A Kind and Gentle man

1

 

Conrad Borscz gazed emptily at the freshly turned soil. He took a handkerchief out of his dark suit pocket and wiped it across his almost hairless head. The iron-grey horseshoe of hair that circled it shone with moisture. The heat was overpowering. Twice he had wanted to pass out as the vicar had droned incoherently away over his wife's hidden body.

          Above him, in the green trees that shrouded the grave, two crows argued noisily, disrespectfully, their wings cracking the air like pistols, smacking the juicy leaves as if the events below them were nothing compared to their private war.

Conrad felt a hand fall upon his shoulder and turned, dragged from his distractions with a start. It snaked down his arm and sneaked into his palm. Its grip was dry and firm, not soft with sympathy, as anyone might have expected on such a day. His own hand fought limply back, too listless to give anything in return.

        He smiled weakly, his eyes half-closed against the sun that hovered above the man's head and turned him into a faceless shadow. 'Thanks for coming,' he sighed. 'It's very kind of you.'

         The man, who continued his vice-like handshake, shuffled round, a longed-for step towards the wrought-iron gates that kept this land for the dead, reluctant to stop for too long in the cemetery. He grinned broadly; a gold tooth winked at Conrad as it caught the sun. 'Absolute pleasure,' thundered the man, almost buoyantly. 'Glad to be here.' He received a jab in the ribs from the woman who stood to his left, who had appeared like a Stuka from the cover of the sun.

'So sorry, Con.' The woman's precise, soprano voice emerged from behind a rigid, practised smile. Her eyes, painted specially for the occasion, fluttered stupidly. 'Absolute disaster! Pretty little thing like that. So many good years ahead of her. You must feel absolutely rotten.' Conrad nodded. He wasn’t sure how he felt, but he nodded anyway. The woman looked at the skies and wrinkled her eyes at the bright blueness. There were no clouds, no hope of relief. 'Hot bugger of a day too,' she puffed, her flushed cheeks full with a gasp.

Conrad wiped the handkerchief across his head again. 'Yes,’ he stuttered. ‘You and Charles, will you come back? For a drink?'

She flapped her hand as if she had simply forgotten the time. 'Love to Con, but so sorry, darling. Off to the Mackesons’ place. Bit of a party later. Said we'd pop in and give them a hand.'

'Oh, right, that's fine. I understand.'

          'Jolly good. Pop along later, if you feel like it. Charles and I will be next to the bar as usual.' The woman snorted a laugh.

'Absolutely,' chortled Charles. 'Need a stiffy after a morning like this. Come on Muriel. Best be off before we melt.' He gave Conrad a pat on the arm and tugged his wife away. 'Chin up, old boy,' he called after him.

Conrad lifted a heavy hand and waved. 'Thanks again.'

          Others had started to leave, glad to have used Charles and Muriel as a shield against any emotional crossfire, service sheets alive in their faces as they tried to beat away the heat like so many mosquitoes. Some waved or tipped their heads at Conrad, some swiftly shook his hand, mumbled, pointed at the sun, their cars, and drove away. Some appeared sad.

          Conrad watched as the last car disappeared from sight, it’s dust filtering slowly back down to the dry road, as if they had been no more than dust-devils, nowhere to stop, nowhere to go.

He felt relief at the sudden isolation. He had never been one for crowds, for the flotsam of accompanying traumas that inevitably dragged him into their wake. He wasn’t good at that sort of thing. He and Mary had never sought company outside of each other, had never needed to.

One of the crows fell gracelessly from the tree with an indignant ‘squawk’, gained its composure an inch above the ground and flew off angrily screaming vengeance.

Conrad turned back to face the grave, to the piles of sun-dried soil that littered the sides, that occasionally gave way and threw tiny balls of dirt into the hole, that in their turn fell hollowly onto his wife's final home. His stomach turned.

         Only the nameplate on the coffin shone up from the blackness, the only confirmation to Conrad that anyone was in there at all. It was all too unreal, too big to understand. He had seen her, touched her, kissed her, held her cold hand until his warmth had seeped from him to her, given her false life in his whirlwind mind, but nothing had come, nothing would come, and he had left her, alone, for the first time. The nurses had waited patiently outside the cubicle, moved in as soon as he stepped out of the door, clean sheets and towels piled high upon the trolley, there to clean up the debris of their life.

