Time to Say Goodbye (45 page)

She slept well that night for the first time since she had returned from the convalescent home, though she would never have admitted it, even to herself. She had packed the evening before and it was not until she reached the village that she realised she had used the little case she had filled ready to take with her to the hospital when Tom Tiddler began his entry into this cold, cruel world.

Oddly, this set her back on her heels in a way nothing else had done, not the packing itself nor the tidying of Farthing Cottage, nor the writing of the note. But she had made up her mind that emotion was something she could no longer afford, so she forced back the tears and hummed a happy tune as she stowed away the contents of their post office savings account in her old leather handbag and headed for the station.

Within a week Imogen had found work and a flat share near Euston Station and her confidence had begun to return. Within a month she was promoted from office junior to the secretarial pool, and life began to follow a set routine. The first flat was shared by four girls and by the weekend it was usually squalid, for though they took turns to cook, clean and take their washing to the local launderette they rarely stuck to the rota and Imogen grew tired of sour milk, a filthy refrigerator and finding her chocolate biscuits had been nicked. Also, two of the girls brought men in, so when a friend at work suggested that Imogen might like to share her own accommodation, nine stops from the office on the Circle line, she jumped at the chance. The journey on the Tube was not a long one and she came to recognise other girls heading in the same direction, though they never spoke but merely exchanged smiles.

One of the girls was a loud-mouthed Brummy with a laugh like the bray of a donkey and a bottom of such noble proportions that she took up almost two seats. By listening to their conversations Imogen learned her name was Hattie, and she usually avoided her for her loud remarks drowned out any other conversation.

Yet it was the noisy Hattie who was responsible for Imogen’s bright idea. After three months Imogen missed Will so badly that it was a constant physical ache, and one evening, when she got aboard the Tube, the only seat available was directly behind that upon which Hattie was perched. Sighing, she resigned herself to being battered by the other girl’s loud voice, taking little notice of the actual words until Hattie heaved herself out of her seat and clapped her companion on the shoulder. ‘So that’s that – she’s organising a reunion of the girls what flew the barrage balloons on Number 48,’ she said. ‘The war’s been over fifteen years and she don’t know how to get in touch with anyone bar meself, but they say there’s one born every minute . . .’

She was still jabbering as she climbed down on to the platform but Imogen sat where she was, staring into space. A reunion! Hattie’s remark had made her realise that it was actually September and in a few weeks it would be twenty years since the evacuees had first arrived at the Canary and Linnet. A reunion!

She had longed to get in touch with Will, to apologise and explain, yet her pride would not let her make a direct approach. If she did so and he turned her away, it would break her heart. She wanted to meet him casually, accidentally on purpose, with other people around to – to cushion the shock, she thought wildly. She could invite everyone, and then if Will didn’t come . . . but he would if he could, she was suddenly sure.

After a couple of weeks, everyone had answered her invitation except Will. Did it mean he had never received it? Or had simply pushed it aside? Perhaps he had a new life – and girlfriend – and had no interest in meeting up with a part of his past. But she did not really believe the latter idea; his good manners would not allow him to ignore an invitation, even if he felt he could not accept. She remembered how kind and thoughtful he had always been . . . oh, God, why had she ever let it come to this?

She comforted herself with the recollection that he no longer lived in England but had taken a managerial position in the Channel Islands, so his reply would naturally arrive later than the others. She had rung his London office when she had discovered that he was no longer living in Farthing Cottage and been told by a snooty young woman with a suppressed Cockney accent that Mr Carpenter had left. She had been close to despair then, but she had rung again later and asked to speak to Mr Carruthers.

She had done the right thing. Mr Carruthers told her that Will had moved to the Jersey branch and was doing very well. Could he pass a message on? Shyly, feeling like a spy in an enemy camp, Imogen had asked for the telephone number of Will’s new office, and had then lacked the courage to ring.

But she had sent off his invitation, and told herself that she would telephone if the reunion failed to bring him back to the Canary and Linnet.

When Imogen had sat down in Auntie’s creaking old rocking chair, she had told herself severely she really must not fall asleep again. Remembering times past was all very well, but there would be quite enough of that when the others arrived. She, who had engineered this meeting, would have to explain that she had not known the Canary and Linnet was no longer a hostelry where friends could meet but merely a shell of its former self.

