Regaining the Loss: Taken from the posthumous diaries of Natalia and her granddaughter's reflections - plus a Ghost's Story

By Jolanta Sikorski

'Regaining the Loss' details the struggles between three generations of women in the same family. While Natalia wants her daughter to focus on teaching her granddaughter about the arts and culture, Mariola is too wrapped up in forwarding her own life.

Using a unique three-sided perspective, the story follows granddaughter Ania

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jolanta Sikorski
• Release date: Dec 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781802275971

Book preview

Part One

Chapter One

Ania’s Reflections: After the Funeral

Only now, when all the guests have left after watching themselves on the video, do I suddenly realise that Baba is really gone. She has disappeared, along with all that crowd and this video, made from the fragments of those ’fantastic’, as they all called them, fancy dress garden parties, which my grandma organised, for so many years and for so many people, in her magnificent large garden here in London. I thought that she was still here with us because she was on this video, along with all this noisy crowd, dressed in colourful costumes from all over the world, dancing, singing and drinking, kissing and complimenting each other. Only now, when they have all left, I have suddenly realised that she is gone forever!

It was terrible. They were all grouping around me, even more than around my mum and dad, and they all wanted to inform me that my grandma loved me so much… As if I would need to learn about it from them, from all these strangers… As if I didn’t know that for myself!

And now she is gone! Gone forever are her goodnight kisses on my forehead in bed; her goodnight stories as well. Those amazing stories, the beginning of which always made me laugh so much that my mother would come into the bedroom to interrupt our fun, just as she always did as soon as she saw that Baba and I were having fun together. Usually, Mum came to my bedroom on the pretext that I would not be able to sleep if I was laughing so much. But I always did sleep after listening to my bedtime story. Sometimes, I even fell asleep before the end of the story, because somehow, my grandma had this hypnotic power which made me do exactly what she wanted me to do and I think she held that power over everyone. We all did what she wanted sooner or later, except my mum, who usually did it later rather than sooner.

Maybe Baba had this hypnotic power because she had studied psychology in her youth. I think that I want to study psychology as well. But what about my dancing? I’m supposed to study that. I love dancing. Baba loved dancing as well and she was always saying that we danced together even before I could walk. I remember we loved dancing around the kitchen to the music from this cuckoo clock that she brought from the holiday in Switzerland, and also to all these Polish folk songs which I apparently loved so much when I was very small, and even later, before we moved to Koh Samui, when, as Baba said, It all changed forever. She said that many times—It all changed forever. She will not say anything anymore. To any of us. Even to me. But maybe she will because I remember she told me once, long ago, that she would talk to me from heaven!

She said she would talk to me every time I organised a garden party here, in her garden, and that she would be giving me advice on how to do it as she had, so many times before. She told me that I would love to organise these parties as much as she did—I’m sure I will, my darling Baba.

You loved dancing, and I loved it maybe even more than you did. You loved watching me when I danced for you on our Skype or WhatsApp weekly connections when I was living with my parents in Koh Samui and you were not able to visit us even for Christmas anymore. I will become a dancer! The best dancer in the whole world. I think you would love that, Baba, so I will do it for you and me since I love it so much.

With all the money Baba left me in her will, I can even afford to go to the best dance school here in London! I can pay for everything! I can study whatever I want and I can become whoever I want, just as Baba told me one day long ago. Baba left all that money especially for me. Especially for Ania’s education, as Mum said this morning in the office of this dashing solicitor. Dad didn’t think that he was dashing. Dad thought that he was not even handsome. Also, Dad said that this solicitor looked a little like Grandad Tomas, who was also a solicitor before he died. I have learned a lot about solicitors since Baba died and since we came here to London. Before, I only knew that Grandad Tomas was a solicitor and that Baba and Grandad Tomas had wanted Mum to become a solicitor as well, but she did not want to study so hard to become one, so this apparently killed Grandad Tomas.

So, Baba married Grandad David who she never loved as much as Grandad Tomas. I think that he is okay, just a little slow and boring, but ultimately, he is really okay and I love playing chess with him.

Tonight, I am sleeping in Baba’s bed, in Baba’s room, which is thrilling but very strange as well, because normally, I was not allowed to sleep with her in this bed. Maybe only when I was very little, but I don’t remember that because later, they moved me back to my own bed. I always woke up in the big bedroom, which was normally David’s, but on my visits to London, it belonged to me. Baba’s room will be my room from now on. That is what Baba decided in her will. It makes me feel very important; nearly as important as she was—as important, I think, as she was to all of us except my mum, which was always a little bit weird for me. I will put a battery into the cuckoo clock which Baba and I would dance to in our old kitchen when I lived in England before, and I will keep it here with me as I think Baba wanted me to do. It was left on the very top of this big box with her papers and with some of my toys, the ones I had rescued and hidden from Mum when she left them outside our house for anyone to take because she decided that I would not need them in Koh Samui when we moved to Thailand six years ago. I will look at this box tomorrow when Mum is not here. It’s my box! It is even written on this box—For Ania. I think that Baba wrote this herself.

