Time to Say Goodbye (10 page)

She began to fill a bucket with hot water, puzzling again over the changes which had come over Imogen since the accident. When the child had first taken to her bed she had complained of nightmares, which was scarcely surprising. But that had been many weeks ago, and she had said nothing about it since, so Auntie had assumed that the nightmares had left her. She had expected Imogen to chatter away to Laurie and Dave, possibly even let them read a page or two of her diary, but this had not happened. She had never thought of her as a secretive child, but now she wondered whether her unnatural quietness had something to do with the diary. She remembered that when she had handed a fat exercise book and a pencil to Imogen a couple of days after she had first come down to the kitchen, the child had said ruefully that she might as well try her hand at fiction since real life, for one under house arrest, meant she had virtually nothing to write about. Auntie wondered rather uneasily just exactly what Imogen was recording in that notebook. She could ask – had done so – but Imogen’s replies were always evasive.

Further speculation was ended as the three girls, shepherded by Jill, burst into the kitchen. They charged across it, grabbed coats, hats and scarves from the hooks on the back of the door, scuffed their feet into their wellingtons and turned to grin at Auntie. ‘Our bedroom is clean as a new pin,’ Rita said triumphantly. ‘Even my clothes have been folded and put away . . .’

‘Thanks to Debby,’ Imogen interposed. She smiled at Auntie. ‘She’s the only really tidy one; she seems to like being tidy, whereas Rita and me would just bundle the stuff into the chest of drawers and hope no one notices.’

Auntie looked across at Jill, who was also getting down her outdoor things. ‘Are you satisfied that the attic is as clean as a new pin?’

‘It’ll pass,’ Jill said cheerfully. ‘See you later.’

Auntie waved them off and began to clean down the bar. She noticed that the catkins were shedding yellow pollen all over the wide windowsills, and tutted, picking up both vases and carrying them out to the compost heap. As she returned to the house she decided she would go for a walk with the children after lunch to collect wild flowers for the bar. She knew where tiny daffodils grew wild amongst a particular patch of shallow-rooted beeches, and decided that she would enjoy an outing now that the mild spring weather had arrived.

Back in the bar, Auntie remembered Imogen’s diary. It wasn’t a proper diary – the village shop did not stock such things – but it was a nice fat notebook and the last time she had seen Imogen writing in it she had realised that despite the child’s complaint that nothing ever happened she had somehow managed to fill quite half the pages. Auntie fetched a cloth and cleaned the windowsills, then began on the little round tables and the long benches and chairs. There were one or two ring marks, but very little mess despite the fact that, with the finer weather, she had more customers than ever. She had brushed the floor before she began to clean the surfaces and now she gave the long wooden bar a treat: she beeswaxed the counter top, rubbing it as hard as she could until it shone like polished glass. Then, having checked that all was prepared for the meal which the children and Jill would expect when they returned, she set off for the attic. It was sneaky, not the sort of thing she would ever have dreamed of doing once, but she intended to take a look at Imogen’s exercise book. As I told that young air force feller, I am
in loco parentis
to those children, she told herself. I’ve every right to know just what she’s recording in that diary of hers. In fact, it’s my duty to snoop a little.

But once in the attic she realised that it was not to be so simple. There was no sign of the notebook. She searched the beds, looked under the rag rugs, opened the chest of drawers and went carefully through the neatly piled clothes, and would have abandoned her search had she not suddenly noticed that near the head of Imogen’s bed a board creaked when stood upon. She gazed at it thoughtfully, then saw that it did not fit tightly against its neighbours. A tentative pull and the fat red notebook was revealed. Feeling half ashamed, she lifted it out and turned the pages, telling herself that since it was supposed to be either a children’s story or part of the Mass Observation project, it might, one day, be read by anyone. Nevertheless she felt guilty, and doubly so when she read the words which Imogen had printed on the cover.
Mass Observation
, it said.
Imogen’s War. Private, keep out
.

Guiltily, and it has to be admitted with trembling hands, Auntie opened the book and flicked through the closely written pages, stopping at random. The entry was dated a couple of weeks earlier.