         And now, as the unkind and oppressive sun beat down upon his pounding head, as he heard childish screams from a schoolyard a hundred miles away, as he felt too alive to feel good, he prepared to leave her alone again, for the last time.

'Scuse me guv. You finished?'

         Conrad turned quickly, alarmed at the crack in his silence. 'I'm sorry?'

'You finished?' The bare-chested and heavily tanned workman stared at Conrad, his blue eyes piercing the mist that Conrad had been sure enveloped him, made him invisible to the rest of the world.

Behind the workman was a mechanical digger, his vested workmate fiddling with the controls, ready to fill the grave.

He withdrew a cigarette from between his lips and stamped it into the dirt at the graveside. 'Lunchtime, mate. We don't hurry up, we go into overtime, and we got too much to do after. See? It's a matter of timing.'

         Conrad looked at his wife's grave and then back at the workman. The connection clicked and he started, electrified by what the man had said. He took a step back. 'I'm sorry...I didn't realise...'

         The workman's heavy paw stained Conrad’s shoulder. 'That's all right, mate. It's a bit rough. We understand.' With a wave of his arm, the digger advanced, bit into the earth and started to shovel the soil home.

         The workman nodded towards the grave. 'Wife was it?' He had to shout above the noise of the digger.

         'Yes it...she was. My wife.' Conrad wanted to tear his eyes away from the work of the digger, to deny the scene before him, but he was trapped by the need to see it through, by his fearful and overwhelming desire to avoid the guilt of desertion.

          'Right.' The workman lit another cigarette that he had pulled magically from behind his ear. 'Well, you go and get yourself a couple of pints. In fact, get yourself well rat-arsed. You'll feel better for it, take my word.'

         'I don't drink,' said Conrad, too low for the man to hear.

'You what?'

         'Nothing. Nothing at all.' Conrad gestured to a taxi with his thumb. 'I'll be off then.'

         'Righty-ho, guv. Go and get a bit of this weather. Probably be it 'til next year.'

         Conrad nodded and walked away. He heard the earth fall solidly above the noise of the digger and tried to shut his mind off, to say that it wasn't falling upon his wife, that it was just an empty box, that tomorrow he would kiss her goodbye before he left for work.

         As he got into the taxi (he had left his own car in the garage, could not face driving today) he took out the handkerchief and wiped it across his head again. Then he wiped his eyes, quickly and just once, before the noise of the diesel engine crashed into the still air and he was driven away.

 

          When Conrad reached his house, he saw two cars parked outside. Relief swept over him as he realised that someone would be inside. His desire to be alone had become tempered by the fear of loneliness on the short journey home. He paid off the driver and walked quickly to the door.

          In the lounge sat three people. Two of them, unrecognisable to Conrad, watched the news. The third stood and came across to Conrad, his arms wide.

'Victor!' sighed Conrad with relief.

'Hello, my friend. How are you? I hope it wasn't so bad.'

          The two friends embraced. Victor kissed Conrad on the cheek and pulled him close. Conrad felt the boniness of age, the unshaven chin that never seemed to become a beard, and smelt the familiar garlic of which Victor Kivlenieks was so fond.

          The two men parted and Conrad looked at his friend. 'You're thin, Victor. Are you neglecting yourself?'

          A smile crossed Victor's pale, narrow lips and lit his skeletal face. 'I am as thin as I always was. I was not born to be fat. I am a cheetah, not a fat old lion.'

          Victor’s Polish accent filled Conrad's ears and flooded him with warmth. It was true, Victor had always looked like walking death, but he had always possessed the strength of ten men. His sparrow face hid an eagle's fire that could be seen in his eyes, and his thin wiry frame belied the steel within.

          Victor placed his hands on Conrad's shoulders. His face changed from joy to sadness in an instant. 'I am so sorry I missed the funeral. The train was cut. Those bastards at British Rail, or whatever they call themselves now, stink like a long dead rat! I really wanted to be there. You know I loved her.'

          'Oh Lord, Victor, I know. And so did Mary. She loved you too. She spoke of you often before she died.'

          Conrad pulled Victor to him again and held him tightly. 'I missed you,' he said softly.

          'And I you. If only the end had not been so fast in coming. I wanted so badly to be there. For your sake if not for hers.'

          'It's all right,' reassured Conrad. 'It was enough to know that you existed.'

