Time to Say Goodbye (29 page)

‘Your airman’s not a Jerry,’ Auntie said triumphantly. ‘He’s a foreigner all right, though. He’s Polish, his name is Stan Mielczarek and he’s stationed at RAF Crumpton, up in Lincolnshire, quite near dear Laurie.’

For several weeks after Stan’s rescue there was a certain degree of harmony at the Canary and Linnet. The weather was fine and the girls spent more time helping at the farm than they did either at school or at the pub. But as Imogen told Jill when the older girl came home for a forty-eight, Rita was still difficult, apt to take offence over almost nothing and frequently abandoning them as they worked in the hay, or rode the great wagons – wains as Mr Pilgrim called them – back to the farm. Sometimes when they returned to the Linnet it was to find that Rita had made herself a sandwich and gone off to bed, and if they climbed the stairs and tried to persuade her to join them for supper she just hunched an offended shoulder and told them to bugger off. So when Auntie visited Stan in hospital and got permission for the youngsters, including the boys, to visit as well, Imogen and Debby doubted whether Rita would go. ‘After all the things she said about him, even after she knew he was one of us, she can’t possibly want to see him, even in a hospital bed,’ Debby said. ‘But you never know; she’s really unpredictable, isn’t she, Immy?’

Imogen agreed that this was so and was both pleased and surprised when Rita said stiffly that she had been the first to see the bundle in the tree and therefore had every right to visit the hospital.

‘Of course you have; if it hadn’t been for you spotting him the three of us would have finished cleaning the Lookout and gone home,’ Imogen said at once. She looked anxiously at Rita. ‘Only – only you won’t say anything nasty to him, will you, Rita? Auntie says he’s in a poor way . . .’

‘I can say anything at all, because even if I said I hoped he ached all over he wouldn’t understand a word,’ Rita snapped. ‘Anyway, I don’t mean to talk to him. I shall just stand in the background and stare whilst you jabber on. Bloody foreigners! For all we know he might be a spy.’

Debby and Imogen exchanged anxious glances; what was the matter with Rita this time? She had always been sharp-tongued but now she either did not speak to them at all or said something so horrid that it killed any conversation stone dead. When questioned, Auntie shrugged rather helplessly but said that they must not mind. She thought that Rita must have worries unconnected with the Canary and Linnet. ‘She never reads bits of her letters aloud, or tells us what’s been happening to her mother,’ she reminded them. ‘She’s at an awkward age. But I’ll have a word with her, tell her that I am trusting her not to make trouble.’

Later, Auntie expanded on her visit, saying he was a nice young man with rather limited English. ‘But by the time he’s able to leave the hospital and go back to his flight at RAF Crumpton he’ll be chattering away like the rest of us,’ she said. ‘He’s intelligent; he was studying at university to get a medical degree, so he’s hoping to be a doctor one of these days. But at the moment he’s just a lonely young man, unable to leave his bed, and, the sister on his ward told me, pathetically grateful for any small kindness.’ Here she handed Imogen a small jar of homemade toffee. ‘Just a little present,’ she murmured, and Imogen saw that she was avoiding Rita’s eyes. ‘I know Mrs Pilgrim is sending him one of her carrot cakes, and the hospital staff will see he gets your gift as well.’

So the five of them, for Woody insisted that he was entitled to accompany them even though – and here he shot a fulminating glance at Rita – he had not been present at the rescue, set out and boarded a bus which would drop them outside the hospital gates. Rita always behaved better when Woody was with them, Imogen remembered, and thought there was a good chance that the visit might be quite pleasant after all.

They reached the hospital and reported themselves to a neat little nurse on the reception desk in the front hall. She entered their names in a sort of visitors’ book and then summoned another nurse to lead them to ward H, where their guide gestured vaguely at the patients. ‘He don’t speak much English and you’re only allowed thirty minutes,’ she said briefly. ‘I’ll come and fetch you when your time’s up.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ Woody said, since the others seemed struck dumb. ‘Which one is he?’

But the nurse had whisked round and was already halfway back to reception, leaving Woody staring at the girls and Josh whilst they scanned the young men in the beds on either side of the ward.

Imogen stared hopefully but it seemed to her that she had never seen so many legs and arms encased in plaster, or young men wearing identical striped pyjamas, or faces and heads swathed in bandages. ‘They all look alike,’ she whimpered, but Rita gave an exasperated snort and pointed.

