Spring Will Be Ours (65 page)

The hall of the house in Gospel Oak where Jerzy and Elizabeth rented their flat was long and narrow, the carpet Hoovered infrequently, newspapers and letters for all the tenants picked up by whoever came down first, and left in a pile on a shelf by the door. Jerzy stood reading the
Guardian
in his dressing gown, a bill and a letter for Elizabeth in his pocket. The front door of Flat 1 opened behind him.

‘Anything for me?'

Miss Falmer, who lived with her sister, and worked as a clerk at the Royal Free Hospital, was ready for work. She smiled at Jerzy, who looked at her absently.

‘Sorry?'

Miss Falmer picked up the
Daily Mail
and a postcard, and opened the front door. Mothers and children hurried past on their way to school. Miss Falmer looked at her watch.

‘I must be off. Goodbye.'

‘Goodbye,' said Jerzy, stepping aside. The lock on the front door was awkward sometimes; he closed it behind her, and slowly climbed the stairs, still reading.

‘In almost every case, the official trade union bodies have been supplanted by unofficial strikers' committees. They are using a group of dissidents, the Workers'Defence Committee – KOR – led by Jacek Kuroń, to publicize their strikes in the foreign press. But there has been no attempt to organize nationwide action, nor, as yet, a systematic attempt to voice economic and political grievances
…'

Radio One blared from behind the door of Flat 2, the smallest in the house, where the tenants changed frequently. A black plastic bag of rubbish had been left on the landing overnight. Jerzy bumped into it, pushed it into the corner and went on up the dusty staircase, past Flat 3, where Mr and Mrs Austin had lived for twenty years. They found the stairs a problem now.

‘With every government concession the problems grow
…
There are people in the liberal wing of the Communist Party who are increasingly convinced of the need for genuine political reform, including, for example, the transformation of the present strike committee into an independent, democratically elected trade-union movement
…'

Jerzy pushed open the front door of Flat 4, and smelled burning toast. Threads of black smoke wafted from the kitchen; Elizabeth flung open the bathroom door and rushed along the passage with wet hair. He dropped the paper and followed.

‘Sorry, sorry …'

‘What on earth were you doing?' Elizabeth switched off the grill just as a lick of flame lit the top of the stove. Jerzy pushed open the window above the sink.

‘It's all right, isn't it? Nothing's caught.'

They retreated, coughing. Elizabeth's hair was dripping. ‘I must get a towel. Can you make some more?'

‘Okay. Another cup of tea?'

‘Please.' She went back to the bathroom. Jerzy could just hear John Timpson on
Today
, but nothing about Poland. He went to draw back the sitting room curtains.

The flat had been a find: the whole top floor, with two small bedrooms so that one could be his darkroom, and a sitting room just large enough to put an easel in the window without feeling too cramped, if Elizabeth wanted to work here at times. Sometimes they thought she might have to work here all the time anyway; two rents were a lot, and Delia had put up the studio rent in the spring.

‘We should be saving for somewhere to buy,' Jerzy said then. ‘Ewa can't be paying any more on her mortgage, and she's made an investment in that flat.'

‘Do I hear the voice of early middle age?' Elizabeth asked. ‘A mortgage sounds a bit permanent to me.'

‘You mean marriage does,' said Jerzy, and then let it go.

He went out into the passage, picked up the
Guardian
and returned to the kitchen. With two more slices of bread under the grill, he read on.

‘Inflation is becoming more acute as a result of the strike settlements. Food will be even scarcer after the poor harvest. Loan repayments, amounting this year to a staggering $7.6 billion, absorb almost all of Poland's exports.

‘Imports of much-needed consumer goods have had to be slashed drastically, further reducing the government's ability to satisfy demands for a better standard of living … Now the Polish Government is seeking still more foreign credits to finance essential grain imports, technology, and even debt servicing
…'

‘Where's my tea, then?' Elizabeth was turning over the bread, her hair wrapped in a towel. ‘You've almost done it again, you'd better have an early night.'

Jerzy put down the paper. ‘Things are happening.'

‘Oh?'