Diary Excerpt: Koh Samui & Its Luxurious Hotels

We won’t be using either the huge kitchen or the jacuzzi because we have come here to see our granddaughter, to help with her education and teach her about the part of the world she was deprived of by her parents, who ‘removed her’ to this little holiday island of Koh Samui.

We are not here on holiday like newlyweds who want to spend time in a jacuzzi, pampering themselves and playing hide-and-seek around the large apartment which cost a fortune to rent, using money that we planned to spend on taking Ania to her favourite place—Disneyworld—or on some other Christmas presents for her.

Luxurious hotels never impressed me anyway, and definitely not like they impress the nouveau riche bourgeoisie nowadays. Luxury never impressed me as much as the achievements of the human mind, and this is something that I want to instil in my little Ania.

The mind is what counts, not outside appearance. I don’t like people obsessed with snobbery or trying to boost their ego through the importance of their surroundings. Just like in the traditional slogan, the smaller the penis, the bigger the car, so here, the smaller the brain, the bigger the need to cover it up with an outward display…

And this is the climate in which they are bringing up my granddaughter; false lashes, false hair extensions, false nails, lip fillers, etc., cultivated by my daughter and other women here, and with the avoidance of even a slight glance in the direction of books.

Self-indulgence, and the me, me, me cultural obsession; that’s the main game of life in Koh Samui. Avoidance of knowledge was always my daughter’s leading characteristic, and she now has a real hatred of learning…

I need to stop this writing. It makes me more and more ill with my lack of sleep and worry about their future in this place when all their money was invested in her obsessive idea of living on this so-called ‘Paradiso’ holiday island.

No one can steal from you what you have in your brain. You can lose your money, your beauty even, but never your knowledge or the things that you achieve by learning, so it’s better to invest in knowledge than anything else… However, this is not the climate on Koh Samui Island.

Brainless dolls still make me physically sick and it was always that way; that was why I was constantly surrounded by boys in school or at university since I preferred to discuss architecture or philosophy than make-up and dresses… However, I was still able to play the ‘sweet idiot girl’ when required, because some men just like it that way.

And now, the fact that my Ania’s education is proceeding along the pathway of the brainless doll makes my heart bleed. It makes me want to die instead of taking part in this pretence of approval of everything Mariola does or says to our little darling. Here, no one demands that a five-and-a-half-year-old Ania learns the days of the week or the hours on the clock, which she was already learning when she was with us on cruises or holidays some time ago… It’s better for my health not to think about it just now, not when I had this pain in my heart this morning…

Diary Entry on Koh Samui in Thailand

So, that is what people called the island of Koh Samui—‘our little Paradise’. Is that the life they call our life in Paradise? People here discuss, in minute detail, some kitschy jewellery they have just bought from the Saturday market in a fisherman’s village. Or perhaps they are gossiping about a friend of a friend’s unsuccessful breast operation with enjoyable attention to detail; As a result of this operation, the poor woman was left with too big a gap between her tits! Or, they might jokingly say, Would it be possible to add an additional third tit for her husband to enjoy playing with? Such is the conversation after the ‘drink and drugs’ parties on a Saturday night. In fact, those ‘gorgeous parties’ were happening nearly every day in different family mansions on this paradise island.

There are quite a lot of these beautiful houses in the north part of the island close to the famous Big Buddha temple—the main tourist attraction on the island. Also, on this part of the island, there are a variety of expensive hotels for the very rich visitors. Some of these posh hotels, however, are surrounded by slums, which the driver needs to drive through when taking these very rich visitors to their destination.

Even the tourists who are not very rich call this Paradise Island. These tourists are based in small apartments attached to the private beach hotels, where you can have your morning omelette specially prepared for you with a variety of artistically cut pieces of fruit, such as mango, lemon, or papaya, and delivered to your table. That is, if you can’t be bothered to pick it up from the buffet yourself in the breakfast room because you are dreamily observing boats on the sea or the morning walkers on the beach.

