Time to Say Goodbye (39 page)

So the arrival of the letter suggesting a reunion, since very soon it would be twenty years since their first meeting, meant that a decision must be reached. She had a perfect excuse for not going, of course. France was a long way from Norfolk, and if she wrote offering her good wishes and explaining that she and her husband could not simply abandon the farm it would be accepted as reason enough for non-attendance.

Having made up her mind, she had shown Stan the letter, and to her surprise and slight dismay he had said that she really must go. ‘Maybe I can’t leave the farm,’ he reminded her, ‘but you can. And anyway, those friends of yours, those little evacuees, were once a part of your life. Why, I don’t suppose they even know that our place is doing okay, and they should.’ And with the words he had slid his arm round her waist, pulling her against him, and given her a loving kiss.

‘Of course they know we’re okay,’ Debby said indignantly. ‘I send them all Christmas cards.’ Another thought occurred to her. ‘
If
I go – and take note I’m not saying I will – then who will do the housework whilst you’re looking after the farm? And what about Rachel? Who would take care of the most important member of our household?’

Stan pinched her nose. ‘I’ll cope, you little unbeliever. You won’t be gone for more than three or four days, I don’t suppose; surely you trust me to look after things for such a short time?’

But as the day when she must depart – if she was to depart at all – came nearer, Debby’s reluctance to go increased. What did she know of Imogen, Rita and Jill? They would be strangers to one another, ships that pass in the night. Yet she longed to see Auntie again, and from that point of view knew she should accept the invitation. Once her home had been made respectable she had scrawled an invitation every Christmas:
Come to France and see how beautiful La Petite Chaumière is. You know we would love to have you.

Auntie always thanked her politely, said she would indeed cross the Channel one of these fine days, but had not yet done so. It occurred to Debby for the first time that Auntie had never suggested that Debby should come to her, but that was only natural. She was no longer landlady of the Canary and Linnet but lived in a cottage on the outskirts of the next village, and managed to give the impression that she was too busy to undertake a long journey.

She had still been dithering, not sure whether to go or stay, when Stan had taken matters into his own hands. Without consulting her he had arranged everything. Madame Bouvier who came in twice a week to help out would come every day until Debby returned. Henri and Philippe, who were employed in the vineyard and the orchard for part of the year, would come to La Petite Chaumière whenever they were needed whilst she was away, and Stan had caught the bus to the nearest big town and arranged tickets and a passage across the Channel with a travel agent. He had got Madame to wash and press Debby’s only smart outfit, a light green coat and skirt, and had arranged for a taxi to take her on the first stage of her journey. It would arrive at seven o’clock this very day.

Debby tiptoed down the stairs into the kitchen and picked up the bellows to get the fire going. Though they had taken many French habits to their hearts, she and Stan still liked to start each day with a homely brew, so presently she poured tea into Stan’s big breakfast cup, added milk and sugar and headed for the stairs.

‘So far, everything’s gone smoothly,’ she said later as she and Stan climbed into the rackety old taxi owned – and driven – by Monsieur Guillaume. ‘I’m going to be at the station in plenty of time. Oh, Stan, it is good of you and Rachel to come and see me off. I promise I’ll be back as soon as I possibly can.’ She kissed her daughter’s cheek. ‘You’ll be a good girl for your daddy whilst I’m away, won’t you?’

As the car surged noisily on to the main road, Stan flung an arm round her shoulders and kissed the side of her neck, grinning as he caught the driver’s eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘I’m not seeing you off,’ he said in French. ‘I’m coming with you, and so is our petit chou. It’s about time we all had a holiday and I can’t wait to meet this Auntie of yours. I know you say she came to visit me in hospital, but the only face I remember from those dark days is yours, my darling.’

‘But – but . . .’

‘Don’t argue,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’ve made all the arrangements – it’s a good time of year to be away. The grapes have been picked and those crops which are still not ready will have a fortnight in which to ripen. Henri and Philippe will have a cushy time of it. So stop worrying, mon petit chou, and look forward to our little holiday.’

