The Polish Connection 11

Chapter 11

Sunday came, as it was bound to do, and I had to face a very hard decision. I knew I could not go to communion with a clear conscience. And I could not and would not go to confession to Father McSweeney, who of course would know my voice and therefore my sin, so I would have to just stay in my place at communion time.

How silly, I told myself. This is my life, and my body, and my conscience and nobody else’s business. But even while I was saying those things, I knew that scandal is often started over such a small thing and I knew that I could not keep up doing this each week and not have somebody notice and comment. So I decided that one day during the week, I would go to St. Mary’s Church in New Mills. I could get the train over and walk from there up to the church. The priest, Father McKenna, didn’t know me, and if I confessed there, nobody else would know and it would be all right again.

I asked the mother of one of Beth’s friends to babysit her and on Wednesday, knowing that they always had confessions before mass on that day, I plucked up my courage, went into the confessional and said, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I committed adultery. I am sorry. I really am sorry. I promise I won’t do it again.” And he gave me absolution and a rosary to say for my penance. So all was well with me and I could happily go to Communion the next Sunday, not worried that Father McSweeney or anyone else would find anything to comment on.

I had hardly spoken to Peter since the night it happened. I had done his wash and made his meals which I let him eat alone, but I was so frightened that if we talked again and were alone together in any sort of intimate way, it would happen again, and I could not let that occur.

He was hurt. Of course he was. He had offered me the best he had in the world, his love and himself. He no longer had a wife, so his sin was not nearly as bad as mine. He tried to get me to speak about it, but I just said, “I don’t have anything to say,” and would rush by him out of the room.

So life went on, and two weeks passed, and the situation was still strained and awkward between us. The children noticed, but I must say that when I had my usual menses I was so relieved that I knew that God had not dealt me the punishment that I so rightly deserved. How awful to think of a child as a punishment, but it would certainly have been a mixed blessing at the best.

One night, having put things downstairs for Peter as usual, I indicated that the door was unlocked and that he could come up, but nothing happened. I didn’t worry over much, but left the door unlocked all night, just in case he had had to work late and would come in later and require food.

The next morning it seemed as usual in the house, but as soon as Rebecca had gone off to school, I told Beth to play quietly for awhile and I went to the cellar. Nothing had been touched. Peter had not been back the night before. I took the food back upstairs and wondered what it could mean. I knew he wouldn’t leave Beth without a word to me. I knew that whatever had delayed him the night before was beyond his control. But just in case there was an explanation which might be forthcoming, I decided to leave the cellar just as I had the night before and see what would ensue.

The next morning, I was much more nervous as I went down the cellar steps. Again he had not appeared. Nothing had been touched that I had put out. I had several options to consider. He could have hurt himself en route to work or coming back home again. Since he travels by a seldom used pathway, perhaps nobody would have found him. I was annoyed with myself that I hadn’t thought of this the day before.

I had Beth dress in her warm clothes and boots, and I took her down the back path, down across the field, and to the stream area. We walked on the path, where others, as well as Peter, had gone along the stream in the past year. The grass was quite worn down. There was no body lying in the path, no sign of falling or blood or any indication of an accident anywhere. Feeling somewhat reassured, we retraced our steps back home. Of course he could have had a problem once he went on the footpath over towards Mill Brow, but many others used that path and if he had been hurt in that way, he would have been found.

I decided the next step that I would take would be to contact his employer. I needed to know if he had gone to work. So again bundling Beth up, she and I took the long walk over the fields to Primrose Mill to see Mr. Rammy, a beautiful walk when one was in the mood to appreciate it, but a very worrying one for me. I doubted if he had indicated to his employer that he had a lady friend and a child to worry about him – so I was in a way giving away our secrets by my actions - but I needed to know.

When I got to the mill, I asked to see the owner. Eventually Mr. Rammy came through the door and was very annoyed to find a woman and child waiting in his office. “Yes, what do you want?”

“Excuse me for taking up your time,” I said, “but I need to know if one of your employees, Mr. Peter Boutch, is at work and whether I could have a word with him. It is very important.”

“Huh, wouldn’t we both like to have a word with him? Never came in yesterday or the day before. I gave him a chance when many wouldn’t, but did he tell me he was leaving? He did not! So there, Madam, is your answer. Good day to you.”

We slowly made our way back home again across the fields. Beth knew I was upset and worried, and I shushed her when she startled to prattle about the rabbits she saw on the path. Then I thought how unkind I was, and hugged her. Her daddy was missing, but he would not have gone missing of his own accord. My next thought, and the one that had of course been at the back of my mind from the beginning was that he had been captured, and was now at some prisoner of war camp. He wouldn’t mention us of course. He wouldn’t want to involve me, thinking that his daughter might well be taken from us if the situation were known.

How does one go about finding out things like that? Who would know? Well, the first possibility was the police. And the police station  is very close to our house.

Rather than upset Beth more by dragging her on fruitless trips, I decided I would wait until Rebecca came home from school and was playing with her, and then I would continue my search.

Rebecca knew  that Peter was not around. I hadn’t gone into detail of my worries, but now I told her that he hadn’t gone to his work, and I hadn’t been able to see any trace of him. I told her I felt I must ask the police. She agreed to keep Beth amused and they went off to her room to play with her doll’s house, a large, home-made one that John had fashioned for her when she was Beth’s age.

