Time to Say Goodbye (24 page)

Imogen was wondering why when she saw that a broad band of moonlight lay right across Rita’s face. She had been half hoping that one of the girls might wake, but even as she saw Rita’s eyelids flutter she realised that this was the last thing she really wanted. Rita would start on again about Imogen’s feelings for Laurie, and she could do without that. Sliding out of bed she crossed to the window. Below her, the yard and the garden beyond looked magical in the silver light, and Imogen was suddenly struck by a desire to go out. She could get dressed and make her way to the great beech tree which they called the Lookout and watch for the moment when the fighters would be scrambled. But of course, though it was fun to imagine, she knew very well that she would not even start to get dressed, far less set off on a moonlight walk. Only an idiot would do such a thing

Imogen closed the curtains and returned to her bed, and was about to pull the covers back over her when her tummy gave an indignant rumble and she became suddenly aware that she was hungry. Every night, Auntie made what she called a bedtime snack, which was a cup of cocoa and some of her home-made ginger biscuits. But tonight Imogen had been too involved with not appearing to notice Laurie that she had scarcely touched her cocoa and had not eaten so much as one ginger biscuit.
That
was why she had awoken! She really was an idiot, because going to bed hungry was never a good idea. But this, she knew, could be easily remedied. She would sneak downstairs, fetch the tin of biscuits from the pantry, help herself to a handful and return to bed. She could of course confess to her theft in the morning, but doubted whether she would bother to do so. If she wanted to be really devious she could knock on Auntie’s door and peep around it, secure in the knowledge of Auntie’s frequent boast that she (a) could fall asleep on a clothes line and (b) would not wake if a brigade of Scottish pipers, all playing at full blast, were to march round her bed. Then she could say that she had tried to ask permission for taking the biscuits, but not having a Scottish piper, let alone a brigade of ’em . . .

Giggling at the thought, Imogen got out of bed and padded across to the door. She took her dressing gown off the hook and slipped it on, then she opened the door very, very softly, crossed the small landing, and began to descend the stairs. Halfway down she thought she heard something and stopped short, but the kitchen was all in darkness save for the glow of the fire in the range.

Odd! It must be just her imagination; it really was hunger which had sent her on the prowl. There had been no sound which might have woken her, no clink of glass, no stealthy footfall, so it seemed unlikely they had been visited by burglars, and what was there to steal? Nothing . . . oh, hang on a moment! Beer might be difficult to stick in one’s pocket, but there were those upside down bottles containing spirits, which she supposed, vaguely, men might want to steal, and if so, it was her duty to go quietly across the kitchen and peep round the edge of the half-open door into the bar.

She crossed the kitchen and went to the door which opened directly into the bar. It was in complete darkness, and she realised that the silence was also complete, but nevertheless, having got this far, she felt she should check everything. There was the Jug and Bottle, their private sitting room, rarely used now summer had come; she had best take a look in there.

She did so, stealing soft-footed over the polished linoleum. Nothing. Deciding with a good deal of relief that there were no burglars to be apprehended, Imogen returned to the kitchen, visited the pantry for long enough to grab a couple of biscuits and pop them into her pocket, and then, having a good look round in the gloom to make sure that she had left no tell-tale signs of her midnight visit, returned to the stairs. She was halfway up the first flight when, ahead of her, she heard a door open softly, followed by the creak of a board. She stopped abruptly; she had thought it might be fun to startle another night-time wanderer by saying ‘Boo’, but now she knew she would do no such thing. Instead, she shrank against the wall and stared upwards . . . and saw Laurie slipping into the room which she knew was Jill’s, shutting the door gently behind him.

Shock affects everyone differently. For what felt like a long time but might only have been a few minutes, Imogen sagged against the staircase wall and waited for her heart to stop beating so loudly that she half expected Laurie to open the door again to see what was making the noise. Cold was spreading up from her toes as though she were standing in a tub of icy water, and it was this which finally got her moving. Shivering and mouse-quiet, she completed her climb of the staircase, slipped into the attic room, hung her dressing gown on its hook and climbed back into bed. She tried to tell herself that what she had seen had been perfectly natural. Probably Laurie was lonely on his own in the spare room, for she knew he shared his life with his crew, perhaps even slept in the same hut or the same quarters, whatever the expression was. Yes, that must be the answer: he was lonely and he loved Jill, so what was more natural than that, seeking company, he had gone to her room. She tried to imagine him sitting on the edge of Jill’s bed, waking her up, starting to chat . . . only another picture kept intruding, that of Laurie pulling back the covers and getting into bed beside Jill.