Debby beamed at him. She felt as though a heavy weight had rolled off her shoulders; she could rely on Stan to take care of them. ‘But are you sure you don’t mind? After all, these are my friends; you’ve never even met them.’

‘Mind?’ Stan said incredulously. ‘And as for my never meeting your pals, you’re the one who’s always telling me I have, even though I have no memory of it. Do you think they’ll recognise me? It’s been a lot of years since I was helped down from that tree by my little angel, my very own Debby, so it’s about time I met them officially.’ He glanced down at her, his expression rueful. ‘Remember it was I who refused to let you have a proper wedding; now I’m making up for it.’

Rita was sitting in her small office, crunching toast, with a cup of tea to hand, when there was a perfunctory knock on the door and Phyllis Brown poked her head into the room.

‘You awright, Miss Jeffries?’ she asked. She sighed dramatically and wagged a reproving finger at Rita. ‘If your mam could see you now, she’d have a perishin’ blue fit. She always said no one could work proper unless they had a full breakfast inside of ’em and here’s you, snatchin’ a snack when you’re the owner of three of the best guesthouses in Liverpool, with a table reserved in all the dining rooms so’s you can eat whenever you’re so inclined.’

Rita sighed. ‘Hotels, not guesthouses,’ she corrected automatically. ‘Really, Phyllis, you cluck round me like an old hen with one chick, and you don’t have the excuse of having known me since I was a scruffy teenager, like most of the staff.’ Rita thought that having staff who had known her mother and probably her grandmother as well was one of the disadvantages of a family run business, but on the other hand she knew that not one of her elderly employees would cheat her, or see her cheated by anyone else. ‘Tea and toast is my idea of a good breakfast; I couldn’t face a plateful of greasy bacon and eggs at this hour of the morning. So I do beg of you, Phyllis, not to try to change the habits of a lifetime.’ She held out a hand. ‘Is that the post you’ve got there? Pass me the register, would you? I know most of these will be bills or invoices, but there’s one at least which looks as though it might be a booking.’

Phyllis fanned the letters out on the desk before her employer and fetched the heavy, leather-bound register, opening it at that day’s date. ‘It’s pretty full, and it’ll get fuller as Christmas approaches,’ she remarked. ‘We’s doin’ a special Yuletide offer, ain’t we? But it’s a bit early for holiday bookings.’ She peered inquisitively at the cream-coloured envelope which Rita had abstracted from the rest of the correspondence. ‘That one looks interestin’.’

Rita had glanced quickly at the envelope and immediately recognised the writing. Instinctively, she shuffled it back into the pile of post and reached to take the register the girl was holding out. ‘Thank you, Phyllis. I take it this is just the post for this hotel, though it looks an awful lot. If you’d be good enough to collect the correspondence from the Elms and the Oaks, I’ll deal with the whole lot at once.’

‘Righty-ho,’ Phyllis said breezily. She was younger than the majority of Rita’s staff, but Rita had long ago recognised that she had potential. She was already Rita’s deputy and most trusted employee and would, one day soon, take over the running of the newest and most modern hotel, the Sycamores.

Once she was alone, Rita opened the cream-coloured envelope and swiftly scanned the contents. She read it through twice, a scowl gradually descending on her brow. So they had decided on a reunion, had they? She had exchanged Christmas cards with the other girls from the Canary and Linnet, but had never even thought of meeting up; why should she? She had been the first to leave, to break free, and though it had taken years she had at last forgiven Auntie’s refusal to allow her to return. She supposed, reluctantly, that they had all known good behaviour was essential if they were to remain at the pub under Jill and Auntie’s gentle rule. Thinking back, she felt once more the desperate misery, the sharp stab of pain, which had overcome her as Mrs Caldecott had explained as gently as she could that Auntie and Jill were adamant, but in her heart she understood that her expulsion had come about because of her own wickedness, and was deserved.

But even now she could not bear to remember her banishment from Eden; instead she let her mind go back to that very first meeting with the other two girls. She could see it all: Imogen’s shiny black bob of hair, her white face and blue, dark-shadowed eyes. And Debby, equally exhausted, small and plump, her fawn-coloured curls a tangle, her lower lip trembling with the fear that the three of them, chance met yet linked for ever, might be parted. And she, equally pale, chewing the end of her long blonde plait and insisting that they must find a lavatory before they burst.

