she walked into a narrow hall with a long cheap mirror almost opposite the door, so that she couldn't take in what the rest of the flat might be like at all, seeing only the reflection of a startled girl in a black T-shirt and denim mini, and Leo behind her, closing the door.

‘Go on, sweetie, the living room's to the left.'

She turned down the narrow passage, carpeted in the same brown as the hall and stairs, and saw an open door, with a small flight of steps leading down from it.

‘That's it,' said Leo, behind her, and Ewa felt a little as if she were being pushed. Then she had reached the steps through the doorway, and went down them into a large, airy room with tall windows on the far wall overlooking the street. A sofa stood in the middle of the room at right angles to the windows, and a coffee table was piled high with old newspapers and music magazines. Bookshelves were planks on metal supports; they were crammed with LPs.

‘It's – very nice.' Ewa stood uncertainly.

‘That's the kitchen, through there,' said Leo, indicating another door. ‘I'll get you a drink. What would you like?'

‘Oh – well, just a glass of wine? White wine?'

‘Sure. Nice to be able to get it for you, for a change.' He came up beside her, and lightly touched her shoulder. ‘Please don't look so nervous. Sit down. Relax.'

Ewa sat on the sofa and pulled her bag off her shoulder. ‘I'm not nervous.'

‘Yes you are.' He disappeared into the kitchen, and she looked round the room, thin coats of white emulsion not quite concealing the floral wallpaper, posters of Greek islands pinned up next to Dylan and Lennon.

‘Here we are.' He came back with a bottle and two smeared glasses, already filled, and gave her one. ‘Cheers.'

‘Cheers,' said Ewa, and drank quickly.

‘So,' said Leo, still standing above her, ‘no problems.'

‘What?'

‘With the family. They let you out.'

‘Yes,' said Ewa, ‘they let me out.' She wanted to make a joke of it, but was still too ill at ease. And she felt a thin thread of irritation, or defensiveness. Was Leo laughing at her? At her family? She took another quick sip of the wine, and looked round the room again, avoiding his eye. Through the open door to the kitchen she could see milk bottles, unwashed dishes on the table.

Leonard Cohen murmured soulfully in the corner. Leo sat down beside her. Ewa stared at the doorway.

‘Have you lived here for a long time?'

‘Just a few months,' said Leo. ‘I share it with these two friends, Mike and Sara – they were in the pub on Friday, remember?'

‘Yes.'

‘But they're out now.'

‘Oh.'

Leo moved closer, took another drink and put down his glass. ‘Poor little Evie, does that worry you?'

‘I am not poor little Evie,' Ewa said sharply.

‘Ouch.' Leo shook his hand as if he'd burned it.

‘Sorry,' said Ewa, ‘I didn't mean to snap.' But she had meant to, and she wasn't sorry. She felt confused and slightly drunk, having eaten almost nothing at Sunday lunch. Who was the girl Leo had been with in the pub last week? How could she ask? Was poor little Evie a quick one on the side? If only she could think of something to say. She finished her drink at a gulp.

Leo leaned forward and refilled her glass. He put his arm round her, tried to turn her face to his.

‘Come on, baby, what's the problem?'

What's the problem?
That did make her feel as if she were making a fuss about nothing. She was, she supposed, but it didn't stop her feeling like this. She'd wanted to be so cool and – and to enjoy herself, for heaven's sake, and if she didn't pull herself together he would never want to see her again, and anyway why should she care so much about seeing him again, when he just made her feel small?

‘I'm sorry …'

‘No more sorrys. No need.' He was stroking her hair; with every gentle stroke a shiver of excitement ran through her, and she closed her eyes.

‘May I kiss you?' he asked softly. ‘Am I rushing you?'

‘I don't know,' Ewa said shakily. ‘I don't think so.'

‘Please don't tell me it's your first kiss.'

She didn't answer and he drew her very close. ‘Is it?' he whispered, and his lips brushed hers. His hand moved down from her hair to her shoulder, still stroking, to her breast, still stroking, gently, gently. Then his hard mouth was covering her mouth, his tongue meeting hers, and she clung to him, forgetting even her name.

The street had the quietness of a summer Sunday evening: empty and dusty, a few windows open to catch the last of the sun before it slid behind the rooftops. Jerzy turned into his front doorway, rang the grandparents'bell, and waited. At the far end of the street a couple of West Indian kids were kicking a ball about; he yawned, closing his eyes, and heard its thumping and scraping on the pavement magnified through tiredness: a ball bouncing on brick and concrete shutting out the memory of openness, and space, cool air and rippling grass.

‘Słucham?'

Always, Dziadek answered doorbell and telephone with the Polish: ‘I am listening.' If English people rang, there would follow a silence, an uncertain ‘Hello?' Then he would rescue them: ‘Yes, please?'

‘Słcham?'

‘To ja
, Dziadek. It's me.'

The buzzer sounded, and he pushed open the door and slowly climbed the stairs. Dziadek was waiting for him at the top, smiling: almost always, after a weekend trip, Jerzy rang his door first.

‘So – how is the traveller?'

‘Fine, fine.' He put down his rucksack on the little square of landing, and called through his own letter box: ‘Mama? I'm back.' Then he followed Dziadek into the flat, where Babcia was in the kitchen, chopping tomatoes.

‘Jerzy …' She put down the knife and waited for him to come up and kiss her.

‘How are you, Babcia? Have you had a nice weekend?'

‘Without you? How would that be possible?' She patted his cheek, and passed him an open biscuit tin, full of kata
^·
z
ynki.
‘Have you been all right?'

‘Of course.' He took one and ate it hungrily.

‘Many trains?' asked Dziadek. ‘Anything special?'

‘A Black Five, a couple of Britannias, a Jinty. Ordinary, really.'

‘And did you meet anyone nice?' asked Babcia. ‘Go on – have another kataz
^·
ynka
, have two, I saved them for you specially. Was there anyone in the hostel? Other boys?'

‘Oh – a few students, that's all.' No point in saying they were German. ‘I must go and see Mama – I just wanted to say hello.'

‘Thank you, darling.'

Across the landing outside they could hear the other door open, and Anna calling.

‘Coming, Mama.' He patted Babcia's shoulder. ‘See you later, perhaps.'

‘If you have time. Mama will be so glad to have you home, we all missed you at lunch. And your father is there.'

Jerzy stopped at the kitchen door. ‘Tata? Why?'

Babcia looked at him, amused, a little puzzled. ‘Why shouldn't he be there? Aren't you pleased?'