He pointed to the headline. Elizabeth leaned against him, reading. He bent to kiss her bare neck, above the cotton nightdress.

‘Stop it, how can I concentrate … What do you think's going to happen?' She turned to kiss his shoulder, as a thin curl of smoke rose from the grill. ‘Oh my God, the toast …'

London, 15 August 1980
Shipyard Walk-out Rattles Warsaw
‘Labour unrest in Poland took on a new and more explosive
dimension yesterday, when thousands of shipyard workers went on
strike in Gdańsk. Stoppages there ten years ago led to the downfall
of Gomułka, and his replacement by Mr Edward Gierek, the present
Communist Party Chief.

‘The symbolic significance of a strike in Gdańsk was emphasized by the workers yesterday when they won the government approval for the erection of a monument to the workers killed by the militia in 1970.'

A late summer morning, warm and clear; in the street outside the house where Ewa lived commuters were hurrying towards Blackheath station, to the train to Cannon Street, London Bridge, Charing Cross. Ewa, in cotton shirt and trousers, sat at her table, toast and marmalade unfinished, coffee cooling, rapidly reading the
Guardian
front page.

‘Polish radio and TV last night admitted that strikes were taking place, and confirmed that there were stoppages in Gdańsk, Łódź and Warsaw. The unprecedented announcement at the beginning of national news broadcasts was made as officials negotiated with the 16,000 shipyard workers
…
also reported to be making demands that went far beyond improved pay and pensions, and had far-reaching political implications
…'

Ewa read all this, and felt her stomach tighten with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. It was as if she had for a long time been sitting in an obscure corner of a crowded assembly hall, half hoping not to be noticed, half wishing she were important enough to be, and suddenly heard her name called out, and been asked to stand, and receive a prize. She put down the paper, and looked at her watch. Half-past eight – she took another bite of toast, and swallowed the cooling coffee. Then she put everything on a tray and carried it out to the kitchen.

Ewa's flat consisted of one large magnificent room, impossible to heat, with a tiny kitchen and bathroom across the corridor. The main room was the attic of the house, and stretched almost its whole width, with a ceiling where beams and rafters were exposed; at one end was a fireplace, with a rug on the floor and an old sofa, low table, and reading lamp in front of it. At the other end of the room was a huge leaded window, with a stained-glass border. Ewa had seen the rafters, the window and the space, bought it immediately, and spent every winter since crouched over the fire. Her bed was in an alcove beneath the window, covered in a bedspread made from two old brown velvet curtains found in a jumble sale. The table, where she ate and often worked on her translations in the evenings, was set against the wall, between two smaller, plainer windows.

The rest of the house was occupied by the family who owned it, and who had sold the attic to Ewa. She supposed this was a rather unusual step, but they had bought the house fifteen years ago, when houses were just affordable, and since then neither had really gone in for money: Stuart was an administrator with a charity, Jane a fabric printer – very Blackheath, Ewa had since realized. Selling the attic must have saved their lives. They had two sons with Blackheath names, Toby and Ben, who watched television a lot, played rock music a lot and shouted at each other. It was a warm, untidy, comfortable house: there were times when Ewa, in her beautiful top floor, felt like going downstairs for a coffee and chat, as if she were part of the family, but she was too shy. Occasionally, she had a coffee with Jane when she came in from work but she always disappeared as soon as Stuart or the boys arrived.

Stuart was in the hall this morning when she went downstairs, taking his jacket off the peg; from the kitchen at the end of the passage beyond the stairs, Ewa could hear Jane washing up, and the radio.

‘Morning,' said Stuart, putting on the jacket. ‘Going to the station?'

‘Yes,' said Ewa, and opened the front door. She liked him, she liked them all, but she didn't enjoy spending the walk to the station and the crowded train journey in polite conversation.

‘Goodbye, you two,' Jane called from the kitchen.

‘Bye, darling.' Stuart picked up his briefcase and closed the front door. Late-blooming roses clambered over the fence in the small front garden.

‘I see Poland's in the news,' he said.

