Time to Say Goodbye (47 page)

Imogen jumped as a barn owl passed her, floating on silent white wings, its great golden eyes too intent on its hunt to pay attention to a mere human. She began to smile at its single-mindedness, then, abruptly, was conscious of another sound: a footfall? She remembered the man who had accosted her earlier in the day, the one who looked like a retired colonel. Suppose he – or someone else – was lurking in the trees, full of righteous indignation that anyone should be abroad after dark. He might think she was up to no good . . .

But of course it was only her imagination; when she stood still for a moment and listened, there was no sound other than the night noises which she had already recognised. Yet even so, she quickened her pace, and presently found herself gazing through the trees at the reassuring bulk of the Canary and Linnet. She had arrived. And what exactly did she expect to find? A repentant Will, anxious to apologise for his non-appearance at the reunion? She scoffed at the mere thought; why should he do any such thing? She really must try to control her stupid imagination.

She came out from the sheltering trees and lifted the camera, then lowered it again. If she took a photograph all she would see would be a black building against what was left of the sky, which was mostly a pale green line on the far horizon. She might as well admit defeat and go back to the station.

Yet suddenly she remembered the Lookout, and her sudden conviction, earlier in the day, that if Will did come it would be to the old beech, where they could be alone to discuss . . . what? Their future? Their past? The dreadful way she had behaved? She had reached the back door of the Canary and Linnet, the door which led straight into the kitchen and could be opened by the key which was always kept under the sixth flowerpot along in the collapsing porch. For a moment she toyed with the idea of going in, lighting the lamp which hung from the ceiling, and trying to take a photo to show Will when they eventually met. Then she dismissed the idea as sheer fantasy. Besides, she found she did not want to go back into the deserted house; it was downright creepy even to imagine herself fumbling amongst the flower pots, finding the key . . .

A sound from the trees she had just left made her prick up her ears for a moment and then, suddenly, she lost patience with herself. She moved away from the back door, opened her mouth and positively bawled. ‘Will Carpenter, what the devil are you playing at? I know you’re there, so you might as well come out.’

Nothing. No answering call, no reassuring footsteps as someone scuffed through the autumn leaves which lay so thick under the trees and hedges. And suddenly, Imogen knew why. Of course he would not answer to that name here . . .

She filled her lungs and fairly shrieked. ‘Woody! Oh, Woody, my darling, don’t play games with your Immy! I’ve been so unhappy, so wicked! Tell me you forgive me, tell me we can start again!’

And this time the footsteps were coming so fast that she barely had time to turn towards them before she was in his arms, both of them hugging with all their strength, Imogen at least letting tears of joy bubble down her cheeks.

After a few minutes he held her away from him, the better to examine her pale, exhausted face. ‘Little idiot,’ he said tenderly. ‘For a moment I didn’t recognise you in that old brown coat, but then you called my name. It was the first time anyone had called me Woody since I was a kid.’

He put his arm round her waist and began to lead her away from the pub and into the trees, but Imogen hung back. There was an important question which needed answering.

‘And what if I’d not remembered that here you were always known as Woody? Would you have stayed hidden? Because all day I’ve kept getting the feeling you were behind the next tree, or crouching in a bush, or up at the Lookout, looking down on us. Oh, Woody, you really were here all along, weren’t you?’

‘I was,’ Woody agreed. ‘But I couldn’t bear the thought of all the watching eyes so I stayed out of sight. I was absolutely sure, you see, that once all the others had gone you’d remember that your old pal was Woody, not Will, and it was poor Will who was connected with the worst hurt you’ve ever encountered, whereas Woody . . .’

They were making their way through the wood now, and above their heads a great moon was shedding light on the countryside they both loved, lighting their path between the trees. Imogen leaned her head into the hollow of her companion’s shoulder.

‘Woody?’

‘Yes, love?’

‘Is – is this going to be the happy-ever-after bit?’

In the dark she could not see his face, but she felt his amusement.

‘If that’s what you want,’ he said softly. ‘If that’s what you truly want, my love.’

‘It is,’ Imogen said. ‘And – and if there’s never another Tom Tiddler it won’t matter, will it?’

‘Not a jot,’ Woody said firmly. ‘But there will be another Tom Tiddler, I’m sure of it. And I think this is the time for a chorus of that song we used to sing when we were particularly happy.’ He laughed. ‘Back in the good old days, when I was Woody Carpenter and you were little Immy Clarke.’

She did not need to ask him which song but began to sing softly, not moving her head from its comfortable resting place.

Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me,

Anyone else but me, anyone else but me, no, no, no,

Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me,

Till I come marching home.

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Epub ISBN: 9781448134915

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Published by Century in 2014

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Copyright © Katie Flynn 2014

Katie Flynn has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First published in Great Britain in 2014 by
Century
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 9781780890456