Sign of the Times (39 page)

Chapter Fifty Seven

The next day Czeslawa woke up early.
 
It was six twenty.
 
Too early to get up.
 
She listened to the birds twittering in the trees.
 
Realising she wasn’t getting back to sleep, she sneaked out of bed and padded across the carpet to the door, which emitted only the slightest creak, before allowing her to pass, undetected into the hall.
 
Breathing a sigh of relief, Wojciech worked six days out of seven and needed his rest, she went through to the kitchen to make herself some coffee.

Czeslawa sat in the living room, sipping her strong coffee slowly, watching the world go by, despite the torrential rain.
 
Already there were signs of life.
 
She watched a couple of villagers pass by her window.
 
Maybe she’d go and explore, see what she could forage for breakfast.

Czeslawa was wrapped up against the rain.
 
She arrived at the store, face red from the wind and wet from the rain.
 
The bell trilled overhead when she entered and a man in his late forties smiled at her. “Morning.”

She returned his greeting and glanced around the shop.
 
She popped some flour, sugar and crusty bread into a basket, then added bacon, sausages and eggs. She’d make a Scottish breakfast.
 
Finished, she headed for the counter.
 

“Hello there,” the big man greeted her warmly.
 
“I’m Ian McAndrew, the owner. Are you the lady who has moved into number 11, next to George
.”

Mutely, Czeslawa nodded.

“Well, I hope you’ll be very happy here and if you need any information on the area, let me know.”
  
Czeslawa understood most of what he said
.
 
Finally she found her tongue,

“My name is Czeslawa. Nice to meet you,” she said in her thick accent.

Mildly surprised, Ian repeated her name back to her. “Czeslawa? Is that Russian?”

“No, Polish.”
 

“Oh, I should have guessed,” he said, “There are a lot of Poles in Scotland now, but I think you might be the first in Kings River.”

There was none of the condescending tone George had used to them the previous day.

“So, how do you like your new home?” Ian enquired.

“Very nice,” she said. “The weather could be better.”

Ian laughed, “The weather could always be better.”

Ian rang up Czeslawa’s purchases as he chatted away to her.
 
He was quite easy to understand, although sometimes she didn’t know how to reply, but at least she was improving. She had been too scared to talk to anyone when they lived in Craigshill.

“Sorry, I need newspaper.” She looked at the display in front of her, trying to figure out which would be the easiest.

“I’d recommend the Sunday Mail. The sentences are short and it’s easy to read.”

“OK, I will take that one.
 
I go home and read now to improve my English.”

“Good luck.”

*

Czeslawa lay on the sofa reading. Some of it was very odd, but Ian was right, the sentences were short.
 
She struggled over many of the words, but understood more than she expected.

“Morning,” yawned Wojciech.
 
Czeslawa looked up.

“Sleep well?”

“Like a log.”

“Mummy, are we going to God’s house today?” Angelika burst into the room.

“Yes, after breakfast.”
 
She’d looked into Catholic churches and there was one in Kilburn.
 
Today, their first full day, they would go to twelve o’clock mass. That way they could relax and have a leisurely breakfast.
 
Maybe they’d take Angelika to the park afterwards.
 
Sunday was the only day Wojciech had free.
 
Back in Poland, they would have joined Mama and Anastazy for lunch.
 
Their family was very close-knit. On Saturdays, the girls would go cycling with Anastazy, whilst Mama prepared dinner.
 
Once they were more settled, she would see what there was to visit.

The church was a concrete block.
 
Inside, it was marginally less gloomy.
 
The cavernous chapel held over a hundred pews.
 
Czeslawa checked her watch.
 
It was eleven fifty five.
 
Dipping her hand into the font, she blessed herself as Wojciech strode ahead of them. Czeslawa watched her husband choose a pew and when she reached it, she genuflected and sneaked in after him.

Czeslawa took in the interior of the church. It was vast, with huge windows.
 
It was such a stark contrast to the churches in Gdansk
.
 
They were buildings of beauty and grace. The altar was sparse and the white tablecloth bore only a few items, amongst them candles and goblets, presumably for the wine, although she’d heard
you were rarely offered wine in Scottish Catholic churches.
 
With any luck, there would be a Polish mass near them soon.
 

The mass was short by Polish standards. In three quarters of an hour, it was over. The elderly priest’s mumbling had been difficult to understand.
 
As they filed out, they came across churchgoers mingling with their fellow worshippers, now that the rain had finally stopped.
 
The scene lightened Czeslawa’s heart. So, the church was ugly, but the community spirit was there.
 
She watched the elderly people greet each other.
 
Children ran around beside the car park, relieved to be out in the fresh air. With a final glance around, Czeslawa moved towards their eight year old Ford Fiesta.

“Mummy, can we go and explore?” Angelika asked, as they ambled up the path.
 

“Yes darling.
 
Let’s change out of our church clothes and then we’ll go for a walk. I believe there’s a park near here.”
 
Angelika almost ripped her dress off, once inside, but her mother scolded her. “Lika, you’ll ruin it. Take it off properly.”
 

“Mummy. I’m ready,” declared Angelika, who appeared wearing a cream skirt, a pink t-shirt and red and yellow Wellingtons.
 

“Lika. I don’t think so,” her mother said.
 