‘He’s that one; don’t you remember the burns and the bullet mark on his cheek and brow? Goodness, I never even thought he might be a blond.’ She turned to Woody. ‘He might have been handsome once, but he’s hideous now.’ She looked at Imogen, and for the first time for ages gave her a small, tight smile. ‘Good thing he’s sleeping, and can’t hear me,’ she said.

Before they left the hospital, however, Stan awoke. Auntie must have explained that his rescuers had been youngsters for he smiled round at them before muttering a few words which they took to be thanks. However, it was not a very satisfactory visit, for Stan could not remember how he came to land in the tree, nor why he had been swaddled so securely in his parachute. He remembered nothing about the rescue, not even Debby feeding him with cold tea; in fact it seemed he remembered nothing from the moment he had abandoned his burning aircraft until he woke in a hospital bed.

Their visit had been limited to half an hour and Debby, looking round at the others, could see relief on every face when the bell for the end of visiting sounded. It was difficult conversing with someone who had so little English and she knew they were all glad that it was time to say goodbye and leave him. As they crossed the foyer, heading thankfully for the outside world, however, Woody saw a doctor and stopped him to enquire how long the patient in the third bed from the end – the Pole with the unpronounceable name – was likely to be incarcerated here.

The young doctor blew out his cheeks and frowned. ‘He’s a strong young man but a good deal damaged. My personal opinion is that he’ll be here for months rather than weeks.’ He grinned as he saw their obviously downcast expressions. ‘I expect he was hard work this evening, but as his health improves so will his grasp of English and his interest in what is going on about him. If you visit say once a week for the next month I’m sure you’ll notice changes for the better every time you come to the hospital.’

For the first month the girls trailed dutifully to the hospital once a week, though the boys said they were far too busy. But after that first month both Imogen and Rita felt they were wasting their time sitting beside the bed whilst Debby regaled Stan with stories of any happening she thought might interest him.

Once, when Imogen and Rita had gone further up the ward to talk to another airman, hospitalised after breaking both legs, Stan had lowered his voice to a hissing whisper. ‘I have not said how my memory has begun to return, but you, little Debby, were my good angel. You gave me tea out of a bottle and spoke to me kindly. It must be boring for you spending so much time telling me about your life, but it is what makes
my
life worth continuing. Your friends won’t come to see me so often now they’re really needed on the farm; before I came to England and joined the RAF I worked with my father on his farm in the university holidays so I know that everyone gives a hand at harvest time. But please, little angel Debby, don’t you desert me.’

Debby had taken his hand and pressed it to her cheek. ‘I
like
coming,’ she said truthfully. ‘But you’re right, of course: Imogen and Rita truly are needed on the farm . . .’ As she spoke the bell for the end of visiting rang out and she jumped to her feet and beckoned to her friends.

‘Come along, you two,’ she said briskly. ‘If you run we can catch the early bus.’

The three girls were harvesting the wheat along with their schoolfellows and most of the boys from Hemblington Hall. The day was hot and sunny, an ideal day for the work in hand, and it seemed impossible to Imogen that anyone could be cross or bad-tempered on such a day and doing such a task, but Rita was quite clearly in one of her fractious moods.

Debby, realising this, burst into speech. ‘I wrote to Stan last night. He sent me a card with his new address on it – he’s at RAF Sandwich, still up in Lincolnshire, with all his old flight or whatever they call it.’

The binder passed them, spitting out the neatly tied sheaves, and the girls pounced on them and carried them to where the men were expertly stacking them into stooks. They handed their burdens over and went back to catch the next lot, and it was not until then that Rita voiced her thoughts. ‘I don’t think you ought to bother about him – that Stan – when they’re beginning to appeal for people to send letters and parcels to our chaps in POW camps,’ she said. ‘From what we’ve read in the newspapers our POWs, particularly the ones in the Japanese camps, are having a terrible time. We put the German prisoners to work on the farms, but they say that the Japs and the Germans make our men do all sorts: huge construction works like building bridges and railways and tunnels and canals . . .’

Imogen took a deep breath. Long experience had told her that arguing with Rita was a lost cause. Rita was only interested in her own point of view, so, as Auntie was fond of saying, Imogen might as well save her breath to cool her porridge. So she waited without saying a word whilst Rita went on and on, and, when she ran out of steam, said calmly, ‘Yes, Rita, I’m sure you’re right and we ought to be corresponding with some poor chap in one of the enemy’s POW camps. I mean to do so; I’ve sent away for an address. Have you?’

