Time to Say Goodbye (5 page)

‘Remember how you disliked the walk to and from school once the weather got cold,’ Jill said. ‘And anyway, whatever old Herbert says, this weather simply cannot last for ever. Any day now you’ll look out of the window and see the sun shining on fields of white cotton wool and be quite cross to be herded into a classroom and made to attend to your lessons.’

And to be sure, there did come a day when the snow ceased to fall, though since the sky overhead was still dark the girls doubted that the lull would last. However, they managed to clear the yard, and the exercise brought them indoors for their dinner bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as Jill put it. Mr Pilgrim, the farmer up the road, had sent them some eggs, Auntie had still got some of the rather fat bacon and Jill had baked bread, so it was a pleasant enough meal. As they ate the girls chatted and Imogen admitted that she had not yet tried her hand at fiction, though her diary was hardly a record of exciting events, as she had wished. ‘It’s nothing but snow, snow, snow,’ she grumbled. ‘Every night we hug our hot water bottles until they go cold and every morning we break the ice in our water jugs before we can wash. We hang around the house, play card games, help Auntie and Jill and simply wait for the weather to get better. What sort of a war diary is that? We’re not far from an airfield but the planes haven’t taken off since before Christmas, and when they did take off it was to drop leaflets on the Jerries, not bombs. If something doesn’t happen soon, I shall get desperate.’

‘Oh, you, you’re always complaining about something,’ Rita said untruthfully, for this was the first time that Imogen had revealed how frustrated she felt. ‘It’s just as bad for Debby and me, don’t forget; she’s been knitting herself a muffler and ran out of wool a week or more ago, and I’m trying to make myself a new dress for when summer comes from that length of gingham Auntie gave me. In fact, you’re the only one who simply mooches about here moaning.’

‘I am not, and it’s a lie that I moan, Rita,’ Imogen said angrily. ‘I’m sure the school will be open tomorrow, even if it isn’t today. Not that a day in school is going to make my diary exciting reading. Still, whilst we’re in the village we can pop into the shop and perhaps I can buy a notebook, because writing a diary in the back of someone else’s accounts isn’t ideal, I can tell you.’

‘Oh yes, if we can get to school then we can get to the shop,’ Debby said eagerly. ‘I’ve got my pocket money still – haven’t we all? – so I could buy some Mint Imperials. They’re my favourites.’

‘Trust you to think of your stomach,’ Rita said nastily. ‘What about that jigsaw you wanted? Or since you’re such a goody-goody, you’d probably like Miss Roxley to set you arithmetic questions.’

Debby’s cheeks began to turn pink and her eyes filled with tears, and Imogen promptly rushed to her defence. ‘Don’t be so horrid, Rita,’ she said. ‘You’re always picking on poor Debby. And it’s not as though you don’t care about sweets yourself, because only yesterday you were grumbling that you’d almost forgotten the taste of toffee. Now tell Debby you’re sorry you were so beastly.’

At this moment the door to the small parlour opened and Jill appeared, smiling. ‘It looks like we’re in for a lull, since the sky has cleared,’ she said. ‘I’m going up to the Pilgrims’ place. Old Herbert usually helps with the milking, but his rheumatism is so bad that he’s set fast in his chair, so I’ve said I’ll go up and give a hand. If you three would like to put on your wellies and mackintoshes you might do worse than come with me. I could start teaching you to milk, for a start, and it’s always lovely and warm in the milking parlour. What do you say?’

‘Oh, Jill, that would be lovely,’ Debby said in her soft voice. ‘I’ve often thought it must be wonderful to be able to milk. But wouldn’t Mr Pilgrim mind us practising on his cows? Perhaps we should just watch at first . . . or we could clear his yard or do something else to help.’

Jill beamed, and Imogen knew she had been right when she had thought Jill was growing fond of the gentle Debby. Debby never quarrels and is always the first to make peace when Rita and I get at one another, she thought. Jill likes us all, of course, and is kind to everyone, just like Auntie, but I’ll try to be more like Debby in future because Jill’s the nicest person I know and I want her to like me as much as she likes Debby.

She remembered an incident which had happened a couple of nights before. Debby had nightmares, really bad ones, during the course of which she cried, shouted and even hit out, behaving quite unlike the gentle girl Imogen knew her to be. Furthermore, she sometimes talked what Imogen had thought at first was gobbledegook, although she was beginning to believe that her little friend was speaking a real language, possibly French or German. It also struck Imogen now that Debby’s soft little voice never dropped into Scouse, not even when her companions were larking about, as Mrs Clarke would have put it, and imitating the broad Liverpool accent which many of their neighbours used.

