By Your Side

Just before Michael had arrived at his Gran’s for his usual summer holiday, his Mum had told him that Gran had a lodger and that he was to be very polite to her. Michael had never met a ‘lodger’ before and he was intrigued. 

“Would you take Kath’s tea tray for me?” said Dora, just after he arrived, “and be careful on the stairs.”

“OK,” said Michael, jumping at the chance to meet the mysterious lady.

He picked up the small tray. It wasn’t particularly heavy, but everything on it – the lace doily, the china cup and saucer, the engraved silver teapot, the plate of biscuits – looked so delicate that he couldn’t help but take special care as he set off.

When he arrived at Kath’s door, Michael put the tray down on the carpet and was just about to knock quietly, when he suddenly paused, because he could hear a voice. Someone was talking quietly on the other side of the door. Just like a lot of kids, nosey and naïve at the same time, he put his ear to the door and tried to listen. A woman’s voice was talking in a language he didn’t recognise. He waited a moment, knocked quietly and the voice abruptly stopped.

“Come in,” said the voice, its tone quite formal.

Michael opened the door, picked up the tray and went inside. He knew his Gran’s spare bedroom well, and as he looked around, he could see that the familiar furniture was now draped in Kath’s belongings. A collection of books and personal photos were displayed on the dresser in the corner. Items of jewellery lay strewn across the chest-of-drawers. A coat hung over the back of a chair. The room had a neat, tidy, cosy feel.

Kath was sitting in the rust-coloured armchair, the one Michael liked to curl up in when he was younger. She was old, looked a good bit older than his Gran, but she was very pretty in an elderly sort of way. Her white hair was pulled back in a bun and her face wore a hint of gently-applied rouge and lipstick. She was dressed in a matching blouse and skirt, topped by an elegant pearl necklace.   

“Hello. I’m Michael. I’ve brought your tea.”

“Hello, Michael,” Kath replied, in a voice that was very pronounced, what Michael’s Mum would describe as ‘posh’. “Thank you. Please, just put it on the little table there.”

Kath watched as Michael followed her instructions.

“I’ve heard a lot about you. Dora’s very proud of you. And how old are you?”

“I’m eleven.”

“Ah. Such a nice age! Are you staying for the summer?”

“No, just for two weeks. I have to go back and get ready for big school.”

Michael winced. He meant to say ‘secondary school’. 

“Well, I hope we get to chat while you’re here,” said Kath. “Thank you for bringing my tea.”

Michael took that as a hint that he could go and he left, closing the door behind him.

“Does Kath sit up in her room by herself? All the time?” said Michael, when he returned to the kitchen.

“We have breakfast and dinner together,” said Gran, “and occasionally she comes down to watch TV, but mostly she likes to keep herself to herself.”    

“She was talking in a strange language.”

“Was she? Well, she probably thinks you do too, dear.”

For the next few days, Dora, Kath and Michael ate breakfast and dinner together, but as Dora had said, Kath liked to spend a lot of time on her own. Occasionally, when Michael went past her door, he stopped to listen, and sometimes he heard her talking again, in a language that clearly wasn’t English.

*

The weekend soon came round and it was time for the village’s summer fair. Dora made cakes, scones and biscuits for the bakery stall, the proceeds of which were given to local charities. Michael always looked forward to the fair and was sitting at the kitchen table, counting out his pocket money.  

“This year I’m helping at the cake stall for the whole afternoon, so you’ll have to occupy yourself for a while,” said Dora. “And there’s more to look at this year. The committee’s opened the fair to outside traders for the first time. There’s all sorts of things to do, and you know where I’ll be if you need me.”

Just before midday, the morning mist cleared. Michael helped his Gran to carry all her baking products towards the park. Overhead there was a brilliant blue sky. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful afternoon. In the park, there were various vendors setting up their stalls and although the fair didn’t start until two, people were already browsing through the items people had for sale. Michael stayed around the cake stall until the mayor declared the event officially open, and then he hurried off to spend his cash.

First he browsed at the second-hand stalls, looking in particular for pieces to add to his LEGO collection, and then he bought himself an ice cream. As he strolled along the rows of stalls, he stopped at a shooting gallery. It was similar to the stalls Michael had seen at other fairs, but without the usual moving targets of ducks or small people passing by. Instead, this stall had ten small round targets, set out in rows; four in the first row, three in the second, two behind and a single target at the back, furthest away. A set of air rifles lay on the counter, beneath an advert which said ‘HIT TEN BULLS EYES AND WIN £250’.

The message was reinforced by shouts of “Roll up! Roll up!” from the young stallholder, who looked quite bored. “Have a go at hitting all ten bulls. I bet you can’t do it!”

When Michael paid his pound, picked up a rifle and had a go, he discovered just how difficult it was. After a second attempt, he decided to watch other people and see how they fared. Some did better, other didn’t. One or two reached five or six bulls eyes, but no-one was able to reach that goal of hitting all ten.

“Do you think I should have a go?” said a voice from behind.

Michael turned round and saw Kath standing next to him. He looked at her, dressed in her summer dress and her ever-present pearls, with her handbag on her arm, and thought ‘No, you don’t have a chance’, but then he felt quite guilty when she said “If I win the prize, I’ll split it with you.”

Kath gave her handbag to Michael to hold, paid her money, put on her glasses and, to the stallholder’s obvious amusement, picked up a rifle. She looked it over carefully, turning it this way and that. The stallholder reached over and took it from her.

“Here, let me help you. Right, you get ten pellets for your pound,” he said, fitting a magazine just in front of the trigger guard. “To take a shot, you just have to pull this lever back and then push it forwards again to load a pellet, fire the shot and then repeat the process. Well, good luck!”    