She imagined that peaceable Debby would simply accept the explanation and that quick-tempered Rita would be full of reproaches, but would come round; she usually did. Jill, of course, must have known all about the Canary and Linnet, because she lived next door to Auntie and Auntie lived only four or five miles from the pub which she had once run so successfully.

A sound from outside made Imogen get up from the chair and peer out through the window, but it was only a blackbird, examining the ivy-clad wall for insects, so she returned to her seat, glancing at her wristwatch as she did so. Heavens, how time crawled when you were waiting for something to happen! But it was passing, albeit slowly; the others should be within moments of getting off the train and catching a taxi or a bus. Provided the train was on time, they could be here in minutes. She got to her feet; perhaps it would be best if she set out at once and walked to the village to meet them. Then she remembered that Rita had said in her last Christmas card that she had just bought a little red MG, having passed her driving test at last, so the chances were that Rita at least would be arriving by car, and now that she considered she realised that Debby and her husband might have found it easier to hire a vehicle than depend on the reliability of public transport. And hadn’t Mrs Jacky said that the village bus now only ran three days a week? All in all, it seemed safer to stay where she was.

The blackbird rustled in the ivy again, then chattered for a moment and gave its warning whistle. Imogen, who had sat upright at the first sound, wagged an admonitory finger. ‘You don’t fool me . . .’ she was beginning when the back door creaked open and someone pushed it wide, entered the kitchen and after one swift glance around rushed at Imogen, almost knocking her over as she struggled to her feet.

‘Immy, darling!’ Warm arms were round her and a warm mouth was kissing her cheek, then Jill was holding her back, looking her up and down. ‘Oh, Immy, how long have you been here? I’m so sorry Laurie couldn’t make the reunion, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world, and nor would Mum, of course. I gather you know we now live next door to one another? Laurie talks about leaving the RAF because he gets moved around so much, but I don’t think it will happen for years. Still, I go out to see him quite often, and of course he comes home between postings, so it’s not too bad. In fact, I sometimes think our marriage is even stronger because we’re apart so much – it’s so wonderful when we
can
be together! Oh, my love, it’s so good to see you, but I have to tell you you’re not looking your best.’ Another warm hug. ‘You’ve had a horrid time, I know – I saw the note you sent with the invitation – but believe me, love, although grief doesn’t go away it does become more bearable as time passes.’

Imogen remembered the letter from Auntie telling her that Jill too had lost a baby not long after the end of the war. She felt the tears begin and scrubbed impatiently at her eyes. ‘I know you’re right,’ she said, scooping her handbag up from where she had cast it down and giving Jill her most cheerful smile. ‘And I’m so glad you came early, because one of the main reasons for the reunion was so I could apologise for something I did . . . oh, years ago.’

Jill stared at her. ‘Something you did?’ she echoed. ‘Immy, darling, I’m sure I don’t know what you could possibly mean.’ She laughed. ‘As I’m sure you must be well aware, you were always my favourite evacuee! Oh, I was fond of Rita in a way, and Debby the peacemaker was very loveable, but you and I were two of a kind . . .’

She would have gone on but Imogen, desperate to admit her fault, spoke across her. ‘Do shut up a minute, Jill, and let me get it off my conscience before anyone else arrives. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve tried to write to say I was sorry and beg you to forgive me, but I never sent any of the letters, so this might be my last chance to put things right between us. Do you remember that time when Auntie got cross when her Home Chat magazine went missing?’

The older girl was staring at her. ‘I wondered why you never wrote to me,’ she said slowly. ‘I must admit I was rather hurt – I thought we’d been such friends. But then the invitation arrived, and I hoped . . . but what has that wretched magazine got to do with anything? Auntie was so upset when we came down to breakfast and it had disappeared. Had you thrown it away by mistake? I couldn’t find it anywhere, and heaven knows I tried hard enough. Was it you?’

