Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase by Louise Walters

made his way to the trestle tables loaded with food, negotiating ladies with jowls (an amusing word, new to him, that he would try to remember), ladies wearing austere dresses, ladies who were determined to engage him in conversation.
    But he escaped from the attention, and he returned to Dorothy.
    Before she knew what was happening, before she could protest, before they could even eat their cakes, Dorothy was steered towards the dance floor and the Polish man’s arms were around her, on her, gripping her waist, her shoulder, lightly at first, then more firmly. Around they went, locked together, and they moved in secrecy and silence as if nobody was watching. And yet to Dorothy it seemed that the whole world was judging, but she did not mind. The world could go to hell. She was without a care, for the first time in a long year. And the music seemed to go on forever – in her heart, this music would play forever – and when she looked at the man and he smiled and squeezed her waist in affection and understanding, she let her head fall on to his shoulder and she let herself be danced. And the nervous stirrings in her stomach, her bowel, her groin, the unfurling going on inside her, she accepted with a tacit grace. She was an adult, after all.
    Too soon the lights were up, people were standing and shaking hands, couples were linking arms and preparing to leave, some drunk, others yawning and tired. Cigarette smoke hung over the room like a coarse blanket. There was a babble of goodbyes, and the squadron leader stood aside to allow Dorothy to collect her bag, and to see how Aggie and Nina were to go home.
    ‘We’ll walk, Dot!’ shouted Nina, as a Polish airman – very young, perhaps eighteen – grabbed her face and kissed her, then released her with loud laughter. She hit him on the back of his head. Dorothy wondered if this was the young man she’d had her eye on.
    Aggie agreed, yes, they would walk, and she too was with a young man, who whispered to her. Aggie giggled.
    And the group of village girls, one of whom Dorothy recognised as Mrs Compton’s oldest granddaughter, called out, ‘Tarts!’
    Dorothy looked at Jan. ‘Do you think they will be all right?’ she asked.
    ‘They are not children,’ he said, and shrugged.
    Dorothy hesitated and he waited, politely.
    ‘All right, then,’ she said. And she advised the girls to be home within the hour, as she would wait up for them with a pot of cocoa.
    The squadron leader was silent, lost in calm concentration, during the twenty-minute journey back to the cottage. There was a strong moon, and the evening was warm, and the moonlight was enough to see by, if he drove slowly. Dorothy too was silent. The road looked like a slick oily river. She watched him drive, confidently, safely. He was a man accustomed to being in control.
    ‘Thank you, Squadron Leader,’ said Dorothy, as he opened the passenger door.
    As she got out of the car, he kept his hand on the door and blocked her way. But Dorothy did not feel threatened.
    ‘You use my title all of the time,’ he said. ‘But my name is Jan. I lead a squadron, yes, and I am a member of the Polish Air Force and that is my job, that is my role, but I am Jan. That is my name. That is the name I wish to hear you call me. I make a point. That is all.’
    ‘I see. Jan. Thank you, then, Jan, for a pleasant evening.’
    ‘Merely pleasant?’
    ‘Enjoyable. Hot and noisy, but fun. Actually, I had a marvellous time with you.’
    ‘That is better. Thank you for being my guest. I am sorry you were so uncomfortable. Those gossiping ladies do not like you, I see. But I do.’
    ‘Thank you. I don’t mind being not liked. I prefer it.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because I don’t have to spend time with those gossiping women. My life is my own. Do you see? I don’t want them to befriend me. I like my quiet life in this cottage, with just the girls for company.’
    ‘You are like a mother for them?’
    ‘Perhaps.’
    ‘They are very