Time to Say Goodbye (2 page)

‘Thank you very much, but I’m just looking,’ she replied, aware of the implied suggestion that if she were visiting any of the houses on the estate, it would be one of the cheaper ones. She half turned away, but he was still staring at her, and she turned back, searching for something to say which would put this arrogant man in his place. ‘It’s some while since I was here last, and there have been a great many changes, not all for the good,’ she said coolly. ‘You wouldn’t know . . . but still, it’s progress I suppose.’

‘The new development has been the saving of this place,’ the man said haughtily, and she was glad to realise that he had recognised the implied criticism in her words. ‘If it hadn’t been for the estate the tarmac would have ended back in the village. And the buses would probably have stopped running. Oh yes, the local inhabitants may sneer, but if it weren’t for Watersmeet Estate . . . that’s why we keep an eye open for strangers, people who don’t belong. A good neighbour policy, you might call it, and—’

She interrupted without ceremony. ‘How often do you shop in the village?’ she asked frostily. ‘I dare say you pay someone to rake your gravel and clip your hedges, but I’d take a bet you pay peanuts. And how often do you catch a bus into town?’

He began to gobble and she turned away from him with a swing of her shoulders, seeing, as she had guessed, that he was unable to answer. She had seen the bus turning down the little lane which ran behind the cottages, without then registering what this meant: that despite the years between, the bus still terminated in the village, returning to the town and not coming back until it carried the workers home from their day’s toil.

She turned towards her destination thinking that the conversation was over, but to her surprise the man followed her. ‘Where are your manners, young woman?’ he shouted angrily. ‘I was still speaking; did no one ever tell you that it’s rude . . .’

She laughed. ‘I’m sorry, but your assumption that things were better for the villagers because of the estate rather got up my nose,’ she said frankly. She looked at the newspaper in his hand; despite the umbrella, it was soggy round the edges. ‘Look,’ she said patiently. ‘You don’t even have your newspaper delivered, because you’d have to pay the boy. You walk down for it yourself in all weathers, except when the snow’s too deep and then some poor blighter will have to fight his way through the drifts to earn the odd sixpence. But I shouldn’t criticise you, and I wouldn’t do so except that you started it.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘How often do you stroll up to the Canary and Linnet for the odd glass or two of beer, or even a snifter of whisky? That would help the local community.’

She thought she had got him there, for he stared at her for a baffled moment, then looked away, rubbing his chin and glancing slyly at her. ‘The Canary and Linnet; no, the folk from the new estate mostly frequent the King’s Head or the Bear and Billet. I take it you’ve friends at the – er – Linnet? Well, I’m sure I don’t want to keep you so you’d best be on your way. You’ve not got much further to go.’ Grudgingly he gave the peak of his cap a tiny jerk. ‘Good day to you.’

‘I’m sorry if I offended you. I’ll be on my way.’ She waggled her umbrella vaguely and set off, and this time he did not attempt to follow her, but simply stood staring after her with a curious expression, which she could not interpret, on his face. But what did it matter, after all? Auntie and her niece Jill had managed to make a living way back during the war when times had been really hard. Their successors would not now be reliant upon the toffee-nosed residents of the new estate, even though the majority of the airfields which had supplied most of their customers would probably have shut down after the war ended.

She walked on, trying to rid her mind of the encounter, until she realised that the tarmac had petered out and she was trudging up the lane and would soon reach her destination. She glanced to her left and then paused, frowning. The hateful man had been right when he had said that she was only a short distance from the Linnet. Yet there was no sign of it. It must be further than she had remembered. But after another hundred yards she stopped again, confused. Then she remembered the years which had passed since she had last been here. Woods grow up, hedges thicken, and now that she looked more closely she could see through the trees what must be an old building. She stepped off the lane on to the narrow path, reminding herself that there was a longer way round by which delivery lorries, and the vehicles carrying members of the forces, had reached the pub. It was only the villagers themselves who came this way. And the evacuees, of course, both those who lived at the Linnet under Auntie’s gentle rule and the ones who were billeted at the Pilgrims’ farm further up the lane.