You might decide to have a walk to the nearby local girls’ massage parlour, offering you a professional Thai massage for only 300 baht, which is the equivalent of your just-consumed, wonderfully aromatic fresh coffee and fresh local breakfast; about eight English pounds. These activities, plus a little swim, take one to lunchtime, which, in my case, is the right time to collect my little granddaughter from the Koh Samui International School. This is when I can have a little gossip with some beautiful, young, international mothers of totally spoiled Disney princesses from Frozen. No longer are they from Cinderella or Snow White but Anna or Elsa from Frozen. These ‘Princesses’ still believe in the Genie who comes out from his magic lamp, which I bought for my equally spoiled granddaughter on our last Cunard cruise. What will become of my little princess, whose main interest already, at the age of six, is only her mum’s make-up boxes instead of the books and maps which I indoctrinated her with? Just a year ago, when they were still living in England, she was showing a lot of interest in the arts, theatres and museums. Now, she prefers reporting to me details of her mother’s hair extensions rather than reading the story of Paddington Bear which I had bought her, along with even more ‘intellectual’ presents, for Christmas. I bought them to stimulate her memory of our European culture, which she was so fascinated by even a few months ago before they moved to this island and abandoned any memory of the world existing outside their so-called Little Paradise.

Ghost Story: On Finding Yourself Dead

My little darling, sleep tightly now! Tomorrow you will have another long day.

You managed to read your first diary entries today. I don’t want to overwhelm you with all these papers I left in the box for you. You need a lot of time now to learn to live in Europe again and to adjust to our way of living here, to our culture and history. I am so delighted you found a few diary entries to read today. It is important that you learn about our difficult past, just to see that time consists of the past, the present and the future—not just the present, as it was on Koh Samui. In Koh Samui, everything was concentrated around pleasure and self-indulgence and this lasted for you and your parents for six long years. Not that I’m jealous of it, but it would be great if you all would learn something from the time you have spent on this island.

I would suggest… Oh, God, how lucky to be a ghost already because I can even suggest something! I was never allowed to suggest anything to her when I was alive. So now, I can suggest that she should read my description of Koh Samui Paradiso Island. As you have now found out, it is among the papers left by me in this special box for my hugely intelligent, talented and promising granddaughter, who was uprooted to this holiday island at a formative age, and where she lost all her interest in art, culture, reading, etc. It’s great to be a ghost because I know more about people than they know themselves. But the most important thing is that I can see my Ania anytime I wish, not only when I’m allowed by Mariola on Skype or WhatsApp. So, I have magically moved to the top of this Box for Ania my description of Koh Samui at the time when I first visited this island… It will be there for you to read. It’s more important for you to read it now since it will, hopefully, help Ania to start her new life in Europe again. My earlier diaries from the time when I first came to England just for a holiday can wait a while. You will not be bewitched now with London, as I was all of those years ago, coming from communist Poland, and seeing, in such a contrast in colour, content and lights, the vitrines of the shops on Oxford Street…

It’s also so great to be a ghost so Mariola cannot accuse me of interfering in her daughter’s life. She cannot put the phone down on me now, as before, whenever I wanted to suggest anything good for her life or for Ania’s healthy development. After all, I studied psychology, and later, psychotherapy and counselling in this country, for so many years, so objectively, I was able to help and advise, but still, I was never allowed by Mariola to say a word on the subject of my granddaughter’s development. Now she can’t switch off Skype as soon as she sees that our discussion is going in an ‘undesirable way’. Nor can she interfere and stop the call when we are having some fun and love each other too much. What is this too much? Too much, in her obsessively possessive and controlling mind, which created her jealousy, was just a normal loving relationship between any grandmother and her granddaughter.

Now, as a ghost, I can talk to Ania in her mind or heart or in whichever way our spiritual connection works in the Universe… I can see her any time I wish, not only once a week when it was kindly permitted by her Mum… Maybe my daughter was so nasty towards me just because she was more jealous of her daughter than an average mother would be because, in the past, she maybe thought that she needed to fight for my love any time a new man arrived in my life… So, perhaps that was my fault as well and later, Karma was punishing me for that fact.

Now, I can just telepathically get into Ania’s mind and suggest that she should read my diary, as I did this evening. She is going to learn so much from this diary and from her life in London and I get to watch it all unfold. I wonder, however, if anyone is watching me?

Chapter Two

Ania’s Reflections: Morning in Baba’s House

While I was still upstairs this morning, I heard David saying to Dad, It is a good thing the lockdown here in London has finally ended because Ania needs to be able to go out and explore London. Dad said, She is doing much better than we expected. She hardly cried at all. Then David commented, Maybe because she feels at home here? to which Dad replied, I remember that she always loved coming here as a child, before we moved to Koh Samui… So, David said, Oh, yes, she loved being with us here. She always remembered where everything was; her toys and Baba’s things and even things in the kitchen… I didn’t remember where the egg cups were yesterday, and this is my own house, but she found them in a second! Yes, it was strange even for me, said Dad. She hasn’t been here for the last few years. They were only discussing me because they don’t know that Baba is around me, helping me all the time. Oh, yes, I loved being here in Baba’s house. I always did before, when I was small, before we had moved to Koh Samui and, as Baba said, everything changed then.

