Wish Me Luck (28 page)

‘There’s a boat behind us.’ Fleur shaded her eyes but couldn’t make out just who was in the craft.

‘That’ll be Ruth,’ Robbie said. He stopped rowing and rested on the oars. ‘We’ll wait for them to catch up.’

‘Them?’ Fleur teased. ‘So you do know something.’

As the boat drew nearer, Fleur let out a gasp of surprise. ‘Kenny! It’s Kenny.’

Robbie’s grin broadened. ‘I know. I fixed all this up with him last time he was over to help you with the garden. He was to keep out of sight and meet us at the Brayford. And then Ruth had to throw a spanner in the works by going home to see her parents.’

Fleur laughed. ‘I wondered why you were trying to persuade her not to go. You rogue! Trying your hand at a bit of match-making, are you?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Well, it won’t work. Not with Ruth.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Robbie said, glancing across at the other boat where Ruth was waving excitedly and Kenny, though rowing hard to catch up with them, had a huge grin on his face.

The evening was a merry one, the landlord of the pub friendly and the regulars welcoming, and it was with reluctance that the party rowed back to the Pool as dusk settled over the waterway.

‘Did you see?’ Robbie was triumphant. ‘Ruth sat with Kenny all night and he had his arm round her. And look at them now – laughing and talking as he rows her home. And I heard him insisting there was no room for anyone else in their boat when we all set off.’

‘Mmm.’ Fleur watched her brother and her best friend. She would’ve liked nothing more than to see them happy together, but soon Kenny would join one of the services, and the way he was talking these days, it sounded as if he was determined to become a fighter pilot.

And Ruth did not get close to fliers.

For a few hours they had been able to get right away from the war and all its anxieties, but now it was back with Fleur with a vengeance.

Through July the bombing raids went on from Wickerton Wood, but now their targets were the docks and ports on the coast of France. These were being used by the enemy’s shipping which was patrolling the seas around Britain in an effort to sink the convoys bringing vital food supplies to the country.

At the beginning of August the day came that Fleur had looked forward to: the day she could pick a huge bunch of sweet peas and present the bouquet to Mrs Jackson.

The old lady was dozing in her armchair, her cheeks red from the heat of the day, little beads of sweat on her forehead. Fleur crept into the room and stood on the hearthrug. As if feeling her presence, Mrs Jackson opened her eyes. For a moment, she blinked rapidly as if she couldn’t believe the sight before her, and then tears flooded down her face.

‘Oh, Fleur! How beautiful! They’re just like Arthur used to grow for me. Wherever did you get them?’

Fleur chuckled. ‘From the end of your cottage.’

‘Eh?’ Mrs Jackson was puzzled until Fleur explained what she had been doing. ‘I didn’t think you ever went round that end and it wasn’t suitable for growing much else. Runner beans, perhaps, but I’ve got those in the front garden. So – I thought I would grow you your favourite flowers. I’m sure the authorities won’t clap me in irons for it.’

Mary Jackson clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, I hope not, dear. I do hope not. You don’t know what pleasure you’ve given me. They’ll remind me so much of Arthur.’ She started to struggle to her feet, but Fleur said quickly, ‘Don’t you get up. Just tell me where I can find a vase and I’ll stand them on the table where you can see them.’

Minutes later, as she went back into the garden, Fleur left the old lady smiling gently at the delicate blooms and reliving her happy memories.

‘Mum? You didn’t really mean it about not going to Fleur’s wedding, did you?’ Kenny asked as he sat down to supper in the farmhouse, three weeks before the date in early September that had been set. Jake was in the scullery washing his hands before coming to the table.

‘Oh yes, I did. And if you and your father really care about me, you won’t go either.’

‘But why? What on earth have you got against Robbie?’

Betsy was silent, struggling against blurting out the truth. ‘I’ve got my reasons,’ she said tartly at last.

‘What?’

‘You’re too young to understand . . .’ She glanced towards the door leading into the kitchen from the scullery and lowered her voice. ‘Maybe I’ll tell you one day. Oh yes, maybe when you’re a bit older I’ll tell you it all. But . . .’

