Forty-Nine

As the summer passed things fell into a routine. Everyone would come back from work, and Marek and Piotr would almost always head straight out into the garden. The supply of vegetables began to thin out, and Sybil was busy bottling and stewing apples and plums from her trees. They gardened sometimes at the weekend too, and Michael was usually keen to help, to be anywhere where the two Poles were. One afternoon they promised Sybil that they would creosote the shed and found a little brush for Michael to help, with careful warnings about not getting the acrid-smelling stuff in his eyes or mouth. Katie had never seen him so proud as when standing beside the two men with his brush and the little tin into which they had poured some creosote.

Katie, though she could not admit it to herself, was drawn to them as much as Michael was. It was lovely to have some people of her own age around her, other than Geoff Jenkins, whom she found dull. Piotr, she had discovered, was a year older than herself and Marek. The two Poles approached everything with a cheerful vigour, joking and mucking about in between the hard work, teasing and cursing in Polish, or sometimes laughing so hard they would end up sitting down.

On Sunday they went with her to Mass. On payday they disappeared to one of the pubs, where sometimes they met a few other Poles. Katie assumed they also met women, though there had not been talk of anyone in particular. They would arrive home late and in high spirits, although one night Katie heard a loud, bitter-sounding argument between them in the room below. The rest of the time they worked hard and stayed in, and sometimes when everyone lingered over the evening meal there would be longer conversations, or they went up to their room.

Katie had made her own attic cosy and had arranged a little corner, a lamp placed next to the armchair where she often sat and read while Michael slept. But when they were all in their rooms, it was difficult not to be aware of the two men living so close to her, the sound of their voices rising from the floor below, sometimes laughter – a loud bray from Marek, or Piotr’s deep, rumbling chuckle. She heard glasses clinking, and occasionally there were heated discussions, shouts even, but all in Polish. They soon cooled down. They had too much respect for Sybil to want to cause any trouble.

The sound of them was a distraction. She would sit in her chair, looking across the room with the book in her lap, listening, thinking about them, despite herself. She had shut away any thoughts of men or marriage. Her life now consisted of bringing up Michael. But she couldn’t help thinking.

At first when they came she had related more easily to Piotr, who was more talkative and friendly. Marek she had been less sure of. He was more distant, with an intensity about him that made her feel shyer of him. And both of them had come from a different country that was mysterious to her and had experienced things that she knew she did not understand.