22 Britannia Road - Amanda Hodgkinson [49]
‘I moved around. Scotland, Kent, Devon. Engineer corps.’
‘Bit of fun that was, I imagine. Next time you need a hand, let me know.’
‘Thank you, I will.’ Janusz tries to think of something else to say, something to keep this conversation with his neighbour going. ‘I know a friend of yours,’ he says. ‘Tony Benetoni?’
‘Tony the Wop? Ah, now he is a real gentleman. I haven’t seen him for quite a while. And he spoke about me?’
‘He said to tell you that if there is anything you need, to get in contact with him.’
‘Did he? He said to tell me that? Oh, yes, he’s well known round here. Local businessman, he is.’
‘His son is Aurek’s friend.’
‘Is he?’ Gilbert grips the top of the wooden fence with his hands. He lowers his voice and Janusz steps closer.
‘Tony’s a useful bloke to know. Doesn’t understand the meaning of rationing, if you see what I’m saying. Anything you want, Tony can get it. He’s not a spiv. I wouldn’t want you to think that. No, Tony’s an absolute gentleman, like I said. But he can get you anything you want off ration. Look, I’ve got half a bottle of scotch in the garden shed. Come over when the women are out shopping. I’ll show you my seed catalogues and we can have a great old chat about the war and all that.’
Janusz does not want to remember the war.
‘That would be nice,’ he says, handing Gilbert back his matches. ‘Thank you very much.’
It is a hot and humid summer’s day, but English houses don’t have shutters on their windows so Silvana cannot shut the heat out. Instead, she does what the English do and opens the windows and doors, hoping for a breeze. The kitchen is filled with the sweet smell of cooking and a plate of biscuits steam gently on the table, a dishcloth covering them to keep off the flies. She checks the time on the clock. Aurek and Janusz will be back soon. They left an hour ago to watch a game of cricket being played in Christchurch Park. She hopes Aurek won’t be difficult. The last time Janusz took him to the park, Aurek ran away and came home on his own.
She is washing up when she hears the metal-on-stone sound of horses’ hooves, followed by a harsh, whining cry, ‘Ragggannnddbone, ragggannnddbone.’
In the street, a black and white horse stands in front of a wooden cart piled high with clothes, broken bits of furniture and pots and pans.
The rag-and-bone man climbs down from his cart and gives Silvana a black-toothed grin as she rushes out of her front door, wiping her hands on her apron.
‘Can I have a look?’ she asks.
‘Course you can, Miss.’
She sees a pair of men’s leather shoes poking out of a porcelain chamber pot. Black lace-ups. They look practically new. All they need is a clean. The leather is hardly worn. She holds them out to the man.
‘How much?’
‘If you let me have a quick drink of water you can have ’em for a florin.’
‘Yes. Wait one moment please. I’ll be right back.’
Janusz keeps money in the kitchen drawer; money he uses to buy himself a drink at the British Legion bar with Gilbert after work on a Friday. She finds the right change and takes the man a glass of water and some biscuits on a tray. The more she looks at the shoes, the more she is sure Janusz will like them.
‘Thank you very much, Miss,’ says the rag-and-bone man, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. ‘You’re a real lady.’
In the kitchen she lays the shoes on newspaper on the table, opens the pantry cupboard and takes out Janusz’s shoe-polish box. It is a large wooden box with a brass catch on the front. She wants Janusz to be able to see his reflection in the shoes. She wants him to have something brand new.
She dips her hand happily into the box, reaching for a brush, and catches sight of a pale-blue airmail envelope, just the corner of it. She pulls it out. The writing on it reminds her of the perfect copperplate they used to have to learn at school. She reaches back inside the box and pulls out more letters, lots more.
Sitting down at the kitchen table, she begins to take them out of their envelopes, one by one, unfolding their sharp creases. There are a few French words she knows.