We sit behind Poles on the bus, some of the new Poles of Plymouth. W. has a great admiration for them. They've brough grace to his city. Grace and refinement. We remember the waitress who served us at W.'s favourite cafe. How gentle she was! How generous! She had a delicate intelligence, W. says. Wit. Smiling, playful eyes.
I should find myself a Plymouth Pole, W. says. That might be my chance, W. says. I might be redeemed.
As we take the ferry across to Devonport, W. considers the history of Poland – how the borders of the country have moved outward and inward over the centuries like a concertina, and of the melancholy music of its wars, genocides and occupations. It's the sound of old Europe, W. says. A great lament. He hears it still!
Of course, it's in his blood. Didn't his family come to Britain, generations ago, because of old European pogroms? He too, in some sense, is a Polish immigrant.
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