He passed the rifle back to Kath, who raised it, resting the butt on her shoulder, and closed her left eye. With her right eye on the target, she put her finger on the trigger, took aim, paused for a split second and then suddenly fired seven shots in quick succession. The stallholder stared, Michael stared, the people standing around the shooting gallery all stared, because Kath had scored bulls eyes on all the targets in the first two rows. The stallholder walked across and checked, just to be sure.

“How did you do that?” he said, turning to Kath.

“What do you mean, how did I do that?” said Kath, in her clipped English, “You saw what I did. Now, watch out, young man. I’m going to get the other three.”

The stallholder had no choice than to step out of the way. He stood to one side and watched as Kath raised the rifle again. She took a little bit more time than in her first round of shots, to weigh up the two more distant targets, but when she fired two shots, she scored two more bulls eyes. Michael cheered. Everyone else cheered. A small crowd began to gather, while the stallholder looked uncomfortable.

“You did it, Kath! You did it!” Michael shouted. “That was so cool! You’re going to win the money!” 

“You’ll never get the last one,” said the stallholder, although he didn’t sound very confident. “It’s too far away.”

“How far, do you think?” said Kath.

The stallholder looked, weighed up the distance.

“About fifty metres.”

Kath gave him a single, knowing glance and raised the rifle a third time. The now-large crowd fell silent. Everyone watched, expectant, while Kath took aim and paused. Off to the side, the stallholder could see her expression. Her left eye was closed again as she focussed on the distant target and she was running her tongue along her lower lip. She paused, frozen in her aiming position, until some of the crowd began to mutter restlessly, and then suddenly Michael saw an old man step out from the crowd.

He was small and stout, dressed in work overalls, an old tweed jacket and a flat cap. He walked over to Kath, stood close to her and seemed to whisper in her ear. He stood still, beside Kath, until she fired a single final shot. The stallholder ran to the distant target, checked it, turned to Kath and gave a thumbs up. The crowd burst into a frenzy of clapping and cheering, and no-one noticed that the old man had disappeared.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting anyone to score a perfect ten,” said the stallholder, laughing, when he returned to his counter, “but here’s your money. You clearly deserve it.” 

“Thank you, young man,” said Kath, as she popped the cash into her handbag and winked at Michael.

“But where did you learn to shoot like that?” said the stallholder.

“Oh, someone taught me, years ago, and now I know I haven’t lost the knack for it.”

*

Later that afternoon, when the fair was over, Dora, Kath and Michael sat together in the sunny back garden.

“I hear you caused quite a stir at the shooting gallery today,” said Dora.

“Kath was amazing,” said Michael, jumping in. “She hit every bulls eye. Made it look easy.”

“So I heard. I didn’t know you knew how to shoot at all, never mind so well. Where did you learn? At a gun club?” 

“Oh, it was years ago,” said Kath, waving her hand dismissively and deliberately sounding vague. “Last time I fired a rifle, I was eleven years old.”

“Like I am now,” said Michael.

“Yes, and that reminds me; I said I’d split the money with you, if I won. Here you go.”

Kath counted out some of the notes in her handbag and passed them to Michael, who stared at the money, wide-eyed.

“Thank you!”

“Lucky boy,” said Dora.

“And this is for your baking stall fund,” said Kath, as she handed the rest to Dora.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” 

“But Kath,” said Michael, “who was that man who went over to speak to you?”

“What man?”

“Just before you took the last shot, an old man walked up and stood beside you.”

Kath turned in Michael’s direction and stared at him.

“Just someone I knew a long time ago.”

“From round here?” said Dora. “I thought you didn’t know anyone here when you moved in.”

Kath stood up.

“You know, I’m feeling suddenly quite tired. It must be all this excitement. I think I’ll go and lie down for a bit.”

“OK. See you later,” said Dora, and Kath waved over her shoulder as she walked into the house.

*

Upstairs, Kath closed her bedroom door and put her handbag on the chair. For a moment she looked out of the window, at the view of the village, at the cloudless blue sky, then she walked across to the dresser, to her collection of photos. She took down one particular photo. It was black and white, old and grainy. An old man, dressed in overalls, a tweed jacket and a flat cap, was smiling at her. In the background was a field with horses, and beyond that, the peaks of a mountain range, covered in trees and low cloud. Kath placed her hand gently on the photo.

“Dziadek,” she whispered, as she began to speak in Polish. “Wydawało mi się, że wyczuwam dziś Waszą obecność na targach. Jesteś obok mnie, tak jak obiecałeś, że będziesz po tych wszystkich latach.” Grandpa. I thought I sensed your presence at the fair today. You’re beside me, like you said you would be, after all these years.

Kath remembered the way her grandfather would call her his little Kasia. She kept her hand on the photo and closed her eyes. 

“Całe życie, Dziadek, kiedy jestem sama, rozmawiam z tobą. Uratowałeś mnie i przepraszam, że nie mogłem uratować ciebie.” All my life, Dziadek, when I’ve been alone, I talk to you. You saved me, and I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”  

She sat down in the rust-coloured armchair and put the photo on the little table. Kath couldn’t share her story; she’d never wanted to and never had to. No-one needed to know, all these years later, that she was five years old when the Nazis came to their farm on the German-Polish border, how her Dziadek hid her in the forest after her parents were killed, how they survived there together for six long years. Despite her young age, he made her learn to shoot his rifle, for her own protection, so when a single German soldier - retreating, desperate and afraid - killed her beloved Dziadek in the forest, she picked up the rifle, as Dziadek had taught her, and shot him.