The police station is just next door to St. Sebastian Church on Mellor Road. I had never been in it before, but I was aware of our three local bobbies who were often seen on their beats, especially at night. But when I got outside it, I turned back again. I knew that if I started asking questions they would know that I knew about Peter, and they might then investigate and find Beth and take her away too. I knew Peter would not want that to happen. He had not made an attempt to contact me, and that was probably for the same reason. So feeling totally inadequate to deal with the situation, I went back home, took all the items that had been used by Peter and put them back in their rightful places in the attic. I tried to think of anything that might incriminate me in any way, and not finding anything, sat down and tried to calm myself.

We ate our evening meal as normal. After Beth went to bed, I told Rebecca all that I knew, that I wasn’t sure how we should deal with Peter’s absence.

“Beth is used to not seeing him every day, or only for a few minutes in the middle of the night. Let’s just tell her he had to go away for awhile and will come back soon. I think that is the best we can do, and if we keep her happy, she won’t be too worried. And if we don’t act like we're upset, she will have no reason to think that something is wrong.”

I was pleased that my daughter could think so clearly and be level headed about it.

“Rebecca, do you think, by asking your teachers or someone like that that you could find out where they take prisoners of war? Maybe if we knew, we could write to him and send him parcels.”

“Well, it won’t hurt to ask, but I don’t suppose my friends or teachers know any more about it than we do.”

The next day I had a visit from one of our local bobbies. “Sorry to bother you Ma’am,” he said, “but one of your neighbours reported that he had seen a man lurking around the bushes at the back of your house awhile ago, and as we are obliged to follow this up. Could you tell me if you have seen anyone?”

“No, not at all,” I said, perhaps a bit too quickly.

“Would you mind if we just have a quick look around your back garden and in any outhouses you may have?”

“No, of course you may look,” I said, trying to look cooperative and interested in what he was saying.

So the policeman walked around the side and back garden, looking under every bush, and along the hedge at the back. And then he walked down the steps and into the cellar. I was so thankful that I had cleared up all evidence of Peter’s occupation. When he came back he said, “No, nothing suspicious that I can see there. But we will be keeping our eyes open and if you see anything at all out of line, please let us know.”

I agreed to that, and he moved off to visit the next house down the road. I had been hoping against hope that Peter would return, but now I hoped that he wouldn’t. If he hadn’t already been arrested, he certainly would be now, and I didn’t want Beth to witness something like that.

In the end the answer to my question about prisoners of war came to us from a different and completely unconnected source, the newspaper, The East Cheshire Herald. There was an article about some Germans who had lived in Hyde for twenty years and the husband had been taken to the Isle of Man where he was to be interned for the rest of the war. The article said they don’t intern women, but his wife and family had gone along to the Isle of Man and were living in Douglas, and could see him on visiting days. I made a note of the name of the woman who wrote the article and thought just perhaps we might be able to find out something through her.

Life went on, and the war went on. There were more articles about local men who had been killed in the war. In early December there was a ceremony in the middle of Marple and all the pictures of the soldiers from the area were displayed. I was so lucky that John was not in a war zone as such, but of course the war could spread from Turkey to Cyprus very easily, so his permanent safety was not guaranteed. His letters sounded cheerful enough and although he didn’t give away any real information about what he was doing, I knew that he would be one of the ones making the decisions about how the war in Turkey was being fought.

He did mention that they were not without some danger. Here is his latest letter.

Dearest Barbara, Rebecca and Beth,

Thank you so much for your letters and the photos. How wonderful to meet little Beth. I had somehow thought she would have been older, but I guess you never did specifically mention her age. Do you ever see or hear from her father? You never really answered my letter about getting him to make the arrangment more legal, so I am thinking that you haven't seen him recently. It is my guess that he might have been interned if he was caught, which is not as bad as being a prisoner of war, but of course it does mean a prison situation of a sort.

I don’t know how much information the papers carry about the war, or specifics of it but if you read about Cyprus don’t be worried. Our papers carried reports about masked gunmen lurking in the back streets. These are not true. The only excitement is an occasional bomb. In fact three of them went off today in the section next door. Only one was loud enough to hear from here and it didn’t even make the windows rattle. It all comes of employing civilians. We don’t do so here. There is a lot of anti-British feeling from both the Greeks and Turks. I conduct a search every day in all my tents so I don’t think I or my men shall be blown up in the near future.

I think of you often, and miss you very much. And of course I shall see you, all being well, for Christmas.

Love from John

I wrote back to John as I always do, and then I wrote to the journalist from the East Cheshire Herald, asking to know more about the internment camps, and eventually I had a note back from her. She told me the men were held at Douglas and also at two other camps. She said there was also a prisoner of war camp on the same island, but mostly prisoners of war were held in Scotland or other places on the mainland. She told me she didn’t know the specific address of the wife of the man who was interned. I rather suspected she really did know, but didn’t think it was any of my business.

The next day I wrote a very guarded letter to Peter.

Darling

We are safe and well and hope you are the same. If you can contact me, I suggest you write to me as the organist, in care of the church.

I addressed it to Peter Boutch, Isle of Man Internment Camp, near Douglas, Isle of Man. Then I went up to Marple to post it. I knew the local post mistress might well look at the envelopes of letters as they went out.

I rather thought it was a wild gesture, but didn’t see how if it went astray anything would come of it, except possibly an enquiry as to the whereabouts of Peter in this area. That would lead them to his former place of work, but he didn’t have to give a home address he said. His employment was not done officially, just cash in hand, with no paper work which pleased both him and his employer. We had never given Beth’s last name as Boutch, but always as Novak. Nothing specific seemed to come of the sighting of Peter with us in New Mills station, and the Grants had not seemed unfriendly or overly questioning of me when we met in the road after that. And we saw no more of the local police either. I think as far as the rest of the world was concerned, nothing of any importance had happened.