Time to Say Goodbye (32 page)

‘Right you are,’ Auntie said briskly. ‘I know where your hut is down by the river, so I’ll go and check that whilst you two go to this Lookout of yours. And I remember her saying once that she had a heap of cousins all living in various parts of Liverpool. They were evacuated as she was, but I believe she said that most of them had gone home. Even if she hesitated to go back to her mother – and there’s nothing in any of these letters to suggest that she might be wanted at home – she could always seek refuge with the aunts and uncles.’ She turned to appealing to the two girls. ‘Wouldn’t you say that was a possibility?’

Debby looked doubtful, but Imogen nodded slowly. ‘Yes, it’s possible. But the same difficulties apply, Auntie. She had no money and her relatives are a long way away. Honestly, I do think you should just let the police know she’s gone missing. I remember reading somewhere that there had been several cases of unhappy evacuees running away from cruel foster parents, and managing to get home by one means or another.’

Auntie reached out and gave her a playful slap. ‘Thank you very much!’ she said. ‘So now I’m a cruel foster mother, am I? But knowing Rita, she is likelier to say that she’s been badly treated than to admit the truth. All right, once we’ve checked the hut and the Lookout we’ll all go into the village and telephone the police station.’ She brightened. ‘For all we know, she might already have given herself up.’

As so often happened when her unruly tongue had said things she would afterwards regret, a part of Rita wanted to rush over to Debby and apologise. She knew it was scarcely Debby’s fault that her mother had been unable to obtain glass to replace all her shattered windows, but Mrs Jeffries’s constant refrain that the Jewish owners of the small hotel further up the street had taken her trade had made an impression on her daughter. Added to this was her jealousy of the warm friendship which had sprung up, first between Imogen and Debby and later between the two girls and Woody and Josh. It never occurred to her that it was her sharp tongue and constant criticism which had made the others wary. And now, of course, she had done the unforgivable. No one had ever referred to the fact that Debby was Jewish and now she had not only mentioned it, she had taunted the younger girl, virtually saying that she approved of the things the Nazis were doing in Dachau and Auschwitz. Rita shuddered; sometimes she doubted her own sanity. What a wicked and untruthful thing to say! She had looked across the harvest field, to where Debby and Imogen were collecting the sheaves; if only Imogen would leave Debby alone for a moment she would go across and say she was sorry, apologise properly for once, admit she had been horribly wrong.

But even as the thought occurred, she knew she would not do it. It would mean apologising, eating humble pie, and treating Debby in future with kid gloves. But it would mean not just admitting to a fault, which was foreign to her nature, but banishing the jealousy she felt whenever she saw Debby and Imogen with their heads together over some joke or other. So she said nothing but continued to work, telling herself that the time to apologise was not yet, not acknowledging that the right time to apologise would simply never come, because she would keep putting it off, as she always did when her tongue betrayed her into saying something she did not mean.

When the harvesters stopped for the generous meal which Mrs Pilgrim provided at around five o’clock, Rita was sure that Debby would have told not only Imogen but everyone else within earshot. They would all be thinking her despicable and some of them, girls at the village school who had suffered from Rita’s tongue themselves, might be planning some sort of revenge. The fact that her spiteful remarks were usually laughed off or ignored would be forgotten. She remembered once calling Debby and Imogen Nazi-lovers, and though she had afterwards pretended it had been a joke, she was sure it would be held against her now. So instead of joining them she went over to the generous display of food, took a large slice of harvest cake and made off. She went slowly, half hoping that someone would call out, ask her where she was going, and had they done so, she told herself, she would have returned and done all the things she knew she should do. But nobody noticed, and when she knew that teatime had passed and the labourers would have started work again she was full of righteous indignation. If they had cared tuppence about her they would have noticed her absence. Debby became, in her eyes, no longer the injured party but the wrongdoer. She should have approached Rita again; she must have known she hadn’t meant a word she’d said; it was Debby’s duty, positively her duty, to be available for the apology which, Rita told herself, hovered on her lips.

