In memory of Artur and Zofia Nowack. Fly high, we loved you.
Shay wavered again. Ollie was there, his hands steady and strong. Shay clung to him. “Who were they?”
“Your grandparents. Rudek’s parents. They cared for you after Francesca died. Fought for you. But for whatever reason, probably something to do with Rudek, social services wouldn’t let them keep you. You were taken from them and put into foster care. As far as I can tell, you never saw them again.”
“But they wanted me?”
“Yes, Shay. They did, very much.”
“Where are they buried if not here?”
Ollie drew Shay away from the willow tree someone had planted in honour of his grandparents. Another bench was a heartbeat away. They sat, knees pressed together, hands clasped. Shay belatedly realised the camera was nowhere to be seen, but he didn’t care enough to ask why.
He gripped Ollie’s hands hard enough to bend bones. “Finish the story.”
Ollie was silent for a moment that seemed to last a lifetime, then he fixed Shay with his patented endless stare. “Your grandparents came to this country in the sixties. They settled in London and took over a cafe in Vauxhall. They ran it for years… it was only sold a few years ago, but their children—two sons—left the city sometime in the eighties. Both of them wound up in Leeds, for cheaper housing, I’d imagine, but I don’t know for sure.”
“What happened next?”
“Well, your grandparents continued to run the cafe together until your grandmother, Zofia, became too frail. She went into a home in Pimlico, where she died a few years ago.” Ollie paused a beat. “After she went into the home, Artur ran the cafe with the help of his grandson… your cousin. But they sold up a little while before Zofia died, and when she was gone, Artur took her home.”
Home.“Where, Ollie? Where was home?”
“Warsaw.” Ollie squeezed Shay’s hands ever tighter. “Your grandparents are buried a mile away from my family home.”
“I’m Polish?”
Ollie’s smile was cautious. “Yes, Shay. You are.”
“Tell me what it’s called.”
“What?”
“ThePolishinstrument you gave me.”
Ollie’s smile widened a touch. “It’s a hurdy-gurdy, and I found a photograph in an old London newspaper of Artur playing it. Would you like to see?”
Shay stared at Ollie as though seeing him for the first time. His black hair seemed darker, his stormy eyes somehow bluer. “Is that a real question?”
“No. I have it right here.”
Of course he did. Ollie had everything Shay would ever need.
Epilogue
Six months later….
“I thinkI should start calling myself Rudzio.”
Ollie glanced up from his laptop. Shay was sitting on the patio in his garden, barefoot and shirtless, apparently writing, though he seemed to be staring into space more than playing the Polish hurdy-gurdy he’d fast mastered now he knew what it was and where it came from. “You want to use your Polish name?”
“Not really… but I think Rudzio Maloney is a cool moniker for a performer.”
“Not Rudzio Nowack?”
“Nah. It’s not my name to use. Besides, I can’t be all of one and none of the other.”
That made sense. Shay had spent a long time coming to terms with his family history, but he’d never travelled far from the people who’d raised him. He’d always be a Maloney, and he’d chosen not to seek out any surviving members of his biological family… for now.
