Page 36 of The Way We Are Now

‘You know, was there any reason you’d have made this up about me to get me in trouble? Had we been in a relationship ourselves and I’d ended it and you were out for revenge?’

‘To be fair, Theo, he and the woman officer did ask me the same thing.’

‘So, yes, the name Piasecki is somewhat lodged in my brain. And your dad? With a name like Piasecki, I assume he’s not from Yorkshire?’

‘Poland. Warsaw. He escaped both the Russians and then the Nazis and managed to make his way here and fought for the Brits. Not an easy time for Jews in wartime Europe.’

‘He’s Jewish?’ Theo turned to look at me fully. ‘So, you’re Jewish as well?’

‘You obviously know nothing about Judaism,’ I scoffed. ‘In order for me to be Jewish, my mum would have had to be Jewish. And she has no religion. Dad goes off to the synagogue in Sheffield or Leeds every so often, but both he and my mum reckon people – and kind people at that – are more important than following any dogma.’ I was rather proud of that word and had been known to flash it about. Perhaps, in all honesty, a bit too much.

‘Sounds an interesting bloke,’ Theo said.

‘Well, I think so. Very bright, but with little formal education. He’s really musical,’ I added. ‘Can hear a tune and next minute he’s bashing it out on the piano…’ I trailed off. ‘You were supposed to be telling me about your family, and we ended up talking about mine again. Tell me about them.’

Theo gave a little shrug. ‘Oh, the usual. You know.’

‘No, tell me.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why do you want to know about me?’ Theo smiled, reaching a hand towards my hair once more. Another bloody ladybird? He took a long strand of my dark hair, simply winding it round a finger before replacing it behind my ear. ‘You’ve beautiful hair, Anna Piasecki…’ He sat back, looking at me almost as if considering me. ‘Anna…?’

‘Hmm?’

‘No, nothing… nothing. Look, I need to be getting back…’ He hesitated. ‘Do you come back over to Leeds at all?’

‘Not really. I have to keep in touch with lecturers; should be deciding what modules I’m taking next year.’ I hesitated. ‘The thing is, after what happened to Fliss, I can’t say I’m looking forward to going back in September.’

‘Are you not in touch with those girls in your house?’

I shook my head. ‘Not really. I do need to be thinking about my final year. Thinking about what career I want. It’s all right studying politics, but you can’t just go and apply to be an MP as a job.’ I laughed. ‘And then there’s the thing about accommodation. I just keep putting it off. My friend Frank did say he’d put the word out for me.’

‘Frank?’

‘He’s on my course but not taking a year out. That’s the problem with taking a year out, once you return, many of the people you know have left and have scattered to London or abroad. Anyway, Frank cycles over now and again.’

Fairly regularly actually. Well, he did, until he realised I was in a relationship with John Dyson. He’d sulked a bit and I’d not seen him after that.

‘Cycled from Leeds to Rothersley?’ Theo whistled. ‘He must be keen.’

When I didn’t respond, he stood, brushing grass from his jeans and reaching out a hand to pull me up. ‘You OK walking on that foot? You’ve one hell of a blister there.’

‘I’m fine. Goodness, I can’t believe it’s after nine,’ I added, glancing at my watch.

‘You must be hungry,’ Theo said. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve kept you from dinner.’

I smiled. ‘It’s tea round here. Mum will have kept something with a plate over in the oven.’

‘How lovely.’ I glanced sideways at him as we walked; realised the words were said without any sense of mockery or derision.

We walked in silence back to the car, knowing that once he’d dropped me at home and made his way back to the M1 and on to Leeds, I would have no contact with him, probably ever again. We made only desultory conversation during the twenty-minute drive back to my village. I just wanted the return journey, my senses overloaded with the very essence of Theo Mandeville, to go on forever. I tried to be sensible, tell myself we had nothing in common, that there could never be anything between the daughter of a Polish Jewish miner and the son of some posh bloke from landed gentry in North Yorkshire.

‘Take a left here,’ I instructed. ‘Now right. And we’re the house at the end of the road.’

Theo pulled up outside the last house of the red-bricked terrace. A couple of kids loomed out of the dusk, their bikes without lights, circling the Mini, interested to see who was parked outside the Piaseckis’. I’d always really liked our house, liked the cosiness, the warm welcome, the kettle on as soon as I stepped through the door, coming home to Mum and Dad and Fred, our elderly mutt. But I suddenly saw it for what it was: a small, somewhat shabby end terrace with a tiny front garden, both the red-painted door and windows in need of a bit of TLC.