But on this particular night Debby’s nightmare had even managed to wake Rita, who normally slept straight through such things and, when morning dawned, denied all knowledge of any disturbance in the night. She had even accused Imogen of making it up, for as the observant Imogen was well aware – although she would not have dreamed of remarking on it – in an odd sort of way Rita was jealous of Debby. Indeed, she had several times suggested that she and Imogen should be ‘bezzies’. So far Imogen had managed to wriggle out of that one by saying firmly that they were the three musketeers, as Auntie called them.

Debby’s cries had grown so wild and her sobs so frantic that both Imogen and Rita had not only woken but had tried to calm her, with no success. Indeed, Imogen had been considering waking Jill when the bedroom door opened softly and the older girl appeared. She had taken in the situation at a glance, ordered Imogen and Rita back to their own beds and scooped Debby, tear-streaked and trembling, up into her arms, murmuring comforting words as she did so.

Remembering, Imogen thought gratefully that Jill had a sort of magic. Just the sound of her voice and the feel of her warm arms had been enough to bring Debby out of whatever ghastly situation her nightmare had conjured up, back to the candlelit attic; Imogen had kindled a stub as soon as Debby’s cries had grown frighteningly loud.

Jill had stayed with Debby, ordering Rita to pour her friend a glass of water, and when Rita had pointed out that there was ice in the ewer Jill had spoken quite crossly. ‘Then run downstairs and fetch some milk,’ she had said brusquely, and as soon as Rita had disappeared and Debby was settled back into bed once more she had turned to Imogen. ‘Have either of you been teasing Debby?’ she had asked abruptly. And then, seeing the look on Imogen’s face, had added hastily: ‘No, I shouldn’t have said that; I know you better. But Rita can be pretty sharp, and if she asks questions . . . but I know even Rita wouldn’t have done anything to bring back memories which Debby tries so hard to forget. You’ll gather that there are things in her past . . .’

But at this moment the door had opened and Auntie, clad in a long green dressing gown, had entered the room, pushing Rita ahead of her. ‘
What
a hullabaloo,’ she had said cheerfully. ‘But I can see everything’s fine now.’ She had crossed the room in two long strides, plonked herself down on Debby’s bed, taken the mug of milk from Rita’s trembling hand and beamed down at Debby, who had smiled trustingly back. ‘Drink your milk, my little chickadee. Poor old lady, I gather you’ve had another horrid nightmare. You’ll grow out of them, given time. After you’ve drunk up your milk, we’ll all go back to bed.’

Debby drained her mug and Auntie had hesitated, looking carefully from face to face, then looked down at Debby. ‘Would you like to share with Jill, just for tonight?’

Imogen had been sure that Debby would jump at the chance, but the younger girl had shaken her head firmly. ‘No thank you. I’m quite all right now,’ she had said. She had heaved a deep sigh and rubbed her eyes and Imogen had thought she looked, suddenly, about five years old. ‘I’ll try not to disturb you again, girls. Night night.’

But that had been two nights ago, and Debby had had no nightmares since. Jill had had a quiet word with Imogen and Rita, explaining that Debby lived with her grandparents because her own mother and father, and her elder brother, had disappeared into Nazi Germany and were presumed dead. ‘So be especially kind to her and don’t try to get her to talk about her life before you met her,’ she had instructed.

Both girls had agreed to be careful, but after Jill had left them Rita had given a disdainful sniff. ‘I’m very sorry her parents are dead,
if
they are,’ she had said. ‘If you ask me, she’s just a spoilt baby.’ And then, seeing the look on Imogen’s face, she had come as near an apology as her nature allowed. ‘Was that a nasty thing to say? Well, if so, I didn’t mean it. And now let’s get on with our letters home.’

Now, however, the three girls had abandoned the small parlour and were back in the kitchen, struggling into their outdoor clothing, shedding their slippers – Auntie’s Christmas present to them all – and pushing their feet into the rubber boots which stood by the back door. Excitement at the thought of the walk up to the farm and even more excitement at the prospect of learning to milk made them hurry, with the result that, as they crossed the yard, Imogen was suddenly aware that her wellingtons were pinching her toes and rubbing her heels in a most unpleasant fashion. She was slightly behind the other three and hurried to catch them up, grabbing Rita’s arm when she did so. ‘Rita, have you got my boots by mistake? My feet are bigger than yours and these feel at least one size too small. I suppose we were in such a hurry to get out that we didn’t look to see whether they were marked with our own initials.’