At that moment Jake stepped into the kitchen and Betsy fell silent. Jake looked from one to the other, sensing that something had been said. He sighed. ‘Now what’s going on?’

Kenny avoided meeting his father’s eyes, picked up his knife and fork and attacked the plate of food in front of him.

‘Nothing,’ Betsy said, but her tight lips and the angry sparkle in her eyes told Jake far more than a thousand words.

‘I see,’ he said as he sat down heavily. ‘Like that is it? Getting in practice for three weeks on Saturday, when you won’t be speaking to either of us forever more.’

Betsy slammed down Jake’s plate in front of him, spilling gravy onto the pristine white tablecloth.

‘You think it’s a joke, don’t you, Jake? Well, let me tell you—’

But Jake cut her short, raising his hand. ‘No, Betsy. I don’t want to hear whatever it is you’ve got to say. I’ve heard enough. More than enough. And if you think your attitude is going to stop either of us going to Fleur’s wedding, then you’d better think again. Because it won’t. Now, sit down and eat your supper and let’s see if we can hold a civil, pleasant conversation for once.’

Betsy stared down at him for a moment. Then she gave a little cry, pressed her hand to her mouth, turned and rushed from the room.

‘Obviously not,’ Jake muttered as he took his first mouthful.

Kenny said nothing and they continued the meal in silence.

The evening before the wedding, Ruth tugged the tin bath from Mrs Jackson’s shed into the kitchen and set it on the hearth, as she had done every Friday night since coming to live in the cottage.

‘Like me to fill it with water for you, Mrs Jackson?’

‘No, no, I can manage now.’

The hot water came from a tap at the side of the range, and the old lady was used to filling the bath with a jug before undressing in front of the warm fire and stepping into the water. She had done it all her life. The only thing she couldn’t manage any more was bringing the bath from the garden shed into the house.

‘Do you know,’ Fleur said. ‘I quite fancy a soak in there myself tonight. It’d . . . it’d remind me of home. It’s what we did every Friday night. There’s something very comforting about sitting in hot water in front of the fire. Would you mind, Mrs Jackson? After you, of course.’

‘That’s all right, dear. There’s plenty of water. You can empty it after me and have some fresh.’

‘What about you, Ruth?’

‘Oh, I had a bath up at camp as usual. No, actually . . .’ Ruth paused and a wicked gleam came into her eye. ‘I was thinking of going next door. I’ve got the perfect excuse now.’

Mrs Jackson and Fleur exchanged a puzzled glance. ‘An excuse? What for?’

Ruth’s smile widened mischievously. ‘To get Harry in a bath.’

Mrs Jackson and Fleur stared at her for a moment and then they both burst out laughing.

‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ Fleur spluttered.

‘Oh, I don’t think he’d let you watch!’ Ruth chuckled. ‘But, you see, I’ve promised to trim his hair for him. Make him smart for tomorrow. His clean clothes are all ready for the morning. All laid out in his bedroom. Now all he needs is a bath.’

‘You are good to him, dear.’ Mrs Jackson was still laughing. ‘But I don’t think you’ll get him to bath. Doris used to have a job. He’s a “stand at the sink and wash up and down” sort of chap is Harry.’

‘He’ll love it – once he’s in.’

‘Ah – but that’s the point,’ Fleur laughed. ‘It’ll be
getting
him in!’

‘Right then.’ Ruth was determined. ‘I’m going to give it a go. Wish me luck.’

‘You’re going to need it,’ Fleur said.

They left the back door open. In the warm stillness of the September evening, they heard Ruth dragging the bath across the yard into the cottage. There was a moment’s silence before they heard Harry come out of his back door as if a swarm of hornets was after him.

‘Nah, lass. I dorn’t need a bath. Only dirty folks need baths. You tellin’ me I’m a mucky beggar.’

Fleur and Mrs Jackson stood together, peeping out of the scullery window. They could see Harry standing in the neighbouring back yard, his hair ruffled in panic. Mrs Jackson chortled.

‘Eh, this is just like the old days. The times I’ve seen poor old Doris chasing him round the back yard on a Friday night to get him in the bath.’

Ruth appeared in the doorway of Harry’s cottage, her arms akimbo. ‘Harry, it’s a special day tomorrow. A big day . . .’

