Stan sat on the bed and stared at the half empty vodka bottle on the bedside table. He had intended to drink himself into a stupor, anesthetize himself until it was time for his plane home on Sunday. It wasn’t working. If anything his feelings of misery and failure had intensified since he had got home that evening.

Cheap Smirnoff rubbish, it wasn’t a decent drink, like the vodka back home. At the thought of home he felt his insides twist. All he had been thinking of for weeks was how he would soon be home. The date of his return was marked with a big red circle on the calendar, and he had crossed off each day, until now there was only tomorrow to go then he would be on the plane and back to Poland.

The last 3 years had been hard, it was only the thought of his future with Anna that had helped him through. He had earned more in a week here than in a month in Krakow. They could afford a decent wedding now and a place of their own with room for her mother and his grandmother. How would he face his grandmother? He could picture them all meeting him at the airport, smiling and carrying flowers. He didn’t know how he would look into his grandmothers happy, proud face and tell her what had happened. She would forgive him of course and that would make it even more unbearable.

At least he would be out of this grimy hostel. Stan and the other workers had done their best to keep the place clean, and carry out their own minor repairs but it was still barely fit for human habitation. There wasn’t much they could do about the rising damp. Still it was a haven compared with the outside world. Gangs of feral children burning cars and spitting at them as they went past, calling them gypsies and telling them to go back where they came from. At least they were working unlike most of the people around here.

It could even have been one of these teenagers that snatched his rucksack this afternoon. There was little of monetary value in it, but what they had taken he could never replace.

There was a knock at the door and Jan’s voice shouted ‘ There’s someone to see you from the Council’.

Puzzled Stan made his way downstairs to the front door. A short, round bearded man stood on the step.

‘Stanislaw ….’ He paused, unable to get his tongue around too many consonants.

‘Wotyjla, but everyone calls me Stan.’

‘I’m Gary Jones. I work for the Council, emptying bins. One of the lads found this bag tossed in one of the bins in the precinct. It often happens, we find wallets, purses and stuff that thieves have chucked away. Anyway, there isn’t much left in here but your name and address was on this coach ticket to Derby. Normally we would go through the proper channels but I saw the ticket was dated tomorrow, so I thought I would pop in on my way home’.

Stan reached out and grabbed the bag, excited. His clothes and walkman, the food he had bought for his journey all were gone. Quickly he unzipped the inside pocket. The sepia photograph of his grandfather in RAF uniform and the silver wings badge were still there.

He looked up at Gary, his eyes shining.’ Thank you so much, I am going to Derby tomorrow to find my grandfathers grave. He was in the RAF, I couldn’t believe it when I thought I had lost these things.’ He held the badge and photograph out so Gary could see. ’Please come in, do you like vodka?’