          Conrad guided Victor to the sofa and sat him down. Victor dragged an ashtray (it occurred to Conrad at that moment that he and Mary had never smoked and yet had always had ashtrays) across a glass-topped coffee table and lit a cigarette. He paused briefly to take in the sight of the old man; the maroon, tattered, knitted jumper that Victor seemed to wear whatever the weather, the aged, creaseless, brown trousers, one of a pair of three, the almost triangular face that had seemed forever old and yet had not aged, the bony prominences, high cheeks, thin nose, sharp chin, orbits into which the eyes retreated like nervous sea creatures. This was the way he has always been, he had merely matured like the oak at the bottom of the garden, a bit more fragile perhaps, that was all.

          'Would you like a drink, Victor? I have just about everything, I think.'

          Victor inhaled deeply and spat out cigarette smoke like a tired volcano. 'I would like something soft. The doctor has said that I must not indulge myself anymore. No more Vodka! Ha! Cut off my balls, I said, and throw me into an orgy! It would be easier. He wants me to give up my heritage so that I can stay alive. Bastard! What does he know? I had my first drink at the age of two, my first cigarette at eight, and he wants me to stop, now that I am eighty-one. But I agreed, or at least I have compromised. And maybe lied a little. I smoke these shitty filtered things now. I have to smoke twice as many, but it is a compromise. So, I compromise further. I don't drink Vodka anymore. I drink whisky instead. As soft a drink as you can get without sucking a wet pillow.'

          Conrad smiled indulgently. 'That is what I would expect of you. Whisky it is then.'

          Conrad went to a long covered table full of drinks and snacks and poured a whisky for Victor and lemonade for himself. He sat down on the sofa next to his old friend and gave him his drink.

          Victor held up the glass and examined the contents with disdain. 'I have to drink twice as much of this shit just to get the fur off my tongue. When I was young and first started drinking vodka, back when I was in Poland and not the refugee I now am, we used to drink the vodka cold, freezing, and the fumes that used to come off it were so strong that we used to drop grains of black pepper onto the surface of the drink,' he rubbed his index finger and thumb together, 'to stop our eyes burning.' He held up the glass of whisky and tapped it gently against Conrad's glass of lemonade. 'To Mary,' he said sadly. His large brown eyes seemed to moisten. 'Who we loved.'

'To Mary,' echoed Conrad.

          Victor drained the contents of the glass with a single vicious drag and handed it back to Conrad. 'Another one. For Mary, one is not enough.'

          Conrad got up and handed Victor the bottle. 'Finish it, my friend. It's no good to me.'

          'I'll do my best.' Victor poured himself another large drink and swallowed it. 'What now? What are your plans?'

          'Well, I'm back to work tomorrow. They could only give me four days off. Compassionate leave. It's all been a bit hectic I must say, but I think that the sooner I go back, the better.'

'Are you ready?'

          'As I'll ever be. It all feels a bit like a broken jigsaw at the moment. But I'm sure it'll all come back together.'

          ‘’The worst is not so long as we can say this is the worst’’. Is that it?'

          Conrad grinned at his companion. 'I'm impressed. Polish Shakespeare.'

          'English Shakespeare.’ Victor stabbed a lethally thin finger into his own chest. ‘Polish man. When I first came here, I made a point of learning his plays. It seemed the thing to do. What could be more English? It wasn't until I started talking to people like that that I realised something was wrong. All the same, Conrad Borscz, it helped.'

          Conrad put a hand on Victor's knee and smiled warmly. 'I'm sure it did.'

          'Your mother would have been proud of you, you know,' said the old Pole. 'You have done so well over the years. Civil service, house, the way you handled this unpleasant affair. You are as English as any Englishman.'

          'I am an Englishman, Victor. I'm second generation. I've no memory of Poland. I have no inclination to see Poland. I've never heard anything good about it. All it ever seemed to be was heartache and silent revolution.'

          Victor let out a small ironic laugh. 'A truly English view. I can remember the warmth in winter, even when we had no fuel for the fire. I can remember the love, even in the middle of all the hate, and I can still feel the revolution that burned like acid in our hearts. The Polish are people of passion and hope. Things have changed now, for sure, but even then it was

perfect, in our hearts and in our minds, if not on the brutal streets. Your mother never really got used to English life. She could never get the language...'

          'She never tried...' remembered Conrad, not without fondness.

