Page 38 of The Dark of the Moon
Then Philly told me something else interesting that she did quite recently, even after she stopped working as a War Detective.‘You remember what I told you about Gwido Langer, the Polish Bureau Chief?’ she said.
‘Yes. He was buried in a cemetery in Perth, the city in Scotland, not Australia, because he was made to feel ashamed about not getting the other people in his team out of France earlier and losing some of them.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, well remembered! Well, I met up with Maksymilian again at the unveiling of a memorial at Bletchley Park to commemorate the contribution the Polish codebreakers had made to cracking Enigma way back at the start of the war. It just has three names on it: Marian Rejewski, Henryk Zygalski and Jerzy Rózycki. The others who had spent those years at Cadix, deciphering other coded messages and making sure they were sent to the Allies, still go unrecognised. But at least those three are now remembered at Bletchley, tucked into a corner of the grounds between the huts and the Cottage where I met Dilly Knox. Yes, Maks was there that day, for the unveiling, and we had time to talk afterwards. We spoke of Gwido Langer, and I told him I had visited Gwido’s grave in the cemetery in Perth, where he lay with so many other Polish servicemen, and put a red and white wreath there. Maks told me Gwido’s family in Poland really wanted people to know that the story wasn’t as it had been made out to be. He had always tried to do his best for the whole team at the château, but they were so dependent on the French. The delay in getting out wasn’t Gwido’s fault. He’d been so courageous, too, when he was captured, interrogated and then sent to Sachsenhausen. He’d always kept the secret and protected not just his own team but the whole codebreaking operation for the Allies. It was a terrible injustice that he was laid to rest in the corner of a foreign graveyard where his family couldn’t visit him easily.’
She paused, looking at me to make sure I was still listening, which of course I was. ‘That conversation put the wheels in motion.I was able to contact the powers that be in Britain, to help Gwido’s family in their petition to have his body exhumed and brought home to Poland. And so, at last, in 2010 he was given a state funeral in his hometown of Cieszyn, with full military honours.’
She stopped again, and I could see she was remembering because it’s important, so I didn’t interrupt to ask her any questions.
‘It was December and the snow was falling,’ she said. ‘Big wet flakes that bowed the branches of the cypresses lining the path through the graveyard. We walked behind the cavalcade of soldiers, one of them carrying a photo of Gwido, just as I remembered him from the château. So many people turned out to pay their respects: those of us who were left – his old comrades – but many young people too. We stood at the graveside as they played the Last Post and the snow fell faster, drawing a veil across the hills beyond the town. Once the army and his family had laid their wreaths on the grave, I left a bouquet of white roses and chrysanthemums, tied with a red and white ribbon.’ She sighed. ‘They know how to do things properly, the Polish military.’
‘So did it give Gwido Langer’s family Closure?’ I asked her, because she’d finished talking.
She blinked, looking at me as if she’d forgotten I was there. Sometimes she seems to be remembering things so deeply that she does that. Her eyes go all misty.
‘Why, yes Finn, I believe it did.’
‘And now they have a place they can go, to remember him properly.’
She smiled and her eyes were brighter again. ‘Exactly.’
And then we both said at precisely the same time, ‘It’s so important.’ That made us laugh, and then it was time to make our Marmite sandwiches for lunch.
When Dad came home after supper that evening, he said the sailing camp was going very well. ‘Tomorrow is the last-but-one day, so would you like to come and do some dinghy sailing, Finn? The forecast is good, not too much wind so conditions should be perfect, and you can go out on your own if you prefer not to be with the others.’
I thought about it for a bit. Even just thinking about being with the other kids and the large boy’s mother who had said those things about me made me feel a bit sick again. Then Philly said, very quietly, ‘You know, I should love to get out on to the water again one day. It’s been years since I was in a boat.’
‘I could take you tomorrow, if you like,’ I said. Because I knew she would sit still and not do anything upsetting.
‘I’d love that.’
And so we made a plan to go in the car with Dad the next morning and Take Part in the sailing camp for 1 day, at least.
