Time to Say Goodbye (20 page)

So now, as they got ready for bed, they told Debby all about their day and Imogen admitted that she had been afraid her affection for her mother might have dwindled both because of their time apart and because she loved Auntie, Jill, and the life they were leading so much. ‘But it’s all right,’ she said contentedly. ‘I’ve got enough love for them all.’

Debby looked enquiringly at Rita. The two girls had never got on particularly well because they were totally different, but now Rita smiled and nodded. ‘I agree with every word Imogen has said,’ she told the younger girl. ‘And I’m real sorry that your folk couldn’t come to the Linnet, Debby. Tell us how you spent your day!’

Ever since school had started once more the girls had formed the habit of waiting for the boys on the lane which led to the village. Sometimes, of course, none of them went to school, but helped with the harvesting of whatever crop was ripe for market, but on this particular morning both parties were heading for school. As soon as she caught sight of Josh and Woody, their heads together over something, Imogen hailed them. ‘What’s up, you two?’ she said, her voice sharpened with interest. ‘Don’t say it’s the post! I reckon I’m owed at least two letters; if they’ve come today perhaps my mother will tell me how my cousin Lizzie’s birthday went off. They had a party despite the war . . .’

Woody, grinning, shook his head. ‘No, it’s not the post,’ he assured her. ‘It’s a book Josh’s mum sent him; it’s really good. We’ve been taking it in turns to read a page aloud.’

Josh looked up and grinned too, pulling his spectacles down on his nose so that he could look at the girls over the top of them. ‘You can borrow it if you like, when we finish . . .’ he began, then stopped short. ‘Here comes someone; a boy on a bike. But he’s going in the wrong direction for school.’

‘It’s the telegraph boy from town,’ Imogen squeaked. ‘Oh, God, even the sight of him makes my stomach turn over. Is he heading for the Linnet, do you suppose? Only if so we’ll have to go back because it might be from one of our relatives. Was there a raid last night, do you know?’

‘Dunno; we left the house before Mrs P turned the wireless on,’ Woody said. He brightened. ‘But you’re right, of course. If the boy’s heading for the farm, me and Josh will have to go back and you girls might as well come with us. We can always say the Pilgrims needed help with the early plum crop.’

The three girls laughed. ‘Trust you to find an excuse not to go to school,’ Imogen said jeeringly. ‘Of course, it might be for the cottages further up the lane . . .’ She stopped speaking abruptly as the telegraph boy swerved towards the pub, cycled briskly across the car park, leaned his machine against the venerable oak and knocked loudly on the front door.

‘Go round the back!’ Imogen screamed. ‘They’re in the kitchen; they probably won’t even hear you knock.’ The five of them had run across the car park as she spoke and now they galloped round the corner of the house and up to the back door, well ahead of the telegraph boy. Imogen, dispensing with good manners, flung the door open without so much as a knock. ‘Auntie, there’s a telegram,’ she said breathlessly. ‘We saw the boy coming up the lane and thought we’d best come home.’

Auntie was washing up the breakfast things whilst Jill dried and put away, and as the five children piled into the kitchen they both stopped what they were doing to stare. ‘What on earth . . .’ Jill began, and even as Imogen watched the colour seemed to drain from her face and her eyes grew large and dark. Her voice sunk to a whisper. ‘My God, suppose it’s Laurie!’

As the telegraph boy tumbled into the room clutching the little yellow envelope, Jill would have snatched it from him, but he shook his head chidingly. ‘Are you Miss Marcy?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Miss Lavinia Marcy?’

Woody gave a crow of triumph, quite forgetting himself. ‘So that’s why you wouldn’t tell us your Christian name, ’cos you knew folk would call you Lavvy,’ he said on a choke of laughter, pointing at Auntie. He turned to his companions. ‘Well, kids, now we know who the telegram’s for, I suppose we might as well head for school.’

He turned and would have gone out of the kitchen but Imogen, who had gone as pale as Jill, grabbed his arm. ‘Wait!’ she said urgently. ‘Let Auntie open it. Grown-ups don’t send telegrams to kids.’

But Auntie had already opened the telegram and was looking rather helplessly at Debby. After a moment she moistened her lips and spoke. ‘Debby, dear, this won’t come as a complete surprise to you, but I’m afraid it’s very bad news.’

Before she could say anything further, Jill had abandoned the drying up and had put her arms tightly round Debby, who turned her head to hide her face against Jill’s bosom. ‘I s’pose it’s Gran,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘Is she . . . is she . . .’

