Dad remained in hospital for two days.  The man in the next bed had also served in the RAF during the war and, whenever I visited, the two of them were enjoying nice cosy chats about sorties and prangs.  He had also worked through all the library books I had given him and was topping up from the hospital library.  They were now keeping him in for “tests”, which all came out negative, including the big ‘C’, but he had not suffered any pain since the day of his arrival. 

He was discharged on Thursday afternoon, having been told that he had something called “irritable bowel syndrome”, which, said Urcky, was not in any of the nursing textbooks.  I offered to collect him in our car, but Urcky insisted on doing this, although I was permitted to accompany her, in the back seat, of course.  “We’ve really missed you!” Mum cried in Polish, as we walked through the front door at home.  “It’s been terrible without you!”

“And I've missed you too, dear,” he said, pecking at her cheek. 

“One of the light bulbs in the hall needs changing, and don’t forget the dustmen will come tomorrow, so you need to put the rubbish out."

“Mum…” cried Urcky and I together, my sister adding, “Sit down, Tato.  Marya and I will make tea.  And I'm going to cook the evening meal as well."

“You’ve got a husband and children who need you,” Mum said.

“The boys are with Lynn, Mum."

“Alina should be resting.  She’s having a baby."  We four sisters had been christened Urzula, Alina, Zofia and Marya, but they had anglicised their names to Urcky, Lynn and Sophie.  Only I used my original name, not that I had much alternative with a name like mine.

“We’ll cope, Marya and I," Urcky added.

“Marya’s got a boyfriend now.  Nice boy,” she went on, even though I was catching Urcky’s eye and shaking my head.  “His family are Nortons’ Estate Agents, you know."

“A very English solution,” I said, as Urcky filled the kettle from the sink.  “Have you noticed that Mum always speaks in Polish nowadays?”

“She’s living in the past, Marya, and she never goes out,” Urcky said, as she got out the cups.  “Milk, please, Marya.  It’s all part of the depression."

“And,” I could hear Mum saying in the living room, “we’ve hardly had anything to eat.  Just cheese omelettes.”

Dad came into the kitchen and opened the cupboard where the light bulbs were kept. 

“Dad, no!” cried Urcky.  “You sit down."

“I'll do it to keep her quiet,” he replied, taking the bulb out of its cardboard packet.

“Couldn’t you have done that yesterday, Marya?” Urcky demanded, raising her eyebrows.

“I didn’t notice it." 

“So what’s all this with you and Craig, then?”

“I chucked him, on Tuesday morning."

“Mm.  He was quite… dull, Marya."

“All he was interested in was the physical side."

“Huh.  That’s boys for you.”

“He used to get all… worked up, and I didn’t feel anything.  Am I too young for it, Urcky?”

“No,” said my sister, as she poured boiling water into the teapot.  “Boring bloke and you’re probably a bit preoccupied at the moment.  When do you expect to hear from Cambridge?"

“Don’t know."  It was irrelevant now.  I would be going to Manchester.

Dad came back into the kitchen.  He threw the light bulb carton into the kitchen bin, then sank on to a kitchen chair. 

“Tato?” I exclaimed.

His head dropped on to the kitchen table.  “The pain’s… just… come back."

Urcky rolled up a tea towel and eased it under his head as a cushion.  “Don’t worry about anything, Tato.  Marya and I are cooking tonight."

“She likes… meat,” he said, his voice muffled inside the tea towel.

“I'll pop round to Sainsbury’s and get some chops,” said Urcky.  “Don’t worry about anything."

He reached into his pocket for some money.  “You’d better go… now, before they shut."

“In a minute.  I'm concerned about you."

“No, I'll be OK.  Go to Sainsbury’s."

“I'll look after him, Urcky,” I said, as she left.

“You’d better take Mum her tea,” Dad said.  “It’s been sitting in the pot and it’ll be too strong for her now."

“Too bad,” I said.

“Pour out half a cup then add some water.  That’s what I do."

“Where is everybody?” Mum demanded, when I walked into the living room with her cup. 

When I told her about Dad, she harrumphed.  “He was all right yesterday, in the hospital." 

I went over to the window-ledge by the front door, where we normally dumped incoming post, meaning to take Dad his letters, and it was then I noticed it - a thick wodge of a package, postmarked Cambridge.  In spite of everything, my stomach lurched.  Surely, a rejection letter would be just one sheet!

A pale blue booklet, a “Student Guide to St Theresa’s College, Cambridge”, fell out on to the floor, also a white piece of paper listing term dates.  What was the point?

The letter was what I picked up last.  “Dear Miss Wieclawski.  I have pleasure…”  I didn’t need to read the rest.

