JAKOB
by
Roger Elliott
Teignmouth, Devon, England 1974
CHAPTER ONE
The flame red fire-tender screamed along the sea front weaving in and out of the almost static holiday traffic, it’s lights flashing and sirens screeching insistently, but the two grey donkeys plodding solidly along the beach, and old grey Jakob Kowalski leading them, didn’t seem to notice. The child on the first donkey did though, and turned excitedly to watch – and nearly fell off.
“Sit still, or you fall” said Jakob in a low cracked voice, but without much hope of effect. Eventually the fire-tender disappeared up the High Street and the child turned back, his hands gripping the small felt saddle again. Jakob looked down, watching his feet follow the well tramped path along the gritty sand, and returned to his private reverie.
God, how he hated Saturdays. Child after sticky child queuing up at the steps. He hadn’t stopped since ten o’clock this morning and, what, it must be nearly five now. And there were still some children waiting. It was all so damn boring. Not like the old days, the late 1950’s, or even most of the 60’s. At least there had been brass bands playing Sousa marches on the Promenade then. And illuminations. And bathing beauty contests. Even knobbly knee contests. Everything seemed more fun then. The children were cleaner then. And more polite. Even the parents had been more polite … and everyone seemed happier then. But now. Now everything was serious and good manners a rarity. Now the world had turned monochrome.
Jakob’s head hung low, his wind-polished face brown and expressionless. His tread was even and steady, regimented even. They neared Grand Pier and the two donkeys, Martha and Jim, started to turn of their own accord. Jakob turned with them, then with the wind behind them at last raised his head. The noise of the fire-engine was still audible, just. Jakob’s eyes focused as he saw the clouds of smoke. The fire must be somewhere in the west of town, somewhere near St James’. Somewhere near his house. Perhaps his Martha would hear the fuss. If so she’d be bound to go and see what was happening. She liked to see what was happening, did Martha. And then she’d tell him all about it this evening, in incredible detail. Not that she was a gossip, she’d be the first to explain, it was just that she took a very lively interest in what was happening in the world around her. But she didn’t tell him about it that night. She couldn’t. As the young policeman explained to him as he carefully stabled the donkeys, the fire had started in the basement, in the room they let out to a student from the local technical college. She had left her electric fire on whilst she popped out to the shops. To dry her washing. Something had caught, they weren’t sure what, but the flames soon took a hold. Martha wouldn’t have known much about it, the policeman said. She’d been asleep. In bed.
Jakob nodded. A migraine probably. Martha sometimes took to bed in the afternoon. But how did the policeman know she’d been asleep, Jakob wondered. Perhaps Martha had known all about it. Perhaps she’d been trapped as the flames roared up the house. Perhaps she had died in agony.
Jakob stared blankly out of the window of the police car as they drove him to his house, or rather what was left of it. His brain was churning, thoughts tumbling over themselves in turmoil, fighting for his attention. But he couldn’t concentrate on any one of them alone. Why had it happened? What was he going to do? Who should he tell? Had Martha suffered a lot? Or a little? And what about the funeral? What was he going to do now? Where was he going to sleep tonight? Why? How? Why?
Jakob sat back and closed his eyes. Suddenly the awful truth seemed to come into focus in his brain. Bright, clear and dreadful. Martha was dead. Gone. He would miss her enormously. Her chatter. Her easy presence. She had always looked after him well. Fed him. Washed for him. Kept the house spotless. They had always had an easy comfort together, and there had still been the occasional meaningful fumble under the eiderdown on a Friday night. But there would be no more fumbling. He would sleep alone now.
The police car slowed as it approached the smoking remains of his house. The fire-tender was still there, it’s crew coiling up damp hoses, and a sizeable crowd was being held back by two policemen. Jakob noticed several people he knew in the crowd, neighbours, their faces surprisingly unconcerned. This seemed to them no different than watching the television news, only slightly more interesting because they knew the victim. They watched as Jakob was helped out of the car and lead towards the house. He was head and shoulders shorter than the young policeman that escorted him : short, square, solid. Not fat, solid. And fit for his age. Well, he did walk about five miles a day, and on sand too.