Had an omelette for lunch, and baked apple for afters. Got bad marks in arithmetic, came fifteenth out of twenty, but top in English. We’re writing a diary, ha ha, so of course all I have to do is crib a few pages from this book. Found Debby crying over something she’d read in the newspaper. Gave her a hug. Rita came in – we were in our bedroom – and said we were soppy. Didn’t argue.

Auntie flipped over a couple more pages and what she read brought a puzzled frown to her brow.

Had that dream again last night. It was just the same as before, but when I get the dream it’s as though it were the first time. I go into the trees, heading for the Linnet, only when I find it, it’s a ruin. It’s strange, because I’m wearing a brown dress, rather long, and very smart brown shoes. Brown is a colour I really don’t like at all, I’ve never had a brown dress, and we always wear wellingtons, though I suppose when summer comes it will be sandals and plimsolls again. Then someone calls me by my name, not just a shout, and I search amongst the trees and round the side of the Linnet but can’t find anyone. I start to shout back, to tell the person to get out of my dream, and then I wake up. I used to be very frightened and I still am, a little. I don’t know why I should dream the same dream, but I expect it’s all a part of falling in the ditch and nearly dying. So I’ve made up my mind that I won’t dream it any more. I’m sure I can control a dream!

Auntie turned the page, then realised that the dream Imogen had written of must have happened only the previous night, for the rest of the book was blank. She gave a little shudder; how very, very odd. But hopefully, as Imogen had seemed to indicate, the dream had come for the last time and would not be repeated. Was it the reason for the change in the child’s attitude? Even before reading the diary, Auntie had wondered why Imogen, after the most subdued greeting, always made herself scarce if Laurie and Dave were in the bar. Other young men did not have the same effect, though even with them Imogen listened more than she spoke. But I am no psychiatrist, Auntie told herself, replacing the diary in its cramped little hiding place. Thank God for Jill! The two of them would talk it over, and since a trouble shared is a trouble halved would no doubt find a reason for the changes in Imogen, who was a great favourite with them both.

Auntie was back downstairs in the kitchen when she heard Jill and the children coming up the lane, and realised that she felt a good deal better about her activities having decided to share them with Jill. As the children trooped across the front yard, she pulled the kettle over the fire and set out mugs, so that all was in readiness for elevenses when the back door opened. ‘Did you get the poultry meal?’ she asked. ‘Oh, I see that you did . . . my God, is that a dog or a hearthrug?’

‘Oh, Auntie, you know very well it’s Rufus,’ Jill protested. ‘Isn’t he lovely? And he’s been so good. Imogen has walked all the way from the village with her hand in his collar and he hasn’t pulled away from her once, has he, Immy?’

‘Not once,’ Imogen agreed, and Auntie saw that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. ‘He’s handsome too, isn’t he, Auntie? A real beauty. We bought some dog biscuits and the butcher gave us a bone; he knows it’s in Jill’s basket but he’s too polite to try to grab it. At last I’ve got something to put in my diary – something nice and exciting, I mean.’

Auntie looked rather doubtfully at what appeared to be a black doormat with a pair of shining brown eyes at one end and a wagging tail at the other. ‘Well, he’s not the most handsome dog I’ve known, but if he’s got a nice nature that’s far more important,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to see how he settles. And don’t forget, Jill and I are much too busy with the pub to look after him . . .’

As expected there was a chorus of promises that they would do everything necessary, even offering a share of their pocket money for their new pal. Rita, on her knees, said she had an old hairbrush he could have, for fond though they were the girls admitted that Rufus could do with grooming. In fact they would have taken him up to the attic for that purpose had Auntie not firmly intervened. ‘Once you start brushing there’ll be a great deal of loose hair about, so take him out to the yard right now,’ she ordered them.

‘I’ll get the brush; I know the one Rita means,’ Imogen said eagerly, and whilst Rita was saying indignantly that she might fetch the brush but they must take turns in wielding it, Imogen was already at the foot of the stairs. She was away rather longer than seemed necessary, but came down eventually with the brush and handed it to Rita.

‘I bags first go, because Imogen had him all the way from the village,’ Rita said firmly. She turned to her friend. ‘You can help Jill unload the shopping and Debby can carry the poultry meal over to the outhouse.’ And having given her orders she grasped Rufus’s collar and towed him out through the back door and into the yard.