It didn’t change so much, my darling Baba. I still love being here in your house. Even now, when you are not really here with us anymore, I can still feel you near me. It is quite cool because they do not know about it. I feel so secure and safe, as always when I’m with you, and I feel even closer with you now than when I was in Thailand.

It’s strange but I feel nearly happy now because you are here with me all the time. I’m so sorry about our last Skype connection before you died… I didn’t mean to talk to you in a monosyllabic way, as you called it, and reproached me for. Later, I asked Dad what that meant and he told me that it means to ignore somebody. I learned then that to ignore is the origin of the word ignorance, and that made me think. Did I really want to be ignore-ant? Of course not, my darling Baba. I never meant to ignore you in any way! My God, I never would! Would I? I’m so, so very sorry if it looked like that… I was just writing this letter to Father Christmas and I was talking to you at the same time. Then you said that Father Christmas might not like me doing two jobs at the same time; writing the letter and talking to Baba. You didn’t seem to like it then either. I thought you were joking, like all the other times when we were talking about Father Christmas, because you know that I haven’t believed in him for a long time, although it’s always nice to pretend I do. I also know very well that it is you who are buying this laptop for me for Christmas… My first laptop… I put it at the top of my letter for Father Christmas and I know it wasn’t him who told you that the Apple laptop is only for computer experts, which is why I’m getting another one—cheaper and stronger. You joked that he might not arrive this year by sleigh because the reindeer might have caught the virus and that is why they have such red noses! Now, they would need to take the test for Covid-19! In the same way, I pretended that I was worried about how my presents would be delivered to Koh Samui… And then, when we were laughing, you suddenly started coughing and I didn’t know it was bad because you said, as usual, at the end of our Skype connection, Baba loves you very, very much… Big kiss, Darling. But you switched off the WhatsApp connection quicker than usual, without sending the kisses for me and Mum and Dad, or waiting for me to blow kisses to you. And now, I’m so very sorry, my darling Baba, that I talked to you in that monosyllabic way on our last Skype from Koh Samui… Now that I think about it, it was probably because Mum insisted on me doing two tasks at the same time, either drawing or doing homework. After all, I only had a few minutes before bedtime. But I know you have forgiven me already because you love me so much. And I know you are here around me, smiling at me all the time, as you always did when we were together…

It’s strange that my mother didn’t stay for very long after the funeral, and seemed to be in such a hurry to get back to Thailand, but I guess she felt that now I am almost 18, and soon to take my A levels, she would just let me get on with it, and get back to selling bungalows and holiday lets. No doubt, that’s far more exciting for her. Also, she must have been shocked that Baba left the house to me and not her. Anyway, she’s gone, but I’m worried about Grandfather David; he doesn’t seem well. His memory is going and he wanders around asking if anyone has seen Natalia. He spends a lot of the time sitting in the garden talking to God knows who, watching the sunlight playing on the flowers. He’s always been kind to me and I shall miss him when he dies. Even though I know he and Baba had their share of tensions, I think they were probably just unsuited, that’s all. I promise when I marry, I will insist on us undergoing psychological tests to make sure we are compatible.

I am so enjoying doing my A levels at the moment, in Psychology (thanks to Baba), in Drama (because I’ve discovered I’m quite good at acting and love role-playing; it’s kind of like psychology in movement), in Dance, because I will always love dancing, in English Literature (because I love poetry and novels) and finally, I am doing an extra A level in Classics because it is fascinating studying the lives and works of ancient Greeks and Romans, who are so much like us in so many ways. I wanted to do an extra A level in Philosophy as well but was advised against it. They said 5 is enough and 6 would be asking for trouble. So, I’ll save philosophy for my private reflections. I think I am just in love with everyone and everything, with all learning, and all knowledge, and I have Baba to thank for that. Now, I’d better read some more of her diary. I promised to keep up this rhythm before going to bed, at least once a week, or even, if possible, once a day.

Diary Excerpt 2: First Thoughts About the West

How the Western culture shocked me when first I came from Poland. Here in the West, everyone seems to believe that their first responsibility is to themselves—to make themselves happy. This way of thinking was always alien to me and most selfish, egoistic and unpleasant because, from the day I was born, I had invented an entirely reversed hierarchy of importance in my mind; that the sacrifices for family, for your country, for the people, even for the whole world were always at the top of the list of moralistic, positive values. I’ll never forget when Uncle Sokolowski, during one of our family Christmas or New Year gatherings, opened his jacket widely and with a cry in his voice, declared that he was happy to die. Let them shoot me! he shouted, referring to the communists. They can shoot me if this will build a better future for my children and grandchildren!