Jakob stood silently looking at the smouldering remains of what had been his greatest pride and joy. An Englishman’s home is his castle. And Jakob was an Englishman, whatever his neighbours said, and had been ever since he fled here just before the war. Just because his spoken English still wasn’t too fluent, how good was their Polish, eh? He’d done his fair bit for this country, and more than many. He’d flown Bristol Beaufighters in the war as part of 307 Squadron, the Polish Night Fighter Squadron known as the Eagle Owls. And been wounded, though admittedly not in the air - he was shot in the leg by a german Meschersmitt as it straffed the pleasant green field near Exeter they called an aerodrome. Jakob had been caught in the open running back from the woods where he’d been seeing Martha. The alarm had sounded, and he had left her and run. But not fast enough.
The wound hadn’t been too bad, but it did stop him flying for a time and he missed the Squadron’s most memorable action during the Baedeker raids on Exeter in May ‘42. But every cloud has a silver lining – a phrase Jakob was ever fond of quoting – and Martha had nursed him back to health. Just as she had then nursed him to the altar. And now she was gone, and no amount of nursing would bring her back.
Jakob’s glance wandered over the building before him, or rather the sad smouldering remains of the building. More of the shell of the house was left standing than he had expected, but it was totally gutted. Charred and useless and ugly. Two blackened roof timbers crossed gaunt against the evening sky like a giant
crucifix in the mist. Jakob watched as the rising steam and smoke curled and twisted around it like some ethereal body caressing the blackened blistered wood. Jakob stared at this sorry scene for some time, then crossed himself, his lips moving in silent prayer. Martha would have liked that. He hadn’t prayed for more years than he cared to remember so why was he doing so now, when it was too late? Prayers he knew could never be answered.
At last the policeman’s voice penetrated. “Let’s go” he said. Jakob nodded and allowed himself to be lead back to the car. The crowd was still there, waiting and watching. And surprisingly silent.
“We have to go to the hospital to identify the body. Then, if you can face it, we’d like a short statement, and we’d better go to the station for that. Then we’ll take you wherever you want to go. Do you have anywhere you can stay tonight? A daughter perhaps?”
“No children” said Jakob, and sat back in the car once more. No children. And who’s fault had that been? His probably. He hadn’t wanted children at first. He had too much to do, too much to prove, and it was a struggle to make your way in a foreign country. They had had to move often, to take any opportunity that arose, to travel light. Martha had understood, or so she said, but had always stopped outside any shop selling prams or baby clothes, just to remind him what she was giving up. Emotional blackmail, he called it. Eventually they had settled. A steady job. Reasonable money. And a small house of their own. But by then Martha was too old, or so the doctor said when he explained her two miscarriages, and told them they shouldn’t try anymore. Martha had cried that night. Silently. Her body had shaken sudden shivers under the sheets as her tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. Jakob had watched helpless. And he had cried too.
The mortuary at the hospital was surprisingly warm and bright, with Constable prints on the walls and blue carpet on the floor in the waiting room. And the cup of tea the policeman gave him was exactly how he liked it, strong and sweet. After he had drunk the tea Jakob was lead into the inner sanctum and solemnly identified Martha’s body. She wasn’t as badly burnt as he had expected. She had suffocated from the smoke and fumes, according to the doctor, so that’s why. Jakob nodded. The attendant made to cover the body with the green cotton sheet, but Jakob stopped him. A moment please. Alone. The policeman nodded and he, and the attendant, left the room.
Jakob looked down at Martha for some time. Her hair was a bit burnt in places and crinkly in others, but otherwise her face was almost unmarked. She really did look asleep, not dead. Jakob leant down and kissed her cold lips softly. Then pulling back the sheet he looked at her scarred and sadly blistered body and his eyes filled with tears and his shoulders shook. There before him was the soft, rounded and full body he had caressed so often. He reached out to touch her again, but stopped. His hand dropped to his side. Where was his Martha, her eyes full of fire and fun? Where the laughter? Where the life?
The door opened softly behind him, and Jakob felt rather than heard the others come back in. He dropped the sheet and followed the policeman out of the room in silence. He was still in a daze as he signed the various forms, and was handed her rings.
