22 Britannia Road - Amanda Hodgkinson [120]
The bus is late. When it arrives, Janusz 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 roots. It’s clean.’
‘What’ll you bring next time, chickens? This isn’t the bloody Continent. Look at it, it’s covered in mud. What would my other passengers think?’
Janusz looks down the aisle of the bus. There is only one other passenger, an old man who appears to be asleep.
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘If you are going to be obstreperous, I will not get on your autobus.’
Let him chew on that, thinks Janusz 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 hell 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 rushing 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 shirt 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 shingle. Shielded from the wind, it is warm and quieter. Tony walks out into the brown sea, his solid, hairy legs pushing 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 Janusz, the same message she has sent on every card. A card a week, marked with the address of Tony’s house. Janusz 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.