22 Britannia Road - Amanda Hodgkinson [130]
‘The mink? With the brown silk lining?’
Silvana can feel her legs giving way under her.
Moira is halfway across the road. A car moves slowly between them both, and her black hat with its single pheasant feather is all Silvana can see of her.
Silvana steps back onto the pavement. She steadies herself. Touches her throat, feels the tiny pearl buttons of her blouse, moves her hand away quickly, as though she has been burnt.
In the kitchen she washes the teacups, swirling her hands in soapy water. Aurek comes in carrying a handful of large white feathers.
‘Where have you been?’
‘On the beach.’
‘Well, don’t go off on your own like that. I was worried about you.’
He pulls on her skirts until she stops what she is doing, wipes her hands on her apron and turns round.
‘What is it you want? Something to eat?’
‘Home,’ he says, handing her the feathers.
‘What about home?’
Aurek looks up at her, his face dark with freckles.
‘When can we go home?’
‘You and me. We’re a home. We’re survivors, remember?’ Silvana puts the feathers in her apron pocket. ‘Thank you for these. You used to bring me feathers. When we lived in the trees. Do you remember?’
Aurek shrugs his small shoulders and she wonders if he doubts her. Is it possible he knows she is not his mother?’
‘I love you,’ she says, and feels at least, in that, she is honest. There are no lies in her heart. And what is she thinking? Of course she is his mother.
That night, Silvana sits with him in the front room, watching the sea, glad of the peace in the house. When Aurek falls asleep on her lap, she carries him upstairs and tucks him into bed. She goes into her bedroom and reaches for the newspaper cuttings under the pillow. It is time to let the children go.
She opens the window, and the sea wind that always blows catches them. Each slip of paper flies away, the wind snatching them from her fingers. She doesn’t know what she and Aurek will do, but they cannot stay in Felixstowe any more.
She changes into the dress she arrived in, the dress Janusz bought her. The one thing she owns that did not once belong to somebody else. Sitting on the bed, she goes over everything. It is clear to her now.
She will make a life on her own with her son.
Ipswich
It is Janusz’s duty as foreman to see the aisles empty of men leaving their night shifts before he is free to go. Often he stays far longer than he needs to, enjoying the few moments before the next shift clocks on and the factory starts up its work. He likes to see the machines quiet and the air clear. Despite the brief lack of workers, a muggy feeling persists in the bays like the breath of a sleeper against his collar, and it makes him part of something. It’s a great thing for him, this sense of belonging to a workforce.
He talks to the nightwatchmen before he leaves, a polite discussion on the weather and the football before he reluctantly walks out into the cold morning air, the dawn sun streaking the sky with red light.
He tells himself he walks home rather than taking his car because these summer mornings are too beautiful to miss. The truth is, it takes a good forty minutes to walk home. Forty minutes before he has to confront his empty house once again.
Opening his front door, Janusz sees the postman has already been. A letter and a postcard lie on the red-tiled hallway floor. He stoops and picks them up. The letter is an electricity bill. Nothing interesting there. He looks at the card. A black-and-white picture entitled ‘View from Wolsey Gardens’.
He turns the postcard over in his hand and almost drops it in surprise. The handwriting is terrible. It’s a small wonder it arrived at all. The address is barely legible. The 22 looks more like squiggles than numbers. The B of Britannia balloons over the rest of the letters, obscuring half of them.
There is no message, just a spidery signature. Aurek Nowak. The boy’s name. He feels light-headed seeing it there in print. His child’s name. The postmark is Felixstowe. Posted three days earlier. Janusz holds it tightly in his hand. He is tired after his night