Sometimes, when I wake in the night, I think that the man lying beside me is Jan. 

It’s midwinter and the cold night air chills me to the bone, as it did during that dreadful winter of 1981, when I used to keep warm by pressing myself against Jan’s warm body.  In his sleep, he would wrap his arm around my back, at the same time, kissing my face, my neck, my shoulder, my breast... whichever part of me was nearest.

They are now doing road-works a few streets away, the workmen starting up their machinery early in the morning, and, in my dreams, I hear the shipyard cranes and the soft clunk of Jan shutting the door to the flat as he leaves for work.  But, when I wake and see my familiar bedroom, the white, panelled fitted wardrobe and dressing-table, the door to the en-suite bathroom and the clothes I slung off last night, I remember that I am a middle-aged, middle-class, respectable married woman, with four almost grown-up children and a successful career.  And, I don’t feel hungry.  Nothing could simulate the gnawing emptiness in my stomach, or the consuming, aching exhaustion, the hot, prickly needles under my eyelids… or the excitement.  I slept very little in those days.  There was something happening all the time. 

My friends and family know about my past, of course.  I’ve never sought to conceal anything, but I don’t think my children, for instance, believe that Mum ever did all those things, or what I did was in any way significant.  As my youngest son says, “Stuff happens”.  I have now become very conventional, enjoying country walks which end in quaint little tea-shops.

Last Sunday, I came across one of those signs which the Council has taken to writing in Polish as well as English, for the many migrant workers, I suppose.  Michael and I were taking a walk along a muddy path and our youngest daughter, Charlotte, was with us, as we had just picked her up from her friend's house.   I read it aloud, lingering on every syllable and savouring my assimilation of consonants. 

Charlotte walked several paces away.

I raised my eyebrows, in anticipation of the typical, “Mum, you’re so embarrassing,” but she met my stare and thought the better of it.

“Remember that every drop of blood in my veins is Polish,” I said.  “Grandad came over in 1939 and fought in the RAF Polish Squadron.  My mother… your grandmother, who you’ve never met… was in Auschwitz and, when the war was over, she came to England.”

“But you’re British, Mum,” she said.  “You’ve got a British passport, just like us.”

“I've got a horrid, red, EU passport actually,” I said, dodging the issue.  “I remember when we used to have those proper, blue British passports.”

We got in the car to go home.  I insisted on driving.  I get impatient when I'm in the passenger-seat and now I wanted to get home to make the evening meal, do the ironing while it was cooking, and have everything eaten and cleared away before the classic serial on BBC2 at nine o'clock.  It was “Middlemarch” and I'm a great George Eliot fan.  As we got on to the bypass, I put my foot down on the accelerator, enjoying the speed as we whizzed past the countryside at well over eighty.  I slowed down just before the speed cameras, though.  I hate speed cameras.  I have written a lot of the subject of speed cameras.  I have lived in a country where ordinary people, including me, were watched from the chandelier.  

As we were moving off the horizontal white lines on the road surface, I pressed my foot down to the floor again and, moments later, I was being flashed by the police car behind me.  “Would you get out the car, please, madam?” asked the police officer, after I had pulled over into an adjacent lay-by.

Feeling very peevish, I got out.

“I've been observing you for some time, madam.  Were you aware of your speed?”

“You’ve been observing a woman for some time, officer?  I think that’s called stalking and it’s illegal.”

He told me not to “get funny” with him, but he let me off with just a ticking-off.

“Marya, why are you so gobby?” Michael retorted, as we drove off, at a more sedate .  “You could’ve got yourself into real trouble there.”

“Marya, why are you so gobby?” Michael retorted, as we drove off, at a more sedate speed.  “You could’ve got yourself into real trouble there.”

“Marya…”

“Come on, darling.  I'm not as bad as I was.”