And Auntie, coming out of Mrs Bailey’s shop and seeing them gathered around the billeting officer’s car, offering rescue without a second thought. Auntie was tall and very slim; an unkind person might call her gaunt. Her skin was white, but it was a healthy white and in no way connected with exhaustion. Her beautiful hair was sandy – later on in their acquaintance she would tell them that it was called Plantagenet gold – and her eyes were green, beautifully clear and set beneath surprised-looking brows. Rita remembered how they had twinkled as she had offered to take the three little waifs, and promised – how untruthfully! – that they would never see the inside of the public bar.

They met Jill later that same evening and in Rita’s recollection at least it had been love at first sight. Yet so far as Rita could recall Jill was not beautiful or unusual; she was a brown girl, brown-haired, brown-eyed and tanned. When Rita had been told she must leave, the only tears she had shed had been at Auntie’s bedside, and in the first months back in Liverpool she had written long, impassioned letters to Jill, addressing them to various airfields, for by then Jill had been in the WAAF and seldom stationed in one place for long. But the letters had slowed and eventually ceased as life claimed Rita, and she began her upward climb.

A tap on the door brought her back to the present, but it was only Phyllis, bringing the desired correspondence. Rita took it with a word of thanks and began to work her way through the tottering pile of bills, invoices, advertising material and staff applications, but all the time she was thinking about the planned reunion.

Why had she herself never thought to visit the Canary and Linnet, she wondered now. Why had she simply concentrated on becoming a very successful businesswoman? She had friends on the staff, good friends. Her mother had died eight years previously, but she could name half a dozen employees who had, at various times, taken over from her in order that she might have a holiday. The very first time she had gone to Italy she had met and married Luigi. He was a fellow hotelier and she had learned a good deal from him before their mutual hot temper and sheer, undiluted selfishness had made living together impossible. Besides, he had thought his one Italian hotel more important than her three Liverpool ones. Then she had discovered him in bed with one of his waitresses, and though she had very soon realised she did not love Luigi she had no intention of sharing him with a sharp-tongued little Venetian, so since Luigi was equally unwilling to change his ways a divorce had been the best answer.

Her second mistake had been to believe the words of a confidence trickster, who had shammed devotion and then left one night with the takings. She had never looked seriously at a man since, and had told Phyllis that men and marriage were simply traps for the unwary, proceeding to make her hotels the most important things in her life.

She made the last entry in the hotel register and rang the bell on her desk so that she might begin to dictate letters, pay bills and do the rest of her paperwork with her secretary. But when the hour for staff lunches arrived she sat on behind her desk, chin in hand, and let her mind wander back to the Canary and Linnet. Reflecting now on that past life, she admitted to herself that she had always had a soft spot for Woody. He had admired her agility as she swarmed up the great beech they called the Lookout, and when there had been altercations he had sometimes taken her side.

But Woody was Imogen’s – if he belonged to anyone, that was – and though she, Rita, had written to him on and off for a couple of years their tentative friendship, if you could call it that, had never become anything more. Even exchanging Christmas cards had not survived their diverging lives, though she sometimes wondered whether he had married, what he was doing now, whether he had left the air force.

But the thought of Woody married was so absurd that she felt a smile twitch at her lips. In her mind, Woody was a boy still, with a quiff of hair which would never lie flat, a rueful grin which revealed a chipped tooth and a voice which broke into falsetto when he least expected it.

The opening of the door cut across her thoughts, and Phyllis scarcely had a chance to open her mouth before Rita was replying to what she knew would be implied criticism. ‘All right, all right, I’m coming,’ she said, then hesitated, glancing at the letter – the invitation – which lay on the desk before her. Abruptly she made up her mind and held the sheet out to the younger woman. ‘Read that!’ she commanded, and when Phyllis had perused it she took it back and raised her eyebrows. ‘What do you think? Though I warn you, I’ve not got the slightest intention of going all that way just to meet girls I’ve not even thought about for years.’