It was an hour later, after further formalities at the Police Station, that Joseph’s mind at last focused in anything remotely like a useful way.
“Where do you want us to take you” asked another policeman, the first having gone off duty. “You obviously can’t go home.” Where indeed? Jakob thought for a moment, then asked to be taken to his stables behind the old cinema on the seafront. He had to check on the donkeys anyway, then he’d go on somewhere from there.
* * * *
Jakob took even longer than usual bedding down the beasts that night. His movements were awkward and un-coordinated, but his brain was racing and more constructively this time. The first initial shock was over : dulled but not gone. Jakob was a practical man, always had been, and he knew he had to make some decisions. He would stay here tonight, in the stables. He could make up a straw bed in the corner. The weather was still warm. He’d be fine. Then tomorrow he could sort out where to go on a more permanent basis.
He stroked Jim’s ears, and gave him some extra hay, then moved to Martha’s stall. Whatever had possessed him to call his donkey after his wife? It seemed ridiculous now. Had she taken it as a compliment, he wondered? It was certainly meant as one. His donkeys were his life, and their livelihood. He spent more hours with them than his wife. And certainly would now. He talked to them, joked with them. They knew his innermost thoughts, and his secrets. Not that he had many secrets worth the telling. He stood silently by Martha as she chomped on her fresh hay, and for the second time that day tears ran silently down the deep valleys of his face. He stood like that for a full ten minutes, or more. Martha finished her hay and, moving to her bucket to drink, bumped into Jakob and woke him from his thoughts. He looked about him, almost surprised to find himself still in the stable. It was dark outside now, a light summer drizzle was falling, or rather floating, through the air. Jakob suddenly felt cold, and tired. He quickly piled some fresh straw in a corner, found himself an old horse-blanket, and snuggled down.
The gentle movements and steady breathing of the donkeys were a comfort as he lay there but, tired as he was, he couldn’t sleep so he tried to sort out his life. His lovely Martha was dead. Fact. The house was gone. Fact. He had nowhere to go, nowhere to live. Fact. And nobody to look after him, cook for him, wash for him. Fact. So, what was he going to do? He decided he could stay in the stable for the rest of the summer, what was left of it, but then he would have to find somewhere else. A proper home. But even then he’d have to learn to look after himself. He was sure he could, though he hadn’t cooked or washed laundry for himself for as long as he could remember. Martha was very protective about things like that. She was of a generation that considered cooking and cleaning woman’s work. And was proud of it.
“Leave that Jakob, that’s my job” she’d say, and usher him out of the kitchen to sit and rest and read his evening paper. So after a time he’d stopped offering. It seemed to suit them both that way. Jakob wondered now what Martha had thought of Feminism or Women’s Lib. They had never talked about it. There were so many things they had never talked about. Oh, they had talked about the weather and how it would affect the tourists and business, and Martha had always filled him in on all the local gossip such as the time Rita, her hairdresser, had had an affair with two members of a visiting church group, but they had never talked seriously. About Religion. Or Philosophy. Or Literature. Literature. How their tastes had differed when it came to reading. Martha, like many with her upbringing and with her predictable daily round of domestic chores, favoured romances and the slighter and more unlikely it seemed the better. Jakob liked detective thrillers, and had read all of Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle and had then moved onto Len Deighton and Ed McBain. These days he liked even darker murder mysteries and often prided himself that he knew the killer before he was told.
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“Then what’s the point of reading them, if you know who’s done it?” Martha asked. How could he begin to explain it was the ‘how’ as well as the ‘who’ that fascinated him?
As he lay there thinking Jakob began to realise just how much Martha had done for him. How well she had looked after him. And before Martha there had been the Air Force. And before that his mother … and grandmother. It was with a sense of shock, and more than a hint of panic, he realised he had never been alone. Truly alone. But now he was.
He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, seeking it’s rough warmth, and tried to sleep. Yes, he’d stay here for now. It was comfortable enough and he wouldn’t be putting anybody out, asking no favours. And it would give him time to sort things out. The house. The insurance. The funeral.
