22 Britannia Road - Amanda Hodgkinson [119]
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Life’s a total mystery and I don’t know why things happen like they do. The world’s a complete mess, isn’t it? But the way I see it, I’m sitting here crying because I’ve got no one, and you’re sitting here with a wife and a son out there somewhere and you look more miserable than me. You’re the lucky one. You’ve got a family. You’re bloody lucky.’
On the train he thought about what she had said. She was right. He had a family. Of course he had to find them.
A tall RAF officer helped Janusz fill in the missing-persons forms.
‘We need as much information as you can give us. Last known address, family relationships, maiden names. Work details. Just put it all down. It might take a while, but if we can, we’ll help you get in contact with your family.’
He handed Janusz a cigarette and lit one himself.
‘I wish you luck, Mr Nowak.’
Janusz was pleased to find someone who could pronounce his name. Pleased with the man’s clear, well-spoken voice. He prided himself on his own careful accent. A couple of the men on the base liked to joke that he had a better English accent than any of them.
The officer stood up and opened a cupboard, pulling out a bottle and two delicate glasses. ‘Have a sherry with me. You don’t mind it, do you? I know you soldiers prefer beer – or in your case, I imagine, a shot of vodka. Sherry’s the only thing I drink. Look, we might find your wife and son at one of our camps. Or an American camp perhaps. That’s all we can do. But if she’s there, we’ll find her. The British will look after her. We’ll do our best, I promise you.’
The man’s kindness was a relief. He called Janusz ‘old boy’, ‘chum’, ‘my dear man’. He told him he’d follow this up personally, chivvy up the paperwork.
He shook Janusz by the hand, firmly.
‘Good luck.’ He was already pouring himself another glass of sherry. ‘Let’s hope we get you all back together again.’
‘Thank you,’ said Janusz. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’
Ipswich
After work and at weekends, Janusz spends his time digging the garden until he is sure there is nothing left, no fleshy, divided root, no blade of grass. Even as the sun shines down, the garden looks as barren as a field in winter. The oak tree is the only green thing in it. Janusz 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 Janusz 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, Janusz 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 grass underfoot. The earth is covered with a thick pelt of it. Grass up to his knees forms a matted skin that closes over the soil, refusing to allow the space for a tree to be taken.
When he manages to expose the birch