The Doomsday Testament

IV

In his old Bond Street office, four storeys above the well-heeled shoppers who could afford to buy from the expensive shops he walked past every day, Jamie cleared a space for the maroon pay book and the journal among the auction catalogues and art history books piled haphazardly on the desk.

He hesitated, torn between the fascination of the journal’s ruled pages and the pay book, which he knew would give him an immediate insight into the grandfather he had never truly known. The journal must once have been an expensive purchase and was of a type he guessed had been used to record the meetings of exclusive gentlemen’s dining clubs. It was three-quarters of an inch thick, A5-sized and bound in what had once been fine quality blue leather, now scuffed and faded with age. There had been a clasp to hold it shut, but that had long since disappeared and the book was now held closed by a piece of tightly knotted silver cord. The pages appeared well-thumbed, but something told him it hadn’t been opened for many years.

Reluctantly, he laid it aside and opened the little maroon pay book.

The first page came as a surprise. Jamie knew that most soldiers who served in the Second World War had been volunteers or conscripts, civilians in uniform who reluctantly stepped forward to serve their country against the Nazis. He had expected his grandfather to be one of them, but Matthew George Sinclair had signed up with the Royal Berkshire Regiment on August 17 1937 at the age of nineteen. The pay book recorded his height as 6 feet, his chest expansion as 40 inches and his weight as a 180 pounds. His appearance was described as — eyes: green; hair: dark; no distinguishing marks. Jamie felt a slight shiver as he recognized himself in his second year at university as a member of the Officer’s Training Corps. On graduation, he’d had an offer from the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst and he had almost completed the selection process before his mind had rebelled against the lifetime of discipline he was letting himself in for.

Other dog-eared pages contained information on Matthew’s pay and allowances, deductions, training received and courses taken (rifle shooting/rated sniper) and his commission with the rank of lieutenant in September 1939. But the most interesting was ‘Record of Specialist Employment Whilst Serving’. Here was revealed the mystery of the awards he’d found in the metal box. The African Star and clasp, the France and Germany Star, the 1939–45 Star, the Defence Medal and the War Medal, all dated and initialled by his commanding officers. And finally, the Military Cross for ‘acts of gallantry in the area of Augsburg, south Germany’.

But who was the man behind the medals?

Only now did he feel able to pick up the journal and work with his fingers at the knot holding it closed. He opened the book at the first page. Each entry was preceded by a date and laid out in the neat copper-plate writing he remembered from the few letters and cards he had received from his grandfather while at university. Some of the wording and phraseology seemed quaint to him, as if it had been written in Victorian times. The first few entries were dated in the days just after Matthew’s promotion, when war was declared in the late summer of 1939, and reflected the gung-ho enthusiasm of a young man on the brink of his greatest challenge; along with a frankly stated unease about letting ‘the men’ down. How would he be affected by fear? Matthew was reticent about his horror of being maimed, but death appeared to hold no terrors for him. There was also a tacit acknowledgement that keeping such a journal was frowned upon and that the writer would have to suspend it when he went overseas, which seemed imminent. But it quickly became clear that Matthew Sinclair had become so involved in recording his thoughts that he had ignored the restriction, risking reprimand or even court martial, an act of rebellion that revealed something else Jamie hadn’t known about his grandfather.

The phone rang at the other end of the desk and Gail, his secretary, answered. ‘Saintclair Fine Arts, may I help you?’ She listened for a few seconds, before placing her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘A call from a hospital in the Midlands. Can you take it?’

Reluctantly, he laid the journal aside and accepted the phone. ‘Jamie Saintclair.’

‘Is this the grandson of the late Reverend Matthew Sinclair?’ a serious female voice demanded.

‘That’s correct.’

‘Only the names confused me.’

‘They often do.’ Jamie smiled wryly. ‘How can I help you?’

‘My name is Carol O’Connor. I’m a nurse at the St Cross Hospital in Rugby. I’m sorry to bother you, but one of our long-term patients says he knew your grandfather and is very keen to talk to you.’

Jamie raised his eyebrows and Gail smiled. ‘I’m pretty busy at the moment. But put him on the line. It’s always nice to speak to one of my grandfather’s former parishioners.’

Carol O’Connor’s tone turned apologetic. ‘I’m afraid that, like many of our elderly clients, Stan is very strong-willed. He will only talk to you face to face.’

Jamie sighed. ‘I don’t think—’

‘And he isn’t one of your grandfather’s parishioners. He says he served with a Matthew Sinclair during the war.’