The funeral. Martha had once said she would like to be cremated. He remembered it was while they were watching Gandhi’s funeral pyre blazing in the film on television. So clean and tidy, she said. But could Jakob possibly have her cremated now, after what had happened? Somehow it just didn’t seem right. He couldn’t decide just now, but he’d have to soon. Very soon. He’d start with the insurance. And he’d start on that tomorrow. His eyes felt heavy at last. His muscles relaxed and he fell asleep as the drizzle turned silently into rain.
* * * *
The next morning Jakob woke stiff and cold. Perhaps staying in the stable wasn’t such a good idea after all? What was he now, 59? Surely that wasn’t too old? He was still reasonably fit. God knows he walked far enough on a busy day. True he was shorter of breath than he used to be, and his knees ached in winter, specially a wet winter, but he was much the same weight now as he had been for the last twenty years and he still had his hair. Well, most of it at least, greying though it was. And all of his own teeth.
He felt better once he was up and had washed at the solitary cold tap. He even stripped to the waist and splashed the cold water over his short stocky frame, matting his greying chest hairs to his skin. He dried himself on the blanket, then hung it outside to dry. The sun was up, but not yet shining into the small yard outside the stable. Jakob dressed in the only clothes he now possessed, then set about making himself his first cup of tea of the day. Thank goodness he had put electricity in all those years ago. Martha had thought it a great extravagance he now remembered. Electricity in a stable? Why? What for, she asked. Do donkeys read? Do they watch television? He had tried to explain, but she had never really understood but he was thankful for it now.
Martha had said she would have preferred a holiday, but she had got her way too. The following year they had gone away on a proper holiday. To Poland. Both of them. He had shown her where he had been born, and where he grew up. The school he went to – now a library with a shortage of books – and his mother’s grave in the small but wonderfully kept cemetery on the edge of town … and how surprised but thrilled he had been to see fresh flowers on her grave. Who from, he never found out. But someone remembered her, and that had cheered him.
He realised, looking back, that he had been longing to return to Poland for years, to share it and his childhood with Martha, but the country had closed borders at the time and travel was difficult. It was only when Edward Gierek came to power in 1970 that things changed and travel became possible, both in and out. But when they eventually got there the country he remembered had changed so much he hardly recognised it and he felt almost uncomfortable there, out of place. That’s when he had truly become British, in himself, inside. He realised, much to his surprise and no little disappointment that he had little in common with the people living still in his homeland. All his close family were dead, so what was there for him in Poland now? All he wanted to do was to get back to England, to Teignmouth, to his donkeys.
Martha had seemed to enjoy it though, to enjoy the fact it was all so different and strange for her. And it must have been. Poland in 1971 must have been radically different to her hard but happy working-class upbringing in Blackburn, and the whatever class they were of their present existence in Devon. But, even though he didn’t feel part of it anymore, he had been proud of it. Poland. Proud of it’s people. There was obvious poverty everywhere they went, but little sadness or depression, and even less self-pity. Rather there was an underlying pride and strength that he would never forget and Martha would never understand. That was the last time they had been on holiday, or rather the last time they had been abroad. They had been to her sister in Hove for a week since then, and another time they had gone for a winter weekend break to a small hotel in the Lake District. It had rained from the moment they got there till the moment they left. Really rained. No romantic silver drizzle enhancing the colours of the hills and rainbows over Windermere, but solid walls of greyness. They had seen nothing of the lakes, but at least the food in the hotel had been good, the beer excellent and the log fires welcoming. They had enjoyed that break, at least Jakob had though it would have been nice to see something of the countryside other than just the fading postcards they bought from the rack at Reception.
At last the kettle sang its song by the door of the stable and Jakob made himself a mug of strong tea. The sun had now found its way into the small yard outside and Jakob carried his mug out and sat on a straw bale to drink his hot sweet cuppa.
The quiet was surprising considering how near the sea-front he was, and how much traffic would already be clogging up the Promenade. But here, in his little yard, all that seemed miles away. Jakob leant back against the dark rough wood of the stable. He felt better this morning, his mind less muddled, not that he had sorted out anything significant overnight. It was just that he could think more clearly now. He’d go and see his bank manager in a moment, and talk to him : he had always been helpful, and sound of advice. Then he would go to the offices of his insurance company about the house. And lastly he would go to the undertakers. And yes, Martha could have her wish and be cremated. Why not? Fire had killed her, and fire would take her now. And then … then he would go for lunch at the Red Lion and have a good hot meal. But after that, this afternoon, what then? Who knows. It depends on the weather.