“Dad!  Dad!” I cried in English, which was, after all, my first language.  “I've got a place!”

He leapt up, jolting the table, the tea in his cup rolling like the waves in the sea, all pain gone now.  He threw his arms round me, almost squashing my rib cage.  “I am so happy!  I am so pleased for you!"  Tears of joy were running down his cheeks.  “You are going for all of us,” he said, later, as we were eating our chops. 

“We’re all very proud of you!” said Urcky.

“I wasn’t able to go to university,” Dad said.

“Well, it was wartime, wasn’t it?” said Urcky.

“My father was just a blacksmith.  He couldn’t have afforded to send me to university in Poland.  In fact, in those days, I wasn’t bookish at all.  I only started to read in England, when I was in the Air Force."

“Pyotr Murkowski got you into reading, didn’t he?” I said.

“Who?” demanded Mum.

“My commanding officer, dear,” he replied.

“Oh,” she replied, without interest.

Several times that evening, my mind returned to my gobby interview, and I wondered how St Theresa’s College could bring themselves to offer me a place.  As soon as I could, I retreated upstairs to write another letter to my aunt in Poland, Magda.  I would have some explaining to do.  I was so glad now that I hadn’t confided in anyone else.

Next morning, school were ecstatic.  “Nine girls have now been awarded places at Oxford and Cambridge this year,” Mrs Walton, the headmistress, announced, in assembly.  Little girls of eleven, sitting cross-legged on the floor in almost brand new uniforms, stared back at her goggle-eyed with awe.  “Compared with eight girls last year.  A reporter from the “Chenham Evening News” will be coming round this afternoon."

Mrs Carson took all the Oxbridge candidates out to a coffee bar at lunchtime, the unsuccessful ones as well.  She was good like that.  We returned to school, giggly with excitement, and Mrs Carson said Mrs Walton would accuse her of taking us to the pub.  We all recognised the reporter standing in the school library, even though it was four years since we last saw her, she wasn’t wearing school uniform and she was standing behind a huge press camera on a tripod which seemed to be all strap.

“Jenny!” exclaimed Mrs Carson.  “Jenny Ashton!”

She managed a distracted wave, as she continued to fiddle with the camera. 

“Jennifer, of course, went to Cambridge,” Mrs Walton went on, in her smiley voice.  “St Theresa’s, wasn’t it, dear?  You must get together with Marya Wieclawski.  She’s going there in October."

Jenny smiled.  “Yes, of course.  Actually, I know Marya.  We used to travel in to school on the bus together,"

I recalled those bus journeys with a shudder, Jenny pontificating and showing off in the seat beside me, and cutting me dead whenever she found a grammar school boy to sit with.

As Jenny was putting her camera away, she called over to me, “Congratulations, Marya.  You’re going to Terry’s, then?"

There she was again, trying to impress me by using the college’s nickname.  I suppose she also called Madgalen College “Maudlin”.

“Thank you,” I replied with chilly politeness.

“What are you going to do?”

“English literature.”

“Who interviewed you?”

“Oh… woman with lots of scarves,"

“Dr Wimpole.  Wimpy?  Big feminist.  Don’t think she’s worn a bra or knickers for years!  Was Professor King there?  Grey short hair, tweedy skirt."

“Ye-es.  And there was this American bloke… "

“Oh no!  You didn’t get Cuthbert Haynes?  He’s a right prat!  Wimpy and he have an ongoing feud.  Do you want a lift home in my car, by the way?  I've got to drop the camera off at the office first, though."

In the car, Jenny was the same old Jenny, going on about how she had pitched several articles at Fleet Street, and all the nice comments she had had from sub-editors of national newspapers, who, for reasons she explained in detail, just didn’t have enough space that week.  “I've told them at the Evening News, that I'm giving it until the summer, then I'm giving in my resignation and going travelling.  I'm getting an Inter-Rail pass and going to Czechoslovakia, to see Flavia, my friend from Terry’s."

“This Inter-Rail thing…” I said, as we turned into my road.  “You get a month’s pass then you can go anywhere in Europe on the train?”

“Yes.  You have to be under 25, though."

“And you can use it in Czechoslovakia?”

“Of course not, Marya!  Not behind the Iron Curtain!  But trains are very cheap in Czechoslovakia, and I'll be staying at Flavia’s in Zilina, which’ll save money."

“It sounds really good," I conceded.  “I have an aunt in Krakow, you know."

“Oh yes?  I'm going to look for stories all the time I'm travelling,” Jenny went on.  “Your aunt doesn’t know any dissidents, does she?”

“No-o!”  I never discussed politics with Magda.  Even gobby me knew not to do that.  “Try the gulag,” I said to myself, as I got out the car.