Someone Else's Conflict (10 page)

The sound of a vehicle crunching up the track made him tense up. He instinctively turned to face it, irrational fear giving the air around him a harsh glare. Her car. He made himself breathe deeply and deliberately unclenched his fingers muscle by muscle from the handle of the shovel. With a dirty hand he wiped sweat from his brow that wasn't only from exertion, and thought what a sight he must look. That sort of thing didn't usually bother him unduly, but he used his forearm, hopefully less muddy, to wipe again.

She was smiling and waving something as she got out of the car.

‘Hey, you've been busy, well done! Look at this!'

A shiny purse with a giant cat's face motif. Was it supposed to mean something? He recalled the pickpocket incident but she was talking fifteen-to-the-dozen before he had chance to comment.

‘The police left a message on my mobile say it had been handed in, so I called to collect it, seeing as I was over that way. The money's gone – there wasn't much anyway – but nothing else, not even my card, though I'd cancelled it anyway so it'll still be a load of hassle. But someone handed it in! Restores your faith, doesn't it?'

He frowned, nodded, amazed that the handing-in could so easily cancel out the fact of it being nicked in the first place. He could do with sharing in some of that optimism.

‘Nice one.' Feeling calmer now, he stuck the shovel in the dirt pile and walked over to the car. ‘How d'you get on at that shop?'

‘Great, thanks. They like my things and it looks like the sort of place that could shift plenty, too. It'll mean a lot of work, but it's wonderful news.'

‘Congratulations.' He spread his muddy hands. ‘Forgive me if I don't…shake your hand.'

Had he really been going to say ‘give you a hug'? She frowned and he was telling himself no, of course she couldn't read his mind, when she said, ‘So that's all the good news. It's downhill from there, I'm afraid.'

‘Problems?'

She shrugged. ‘Trivial, I guess. Shouldn't complain. Come in and I'll tell you over lunch.'

He wiped his hands on his jeans, followed her in and sat at the kitchen table as she made a plate of sandwiches and told him about her visit to Matt – he noticed how the man still seemed to bother her, though she insisted he meant nothing – and then the insurance broker's.

‘Of course Matt's hoping I can pay him some rent from it. A legitimate claim, seeing as it'll be longer before I get my own place. And I want to be able to pay you properly, so we can get on with it – if you agree. I just want all this done, so I can get myself established.'

‘So do you think they'll accept the claim?'

‘The broker was helpful enough, but…'

She shook her head, biting her lip.

‘Don't tell me. “Act of God”,' he said and noticed her looking across as if wondering how someone like him knew about the technicalities of insurance. ‘You can argue it, you know.'

‘I know. But it could take ages, and whatever happens there'll be a huge excess to pay.'

He tutted in sympathy. She placed the sandwiches and two plates on the table and sat opposite him. He helped himself as she indicated and began eating, watching her stare at her plate. He was surprised and nonplussed to see she was fighting tears.

‘It seemed such a good idea. But it seems I'll have to wait after all. I can do it, of course I can; I really shouldn't be complaining, but I just know Matt's going to make things difficult. I'm going to say something I regret and lose that place, and then… Well, it'll just be back to square one.' She shook her head. ‘It's stupid, but on my way to the broker's I'd even got to thinking I might not need a loan. I can't really afford it; there's no way I'll be making much to start with. I did a business plan – on Matt's advice, of course – to get the loan offer in the first place, but that's all up the spout now because of the delay. I probably won't even get anything, and then…' The tears got the better of her; she tried to sniff them back. ‘I'm sorry. Don't know what's got into me. I think I'm just tired.'

‘Steady on.' He fished in his pocket and produced a grubby tissue, looked at it, and sheepishly put it back, hoping she hadn't noticed.

‘Thought that counts,' she muttered, looking at his hands. He'd forgotten to wash them. She got up and grabbed a piece of kitchen towel to wipe her eyes and blow her nose.

‘Nothing's changed,' he said. ‘No need to worry; I'll still stay and get on with as much as I can till your guy's ready to start.'

‘You don't understand; thinking about it in the cold light of day, I'm not even sure I could afford to pay you at all. You ought to think about going to find some decent work.'

‘I said don't worry about it. Call it a loan. And…and, well, if you have trouble with the bank, I could…I could probably contribute a bit myself.'

‘You?'

‘Yeah. Help you get on your feet. A kind of investment; I like what you do.'

‘But—'

‘We can talk about it. After this afternoon's work.'

With a smile, he got up to belatedly wash his hands.

Chapter 9

Another unfamiliar house and another bout of nerves. Vinko had been on an early shift and, the previous day's meeting with Novak still nagging like a wasp in his head, had made himself come before he changed his mind. Whatever happened here, he wouldn't be any worse off. He walked up the drive. The angry insect buzz of a lawnmower reached him from the next-door garden, someone making the most of the failing light and the gap in the changeable autumn weather. A woven-wood fence and a line of shrubs saved him from the neighbours' suspicious looks.

He knocked at the door, waited, nearly walked away, tried the bell. The thumping of his heart almost drowned the sound of footsteps approaching from within. He heard the noises of someone fumbling with a lock, and a grey-haired woman with a friendly, lined face opened the door as far as the safety chain allowed.

‘Hello,' he said before his nerve left him. ‘Anja Pranjić?'

She nodded.

‘I'm your grandson,' he said in his own language.

She stared at him in silence.

‘Your grandson,' he repeated, ‘Vinko.'

‘Ivan's son?' Her eyes widened and the hand that wasn't clutching the door went to her cheek.

‘I'm sorry I surprised you,' he said.

She stared a moment longer, then unhitched the chain and opened the door wide.

‘Come in,
sre
ć
o moja
.'