She burst out of the trees into the clearing, but even as her lips began to curve into a smile, incredulity took her breath away. The old pub looked the same at first glance, but at a second . . . she put her hands to her face and felt the tears begin. The place was a ruin! A chimney stack had fallen through the roof, there was no glass in the windows and the garden, of which Auntie and Jill had been so proud, was nothing but a tangle of waist-high weeds.

She took a couple of faltering steps towards the house, then braced herself and approached it more closely, though with all the caution of someone expecting to be accused of trespass at any moment. She had seen the pub like this once before, in a dream; or a nightmare, rather. So this explained the man’s strange attitude. He had known all along that the place was a ruin. He was being spiteful, paying me back for all the things I said, she told herself miserably.

A foot away from the back door, she stopped short. She knew now that they had all gone; Auntie, Jill, old Jacky – everyone. Why oh why hadn’t she kept in touch? She had done so at first, and Auntie had always replied, and though her letters had been brief at least it meant she knew what was going on. Then life had caught her by the throat: a proposal of marriage, a home to run, a job in a big city, responsibilities; a new life, in fact. She remembered with shame that she had not even invited Auntie to her wedding, telling herself that it could have been seen as asking for a present, but she knew that she had been attempting to draw a line beneath the old life and begin the new with a clean sheet. Nevertheless, she had always sent a Christmas card to the Canary and Linnet and got one in return, until Auntie wrote to say that she was selling the pub and moving to a cottage in the next village. It was only this year, when deciding to organise a reunion, that she had wondered, apprehensively, how the two women were. Auntie must be very old, but she was tough; Jill was only a few years older than she herself. She would send a letter, beg to be forgiven for her neglect . . .

Then she had written to the other evacuees, only a few words, explaining how she longed to see them all again, naming this very date and saying she was trying to arrange some sort of reunion. The replies had been brief, but of course she understood: she had moved on, and so had Auntie and Jill and everyone else, presumably. But they had responded, which was a start.

By the back door of the pub stood an ancient wooden bench, green with age. She sat down and leaned back, heedless of the rain on her face, and, closing her eyes, willed herself back to that golden October afternoon when the three little girls had first come to the Canary and Linnet.

1939

When the car driven by the local billeting officer stopped outside the village post office, the three small passengers in the back seat erupted from the vehicle and glared at the fat and motherly woman who had met them at the last station and brought them on what, she had assured them, was to be the final leg of their journey. But that had been almost two hours ago and she had still not found anyone to take them in, and now rebellion was like a pot coming to the boil. When Mrs Hainstock tried to order them back into the car, three heads were firmly shaken. Imogen’s shiny Dutch bob, Rita’s long fair plait and Debby’s untidy mop of dark brown curls were all shaken decidedly. ‘You promised,’ Imogen said reproachfully. ‘You said it wasn’t our fault that we missed the first evacuation, and you would do your best to find someone who could take all three of us . . .’

‘But that was hours ago,’ Debby said. ‘We got to the station at eight o’clock this morning and we’ve been travelling ever since.’ She cast a reproachful look at the billeting officer. ‘We’ve had nothing to eat and only water to drink, and I want to be excused.’

There were murmurs of assent from Imogen and Rita, Rita adding, in an injured tone: ‘And if you don’t let us go to the toilet we’ll just die.’

This was Mrs Hainstock’s third stop since picking up the girls; the first two villages she had visited were already as full of evacuees as they could hold. She had offered to split the children up but even so no one wanted them; they simply didn’t have room. But she did understand the girls’ present predicament and looked hopefully towards the post office. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Bailey if you can use her facilities,’ she began, but got no further. The girls were rushing towards the shop and she followed hastily, suspecting that the request for the use of the lavatory might be couched in less than polite terms, for desperate need pays little attention to the words it uses.

‘Right,’ she called after the three youngsters, ‘and whilst you’re in there I’ll see whether there’s any chance . . .’