Jamie’s heart gave a little flutter. ‘What did you say his name was?’

‘Stan. Stanislaus Kozlowski.’

‘I read ’bout Matthew Sinclair’s det in The Times newspaper and I tink, maybe this is same Matt Sinclair from vor. Carol she a good girl, do anytink for us inmates. She check wit’ undertaker and now you are here.’ Sixty-eight years in Britain had failed to take the edge off Stan Kozlowski’s Polish accent; indeed it had added a nasal West Midlands twang that made his words barely comprehensible at first hearing. Jamie suspected it was an old man’s indulgence and about as authentic as Stan’s hair, which swept back from a wide brow, an unlikely crow-black helmet that gleamed like a guardsman’s toecap. Shrunken and plainly exhausted, the old man lay back in the tentacled embrace of a kidney dialysis machine, surrounded by coils of tubing which pulsed to the rhythm of a beeping monitor. The Pole saw Jamie’s look. ‘Four hour a day. Real pain in de ass, eh? But worth it. You comes back later, maybe Stan take you dancing?’ A shaking hand reached into the top pocket of his pyjamas and pulled out a faded black-and-white photograph. ‘See, me and Matt. Late ’forty-four. Maybe ’forty-five?’ Jamie accepted the picture. Two soldiers in camouflage jump smocks standing beside a jeep. Stan was instantly recognizable as the bare-headed young man on the right: short, dark and with a fierce scowl on his pinched, unshaven face. The tall, rangy lieutenant in the paratrooper’s pot helmet could have been Jamie’s twin brother. ‘Me and Matt, ve lose touch after ve comes back from vor, but Matt, he tells me had enough of fighting. He go into Church.’ The old man laughed. ‘Me, I can’t go back Poland cos Reds vill shoot me, so I go into car factory in Solihull. One minute officer and gentleman and genuine heroic Polish ally, next minute job-stealing Polish bastard, eh?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Jamie apologized. ‘I’ve heard that Polish soldiers weren’t treated particularly well after the war.’

Stan laughed again, a raking cough that sounded painful to the ear. ‘Dat lizus Churchill, he sell us down river. But you don’t feel sorry for Stan. Had good life. Lots of whisky. Lots of girls.’ The old man’s voice faded and he lay back, breathing noisily through his nose, but after a few moments he opened his eyes again. ‘How Matt die?’

Jamie told him about the accident. ‘Look, Mr Kozlowski — Stan — I’m tiring you. Maybe I should come back later, or tomorrow?’

Stan shook his head. ‘Is OK. Not a bad way to go, eh? Just one snap and you’re in heaven. Better than this. I know. Broke lots of necks during war, me and Matt.’ Jamie opened his mouth to protest, but the Pole spat words like three-second bursts of automatic fire. ‘Quick and clean.’ He raised his hands as if he held a head between them, and twisted with a single sharp movement, at the same time making a distinct tick through his teeth. ‘Old Stan he still got it, eh? I remember the first time…’ Without warning, his eyes dropped and he began to speak softly in a confused mix of Polish and English. Jamie could make out enough to understand that he was hearing the story of Poland’s fall. After a few minutes the voice faded again and he realized Stan had fallen into a doze. Half an hour later, the old man was still asleep, and Jamie watched his body twitch and jerk as he refought the war.

A nurse inspected the monitors before rearranging the old soldier’s blanket, tucking it around his neck and shoulders.

‘Stan’s a bit restless today, I’m afraid. I’m Carol, Mr Saintclair, we spoke on the phone.’ She offered him her hand and he shook it. She was tiny, but heavy breasted, with strawberry-blonde curls and that confident, unflappable air the best nurses cultivate. ‘I should have warned you about this, but he was very keen to see you. Morning is a much better time for him.’

‘I’m glad I came.’ Jamie hid his frustration behind a smile. ‘But I think I’ve tired him enough for one day. Maybe I can come back again another time?’

‘Of course, we always encourage visitors and Stan doesn’t have anyone nearby. His children both emigrated to Australia, I think. He’s a remarkable man. You’re seeing him at his worst. The machine takes a lot out of him, but he still insists on a walk along the stream every morning and he plans to march in the parade on Armistice Day.’

Jamie thanked her and picked up his coat. A drowsy voice interrupted his departure.

‘You come back tomorrow, then ve talk about Matt, eh? I tell you what I told other guy. About last mission with the szkopi. Goddam disaster. Brass called it Operation Equity, but Matt he had other name for it. Operation Doomsday.’