Time to Say Goodbye (9 page)

Imogen laughed. ‘It’s Rita’s turn to take care of me today, really,’ she reminded the other girl. ‘I don’t want a drink or anything yet, but if you truly don’t mind, Debby, I’d really appreciate you popping in again just before supper. I’m sure I’ll be fine to come downstairs, but I wouldn’t mind a bit of help.’

Debby nodded and left the room. ‘Sweet dreams, Immy,’ she whispered. Imogen settled down and was asleep almost before the door had closed; asleep and dreaming.

The dream started as her dreams had had a way of doing since her accident. She was walking along a narrow path through the snow, admiring the beauty of the drifts and the branches of the trees which arched overhead. She was lazily content to walk slowly, and every now and then she reached up and shook a branch so that its burden of snow fell all around and on top of her. However, since it was dream snow it was neither wet nor unpleasant, but simply pretty. She walked further, and the snow which had been piled up on either side of the tiny path gradually lessened until, at the base of a mighty beech, she saw clumps of snowdrops and knew that spring was on its way. Further along, the gold and purple of crocuses could be seen breaking the monoton-ous whiteness. Imogen walked on dreamily, seeing the snow underfoot gradually giving way to green grass, brown earth and here and there bright yellow celandines. She knew she was dreaming, though in an unreal sort of way, and presently she found herself entering a lane which wound its way through the trees. She continued to walk along it, wondering whether it would lead her to the Canary and Linnet or whether it would take her elsewhere, because dreams, she knew, had an uncanny habit of switching from one scene to another without warning.

But this dream, it seemed, was somewhat different, and presently she found herself turning off the lane and following a path which led to the Linnet. She went towards the back door and then stopped abruptly. This was not the happy place she knew. The back door, that heavy oak door which Auntie bolted every night to shut out the world, was swinging on its hinges. The windows gaped glassless, like empty eye sockets, and when she looked up she saw that the great branch of a tree lay across the slated roof, no doubt letting in both wind and weather.

Without her realising it her hands had flown to her face, and she felt tears gather in her eyes. She sank down on the old bench by the back door, and even as she did so she heard a voice calling her name.

‘Imogen, Imogen, where are you? We’ve come, like you said, but where are
you
?’ Imogen stared wildly round her but could see no one. She grabbed at the back door, meaning to pull it open, but with the realisation that her hands could not feel the wood came the reminder. ‘It’s a dream!’ she shouted. ‘It’s only a dream; the Canary and Linnet is safe and well and the voice is in my head . . .’ But even as she spoke she glanced to her right and saw a woman in a brown dress, her hair whipped into a wild tangle by rain and wind, coming towards her.

For some reason the intrusion of another human being into the dream was frightening. ‘Go away. I’ve been ill. How dare you come into my dream,’ Imogen shouted, her voice thin. With a tremendous effort of will she turned from the abandoned house, and as she ran and dodged between the trees, gasping with fright and effort, she awoke.

For a moment she simply lay there, almost unable to believe that she was safe in the attic room at the Canary and Linnet, that the dream had been just that. But she could not continue to lie there whilst the dream had possession of her thoughts. She sat up in bed, aware that she was trembling in every limb, and pulled her mother’s letter from under the pillow. She had let Rita read it to her, but she was quite capable of doing so for herself, and now, as she read, she took comfort from Mrs Clarke’s prosaic words. She had been to visit Elspeth, Imogen’s eldest sister, who had joined the ATS; she described her duties with both the Women’s Institute and the ARP. It was such a practical letter that it reduced the dream to just that: a dream which had undoubtedly come about because Imogen herself had done too much and was overwrought as well as overtired.

Imogen cuddled down the bed again. In all her time as an invalid she had had many dreams – many nightmares, in fact – but none quite as real and frightening as the one from which she had just awoken. It was poor Debby, wishing me sweet dreams just before she left, Imogen told herself. You can’t start taking any notice of dreams, otherwise you’d be afraid to go to sleep. Why, when I was ill I remember dreaming that I’d got into that ditch to rescue a kitten I’d heard mewing, and when the two men came on the scene they pushed me back in the water and walked off with the kitten, saying they would take it back to Mrs Pilgrim, because farmers need lots of cats. But the dream hasn’t made me hate kittens, or those two fellers either. So I’ll soon forget the Canary and Linnet being a ruin.