Well, the weather was fine and Jakob felt good after a lunch of steak and kidney pie and two pints of Guinness. The sun was still shining, the sky was blue with a few fully rounded white clouds drifting above. The breeze from the sea was stiff, but not unpleasant, and Jakob decided to go to work. Jim and Martha would enjoy the exercise, they got restless if they were stuck in the stable for too long, so he saddled up and lead them through the alleyway to the sea-front. They crossed the road at the traffic-lights and went gingerly down the steps onto the sand. Almost immediately a queue of children started forming, their grubby faces smiling and laughing. Somehow they didn’t seem so bad today, or perhaps Jakob just had other things on his mind.
Man, and donkeys, soon got into their rhythm, and the even steady pace seemed to help him think. The morning’s meetings had not been that encouraging. The undertakers had been alright and would organise everything, though they seemed determined to make it a bigger affair than he felt was needed or he wanted. When they had asked him how many ‘guests’ would be coming to the service he had been hard pressed to think of any. There were a few of Martha’s friends that would want to come of course, but only five or six. Still, all that would sort itself out in the fullness of time.
But the meetings with the bank manager, and the insurance company, were another story. Jakob had not realised that his old bank manager had recently retired and when Jakob was ushered into the small ‘consulting room’ to meet the new one, a tall thin man with weak eyes and a disturbing taste in ties, he could not believe how young he was. The bank manager had offered Jakob his condolences and then proceeded to explain his financial position to him in words of one syllable, each pronounced in slow ringing tones. I’ve been living here for more than thirty years Jakob had thought to himself, about as long than this man has been alive, and still he treats me as an ignorant immigrant. Or deaf.
The bank manager had little to tell Jakob of any great consequence. His financial resources were exactly as he had thought, but then Jakob had always been careful with money – he had never had enough to be otherwise - but at least the situation was no worse than he had expected. Jakob had signed a few papers on which the words ‘The Decease of a Co-Signatory’ appeared and had then moved on to the insurance company. Here the news had not been so good, and much more surprising. Jakob had obviously not been as careful here as he thought. His insurance had not been index or inflation linked and the insurance company maintained that he was seriously under-insured, especially with the slow but steady rise in house values of recent years. But what exactly did that mean? Well, the matter would have to be carefully considered before any settlement could be made.
‘But’ Jakob reasoned ‘surely if I have underinsured it means that I lose. Not you. You give me what the insurance is for, which I agree is less than the house was worth, but I can not argue’.
‘I am afraid its not as easy as that. If you have under-insured, whether on purpose or not, it may affect our company’s liability. And then the extent of the damage has to be assessed. The house still holds a certain value, even thought it is in a bad state, and all that takes time I’m afraid.’
‘How long?’ asked Jakob.
‘Oh, at least three or four weeks. Maybe quite a bit longer. I’m just not sure at the moment.’
I’ll never believe a television commercial again, thought Jakob, as he left the company’s stylish office. I thought they were supposed to battle over mountains and through hell fire to give me the money before the ashes were cold. Oh well, three or four weeks, he could wait that long but how much he would get, that was more of a worry. And he had to admit the argument against under-insurance still confused him.
Martha and Jim turned and started on their way back to the steps, pulling Jakob round with them. He sometimes wondered why he even bothered to walk with them, they knew the route so well. Still, the sun was warm, the sea breeze sweet, and the walking had eased his stiff muscles. Or maybe that was the Guinness. Whichever, there must be worse ways of earning a living.
It was nearly six weeks before he next heard from the insurance company. The weeks had passed quietly, and quite quickly. He had made himself a fairly comfortable nest in the stables, and had become an honoured regular in the Red Lion at lunchtimes. Even the cremation had not been as traumatic as he had expected. Martha’s few friends had been very comforting, and he had had several offers of meals cooked for him, hot baths, and even an occasional bed for the night when needed, but he had assured them all that he was alright. Snug as a bug in a rug. He loved English phrases like that, even though they had caused him no end of trouble when learning the language at nightschool. But they had a charm all of their own.