So many times, I heard my mother’s and aunt’s stories of the Warsaw Uprising, when young boys sacrificed their lives, throwing bottles of petrol under the German tanks, and when my mother walked through the sewers from one partisan position to another during this Uprising. These stories were presented with admiration and pride; the same pride as other stories about lives sacrificed by men from my mother’s family in earlier uprisings, or the stories about the women from our family donating gold and diamond tiaras to help finance putting Poland back on the map of Europe.

Women from my family rarely married for love since the sacrifices for the family honour, name and fortune were always regarded more highly than your own happiness That’s why I judged very critically the selfish way of thinking which prevails here in the West and now I’m very critical about the selfish culture where only one’s happiness matters. I couldn’t believe that even in the Mind charity organisation, where I was later working as a psychologist and counsellor, it was suggested that we direct our patients only towards selfish solutions. For example, the woman who did not enjoy sex with her husband was advised to take a lover, which might spice up her marriage and refresh the marital union. No morals there from the perspective of my upbringing. My counsellor colleagues there honestly felt sorry for me because I was unable to enjoy casual sex and was unable to get involved with any of those fascinating young men that I met so often during my frequent travels around the world. This is probably due to another part of my upbringing… Does it spring from the Catholic religion or from all those romantic and mostly dramatic works of literature I read in my youth? After all, I wrote my Diploma paper on romantic literature at university, studying Language and Literature, both subjects which fascinated me. It must still be the influence of all those dramatic stories I read in my most formative years. All those books said that there is always a price to pay for too much happiness in your life. Usually, romantic love stories ended unhappily; someone gets murdered in a duel. So, I’m always afraid of being totally happy or involved in any of my relationships, because I believe that I will be punished for too much happiness… But Buddha teaches us about going to so-called Nirvana and not being afraid of that happiness. But what did he know? He ran away from his wife and baby son! Somehow, going on your own seems a selfish approach, rather than being involved with someone else. Besides, I always regarded Buddha as very selfish anyway, looking from the perspective of our sacrificial standards and values, since he left his wife and his child to begin his path to personal enlightenment. Others say that it was his sacrifice in helping people but, in fact, he was looking for his own happiness, his own Nirvana. Simpler, I think, looking from a selfishness point of view, is the story of Jesus… The higher values of sacrifices have always directed my life until now. We’ll see what life still brings; probably best not to think at all; just live and see what happens next… It might be a balance of determinism to do things alone and avoid following the ‘me, me, me’ culture too.

Ghost Story 2: Settling In

It’s such a pleasure to see Ania settling into my old house. And she obviously loves the garden too. I am aware she is just on that cusp between being a girl and becoming a young woman, and it’s such a beautiful time of life. I am sad not to be able to be there in person with her, but by hovering around, I can watch over her anyway, so I don’t miss out on too much. I felt so sorry for her when she was a little girl, growing up in Koh Samui. She was cut off from all education, all books, all sources of culture and European refinements of learning, so I am delighted now that she has come to live here in my old house. Now, she has the opportunity to get stuck into her A-level course, finding out so much of interest. I was happy to be able to help steer her on that path in the last few months of my life, and now, I hope she will realise how lucky she is. I can tell she does—look at her sleeping there, her head full of poems of ancient Greece and Rome. I can tell from the way her shoulders are trembling in her sleep that she must be dancing. I wish I could see into her dreams and join her! No, on second thoughts, that would be too much—everyone’s dreams should be private to themselves unless you choose to share them.

Why did Mariola leave so quickly after my death? Well, she hadn’t been here much all of this time and I guess she was annoyed that I left the house to Ania. Technically, I left my half to Ania but made David change his own will so that when he dies, she will also inherit his full half. I hope he doesn’t cheat me on that. So, in time, she will get the whole thing. It looks like it won’t be too long, actually, given the way his health has been deteriorating of late.

I never understood why my daughter was so nasty and competitive with me. I sacrificed all my life for her and gave up all the prospects I had before. But she will never know this of course; they never do. Yet, what I thought was that by leaving the house and everything to Ania, it would mean that love wins, at last, and Mariola might realise that she shouldn’t have come between me and my granddaughter as she tried to do. But time will tell… Now, I better leave her to sleep.

