Time to Say Goodbye (46 page)

Imogen frowned. ‘Ye-es,’ she said slowly. ‘But honest to God, Jilly, I’ve never met your mother . . . in fact we never gave anyone but Auntie a thought. But why are you laughing? I thought your father was Auntie’s brother, and that was why you had the same surname.’

‘Well, if you aren’t the most innocent creature I know,’ Jill said. ‘Didn’t you ever talk about us when you were tucked away in your attic? Did it never occur to you that Auntie was my mother? In those days it wasn’t acceptable to have a baby before you were married. Auntie fell in love with a young man and would have married him, but he was killed in a road accident. She had been meaning to tell him she was expecting a baby the day the crash happened. Gosh, Immy, I was certain you all knew . . . oh, not when you first arrived, but by the time you left.’

‘Well I never!’ Imogen said blankly. ‘But until today you never slipped up and called Auntie “Mum”, and she never let on that you were anything but her niece.’

Jill grinned. ‘I didn’t know she
was
my mother until I was seven, and then I was old enough to agree that it was a big secret and must never be told to anyone outside the family. Secrets are the breath of life to kids, anyway, but mostly I forgot all about it and simply thought of Auntie as just that. But I don’t need to tell you that Auntie or Mum is the best person I know.’ Jill stood up. ‘Now, I’m sorry I never told you that the Linnet wasn’t a suitable place for a meeting, but I knew the others would want to go all over the pub and tell their partners all about their time there and I wanted to talk to you alone. You said in your note to Mum that you and William had parted, and I knew from our own experience that the awful thing that happened to you can cause even good relations to founder . . . but Imogen, you mustn’t let it ruin your lives. Casting blame is a pointless exercise, which hurts both parties and does no good to anyone. Do you promise to see Will and make it up?’

‘That’s the real reason why I planned the reunion, to meet Will again on neutral ground,’ Imogen said gloomily. ‘However, first catch your hare. But if we find each other . . . oh, Jill, if only!’

They had left the kitchen and gone through into the bar. Jill turned to Imogen. ‘You invited him to the reunion, of course.’

She would have said more, but Imogen gave a wail. ‘Yes, but I’ve had no reply to my letter. Remember, we’ve been apart for five months!’

‘And you haven’t even been in touch, let alone met, for five whole months?’ Jill asked incredulously. ‘Oh, Immy!’

Imogen hung her head. ‘That’s right. You see, we more or less agreed that we would give each other space because we’d had some terrible fights after we lost Tom Tiddler. I went for an interview with the manager of a building society and got a secretarial job . . .’

Jill’s mobile eyebrows went up. ‘Where is this job? Are you still living at Farthing Cottage?’

‘The job’s in London and I’ve got a flat share with an awfully nice girl, quite near the Limerick Building Society, which is where I’m working. But I – I’m afraid Will must have got truly fed up with me because I went back to the cottage a few weeks ago and there’s a young couple living there, with a toddler. So then I did try to contact him at work, and was told that he’d been promoted to manager of the St Helier branch, in Jersey. Since I hadn’t sent him my London address or told him I was earning a good salary – at first I was still too angry – I suppose he felt that he couldn’t afford to leave the cottage empty. Oh, Jill, I was so unhappy! I don’t think I was in my right mind when we parted, yet perhaps it was the best thing to do. I’ve got it out of my system, you see, and now all I want is to tell Will how sorry I am and to beg him to let us try again.’ She hesitated, looking shyly up at the older girl. ‘Do you think he’ll come?’

Jill gave her a fierce hug. ‘Oh, darling Immy, I hope so,’ she said. ‘Remember, Laurie and I lost a child ten years ago, but in the end it strengthened our marriage. Happiness comes from within, so just you admit to Will that you made a terrible mistake and want to put it right. And listen – I can hear voices, so prepare yourself for a nostalgic tour of the old place before we all migrate to the Golden Lion.’

It was over and it had been pretty successful, Auntie told herself, sitting on the platform, waiting for the train which would take her home. She leaned back and let the memories wash over her. It had been a tiring day, yet strangely satisfying, though whenever she thought of Imogen’s little white face getting paler and paler as the time passed she was shaken with pity. It was easy to see that the child had expected great things from the reunion; what a shame it was that the person who had masterminded the whole idea had been the most disappointed, the most let down. But useless to think about that; time heals all wounds, she told herself.