‘She’s very ill,’ Auntie said gently. ‘She’s asked your grandfather to see if you might return to the city so that she can say goodbye. Oh, my dear child, I’m so
very
sorry.’

Debby sighed and gently disengaged herself from Jill’s embrace, though she kept hold of her hand. ‘Grandma’s very old, and in her last letter she said the Red Cross had lent her a wheelchair because she couldn’t walk any longer.’ She turned to Auntie. ‘I’ll have to go to her. She must be – very ill,’ she said quietly. ‘It must be important for Grandpa to send a telegram.’

Auntie laid the telegram down on the table and crossed the room to give Debby a kiss. ‘Of course you must go,’ she said. ‘Jill will go with you, won’t you, Jill?’

‘Of course I will,’ Jill said warmly, and Imogen could tell that the sheer relief of the telegram’s not containing bad news about Laurie meant that Jill would have agreed to almost anything. ‘We’ll go at once.’ She turned to Auntie. ‘How long can you spare us for?’

Auntie smiled. ‘As long as it takes,’ she said. ‘Now bustle about, everyone . . .’ She crossed over to where her coat hung on its peg beside the back door, fished in its pockets and produced a sixpence which she handed to the telegraph boy. ‘Off with you, lad,’ she said briskly. ‘You have work to do just as we have.’ She began to push him towards the back door, but he resisted.

‘The sender paid a bob for a reply; that’s six words and your signature,’ he said reproachfully, producing a small pad of paper and a pencil from his jacket pocket.

Auntie glanced helplessly at Jill, then pulled herself together. ‘Will be in Liverpool asap Debby,’ she said after a moment’s thought.

The telegraph boy scribbled and then eyed her reproachfully. ‘You’ve got another word,’ he said, but Auntie, chuckling, hustled him out of the door. ‘Get back to the post office and send that,’ she said. Then she turned to Jill. ‘Pack everything you’re likely to need in your old blue haversack so that it’s easy to carry, and you do the same, Debby dear,’ she commanded, ‘and you others get off to school. There’s nothing more you can do here.’

For the first leg of the journey Jill and Debby scarcely talked at all, for the carriage into which they crammed themselves was filled to capacity, mainly with men and women in uniform. But when they left that train at a small station and found that their connection had been delayed, Debby felt able to talk freely and realised it would be a relief to tell Jill a little more about herself and her grandparents.

‘I was born in Leipzig, but when I was five we came to Liverpool and my parents opened a small shop,’ she said. ‘My father was a tailor, and my mother worked with him. They made what they called bespoke garments, which meant that the customer would go to the shop, tell Mother or Father what they wanted, and have it made to measure. My father often said that they would never grow rich but would, he hoped, always be comfortably off. He planned to buy a place in the country for his retirement, and my brother Aaron contributed his savings when he got a really good job in an import-export business.’

‘I see,’ Jill said slowly. ‘But I thought your parents were killed in Germany, before the war started. I assumed a traffic accident . . .’

‘No, not a traffic accident,’ Debby interrupted. ‘Naturally we had heard of the terrible things which were happening in Germany because it was in all the papers. We still had other relatives in Germany and Austria, and after what happened on “Crystal Night” my parents dispatched my brother to see what he could do to help.’

Jill stared at her companion with mounting horror. ‘I hadn’t realised you were Jewish, Debby. It’s perfectly frightful how your people have suffered,’ she said. ‘So how did your parents become involved?’

‘They had a letter from an uncle telling them that my brother had been taken away to a concentration camp, but he also said that one could buy freedom for one’s relatives, if one had the means. My parents would have done anything to save Aaron. They sold up the business, sent me to live with my grandparents and went off to try to rescue Aaron. None of them ever came back. My grandparents told me I must never tell anyone I did not know well that I was Jewish. And now you know as much as I do,’ she added with a wry smile. ‘We think my parents and my brother are dead, but we don’t actually know for certain. They might still be in a Nazi camp. But they’ve not been in touch . . .’

Jill looked at her, and Debby read in her eyes the compassion which filled her friend. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, but I had to tell you because when we see Gran and Grandpa they’ll assume that you know,’ Debby said gently. As she spoke, the train for which they waited drew up alongside and they both rose to their feet.

‘I’m glad you told me,’ Jill said softly beneath the rattle and roar of the train. ‘Dear Debby, what a load you’ve had to carry all these months! But I’m sure if you told Immy and Rita they’d understand and support you. There’d be no need to go into details.’

‘I wouldn’t mind telling Immy; in fact it would be a relief. Sometimes I think she already knows,’ Debby said as they climbed aboard the train. ‘Josh does; I didn’t have to tell him, he guessed from something I said, but he won’t tell a soul. He’s very quiet, isn’t he, Jill? Very – very discreet.’