‘I knows that. Don’t you think I knows that but—’

‘But nothing, Harry. You said you’d let me cut your hair—’

‘Me hair – yes. I dorn’t mind that, but—’

‘Well, when I’ve cut it, it’ll look nicer if it’s washed.’

‘Aye – well – mebbe,’ Harry agreed reluctantly, then added, with a gleam of hope, ‘But old Bemmy never said to wash it after.’

‘Old Bemmy? Who’s old Bemmy?’

‘Feller who used to cut me hair. Lived in the village, he did. Used to cut all the fellers’ hair.’

‘So do you want him to do it for you? But you’ve left it a bit late now.’

Despite his agitation, Harry laughed. ‘Much too late. He’s been dead nigh on six years.’

‘Ah!’ Ruth paused a moment and then said, ‘Aw, come on, Harry. All that lovely hot water in front of a blazing fire. Height of luxury, I call that.’

‘Well, you’re welcome to use it. I don’t mind, duck.’ Harry’s eyes were twinkling now. ‘I’ll scrub ya back for ya.’

Ruth laughed. ‘I bet you would.’ Then her eyes glinted. ‘Right, you’re on. You can scrub my back if you let me scrub yours.’

‘Eh!’ Now Harry looked positively frightened. ‘I was only kidding. I didn’t mean . . .’

Ruth fell against the door frame, laughing helplessly, whilst Mrs Jackson and Fleur, still watching from the scullery, stifled their laughter as they heard Ruth say, ‘I’m only teasing you, Harry, you old dear. But I am serious about you having a dip. I’ll fill it with lovely hot water and then make myself scarce. I’ll cut your hair first and then you can wash it.’

Harry made one last plea. ‘Can’t I just have me hair washed? At the sink in the scullery?’

Ruth shook her head firmly. ‘No, Harry, it’s all or nothing.’

Suddenly, Harry capitulated disarmingly. He smiled and his eyes twinkled. ‘D’you know, lass. It’s just like having my Doris back.’

Ruth crossed the space between them and linked her arm through the old man’s. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, Harry,’ Fleur heard her say as they disappeared into the house.

She turned back from the kitchen window to say in surprise. ‘Do you know, Mrs Jackson, I really think she’s managed it.’

‘Wonders never cease,’ the old lady murmured, smiling as she began to ready herself for her own bath.

By the time Ruth returned from next door, Mrs Jackson was tucked up warmly in her bed and Fleur was sitting in the bath in front of the glowing fire.

As Ruth flopped into Mrs Jackson’s empty chair, Fleur, soaping herself, asked, ‘And did he let you scrub his back?’

‘Yes, and wash his neck. It was just like dealing with a grubby little boy. He chuntered and grumbled the whole time. But I think he enjoyed it really – once he got in. He even let me cut his toenails for him.’

Fleur blinked. ‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Nope. I had to go out into the scullery whilst he got undressed but once he was in, he shouted me in. Do you know, Fleur, it was a lovely cosy time we had together. He told me all about his family. He was born in that little cottage, y’know. He was one of ten kids. Where the heck they put ’em all, I can’t think.’

‘So, has he got a lot of family left?’

‘No. Sadly. He was one of the youngest and there’s only a sister left and she’s in Canada.’

‘And then he and Doris lost their only son, didn’t they? How sad.’

There was silence in the kitchen, the only sound the ticking of the little clock on the mantelpiece and the coals settling in the fire. Ruth stirred and moved to kneel beside the bath. ‘Here,’ she said gently, ‘let me soap your back for you.’ Fleur leant forward whilst Ruth gently smoothed soap over her back.

‘You’ve got a lovely skin, Fleur,’ she said. ‘I’m quite envious. My back’s all spotty.’

It was warm and cosy and the two girls were feeling drowsy. ‘Oh well, I suppose I’d better get out and empty this bath . . .’

‘Well, you can get out and get yourself dry and up to bed, but I’ll see to the bath.’

‘Oh, but . . .’

‘No “buts”. I’m your bridesmaid. Remember? I’m supposed to look after you. And if I want to pamper you a bit, then I’ve every right.’