But despite her brave words Imogen could not get her dream out of her mind. Who had been calling her? It was a voice she thought she ought to have recognised, yet she had not done so.

Imogen sighed and turned her pillow over so that her hot cheek rested on cool linen. It was nothing but a dream, so the voice could have no existence in reality. She glanced at the two other beds to check that their occupants were not there – this was a habit – before sticking her thumb in her mouth. Debby might have smiled, Rita would undoubtedly have scoffed, but it was the only sure and certain way that Imogen knew to court dreamless sleep, and within five minutes of feeling the comforting thumb in her mouth, she slept.

Jill was sitting at the kitchen table writing a list of requirements which Auntie was dictating. They took it for granted that they would have all the goods to which rationing entitled them but there were extras, what you might call under the counter provisions, which Mrs Bailey would sell them if they were available. Dried fruit was impossible to obtain, as were many other things which came from abroad, but, along with every other housewife in Britain, they were growing used to substitutes. All their customers at the Linnet were very fond of Woolton pie, for which Jill had her own secret recipe. She made a delicious stock by boiling bones which the butcher saved for her, and sold the vegetable pie in slices to the young aircraftmen who came to the pub when they could get away from their station, always eager for a beer, a sandwich and either a sausage roll or a slice of Woolton pie. They were fed on the station, of course, but complained that, though filling, cookhouse grub was nowhere near as tasty as that which the Linnet could supply.

Now, Jill counted up the items which Auntie had mentioned and stood up. ‘The kids can come with me, then they can give a hand,’ she said cheerfully. ‘In fact, if that poultry meal you ordered has arrived, they can help me carry it home.’

Auntie nodded. She had decided that since they had a huge garden as well as the old outbuildings, it would make good sense to get some poultry so that they might collect their own eggs. Accordingly, the three girls had decided to present Auntie with chickens on her birthday, and, encouraged by the way the young hens had thrived, she thought that they might try keeping a pig. Mrs Pilgrim had promised her one from the next litter her sows produced and the children were looking forward to becoming farmers, as Rita had put it.

Now, Jill glanced at Auntie from under lowered lids. ‘I wondered about getting a dog,’ she said rather hesitantly. ‘Not a puppy, that would be too much work, but a fully grown dog. I think it might be good for the girls, and especially for Imogen, because she finds it irksome never to be able to go out alone, only with her pals. I know a great many dogs were put down when the war started, but I’m sure there are others the RSPCA must know about . . .’

Auntie nodded thoughtfully. The two women could hear vague sounds from the attic, where the girls were giving their bedroom a spring clean. Spring and the Easter holidays had arrived simultaneously and outside a gentle sun shone down on bursting buds, the tender green of new leaves, and nesting birds flying in and out of the trees and hedges around the Canary and Linnet.

Across the table Auntie’s greenish-hazel eyes met Jill’s innocent blue ones. ‘Come clean, young woman,’ she said severely. ‘You know of a dog needing a home and you can’t wait to get it aboard. Out with it, young Jill!’

Jill giggled. ‘Well, I was wondering about old Mrs Monroe’s Rufus,’ she admitted. ‘The old lady can’t cope by herself any longer so she’s going to live with her daughter. But the daughter doesn’t like dogs and anyway, she says her home is unsuitable for an animal; she lives in a flat in the heart of Liverpool and says most people have already got rid of their pets. I’m sure Mrs Monroe would be delighted if we offered to take Rufus. He’s about two or three, I think; not old at all but very quiet and reliable. The girls don’t talk about their homes and families much but I don’t believe any of them has owned a dog, and I’ve seen the fuss they make of the ones in the village and the sheepdogs at the farm, so I know he would be very welcome.’ She stood up, list in hand. ‘There are old rabbit hutches, chicken runs and a kennel in the end outbuilding, so if you wanted him to sleep outside . . .’

‘Ha very ha,’ Auntie said sarcastically. ‘I can see how long that would last! The damned critter would be sleeping on the foot of my bed before you could say knife. No, if we’re to have a dog he’s not going to live chained to a kennel. What good would he be as a companion to the kids or a guard against burglars? He can have a mat on the kitchen floor.’ She sniffed disparagingly. ‘If he was outside and heard an unusual noise, he’d stuff his paws in his ears, curl up in the straw and go back to sleep. Besides, straw is full of fleas and I don’t mean our girls to face life covered in flea bites. What sort of dog is he, anyway? I dare say I’ve met him, but none of the dogs I’ve seen hanging around outside the butcher’s has been intelligent enough to say: “I’m Rufus; give me a home!” Is he one of these here collies, black and white with a pointed nose, which looks as if it’s been rolling in cowpats? If so . . . don’t you laugh at me, young woman!’

