Sentinels

By Antonina Irena Brzozowska

Isabella Krakowska set out on her quest to becoming the person she was born to be.

But, do dreams ever come true?

Do ambitions ever satisfy the soul?

Does love really exist?

And who, or what, are the sentinels? What part do they play in Isabella’s life as she struggles through the mire of her misfortunes and climbs the rough peaks of her life, in an attempt to conquer her own Everest?

Will Isabella be finally released from the chains of her past or will she forever remain a prisoner?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035813704

Antonina Irena Brzozowska

Antonina Irena Brzozowska was born and educated in the north-east of England. A former teacher, her interests incorporate the Polish, Canadian, and Hawaiian cultures and traditions. Her extensive travel experiences in these countries have provided her with an invaluable asset to her writing.

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About the Author

Antonina Irena Brzozowska was born and educated in the northeast of England.

A former teacher, her interests incorporate the Polish, Canadian and Hawaiian cultures and traditions.

Her extensive travel experiences in these countries have provided her with an invaluable asset to her writing.

Dedication

In memory of my beloved father, Antoni Brzozowski, my inspiration.

Copyright Information ©

Antonina Irena Brzozowska 2023

The right of Antonina Irena Brzozowska to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035813698 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035813704 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

To all the team at Austin Macauley, thank you.

To Mister Buck, thank you for giving me the will to persevere with my aspirations.

To Miss Pitwood, thank you for refusing to let go of my dreams, not allowing me to let go and encouraging me all the way.

To Doctor Eggleston and Miss Sugg. Your encouragement was invaluable.

To Pani Kryślakowa, thank you for the happy memories.

Prologue

Tall and proud, the mature conifers like two sentinels, dusted with the first snows of winter, stood on either side of the house guarding, protecting, witnessing all they surveyed. The house itself was nothing to write home about, just an ordinary semi-detached planted amidst other houses of the same ilk, situated towards the bottom of an ordinary road, in an ordinary working-class town. Once the conifers shrouded a happy home; now one solitary woman who had, somehow, survived to tell the tale, stood looking thoughtfully at the house and trees.

Isabella Krakowska continued to stare unblinkingly at the fragile flakes of snow spinning and dancing in the cool air, haphazardly brushing a couple of cool flakes from her face with her gloved hand, as she watched the pearl-like drops land on the filigree leaves, a bitter-sweet lump rising to her throat. Swallowing hard, she tried desperately to control the well of fresh tears threatening to spill; for, she had come to say goodbye to her beloved trees and all they represented. Uncontrollably tears spilled on to her cold cheeks. No goodbyes, she told herself firmly, swiftly wiping away the damp trails. Not before I write it all down as a living memorial. Who for? She did not know; neither did she care.

Chapter One

Antoni Krakowski was a God-fearing, proud man who lived for his family. He was a survivor who had endured a tough farm existence, before fighting for his country in the Second World War. Seeing, living through and surviving the horrors of Monte Cassino, he buried all that he had seen, felt, smelt, heard and touched deep within the depths of his heart never referring to, or discussing with anyone, any of the traumas he had been a witness to; young men with bloody bandages covering the stump of an amputated leg or a shorn off arm, remembering all too vividly the killing of innocent young men, who happened to be fighting on the other side, burying his own close friends amidst the noisy, bloody, chaotic battlefield and surviving the guilt he carried in his heart; secretly returning to it all on a harrowing daily pilgrimage, making him the man he was today: strong, resolute in his convictions, deeply religious, a survivor against the odds. His philosophy of life he instilled in his family.

An ally of the British forces Antoni was not allowed to return to his native land and so he made his home in England. His years in exile were tough. No longer was he the master of his own farm, with farm hands under his control; Now, harsh bosses, and even harsher colleagues, controlled him in an environment which was stifling, hot, noisy, gruelling, hostile and, although he was quick to master the basics of the English language, his accent quickly gave him away making him an easy target for jokes and bullying. Antoni took it all in his stride; he had his God he could call on, a wife and a baby on the way and, for them, he would endure anything and everything.

