The bus stops at Whitesands, high on the promontory, holiday bungalows built into the steep hillside. A group of young Poles comes up the stairs to sit down. They talk calmly, amiably, while they look out of the window, boots propped on the window ledge of the double decker. Plymouth has been enhanced by its migrating Poles, W. says.
We were served the other morning at the cafe with grace and tenderness by the gentlest of Poles. She was from Wroclaw, she said. We know Wroclaw!, we told her. We discussed the way the city changed hands over the years. We discussed the intact medieval centre and the communist-built suburbs. We discussed Solidarity and Poland joining the EC and the great migration of Poles away from their country. We told her how much we'd enjoyed our long train journey west from Warsaw to Wroclaw. It was the highlight of our lives, W. told her. That's when we peaked. – 'You should find yourself a gentle Pole', W. says. Oh but he forgot, W. says. I'm incapable of love.
You have to court women, you can't just hop into bed with them. That's my great mistake, W. says. He courted Sal for 8 months, W. says. It involved a lot of gin, a lot of drunkenness. It involved mixtapes – made by Sal for him, W., and not the other way round. W. only listened to Mahler and Gary Glitter before he met Sal, he said. Women can improve you. A gentle Pole would calm me down.
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