She expected Rita to stop and exchange footwear, but instead Rita scowled at her and shook her off. ‘Don’t start another fuss,’ she said crossly. ‘These feel okay to me; if we say anything to Jill she’ll send us back to the Linnet rather than let us change in the snow. Aren’t I glad the old fellers dug a path out right at the beginning of the snow though, ’cos it would be really hard work otherwise.’ Imogen sighed but began to walk once more, trying to speed up, but Jill and Debby were already well ahead, and the boots were so tight that it was all she could do to hobble. The other three disappeared into the milking parlour whilst she was still only just turning into the farmyard.

Imogen said a bad word beneath her breath but slogged on, thinking rude thoughts about Rita, boots and even Jill, who no doubt was already introducing Rita and Debby to the mysteries of milking. She entered the milking parlour at last and saw her two friends watching with keen interest as Jill swished the milk into the bucket, whilst further up the long line of cows Mrs Pilgrim milked with neatness and dispatch. Rita, watching, turned as Imogen reached her side. ‘Why were you such ages?’ she asked, sounding indignant. ‘Jill says we can watch for today and then tomorrow, if the snow holds off, we can each have a go at milking, Debby first, me second and you last.’

‘It’s not fair; it’s all your fault because you wouldn’t swap boots and let me have my own back,’ Imogen said crossly. ‘And if Jill asked why I wasn’t with the rest of you I bet you never said you’d nicked my boots. Yours are so small I could scarcely put one foot in front of the other. Come on, let’s swap now.’

Rita bent down to remove her footwear, then stopped. ‘Hang on a moment! I don’t believe these are your boots, nor I don’t think those you’ve got on are mine. Just you show me the initial in them.’

‘I tell you, you’ve got my boots,’ Imogen said. She was beginning to be really angry. ‘These are much too small. They couldn’t possibly be . . .’ Her voice faded as she bent the top of the boot back to reveal the initial I. She stared at it unbelievingly even as Rita gave a crow of triumph.

‘You idiot! I know what’s happened. Oh, Imogen, you really are stupid. When we came in this morning from clearing the yard, Auntie put scrumpled-up newspapers into the toes of our boots to dry them out. Don’t you remember? I suppose you didn’t think to take out the paper before you put them on and you’ve been blaming me all this time when it was your own silly fault.’

Imogen stood on her right foot and pulled the left boot off. She was tempted for a moment to pretend that there was nothing in the toe, but innate honesty prevented her. Grim-faced and without a word she pulled out the newspaper and followed the same procedure with the other boot.

Rita grinned widely. ‘Told you so,’ she said tauntingly. ‘Wait till I tell Jill why you were hobbling along in the rear; how she’ll laugh!’

Imogen scowled. ‘I don’t think it’s particularly funny,’ she said, and then, despite herself, she gave a little giggle. ‘Well, I suppose it is funny, though I can’t tell you how dreadfully painful it was. But let’s not argue; I’m going to start making a snowman, just a little one, while I wait for Jill to finish milking. Have you ever made a snowball and then rolled it around in the loose snow until it’s absolutely huge? We could do that, and clear a lot of snow at the same time.’

But it seemed that Rita was in a difficult mood. ‘Make a snowman? How childish,’ she said, her very tone a sneer. ‘We’re meant to be watching Jill, not messing around like a couple of kids.’

Imogen was about to say that they
were
a couple of kids when Jill looked over her shoulder and smiled at Rita. ‘Come along, Miss Know-it-all,’ she said cheerfully. Her bright gaze flickered to Imogen. ‘You missed my demonstration, but I’ll go over it again tomorrow . . .’ she was beginning, but Rita interrupted.

‘Oh, Jill, you’ll never guess why she took such ages to get here . . .’ she started, but Imogen had had enough. With Jill’s laughter in her ears she marched angrily out of the parlour and was crossing the yard, intending to start making a snowman regardless of Rita’s remarks, when it occurred to her that if she stuck to the fields she should be able to walk to the village; had not Jacky done so, and even old Herbert, before his rheumatism claimed him? To be sure, she had no money on her, but she guessed that Mrs Bailey would be happy to sell her some aniseed balls or peppermints and accept delayed payment. She saw no reason why she should not attempt the journey. After all, if it proved too difficult she could simply turn round and come back and no harm done. Besides, Rita was in a funny mood and she, Imogen, did not fancy becoming a laughing stock. If she managed to get to the village and buy the sweets, far from being thought foolish she would be the heroine of the hour.