Rita mumbled something to the effect that she’d been too busy, but would get round to it sometime, and Imogen did not challenge this blatant lie, knowing that it would only lead to another argument. All she said was: ‘All right, all right, I think you’ve made your point, but there’s nothing to stop Debby writing to Stan as well, is there? And anyway, I like Stan.’ She looked defiantly at Rita. ‘If it wasn’t for his burns he’d be rather good-looking, don’t you think? His hair’s the same colour as this corn, and his eyes are lovely.’

Rita gave a contemptuous snort just as the two mighty carthorses who pulled the binder came level with them once more. ‘Trust you to judge somebody by his looks,’ she said scornfully. ‘I like a man to look like a man, not like a pretty little girl. And you’d better get on with the work before somebody notices you slacking.’

Imogen bit her lip but Debby, who had run forward to pick up a couple of sheaves, grinned and winked, and somehow the gesture turned Rita’s nastiness into a joke. As the binding continued the girls parted company, Imogen going off to help build the stooks whilst the other two continued to carry the sheaves to where the men needed them. Once or twice Imogen glanced towards her friends, but could hear nothing of any conversation between them. And presently Woody came charging up with Josh in tow to say that they had been sent back to the farmhouse to help Mrs Pilgrim carry up the harvest grub. ‘She’s got lemonade for us and beer for the rest,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Can you be spared to give us a hand?’ By this time the girls were separated by the whole width of the field, but Imogen made wild gestures and though Rita remained obstinately where she was Debby came and joined them at a quick trot. She was looking flushed but agreed eagerly to accompany them to the farm.

‘What about Rita?’ Woody asked. ‘Didn’t she understand what we meant when we beckoned to her? It’s awful hot and everyone’s been working all out since breakfast; I should have thought she would be keen to take a bit of a break.’

Debby looked conscience-stricken. ‘Oh dear, I’ve been so careful to stay calm when Rita flies off the handle, but this time I lost my temper, really lost it, I mean. I – I told her things I always promised myself never to tell a soul. Oh, Woody, she just went on and on, you know how she does, and I’m afraid I let rip.’

Woody, Josh and Imogen stared at Debby as though they could not believe their ears, but then Woody laughed and the other two followed suit. ‘I don’t believe it! Little Debby Viner actually losing her temper?’ Woody said. ‘I never thought to see the day! Has it put Rita in such a bate that she won’t speak to any of us for a few hours? If so, it’s a jolly good job. And what exactly did you say, anyhow? Come to that, what did she say to make you answer back?’

Debby shrugged. ‘Oh, just the usual: my cousin Albert in the air force, my uncle George who’s on an ack-ack battery near Portsmouth, my poor mother who can’t run her hotel properly until she can get someone to replace all the windows and re-tile part of the roof.’ Debby sighed. ‘Honest to God, I wouldn’t have lost my temper if I hadn’t heard it all before about a hundred times, I should think.’

By this time the four of them were heading for the gate which led on to the lane, but Imogen was still puzzled. All of them, including the boys and Auntie, often referred to Debby as ‘our little peacemaker’, so not unnaturally Imogen wanted to find out just what Debby had said. But when she pressed her for an answer, Debby went very red and shook her head. ‘I had no right to say what I did, and I don’t intend to repeat it,’ she said obstinately. ‘What’s more, I’m jolly certain that Rita won’t repeat it either. In fact I’m quite hopeful that when I tell her to forget it and apologise for – for speaking out of turn, she’ll forgive me and we can continue to be friends.’

‘If you ever were friends,’ Woody muttered, but he said it so quietly that Imogen thought she was the only one who heard. He raised his voice. ‘Oh, these little tiffs blow over, and it’ll be a change for Rita not to be the one who started it. And now let’s get a move on, because we shan’t be very popular if the workers have to wait for their midday break.’

As they emerged on to the lane, Imogen glanced back and saw that Rita, with a sheaf of wheat in her arms, was walking purposefully over to the men building the stooks. As she watched, Rita turned to look at her and it occurred to Imogen that the other girl looked rather pale. She beckoned, but with a typical gesture Rita tossed her head and turned to face forward once more. Imogen sighed and wondered again what on earth Debby had said, then decided that it really didn’t matter. She knew the younger girl too well to think she would ever deliberately hurt anyone. No doubt in the heat of the moment she had reminded Rita of some peccadillo which the other would sooner forget. So what? Rita was far too fond of pointing out the faults of others; it was about time she had a taste of her own medicine. Imogen hurried to catch the others up.