The undertakers had done a good job. All went smoothly, and he had invited the few ‘guests’ back to the top room at the Red Lion. Only four had come, and they hadn’t stayed long. Still, he felt he had done what was expected of him and that Martha could rest in peace. After that he felt no obligations to anybody. For the first time in years he was alone. Free to do what he wanted, when he wanted. He had loved Martha. Not a burning passionate love, not after this many years, but rather a gentle comforting love, a quiet understanding love borne of years of close proximity, a love of smiles and glances. He would miss her, he knew that, and maybe even more than he would have imagined, but it was nice being alone. He could give way to his moods rather than suppress them to do what was expected of him.
For two days after the cremation he had done nothing. Not literally of course, he had read a book, walked on the beach, and visited the Red Lion at lunchtime. But he had talked to nobody, not been to work, and pleased nobody but himself. After that he had taken Martha and Jim back onto the beach. They needed the exercise, and he needed the money. The days passed well enough and Jakob had but one worry – what to do and where to go for the winter. He had decided that he couldn’t make a final decision until he knew the outcome of the insurance claim, and then, after nearly six weeks the letter came. And it wasn’t good news.
‘Dear Mr Kalowski’ read Jakob. Not the most auspicious start, getting his name wrong. Maybe they were writing to the wrong man. ‘After due deliberation and full examination of your claim the decision has been made that, due to your being so seriously under-insured your claim can not be met in full. Taking into account the condition of the building concerned, and the value that still resides in it, we can make a settlement offer of no more than 40 per cent of your claim…
Jakob sat down. Only 40 per cent! But what does that really mean? Jakob rummaged in his pocket for a pencil and a scrap of paper. That means that though the house was worth £85,000 because he was insured for £70,000 that they were offering … £28,000. Could that be right? Yes, 40 per cent of £70,000 is £28,000. That’s not fair. That’s just not fair.
Jakob wandered into the stable, fumbled under the blanket in his sleeping corner and pulled out a half bottle of scotch. He had taken to having a small night-cap before bed now the evenings were getting colder. Jakob unscrewed the cap and took a long swig, then sat down and read the letter again, hoping he was mistaken. But no, he had read it correctly. That’s what they were offering. 40 per cent. Of course, until he knew what the remains of the house was worth he didn’t know for certain how bad a deal this was. He would have to check that tomorrow. But it still didn’t feel right.
Jakob sat there for another hour. Little was achieved in this time, if you don’t count the consumption of most of the bottle, but Jakob did make one major decision. A decision that was to affect the rest of his life. He decided life was a bitch, and that he was a victim being shat on from a great height, but that the chances of his fighting back against the superior powers of the insurance company, and bloody bureaucracy in general, with any effect or with any serious chance of success were negligible. Therefore, he decided, he would take the money without further delay. He would also sell the remains of the house. A couple of developers had already given him their business cards so he’d play them off against each other and get as much from them as he could.
And then? Well, from then on it would be Jakob Kowalski alone against the rest of the world. Bugger the lot of them. He owed them nothing. He’d paid his dues. And as for his winter quarters, he’d keep on the move. That’s what he’d do. He’d take Martha and Jim and travel. Why not? Travellers did it, so why shouldn’t he? He’d buy a tent and anything else he needed. At least he had plenty of money for that. Then he would just go wherever the whim took him. One donkey could carry the tent and all the other things, and he could ride the other. It was a perfect plan. And what’s more, it would be an adventure!
The more Jakob thought about this, the more the idea appealed to him. He could do what he liked. Go where he liked. When he liked. He was a free man. He had no commitments, except the donkeys and they were going to go with him. So that’s what he’d do then. Definitely. He raised the bottle to his lips and drained the last of the scotch. ‘To the future’ he murmured.
He lumbered stiffly to his feet and moved into the comparative darkness of the stable. Martha and Jim were standing silently inside, their tails occasionally switching against the last of the summer’s flies. Jakob watched them for a moment, then raised the empty bottle to them in a toast.
‘To adventure’.