Having eaten half her slice of harvest cake, however, she realised she was thirsty. She did not go back to the harvest field but made her way through the trees and down the steep slope to the grassy plateau where they had built their hut. Inside the hut she knew she would find tin mugs; she would dip one in the river and have a drink, finish off the rest of her cake and return to the Linnet in time for supper. Presently, hunger satisfied and thirst slaked, she settled down on the soft grass to watch the river and mull over her grievances, but it was a warm day and she had been working hard. Presently, she slept.

It was late when she was woken by an owl drifting across her resting place, a white barn owl, intent upon its hunting, uttering a soft too-woo as it went. Dreamily, Rita sat up and looked round her with some surprise. What on earth was she doing here? They had all been helping with the harvest, but that had been in the golden afternoon; now it was night and she was alone. Getting to her feet, she felt a prickle of fear, and with it annoyance. Typical! Imogen and Debby had just gone off, leaving her asleep, a prey to any wild animal which passed. But then she remembered that it had not been they who had left her, but she who had left them. She had better get back to the Canary and Linnet or she would be in trouble. Auntie was easy-going, but she did have rules and one of them was that the girls must be indoors well before dusk fell and in bed by eight thirty at the latest. Rita knew that this was because by nine o’clock at night the pub was usually busy and occasionally, when closing time arrived, it was all Jacky and Auntie could do to eject some drinkers who would have preferred to remain in the bar until the early hours. By and large, it was not the men from the air force station, but others who sometimes exceeded their welcome. The boys from the ack-ack batteries in the surrounding area came galloping up on old bicycles, on foot and very occasionally in an ancient car they all shared, and though Auntie was as fond of them as she was of the air crews she still liked to have the girls upstairs and in bed before her customers grew rowdy.

Rita combed her hair with her fingers, brushed bits of earth and twigs from her dungarees and set off. She was surprised when she reached the pub to find it in darkness, but she knew that she could gain admittance through the kitchen window closest to the back door, and presently she was standing in the kitchen and gazing with some horror at the clock. It lacked ten minutes to midnight. For a moment she wondered why no one was waiting up for her, but then she realised that if the other girls had suspected her of sneaking home before them it was unlikely that they would risk her wrath by disturbing her in Jill’s room. As for Auntie, she would simply assume that Rita had come quietly in and gone straight to bed whilst she herself was still pulling pints in the bar.

Satisfied that she was not going to get into trouble for being late, Rita entered the bedroom, undressed and slid into Jill’s bed. How she wished the older girl was here! She told herself that Jill would understand, would take her side, would make it unnecessary for her to do more than mumble a quick apology. And presently, despite the fact that she had slept deeply all evening, she slept again.

The next time she woke, in the small hours, all the optimism which she had felt earlier had evaporated. She tossed and turned and even wept a little. She would be in trouble on every count: saying unforgivable things to Debby – nasty, spoilt little Debby – as well as coming in late. Auntie would tick her off for not letting anyone know she was home when she reached the Canary and Linnet, and worst of all, Imogen and Debby would make sure that everyone knew that she had uttered remarks that made it look as if it was she who was the Nazi-lover. She actually remembered that Debby had accused her of approving of what was going on in Dachau and Auschwitz . . . lies, all lies, but not lies that it was easy to disprove. So what should she do? The answer seemed simple: she would run away. She contemplated returning to Liverpool and her mother’s boarding house, but the more she thought about it, the less the idea appealed. She needed to show everyone that she was an adult person who could make her own decisions and live her own life. She did not need Imogen or Debby, far less Woody or Josh. She did not need Auntie either, though if Jill had been at home it might have been a different story.