Krystyna Krakowska had lived through hell. Surviving five years in Siberia, she was eventually reunited with Antoni, embarking on a new future in a foreign country. They had all they wanted; a home, each other and their dreams and now Krystyna was pregnant with their first child. Both Krystyna and Antoni were excited and happy; for, all they ever wanted in life was to be together and to have a family; both were anxious; for, to be having her first child at the age of thirty-eight, Isabella was considered to be an older mother and, therefore, this pregnancy carried with it a strong element of apprehension and a certain amount of risk.

Antoni took steps towards his wife, took the wet saucer from her hand and led her to a nearby chair. Pulling up a scuffed chair in front of her, he took both her damp hands into his own broad hands and squeezed them gently, looking deeply into her blue eyes he softly said, Krystyna, you have remembered what we have discussed?

Hastily she withdrew her hands from his warm grasp, rose from her chair and grabbed a tea towel from the rail. Please don’t worry, Antoni. I have not forgotten.

He rose, put on his thick overcoat and, picking up his coarse satchel, he approached her once more, placing his strong hands around her ample waist, turning her to face him. She looked deep, evenly, unblinkingly into his eyes and saw only a veil of anxiety; knowing how deeply he loved her, how he would do all for her and the sake of their baby. I love you so much, Antoni. She said almost in a whisper, as she flicked a peppered grey-black strand of hair from his eyes.

Please, Krystyna, he urged, if anything happens while I’m at work, baptize our baby son or daughter.

She nodded her head and kissed him softly on the cheek. I promise, she said.

As his footsteps left the front gate his heart was leaden. Krystyna was not a strong woman, slight in stature and years of toil and strife in Siberia had affected her health and, at thirty-eight, she was rather on the old side to be having her first child. He quickened his steps. I am worrying unnecessarily, he admonished himself severely. There are still two months to go; the doctor is examining her regularly. What on earth am I so anxious about?

But still, thoughts raced through his head as day after day he transferred the molten iron into sheds, amidst the monotonous clanking sounds and sweltering heat. During one intensive shift, as he wiped the perspiration from his brow with a grubby hand, disturbing scenes of Krystyna going into premature labour gate-crashed his mind, giving him no peace. As if on cue a tap on his shoulder made him turn abruptly, his exhausted eyes shining against the backdrop of murky grime smothering his face.

Krakowski, your wife is in hospital.

The words sliced through his heart like a jagged knife. Time stood still while all around him engines rumbled, men shouted, bursts of hot air shot through the stifling air, erratic blasts of thunder threatened to burst his eardrums while the merciless clanking continued all around him. He heard nothing but the pounding of his own heart, threatening to jump out of his tight chest and leap into one of the receptacles above his head; felt only his blood rushing to his head, his knees weakening making his whole body feel like one big wobbly jelly.

The foreman yelled above the excruciating din. Can anyone help Krakowski? Does anyone have any form of transport?

White eyes stared unblinkingly at white eyes; dirty lips grinned.

I have, came a voice from the shadows. All the shiny white eyes looked around to the source as a tall, well built, broad shouldered man, known as Little Joe, stepped forward. I’ll take you, Krakowski.

Antoni was oblivious to the sneers and whispers as he plodded through the deafening, grinding, clashing, rumbling, scorching hell; aware only of the thundering of his heart as he placed one heavy foot in front of the other as, like a robot, he projected himself forward, his mind devoid of all thoughts; just walking.

Krystyna was in labour as he arrived; screaming and shouting out in pain she was not. A blanket of heavy silence met him as he was escorted into a little room. There he sat hunched up, inwardly trembling not daring to think, muse, hope, dream; just breathing and…waiting…waiting…

Finally, he raised his eyes to the ticking of the clock on the wall piercing the heavy silence, switching them to his colleague who, beneath the grime, tried to force a reassuring smile, throwing Antoni into a deeper state of confusion; for, wasn’t he the ringleader of the gang who always poked fun at him? Antoni forced a glimmer of a smile. You…you go, Joe. I-I am all right.