Auntie turned her thoughts to the others, first to Rita, the oldest of the three evacuees who had lived at the Canary and Linnet. Auntie tried to forget that it had been Rita who had spoiled everything and concentrated on the Rita of now and not the Rita of then. As soon as the sports car had roared to a halt outside the Linnet’s kitchen she had known what Rita wanted from the reunion, Auntie told herself now. She wanted everyone to know that she is a successful businesswoman, a hotelier par excellence who despite her comparative youth will go on to greater things. She had been the first one to mention her unsuccessful marriages, but instead of failures she presented them as happy escapes from unworthy partners. She had talked of engaging first-class chefs and experienced waiters and waitresses. Being Rita, she had boasted about her expensive cars and luxurious lifestyle. Like the others, she had gone over every inch of the Canary and Linnet, peering into all the rooms, looking impatient when Imogen and Debby had to turn away to hide tears when they went up to their attic bedroom and saw the three little rusty camp beds, side by side, almost exactly as they had been so many years before, when they had contained the hopes and aspirations of three little girls. Auntie could not say how much Rita remembered, but when she had glanced quickly at the other woman and seen her turn away she had thought that maybe Rita did care.

Debby had clutched her husband and kissed her little girl’s soft neck. ‘Mummy slept in the middle bed,’ Auntie had heard her whisper. ‘I was so happy here, darling.’ She had turned to her husband. ‘I know there was a war on, Stan, and you were in the thick of it, but we were . . .’ her voice had broken, ‘we were the lucky ones. We heard the news and worried when Liverpool was bombed, but it was almost as though we occupied a different world, a world where war could never touch us. I ought to feel guilty, but all I feel is – is glad.’ And at those words, Auntie had seen Stan’s large, tanned hand take Debby’s and then they had all begun to descend the stairs once more.

When they had entered the bar the smell of the place had taken Auntie’s mind back to those far off happy times; she remembered the young Imogen sliding into the bar of an evening to collect dirty glasses, then her and Rita hefting a full bucket of pig meal and potato peelings, cabbage leaves and sprout stalks, carrying it between them right to the end of the garden where the pig-which-must-not-be-named lived in pampered splendour in the old pigsty. There was another pig, of course, a young sow called, for some reason, Pandora. Were they at the stage when they knew that the pig-which-must-not-be-named had an ugly fate in store, or did they still believe my protestations that no one ever named boy pigs? We did not mean to deceive them, Jill and I, but the truth would have hurt them, and neither Jill nor myself could have borne to see them hurt.

What little sillies they were, and how we loved them, Auntie thought. They believed whatever they were told, and why not? We knew that if they were told the truth they would probably have planned a rescue attempt, and carted the pig off to some secret destination in the middle of the night. The fact that we might then be prosecuted, because during the war it was illegal to “hide” a pig, would simply never have occurred to them. No, we were right, and they had the consolation of Pandora and her constant production of piglets, as well as those birthday hens.

The hens had been a present from all three girls, and since Auntie did not believe in caging birds they had ranged far and wide and given the children something else to do: finding the eggs was soon a daily task which Rita, Imogen and Debby much enjoyed.

‘Aren’t you glad we thought to buy the hens for your birthday, Auntie?’ Imogen had said one day, handing over four large brown eggs. ‘For your next birthday we might give you a cockerel, then we could have baby chicks. Auntie, why do you have to have a cockerel before you can have baby chicks? I asked Mrs Pilgrim but she just said to get along wi’ me, so now I’m asking you!’

Questions, questions, Auntie thought happily. I bought the cockerel myself, before they could spend their pocket money on me, bless their kind little hearts. And though I always managed to get around the question they asked most often – “How old are you really, Auntie?” – I wouldn’t mind now admitting to seventy, only of course they’re too polite to ask. Because if I did nothing else of worth in my life, I reckon that bringing up three little girls in wartime should stand to my credit. It wasn’t always easy, but it was always fun.

Everyone said the reunion had been a great success, though Imogen had had to fight back tears of disappointment over Will’s absence. She had explained that her husband could not make the rendezvous, and was nobly backed up by Jill and Auntie. Auntie had put a comforting arm round her as they left the Canary and Linnet and headed for the Golden Lion. ‘It’s all right, my little chickadee,’ she had whispered. ‘If you want my opinion, your husband won’t fancy meeting you for the first time for ages in front of a great many people, all of whom he actually knows.’ She had grinned her elfish, childlike grin and given Imogen’s thin shoulders a comforting squeeze. ‘You just ring him on Monday and arrange a rendezvous on Jersey, or in London, whichever suits him.’