I wonder—do we ghosts get to sleep too? Do I have anywhere to lie down? Do I even have a body to lie down with? Oh dear, it’s so confusing being dead; let me go and try to find someone to ask…

Chapter Three

Ania’s Reflections: David’s Accident

I cannot believe what has happened. It started out like a normal day. I was still so happy about being here in London. Of course, I have been sad about the circumstances, about Baba dying and everything, and I was upset about some things I had been reading in her diaries. I was also a bit worried about David; he seemed to be having some kind of absent-minded episodes to add to whatever other problems he was having, but I felt nothing too out of the ordinary was happening there. On top of that, I had the constant worry about my A levels; am I going to get good enough grades to go to university? I am really enjoying doing them, however, and I think that is also the point—to enjoy what you are doing at the time, not just with one eye on the future. That much I remember Baba teaching me when she was still alive.

The fact is that I love psychology, drama, dance, English literature and also the classics, a kind of left-field add-on that I didn’t realise I would love so much. Classical languages kind of give meaning to all the others. For example, drama started in ancient Greece (at least in Europe) so these Greeks obviously knew a thing or two, and many of the words in the English language come from either Greek or Latin roots; at least half of them in fact, and in poetry and literature, it’s even more. And psychology—well, the very word is Greek and the subject was started by philosophers such as Aristotle, as I learned in my first A-level class. And as for dance, well, I watched Zorba the Greek the other night, and so, of course, the Greeks have long loved dancing. In fact, my dance teacher is Greek and has been teaching us some amazing circle dances.

But I am digressing. Maybe I am just diverting from the tragedy that happened today. Maybe I just cannot take it in and I have to procrastinate by wondering about other ideas in my mind. But whatever happens, I keep coming back to the sequence of events that took place mid-afternoon.

I was home, working on an essay in English literature and the doorbell rang. Grandpa David was out and I wasn’t expecting anyone. Anyway, I stopped typing on my laptop and went to the door. I was very surprised indeed to see two police officers outside, one male and one female. It was she who spoke to me first.

Are you Ania Robinson?

Yes, what’s the problem, officer?

I am afraid we have some bad news for you. Can we come in?

I let them in through the front door and took them into our rather posh drawing-room, which is actually two big rooms knocked into one that stretches all the way through the house. It’s rather grand and has lovely carpets on the floor. I motioned for them to sit down and we all sat around the large table.

I had seen that he was impressed by the carpets, the antique furniture, the paintings, the Tiffany lamps and the silver all over the sitting room and for a moment, I thought he could be one of the members of those gangs of burglars that Baba told me about, who are sent to investigate which house to burgle next in our affluent neighbourhood. Baba told me a long time ago that I should never open the door to people I don’t know.

So, I asked him for his proof of identity, and the policewoman who was with him, who seemed very kind and caring, said,

It’s right that you check properly who you let into your house because they might not be who they say they are, especially in this neighbourhood. You should be careful living here in this big house with its secluded garden.

I live here with just my grandad, I offered, possibly because I suddenly felt lonely and liked the caring sound of her voice.

Don’t worry; we will look after you here, she added, concerned.

So where are your parents just now?

They are both in Koh Samui in Thailand, where I also lived until recently when my grandmother died and left me this house in her will. She always wanted me to move here to London to study and to live with her and her husband, David.

I was not sure why I told them all that; all I knew was that I felt as lonely as I had at Baba’s funeral when all the guests went away and I slept for the first time in Baba’s bed without her…

Her colleague interrupted my thoughts;

Well, you will need them here now, young lady…

Ania, does your grandfather, David Robinson, live here with you?

Yes, he does, but he’s gone out for a walk at the moment. Why, what’s the matter? Well, this is what we have come to tell you. There was an accident in Finchley High Street a couple of hours ago. A man was out walking and then suddenly, for no apparent reason, he walked out from the pavement and tried to cross the road at exactly the same moment as a loaded bus was coming down the High Street. Apparently, he didn’t see it coming, and was looking the other way, because he walked directly into its path, and was knocked down instantly.

But what has this got to do with me? Why have you come here? (I said this to give myself time to think, because my mouth had gone dry and I had begun to realise exactly what it had to do with me, but I didn’t want to acknowledge it. So, I said the obvious out loud to buy time. We all do that from time to time, haven’t you noticed?)

The thing is, said the policewoman, a wallet was found in his jacket pocket containing his driver’s licence. Here’s the licence. Do you recognise it? She reached out and gave me a standard driving licence, and sure enough, it belonged to David Robinson.

Yes, this is my grandfather; the address is right. But maybe someone stole it? Maybe someone else had it.

We doubt it, she went on. There was lots of other photo ID in the wallet, and they all pointed to the man who was hit as being your grandfather.