I’m staying, mate. Joe’s smile widened before he turned away, stretching out his grubby arm to pick up a magazine from a nearby table, relieved that he managed to scrounge some time away from the confines of the torturous steel mill. Neither was Antoni in the mood for a trivial conversation; whatever the reason for staying, he knew he would never forget Little Joe’s kindness.

Two pairs of stark eyes shot to the opening door and the serious, unflinching, middle-aged eyes of a man attired in a long, white coat. Antoni felt a sheet of ice freeze over his heart, his whole body in a state of paralysis, while his guts wrenched and twisted fiercely without a grain of mercy. Again, time stood still while the clock continued to tick ominously. Mister Krakowski? The solemn man’s eyes switched from Antoni to Joe.

I-I am Krakowski, Sir. Antoni stammered his whole world collapsing around him, while the doctor’s stern image swam before his eyes.

You have a baby girl, Mister Krakowski. The doctor extended his broad hand, though, Antoni was quick to notice there was no smile gracing the professional’s face.

Thank you…thank you, Sir. Antoni turned to Little Joe but he had vanished. He turned back to the doctor. Thank you so very much, doctor. He beamed while his heart danced with pure, undiluted joy. Within seconds, it broke into tiny shattering pieces.

Your little girl is very weak, Mister Krakowski. She may die. You and your wife must be prepared.

As the door clicked behind the medic, one word hammered relentlessly in Antoni’s head…die…die…die…as the ticking of the clock became ever louder, while he forced open his dry mouth and stated determinedly. You are wrong, doctor; my little girl shall live!

Krystyna was weak and deeply worried. She had heard no cry and had seen no baby, only a succession of serious faces and the sound of concerned, subdued voices. Antoni took his wife’s cold hands into his own as he sat by her bed. You are a mother, Krystyna. We have a baby girl. He announced only to witness her face crumble and the hot tears spill out of her eyes and on to their entwined fingers. Krystyna, we have a daughter!

She dared to look at his happiness, his joy, but beneath his happy façade she knew, in her heart of hearts, that he was hiding something from her; for, she knew her husband well. She is dead, she said, her words stark and cold.

No…no; she is alive in an incubator. Our daughter is alive, Krystyna.

Have you seen her? Desperately her eyes searched his eyes for a positive answer. She saw nothing. She closed her eyes tightly to his silent answer. I want to sleep, Antoni.

Armed with a small bottle, Antoni begged and pleaded until, finally, the reluctant nurses allowed him into the small room. There was only one occupied incubator and he almost ran towards it, his heart leaping for joy as he saw his baby daughter for the very first time. Small, alone and clinging to life he watched her small body rise and fall, his eyes taking in all the tubes and medical paraphernalia that was keeping his daughter alive and all the time he said over and over again. You are alive, my little one…you are alive…

Five minutes, Mister Krakowski. An overweight nurse boomed.

That’s all I need. He consoled himself and, bringing out the small bottle, he took off the cap, poured a little water into his hand, squeezed his hand through a small opening of the incubator and made the sign of the cross as he sprinkled a little water onto the baby’s forehead. I baptize you, Antonina Isabella Krakowska, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Chapter Two

The day they brought their baby home was the happiest day in Krystyna and Antoni’s life; both parents ecstatic in their joy. However, there was a looming black cloud overhead which both intrinsically felt hanging over them; neither spoke about it.

Looking down lovingly on the small infant sleeping soundly in his arms, Antoni felt a deep overwhelming sadness interlacing and threatening to override his happiness and, as Krystyna watched her husband and child, she too felt a deep melancholy taking over her contentment; for, both knew Antoni would not be around to witness his daughter’s graduation, her marriage, his grandchildren and this secretly broke their hearts.