But they had gone; were gone so long that Mrs Hainstock had visited all the possible foster homes and not found one willing to take them in by the time the girls re-joined her, still white and tired but at least relieved of their most pressing need. The three of them and Mrs Hainstock congregated on the pavement alongside the little car, and were still there when a tall woman came out of the post office, hesitated, and then approached them. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Hainstock,’ she said politely. ‘What’s the trouble?’

Mrs Hainstock began to explain rather haltingly that she had been unable to find suitable accommodation for the three girls and would have to take them in herself, although on a temporary basis only, since her house was bulging at the seams already.

When Mrs Hainstock stopped speaking the stranger shook her head sadly, but addressed herself to the three girls. ‘I’ll have you, lasses,’ she said briefly. ‘I’m Miss Marcy, good thing you’re all girls, because the only suitable space at the Canary and Linnet is the attic.’

‘Oh, but . . . the Canary and Linnet? I don’t think . . . that is to say . . . it’s not on my list of suitable accommodation, Miss Marcy . . .’

But the three girls looked at one another, and then the tallest – Rita – spoke directly to the stranger. ‘Can you really take all three of us?’ she said, clasping her hands like the heroine in a Victorian melodrama. She had seized on the woman’s name and spoke directly to her. ‘Oh, Miss Marcy, we’re so tired! I’m sure your attic would be just what we’re looking for.’

‘Well, it would certainly solve a few problems, but of course we could only accept your kind offer on a temporary basis, since licensed premises could scarcely be regarded as a suitable home for three ten-year-old girls . . .’ Mrs Hainstock began, but she was firmly interrupted.

‘My house is a respectable one, and I think the children have had enough disturbances without adding more,’ Miss Marcy said quietly, so that the girls could not hear. ‘If they come to the Linnet, that’s where they’ll stay.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll see that they aren’t in the bar during opening times; we’ve a large kitchen with a back door leading directly into the garden, and the back stairs lead up to the first floor. As you know, the Linnet was a manor house until the Great War so we’ve plenty of room. And if you’re worried, let me assure you that Jill and I stand no nonsense. The men who drink at the Linnet will respect my wishes, as they have always done. The presence of three little girls will make them even more careful to guard their tongues.’ She opened the car door and gestured to the girls to get inside, directing the next remark to the three of them. ‘It’s only a couple of miles to my home; if Mrs Hainstock will be good enough to drive us there you’ll be able to help me make up your beds – I’m afraid it may be shakedowns on the floor until I can get organised – and have a quick meal before saying good night.’

Mrs Hainstock clearly did not know whether to be delighted or horrified at the thought of her charges being taken off her hands by this strange but attractive woman, but the girls were in no doubt. Rita squeezed first Debby’s hand and then Imogen’s. ‘I don’t care where we sleep so long as we don’t have to go on and on like that ghost ship . . . the
Marie Celeste
,’ she whispered. ‘What’s wrong with the lady’s house, anyway? An attic sounds nice.’

But before either girl could answer, Miss Marcy had got into the cramped little car and was telling Mrs Hainstock that she was sure the authorities would be so relieved to have found somewhere for the girls to live that they would not object to the fact that the Canary and Linnet was a pub.

In the back seat Rita raised her blonde eyebrows, Debby muffled a giggle with one plump hand and Imogen smiled and clapped her hands, but softly so that the adults in the front of the car could not possibly hear. Then the three of them leaned back and took no further notice of the discussion taking place in the front. They were sure that Miss Marcy had already won the argument; once she got them into her house they would stay there, even if it was a pub.

The car drew up in front of a pleasant building constructed out of crumbling red bricks, which were partially concealed by some sort of enormous climbing plant. Debby recognised wisteria and informed the other two that her uncle Joseph had one which clambered up the front of his house. But they had no time to do more than exchange delighted smiles before the car stopped beneath a swinging signboard, upon which were pictured a yellow canary and – presumably – a green linnet, and Miss Marcy, having watched indulgently as they tumbled, stiff, weary but exultant, out of Mrs Hainstock’s small and ancient car, indicated a gravel path which led down the side of the house.