She lay still, considering her options. If she did not return to the boarding house she supposed she could go to the cousins, but speedily dismissed the thought. The cousins were all older than her, and already gainfully employed. She thought they worked in the many factories which had sprung up around Liverpool, factories which made a variety of different things – munitions, parts for aeroplanes, uniforms and parachutes – and paid good wages to competent young women. She could do that! But then there was the problem of where she would live. If she returned to her mother she would be sucked into helping in the boarding house, and that would scarcely prove her to be a person of worth. And she knew the cousins were crammed into poor accommodation, sleeping on sofas or Box and Coxing it, which meant for instance that when Jane, working a day shift, climbed out of her bed to go to work, Elsie, working a night shift, would climb between the same sheets.

Rita wrinkled her nose; going to the cousins was out. She wanted to prove herself independent and capable, did not intend to find herself regarded as a nuisance; returning to Liverpool was a bad idea then.

It was tempting to decide to go to the only other town she knew much about, which was Lincoln, since Norwich was too near, too obvious. The three girls had visited Jill, who was stationed at one of the big airfields outside that city, and had liked it very much. But on thinking it over, Rita heaved a deep sigh. If she went to Lincoln she knew what would undoubtedly happen: it was sod’s law, as she had heard the men in the bar saying, that she would walk straight into Jill or Laurie or one of the other airmen who had frequented the Canary and Linnet. They would undoubtedly see to it that she was dispatched straight home again. The fact that this thought gave her comfort was something of a shock and she had to tell herself firmly that she had no wish for her adventure to end in ignominy. There must be another city where she might find both a job and accommodation, and as soon as she was firmly established she would write to Auntie and this time she really would apologise, both for the carelessly cruel words she had said to Debby and for running away. She supposed, miserably, that everyone would assume she had gone because she was unhappy at the Linnet, but even as the thought entered her mind she noticed that the sky beyond her window was no longer black and star-studded, but was beginning to pale. She realised that if she did not get out of bed and get moving she was likely to fall asleep and not wake again until the girls and Auntie were beginning to stir and think about getting up.

Rita got stiffly out of bed, and dressed hastily. Then she pulled Jill’s haversack out of the wardrobe and began to stuff clothes into it. She had filled it with everything she thought essential and actually had her hand on the door knob when she remembered, guiltily, that she had not packed toothbrush, flannel and soap. She added these to the bag, feeling rather bad over taking Jill’s best dress and her own school skirt and blouse, but telling herself that she must have respectable clothing if her flight was to succeed. Then she opened the door with the upmost caution and set off down the stairs. She avoided the one that creaked the worst, but guessed that, after a long day harvesting, the other girls would still be sleeping soundly, whilst Auntie often remarked that it would take a brigade of guards marching through her room to wake her. This was obviously true, since Rita gained the kitchen without rousing anyone. To be sure, Rufus, curled up on his blanket under the kitchen table, thumped a sleepy tail, but he made no effort to get to his feet, though he watched with considerable interest as Rita went into the pantry, helped herself to bread, butter, apples and the bottle of cold tea left over from the harvest supper. Packing the food and tea into Jill’s haversack, she slipped into her coat, knotted a spotted headscarf under her chin and let herself out into a newborn morning which felt full of promise.

She considered her penniless state, but decided that even if she ‘borrowed’ some cash and left a note promising to pay Auntie back, it would scarcely be a good start to her new venture. So she walked at a comfortable pace into the village, for hurrying would be noticed, and she was well known so near the Linnet. Here, too, no one stirred, though a dog barked as she passed his kennel, and when she gained the winding country road which led to the next small village she saw smoke beginning to rise from chimneys and knew that very soon now the inhabitants would be going about their business.

Rita walked on. She knew that people thumbed lifts, had been with Mrs Pilgrim when that kind lady had stopped to pick up hopeful members of the forces or someone she knew from one of the surrounding villages, so as soon as she reached the main road she prepared to show drivers that she was hitch-hiking, as they called it. She felt very self-conscious waving down a vehicle which turned out to be an army lorry, but the driver grinned and told her to hop aboard and asked where she was bound.

‘For the city,’ Rita said briefly. She told herself that she knew better than to reveal more than the most innocuous of details for fear that the man might remember giving her a lift and tell someone searching for her where she had gone.