The Walk Home (16 page)

It had felt right, and it had seemed as though Ewa felt that too, for all that she cried sometimes about her jobs, and about being so far from all her sisters. She’d cried hardest every time one of them had another baby.

Jozef would go out for wine then, or Belvedere vodka; Ewa always knew the Polish shops that sold the right stuff to toast a new life. They’d sit up late and talk it out, through Ewa’s tears: what they were doing here. And where next. And how much longer. They’d talk and talk, until at some stage in the small hours, he’d persuade her into his arms.

That was the way it had always been with them: work and tears and then tenderness to make good. They could have the biggest rows, and then still carry on, finding jobs and the next new place to go to. That was the life they made together, and Jozef had trusted it.

He didn’t know now: Ewa was so young when they’d left, maybe she’d trusted it at first. But then all that hard work had
made her grow up. She’d come away with him thinking it would be for three years, or four at the outside. Ewa had just got to grips with German when she had to start learning English. She’d taken classes, found friends among the Walworth Road Polish, even a Warsaw couple rich enough to have her as a nanny. Much better than cleaning, those twin girls; Ewa taught them all the Polish songs she didn’t get to sing to her nieces.

It was their seventh year away when London jobs began to run dry. Friends were moving on, some were even going home, following the turning tide of work, and Jozef had felt that pull too, but couldn’t trust it. He hadn’t secured them that house yet, hadn’t worked his way high enough up the pay grade. What if they bought a place, only to have to leave again to afford it? It was a job half done, so when Ewa asked, he’d told her:

“Not now. Soon, soon.”

Jozef had been so intent, on work and the bringing in of funds, he’d not seen the change when it came, until it was upon them. Ewa didn’t shout or cry when he landed his first job in Glasgow. It was his first in charge, but she told him:

“Don’t you open your arms to me.”

She stood and counted on two hands all the people they knew who’d gone back to Poland, and she was quiet and resolved, refusing to pack up.

“Not unless it’s to go home.”

Her sisters all had children, all her school friends, and Ewa told him:

“Look around you, even the London Polish have kids, they don’t put off their lives.”

She said:

“This is a half-life we’re living. It’s not worth it.”

Jozef shifted his boxes alone this time. Early on Friday, to have it done for when the men arrived. So he was on his own and feeling low in the ground floor when Marek turned up.

His nephew surprised him, coming in ahead of the others, and lending a hand with the last of his cases, unasked, up the stairs to the first floor.

“Is this what I’m paid for?”

Jozef was in no mood to respond. But Marek was a distraction at least. And Jozef remembered it had given him hope, when Ewa had asked if he’d take him on; another one of her phone calls, seemingly out of nowhere. She could have turned to Romek, or any number of other friends in London and Berlin, so it had felt as though a door was being kept open, maybe.
You watch out for yourself, too. Okay?

“Is this all?”

Marek looked around Jozef’s new room when they’d finished, surprised that there wasn’t more for him to fetch. Or perhaps that these few boxes were all his uncle had to show for all those years of work. It looked pitiful to Jozef as well: so provisional, this stop-gap room and single bed, and scant belongings stored in cardboard. He had his savings, of course, and life hadn’t been quite as bare when Ewa was with him; she’d been the one who bought things, made each new place look lived-in. But it still threw him. Jozef had reckoned on putting things in storage before he went to Gdańsk, only looking about himself now, taking stock, he saw it would all fit in his van; not much more than what he’d come with. It was a relief when his mobile rang with the first of the day’s deliveries.

Most of the materials for the ground floor were due that morning, and Jozef went outside to meet the truck with the new boiler on board. Tomas was due to do the fitting, but he wasn’t there yet to check through the order, so Jozef handed Marek the delivery notes.

“I am paying you to learn.”

Marek squinted at them while the driver unloaded, laughing at Tomas’s cramped script.

“Is that a two or a seven, do you think?”

Jozef didn’t rise to the bait. But then his nephew picked up on some parts that weren’t right; a set of thermostats.

“See? It’s a different number on the delivery note. That’s not what Tomas wrote.”

Marek even cleared the return with the driver, and then reported back to Jozef.

“They’ll bring the right ones over tomorrow.”

“On a Saturday?”

“They made the mistake,” Marek shrugged. “So I made out it was urgent. He said they’d send a van sometime middle of the morning.”

Jozef eyed his nephew, thinking how much easier life would be if he was always this useful. And how Ewa might be happy too, if he kept Marek on beyond this job. He was due to rip out the ground-floor carpets after breakfast, so Jozef told him:

“We have three more deliveries on the way. You’ll be down here anyway, so you can check them all in.”

“With Stevie too?”

Jozef paused, knowing Ewa wouldn’t like that, but it would help the day run smoothly. He gave Marek the rest of the paperwork.

“Just make sure they’ve charged us the list price, yes?”