‘He is,’ Jill said. ‘Look, Debby dear, would you rather I didn’t come to the hospital? It could be easier for you to talk without a stranger listening.’

They were sitting side by side, and at Jill’s words Debby reached out and gripped her hand tightly. ‘
Please
come,’ she said urgently. ‘I – I can’t face seeing Gran and Grandpa alone.’

‘Then of course I’ll come with you,’ Jill said, and presently, as the compartment began to fill up, they talked of other things until Liverpool Lime Street was reached.

Jill and Debby were shocked by the bomb damage, but hurried to the hospital just in time for old Mrs Viner to take her granddaughter’s hand and murmur some words in a language which Jill guessed was German, though its import was clear enough, for the tired eyes which fixed on Debby’s face were full of affection. Then, within moments, her old head with the thin strands of grey hair brushed across the scalp had fallen sideways, and the nurse who had accompanied them to the bedside sighed and indicated that the visitors should leave. ‘She’s gone, my dear,’ she said, turning to Mr Viner. ‘In such pain she has been; you would not want her to linger longer. A good woman she was, and had a good, quick end. Now I think you should take these two young women to Sister’s office. I will arrange for a tray of tea to be brought, and the rabbi will be along later so that you may make funeral arrangements. You’ll see the almoner, no doubt. She will deal with any queries you may have.’

Despite his grief, Mr Viner proved to be both intelligent and resourceful. He explained to Jill that Jewish funerals always follow a death as rapidly as possible, and he had already made all the arrangements. Jill suspected that Debby’s grandfather was a good deal younger than his wife, or perhaps it was pain rather than years which had aged her, but at any rate she thought him perfectly capable of managing on his own. He agreed with alacrity that he should come and visit them the following summer. ‘Though I shall now move back into the city, where I can be of some use,’ he told them. ‘I could be a firewatcher, an air raid warden, a home guard . . . anything the authorities need.’ He smiled engagingly at Jill. ‘An old man I may be – well, an old man I am – but I can still do my bit.’

Three days later, Debby and Jill got off the train and headed for the bus which would take them the rest of the way home. They were just in time to climb aboard before the conductor tinged the bell, and they reached the village as dusk was deepening, delighted and surprised to find Auntie and Imogen waiting for them. Auntie seized their shoulder bags and heartily kissed their cheeks. Jill flung her arms around Imogen, who was hugging Debby. ‘How wonderful to see you; we never expected to be met,’ she said. ‘We couldn’t let you know which train we’d be catching because of all the changes – we could have arrived here at any time. Yet you still managed to meet the bus; I do think you’re clever!’

Auntie nodded. ‘Yes, but if you were going to catch a bus at all, it would have to be this one,’ she observed. ‘I do hope Rita’s remembered to take the macaroni cheese out of the oven, otherwise it’ll be hard as nails. But of course we’ll brew fresh tea and I can always make up some egg sandwiches; the hens have been doing us proud whilst you’ve been away. Come on, let’s hurry!’

Chapter Seven

LAURIE HAD BEEN
on duty for five days, and when the call to scramble had gone out that morning he was so befuddled that he had pulled on his uniform over his pyjamas. In fact he had not woken up properly until he was sliding back the Perspex hood of his Hurricane and climbing into the pilot’s seat. It was early, and though the sun was up, just edging over the flat Lincolnshire horizon, Laurie was still quite cold and knew he would be colder once he was airborne. Before him, Dave’s Hurricane roared into life, tore across the runway and lifted until it was well clear of the trees which surrounded the airfield; and then, as Laurie always put it to himself, the plane headed for the stars. Not that there were stars out now; what they were heading for was their ceiling of 34,000 feet.

As he pulled the stick back the nose lifted like a hound on the scent and he retracted the undercarriage, glancing around him as he flew. He was intent upon gaining as much height as possible so as to have the advantage over the enemy. If the Spitfires and Hurricanes could manoeuvre themselves into the right position they could pounce on the Luftwaffe without being dazzled by the rising sun, always a problem when a dawn raid came from the east. No doubt by now they would have overflown the coastal defences and the bomber pilots would doubtless think that they could attack their targets with impunity. The big clumsy Dorniers, the Me110s, and the Ju87s, no doubt with their bomb bays loaded, would be relying on their fighter escort to keep them safely in the air. Well, they could bloody well forget that; he was so high now that he guessed the German pilots would be scanning the air around and below them and would scarcely bother to look up, believing that their early start would give them a degree of immunity from the British fighters.