“You’ve been standing here for three hours now. It was the wife that spotted you and sent me down.”
Maybe the old man was asking for money. A dishevelled youth had approached Henryk an hour or so ago nursing a meagre hoard of coppers in a battered polystyrene cup. Henryk had scowled and the thin boy had shambled on. But now that he looked more closely this old man was too well dressed to be a beggar. Cleaner too, his white hair cut short under his tweed cap, a checked scarf tucked neatly into the neck of his padded jacket.
“You want to watch yoursel’ round here, son. There’s some would have the hide off you if you stop still for long.”
Henryk moved the old man’s hand from his arm and said the few words of English that he knew.
“No... no, thank you.”
Tomasz had been angry, more than angry — furious — but Henryk knew in his heart that he’d be back. All he had to do was wait and eventually he would see his friend striding his way through the pedestrians, still angry — Tomasz was often angry and this time the Virgin herself knew he had a right to be — but resigned to facing trouble together.
“You’ve no’ got a clue what I’m rabbiting on about, do you? DO... YOU... SPEAK... ENGLISH?”
Henryk shook his head and moved down the wall a little, but his persecutor’s attention had already shifted to an elderly lady in a red coat who was caught midway between the moving traffic. A black cab, like the ones Henryk had seen in movies, stopped to let her cross and she gave a cheery wave to the driver who shook his head resignedly then rolled on.
“Just you wait here a wee minute. That’s the wife coming. Now she’s seen you’re not a suicide bomber she’s keen to get her neb in.”
Jerzy’s face had invited trust. It was the kind of face used to advertise fresh mint chewing gum of the sort that didn’t interfere with your teeth, but whose sugar-freeness didn’t mean it wasn’t sweet. Henryk had warmed to Jerzy as soon as he had caught sight of him holding up the paper neatly printed with their names at the arrivals gate of Prestwick Airport.
“Look, Tomasz,” he’d said. “Our chauffeur awaits.”
But Tomasz had merely grunted and given Jerzy the sideways stare he reserved for strangers. It was this look, a look which seemed to hold all their recent difficulties in its reproach, that had sent Henryk’s hand into his pocket for the envelope they had both agreed to hold on to until the last possible moment. He had handed it to Jerzy without a single question and so six months of scrimping and self-denial had slipped effortlessly into a stranger’s pocket. And with it went some of the glint in the toothpaste-slick smile.
“Okay,” Jerzy had said. “Come with me”.
And they’d had no choice but to follow.
“I don’t think he speaks any English, Jeanette.”
“Is that right?” The old lady looked at Henryk’s bag. The tag that had been attached at the airport in Wroclaw was still there. “Are you lost, son? Look, Tam, he’s just off some flight. Are you waiting on a pal?”
“Ach, maybe we shouldn’t be bothering him.”
“Of course we should be bothering him. Look at him, he’s almost greeting. How would you like it if it was Robert or Kirsty lost somewhere they didn’t speak the lingo? I am Scottish.” The old lady pointed at herself. “Where are you from?” She repeated the action. “Me Jeanette, me Scottish. You?”
And suddenly he understood what she wanted.
“Henryk. Polski.”
“Henryk, Polski.” She gave him a smile, then turned back to her husband. “He’s from Poland.”
“How d’you know?”
“You heard him. Polski.”
“That might be his second name. Plenty of folk are called after places. Clare English, Joan Sutherland, Ian Paisley.”
“Aye, and Miss Scotland. No, he’s Polish right enough. He has a look of that boy that works in Raj’s. You know the one? Cheery wee fella.”
“Aye, mibbe, except this one’s not looking very cheery.”
“No, he is not.”
Henryk had tried to keep his spirits up as Jerzy had driven them along stretches of motorway that had slowed almost to a standstill as they neared the city.
“It’s always this way,” Jerzy had said. “The first twenty miles fast, the last two slow.”
“The same at home.” Henryk had glanced at Tomasz, hoping he would join the conversation, but his friend’s eyes were closed, his head resting against the van window.
Of course it was harder for Tomasz. Henryk was leaving behind his home, his friends and his language, but he was unmarried, his mother still in good health. For him the trip held promises of adventure, the freedom to be himself. Tomasz was leaving behind a good job and years of training. Whatever the tensions at home, the move was always going to hit him harder.
The van drove up a slip road and suddenly the old city was all around them. Tomasz looked up. “Where are the hills and the heather?”
Jerzy laughed. “Not so far away. Maybe we’ll go to them at the weekend.”
Henryk had noticed Jerzy’s expression then and wondered what life here was really like. He had got an impression of cafés and restaurants, a blood-red tattoo parlour, the shining glass front of a theatre. Everything was different from home and yet, he comforted himself, the substance was the same.
“Okay.” Their driver pulled into a parking space. “Flat first. You can get washed, have a shave, something to eat and then we’ll go to the supermarket where you’ll be working.”
They’d unloaded their luggage and Jerzy had led the way. Henryk’s bag was heavy, and he was glad when Jerzy finally stopped outside one of the sandstone tenements that lined the street.
“Okay, here we are.”
Tomasz had glanced at the rows of names next to the entry buzzers.
“A lot of people live here.”
Jerzy was fumbling in his jacket pocket.
“It’s a workers’ district.”
“But no Poles?”
“Two Poles from today.” He took out a set of keys and swore softly. “Unbelievable. I took the wrong keys from the van. This is for a flat I’m taking people to this afternoon. I’ll have to go back and collect yours. Wait here, I won’t be long.”
He gave them the clean, even grin, and then jogged off in the direction of the van. It had been as quick and as casual as that.
Henryk wasn’t sure how long they’d stood there before the truth dawned, but he guessed that Tomasz had also clutched the knowledge of their betrayal wordlessly in his chest, still hoping that Jerzy would return, keys in hand, his smile shining.
“Hello, Jeanette, Tam.” An elderly woman laden with shopping bags greeted the couple.
“Oh, no, here we go.” The old man looked at Henryk. “You’ll soon be wishing we’d left you to your misery.”
“Is this your grandson? He’s a fine-looking fella, isn’t he?”
“Hello, Bella.” The first woman looked important. “No, this isn’t my grandson. Mind you met Robert? They’re the same height right enough, but Henryk doesn’t look anything like him, Robert’s much darker.”
“Oh, aye. So who’s this then?”
“We don’t know. He’s been standing here for almost three hours now. I noticed him when I went out to the shop. That was at eleven, and he was still here when I came back. Then we had a bite to eat and watched a bit of telly. When I went to do the washing up I could see him from the kitchen window. I said to Tam there’s something not quite right there and he came down to check on him.”
“And what does he say?”
“Nothing, not a peep, but you can see the way he is.”