There was no cure for Antoni’s illness. He was in the early stages of Multiple Sclerosis but he, and everyone, knew it was a progressive disease and, in the end, it would probably finish him off. Being a man of grit and determination, Antoni was resolute in making all the provisions he could for his only child. For the present time, he tossed inevitability aside, and treasured each single moment for the bad times, he knew, would come soon enough. You know, Krystyna, we must register our little one. Have you any thoughts regarding a name? He waited with bated breath.

Isabella is a lovely name. Krystyna cast her husband a hopeful look.

He was not surprised, Krystyna had mentioned this name before; inwardly he was recovering from a deeper disappointment. Antonina, he silently screamed and loudly said, Isabella, that’s a wonderful name. And so, it was decided.

A couple of days later, as Krystyna unfolded the birth certificate, her bemused eyes stared unblinkingly at the name, as it stared back at her. As her eyes darted back to her husband his guts wrenched, his heart pained; for, this, he dismally concluded, had indeed been a deceitful act; something wrong and unforgivable; something which should have been discussed beforehand; not something to be thrown at his wife completely out of the blue for her to blindly understand and accept. Her words cut through him like a blade through ice.

Antoni, what is this? They’ve…they’ve… She thrust the certificate into his hand. He didn’t look; he didn’t need to look because he already knew what was written down and this was just a final, official confirmation of his treacherous deceit. Antoni? Krystyna stared at her silent, remorseful husband and her heart melted; for she knew all his acts had logical explanations.

He felt her hurt, puzzled eyes on him; felt her silent disappointment in him and wished he could turn back the clock as cold realisation told him that his act was one of selfish vanity and an unforgivable sin. From the depths of his being, he summoned up any fragments of courage he had, took a deep breath, focussed his eyes on his wife and began his confession. …and so you see, Krystyna, it was necessary for me to baptize the child in case…

In case she died. Krystyna whispered.

Yes, in case she died; she was so weak.

And the name, Antonina? she asked, already knowing the answer.

He blinked hard and braced himself; for, he knew, no matter how he explained himself it would sound futile and vain. In old Polish folklore, it was said that if a daughter carries her father’s name, it would bring her much luck and lots of her father’s attributes.

So be it. Krystyna rose and kissed her husband’s cheek. Antonina Isabella Krakowska, a beautiful name for a beautiful baby.

And so it was, baby Antonina was formally baptized. Little Joe promised to be a loyal, upstanding godfather and family and friends celebrated the coming into the world of Antonina Isabella Krakowska.

Chapter Three

At the age of seven Isabella, for that was her preferred name, knew she was surrounded by immeasurable and unconditional love. Both parents adored her, friends of the family loved to spoil her and there was no shortage of friends to play with; however, it was in this particular year that she experienced her first bout of rejection and loneliness and, it was because of these experiences, that her parents gave her a gift that would, unwittingly, start to alter the course of her life forever.

The days were now visibly shorter and cooler, with the sweet smell of autumn in the air. Antoni sat with his newspaper and glasses on his lap, his blurred vision preventing him from reading further as he gazed out the window and watched the orange, yellow and red leaves whirling, twirling swirling as they gracefully performed their farewell dance. He imagined each leaf to symbolise a soul and his thoughts inevitably took him back to the bloody battlefield of Monte Cassino. So many lives lost; so many friends fallen to the ground just like these leaves, he silently concluded when, out of the corner of his eye, he espied a flash of a pink scarf and his spirit lifted. His eyes watched as Isabella and her friend, Annie, ran and joined their other friends, his tired eyes following them until they became mere blots in the distance and only the echoes of their excited screams shrieks and screams lingered in their wake.

Isabella was far too excited to have noticed her father; for, there was a friend’s bonfire to be built and all hands, no matter how small, were needed to gather wood and erect a massive bonfire. Isabella searched eagerly with Annie for any scraps of wood they could find and they found an abundance in the field, which they eagerly pulled and dragged whilst grazing their knees and hands in the process; laughing and talking all the while; adding their meagre offering of branches to the pile before running further and further down the field until, eventually, they came to the dark, eerie wood where Isabella stood trembling, not daring to move forwards or backwards; feeling as if her feet were glued to the damp ground, as her eyes stared into the gloomy interior darkness of entangled branches, her ears attune to the lonely song of a solitary bird.

