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Fire.
Luke explains. “This was found in a time capsule buried in the school foundation. It was drawn by a child whose family came from Poland after the Second World War. Their home was bombed. Obliterated. Nothing left of where they came from, the forest his father used to manage before the war burnt to ash. Those must have been little Olek’s bedtime stories for him to draw what his parents remembered so clearly.”
Next comes a sketch of a camp like I just left. Rows of tents go on forever. He tells me this camp was more local. “It’s hard to believe now that Polish families lived in encampments right here in Cornwall for years after fighting ended.”
“They were prisoners of war?” That doesn’t seem right. “Wait. I thought?—”
“That Britain went to war for Poland? Yes. Like Poland would have gone to war for us. That’s what treaties are for. Agreementsto support each other. To treat each other’s people as equal citizens. To offer refuge and a peaceful future.”
That’s another reminder of a little girl whose parents were promised the same. Now Luke pulls evidence of an older journey than hers from that desk drawer.
This faded book is a diary with Olek W. written on its cover. “Our old student wrote in here about his father being in a Polish fighter pilot regiment that joined with our Royal Air Force. About how the encampments here were full of the families of other Polish pilots who defended Britain. I keep meaning to ask Hayden if any were his relatives.”
“Hayden?”
“Yes. Hayden Novac.” He lifts his head, turning to the window for a second while I picture burrs in a beard and a slow-to-spread smile. “He’s almost finished taming our school grounds.” Luke touches some childish handwriting in that old diary. “I hope he has time to translate the rest of this writing before he leaves us. The part about this student’s goals.”
That’s apt—the next drawing is of an old-style football, the stitching visible through brown leather as clear now as when a Polish boy drew it. “Hang on.” I look up from a footballing aspiration shared by plenty of the migrant kids I’ve worked with. “The Second World War? That’s what, eighty years ago?”
“Almost. This student was born after the war ended.” He meets my eye. “Listen, I know you want to rush back to France, and I know we’re in a mess here, but if you had the time to help our new sixth-form students draw their own journeys like this, to make friends while working through where they’ve come from and where they’re going, you’d be very welcome to stay for longer.”
“Thanks, Mr. Lawson, but?—”
“Luke, please. And there’s no need to answer right away. Just think about it, Rae. No pressure.” He pauses before confessing,“My own children had similar journeys. You mentioned meeting Nathan? He found them during a humanitarian mission, so I know what your line of work takes out of a person. Nathan has more to give when he has fuel in his tank. When he’s well rested. You could give yourself a little grace right here to do the same if you wanted.”
Reece Trelawney told me the same before I headed for my meeting. Said I shouldn’t hurry back if I didn’t want to burn out. That if I worked with him on his Safe Harbour project, he’d insist I take a real break. Now the library door opens, and someone else who wants me to stay for longer says, “There you are.” Sol holds out a key. “Ready?”
Luke slides that yellowing scroll away but holds onto the diary while walking us to the front door of this building, where he repeats what is spelled out in floor tile mosaic under my feet.
“Welcome to Glynn Harber, Rae. For a weekend, for a week, or for longer.” He smiles, and wow, that makes a world of difference. “To be honest, I’m hoping for at least a week, especially as you’re a friendship-making expert. Our students need those skills more than anything else we can teach them. There’s proof of how vital that is in here.” He hands me that old diary. “You don’t need to be able to read Polish to see the impact of the friendships Olek made during his first year here. He drew them for us. That’s what I want for our new cohort.”
He points at the minibus in the car park. “Sol will be up and down to London over the next few weeks to bring our new sixth-form students here in small groups. I’ll take them camping right away. That’s where the real bonding happens before they get swamped by a brand-new school.” That smile melts all his sternness. “If you still need somewhere to decompress after your meeting, come with us. See the start of their new journeys. Be part of them with us.”
We leave him on that doorstep, and Sol leads me around the building to an old stable block.
“It’s a bit cramped and the light won’t be brilliant, but let’s spread out your work while no one else is inside so I can take a good look.”
I have a better idea. “Or you could leave it to me and go spend the weekend with your man.” Because that’s the other reason Sol is leaving. “Where is he flying in from?”
“From New York.” Sol’s smile is helpless. “We’ll get Cameron settled into his halls and then have our first time alone together since I don’t know when.”
I take the door key from him. “So you better make the most of it. I’ll take it from here.”
“But we were going to break down your project into smaller tasks.”
“No,youwere, Sol.” He always tried to save me from myself at college, which was pointless. He’s a grafter—a sure and steady worker—while I’m wired for frenzied, last-minute surges. But we still both crossed the finish line, didn’t we? “I’ll figure out how to fix my pitch. The answer will come to me, no worries. Go bang your man’s brains out. I’ve got this.”
“You sure?” He sets down my bags, already drifting back towards the car park.
“One hundred percent.” A new idea has already started to percolate. I just need to give it space to bubble to the surface, hopefully before Monday. That’s a whole weekend away. Days and days. Right now that feels like forever. “I’ll be fine.”
He backs off while calling out, “You’re forgetting that I know what your version of fine means, Rae.” Here’s proof of how well he knows me. “TheFstands for fucking up your timing. TheIis for ignoring your deadlines until it’s almost too late. TheN? I bet that still stands for no time left on the clock, and theE?—”
He stops dead.
We both know what theEused to stand for at college. Ecstasy fuelled plenty of creativity for the artists we shared studio space with. He knows why I’d never touch it—or speed, which might actually have helped my focus—but there was no way I’d risk triggering what can run in families. I still won’t.
Sol looks sick for almost bringing up the subject. I let him off the hook, I hope, by joking. “TheEstands for me drowning myself in energy drinks, yeah?”