‘No, he’s not a collie, and I don’t think I can describe him other than saying he’s black and shaggy,’ Jill said, on the edge of laughter. ‘Tell you what, Auntie, I’ll bring him back with me when I’ve done the shopping, and you can decide for yourself whether you want to add him to our family.’

Auntie subjected Jill to a hard stare. ‘You’re relying on the fact that once I’ve seen him I’ll be putty in your hands,’ she remarked. ‘But you’re right: we could do with a dog. The children will promise to look after him, to take him on regular walks and to teach him not to interfere with our poultry; not that they will, of course. Promises are like pie-crusts: made to be broken. And now you can save my old legs by trotting upstairs to see if the girls have finished their spring cleaning.’

‘Right you are,’ Jill said cheerfully. ‘But you’re wrong when you say the girls won’t look after the dog, because I’m sure they will. In fact, I’m sure they’ll look after the pig, if you get one. Children love animals and birds – you’ve seen how they talk to the hens, and of course hunting for the eggs keeps them occupied for hours. The only snag will be if they’re allowed to get too friendly with the pig, because when it’s old enough . . .’

There was a moment’s silence whilst both Jill and Auntie envisaged the outrage the girls would show when they realised the fate the pig was going to suffer. Then Jill pointed out rather sharply that the girls would have to come to terms with life and death. ‘We’ll have to explain that pigs are bacon and are needed for the war effort,’ she said rather uncertainly. She brightened. ‘Or we could keep a piglet as a pet as well as the baconer. They’re very intelligent animals; the girls would love it.’

Auntie sighed with relief. ‘You’re a good girl, Jill,’ she said approvingly. ‘Yes, when we get round to repairing the old pigsty, we’ll definitely do that. And now you’d best check on the girls, because there’s an ominous silence from the attic.’

‘Right,’ Jill said. She was heading for the back stairs when Auntie called her back.

‘Hang on a minute,’ she said. ‘How do you think Imogen is getting along? She’s doing well at school and spends ages writing up her Mass Observation diary, even though no one’s allowed to read it. She’s eating well, and she’s always eager to help us in the house, but she’s – oh, she’s different. Before the accident she was just like the others, chattering away, giving her opinion on every possible subject, always asking for help if she was stuck with her homework, and the first to volunteer when we needed something doing. And arguing! She and Rita were always at odds, or bosom friends. But she doesn’t chatter any more.’

‘She never did talk about her family,’ Jill pointed out. ‘I know she’s got a couple of brothers and several older sisters, but she never mentions them by name. I think the strangest thing is the way she thanked Laurie and Dave very prettily for saving her life, but when they come in for a drink she slips out of the bar and misses all their stories about life on the station. It’s not like her, Auntie. Debby has always been quiet, but Imogen and Rita hardly ever stopped talking. And they did argue, though it was usually amicable enough. Now, if there’s a disagreement, Imogen retreats like a snail into its shell.’ She laughed. ‘It drives Rita mad because she can’t get a reaction! What do you think, Auntie? I’ve talked about it to Laurie, but of course he never knew her before the accident . . .’

Auntie had been staring at the fire in the grate, but now she transferred her gaze to her niece’s face. ‘It’s a puzzle; I’ll have to give it some thought,’ she said slowly, then smiled. ‘And you’ve been discussing Imogen with Laurie, have you? Well, why not? I know he likes you, and I’m pretty sure you like him, so naturally you share worries. But tell me, why wouldn’t you go to the flicks with him when he asked you?’

Jill, halfway across the kitchen pulled a face. ‘Nosy, nosy,’ she chanted. ‘Curiosity killed the cat! As it happens it was your whist night, but I promised him I’d be happy to accompany him another time.’

Auntie began to say that she would have given up her whist night with pleasure, but Jill was already mounting the stairs. Auntie sighed. With Jill and the children about to go into the village there was only one person left to clean down, and that was herself. Not that she minded; she was proud of the bar, which was always spotlessly clean. In each of the windows was a large vase which she tried to keep full of flowers, pussy willow catkins, or simply young budding branches which unfurled their leaves faster in the warmth of the bar than they would have done out in the garden.