Come on, Isabella. We’re all going in, shouted Simon, a boy in her own class at school who happened to be a neighbour.

She stood rigid not moving a muscle her eyes stark, wide and unblinking.

Stop being a baby. Someone else shouted.

Isabella is a baby…Isabella is a chicken…Isabella is a…

She didn’t hear the taunting words, her eyes staring at her friends as they ran past her, turning back as their twisted mouths shouted something, or other, at her as they disappeared into the blackness; even Annie, her best friend, had deserted her. A sudden crackling sound shook her to the core, her wide eyes darting from branch to branch, around the deserted field; her body shivering as she turned her back on the wood and ran as fast as her legs would carry her, fled through the house and into the safety of her own bedroom.

What on earth is up with our, Isabella? Antoni enquired peering over his glasses.

Oh, she’s probably fallen out with Annie, they’ll make up soon enough. Krystyna answered nonchalantly as she continued to wash the dishes.

Isabella and Annie did not make up any time soon; Isabella flatly refusing to go out, or even see Annie, when she came a calling.

I don’t know what’s got into her, said a concerned looking Antoni. She doesn’t even seem bothered about Bonfire Night anymore.

It’s probably because she hasn’t been invited to the party, stated Krystyna.

Yes, but that’s because of our religion and the role of Guy Fawkes in the whole affair. Antoni tried to explain with his logical reassurance, unable to quash the rising sadness he felt for his daughter’s exclusion from the evening’s merriment.

That evening Isabella sat and stared through the black window as red, white, blue, purple and green stars, circles and jagged lines appeared and disappeared; her ears attune to the whistles, shrieks, blasts and bangs and excited cries and laughter outside and, for the first time in her young life, she felt completely alone and deserted, an incontrollable surge of overwhelming sadness suffusing her entire body. How could they all have left me at the woods? How could they all go and enjoy the fireworks, the toffee apples and sizzling hot dogs and not even invite me, especially as I have helped them with their bonfire? she asked the same questions again and again. It’s so unfair…so unfair. She continued to stare, as if hypnotised, at the spectacular, dazzling bursts of light and shapes a hard, bitter lump rising to her throat as a surge of bitter tears dropped on to her cold hands as she gripped hard the cold, unyielding window sill, her guts wrenching. And, still, she stared.

Isabella. Her ears were exclusively engaged with whizzes, whistles, bangs and her friends’ excited screams and exclamations. Isabella. Krystyna dared to whisper a second time, as she watched the uncontrollable tears fall and then a colourful parcel, tied up with a silver ribbon and a bow on top, covered the wet drops.

For a long time, it stayed there wrapped, sealed, unopened as eyes continued to stare longingly into the velvety blackness, punctuated now and again by a series of spectacular colourful displays. Cautiously a small finger traced the ribbon and bow, then fingers carefully untied the ribbon as eyes glared at the gift below: one book explaining, in child-like easy to comprehend detail, the story behind Bonfire Night; the other book, a beautifully illustrated book of fairy tales and legends from around the world, which Isabella treasured until her dying day.

That night as she snuggled down in her bed, her treasured books on her bedside table, Isabella knew she would be all right. She had her parents and her books and what more could a girl want in the world?

Chapter Four

The spat with her friends was quickly forgotten. Isabella learned the true reason behind Bonfire Night and understood the reason behind the party snub; all was forgiven. However, a different issue loomed large in her head and that was her official name. It became a problem for Isabella on many occasions and, each time, she was left with the feeling that she had betrayed her father.

While her birth certificate showed her official name to be Antonina Isabella Krakowska, Isabella hated her first name and the reason for this hatred was the association the name had with the male version of the name. Teachers, and other people she came to contact with, would constantly call her Toni and this, in turn, prompted her peers to poke fun at her. Toni…Toni…I didn’t know you were a boy. They would giggle while she shrivelled and died inside, wondering why on earth her parents had issued her with a boy’s name. Consequently, on countless occasions, she tried to amend her name. My real name is Isabella, she would state clearly.