But is he all right… how bad was the accident? I asked, this time beginning to feel the impact of what she was telling me.

That is why we are here, Miss Robinson. He was killed instantly. There was nothing anyone could do.

My stomach felt like it had just taken a leap from a cliff. What? Oh, no; another death in the family so soon? Just as we were beginning to settle into a routine! How was this possible? It was all beginning to feel like some kind of plot in a Greek tragedy, even these police officers turning up and telling me about a death that had happened off stage.

Oh no! Why? Why? I cried out loud, as a million things were careering through my head. Was it partly my fault? Should I have told someone about his signs of dementia? Had he had a blackout or forgotten who he was while crossing the road? Should I have been there with him? Should I have got him a complete medical check-up? Was I partly to blame?

Well, the why is pretty straightforward, Miss Robinson. If you are hit at 30 miles an hour by a fully loaded London double-decker bus, chances are you are not going to survive. It’s a terrible tragedy and you have our deepest condolences.

I stood up in a kind of trance and went and got a Kleenex from a box on the dressing table. David had been so exact, so precise in everything he did. Everything had to be exactly in the right place. I had often seen him arranging and rearranging the dinner table before guests arrived. Yet, on this fateful day, he had failed to put himself in the right place, it seemed.

Well, it’s all so horrible as his wife, my grandmother, died only a few months ago, and that too was a terrible shock. I came to live here after that and I have been studying for my A levels. I thought Grandpa was going to live for years and years and be happy in his retirement. And now this? I just cannot believe it.

We quite understand. It must have come as a terrible shock. We have some more bad news, I am afraid, said the policewoman, who seemed nice but also somehow a little reserved, as if she was just doing a job. I am afraid we have to ask you to come down to the hospital and formally identify him.

What, now? I protested but in a lukewarm sort of way. I knew we might as well get this over and done with. After all, I was his nearest living relative and who else could they go to?

So, off we went. They drove me in their police car down to University College Hospital, where the ambulance had taken him. Now, his body was lying in a room set aside for use as a morgue and where I presume autopsies were performed. He was lying on what looked like a marble table and had a white blanket over him. They lifted back the covering from the head and I saw at once that yes, it was he, Grandpa. Oh dear, oh dear!

I am afraid I broke down in sobs at this point and had to be escorted out. Although I hadn’t known Grandpa all that well, he was still my grandfather and had always seemed to me an upright and good man, even if perhaps a little too cold to suit Baba’s temperament as an ideal partner. But they say opposites attract sometimes…

On the drive back, I felt as if I was in a dream. I had signed an official form attesting to the fact that yes, this man lying here in the hospital morgue was indeed my grandfather, David. Well, I guess technically, he was my step-grandfather. Is there such a thing? He wasn’t my actual blood grandfather as such. Maybe that’s why I didn’t feel so close to him. Is that wrong? Can it be wrong to be truthful?

Once we were back home, the nice policewoman offered to stay with me for a while but to be honest, I said I preferred to be alone. After they left, I made a cup of tea in the suddenly empty and rather strangely quiet kitchen, where David so often could be found pottering about. I sat at the table wondering what to do next, and suddenly, I realised I had to go and read another diary excerpt. After all, these diaries were probably going to shed lots of light not just on Natalia but also on David, and as a homage to his memory, what better thing could I do than read them once per day, as had already become my custom.

Diary Excerpt 3: About My Ancestors: Aunties and Polish Aristocratic Communists

I remember that on the day of my wedding to my present husband, my dear Aunty Kate asked me if I was sure that I really loved him and would be happy with him. I just told her, in private, when she was giving me her antique bracelet as something old for good luck for the bride, Don’t worry, dear Aunty, I have such a power of persuasion and the use of suggestive hypnosis that even if my heart is not sure about it, I can persuade myself that I like someone just for convenience or if it is financially necessary.

I am just like my grandmother before the revolution who married to save the estate and the family fortune. She taught me how to exercise the power of my mind and my self-control. You remember the plums in chocolate, my favourite when I was a child?"

Yes, you still love them now, she said.

Yes, I still do, but at that time, I was able to open the wrapper of this sweet and close it again even when I was dying to eat the sweet straight away. So, I learned to control temptation. I can persuade myself that something that is not very tasty is good for me just now and put off eating my plum in chocolate for a later, more appropriate time… Just now, I need to think about the comfortable future for my small daughter, my old mother who needs to have a nurse to look after her, and also, some security for myself so that I needn’t worry about my pension as my mum still does.

I have to tell you about my ancestors, the aristocratic Polish family who received nobility, a knighthood and our coat of arms at the time of the Teutonic Knights whom they defeated in the early 15th century.