‘Yes,' said Ewa, and felt again that strange, exciting sense of having the spotlight suddenly turned on her. Who had cared about Poland until now?

‘I can't remember,' said Stuart, swinging his briefcase as they walked, ‘if you said you'd ever been there.'

‘No. No, I haven't. On principle.'

He turned to look at her quizzically. He was a handsome man, tall, with grey hair and a loose-limbed, easy walk; with a slightly undarned air about him, like the house, as if there were more important things to do than keep up appearances.

‘You strike me as a very principled person,' he said. ‘Very … correct.'

‘Do I?' said Ewa, and blushed.

‘In the nicest possible way,' said Stuart, and she blushed still deeper.

‘I'm sorry,' he said kindly. ‘Bit early for this kind of conversation. What sort of day are you going to have?'

‘Much as usual, I imagine,' said Ewa, hoping she sounded flippant and knowing she sounded abrupt, and wishing, as always, that she didn't care what she sounded like.

Stuart laughed. ‘Sorry I spoke. You're not a morning person.'

‘No,' said Ewa, wondering what kind of person she was at all. ‘I'm afraid not.'

They walked through Blackheath village, and caught the train to Charing Cross, travelling, he to the offices of his charity, and she to her translation agency, in what she hoped was a companionable silence.

Warsaw, 18 August 1980
Gierek was on the television. He was always on the television – there were jokes about it. ‘I've stopped buying tinned food.' ‘Why?' ‘When I open a newspaper there is Gierek. When I switch on the TV: Gierek. I don't want to open a tin and have Gierek jump out of it!' Now, he was appealing for a return to work. From the corner of Stefan's and Krystyna's living room his long, horsey face, with its cropped hair and bushy eyebrows, flickered slightly on the screen – it was a very old set – as he tried for over an hour to find the right, reasonable note, the balance between understanding the problems and remaining in control.

‘I would like to say as frankly as I can that we are aware that, quite apart from many objective factors, mistakes in economic policy have played an important part … We understand the working people's tiredness and impatience with the troubles of everyday life, the shortages, the queues, the rise in the cost of living … But strikes do not change anything for the better … Together we must find another way.'

Sitting at the table where the plates from the evening meal had not yet been cleared away, Stefan picked up an imaginary violin, and began to play. Beside him, Krystyna laughed, then quickly removed Olek's exploring fingers from the breadknife. He squirmed on her lap, struggling to reach it again.

‘No. Now keep still.' She turned him away from the table, towards the television; he reached for Stefan's sleeve and tried to tug. Stefan patted him, still watching Gierek, who was promising to freeze the price of meat until the autumn of next year, and increase child benefits. Olek twisted and wriggled.

‘Oh, stop it!' said Krystyna.

‘He should be in bed.'

‘Do you want to put him to bed?'

‘In a little while …'

‘Well, then. I want to watch, too.'

‘You can watch Gierek almost any night of the week,' said Stefan.

‘But this is different, isn't it? Stop it!' Olek was standing up against her, tangling wet fingers in her hair.

‘Come on, come on, I'll have him.' Stefan turned and lifted him on to his lap. ‘Come to Tata. See that big bad man over there?' He pointed to the screen. ‘Worse than Tata.' He reached out for Krystyna's hand. ‘All right? Now don't be cross any more.'

She shook her head. ‘You think you can …'

‘Sssh!'

‘Attempts by irresponsible individuals and anarchic, anti-socialist groups to use stoppages for political ends, and to incite tension, are a dangerous aspect of recent events at plants on the Gdańsk coast. Any actions which strike at the foundations of the political and social order in Poland cannot and will not be tolerated … Our country's socialist system has a significant international importance and is one of the most essential features of the European order created after the Second World War … There are limits that no one is allowed to cross.'

Stefan gestured rudely at the screen; Olek grabbed his hand, and they all burst out laughing.

‘We are giving your demands our full attention,' said Gierek, drawing at last to a close, ‘but we cannot promise to meet them all, for that would be a promise we could not keep.'

‘All right,' said Krystyna, getting up. ‘I'll put him to bed. You make me some tea. Yes?'