But; your official forms state your name is Antonina.

Yes, but that’s just my first name. I’m known by my second name.

Yes, but…

And so it went on, a constant battle between officialdom and personal preference. Isabella won in the end; but she was left feeling that she had let her beloved father down in a major way because, after all, she had been named after him and she should be proud and not ashamed of the name.

Antoni said nothing, secretly hoping that one day she would change her mind and one day she did.

Isabella was well aware that her parents were much older than the parents of her peers and, while she secretly wished they were somewhat younger and healthier, she adored them; marvelled what they had lived through, admired their wisdom and cherished them. She would do all for them and they would sacrifice their lives for her.

They all lived with the premise that once you made a promise, you kept it no matter what. As they sat watching television one evening, Antoni turned to his daughter and out of the blue said, Isabella, I am going to build you a wonderful little house, where you and Annie can play, read and talk.

Isabella’s eyes darted to her father. What kind of house, Tato?

You’ll see. Antoni smiled and firmly clamped his mouth and, try as she did, Isabella could prise no further information out of her father. After a few weeks, she gave up asking and, eventually, forgot about the whole thing.

One Saturday morning, as they sat down to a cooked breakfast, Antoni presented Krystyna with an envelope.

What is this, Antoni?

Open it and see. He winked at Isabella, her eyes flitting to her mother’s stunned face and dancing eyes.

What is it, Mama?

It’s…it’s a plane ticket to…to Poland to see my dear sister, Ella. Oh, Antoni… She rushed to his side the envelope tightly gripped in her hand and hugged her husband tightly. Seconds later, her eyes clouded over as they scanned the ticket once more. But…but, it’s only for two of us.

Yes, it’s for you and Isabella.

What about you, Antoni?

You know I can’t set foot in Poland; these tickets are for you to go, enjoy yourselves and come back full of happy memories.

But what are you going to do, Tato? Isabella asked, deep sadness veiling each word.

Oh, don’t you worry about me. I shall be busy.

And they knew he would be true to his word; for he was always doing something now that he had retired. There were three allotments to maintain, his own large garden, home maintenance and there was always jam making, of which he was a specialist.

And so, in her eighth year, Isabella accompanied her mother to Poland, while Antoni stayed at home with a plan whirling around in his head. He didn’t have much time. It had to be done this summer, while his health was still bearing up and the girls were away. There was no time to lose. Secretly, he had drawn up a master plan in his shed, changed it many times and finally came up with a design he liked. On his bike, and with the help of friends, he collected wood, piping, felt, nails, and glass and on his own, after spells of dizziness, light headiness and muscle spasms had eased, he eventually realised his aspiration. It was a time of happiness, tinged with elements of sadness; for, it was a dream accomplished but Antoni was aware it had drained him of energy; he knew his body was failing him; he knew that his illness was progressing at a rate that secretly alarmed and saddened him and, while he banned anybody from ever talking about his illness, he knew he couldn’t hide the seriousness of his disease indefinitely, from his nearest and dearest, and soon the subject would need to be broached.

Krystyna saw the deterioration in her once lithe husband; she surreptitiously witnessed him losing his balance on more than one occasion; she saw his fatigue, but never once, did she hear him complain when he’d returned from the allotments; or, hear him moan or groan about his poor attention span or fuzzy memory. She kept her lips closed while her heavy heart broke in two.

Isabella was too young to understand the severity of her father’s illness; but she was not too young to know that something was not quite right. She was quick to notice that her friends’ fathers did not wobble on their feet or lose their balance; neither did they seem to forget things like her own father did. She too said nothing.

And so they all lived in a fragile bubble which was, they all knew, going to burst and, when it did, things would never be the same again. However, little did they realise that something more serious; something which had no connection with Antoni’s illness, was going to happen and that would change everybody’s lives irreversibly.