‘Yes, in a way,’ Imogen said slowly. ‘One night I came downstairs when everyone else was in bed – I wanted a drink of water – and you were putting
Home Chat
in the middle of the kitchen table, and – and sort of smiling. I was just going to ask what you were doing when I thought I’d guessed – I’d been watching you and Laurie for some time – but I couldn’t be sure. So I scuttled back to the attic and waited until I heard your bedroom door open and close. Then I came back downstairs, picked up the
Home Chat
and thrust it into the Aga. I was pretty sure that the magazine meant that Laurie could go up to your room in safety. And – and I decided to put a stop to it. What a little prude I was! But I was jealous on two counts, you see, because I’d had a hopeless crush on Laurie ever since he came into our lives, but I loved you, too, Jillywinks, and couldn’t bear to share you. And when I realised the significance of that beastly little magazine . . . well, I hid in the pantry until I heard the key grate in the lock and looked through the crack and saw Laurie come tiptoeing into the kitchen. He stared at the table and then heaved an enormous sigh and I think that was when I realised what a dreadful thing I’d done. He looked so haggard, Jill, so grey-faced and weary! At that moment I knew I’d done a wicked thing and I was afraid I’d ruined your lives, yours and Laurie’s. I was so scared, crouching in the pantry, and I suddenly thought that Laurie might decide to get himself a snack and find me there. I truly wished I could have undone the last half hour, but it was no use wishing, so I waited until I heard him heading for the box room and then I went back to my own bed.

‘And next day, when Auntie made such a fuss about
Home Chat
because she was using one of its knitting patterns, I was so unhappy I very nearly confessed, but I couldn’t, because to admit what I’d done was the equivalent of telling tales on you and Laurie, and that was something we’d all been taught never to do; sneaking’s horrid. I felt even more guilty because I thought that Laurie might stop coming to the Canary and Linnet, when he was free to do so.’

‘Oh, Immy, fancy you guessing that the magazine meant it was – well, okay for Laurie to come to my room. It was wrong of us, of course, but in wartime . . .’ Jill said remorsefully.

‘I was a selfish little beast,’ Imogen said slowly. ‘But I had to tell you – it’s been on my conscience ever since.’

‘And soon after that Laurie was posted,’ Jill said. ‘He knew that there were times when we let one of the bedrooms, usually to a wife of one of the RAF station personnel, and Auntie and I doubled up. It was going to be Laurie’s last forty-eight for ages and naturally enough he wanted to . . . well, shall we say he needed to know that if he came upstairs and into my room, he wouldn’t find a stranger or, worse, Auntie in the bed.’ She chuckled, though eyeing her companion somewhat warily. ‘I was almost always last to go up; I’d bank the fire down, lay the table for breakfast and so on first. But our days were pretty full what with one thing and another, and I told Laurie that if – if the coast was clear I’d leave
Home Chat
on the kitchen table when I went upstairs. I didn’t fancy leaving a note for him, you see, but it was a simple matter to arrange that if he saw
Home Chat
lying on the table when he arrived he would be safe to come to my room, but if it wasn’t there he’d either use the camp bed in the box room or bed down on one of the old pews in the bar. Simple, wasn’t it?’

Vastly relieved, Imogen nodded. ‘I suppose I was a proper little prude, but that’s how you are when you’re thirteen or fourteen. I guess I wanted Laurie for myself, though I didn’t realise it then. And I wanted you as my bezzie, as we say in Liverpool . . .’

Jill linked her arm with Imogen’s and gave it a tug. ‘Fancy you remembering that one little incident after all these years,’ she marvelled. ‘Well, if it’s any satisfaction to you, both Laurie and I would have forgiven you years ago had we known what you’d done. And now, since you’ve got your confession off your chest, you can jolly well listen to mine . . . my confession, I mean.’

Imogen stared. ‘I can’t believe you ever did anything like I did,’ she said slowly. ‘You are the most honest, straightforward person I know. But go ahead, tell me . . . I bet it’s nothing much, nothing like what I did.’

‘Grammar, girl,’ Jill said, laughing. ‘For years I’ve thought you three girls knew, anyway, but something you said just now – or rather something you
didn’t
say – leads me to believe you don’t. Did you notice I said Mum wouldn’t miss it for the world?’