Free 22 Britannia Road by Amanda Hodgkinson

embarrassment in his cheeks has gone.
    ‘Let’s look in the jewellery shop,’ he says, taking Silvana by the arm. He wants to buy her a wedding ring, but the salesman tells him there is a national shortage. Too many weddings going on and not enough gold. Silver, yes, but not gold.
    ‘We’re already married,’ Janusz tells the salesman. ‘This is our son.’ He takes Aurek by the shoulders. ‘Surely you must have a gold wedding ring you can sell us. Can I see the manager, please?’
    The manager is a long-faced man with a dirty shirt collar and worn cuffs. He comes out of his office shaking his head with a kind of weary patience that suggests they are not the only people who have asked him for the impossible that day.
    Janusz explains again that they are married. Silvana stands beside him, trying to look like a good wife, clutching her wicker shopping basket to her as though it’s a velvet evening bag. She watches the manager’s polite disinterest in their marital history, Janusz’s confusion when the man tries to sell them a watch instead.
    ‘We’ll wait,’ Silvana says as they step out onto the pavement. ‘I don’t mind waiting. I don’t really need a ring.’
    She sees the stiff set of Janusz’s mouth and knows she has said the wrong thing.
    ‘I really don’t mind,’ she says, pressing her hand into his. ‘I have you and Aurek. All I want is that. Let’s go home.’
    Walking up Britannia Road, they pass a parade of women kneeling outside their front doors as if on prayer mats, heads bent towards their stone steps. Their aproned hips swing in almost perfect unison as they buff their steps to a shine. It’s a sight that makes Silvana feel awkward, all those backs turned to her as she walks past.
    ‘Morning,’ calls Doris when they stop outside their home.
    ‘You’ve got to polish your steps,’ she explains, standing up. ‘It’s a matter of pride around here. You need a donkey stone. Don’t ask me why it’s called that. All I know is how you keep your front door shows how you keep your home. You don’t want everybody thinking they’re better than you, do you?’
    Silvana nods uncertainly. ‘Donkey stone?’
    ‘Put your hand out. That’s it.’
    Silvana turns the stone over, examining it as if she has been handed a piece of rock from Mars.
    ‘Come on then, you have a go.’
    Silvana kneels and rubs the stone against the step. It’s a pleasant movement, the stone running circles over the step, an ice skater tracing patterns in the ice. Even the noise is like the sound of skates cutting through watery ice, a soft crunch and a whoosh as it glides in arcs under her hand.
    Doris runs her fingertips over the step.
    ‘Well. You did a good job there. That’s one thing you can say. Don’t you worry, dearie. You’ll soon fit in. Keep the stone. Look after it. It’s a good one.’
    Janusz slips his arm around Silvana’s waist.
    ‘My wife has always been very house-proud,’ he says to Doris.
    Silvana looks sideways at him. Had she really? She can’t remember, but she’s pleased to hear him talk like this.
    ‘We lived in Warsaw before the war, you see. A beautiful city. It was known as the Paris of the east.’
    ‘Was it now?’ says Doris. She laughs loudly. ‘Well, Ipswich is in the east too, but I don’t think it’s quite gay Paree . I’m glad I saw you in any case. Gilbert told me to tell you there are jobs for women going at one of the textile factories by the canal. All you’ve got to do is sew in a straight line. I thought of you, Sylvia. You should get down there quick.’
    ‘Me?’
    ‘Well, yes. It’s a good job. Not like the munitions factories I had to work in during the war. See this yellow colour on my face?’ She turns her cheek briefly to Silvana and it’s true: there is a dirty yellow tint to her skin. ‘That’s from filling shells. I cover it up with a bit ofpanstick but it’s still there. I did my bit for the war effort. Nobody can say I