As they approached their home, after their happy holiday, Krystyna gasped. Look, Isabella!

Isabella looked and looked and what she saw she couldn’t believe. For there, in front of her very eyes, stood the most magnificent house fully equipped with a sloping felt covered roof, two windows, a part glass and wooden door and a small wooden porch all painted pink. Her young heart broke in two as, in that moment in time; she realised that all her father’s love for her had been lavished in this custom-built wonderful creation.

The little house came to be the envy of every child in the neighbourhood and they came, from far and wide, to have a look and, if they were lucky enough, to play inside. For Isabella, it became more than a pretty house; it was a symbol of her father’s love, ambition, determination and a fulfilled promise.

Chapter Five

They looked at each other, eyes darting back to the serious looking consultant as his mouth opened, shut and opened again, words spewing out but neither Krystyna, nor Antoni, heard them. She had already placed herself at deaths door and he had secretly pronounced himself a widower. Finally the raw words cancer…immediate treatment…crucial…made an unwelcome home in their conscious minds; the whole thing seeming both real and unreal at the same time as Krystyna sat rigid, her body numb, her heart racing furiously while her life rushed before her very eyes. Antoni sat in a state of temporary paralysis while his whole world was crumbling before him; for, without his dear, beloved Krystyna he could not live; could not survive; could not function and he would die too. And, what would become of young Isabella, who had the whole world at her feet? This news would surely cripple her too. But he was sure he heard the consultant mention the word hope and, on this word, he decided to place his trust; for, what else was there?

Isabella fled in from school her face beaming, her whole body trembling with excitement. Tommy Cook had, finally, fulfilled his promise and presented her with a jar of tadpoles and she couldn’t wait to show them off to her parents. The sad and serious looks she got were looks she was not expecting; neither did she understand the need for them because, as far as she was concerned, tadpoles were the greatest things since gobstoppers and she couldn’t wait to see them transform into full-fledged frogs.

Krystyna stared unblinkingly at the jar of floating black blobs, seeing only the cancer spreading in her breast. Like the tadpole, she thought, it would grow and grow and turn into something unruly, uncontrollable and, in her case, deadly. Antoni glanced at his wife, his heart breaking. Isabella jabbered on about the stages of a tadpole’s existence, as three pairs of eyes stared at the jar. Antoni stopped his daughter mid flow. Isabella…Isabella, your mother and I have something very important to tell you. Silence reigned as Antoni tried desperately to find the right words; for, there were three individuals’ emotions at stake and, he knew, he had to tread very cautiously. Isabella…your mother is…

I have got breast cancer, blurted out Krystyna before she could stop herself. And, as the bomb dropped, their lives changed forever.

Isabella stared long and hard at the tadpoles swimming about. They seemed, she thought, so happy in their carefree world. As if hypnotised, she continued to stare.

Isabella.

I heard, Tato. What does it mean? She asked in a trembling voice, not daring to lift her eyes to her mother, for fear of what she may see there.

It means your mother is going to have treatment and then continue to live a healthy life.

Isabella’s eyes were back on the tadpoles. It seemed so unfair. What would she do without her mother? She closed her eyes tightly and wished she could be a tadpole.

The whole of Isabella’s life became suffused with her mother’s illness. She lived and breathed cancer; every decision was based on her mother’s well-being and she couldn’t imagine life without her; for, Krystyna and Antoni were her anchor and without them, she knew, she would sink. Each morning and evening she prayed; throughout the day she would be obsessed with thoughts of her mother; lessons came and went without any knowledge entering her head; teachers were beginning to comment about her daydreaming and her schoolwork was going downhill. Antoni noticed a change in his daughter, but nothing he said, or did, made any difference. She was in a world of her own and it was a world of suffering, illness and impending death.

She dreaded coming home fearing further devastating news and so she lingered about in the park after school, stayed at friends’ homes longer than she was allowed, got into minor scrapes and fights with