These were ancient times, and since then, there have been many wars, uprisings, balls and parades about which I heard many times from the lips of my mother and her two sisters at many a family gathering.

I think that each of these three ladies deserves a book on their own… For example, there was Aunty Liza, the oldest one, with her milky skin contrasting with her thick red voluptuous lips and provocatively shiny brown eyes burning like fire under a reddish fringe.

Her flirtatious eyes were openly saying to a man, I know you want to get into my pants, even when her mouth was saying prayers during Sunday mass in church in Vilnius. There, her husband was a bank director and one of the organisers of famous fancy dress balls, at which many Polish officers from the local garrisons fought over dances with Aunty Liza and her two equally beautiful sisters.

Her husband was killed by communists in Yugoslavia. He had taken Polish gold there at the beginning of the war and had preserved it for the longest time until Tito came to power which resulted in the disappearance of the gold and its custodians. Since that time when the communists killed her husband, Aunty Liza’s eyes haven’t shone anymore, or at least I haven’t seen them shining, even when her daughter passed her high school final exams and was appointed as the best communist student of her faculty and was sent to continue her studies at Moscow University…

Although this was the highest possible honour for a bright communist girl, for her mother, it had just the opposite meaning since she hated communism which she said had killed her husband and two brothers previously. My other aunt was convinced and claimed to the end of her life that this fact had contributed to the cancer that finally killed Aunty Liza.

Soon after, her precious daughter came back from Moscow with another like her, a communist engineer, who already called himself her husband, however, his manners left much to be desired…

Ghost Story: Ghost Worries About Whether David Might Be Coming to Join Her in the Afterlife

Oh gosh, so David’s gone and died… What a catastrophe! Does that mean he is coming here? (She looks around nervously).

"For God’s sake, please, no—one of the best things about being dead was that I didn’t have to put up with him all the time, constantly fussing, and his cold, cold English ways…

Please, God, send him somewhere else…"

And Ania has chosen to read this diary excerpt on the day of David’s death of all days, where I confessed to my aunt that I could persuade myself to love David, when, in fact, I married him mainly out of concern for money and security for my child. Oh, I was so arrogant; I see it now… You really shouldn’t play games like this with human lives or you might reap a whirlwind of bad karma… But no, hang on—I did what I did out of duty! I also did it for my own mother, who needed security too. Is that so wrong?

Ah, Aunty Liza… yes, I remember her; what a beauty she was. A bit like Ania only more voluptuous. Is one allowed such thoughts up here, wherever here is? But look what happened; her husband was killed, and her brothers too. I remember how much that generation suffered, living through both the first and second wars; what a nightmare it must have been for them. I feel like weeping when I think about it all… Can I weep? That’s funny, I don’t seem to be able to cry… Where are my eyes, my hands?

What are these filmy things?

Ok, I better stop and just concentrate. The thing is to make sure that Ania gets over the shock of two deaths right after one another. Let me send her some positive thoughts…

I wonder if communists go to a special place here in the afterlife. After all, they denied I existed, or most of them did. But here I am… or seem to be. Who on earth sorts out all these souls, Communists, Nazis, Nationalists…? Who goes where? And who decides?

Oh, it’s all so confusing… And what’s going to happen to me?

Maybe it’s not the grand things we believed in or the great schemes we hatched, but the little things that count; the ordinary everyday kindness and happiness we caused for people.

I’ve done my best. But please, oh Lord, if it’s you that decides, don’t send David here to haunt me. I just want to be alone for a bit and hover here and make sure Ania is going to be all right.

Chapter Four

Ania’s Reflections: David’s Funeral

I suppose it had to be a typically English wet, windy and rainy day. I can’t say it was a barrel of laughs really, going to that crematorium in North London to see a handful of family and old friends of David and Natalia’s around. There was the usual gaggle of Natalia’s Polish friends who had known her and David as a couple for many years. There were some distant cousins or something of David, but his parents had long since gone and he had no brothers or sisters. The Vicar read out some nice passages from the Bible, those wonderful sayings of St Paul about love being kind and patient and never rude. I think it was most appropriate. David was, in fact, never really rude in a direct way, but his rudeness to Natalia was more snide, more undermining. It was a kind of coldness that cut through her like a blade. She had told me about it once. So, it was appropriate that the crematorium was cold, the grounds were cold; even the taxi ride there was cold. Yet, on the day Natalia was buried in her splendid specially chosen tomb at the Polish cemetery, it was sunny and the sky was full of gorgeous white clouds. It’s weird, actually, but so often, I’ve noticed weather seems