At Whitesands, the bus stops to let on a group of Poles, no doubt some of the migrants who have moved to Plymouth in the last few years. W. has a great admiration for them, he says, the Poles of Plymouth. They've brought grace to his city. Grace and refinement.
As we take the ferry across to Devonport, W. muses upon the troubled history of Poland – how the borders of the country have moved outward and inward over the centuries like a concertina, accompanying the melancholy music of war, genocide and occupation, the great lament of Old Europe. He hears it still, W. says. It sounds through his blood. Didn't his father's family come to England, generations ago, because of old European pogroms? Isn't he, too, a Polish immigrant?
We remember the Polish waitress who served us at W.'s favourite cafe. How gentle she was! How generous! She had everything we lacked, he says. A delicate intelligence. Wit. I was moved, W. says. Even he could see that. I blushed. I fumbled for words.
I should find myself a Plymouth Pole, W. says. That might be my way to redemption.
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