But it’s only a single bed, Imogen reminded herself desperately. Auntie said there wasn’t really room in it for one, so what on earth would be the point of cramming two people in such a bed?

Imogen sighed and, for the first time for many months, began to suck her thumb. Anger was beginning to build. How dared Laurie and Jill do whatever it was men and girls did in bed? Once, she reminded herself, she had known so little about what went on between males and females that she would have simply accepted the first picture: that of Laurie and Jill wanting companionship and being content to simply chat. But now she had spent over a year watching the various antics of the farm animals, the strutting cockerel and his harem of hens – Auntie had bought a cockerel so that they might rear their own chicks – and even the fat wood pigeons who came to steal the corn thrown out for the poultry and stayed to mate with complete abandon whenever they felt so inclined.

Sadly, Imogen realised that so far as the facts of life were concerned she had cast the innocence of city children behind her and now knew far more than she wished to. Almost in the same instant, however, she realised that whilst she had been conjecturing, the deathly cold which had gripped her had gone. She felt warm and comfortable; perhaps it might even be possible to go back to sleep. She glanced across at the alarm clock, which now read half past one, and pulled the sheet up over her shoulder, snuggling her head into the pillow but removing her thumb from her mouth because, she told herself, she no longer needed its comfort. She was almost asleep when a thought occurred to her which had her sitting bolt upright. What would she do in the morning when she had to face Laurie and Jill across the breakfast table? She knew that what she had seen should make no difference to how she felt about them, but she also knew that things would never be quite the same again. How she wished she had never given way to her urge for food . . . and with the thought she remembered the ginger biscuits, still in the pocket of her dressing gown. She jumped out of bed and fumbled in the pocket, and was returning with the ginger biscuits in her hand when a sleepy voice said: ‘Immy? Why are you out of bed? It’s not morning, is it?’

Imogen had jumped quite six inches at the sound of the voice and now she turned reproachful eyes on Debby, who was sitting up and staring at her. Annoyed at being caught out she scowled at the other girl, though she doubted whether Debby could see her expression in the gloom. Thank God for the ginger biscuits, she thought devoutly; no need to say anything about Jill and Laurie. But Debby was still sitting up, still staring, so Imogen broke into reluctant speech.

‘I got hungry, I don’t know why. Well, perhaps I do; I didn’t have my bedtime snack because I was listening to what Jill and Laurie were telling us. Anyway, I sneaked downstairs and helped myself to a couple of bickies; I’ve only just got back.’ She flourished the biscuits. ‘I’m not as hungry as I thought, though; do you want to take one off my hands?’

‘No thanks,’ Debby said promptly. She snuggled down the bed again. ‘What I really want is to go back to sleep. You are a wretch, Immy. It took me ages to drop off with you snoring like Pandora, and now you go and wake me!’

‘Sorry,’ Imogen mumbled through a mouthful of biscuit. ‘Did you know it’s well past one o’clock? I say, Debby, it’s a grand night! If neither of us can sleep why don’t we get dressed and go for a little wander?’

Debby shook her head decisively. ‘If it’s fine tomorrow they’ll be working with the hay and we’ll be busy from dawn to dusk,’ she said reproachfully. ‘So let’s get to sleep again as quickly as we can.’

Imogen sighed. ‘I don’t know why I suggested it,’ she mumbled. ‘Night night, Debby; see you in the morning.’ But though she realised that Jill and Laurie had every right to be together, she made up her mind that if she could put a spoke in their wheel, she would do so. They aren’t married, so they shouldn’t sleep in the same room, she told herself righteously. She doubted she would get so much as a wink of sleep, yet within seconds of the thought, she slumbered.

Next morning Imogen was down early, helping Auntie with the breakfast since Jill was lying in for a change. Imogen, toasting bread, laying the table and making a large pot of tea, asked what plans Jill and Laurie had made for the day.

‘They’re going over to Oulton Broad; I’ve got a cousin who owns a boat which he’s agreed to lend them, so since the weather seems set fair they should have a good day,’ Auntie told her. ‘What are your plans, poppet?’