Marek did the calculations on his mobile over breakfast. They’d put the big table in one of the first-floor rooms, and the others joined them as they arrived, bringing rolls and coffee. Stevie was late down, coming in as Jozef dealt out the morning’s jobs; he came in the door all thin T-shirt and narrow shoulders, with a deep sleep-crease across his cheek. Tomas gave him a nod:

“Good morning.”

And then:

“Looks like our boy-thief has been out half the night again.”

He said it in Polish, but it raised enough knowing smiles to have Stevie shifting, casting a nervy glance around the assembled workers. Jozef motioned to Marek to give him his orders, and then kept on handing out tasks, moving things along, aware any move he made in Stevie’s favour might be reported back to Ewa.

He waited until all the men were standing before he pushed his way through to the boys.

“Use the back room, but stack everything neatly, yes?”

One of the trucks would bring all the copper pipes and fittings for the new central heating.

“We’ll need them for every room, so keep them to hand.”

Stevie nodded, short, aware he’d been the butt of a joke, and then Marek kicked at Tomas’s boot as he was passing, holding out his mobile so he could see what the heating order came to.

“Look how much you spent.”

Marek tapped the screen in emphasis, but he only got a shrug from Tomas:

“Now you know what things cost here. See why I get at you for cutting pipes too short? Measure twice, cut once: no waste.”

“Right, right.”

Marek turned away, but Jozef frowned at him to listen; high time he knew how these things worked. He told him:

“We’ll sell on what we don’t use. Claw some money back.”

“From the supplier?”

“Wherever we get the best price. Maybe I’ll get you to find out.”

He wanted Marek kept on his toes now.

Jozef sent the boys down to work, thinking he’d most likely just pass on any leftover pipes to Romek. Fit them in his van, along with his boxes, drive them down to London en route to Ewa and Gdańsk.

He only went downstairs just before lunch, to check the goods were all in, and stored properly.

He heard the boys from out in the ground-floor hallway: still in the back room and sorting, but Marek’s mind already on the weekend.

“I’m out tonight. With Tomas, maybe a couple of the others.”

He wanted Stevie along, but the boy didn’t sound too keen on the company. Even when Marek told him:

“Tomas is all right.”

“Naw, the guy’s out tae drive a wedge. Cannae be daen wae that shite.”

Wise before his time, Jozef thought, coming to a stop by the door; the boy still sounded tired too, not in the best mood. There was the clank of pipes, so Jozef knew they’d arrived, and then Marek asked:

“Who’s best to sell to up here, then?”

But Stevie just shrugged the question off.

“What you askin me for, pal? Ask around the pubs when you go. I havnae lived here for ages, not since I was a boy.”

Jozef thought he was still a boy now. A strange young-old child who’d seen too much of life. Bare floorboards, bad conscience, too many wedges driven through his family: who knew what kept him from sleeping?

He and Marek were in need of another task in any case. He saw they’d left a bundle of pipes in the hallway, it was just at Jozef’s feet, so he picked it up, stepping into the room:

“You forgot these.”

Both boys turned to face him, swift, as though he’d caught them slacking, but the back room was full and well-enough organised. Marek started searching out the paperwork, so Jozef took a quick look around the rest of the ground floor while he was waiting, to check they’d torn up all the carpets. The living room was clear, but they’d put another two bundles of pipes in there, over by the window.

“Have you done that in every room?” Jozef called, and Marek came to find him, with Stevie holding back, just behind.

“It’s just the lengths that are needed.” Marek handed over the delivery notes and explained. “I measured up, and put enough pipe in every room for the heating.”

His nephew blinked at him, ready to hear he’d done wrong. It was rare to see Marek hesitant, so Jozef had to smile then. He patted him on the shoulder: he’d shown initiative, and humility too, all in the one day, and Jozef thought he’d have to tell Ewa, if she called again. He told the boys:

“They’ll get in the way, those pipes. But you can just leave them for now. Come upstairs. I’ve got more work for both of you before lunch.”

Friday passed quickly, all the working days did now; still the whole ground floor to finish, and it would be July next week.

After the others had gone, Jozef went through his job lists, laptop on his lap, perched beside his boxes, on the corner of his
bed. Trying to work it out. If they could get this done by the first July weekend; how soon he could get to Ewa.

The evening quiet had fallen over the house, the leafy street outside, and Jozef was left there, missing her. Mulling over the slow slide of his marriage. It would be a year soon since she left, and it was still hard for him to grasp. How that rift had opened up between them: how had they let it happen?

He was going to Gdańsk, but he still wasn’t certain if he could ask her to come back here. Or what he would do if she said no. What would he say if she asked him to stay at home?

They never used to shout, Stevie’s Mum and Dad, not when he was wee. Now he was eight, and they did it behind closed doors, sending him out if he came in the room, but Stevie still heard them through the walls. They shouted about the flat. Or if Stevie’s Dad went out they shouted about that: where he’d been and who with. Mostly it was his Mum’s voice Stevie heard.