Jill began to unload the shopping, telling Imogen to put the flour in the big crock and to stand margarine, lard and butter on the slate windowsill in the pantry, but though Imogen picked up the nominated items she hesitated, and then put them back on the table and swung round to face Auntie. ‘When I went up to the attic just now I saw that someone had pulled up the floorboard near the top of my bed. Was it you, Auntie?’

Auntie felt her cheeks grow hot, but she met Imogen’s enquiring eyes unflinchingly. ‘Yes,’ she said.

There was a short silence. Auntie wondered whether she should pretend that she had not read the diary, but before she could do so Imogen spoke. ‘Oh,’ she said, and without another word began to help Jill to put away the shopping. As soon as the task was finished and Jill had disappeared into the pantry to check that nothing had been forgotten she turned towards the back door but Auntie, feeling terribly guilty, caught her hand when she would have passed.

‘I shouldn’t have done it,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I only looked to see if you’d decided to write for the Mass Observation project or whether you were doing a story for children, as you said you might. I – I didn’t read much, perhaps a page and a half . . .’

Her voice trailed off but Imogen turned, gave her a brilliant smile and squeezed her hand. ‘It doesn’t matter, Auntie. If you’d been my real mother you’d have read every line, and nagged me about poor handwriting and bad grammar. I honestly don’t mind you or Jill reading it – or Debby for that matter – but Rita would only scoff. You know what she’s like.’

Auntie beamed at her, feeling as though a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders. ‘I’m glad you’re not cross with me,’ she said. ‘You see, Jill and I have been worried about you, because although you’re back in school and very much better, you aren’t yet your old self. You’re very quiet, Imogen. You and Rita used to squabble a lot, but you laughed and talked a lot, too. That doesn’t happen any more. I thought your diary might give me a clue to what’s causing the change in you.’

Imogen laughed. ‘I didn’t know I was different,’ she said. ‘And I don’t think my diary would be any help. Did you – did you read about that odd dream I’ve had?’

Auntie nodded, shamefaced, but said nothing.

Imogen frowned. ‘A dream is just a dream,’ she said in a low voice. ‘And it’s a dream I don’t mean to have any more. The next time I find myself walking along that lane I won’t go into the trees; do you think I could do that, Auntie?’

‘You could try,’ Auntie said doubtfully. ‘But in time, you know, the dream will fade and fade until it quite disappears. And since I don’t mean to let the old Canary and Linnet become a ruin whilst I’m alive, comfort yourself that the dream is meaningless.’

Imogen squeezed Auntie’s hand and then stood on tiptoe and kissed her cheek. ‘I love you, Auntie,’ she said raptly. ‘I wish I’d told you about it before because I’m positive, now, that I’ll never dream it again.’ She laughed. ‘And as for squabbling with Rita, she’ll get a shock when I start contradicting her again, instead of letting her get away with bossing me and Debby about.’ She turned towards the back door. ‘And now I’ll go and have my turn at brushing Rufus,’ she said gaily.

As she disappeared Jill came out of the pantry, and Auntie raised her brows. ‘Did you hear all that?’ she asked. ‘Oh, Jill, I know it was sneaky of me, but I’ve been truly worried about Imogen. She’s been so quiet. Well, we’ve both noticed it, haven’t we? Do you think I did very wrong to read her diary?’

Jill’s cheeks gradually flushed and she looked self-conscious. ‘Well, I’ve been thinking and I believe I’ve got the answer,’ she said. ‘I believe poor Immy’s got what we used to call a crush on Laurie and she doesn’t know how to handle it. So she goes all quiet and instead of wanting to be near Laurie she avoids him like the plague.’ She saw Auntie’s expression and laughed. ‘Don’t worry, it will pass! She’s young for her age and her mother, I gather, isn’t the cuddly sort – her father died years ago. So poor Immy doesn’t know quite how to behave. But you are in charge of the children and have every right to know what they’re up to. And judging from Immy’s reaction, she doesn’t resent what you did, which is all that matters.’ She smiled and Auntie realised, not for the first time, that her niece was turning into a remarkably pretty young woman. Her thick, bright brown hair was pulled back from a heart-shaped face, but when it was loose it curled to her shoulders and the eyes which met Auntie’s were a deep and brilliant brown. No wonder Laurie wanted to take her to the cinema, Auntie thought.