His grandmother drew him in, closed the door and held him in her arms. He returned her embrace awkwardly. He hadn't known what to expect, but certainly not the feel of warm arms enfolding him, or the endearment he hadn't heard since his mother died.

She released him and led him through into a homely sitting room full of chintz, heavy old furniture, ornaments and pictures.

‘Your mother wrote to us, told us she was expecting Ivan's baby. So long ago.' She looked as if she was on the verge of tears. ‘And now here you are!'

He nodded, surprised by his own emotion. ‘I didn't know if I should come.'

‘Of course you should.' She moved as if to embrace him again, but he stood impassive. She hesitated, embarrassed, and motioned him to sit, joining him on the sofa. ‘And how is your mother?'

‘She died. A couple of years ago.'

‘I'm sorry.' Anja looked saddened. ‘We never met her. I tried to find her. Boris said to let the past lie, but I went myself, as soon as it seemed safe to go. It was heartbreaking. The family house, where your great-aunt lived, where your father went to make his home – nothing but charred, overgrown ruins. The village fared better than some in the area, but it was totally changed. Some of the old people had moved back, and a few newcomers, but much of the place was empty. Abandoned. No one knew where you'd gone.' His language, their language, had sounded rusty with her to begin with, but was now beginning to run more freely, like an old machine newly oiled and coaxed back to life. ‘But what about you, Vinko? You had other family?'

He shook his head. ‘I managed.'

‘Where have you been living?'

He could hear her other, unspoken, question: Why didn't you come to us?

‘My mother went to Germany after the war. I was born there. I came to England a year or so ago. I got a lift but it wasn't easy.'

A forty-eight hour journey boarded up in a cramped, stuffy compartment at the back of a furniture lorry with two others, relieved that he hadn't needed the faked identity card.

‘You're all right now?'

He nodded. There was an uneasy silence.

‘Listen, I ought to tell you. Before your grandfather gets back. He doesn't like mention of the old country. He hardly refers to it at all. Living in the past is what caused it all, he says. Lost your father to us.'

‘I know. My mother told me.'

‘What did she tell you?'

‘That…that my father went back to Croatia on his own.' His eyes were on the ground; he couldn't meet hers. ‘Because you and Grandfather wouldn't take him.' He looked up. ‘I'm sorry. She told me she'd written to you…must be the letter you got…she said you had a right to know. About me. About what happened to my father. She gave me your address, too.' He was careful not to mention Novak. ‘The old one. The girl who lives there now gave me this one. She sends her greetings. I'm sorry, I can't remember her name.'

‘Young Nicky Radcliffe?'

He nodded, uninterested. That episode was past. ‘Where is he now? Grandfather?'

‘He's gone to see a neighbour about something. He's well-liked round here, you know.'

She seemed eager to persuade Vinko of it, but he'd make his own mind up, like he'd always had to.

‘I'll go and put the kettle on,' she said. ‘Make us a cup of tea. We usually have dinner around seven; I hope you'll stay.'

She bustled into the kitchen, leaving Vinko to look round the trinkets and photos on the sideboard. He couldn't help weighing up the value of the smaller ornaments, or noticing two ten-pound notes beneath a glass paperweight. But he held back. Glancing around, he opened the top drawer a crack. Nothing but an assortment of mats and cloths. He quickly tried the rest of the drawers. No bank papers. He had never expected it to be that easy, and it was more of a relief than a disappointment; he still wasn't sure that was the reason he had come. He studied the photographs instead – a black and white wedding photo, presumably of Anja and Boris. A couple of portraits of a woman he thought must be the ‘sourface' Nicola Radcliffe had mentioned – his aunt, Novak's ex-wife, smiling now for the camera. A boy and a girl at various ages, he guessed his cousins, the most recent a similar age to himself. None of them included Novak, which was not surprising. Vinko was saddened, however, to see no sign of his father, not even as a boy. He sat back down, wondering whether he should have come. Presently he heard the back door open.

‘Boris, we've got a visitor. Wait, let me tell you…'

Footsteps sounded and the connecting door was pulled closed. He heard muffled voices, hers hushed, his deeper and louder. Vinko considered trying to listen through the closed door or slipping away out the front. He decided the first would be too risky and the second pointless. Inertia won and he sat looking across at the pictures that didn't include his father. The voices in the kitchen got more insistent, more heated, and he heard movement, braced himself for the door to burst open. Instead he heard the back door slam and heavy footsteps down the side of the house and out along the drive. He looked through the window and saw a stocky, balding figure in a blue anorak striding down the road.

Anja stood by the kitchen door looking apologetic.

‘He had to go out again; he'll be back to meet you later,' she said as she put a tray with tea and cakes on the table. ‘A friend of his—'

‘I know. He doesn't want me here. It's all right, I'll go before he gets back.'

‘You won't!' she said. ‘Only if you want to,' she added more gently. ‘This is my house too. I'll not have him turn you away so soon after I've met you.'

Her tears were welling up again and he felt embarrassed. He looked over to the sideboard.

‘Is he the reason why there are no pictures of my father?'

Anja nodded. ‘Shall I show you the letter your mother sent?' she asked as if by way of apology.

She disappeared upstairs and he heard the shuffling of things being moved. She returned with a yellowing envelope, the 52 Fairview Terrace address in hurried scrawl across the front and a German stamp and postmark. She removed the letter carefully and passed it to him. It was in the same hastily scribbled hand, apologising that his father had never written; he'd always intended to, and to visit them when the war was over. His mother told of their marriage, and how sorry she was to inform them of Ivan's death soon after in the fighting. She told them she'd fled to Germany with the help of a neighbour and would write again when the baby was born. It seemed she never had, and he wondered what Anja had thought for the last seventeen years. He was surprised to find his hand trembling and glanced at his grandmother. She was staring at the letter she must know by heart, shaking her head slowly.