“It’s beautiful outside
.
Go and put on shorts and trainers.
 
If you want to go on the slide at the park, you can’t wear a skirt.”
 

Angelika thought about this, then skipped off to change.

Ten minutes later, they were ready for their second outing in the village.
 
George was sitting on his doorstep, smoking his pipe.
 
He greeted them gruffly.

“Hello George,” Wojciech said. “Lovely day now.”

Czeslawa hid a smile.
 
Wojciech had chosen the right thing to say. The British loved talking about the weather.
 

“It won’t last.
 
It was raining at five o’clock.”

“I suppose not,” Wojciech agreed.

“George, can you tell me where the park is?

“Up on the hill
.
”

“Thank you. Perhaps we will see you later. Angelika, say goodbye to George.”

“Bye Mr George,”
 
Angelika said, clambering up the steps.

“Mummy, look!” Angelika sang, as she hurtled down the chute.
 

“Be careful,” warned Czeslawa.
 

Her parents watched as Lika played on the slide, the roundabout, which they were duty bound to ride with her and the see-saw, where they took turns at being on the other end. They laughed until they thought they would burst.

*

Back home, Angelika played in the garden, whilst her parents took a well earned rest.
 

“Would you like a beer?” Czeslawa asked Wojciech.

“Yes please.”

Just then George came out to bring in his washing. Czeslawa noticed his large, lonely white underpants and brown socks, accompanied by a couple of vests, which presumably had been white in a previous life.
 

“Hello George,” she called.

George grunted.
 
At least it’s some sort of response, she thought.
 
She saw him laugh at Angelika chasing a butterfly.
 
He watched her, as the butterfly flew away and she started digging in the dirt with her spade, overturning bugs and worms.

“Look Mummy, this one wriggles,” her daughter proffered her a woodlouse.
 

Czeslawa prayed her daughter would not bring her any further such treats and that she’d outgrow this fascination with creepy-crawlies.
 
Just then George piped up,

“Round here, we call that a
slater
,”

“Slater? Is that not a person who puts roofs?” asked Wojciech.

“Yes. It’s the same word.
 
Do you want me to show you some more?” he asked kindly.

Czeslawa turned away to stifle a laugh. What an attractive thing to suggest to a six year old girl.
 
Well, if it helped bond with George, she was all for it.
 
Angelika skirted the fence and headed towards George who was pointing at a large stone.
 
As she approached, he lifted it and about a dozen
slaters
scurried out.

“Ugh!” said Czeslawa.

“I can do better than that.”

George asked Wojciech if it was OK for Angelika to follow him to the other end of the garden. Wojciech agreed and as they walked, Angelika took George’s hand in hers.
 
The old man looked at her fondly.
 
They came to a wooden structure, with wire leading from it.
 

“What’s that?” she asked.

“You’ll see,” George said, smiling at her.
 

He opened the box.
 
Inside was a rabbit.

“A rabbit! Mummy, Daddy, look!”
 
Looking at George, Angelika asked, “Can I pick him up? Is it a boy? What’s his name?”

 
“He’s a boy and his name’s Goldie and yes you can hold him.
 
Put your arms out like this.” George showed her how to cradle her arms, then placed Goldie in them.
 

“He’s lovely. How old is he?”

“Two.”
 

“I’m six. Daddy, come and see the rabbit!”

Czeslawa and Wojciech came to admire Goldie.

“He’s beautiful,” said Czeslawa.

“Look how big he is,” said Wojciech.

“Do you want to see him play in his run?” George said, pointing to the wire fencing that ran twenty feet round the garden.

“Yes please,” said Angelika.

They watched as Goldie scampered through the run, stopping here and there, to nibble some grass, his little white nose scrunching up.
 
Angelika continued to question George, long after her parents retired to their loungers.
 
Angelika was still playing with Goldie when Czeslawa started preparing dinner.

“Angelika, dinner’s ready,” Czeslawa called over the fence.
 
George and Angelika appeared a few minutes later.
 

“Thank you, Mr George.
 
I like Goldie very much,” said Angelika solemnly. The old man’s face turned pink.
 

“You’re welcome,” he told Angelika.
 
“Maybe I will see you tomorrow?”

“George, would you like to join us for dinner?” Wojciech asked.

“Oh, you don’t want me intruding.”

“You are not,” said Czeslawa.
 
She realised he
would
like to join them. She could see him already eyeing up the food on the table.

 
“It’s nothing special.
 
Simple, Polish food. Meat,” she said, in an attempt to clinch it, “and salad and potatoes.”

“Well, I would be honoured,” the old man replied.

George ate his
schabowy
with relish.
 
He even had a beer with Wojciech.
 
He told them about his wife, Marjorie, who had died of cancer ten years earlier.
 
He had kept himself to himself after that.
 
George had been a miner until he retired at sixty.
 
His two children had emigrated, one to Canada, Elise, after her grandmother; and Bernard, who had gone to New Zealand.
 
Czeslawa detected a trace of bitterness in his voice.
 
She felt sorry for the old man.
 

“Bernard doesn’t have any children. Too selfish.
 
Can’t even keep a decent woman.
 
Too busy living the high life and barely a phone call.
 
He hasn’t been back once. Twenty five years now.”