          'Oh, I think she did,’ corrected Victor softly. ‘She was scared, that's all. We were all scared. To come from the warmth of the Polish to the cold of the English was a shock. It was like diving into a cold sea after the comfort of the bath. If she had not escaped those bastard Nazis...well, I don't know. I think she would have been happier to stay in poverty and simplicity than play the complicated games of privilege and class that the English so love to play.'

          'All I can remember is that she didn't really want to integrate. I can remember coming home from school one day and one of her Polish friends was here, Mrs Falkowski, do you remember her?'

          Victor nodded. 'Remember her? I fucked her. She was an athlete, I tell you!'

Conrad reeled with surprise. 'You and Mrs Falkowski? No!'

          'Yes! Her husband was an idle bum! She needed a man. I could not turn her down.'

          Conrad laughed quietly. 'You never fail to astound me, Victor.' Victor shrugged as if he was being commended for an act of courage. 'Anyway, as I was saying, they were in the kitchen, huddled around the table, teapot in the middle with that red knitted cosy on, thick cigarette smoke in the air, and I came in, home from school. I remember that day well, because the kids at school had been calling me a Nazi, because I was a foreigner. I came through the back door, trying to hide my hurt, thinking that I must make the effort to smile for her, and she grabbed me and gave me a hug as big as her heart and said, in Polish, to her friend, ‘Ah, here is my Conrad. Isn't he beautiful? Such a bright boy. He speaks English more now than he speaks Polish. He is more English than Polish. He has lost his heritage’. Of course I had! On the one hand I was a Nazi and on the other I was Polish. What was I to do? I tried to reply in Polish but couldn't remember the correct words and made even more of a fool of myself.'

          'It was difficult, I know.' Victor gave Conrad a conciliatory slap on the back. 'But it was bad for them. Your father was a good man. He found a job and tried to fit in. ‘Be grateful’, he used to say. ‘They saved us from certain death and gave us a home. We must do our best to give what we can in return’. And he did do his best.'

'But he never learned English, Victor. Not very well.'

          'He did his best, Conrad Borscz. No man can ask for more. No country can ask for more. No child can ask for more from his father. He loved you very much. I know he didn't show it so much, but he was devoted to you. He doted upon you.'

          'I know. I loved him too. I loved them both. I just wish...'

'Yes?'

          'I don't know.' Conrad sighed deeply and met Victor's eyes. 'There was something missing from them.'

          Victor laughed aloud. 'Of course there was!’ He thumped his chest. ‘It was their hearts! They had had everything they had ever known torn away from them by strangers, whose ferocity we cannot begin to describe or imagine.'

          Conrad tutted and made a gesture that he had had enough. It was too grim, especially today.

          The two men who had been watching the news walked by. 'Thank you,' said the taller one as they weaved their way past the tables and chairs and out of the still open front door.

          Conrad watched as the two men left, then whispered to Victor: 'I thought they were with you.'

          Victor shook his head. 'I assumed you knew them. They were here when I came in. The front door was open.'

          Conrad went to the window and looked for the two men, but they and their cars had gone. He shrugged at a quizzical Victor. Victor filled his glass again and swallowed the contents without a pause.

          'I'm going to get changed.' Conrad pointed at the ceiling to say that he was going upstairs. 'Help yourself. I won't be long. I must get out of this suit.'

Victor nodded and shooed Conrad out of the room.

          A moment later Conrad came down the stairs at a pace, his feet heavy and uncontrolled on the thin carpet that covered them. Victor's face frowned as he moved to get up and go to the stairs, his first thought that perhaps Conrad had fainted with the heat and the stress and fallen headlong down them.

          'Those two men...' Conrad waved his open hand at the door as he tried to catch his breath. He ran to the window and peered out.

          Victor rushed to him. 'What is it, Conrad? What happened?'

          'They've stolen Mary's jewellery! It's gone! Every last piece! The bedroom's such a mess, Victor! Oh, my God!'

          'Shall I go after them?'

          'No. No. They’ve gone! Oh, my God! That was all I had left of her. She had told me to take all her clothes to the charity shop.' Conrad turned to his friend in panic. 'Victor, I have nothing else. What shall I do?'

          Victor pulled his friend over to the sofa, sat him down and held him close as Conrad began to cry. 'They had to come, my friend, these tears. They had to come. Maybe they have been kind to you, these pigs. Wash your grief in tears. Drown the pain.'

          Conrad held Victor tight, his fingers white against his threadbare, smoky, comfortable old jumper.

'She is gone,' whispered Victor. 'She is gone.'