They had dropped behind the others and Imogen’s voice became a whisper. ‘Fancy Josh becoming a GP! And his wife is a doctor as well. It just goes to show that folk can do anything they set their mind to.’

Auntie had chuckled. ‘And our shy little Debby is a mum and a farmer’s wife, with the most delightful husband and a dear little girl – Rachel, isn’t it? And Rita’s got what she wanted as well – to be a successful businesswoman. As for you, Immy, you’re a whole person, or you will be when you and that husband of yours start acting like grown-ups again, and not like spoilt children.’

Imogen blushed and mumbled what might have been agreement or apology. She had agreed to go home with Auntie and Jill and share a meal before setting off on the last train for London, but as she saw Auntie settled on the tiny platform and was about to take a seat beside her she clapped a hand to her mouth. The old box Brownie! It had been Will’s very first present to her and she had meant to take photographs not only of the Canary and Linnet but also of everyone attending the reunion, yet she had completely forgotten about it until this moment. She touched Auntie’s arm. ‘I know the train’s due in about five minutes, but I’ve just remembered I didn’t take a single photograph of the old Linnet,’ she said apologetically. ‘When Will and I meet again – and I’m sure we shall one day – I’ll have nothing to show him. So I’m going back now to take a picture, and then I’ll catch the next train and come straight to your cottage, I promise.’

Auntie had been leaning back with her eyes closed, but she smiled and nodded approval, and Jill, sitting next to her and staring up the track in the direction from which their train would come, got to her feet and grinned at Imogen. ‘Good hunting,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And don’t forget that I took at least six photographs with my old camera; I’ll let you have prints as soon as I can get them developed.’ She kissed Imogen lightly on the forehead and then gave her shoulders a little shake. ‘You’ll be all right,’ she said bracingly. ‘We’ll still have plenty of time for a meal before you have to return to London. And don’t think I didn’t notice you pushing your nice lunch round and round the plate and eating nothing, because I did.’

‘Sorry,’ Imogen said apologetically. ‘I – I wasn’t really hungry. I’m off now. See you later, then.’

Dusk was falling, and in the distance the approaching train whistled, a romantic sound on an October evening when a light breeze was whirling the leaves into crisp, colourful piles, making the dusty platform momentarily into a thing of beauty. As the train drew in, Auntie got stiffly to her feet and Jill took her arm and helped her into an empty compartment.

‘It’s all over, and though I’m worn to a bone I enjoyed every minute,’ Auntie said, smiling at the younger woman. ‘It’s been the best day of my life, seeing my children once more; after all this time I never expected to be so fortunate as to share their thoughts again even for a little while. Things have gone right for Debby and Rita, and even for Josh, though I never knew him as well as the girls, of course. It’s only Immy . . . I wanted to tell her never to put all her eggs in one basket, because that’s the way to Weeping Cross. But despite the fact that he didn’t come, we don’t know that he won’t. Oh, Jill, my dear, if only I could be sure . . .’

Jill leaned over and took the older woman’s hand. ‘It will all come right for Immy; I promise you it will, Mum,’ she said. ‘Ah, here comes the porter slamming doors and waving his flag . . . we’ll be home before you know it!’

Imogen turned away from the station, slipped her mackintosh on and began to walk towards the Canary and Linnet, swinging the box Brownie on its rather worn strap and telling herself that she must stop believing Will could have come had he truly wanted to. Instead, she sang a happy little song under her breath and strode out, for dusk was deepening and her excuse of taking a photograph of the old pub was becoming less credible by the minute.

She bypassed the new estate in the gathering gloom, seeing that lights were coming on in the big, impersonal houses, and plunged into the trees, scuffing through the drifts of autumn leaves, hearing all the little night noises which had once frightened her and the other evacuees, until Auntie and Jill had explained that, with the darkness, a whole new community came to life. The night-people were badgers, foxes, stoats and weasels – shades of
The Wind in the Willows
– to say nothing of hedgehogs, birds, and the mice and voles, frogs and toads who were the prey of the larger creatures.