Philly
I have to pinch myself to believe I am really doing it. Me, in my nineties and minus a limb, being helped into a Laser dinghy and setting off into the Atlantic with Finn at the helm! I can see how much it means to Dan. He shot me such a look of gratitude last night when I said how much I’d like to sail again. I haven’t been out on the water since once of my grandchildren insisted on taking me once, when we were on a family holiday in the Inner Hebrides. It must have been ... well, I stopped trying to work it out in the end. Decades ago!
I can see what a success the sailing camp has been. The kids have obviously come on in leaps and bounds in terms of their confidence and the skills they’ve gained. I watched as they put on their life jackets and helmets and rigged the little fleet of Toppers and Lasers that Dan had managed to assemble for the day, and even though their expressions bore traces of the tension and anxiety that are such a big part of their daily lives, there were no dramas. Finn also looked tense as he prepared our Laser, and he steered well clear of the others, but at least he was there, joining in as best he could.
I was helped into the dinghy by Dan and Iain, feeling clumsy and awkward, already regretting this reckless folly, then I sat myself down in the well of the boat, trying to avoid the centreboard and keeping out of the way of the boom. I’m not exactly agile when itcomes to tacking and jibing, but at least I can shift my weight a little from side to side when instructed to do so. I’m impressed to see how capable Finn is. He scoots back and forth as we zigzag our way out of the harbour mouth and into the open sea.
How exhilarating it is to feel the breeze catch the sail and the boat start to gather speed. I tilt my face to the sky and feel the years slip from my shoulders as I let the wind whisk away the tears that have begun leaking from my eyes. It’s partly the dazzle of the sunlight on the waves, partly the emotion. I feel like I’m flying again. In my mind, I hear Teddy telling me to take the controls of the first training plane I ever went up in with him, flying out over the Firth of Forth and the rust-red spans of the rail bridge; I hear Amy’s laugh as she exchanges a few words with one of the mechanics before swinging herself into the cockpit of an Oxford she’ll be delivering; and I see Ben’s face, looking just as he looked on the first day he took me up as my instructor, back in the days of my ATA training, his eyes smiling back at me, making my stomach loop the loop. They are all there with us as we fly out across the water, seabirds swooping and wheeling in an ever-changing formation of wingmen above the mast.
I dab at my leaky eyes and glance at Finn, making sure he isn’t being made anxious by my reaction, but he’s as fully focused on the task in hand as he always is, concentrating on reading the tell-tales, making sure the little strands of green and red cotton are streaming straight back evenly on either side of the sail.
The wind is with us as we sail out to the first marker buoy and tack to round it.
‘That’s Fort Boyard over there,’ Finn says, pointing. ‘They’ll be going there with the big boat tomorrow.’ If I squint, I can just make out a grey smudge on the horizon. I smile and nod as he pulls on the tiller, adjusting our new course towards the next buoy. I glance back to see the other boats following in our wake, and Dan and Iainnot far off, holding back in the rescue boat. Like Finn, the other children’s faces are a picture of focus and concentration, but the wind and the sun and the salt spray seem to have gently erased the tension and wariness from their expressions.What a good thing you have done, Dan, I think to myself.What an achievement.
By the time we return to the harbour, my body has seized up with the stiffness of unaccustomed activity. Dan and Iain have to haul me to my feet, and I limp over to perch on a low section of wall and attempt to regain a little of my dignity. I watch the children sort out the boats, with minimal instructions from the adults.
‘Are you feeling OK, Philly?’ Dan asks, approaching with Finn at his side once they’ve finished. ‘It wasn’t too much for you?’
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ I say. ‘Finn, you were brilliant! Thank you for taking me out. I hope I wasn’t too much of a hindrance.’
‘No,’ he says, his face deadpan. ‘You were quite good ballast, actually.’
Dan draws a sharp intake of breath, and I can see he’s about to take Finn to task. But I put my hand on his arm to stop him, and he smiles instead as I guffaw with laughter, saying, ‘Glad to be of service in the ballast department any time, Skipper.’