‘Haymaking, I think. The boys are coming round to help out as soon as their chores at the farm are over, and we’ll all go off to the hayfields together,’ Imogen said. ‘I wish we could borrow a boat on the Broad some time.’ She looked hopefully at Auntie. ‘People fish on the Broads, don’t they? It’d be fun if we could catch a few fish and bring them home for you to cook.’

Auntie laughed. ‘It’s not impossible, and your summer holidays start soon,’ she said. ‘I’m sure Matthew – that’s my cousin – will lend you a boat then, provided one of you can row.’

‘I bet Woody can; he can do everything,’ Imogen said. She cocked her head at the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs. ‘Here they come, all eager for brekker.’ The kitchen door opened and Laurie came into the room. He was smiling, and Imogen realised that the pallor and strain which she had noticed on his face the day before had disappeared. Suddenly, she was no longer embarrassed by the memory of the night. She was not embarrassed at all, in fact. ‘Grab a chair, Laurie,’ she told him. ‘Auntie will dole out your porridge and pour you a cuppa whilst I butter your toast.’

When Jill appeared, looking flushed and pretty, Imogen did suffer a momentary pang, but then she remembered it was Jill’s kindness which had taken the strain from Laurie’s face, and smiled at the older girl. ‘Aren’t you lucky to be going for a boat trip? But Auntie says when the school holidays come, she’ll get her cousin to lend us his boat,’ she said. ‘How many slices of toast can you eat, Jill?’

Chapter Eight

THINGS HAD CHANGED
considerably since Laurie’s visit, Imogen thought as she got into bed one April night, almost a year later. Jill and Auntie had had a number of discussions and finally it had been agreed that it was Jill’s duty – and wish – to join one of the services. She had become a Waaf and then a plotter, working in a big underground control room outside the city of Norwich, just ten miles from the Linnet, which meant she was able to visit them whenever she had leave.

Naturally enough she wanted to be with Laurie whenever possible, and once or twice they had come to the Linnet together. Imogen noticed that Jill was thinner and looked worn out, though a couple of days’ rest did wonders. The girls had grown used to what were described as ‘hit and run raids’, the heavy bombers roaring overhead on their way to attack ports or factory complexes, and no longer bothered to get up and go down to the Anderson shelter Auntie had insisted on installing the previous year. Sometimes the noise kept them awake, particularly the whine of the air raid siren, which, if the wind was in the right direction, came to them clearly from the village, but the shelter itself would have grown disgustingly damp and smelly had Auntie not decreed that they should give it a thorough spring clean once a month.

Once, there had been no question of aircraft flying at night, but now it was done as a matter of course. America had entered the war at the end of 1941 when the Japanese had bombed their fleet in Pearl Harbor, and their air force had taken over daytime raids, leaving night flying to the British. Auntie had said the Japs should get a medal, because having the Americans on the Allies’ side must, she thought, shorten the war by many months, perhaps even by years.

But now it was 1942 and Imogen awoke to the familiar sound of planes overhead and Rufus’s howling. Auntie often remarked that he was better than any alarm, since he seemed to hear the raiders as soon as they crossed the coast and began to howl at the top of his voice, showing the whites of his eyes and not ceasing his lament until the skies were clear once more. Imogen sighed and burrowed her head into her pillow. It would be another hit and run raid on the airfields, she supposed; no need to get out of bed.

She was just beginning to snooze once more when there was a sound like all the devils in hell screaming at once, followed by a deep boom. Debby, who had actually been snoring, gave a squawk and sat bolt upright, eyes rounding. ‘What was that?’ she quavered. ‘Immy, what was that huge bang?’

Imogen was beginning to answer that it must be a bomb, jettisoned by an enemy plane on its way home to Germany, when it was succeeded by another tremendous, earth-shaking boom, and others began to follow in quick succession.

Imogen jumped out of bed and saw that Rita was doing the same, whilst Debby, still foggy with sleep, seemed unaware of the danger. Pulling on her thickest woolly, she said urgently, though in a rather muffled voice, ‘Get up, Debby. It’s a raid; what they call a blitz, I think, like the one in Liverpool last year. You’d better get dressed. Put on warm things and we’ll get down to the Anderson shelter.’