The Sister(49)

His hand sought hers under the sheets; he squeezed it.

Looking at him then, she knew she couldn’t tell him about that part of her life yet. He wouldn’t have been able to handle it. Honesty? What would be the point? In that bar, she’d identified with Harry’s defilement. In that moment, he’d become a victim of vile abuse, too. Just like her. Her arms and legs wrapped around him. ‘I’m never going to let you go,’ she said.

He squeezed her tight. ‘I’m glad.’

They fell in love and never spent another night apart.





In the future, they'd talk often about that night. Sometimes, over dinner with friends, when the drink had flowed, and they'd run out of things to talk about, one of them inevitably would say, ‘Come on, Jackie. Tell us about the night you met Harry again.’

She’d always protest at the start, but then she’d look at Harry to see if he minded. He never did. More proud of what she had done that night than embarrassed at the indignity he had suffered at the hands of the soldier. It had been her moment, so she retold it.

The more she told the story, the better at the telling she became. After losing touch for over a year, she’d invited Karen and Gilda for dinner, and once they'd heard the story, they gave her a round of applause. Standing, she’d given them a little curtsy. The pride in their eyes something she’d never forget. Finally, she had stood up for herself.

Ripped from arsehole to breakfast time. She never found out what it actually meant; she repeated it only because it'd been her trainer’s favourite saying.

She smiled to herself. He’d have loved that kick.





Chapter 35



May 2006





Miller sat in the garden of the five hundred-year-old farmhouse he’d rented. Bathed in the warm glow of pale sunshine, he looked out over the green barley fields; the pastoral scene suddenly enlivened by the unexpected arrival of the first swift, followed by the appearance of many more. He was never quite sure at which point exactly the first arrivals came in any year. Was it April, or was it May? They just seemed to appear.

When he was a child, he’d wanted to be a fighter pilot; his mind examined those childish dreams once more. The memories felt as though they belonged to someone else.

He watched as a swift skimmed the tips of the young barley, banking fast from left to right, flashing its soft white under-belly at the sun as it rotated on its axis – all the way round with incredible speed and agility, hurtling along, criss-crossing the field picking off insects invisible to the human eye. Miller allowed the periphery of his vision to widen. All over the field, scores of these birds performed similar manoeuvres. How did they not collide with each other?

A smile crept over his face. All those men who aspired to fly like birds, from Icarus onwards – shackled by the human condition and later by cumbersome aircraft. Even now, with all the technology we can muster, we’ll never be able to do it like that, he mused.

The swift continued its breath-taking display of aerial skills; he grinned broadly as he acknowledged the bird’s superior ability. Now that is an aviator.

Lost in the dappled light and darkness, in the lanes of his memory, he realised he’d been having flashes all his life. His grandfather knew – he’d tried to explain – he had been explaining. At that time, he was too young to understand, but the old man had sown the seeds – planted the koans that would enlighten him when he was ready, and just like the swifts arriving unnoticed – suddenly just there – all five of his senses acknowledged the arrival of another, that crept up without him noticing. A sixth sense.

Everything started falling into place, triggering memories of the chance games he’d played with his grandfather. The guessing, at first at the turn of a card which suit it would be, and as he progressed the game becoming harder, so that finally, he’d identify the card before it was turned over. Miller recalled the radio receiver lessons. The tuning in and out of transmissions, and later the overseas viewings, the old man speaking with his eyes closed. ‘If I close my eyes and think of my home in Poland, I can see it – the new people who live there, their children. They work hard, and if I listen, inside my head I hear them speak – not what they say; only sound, but I can tell from the sound if they are happy.’

He reached deeper into his memory, searching for more. Each recollection triggered a new one. Do we ever forget?

The gravelly voice was fresh in his mind. ‘One day in the future you will wonder, just as I did ... what is it for – this thing we have?’ Bruce remembered listening, putting on a suitably serious expression, matching that on the old man’s face as he continued talking. ‘I used to ask God, why choose me to live, when other men close to me die in war? And the Almighty does not say. I think it’s because he knows I would give my life freely, for my friend, for my brother. I don’t cry out, Oh, God, let me live! I have faith, and he has too much left for me to do. That is how I survive, and I learn some tricks, too, and I tell them to you.’

His eyes misted and he swallowed hard at the realisation. The old man had known he wouldn’t be around as Miller was growing up.

He’d been preparing him, but for what?





Chapter 36



June 2006





Miller watched the thin clouds stretching across the pale blue sky, vaporising in the growing heat of the morning sun. It was time to move on. He swung his legs down from the bed and sitting upright, collected his thoughts before moving off to shower.